hiking scars

Sometimes, the streets of Nairobi are unforgiving to everyone — even a soft girl like me. And accasionally the mountain trails join in. I was talking with a friend yesterday and realised the situation was so funny yet so hurtful. Let’s give Time its flowers.

I happen to be lucky enough to attend one of the best gyms in Kenya 🤭. This gym hosts monthly hikes, camps, and the occasional destination tour to Europe. As you might have guessed, these people are loaded — down to the twelve-year-old whose net worth might be something you’ll never even sniff in this lifetime.

It was during one of these overpriced hiking trips that I met this beautiful man. And I mean beautiful in every sense of the word. Beautiful smile -I’m talking perfectly arranged teeth paired with that dark gums combo (don’t ask me why, but it does things to me). The guy was clearly getting his money’s worth at the gym too, bulging lean muscles, his clothes sitting on him like they had a personal relationship. Later, I’d learn that everything he wore was custom made and branded. And I mean everything — from his suits, to his shoes, to his workout gear. Talk about extra.

Now, this particular hike was torture. But the gods of the hills clearly had a plan to get me through. In hindsight, they might have been plotting my demise 😐. I’m a serious hiker, and as my scout camping days taught me, always be prepared. I had my waterproof backpack that doubles as a hydration pack -very convenient. Jambazi (names have been changed just in case he’s the weapon fashioned against you) was not a seasoned hiker and, consequently, not very prepared. He gave me his phone to carry for the entire 10 hours or so. This was not just a phone — it was worth more than my total rent for all my academic years combined. (Yes, I checked.) Stranger danger kiddos 😐😐😐

Jambazi was strategic. Keeping me close throughout the hike. Saving my ass(literally) from the unforgiving rocky trails with his quick reflex moves. Encouraging me to push for the summit (a girl appreciates being talked through guys. Take notes). You can imagine — I was halfway gone already. Those romantic Wattpad novels were working in his favour.

But all hikers know, the real enemy is going downhill. And my common sense went downhill even faster.

“Just run into my chest. I’ve got you.”

Say no more, Mr. Man. Run into his chest I did -and it was everything I imagined and more. Hard chest, taut muscles, yet somehow soft and cozy. His cologne? Did. Not. Miss. The face card was served, plated, and garnished. “Goner” doesn’t even cover it — let’s just blame ovulation on this one, ladies.

From that point on, he just held my hand as we walked. Conversations flowed effortlessly, and he could actually hold a sensible conversation (sometimes beauty and brains in a man = kutoonekana kama kivuli). This man outmatched my flirting skills, and my hot face plus burning ears were proof enough. The damsel in me had clearly taken the front seat, and I was tripping over my own feet. Jambazi took every opportunity to dig my hole deeper. By the time we got to the tour bus, a date had been planned, and I might have already made a few phone calls back home to prepare my parents for a potential mgeni in the near future. I was clearly an amateur in these streets of Nairobi.

Fast forward a few weeks later, and we’d gone on several dates. He’d send me an Uber, we’d get dinner, then he’d drive me back to my apartment. The gateman knew that BMW and would let me in past the “suggested” curfew without a fuss.

It was during one particular trip that Jambazi dropped the nuclear bomb on me. Like everything else he owned, he had a fancy stash that he claimed was imported. Hapa nilichezwa, sindio? He even tried teaching me how to roll, but my traumatised self would have none of it. He took a few puffs before driving. Yes, I was genuinely worried for my life, but he seemed to know his way around the wheel. Gari inajua mwenyewe and other Nairobi survival stories.

Then, the holy herb decided to do the holy thing and betray him. In the middle of the conversation, the words “When my wife was expecting my second child…" were graciously dropped onto my lap like a gift nobody asked for.

Chukicha dere. The whole time, this man had a whole wife and not one, but TWO kids back at home. It was 10 p.m. on a working day. The hang out starts at 7p.m. You need to get your priorities straight. The hard potato made its unwelcome appearance at the back of my throat. I couldn’t utter a word after that. Not that it mattered- he kept rambling about his beautiful family and spewing the kind of wisdom that only shows up when you’re high.

He dropped me off at my apartment and like the perfect gentleman he pretended to be, opened my passenger door. The cold night wind hit me harder than the realisation that my whole planned future had just been dismantled, or was it the huge contrast in temperature from being in a heated seat🤔🤔🤔. I forced a polite smile, laid a soft kiss on his cheek (which I seriously considered biting off as revenge) and said goodbye. I had a few important phone calls to make back home.

In the words of littlenook: I AM NOT BOARDING.

I went back to my room, took out my books and started on my calculus assignment. I had better chances of solving the differential equations than of ever figuring out where the man got his confidence and audacity from.

When you gather the strength to go out with anyone, please - for the love of your future sanity - ask whether they’re; single single, married single, or “my-attention-is-on-you, enjoy-it” single. 😤😤😤😤