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February 22, 2019

Cutting to the chase

The prude sits up straighter. I have just told him that Mr. N has been trying to get me into bed with no success. Now I have his interest. Make no mistake; men are the biggest gossips there are. They love nothing more than gathering dirt on their friends or foes and in this case, getting one over someone they admire. If Mr. N wants me and can’t have me, then the Prude wants me too if for nothing else, just to show that he can. There’s no bigger ego booster for a man.
“He just came out and directly approached you?” he asks.
“Yes,” I respond.
“He’s quite brave,” he says taking a bite of his steak.
Brave? That’s an interesting choice of words. Prude is not just a name for this guy, he truly embodies it. I thought perhaps he cheats and pretends not to – The typical hypocrisy of Kenyans but this is different. He looks terrified at the prospect of doing anything untoward and getting caught. He has probably never cheated in his life. Awww. How sweet.   
I’m eating the catch of the day. Maneuvering through the dish without choking on a fish bone is taking a considerable amount of concentration. I should have ordered the fillet. But still, there’s nothing quite like a whole fish, is there?
“Do you like the food?” he asks.
I nod. It’s delicious. He talks more than I do, which is fine so that I can work on my food. He is trying hard. Even rambling at times. I catch him glancing at my cleavage every so often. Furtive glances when he thinks I’m not looking. So he’s a cleavage man? I make a mental note to wear something plunging next time.
“What do you do for fun?” I ask.
“I play polo,” he responds.
How wonderfully elitist. I have read about the Moi’s, Arunga’s and Nzomo’s of this world in the papers when it comes to the sport but I have never seen this guy on the sports pages.
“So I take it you’re not very good at it?” I ask.
That’s a mistake. I’m supposed to be stroking his ego not tearing it down.
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“I’ve never seen you in the papers in regards to Polo,” I say.
“I do not seek the limelight,” he responds. “I’ve already told you this.”
He goes on to say that he is requested to do interviews all the time but he turns them down. Now I have to sit through tales of his sport prowess because, like a fool, I suggested he couldn’t play very well. He lists his accomplishments and accolades as the waiter clears the table and offers us a desert menu. I nod and try and look impressed. But I’m not. I find the game more trying to get through than a root canal.
“Do you watch polo?” he asks as though reading my mind.
I smile and decide to be truthful. “No. It’s not really my thing.”
He looks disappointed. Polo is obviously his crown jewel to impress people with and here is a person who couldn’t be bothered with the sport. That may work for me or against me. I’m thinking the former.
“Come watch me this Saturday. You may change your mind,” he says.
 The waiter returns to the table. “Desert?”
I ask for some chocolate cake and cappuccino. Why not live dangerously?
“So? Do I get the job?” I ask as the waiter saunters away.
“I’m afraid not,” he responds.
I’m crushed. I though we were hitting it off.
“Whoever does this gig will be working closely with my wife. I like you. I’d like to see you socially again,” he says.  
“So you’re just going to come out and directly approach me?” I ask. “You’re quite brave.”
He laughs as I throw his words right back at him.
Poll of the day