I met two individuals this week. Two people who I think I should write about.
When we all of come to Nairobi, we dream of making it big, hitting the deal breaker in the first month or two, and going home driving a ka car that will get the village girls a little wet. But it doesn`t happen many of the times. We never get anywhere. One week we are dreaming of buying a house and a car, the next one we are struggling to pay rent for a ka bedsitter in Zimmerman as if our lives depend on it. That`s why such situations I always call Nairobi ya Maisha.
My subject did just the same thing. She left her home, somewhere in Nyeri to come to town, to learn. And then life struck as it always does.The day her matatu landed at Nyamakima, and she got out with all her Ndumas and mboshos, she was innocent. She didnt know what lamba lolo meant. She was just straight out of high school, and had just enough mental manure to fertilize her dreams. I wont name her.
And then there is this other one, born right in the bowels of this town. She is like a map, scared by town. She always will know where the Kanjos are lurking, who is hitting on who, whose phone was taken Jana in Kayole, and who is a thief in Kariobangi. Her life hit corners before Thika road was made, perhaps it was just around that time when the bed upon whose sheets the idea was conceived was being spread. You would think that life should work in some sort of alternates. One moment you are down, the other you are up, but it doesn`t for her. In her memory it was always been a story of struggles, of danger lurking down the corner in the form of a policeman, or the kanjo, or even the customer.
I know you have just about learnt about the trajectory of this story, Yes, I was somewhere along Koinange street, at night. I wasnt seeking to rarua Karura while akina Hamisi Rawlins were biting each others heads off on my post here, I was seeking money too. And when you are seeking money, your business paths will always cross with other business persons, whether you like it or not.
I almost sympathized with the trade. It looks despicable, until she tells you how much she earns in a night. How much, we men, mwaga from our pockets and our mjulubengs that night. Somewhere she reminded me a book that I have been fantasizing about reading,`The Power of Pu***.`It is not worthy literature,not in the same sense of literature that Mzangila Snr or Timon Nia or a reading connoisseur like Thuo Patrick Junior would appreciate, but we are all seeking some understanding of the dynamics of life.
I have my reservations about prostitution. I have seen the amount of evil its guardian angels can do in normal placid places like my hometown Narok, when the wheat dry. I have seen how people around my neighborhood would sell a little piece of their farm, to go have that glorious fifteen minutes of fame, and then the walk of shame after that. But I have always asked myself, what led them to the trade?
They told me about their own experiences, these two characters of mine, how life drove them to the absolute edge of the cliff. The first one feeds her mom in Nyeri with the product of her hustle. Back home they think she has a small shop near the UON, which is absolutely true if you took it into context. For the second one, everyone knows her trade. She talks of it with the ease of someone who has done it before. The words glide from her tongue, as if its an interview with Nation. And when I am just about done talking to her her, she tells me, `Na kama utakuja kesho ulete biashara ya maana.` I don’t know what that means at all. I am still innocent.
But I know we haven`t ever thought to talk of it, the rot in the deepest cleavages of our societies that stifles us. I know that some men condemn them in the sun, and frequent their rooms in the dark. I always thought of paying for the services so that for once I would have shared the same thing with someone high in the government. Their client profiles are portfolios of the big and the mighty, and the small fish who can only afford a shot for the day. But I have seen what happens in Amsterdam, On Magunga`s blog that is, where the trade is treated as you would treat any other trade.
It is not the act that is despicable, it is the fact that even the clients do not want to speak about it. As long as men will need sex there will be prostitution, its yin and yang. We can condemn it to the darkness, but every night, in the cold, they will stand and wave at your car as you cruise along university way, and you will be tempted under the streetlights by the glare of flesh, and blood roaring in your head.
Let not the false belief in our self righteousness urinate on reality.
It is time to deal with prostitution as a trade. They don’t peddle narcotics, and slay queens don’t give what they were give free for free either