A Marvin Gay record plays in the background, the chic ambiance is filled with clouds of smoke from expensive cigars here and there. It seemed out of this world, with the colored lights and thick smoke. The smell of different colognes, cigarettes and alcohol merged seamlessly. Music played in the background and everyone's voices was one constant buzz. The warmth of humanity was apparent. The restaurant and bar in the central business district of Nairobi are always as busy; Papa Johns it is called. A den of high-end lawyers and journalists, top government officials and tycoons, both the straight and crooked ones and glitters of sexy fairly young ladies here and there, probably young single professionals spending their hard-earned money, or escorts, perhaps campus girls trying to be the next mistresses of the unfaithful rich. This is Kanairo for you. How millennials call Nairobi. It is quite an interesting town. After all the hype it has gained from the Netflix tv series 'Money Heist'. The town that took car pulling to an entire new level. Matatus was the name of the fourteen sitter to 30 sitter vehicles that jammed the city's traffic every single morning. Jacob hated this cycle of having to get up early, just to beat traffic, just to go to a job that overworked and underpaid, just to pay overpriced bills. It was a menacing, corrupt, polluted concrete jungle.
***
It was a Monday, a cold July night in 2017 and all this thoughts randomly drift through Jacob's mind. Tired from the day's work as an office messenger, his right elbow lays on the mahogany table with his palms cupping his cheeks. He always visited Papa Johns every first Monday of the month, not because he could afford it but only for inspiration on the kind of lifestyle he'd like to lead someday. He believed in the myth that perhaps wealth got transferred by osmosis. Maybe hanging out with the high and mighty of society would result in him being successful as well. He wanted to live, to travel to distant lands and taste new cuisines, encounter women from different cultures and what not. He wanted to be rich and famous; so much so that his funeral would be an occasion to remember with people from all walks of life.
'Fake it till you make it.' He thought to himself. Understanding that this restaurant was overpriced because of the ambience it afforded, he sipped his beer ever slowly, conscious of every ticking second. Sadly, it reminded him of his impoverished childhood where he only tasted soda in special occasions such as birthdays and Christmas; even then he'd sip his Coca-Cola occasionally, savoring every single moment, wishing he wouldn't get to the bottom of the bottle. Getting to the bottom of the bottle was stressful, it meant fun was over and he had to leave the establishment.
His overly priced beer was now running low, it cost him half as much as he makes in a day. When he spotted a middle aged man in a fitted Italian grey suit leave his table at the far corner If the restaurant, he couldn't help his envy.
'Must be nice to rock a suit like that all day.' His thoughts couldn't help it. Not that he liked suits any better but the kind of lifestyle that demanded you wear a suit drew him in. It drew him in like siren mermaids luring pirates to a land filled with gold and lustful wonder. How the suit was a magnet for ladies. It dazzled him how it cast a spell on them. The promise of money from a sponsor; and all they had to do was be there for them sexually. At the prime of their life and shitty jobs as an alternative with menopause at least two decades down the line, these ladies dressed to kill.