My laptop got stuck with a Shylock along Ronald Ngala Street some months ago. I was in the thick of things. Tough times, those. So I went for a while without a laptop and I felt like the world was crashing. It’s like I had lost a kidney. I wondered how the universe could be so unfair, so aloof. How the whole world could carry on as if nothing had happened. I hated everyone who showed off their skinny Macs in those swanky restaurants and ritzy hotel lobbies.

I had secretly christened my laptop Amina {with no thoughts of the foreign affairs CS}. It was an HP core I 5, smooth and curvy, with a wide face. It was a gorgeous black beauty. It had no mood swings, no coded language. It never acted up. I had bought it from a friend last year in a three month installment. That was the best thing I had done that year. The best way I’d spent 30k in a long time.

Then it went with the wind, so to speak. It went with everything in it and a knapsack to shield it from dust. Because I was sure of recovering it as I’d just gotten this job with a certain magazine. Wrong judgment. No pay ever came through. So I lost it. I mourned it. I mourned it because it hurt. I could lie in bed many a night and toss for half the night. It had gone with my e-books and a top drawer rhumba collection. It had gone with my movies and my old school soul music. {Is that alliteration right there?}. It had gone with my half-written articles and some carefully crafted documents.

Like a forlorn lover reeling from a broken relationship, I succumbed to a rebound. I got another laptop, a pink laptop. I’m actually writing from a freaking pink laptop! My only vindication is that I’m not the one who bought it. It’s brand new. Straight outta London. A HP Pentium. She’s a beautiful, beautiful girl. She’s got this smooth keyboard with black buttons that kiss the fingers. You want to type on and on. She is inviting, like a woman who’s just come from the shower and has wrapped a kikoi just above her orange like boobs. The kikoi ends an inch or two above her knees. She has no knicker on so her ass is shimmering as she sashays through the corridor to her bedroom. No sandals. And her skin is rich and her lips supple and her dark flowing hair is moist.

The outline of the screen is black. The battery charges fast and retains the charge for long. At no point is she ever far from me. We’re tight like that. No man can put asunder.

The only down side to this relationship is the undue attention she begets me. I’m the kind of guy who’s averse to attention. I like lurking in the shadows. Watching. Observing. Lime light isn’t my cuppa. I’m camera shy. I wonder how TV guys withstand all the madness that comes with a public life. TV guys and our pathetic socialites. If there is such a thing as an afterlife, I would come back as a bat. Dark and ugly and furtive. Because I’m a hot thing with great legs in this life, and yet nature has a way of balancing things out, I’ll come back miserably ugly and surreptitious.

So I’ve gotten to be known as the guy with a pink laptop. It sucks!

At times I could be shuffling around the campus, {I teach in one of them middle class private schools where students are treated to pizza at tea time and picked by Porsches in the evening. Some have genuine exotic accents, some have flown to many countries than their age, some are smart and articulate than we were at their age} say moving from the office to the ICT room, you know, just minding my shit, and I’m caring this laptop and a group of girls huddled in the hallway will go like “…aaaaww, such a cute laptop, sir. Is it yours?”

And I’ll be at pains to explain that it’s mine because I came with it, but, also it is not mine because it belongs to someone else whose father bought it.

The boys say nothing concerning it. We talk of everything under these pregnant Nairobi clouds but my laptop. I think they silently wonder whether I’m normal – if you get my drift. Perhaps they feel I’m such a letdown. Maybe some have vowed never to be my friends. They will go round name dropping when I’ll be a star writer, a lofty guy, you just wait.

This evening I’d gone to pick some document at the accounts office and the petite Asian lady there retorted sarcastically; {insert a distant Indian accent} “Is that pink laptop I saw you with yours?

I offered a terse “yes” Peppered with a smirk, for good measure..

“You should throw it away, in this dustbin, {points at the dustbin besides her desk} so that I can pick it.”

I ‘nkted’ told her to go to hell. Then we both bust into a raucous laughter and bopped our fists. I then decided to go pee and, while holding my member, ponder over the direction my life is quickly taking.

What is making this whole pinky situation even more dramatic is the fact that, this being ‘movember’, like the rest of the menfolk, I decided to keep my beards. Suffice it to say I’ve been a little scruffy this month. And though it is uncharacteristic of me, a part of me seems to love it! I’ve found it odd wearing both my beards and my tie. So I decided to forgo one – the tie. Yet there is this covert policy at work to wear ties. Well, I did well in the first weeks. But it’s getting harder each passing day. And it has been particularly worse this month. Besides, I only have what? Two ties in that damn closet? I’m just not a tie guy. Ties and suits ain’t my thing, man. I think it takes exceptional will power to be a banker or an insurance guy or a news caster or any of those trades that demands a strict dress code. There is this high school pal of mine, a lawyer, who can faithfully rock his suit till even 11pm when he checks back in. You will meet him at say 10.30 pm, when you’ve just started frying your beef and realized that you stock of pepper ran out the previous night and you’ve dashed out for a restock at mama Kiarie’s grocery store, and the guy is in this Grey suit that has been buttoned almost to the collar with a stack of files weighing him down. Shit! At 10:30! But what really pisses me off about suit guys is those who have no taste for pocket squares. Just imagine meeting a guy, probably from Kisii, with an orange pocket square – the size of a napkin – on a blue suit. If that doesn’t make you demand for a revolution, I don’t know what will.

Anyway.

So imagine a bearded guy swaggering around the campus, carrying a pink laptop. You might expect him to be in tight pants, but he is not! And he is not girly. Doesn’t use such expressions as aaaawwww or wooiye, or any of those pretentious uptown girl stuff. Doesn’t watch soap operas. Doesn’t sing to Celine Dione’s songs loudly, just hums. And he likes girls. He doesn’t giggle. He doesn’t tell fellow men that he missed them. Doesn’t carry hand bags for ladies. Has no piercing. He is a hairy Maragoli man with a baritone.men-suit

Advertisements