There he was, perched on the conference room seat, looking like he owned the place. He sat with his shoulders slightly hunched, like he wanted to tell a story, but needed the room to be silent to do so.

This man – let’s call him D – radiated an easy confidence, the kind you can’t acquire by dressing in the finest threads or buying bottles for your boys. You have to be born with it. You can’t purchase it from a Maybelline store; it’s not a super-volumising mascara.

But there was nothing arrogant about him: he just looked like a man comfortable in his own skin. A very masculine man, in his denim jeans, t-shirt and denim jacket. And red scarf, which was tossed casually around his neck – almost like an after-thought. And he had these small silver earrings in each ear, which said he had a personality not suited to boardrooms…probably why he’s in the creative field.

He looked like the kind of man who enjoys spending his weekends with the Bundu Rovers guys, or with the bikers of this town. A man accustomed to getting dirty, and cleaning up nice afterwards.

Tall, dark and fit, with a close shaven head – I wasn’t close enough to him to tell whether he was bald by design or choice – and a neatly trimmed beard, this man grabbed my attention: all of it. I imagined he smelled good. Because any man who looks like that must smell good.

When he stood up to speak, he spoke in a low voice. Slowly, deep, eloquently. He was easy to listen to.

I could see myself hanging out with D, having great conversations and a laugh over wine or gin (for me) and whisky or a Heineken (for him).

Which is why I did what any good friend (and self-respecting spotter/wing-woman) would do: I quickly proceeded to describe him, in detail, to my single friends. I’d have taken a picture, but I’m cultured. So I attempted to draw the picture with my words, and let my friends know that there was a fine man in the room and they needed to find him and befriend him.

Some of you might be wondering why I’d notice a man and drink in his sight like a thirsty chick while knowing full well that the rings on my left hand are not there because I’m a collector of jewellery. And then proceeding to blog about it like Mr. Nice Guy won’t see it.

Well here’s the thing: I’m married, not blind. I’ve never been one not to notice a good-looking man or woman, and more often than not I’ll share this with the girls, because that’s what girls do.

And just because I’m very happily married doesn’t mean I can’t help my friends pick the ripest, most good-looking fruit off the tree. That would be selfish. And I was raised better than that.

I know that past a certain age, when you no longer want to date someone just to kill time or because he’s there waiting to be dated, you get pickier. You start to care about a man’s job, his likes and dislikes, relationship history, drinking habits, spending habits, and goals.

Now because I’m generally pickier than your average babe, and have an eye for detail, I’m the perfect spotter/wing-woman. And so I take my duty seriously: I spot, I point out and I let you do the picking and tasting and hopefully buying.

I won’t play matchmaker, because I have a zero percent success rate and I’m smart enough to know that I’m not cupid. The one time I tried to play that little obese armed child things went horribly wrong! I thought it’d be cute if my girl and I dated friends. Let’s just say I won’t be trying that again; not if I want to maintain my friendships.

And so I stick to what I know: spotting and playing wing-woman when needed.

There’s a downside to that though. My male friends, who’ve all been instructed to enjoy chilling in my friends’ friend zones for my comfort, see no need to watch their mouths around me since I won’t hook them up with any of my girls.

Like the other day, I met up with some guys after work and the conversation invariably turned to the Nairobi dating scene. It’s tough!

The boys think the girls are not worth wooing because they’re more interested in “the lifestyle” rather than getting to really know them. The girls think the men are either losers, gay or already taken and are therefore comfortable staying single. The boys think they can’t trust the girls because the devil walks among them in the name of make up artists (MUAs is what they’re called now) ensuring that men remain deceived with the foundations and lipsticks and highlights and contouring. The girls think the men are just big boys who want their women to be their mothers, lovers, bankers and chefs rolled into one.

But the guys also apparently think that “fat chicks” (aka curvy, big-boned, heavy set or whatever other euphemism is being used nowadays) are easier to date because, get this: they feel “fortunate” to have been noticed. That because many of them have been overlooked for so long in favour of the skinny bitches or the really hot (slimmer) chicks, they put more effort into making things work.

According to those two monkeys – if you’re reading this Byrone and Ian, you’ve earned that for spewing nonsense – the heavier a chick is, the harder she’ll work to keep her man because she’s just so grateful to him for not just noticing her, but picking her over everyone else. And the only thing the guy needs to worry about is the food bill, and maintaining his physique. TF?

I struggle to remember the last time I heard such foolishness. OK no, I don’t, because I dated some pretty foolish guys in the past and they kinda sorta beat this. Like the guy who once told me – after I said I didn’t care to see him anymore and wished him luck in his life – that I’d be back “because they always come back”. I can laugh now as hard as I did then: HA!

Or another guy at met at Juniper – on a night that all the man-meat in Nairobi came out to play – who (correctly) estimated my cup size before delving into a really snooze-inducing monologue about his desire to be a plastic surgeon and how no man would look at me if I had smaller boobs because then I’d be un-proportional. Dumb *&%#.

The only good thing that came out of that little conversation with those two clowns was finding out that one of the guys actually knows D, and intimated that he might be single.

So girls, let me know of you’re interested in finding D: we could add him to the squad. Hoping (for your sake) he’s not the Muthaiga map kinda guy. Or crazy. Or of a different sexual persuasion.