Miss me?

They call it writer’s block or something like that. Yea, I know I’ve been missing for quite some time, but only due to reasons beyond son of man’s control. And if you think is lack of something to write about, then you are mistaken. Ask those who’ve met me in person. I’m the kind of bastard who never lacks a story. Story writing is part of me, same way bad odour is to the country bus makangas. I pick my stories from literally anywhere, and with a witty brain that enables me to spice things up, I have something for my audience. I at times look at national geographic and start analyzing how the animals are mating. From that alone, I can write something X-rated, though I won’t publish it. Ezekiel Mutua is overworking to ensure our children won’t know nothing about cortus until they hit 25 years. If he cracks the whip on me I’ll be used as an example to all misfits. I can’t imagine newspaper headlines the following day reading “BOYCHILD PROBED FOR FROG PORN”. Needless to say, I’ll be a hero to my male friends (shujaa mara pap) who should get the presidential Moran of the burning spear. The females however will treat me as a lost cause, a bad omen to be avoided at all costs. My dad won’t be a problem since he had given up on me a long time ago. My mother and grandmother are the ones who will give me an headache. In an attempt to cast the evil spirits away, my shosh will drag me to a japolo (those bearded Legio Maria priests) for divine intervention. My mother on the other hand as always will have a radical solution; drag me to all her friends who have daughters she persives beautiful and well brought up so that I divert my hormones from animals to God’s creations whom I’m of the same species with. Point of correction, I won’t be dragged, but willingly follow her to each and every of her friends with daughters. I guess all Adams are fisis.

And by the way guys(and ladies of course…but since you shout gender equality all the time, there is no problem if I generalize all of us to guys…or is there?) I recently joined kilimani mums n dads Facebook page/group. There are quite many of them, so I liked and joined those that had highest number of members and followers. All those who think I should now be in the market buying bras, lingeries (whatever on earth this means. I only know it sounds feminine, just like champagne) and on my way back home pass through a supermarket to pick sanitary pads (yaani ati umama imeniingia) , this is one place you can’t fail to get a tale. Apart from the usual nuisance in the name of advertisements and ‘religious do this or you won’t be able to raise your transformer’ kind of threats we will always have in any social media groups, the udaku in this space is of another caliber. However, I fear being an active shareholder here because some people will always tear you down, even if a comment to a post by a slay Queen in her bed sitter is as innocent as “that mattress looks old and tattered for Runda estate.” A good number of my friends are with me in this chama, though they are willing to lie under oath in the presence of Maraga that they are oblivious of such (Bro Mike na Gessy sikuona likes zenu kwa ile pic ya “Samantha ule mhot”).

To be honest, I just felt guilty I haven’t wasted your five minutes in weeks. You can put that blame on my gadgets and spectacles. I also felt like cheering some sisters who are going through a rough patch. Hope this makes you have a 3 seconds smile, it goes a long way. May you find comfort. In the meantime, let me dash kidogo to twira and see who were the unlucky victims of @MigunaMiguna knockout punches. If you have a Twitter account and still not following this guy, just know you are part of the problem to the dwindling raw local talents.

PS. The pic above is “stolen” from Collins Koyo’s Facebook page.

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Nobert Opondo Ragama

He loved his family, his job (never ask him anything related to construction when time is not on your side. He will want to tell you everything, from the foundation to the roof plus the surrounding environment. This passion to explain structures may have been the motivating factor to him teaching some of the nations finest civil engineers and architects), his Samsung Mobile phone which was unfortunately stolen and grudgingly replaced with a LENOVO (The Samsung to him was like an ex you never really let go of), the Nissan sunny (very few people ever let me drive their cars, but he did after just asking me a simple question…if i knew how to drive), his safariboots, a bottle of tusker (served cold), nyama choma(I’m yet to find anyone better getting the best meat in town).

A tall African, son to the senior chief Opondo. I can’t remember any single day he raised his voice. Even when pissed, he always maintained his cool. The only thing I came to know he hated was green grams and omena, which at times made me question if he’s really a descendant of Luanda Magere. Fish, no matter the species is the trademark of the lakeside people.

A few months ago, we were together, laughing at your jokes and stories, the other week I learn that you’re admitted. I call and we talk for a few seconds hoping to end the conversations when we meet face to face. Now news of your demise gets in. Death’s a cruel selfish bitch. Travel well to the lands beyond and greet all those who’ve gone before us.

Rest in peace uncle Nobert.

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.

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.