This past Friday, I decided to hang out with one of my Karen friends called Otis since it’s Njaanuary and as we all know, the wells never dry up on those sides of town. I didn’t have the slightest idea of how wild the night would eventually turn out. So I met the guy and he convinced me to accompany him to a strip club with two of his other hommies. I had never thought of going to a strip club but since I felt the experience would make for a great tale I was in for the plan.
I had a vivid idea of how the fantasy joints in the west looked like thanks to 2 Chainz music videos and Martin Scorsese mafia movies. But then I was curious to see how business was conducted in the local ones. I was eager to bear witness of these Kenyan goddesses of nighttime nudity doing their thang.
It was around 10pm when we arrived at the joint. We parked our Mitsubishi in the outer lot since the inside area was already full. Our vehicle appeared the cheapest among the fleet but who cared? It was a prestigious place indeed and I pictured myself making a sleek entry like James Bond, then ordering double Martini – shaken not stirred. Bawse
At the entrance the bouncers were quick to question our maturity so we had to slide a loose Sh500 plus the entrance fee to be allowed in. The club looked pretty cool inside, dimly lit but set alive by a myriad of colored lights and Cuban fandango tunes.
I was super nervous and did my best to control the flurry of butterflies in my stomach. As we made our way, i awed at the carpeted stairwell with mirror walls, plush red velvet furniture and a strong scent of lush Caribbean perfume. The floor had specks of gold litter strewed all through. A few metres away, I could see the first sign of clotheless mamiis. I had never seen that much ‘tattas’ in one place before It felt like a blend of hell and paradise. As the Jamaicans would say, “Those were di tings fi di Babylon system.”
The high number of people at the establishment didn’t surprise me either. Men are drawn to strip clubs the way Piranhas are drawn to human toes dangling in the Amazon River. It’s important to note that strip clubs exist to separate thirsty men from their money. Not some of their money. All of it. Strip clubs make men relinquish their dough, so they can, if only for a fleeting moment, feel like they’re not associate financial consultants at mid-sized regional banks or depressed husbands who have to go to bed with nagging wives dressed in ‘Safaricom’ t-shirts.
But the short, fat, balding guys that were marveling at the statuesque exotic beauties inside didn’t seem like they were bothered by the deductions of their cash-in-hand
They say a stripper is the only business lady who will make you pay for window-shopping the product but still deny you the chance to actually buy it. Other businesspeople always say, “Kuona ni bure.” That’s not the case with a stripper. She will flaunt her mad skills and goodies at you then tell you, “That’s all. Goodnight.” By then, you have showered her with all your cash and unless you have a wife at home, or are loaded, you end up worse than when you came in – Broke and ‘not satisfied’.
At least that’s what I thought too. I thought strip clubs are only in the business of selling, fantasy, alcohol and nothing more – wrong. For a few more thousands, you could get a ‘happy ending’. That’s what the first girl who approached me said. Her stage name was ‘Vanessa The Undressa’
“What can I do for you. Utakunywa drink ama twende private room?”, Vanessa cooed in a mixture of fluent English and Swahili as her fingers traced the plunging vee of her shirt , blatantly drawing attention to the quivering globes that threatened to erupt from her brassiere at any moment. Wow! That was first. Even my friends were surprised.
Perhaps she realized I was the new one so she wanted to mine up my shillings quickly. I said I’d start with a drink. Meanwhile my Karen buddies had already been approached by other strippers who doubled as waitresses. I took time to survey the place. One could easily lose all sense of time and place in there. It was a mixed race affair. American men, European men, Indian men, African men and then me (the man with the lowest net worth in the building)
Not far from me, an old white man was seated with another woman who looked like his wife. Damn! So women accompany their men to jiggle joints too. I thought this was just dude culture. The wife was as excited as her husband. Her lips pursed as she blew the foam from her Tusker. She then clinked glasses with him before a stripper joined them. Further bemusement dawned on me as the two wasted no time pouring their filth on the well-endowed lady.
The guy groaned and moaned with a Russian accent as he ravaged every criface of the young mamii’s body, transforming her into a living pleasure doll to satisfy both his desires as well as the voyeuristic kinks of his naughty wife. His hands dug into the stripper’s flesh, as if he wanted to take her there and then, in front of his wife. “Calm down Mafioso,” I almost told him
Moments later, Vanessa The Undressa wandered back to me in all her long legged beauty and perched her a$s on the edge of the couch. My eyes then explored her curves with unhurried appreciation. This chic wanted me and there was no one to save me. My Karen pals were all making it rain but I couldn’t do that since it would mean I would have to negotiate with ‘mama’ mboga for ‘sukuma ya deni’ in a few days’ time. I just hoped I wouldn’t bump into anyone I know. No one to witness my transgressions.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” She purred into my ear
I smiled at her and drank my entire non-alcoholic drink in one long gulp. The way her sexy eyes cruised lazily over me made the lap-dance option more appealing with each passing second but naaaaa. As tempting as it was, I opted for a non-engagement policy. I preferred watching the ladies at the various stages, swinging on the poles
Elsewhere, shouts and laughter competed with the bass pumping from the speakers. A quick glance at Otis a few steps away and I could see the gaze of lust clouding his eyes as a creamy lady grinded on him. He offered to buy me a lap dance but the caution in me was just too much. What if there were cameras? What if cops stormed the place? Was this legal? That was just part of the initiation. An insight into the dark happenings of 254’s Sin City. Hours later, we left. The house was still full. Full of men whose wives had no idea where they were.
I’ll tell you one thing though. Once I get pay rise, I am definitely going back
