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).

    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.