The delay 

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

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

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


10 characters in a club 

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

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

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

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

1. Tycoon 

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

2. The chat box 

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

3. The Professors

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

4. Bill Cosby

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

5. Dancer 

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

6. The foolish virgins

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

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

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

7. The whimp

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

8. Michael Tyson 

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

9. Jaw-breaker

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

10. Tee-toller

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


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

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

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

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?

Night runner for a mother! Pt 1

I reach for my phone in the back pocket, press the menu button and the screen lights up. The time is 3:46pm. All this a waste of effort had I been an owner of a wrist watch, I would have avoided. But we all know those that sell for about 300 Ksh have a lifespan of about two weeks, and getting an authentic Rolex is beyond my financial capability. I look in front and there’s still a good number of people.

I had been standing here for the past 2 or so hours under the tropical solar. The coastal humidity gave that feeling of suffocation. Why did I have to wait till today? I kept asking myself. Answering this seemed tougher than facing an examination paper set and supervised by some no-nonsense professor who thinks the only way his superiority can be recognized is by making a comrade’s life a living hell. But it wasn’t my fault that I was here today. Definitely not these others’ too. The last minute rush, could be, but not the whole thing. Let’s just say being a victims of circumstances.

Someone thought he was Snowden and decided to infiltrate some unwarranted systems. Since the extent of the breach couldn’t be established, everybody was supposed to present his exam pass to the finance office where the CPA holders after consulting their other books of accounts will rubber-stamp the pass and sign it. Now you know why these campus ladies and gentlemen were standing in a line at a place other than the school mess.

There were 2 queues. One was under a shade and somehow moving faster. I had joined this one initially but had to change stations. The dude in front of me was smelling like my grandma’s bearded he-goat. The stink of his sweat, YUCK! How do you afford a 19,000 Ksh infinix smartphone, get a pinky girlish cover for it and a power bank but the thought of buying deodorant and a bottle of cologne doesn’t hit you? You don’t have to go for an expensive Armani that the Kardashians’ better halves use. A cheap stuff within your means, dictated by HELB and Sportpesa handouts is good enough, provided it serves it’s purpose. And please Mr. he-goat, brush your teeth in the morning if you can’t after every meal.

I change queues, and there is a huge contrast between the two. This was full of ladies, the beautiful ladies. Those who dressed with an only intention of feeding my ever hungry eyes. Damn! This was always an excellent way of crushing my ego. I always look but I can’t touch. That feeling of helplessness that then sets in is worse. Starting a conversation with them is always kinda difficult, especially in such a place where there were people from all walks of life (different faculties). Should the ladies decide to turn down my advances in a manner likely to suggest I was below them in the food chain, there is no corner of the institution where I could get to unnoticed. Say negative publicity doing its job. And did you know that girls in a pack tend to be snobbish than usual? That’s why I just restricted my addiction to observation only. The fragrance of their perfumes was wow! Though I’m sure I smelt that scent of my washroom’s air freshener on some girl. But at least this was an effort. Hope the he-goat could learn a thing from her. She gave me homesick, or should I be saying washroom sick (pun intended).

It’s normally during such moments, when I’ve known that the prey is beyond my reach, that I look for something else constructive to do, like stalk my crush and exes altogether while deliberating on their pro’s and con’s. Seems stupid but believe you me, it’s a good way to kill time. But here under the sun, it wasn’t possible. It was proving very difficult to look at the telephone screen under the summer sunshine. But being the up and coming creative writer I am, I use such settings as an avenue to get my stories, or maybe part of a story. Analysis on the different fashion sense of some ladies in long dresses or multicolored swimming trunks (tight pants) and you have almost 450 words, 300 on their make ups and wigs, and you will only require 250 words to describe how they walk on those heels. Our 1000 worded article is ready in under 30 minutes of research.

But today, there was some sweet story, sweeter than how some lady tripped with a 6″ heels and in the process of obeying the various laws that lay the foundation of physics, such as lowering centre of gravity increases stability, she exposed some of her nether regions. The girls at my back were saying something about their friend, Mary, who after consuming one too many, confessed that her mother is a night runner back in Homa Bay County. Did I say that correctly? she confessed that her mother IS A NIGHT RUNNER after two tots of mnazi (Champagne expertly crafted from coconut). I was also shocked as you are now. I almost turned around and ask “ni ukweli?” but that would have killed the story there and then. This was like sitting down to watch your favorite series on a long weekend (weekends are never long though). You wish that that’s not the last episode. That was the case here. I listened without interrupting lest they question my manhood for listening to girl talk…

*To be continued*


The perfect husband…bad boyfriend?

It’s on Sundays like yesterday that I’m idle, usually without any plans. The only thing that’s always constant is waking up at around 8, prepare for church service which by around 11 is over, unless there is a sadaka ya pili and a lengthy announcement. From there, I head back to the cubicle I proudly call my nest and do just about anything that can be done. My favorite activity is streaming a series and checking my social media accounts, thanks to a generous neighbor who gave me their wifi password. It’s only on this day and maybe Saturdays that I can go through all the newsfeeds in Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, normally after writing an article or two.

So yesterday, I’m on Facebook, seeing all the rants, pro’s and con’s of father’s day which I’ve never observed. Maybe my adoring daughter in 10years to come will give me a reason to value it. I come across this post by Agin Elvis, a former classmate back in highschool. “They told me that to make her fall in love I had to make her laugh, buh every time she laughs am the one who falls in lov…” went the post, accompanied by his picture. If I were to mark it, already 7points would have been deducted. How comes you are telling us about her but go ahead to post your ugly face which I had to bear with for 3 long years instead of the beautiful unsub (unknown subject –to those not familiar with criminal minds terms) whom I can be as sure as my bankruptcy is, is very alluring. Agin’s eyesight may be defective when looking at books, but when angles change and they start to scan the figures in skirts, be sure they will only settle on the preprossessing ones.

Agin’s ugly face aside, I want to be sentimental on something very critical than the Qatar embargo. You see, this post made me think about my love life, which as far as my ancestors are concerned is very bad. If my grandpa was alive, I’m sure he would have given me some heads of cattle to take to a tyrant dad somewhere within or beyond the borders as a token of appreciation for her daughter. As for him, this would be the best time to start a family. But now even if given the cows, where will I take them, a slaughter house? I analyze the post again, and the baseline, ‘make her laugh‘. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all along when going after potentials, but they all don’t always feel the vibe. Maybe they have been laughing at me all this time and not my jokes. Maybe

I’ve been unwillingly single for long that I’ve been questioning if it’s because of my genes. Maybe I have a face that only my mother would love, but across the border, Besigye, whose face portrait I want to use to make scarecrows, has a beautiful career wife. We all have our own defects, but which is it in me that no girl can tolerate? I know my fashion sense is worse than MCA Tricky’s when on official duty on Churchill live but you can still take me into your feathers and morph me into a Nick Mutuma in 2weeks. People do change, as long as the necessary effect is felt. A little input here and there and every photograph I take will be worth putting in Instagram.

Or is it my character? If told to describe it, I can’t do it properly. This has to be done by a person observing you. Son of man can’t observe himself, so to those who think they know me well, hit my inbox with my profile assessment. 

And there was this time a friend to a friend whom I may or may not have been chasing, or still chasing, told me I would make a good husband, but not an ideal boyfriend. Like seriously? This was one of the most confusing statement to ever get into my ear drums, after those by my mum saying “…just break them, I’ll buy others…” after a glass slips and breaks. Miss, we aren’t living in the 20th century when an unknown spouse was brought to you by an aunt whom you just had to marry and cope with after skipping an essential stage like courting. Nowadays, you get a boyfriend or girlfriend depending on your gender, age, preferences and sexuality, court, and when you feel he or she is the one, pop the magic question,”..will you marry me?..” That’s the process of one being a husband. So don’t say I’ll make a good husband if I can’t be the boyfriend. The two can’t be totally separated. And a piece of advice to all the singles who turn everybody down in pursuit for the perfect ready made, know that you have to kiss a few frogs before meeting your Prince Charming. 

Nimeenda hivi Tujuane Auditions. Let’s meet at Big Brother Africa’s club house if you got insulted.

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).