I was at the Coast the other Saturday. On the way to an outing on a certain island on someone’s private boat, I noticed an extraordinary sight.
There was this skinny knock-kneed buck-toothed cross-eyed guy with a cross manner about him. And I understood.
I too would be an angry guy if I was this skinny, knock-kneed, buck-toothed guy, with eyes that ‘look at one another’, as if they are saying ‘hi’ to each other, yet they don’t see eye to eye.
Let’s call our skinny knock-kneed buck-toothed dude with the cross eyes Raju.
Sitting on his lap was a big bummed, light and beautiful young woman.
Someone whispered ‘look at that hot pointie.’ I corrected them, because I know Bajunis.
They are a mix of Bantu and Somali, with a dash of original Khoisan, later Arab and Persian, and some with Indonesian ancestry.
‘He must have a lot of money, this Raju,’ Jim whispered to me, ‘for that lady to sit on his lap.’
As it turned out, Bajuni babe is Raju’s girlfriend.
And he not only owned the boat we were on, but a family villa on whose grounds he was throwing a party that evening, to which we all were invited, drinks on the house. Literally.
I couldn’t help thinking later that perhaps, in the quest to keep the ‘money in the family,’ this lineage had overbred between close cousins, because how do you explain that in photos we saw in the family villa corridor, every one of them seemed a bit genetically twisted?
The deejay, a well-known professional, was one of those good looking guys women swoon over.
Tall. Athletic looking. Dark. Abs (no need for him to wear a T-shirt in that Coastal heat). Great voice, perfect baritone. Like he should be on radio, not just behind decks.
At some point, Raju took over the music, demanding that the deejay play weird garage music.
It made me think of a boy called Munu, when we were growing up, who had a great football.
Problem was that while he was a crack at rounders – he eventually even got to Team ‘B’ of the Kenya cricket team, for a couple of years – Munu sucked marbles when it came to playing footer.
But because it was his ball, he would demand every 15 minutes that we stop the football match ‘and let me score a goal...’ Otherwise he’d just pick up his football, and go home, leaving us ndiii (stranded).
One day, a guy called Kimeu, who was catching goal, instead of giving Munu his ball and goal on demand, simply went and burst the football against sharp nails in an ongoing construction site.
Munu got a new ball. But never interrupted play again to ask us to be let to score another goal!
Raju, in present day adult life, though he is about 30, eventually just took over the DJ deck after he had had too much to drink, and yelled: ‘It’s either garage music. Or you can go f yourself. It’s my way or the highway, heh heh heh.’
No one laughed at his very dry ‘joke.’ And he wouldn’t have been laughing later too, if he had seen what I had seen, 20 minutes later.
Bored of his unbearable techno – for me beat music without words ended when they closed down ‘La Papa Loca, the Crazy Potato’ club in Westlands, round about the turn of millennium – I took a walk to the beach (that’s how rich this family is, their villa has palm trees and a beach).
And who do I spot snogging against one of the palm trees?
The tall DJ with abs (no shirt, just sweat), with the hot Bajuni babe, who is Raju’s girlfriend.
I later learned that she’s from a broken, broke as hell makuti house family, and dropped out of school at 16 to party and hang out with ‘cool kids.’ And Raju is head-over-heels, cross-eyed (sorry, I can’t resist) in love with her. Clearly, she’s not with him for his great looks.
Men, here is a general simple match-up rule.
Career women like men with money for comfort. Smart women want smart men for children.
And very hot girls like hunks.
tonyadamske@gmail.com