Wa Mombasa!

The following proceedings occurred when Anko Ice was still a bachelor and reckless. Any attempt to refer to this against Anko Ice in the future shall be construed as a declaration of hostilities and shall be met with the vilest kao remote-controlled magic if you know what I mean.

Man must eat, and therefore, man must work. Anko finds himself in Tongaren, Bungoma, with two of his other buddies. We did our work, and after finishing what had brought us to Tongaren, Bungoma, and receiving our dues, we decided it was time to venture out and explore and experience “vitu za huku”. 

We ended up in a pub that looked like it had seen better days. It had a sound system or as the locals called it “retio” with the worst sound quality you have ever heard, blaring out Lingala like whoever was singing was being strangled mercilessly, or as the layman would put it, (alikuwa anaimba ni kama anapigwa ngeta)

After a hearty meal of brown ugali and chicken with some mrenda, we started downing the beers slowly without pressure. Anko was a sworn White cap guy (the tragedy of life, is when you realize, you shared the same beer with the village Zinjanthropus)

Incredulously enough, there were no yellow yellows in the pub, you see, that was something that did not go on well with us. We summoned the barman at the counter and asked him, where the girls were. His eyes shone, 

“munataka matem?”

Horny niggas

“Ndio boss, ala!”

“Supirini, 

naleta fitu vizuri”

After a short time, the dude actually showed up with not one but three, kienyeji quails. On another day, another place, we would have plastered him with the choicest coastal expletives, but on this particular night we accepted and moved on. 

Everyone picked his choice of the ladies Within two minutes, or even less, for reasons only known to her my selection had labeled me “Wa Mombasa” and from that moment on, it was Wa Mombasa this, Wa Mombasa that.

That woman was obsessed with machini ya Mombasa, hizo machini zinatoka kwa bahari, hizo machini zinakula watu hiyo machini  and so on and so forth. All that time, she was talking, the fisi in me was like,

“you just wait until I unleash, 

the real jini 

in my maroon boxer”

After enough drinks, food, and distorted rhumba, the barman who was at the counter showed us the classiest lodging in the area, and that's where we split ways, to each his own (kila mtu akaenda na wake).

Thanks partly to the drinks, and the most imaginative blatant lies about majinis you ever heard, the lady was more than ready and willing, Anko Ice was about to be shocked. 

That girl was physical, pretty aggressive, and I might add just plain mad. Gaaaadem! The minute I rolled down protection on Mr Abdalla, entered her and picked the rhythm, it started. With every thrust came wild cries of 

"pepeta, pepeta pepeta 

pepeta hiyo kitu, 

wa Mombasa 

pepetaaa!"

Eish! Surely she knew how to cheer someone on. At around one am, I was dead tired, kicked her to the other side of the bed, and slept like a gunia. 

I had barely slept for long when I felt the presence of a soft hand on half my ass, which made me jump out of bed quick fast and steadied myself, ready for war. 

In Mombasa, anything foreign on your booty, or hovering around your booty, irrespective of how harmless it may seem, is cause for major alarm but I found out it was the girl, (hereinafter referred to as pepeta) smiling.

"Wa Mombasa 

amka 

upepete ya mwisho."

I quickly scanned the room and saw that, it was almost daybreak. I gathered all the courage I could and told the nutcase I was dead tired, and had a long journey back to Mombasa ahead of me. Enough with the pepeta shit.

“Soma roof” 

she quipped.

“Ati nini!”

I retorted.

“Wewe lala na uangalie roof, 

na 

uwache maswali mengi wamombasa”

I complied, but not before adding rubber to cover Mr Abdalla inorder to prevent Pepeta from pregnancy, against the various STIs, and the mother of all, HIV/AIDS. Pepeta climbed on top of me, steadied herself, and began to ride. 

Pepeta, pepeta, pepeta, pepetaaa.. The way that woman rode me, weeeh! 

It was like it was a matter of life and death, Pepeta rode like CORD’s Okoa referendum depended on it, like that riding would solve the Kemsa NYS, Eurobond scandals, and Dr. Ouko mysteries combined like…

After we were done, we took showers, then before we stepped out I ventured into my wallet flashed out a 200 bob note, and handed it to Pepeta. She looked at me with a funny look that I could not really decipher. 

I felt cheap and silly. 200 bob for all that. I took the 200 bob which she was holding tightly and flushed out a 500 bob note. Now her eyes widened and her jaw slightly dropped.

“Tena unaongeza, 

kwani 

nimekulimia shamba?” 

I returned the 500 bob back to where it came from chap chap. We dressed and went out to meet the others for breakfast before heading back to Mombasa. The look on my buddies' faces when we met was worth more than that of the Mona Lisa. I knew they would fry me later.

When I sat down I felt a faint pain in my groin then I remembered,

Wamombasa pepeta!

One day I shall be back…