Uuuuuh my knorr SUPU

Uuuuuh my knorr SUPU (Swts Uttered Preposterous Utterings)
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: *Ma-Youth watatumaliza*

Now, dear reader, this post needs to be read in context. And the context includes background music. The background of that Knorr soup ad, remember it? Ten-terere-ten ten-terere-ten ten-terere-ten ten-terere-ten….

Anyway, I met Delilah through a pal. We immediately hit it off and much to my pal’s chagrin she seemed to be more comfy in my company than his. We first met on some loose Saturday at some joint on Ngong Road called The Agenda (and this one isn’t hidden, yaani ni agenda ile ya wazi-wazi). So we bond for most of the night on matters ranging from music to the color of her dog :-) In the wee hours, numbers are exchanged and we agree to do a mid-week plot given she’s in between jobs and I’m, er…., yeah. So Wednesday evening we meet at Zebra lounge, South B.

Now Delilah is one fwyyyyneeee specimen of a woman.
Bottom-up approach: Cute toesies, check! (She had open sandals). Michelin poa, check! (Legs from here to Thailand). Madumdumz, er… slightly smaller than ISO recommended, but workable none-the-less. Waist, check! (Wasp or Waps as the case may be). Tumbo, check! (flat as a Chinese bottom). KCCs, check! (unaffected by the pull of gravity, luscious to the touch). Uso-Nyuso, check!!! (msuper, supful, stunning, Swahili style – doh, yapendeza). And the hair is hers, sticks to the same position and doesn’t house oduoriz of the foul kind.

As we check into Zebra I bump into my pal Kiwaru-Gee. The plan is to watch Cesc-ual, Cesc-y football of the gunner-style at Carni. We agree to meet up later. Atmosphere is good at Zebra save for some nyang’au dude at the corner passing wind uncontrollably. We nyonya our pints and continue to bond.

By the time we fika Carni we are both marinated nicccccely. Champions league atmosphere so things are poa-shwari. Then Delilah whispers in my ear *Dude, Im not feeling this joint. Whats the plan after?* I say we can hit electric avenue. She goes like *Kwani we can’t grab some pints and go kick it at yours?* Asalale. Ma-youth watatumaliza. I’m like *Cool*. Carni is forgotten haraka-upes, kwikfast and it’s off digoloz.

Matters proceed down the usual route until game-time:
Cue the background music I told you about up there *Milo pointing at those mistaris at the beginning of this post*

Turn on her stove (I did, I did)
tereren
Cut the satchet (Condiero is a must)
tereren
Purrrriiiirriiiiin (Put it in – twas my intention)
tereren
Gonna make her day (Or night as the case may-be/was)

Now, this chica is in a rush and I’m telling her no hurry in Africa. Its not like we are in some public parking-lot sijui we’ll be caught. We have time mami, chillax. Hata Little-Johnny-Wants-To-Play needs to transform to Johnny Mizigo. Superman required phone-booth, Popeye-Spinach. Sio instant coffee.

So chick is like she’ll operate KBJ xxxO (tumeko salaamz). I’m like sawaz. I’m just beginning to enjoy myself, toes beginning to cross, pinkies doing one-finger salute, chica stops. Assi! Kwani u work for KPLC ma-outages ovyo-ovyo? And then…. Wait for it…. She tells me to *Wank the rest* WhoTF says that? Surely?

As in, if I was Jeff Kweynengay on the K24 bench I’d be like (cue all manner of facial expressions and movement) “Good grief! You can’t make this stuff up! You reeeeally can’t! Is this girl crazzzzy, is she a loooonatic?”

Ati Wank the rest…