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
           Facebook: Sue Maisha

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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Episode 29: The Street Badges

Like other industries ours too has best practices. One of these involves how we sell ourselves to clients. Best practices demand a girl sells herself by focusing on her personal strengths rather by pinpointing the weaknesses of a colleague. A girl should not act like politicians who win by degrading and mudslinging opponents. Though there is no definite punishment for going against the best practices, doing so comes with consequences.

Two or so weeks ago a white man came driving some not so good looking car, but girls here think white is gold, it matters little how the white is packaged. So three other girls and I crowded the car. Among them was Mariam; a woman who somehow seems out of place on the street. She is relatively older and acts rather mature. Mariam is one of those considered pillars of the street; she is polite and careful with her words. She dishes these random pieces of advice to girls. And among all of us, she seems the most focused and organized. Mariam is very pretty, but has a problem speaking proper English. However considering the nature of our business, that has never been a handicap, actually in some circumstances it is a plus.

The white man seemed interested in Mariam, who was on the driver’s side. She was speaking in her smooth Swahili and the man was enjoying; like most of the white men who come here, he had an odd looking, never ending sheepish smile. Then I did something girls don’t do. I competed by bringing Mariam down. I was broke and had partaken some strong drink. I didn’t care for best practices. “She is fat" I shouted, as if being fat was a bad thing. The white man looked at me, more in surprise than appreciation. Miriam is not necessarily fat, bet she has the right amount of weight. And even if she was, there are men who want such ladies. I said it in bad taste. Miriam forgot about the white man, and came blazing to where I was.  Within minutes I was on the ground, there was no way I could fight her. She beat me almost senseless. The girls didn't try separate us, perhaps they thought I deserved it.

I was out for some few days. When I went back, head down in shame, I apologized to her, blaming it on alcohol. And as the rule in such situations, I topped my apologies with some small monetary compensation. We are now in good terms, but I have a small scar on the back of my shoulder; a badge of shame.

I have another badge. When I first came to Koinange Street, I tried to be the people’s person. Trying to be nice and polite to every of the girls. It didn't take me long to realize that was of no use in a very individualistic and competitive environment. In the eyes of the other girls I looked stupid. And yes, I saw the looks when a man picked me and later heard their scathing remarks. Who did I think I was to go round being nice to everyone?

I shed the Miss Good image, and became more acceptable. I could gossip and take sides in arguments rather than be the girl in the middle who giggles sheepishly. Most importantly I could hate. Whether my feelings of hatred were real or not mattered little; the important thing was that in my eyes and those of the other girls I was becoming street worthy. Yet I didn’t have what is unofficially perceived as the street badge of honor.

There is no girl on the street, however good, who is loved by all the rest. Everyone has an 'enemy', and as they say in those hip hop songs, having an enemy is a sign of success; something to be proud of.  I knew there were girls who disliked me and openly called them enemies, though I never actually considered them as such. Yet in moments of extreme pressure and competition say as a result of poor business or strong drink I became a little eccentric and  took the fight to my  so called 'enemies' . At such times a slight excuse was reason enough to pick an oral fight with the 'enemies'.

However oral fights can only last as long. The main victim of my insults was a short, stocky girl called Caro. My issues with her started when I was told, by another girl, that she was going around saying I was a cheap prostitute who had been practicing at the Sabina Joy but now  had the guts to go snatching men from the street. Thinking of it now, there was some truth in her statement. But I was not to take it lying down. I confronted her, and that was the start of months of exchanging words.

One evening I was drunk and as she passed near where I was standing, I said “Seems today men have rejected you" or something to that effect. As tradition I expected her to insult me back. But that time round she looked at me for a second then slapped me with her thick hand. A slap begets a slap. I slapped her back. In a few minutes we were rolling on the ground. She was stronger and heavier than me. I was drunk and my punches weak. She beat me proper before we were separated. I still have a scar on the neck from that fight. Though I was beaten I consider it my street badge of honor.

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Things here and there in my life. Somehow I can't think straight. I will do one more post this week before taking a short break out of this town.

I was interviewed on Aljazeera sometime last week. You can listen to it here
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Episode 28: Sue - More Than Just Sex

Competition in our industry has become very stiff. The competition has been driven by an oversupply of the services we offer. This is not necessarily because more girls are joining the trade but more as a result of having a few of the trade's stabilizing dynamics disrupted. A key variable in our industry is time. The fact that there are girls who only operate during the day, and others during the night makes sure there are only enough of us at any particular moment. With the introduction of the alcohol law which requires bars to be opened at 5pm during weekdays and 2pm on weekends, the timing has been messed up with. There are tens of girls who used to operate from different bars in the city during the day. Now they have to reschedule their work hours, burdening the night.

Distribution has also been upset. This has to do with spread of the girls in different parts of the city. When a den is permanently closed it affects distribution because girls move to other open venues, which might be in a different side of town. The area around Luthuli Avenue and River Road has served a crucial role in balancing the downtown and uptown Nairobi prostitutes allotment. But in the last few months misfortunes have been hitting that area. It started with the closing down of Eden which I hear has been turned to a shopping complex by the new money in town, then Good Hope burnt down. Some hardened girl who changed base to the street the other day, told me Safaricom House was closed a week or so ago. This is not the one along Waiyaki Way but the alias of a lodging cum brothel along Luthuli Avenue.

There are now more girls coming to the Koinange side of town. Most are not newbie but toughies shifting base .The immediate effect has been to exert a downward pressure on price. But what I find to be a more grave consequence of the influx (never mind that’s where I started) is the loss of what was left of the Koinange panache: the impression that we girls on the street are cleaner, more decent, open minded and sophisticated than the girls downtown; but still with the prostitute feel which most of the girls in up market brothels have lost. Pretence is a crucial part of our business on the street. Pretending to have swag even when in real sense its non existent. The faking commands better prices and helps protect the image of the street. The toughies from downtown are brutal in their dealings, dressing, talk and negotiations making nonsense of the economies of location.

On the other hand there are some few fresh girls who have joined us. These are the extremes of the downtown girls. They have so much style, its intimidating. Whereas the rest of us still call men honey, sweetie and babe, the new girls are using words normally using new pet names of Pretty, Sweetness and the likes. Words common everywhere, but the street. Two of them, suave and young sell themselves as a package, so that a man cannot pick one and leave the other. And that at a discounted price. I feel such girls should not be along Koinange, but some lane in Westlands, Parklands, Kileleshwa or some other such place. That is a hint of the tension that is starting to build here. There are those of us who feel we own the street, and we ought to chase all these new comers and reclaim our fast fading glory.

I have to admit that I have not been very innovative when it comes to selling myself. I just parade, smile, mention a word here or there and hope a man will pick. More or less it worked. Nowadays though, the magic seems to have gone. As concerns my marketing efforts starting this blog is the most innovative thing I have done. And though I have generated business from it, I have to confess its always awkward, uneasy and a little complex for both the man and me. Bet it’s because I feel such men know so much about me that I don’t fully relax. The men for a reason or another don't seem at ease. Though I didn’t want my brand just to be only about sex for cash, I have to overcome those shortcoming and reservations; be easy and make my readers at ease as to enjoy sessions with me. (I will write more about this when I do a post reviewing my brand building efforts in the last four months.)

Meanwhile I have to be innovative on the street. I toyed with the idea of role playing dressing. You know I dress like a nurse or policewoman. The nurse seems exciting and I will see what to do about it. The other idea is to offer a package; something more than sex. For instance sex and talk. Where sex is accompanied by a tell it all session. Previously I have smoothly been able to make men talk about their work, fear, hopes, and problems. While men may not take my suggestions I note they feel good when I listen and seem genuinely interested in their lives. But the short time between a car stopping and a man picking me is not enough to let a man know that I will offer sex and a listening ear. I am thinking of printing business cards with my number, email, website and catchy slogan of what I offer. Sue: More Than Just Sex or Sue: The listening pleasure...something in those lines..

A major marketing hitch in my kind of business is that word of mouth doesn’t seem to work. I have never slept with a man who has been referred to me by another man. I suspect some men don’t want to be known they sleep with prostitutes, which is okay, while others want to spare the marvelous prostitute for them.
Getting repeat customers can also be problematic. Not long ago after a very good session with a man, I said to him."Will you come back to me ?"

"Why should I? he asked.

"I thought you enjoyed"

"I did, but I don't visit a prostitute twice."

I smiled. But it hurt.



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Episode 27: No Dim Candle Lit Room

Many men are attracted to picking girls from the streets because of the freedom to choose where to have sex with them. For unlike girls in downtown bars and brothels who insist on having sex in-house; in stuffy rooms and tattered mattress, the girls on the streets are more risk inclined as to go where a man wishes. Not that we have much choice. When I get inside a car I usually have no idea where a man will take me. It may sound stupid, but it’s a foolishness I charge a premium price for. A man may consider such factors as cost, privacy and convenience in determining the destination.

Men don’t say where they are taking me until I ask. Their assumption maybe that a girl on the street is ready to go anywhere. Perhaps they also fear a girl may change here mind if told of the destination. True there are places a girl would be uncomfortable going to. For instance near a neighborhood where she stole from a client. Also in a hotel where she was short changed, created a scene and embarrassed the hotel. There are also men who love going to a prostitute’s house. This perhaps is driven by the image of prostitutes in movies; husky voiced, cigarette smoking women, living in dim candle lit rooms, with some erotica hanging on the wall next to the bed. The truth is girls here don't live that way.

Most of the girls downtown live in congested neighborhoods which are slightly above the state of slums. If you asked a girl at the Sabina Joy where she comes from the answer would be Kayole, Githurai, Huruma, Mwiki, Mathare North or Mlango Kubwa. If not that it would be a place like Gachie or Wangige. Few girls if any admit coming from the slums. To some extent it’s an ego thing, and to another it’s about what such a discovery may do to business; what with the stereotype of prostitutes and slum residents as thieves. A prostitute from the slums will not only be assumed to be dirty but also exhibiting the worst of prostitutes’ treachery.

Here on the street the opposite happens. Few girls admit to living in the estates where the downtown brothels girls live. Doing so would snatch the slight decency expected of girls on the streets. However in actual sense there are  some of my colleagues here  who live in such estates, even in slums. Though such low income places may offer convenience in terms of cost, they are a big inconvenience when it comes to the logistics of business. Life in such areas is characterized by arbitrarily police round ups, what is called msako. Woe unto you if you are caught in the msako when leaving for work. Besides the msako there is always a  high possibility of bumping into policemen on patrol. Police in such areas have a superiority complex which tries to exploit on the perceived inferiority of the residents. They are certain to arrest or harass you for no good reason. Thus if you live there you might be forced to leave home before dark for work. And if you work here on  the street where business doesn’t pick up till after eleven, there is just too much time to kill, time which could have better been spent sleeping.

A brighter move, and which many of us have adapted is to live, as we put it, near the money. Thus we pick relatively decent places, slightly expensive but with some comfort and peace of mind. After all, if you have to spend the night in cold, chasing cars and shouting honey then you need to enjoy the fruits of your labor in calm. So you will find a number of girls living in Pangani, Westlands, Buru Buru, Kariobangi South and Kiambu town. At times two or three girls will come together and rent a two or one bedroom house in an up market place.

I live in a bed-sitter in Pangani. It takes about twenty minutes or so to get to town, and I can leave or get in the house at anytime. I guess none of my eleven neighbors knows what I do for a living. Although the watchman may have a clue because of my odd hours ,he doesn’t ask any questions. I like it that way, having to live without announcing to everyone what I do for a living. I love the beauty of living alone. The joy of those moments when I stagger home towards daylight and crash on the bed, or those times when I am seated on the floor of the toilet vomiting as a result pf a bad hangover. No matter how the night has been, I usually find solace in my house. It is a special place, sacred in its own way. And for that reason I made a rule to preserve it only for myself . But rules get broken.

The duration between 3.45am and 5am in the morning is one of desperation. If a man hasn’t picked you by the time, then some despair sets in. That does not mean a girl cannot be picked within those hours, she can, but the quality of men who visit the street at that hour is not the best. Most have been partying all night long, are drunk, demanding and hard to negotiate with. The sober ones are likely to be with emotional problems and rather unpredictable. If there be a serial killer hour, then that is.

Sometime ago a man picked me in his car a few minutes after four. He was in a suit, good looking and sober. He told me he was from outside Nairobi. He was on a business trip but booked  in a hotel with his family . He said he only had a thousand on him, not enough to book a room and pay me. Could we go to my house and at the end of it give me the whole amount? he posed. I didn’t think of it twice. I was financially cornered. I said yes, reasoning one man would make no difference.

We had a twenty minutes session. Dressed up he said he couldn’t find the money in his pockets, and then pulled one of he oldest tricks in the book. “I left the money in my car" he said. I followed him to the car which was parked outside the gate. I stood a short distance away. I watched him bend over as if looking for the money under his seat. Then all at once the engine started, and he was gone before I knew it. I wanted to shout thief and have him stopped before he accessed the main road. But I held my breath. Even if he was stopped someone would ask:" What has he stolen?"

Never again have I serviced a customer in my house. And never will I..