A wild trip to Karen to meet Kenya’s Nyamu 

For some reason, every girl from Nyeri is called Njeri. I mean, at least every other Njeri I know is from Nyeri. There is Karen Njeri Nyamu.

Now, Nyamu in dholuo translates close enough to the English word “chew”. I swear I’m not making this up. I don’t know if that is the same in Kenya. All I know is that Senator Nyamu is such an item that even politicians with seasoned brittle stubs of beard that defy aftershave spend hours talking about her.
As a man who has heard about DNA, I naturally think about Nyamu. A lot. 

Wambui is a Kenyan buddy on Congolese rumba WhatsApp group. She speaks Lingala better than Mobutu’s grandchildren. 
The other day Wambui claimed to be close to Nyamu – was with her at Limuru Girls and even went ahead to entice me about how they made a mess in a kitchen leading to suspensions. 

I just went with the flow when Wambui suggested I join her on her next call on Nyamu. You should have seen how fast I applied for a loan from the Sacco. My height phobia literally flew out the of Entebbe airport upon my check-in. 

I only secured enough for a return air ticket so I convinced myself that Wambui, Karuiki, Kimani and Nyamai would put me in their boys quarter for just two nights.
I told a taxi to take me to Karen Nyamu’s place. Now, Nyamu is supposed to be famous enough for everyone in Nairobi to know her. This taxi guy was obviously a human being so he would know her.

When the taxi man who had annoyed me throughout by singing praises of Museveni’s armoured mobile toilet parked somewhere and asked for the particulars of the house, I was lost. All I know is that we were in a glitzy hood with exotic mansions.
‘Muganda wange, ni hapa,” he declared.

I speak the Ugandan Swahili which is baked to comprehend 1 percent of the DNA of the Kenyan Swahili so I clicked his message. We had arrived.
“Where is the house?” I probed.

“Muzukulu ya Museveni, house gani tena? This is Karen.”
I quickly reached my WhatsApp to find Wambui. She asked me to spell out a landmark the same way Umeme guys ask when you report power cut.
“Oh man, you are in Karen, the suburb,” she said with many laughter emoji.

It is only then that I remembered reading about the Kololo of Kenya called Karen and that the crush I was here to see was just named after a hood. Or the hood was named after her, which would make sense anyway.
“Give my number to the taxi and ask him to call, then I direct him,” Wambui said.

Soon we were making a push for Langata. Where I live in Bugembe is like a kennel for Wambui. She had a pad and a half. The half was servants’ quarter that was still good enough to be a modest lodge that in Kireka passes for a “three-star hotel”.

I was in luck, Wambui said. I smiled, my attention on the servants’ quarter that I was in luck to use for two days of my crush-sightseeing. But that wasn’t what she meant.

“Karen… oh, I mean, the senator not the leafy suburb, will be out tonight and I’ll introduce you as my Ugandan bestie, the rest is up to you,” she said.

Nyamu was in her best mood. She said she reads my articles and that I was shy but as dapper as a positive DNA test result. She asked the DJ to play a special song. It was Bob Marley’s One Love.

“Let’s dance,” she urged.
Now a dance is the vertical expression of horizontal desires but I told myself I was thinking too far ahead of my DNA. Wambui nudged me to get on with it. I hesitated and there was a firmer nudging bordering on the shove.

“Your phone, the alarm,” the voice said. 
I jumped out of bed and the One Love was coming from phone. It was my wife nudging me. 
I dismissed the alarm and quickly checked for WhatsApp records. No Wambui saved in.

Disclaimer: This is a parody column