— Let’s get out of here.
Like a crash of thunder, out of the blue — clichés for a clichéd feeling, surprise. Until she said those words I wasn’t sure she was flirting with me.
— You’re in Nairobi to play, aren’t you?
I muttered that I guessed I was, and Leo, with a histrionic flourish to her actions, threw back her head and drained the last of the whiskey, slammed down the glass, swung her foot off the table, then leaned in close, so close that I saw the color of her eyes, gray flecked with green.
— Come on, big boy, she said. It’s Friday night. Let me show you Nairobi.
Nairobi is a city of cats, abandoned creatures, conceited, territorial, basking on rooftops in the pale sunlight, yowling defiance through the long cold nights, hunting, frolicking, spawning in the grass of private gardens and public parks: once upon a time the roaming grounds of lion prides, lone-ranger leopards, man-eaters, now taken over by cast-off pets.
Nairobi nights. Essence of the city. Distillate of dissipation.
The life force of Nairobi resides in pockets of the Central Business District — River Road, Kirinyaga Road — and on the outskirts in Ngara, in Gikomba market, and extends more or less eastward all the way to Eastlands. Grotty, untamed Nairobi — the ground marshy with discarded ugali meal and rotting strings of sukuma wiki, the air reeking of goat and pork nyama choma and writhing under the snarl of matatu engines and outdoor speakers blasting Swahili talk shows, Sheng hip-hop, English-language commercials.
Nairobi’s middle class, tourists, and NGO people steer clear of this part of town.
Leo took me to a tented restaurant cum live-band bar on the corner of Muindi Mbingu Street, a place called Simmers. It was an oasis of Congolese rumba and modish prostitutes right smack in the center of the office block-colonized CBD. As we walked in under the glare of halogen light and curious stares, she bumped me with her hip, hooked her arm through mine, and said:
— Welcome to Nairobi, drunks and lovers.
The rib of a young goat roasted to perfection and garnished with garden-fresh, zingy kachumbari, three glasses of Scotch whiskey, half of a reefer and a dozen sticks of Embassy Lights, two hours after arriving at Simmers, and the conversation with Leo began to flow. I became, I found, more appreciative of her wit, her acumen, less watchful with her, more confident of the nature of her attention. We talked about me, about my preoccupations, my impressions of Nairobi, and also about our two countries, our abused continent. Several times I fell silent in midsentence, surprised by the loudness of my voice. One of such times, while talking about an ex-lover whose image rose in my breast with the sharpness of heartburn, Leo said into the silence:
— You’re sweet. And that’s so fucking sexy.
Sometime after, during a lull in conversation, Leo gazed around, bobbed her head to the loud, percussive Lingala music, and then said:
— See that malaya, at the bar, the one wearing the orange kanga dress? Ja, don’t point. Check out her bum.
The girl was built like a wasp, hips for miles and a Barbie waist.
— I’ll invite her over.
Leo rose, pulled her denim jacket tighter around her shoulders, and weaved through the crowd of drinking, smoking, sweating dancers, headed for the bar. I watched as she drew up beside the girl, touched her elbow, bussed cheeks in greeting, and began speaking with her. When she turned to point out our table, I looked away.
— Haai.
Leo and the girl stood in front of the table. Leo rocked on her heels, her cheeks flushed with pink, her eyes darting between my face and some point over my head. The girl’s face wore a rigid, I-don’t-care expression.
— This is Agnes.
— Hi, Agnes, I said.
— Have a seat, Leo said, and pulled up a chair for her. What’s your drink?
— Tusker malt, Agnes said. She had sat down across from me, and she looked up over her shoulder as she answered Leo, craning her limber neck, her coral drop earrings swinging.
— One Tusker malt coming up. Anything for you, babes? No? Right-o. Back in a flash.
With Leo gone, Agnes turned her attention to her purse on the table, then to the dancers swirling around us, and finally to me.
— The mzungu says she’s your girlfriend.
I nodded yes, surprised.
— She seems older than you.
I shrugged. She was. Seven years older.
— Where did you meet her?
— Right here, Nairobi.
— You don’t sound Kenyan.
— I’m Nigerian.
— Ah, Nigeria, Agnes said, a wistful smile parting her bronze-glossed lips. I have a son for a Nigerian. Chinedu, that’s his name, my son. He’s six.
— And his father? Does he live in Kenya?
— No. He’s in Tanzania now. Doing business all the time, like a Kikuyu.
— Where are you from? Your ethnic group, I mean.
— I am Maasai. But my mother is Kikuyu.
Leo returned. She handed the beer to Agnes, then turned her chair around, straddled it, and folded her slim, blue-veined arms across the backrest. Her posture announced she was in control.
— I saw you two talking. How do you like Agnes so far?
— Very much, I said, and smiled at Agnes. She smiled back.
— I thought you would.
Something in Leo’s voice drew my gaze. Her face was turned to Agnes.
— He likes your arse. I guess that’s all that matters. I hope you’re cheap enough.
Agnes raised the beer bottle to her lips, watched Leo as she gulped. When she set down the bottle, it was empty. She picked up her purse and rose.
— Thanks for the beer. I’ll be at the bar when you’re ready.
The first time we quarreled I thought she would cry she was so angry, so full of feral energy. Afterward, when our breaths had calmed, as we shared a spliff in bed, our skins gummed with sweat, limbs entangled in exhaustion, I told her she fucked as she fought, like a cat.
— No, babes. I’m a dog, a real bitch in fact, she said.
We danced, Leo and I, swinging our hips to frenetic Soukous music — our breaths mingling, groins brushing, hands stiff with awkwardness, mine at least. At three-something Nigerian time (I hadn’t reset my watch) Leo settled the bill, and we walked out of Simmers, Leo with a prance, me weaving side to side to keep my world in balance. We approached a parked taxi and Leo bantered with the driver, their voices floating to me as though through a long tunnel. When they were done I pulled the car door open, climbed in after Leo, and my last memory of that night is of the gentle rocking of sea waves.
We fucked as the urge came, Leo and I. She was playful, experienced, generous in sex, her pale skin exotic, her soft hair strange; and she had a “natural mystic” that I found irresistible, bags of it stashed around her penthouse, and half-smoked fat ones burning in crystal ashtrays beside the bed, feeding the haze in which we drank whiskey punches, snacked on Pringles and pawpaw, petted Sankara, and fucked again.
Sankara was Leo’s cat, a gray-striped tom. He was still a kitten when she found him under a hedge in Nairobi, half-dead from starvation, abandoned by his mother. (When Leo was seven, her mother took her one summer day to Clovelly Beach in Cape Town, and while she played in the sand, her mother walked into the sea, never to return.)
I woke up to the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs. I was lying facedown on a settee, fully clothed except for my shoes, my cheek wet with drool, my head ringing like a kettledrum. When I got to my feet everything felt strange, the weight of gravity, my putty knees, the gnawing in my belly, the room I was standing in. Then Leo said from behind me: