Bad bachelor: Amacho goes to Watamu with his boss

Wednesday evening finds me and my boss Cynthia Worm – founder of the advertising agency WAG (Worm Advertising aGency) – in a Skyward Express plane. We have potential Italian investors to put in cash for stock into our/her ailing agency.

And though Ms Worm isn’t exactly my hugest fan, she knows I have a way of charming men.

Maybe because my carefree ‘Bad Bachelor’ manner puts guys at ease, and after that it’s a breeze?

The Thursday meeting goes so well. And I put my ‘A’ hype game on the table for these Italian chaps.

My mzungu boss Cynthia Worm is so pleased, she suggests we stay around for an extra day to relax.

‘But not here in Malindi,’ she says. ‘Watamu, next door, is so much better.’

This is how Friday finds us at a very pretty seaside resort in Watamu.

Not that Cynthia can relax. I find her in a negotiation by a bar by the sea with Bwana Bobo Lenzo, owner of the resort. ‘I wanna do my Easter company retreat here with my staff,’ I find her telling the most affable Mr Lenzo. ‘But I need you to give me a 50 per cent discount on rooms and conference facilities.’

Bobo Lenzo chuckles: ‘One thing you got, Cynthia. A lot of chutzpah. Let me think about it, okay?

Before leaving, he pats her hand with fatherly affection, though he is a youthful 67, Miss Worm 50 and myself early 30s.

I take his place on the stool, and after asking for a beer, stare out at the sea and say: ‘Beautiful, ain’t it?’

Cynthia does her office snort, and scoffs. ‘I prefer mountains to seas. You see, I grew up comfortable in the Swiss Alps till I was ten. Then my parents split, I moved to Colorado – more mountains – with my mum. It was where she was from.’ A sad bitterness enters her voice. ‘Never ever saw my dad, again.’

For the first time in my life, I feel sorry for Worm, whom we’ve nicknamed ‘Wormhole’ behind her back.

My own father went MIA on us when I was three, her daddy went AWOL when she was ten. I get that!

‘Tell me about growing up in Switzerland,’ I say, and order my boss another Spritz. Most women like talking about themselves, what they like, yeah. Most men make a big mistake in this game. Instead of listening to her, they try to impress, sometimes by talking BIG about themselves.

As the sun and spritzes go down, I’m in the spool of Ms Worm’s sentimentalia of Switzerland.

The Swiss chocolates, eclairs and cheese she chewed as a child, Swiss watches and clocks that made her precise in delivery, and so on. ‘I love Kenya,’ she slurs, ‘but I really dislike how tardy the locals are.’

I think of a certain deadline project I have barely looked at since start of year gathering dust in a bottom office-drawer, and literally sweat.

Cynthia Worm jumps up as a renowned female deejay Sue Raja plays the decks to start off a beach party.

‘C’mon Art, let’s cool you down with a dance.’ We don’t touch, but my boss wiggles her hips, laughs, and in her tight white dress, I can tell her body is hard from gyming, like a slab coz she’s ‘flat.’

It’s hard to tell if her gyrating is a tease, the Spritz, seduction or a flirt. When the song ‘Sunrise Surprise’ ends, she stops and says abruptly: ‘I’m off to take a walk on the beach.’ I let her walk.

Next thing I know, there’s a shriek of delight, and a cry of ‘Art! I cannot believe it is you.’ I also cannot believe my eyes. It is Lynn Achi. Whom I last saw, and had a one nighter with, back in Campus. She still has that small square face.

Cat’s eyes. Small strong jaw. But now there’s a coarse quality to her pouted lips. And a ‘knowing’ in her eyes. Like someone who has spent the last decade getting to explore all sorts of decadence.

We go to the beach bar. She still likes tequila shots. At 30, she has been ‘all over the world’ – Zanzibar, Cyprus, Bali – but will not tell me what she does. Who cares? I have the hots for Lynn Achi. Hots like hell!

I’ve also forgotten about the existence of Cynthia Worm.