Author: pettybratblog

Cracked Glass

Cracked Glass

A beauty she is. I met her last Saturday somewhere classified for security reasons. She confided in me that she’s a poet. I sampled a couple of her ‘stuffs’ in the ‘kasmall‘ notebook that from her own confession , she carries it everywhere…(even to the bathroom, so plagiarists that think of stealing her unpublished stuff know you have to get better strategies), it never leaves her sight. Behind that beauty and shyness, lies an aggressive writer, the kind that recognizes no boundaries. She goes beyond limits and expectations to get her point home. After some persuasions, I managed to get one of her piece of art. This is Bloatedpapers’ Cracked Glass.

Cracked Glass

Am a cracked glass,
Cracking yet not leaking.

Am a cracked glass,
Solid as I am yet shattered from within.

Am a cracked glass,
Searching for someone to value my worth.

Am a cracked glass,
Present but not seen.

Am a cracked glass,
Still holding onto what’s within.

Am a cracked glass,
Cracking was my sin.

Am a cracked glass,
Forever cracking from within.

Who am I?
Am a cracked glass.

©Salsabila.

N/B: On Wednesday was her birthday and we’re still debating in our DMs why her parents refused giving her the name Valentine. And she’s also mad at me for not doing anything special, like posting this poem on the said date. My defence is and will still remain I was busy as a totomisa aka an alterboy on the AshWednesday mass services. Valid reason for my being off-air. Moreover, had I over-celebrated her on such an auspicious love day, the very day I had ‘unwillingly’ (heavens know it was willingly) abdicated my duties to jaber, the 1st lady would have imagined some coup had taken place. In retaliation, let’s just say our poet would be under the witness-protection program under an assumed name, waiting to testify in court about her near murder…that’s if she would still be alive.

Anyway Salsa, please receive my belated birthday wishes 🎂🎂.

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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.

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.