MANTALK: We’re all struggling in this town

I’m seated at a table with three women. One of them is drinking a beer, the other is having dessert and the one directly opposite me is finishing her fish (slow eater). I’m sipping water (very fast eater). They are talking about a fourth woman who isn’t here. I know the fourth woman. Everybody knows the fourth woman. She’s a single parent, in the media, all glam, and has numerous followers on Instagram. She looks divine. Everybody agrees that she is a hot mother, especially the womenfolk.

Slow Eater says, “Don’t be fooled by what she posts and says in the media. That chick is struggling. She is struggling to maintain her standard of living. She made some bad decisions and now they are coming to hound her.” Beer Drinker says, “Oh, I thought she was being supported by the rich boyfriend?” Slow Eater scoffs back, “What rich boyfriend?” Beer Drinker says, “Si she said she has a supportive boyfriend who loves her toto to bits?” Slow Eater rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised she doesn’t flip back in her chair and fall. “Oh please, she doesn’t have a boyfriend. You think men want to have you with a child? Men just want you when you have no baggage.” They are now talking about men as if we are some alien, insensitive species – and I’m seated right there. I want to imagine that I’m invisible. I try to sit as still as possible and not risk drawing attention to myself. So here I am, like a mannequin.

WHAT DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?

Dessert Lady looks up from her chocolate ice cream and says, “Aii, me I thought she had a man.” I’m tempted to say, Well, there is no man, can we move on? Anyway, Beer Lady says, “Aki social media is so deceptive. Here I was thinking that the chick is balling, kumbe we are all struggling in this town?” (At least she didn’t say ‘the struggle is real’. I hate that phrase). Beer Drinker holds her chin and exclaims, “Ngai!” Upon which Dessert Lady looks at me and says, “Biko you are too quiet. You better not write about this, by the way! I shoot back contemptuously: “Oh please, come on, I can’t! What do you take me for?”

Slow Eater asks a waiter for a hot towel then says “Anyway, I’m only saying this because I mean well and she is my friend and I wouldn’t want to live like her.” (Oh please!) “But I mean, some decisions people make! Imagine she is paying around Sh140,000 in rent and once she has paid she has nothing left after food and diapers.”

“Ati she’s paying how much in rent?” I ask, my interest piqued. They have infected me with udaku.

“Si Sh140,000!” Beer Drinker says. “One two three four... one hundred and forty thousand Kenyan shillings in rent?” I gasp. “Yeah, kwani?” Beer Drinker continues, “Haiya, kwani you think these chicks who drive Polos and Audis and live in leafy suburbs pay how much?” I don’t know any chick who drives a Polo and Audi to start with, at least not young ones. “Sh140,000 in rent? That’s crazy!” I say like a villager who just got off a bus from Kendu Bay. Slow Eater: “It’s massive – three bedrooms with two balconies and pantry and a big kitchen and two parking spots. It’s about image, Biko. You live in the right address, you drive the right car and you go to the right places. There are many chicks like that who have sponsors. But you know what?”

I hate when people ask that, because I have to say, “What?” Sometimes I don’t feel like saying “What?” but I know they won’t continue until I say “What?” So I say “What?” She says, “These sponsors will put you up in apartments they own and give you a car in their name but once the next hot chick shows up you are out. They throw you out.”

LOTS OF WATER!

“So the trick then is to drink lots of water to have nice skin and do lots of squats to keep your ass shapely, ama?” I say, tongue-in-cheek. Beer Drinker says, “Doesn’t matter, Biko. There will always be a prettier, younger girl coming, so you have to know that – that the sell-by date is near.” I act shocked at the coldness of the city, at the superficiality of it all – after all, didn’t I just get off that bus from Kendu?

Later I thought how tough it must be to be a lazy woman who depends on men, how precarious it must be knowing that he is there because your ass reminds him of a sacred stone. And that you are expendable when a younger, prettier thing ambles by. Should you contract cholera and lose so much weight that your skin sags from dehydration, he will take off as soon as the next cholera-free girls shows up. That your very economic position is dependent on your body and face and a man’s desire for it. I will never complain about being a man again. When I’m broke and I have bills pending and accountants aren’t taking my calls, I will say, It could be worse. I could be a sponsored woman.