Biko the Zulu, a blogger from Migori in a past blog post wrote: “Nairobi is full of girls. Not ladies. Because ladies don’t party all night, every weekend. They don’t think smoking shisha and drinking alcohol is cool”.
I have a classmate I’ve known from 2010. We met in high school at a music festival. Like a tendril shooting from a germinating bean seed, she was young, fresh and composed. And as years happened, puberty happened. And the girl I knew just changed. Like we all do in campus.
She’s the demanding sort. She wants too much. Gives too much, or less, at times. She burned our friendship when I failed to reply to her text.
Lately, we’ve been hanging out: my boy has his straw in her bottle of soda. So we drink together at times, spend time and money as a group and when the match suits, she hooks a pal of mine and I with campo lasses who want a good time without spending a good amount of their HELB dough, parents money or salary if you are earning from a trade.
Can’t say hustle. Sounds shady. Dirty and conniving. Something for politicians.
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Through this short symbiotic existence that had a subtle trace of parasitism, I’ve drunk from her cup of generosity, been reminded that classes are ongoing been asked to ‘come with Fanta baridi’ or endure a moody girl friend and at one point, I was sort out after she discovered my boy appreciates his lakeside lady in a Mombasa campus more than he does her. And I’ve endured.
But the straw that broke the camel’s back came when she asked for a fundraiser so she can have one helluva birthday party.
That we SGR to Mombasa, buy liquor and party like Jamaicans. I looked at her text and noticed I was in an abusive relationship.
Like one where your ‘friend’ will only buy drinks if you bring along two girls or one where your roommate eats chips and kuku with his girl and sister and doesn’t give you a bite or wash the dirty dishes. So I left.
