This incident happened earlier in the year. I was having a jolly good evening, until I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. It’s not that it was the first time seeing something like that. It was just odd. Like when you see a very good looking chap with long nails. That stuff throws you. I bet that’s what the lady that invented the phrase “take aback” saw. I know it’s not making sense yet. So allow me to walk you from the start. Shall we?

It was a casual Friday evening, when everything in Nairobi between 15 -60 leaks pheromones. I met him at the Junction because nothing beats Mediterraneo pasta or anything they cook with mushroom and asparagus. We’ll call him Cleve. Afterwards, I snugged inside his car as he drove to this snazzy place on Karen road. We sipped drinks the color of baby kangaroo skin, Captain Morgan spiced gold, almost as light brown as his skin was. When we left to go back to Junction to pick up my jalopy, I intended to drive to my place. But I drove towards his house. Mtu hajuangi. He followed. The entire way, my eyes were glued to the rearview mirror as I watched him eat those winded turns of Limuru road like yams. He was so smooth. If he executes small tasks like maneuvering a bump with such poise, it means he’d grind on other convoluted matters with untold grace. Sindio? Right.

He led the way to his house prancing across the front steps elegantly (picture Obama on the Airforce One). I followed less gracefully but still engaged in this tête-à-tête about something or the other. He wore shorts. The legs were slightly thinner in proportion to his body, in that weird way men are built. So I looked up to his broad shoulders and marveled at that wizardry. How do men manage days without tripping? It boggles us women you know – all that broadness in the shoulders next to a wide chest that craftily tapers down to the waist, then thin hips and legs. It’s wonderful to look at. Very. But it defies gravity and everything volvo manufacturers have believed in as raison d’etre for stability – lowering center of gravity. No wonder men have shoddier knees in their old age, especially those whose youth involved visits to makeshift gyms. But let the record say, I think that broad shoulders shit is sexy.

I digressed.

His pad was foggily cloaked in that bachelor musk; a blend of lust and cologne. I cast a look at everything in one sweep and moved to sit on the long couch. I figured he’d join me. He moved to the stereo and played something – Nick Drake’s, Pink moon. *sighs*. He wanted me swoon. I read his mind. He knew, the stereo knew, Nick drake knew, the crickets knew and the couch knew. He wanted to get lucky. One thing though, I knew I would not put out. Not yet. And he was light skinned anyway.

Now, felllas, before you get your Y fronts in a twist, let me explain.

See how you mull over light skinned women then endlessly scoff at their wit? You know yourselves. Some of you had sworn your HELB loans to the light version of Wanja Kavengi (love her writing by the way). Ladies do the same with the male versions. Only, instead of scoffing at their wit, it’s the sum and substance, the sturdiness, the ardor, the vitality, the stuff that makes the man Mufasa, the Man in the Mandingo, the beard in… okay, you get the point. I do not want to be presumptuous here but if there are two guys standing here, one as black as Nyong’o’s beard, the other as yellow as Peter Kenneth’s ass, who between these two would be afraid of spiders? Eh?

Sit down light skinned Mufasa.

Cleve walked to the corner of the living room where a hoisted cellar stood. I liked his bum. Not the cellar’s, Cleve’s. There were three bottles of red wine, half a bottle of Amarula gold and two bottles of Captain Morgan lying on their bellies like sunbathing seals. He offered me a glass of the Captain morgan and I took it. I sipped it then sighed as I closed my eyes for just a bit internalizing the aura and deliberating over what indeed brought me here. He sat next to me and stretched his hands to my legs that were curled under me. He tugged at them, pulled then laid them on his lap gently massaging the sores. His demeanor wasn’t pushy. But he started to stare too long. I blushed. I had not expected to but I did. My heart started a small frenzy ordering my blood to go to areas I had forgotten existed. Like nipples.

‘Can you show me to the loo?’ I heard a lady ask.

He took my hand and led me to his room then pointed at a door, ‘Use that one, the float on the other bathroom is faulty.’ He walked back to the living room and I walked past a neat bed to the loo that doubled up as his bathroom. Now, I have this creed: to always wipe toilet seats before sitting. My reasons are simple. Men just cannot direct the little drops at the beginning or end of their urine stream into a WC. Of all these men, to none did it occur that they can wipe the toilet seat. It’s okay. We won’t bother you with such pettiness, just don’t forget our birthdays. The reason why she fumes over that stuff is because she counts all the urine droplets she’s wiped in silence only for you to forget the day she came into existence. That don go well.  Anyway, I finally sat. It gets boring in the loo especially when you don’t carry your phone right? So I took to sightseeing. Then, lo and behold.

I am a mere mortal; there are things my feeble heart cannot fathom.

Hanging on the shower side of the bathroom were the 3 largest, most humongous, gigantic size and probably the oldest white Y-front briefs I’d ever seen in my life. They looked at me menacingly or pleadingly, (I can’t tell you now for even as I may look skittish, am still very much dazed). On one front (oh pun bliss) with their sagged faces, the ugly parade seemed to want out. Like all the cotton that was once bouncy and stretchy had been washed up literally, and they couldn’t stand to hold another ball in what was left of their bleak future. They couldn’t anyway even if prompted for they were too long. Tall even. With tall dreams of a rescue from decades of ball holding that were long broken. They seemed so sad. In those 20 seconds that characterized my meet up with the underwear from hell, my brain pulled an image of Bryan Mills (Liam Neeson) from that movie Taken when he says, “If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don’t have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you.”

I left the bathroom, not the blushing lass I had walked in as and sat on the couch trying to veil my disappointment. How had I painted myself into this corner? Did Cleve really wear these things? That bum really donned those old y front things? Such an unholy union. My mind implored him to prove me wrong. But wherever I looked I saw the barrage of ugliness that had been flung before my eyes. I was disturbed. I had to leave.

Now, it still beats me and good folk if you could, kindly help me understand. Why Y front briefs? In 2015, why? Is it good behavior really, for a young man of high grandeur and promising stature to walk around the office with old worn out Y front briefs that are so long they could touch his knees? Even when they are not old, those Y front briefs leave panty lines across the bum. But that is such abhorrence! How could say, a lawyer present a case to a jury in court with tailored wit, charisma and suit but don old saggy Y front briefs underneath?

Do you know what heartbreak that is, to discover your crush dons such? Do you know that is false advertising? Ladies curse when they see these things. And not common place curses these. They’re the kind that embrace whole careers, go way into how you grew up, touch a little of the distant future and include a few of your relations. Good substantial curses.

What good does wearing briefs under a suit do? Would you be in mind to negotiate a contract with something clutching at your balls so tight? Are you the same guys that love S&M?  You should fear a man that is very comfortable with Y front briefs. However much you want to lie on his shoulders and forget the world, fear him so. Because those things look tight and you can’t keep your future generations packed like sardines in that fashion and claim to care about your future. And if a man can live with such discomfort, surely, si he is capable of murder?

Just for a second imagine you fainted and you had to be unclothed to get you some air. Is that what they’d find underneath? Y front briefs peaking at the knees, as if they wanted to run away from you. What would your friends say? What would your sister say? What would your mother say? Eh? You lying there unknowingly causing embarrassment to people who have tried to cultivate some couth in you.

Thing is, women are generally not that hard to please vis a vis men’s fashion, more so of their privates. We care about the package under that and even more, your technique.  But there are a few things that will make manenos go belly up. Things like old sagging white Y front briefs. Especially if they come in sets or parades that affirm that it wasn’t just a bad undie day. We are not like you chaps whose mood bounces from, black laced to red thongs to white g strings. Our needs are trivial. We just want presentable and kempt. Really if you may, go bury those Y front briefs. Go throw them in Nairobi River before the Elnino rains subside. Or you can take them to Greencity. These guys offer incineration services at very competitive rates. I could put in a word for you and they will burn them for free. I would do that – I care. But for my sake and a few others, rid yourself of your sagging Y front briefs. They are a pet peeve. They irk the very base of the soul. Get something else. Like a boxer brief. Anything really would be better. Well unless it’s a thong.