By Silas Nyanchwani via fb
However rich I will ever want to be, however important, one thing I will not wish to have done for me, is to have someone open the door of the car for me.
Earlier today, as I crossed the road on Kenyatta Avenue, next to Sarova, some col, clean Prado, whose colour I don’t know, could be grey-green or something like that pulled up, man on the co-driver seat got off so quickly, and opened the door for the VIP, who got down and walked with the guy who opened the door for him, to Sarova.
The VIP is vaguely important person, I have met him in past life for some interview, but he is not famous could be one of those folks who serve under government parastatal, before they become an MP for some rural outpost in Murang’a that borders Zambia.
If ever there was a phony thing, it is opening the door for someone to get off a car: there is only one exception, obviusly, if I was riding in one car with Kelendria Trene “Kelly” Rowland, she will never touch that handle of the car. Or even walk, as long as she lives with me.
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