The Adulterous me!

“It’s because of peer pressure I did it. There was no allegiance sworn to this one…” I keep telling myself. Each of my friends had insisted I do it. Even that shagzmondo that I fake our friendship just because I need a sip of the mursik he brings everytime he comes from home. “Damn it Kliph! You’ll look ‘cooler’…” He had said. I don’t know what he meant by being cooler, for all I cared, I hate cold, be it that of temperatures, attitude or whatever. Now those WWE wrestling fans know why I never cheered Stone cold. He was ugly in his bald haircut anyway. I take less than 5 minutes in the bathroom when I’m using cold tap water for a reason. Anything that seems to be aligning towards cold temperatures, with the exception of cold drinks of course, is a No!No!No!

But then, I meet my ex. Yea, we still talk, somehow. As we laughed to our silly jokes, like that memory of her farting on my lap (in an Uber we had hired as a squad, and because of space issues due to our excess number and economics of campus students, it was unanimously and romantically agreed that ladies be carried), I ask for her expert advice. She says I’m good the way I am. I should stop listening to what others say and I did exactly what she told me. Well… partially of what she told me. The last part. I didn’t follow her advice.You just can’t trust your ex. They can be demons. I had a feeling that deep within her she was jealous and was therefore on a covert mission to make me a downgrade version of myself. An ex can see you dating a thuack (read an ugly girl) but go ahead to praise your eyesight for having spotted and nailed a Miss World, that’s if you are in talking terms. If by chance you don’t see eye to eye, the result can be fatal, like her befriending her behind your back and advice her to trap you with a pregnancy (how this works is a science mystery that top scientists are working around the clock to figure it out).

So I make up my mind and embark on a hunting mission. Each of us has standards that have to be met, unless you are a desperado. I wasn’t just going to settle on any Tory, Dori and Harriet. I wasn’t in a hurry for it to be done that same evening. Moreover, one night stands are too common nowadays that I was thinking of something somewhat different. Maybe tomorrow after the 7 O’clock lesson which when over, I would be free up to afternoon.

Morning glories are supposed to be quick and delightful. But this wasn’t. It was unusually longer and painful, marred by electrical misfire here and there on that silly gadget.

At one point, I just felt like standing up, pick my spectacles from the shelf and storm out. This was awful, not to mention life threatening since a spark came out of it. When done, the bastard didn’t even bother to wipe the filth(read hair) off my body.

I stood before the mirror. I looked naïve, young (let’s just say my baby face is back) and helpless. That feeling of guilt was eating me from inside. Talk of letting somebody else eat the forbidden fruit. I had entered this dungeon in doubt and now I was leaving depressed.

I pay the barber his due, and wait as he scampered from stall to stall looking for change. He wasn’t worth the 10ksh tip so he had to give me 100% of my balance.

I hope Mike, my guy in Kitengela does not get wind of this adulterous action, as I had gone out of our matrimonial convictions of him being the only person licensed to do my haircut. But in case you(Mike) are literate enough to read this, at least you can see how remorseful I am. I’m ready to take a second vow to solidify our bond. Thou shalt not walk into another barber shop apart from King’s Parlour, the one opposite Kobil and has pictures of Ludacris and the like on the wall, a cheerful and beautiful Njeri on the saloon section and Mike on the kinyozi side, a sound system that I’ve never seen but the speakers concealed in a cupboard just below the shelf blast some good Lucky Dube and Bob Marley. I should have known this one here was a sham since it lacked the trademark pictures of a kinyozi. By the way, whoever said you can’t/shouldn’t (I’m not sure which) cry over spilt milk must have been a liar or sadist. I miss my hair and I should be allowed to mourn over this loss.

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The Adulterous me!

“It’s because of peer pressure I did it. There was no allegiance sworn to this one…” I keep telling myself. Each of my friends had insisted I do it. Even that shagzmondo that I fake our friendship just because I need a sip of the mursik he brings everytime he comes from home. “Damn it Kliph! You’ll look ‘cooler’…” He had said. I don’t know what he meant by being cooler, for all I cared, I hate cold, be it that of temperatures, attitude or whatever. Now those WWE wrestling fans know why I never cheered Stone cold. He was ugly in his bald haircut anyway. I take less than 5 minutes in the bathroom when I’m using cold tap water for a reason. Anything that seems to be aligning towards cold temperatures, with the exception of cold drinks of course, is a No!No!No!

But then, I meet my ex. Yea, we still talk, somehow. As we laughed to our silly jokes, like that memory of her farting on my lap (in an Uber we had hired as a squad, and because of space issues due to our excess number and economics of campus students, it was unanimously and romantically agreed that ladies be carried), I ask for her expert advice. She says I’m good the way I am. I should stop listening to what others say and I did exactly what she told me. Well… partially of what she told me. The last part. I didn’t follow her advice.You just can’t trust your ex. They can be demons. I had a feeling that deep within her she was jealous and was therefore on a covert mission to make me a downgrade version of myself. An ex can see you dating a thuack (read an ugly girl) but go ahead to praise your eyesight for having spotted and nailed a Miss World, that’s if you are in talking terms. If by chance you don’t see eye to eye, the result can be fatal, like her befriending her behind your back and advice her to trap you with a pregnancy (how this works is a science mystery that top scientists are working around the clock to figure it out).

So I make up my mind and embark on a hunting mission. Each of us has standards that have to be met, unless you are a desperado. I wasn’t just going to settle on any Tory, Dori and Harriet. I wasn’t in a hurry for it to be done that same evening. Moreover, one night stands are too common nowadays that I was thinking of something somewhat different. Maybe tomorrow after the 7 O’clock lesson which when over, I would be free up to afternoon.

Morning glories are supposed to be quick and delightful. But this wasn’t. It was unusually longer and painful, marred by electrical misfire here and there on that silly gadget.

At one point, I just felt like standing up, pick my spectacles from the shelf and storm out. This was awful, not to mention life threatening since a spark came out of it. When done, the bastard didn’t even bother to wipe the filth(read hair) off my body.

I stood before the mirror. I looked naïve, young (let’s just say my baby face is back) and helpless. That feeling of guilt was eating me from inside. Talk of letting somebody else eat the forbidden fruit. I had entered this dungeon in doubt and now I was leaving depressed.

I pay the barber his due, and wait as he scampered from stall to stall looking for change. He wasn’t worth the 10ksh tip so he had to give me 100% of my balance.

I hope Mike, my guy in Kitengela does not get wind of this adulterous action, as I had gone out of our matrimonial convictions of him being the only person licensed to do my haircut. But in case you(Mike) are literate enough to read this, at least you can see how remorseful I am. I’m ready to take a second vow to solidify our bond. Thou shalt not walk into another barber shop apart from King’s Parlour, the one opposite Kobil and has pictures of Ludacris and the like on the wall, a cheerful and beautiful Njeri on the saloon section and Mike on the kinyozi side, a sound system that I’ve never seen but the speakers concealed in a cupboard just below the shelf blast some good Lucky Dube and Bob Marley. I should have known this one here was a sham since it lacked the trademark pictures of a kinyozi. By the way, whoever said you can’t/shouldn’t (I’m not sure which) cry over spilt milk must have been a liar or sadist. I miss my hair and I should be allowed to mourn over this loss.

I won’t cheat on my barber

“Kliph (she’s not this cool though…she spells it cliff), why don’t you shave that head, you look like a goon!” The old woman of the house asks, fixing that ‘kagaze’ on me on the fateful night of 31st August 2017. Each of us was on their favorite seat, me on the one next to the TV set (one of the reasons I have 4 eyes) and her right opposite me. This parallel face to face alignment is the worst whenever such interrogations start. If the statement starts with ‘why don’t, mbona, kwa nini etc’, it’s best to seat on that side she is, at least the gaze would be minimal as her neck becomes sore due to turning to face you.

But here I was, right in front of her. At least these days she never asks why I have all the remotes on my laps instead of books (must be the imaginary beards I have. Mark you, my chin and an infant’s ass are duplicates, flat as glass, windscreen to be exact, not the colored ones in church with roughness on them. Mine has absolutely no growth. At times I wish a wart or two should grow there, that could add me an extra bonga point at the table of men.) I mumble useless words such as ‘ntazichana’ amid interruptions such as “no lady would want to introduce you to her mother with that hair” and the like.

But then the KTN News that she forced me to tune to from Trace where I was watching a linkin park video comes to my rescue. Something about the supreme Court and her attention shifts. I read her body language to see if an escape is viable (fellow African kids know what I mean), hand her the remotes, straighten the vitambas and off to my room I go.

I wish I could tell her all. That on that Sunday after the Church service when I said I was going to the kinyozi but came home minus a cut and said their was a blackout, well, that was not the case. Mike my man was not around. He had gone upcountry (I’m told) and in his place, a voluptuous lady was. To me, ladies should stick to the saloon and men to kinyozi. The only men allowed to do long hair work are those who’ve specialized in dreadlocks. The rest of y’all, back to barber shops. And again this was before I became a fan of Runtown. I dream of those locks, the kind J.Cole has. That which Kendrick Lamar once cultivated. But she won’t understand. To her, those are hairstyles for mungiki and stoners. So as not to break her heart, I’ll just have to shave, though not today. Maybe not tomorrow nor the day after. Mike is the only one certified to do it, therefore, I’ll wait for him till kingdom come. I just can’t cheat on my barber. Case closed.

PEACE 


Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together, Eugene lonesco once said. The ideologies can be compared to our political affiliations, the leaders we want to choose. Your choice may be different from that of your mother, bestfriend, bae and your neighbors. But that should not be a reason for you to raise a machete against them. Let the the anguish we felt in 2007/08 PEV unite us, our dreams of making this nation great bring us together. Go vote for your preferred leader but if the majority think otherwise, go take an ice cream, I’m told it soothes a heartbroken soul. If there are complaints, let the judiciary do its job. That’s what the magistrates are paid for. They have hefty packages, let them show us it’s worth it.

Not a relative nor in any zone…

This article was originally written by Bilshan Bil Hansbil as a Facebook post; both the skeleton and the flesh. I’ve only done the clothing and a little make up here and there…

I’m not sure why, but must be because I depleted the storobonus without giving my mother a call. This is her working, or what else can be the source of such a powerful omen? The spell she cast on me for being interested in other ladies other than her. Is this what’s called maternal jealousy? Just because nowadays almost all my airtime is spent on Angie, I’ve been having a miserable life, but yesterday, things hit the roof. After reading this, any of you with experience in mother-son arbitration to come to my rescue.

It all began when I went to shower. You know those evenings when your armpits smell like a pig’s fart? This was one. I didn’t want a babe to drop by and suffocates when she gives me a hug. And  because of this cold Nairobi weather that some old people back in shags prayed to Ng’ai, the Lord who ordered his people to go to Canaan to bring in order to force some sworn bachelors like your older brother to get a companion, a bathroom water heater was on my new year’s resolution, and guess what, as you were grumbling about January being harsh on your wallets, I was smiling every morning to the bathroom. Assured hot bath, that at times feel good than the occasional massages and saunas that jaber (bae) always insist on. The average time I take in that small cube was increased that some people thought I had become a wanker. Honestly, I do a couple of crazy stuff in there, but using a soap as a lubricant has never  crossed my mind. I sing and dance, only that. It’s here where you can do all that naked without your other conscience screaming you’re going nuts. Moreover, some of these award winning artists discovered their talents in bathrooms and maybe another few on the toilet seat as they constipated.

Khhhoo! Khhhoo! Khhhoo! Twaaa! Twe! Twi! T-woooo! T-wuuuu! Patapata! Putuputu!….” came the cough, like a TB patient. A patient whose cough can be used to alert people of an imminent danger, say a tsunami or an earthquake. Startled, I stop the singing and pause in that awkward position I was, one leg in front, the other bent backwards, my face sideways and my mouth and face twitched as every dancer does when the song gets to the the nerves. The Weeknd’s move on can’t feel myself video was almost similar to this, only that I was a paused version of it at this moment. The soap was in my right hand, the left in possession of my Hilfiger boxer. NAKED I was. Just when I was about to blame the one puff of cannabis I might have taken at Marley’s den for my supposed hallucinations, another sneeze followed. “Ptwaaahh!”

Startled, I look up and see the smoke coming from the heater. I’m not dying this way. No! Never. Not without a daughter and a cheeky son that will ensure my family line remains on the face of this beautiful planet. The switch is on the outside, so I had to dive out first before I could switch it off. The last thing you would want is to die naked. You could get to heaven ‘ndethe’ (in your birthday suit) and before you explain yourself out, they would have already concluded their own things and handed you over to Satan.

I stood at the door way, trying to evaluate the situation. The only knowledge I had on circuits was that basic physics, then in highschool. But there, we were dealing with 0.5 volts dry cells, not a 240 volts AC. The little electrical know-how has since been displaced from my mind by other important things like names of persons, contacts, birthday dates, and most importantly the numerous passwords we are supposed to have to survive in this country (mpesa, atm, sim pin, phone locks, patterns etc.)

 I grab a bucket and go to the kitchen sink for water. An engineer friend once told me that some electrical components store electrical charges for some time so the shower was out of bounds to my body. I rinse the soap off and later called the caretaker. I gave him some space to do his thing. For me, I had developed a new phobia, that bathroom. Almost immediately, I  heard “twaf! twah! twah!” followed by “woooi! waaaai!…zima ziimaa!” Before I could even get to his rescue, everything went off. I find the nigga sitting on the bathroom floor, looking confused like he had just been deported from Mars. He had been chapwad radi’ (electrocuted), and caused some kind of blackout in the house. 

‘Hey Billy, wacha tuiangalie kesho…”(let’s check it out tomorrow). He says as he marches outside. That meant I would be in the dark this night and had to get an alternative.

Thanks to urbanization, we have malls and hypermarkets patched all over the city. I get to TRM and grab a packet of white candles. I heard somewhere that if seen with any other color, people will start filling gaps about the church you worship in. In no time, I’m in the queue with less than  give items ready to be served with this small bodied teller with fake glasses that she thought made her look like a banker. I normally stand here with great confidence knowing my ancestors did not grab any land, and are therefore seated in heaven as I pay for their mistakes of being too honest. When other men were grabbing land, they were drunk saying ‘yote ni vanity’. Now the descendants of their arap mashamba (land grabber) friends have maids who come to queue for them as they play video games back at home.

Nowadays, we hustlers have learnt the art of eating commercial (kukula kwa macho), which infact was easy provided you had perfected the art of window shopping. Eating commercial is even allowed in the bill of rights and that’s why your father voted for this constitution. It’s with this skill that I noticed her, pushing a trolley bigger than my problems. This lil-mama was just like what a certain ngorino (seer) prophesied to me, about how my future wife will look like. Maybe that future is now. I shift “lanes” and join her’s, even though it was the slowest and longest, but hey, I wasn’t in a hurry. With the blackout back at my dirge, I was just going to count the number of mosquitoes based on their humms for the better part of the night, until I drift off to slumber land.

A jealous attendant tried to signal me to get to a free teller but I ignored. I pretended to look at the shelves next to the counter, scanning through the prices of orbits, jaw breakers and condoms. The condom prices were outrageous that I’m left wondering what after sale package they come with. In this current state of economy, I’ll advise that athletic friend to grab the free rubber socks in the kanjolatrines.  

Soon, it was her to be served. All this time getting the courage to even say “hi” so that I could hear her voice proved difficult than I had anticipated. Her shopping was calculated and came to an equivalent of my house rent, insurance, monthly transport budget and maybe something little that can be added to my pension. She produced several thousands and hundreds to pay.  She then searches rigorously for something in her handbag. She kept saying “aki I thought I had 20 bob here…” Then in despair, she goes ahead to say she’ll have to return one item back to the shelves. This is where an intellectual like myself seizes the opportunity. I emerged like Rango when he was appointed the new sheriff and offer my help. Only twenty shillings! I can’t even call my guys with despite male-male calls are recognized by the Guinness book of records as being the shortest ever. I reach for the deepest part of my pocket, closest to the balls. The coin that may have come into contact with the two merchants of procreation may at least transport that inner feeling, warmth and goodwill. She seemed flattered though she takes the 20 bob. Touching her chest gently, she says a very sincere thanks (I could hear an ‘oowwh’ in her heart). Before she reached the door, I was done.  I get to her and start the intro…

Hello, am Bilshan bytha

“heey… am Mercy

 “it’s a pleasure”       I say it carefully, making sure I don’t end up saying ‘it’s a pressure’. She was heading towards the parking lot where ‘apparently’ I was also going. I offer to carry her goodies though she seemed hesitant. She could be the types that don’t believe that there are still few gentlemen left in Africa.

She had a Man U t-shirt and this was what I used to initiate another conversation. I tell her how lucky to have Mourinho as their coach they are. When she didn’t respond, even on how Wenger on our side has always been giving we the Gunners hypertension and erectile dysfunction for not signing any notable strikers, I knew for sure she was oblivious of this great sport that has made the likes of Wanyama to feature on who owns Kenya listings.

I try a different attack angle; politics. I tell how if we get to Canaan, the government will have its own public likes or something similar for the citizens to encourage use of internet, but the response was similar to the first. We get to a white Rav 4 2015 model (numberplate withheld for obvious reasons) and I just saw her open the boot. 

haiya! kwani you left the boot open?” I ask.

Before she could answer, I see a ninja emerge from the front seat coming to the back where we were. He was heavily built, the size our teachers of Kiswahili would describe as mtu wa miraba minne. In fact his was miraba minane. He greets me in that deep unfriendly voice with his eyes fixed on me. I quickly assume the identity of a generous supermarket attendant who was helping a customer to the car, the type of after sale services I was wondering before. I place the polythene bags in the boot, and by the time she was saying thanks, I was halfway across the yard retracing my steps. Those looks I received were not from her relative or a nigga in a funny zone. I’m not blind bruh!

The car passes by me at a closer than necessary range, like the guy was trying to make a statement.

I held to my candles, bought an avocado and two cups of take-away Githeri special at Wambui’s  cafe. I was eventually on my way back to the house singing ‘Dunia haina huruma….’

Koffi was definitely not deported for this.

The delay 

It’s not everyday that you start to hit the keyboard and the story-line rolls. At times, I get the idea, but when I start at it, the flow is not there. You have like three different paragraphs that just won’t connect. The past 2 or so weeks has been such. Maybe because of the numerous deaths of the national men. Though I’m not sure if the flags went half-mast, but my writing was. 
I haven’t wrote anything recently worth publishing and on Saturday when that siprit of wordings came, after doing 2 paragraphs on an article about a friend’s predicaments, I check Arnold’s WhatsApp status. There the bad news was smeared for all to see. Chester Bennington was dead. I’m a die-hard linkin park fan. I even had all their albums before some bastard decided to steal my flash disk (here is where I ask anyone with all those studio albums:meteora, hybrid theory etc, if they can help a brother out). I don’t know how I deleted that article, but I did. 

I get it. I get too sentimental at times, more than your average lass, but truth be told, I was more touched by his death than that of our late politicians. Some had bad reputations that even at death the endless PRs, family’s and leaders’ calls for sympathy and  tolerance could not wash away. Death cannot turn a black spot to a white spot. I don’t trust eulogies. They over-amplify the good but muzzle the bad. I’ll appreciate if they said the worst so that we can learn from them, the good so we can emulate, but not a one sided stuff.

To wrap it all, I apologize for the delay. And before I forget, the pic of people at a funeral service is by Gado, a talented cartoonist. I can’t remember from whose Facebook account I grabbed it from. The other is linkin Park’s Chester Bennington(may he RIP) doing what made my soul feel good. Anyone with linkin park albums or a means(links or free download sites) I can get them to contact me. 

10 characters in a club 

I’m first going on record that I don’t partake, or should I say, ‘actively partake’?. What happened last Saturday was just a ….(fill it for yourself). I’m the boring person that likes to spend his weekend nights in the crib writing such juicy tales that  may or may not be fictional and streaming movies. This I do while cuddling an imaginary beauty that has taken the form of my pillow. Clubbing is one of the last things to fit in my weekend plans.

It all started when these great guys from Atlassian User Group Nairobi came to facilitate a workshop. A pack of three dudes. The trio looked jut like any other complete clique. Mike due to his big body was the alpha and the muscles should they run into Marwa’s enemies but he needs to hit the gym once in a while to convert the fats to muscles. 

Arthur was the brains. A Luo by all means. Who else can have a black suit in Mombasa, complete black suit. White shirt and I’m sure I saw the shape of a vest beneath, a black tie, the shit we call half jackets, a black coat having logos of the Italian who did the job on the bottom part of the left sleeve, black trousers and an accompanying black pair of leather shoes that were frequently polished lest it becomes a taboo should he not see his reflection when he stares down at them. He dressed to assassinate I tell you. The last of the pack is Shadrack Winter, aka Shaddy. As his name suggests, he’s the cool guy. Though soft spoken, he got swag. Should a lady enter a room where they are all seated, he would be the pick. He has an afro I’m sure he values more than my late Grandpa valued his Peugeot 504. It was blow-dried (I have sisters, I know how a blow-dried hair looks like) and some sort of hair treatment added to it. Rumour has it that he’s also a producer.After the event, they invite me to a gentleman’s night out and Sky lounge in Bamburi was the venue. I get there a couple of minutes after them and some lady standing next to the security guys ask me to buy two bottles of Guinness at 200/ each. You know the look the bouncers give at the entrance? So I couldn’t not just refuse, considering our body ratios was 1:4. 

This night, I got to see different characters available in a club. The ones that observing them was more fun than the concoction people sip in such settings.  To summarize, here they are.

1. Tycoon 

This is the cheque book of the group. Always calling the shots at the roundtable and he’s worshipped. You don’t say anything that would piss him off or else you will foot your own bill. Most if the time, he’s dressed like our friend Arthur, a suit and has a “big phone” that the whole universe has to see and the length of calls he makes would make you think he bribed Collymore.

2. The chat box 

He keeps the conversation going on. Has his way and charms over the others. He can’t wait to show his prowess on sweet talking the ladies, who are mostly waitresses as he can’t handle the independent ones that have come prepared to pay there own bills. However, he has to be careful not to be funnier or crowd moving than the tycoon or else he be kicked off the table. In some instances, the tycoon doubles as the chief emcee, and the men have to laugh at his lame jokes just to please him.

3. The Professors

These after downing two or three bottles of the Senator keg brought directly from the brewery his Excellency opened in Kisumu, they know everything about anything. They will analyze the politics of the country in a manner that Barrack Muluka would be envious. This is the time when English is at its best, and phrases such as “obnoxious” appear here and there. Most of them are in their 40s or so.

4. Bill Cosby

They got the lamest pick-up lines and get snobbed by even the ugliest of the girls. They are rather shy, but tend to mask it. They can be seen dashing somewhere as if they have forgotten something somewhere and coming back. Most operate singly or in a pack not exceeding three. If given a chance, they will slip “mchele” into an unsuspecting lady’s drinks just to enjoy the forbidden fruit.

5. Dancer 

When people are drunk, they do the funniest of things, and dancing is not an exception. Like there was this big fat black niga that thought he was the lead  actor in a Step up Revolution movie . He made moves that he thought were the greatest ever. If by chance he sees the video of himself as he was carried away by Wa Maria’s  fundamentals , he would call a crisis meeting with his conscience. The way he grabbed some lady’s ass as the she twerked along would beat RDX’s moves when they got banned the last time they were within our republic’s borders. The cheers of the amused crowd was all that he needed to keep him going.

6. The foolish virgins

The biblical parable of the virgins advices us to be prepared. But here I came across some vagabonds who couldn’t go for their oil before the bride arrives. The ones that come without cash and expect others to pay. They however consume the most. There arms always stretched out asking to be given this and that.

And there was also this one nigga near the gents that called me aside after I had done my thing. He tells me that I loan him 100/= so that he can get back home. He first starts by giving me his background…his job, age, residence etc. These are the 1st signs of a conman, arousing sympathy by baseless stories. I simply told him I was flat, and I was here on invitation, which was somehow true. In the current economy with this rate of inflation, I just have to be mean with that ‘mulla‘. In fact after the lady at the entrance”robbed” me my hard saved 400/= , the only expense I was going to make was on my fare back home, not on a charity.

It’s here that I give folks a word of advice. Even if you are invited for drinks, carry your own cash should things go south. Thank me later.

7. The whimp

He doesn’t know his limits. He drinks till he blacks out and becomes a burden to the team. Don’t be surprised when he announces his dirtiest secrets such as he’s a wanker, she comes from a lineage of night runners among others. He/she will vomit and the whole world will know his/her last meal was Githeri laced with avocados. He sucks but according to the third chapter, second amendment of the revised bro-code Constitution, you are never to leave anyone behind. Together you came, together you shall leave. This and many other bylaws make it impossible for him to sleep on a cold floor or on the bar table so that he can learn his manners . The team must drag the 70kg plus potato sack while they themselves not being in their best state of mind. Last man standing always suffers the most because he’s the only reasoning processor.

8. Michael Tyson 

He’s a weakling but because the blessed water gives false confidence, he thinks he can box everyone. He’s the sole cause of commotion and normally ends up having a date with the muscular men in black t-shirts ( bouncers) in the deserted area behind the club.

9. Jaw-breaker

There is this group that don’t know the difference between a club and a cafe. They will order all sorts of meals but no drink. Chips-kuku is there favorite. I’ll soon be moving a motion in the keroro Parliament to have bars only cook nyamchom, mtura and orenge soup. These are the only things required to smoothen the stomach before a strong drink. The rest should be taken to the café on the opposite street.

10. Tee-toller

Not everyone who goes into the club sips a cold tusker ( this legendary brew should be a made a sign of national unity. It represents all it takes to be Kenyan). Some, including yours truly here, don’t taste the shit. Don’t curse us yet. We come in handy to carry your gadgets when you want to gift it to the curvetious waiter when you feel she does a better service than what your mother did with a calabash of gruel (what we Kenyans call porridge). We hold the answers the following day in case there are gaps that need to be filled. However, the problem with us is that we can take advantage of this godsend opportunity and have an escapade with your girl or even steal some of your belongings. So before you bring your sober companion along, make sure you have done a thorough background check.

                       *******

So back to our high table, a Cellar Cask, Johannisberger red, which Mike had ordered prior to my arrival was served. From a distance, it looks like passion or grape juice, whichever looks dark red. Now I know shadrack Landi and Ian Duncan are spitting on the ground, cursing. “Pthooh! How do you drink a child’s cocktail in a club and still say you are endowed with a massive sausage between your thighs ?” I can imagine them lamenting. To them, it’s either Tusker, whiskey or a Russian Vodka… undiluted. If things get bad, Heineken is excusable. But  wine? Unheard of. And if I say I had thoughts of requesting for a sweetener, they will have me do an internship at Keroche breweries before being re-admitted in the table of men. 

With those description I gave, I think you can fix for yourselves who is who… Mike, Arthur and Shaddy…in the pics.

Nice week, drink responsibly and pray so that we have a credible peaceful elections.