In the vibrant city of Nairobi, even amid the bustling streets, everyone finds a way to unwind and embrace life, especially when the week ends. The moonlit avenues played host to a mosaic of nightlife—from clubs and meet-and-grill gatherings to house parties and brothels—creating a tapestry of activity that added a unique vibrancy to the night.
Amidst the Friday hustle, I found myself clocking in for work. The music thumped relentlessly, drowning out every word Mheshimiwa tried to convey. Her touch was all over me, fingers tracing my muscles, nibbling my ears. It was uncomfortable, but the job paid the bills. And the compensation? Well, it was quite a bit more than the average office gig, even with an economy on the decline. If I had to crunch the numbers, it'd be around sixty thousand Kenyan shillings a month. Mheshimiwa Sandra Samini, the mistakenly named governor of Nairobi, wasn't exactly what one would expect in office attire. Dressed in a geo-print, batwing-sleeved dress, cinched at the waist, with chunky-heeled suede ankle straps, she was carrying a hefty grey handbag crammed with Kenyan notes. Her profuse sweating did little to complement the authoritative aura she seemed to want to emanate. She asked Snake to fan her neck, a plump, sweaty area she preferred to keep cool. At Chocolate Delicacy, we went by nicknames and donned masks, maintaining anonymity for ourselves and our customers' pleasure. The masks allowed us to mingle in public without the risk of being recognized. The gleam of her gold necklace, nearly swallowed by her sweaty neck, was almost imperceptible from a distance. When she turned towards me, it involved her whole body leaning in to kiss my chest, though the effect was more unnerving than pleasurable. I had to put on an act and act like I was relishing the moment. Lollipop came in as a welcome distraction, playfully engaging her, chuckling while amusingly spanking his own rear end.
Bunny entered the private booth, carrying a tray of drinks and delivering the covert news that my time was up. Another client awaited in private booth 7. They were the big leagues—the top-tier patrons. The elite patrons held the ten coveted golden booths, while the following tiers, silver, gem, and coin, scaled in descending value. These golden clients were often the affluent, money being a trivial concern and additional special treatment always expected. The silver clientele—mostly politicians and business magnates—followed, and the gem clients were attracted by more accessible fees. Coin clients, the cheapest spenders, occupied a booth akin to a brothel; the memories of that place gave me shivers. This was my first stint in the golden quarters, demanding meticulous preparation. A solid first impression was the determinant of my destiny here. Securing a golden booth for the night amounted to a staggering forty thousand Kenyan shillings. As expected, it was the Muthoka couple. Regulars of fame and loyalty within these walls, I couldn't help but ponder on the husband. He seemed to be a gay sadist, though possibly oblivious to it. Finding pleasure in watching his wife in amorous endeavors with another man, only to join in and partake in anal engagement. Today was the day I'd witness this elaborate display firsthand. The query of why I was chosen among all the golden men nagged at my thoughts. These were the entertainers for the golden clients, a league earned through consistent five-star ratings from numerous patrons.
I paused at the threshold, took a deep breath, and tapped on the door. A tall, slender man, entirely nude and wielding a whip, answered with a mischievous grin stretching across his broad visage. He gestured for me to enter. His gaze felt predatory, and I sensed his eyes fixated on me. I hated to judge, but I wasn't particularly drawn to men of his type. Rebecca, his wife, carried a subtle air of melancholy, a devout and dutiful woman seeking only to appease her husband. She seemed like someone hailing from a humble background, a person supporting an entire family solely dependent on Steve. Fatigue weighed heavily in her downcast eyes, lending her a weary, worn appearance. As she began to remove her oversized brown kitenge dress, I witnessed the raw marks and traces left on her limbs. Standing before us in her black bra and grey pants, the sight was more aligned with that of a housemaid rather than the wife of a wealthy man. I attempted a smile in her direction, and a faint glimmer of response seemed to brighten her face. I approached her, tenderly disrobing her, planting kisses along her neck as a soft, faint moan escaped her lips. Her body trembled slightly, her hands circling my waist, then unexpectedly, she embraced me tightly. It felt as if she needed comfort, a solace I wished I could offer, but that wasn't my role to play.
"Today, we're trying something new," Steve broke the silence. "She seems to like it, so you better not disappoint me."
The door creaked open and my heart sank. It was Jaguar, the gay prostitute, sauntering in as if he owned the place. I saw Steve's hunger in his eyes as he welcomed Jaguar with an intimate kiss. It was revolting, a sight I couldn't bear. Rebecca, teary-eyed, held back any sound of distress. I had to look away; the sight was unbearable, my heart twisted in regret. I had to get out of there.
"Widower, if you leave, I will get you fired," he said in a harsh tone.
"Really! So, what exactly do you want me to "? "I asked in total disgust at the sight of Jaguar.
"All you have to do is let me ..."
The situation at work was already unbearable, especially with someone like Jaguar around. I couldn't stay there. I grabbed a trench coat and made my way out through the back door, just needing a breath of fresh air.
"Ungrateful brat!" Musyoka, our supervisor, bellowed, wrenching the door open. With a forceful toss, he flung my bag and a brown envelope at me. It was evident—I was being ousted.
"Sir, please..." I appealed, taking a step forward. But the commander, one of the security guards, barred my path. What had I done? Frustrated, I let out a scream and aimed a series of kicks at the empty garbage bin. The costume I had on was hardly something I could strut around in. Living up to my nickname, I was now an imitation of the Witcher—apparently, the last time I'd be seen in such an outfit. The night bustled with the movement of Kenyans eager to travel, filling the stages to the brim with passengers, conductors, and drivers. It was a regular sight, a testament to the tireless work ethic and the penchant for nightlife. Yet, one thing I loathed about matatus was the pushy conductors. As I approached a line of matatus, a stout man in a maroon conductor's uniform hurried my way. The conductors had an aggressive marketing tactic, to say the least. Before long, five other conductors joined the fray. Arguments flared, and within moments, a brawl erupted among them. The scuffle promised a lengthy delay, turning the station into an arena of flailing fists and loud disputes. The chaos became a spectacle, a show that was definitely going to stall the night's travel plans.
In the midnight hush, Rebecca stole into the darkened foyer, her heart thudding a discordant beat against her ribs. She couldn't endure it any longer. Her husband, an inert form sprawled on the living room sofa, clutched the leather belt that was often his tool for inflicting pain. In this private hell, she knew the darkness was her ally, she had to leave. Her futile prayers for a child seemed a hollow plea now, considering the plight she faced. The twisted longing in her soul found solace in her barrenness; she couldn't bear the thought of bringing a child into such misery and torment. In solemn silence, she reached for the house keys, her trembling fingers barely making a sound. Every creak of the floorboard seemed amplified as she tiptoed toward the entrance. With the echo of her husband's snores, the night swallowed her sobs as she slipped into one of the several opulent Range Rovers. But her escape was just the beginning of her quandary. Where could she possibly go? Her parents, perhaps? That was a door shut long ago. Their last conversation ended in cries of ingratitude. Her husband, the provider for her family since her high school years, was also the oppressor who sentenced her to this hollow existence. As she drove past the gates, her heart wept for a life of luxury that was now slipping through her fingers. This was the last time she would ever dwell in opulence.
On the bustling cargo ferry docked at the Indian shores, a group of men buzzed with an intense energy.
"Where are the goods?" The man in a cobalt Kitenge suit demanded.
"S-some of the m-m-merchandise..."
In the swift moment before JoJo could finish his sentence, he was met with a heavy, resonating slap. The room fell into a sudden silence as the boss strode across the sandy beach, a colorful stream of curses trailing in his wake. JoJo sought refuge behind Kimothio, his cheek still tingling and his ear ringing faintly from the impact.
"Where's Omar, you incompetent fool?" The Nigerian man spat; his fury undisguised.
"He went after the thieves," Kimothio responded.
Ofeko approached Kimothio, locking eyes with the man who showed no hint of fear or intimidation.
"What's your name?"
"Kimothio Panga."
The Nigerian, flanked by six heavily armed bodyguards, exited the ferry, boarded a black limousine, and drove away. Kimothio Panga stood on the dock, watching as the black limousine disappeared into the chaotic cityscape. The air was thick with tension, and the rhythmic clapping of the waves against the ferry provided a haunting soundtrack to the clandestine meeting. JoJo, still nursing the sting on his cheek, cautiously approached Kimothio.
"Who was that guy?" JoJo whispered, rubbing his reddened cheek.
Kimothio sighed, the weight of the situation evident in his eyes. "That, my friend, was Ofeko, a powerful figure in the underworld. He's not someone you want to cross."
As they spoke, the distant wails of sirens echoed through the night. Kimothio's eyes scanned the surroundings, searching for any signs of trouble. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach; the situation had escalated beyond his control.
"We need to find Omar before Ofeko does," Kimothio muttered, the urgency evident in his voice.
They hurriedly made their way through the labyrinthine streets, the city's heartbeat pulsating with the rhythm of illicit activities. The dimly lit alleyways whispered secrets of the night, and the two men moved with purpose, navigating the shadows. Finally, they reached the outskirts of a clandestine marketplace, a haven for thieves and black-market traders. The atmosphere was tense, and the flickering neon lights cast an eerie glow on the faces of those present. In the midst of the chaos, they spotted Omar, engaged in a heated confrontation with a group of thieves. Without hesitation, Kimothio and JoJo waded into the fray, fists flying. The thieves scattered, realizing they were outnumbered. Omar, bloodied but defiant, nodded in acknowledgment. "Ofeko won't be pleased," Omar muttered, wiping the blood from his lip. Kimothio grimaced, the gravity of their predicament sinking in. The trio retreated into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinth of the city as they sought refuge from the storm that loomed on the criminal horizon.
In the dimly lit corner of the crowded bar, the air buzzed with the murmur of conversations and the rhythmic beat of music. The flickering neon lights cast a hazy glow, accentuating the emotions playing across Natalie's face as she unleashed her pain into the chaotic ambiance.
"I'm going to rip his heart out and make him pay for ripping mine apart," a drunk Natalie cried out, her voice cutting through the noise like a wounded melody.
The bartender, a silent observer of the emotional turmoil, exchanged glances with Nikita. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of alcohol and the collective heartbeat of the evening crowd. Moving with the grace of someone who had seen it all, Nikita intercepted the shot glass Natalie was about to drown her sorrows in.
"That's enough," Nikita said firmly, her voice a gentle command as she took out a handkerchief to wipe away the spilled alcohol on Natalie's chest. The air seemed to carry the weight of unspoken sorrows.
"It hurts here," Natalie gestured, repeatedly beating her chest where her heart lay broken. Her movements were erratic, like a dance of despair in the dimly lit corner. Nikita couldn't bear seeing her friend in such a state. Since the day they met in a club amid the haze of heartbreak, Nikita felt an unspoken commitment to comfort Natalie and stand by her. The bartender returned, a stoic figure in the background, placing a folded piece of paper beneath a fresh glass of gin in front of Nikita. "I'm sorry I…" Natalie began, her words a fragile apology lost in the ambient noise. The bartender, an enigmatic figure in the shadows, walked away, indifferent to her apology. Nikita moved the glass, revealing a note signed by Collins. As she scanned the crowd, the neon lights reflected in her eyes, searching for him amidst the sea of faces. Collins, raising his bottle of Tusker, seemed like a distant figure in a hazy dream. Despite her annoyance, she managed a strained smile. Collins, proudly adjusting his polo shirt, decided to approach. The air crackled with tension. A sudden collision with another patron sparked a dramatic change in Collins' demeanor. Threats flew like sparks, and a brawl erupted, friends joining the chaos.
Nikita, caught in the whirlwind, paid the bill, guiding Natalie out of the escalating fight. Driving home with Natalie asleep in the back seat, Nikita's mind echoed with the fading sounds of the bar. She reflected on Collins' unexpected behavior, the neon lights flashing through her mind like fragmented memories. She pondered the choices she made, relieved she had dodged a bullet with him, yet aware of the unpredictable nature of the people she allowed into her life. The cityscape blurred outside the car window, a metaphor for the hazy lines between heartbreak and healing.