Night runner for a mother! Pt 2


…​I’ve been in this trade for long, and with the expertise and experience I’ve gained, I should be a National Intelligence Service agent as CIA is already over staffed. My intelligence gathering skills can only be matched by James Bond’s. The trick to any espionage, is to go unnoticed. Like today, I had my earphones in my ears, nodding as if I was listening to one of Nyashinski’s (big up Nyash… you’re taking the Kenyan showbiz to another level). My eyes gazing past the horizons, into the skies, but my ears concentrated elsewhere. The ladies oblivious of my intentions, roll out sweet stories that can make their way into the headlines of Stories that should their God-fearing parents back at home, who after serious brain cracking thought that the name Mary was way better than bootyliciousMariaMinaj get wind of, they will offer libations and live sacrifices to Yahweh, the Lord of Shadrack, Meshack and Abednego. Yahweh, the God that forgave apostle Paul despite him persecuting his disciples. Yahweh, the Lord of the rising sun that saw adulterous Mary fit to be part of the positive aspects of Jesus’s life story so that he can change their daughters and make them think more of Development studies and HIV/AIDS education over the latest jams at club Ivory and how Chris Brown broke their friend’s infinix. However, if you are the type that can’t hold your laughter long enough till you’re out of the crime scene, this technique isn’t for you. It’s only for the special rare breed of brats that can keep a stone face even if their former crash, the one that said NO! in the most embarrassing way possible let’s out a fart in front of the Dean while doing a project presentation. No giggles, no smiles. Just that cold face you have when doing your stuff, probably a serious constipation, in the loo.

I had to change vectors when Beyonce’s twins popped in. I don’t give a f*** even if they are quadruplets. The media attention was too much for these puppies even before they were born. From the looks of things, Bey’s twins are giving Khaled jr a run for his money when it comes to Hollywood child celebrity. What pains the most is that they have no other achievement apart from being the fastest swimmers to their mama’s ova which all of us also have but already everybody in BET, Grammys, Oscars etc knew about them. Yours truly, armed with academic certificates (not Matiangi’s. I’m too old), sports certificates, fought for my life in an ICU some years back and barely won among other achievements is yet to be known beyond my classroom, and my social media accounts have an embarrassment as the total number of followers.

I again reach for the phone, open my music app and start a playlist. Songs have miracles. A musician, not these underage things walking around with trousers hanging below their waists, singing stupid things like comas and zeros (Future, hope you could read this. I’m sick of your binary numbers song) and still call themselves artists. The good ones produce stuffs with ability to reconcile couples among other super powers. If in doubt, play your girl her favorite jam as you sing along offbeat when she’s mad at you and that day my dear friend, you will eat your favorite meal and sleep late. Thank me later. And recently, I have a thing for the Spanish songs. Enrique’s, CNCO’s, Don Omar’s, Daddy Yankee’s among others. I don’t speak any Spanish, but these songs just have magic. Listening to them softens the toughest jerk, melts the coldest of hearts and makes her say yes when you pop the magic question while on your knees and a ring stretched to her. Luis Fonsi’s Despacito comes along. A perfect hit that everybody that thinks has a talent in doing remixes is trying to spoil. Go online and type ‘Despacito remix’, and the search results would be more than the number of miles you are from home. Some perfect, some average and others HORRIBLE. And by the way, I came across a Kenyan remix by Popat and Elvis. Promote local talent by going to

Despacito… I could relate to this. I don’t know what it actually means. I tried consulting Google, but the results that came was the song apart from the countless other versions and mashups of the original. But looking at it, it’s almost similar to desperate, both in spelling and pronunciation. It was a perfect description of my situation. Desperate to escape the scorching afternoon heat, desperate to be served, desperate for a juicy story to tell, desperate for fame like  Bey’s twins, desperate for a mwakenya for the papers I’m to do, desperate for success, desperate for forgiveness from my friends whom I had turned down to go for a FIFA match at gamer’s lounge.

There had been a heated debate in our circle on who was the king of them all when it came to PS4, and the datum is always a FIFA match. I’ve been the undisputed champ until recently when one of my students thought he could dethrone me from my rightful birthright. We had to settle this soonest, but not today. Anyone doubting your skills on console pads is so insulting and hurts to the deepest of the nerves. The pain is only second to that when only one team spoils your Sportpesa multi-betslip. A slip that should it have gone through, the returns would be enough to pay for the whole squad’s 1st class SGR tickets to and from the capital city thus earning you some respect among peers.

3 minutes 49 seconds later, I’m back to reality after my despacito terminates. I notice I haven’t moved even slightly. The cavalcade is thicker at the front. Some girls were joining the line from there, their friends letting them in. I could not intervene. It wasn’t just in me. A sister once told me that man’s downfall is always alcohol or women. For me, the later. A lady can ask for my kidneys, and I’ll gladly give them both to her, provided she asks nicely, yaani with a hug and nice names like sweetheart, darling, bae etc. By the time I come to my sense, most probably it will be too late. I could not go against them. I looked at the skinny things and thought they would probably fall, should they stand for half the time I did.

However, my civility was put to test by this boy with a hairstyle that looks like he’s harbouring a sugarcane plantation on his head. He “cuts” (vocabulary we can associate with) the line. No wonder you are still a boy, that needs some growing to be a ‘gentleman’. Who cheated you wearing those torn trousers with multiple useless zips makes you look cool. My brother, from another mother of course (I can’t share a womb with such immaturity), you look homeless. The type that needs an Harambee to live above poverty line. But, your dressing and haircut, your choice. It’s non of my business. What’s my business is seeing a strong male youth, hijacking the procession. This forced my mouth to spit venom and a diarrhearing mouth has no speed governor. I knew no limits and nothing was going to stop me.

The boy not wanting to be shown who’s boss in front of bae, shot back. That’s when all hell broke loose. I realized I was not the only one in this quest for justice. Everybody else ambushed him with words, and the other ladies too were not spared. Guilt took the better of them and they took off. It’s then that I realize that guilt is sometimes a good thing. Because of the guilt they felt, I got served earlier than I would have, because of their guilt, I saved the day and became a superhero and I also made new friends, the ones who use air freshener as cologne and have a friend with a night runner in their family line. They gave me their telephone numbers, which I’ll use to get in touch with Mary, their friend. I’m thinking of writing a series of articles on marginalised professions and who doesn’t think an ajuoga will make a very good pilot for the sequel?


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