When Nairobian women want sex from a man, they write him a text, “I miss you”. Throw in some annoyingly cliched emoji, and a man is supposed to decode what that means and should invite her to his house, or if he one of these new-age metrosexual sissies, go to her place to be served noodles and minced meat and be expected to outperform an electric sexual toy.
Nairobian women spent so much time accusing us that we are not romantic but they are real frauds when you think about it. Nairobi women are hardened, militant, dishonest, materialistic, and that concoction of traits can hardly make anyone romantic. And I’m using the word romantic in the most generic sense. To find a woman who is lovely, lovable and sexy, you should head to Tanzania, to Kampala, or to down Coast. That makes me sad.
Take shisha smoking for instance. Can a girl who smokes shisha be romantic in ten lifetimes? No! Ditto smoking. Ditto wild drinking and partaking in orgies. Every time I go to clubs, I give up on dating, courtship and sex altogether. In an ironic twist, some prostitutes actually know a thing or two about romance. I have been to these high-end hotels. You see commercial sex workers perched on the bar counters’ high stools, sipping some choice wine or whisky and that is how they entice the middle-aged and older white men visiting the country for charity or those prospecting gold and diamonds in Shinyalu and other outposts far North. They know what decorum is, know their table manners, and can dance like human beings are supposed to. But take a random Nairobi girl, in college or even working class. Take her to Kosewe and see her devour the fish or rip the kienyeji chicken apart like a Western Kenya man who has just been released from jail before she settles for a brown bottle. And that brings me to another thing. How can a woman who drinks brown bottled, or even green ones be romantic in a million lifetimes? These are things I have seen in my short and troubled life in this planet.
Most Nairobi girls prefer nightclubs where music is played at eardrum-shattering decibels. How people even hold intelligible conversations in clubs is beyond me. But that is where and how Nairobi women like it. That however, is not the problem. Question is, can someone who dances wildly to Jamaican ragga and riddims be romantic? No! Someone who knows every third-rate Jamaican ragga artist has no capacity to love someone. It is science guys.
Now, let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Dressing. When was the last time you saw a Nairobi woman dressed properly like a lady? I mean, they can put on pants all they want, but isn’t it ladylike to have a few good dresses to bring their feminine side out. Most Nairobian women dress on the cheap side of things. That is why mitumba are so popular with them. I’m in the CBD six days of the week and I only see one woman who is properly dressed in about three months. Most of them are in amorphous pants and hideous blouses. It is like they only dress to cover their nudity. Those who try to dress sexy overdo it. They tend to overemphasise their cleavages and buttocks, yet these things are better hinted at, than the overexposure they feed us.
What I’m saying is that Nairobian women need to soften a bit, learn to dress well, polish up their table manners, go slow on the bottle, stop smoking shisha and cigarettes pronto, improve on their taste of music, and start reading and watching better stuff. Just that. Sometimes all a man needs is a decent conversation on world affairs, and a woman who is knowledgeable on contemporary stuff is such a turn on, you want to reward her with some good sex.
While at it, women should improve on their hosting skills. Nairobian women are tragically very poor hosts. I have since stopped visiting women. They never cook food a proper man can eat; they never even make any effort to serve you some cold-canned drink to get you in the mood, or even play nice, old R&B or neo-soul. I need to thank Nairobian women though. They have really upped their fellatio game! Where and how they learn at such a young age is a story for another day.