Don’t call…don’t ‘I missed you’ when we meet. 

Until recently, I would spend my hard ‘begged for‘ airtime from some aunt to call just about anyone, provided I saw your contact before the airtime was depleted. The ever serious desk mate back in form 1, my quarrelsome grandma who will always ask when I’ll be visiting her again despite being upcountry less than a month ago, the few cousins who can tolerate my bullshit, an aunt somewhere whom I’ve always been asking her to get me a new Playstation console that she promised last century, my supposed new friend we met when we went swimming last weekend and (here comes my favorite) the “dem galz”, all received my callsI know at times I come out as a philandering dude, but that may or may not be the case. 

    As an adolescent growing up in a certain neighborhood that can’t be put here for reasons well known to the chief and local elders, it’s paramount to prove to the world that you got some good language skills. Show them that your ngeli is as good as your grammar, your verbs equalling to none’s. So most of the time I met a new miss, one who is approachable, I would ask for her ten digits and because phones were not as common then as they are today, those who never owned one mostly had Facebook accounts. You just ask for their user name in zuckerberg’s brainchild and you got yourself an online date. In fact this was my most preferred way. Back then, I was a proud owner of a Nokia (can’t remember the model number though), the small ones that had its letters arranged in A~B~C~D format. This was not until the QWERTY came along and my pride turned to envy. It never hit me that most of those QWERTYs were ‘made in China’. Anytime I was to ask a number and I see the miss or anyone in the vicinity having a superior phone, mine would be ‘forgotten’ or charging somewhere, mostly at a friend’s house. Luck was always on my side, since in all these pretences, no one ever dared to call my kabambe or else the toy in my right pocket would echo Jay Z’s ‘forever young’ or Eminem’s ‘No love’, my all time favorite ringtones. And because memorizing a ten digit number is as hard as cramming Schrödinger’s Equations, I preferred going the “give me your fb name..” way. Maybe from there, she will give me her number as a Facebook message or sometime just steal it from their profile. 

    Away from how I got their numbers, just know I spent a lot of Collymore’s tokens on them. There were times I would call with 20ksh worth of airtime, have someone sambaza  (send me airtime), and okoa jahazi (have network providers lend me some …) just to talk to some lightskin somewhere who was not my mother and we promised each other the universe. That 20ksh was a substantial amount then, when we had nothing like storobonus and maize flour was still cheaper than 90ksh subsidized GoK-Mexican blend unga. But thanks to inflation, the same amount is not even close to enough to call customer care and ask for the identity of the beautiful voice behind calls that never reach the intended. I think we are all familiar with the “samahani, mteja wa nambari uliopiga…” or “sorry, the mobile subscriber cannot be reached” person. I’ve been dying to see this madam.

    Someone may be wondering where I’m going with all these. Well, this today is for those who think they are way too important to observe simple rules of telephone usage. Isaac Newton once said, “for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction”. Therefore, I’m irked by the maggots(please substantiate this with the worst word you can think of) who expect you to call them yesterday, today and tomorrow simultaneously, without even them taking their time to reciprocate. For them, it’s action, action and action. No reaction. I’m not talking about your mother or that always busy aunt who for reasons unknown to me, she’s still your favorite as far as the extended family relationship is concerned. These are the ladies and the very few gents who will go haywire should 25 hours pass without hearing from you yet they can’t call. The ones who want to be seen as if they are concerned when you meet will ask …na umopotelea wapi?…Mbona umenitupa?… Tulikoseana nini?… kind of questions. Bitch, if you never thought about me until I called you or bumped unto each other at Altona on Tom Mboya street ordering the very same fries you once said you are allergic to, that you prefer chicken inn, please spare me the ‘ I miss you’ drama. If you really did, you would have called before or even texted “hi”. I’m damn sure it won’t cost you a dime if you WhatsApped me with the free wifi you are enjoying courtesy of your generous neighbors.

    Then comes the WhatsApp and telegram demigoddesses. You see her online and text “hey?”. The ticks change from single, to double then blue and at the same time there is a “typing” at the top. You hold your breath as you wait for an answer but almost immediately, the typing disappears and it’s replaced with”online” and at times, “last seen”. You may decide to wait for a reply forever, but be sure it will all be in vain. If you are lucky, you’ll text today and the reply would be after the general elections. And there is a worse breed of this class. They won’t even bluetick a nigga. Why should they show they are concerned to the point of reading your text? You see the online and last seen interchangeable but an answer is not forthcoming. This are the times a petty brat like yours truly here would make a WhatsApp call just to notify them you are still around… monitoring her activities from a distance.

    It’s after being hardened by such maggots that now if I get storobonus past 11pm, I would wake some people up to talk to rather than call others who I’m very sure are awake at that time. Before I make a call, I check the call log history. If I made the last three or four calls, Don’t expect my call anytime soon. Unless you are my mum, grandma, an elder relative (I mean the class of my aunts and uncles going upwards) or a crush, you will have to look for me too. And for the crush, don’t play hard to get for too long or else I’ll simply pass with your best friend. I’ve come to think I’m more of a nuisance to you so I have to stop the unwarranted calls . I’m saving a lot of cash anyway. I may consider those who take their time to text me, but if you search for me only when you want help, I’ll use my airtime on something more constructive like calling my grandma and ask her to narrate a folklore or sing me ‘kanungo e teko’.

    Enchanted by a hug

    Let me start by first wishing Dr. Ezekiel Mutua a belated happy birthday. I may not be his greatest fan because he censors everything including fifty shades of grey but the almighty said pray for your enemies. If given a chance, some of us writers will be jobless as writing X-rated content is our speciality. I believe I would be the most sought after columnist by Kamasutra in the region, but their is a rule barring their operations in the republic, and thanks to this Dr Ezekiel Mutua, this law is fully implemented, even more than that driving unroadworthy vehicles.

    Ezekiel aside, I would like to tell you of my last week. It was iced by a rehearsal of the big thing that is to take on the 8th of August that has gotten everybody into a frenzy. Yeap! You got it right. We had our campus elections. A day we decide who will take the blame should we go on rampage as we shout ‘comrades power!’ 

    For any enterprising goon and goonlet in the great Technical University of Mombasa, this is the period to rake in free cash. You only need a diarrhearing mouth, big body with serious muscles and the guts. It’s therefore a no surprise that all the activities in the rugby team had to be suspended two weeks prior as their services were much needed elsewhere other than the small strip of land they proudly call their pitch (madam V.C, hope you’re reading this. We need proper fields)

    In campus politics, one cardinal rule stands, everything from kidnapping to use of threats and unfounded propaganda is fully allowed, provided there is no loss of life. This is the time when that Christian Union secretary who may have decided to vie for an elective post has her darkest secrets which may or may not be true, coming out in the open. In the end, you have doubts about every church you have ever stepped into because this to you was the most righteous person apart from your mum’s mchungaji back home to ever walk into your life. And there was this time a supposed contender was abducted prior to the submission of his nomination papers to our very own electoral commission.  By the time he was released from the undisclosed location, the deadline for handing the necessary papers had passed and that’s how he was kicked out of the race even before the start.

    Just like our typical national politicians, they came with manifestos; promises that are rarely ever fulfilled. But since they had something to say, we listened. Like there is this dude, who upon seeing a niche, decided he would take it upon himself to approach the admin and compel them to admit more ladies to the institution. The average ratio of men to ladies in this center of excellence is 19:1, so it won’t shock you that the probability of three best friends dating the same girl in a span of five years is higher than that for a bastard like me to graduate in time as per my academic calendar. Do you still expect me to say that he won? Which he did by the way. Team mafisi turned up in large numbers and that’s how the guy is now in the student union. 

    Another thing that proved to be as effective as money in convincing people for votes were the beauty and charms of a lady. As mentioned earlier, the population is male dominated and the best way to target this bunch is to send them a trigger mechanism. Since the entrepreneurship skills of the comrades can in no way be in question, an enterprising student started an agency to hire out these girls (not for the nocturnal activities that some olden fool reading this is already planning to engage in with you classmate) whose only requirements for joining must have been having the face similar to governor Alfred Mutua’s wife and assets in the range of the Kardashians. Most campaign convoys this time round had divas. A close source confirmed that the tall ones fetched premium rates.

    But one miss took things a notch higher. Instead of getting into caravans singing for others, she decided to vie. I may or may not have described her in one of my previous posts but what is undoubtedly true, she’s a beauty to behold and trust me the moment I saw her in 1st year, I knew calygynephobia (dude get a dictionary. Don’t ask me the meaning) is real. I used to look, but touching was totally out the equation. I once said ‘hi’ to her but got snobbed. 

    This I knew at the last minute, or else as a revenge, I would have gone directly to the Dean and tarnish her name. Lucky for her, I never knew her real name. Her nickname and the pet name we the ‘clique’ had given her was all I knew of her. And looking at her posters, she looked very different in official dressing, a professional lawyer and not a striper (not my words though), a mature lady and not the teenager at the helm of her adolescence and a down to earth miss not the proud, egocentric snob I knew.

    On the election day, I had better plans, sleep until sleep rejects me, stream some porn (God bless this boy Nelson that gave me their wifi password), watch more porn, stalk my crushes and spy on my exes. Wait a minute, did I say spy? Today they all post everything on social media. Because of Facebook, I know my ex has a boyfriend whom I can convince anybody he’s my long lost brother because of our resemblance. It’s good to know I meant the world to her that she has to look for my photocopy, someone who can remind her of the good times we had or why do you think girls most likely will go for dudes who resemble their adoring dads, and thanks to Instagram, I know why it was a bad idea to dump her, now that she’s even hotter than magma with the various effects and editors. So there is no spying nor infringement of privacy here. To cut this rant short, I was not going to vote, at least not until late in the evening. But as I went to get some poor man’s breakfast from the grizzly shopkeeper outside the plot, I meet these bastards, that drag me to school against my wishes. Dressed in shorts, and a white vest, I looked like a lazy domineering husband who wakes up late in the afternoon. 

    Just outside the polling station, she comes. Yes…. her! She comes and gives me a hug, a personal, emotional, decorated hug that made me forget all her wrongs. She didn’t even care that my mouth stunk like the fart of a tortoise and my whole body was sweaty.

     She just gave me the damn embrace and started a conversation that I can’t recall even a word we said to each other. In case you are still in the dark, it’s the miss that once snobbed yours truly. Here she was, as submissive as Isaac when his father, the undisputed father of nations, Abraham, wanted to offer him as a sacrifice. I had heard of this trick she was using, but being the chauvinist male I am, I had sworn on my sanity not to fall for it. But here I was, confused, my brain doing the Brownian motion thing. I was already enchanted. I entered the hall mammering only her name. It was only after marking against her name that I came to. Feeling stupid, I did the necessary on the other papers and left the place feeling more of a baboon than human. The baboons in cages in some orphanage that don’t have to chose when to eat and when not to. They eat as the food is brought. At the end of the exercise, she won with a bang! Thanks to my vote, and those of some helpless souls like mine.

    All in all, I would like to congratulate all the winners. Some of you beat odds to accomplish victory. For all of you who luck didn’t turn in your favor, there is always a next time. And to Mrs snob, I really hope that wasn’t a one time thing. I expect any time we meet, you greet a niggar and give him a hug. At end month, it won’t hurt if you supply one round of waragi (my new bae).

    Bitch! Be humble.

    One crazy thing about friendship that world renowned psychologists and scholars are yet to figure out is their ability to create their own language. If you have a close friend, there are some vocabularies and symbols that you and only you can decipher. This becomes essential especially when you are active in the business of bird hunting. 
    So it’s not strange that we have code names for the different girls we come across. The names are picked based on their physique, beauty, character, clique of friends among others. Like there is this one, taller than the average lady height, lightskin and a face that only reminds you of Priyanka Chopra, the Indian lady who’s lead actress in the Hollywood series Quantico. So we named her Quantico. Everybody in the group was interested in her, but since protocol(don’t ask which one… it’s a group secret) was to be observed, Alfonso (not real name) had the go ahead. The mister wasted moves and she ended up with a richer dude who drops her at the campus gate every Monday morning after an adventurous weekend. Of course we are also rich, but he’s richer…we eat real ugali at least twice a day, not the fake stuff from Mexico that makes women wish was a love portion to charm their philandering hubbies and save their estranged relationship. Our maize is personally taken to Wanyonyi and Sons posho meal ventures for the magic touch. Here we have the option of paying cash or give part of our cereals as an alternative. Back to the bastard rolling with our girl, he’s scumbag, drives a beast for a car, the upgraded version of the model for that matter, the way we have iPhone 7 and iPhone 7 plus…. I can describe the car further than this, give you it’s color and even put its number plate within the public domain but that would be signing my death warrant. His financial status is evidence enough that he has the ways and means of hiring a hit squad to eliminate your boy here. I’m not ready for that considering there are a lot of things I haven’t accomplished yet like proposing to Malia Obama, prove my father wrong and become a successful black sheep, see my daughter maybe (I don’t have to emphasize my hatred for kids) among others. And did I mention lose my virginity? Ahem! We still exist. Past 20 and we still don’t know the location of the glory hole. Shhhss keep quiet or else they will call me a whimp.

    Not long after, two of us, Wills and I spot this small bodied miss. She was not endowed with assets, but her beauty was awe! After suggestion from the who is who in the Hollywood circles, her top secret name became Ariana Grande. Again, I let Wills take lead in this mission, but…. I still don’t know how tables turned and he changed from being a potential to a bff. He had been friendzoned! My lawyers are in the final stages of signing a contract with FBI to investigate this. 

    But here comes the elephant of the story. A lady from my faculty, who happened to be a roomie with a classmate. I first met her in one of those lessons everybody in your faculty does, the ones you share the same lecturer and room. Though we never had a one on one chat, but from how she carried herself around I knew she was the type my mama warned me about. The hyper type that thinks she has to always be the alpha. Beautiful, maybe, but not more than my ex. Note that no one can be uglier than your ex, but for her, my ex’s looks are better. The miss is an attention seeker, no wonder her choice of braids are those with screaming colors. She once had the Kenyan flag on her head. And there is this photo I saw in Instagram when she was fresh from highschool, she had all the colors of  the rainbow, arranged in the ROYGBIV manner. If you still can’t get it from here why Bro Michael Mutunga calls her Chameleon, you need intense prayers to Yahweh, the Lord of the rising sun to increase your IQ. And if you are still wondering, I have to stalk a person I want to write about…say unearthing all her skeletons, or where do you expect me to get all the juicy stuff you want? Not that I am a fan of seeing those filtered and edited pictures in some pizza inn that were taken three years ago, but posted as “last evening”. I still don’t understand how you safekeep such photos for that long. The only pic that can be older than twelve months in my gallery is that of my baptism, which of course has a hardcopy (the only cutting edge technology of my time), that of my supposed graduation which I can’t be sure when it would be considering the consistent university strikes and the occasional supplementary and resits…and maybe that of my wedding which the unlucky woman must have a very compromising blackmail file on me on which she will make public should I refuse to walk down the aisle with her. I just had to, get to know her favourite meals, boys (she has the worst taste by the way), and I could even tell her favourite colour is blue. She’s also the groupie type of girl that can’t even go to the loo without a pack of six other bimbos. There was no way we could be a thing. I imagined sacrificing a whole week’s meal and other luxuries so that I take her to Java house for a mug of coffee, only for her to turn up with six other imbeciles whining at her ass, with an expectation I foot the bill. The resultant event would be kuchonga viazi. 

    It’s been proven beyond any reasonable doubt that I’m a talkative kind of person. I take every opportunity to start a conversation very seriously. After any class, find me dead walking alone. I have to be with someone whom we can chat away the immediate lesson’s stress. If you happened to be in an advanced mathematics class, be it calculus, ODE etc, you must know what I’m talking about. You walk out of class feeling dumber than when you walked in. Considering the cats are days away and main exam a couple of weeks ahead, letting these feelings enclosed in the chamber you call your oblongata will definitely lead to PTSD or why do you think we have very weird professors in sciences related professions? So this explains why I was with her, my sister from another mother, the classmate who was then chameleon’s roomie. Let’s call her Mary. 

    We were walking with Mary after a Chemistry class that made me regret ever burning my highschool organic chemistry notes in the bonfire. Don’t ask what we were talking about cause I can’t even remember. What I vividly recollect, is some monkey in an ugly lady’s body interrupting our chit chat. I call her monkey because she’s one. She gives Mary a hug, and being the shy good boy my mama has raised me to be, I never expected a hug, which is the dominant form of greeting within the campus walls. A handshake was more than enough. Or a simple “Hi” would suffice and maybe protected her from my wrath. She has a little chit chat with Mary and starts to walk away. All this time I’m invincible to her. She didn’t even notice my right hand that I had stretched out for a handshake.

    Feeling dejected, I play it low. But then, I hear a pack of vagabonds laughing in the background. Bro Mike and Gilly had seen it all. This was going to make a very good story for the entire five years stay here. If by chance you knew Mike’s skills in using such predicaments to make your life hell and a comedy simultaneously, a counter offence was the only alternative. I had to strike back….. harder.

    “Kwani mmi ni mti sipati salamu?” (Am I a log to not get a greeting?)  I tactfully hit back. 

    Sikujui!”  (I don’t know you)      arrogantly, she replies.

    What the heck! Where is your manners? Did your mom not teach you some courtesy? I felt like shouting all these to her, but… 

    “How will we know each other if you think your hands are iron and I’m some acid to corrode them?” I ask.

    We exchange a couple of words and she was definitely winning the war. Whoever said that the mouth of an adolescent lady(she was then, maybe still one) spits words at a rate faster than that of diarrhea was right. Luckily, my buddies join in. You can’t fight a nigga with his boys watching. They will join in, fight on his side even though at the end of it all, they will still have some painful jokes on him. As long as she got some manners, that didn’t matter. I had grown a thick skin over time, so it’s hard for me to be hurt by their words. Whatever came out of Gilly’s mouth if written here, I’ll be summoned to the Dean’s office or maybe the Senate and handed over to the police, with the miss in question having been provided for a lawyer by FIDA. 

    Moral of the true story, ladies, it’s prudent to greet people. You may have the genes the Kardashians wish they had and save them all the beauty related surgeries but remember, you will still need us, to pay that bus fare once in a while, do that dirty project for you that your manicured fingers can’t do, carry those heavy luggage, fix your techs and gadgets among others. Don’t come and interrupt my story with my sister or friends who may happen to be your “siz” as you call each and every female friends you have and leave me pending like a spam message. Surprise a perv like me once in a while with a hug, and I’ll always get you the latest episodes and movies. Treat me like a log, like she did and your reputation will be in jeopardy in no time.

    To my Muslim brothers and sisters, I want to wish you Ramadan Kareem. And any of you with an extra kanzu you can souvenir me mehn!!!… I have to participate in the coming feasts in style like one of you.

    9 girls to avoid falling for…

    Last week’s post on omera ladies got me into deep shit, the kind that you wish went unnoticed. But I made my own bed, I just had to lie on it. As we speak, I’m a persona non grata in the great republic of Kisumu and my sisters have suspended all forms of communication with me until further notice. The greatest critics, Agie and Melody, have blocked me and even unfollowed this blog but as they say, blood is thicker than those words and counter actions. Sooner or later, they will come to. And for my mother, well, I’m safe from her verbal warfare. Apart from the dialer and message icons, she can’t navigate through her phone without help, and the same way there is the bro code and siz code, we also have a sibling code. No snitching to the old geezers about nothing. You got biff with me, we handle it ourselves, if it gets out of proportion, we bring in a mediator, most likely one of us. There is no way mom will ever get to see that.

    Luo ladies aside, I’m here today to warn my team mafisi brothers on the type of birds we should never chase, whether sober or under the influence of a strong concoction of waragi.  Forget all the hype of Luos, whom if you are not a man enough, you can’t handle. They (not Luos) have the traits that we as the greatest Sacco within and beyond the continent detest. Some that when your mother sees, she will sire another daughter and raise her well for you to marry rather than them.  Here is the list of the plagues to avoid.

    Daddy’s little angel 

    It’s without question these are spoilt brats. They will want a nigga to treat them exactly as his fat bellied dad treats her. You will have to get her the very stuffs he gets her, take her to those fancy restaurants we pass by their open doors at the various malls we go to for the ig photoshoots (why do pics from such places come out unusually good…they have to be seen in Instagram). This is because she has been used to such places by the spendthrift geezer. However, unconfirmed reports claim they love hard, though it will be harder to love them back. So if you are surviving on Helb, meager pocket money your mum occasionally sends you after taking half a century convincing her you are completely out or the occasional Sportpesa handouts, know you can’t get her what a six figure salary gets her. RUN AWAY!


    If you are the jealous type like your boy here, you will die before your due date because of the emotional torture. If you have two left feet like a sister in law once described those of us who have a deficiency in dancing skills, you will always see her in the arms of another man, doing moves that should I describe here, Ezekiel Mutua’s KFCB may outstretch their mandate from regulating films to that of published media because however shallow my descriptions shall be, they will still get a space in the next edition of the Kamasutra publications, all in the name of dance. Needless to say, she will never spice things up with acrobatic turns during your escapades. 

    The sports lady 

    Woo unto you if you happen to date the captain of the women’s national rugby team or the athletic marathoners who are darker than soot. They can be very physical, and can beat stupidity out of you should you turn up in the house smelling a brewery past curfew hours. And did I mention they are not always the best beauty queens? Now you know.

    …With big brother(s)

    If she happens to have a big male figure other than the dad or someone in the same age bracket, she will have had an apprenticeship on team mafisi investigation. She will smell a player from miles away. What do you expect from a person who has observed his big brodas play their girls? They know all the tricks in the books too well so unless you have a new manual on the game that we can share, know you can’t beat her wisdom here. If you are the one girl type of a person, you are free to try your lack here.


    I’ve to admit, I kinda have a thing for these ones. I like their “I don’t care” attitude. They don’t need the constant pampering and assurance that they are the only one. For a person who from as young as ten years was in a boys’ only boarding school, I’ve to admit, treating girls like queens hasn’t been a joyride for me. Having someone whom I can talk to and treat the very same way I do with my homies is more than welcome. However, who does not want attention from their prayer partner. The emptiness you will feel whenever she’s away will make you go after another girl, one who will be nagging. It’s better to be disturbed but feel cared for.

    She smokes?

    If she inhales any substance apart from oxygen and other gases we know from basic primary school science (secondary chemistry will complicate things), know that there is no future for the two of you. If by chance you take things further and you have some puppies together, they may come out having cancer just like their mother. And who will like to present a girl whose nose and mouth gives out thick smoke like the exhaust of an outdated Harley Davidson?

    Taller girls 

    Unless you are the tallest persona in the history of NBA, know difficulties will be there when reaching for her lips when you want to lock… You will have to be on your tip toes to get to them which is contrary to the unwritten rules and regulations of kissing that stipulates that she’s the one to stretch out. And my brothers, if she’s the high heels kind of person, I pity you. 

    I also have a thing against extra short ladies, but due to conflict of interests, I’ll keep it to myself. Agie ulipo hope hujakasirika.

    Politicians and lawyers 

    Date either of them and the Constitution will be changed in their favor whenever you have disputes. Their job description requires them to be quick with their tongues, so know a game of words with them is a lost match. They can be intimidating and make you aware of the insecurities you never knew you had.

    An omera lady? Hell no!!

    Being as petty as I am, there are quite a lot of people that can easily get on my nerves like the kid in the compound that thinks you are his age mate to play with but you can’t give him a beating for obvious reasons, the fat mama next door in the name of being a good neighbor that keeps tabs of all your friends (females to be exact) who come visiting, especially at night and the landlord who can’t give you masiku sosa at end month as hotels used to give on ugali those days when maize flour was cheaper than wheat. But on top of this list, there is this group of people who vex me the most; the egocentric Luo lady.

    Yea, and I mean it. Now my sisters are thinking of rushing to the master bedroom to wake the old folks for an intelligence briefing. Their son has gone berserk but I don’t give a damn! I come from the lakeside but at times, I wish I had the contacts to an agency that adopts adult girls to sort out some of my sibling related problems. Should a judge one day wish to punish me for a capital offence, trust me, keeping me in a closed room with six luo ladies for a whole week would have done the job. No need to congest Kamiti maximum prison.

    They take the trophy for being drama queens, their only competition being the Maimunas and Fatumas at the coast. They have a thing for attention and the best way to get it, cause some drama. Who’s not tired of Akothee’s rants and okasechi manenoz that only matches Vera Sidika’s and her socialite sisters, who by the way, I’m very convinced are all Luos, the type that we refer to as expatriates. I’m short of thirteen thousand, to hire an expert in DNA sequencing and cross generational analysis to validate this theory. I’ll have a paybill number before the day ends for your donations on this.

    Women who can fight for what they stand for are to be admired, but what happens if they go too far. Look at Millie Ojiambo. She has luo ancestry. The miss can take on Duale and Moses Kuria at a go, with the referee; speaker of the house, being on their side. She has no limits so I wasn’t surprised at all when his Excellency was at the receiving end of his wrath. Some time back when our representatives decided to throw the Honorable title out the window, she was in the middle of the fiasco, fighting, not other women but men. I hear some legislatures had to seek medical attention, but I’m yet to get wind of any rumour that our daughter checked in at Nairobi hospital or any other big hospital for that matter. She’s a Luo and Luos don’t do ordinary stuff nor get ordinary services. If it’s not Nairobi hospital or Aga Khan or Mp Shah hospitals, she better dies. If you think her hardcoreness is an isolated case, then you need to visit Nyalenda and Ondiek estates in Kisumu. And for your safety, please take along armed guards with you, preferably ones with special forces training or a GSU recce squad background.

    As a man, you need to be the protector and defender of the household but when she happens to be the masculine one, roles change. Considering their egos and kik ibadha (don’t disturb me) attitude, roles will change and instead of kukaliwa chapati, she will seat on your face after being wrestled down. Conjestina is a case study here. Confidential sources from the city of Yalla that refused to be named for fear of repercussion from her have confirmed that she beats the bodaboda guys. Bodaboda operators are known for their unity. You can’t take on any of them while the rest of the pack look. But Conje defied all odds by overpowering the unlucky whimps. My brother, unless you want to be the one rushing to the gender violence offices, keep off. It’s very embarrassing, and my dear friend Wetangula can confirm it. And did you know we don’t have a male association as strong as FIDA to fight for our rights? Thought you should know. 

    The spankings from my mother cannot miss a space here. She would unleash uncle Sam(the black leather belt I once told you abou) everytime I did something wrong, I was doing something wrong, I was about to do something wrong or even thought i did, was doing or about to do something wrong. Yea, that was the predicament we 90s kids had to pass through. Nowadays I hear parents give teachers strict instructions not to touch their young ones, who have funny pet names like little boo, baby boo among others. For me, my mother gave instruction such as “piga kabisa lakini asikufe…ndio pia mmi nipate nafasi ya kupiga ghasia kama bado anapumua..” (beat but don’t kill the rascal so that I also get an opportunity to beat him whilst still breathing) at school. This was her on a very good day. On her worst days, trust me you don’t want to know. And guess what, she’s a descendant of Luanda Magere, one who as Nick Salat says, ujaluo iko ndaaaaaani ndaaaaaani ndaaaaaani kabisa. Ask her to pronounce fish, and she will say fis without an ounce of embarrassment. Sorry min cliff but it’s the truth. If you want to kill me this time round for real, I’ll be waiting on the shores of the great Nam Lolwe. 

    As I seek exile, I salute all those men who are dating omeras. You are heroes. To those who have made up their minds not to chase them, this is a strategy by me to eliminate competition. To that single jaber, drop your number, I show you why Romeo stole my lyrics when hunting Juliet….


    My avocado is mine

    Any persona that happened to go through a Kenyan boarding school can attest to the fact that avocados are the most invaluable fruits within the prison walls.  A canteen would lack bananas, mangoes and even mandazis but not our dearest avocados.  Persea americana as our biological friends at KARI ( Kenya Agricultural Research Institute) would refer to it, is a favorite among students. It’s dynamic use is what made it so popular. The thing would blend well with anything, be it githeri(the staple meal there), rice and kales among others. To date, I’m yet to get a margarine that equals avocados in bread. If you have never tried this, just take a ripe ovacado and smear it on a slice of bread and give me the feedback, but I can guess that would be after a whole loaf has collapsed. 

    So here I am disturbed by one Edwin Kings Nyambedha, eldest grandson of Ambrose Nyambedha who claims that “we” are mistreating the fruit. Sources closest to him claim he has intentions to open a sanctuary for them. Something like an animal orphanage. He will hoard as much avocado in there and won’t care if they rot or not, as long as no one eats them. A sadist in deed.

    God gave us avocados to feast not to look at. I swear on my appetite, I will oppose this move to the last of my breath. I urge us not to be like the woman in the parable of the talents who played safe by hiding his coins. He was punished for not keeping them into use. Let us devour the stuff and be healthy. It’s benefits are tremendous. I hear it can help “Kutoa tint” should you choose to go the Girligraph Jane’s (Khalligraph Jones) way. And you Kings, if you still hold the grudge with us ovacado eaters because of that day you were cheated to use its juice as a tot for your whiskey, please mature up and let that be past tense.The cocktail backfired but at least you managed to taste a whole new concoction. We taught you how to drink the stuff undiluted so we deserve some gratitude here. Avocados are here to be eaten by man, and man is here to eat ovacados. Meanwhile, I’m mixing my githeri now with this natural blue band.

    You are not welcomed as usual. Serve for one only.



    A couple of weeks ago, I checked in at a blood bank center. Not that I am charitable or something of the sort, but for the 500ml bottle of Fanta pineapple they give at the end of the exercise. I am still trying to understand why this is the only brand they always have. On that particular day,I was roaming at an undisclosed location when I felt thirsty. But since son of man here is ever broke (interpreted as stingy), buying a bottle of water was never an option. As usual, one has to go through the usual routine; health checkup and filling boring questionnaires that in the end you swear never to apply for a job with ipsos synovete. After all that pain, the paper work and a prick on my finger, I am told that I can’t donate. My blood capacity was way below the minimum required measure. What the hell was this? Is this not a mockery of my almost perfect health? If some years back in high school, when I was smaller and surviving on rationed food that was poorly cooked, I donated 2 units of the fluid to get a double deal of the refreshment, why now, with all the freedom to eat any quantity and quality of food that my wallet can permit, one unit is becoming impossible… just one unit for heaven’s sake! Had it not been for my handsomeness, that made the petite nurse blush every time I looked her way, I would have missed the drink. She gave me with “The look” and smile as consolation, thanking me for caring and trying to make the world a better place.

    The incident was quickly forgotten until the 27 April 2017 at 0347 hrs local time or thereabout when a series of events took place. I was dreaming that I was walking down the aisle, of course Malia Obama by my side, when I felt something crawl on my face. Because of the reflex thing that can make a lad block her mama’s slap, I reacted the very same way any of us does when bit by an anopheles mosquito…crash the thing and make it impossible to be recognized by its next of kin. That’s when I am hit with a pungent smell that can qualify for a chemical bomb compound.

    That stink wasn’t alien to me, considering I was in a boarding school even before my adolescence. I reach for the switch hoping I was wrong. You remember ‘dem days’ when you accidentally break your mom’s ‘viombo za wageni (visitor’s utensils) and are damn sure of a thrashing. You pray and fast so that she can have mercy on your bottom. Of course she will never forget the grave sin and she has to broadcast it to all the relatives, friends, neighbors and work colleagues. But as long as your black ass is safe from some old leather belt your dad used back in his campus days that she recycled to be used as an instrument of corrections in the house, you don’t give a damn. More often than not, you get the beating. That was the situation here. I was soon staring at a bedbug ‘corpse’. I was under attack.

    Apart from snakes which by the way every normal homo sapien sapien who is not a voodoo practitioner should fear, these tiny insects that stealthily crawl and operate under the cover of darkness like some black ops soldiers in ISIS backyard always give me goosebumps. They may be very small in size but let that not fool you as causing a holocaust is not rocket science to them. They have the meanest superpowers a villain can have. They will embarrass a person, his ancestors and descendants all at a go, scare away visitors and potential one night stand candidates and even make a nigga have anemia like i did.

    I lost my sleep and just stared into the darkness, soliloquizing how these merciless terrorists had invaded my crib. As far as I am concerned, I am a clean dude, in fact, I really loath dirtiness. Among my male friends, I believe I am the cleanest. I agree I’m very poor at arranging my stuff, but at least I am clean. Have you ever met a man who regularly washes his duvets? yea, I do exist. The fact that these creatures were here, uninvited of course, was evidence enough that Lucifer and my exes must have been working tirelessly to make my life even more miserable. If hierarchy was to be followed, all my friends (or at least a good number of them)  have to be infested before your boy here is. Like I have this classmate, very black and dresses like Hakeem, the Empire cast that wears rags. He can go for days without a drop of water coming into contact with his back and his clothes have to be recycled umpteenth times before being dipped into water( note that this does not necessarily mean they are washed), but as per my latest intel, he is safe. But here I was, hygiene standards way above reproach, but still playing the host.

    As I was still evaluating my past relationships, trying to figure out which one among them was this evil to cast such a powerful spell on me, I remember that my dirge acts like a warehouse during the holidays. Some of my friends who reside in the hostels bring their stuffs for safekeeping. It’s common knowledge that these hostels (especially the male hostels)  are the breeding ground for the beasts. Should some research institution need specimen, look no further. You now know where you can get more than enough of them. I had fond the partial cause to my predicament. The other causes is definitely my exes though I don’t have hard evidence yet.

    At daybreak, everything is turned upside down… inside out and thoroughly inspected. The days’ lectures just had to be cancelled. A closer inspection on the mattress after removing its cover revealed the extent of the crisis. I found others embedded in my boxers. In fact, these were the fattest. They must have been feasting on my yogurt so should I turn out to be impotent in the near future, don’t blame my genes nor my lifestyle.

    I washed everything in hot water. For the next three consecutive nights, sleeping was restricted to the cold floor using my towel only as a pillow in an attempt to starve the naughty few that may still be playing hide and seek in the mattress. So to all those chipus who might have second thoughts about coming over, just know there is no need to worry now. The place is now spotless.

    In the midst of all this, one bill was proposed, debated and passed by me, myself and I. No more playing the good Samaritan. Keeping anything for a hostel resident is a thing of the past. To the outsiders, you must produce a CDC certification. I’m sorry I won’t be accepting anything from KEMRI. The landlord was the speaker and opposition leader, so I’m still wondering where you will appeal.

    And brethren, as Ng’ugi wa Thiong’o puts it in “the river between”, the oilskin of the house is not to be rubbed on the back of strangers. This secret is to be kept in-house. Should this reach my grandma, she will board the first available bus here accompanied by an exterminator. She will personally oversee an unnecessary thorough cleaning and the things her eyes may come across; the different paraphernalia my girls forget or tactfully leave behind to demarcate their territory at the end of a league may make her drag me to a mchungaji (pastor) for moral cleansing and spiritual guidance, after debating against the thought of disowning me.