The Ndirangu Option.

A year ago on this blog I surveyed the shambles that we shall agree is, and will forever be known, as my love life, and the scene was desolate. I may have overstated things. I may have implied that the interventions of Jennifer, Liz, Marion and Lilian were required in order to set things in motion that would end with my mother not looking so downcast. I may have overstated things.

It has been a cracker of a year, all twelve months. I made several discoveries. For instance, there are more people with their knives out for you than you could possible imagine. The only that pisses them off than knowing you may be going places is that you may not know, or realise, that they hate you or why. I always knew I had enemies; I am a lawyer and lawyers make enemies. I never thought I'd met them, or deal with them. In the year since I extolled the virtues of a Nairobi landmark, I have had poison mixed in my food, and poison poured in my work record, both intended to destroy me, physically and professionally. I don't know what I did to them, but I am keeping well clear of them this year.

Did I tell you that I made the biggest ass of myself on New Year's Day? I didn't? Strange. Anyway, he asked me to pretend to be a DJ. I was flattered. That should have been the first sign that it would turn into a fiasco. My taste in music goes something like this: Bob Marley, reggae, then everything else. Joseph was so offended he actually yelled at me. Everyone else, including him thank God, was determined to usher in the New Year in a state of perfect harmony with nature so they didn't pay my DJ'ing any mind. He seemed to have enjoyed it; I am now the resident Samsung Galaxy S4 DJ of choice around the Three Barrels.

In a week's time a million rose bushes will feel the sharp steel of secateurs, a million litres of Merlot, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, 12, 16 or 18 year old Scotch, a hundred million litres of Ruaraka's finest, and a million tonnes of Ghana's exported chief product will be consumed in the name of, I believe, a fictitious Roman Catholic saint. Promises will be made, some on bended knee. Promises will be broken, bended knees will connect with exposed scrotal sacs. Some will be forced to arrange more than one assignation, and pay the price for it. Eventually. I intend to wash-rinse-repeat my tried-and-battle-tested routine. I hope She will not interfere. I fear she will.

In preparation then, I have made contact with a one-name, one-man operation with offices along River Road, who promises, I kid you not, "we can kidnap you on Valentine's Day for a small fee". I am yet to enter the ranks of the seriously well-connected, well-walletted members of Nairobi nobility: I have not become a kidnap victim yet. In conjunction with Mr Ndirangu, the provider of this singular service, I intend to test Her affections for me. That, by the good offices of Mr Ndirangu, is the plan. But She is sneaky, and clever, and a bit scary, and she finds out stuff, so she may yet put the kaibosh on my plans with Ndirangu and Co. But should she not, the Three Barrels will be witness to my determinedly un-coiffed mane, a Bosire-like goatee, a full pack of red-boxed Master Blend and a steady supply of Ruaraka's libations at the proper temperature. That, my friends, is my plan. Keep her away from me.