G-SPOT: The gigolos and spies in my Malindi imagination

Sometimes the scenes seen, imagined and overheard are too fantastic to be true, but now and then, they are plausible enough to form the basis of a storyline for a script.

The following stories are examples of my imagination running away with me, drawn from observations I have made over the past few months in Malindi.

An ageing European gigolo and his youthful protégé are back in town for an extended festive season break. Given their line of work, I presume that this visit is partly to boost their tans, a necessary component of their amorous armour.

This is probably the season when their patrons back in Europe are spending time with their official families and real friends, or perhaps visiting a “medispa” (medical spa). Such spas are where they receive top-up cosmetic surgery in a private and discreet environment to prepare for 2026’s round of social engagements.

While the “boys” are topping up their tans, they maintain a low social profile to avoid bumping into past and possibly future clients. As a result, they do not frequent high-end resorts and facilities, but instead favour unfashionable spots, such as the one I saw them in.

At these venues, they feel at ease and appear under less pressure to perform or look their best. However, they keep their hand in, as it were, by chatting up and flattering middle-aged and elderly women, whom they would not ordinarily give a second look. That is, unless those women were dripping in diamonds and furs.

The women they pick on may even be aware of the game that is afoot, but few people can resist a little flattery. It does wonders for the ego.

Of course, the two gents are probably just colleagues who won a trip to Malindi as part of an incentive programme at work, but where’s the magic in that?

Meanwhile, over at the popular waterfront park, where locals come to exercise or simply spend time in a pleasant atmosphere, an elderly couple sits in rapt attention, listening to a younger man seated at their feet.

They have a weekly rendezvous at this spot in the park, which is just off the beaten track enough to make eavesdropping difficult without being obvious.

If this were a Cold War story, the elderly couple might be spy runners debriefing an agent. Alternatively, they could be the spies themselves, with the younger man acting as their handler or case officer.

Perhaps I have read too many stories by John le Carré, and this weekly meeting is nothing more than a grandson repaying a debt to his grandparents, who told him wonderful stories when he was a boy, by entertaining them with yarns in their dotage.

Speaking of possible secret agents, there is a middle-aged man who, for the past year or so, has been quietly assimilating himself into the community. He has been chatting with and getting to know market stallholders, shopkeepers, bar staff and community leaders.

He has ingratiated himself with boda boda riders, tuk-tuk drivers, supermarket cashiers, shop assistants and laundromat staff.

He has become such a familiar presence in various locales and a regular at certain venues, chatting to and waving at anyone who catches his eye, that observing him, some would swear he was a long-term local rather than a recent arrival.

Nobody is quite certain what he does for a living. Some assume he is retired, although from which profession or trade remains a matter of guesswork. Others, having overheard him speak of projects and deadlines, suspect he might be some sort of consultant.

Judged by the usual Kenyan measures of success, such as owning big cars and property, he cannot have been particularly successful, as he has neither. Even this, however, is not entirely certain, since he often flies out to Nairobi and elsewhere and seems to have lived the high life in the past.

I know, however, that he is not a spy, but simply a writer who spends much of his free time soaking up the atmosphere to turn aspects into fictional stories.