The Embassy Part I

It’s now nearly 2 am, and I’m in that type of mood yet again. Solange is blaring in the background, trying idly to muffle the sounds of idle sex that are drifting through the paper thin plaster of the wall. Again with such bullshit, the hangover resounding from yesterday and what a yesterday it was.

At times in Nairobi, one needs to give into their own idle sluttiness, to grasp onto the new glam party that floats their way and tuck in with both hands.

Such was the case yesterday: one pseudo accomplished journalisto shoulder budging his way into the posh old money brigade, but why not? There may be no such better plots to run towards during the drenched madness of the spring rainy season anyway.

This was o one such case: with my old friend Selma extending an illicit invitation into the Swedish embassy for a night of just a touch of emotional strangeness.

It was far beyond me to reject such notions, four months of dead ends and a desolate stretch towards a master’s degree that I was finding myself ever more indifferent towards.

I needed such a night: part time lies and full time fronts, a bluster of success smuggling his way into a high end Euro embassy by wearing a tweed jacket and horn-rim spectacles.

Just what I need.

The thought crossed idly across the view of my mind as the rains set in and I hopped onto the back of a boda, the driver obviously fucked up on khat since 9 am, the disapproval of my Midwestern ancestors rattling around my brain.

Free booze and loose lips.

What could be better beneath the shelter of white tarp tents in the fabulous lawns of the unreachable?

Such tangents kept shooting off the inside of my skull as a musty helmet hugged my earlobes, the driver narrowly avoiding certain death on some of Nairobi’s poshest roads.

We swerved a taxi on James Gichuru, the driver looking at us with a resigned and weary resentment.

Eventually and after much rude cursing and possible hatred emanating from the man operating the suspension-less motorbike, I arrived amid a torrent of rain outside of the embassy house in the deepest bowels of Muthaiga.

Askaris littered the outside, lists in hand, armed cops lingering just beyond them.

I made my way inside after a quick change into my disguise for the evening, with all lies set: it was now time to mingle; and fuck it all I was the first person there.

Damn my idle thought process and bottom-of-the-heart loathing of the infamous Nairobi jam. Now it would be harder to blend in and drink idly in the back while taking in the scene.

I had to…socialize.

Time to spin out fantastic fibs, for why wouldn’t I? There were posers on all sides anyway, the young money getting in good with the foreign branch.

28 year old Kenyans chortling polite subdued laughter at the meandering jokes of 42 year old embassy-brigade interlopers.

Time to drink; rapidly shoot my societal posturing into the stratosphere and maybe make an off color joke about race relations with the ‘locals’. That would do, become one with the bullshit and wash it down with imported sauvignon blanc.

I milled about for an hour, repeatedly being approached by a young artist I’d met several times in back room joint passing circles, though he didn’t recognize me now that I was in this ridiculous schmoozing outfit.

He tried to convince me to be a buyer, then looked at me with startled reproach when I said something not aloof and altogether expensive sounding.

It was time to move …luckily other well groomed Scandinavians in what seemed to be pilot uniforms had begun to file in….



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