Browsing through my contacts the other day I came across the names of my good friend  Bill (Name hidden to protect the guilty). The saga of Bill is one that even today fills me with great amusement.

Bill is the kind of chap who unlike the rest of was possessed of the gift of the gab. If there was one thing Bill could do it was talk, and talk well. A career in sales was just what the doctor ordered for our Bill. Bill could and did sell motorcycle tyres to people on foot. Bill sold pork chops and sausages to devout Jews. He sold sides of beef to vegetarians. I have little doubt that Bill could convince Lucy Kibaki to purchase the East African Standard.

Which brings me to the meat and potatoes. Bill replicated his successful sales funnel in the field in his affairs with the daughters of Eve. His large phone was ever beeping, tweeting and chirping with text messages and phone calls.

As with all generous men, Bill took great issue with the imbalance of eligible men vis a vis eligible women, and took it upon himself to make up for the difference. Selflessly sacrificing his time, he could (and did) entertain and sample the charms of up to three women at a time. I once watched in stunned amazement the master at work on two date simultaneously in the same eating establishment where with the dexterous use of rolled up sleeves convinced both his dates that his occasional absences from the table were to attend to a patient that was unwell in a back room. Bill never shied away from discreetly introducing a MD to his title.

”Like a wolf in a fold” are words that will always have special meaning to me after seeing Bill hard at work on Sundays. Bill’s unassailable logic, with which I heartily agreed, was that wifely material was simply not available at the Simba Saloon at 3 in the morning. It was however, more likely to be found at Corpus Christi at 12 AM in the morning, and so after a hard night at the Simba Saloon dance floor Bill rushed home, showered, shaved, grabbed his dog-eared bible (dog-earing was done by Bill’s devoutly Catholic mother) and within an hour was singing “Ave Maria” with the same gusto as he sung “’pon de river, pon de bank” not 12 hours earlier.

After the service Bill freely mingled with his fellow parishioners, especially his sisters in Christ. Phone numbers flowed from dimpled maidens to Bill’s phone with the ease of Government officials disposing of hotels. Making full use of his office as an organizing fellow of The Christian, the Church’s newsletter.

And so it was thus Bill met and turned his attentions to one Christiana Wekesa (name hidden to protect the guilty). She put up a spirited fight but she was like the Grand Regency to his Libyan consortium. I congratulated Bill on his excellent taste and good fortune in finding a good woman. He agreed.

One day Christine saw it fit to send Bill a text message inquiring as to his mode of dress for a meeting he was attending. Like 9.8 out of 10 men Bill took the opportunity to inquire with keen interest what she was wearing. Things naturally deteriorated from there. Several text messages later (Safaricom remarkably was able to handle the load) Bill composed a lengthy message illustrating in great detail how much as he appreciated her navy blue skirt skirt, white blouse and stockings, on the whole he would much rather she not have them altogether.

He then proceeded to paint a rich tapestry of what exactly he planned to do had he not been separated by duty and geography from her. A fine sheen of sweat peppered his brow and upper lip as he put his back into a lengthy text message that had the screen of the Nokia fogging over.

Suddenly he noticed that the meeting he was attending required his input so he quickly scrolled to Christina’s name in the phone book and hit send. He then tabled his market penetration graphs and miscellaneous visual aids and got on with it.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as a text message arrived. And then another. And then another.

He smiled modestly to himself and wondered if Casanova might have gotten further under his tutelage.

After a lengthy presentation he sat down and fished out his phone to find 18 unread messages and 10 missed calls.

"Poor old gal,” he said smugly. “Can’t handle old Bill, can ye?”

As he read the messages his smile began to falter.

The first message was from his Bishop who went out of his way to elaborate politely but firmly that the only place he would allow himself to be kissed was on his rings as symbols of his office.

The next message was from Sister Mary Margaret and consisted solely of question marks.

Father Mulinge from the parish urged him with great speed to see him as soon as possible for counseling.

Retired Colonel Wilberforce J. Majani (Rtd) wanted to know what the devil he was playing at.

Bill felt a cold hand clasp his heart.

With trembling fingers he navigated to his outbox and a ghastly smile appeared on his face.

The correspondence had not been sent to Christina after all, but to ‘Christians’, which happened to be the distribution list of 70 involved in the Church newsletter, which included the Bishop of the Diocese and several priests, nuns and respected members of society. They had received the text message (composed of 6 text messages) and read it with initial curiosity followed by confusion followed by disbelief and finally shock at some of the initiatives Bill was proposing that he undertake without further delay.

Bill now is based in Rwanda, where I believe he has converted to Islam.

The saga he told me over drinks one stormy night some months back. I sympathized with him.

“Well, now people have read about another ass in addition to Balaam’s” I could not resist pointing out. “Always best to make a clean breast of things, not take it lying down. Once everything is laid bare, things tend to work out.”

I can’t really say that he was all that amused.

AOB

World Domination proceeding steadily. Us against the world, you and me against the world :) T-3

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