Some sports betting mayhem in May and the reincarnation of Safari
What you need to know:
- I was home by half past 5pm, turning my place upside down for a tablet I had never seen. Was Desiree using a fake tablet as an excuse to come over?
- As if by deux machina, Laura’s name lit up on my phone. We hadn’t spoken in two weeks.
- “Hello?” I answered the phone, the caution obvious in my voice, as always with her. “How are you doing, Mama Neo?”
Of course, as a hustler, I am into sports betting. And last Sunday, the last day of the EPL season, was a good payday.
Three of the eight teams I had bet on let me down – Aston Villa, Brighton and Burnley, but five came through – Liverpool, Tottenham, Fulham, Newcastle and of course, Chelsea FC.
But the best bet I had made was on the last day of December, 2023, when Arsenal was at 40 points, five ahead of second-placed Man City, and their fans posted all those memes with pachyderms perched atop trees, with captions like ndovu ni kuu!
I had bet Sh1,500 that Man City would win the league by end of May, and on Sunday, they did, winning me four times my bet amount. Throw in the Sh5,000 from my quintet of Sunday winners, and I had Sh11,000 on my phone.
Monday morning found me at the DCI Desk of the Central Police Station in Nairobi, where I met a very efficient-sounding investigating officer called Kangethe who assured me, alongside his boss, that we would prosecute those Gitanga Close frauds.
“Watch out Odongo, Odhiambo and Onesmus,” I said to myself, “If you don’t refund my money. Mr Zhang and I are coming for you!”
Then, midweek, out of the blue skies, as I sat thinking of my next investment moves in case I did not make my end month deadline to partner in Safara Mascara, I get a call from a most unexpected person.
Desiree Simaloi, my ex-colleague and recent paramour, sent my pulse racing.
“My guy,” she said in a syrupy voice, “How have you been this last fortnight?”
“Pretty crappy actually, Simaloi,” I said truthfully, perhaps just longing for a touch of human sympathy. “I got taken to the cleaners by some city swindlers for a fake fertiliser procurement deal…”
“Pole sana,” Desiree said softly. Then her voice hardened. “Go after them hard! And if you do take them to court, I am good friends with a top criminal prosecutor.”
“Good friends?” I said.
“Okay,” I could hear the shrug in her voice. “I am actually married to him.”
“Oh Desiree,” I sighed. “Are you happy?”
Switching the subject, her tone now businesslike, Simaloi said, “That other day, I think I forgot my tablet on charge in your living room.”
“You did?” I said. “I did not see any tablet, Desiree…”
“Well, I did.”
“Let me check when I get to my place in the evening,” I said. “If it’s there, I will send a rider to bring it to your residence, if you drop me a PIN.”
“I am sure it’s there,” Simaloi said with finality. “I’ll pass by at 7pm to pick it up. And you better have a tasty supper ready, you Safara. I will be very hungry.”
I was home by half past 5pm, turning my place upside down for a tablet I had never seen. Was Desiree using a fake tablet as an excuse to come over?
As if by deux machina, Laura’s name lit up on my phone. We hadn’t spoken in two weeks.
“Hello?” I answered the phone, the caution obvious in my voice, as always with her. “How are you doing, Mama Neo?”
“Not your concern,” she snapped. “Are you aware wakina Neo walirudi shule last week, and I had to pay half the 50K fees?”
“I got conned by some wicked hustlers,” I started to say, “but I am in the process …”
“Staki stories zako, Baba Neo,” she snapped. “Mi ni 50K school fees I need.”
A light flashed in my head. “Laura, did you take a tablet from my place the other morning when you were here?”
A short silence, and then: “Neo took it. He now plays games on it. Kuna shida?”
“Yes!” I said, knowing my young son would never pick things without permission. “It belongs to my colleague, ex that is, and she needs it back.”
“Does she now?” Laura said. “It’s okay. Buy Neo a new one, and you can have it back …”
“Mama Neo,” I said, a desperate edge to my voice, “that tablet ain’t mine, and I don’t have money right now to buy the boy a new one…”
“Or to pay his fees, or for his food or rent or clothing,” Laura retorted. “Here’s the deal – pay half the fees, get him a new tab, and you can get back this one. Bye!”
And as she hung up, the doorbell rang, scaring me with its sharp shrill. Desiree Simaloi was here early!!
“Coming, coming,” I called out, a bit vexed, as the bell slashed my eardrums twice.
“Simaloi,” I said, as I threw the door open – and then I almost fainted.
For standing there in the hallway was Safari Safara, my first cousin, whom I had seen swept away by the floods at the beginning of May in a Mazda.
Either him, or the ghost of Safari, come for vengeance, for my abandonment of him to his watery fate, a few weeks ago.
