Eric Wamanji
This didn’t start like a normal day, and certainly it wasn’t… and folks, I can wager to the last of mine dime, all of us have gone through this torturous yet adventurous experience.
And that’s why folks, before taking that drive to South C on a gray and grimy Tuesday, mid-morning, you are best advised to look for the gents at the Java Hurlingam. This is wise especially, if you were up at 5 a.m, hit the Ngong Road Office at 6.am, went straight to the coffee- maker for the black thing, then you guzzle two cups, as if it contains the charm to rid Nairobi of its f*cking buckets at roundabouts. As if that’s not enough, you meet a pal around 9.30 a.m, and your illicit urges thrust you to Java where you quaff more sweetened latte.
If there’s any sensation like peeing, please do before you hit the new car park in town that is Mbagathi Way. This road is crawling, like police from Nairobi to Garissa, and by the time you reach T-Mall, your bladder is sending signals. Please, stop by and dash to the mall to relieve yourself. You have been warned!
However, proceed and be damned. For, South C, the roads are like a frozen river in the worst winter. Yet, your bladder is bulging; yet, there is no side kerb to pull then rush to a fence to obey nature. So you squeeze your member between the thighs. At this rate, you jerk on the accelerator and you miss digging into the sleek black Porsche ahead by a whisker.
The fluid is fiery. Aw boy! Aw boy! You probably would scream.
You realise that there is a water bottle on the front seat, and reflexively, it seduces your liquid into a jailbreak from the bladder. So you pick the bottle and toss it to the rear seat. Now, thou shall not see any water when pressed, you coin a law. Thus, when a plump woman at a fruit stall pours water into a jerrycan, you look the other way; when the contractor pours water to a tank, you close your eyes. At this time, you are sweating, though it’s chilly, actually 140C. Any silly lapse of the sphincter muscles, and your grey-blue suit will be all wet.
Now and then, an idea pops up: how about making use of the bottle at the back seat? And why, pray, didn’t Honda ever thought of engineering a hole and a pipe somewhere to let that unholy liquid drain off your damn body?
By the time you reach South C three hours later, it seems like 300 years. The guard has to open the gate or else you will crush through it. You leave your car revving. Dash to the lifts. Gosh, the Chinese stuff could be dysfunctional. You got to do the pee-pee dance as you wait for the f*king elevator to obey your beck. Oh, then one creaks open. OMG! first floor, where the earliest lavatory is located, sounds miles to the moon. You will probably, like I did, find yourself in the ladies. Oops!