NJAANUARY

It’s a Saturday morning and you’re coiled in the h-position you usually assume on most nights when you are alone. Some other nights you are lucky and you suffer a dead arm because society has taught the girl child that they must be cuddled even though cuddling is an unnatural act, like, let’s say, foot fetish. Speaking of which, I don’t get peoples obsession with feet. Do foot fetishists see toenails and feel a stirring in their loins? That most adult content sites have a category of people doing things with their feet is evidence that in the not so distant future there’ll be people who will only get off by being kneed in the crotch. I am not into feet. I can’t look people in the feet. I don’t even know what size the missus’ feet are, or if her toenails are pedicured. Or if she has toenails at all. I can’t even recall if the previous holders of that office- Office of The Girlfriend- had feet. But I digress.

I don’t understand why someone would want to sleep on another persons arms for seven hours. Are you obsessed with causing grievous bodily harm to your partner? Is that what you get off on? I know cuddling isn’t as comfortable or as loving because occasionally I tell the missus to spoon me. (What? The constitution demands equality and not more than two-thirds spooning time to be spent on one gender). She doesn’t even last two minutes, hehe. She laments that it’s uncomfortable despite my efforts to jut out my butt to meet her crotch (Wait, do women have crotches? Is it called a crotch?). Then we have to switch positions and I suffer a dead arm. I wonder if women are happy when they see us striking our arms in the air every morning to regain motor control. Or do they ask for forgiveness from the Lord for the sins they have committed knowingly?

Do not mistake me; I don’t mind holding a woman in my arms. I even like it. Especially the part where they put their heads on my thorax and explore my abdomen with their fingers. Man, I like that stuff. When the reserve of lipids I keep around my midsection (insurance in case of famine, starvation, war and general hard times) shift to the sides when I lie down, and I tighten my abdominal muscles and hold my breath, you can feel the six pack kwa umbaaali. I like it when a woman recognizes the sum total of 32 abdominal crunches I did last year. But things come to a head when they want to sleep on my arms.

You see, I’m not a man who has spent a lot of his waking hours undertaking bicep curls so, inevitably, my arms can’t withstand strain and stress for extended periods of time. Also, I’m not used to sharing beds. As a kid, I used to share a bed with my kid bro. Often, he would find himself under my chokehold and a myriad of other maneuvers from the WWE. Now, sometimes, the missus asks, ” Mbona unalala ivo,” when I assume my h-position.

The h- position is comfortable. You raise one leg in the humping position with your belly facing down. It’s comfortable and scientific. The raised leg protects you from squeezing your cahonas into sterility while also allowing aerodynamics to take over; airflow under your balls is fantastic while also preventing you from becoming too intimate with the mattress. You can actually fly in your dreams from this position. Anyway…

It’s Saturday morning. My phone rings. My phone never rings before 7.30am. It’s either switched off or in silent mode. I don’t buy that argument that there might be an emergency during my sleeping hours because I’m not a doctor, or a policeman, and neither do I own a car to rush someone somewhere. It’s a colleague from work calling. I must have forgotten to switch off the phone last night after I exploded with taste.

My friends think it is lack of masculinity but it doesn’t matter because I am no Moran to prove anything with my choice of nectar. I let it ring the first time but he calls again. I pick up and on the other end is a man hurling insults. Why people from this area think mentioning the nether regions of your family is a form of salutation is beyond me. He then asks me where I am. Of course I am in my house. “What are you doing?” He enquires. I don’t like it when men ask what I’m doing. Hell, I dont like when anyone asks what I’m doing. But because the Good Book beseechs us, brethren, to be kind and humble so I mutter, I was sleeping until you woke me up.” More expletives. He asks why I am sleeping and if I’m pregnant. It is then that I realize that he didn’t sleep and that he didn’t spend his night drinking water.

I assured him that I still contribute to the profits of contraceptive manufacturers and then promptly hang up. To check the time and if the missus had impregnated me. It was twenty seven minutes past six. Also because having a conversation with someone who has numbed his senses while you are sober is mostly annoying. Then changed the mode and attempted to resume my sleep. After about an hour of screen light, I gave up and picked up his nineteenth call. I never get these people who call you repeatedly. One missed call is good enough. Two at most. He tells me he’s at a certain watering hole and that I should join him. At 7 in the morning!

I haven’t even had breakfast yet. I didn’t have dinner either the previous night because I had late lunch, and Abduba Dida advised that we should only eat when we are hungry and I am not one to disregard a presidential candidate. I am famished so I am in a foul mood already which, coupled with my usual morning grumpiness, makes for a dour human being. Add January blues to the mix and you have yourself a very caustic elder. Ever noticed how there are fewer smiles in January? People who smile in January must be the same ones who come up with phrases like, Money can’t buy happiness.” I never get it. Money can buy food and nectar and these are things which make me happy.
Because I live not very far from the establishment from which he is irrigating his throat, he demands my presence in five minutes. The dry spell our wallets are experiencing this January is so dire that people in possession of legal tender feel entitled to our sleep and time. Niggas with money at this time are feeling so precious that they are even considering writing self-help books on personal finance. They want to hold classes for us on how to manage money. Have you ever been so broke that you begin regretting the 10 shilling change you didn’t take from the matatu because the conductor said he didn’t have coins? Or all the wealth that you’ve eroded on poisons and pursuit of women of compromised values? This is the time we reply “form ni gani?” texts with “pombe ni kuharibu pesa” unlike a few weeks ago when we would say round ya kwanza ni mimi.
It’s in January that we shift from those pishori rice that have an aroma so nice that when it wafts across your nose you experience gastronomic orgasms to those ones with so many stones that you have to carefully select the boulders with your tongue lest you poop a house foundation. Yes, those rice that smell of high school porridge and which despite put your best culinary skills forth, it always comes out like a cake. To serve, you slice it like a cake. January devaluates us from middle-class to minimum wage earners. It’s in this month that people claim red meat is unhealthy. You get so hard up that you start questioning if the Heavens are angry with you.


PS: Juniorelders.co.ke resumes regular posts every Friday starting next week

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