MAISH: My night with the chips funga from hell

MAISH: My night with the chips funga from hell

It’s one of those Fridays you feel quite lost. You have watched all movies on your computer and your girlfriend-well she hasn’t been talking to you for the last three days just because you forgot your anniversary.

Seriously, how do women expect us to remember birthdays, anniversaries, and Valentines? For Pete’s sake, lets just combine all these days and celebrate them on one day say 1st January? I mean we already other important things to occupy our minds like soccer and cars.

While contemplating on how to add some excitement to your night, Dan, your neighbor pops in. He suggests you visit the new local bar. When someone mentions a local bar, the image that comes to mind is a dingy, stuffy room with rickety wooden benches for seats, full of old Kikuyu men talking about their warufarms back in Nyahururu.

The only female present is the no-nonsense barmaid with cheap makeup and probably a 40-something-year-old woman with a stinky weave and a black petticoat protruding beneath her grey skirt-suit.

However, Dan is a great wingman so you give it a shot.

Judging by the number of cars in the parking lot you can tell that the joint is somewhat popular.  As you walk up to the club’s entrance, you pass a visibly intoxicated middle-aged man demanding biggest mshaki from a waiter manning a barbecue grill. So Kenyan!

Thanks to Dan’s full beard, he is ushered into the joint without much hassle. However, a  beefy bouncer stops and asks for your identification. For some strange reason club security always mistake you for an underage rowdy campus student. Tonight you are not in the mood to explain yourself out. You squeeze a 200bob note in his palm and walk in without showing any ID.

The bar isn’t anything close to your idea of a local! Its interior décor is tastefully done, comfy seats, a well-stocked bar, pretty waitresses, and an urbane crowd maybe a little bourgeois. Dan motions you to two vacant seats at the center of the bar area, next to a table with four skinny ladies.

A cute petite waiter walks up to your table. She leans close to you. She moves even closer while taking you through the drinks menu as her tantalizing fragrance gives you a temporary high. Is she sending a signal or is this a strategy she employs to solicit for generous tips?

Whilst waiting for drinks to be served, you scan the bar for a potential chips funga. Your eyes land on the next table. The four ladies in tiny white dresses are so engrossed in their phones you would be forgiven to think their lives depend on them.

Occasionally, they look up, huddle together, flash fake smiles followed by lots of selfies.  A couple of filters later, the images end up on Instagram #nightlife #turnup #partytings. Why the hell would anyone in their right senses, go out to a bar only to spend the whole night on their phone?

Your eyes wander to a corner table occupied by two ladies. Your eyes lock with one of the ladies. 3…5…6 seconds and she is still holding the gaze! If I look away, I will appear weak.

The whole stare down begins to feel uncomfortable. I have to do something! I raise my hand a and wave. She smiles and waves back.  The waitress brings the drinks at that moment, allowing you to look away without feeling like you chickened out.

The DJ starts playing Caribbean music, a genre you don’t particularly like, but everyone else in the joint seems to like it.  You ask Dan to watch over your jacket before hitting the dancefloor and unleash your rusty moves.

While at it, someone steps on your shoe from behind. You turn around ready to punch the lights out of the drunkard doesn’t know better than to step on your spotless designer shoe, only to come face to face with the eyeballing Mamacita!

“I’m so so sorry”, she apologizes profusely.

“It’s okay” you reply nonchalantly.

Honestly, you wouldn’t mind having her step on the other shoe too, in fact, she can as well as go back home with you and step on all the other pairs in your wardrobe!

“I’m Mark.”


“Can I dance with you?”

She smiles, takes your hand and leads you to a less crowded part of the dance floor.  Holy Cow! The rear view is a sight to behold! You have never really understood why guys are so obsessed with voluptuous women until this point!

Carol is in a turquoise blue dress and heels, which emphasizes her curves. The kind of curves that make you want to speak in tongues.

At first, you dance a tad bit cautious until the speakers start blaring but as you get comfortable, you inch closer. She reciprocates and in time you are dancing hip to hip as the tension builds.

“Let’s go grab a quick bite,” Carol whispers to your ear while pointing at a restaurant right across the street.

You hesitate. You know how Nairobi chicks develop exotic tastes whenever you are buying. As if reading your thoughts she adds, “Don’t worry, I’m the one buying.”

The fast food restaurant, brightly lit and has mirrors on all walls, is deserted, save for a drunkard drooling on the table and an equally inebriated couple making out at the corner.

You sit on a stool close to the counter while she orders fries and chicken.  Carol slips into the stool next to you and wraps her arm around your waist. Carol is beautiful by all standards, although there is a hint of sadness in her eyes.

“Mark, what do you do for a living?”

“Uhm…I’m a writer, you?”

“ Newspaper journalist?”

“No..I’m a blogger. Ever heard of”

Shaking her head, “ What’s it about?

A bit sad she hasn’t heard of this blog.  “You should check it out…* silence* …You haven’t told me what you do!”

“I’m an accountant, Kiambu county.”

“Really?  You must have made shitloads of money, inflating the cost of items like the Bungoma wheelbarrows!”

“No, you silly! It’s the procurement guys who deal with such.” * uneasy silence*

You take a huge bite at your chicken while thinking of something smart to say.

“I have a son!” She interjects, closely watching for your reaction.

“That’s nice.” You look away, trying hard not to show disappointment.

“ Does that repulse you?”

“Of course not, Unless he is a little monster. Is he evil?”

*chuckle* “No, he is very sweet. He means the world to me, you know.”

She whips out her phone, shows you pictures of her four-year-old kid. Like a good boy, you sit there and let her fill you in with intimate details of her life. Anyone watching from a distance would probably think you are a great listener when in fact you only heard 20% of what she says, the rest of the time was spent think on whether Pep Guardiola will change Manchester United’s fortunes should he join the team.

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

This question knocks you a little off balance, “Why are you asking?”

“Answer me first, do you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean? It’s a simple question, you either have a girlfriend, or you don’t!”

“Well, she asked for some time off to think about her life or something!”

{sigh} “She has no idea of what a great guy you are!”

Carol picks up the fork with one hand and starts feeding you the fries. She slides her other hand onto your lap. Your pulse rate goes up. I’m not liable for anything that happens after this, you think as she leans closer.

”You are going home with me,” she says as you wipe the oil off your fingers and together walk out of the restaurant.  After crossing the empty street back to the club, she pulls you closer.

“I’m serious you are going home with me!” This time, there is a sense of finality in her voice.

Why is she insisting that I should go home with her? Having heard tales of guys who took home girls only to be drugged and to wake up the next morning to an empty house, you are wary of ladies who are enthusiastic about going to sleep over your place.

“I can’t take you to my place, my cousin is staying for the weekend,” you lie.

“Okay then let’s go to my place. It’s not far from here.”

She beckons a cab driver, as he walks up to you she wraps her hands around your waist. Carol is a few inches shorter, so she is forced to crane her neck upwards to meet your gaze.

Standing on her toes, she closes her eyes and parts her lips in anticipation! You cup her face with both hands. Being a patient man you take your time, check out her luscious lips devoid of any lipstick before making a move.

You plant a kiss on her lips. For a moment everything else around you freezes, you are just two adults standing under the street lights drawn together by passion.

“Boss, tunaenda ama?” The cab driver who had been standing there all this time asks, effectively jolting you back to reality.

You pull away from Carol.

“Sorry I can’t go with you tonight, but I would love to meet you again tomorrow afternoon.”

“C’mon, we are just going to sleep, I promise nothing will happen.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of!”

“Then what are you scared of? I don’t live with my boyfriend, and my son is spending the night at my mom’s place!”

“I have to meet my boss at 9am…goodnight.”  Another lie. You start walking back to the local bar leaving her standing there.

That’s when hell breaks lose!  She loses her cool, runs towards you, grabs you by the waist and begins dragging you to a cab parked close by while screaming on top of her lungs.


At first, it feels like a joke until you realize she is stronger than she looks. The cab driver opens the car door then walks towards you. That’s when it hits you. What if the two are in cahoots? What if they are organ harvesters after my precious eyes and kidneys?

You picture tomorrow’s headlines: 24-year-old man found dead in a ditch along Thika Road with internal organs missing

Your mother back in the village will cry uncontrollably while rolling on the ground upon learning of your demise. Your old man, well, African men don’t cry. He will probably walk to the nearest drinking den and make a toast to his young, educated son who was the family’s savior. You can’t let this happen!

Adrenaline kicks in; you push Carol with all your strength sending her sprawling on the ground. You quickly spin around and throw a punch squarely at the cab driver’s nose then dash back into the bar.

You request the bouncer not to let the two in. Thanks to the little cash you gave him, Carol and accomplice are barred from coming in after you. Stuck at the door, Carol hurls all kind of expletives calling you a coward but hey it’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero!

Mark Maina is a Graduate Civil Engineer, Lifestyle Writer, TV & Radio Producer. He also blogs on

Twitter: @markmaish