And then I went back to the underground Kilimani gay club.
* * * *
For the next decade and a half, I determinedly whored my way through Nairobi and Kampala and Dar…and anywhere the hell else I traveled for work.
I’m not bragging—just stating a hard fact.
I was young and hungry, and the world had opened up to me like a flower. The internet made everything a lot easier. Apps made everything easier, faster. I could find sex my way: whenever I wanted it, however I wanted it, with whoever I wanted it with.
And it was good. So,sogood.
* * * *
I’m not one of those folks who pretend to be ashamed of their colourful sexual history. I won’t permit it, can’t perform that particular kind of regret for another’s comfort. The random and senseless sex I had in my twenties—and early thirties—was exactly what I’d needed.
Joyful, free, I learnt a whole lot about my body; about other people’s bodies. I found out what it was that turned me on, or left me cold; discovered what made me feel powerful, or caused me to feel weak and vulnerable. I taught myself boldness—to ask for what I wanted, and, most importantly, to saynoto what I didn’t.
* * * *
But somewhere in my mid-thirties, things started to shift. Not all at once—just slowly, the way the light changes as night descends. I’d be at a party or in a bar, talking to some hunk, and suddenly I’d feel tired. Not physically, but psychologically. Emotionally.
Somewhere inside my soul.
Tired of smiling. Tired of the small talk. Tired of the performance in its entirety.
Tired of trudging back home solo hours later—or worse, going home with some dude and feeling more alone in his bed than I had felt in my mine, by myself.
That’s around the time when I met him; Komen.
He was a corporate lawyer, sharp and witty and devastatingly handsome in that way that made other people turn and look when we strutted into a room together. We met in Kitusuru, at a mutual acquaintance’s spoilt-rotten son’s tenth birthday party; and for the first time in years, I found myself wanting more than just a night with someone.
I wanted sex, more than anything; but I also wanted more, much more—to know him, to wake up next to him, to enjoy countless dinners together. I wanted—nay,needed—to introduce him to my many friends as my guy, not justsome guy.
We were together for four years. From thirty-four to thirty-eight, which is a significant chunk of time, especially atthat age.
See, when everyone around you is settling down—getting hitched, having children, buying property, and doing all the things that mark you as a proper adult—you suddenly feel pressured, compelled to conform.
That was me then—Ireallywanted things between Komen and I to work, and so did he. We had conversations about that, lengthy and deep. We made plans, deliberate and intricate. We talked about moving in together, about our mums finally meeting face-to-face, about what our life could look like ten or so years down the line.
But here’s what I couldn’t bear, dare, to tell him; what I could barely admit to myself at the time: I was bored. Not with him, exactly—Daniel Komen was never boring. But something inside me had dulled. Lulled, and eventually completely switched off.
The sex—undeniably mind-blowing for a while—had become routine. Soul-crushing. He’d touch me, kiss me, blow me…and I’d respond, without excitement, without really feeling it, or even being there.
I was too distracted, thinking about other men. Fantasizing about strangers I’d noticed in the streets. Missing that adrenaline rush that was precipitated by someone new. Something fresh.
Six months into our slowly souring relationship, I had sex with someone else. Afineforty-something-years-old tourist from Oslo that I met at the Hotel Intercontinental bar and chatted with heartily about corrupt Kenya for hours.
It was quick, meaningless, and I told myself it was just one time, just getting it out of my system. But then it happened again four months later, when Doctor Erik Larsen—that was his name—returned for yet anotherMédecins Sans Frontièresconvention.
And then again. And again.
And again.
* * * *
I never told Komen about it, any of it.That’sthe part that still makes me feel sick to my stomach whenever I think about it.
Not the sex itself—I can justify that, rationalize it—but the lying. The heartless betrayal. The way I’d come home after a romp and kiss him smack on the lips, let him delude himself that we were a unit, that we were building something solid, when I was actually secretly—actively—undermining it.
