Crazy Dorotea jails me for a day

Crazy Dorotea jails me for a day

- in Diary of a Developer

KM is a wealthy developer in Nairobi a husband to Dorotea and a father of two. He is a landlord with a rental in almost every part of the city. He loves his bottle but loves dough more. Follow him in his misadventures around the City in the Sun and beyond and you could learn a thing or two…


How are you my friend. Please, take this from me. Women are a cheating, lying, conniving and absolutely cunning beings. The dude who reported that they were harvested from my ribs, he lied. There is no way such a evil, conniving and wondrously merciless being could have been a product of my rib, not even the evilest of the ribs. They must have been sculpted by old man Satan himself. Gosh, they are a torture to us, more so because we love them. Like me, Kamenchu son of Mwingiria, I cannot do without a weekly dose of the feminine treatment. I say weekly because as you might be aware, I am not as young as I used to be. Trouble with ageing is that you discover that as your years advance, your body behaves in a somewhat embarrassing way sometimes. Yep, your mind might be up to some very interesting stuff but your body refuses to cooperate. Doesn’t matter what tricks you play but if the hardware decides that it prefers to be a software, only some very magical pills can clear the confusion.

But I am not referring to the fair species in the above terms because of my dwindling energies. Heck no. It is a result of some big trouble that my wife Dorotea thrust me into last week. Now, I came home late -it was closer to three than it was to two, if I am to be precise. It is not the first night that I have come home at that hour or beyond. I am a business man and many a times, a landlord has got to stay out and way-lay those cunning tenants. There are times that I haven’t come home for three days and she has never bothered to as much as ask where I have been. Maybe when we were freshly married, but now, I mind my business and she minds hers. I provide the dough, keep her and the brood fed, housed and the luxury lifestyle funded and we are happy. However, this day, for some reason, she decided she wanted to know where I had been.

I was not feeling chatty on account that a deal I was working on had hit a rock, a very hard rock and I had to go the pub and re-strategise. A piece of land I was eyeing in Zambezi has refused to fall through because the old mzee selling it has suddenly become clever and decided that it was worth some eight hundred thousand bob more than I was about to pay for it. Well, he is right about that. Land in that area has shot up by a few hundred percentage in the past years and is bound to go up some more once the bypass through Karen is complete. My take is that some clever bloke, or a competition had seen through my facade and had tutored the old man on a few financial and land value matters. It had been a bargain of the century and as I groveled on the seat after getting home from the pub that particular night, Dorotea decided that she wanted to know where I had been. Now, it is custom that I do not tell her where I go unless it is out of the country or where I am from unless it is a hospital for the reason that it will be followed by demands for explanation.

“The pub, you can smell alcohol right?” I asked her after ignoring her for some two full minutes. Then I closed my eyes while spread out on the couch, went back to re-strategising but pleasantly, Dorotea was sitting on my tummy, shaking me violently and demanding that I tell her exactly where I was from.

“I am from the pub and I do not have to tell you in the first place so can you get your kilos off my stomach? Gosh what are you eating these days, you are heavier than a buffalo.”

Bad mistake. In a flash, she was pulling my shirt and hitting me on the chest and scratching and calling me a beast and acting real crazy. I was thoroughly mad by now and impulsively, I lashed out, hitting her softly on the cheek. Then the real drama started. She opened her mouth and started screaming and throwing things all over. She tore at her clothes and hit her head on the wall unit repeatedly.

“Uuuuuuuiii, ananiuwa…saidieni mimi nakufaaaa…” She was screaming for help while all the while, I stood there, confused as a hyena with two parties to go to at once. The door was locked and I could not find the key so the neighbours broke it down. Dorotea ran to them showing them the places where my fists had landed. I could not believe it. The women were hysterical and one called the police who promptly came over and cuffed me. I spent the remainder of the night a guest of the state and was released the following day after they said my wife had forgiven me and refused to file charges. I am still in trauma.

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