Enemies of male authority in my house have regrouped to rally support for a referendum to devolve more cash for domestic misuse.
This is because efforts to have me include tint lotions expenses, expensive weaves and designer wear into the list of the basic human needs have failed.
“And this time, the effort is reloaded to ensure I also get a state of the art kitchen like a truly married woman. Kwani si ata mimi ni shujaa!’ Michelle declared.
At that, I was ready to invite her to go hug a transformer but conventional wisdom prevented me from making that mistake.
Judging by how determined she is going about it this morning, wahalla is coming my way.
“Hell, no!” She almost screams. “You never take anything I say seriously and I will not allow you to dodge this topic anymore,” I am informed.
“Si you know that although I am not as digital as you, kusema na kutenda is my motto. I do everything I am supposed to in this house in spite of the fact that hii pesa si ya mama yako,” I remind her.
Normally a battle hardened hustler like me should contain unrealistic ambitions of his wife.
But to just ensure that in case I lose this referendum battle I have to be prepared by ensuring I have the required resources to devolve enough pesa mashinani and still have some left for paying drinking bills at Mama Fatuma’s.
In my scheme to manufacture money I do not want to fall foul of the law, especially at a time when jails in Kenya are overflowing with rapists who specialise in molesting fully grown men like me.
Since Kenyans are some of the most hard working people with hardly any time to relax, I decided to open a parlour which specialises in telling their tired souls and limbs ‘pole’ in appreciation of their contribution to building the nation.
I stumbled upon the idea by chance. Talk of serendipity, it was by pure coincidence that I came to learn of the ready market for massage services in the city.
I was in a hotel when one of the waiters whispered that it would be nice to sample the delights the hotel offered ‘upstairs’.
Out of curiosity, we went up the lounge to find a bevy of skimpily dressed beauties, with pouted lips offering the hottest massage to tired gentlemen.
“Mzee, get in here for an out of the world experience,” I was invited. How could I resist. Like a sheep, I followed her to a cubicle and magic happened. The next thing I remember, I was being woken up by the girl who said she had another customer waiting in line.
“Kwani can’t a man relax in peace in this city, rub and kiss the top of my head some more. Especially the bald part. I need to go back to la la land,” I begged.
“Mzee, this is not your house, it is a business na thao yako imeisha. ‘Chota’ if you want some more and a ‘little extra’,” she said winking her fake eyelashes.
On my way out, I noticed posters all over the wall advertising ‘exotic gals’ from as far away as Cambodia, Thailand and Migingo.
Silly me, how on earth did I end up getting a rub down from a Mukamba girl when we had this interesting line up to explore.
It thus hit me, so many stressed fellows you bump into in the city would pay an arm and a leg to be treated like a king for a few minutes. I will open a massage parlor that will be fit for the governor of Nairobi. With piped music, the best scented oils from as far away as Zanzibar and an army of mamanzi wa Nairobi to die for.
“Honey, how well would you perform massage at a fee?” I asked Michelle when I got home with a smile that said ‘I feel good all over’.
“She considered the question for a minute and asked suddenly, “Why do you ask?” I told her of the millions enterprising Kenyans are making from bone headed massage joints around the city.
“We could show them how to do this thing properly and get fabulously rich in the process,” I told her.
“And who gave you that idea? Or have you been to those ill reputed brothels in Ngara where people do bad manners in the name of massage?”
How did she know!
“No way! I would not be caught dead in such a place. You know I am a God fearing man Michelle,” I protested.
“I can pick out the smell of lodging sabuni a kilometre away, but you are smelling like a Sudanese bride. I suppose she meant the bint El Sudan perfume I was wearing from the massage parlor.
She then decided I could go on with my plan as long as I did not involve her. “It is your own Shauri if you want to be a pimp but count me out.
“Just don’t ask to be made director after I succeed,” I warned her.
She just laughed. “Where will you get your girls?” she asked “Nyeri?” laughing some more.
“All over the country and even as far away as Timbuktu,” I shot back at her.
