Up Nairobi : The Types Of Tourists And How They Rank

(I still write a monthly column for UP Magazine. Below is an excerpt from this month's issue. If the story looks so smooth and lacks the roughness of what I write here, then its because it has passed through the hands of an editor. UP Magazine is distributed free of charge at coffee shops, shopping malls and petrol stations in Nairobi. )





Cities often acquire their identity from the physical, culture, economic activity or any other such strong attribute. Thus, Dubai could be defined by its architectural designs, while Rabat could be identified by the strong Islamic culture. What about Nairobi, could it be a city without character? What is the immediate feel one gets on arrival in the city, other than the hurly-burly of any urban center?



Nairobi is many things but seems to lack any dominant quality to label it. In the absence of a black and white clarity of what it is, city fathers, residents and notably the media have tried to come up with idioms to characterize Nairobi. These range from the feel good (but no longer in vogue) Green City In The Sun to the resigned Nairobbery.

But then there is also the tourist view of Nairobi; Nairobi as packaged in travel websites, brochures and in-flight magazines. This is the Nairobi of The Hilton and Inter Continental Hotels. The Nairobi which is “the only city with a national park” and Nairobi which is home to Kibera, “one of the largest slums in Africa”. The tourist Nairobi is thus experienced in cozy vans, and five star hotels.


Yet, there will be the visitor who will want to experience the city beyond the marketed view; knowing very well the heart of any city is not visible in the colorful brochures or marketing slogans. The most prominent of these are the backpackers who stay in Ksh.1, 500 a night lodgings like Africana and Kenya Lodge.

Here, on the Street we have passing respect for these, we call them the “black white men”. They will come to the Street in an effort to get to the city’s core. But we don’t take the back packers seriously. Over time, girls on the Street have come to know they travel cheap, every coin counts to them and some are rough men in their own countries.

You know, the kind that get involved in bar brawls or who is running from the police for a reason or another. We recognize the back packers from a mile away by their smell, dirtyside-pockets and attempt at Swahili. The backpackers don’t pay well. Many of those who have stayed in the country in excess of a month are more broke than some of us; they only have a few shillings and their return ticket. A girl will go with a back packer because it was a bad night or she thinks he is the silly student kind, and can easily rip him off.

The real gem, though, are the middle aged, or elderly men, who sneak from their five star hotels to come to the Street to see another side of the city. The most daring of them wear shorts, sneakers and come walking to the Street.

Sometimes they come upon the Street by chance as they take a walk around the city. Sometimes it’s by strategy after colluding with a taxi driver or a mischievous waiter. This kind of man will be loaded with cash, open minded and in search of adventure. There are two kinds of these men; those who want to have a session with a girl, and the others who want a girl to act as a tour guide to the other side of the city.

Sometime ago, one of these men came walking from a local hotel at around 9:00p.m. He had grey hair but walked with a bounce that made him look energetic. In such situations the girls will literally surround the man, talk all the English they know, hoping he will fall for them. And so we did. But it’s not always the case that the man will know English; some are French or German.... Read the rest here.

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UP Magazine: “Meet my girlfriend, Sue.”

 I still write a monthly column for UP Magazine. Below is an excerpt from this month's issue. UP Magazine is distributed free of charge at coffee shops, shopping malls and petrol stations in Nairobi. Of course the article has gone through an editor.....


There seems to be so much anxiety in this city. It’s all reflected in the daily hustle and bustle of the residents. Few people are calm and relaxed in what they do. An example, the ever growing party scene. Rather than end up looking genuinely happy and relaxed, party goers wear worried looks and their joy seems artificial.

The Street is not immune to the city’s anxiety. But whereas the anxiety in the rest of the city seems to be driven by the search for the little more and the pressure to become the best, the worry on the Street is more a result of efforts to maintain the status quo and keep from falling. In most of the City settings success is well defined, and the formula for success is clear. However on the Street the formula for success is vague; as anything that is largely made up of luck, unpredictable human emotions and what not.

The girls who show most of their skins or dress up fashionably are not the most successful. And so are those who only pursue white men and sleek cars. Success on the Street is thus left to “God” and our daily labors are aimed more at maintaining our present state of achievement. The fear of becoming worse than we presently are generates a lot of our anxiety. We are focused less in succeeding and more in preventive measures to avoid a fall. A fall is a matter of both personal and peer honor. If I am yanked off the Street because I was jailed for stealing from a man, or since I could not sweet talk the city council askari or the magistrate, then that’s a fall.

And so is when a once-favorite man stops picking me in favor of another girl; it does not matter whether the girl is less glamorous than me. If I am out for two months or so because of sickness, not necessarily sexually transmitted, then that is a fall.

If I am sick I would rather say I had gone to chase Ugandan men in Kampala. Here on the Street there is a very thin line between a decline and a fall. Well, here they are one and the same thing. A fall will mean that I become part of the Street fable. And because girls talk so much, I will be walking round the city thinking everybody knows everything about me. What causes a fall, whether chance or choice, is seen as contagious, and girls want to have little to do with a girl who has fallen even once. Thus girls will use all manner of trickery to avoid being seen as fallen.

Sometimes the anxieties of the rest of the city’s residents converge with those of us on the Street. As happens once in a while a regular client will drop me and pick another girl. The only way to avoid being labeled a failure by the other girls is not to let them know that has happened, which is almost impossible, or to redeem myself by having a better man pick me. Better would mean a man who drives a more expensive car, or who is foreign. The country of origin matters little. So it happened to me the other night. A regular client ignored me for Nancy; a newbie. But before the other girls could start talking I got a chance to save my skin the same night...Read the rest here

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Episode 49: My Retirement Plan

Now that I plan to quit the Street in the next six months or so, I am thinking of a retirement plan. The ideal retirement plan for most girls here is to hit a jackpot and live happily ever after. The jackpot could be through marriage to a rich white man or pinching a substantial amount of money from a local. The Street is full of legends of girls who retired that way. Yet that rarely happens nowadays. The white men, I think, have  professional, decent girls to chose from. It seems more than ever before many Nairobi girls are willing to throw themselves at the feet of white men. I see it always when occasionally I pass through Westlands at night or while in a cyber  and a girl has opened Love Find Me. On the other hand its long since I heard of a girl who had stolen more than 20,000 shillings from a man, bet over time  the local men have learned not to carry more than a few thousand shillings when hitting the Street.

I am not planning to quit as a result of a moral conversion or having identified something better to do. Simply I am avoiding reaching the point of diminishing returns. In our trade supply outstrips demand by a factor of almost three. The girls are much more than the men. The men who come to the Street are somehow a constant; their numbers and identities don't change much. It's the same men who started coming here five years ago who still come. Those coming to the Street for the first time increase at a less proportionate rate to the girls, and also to the men leaving. There will be nights where every car coming to the Street will be familiar. And weeks where I sleep with the same usual men who know how much I charge and my point of faking orgasm.

 By the time a girl hits three years on the Street the men know her. However good one is there gets a point where one stops being the first choice of a man. At that point a man will pick a  3 years plus girl  because he has come late when the fresh girls are gone, for old times sake or when too drunk to recognize her. It is more or less like what happens in marriage after a few years.

When a girl is no longer the first choice of any of the men anger and hatred starts building inside. She insults men who leave her behind, and the girls who go with them. She drinks a lot and start developing a cold aged look, which makes her less attractive. I have seen it with many girls here. Of course there are exceptions, girls who maintain their shine even after practicing for three years and more. But such are few, and many of  those who outwardly look beautiful are ugly inside. I know myself and I don't expect to be among the exceptions.

Marriage has never been part of my plan and pinching a good amount of cash a long shot. So my retirement plan has me thinking of doing something with almost similar traits as what I do now; the adrenaline rush, some creativity, independence and the lack of formality and commitment . Sometimes I think I am lazy . See I want to do things at my own pace and to my own satisfaction, which is adjusted every time failure requests. I don't want to be appraised and set goals by others. Anyway I digress. So one of these things with similar traits  is what made me enroll for a certain course. The course that has made me miss in action for the last two and a half weeks; reading and writing exams.

My next occupation is just one of the challenges of retirement. How to fill the emotional and physical gap left after quitting is another thing. I am not talking about lurvy durvy emotions, but the simple emotions that come as a result of connecting with people who really matter to you. The happiness that I feel when talking of my escapades with colleagues, or the temporary comfort I get when I sleep on the chest of a nice client. Such emotional connections take time to build, and when out there I am not sure I will be able to connect with other people, and if I do, it may take long by which time I will have been labeled a snob, freak, recluse or any such words that describe those with emotional oddities. Yet I am not so much worried about the emotions for all said and done I will have a great relationship with my local barman.

I have previously said  that I don't care much for sex, especially the fun part of it. But that does not mean I do not have urges. I do. My clients whether good or bad help satisfy my sex urges, and I feel naturally whole again. So what will I do about sex when out of the Street? A relationship for me is out of question. I will fail. It will be difficult  for me to commit and not cheat.  A tit for tat for me because  after what I have seen so far on the Street I will always be convinced my man is not cheating. Although I wont tell any man about my past, some of the habits I have acquired from the Street might live with me forever, and when they pop certainly create tensions between me and my partner. For instance in moments of frustration and drunkenness  I use rough filthy words which no man would be pleased to hear his girl use.

There is also the option of going for one night stands. But these will be almost the same thing as what I do presently.  I wont enjoy them as much. I know these days a girl  can pay a man to have sex with her, like I once did. Yet this snatches a key component of sex; the testosterone part; knowing I am having sex with a real man. A man who agrees to be paid to have sex, rather than fight for it,  may not have enough testosterone in him.

Yeah I can't forget the toys. I have couple of those, but like a friend said everybody sometimes craves for 3D sex, where you hold and kiss each other during the act. A sex mate is the best option. But men have presently become very poor in bed, and to find a good one I will have to road test several ,something I am not very enthusiastic about. I can only wait and see ,but I am sure to get a solution for this little problem

When a girl joins the Street she soon hears of the legends and experiences of other who have been in the trade before. Some of the experiences sound exciting,others generate curiosity, while others feel like a must do . Like there are so many positive and negative stories about the white men who pick girls here, and every girl wants to experience it. I have slept with several of these. There are also things said about men from a certain tribe, and only when a girl spends the night with such does she feel  not missing out. There were days I wanted to know how it feels to drug and steal rom a man, something I have done. I also wanted to see viagra in action where its rightfully needed, with a man past 75, and I got to see it when I slept with a 78 year old man. The things to do are many,and some can only be done when one is in this trade because the opportunity and attitude are right and present.

Recently I have heard about the Great Lakes Civilization. Its the great art of love making by the men from the Great Lakes region; Burundi, Rwanda and the others. Apparently the name Great Lakes is a result of the small lakes the men from the region are able to create down there in women bodies. So I have to sleep with a man from the Great Lakes within the next six months or I might never have another chance to experience the civilization without any inhibitions. And here, for reasons I might mention later, I exclude the Congolese men based in Kenya.


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Episode 48: The New Competition & A Strip Club

Like I mentioned before competition in our industry is becoming stiff as a result of uneven distribution and the alcohol laws.You know how many of the cheap downtown bar cum brothels have been turned into exhibition halls, and how the bars are not open during the day. Until recently the competition has been with prostitutes proper; yeah the stereotype of a downtown or street prostitute;not very well educated, with a kid or two, 'tired', rough and all those other things. As much as these brought competition it was nothing disruptive. Maybe the biggest consequence of their flooding was accelerating the fall of the Street from the place men find girls with panache at a fair price to just any other place.

But now there is new competition coming in; the one which may actually be disruptive. There are more of the educated girls coming in, yet its not only about their education but their attitude, style and well their aura. And they are not exactly young, certainly not in college. They act and look like they are done with college and have probably hit more than a year out of school. They have the maturity, freshness and that other unexplainable thing that especially the older and more loaded men look for.

The new girls are coming in everyday; its as if they are being mobilized. My guess is an upmarket brothel was closed and they girls decided to come this way to 'liberate' themselves. And they hate us as much as we hate them . Us the veterans and old school girls. They know each other and will cluster together talking in their Nairobi-girl English and laughing out loud . They are very confident, quite street smart thus it has become impossible for us to intimidate them into following the ground rules. So they are getting the men as we are left frustrated,letting it out in  insults. I know I should probably be on their side, what with my education and all but no my heart and loyalty is with Cheupe and all the roughies.

We the veterans are angry because we feel these girls should not be on the Street; they should be in classy brothels, clubs or in lanes in Westlands, Hurligham and those mtaas. That is if they are not  trading on Facebook and the many other local hook up sites. Why they chose to come here is beyond reason. It's as if they want to irritate and frustrate us. But this state of things won't last for every long; not here. Something will have to give in a big way.

On a different note I have made a strippers club to be my local bar; where I will dash for a drink in the evening when I am not working . I go there to have a taste of a different version of our work. The club is the Super Mambo. This must be the lowest of the strip clubs in this city. It looks like a bad version of one of those nude club scenes in old Van Damme movies. The girls look tired and disturbed. Last week when I was there only one of the girls seemed to enjoy herself. The others didn't even pretend to be having fun. And when it came to baring their all one of them could not even look straight at the audience. These are no like the strippers I saw in some brothel. A reader recently asked me why I should not be a stripper which according to him is  more respectable.

Really?Is stripping a more honorable version of our trade? I don't think so. But then it depends on a personal definition of self dignity. To the strippers showing what you got in public is better than giving your all. But to us showing almost all of what you got and then going all the way in private is more dignified. The debate can go forever.

I will be writing more about the new competition, strippers  & some other recent experiences later. For now I have to read. I enrolled for a short course to improve my skills here and elsewhere and now its exam time.

Episode 47: The Sex Cause

Late in my high school years I was a rebel without a cause. After listening to some Millie Jackson I reasoned I could develop a feeling bitchy attitude like her. Or look like her in that cover jacket where she is seated on a toilet bowl with her pants down. Certainly there was nothing I was to achieve by acting Millie Jackson. Anyway being a bitch and grumpy was part of the attitude, but such could not survive around my full of life and well, bitchy mother. So it was only sometime after I joined campus that I decided to become a rebel again, this time with a cause.

I had gone to university very psyched up to "change the world." However it didn't take long to realize that most of the comrades were more interested in sex, parties and CATS than in changing the world. And the students who were changing the world didn't seem like true believers; they spent time in meetings; all talk no action and only pretentious anger at the "state of things". After watching Holy Man, a feel good Eddie Murphy film, I was inspired to go solo. My cause was ambiguous; a combination of human rights, going green and protecting the ozone layer. I started by vowing never to take tea because I had read somewhere that tea workers were paid peanuts. It didn't matter to me that one cup of tea might not make much difference. I believed " It starts with you" the catch phrase of those in solo protests.  Then when I told my mother about my tea boycott he laughed and informed me in jest that a cup of coffee at Starbucks was $ 2 while the farmers here were not getting even a dollar for kilogram of cherry. I boycotted coffee too, not sure how that was going to make farmers get better prices.

Around the same time I read about farm to fork. A campaign to ensure that what is eaten is produced without harming the environment, and all those in the production chain are adequately rewarded. My farm to fork campaign involved creating a lot of fuss whenever I went to buy greens, fruits or sometimes even eat in a hotel. Of course few in this country have the patience for such fuss. So I relented. But to compensate for the guilt I  felt for failing to trace the food I ate from the farm to the fork, I decided to recycle polythene bags in a big way; carrying my own papers even when going shopping in supermarkets.

Well the first protest lasted only a few months. The fire ebbed because I could not see the reward of my protest, and well I missed tea. Lets not talk about principles. But I still wanted to change the world. I still wanted to be a rebel of some kind. Thus after some few months I decided to take on the sex cause. As a woman I felt I needed to do something about our lot. I reasoned there were two ways to go about in approaching sex as a cause. One was to campaign against the portrayal of women as sex objects. And two was to empower women sexually almost literally; women to use sex as a weapon. There were already people doing the former so I settled on the latter. My mantra was simple: If a woman was to have sex with a man she should not only get the pleasure but also some material gain. The challenge was how to communicate the message without sounding a sort of desperado. And well we were in university where sex just for the kick was part of the experience. The idea became a cropper. But to make up for my failure I vowed not to have sex with men and engaged in a lesbian affair.

All this came to mind yesterday when in the process of doing something else I saw  my university notebook that I used to plan my causes. I had even toyed with some slogans for the sex cause. When I read them now they seem a joke:  A condom & a cent. V for Value.  Dont just open your legs: Open your bag. You make a weapon everytime you part your legs.  Sex is power.  Then there was the classical : Women of the world unite, you got nothing to lose other than your..... . I could no come up with a punchy phrase to capture what I intened then.

So much has changed in the world  and in me since then. At the moment I have a different opinion about that sex is power cause, and I am not sure I would advocate for it. But thinking of it on a lighter note and in light of how I earn my living, I didn't sell out. I am leading from the front. I am one of those rare hands on rebel leaders. ;)

-I have answered 26 more questions. I will answer the rest soon. 

-If you had paid for the Illustrated Book and I haven't refunded your money kindly email me. I will refund you the money asap. The Illustrated book will be available free of charge sometime in October.

Episode 46: A Banking Dilemma

Today I am facing an economic problem. More like a banking dilemma. I have heard banks that issue credit cards are in a sort of Catch 22 situation.  You see there are those customers who pay their credit card bills on time, and then there are the others who go past their limits and are late to pay. The former are charged high interest, penalty fees and other amounts banks are fond of. The defaulters and over spenders rake in the profits, while the disciplined customers provide stability. When the economic times are good the banks will prefer the defaulters, but when the times are bad they wonder how to chase the defaulters away in as polite manner.

Like I mentioned before almost every girl on the Street has a husband; the regular customer who only asks for that particular girl. I have several of them, which is nothing odd. My husbands fall into two general categories. There are those who are 'mature', cool and undramatic men. Then there are the others, rough, unpredictable, full of life men who treat girls like well, prostitutes. The cool guys are the gentlemen among the johns; but then they are sort of boring. Almost everything about them is as routine as their visits. Even their pay is fixed and rarely give a bonus. But these men provide security.

On the other hand the rough character regulars seem to act by the moment. Sometimes they time their visits sometimes they don't. Its like they just seat in a bar  watching football then miss me. So they get into their cars and come looking for me. These are the men who are as likely to take me to a dingy downtown hotel as they are to take me to a four star hotel. They are also the ones who will pick me past midnight and to take me to a drinking spree in Naivasha, where they proudly introduce to their friends as poko wangu ( my prostitute), or using some other funky name which hints at my trade.  Their sex is rough and very experimental . These are the men who are most  likely not to pay me, or under pay. But they are also who are most likely to pay me much more than the usual, and occasionally throw me a gift, never mind the not so sweet words and actions that accompany it.

Like some sort of bank, I need both of these customers. And overtime I have played my cards well so that I really don't have to choose between the two. But today I have to make a decision. Earlier in the week one of the cool guys, picked me and later fixed a date with me for today. Then yesterday one of the roughs passed by and said he wants to show me the world today. Despite their shortcomings I need to keep both of them.

At the face of it, it might seem an easy choice, apparently because many believe we don't have a work ethic. So I just go with one and then give a silly excuse to the other. Yet girls want to bring each other down here. So if I go with one of the men, then the other comes and ask for me, the girls will tell. And don't believe what men say, even in the comments here, they actually get their egos hurt when a prostitute slights them. So the man I ignore wont be happy. He will just pick me one more time to satisfy his ego, then never see me again. In times like these every man counts.

Anyway I will see what to do. It looks like it will rain today, and hopefully one of them wont turn up.Luckily I no longer have a business telephone number.

To all who answered my questions thank you so so much. I really appreciate. I will be replying and commenting on them soon. Do have a lovely weekend. 

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Episode 45: The Present Tension

The Street is an ecosystem of sorts. Though not delicate everybody who is part of it knows the importance of maintaining its balance. The Street ecosystem looks more like a union of the low of society. Low in terms of income, power and perceptions. There are the Street people and children. There are also the watchmen and late night hawkers. Then there are the clients and us. Others who form the ecosystem include the city council askari and police who we consider parasites.

Its we girls who give meaning to the Street at night. Without us Koinange would be just like any other lackluster city street in dark. All those cars which drive past would not be there. The odd hour hawkers would have nobody to sell to. The watchmen, with nothing to excite them, would be like the many others in the city, sleepy and with no drive. Thus one would expect us to be at the top of the Street hierarchy, but we are not. At the top are those who feel the Street belongs to them. The competition here is between the Street people and the watchmen. The former feel more ownership because apparently they have been born and brought up in the streets, while the latter believe they have the official mandate to protect, not only particular properties but also the Street in general. Occasionally these two clash, either verbally or physically. However most of the times they find ways of accommodating each other, knowing very well their strengths. The Street people are not really governed by any code of conduct, and have little to lose.  The watchmen, on the other hand have the law on their side, a reputation and a job to think of.

When a girl comes to the Street she blends with both of these. It happens fast and without any coercion for it does not take long to know who owns the power of violence, which matters a lot here. A girl needs to feel protected even when on the Street. She also needs to be informed when she has dropped her guard and the police or city council askari are around. Also once in a while a man in a car or walking will come and try harassing a girl. Or a girl pinches the pocket of any of such during a promised cozy session in a dark alley or car. A man might discover and try to manhandle a girl. She only needs let out a cry and the man will not know what befell him. Rungus, fists and shoes will land on him.  By agreeing to be at the bottom of the Street chain of command vis a vis the ecosystem, the girls are guaranteed of the protection. Still sometimes a girl has to pay for the protection. The method of payment depends on a girl. Sometimes it’s in cash or kind.


I talk of these because after being away for about a month I went back and found there is a new street order. The Street people around the area I operate from have changed. There is a new group, more forceful in their enforcement.  They want a girl to pay a certain amount daily whether she turns up for work or not. They are also violent and I hear they have beaten a girl or two. On the hand girls are becoming increasingly impatient with them, and soon one or all of us will face of with them. The plan is to refuse to pay their extortion like    protection fee, the results might be a deadly face off.

The new Street people claim to offer more protection both against the City Council and the police. But they are not very smart in the way they do it. I hear a notorious city council askari who does the rounds was beaten on his way to his house about a week ago. A city council vehicle had one of its tires deflated. Stones were hurled at another. More is said to be in the works. Of course in situations like these we know the askari are planning some sort of crackdown or revenge like they usually do. The watchmen are intimidated, and the police operate at a higher level. The City belongs to the City Council and as much as we girls hate them we know the trick is not to be violent in the way we deal with them. We prefer to be more innovative, or play cat and mouse games with them, until the day one of us will emerge the winner. If it comes to violence they will always beat us.

The situation is quite tense, but then no one can come in between, not even the law. What is of the Street will be solved here. Such tensions arise once in a while, but unless you work here you may never suspect anything is wrong.  All signs are that the resolution will somehow happen very soon, and hopefully a stable power equilibrium will be established.

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UP Nairobi: Who Is More Street?

I still pen a monthly article for UP Nairobi magazine. Having passed through the hands of an editor the articles are  not as roughly cut as those appearing here on the blog. Below is an excerpt from this month's issue titled ' Who Is More Street? '

Once in a while I catch the television segment Who Owns Kenya? A crude version of it is replayed here on the Street almost every single day. The Street version is not Who Owns Nairobi? But more like Who Is More Nairobi? The reasoning is this, just like citizens of a country enjoy some privileges as compared to non citizens, those who are “more Nairobi” should also enjoy some extra benefits by that virtue.

Such benefits, unlike those of citizens, are not clearly stipulated, but generally have to do with competition for clients. Not that girls sit down and discuss who is more Nairobi than others, it’s rather more manifested in their usage of statements which tend to be exclusive or imply ownership. The most common of the statements is always; “What do you know about Nairobi?” which is always said in a dismissive manner. A girl may drop such a line to intimidate another in order to win over a client.

The criteria for deciding who is “more Nairobi” is always an issue in the streets.  ...... Read the rest of the story here.

(Up Nairobi is distributed FREE of charge.)

Episode 42: A Little Viagra

I bet you all know how easily available the drugs to 'enhance' the 'sexual experience' are these days. You know the ones that help a man last longer, get his thing up and maintain it up there. And the others that are supposed increase ‘sensitivity’ and make a man taste the love in love making. An article or two I have read in the newspapers have implied that the increased use of the drugs is a result of the present lifestyle which takes toil on the sex hormones, organs and emotions. Lifestyle here is taken to mean drinking, smoking, junk food and certainly chewing of miraa and gawks. But then one of the larger signposts of the present times; the pressure to achieve and the crucification of failures must be contributing to making the drugs a favorite of many men. Anxiety has always been a classical cause of impotence. As to why a man would be anxious while with a prostitute, as many presently are, is another discussion all together.

The increase in the use of the drugs has corresponded with a decrease in the shame of using them. They have become more like condoms. There are many men who pop the drugs in my presence. I usually don't ask questions and the men don't provide answers. But I always wonder do they openly use the drugs while with their girls? Or is it easier to do it with me because there is no sexual shame when with a prostitute? The most discreet of the men will want to give me an impression that they are swallowing painkillers and not performance boosters. Thus when driving to a hotel, a man will say something like “I am having a headache" then proceed to swallow the tablets which look nothing like Panadol or Hedex. Sometimes when I want to sound cheeky, I will say “Which head? “ And seeing the client’s expression change to disturbed, I say “Just kidding”

About ten days ago a man picked me around 2am. He looked in his mid thirties, was shorter than me and wore a broken suit. He was slightly drunk and as we drove to a hotel in the Parklands area he kept cracking the kind of jokes that many men tell prostitutes; simple, dirty and predictable. Somehow at that hour the jokes sound funny; the haha funny and not “that is a smart one” funny. At the hotel reception he bought himself a Redbull and a liter of water for me before we climbed to the third floor.

Inside the room the man sat on the bed, and opened his Redbull. I sat on a chair and waited. With time I have known not to undress before a man gives me a hint to do so, for there are men who find so much pleasure in removing my clothes and it would be to my disadvantage if I denied them the joy. From his trouser pocket the removed two tablets which were wrapped in a yellow receipt. “A little Viagra" he said laughing. Of course Viagra is what lots of men call all those boosters. I didn't catch a proper glimpse of the tabs but I prayed they were not a herbal brand of boosters girls here have nicknamed rocket because they make men fly.  I think rocket makes a man produce so much testosterone, because as stories go a man who has swallowed the pills becomes some sort of animal; high and wild. It’s almost impossible for a girl to satisfy such a man. The saddest thing is that some men don't remember the sexual experience very well after the effects have worn out.


The man didn’t go high but lay in bed with his feet still on the floor; it’s the position many men lay when they want a girl to start working on them. All these took about ten minutes. I stood up and wore my sex look. But as I was going for the man, I noticed his eyes were closed and he was breathing  in an unusually heavy manner. I shook him, but he didn’t respond. His breathing got worse, and some sort of foam started oozing from his mouth. Sometimes when a man has been given a slightly excess dose of sedatives reacts in the same way, and that's the point a girl frisks a his pocket and walks out. At least with sedatives one is sure a man will wake up, no matter how long it takes. The smart thing at that moment would have been to look for the man's wallet, pick some or all the cash and then leave. But what if the man died? I would be blamed for it.  The policemen are most likely to come looking for clues on the Street like they always do. Some girls are even rumored to be police informers. Though many girls will swear they can take a bullet for each other, I know when push comes to shove its everybody for herself. And of course there are girls who don't like me and would be first to say I went with the particular man. Girls and watchmen remember very well who goes with who or in what car.

I took a bath towel soaked it in water and placed it on the man's forehead, but nothing about him changed. He then started throwing fits and I thought for sure he was going to die. I decided to go inform the hotel staff. I am able to give an impression of calmness even when my inside is burning. I stood in front of the mirror, and decided not to look so calm; that might make one think that I was okay with what was happening; panicking on the other hand would make me look guilty. I settled for something in between. I walked out of the room and took stairs to the reception. The receptionist was a girl in his early twenties obviously very sleepy. She brightened up when I explained what had happened. I didn’t mention the tablets to her. She called the manager of the hotel. I don't know what instructions the manager gave, but the girl excused herself and walked outside. The next thing I saw was a watchman coming to the hotel lobby behind the receptionist. She came back to her desk where I was still standing and told me to wait for the manager. Rather than wait for the manger, I opted to go back to the room and check on my would be client. “The manager said you should not go back to the room until he comes". The receptionist said. “Why?" I asked. “He just said that". The girl replied. The watchman approached. I was already a suspect.

The manger came after about ten minutes accompanied by two other men who I guessed were waiters. The latter looked very excited. The manager didn’t even bother to say a greeting to me. “What happened?" he asked obviously trying to sound tough. Calmly I explained what had happened; omitting the tablets and the fact that the man had picked me from the Street . Saying I was a prostitute would definitely make things worse. “Who are you to him?" he asked. I grunted and started climbing the stairs. All of them followed me.

I opened the door of the room, and the man was still lying in the same position but in a worse condition. His mouth and face were covered with the foam like substance. His breathing was now in gasps similar to hiccups. “What happened? “The manager asked a second time. “Get a doctor.” I said, going to where the man was. “How did it start?" the manager persisted. “Get a doctor" I shouted “The man took some tablets”. The manager looked at me then lowered his voice cop in a movie style “What did you give him?". Huh tablets are only associated with drugging prostitutes.

"Lock her up" the manager said. I was not entirely surprised.  And quite enthusiastically the watchman and two waiters grabbed me.  “I am not running away" I said, trying to free my hands. “We can never know" the watchman said, pushing me with his rungu to the second floor. I was thrown inside a small dark room, filled with detergents. “You will never drug another man again" One of the waiters said as he switched off the lights.

I sat on the floor. For a moment I thought of escape but banished the idea after deciding I don't want to live on the run. I then pictured myself in a police cell, then in court charged with murder, and then my life in prison. I was scared. I was sure the man would die because the manager looked so indecisive and slow to action. Would a postmortem establish that the man had swallowed the tablets voluntarily? If at all they were the cause of his condition.


The door was opened some minutes past six in the morning. And there was the manager, the waiters, watchman and the man who was to be my client staring at me. He had lost his shine, and looked confused.

“You are lucky “said the manager. I walked out without saying a word to anyone.



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I have been missing in action for reasons unrelated to the above. Ooops! I know I still have lots of emails and messages to reply to, questions to answer and also books to deliver. I am working on that overtime.

Please note my my new address above.





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Episode 41: The Indifferent Men

When I started having sex I used to think the end was the only thing. And by end I mean sexual climax. Of course the end mattered but it didn’t take long to learn the process of attaining the climax was also important; for it is this that differentiates the sexual ability of girls. When I was a novice in my kind of work I was not sure why men pay for sex; whether it was because they were sexually starved or because they were seeking variety. If it was the former then the end is what would matter, but if the latter the process would be crucial. Most of the men I slept with in downtown seemed starved and need of sex per se. They were okay with me just lying on my back, my head resting on my hands as they had their pleasure.  Or perhaps they were not starved sexually but in the pocket and thus were aware that for the 200 shillings they paid they could only get budget sex.

In the Street it was different and has been for a long time. The men who come there are most likely to have multiple girlfriends or are enjoying relatively good sex with their wives. But they pay a premium to, among other things, go to the edge of pleasure which is achieved not by the climax itself but the anticipation towards it. That’s the reason many of us here give their all to the clients. We kiss, lick and touch where girlfriends and wives don’t. We also allow men to do certain things on us they dare not do to their women. And because we have sex so many times and with so many different men, over time we become experts of sorts.

But something has changed of late. It’s tougher than ever before to satisfy my clients. And not because the quality of my performance has gone down, not at all, but rather men seem to have raised their expectations. If not they have become indifferent to my efforts towards achieving climax. I am flexible, creative and will go the extra mile to please my clients. And as much as I want repeat customers or bonus payment I do it because of the ego boost I get seeing a man enjoying my services. The face of a man who is pleasantry surprised by what I am doing to him sticks me for a while and motivates me, sometimes more than the money.

A few minutes with a man I am able to accurately guess what he has experienced and what he hasn’t. That way I am able to pull a trick out of my bag and give him something new. But none of my creative efforts surprises my clients anymore. And I don’t think all of them have had a taste of some of the things I come up with. I am also one of those who believe there are infinite ways to play with a man. When I ask some of these men if there is any particular experience they want, they don’t pinpoint anything. It is very frustrating.

I cannot find any logical for this new man, and my ego does not allow me to ask my colleagues whether they are experiencing the same but looking at their faces I bet they are. Is it that sex is so easily available that men are bored of it? I don't think so. It can’t be. If I was a science alarmist I would say we are going through an evolution moment when a species adapts to acquire a favorable trait. Perhaps men who have no frills sex live longer, though I guess they are less successful. Now I digress.

I once read a question a lady had asked an Agony Aunt. “What do I do to spice up our sex life?" The answer was the classical “Do away with all the shame and assume you are a prostitute". So what answer would she give to an actual prostitute? Maybe that's the answer I need.


Before you write me off know I still got a trick up my sleeve, the one thing that will make any man say " Shit!" and actually do it. Or so I think. But then this is supposed to be the secret weapon spared for the special one or the most desperate of situations, like when my life or a million dollars is at stake. Irrespective of what the indifferent men do, I won’t stop believing I am still one of the best in bed

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 I have answered forty more questions. Click Ask Sue above to read the answers. 

Thanks to all those who ordered the Illustrated Nairobi Nights, I am getting back to you soon. Same for those who have requested the free ebook.

Google has hit me below the belt so I will be making some changes to the website by the end of the week. Will let you all know. Thank you for taking time to read. Next post on Friday.

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Episode 39: What Goes Around Comes Around

There is every reason to trust a man in his forties, who drives a Jeep and has several copies of The Economist magazine on the back seat. Such a man if he speaks in a deep voice, is collected when picking a girl, and genuinely seems  interested in your welfare gives the impression he is self assured; not one to play boyhood games of the twenties. But that is not always the case like I found last night.

This man picked me around eleven. He was very sober and looked by his dressing as if he had worked till late in the night. We drove to a discreet  Sh.8,000 a night hotel slightly out of town which is a favorite of relatively older men having some fun on the side. At the hotel he asked if I was hungry, and I said I couldn't mind a snack. He paid for a room and I went to locate it as he ordered  fish. I ate the fish in the room while he undressed and took a shower. I have to admit he was handsome.

By default a man is supposed to pay a girl  before she delivers the service. But then you have to judge each man individually. Once you agree on the amount there is no need to demand money upfront from a man who  looks like he can definitely pay.And if you plan to give your all then the hope is the man will pay you extra. Of course if you are in downtown Nairobi you can take such gambles, no matter how the man looks.

So I gave myself to him . He seemed to enjoy and so did I and thus we tried several things in the hour I had agreed to spend with him. After we were done, I took a shower, dressed up and asked for my pay which was also to include taxi charges. He reached for his trouser, removed a 200 shilling note , and gave it to me. I took it thinking he was looking for more. But he just dropped his trouser back to the bed.

 " Thanks" he said.

" So..?"

" What?"

"My money?"

" That is the amount I always pay prostitutes" he said in a calm manner, and deep voice which I kind of liked.

I lost my temper. And for the first time in career  I slapped a client hard on the face. He touched his jaw, then  went to the door opened it and told me to get out. He spoke slowly and confidently as if nothing had happened. Though in a fighting spirit I was not blinded by anger. From his look I knew he would have smashed me with his powerful hands. So I stepped out, but made sure to do the prostitute thing which is to shame a man by screaming and calling him names. But perhaps having swindled again he knew by locking his door and ignoring me, I would be thrown out by the hotel staff, who in such places tend to side with the man. That's exactly what happened.I was escorted to the gates still trying to create a scene.

Today when I think about it I feel a little foolish. One for trusting the man and two for causing unnecessary drama. I know I got myself marked by the hotel staff and definitely other potential clients which is not good for business. And then what goes around comes around. Perhaps I deserved it, for only the other day did I steal from a man.

Episode 38: Leaving To Chase Italians

Every week or so there is a girl leaving the Street never to come back. Sometimes a girl may experience some boredom and decide to take a break for a week, but the break ends up lasting forever. At other times a girl may hit a jackpot. For instance, either by fair or rough play, she hooks a “real rich honey” who helps her leap to a different social level. There are also girls who shift locations in search of greener pastures. A girl moving upward from the Street heads to an up market brothel or any of the emerging places within the lush estates which are accommodative to our trade. The latter is always a higher probability than the former because many of the up market brothels owners think a girl from the Street is stale, and not cultured enough to discreetly handle high net worth enough individuals. It’s not necessarily that such owners ask for a girl’s experience, but somehow they are able to tell  where a girl comes from even if she claims to be just out of college. One would think that there is a Street Mark engraved in our faces, but no, the tell tale signs are the distinct mannerisms which we acquire while here. These range from the vocabulary we use unconsciously to the way we pronounce “honey” even when we literally mean what is spread on bread.

The thing with coming and leaving the Street is that there are no ceremonies involved.. Perhaps if leaving the Street was something planned, there would be farewell parties; how such parties would look like can only be left to the imagination of the part of the brain that deals with insecurities and not the erotic section. But then, as I may have mentioned, leaving is not something to plan about; it just happens, more like accidental death. Of course if you are the concerned kind of john you will doubt me, because you may have heard the classical line “I plan to quit next month". This, for your information, is as rhetorical as saying “I am fine" in answer to “How are you?"

For me the most interesting part of leaving is when I meet a girl who has disappeared. It’s always a very pretentious situation. The conversations with the girls I have met always start with the girl trying to be indirectly dismissive of me. So she will say something in the lines of “So you are still chasing men". There is no way to put this sentence English and still retain its punch; a veiled rudeness said in a “Who in her right mind is still on the Street?” tone.

That aside from August and for the next three months is the period relatively more girls disappear or rather migrate. Its the tourist season and the time some of us go try their luck at the coast. So many stories circulate here about what happens there, but the most prominent and the ones often repeated have to do with hitting a jackpot. Almost all girls who migrate to the beaches never come back to the Street. Not necessarily because they have hit it, but I think its more out of  the shame of failure.

This year I plan to also go down to Malindi and hopefully have the Italians chase me. I have never done the tourist circuit and its one thing I believe I should do before I call it a day. It would be too much for me to expect me a jackpot so I will lower my expectations and say I am just going for the experience. One thing I am sure to do is come back to the Street whether I hit a jackpot or not.

Episode 37: Unhappy? Maybe Yes

Someone dropped me an email saying I am an unhappy prostitute. That reading all I have on this blog she saw nothing that hints at joy. I don’t talk of laughter and the few times I talk of happiness its in passing as if it is something not important in my life. The lady implied my blog rather than building a brand is a 'sad commentary' of a cheerless, heartbreaking life.  Well, I was not aware that my writing gives the impression of a totally unhappy person. But then what is the true position? Am I unhappy?

A significant source of happiness in any career is in doing what one enjoys. I do enjoy what I do, but I have to admit not as immensely as I used to say a year ago. What has changed? As I implied in the introduction of my ebook, I may have reached some sort of plateau. A point where I feel there is not much more to conquer, and if there is I am yet to figure it out. This is the point where you changes careers, else your productivity starts diminishing until to a point where the company needs you no more. I don't operate in such a formal structure, but for sure my productivity is down, and my employer may soon not need me. The problem is this is a career which has swallowed me; I don’t feel like quitting until I am literally laid down. In light of this I will acknowledge I am not as happy as I used to be.

Although I still have lots of interesting and rather challenging mental games with men, I don't clap when I triumph, neither do I grieve unnecessarily when I fail. I mean I have lost most of the emotions which come with winning and losing. I need new worlds to conquer. Certainly I know  that there is so much depth and complexity in my kind of work; I couldn’t have overcome everything there is. I just need to redefine my goals and the joy of triumph and pain of loss will possibly come back to me. Still I wouldn’t say I am an unhappy girl, but rather happy in a very plain way, like Meg, that girl in Family Guy.

What about the other kind of happiness? The obvious haha type? Each day I am on the street a girl will crack a joke or give an anecdote that will make me laugh, sometimes till I shed tears. But there is a hollowness and predictability in such humor. My laughter at such times is almost the kind Langston Hughes said was laughing to keep from crying. And this has nothing to do with the crude nature of the humor, but something about is not genuinely ticklish. It’s the same for clients with rusty jokes. That said once in a while I get a man who tickles me and I experience a good honest laugh. Like a man I was with recently. When I was on my fours he said “Why are you moaning? You should bark"

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I have answered some of the questions I have been asked. Click on the Ask Me page above to read.


-For those who have requested my ebooks and I have not gotten back to them, I will do that by the end of the day tomorrow. Many regrets for the delay. I am also working overtime to reply all my email and Facebook messages.


-Click the Ebooks page above to request for books.


Follow:
Twitter: @suenairobi
Facebook: Sue Maisha.

Episode 36: Why Do You Sleep With Me?

There are two questions I always want to ask my clients. However, most of the times I don't get to because if I did, I’d cross a delicate line in the client girl relationship; that of minding my own business. I have no right, moral or otherwise, to go poking my nose in the private motives of my clients. Yet some of these motivations are of interest to me both for professional and private reasons. The top most question in my head wherever I am with a man is “Why are you sleeping with a prostitute?" There is no way I am able to frame this question without seeming to be standing on a higher ethical ground, of which I am not. Then again the benefits of answering such a question may not be obvious to a man. This is as compared to something like “Which position do you like best?” Nonetheless knowing why a man sleeps with me satisfies some curiosity inside me. Getting the answer also helps me align my spirits to what happens between the legs; this way I try able to give the man a sex session that corresponds to his deep needs. Also In some cases the answer reminds me of my relevance and gives me the morale to dress up on a cold evening and hit the Street.

The second question that I want to ask my client is “Why did you pick me, and not any other girl?" This is relatively easy to ask but awkward because when I do, I end up sounding like I have confidence and self esteem issues, and I am seeking to have my ego massaged. Certainly I have no confidence and self esteem issues but then it’s only natural once in a while to want someone to make a honest statement that will boost your sense of worth. Thus I ask this question hoping a man wont say " I picked you because you were nearest the door of my car", " I picked you because your price was lowest" or  " I picked you because you were freezing in the cold" or such other statements which hint at convenience and sympathy rather than something exceptional about my appearance or personality. Hence it does me a lot of good when a man says “I picked you because of your panache” or “the smooth way you puff your cigarettes was a turn on”, you know those kinds of sentences that touch on my self. 

In as much as I don't get to always ask either of the above questions I have always believed I know all the possible reasons that make men sleep with prostitutes. That was until I chanced on an essay titled The System of Collecting a month or so go. I was made aware of a new kind of man who I call the collector. Though the essay didn’t expressly say so, this is a man who has a list in his head or physically somewhere of the kind of women he endeavors to sleep with. Such a list may include; dreadlocked woman, professor over 50 years, with a bad sense of fashion, loud mouthed, very big ass, small ass, tomboy, illiterate, poor, smoker, deep voiced etc. Every time he sleeps with a woman fitting one of these attributes he crosses her from the list.

According to the essayist “A given woman stops being a woman and becomes no more than a vagina, a couple of breasts, a belly, a pair of thighs, a voice, a face – according to preference. Henceforth she is reduced to a set whose separate signifying elements are one by one ticked off by desire....."

Well the fact that I am a prostitute means that I already may be the above woman, but consciously thinking a man will cross me off some list after a session, leaves me in a nasty mood; feeling worthless. I know how silly it sounds for me to set some sort standards for myself when I am already considered to have sunk to one of humanities lows, but hey that is how I feel.

A collector may find prostitutes easy targets because the dealing is so business like and does not involve a chase. Then there are all kinds among us. We compete on uniqueness. We try to sound exotic by the way we talk and use of rare nicknames. At the risk of sounding proud I know for a fact there is one thing quite unique about me. The first time you talk or see me you note it. It’s not something many girls have. Whether the thing is good or bad will depend on an individual, but this makes me sure one of those odd men with lists is looking for my kind.


Getting crossed out from a list is my new fear. The problem is I have found no foolproof way to know whether a man is a collector or not. Not that I would do much if I knew, but at least if I proved he is not I would feel good. For the last two weeks I have been giving my number to clients I suspect to be collectors rather easily. If a man does not call or send a text I assume he is one.Of all those I have given my number none has gotten in touch with me. So now though I try to keep my head high I feel like an item, crossed off some list. It could be also I am being too eccentric or losing my mind.


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I have answered some of the questions I have been asked. Click on the Ask Me page above to read.

For those who have requested my ebooks and I have not gotten back to them, I will do that by the end of the day tomorrow. Many regrets for the delay. I am also working overtime to reply all my email and Facebook messages.


Click ebooks to request for books.


Follow: 

Twitter: @suenairobi
Facebook: Sue Maisha.

Episode 35 : Of Boredom and A Funeral

I have been in my kind business for almost three years now, during which I have slept with over a thousand different men. That figure is small as compared to some of you, men and women, who do it for pleasure, ego and money. Let’s not go to the money bit, but do take some few seconds to count the number of people you have slept with. How many? Yet you may not be called prostitutes because it is not the quantity of the sex that matters in the definition of the word, but the purpose.

Nowadays I am not ashamed to call myself a prostitute. But there was a time I was in denial. Even after walking to a dingy room at the Sabina Joy, lying on dirty tattered mattress, lowering my pants, having a drunken man mount me and pay 200 shillings for it, I still could not punch my fist in the air and say “Yes I am now a prostitute!”. Those days are now gone, they had to go if I had to make it in this trade.

Of course I remember the way I felt the first day I was explicitly paid for sex. The thrill of becoming something new. And this was not the becoming a woman pain then  joy of virginity breaking, but the science fiction metamorphosis of changing to evil in the eyes of society, losing almost all conscience and morality. There was every reason to remain in denial.

As you well know I practice on the Street. There are many other places I could opt to go to, where I won’t freeze in cold or have to play hide and seek with the police and City Council askari, but I chose the Street. The Street has its own beauty. To start with, there is the ever present tension between us and the authorities, a permanent adrenaline rush that makes getting to a comfortable zone an impossibility. A comfort zone would blind me from the fact that I can’t be in this trade forever. (Like most girls say I was to quit after six months.) The adrenaline rush, as you will see, has other purposes.

The Street is a jungle; there is no formality or systematic way of doing things. I am doing wrong and I have the freedom to go all the way in my sin. I can show as much flesh as I want, I can scream and insult. In some of the pubs I can’t even show my pants. In others I have to wait in the toilets or corridors. In the up market brothels there is structure; there is reporting to someone; there is splitting the money. I love my freedom and the risks that come with it. And I gladly pass the cost of the risk to the consumers.

The Street largely caters for a very specific market. Most men who come here are looking for something between the roughness of the downtown and decency of the up market. They don’t want the sophistication that snatches the illegality and dirt of prostitution. But still they don’t want the on the face prostitution that feels cheap and exploitative. I love this group because nothing is exactly predictable with them and they have endless possibilities. Many of them think  they have figured us out while the truth is they are far from it. The mind game between me and such is part of the motivation to do what I do

So why am I telling you things I should have told you at the start of this blog?  And some which you already know? It’s because of late I am looking back a lot. I am spending quite some time in the comfort of the good-old-days thoughts. In the last few weeks the Street has lost its thrill; the excitement and adrenaline rush that partially attracted me to it are nowhere to be found. Everything now is too predictable. The girls are good to each other. The clients, at least my clients, are too polite, they don't argue, they don't negotiate and they don’t experiment either. They have become yes-men agreeing to all I suggest. Not that johns are supposed to be monsters, but neither are they supposed to be sissies. A not so direct reward in my work, as I have mentioned, is the joy of outsmarting a man or better still subduing him. Presently everything looks too ideal. Too good to be true. It’s like a lull before a storm. I don't know what has happened. Maybe the cold has frozen the male nerves. Or the increasingly tough economic times have made men frail.

In these generally slow times I and certainly most girls seize any opportunity to get some kick. Not long ago this opportunity came in the form of death. Most girls approach death with escapism and false bravado. Thus there are many statements of the “ I'd rather die than….” kind. Or others which tend to play on fate and destiny. Hence many times I will hear the very pedestrian statement “My graph is drawn"... Although girls may give the illusion they are not afraid of death and prefer it to suffering, the truth is most of us are scared and the light manner in which most of us treat it, is so as not to face the reality of how close we are to demise every time we go with a client. Like most people I am also frightened, but rather than live in escapism I have opted to reconcile myself with the idea of death.

About a year ago I read The Book of Dead Philosophers (another relic from a client.). The text has all these anecdotes about philosophical last scenes. My favorite was the well known classic by Socrates. When he was sentenced to death he told the judges “Now it is time that we were going, I to die and you to live; but which of us has the happier prospect is unknown to anyone but God."

Then there was another man whose name I can't remember who after it became clear he was going to die of cancer said “Death orders matters well, since the very fact of your absence makes the world distinctly less worthy of being lived in"

Few weeks ago a colleague we called BG died. She was one of those average girls who don’t stand out in anyway. She disappeared from the Street for a month, and the next thing we heard she was dead.  Like it usually happens here there was speculation but nothing definite about the cause of her death. So there was talk of her being poisoned by another girl, of her being bewitched by a man he stole from, of HIV, of drugs and liver disease.

Twenty three of us planned to attend the burial.  Of course we said we were going to show our last respects but it’s the prospect of taking a trip as a group that was more exciting. It was to be like those bonding retreats corporate organizations have. Maggie who was coordinating the trip laid the ground rules. We were to all wear black jeans. When we got to the funeral we were not to act like prostitutes but rather like her ‘work’ colleagues, since we were not sure whether her family knew what she did for a living. We contributed money and hired two Nissan Matatus. The funeral was in Muranga, about 100km from Nairobi.

We left around nine in the morning. As soon as we were inside the vehicle, we opened our bags and unleashed cheap spirits and miraa. Half an hour later we were euphoric and noisy as if going for a wedding. We talked, laughed, smoked, farted and made rude and suggestive signs at other motorists. We were almost knocked out by the time we got to the funeral and as much as we tried to maintain some decorum it became impossible. We were loud, and some of us giggled when mourners were praying.

When the coffin was lowered inside the grave, we took over to throw in the soil. With the spades which were provided, singing and trying to look sober we buried BG. When the grave was fully covered we stood around it, ignoring everyone else. Then Maggie took the microphone and looked directly at the grave. She spoke in Kikuyu but said something like “Please watch over us". At that point some of us shed tears. I didn’t.

When we went back to the vehicles, which were parked some distance away, we found someone had broken in and stolen our bags which contained our strong drinks. “Whoever stole our bags is the one who killed BG" Maggie said, and we cheered. Next day it was back to the present slow of the Street.


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Now I have two ebooks:

1.Nairobi Nights One - This has Episode 1-30 as they appear on the blog. Some selected comments are included. This book is FREE.




2. The Illustrated Nairobi Nights - This includes 20 Episodes told a graphic form. More like an advanced comic strip.Characters involved are drawn and in some cases much more information is given. There is also a tongue in cheek illustration of some of the comments. This book costs Ksh.100 (1.14$)


Click on E-books above.


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Episode 34: Relics Of A Prostitute

Anyone visiting my house would find no explicit clue to hint at the kind of work I do. A pack of condoms, a bottle of spirit and half life cigarettes are items to be found on the coffee table of many present day women of my age. Personally though when I look around I see items not obvious to others but which remind me of my past and present life. Like most people I have over the years unconsciously kept mementos of low intrinsic but high sentimental value. Only recently did I consciously look at the items and saw in them signposts of a journey I have taken in slightly over two and half years.

If I were to assume a curator’s role and exhibit the items I would call the show Relics Of A Prostitute. In the explanatory note I would say the exhibition partially depicts the good and the bad of prostitutes and johns alike. Here are some of my souvenirs:

Blue Pant With Laces (Faded) - I wore this pant many times when practicing at the Sabina Joy. However I can’t recall if it is the same pant I wore on the day I broke my second virginity to become an outright prostitute. It has a gray smell which makes me light in the head and reminds me of the dirty, tattered mattresses of the short-time rooms at the Sabina Joy. Though I have disposed many pants over the years, I somehow can't let this go.

Talking of pants I have two sets. One composed of brightly colored pieces which I wear to work, and the other of cool colors which I wear when off duty.  I keep the blue pant among the work related set. If pants talk I feel my pioneer blue pant has a lot to teach my present collection which is used to cozy beds.

A White Note - I spent two days with a man holed in a hotel. When I woke up on the third day I found a note on the bed written “You are nice". He owned me some little cash.

1000 Shillings Note (Fake) - This was a case of deal which was too bad to be a lie. A man had picked me from the Street and drove aimlessly around town insisting on paying me 500 shillings which I considered to be too low. I got irritated and asked him to let me go. That is when he abruptly said he would double the money for a very quick session in a downtown hotel. When we were finished I literally snatched the money from his hand and walked away. I only realized the note was fake when my local shopkeeper pointed out.

Like they do in bars I have written Fake and stuck it on a wall in my house next to the window. Nowadays I smile when I remember the man, but as ironical as it may seem, it took me a week after being conned that way to overcome the nasty feeling of being 'used'.

Court Fine Receipt - A pair of police arrested me on a Friday night as I was coming from a session in a hotel opposite Jeevanjee gardens. They seemed under pressure to have the numbers and would not take a bribe. I spent two days in the cells and Monday morning I was charged with being drunk and disorderly which was a better accusation as compared to prostitution. The fine was 300 shillings. A colleague bailed me out, and the yellow receipt ended between the pages of my King James Bible. The bible was a gift from a British client. “You need this more than I do" he said, using the classical movie star line. Yeah, I being more of a sinner.

Sedative (Fake) - I was sold the powder substance by Cheupe after a smart sales pitch during my first week on the Street. She talked of being ready to seize opportunities. But it turned out to be some silly powder which turned the color of wine blue rather than knock a man off. It was more dangerous than an actual sedative because it was an instant give way. Luckily I had an understanding go happy diplomat as my would be victim, and not a big headed today-you-will-learn-a-lesson frustrated mid thirties man.

Wallet and Passport Photo Of A Woman and A Girl - See Episode 33: Mea Culpa. This is still haunting me.

Millie Jackson Tape - I pinched this from a flamboyant client and love it so. He played it on the stereo of his car as we drove to a hotel.  He carried it to the room, and seeing an opportunity I could not resist taking it. The tape has such relevant hits as All The Way Lover & Cheating. I miss the man.

A Green Plastic Key - A client gave the key to me. He claimed to have bought it from his pastor for 1000 shillings. The key is supposed to open the doors of life. “I have opened my doors" he said. “You should open yours too”. It’s my good luck charm, and I carry it with me always. Forget the doors of life.

Hotel Receipt - I asked a client to let me keep the receipt of the most expensive hotel I have been to. I use it to fantasize of the day I will go there alone.



The list is endless and I continue finding myself with odd items I gather during my work.

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Meanwhile what has been keeping me busy among other things is an e-book I am working on. It will have photos of some of the above items, illustrations of some of the present (and future episodes), photos of some places I have been to, new writing, more personal insights and lots of other stuff. This also might be the point where I might (or might not) reveal myself. My wish is to have the book out in less than ten days, but then it depends on my fortunes since I have discovered good graphic designers are very expensive. Perhaps I should sell the book in advance at a low price to facilitate the process, or give my all on the Street, fund it from my own pocket then dish it out free of charge as the last chapter of my peculiar brand building exercise.


-You can get my ebook which includes an introduction cum update of my brand building, Episode 1-30 and selected comments. Just click on Ebooks above

-Follow: Twitter: @suenairobi
           Facebook: Sue Maisha





 

Episode 33: Mea Culpa

The morals of a prostitute, as I have noted before, have been compared to those of an alley cat; meaning there are non existent. There is no indulgence that is unexpected from a prostitute. After all, by some self righteous meter, selling one's body for cash is the lowest a human being can get. Of course girls have proved themselves capable of many things, but then the prostitute stereotype is often very misplaced. Every girl is her own person. A girl relies on how conscience, and in many circumstances there is enough leeway for choice.

That said I cannot rule out the role of peer pressure; the need to belong and very often escape the girlish sanctions that come with not conforming. To the larger society that’s not justification enough for some of the things we do.  I would be the last person to claim I am innocent in the trademark vices of prostitutes. How can I be when I have already admitted to carrying a sedative in my bag?  Yet I won’t steal, or to use a more politically correct word, shortchange a man unless I feel he deserves it. Yes, that has not always been my position, but is presently is. I define “deserve” using parameters of the Jesus Philosophy.

The second day after my recent break a man came to the Street driving some saloon car, whose make I couldn’t figure out. The first day had been unproductive, so I was among the first to rush when the car stopped.  But I was not the first choice; he picked Pendo, hesitated then called me too. It’s normal for men to pick two or three girls, and most of us are okay with it, at the least for the simple reason that such a combination commands better prices. Personally I am uneasy about such arrangements, somehow I like having my clients by the balls (even literally), and that is not possible when we are two since we jostle to control the man and win his favor. Circumstances though demand I participate in the threesomes once in a while.

Some men think that all prostitutes connect, like in this case believing picking any two random girls will result in a super session. That is far from the truth. Girls have their favorite partners, the ones they can work with flawlessly and with some rhythm. My partner of choice is a marvelous little girl called Soni.

Pendo, just like her friend Cheupe, is one of those intimidating Street loud mouths. She says anything. She does anything. She has been involved into many fights than anyone cares to count. She is one of the Street alphas. At this point I have to confess though I write so boldly (or so I think) on the Street I am almost a nobody, one of the many colorless girls lacking any chutzpah. I am still not sure why I agreed to join Pendo. I might have been blackmailed by her domineering nature or simply needed the money and a lay to feel back on the Street.

Inside the car the good looking man asked which lodging we should go to. That is a no no question for anyone who is Street smart. Many girls will mention a lodging they feel comfortable in. Comfortable meaning they can walk out at anytime of the night without any ado from the watchman or management. Pendo who was seated at the front mentioned the name of a hotel off Accra road, and the man obliged without any question. A hint that he knew not of the crooked ways of the city.

Within minutes we were at the hotel, he paid and we climbed the stairs to the room. But before we could start the ‘show’, Pendo said some drinks would help us give the best performance possible. She was right. I could not imagine myself having any girl on girl action, as is the norm in such scenarios, with her while sober. The man agreed and went for drinks downstairs. And those ten minutes between him going and coming back was all Pendo needed to tell me how we were to steal from him. I was not enthusiastic and she noted it. Pendo is not one to use diplomacy. “If you are not for it then get out, after all he called me first." Before I could even reply the man was back, and we were all smiles.

From then Pendo took over. She poured the Richot the man had brought into three glasses, and added soda. We started drinking. She saying the man looked good, at the same time caressing my thighs with one of her tough hands. Within minutes she was all over him, kissing, touching and undressing. Pendo embraced him in such a way she was able to look at me, while the man couldn’t. She winked. I didn't hesitate. From my small purse I removed one of the Michael Jackson tablets in powder form and emptied the contents in the man's glass as he and Pendo went all the way.

As expected the man blackened out. We frisked his pockets, removing everything that was in it. He had about 7,000 shillings in cash, and some cheap phone. We shared the spoils there and then. Since it was her 'idea' Pendo kept 4,000, the phone and ATM. I took the rest and the wallet.

Back on the street, Pendo narrated the exploit to anyone who cared to listen, twisting the story so that it looked like I was the one who had initiated the theft. The sisterhood was full of praises. But deep inside I felt guilty, and still do. I spent almost all of the money on booze. I didn’t dispose the wallet as is the smart thing to do. When the guilt weighs me down I look at the passport photo of a woman and a girl that were inside the wallet. I tell myself a man who cheats on his wife and lovely daughter needs to be punished. Yet I know this a mere consolation, and that’s why occasionally I invoke my Catholic roots and say :

    I confess to almighty God
    and to you, my brothers and sisters,
    that I have greatly sinned,
    in my thoughts and in my words,
    in what I have done and in what I have failed to do,
    through my fault, through my fault,
    through my most grievous fault;
    therefore I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,
    all the Angels and Saints,
    and you, my brothers and sisters,
    to pray for me to the Lord our God.


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-I will spend sometime this weekend doing some typing so as to try post three or more times a week, starting this coming Monday.


-You can get my ebook which includes an introduction cum update of my brand building, Episode 1-30 and selected comments. Just click on Ebooks above

-I receive a lot of questions on many issues either through the comments here, Facebook, Twitter or Email. So as to be able to answer as many of them possible I have added an Ask page. You can ask the questions anonymously or otherwise. Just click on the Ask Sue page above. My answers, clarifications, comments will appear on the same page possibly daily. For private questions or enquiries just drop me a message via email, Facebook or Twitter.


Follow: Twitter: @suenairobi
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Episode 32: The Female Client

Shortly after shifting to the Street I heard about Nyambura Mwanaume. (Loosely translated to Nyambura the man). This, according to the story, was a woman who dressed like a man, picked girls and took them to her house in South B. There, as per the legend, Nyambura would treat a girl the same way a man does, even in bed. It was said at times Nyambura could get violent and cause pain to a girl, but shower her with cash the following morning. Her generosity, just like her weird ways, was on everyone's lips.

Occasionally I heard so and so went with Nyambura Mwanaume, or a girl would say she had been with her the previous night. I wanted to be part of the legend and prayed everyday that she picks me, but it never happened. I started believing Nyambura Mwanaume was a myth created by a girl who fantasized about such stuff, and tried to merge it with reality. Actually I doubted there were any women who came to the Street to pick girls.

As I mentioned earlier the mechanisms and dynamics of female to female sex make the choice of a prostitute not the most appropriate. From my experience in college and after, girl on girl relationships are very sensual and intimate. One needs a partner  they can trust in terms of emotions, thought process and even such things as health and hygiene. A prostitute can favorably display such qualities, but these are attributes which can't  be skimmed from a late night, semi nude street pose.

It turned out that I was wrong, at least about women picking girls from the street. There are such women. The most common being  those who come accompanied by a man and are in need of a girl to join them for an orgy or party. But there are few others who come on their own seeking girls to service them. There are far and part, and the repeat ones very well known. At the peak of the Nyambura Mwanaume legend, girls were usually divided as to whether it was preferable to have a man over a woman as a client. This made me long to be picked by a woman, at least so that I could gauge 'attractiveness' of clients based on gender. Also I was tired of being silenced during the man woman arguments with such statements as " What are you talking about? You have never 'gone' with a woman, so shut up!"

I had to live with the reprimand until slightly after a year on the Street, when I met Agnes, my first and only female client. This is a story I have been reluctant to write about perhaps because I wanted to believe it was something special, the thing that remains covered as I undress and show my nakedness through my writing. But it was non other than Agnes who told me there was nothing special about it.

Towards the end of April I received an email. Nothing exceptional because I receive tens of emails every day. However this particular one had as its subject a unique nickname I rarely use. Well, it turned out to be Agnes. She is the only one of my present and former clients to know I am the author of this blog. I didn't deny it. Two or three emails later, some mind jogging and nostalgia, she encouraged me to write about whatever our affair was.

On the day I met Agnes a Honda passed along the Street, slowed down and then zoomed off . A few minutes later the same car came, slowed down and zoomed off . This usually happens when a potential customer is not sure who to pick or is a first timer and jittery.  But by the time the car passes a second time we are alert and if it slows down we rush to it. The Honda came a third a time and stopped. Three of us surrounded it calling out "honey" like we usually do. Then we realized it was a woman at the wheel and we fell silent...


(Continued from Monday…)

She raised her hands slightly from the steering wheel as if in amazement. We looked at her, and then Gracie, one of the newer girls, burst out laughing walking away. We girls know each others strengths. Thus if a man comes and says he wants a girl who will agree to anal sex we know who to call. Same for a man who may want a girl with whom to participate in group sex, or something out of the ordinary. However there are no girls I know of who specialize in women. The woman waved her hand at me. I got inside the car and we drove off. For a few minutes we said nothing to each other and I stole glances at her.  She looked in her late twenties and was prettier than me.


“Why were you surprised?" she asked at last. She spoke Swahili. I said I wasn’t. “Have you ever had a woman client?" "No". What do you expect?" I said nothing.

We drove to a house in secluded compound along Juja Road. She held my hand and led me inside. “Why did that girl laugh?" she asked. “I don't know"

“What if I told you I am a researcher only interested in asking you some few questions, and paying for it, how would you feel? ..."

:Okay”. She was getting to my nerves

“Do you speak English?"

“When I want to"

She removed a bottle of a spirit without a lable from a fridge, and poured some in glass, which she placed in front of me. Then her questions started; “How long have you been a prostitute? Why did you become a prostitute? What are the risks you face? Has a man ever refused to pay you? Has a client ever beaten you? What do you think the government should do about the likes of you? Do you plan to quit?”

Such questions are rhetorical and depending on who is asking, easy to answer with the obvious replies. That's what I did. But that is as far as the questions got, the next thing I knew she was next to me, within minutes we were naked, doing awkward things with her giving instructions. That became the trend. We would meet once or twice a week. She insisted on picking me from the street rather I going directly to her house.

The girls on the Street too need someone they can confide or candidly talk to. Talking helps ease the tensions that build up from varied experiences, pressure from family and society at large. It’s through talking that girls look for support in justifying any wrong decisions they may have made. Generally there is never an appropriate person to talk to. Colleagues are full of their own issues to listen with more than passing interest, while clients have a low opinion of us, and few want to be involved beyond sex. But I started talking and confiding to Agnes, something I had never done with anyone else. Many times I asked for her opinion and ‘guidance’.

The talking erased the prostitute - client relationship. She made it look like we were friends. Sometimes she refused to pay me the full amount agreed; sometimes she delayed the money for a week. But I still sucked to her, and she knew it. I was be available anytime she called me. At times when drunk she called me names, and reminded me I was a prostitute, only for her to apologize when sober. Despite all this I somehow liked her, maybe because she was the only person I could freely talk to about my work, and the many complexities that came with it.

Slowly I realized she now ‘owned’ me. She would call so many times during the day just to ask where I was. She wanted me to reserve all the weekends for her. This affected my income, but I still did it. Occasionally while in her house she told to me to 'assist' with house  work as she handled some other 'business'. I washed the clothes and cleaned the house. I never came to know exactly what she did for a living.

To cut a long story short, one late evening she took me out to a club in Parklands. As usual while drinking I did most of the talking. All she did was listen in a bossy way that implied her opinion was ultimate. As I got tipsy my predatory and street instincts sharpened. Across the table from was a man who kept stealing glances at me. He winked and I excused myself and walked towards him without hesitation. As I sat down I realized Agnes had followed me. She was blazing. She looked at the man and shouted something about messing with her daughter or sister. She pulled me out of the club. We didn’t talk until we were in house. “Aren’t you ashamed of talking to a man when with me?” she asked. I could not take it anymore. We ended up in a physical fight, which I dominated.

I walked out of the house, and that was the last time I heard of her until that week in April when she sent me an email. Of course she called and tried to apologize but I never went back. Immediately after I went into one of my trademark lows (Someone suggests its depression). I still don't know what to make of her or women clients in general.


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-You can get my ebook which includes an introduction cum update of my brand building, Episode 1-30 and selected comments. Just click on E-books above

-I receive a lot of questions on many issues either through the comments here, Facebook, Twitter or email. So as to be able to answer as many of them as possible I have added an Ask page. You can ask the questions anonymously or otherwise. Just click on the Ask Sue page above. My answers, clarifications and comments will appear on the same page possibly daily. For private questions or enquiries just drop me a message via email, Facebook or Twitter.


-Follow: Twitter: @suenairobi
            Facebook: Sue Maisha

Episode 30: In My Clients' Shoes

A day or so ago someone sent me an email wondering how I could get tired in my line of work. This was after I mentioned in my last post that I was planning to take a break. The author of the email assumed that since mine is the business of pleasure, there was no fatigue associated with it. That, however, would be taking so many things for granted.  I will not go to the physical exhaustion that comes with running up and down the streets, too much drink, lack of sleep and such. Though I am experiencing a bit of that, it’s not exactly what I was talking about. I meant what, for lack of a better word, I will call boredom. Some sort of unexplainable low spirits, slackness, and a lack of enthusiasm has engulfed me. I have become a robot like person doing things for the sake of it, without any attachment, emotional or otherwise.

I have been experiencing this for the last ten days or so. The ennui has been building up slowly but since it’s not the first time I have experienced it , I am aware of the telltale signs. It starts with me becoming careless with my clients. Not making any effort to negotiate better prices or, like I usually do, trying to go the extra mile for their pleasure. Then I become edgy with my colleagues and generally with everyone. Most of the times all I want is sleep all day and night, skipping work. Previously when the weariness set in, I drunk and read a lot. But in the last few days none of that has been happening. I have been sleeping all day, wanting to be alone, and smoking countless cigarettes. I have been to the streets a few times, but being dull and slow, the days haven't been very fruitful. As regards this blog, I have been slow in replying to emails, messages on Facebook or even updating Twitter. Though I can partially blame it on the absence of a computer, the real reason is I am too gray to leave the house and spend an hour or two in a cyber cafe. (But as always, I will reply to each of the messages soonest I can. )

The good thing is that the boredom does not occur often, and only a few times has it lasted more than two weeks. In the past when the dullness did not wear out naturally, I overcame by taking a proper break out of town; sometimes going to my parents’ home in the village, or in better days retreating to a quiet Christian run guesthouse in Kericho. Because of some complications neither of that will happen this time round. 

So last weekend I decided to be a little innovative in trying to kill the lifelessness and breathe new life into myself. I had made some little money on Friday. Come Saturday night I went to a club in Buruburu. I sat alone next to the counter, drinking cold beer and listening to some lousy music. Around eleven in the night, and when slightly tipsy, I approached a man who looked in his mid twenties, and who was sipping beer not very far from where I was seated. I whispered, offering to pay him a small amount to have sex with me. He was a bit shocked but recovered quickly. I hadn’t expected him to say no. After a few more drinks I booked a room.

The man was not a good lover; he was not as adventurous and energetic as I would have wanted. He didn’t help me get the renewal which comes with having sex with a man who doesn’t know I am a prostitute. Perhaps it was the first time a woman had offered to pay him for sex and thus may have been anxious. Whatever the reason, he was a disappointment and a waste of money. Sunday morning I was twice as bored. I am still jaded.

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