He had an attitude so big it couldn’t even fit in his own huge head. He walked with a swagger as if his corrupt father owned the universe.
He spoke smoothly yet with a hint of self-importance and self-entitlement, you would easily be confused to conclude that he was the best thing to ever happen to women. His unbridled superiority and egotism was apparent in the way he carried himself. I tell you, this guy was simply overflowing with pride, arrogance and narcissism.
In all fairness, however, he was a young and attractive cultured man. He was in his late 30s and the only thing that was so breathtaking about him could actually be described in two words: Brobdingnagian forehead. I would constantly joke that his forehead was so huge, it could actually be used as a cargo plane to supply animal feeds to Ouagadougou.
In the true sense of the word though, he was a spoilt brat brought up by his parent’s corrupt wealth. Consequently, he lived his life as if the world owed him praise and admiration.
His father was the Project Director in some international NGO, whereas his nascent mother (now civilized and cultured by expensive weaves and an imported second-hand BMW car) was… wait for it… a nutrition and gender integration capacity building specialist. Phew! I tell you, some job titles would tempt a brother to ask a refund from his university.
He was corruptly employed even before he hit adolescence as a Programme Manager in his father’s led NGO and was slapped with a six-figure salary. His name for all egoistic purposes and significance was Jerry, though his identity card states Jeremiah. He was a lazy bone who was born and brought up in the City and treated everyone who grew up in the village like an uncivilized, primitive, inferior human being.
But then again, who would blame him? For when village boys his age were busy hunting antelopes, squirrels and porcupines for dinner later in the evening, Jerry was busy filing his nails, and sobbing while watching some Mexican soaps.
In fact, while his age mates were busy drinking silly their miserable middle class salary in some fancy, but all the same stuffy and poorly ventilated pubs across town. All the while feeling very successful in life, with their second-hand imported bank-financed Japanese juggernauts conspicuously parked outside, Jerry was busy babysitting his emotional mother, while slapping their housemaid with lustful unbiblical looks.
During his free time, which actually was all the time, he would intermittently be engaged in squeezing sinful pleasures from the loins of some desperate, confused and priority-misplaced campus divas.
For what is worth, Jerry was liquid with cash, had a smooth tongue, and as a result pretty things fell heads over heels to just catch his attention, if not his ‘Eurobond’ pocket. What was unsurprising about him, however, was the fact that he treated women without respect and value. As far as he was concerned, he was a man after every girl’s dream and it was their responsibility to perpendicularly fall on their back before him.
In fact, for the better part, Jerry used to oil the loins of anyone with a beautiful face and carrying low self-esteem. As a consequence of carelessly broadcasting his wild oats, he had sent some middle class campus damsel into the family way.
Well, that’s how his wealthy-related, carefree life had changed for the worse.
His baby mama looked like one of those harlots pulled right from the pages of the Old Testament. She was light-skinned, surprisingly beautiful, and depressingly annoying. The gods had cursed her with a loud mouth and an appetite for sin.
She craftily compensated her low self-esteem by hiding behind her outrageous multicoloured weaves. The gods had disgracefully slapped her with a ridiculous name that would make my ancestors sneeze in their graves. Cheche was her name.
Cursed with a big ego that needed constant massaging, and perhaps to proof her self-worth and fixation for her sexual inadequacy, she had gone after Jerry. Certainly, Jerry being who he was, it only took three bottles of Smirnoff Ice, a packet of Embassy cigarettes and two roasted sausages to eat the forbidden fruit.
As the gods would wish, she got pregnant and that’s how Jerry’s nightmare officially begun.
I met Jerry for the first time three months after some idiots in Bungoma County bought a wheelbarrow with a price tag that was enough to eradicate poverty in Africa. Apparently, the NGO that Jerry’s father headed was looking to outsource a Company that would undertake communications consultancy for them, and that’s how fate conspired our encounter.
My first impression of Jerry was that he looked like a guy who had prematurely staggered through the labyrinth of manhood looking for his own identity, and almost succeeded. He was vicious, manipulative and arrogant as they come, and had a nice false sense of pride. Though if you ask Pradeep, my University professor, he would have slapped with you with: “Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows” a quotes from Shakespeare’s Tempest.
Minutes into our meeting, I would easily decipher that Jerry was an impatient man, who was fond of going straight to the point.
Come on dude, we Kenyans bro. We first have to talk about the weather, Kidero’s yellow boxes, Arsenal, Anne Waiguru, NYS, Wetangula’s wife, Uber, Duale, Louis Van Gal, that headline on the Star newspaper, Vera Sidika… before going into serious business, I felt like shouting at him.
He would give me the consultancy job on condition that he gets 40 percent of the net income, which of course was his chini ya maji cut. Eleven minutes later, we had settled on 28 percent.
However, what I didn’t know at the time was the simple fact that Jerry was after Nafula, my old village flame. It requires a lot of carefulness to kill the fly that perches on the scrotum, wisely goes a Ghanaian proverb.
Now for those waking up to the existence of this amazing website. First of all, welcome to 21st the century. Ok, Nafula is that damsel I grew up in the village battling jiggers and malnourishment just to be with her.
Forget what they say in love songs, I tell you those days I would actually have crossed the Atlantic Ocean on foot, just for her. To me, she was the closest I could ever have get to those Mexican hotties that drink a whole damn bottle of expensive perfume for breakfast.
Years later, I may have moved on. Grown a wealth-related one-pack. Relocated to the City and all that. But the truth of the matter is, Nafula will always have that special folder in my hard drive.
So, for the egoistical Jerry to think that he can use me as a stepping stone to butter Nafula’s bread, well, like they say in movies: Houston, we have a problem. And as my devil nonsense, Scripture-spitting, heaven-bound mother likes saying: the antelope does not blame the one who killed it, but the one who stirred its rest.
I am contemplating taking karate classes. For this battle, I am not loosing easily. I will defend my ‘historical references’ with my blood. Ok, that’s too ambitious. Maybe I will simply do it with a hashtag: #FoolishMen or #RespectMyFlame etc so that no one gets injured.
But then, seriously, what’s with some men and egos? Jerry says Cheche, his baby mama isn’t a wife material (whatever that means), but me thinks a man who cannot marry because he is foolish, says all women are witches.