THE SPONSOR

They were on a flight back from Dubai,20,000 feet above sea level. The plane was gliding smoothly over the clouds. The silent hum of jet engines lulling her to sleep. It sang in her ears, that hum.

 He shook her awake. She had had too much wine and dozed off on his shoulder. As she stuttered awake, he called her by name.

“Sylvia* this is over.”

She knew what he meant. She looked into his eyes for any sign of emotion but there was none. She’d never seen any feeling in those eyes. Always cold and unforgiving as the eyes of a serpent. She gazed at him for some moments but he remained resolute. Not a flicker of remorse in his burning gaze.

Then it hit her, like an industrial accident. Like Chernobyl recreated. There was no saving, no need to fast over it. So she acted strong, like the girl she says she is and smiled back at him.

“If you say so, I’ve had a good time.”

They were crossing over the red sea. In her brains, it seemed like God was playing poker on her. The spot where Moses had allegedly parted the sea and Israelites had walked on dry land was now the place her SPONSOR was ending their almost six-month-long relationship.

“ Six months? “ I ask. Do people stay with sponsors this long? I can’t survive a two-weeks. 

It had been a wild ride. Breathtaking and exhilarating. Mostly, it was tattooed by wild sex and spotted with partying and traveling. Now, flying above the lengthening shadows of pyramids, amidst ghosts of fallen pharaohs, it was fizzling to the end. Life on the fast lane was blowing away. And it did, without a spark.

Her head fell back to his shoulder and she dozed off again. She came to when he nudged her awake. They were approaching JKIA, it was thick blackness, the capital at night. I could have said Nairobi was sleeping but Nairobi never sleeps. Not even a wink. Below, Nairobi glittered like a lost medieval city. A place of sages and scholars, of beauty and wanton debauchery.

They walked together to immigration but she could feel the curtain of coldness between them. A chasm of ice was already forming.

When they were finally done with the technicalities, his driver waiting, he mpesad her 20k. Told her to get an uber to take her back to the hostels and disappear out of his life. If she tried to be cheeky, he would kill her.

Without as much as a goodbye, he jumped into the waiting black Lexus X570. The monster of a car roared into the icy night and sped away. As if he’d just robbed a bank.

“I stood there shocked for a bit. Like this is what happens when you deal with a sponsor. But then, I had known what I was getting myself into. So, I hailed an Uber which took me back to the hostels where I stayed. Back to my old boring life. Back to books. Back to horny campus boys.”

She says this with a distant look in her eyes. She is probably in that far away world, right now.

You have probably seen her if you are in university.  Chances are, she sometimes sits near you in class. You have a wild crush on her but she never pays attention. One time you asked for her number and what did she say?

“Get a life boy! Mimi si size yako.”

 These days you’re resigned to watching her come and leave. She comes to class whenever she feels like. Sometimes she goes away for weeks, only to resurface when there’s a CAT. You always ask herself, what might she be doing with her life? But then, its none of your business. So, you observe her perennial. The way you watch evening sunsets. Hoping to unlock their mystery but there are no answers residing in the yellowed horizons.

You stare at her ass and wonder who’s the guy taping that. Must be a lucky motherfucker. You stare at her boobs and feel a rabid boner coming at you. Your member pulsating like an angry serpent. She’s hot, she’s curvaceous. Surrounding her is a panache of unexplained mystery.

The chick, our protagonist(sic), had been working on a business proposal for some time now. All she needed was funding and her dream would come to life. But money doesn’t grow on trees. At least not in Kenya, maybe in the Andes.

 She was invited to a conference where investors would be nosing around, to fund the most promising business ideas. It was at this conference that she runs into him. A debonair, aging guy. Old enough to be her father but randy enough to capture attention. There was a magnetic pull to him, though he was already greying, his head a field of silver ash. They exchanged contacts.

Two weeks later, her phone buzzed. Let’s call him Mr. D, he was calling. They met at an upmarket joint somewhere in Westlands. They talked for lengths about her business and what she wanted in life. At some point in their conversation, the guy veered off track. Saying.

“Look here Sylvia*, no need for us to beat about the bush. I want you in a way which is more than business.”

That was it. At the end of the night, it was too late for her to get back to where she stayed alone, thus he drove her back. No, his driver drove them. They rode in silence at the back of his Lexus. The car smelling leathery, the woody smell of a car born old.

She educates me a bit on the young girl, old man relationships.

“There’s a fine line between a sponsor and a sugar daddy, in South Africa, they are called blessers.”

“Whoa, whoa, stop right there. Yaani, you mean a sponsor is not a sugar daddy?”

She nods her head, smiling. A bewitching smile I must say.

“Educate me.”

“A sugar daddy is nice and fatherly. And is not into it just for the sex, he actually wants to develop you as a person and see you grow. But a sponsor is in it just for the sex and your body. Sponsors are exploitative and all the money they offer you is geared towards the sex, nothing more. They could care less about your feelings. Mine was a sponsor.”

They met for a second time. The sponsor called and said the driver would be picking her up. They were headed for Mombasa. They spent a whole week in the coast, waddling around like horny ducks. They spent nights in hotels she only saw on Instagram. English point, Hemmingway’s and Sarova. The sponsor would have his way with her and her account would be credited with money, in thousands.

“In addition to the money, sex was freaking good. You may think that since they are aging, they can’t hit it well, but boy! Those guys have experience.”

Between a campus guy and a sponsor, who does it well. I ask.

“A sponsor certainly. Campus guys have their heads clouted with ego. They think that that they are vigorous and all that but sponsors are the real deal, he blew me away. Campus dudes lack a bit of roughness. Girls want it tough and rough. We don’t want to be pampered in bed. Hatutaki kuengwa engwa.”

This is the part I broke into a laugh and typed in my notes.

Campus chicks hawataki kuengwa engwa. They want it tough and rough.

She went on.

“Campus fellas hope for a second chance, praying that his CV remains good. A sponsor doesn’t give a shit. They will do whatever they want with you. They will force you to anal sex and you can’t say no. You will suck their shrinking muhogos.  It is their money calling the shots. A sponsor does all those things he can’t do with his wife.”

After your experiences with a sponsor, would you date a guy your age?

“Uhm...”, she hesitates.

Picking her voice from afar. Carefully selecting her words. That smile again.

“Guys my age are sweet and we can craft a really sweet romance story but then we aren’t headed anywhere really. We are both in search of money and campus guys are the most broke men on earth. There’s no need to be in a union where the sex is awful and again there’s no money. That’s double torture.”

We share a dicey laugh. And then I decide to rattle an unchartered territory.

“Si that technically makes you a prostitute. Trading your body for money.”

“No, I am not a prostitute. Whores remain stuck on Koinange street, sleeping with every Joe. Their lives never change, doing shags for five hundred bob. Prostitutes don’t fly out on business class to Dubai.”

“Aiii! Cut that technicality crap, the bottom line is that you’re selling your body. Only that you’ve limited yourself to specific customers.”

“People will think whatever they want to. But I am securing my future and that’s the most important thing for me.”

“You broke up with your sponsor, no he dumped you. To find another fresh chick most likely, another rich guy approached you, will you roll with the fella.”

“If he has money, certainly yes. Money is the crowning jewel of a sponsor. My previous guy funded my business, now I am developing a brand while still in first year. Where do you think I will be by the time I graduate?”

Are you not afraid of contracting diseases?

“I take care of myself really good.”

We talked at length about a whole load of stuff. Things I can’t publish because I might be assassinated. And at some point, she posed a question to me.

“Osoch, what’s your definition of beauty?”

I thought it was a trap and I was quickly looking for escape routes but then, what do I think of beauty?

Standards of beauty are universal. That talk of I don’t know beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder is pure nonsense. Those stories of how beauty is in the eyes or the tip of the nose are pure shit too. Beauty is beauty, there’s no way about it.

She said of how chicks are choosy when it comes to having sex. They won’t just bed any guy. Some look at how your nails are shaped. Some look at your head, if your kisogo is extending too much they will certainly say no. Others, height is the deal breaker. They can’t get it on with short guys.

As we parted ways, her to chase sponsors and yours truly to write, I felt sad for the short fans of this blog. God will guide you, gentlemen.

The art courtesy of David Uhl Studios