*𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧 & 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞* *Ep 2* It was a typical Nairobi Saturday afternoon at 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧 & 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞, where the smell of aftershave fought for dominance with cheap cologne and sweaty secrets. Football analysis was playing on mute because the real game was in the conversations. Three guys waited as DJ Moha worked the clippers like a surgeon, bantering between fades and relationship trauma. In the hot seat today: Brian, mid thirties, fitted jeans, Nike hoodie, and the face of a man who had seen some nonsense and lived to laugh about it. “Eh bana,” Brian said, as he settled into the chair and squinted at himself in the mirror, “you people ever lie to your wife with your full chest, like even the devil pauses and takes notes?” That was all it took. Every man in the room turned their full attention to him even Moha, who paused mid line up like the machine had jammed. Brian cleared his throat, enjoying the stage. “Wacha niwaambie. So my office gives me paternity leave, eh?One month paid. But I didn’t tell Wairimu. Why? Because I knew what would follow cleaning baby bottles, changing diapers, being sent to Quickmart every five minutes. Kwani niliitwa baba ama househelp?” The barbershop burst into laughter. “So what did I do?” he continued, brushing invisible lint from his hoodie like it was a podcast. “I dressed up every morning, kissed the baby, told Wairimu, ‘Babe, leo kuna board meeting,’ then left the house like a serious HR executive.” “Board meeting ya wapi?” asked Kevin, the guy waiting next. “Ngong Hills?!” Brian grinned. “Close. We went on a road trip. Me, Ken, Ochola, and Marcus. Our plan? Naivasha for a night, maybe Nakuru. Light drinks, fresh air. Boyz to Men things. But nooo… Marcus, that cousin of Satan, says, ‘Let’s keep going. Let’s see where the road takes us.’ Next thing I know, we’re in bloody Isiolo.” The room went quiet. Even the customer getting a beard trim leaned sideways to listen. “In Isiolo,” Brian said, “at a dodgy pub called The Camel Toe , no lie someone accidentally pays the bill with a fake note. Cops storm in like it’s a Netflix drama. We try to explain, but all they hear is ‘Nairobi men, fake money, no ID.’” Kevin leaned in. “Bro, kwani you didn’t carry your ID?” “I was on paternity leave,” Brian hissed. “I carried diapers and a warm flask , not identification. Wairimu even packed them in my ‘work bag.’” The room exploded again. Even Moha dropped his clippers and doubled over. “So now we’re in a cell, smelling like goat stew and regret. I looked at my phone and saw the devil himself smiling. What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi babe, I’m not in the boardroom I’m in Isiolo Cell Block C with Marcus and a guy named Kiptoo who thinks he’s Jesus’ cousin’?” “Did she come?” asked Moha, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, she came,” Brian sighed. “In my other car with the baby. She looked at me like I had stolen Jesus’ sandals. Didn’t say a word. Just handed the cop the fine, took the baby off her back and gave him to me.” He paused. “Then she left me there with the baby. Told me to ‘bond.’” Silence. Then wild, hysterical laughter. One guy even clapped. Brian shrugged. “Moral of the story? Don’t lie to your wife. Or at least, lie better than me.” Moha nodded solemnly. “Bro, you didn’t need a fade. You needed forgiveness.” “Facts,” Brian muttered. “But at least now I’ve done real paternity duty. In Isiolo.” And just like that, the clippers buzzed back to life, and the barbershop sank into a new wave of laughter and chaotic stories each man now wondering if they had the guts to outdo the Isiolo Incident.