The 43-year-old Bachelor #LastMaleStanding

Sophisticated, well-travelled, powerful, but lonely. He likes to pretend he is a single guy, but that façade lasts less than a minute. He isn’t single by choice. Life has dealt him the curse and blessing of being the last male of his kind on earth.

He doesn’t do musky bars, but a cool, secluded getaways somewhere in Laikipia. He flies there while you use the rough road from Nanyuki to Ol Pejeta. But you and the world all chase after him, not because you made it, but because he has a powerful story.

You spot him the moment you walk through the door. His gait, his flashy hide, and his appealing mien are clear from the first glance. He looks around nonchalant, seemingly unaware of the weight he carries. At first he just stands in the empty room, taking in the architecture and the art. He lives here, but he needs you to see that he still appreciates it every day he walks in.  

He has a certain mien to him, one that tells you that if he were a Nairobi man, he would sit on a barstool somewhere in Kilimani. With a glass of whiskey in his hand and one foot planted to the ground. He would wear expensive Brioni Vanquish II suits, and park a sleek Jaguar outside. He wouldn’t need to tell you that he and James Bond have shared the Brioni secret for years, and the fact that they are the last of their kind. He would not need to wear tight pants because whatever size of pants his wore would still let girls unforgettably see the size of his junk, hanging down there like a chimp’s hand. Guys would make way for him when he entered the club, but there are no more guys left to scare and subjugate.

When you finally walk up to him, you will catch him stealing a glance. He enjoys attention, courts it even. He wants you to see his boys, a pair of bodyguards who look like they would put one through your forehead if you dared to make a hasty move. But he would too, you can see that despite his sawed ego, he can still pack a punch, and probably kill you with one sweep. But he is nothing like that now. Those are his genes, but it’s scary now, he says because he is the last man standing. The entirety of the male genes of his species starts and ends with him.

His story starts in Sudan when he was born into a small community in what is now Southern Sudan. A small community of somewhere between 500 and 2000 of his kind. It was a good time, he says with a loud hint of nostalgia. Then a shot in the leg, haziness, a wooden cage, a boat rocking the waves, and a new life.

You can tell he is well-travelled. Tales of a good life in Czech Republic pampered and spoilt, well paid and fed. He was only 3 when he landed in the Czech Republic. Central Europe was a different time then too, cut right across by the Iron Curtain. But that wasn’t life, he will say with a sigh. It just wasn’t the life I was meant to live. He will talk about loneliness in Europe and a craving for the hot sun of his homeland. He will read the papers about war, massacres, genocides, and dictators. Bloody, very bloody, but home is home. His buddies will name him Sudan, after his home country, and that will trigger a bout of nostalgia every time someone says it.

But what is the purpose of life, if one has no legacy, he will ask with a deeper, more thoughtful sigh. At the corner of your eye, you will spot an animal-like loneliness, the missing glitter from his eyes. Of how he turned down women when he was young and agile, and now it is too late. It has come down to just leaving a legacy. You would think it would be easy for him, being the last man in the world. A snarky “I wouldn’t think of it even if you were the last man on earth,” is lost in his case, because he actually is the last man in the world.

His wingman died a while back, leaving him lost and lonely. But he didn’t cry. Men don’t cry, even if their last friend on earth dies right in front of them. They lock themselves in the shower and heave, and grunt, and curse, and then dry their eyes and straighten their suits and walk out. That’s what he did. He couldn’t let the ladies see him crying, there are only two in the world anyway, and that narrows down his chances of getting laid. What goes through his mind? When he spots @mwirigi leaning to see him properly, he gives him the knowing side-eye as if seeing the plight of unrequited love.

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That’s when you notice that his head hangs rather low for such a tall and burly guy. That he walks with a certain confidence tempered with a countenance of pain. One of hopelessness, and tension. That he feels he is failing his species. Had he known, he winks, he would probably have spent less time with those Eastern European ladies. But they loved him so much, he sighs, and showed him the nightlife. But all that is now coming to naught. He lives here now, in the expanse and beauties of the Ol Pejeta Conservancy. Just a drive away from Nairobi, or a flight if you are monied and posh like him. Had things gone different, one of his neighbors would be the Saudi arms dealer Adnan Kashoggi. The opulent mansion still stands, an extravagance so grand and majestic that it enchants even the most moral of minds. Adnan would probably have brought the party to the hood because right now things need to turn up. Blind Baraka next door is a cool guy, but he is a tad bit clumsy and likes to roll in the mud. The ladies are rather territorial, the politics of hitting on mother or daughter are not interesting.

By the time you leave, what will remain etched in your conscience are not the majestic sunrises @Safari254 has captured, or the marvelous shots of @thisisess that @victorpeace has been taking all this time, or even @akenyangirl’s stories about her eventful bushwalk. Not even all that. What will remain is Sudan’s story. What it must be to be the last male of your kind in the world. To have the entire world think about your junk. To have everyone actually need you to make someone, anyone, pregnant.

By the time the visit ends, the plight of an entire species destroyed by men like you and I will hang on your shoulders. You will wonder about our purpose here on earth, about the pain that we must cause to other species by just existing. When you are done with Sudan, you will not even have the confidence to look him in his sad eyes. You will feel his loud, well deserved hint that your species did this to his.

 

Featured Image by @safari254

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Owaahh, 2015

One Story is good, 

till Another is told.