Last night I was in Koinange Street working. By ‘working’ I mean I was doing sex work. I was having sex for money. Sex work is work and I am proud of it. The truth is that I double as a sex worker to supplement my meagre income and today was a normal day. It was around 11pm and I had just passed Holy Family Basilica and was heading to the General Post Office (GPO) when I heard a car screech on the road behind me hoot and blink its front lights at me. I was wearing a tight pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt and I had a touch of make up and to top it off, I put on some loop earrings. It was a pretty slow night and things seemed calm. Today, I thought, I would go home empty handed. So, here I am, there is this car hooting at me and I turn back. I looked and saw a grey Toyota and an old Caucasian man at the driver’s seat. He motioned me over with his hand and I walked towards where he had stopped the car.
I came to the driver’s seat and leaned over just so he can catch a whiff of my perfume, Calvin Klein’s Obsession. It was particularly strong and he noticed as he complemented me and said ‘I like your perfume. What is it? Obsession by Klein?’ Clearly, he knew his perfume(s). I answered yes and smiled. He looked at me and smiled back. He asked me my name and I told him I am ‘Blanche Devereaux.’ Now, sex workers have a name when they are at ‘work.’ We all have a fake name to protect our real identities and so mine was Blanche Devereaux after the famous character that the late Rue Mclanahan played in the Golden Girls. Blanche was a sassy, witty, bitchy and rabid nymphomaniac who changed men as much as she changed her pearly thongs. John. He told me he is called John Smith. I extended my arm and shook his. He had a cold firm and nervous grip. He had short, chubby and wrinkled fingers that swallowed mine in his grip.
He told me to get inside the passenger side where I obliged and he started the engine. He drove down Koinange Street and took the first corner to the Uhuru Highway roundabout. ‘So, what do you do?’ He asked. ‘Well, I am a student at Zetech College studying Mass Communications.’ So cliché! ‘And you?’ ‘Oh, I work as an expatriate with an agricultural firm. We target small scale farmers –yawn – access better planting materials and fertilisers.’ How nice. He then told me how he had just arrived from Kitale where he oversaw the distribution of seeds to some farmers who had experienced a bad season. We talked more about seeds and fertilizers – are you yawning – and I also told (we do not call it lying) to him that I was in my third year studying Mass Communications. He asked me where I live and I said Umoja and about my parents and just general stuff.
‘What is a young beautiful gorgeous young man like you doing so late at night?’ Well, he got to the point. That is good. Better to get things done and over with. I responded by asking him, ‘What do you want? A boy has got to eat, right?’ ‘Yes, sure does.’ ‘So, how much do you charge?’ I thought about it and I knew this was a trick question that most of my clients ask. ‘A blow job will cost you 2,000 KShs. Screwing me will cost you 10,000 KShs. And that 10K is if you have a condom. Without a condom will cost you double of that. If you want me to lick or rim you, then 7,000 KShs will do. And oh, by the way, these are hourly charges. If you want me to spend the night over then it will cost you 30,000 KShs.’ He looked at me and since I knew this routine, I expected him to recoil with shock but he casually said, ‘Okay.’ I was a bit surprised seeing he did not react. Most clients would either insult me or try to say to bargain or beat the living daylights out of me; but he was just there saying okay. Is this guy for real?
He told me he stays in Karen. Oh, beautiful memorable Karen! How you bring back memories!, I remember that Karen is where I began my porn acting career. Karen is like home to me. Maybe I will visit Hun and Elektra to say hey to them. Maybe. For now, its business. Sex work is work. He then drove up Ngong Road. At the City Mortuary round about he put on a CD on his car’s stereo and Luther Vandross came on crooning the night away with titles such as ‘Love is truly Amazing,’ ‘Dance with my Father.’ I increased the volume and hummed away. I felt this was going to be a good night.
Driving at almost 120 kilometres per hour, we soon arrived in Karen shopping centre just there at Nakumatt and we took a sharp right and up the road. A few minutes later we arrived at a stately white gate. He took out his keys and clicked on a gadget that sent the pearly gates to open. Electrical, I see. What gold and cash is he hiding in there to necessitate an electric door? Once we entered, I noticed that the lawn was well manicured and beautiful and there was a gazebo at the far end. The porch light was on and after getting out of the car, he invited me to enter his house. I knocked expecting someone to answer but he told me to just enter as it was not locked and that there was no one in. I entered and saw that indeed this fellow was filthy rich. The living room was covered in pure black leather. The seats were massive and covered the centre of the living room. The fireplace was exquisite with a touch of jungle and a pure glass chandelier completed the fire place. Hanging from wall to wall was a massive painting. I could see a Picasso, a Van Gogh and was that a Rembrandt over there?
He told me to sit and he would be right back. He climbed the stairs as I was left admiring and jaw dropping around the living room. A few minutes later he came back and went to the kitchen and told me to follow him. I woke up my clearly impressed bum and found him near the fridge with a glass of juice on one hand and a gun on the other. Yes, a bloody gun. He pointed that metal thing at my face and I swear I almost pissed on myself. What was going on? Why was he pointing a gun at me? He could see the fear in my eyes and he knew he had me. He told me to not try and run lest he kills me. Many thoughts ran my mind. Is this one of those stories you hear of sex workers being lured into houses and after being raped and sodomized shot in the head and they are no longer seen? I was afraid.
He then told me to stand near the stove and he started to tell me that he does not stay alone. He said he was married with a wife and though he is not gay, he just saw me on the streets and picked me up because he wanted me to meet his wife. What the f***? He just took me all this way here to meet his wife? This was weird. Unless you have Michelle Obama or Lucy Kibaki as a wife I do not want to meet her! But then I thought where the f*** is this wife of his that I am supposed to meet? He instinctively knew I was going to ask him this and he said that he just wanted me to meet his wife. But then I asked him if that was only it. I pleaded with him to let me go but he just said I meet his wife and then he will allow me to leave. I then said, call her. He looked at me and then moved to a freezer that was located near the fridge. He opened it and told me to come near. I was afraid by now. ‘Here she is’ pointing inside the freezer. Coming closer and craning my neck, I peeped into the freezer only to see the dead body of a woman staring at me. She was naked and stone cold. I passed out.
The greatest danger in times of turbulence is not the turbulence; it is to act with yesterday's logic.