Let me ask you a question, have you ever been 50? 50 years old. No? Well, let me give you a story.
One Sunday last year, my life changed. These are some of the words you do not expect to hear from a 50 year old, but hey; my life changed. I had just woken up and was heading for the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. You see being alone with my 48 year old wife means I have to do some things like pouring myself tea instead of having someone pour me tea. All my 3 children are in Nairobi rushing from one tall building to another. God bless them. I had just gotten to the kitchen door and I noticed my wife driving out. She managed a restaurant we had built. As I bent to get a cup from the drawer, a sharp pain cut through my back. I felt as if my thin back had been sliced into 2 using a scalpel. I let out a pained cry before sitting down on the cold floor. After about 2 minutes of intense surgery on my back the pain disappeared just as it had come. At that moment of weakness, my life changed.
You see, these are the small things that remind you that you are old. Other small things are the wrinkles and the gray hairs, but we have learnt to hide those quite well. But such pains are a reminder that soon you might need a walking stick or worse, dentures. So as I sat on that floor ushering the pain out of my body, I had a strong urge to be young again-to feel strong and energized as I used to before.
After 7 years since being in a pub, I was back. I lied to my wife that I had gone to meet with Macharia. Macharia was my partner in our auto-spares business in Kirinyaga Road. The last time I was in a pub, they used to be simple establishments with a radio blaring loud lingala music, men laughing loudly and the chairs were all branded Tusker along with the table mats. I had been gone for too long. This particular pub had 3 big televisions, raised chairs and the lighting was so coloured, men looked like cartoons or aliens. The music had also changed from lingala to some modern genre I couldn’t name. I walked to a corner and sat on the empty table. A waiting waiter came over and I ordered a White Cap. I hoped that had not changed. It was 8:00 P.M. and the place was almost full and noisy.
Maybe now I should now tell you why I was in a pub called Ratchet and not in my house watching the news. It had been 6 years since the last time my wife and I had been intimate. I feared there were cobwebs in some regions by now. The Sunday I had known weakness, made me realize how much I had missed intercourse. The sexual urge rushed through my body as I sat on that floor and I felt 25 once more. I knew my wife would be shocked and maybe die of a heart attack if I proposed we go to bed. We didn’t even sleep together anymore. So this was my only option. I had decided there and then to have sex at least for the last time in my life. I wasn’t going to die with my secondary virginity. By now you must have realized that my wife and I were not big on church, being Sunday and I was here taking tea while she was working.
I settled on the wooded chairs and slipped my spectacles across my face. I signaled at the waiter. He came briskly and gave me a respectful look. The kind a son gives a village elder. I had just noticed 2 young ladies walk in and were seated all by themselves drinking sodas. Logically, if 2 young ladies want to drink soda, they go to the kiosk or supermarket and buy sodas. But if 2 young ladies come to a pub to drink sodas, they are looking for more than sodas. That is what I figured out. So I crossed my creaking fingers and hoped for the best. I told the waiter to serve the 2 ladies 2 bottles each of what they were having. The waiter smiled knowingly and walked away with that knowing smile pasted across his small face. I took a sip of my White Cap and pocketed my glasses. I am short-sighted and I knew that my spectacles will advance my age by 3 more years. That is a big difference when you’re 50. I had tried to look 45 at most coming here and that is why I wore this checked shirt. Just then, I saw the waiter headed towards their table balancing 4 bottles on his right hand. My heart was pumping at a rate that could not be safe for my ageing body. I took a deep breath and watched the blurry scene ahead of me. The 4 bottles of soda were placed on their table and the waiter directed a forefinger towards my direction. I held my breath. The girls looked towards my direction with uncertainty and I feared they were a couple here together. I knew these days female couples were common. My heart began sinking towards the nadir of rejection. Suddenly the damsels changed expressions and displayed their young teeth to me. I might have just moon-walked in my heart. They then stood up and slung their small bags on their shoulder and came towards my table. The waiter followed them behind with the sodas. Now that they were in close range, I did not need my spectacles to describe them to you. One was a bit taller than the other, she had worn taller shoes. Her red skirt just made a brief appearance around her thighs and then disappeared. She wore a polka dot skirt that was sleeveless. Her make-up was as heavy as that of her friend. Their faces must have been a few grams heavier after all that make-up. Lips full of redness, eyes surrounded by black and eye lashes that fanned the air around them. The other girl wore a black dress that must have been borrowed from her small sister; it barely covered her torso let alone her pubis area. Anyway, I believe they had to go to those great lengths for them to get this close.
Anyone watching the 3 of us might have thought this was a family meeting at a pub. Strange, but possible, I guess. When the 2 lasses landed on my table they confronted the waiter before he left, they asked for some drink called “Milkings.” At first I thought it was milk and was quite surprised that milk was sold in pubs these days. My fears dissipated when a bottle that clearly contained alcohol landed on the table. I introduced myself and began storytelling. I have a great store of anecdotes and can engage anyone for days on end if given the opportunity. By the time the hour hand caressed 10, I had known that the taller girl was more interested in me than her mate. She laughed at my jokes more loudly than her friend; she also stared at me as I talked like a tourist at The David statue. Her friend on the other kept checking her phone constantly. Young men, such ladies should not be dated by anyone but their gadgets; I had also known they were 3rd year university students. At midnight, the tall one, Olive suggested we leave. I was only too willing, the strange music playing had began giving me a headache. I paid the bill: 6,300 shillings if you’re interested in knowing. The 2 had ordered some expensive whisky which seemed to be taking effect as I noticed Lenna, the shorter one, stumble a bit. We went to my Toyota RAV 4 and Olive seated herself on the passenger seat; Lenna jumped in the back seat. I dropped Lenna off at South B as Olive directed me to her place at Westlands. She talked the whole way to Westlands about how she has been to Masai Mara and how she would like to go to Dubai some day. Amidst all these, between those pauses, I glanced at the ebony thighs protruding from her torso, the thighs that my wife didn’t have anymore. They came at a price those young thighs. This was an expensive venture I had gotten myself into. Someone should have told me the sugar in Sugar Daddy was imported premium sugar from the fields of Brazil.
By 2 P.M., Olive was snoring at her bed and I was headed home to my loving wife feeling younger and happier than I had in 15 years. Those tender thighs will have me coming back though.
This post first appeared in the Storymoja blog