Whispers from Liddos
It’s now slightly over a week since the last time I promised to put out this story. But I have been busy a little, running around, with lawmakers.
Most of them don’t want to go home, yet Parliament is officially on recess.But wait. This is not another lazy rant about MPs. By now, I gather, you don’t like them.
This is about a colleague’s trip to the strip club.
He says, he was approached by a mutual lady pal to make the trip to one of the shady joints in Nairobi’s backstreets. The last time the guy was there, he told me, was when he’d taken another friend for a birthday party. Hmmm…who celebrates birthdays looking at naked women gyrating atop a table? It only happens in Nairobi. (Er …I am not well-travelled, so I’ll not know if it happens in Las Vegas, because everyone who goes there keeps repeating the tired line that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Well, back to my pal. As we sipped warm beverage and chewed on roast nuts, he went on to tell me about the lewd escapade. He said he saw “beautiful chics with really nice pairs of shoes” dancing.
He was a little mean with how the lady pal who had taken him there was doing. She was doing a story on pole dancing and strippers, he said, and gave no more details. Of course she was in the observation phase of story writing!
But then again, he wouldn’t know or even have time to observe her reactions with all those nude bodies gyrating next to his bottle of soda (he said he took soda. I believed him, because, I doubt if he’d survive a night at his place if he sipped alcohol).
He sized up a waitress and tried --Er how do I say it without going round in circles the way he did?--okay, and tried having her take her clothes off for him. She rebuffed him, told me.
Then as one of the strippers passed next to his table, he shouted: “Wanjiru!”
She looked at him, then walked to another girl and told her that he was calling her.
“She came and asked me, why did you call me?” he told me. “I told her, I thought your name was Wanjiru.”
The stripper, not used to such unflattering flimflam, asked: “So, you’ve come all the way, from wherever you came from, just to think about my name?”
The guy got tongue-tied and told her “sorry”! Ha!
But nonetheless he had his fun and seems to have enjoyed it. He left that place at two in the morning.
I am waiting to read the story, written by the real journalist and not give you secondhand information!
Most of them don’t want to go home, yet Parliament is officially on recess.But wait. This is not another lazy rant about MPs. By now, I gather, you don’t like them.
This is about a colleague’s trip to the strip club.
He says, he was approached by a mutual lady pal to make the trip to one of the shady joints in Nairobi’s backstreets. The last time the guy was there, he told me, was when he’d taken another friend for a birthday party. Hmmm…who celebrates birthdays looking at naked women gyrating atop a table? It only happens in Nairobi. (Er …I am not well-travelled, so I’ll not know if it happens in Las Vegas, because everyone who goes there keeps repeating the tired line that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”
Well, back to my pal. As we sipped warm beverage and chewed on roast nuts, he went on to tell me about the lewd escapade. He said he saw “beautiful chics with really nice pairs of shoes” dancing.
He was a little mean with how the lady pal who had taken him there was doing. She was doing a story on pole dancing and strippers, he said, and gave no more details. Of course she was in the observation phase of story writing!
But then again, he wouldn’t know or even have time to observe her reactions with all those nude bodies gyrating next to his bottle of soda (he said he took soda. I believed him, because, I doubt if he’d survive a night at his place if he sipped alcohol).
He sized up a waitress and tried --Er how do I say it without going round in circles the way he did?--okay, and tried having her take her clothes off for him. She rebuffed him, told me.
Then as one of the strippers passed next to his table, he shouted: “Wanjiru!”
She looked at him, then walked to another girl and told her that he was calling her.
“She came and asked me, why did you call me?” he told me. “I told her, I thought your name was Wanjiru.”
The stripper, not used to such unflattering flimflam, asked: “So, you’ve come all the way, from wherever you came from, just to think about my name?”
The guy got tongue-tied and told her “sorry”! Ha!
But nonetheless he had his fun and seems to have enjoyed it. He left that place at two in the morning.
I am waiting to read the story, written by the real journalist and not give you secondhand information!
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