The Weapon Formed Against Me
Innocence Lost: The First Touch of Temptation
⚠️ I presume we are all 22+ here. But just in case, here is a warning for you. This article has been X-rated by Ezekiel Mutua.
Essential insights at a glance:
I shouldn’t be confessing this, but my eyes were drawn to her cleavage first before I noticed her face.
Her hands; warm and slick with oil, glides over your chest as if she is seducing you. You are shocked. Your breath quickens, matching the rhythm of her strokes.
The sensual feeling is intense. You want it to go on until kingdom come, but it lasts only as long as the lifespan of Moses Kuria as a Cabinet Secretary—very short
Would you believe me if I told you where I was on the eve of my graduation? I could simply reveal it, but what fun would that be? With this cold Nairobi weather, I hope you have your favourite cup ready because I am about to serve you some tea. So, let’s start where we should.
There comes a point in a man’s life where he gets (not make) real money. Chums. Cheda. Dooh. I’m talking about transformative, if not life-changing money. The kind of money that will make you add a new title to your name. No, not Dr. or Professor. This is the kind of money that makes your peers stop calling you by your name and start addressing you as kiongozi, mheshimiwa, chairman, or Bazenga.
The type of money that a) isn’t taxed and b) isn’t earned by your sweat. If you think I am talking about ‘washwash’ or any other illegal activity, it’s because you have a weak imagination and probably have never come across real cash. Or (just saying), you didn’t read Donning the Black Hat. I’m talking about money that can get you your first suit. Not just any suit, but a tailor-made vintage three-piece, along with some expensive shoes and a wristwatch too. If you still haven’t guessed it, I am referring to what is likely the last financial support you will receive from your parents as you prepare for that momentous occasion called graduation before they leave you at the mercy of the Kenya Kwanza government.
Being cognizant that is your last bit of money, you feel compelled to pursue your boyhood exploits and try new things in the name of ‘kupigia mwiii pole’. Basically, it gives you a leeway to squander money in the name of ‘self-care’. You know, finishing campus isn’t an easy stuff. It’s like surviving a near-death experience. You comfort yourself. The pressure from your peers is enormous too; everyone is determined to look good and stand out. So why should you be left behind? No reason. I mean, this is the least you can do before you walk away with nothing but a middle finger protruding from the center of your fist, bidding the 8-4-4 system a fucking goodbye.
You know, some people say money can’t change them. But even if that may be true, we can agree on one thing: money does change the things around you. It can make you take chapati with fish. My friends, money changes what you consume. It makes you develop a taste for the finer things in life. It makes you allergic to those perfume refill connoisseurs who sell you counterfeit or excessively diluted perfumes for 50 bob, pushing you to walk into LiNTONS for some DESIGNER (caps is a must) fragrances like Yves Saint Laurent and Dolce & Gabbana, all in the name of smelling nice.
Do you know what else money can change? The way you look. Trust me, money unlocks what we call ‘character customization’. From the clothes you wear to how your face looks. Go and search for the photos of your favorite celebrities before they had money. You will come to a conclusion that you are not ugly; you are just poor. And do you know what else you’ll find out? They are no strangers or foreign to things like Brazilian Butt Lifts (BBL), Botox, Silicone gel-filled breasts, or plastic surgery. And hey, that doesn’t cost 30 shillings.
Since money has both the means and the power to make them look good, why not you? After taking care of the suit and the shoes, now it is time for a little self-care. Getting your hair done. Yes, hair done. I mean, you got financial muscles; loaded with the kind of money that can offset this country’s debt, you want to tell me you will go to your typical stuffy barbershop that is littered with hair and the only aftershave product used is spirit? Hell no! Now you are feeling rich (not wealthy). I mean, what’s wrong with wanting to feel like Chris Brown for a day?
So, you walk into those Kinyozis that look like an exquisite salon, and that’s where this story really begins. The barber is a person of Tanzanian or Coastal accent. You tell him you just want your hair trimmed a bit and dyed. He greets you with a “vipi msela” and then tells you “Kakangu that will only cost you shilingi elfu moja mia tano” You find the word “kakangu” funny because you know all your brothers and this “msela” is definitely not one of them. But you don’t mind. In fact, you don’t bargain because you know very well, that he who bargains the price of underwear is capable. of walking without one.
But you feel the weight of your M-Pesa balance urging you to ignore the fact that it costs 1500 bob for a shave in this place, which is 1400 more than what you are used to. Another voice chimes in, “Come on now, it’s your graduation! It only comes once, unless you are planning to do your masters, which I am sure you are not.”
Fuck it.
You take a seat, ready for a ‘premium’ haircut recalling the words of the American rapper YG: “scared of money don’t make no money”. In Kenya, we have a similar saying: “Tumia pesa ikuzoee”
In your typical ‘kawaida kinyozi’ the process is a rather simple, straightforward exercise. You sit outside on a wooden bench, waiting your turn. When it finally comes, you settle into a chair that has seen better days. It’s torn: exposing the wood and some dirty cushions. When it was new, the seat could swivel in 3600 but now it struggles to manage even 1800.
Your barber wraps you in what’s essentially a used bedsheet. He smears that machine with spirit from a normal bottle that has been tobolewa on the kifuniko. He rubs it hard with a shoe brush. Throughout, your barber talks a lot about politics- “hiii serikali yetu” - and he also professes his love for Arsenal. Before you know it, he’s done. Your chin resembles a connect-the-dots puzzle, so he doesn’t bother. He then pours methylated spirit on his palms and gently applies it along the haircut. That stuff stings, but you look fire. Unatesa.
But today, you are having none of that. Today, you are indulging in some baby boy treatment. The grandeur of this barbershop is a testament that you need to explore this life and get some exposure. It doesn’t have a wooden bench; it boasts a waiting bay. You see those sleek seats in banks or hospitals? They have those. The place smells of elegance and it is supremely clean. No hair on the floor. This must be ISO certified.
A 43” Smart TV adorns one corner of the wall, and the icing on the cake is an A4-sized poster on the wall displaying the Wi-Fi password with a “Scan to Connect” option.
Its leather seats cradle you like royalty. The barber presses a pedal on the chair, raising you to his level. This experience feels completely new. But there is more. He takes something that looks like tissue paper but is elastic and rolls it around your neck before tying you with a stylish cloth featuring a Versace print (though we all know it is not legit). Still, it’s way better than the used bedsheet at your typical Kinyozi.
The machine at this place hums softly, setting a calm, deliberate vibe. This ‘dogo’ takes his time, embodying the phrase ‘slow but sure’. When he is finished, your hairline looks like a work of art: very artistic and perfectly on point. When you look at yourself in the mirror, you feel like revising Psalms 139:14 from “fearfully and wonderfully made” to “damn, I’m wonderfully made.”
I don’t know if you know this, but the ancestors say he who has not traveled thinks his mother is the best cook. If my usual barber is great, then this one is Super ultra mega excellent. (Does that make sense? But you get what I mean)
Draping a towel over your shoulders, he carefully applies petroleum jelly around your hairline, ears, and neck. You are momentarily puzzled by this ritual. Like a detective in an investigation, he dons a pair of gloves, takes a bowl, and begins mixing the dye with meticulous care. Using an applicator brush, he applies the dye precisely, then uses a comb to ensure even distribution. He instructs you to wait for 30 minutes to allow the dye to set perfectly. (You should pay me for this lesson)
After the 30 minutes have elapsed, he leaves handing you to a fine fine(fine!) twenty-something year- old girl. Should I call her Mariah because she was Carrying? The dress was tighter than my current budget, perfectly highlighting her irresistible figure eight. Weak jokes aside. I shouldn’t be confessing this, but my eyes were drawn to her cleavage first before I noticed her face. I couldn’t stop admiring her beauty, like admiring a masterpiece by Picasso.
But you can’t blame me. I’m sure, I’m not the first and definitely not the last to acknowledge that boobs have been shaping world history and culture since the dawn of civilization, destroying careers and crippling majestic institutions. In fact, to understand the gravity of the situation, there’s a special day of the week and a hashtag on one of the billionaire’s platforms dedicated solely to them. #TirriesTuesday
Anyway, where were we? The lady, right? Okay. She leads you to those slanted chairs where your head is tilted back, over a sink, and you find yourself gazing up at the ceiling. She begins washing your hair. Warm water cascades down over your scalp, her fingers skilfully massaging your temples. She continues until the hair is well rinsed. She dries it and guides you back to the shaving chair that is located in an enclosed corner at the barbershop, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
While standing behind the shaving chair, you catch her reflection in the mirror as she asks, placing her soft hands over your shoulders, “Would you like a massage?” Her voice is like a gentle caress, catching you off guard. Those words hit you like a shot of extremely hot coffee. You clench your two butt cheeks, feeling a sudden jolt of anticipation.
“Mmhh...” You hesitate, wondering if this indulgence would come with extra charges because this is not what you came for.
“Uweeh, mimi sina hiyo pesa ya massage,” you tell her.
“Aki imagine it’s free. It’s all-inclusive. That 1500 bob has catered for it too.”
“Ukweli?”
“Eeeh...”
If you can get anything for free, a modern-day economist would tell you to take it. And I am the modern-day economist. You tell her, “Sawa basi.” After all, this is an offer you can’t refuse.
Without notice or warning, still standing behind the chair, she slowly begins unbuttoning your shirt, her eyes locked on yours in the mirror. She places a white towel around your neck to protect your collar from the massage oil.
With that, she pours oil onto her palms, the scent of eucalyptus and lavender filling the air. Her hands move to your scalp, kneading and scrubbing with intensity. Your breaths grow shallow as the sensation turns unexpectedly sensual. She works her way down the neck, and you can feel the heat rising within you.
Her hands; warm and slick with oil, glides over your chest as if she is seducing you. You are shocked. Your breath quickens, matching the rhythm of her strokes. Alone with her in that corner, it feels like that scene between Joseph and Potiphar’s wife. If this is the weapon formed against you, 99.99% chance it would prosper. But unlike mzee Yusufu, you don’t run away. Saying no is the last thing on your mind.
By this time, I am sure you are not thinking about #RutoMustGo or what the heck letter ‘P’ is doing in the word ‘Pneumonia’. No way. If anything(naturally) erm, ahem... you can feel your head slowly rising to the occasion. And by “head” I am not referring to the part of the body that houses your brain. But hey, nobody needs to know that.
With her soft hands on your chest, she asks, “Is this your first experience?”
“Ati umesema?”
“Umewahi fanyiwa massage?”
“Aii, what do you mean?” You chuckle. But deep down, you know this feeling is entirely new to you. I mean, you have been in a similar situation with somebody’s daughter before, but never in such a place.
Her fingers travel down your back, pressing and gliding your spine. The sensation is electric; her touch is both soothing and stimulating. She kneads the muscles along your back, her thumbs moving in circular motions making your entire body respond to every caress. Talk of Gifted hands.
While closing your eyes and experiencing the magic at that forbidden chair, you come to a conclusion: it’s common wisdom that those who keep yelling that “money can’t buy happiness” a) are people with no money and b) they have never been to a massage before. Because, tell me. If this isn’t happiness, what is it?
The sensual feeling is intense. You want it to go on until kingdom comes, but it lasts only as long as the lifespan of Moses Kuria as a Cabinet Secretary—very short.”
As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:
Live and let live.
Adiós.
~Narrated by Peter Oigara, as shared with Arunga Denis~
But if you are going to squander your money…then make sure you are vibing along to Bank Otuch. Cause to you money is nothing but papers. Pesa Otas!
OTHER RELATED STORIES
 | A guest post by
|