Weekend, but on a Tuesday

From where I sit for lunch, there’s a good view of Muthaiga Golf Course. Well, not the Tiger Woods’ side; my view is of the amateurs’ corner, where wannabe-golfers come to whack hard little balls across the lush green. There are no holes on this side. Just pure whacking. And honestly, nothing looks more therapeutic than smashing a ball into the air without fear of decapitating someone or swinging too hard. It’s the perfect place to release a week’s worth of anger. But here’s the thing, people who golf clearly don’t have the same weeks as the rest of us.

From my window, I see all kinds of cars lined up near the course. Muthaiga Country Club sits further in, hidden by trees and guarded by mean-looking guards. I’ve grown to notice two things that rich people love: privacy and quiet. Two virtues I’ve been preaching to myself since I turned eighteen—without much success.

Anyway, back to the amateur side.

Last Friday, some bold soul parked his shiny grey Probox among a fleet of V8s and Subarus. That, I thought, is balls-y confidence. Normally I don’t pay much attention to the cars because the real distractions are the passengers—like the young ladies stepping out in the shortest skirts, escorted by pot-bellied men in their mid-30s rocking grey khakis, spotless white sneakers, a glove on one hand, and branded hats. The whole outfit screams “weekend, but on a Tuesday”. Meanwhile I’m upstairs battling debits and credits in this unpredictable Nairobi weather. And the funny thing is, these people can show up on a Monday, a Thursday, or a random Friday morning. They’re not chained to any 9-to-5 clock like most of us. Their office is wherever the grass is greenest and the cigars are lit.

From Monday to Thursday, things are usually calm. Only the regular faces show up, some of whom I’ve noticed always arrive with a new ‘plus one’. Mostly brunettes; I wonder if that is a Club policy. But from where I sit, it’s easy to tell who’s here to actually golf, who’s fresh from a divorce, and who’s just here to impress the brunette of the week.

But Fridays? Fridays are a whole different sermon. I used to think Saturdays were golf’s big day. That might not be the case, at least not from what I’ve seen so far. By 9 a.m. on Friday, the entire parking lot is usually packed. Groups of men emerge from their TXs, cigars already lit, laughing at God-knows-what. They’re followed by their ladies in skirts so short the grass pauses mid-sway to pay attention—filming vlogs and TikToks of their “casual” Friday. Who on earth goes golfing on a Friday morning? Apparently, everyone but me.

Meanwhile, in the office, Fridays are just about running the clock down. Nobody is working, we’re all pretending. Some of us sneak longer lunch breaks, others stretch a spreadsheet like it’s elastic. But down there, it’s cigars, laughter, and “nice shot, babe!” I almost feel betrayed by the universe.

Sometimes I stare too long—hips swaying, golf balls flying—and my supervisor catches me extending my lunch break. In my head I’m already down there, cigar in hand, rocking white cotton shorts, with Mama Fede beside me in her shortest skirt and a visor. We’d be hitting white balls as far as physics allows, exchanging lines like: “Nice shot, babe.” “Bend your knees.” Or even, “If you miss this shot we’re flying to Hawaii for the weekend.”

Before Were calls me home, there are two sports I must conquer for myself: golf and tennis. I’d look sharp and so cool in tennis shorts and a headband, and distinguished in golf whites. Otherwise, I feel I’d have failed my Karachuonyo ancestors, who knew neither golf nor tennis.

✍🏽Reagan.