How Red Bull Tin, Perfume, Thongs & Praise Are Used to Extract Your Bank PIN
We were two innocent tech guys, high on potential deals and low on common sense. Nairobi had blessed us with the scent of money and the illusion of safety. My buddy said, “Let’s unwind.” So we picked a reggae club — good music, good vibes, no harm intended.
We ordered a bottle of whisky. Not the cheap kind — the kind you buy to feel like your future has already arrived. Things were smooth. Even bumped into my sister-in-law and her husband at the club entrance. Good people. We greeted, toasted, and minded our business. Two brothers toasting to life. But life… had other plans.
🎂 Enter: The Birthday Nurses
Three women. Not loud, not desperate. Seated two tables away, calculating.
One wore jeans that gave a full medical outline — lumbar to glutes — with a thong showing like a surgical glove waving in your subconscious. Of course we noticed. But we behaved.About an hour later, just as we were finishing our drinks, they suddenly sang:
“Happy Biiiiiirthday to youuuuu!”
To who? No one knew. Maybe the waiter? The ice bucket? Didn’t matter. Nairobi club culture demands you join in or look like a witch. So, we sang along.
Then they offered us shots. “On us!” We accepted — because, well, the waiter was busy and it seemed to come from the counter, right?
🧠 That’s When the Anesthesia Hit
Looking back, I now realize our last sip triggered the whole operation. We were about to leave — going off-script for the “birthday girls.” My sister-in-law had already left, and we were a little too tipsy, getting louder as we staggered out. We set ourselves up.
Moments after those birthday shots, everything blurred. My body was in Nairobi. My mind had checked out. I was semi-conscious — like someone in a low-budget surgery scene.
I vaguely remember my friend doing push-ups in a lodging somewhere, as if training for an operation he never signed up for. They watched and cheered — like nurses monitoring a patient’s vitals.
“He’s strong… but not for long.”
And then came the Red Bull IV drip. They fed it to us gently, like caretakers. But don’t be fooled — that wasn’t hospitality and it wasnt red bull at all. It was psychological . The tin wasn’t redbull . Tit contained Laced soda. Just enough to keep us awake to hand over my bank PINs — voluntarily. They needed us alive… just long enough to cough up what they came for.
👩🏽⚕️ Campus Girls or Unlicensed Surgeons?
To this day, I believe those girls were medical students doing “field work.” But instead of using their growing knowledge to heal, they practiced extracting money from stubborn male systems.
We were the patients. Our wallets were the organs. This wasn’t theft. It was soft robbery — performed in a clinical setting. No knives. No force. Just charm, a Red Bull tin, reggae… and a smooth withdrawal of dignity.
💉 Lessons for Men Who Celebrate Too Easily
- If you’re in a club and some random ladies toast you with suspicious speed — it’s not a birthday. It’s bait
- If you find yourself doing push-ups during a date? That’s not you getting fit — that’s your testosterone trying to survive the cocktail of drugs and ego. Alcohol kills it. The gym won’t help if your brain’s offline.
- f she sits with her behind facing you and her thong is visible — that’s not a seductive invite. That’s bait. Not for a bang… but for your bank PIN.
🧘🏽♂️ Final Thought
That night, we weren’t just drunk. We were in a spiritual ICU — disarmed by warmth, cared for by strangers, and left lighter in body, spirit… and bank account. Worst part? We paid the bill — and said thank you.