My Love Affair with Namanga

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I have always wanted to drive to Namanga with a slightly stoned, slightly chubby young woman while playing Beres Hammond’s Rockaway.

It is a fantasy of every middle-aged man to drive to someplace with a young woman for unspecified acts. And I am no exception. I think young women are God’s gifts to men, to remind men that life matters. Young women give men the same satisfaction women get when they date a rich boyfriend: A certain assurance of material satisfaction for women and a certain misplaced hope for sexual satisfaction(or fulfillment) for men.

But my desire to drive with a young woman to Namanga is not an intellectual desire. I just want a young woman with a touch of ratchetry, a certain carefree attitude to life and hopefully with good legs. The best way to experience the road trip to Namanga is both of you dressing in short, freer clothes, to remind you that we live in a free country.

The best music for such a trip is good rootsy reggae. The young woman may not enjoy it, but it is never too early to help her develop better tastes in music. Because young women tend to have questionable tastes in music, why not introduce them to the good stuff.

To get to Namanga, it means you have to navigate Kitengela’s one million motorbikes, dust, and the never-ending traffic at times. So, the journey is not enjoyable until you get to Isinya. After Isinya, traffic thins, but still the road is not clear, to be savoured.

But after Kajiado, you enter a new universe. An orgasmic ride of tranquility, loneliness, wildness, as you enjoy the most beautiful sun and the best shade of blue for the sky. The short, green vegetation only adds some magic for the journey. The roads are so clear, you can speed recklessly if you are a speed freak, but be careful.

After Kajiado, the mood of the journey changes. If your chick is still stoned, she will have a new sense of awareness, a better appreciation of nature. And you will love how lucid she will come. If you planned your play list well, this is the time that Leroy Sibble’s Rock and Come On will come and that beat is the soundtrack to a beautiful ride in the beautiful sun.

It is at this point she is likely to suggest that you play better music, meaning gengetone, or some Nigerian music that sounds notoriously the same, but for some reason it makes her happy. Since a happy young woman is the best thing in the world, you may be tempted to give in to her pressure but use this time to teach her about Don Carlos and the sadly forgotten contribution of Dennis Brown to reggae. She will sulk, but you can try some new school reggae by Chronixx.

After Kajiado, with the clear road, it would be the best time, for the chubby girl to call her boyfriend to update him about the deteriorating condition of her grandmother. The fool on the other end will believe her. As a man, this will hurt you, but it is Nairobi, and it is what it is. My friend said this new found audacity of a woman calling her boyfriend to lie to him as she cheats with you is what post-modernism is all about and I felt it.

But I am yet to live this fantasy. I don’t have a chubby young woman to myself.

Instead, I am going down to Namanga with my buddy Cliff. I am at the wheel. We are having a purposeless visit to Namanga on the first Saturday of the year. Our choice of music is modern Congolese music, and it helps to know that Cliff is a fan of Heritier Watanabe, who along with Fally Ipupa and Ferre Gola have revolutionized Congolese Rumba, ensuring that Kinshasa and Brazzaville remain the musical Mecca of Africa and France for at least another century.

It is new year, and nobody seems to be on the road. In fact, between Kajiado and Namanga, there are two vehicles. A guy in a Prado, who is impossibly calm for a car associated with arsehole driving on our roads. There is a tour van that is being driven professionally. It is a beautiful day.

We get to Namanga slightly past two.

Not a bad beer when chilled. It gives you a nice foreign taste, for a quarter the price of its equivalent in Kenya.

The border is so beautiful with the mountainous background. Beautifully green, ensconced in the blue sky. Every time I am at the border, there are always Nairobians taking pictures, or biking. Of interest to me are the girls who dress how they want. Tyra shorts seems to be invariable their dress of choice. One of the things we have to contend with is the reality that women with ass will always dress their ass how they want, and there is nothing we will do about it.

Cops along Namanga Road surprisingly are friendly, overly friendly for some reason. And at the border, they are even friendlier. All they ask if you are headed to Arusha, and since we were not, they let us in, as long you drive within the permissible distance in Tanzania.

I have been to Namanga four times in as many weeks. So, the cops over there are quite familiar. We do some small talk with my guy, who made me discover the best culinary delight in the last ten years: Plantain.

After the mandatory photo for social media of the border sign inviting you to Tanzania, there is only one good place for lunch. And that is Sacha, just across the border. They serve the best Kienyeji chicken (I prefer their wet fry), and the best accompaniment is plantain.

The first time I took plantain, reminded me of my first proper adult sexual encounter. That thing shocks your taste buds in a way nothing can. So, it has become a routine for me, nearly every week to go down there for the plantain specifically. Which begs the question, how come we don’t eat plantain in Kenya?

On this Saturday, the place is full. Of particular interest to me are the guys at the next table. Two men, in their 30s, dreadlocked, they look like some musicians whose career never took off with delusions of grandeur. But my interest is on the woman in their company. She must be 40+ and probably the hottest MILF I have ever seen. She has an afro, deliberately not well-coiffured. She is wearing blue dungaree shorts that go as far as her ass. So, she has her thighs out for the simple reason that they are the most-cellulite free pair of thighs anywhere south of the Tropic of Cancer. Add to that her eternal beauty, and you can see why I am taken in by her. I am helpless. We do the usual eye-communication, but she beats me when she wears her sunglasses, locking me from the eye-gaze. I am left to wonder who the men are. They can be anything, from brothers, to old friends. There is a young girl there, who could be her daughter, or younger sister or niece. But it is a family of beautiful people. They are drinking a Jack Daniels. Mystery.

We order Tanzanian beer. There are two options, Kilimanjaro or Serengeti.

Tanzania exists to remind us, how inhuman Kenyans are. Beer costs Ksh 75. Even though this is for a 330 ml bottle, it is far cheap, especially for a border town. A Tusker Lite, which is an equivalent of Serengeti Lite, goes for Sh 200-300 in Kenya.

So, we drink the chilled Serengeti Lite as we wait for Kienyeji and plaintain.

Too bad for Cliff, he was drinking the previous night, and has a tooth problem, and thus can’t enjoy the plantain, but he admits it is delicious. I eat his portion as well. We eat, chill and then the unthinkable happens.

This middle-aged man walks in with a very beautiful young woman, you know those excellent 25-26 years olds who have known how to shower and treat their skin properly and while at it, dress that body to kill. She is perfectly tall, dark, beautiful, I can say gorgeous with her braids. No man deserves such a beautiful woman. She is in a beige dress. She is the type who a man easily marries as a the second wife, and the first wife will just have to understand.

The man is not exactly handsome. He is a bit hardy but looks the quietly rich, hardware owner, who is out to execute the fantasy of every middle-aged man: to go to someplace with a chubby, young woman for unspecified acts.

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