Day 358: Fuck This Fucking Mechanic


Just when you thought things might be getting better for poor Rafiki. Photo: Isaac Stone Simonelli

Daily Updates are not edited and function more as daily journal entries – so if the plot seems to be all over the place or missing entirely and the tenses changes faster than a kaleidoscope, well, that's just the way it is.

I SPRING off Rafiki in the gloom of the underground garage at Lovince's apartment. Quick to step away from the mechanic, I search for something to slam a fist into. I don't hit people out of anger, but in extreme moments I have found walls to be most accommodating.

It's a surging amount of energy that needs direction, a bomb going off in a fragile container. If the blast isn't carefully directed outside, it threatens to destroy everything. Everything in the garage is hard. Cement is hard. Cars are hard – but expensive. I storm into the light pouring into the exit ramp, trying to exhale the furry in fiery breaths.

Lovince can deal with the mechanic for the next few minutes. I don't want to see that sullen, unapologetic face of complete incompetence.

I'm supposed to be on the road. I'm supposed to be scooping up my German Princess and running off to Naivasha as demanded by the die. Thankfully, the die didn't demand I leave today, but I can't spend another night in Nairobi. What should have been an expensive two-day fix for Rafiki is dragging into an entire fucking week. A fucking week because of that incompetent piece-of-shit mechanic.

I thought I'd scheduled a meet-up time with Linda that provided ample amounts of Africa time.

I was wrong.

There were a few things I needed to take care of before picking her up at 1:30pm near Kikuyu – about 35 minutes outside of Nairobi. I needed welding done on Rafiki, withdraw money from Top Journey, pick up a spare lower throttle cable from the Yamaha shop, and track down a new battery.

I didn't notice the battery was gone until Lovince and I returned from the Central Business District on a fried chicken and chips run sometime after midnight. He would have just skipped dinner, but instead went in town with me and paid for dinner, after my attempt to withdraw funds again showed an empty account.

When we got back, I couldn't believe that someone had stolen my old motorcycle battery. Who the fuck steals something like that in a guarded garage? The guards saw nothing, though Rafiki was parked in the view of CCTV. We would check the cameras. Lovince wanted to see the footage right that second. The guards made it clear that it wasn't them and that nobody had come in on a motorbike. It must have been someone in the building, which made no sense as well – it's a nice place. I checked the elevator numbers for oil smudges from touching the battery. There were none. Then it hit me, the damn thing must have bounced out. Rafiki runs just fine without a battery; once she's started, the engine keeps the power chugging straight to the headlight. There's no need for storage.

Rafiki's battery must have bounced out somewhere along the ride back from dropping Linda off at her place last night. Driving out there and back last night wasn't the best idea. The wind was a cutting cold on the way back. I'd been rushing and failed to put on the side panel that covers the battery, which the mechanic failed to fix. I figured it was decorative and unnecessary. As always, Rafiki took advantage of the situation and ditched the battery.

So, the battery needs to be replaced. The guard, who owns a Chinese motorcycle of some sort, told Lovince in some long-winded explanation that led to our chicken getting cold that we could pick up a spare battery at one of the gas stations going either direction on Ngong Road.

He was wrong.

Before making it to the gas station, I pop into Nakumatt Prestige to pick up cash from Top Journey, cash I was assured would be there, which is not. While there, I go ahead and pick up milk and yogurt for a Lovince's other house guest – a middle-aged woman who is buying all his and Liz's kitchen items and plenty of furniture when they move.

The nice man at the first gas station I go to is surrounded by huge car batteries, but doesn't have a single motorcycle battery. However, he thinks that maybe Nakumatt will have batteries.

Nakumatt does not. They do have a fuck-ton of car batteries, but no motorcycle batteries. This country runs on bloody motorcycles. Why in Kenya, do they stock car batteries and not motorcycle batteries?

There's a call from Lovince: Can I pick up some dish soap and a couple other things?

“Yeah, I'm in the store right now, which soap did you say?”

I say yes, but my tone is already sour. There's of frustration brewing. The battery part of this morning is supposed to be simple. Everything else was supposed to get bogged down by traffic and bullshit, but not buying the battery.

It's the sort of sour mood you can taste. It's bitter and unwarranted, and I know it, but that doesn't change anything.

Milk, yogurt, and dish soap in tow, I make my way to another gas station.

They don't sell batteries of any kind.

“Bro, I know you should be taking care of other things, but are you up for going to the Yamaha shop with me to pick up a battery there? They don't have them at any of the gas stations. I've checked three or four places now and can't find anything,” I say, walking into the apartment and kicking off a pair of old tennis shoes that someone left behind.

Lovince has his own work deadlines that he refuses to prioritize. It's his nature to put friends, acquaintances, and even strangers – more often than not – first. He needs to buckle down today and get his business taken care of before Liz, his wife, returns from the United States. What he doesn't need is for me to drag him out on some stupid errands as if I'm incapable of doing it alone.

“Or maybe I should just take a piki-piki,” I half-heartedly suggest.

“No, you know I'm there for you Bro. It's okay. We'll go together.”

Sarah, our newest house guest, urges me in her sweet Irish accent to at least have a bit of a fruit salad she's cut up in a bowl in the kitchen for us.

I slept like a log last night. I gave her the bed and slept on the floor in the living room. It was the best night of sleep I've had in the last few days. It was desperately needed. When I woke, I was confident that today was going to be a good day.

I was wrong.

There seems to be a serious trend with me being wrong.

There's a strange three-legged ladder made out of sticks sitting in the corner of the elevator when the doors open for Lovince and me to go down.

The ladder stares at us. We stare at it and then get in. Without hesitation I climb to the top of the little ladder, my voice climbing with me.

“Let's get high. Let's get mother fucking high up in here,” I sing – or try to sing.

The impromptu racket that I'm attempting to pass off for a song continues, as I duck my head to stop from bumping into the elevator ceiling.

Lovince's face splits into a smile and then laughs.

I eventually climb down.

“Bro, that's exactly what I needed,” he says, wrapping me up in a big hug.

Both of our moods lighten, we're in all of it together – though it mostly feels like he's just helping me carry the burden of being a bumbling idiot.

Headed toward Mombasa Road, we sit in thick Nairobi traffic – as if there is any other type of traffic in Nairobi. We're listening to loud R&B on the radio. Lovince has the music cranked up to the point that it's hard to talk, but we talk anyway.

Lovince redirects his tailor, who was headed to the apartment, to meet us at Toyota Kenya, which also houses the Yamaha shop, on Mombasa Road.

Traffic lightens up for a moment. We're making reasonable time.

I don't even recognize the tailor when we arrive. Instead of greeting him, I make my way straight to the parts counter and order a lower throttle cable and a new battery.

The total comes to more than 7,000 Shilling.

“What? How much is the battery?”

“It's about 5,400,” says a man in a white button-down with a Toyota logo embroidered on it.

“Oh, wow. I thought it would be much cheaper. I know people usually get batteries for 1,000 to 1,500.”

Feeling a bit cheeky, I ask if he knows where I can pick up an off-brand battery.

He doesn't know.

Lovince and his tailor are chatting on a pair of couches next to a big machine that's capable of making eight different types of bad coffee in cardboard cups for anyone who happens to push its buttons.

Miraculously, the Nakumatt next door does have a motorcycle battery, as well as a wall of imported chocolates – Linda rarely seems far from mind. I've already messaged that I'm running late. I'm not late yet. In fact, I'm not even close to late yet, but I will be late.

Though the chocolate might be a good fit for the situation. The battery is not. It's 3,500 Shilling and appears to be the wrong specs. I need a 6 volt, 6 amp battery. This is a 12 volt, 5 amp battery. Maybe it will work. Maybe not. Either way, the price difference doesn't justify the attempt.

When I get back to the Yamaha shop, Lovince is gone.

It turns out he's in the bathroom with the tailor trying on the three three-piece suits that he's designed.

I settle into the couch next to a piki-piki driver in a bright yellow vest. I take a plastic cup from the water tank to make a coffee, but the driver waves off the idea.

He stands up, asking me which coffee I want, then presses a button.

It's a fancy machine. A cardboard cup drops down out of it and is passed across to where the coffee starts pouring.

I'm on my second coffee when Lovince returns.

All three of us – tailor, Lovince, and me – return to Nakumatt, not for anything with regards to Rafiki, but for Linda.

I have just enough cash on me to buy a box of chocolates filled with Irish cream, which the die thought was the best option, and a small stuffed Dalmatian. Yesterday, I'd found an eyelash on Linda's cheek. Carefully, I'd removed it and asked her to make a wish. She wished for a puppy dog.

Lovince is on the phone with the shit mechanic we have been using to see if he has a spare battery. He says can secure one from in town, but he'd have to grab a matatu and then go to the shop. We're almost in town already, but he refuses to tell us where to go, claiming we won't be able to find the place.

“He doesn't want to tell us and lose the money,” Lovince confirms to me.

“That's fine. I just want the battery.”

This battery, even with the mechanic inevitably adding a little on top for himself is only 2,000 Shilling.

“Let's have our motorcycle taxi driver – I trust him – pick the mechanic up and take him in town and return him? How much do you think the motorcycle guy will charge us?”

“Yeah, we can do that. He gives me rides all the time. He'll give us a very fair price.”

So, it's sorted. We've got a guy we trust to ensure that the mechanic moves at a reasonable speed.

It's still not 1:30pm. It feels nice not to be late, at least not late yet, though I will without a doubt be late.

“Do you want me to come down?” Lovince asks moments after we have piled some beans, greens, and chapati on our plates; I picked up the late lunch for us across the street. The mechanic is on the phone. He's downstairs.

“It's fine. I'll take care of it. You eat,” I say.

I take the elevator down.

The mechanic is here with a battery. Only a battery.

“Are you kidding me? Are you that incapable of thinking?” I seethe, before storming away to call Lovince.

The mechanic didn't bother buy battery acid or any additional electric lines to attach the battery. He showed up with only a fucking battery.

Battery acid is cheap, 200 Shilling, yet he claims he didn't have the money to pay for it. However, the reality is that the man is either on drugs or simply incapable of putting two thoughts together.

“And what about the pool of oil? Why is that there? That's not right,” I say, anger setting flame to every word I direct at the fucking idiot.

Black dots gather on the cement floor below Rafiki like spots on a Dalmatian.

I was supposed to be on the road four days ago, but this incompetent, sullen-faced idiot keeps fucking everything up. I promised to meet my German Princess and start our drive to Naivasha, but he is again fucking with my plans. Fucking with my life, because he can't or refuses to think.

He doesn't know why the oil is leaking. Maybe an issue with the engine seal. He'll have to look when we get Rafiki to his shop, where he'll also do the welding he promised to do.

That oil isn't what we want coming out of Rafiki. Photo: Isaac Stone Simonelli

We all drive to his shop so he can get battery acid and wires – we almost left Rafiki without him checking what wires he needed. Only because I asked about the wires did he pause and figure it out.

The young man in a North Face winter coat that was with Lovince when he picked me and Rafiki up at the truck stop is there when we arrive. He saddles up next to the open passenger window, the seat now vacant as the mechanic has wandered off to look for a couple wires.

“This has been the worst mechanic experience I've had in all of Kenya. And that's saying something,” I spit at him. “What's wrong with your guy?”

An embarrassed smile creeps onto his face.

“Don't smile. I'm not joking. Is he on drugs? I'm serious is he on drugs?”

“No,” the young guy says before moving away from the window.

Lovince points out that it's hard to know what to say to someone when they're in my mood, defending the younger guy, who has consistently been nice. Of course, it's right.

Five minutes after the mechanic drops off the battery acid and leaves to grab some wires and clamps, I get out of the car. How the fuck is it so hard to find clips?

We've explained to him time and time again today that things need to be quick. That every day he's spent wasting my time has cost me hundreds of dollars. He's costing me work. Those last two statements aren't true in the slightest, but that's what we've told him, trying to get him to understand that his incompetence is damaging.

“Do you have tape?” He asks me after we leave the shop.

“Yes, I do.”

I happened to pick up electrical tape earlier today in hopes of taping bits of the luggage rack together to at least get it to hold until I reach to Naivasha, where I can get a welder to do the job.

It's painful watching him work. There is nothing wrong with slow and methodical. When you trust someone to do the work right, when you know that they are being careful to ensure quality, then there is no reason to rush.

However, watching him slowly twist up the end of a tie cable – my tie cables – to hold the battery in place is too much. It's as if he every few seconds he forgets his hands' relationship to the rest of the world. There is nothing to show that he's a man who has spent his entire life tinkering with motorbikes. Maybe he hasn't.

The process of filling up the battery with acid and connecting it is taking forever. Minutes slip by with me pacing the garage like a caged animal. Part of the reason I didn't put the side cover back on last night is because he further damaged it during his attempt to fix the Rafiki, making it difficult to secure.

Several days ago, once we had all the parts, I told him to take his time rebuilding the engine. It was the one part of the process I didn't want to rush. But the oil slick on the cement floor is proof that it didn't make any difference.

Finally, the battery is connected.

He kicks Rafiki to start her. Nothing. He kicks again. Nothing. And again and again and again. He's not making any adjustments or checking anything outside of ensuring that the key is turned and the ignition switch is on.

He kicks and kicks and kicks and she refuses to do anything at all.

“It worked when you left?” He asks me, his face momentarily accusatory.

“Yes, it did. But it doesn't work now. I took it for a test ride and now this morning it's not working. That doesn't mean you did your job right. What about this oil?” I ask.

I'm mercilessly berating him and he's taking it. I don't know when in my life as an expat I became comfortable verbally laying into local people for incompetence, but if he was a westerner there would be no way I would treat him like this.

At first, I can't put my finger on why.

Then, it hits me. It's because he's not apologized. He's not once shown any sign of remorse, real or pretend, that he is having an unnecessary, negative impact on my trip, on my life. He just sullenly looks out at the world, his tattered dark blue jumpsuit limply hanging on his body.

We try to push-start Rafiki. However, when I put her in first and pull in the clutch, the tire still seize – the clutch isn't engaging. He slowly pushes me through the garage, seemingly unaware of how vain the attempt is if he can't get Rafiki moving quickly.

The mechanic changes tactics. He blames the secondary fuel cable. However, that's not the issue at hand. The part of the issue he needs to focus on is that we can't get the clutch to engage and there's oil all over the garage floor. I'm not about to give him another thing to fix until he's finished sorting out the mess he's already made.

“Let's just call the other mechanic. The one who knows what's going on,” I tell Lovince.

The younger mechanic, the one who coaxed Rafiki to life last night, the one who seems to understand motorcycles, quickly comes from his own shop to help out the old man. Why he keeps swooping in to bail out the old guy is a bit of a mystery.

The young mechanic, a handsome, tall Kenyan who was driving some sort of sports bike last night putts up on a Chinese piki-piki today.

He gets on Rafiki and starts playing with the choke as he attempts to start her. Rafiki is like a woman convinced that no man can get her sex drive working after a devastating breakup but suddenly finds her body being caressed by big, knowledgeable hands.

She fires up, hacking out a cloud of blue smoke.

I immediately relax.

With one quick look at her underside, Wicky, the young mechanic, determines that the clutch cover is what's leaking. The secondary fuel cable is also a problem, he says.

I give him the brand new cable, which needs to have some of the cover trimmed. The old man is sent back to his shop on Wicky's bike to trim the cover.

My furry has abated, like a sea storm that pushes too far inland.

Rafiki is in good hands. I don't need to worry about time needlessly being wasted.

I join Wicky and Lovince in the warm sunlight out front.

Lovince starts talking in a big circle when I ask how much time it's going to take to get the engine resealed and the bike ready to go. At this point, I'm standing in full riding gear and my packed bags are downstairs next to Rafiki.

Wicky wants to know if I'm leaving today.

“I have to leave today. This guy keeps wasting my time. It's costing me money every day,” I say before changing tactics.

“Listen, can you imagine, I was supposed to meet my girlfriend at 10am today and now I'm so late. She's going to be so angry with me. If I don't come tonight, she'll kill me,” I say.

“I mean I won't have any sex forever. One month with no sex if I don't come tonight. Can you imagine?”

Wicky and Lovince are nearly balled up in laughter as I go on about being banned from sex for a month. It turns out a woman's wrath is something that cuts across all cultures, and that wrath taking the form of no sex is something nearly every man can sympathize with.

“Me in the bathroom alone. That's no fun. I don't want that,” I say.

Lovince is laughing so hard that he has to walk away. Wicky has come around to my side. He understands. He completely understands.

“Okay, okay, we'll get you taken care of today. I'm sorry about all of this. I'll take care of you. I promise,” he says, a big smile still painted on his face.

It's what we needed. Without a doubt, I'll be on the road tonight.

Eventually, the old man returns with the piece. Wicky quickly gets it replaced so we can follow him to his garage on the outskirts of Kibera.

Dusk is quickly approaching as we take a sharp turn into a small shop filled with a variety of motorcycles in all states of disrepair.

Lovince thinks that Wicky was probably the old man's apprentice in the past and then became better than him and started his own business, which is why he jumps to help the old man out when he needs it.

There is a flurry of activity as a few men in the garage start helping Wicky with Rafiki. They get Rafiki onto her side to take off the clutch cover and reseal it.

“It's great being able to speak Luo when they don't think I can understand what they're saying,” Lovince whispers.

He walks closer to Rafiki to eavesdrop as I sit on the seat of a green cruiser with no back wheel.

My man Lovince is a legend and a master at selfies. Photo: Lovince

It turns out that everyone is aware of how pissed and frustrated I am. They can't imagine what the other mechanic did to put me in such a state.

We need to buy more engine oil – that's how much has leaked out since last night.

“So you know this is a two-stroke, right?” Wicky asks me in the dark.

“Yeah,”

He starts explaining how the oil mixing system works. It turns out that the automatic oil mixing cable has also begun fraying. He's done his best to mend it, but it's not going to be enough.

The cord is what led the oil pump being “knocked”, thus stopping oil from getting to the engine and blowing up the entire thing on my from Kilifi to Nairobi. Not even Lovince is able to explain to me what the hell “knocked” exactly means. It is apparently a generic, blurry term they use in Swahili to mean broken.

There for a moment, we are both thinking that the new 7,000 Shilling fuel pump was a total waste.

“So what we can do is disconnect the automatic oil mixer and you can just add oil straight to the tank and then when you get to Mombasa, you can buy the line and replace it there,” Wicky tells me.

“I'm actually going to Naivasha first,” I say.

“Okay, they have a Honda shop there. So is that okay?”

“Yeah, that looks like our only option. Thank you.”

At some point he's apologized again for the mess I'm in. As he apologizes, another layer of frustration dissipates like mist kissed by the morning sun. Even listening to him explain how the two-stroke oil pump works, something I already know, has calming effect on me.

He spreads a little silicone over the hole in the cover that the oil pump cable goes through to prevent water from getting in.

As the last few things are being taken care of, my heart softens toward the old guy, who is trying to be as helpful as possible. With a flashlight in his mouth, he tightens the screw on my back brake.

A few minutes later, we're ready to roll. The welder has already left for the night, but one of the nice guys helping Wicky grabs a strip of rubber to tie everything in place.

“What should I pay them?” I ask Lovince after pulling him to the side.

“Maybe give the good mechanic 500 Bob and pay 500 to the other one for the parts,” he suggests.

I make a bit of a show in front of everyone, handing Wicky 1,000 Bob and telling him to take 500 Shilling and give the rest to the old man for the parts.

It's the last chance to shame him. It seems cruel to make a show of it all, but at the same time what other way is there to try to get him to learn a lesson from this. To learn that he can't jerk around a client like this.

Night covers the city of shacks stretching deep into Kibera.

It's strange to be loading up Rafiki and strapping down my boots to take off on a journey straight from the Wicky's shop.

But I can't spend another night in Nairobi. I need to go. I need to be on the road.

It's beyond wanting to see my German Princess. It's a desire to be moving. I've been stuck for nearly a week. Some good things have happened this week, but it's been a fucking frustrating week. And now, it's over. It's done.

A few minutes into the drive, while still on Ngong Road I feel the first fat raindrops of a storm. How appropriate would that be if the sky opens up above me?

Skirting around traffic at the Y-junction past Junction shopping mall, I spot two police officers in long trench coats, each carrying AK47s.

The one closest to me doesn't see that I'm a muzungu until I'm close. His eyes flash dollars signs.

He waves me over.

“Turn off the bike,” he says. “Turn off the bike.”

I try to roll Rafiki to the side of the road, rolling it back a little before shutting her off.

“Mambo,” I say with a big smile, knowing full-well that he's stepping up to the plate to extort some money out of me. “How are you?”

“I am fine. Driver's license?” he says, refusing to be softened by a smile.

“Of course.”

I produce the copy of my international license.

“Where is the real one? This is only a copy.”

“Yes, the real one was stolen in Tanzania. Can you imagine? Eeeeee! I took this bike all the way to Tanzania,” I say, naturally falling into a Kenyan story-teller mode.

“Where is your insurance?”

“Here, I say pointing to the card attached to my keys. I bought it a couple months ago.”

“Where is your permission to drive this bike in Kenya. You must have permission to drive this bike in Kenya.”

I point out that it's a Kenyan motorbike. With the rest of my paperwork in good order, he returns to the subject of the driver license copy. He's companion saddles up next to him.

I hand him the police report from Tanzania.

“Did you report it in Kenya?” he stupidly asks.

“No, it happened in Tanzania. But I'm waiting for a new one to arrive at the US Embassy right now,” I lie. No such replacement is on its way. “But this bike all the way there?”

I'm keeping things light, no need for it to get serious or costly.

“What's this?” one of the officer says hoping to have caught me out. He's pointing to an upside down aerosol can stuffed into the front pocket of my pannier.

I pull it out.

“It's deodorant.”

His voice shifts; he's losing hope.

“So you have everything on this bike?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing?

“I'm a tourist. I'm looking around.”

The sky opens.

They both step away, waving me on as they make for shelter.

The rain is coming down hard. I have to stop to move my wallet, phone, and deck of cards into the panniers to ensure they stay dry.

They do stay dry.

I do not.

I think about how I'll have to give Linda my waterproof pants so she can stay dry and warm on the cold, wet ride to Naivasha tonight.

My mind is busy with imaginary conversations with my German Princess, pointing out how insane I am to be on the bike at night in the rain. Starting a trip at night in the rain is a questionable decision. Of course, someone has to be a little unstable to become a Dice Man – even a moderate one, such as myself.

Outside of Nairobi, the roads are bone dry. There is no sign of rain. Linda will have no idea what sacrifices I was going to make to ensure she stayed warm.

The wind carries a cold through my gear, planting it deep inside me as I cruise through the dark.

It's a long dirt road to where Linda is staying. The dirt road, however, is better than the asphalt road I just parted ways with, as it's pitted with potholes that appear in my dim headlight too late for me to avoid them.

Linda is at the gate.

“Don't hug me. I'm soaking wet,” I say.

Linda is wearing soft, baggy pajama pants that look like they came from Southeast Asia. I happily watch her wide hips move in the dark as I pull Rafiki around back, next to her room.

“Those don't look like riding clothes,” I say.

Linda informs me that we're not leaving tonight. We're leaving in the morning. Thankfully, the dice just said we had to go to Naivasha, not when we had to go.

Inside, I strip down to my wet underwear, while she puts on some hot water to boil pasta for dinner.

I switch to dry underwear and a hoody before giving her the box of chocolates.

“Why?” she asks.

Admittedly, that was not the response I expected.

“What do you mean why?”

“Why did you bring this?”

“Because I was thinking of you and wanted to bring you something.”

The gift has crossed a line, at least a line right now. Linda constantly pushes me back and forth as some internal dialogue plays out in her head both wanting me close and wanting me farther away.

Her place is cute. It's a couple small rooms filled with books and stuff from the dozens of volunteers who lived here before her. There are two hot water bottles lying not far from a small kitchenette with a low dividing wall between a second bed and a kitchen table.

“Do you want one of your chocolates?” I ask.

She does not. She does not want chocolates here or there. She does not want chocolates anywhere.

“How many days ago was it that I shared Green Eggs and Ham with her?” I silently wonder. It seems unfortunate that not every child has had the chance to grow up with Dr. Seuss dishing out healthy helpings of absurdity.

Beatsteaks, a German band I've never heard of is playing on her speakers. I'd blindly made fun of her for putting on German music, but can't help but love Beatsteaks' grungy, punk rock sound. Her brother was in a band in the late 90s, she grew up with those sounds and has the tastes to match.

Linda's dark hair falls over her shoulders and her white top. Her eyes are always shining. There's something in her eyes that pulls me back. When I look at them, I don't want to stop. I want to sink into her eyes.

She gives me a small smile. I'm glad I'm out of Nairobi, even if we aren't getting back on the road.

I feel a bit like orphan boy sitting cross-legged on the bed eating my huge bowl of pasta as she watches – Linda ate earlier. It's more pasta than I can eat. Or at least I think it is, but by the time I'm full, it's all gone.

There are dozens of small kisses, some dry, some bigger and wet. Some filled with meaning. Others simply a perfunctory reply.

“I like Isaac more than the Dice Man,” she tells me before bed.

#Dailyupdates #Kenya #DailyUpdate #featured #Motorcycle #Romance

The Proposition

THE premise is simple: Allow die roles to determine the majority of decisions faced while motorbiking throughout the world with a limited budget for an entire year.      It’s 365 days of tempting fate, enticing serendipity and letting go of free will – if such things exist at all.

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