Confessions From Sirville Lounge

For the past few weeks, it felt like almost all of my ex-campus classmates who are now at Kenya School of Law had become ratchet. Even the ones I imagined were on the waiting list for heaven. It was as if some extra terrestrial voodoo had been cast upon them, such that all of a sudden, all of them were posting about their sex lives on Facebook. Not a single scroll went down without me seeing someone saying, in a tone of exhaustion about how s/he was just from doing orals.

See, the only orals I know is cunnilingus. So when I saw a former Christian Union official say he was just from doing orals, I just threw my hands in the air and said; “You know what Jesus, how can you be the author of time and you cannot keep it? Now look what your lateness is causing us.”

It so happened that a few of my buddies from KSL were celebrating their being done with orals at Sirville Lounge at Galleria. I did not really know why they were celebrating doing something that almost everyone does on a daily basis but do not make noise about it. You know when your boys call you for a tipple, there is really no polite way of saying no, especially when the last time you saw them was more than a couple of moons ago. So I turned up; if not for much, then for the simple reason of putting this orals maneno to bed (ha!) once and for all.

Turns out, doing orals has nothing to do with kneeling at the bushy altar. Or having a deep throat.  Rather, it is a spoken exam. The way the cookie crumbles is that you show up in front of a panel of examiners, they ask you questions and you answer them. I just wish they could simply say they are going for a test like normal people, instead of the ambiguous remarks like “Oh my goodness. I am just from doing orals. WOW! So tired, yet so glad that it finally happened.”

Anyway.

This post is not about oral tests so much as it is about this place where KSL students like to hit to wash down their frustrations; Sirville.  Truth be told, I had never been to Sirville before. It is an okay club. I did not like it because it was not happening. I’d heard so many stories about this place; stories of all kinds of iniquities that are committed in it by these Latin speaking learned friends. Thus my expectations lingered on the extremes. You know the way sometimes your boy comes up to you and excitedly narrates the way he nyanduad some very fine chick, and from the way he describes the mama, he paints the picture of a creature so beautiful, so elegant, so graceful, it deserves to be in heaven’s postcards. Until you meet her and she turns out to be an okay chick with nothing extraordinary (or heavenly). Just another jaber with a light skin; something that Kenyan dudes have decided to make synonymous with beauty.

That is how I felt when I walked into Sirville Lounge. All my preconceptions went down my throat in a gulp of disappointment and landed in my stomach with a thud.

Nonetheless, we sat on the balcony, overlooking the Galleria car park, consumed by the loud music that spilled out of the speakers and  into the smoky  darkness of the establishment. There were very few cars in the carpark and the entire vicinity looked empty. Gloomy even. Galleria Mall has no life at night; almost as if its heart beats to the rising of the sun, so much that as soon as the sun takes a plunge and sin comes out to play, Galleria looks like January.

The good thing about touching base with your boys after such a long time is that there is always a story dying to be told. Most of the time, they are stories about recent exploits – either girls or money. Sadly for me I never have such stories to tell, given that a huge chunk of my life is basically narrated on Facebook and Instagram.

Two red round tables were attached to accommodate a company of nine people. Seven jamaas and two kairetus. On a normal occasion, we do not accept the company of girlfriends when bachelors decide to meet for a tipple. It is distracting really. These hookups are meant to be boys’ time. Last Friday, however, we had to allow one of our boys to show up with his girlfriend because they are the new couple. You know the way new couples are. You sit around your tables, a pipe of sheesha going round, and when it gets to them, the dude draws in a lungful of smoke and then, ever so gingerly, exhales  a string of it into his girlfriend’s mouth. Then they start making out. And touching. And making us feel bad for either not bringing our girlfriends along, or for not being drunk enough to start hitting on the sexy waitress walking around in shorts, a cowboy hat and a belt of alcohol.

Jamo is that dude in a new relationship.

When Mugendi gathered us around to give us the downlow of what has been happening in his life, he was not listening. He was too busy eating up his girl’s face to pay attention. And we allow Jamo a free pass for that, albeit begrudgingly. It is only that we understand where he is coming from. Jamo has not always been lucky. His relationships stars have always been misaligned. First, the girl we all thought he would date ended up putting him in the friendzone. The two girls he has dated to my knowledge, took a flight; one to heaven (she was saved) and one went abroad indefinitely (long distance relationships are like government systems– they never work).  That is why now that Jamo is seeing someone who is neither dating the Son of Man  nor planning to go majuu, we let him swim in the depths of certain love.

What Jamo was missing out on was the story Mugendi was telling a story.

Mugendi made a chick from Murang’a. A lassie whose name was withheld either by design or mistake. All we are told about this girl is that she is so deliciously beautiful, they should make an ice-cream flavor out of her. Boy met girl in a matatu (mayie!). Numbers were exchanged, phone calls were made, chai was drunk, promises were made…basically the whole grind that men go through to get laid. Finally his efforts bore fruit when she invited him to watch a movie; which (for the visitors in Jerusalem) basically means green light for chudex. My boy traversed Nairobi and Kiambu counties one Saturday morning last month in a thirsty quest for a change of oil.

He arrived in Murang’a at around 11am and the movie started shortly afterwards. Of course, he has no recollection about what happened to the starring in the movie. The climax of this movie was supposed to end up with Ms. Nameless opening her river banks and Mugendi groaning like the revving of a failing Subaru engine.

Kindly take note that when this story was being told, my head was already spinning and some details escaped me. But somehow, Mugendi found himself in the bathroom for a quick shower while Ms. Nameless got herself ready for the climax of the movie in the bedroom. Which did not make sense to me. The bathing bit that is. I assume that it is only logical for a dude to at least take a shower before going for chudex- especially when the chudex is two counties away. But then again, I have never been to Murang’a. The journey must have left him hot and sweaty.

Now. There is something else that I forgot to mention. Something crucial. This kairetu from Murang’a that my boy managed to score has a boyfriend who works and lives in Kirinyaga. As part of her preparation for Mugendi’s coming (hehe) she’d told Mr. Man that a friend was visiting her. That thought must have given him high blood pressure because just as Mugendi was lathering his face in the shower, Ms. Nameless banged on the bathroom door.

“Aki wewe! Chali yangu ako hapa.”

“Shit! Ati nini? Alijuaje niko hapa?” as if it takes a witch-doctor to smell his bullshit from miles away.

“Amenipigia simu kusema amefika. Aki harakisha utoke! Ako ground floor anapanda stairs.” The chick lives on the third floor.

At this point of the story I was laughing so hard that I almost choked on my puff of sheesha.

This is one of those situations when a man’s adrenalin is put to test. Mugendi washed on his face, dried himself up, put on his clothes, picked up opened packet of condoms from the bedroom and sat on the couch…all in a span of less than two minutes.

Just as his ass found the cushion, the door bell rang and Ms. Nameless opened the door to let Mr. Man. Aki had he delayed even small, we would be holding a harambee for his medical bills right now. You know. Mugendi is not much of a fighter. He cannot do well in a combat, mano-a-mano. That man (given the fact that he is from Kirinyaga) would have beaten him up like a rented mule. Hell, Mr. Man would’ve knocked Mugendi so hard that it would have hurt his entire family.

Hell, Mr. Man would’ve knocked Mugendi so hard that it would have hurt his entire family.

Had the chick not answered the phone, and the man found Mugendi humping away, then it would have been a three-hit beating; He hits Mugendi, Mugendi hits the ground, and the Umash Funeral Hearse hits 25kph to Mugendi’s shagz in Embu.

But Mugendi is also as sly as he is horny.

He managed to convince the man that he (Mugendi) is her family friend from way back. He sold that bullshit and the man bought it, such that when he stood up to leave, the two men were already laughing; Mugendi bullshitting him saying “Fanya bidii njamba ndio utuletee ng’ombe ukikuja kuchukua msichana wetu. Tunangoja.”  and the dense man from Kirinyaga thanking Mugendi gleefully, saying how it is always a pleasure to meet his girlfriend’s family and friends.

At the end of this confession, I wanted to tell Mugendi that he should be careful when dating someone else’s woman. As a general rule, it is a no-no. Do not do it unless you do not mind the barking of a gun that is pointed at your direction. Crimes of passion are nothing new. And bullets are very cheap.

I did not tell him, though. There was no point of ruining an already good time. Plus, this is Mugendi. There is a fat chance that the story was merely a figment of his drunken imagination.

Meanwhile, on the next table, Jamo and his new girl were still sucking the sweetness from each other’s lips. He kissed her the way the moon kisses the black sky. Patiently. As if it is the only thing that he has ever learned to do correctly. As he did, the girl closed her eyes tight and I wondered whether she was in pain; the tragic beauty of a good kiss.

The night was young and the crowd at Sirville was starting to bulge.  Someone behind us missed her seat and fell and we laughed while pointing at her sorry ass. To my right, three jamaas drew in the saccharine smoke and released it in a hurry. They looked like a murder of old dragons trying to relive their long gone fiery days.

We sat and ignored Galleria’s gloomy mood. In front of us stood a barrel of Sirville house beer waiting to be sipped. Mugendi filled our mugs and we toasted by way of salamati to the end of oral exams.

Image Credit: Sirville Brewery & Lounge