Hustler

They say once a Damiano always a Damiano. But I beg to differ, I think once a hustler, always a hustler. That’s why our very own Doyen finds it a title befitting. That’s why our CS’s could very well name their net worth in millions and still claim to be familiar with the plight of the common mwananichi.
So after the launch of the much awaited hustler fund, I decided to check my eligibility/ limit and upon getting a short message that my confirmation will be back in like two hours my mind begins to conjure all sorts of scenarios. You see I might be a hustler in the wallet department but my grey matter is unlimited.
So my grey matter starts convincing me about all the possibilities that could come with this hustler fund. I see myself at Kempinski dining with the who is who and like Archimedes in that bathtub it’s like the lightbulb finally comes to life. Ndio mimi huyo dressed to the nines in my Kikomba thrift dress that looks better on me than it looked in it’s original owner or so it seems. I look at myself in the mirror and decide that a little face lift will do. So I mix those foundations and mascaras that my niece forgot in my house the last time she came visiting.
Fast forward I call Kīmani wa tegithi and he comes instantly like he was just idling in the neighborhood also waiting for the same text. He surveys me from head to toe like a surveyor dividing mburoti maguta maguta. Told yah, dressed to the nines. He whistles and is about to put my arm in his (plus one style) then realises he’s only my chauffeur for the night. He however has the decency to open the door for me, ushers me in and goes to his side of the door and as he brings the engine to life, he asks, ‘which way your majesty.’
I’m feeling the snobbish vibes coming to life and so I put google maps on and ask him to follow the directions coming loudly from my phone. He obeys the melodic voice like a puppy after severe training from the dog whisperer only surreptitiously looking at me when he thinks I’m not looking. I’m engrossed in the side mirror looking for any signs of hustler showing up on my face and I keep sponging to get rid of them. They may not allow you there if poverty decides to check mate 😂
When the Google girl finally utters, ‘you’ve reached your destination, I look up and fan myself when I take in the view before me. Kīmani stares at me with that look of, ‘are you sure this is your destination?’ I only nod and then utter, ‘mubaba.’ He seems to finally get it and I quickly get out of the car before he can get out of the car and open my door. He seems to get the ‘I’m not in the mood vibe’ oozing out of me and let’s me be. I’m about to walk to my, ‘the destination’ and I look back with disdain all over my face only to see him rubbing his fingers in that money sign. Only then do I realise that I’ve not paid him. I have no money in my MPESA wallet but then I have no worries since fuliza keeps me company when rafiki pesa has deserted me which seems to be the case most days. So I fuliza my expenses away and walk suggestively towards my goal of the day which is kufuraia maisa, life ni sort mehn.
I arrive and I’m ushered in like a dignitary and I’m shown a table at the west wing with a perfect view. I’m given the cocktail drink of the day and the menu is left for me to check and decide on what to order. Five minutes later the waiter approaches and I realise I still don’t know what I’m supposed to order. I should have googled these exquisite culinary dishes before I came. I ask for more time because I don’t want to order something from the family of moluscae or arachnida. When the waiter shows up a second time, I put my pride aside and request him to help me place the order. He is very helpful and when the scrumptious meal finally arrives, my salivary glands ooh my. This is heavenly orgasmic even. I munch and enjoy every piece of it and after desert and another drink I ask the waiter to bring the bill and then ooh my, that’s when I realise that the hustler confirmation message has still not come. That’s when I start singing, ‘ooh the snakes crawl at night that’s what they say’ loudly and start shouting, ‘devil you are not my portion’ to the astonishment of the waiter who is now holding my bill with trembling hands. The supervisor is called and I’m summoned to his office where I explain my current predicament.
That my friends is how I ended up in this hot kitchen chongaing viazi and washing sufurias sweat trickling down my face. If you look at me and a guineafowl you may not be able to tell the difference. Maybe I should call Kīmani, he might come to my rescue. Labda SMS yake ilirudi.
#StillTheChronicler.
##StillTheHustler.

Published by Nyar Kaheti

Born and raised on the picturesque slopes of Mt Kenya, Nyar Kaheti is your girl next door vibe kind of girl. She enjoys reading, writing, hiking, and listening to country music among other things.

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