Posted: April 11, 2011 in Palaver

When I first started this blog, it was meant to be a means of self expression and a sort of diary where I could document the cherished (and sometimes not so cherished) memories that I encounter in my day to day living. However, you would be suprised at the sneering looks it has earned me from some of my acquintances (most of whom I honestly don’t give a rat’s ass about). Nonetheless, it stirred some need for a form of justifictaion within me that prompted me to start this other blog (www.iwittness.blogspot.com) which you probably might want to have a look at when youre not too busy being a pain in my groin (yes,you!). I could go on and on about what prompted me to temporarily stop blogging here but that is neither here nor there. I’m back like I never left…*blows nose with middle finger and sticks it in your face*


Our Deepest Fear

Posted: February 10, 2011 in Stuff I Like

By Marianne Wilson

Our Deepest Fear
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us.
Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking
So that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We were all meant to shine, as children do.
It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone.

And as we let our own light shine,
We unconsciously give other people permission to do the same
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.

Typical Nairobi Talk

Posted: February 10, 2011 in Stuff I Like

A pal of mine tagged me on this note on FB…Enjoy!

Ay, Tom bana, w’sup. You’ve potead you guy, where’ve you been, ama it’s that nigga from that day who wekad you a *Gary Neville.. you kumbuka that day for rudge.

Hahaha ah you guy you’ve cracked. Kwanza you didn’t ambia me vibe for Naks? I skiad you guys rolled up in style yaani, I was being ambiwad by..nani..this mama what’s her name.. Kevo’s chick. Yeah, she was ambiaing me how everyone stopped and turned to look at who’s in the mots yaani, sijui the dere was drifting onto the field ama iz how?

Ahahaha driftin naetsin. You guy we were dropped there by a G5! Red leather seats champagne nininini, si you jua…

Haha you nigga the way you’ve ne’er even pandad a Daihatsu..

Walalalala a guy you haven’t even ambiad me like that. ‘S all good lakini

‘S all good in the hood nigga! 4 real lakini, you guys chafuad eh? You were with kina who?

Us guys rolled with kina Jamoe..

Which Jamoe, Jamoe G or rudbwoy..

Jamoe G. Then. Us guys were me, JT, kina Sam and then two mamaz who kujad with JT. And then the other mots was kina Ben and his chile and her pals.

Eh you guy Ben is still with that mama…? The way I had pangad that line with syke yaani..

Enyewe that mami is not a joke. Wah. That diab!

Eh those are the diabs you just jua she didn’t get it at Diabs-are-us…

Hahahaha ati Diabs-are-us. You guy waaaaat? hahaha

No, for real, si you’ve chekid those mamis when they pita.. you’re checkin them out then you just cheki anaa’ DISAPPOINTING diab you guy… you even go osha your machoz.

Ahahahahaha for real by the way you guy! I jua! Ati you even go osha your machoz. Walalalala.

Si now that’s how you jua if she got her diab at the local duka ama she got hers custom-made. You jua kwanza with a card ‘With love, God’.

Ahahahahahha! You guy I’ve sareed your storoz!

So what’s good lakini? Plan tonight? I’ve just gongad my ol’ man cheddar, I’ve semad the fees has been ongezwad. So what the dealie what the dealie yo?

I’m chilling for kina Shiko to fika. I think they were semaing we go Tamasha for jazz then we shuka Westie later. I don’ jua fo sho.

I’m ambiaing you Tamasha jazz is on point you guy.. have you ever gone? Ah, you jua kwanza the guy with that nini..whats it called again.. that long ass trumpet…..saxophone, yeah, that saxophone guy.. me I don’ jua what he fanyaz, but good music you guy… si you jua we can’t be skizaing Gucci Mane till when we’re 50.. we jus go tam tam.

Me I’m eaze. I’m down for whatever bora these mamiz Shiko is letaing are hot, ah, I’m sorted.

You’ll pita with like four of them kama kawaida..

You guy four will be the cube root of the real number yaani..

Ahahahaha. Sijui that Daihatsu of yours will vunjika tonight…

Eh, boss, ‘This my Daihatsu iss in very much palaver this evening’

Hahahaha si basi we check in the diggz and wait for kina Shiko.. you guy there’s some ‘aa baridi out here what were you even fanyaing outside..

Cigarette break. You want?

Nah I’m good. Ah, I have to chomoa my kicks over here?

No just ingiaa. They’ve chucked the carpet..

Ah nice.

By the way Tome..

Wassup. Eh I’m chekiing the diggz has been oshwad mpaka.

There’s a boti of Grant’s over there, you can just pop that shit open I’m kujaing.. this headrush is some serious shit you guy…

Ah, tha’s why you my nigga! Where, in the fridge? That’s that good shit bana.

Si you jua how we do up in this biatch. I’m kujaing.


Can i get a middle finger to the British? Yes? Middle finger to the British? A guy, colonization my dia

If I was God’s personal advisor, there is one group of people I would ensure never got any form of amnesty come judgement day. Pedophiles. Them and one pile of rat sh*t called Mututho. This lot should be cast to the deepest, darkest, hottest crevices of hell where they shall forever be condemned to eternal damnation and subjected to all fathomable torment. I would ensure that their souls would be the firewood that feeds the blistering flames that burn in the deepest pits of the abyss. And here’s the reason why.

I have always hated rapists. Despised them actually. And no, it’s not out of any personal experience. Although there was that one incident…Anyway, there is something despicably pitiable about any man who has to resort to force to get a woman laid. I mean just think about it, there’s like three women for every guy on the planet and after you eliminate gays, lesbians and Justin Bieber were left with enough chics for every other straight shooting Tom, Dick and Harry to drain their sacs spermless. How lame do you have to be to not be able to get at least one desperate damsel to part her legs for you?! Seriously, not even a prostitute????? I know places where you can get laid for less than it costs to buy a condom! #imjustsayin

But while I dislike rapists, I utterly loathe pedophiles. See, a rapist might be driven by desperation (especially with the present fashion trends in town. Have you seen the scandalous stuff they wear nowadays?? *smh*) but pedophiles are simply sick! There is nothing remotely erotic about little girls (or boys for that matter *sheds tears due to painful memories :-D*) that would justify such barbaric deeds.

I’ve always said that the day I catch a pedophile (whether) in the act (or not), I would chop off their dudu and stick it so far up their behind they would have to puke it to ever see a genital again. Which is why I’m still beating myself up for not being there when some demented scum attempted to defile my 15 year old baby sister last week. Luckily, my sister escaped unscathed, but that sorry son of a suicidal sex worker won’t be so lucky when I (and my posse of heavily built hired thugs) set my eyes on him.

Which brings me to the next object of my infuriation; Mututho. This guy’s paroz should have just used protection. If I could travel in time I would go back to the night his mum got boned and buy his old man a truck full of alcohol then watch him drink every bottle in it till I was satisfied there was no way he could get it up.

After having a rather depressing week in which I somehow managed to lose my girlfriend, my (until then) main hustle and my pride (for reasons I will divulge in a later post) all in a span of seven severely frustrating days, I was in more need for a drink come Friday than an alcoholic in Naivasha. My pal Flex invites me to accompany him to Carnivore for Kitwek Night. Allow me to digress a bit here…

Kalenjin mamas are hot! Scratch that. Kalenjin mamas are steaming HOT! One can be forgiven to assume that the core requisite criteria for a lady to qualify to be Kale are good looks. I am thinking of starting a pimping business that exclusively specializes in specimens from the land of mursik. Imma be a freaking billionaire! Just watch this space. The dudes on the other hand are a different breed. Something about Kale dudes just inspires bloodshed. From the way they pee to how they laugh and even when they dance. At which point I feel compelled to warn you; if you have loose bowels, do not look when Kales are dancing. The comicalness of it will overwhelm you. These guys can’t dance to save their shady selves! On a more serious note, that Joshua Sang fellow should just be taken to Hague. Period! I will personally sell my crown jewels to raise his air fare if necessary. While I can hardly hear a word in Kale, I could tell from his speech at the event that he was trouble. Even the Kale guy I was standing next to was cringing from his obviously inflammatory remarks. And incase Mr. Ocampo needs any additional evidence to incriminate him I will willfully donate my video phone which has enough footage in it to ensure he rots in Guantanamo Bay or wherever it is his ilk are shipped to.

Back to Mututho. So were at Carnivore trying to get a feel of what being Kale is all about and we decide this is just not happening. No offence but these guys just don’t know how to party! Like they’re totally clueless *spoken in a dumb blonde accent*. Well, the fact that beers in Carni go for a freaking 200 bob probably influenced our decision to relocate but you aint heard it from me. Besides, an additional 25 bob would get you three beers less sober in our local! So we settled on heading back to town for some real action which we did almost immediately. But alas! Mututho happens.

A couple of months ago, the CBD would be a buzz of activity in the shy hours of Saturday morning with hot blooded tweens (I picked this up from an article I read in today’s paper. Apparently it’s a term used to jointly refer to teenagers and early twenty-somethings) behaving badly which FYI is the kind of stuff that nourishes the perverted spirits of persons such as yours truly. On this particular mo(u)rning however, the reverse was the case. All the bars and clubs were tightly shut and the few souls with enough courage to walk the streets did so with extreme caution lest they fell prey to cops and council askaris lurking in the alleys.

Amid much lamentation and obscenities directed at one son of Naivasha, I dragged my sober sorry self to bed and snoozed my sorrows away. Pigstool. That’s what comes to mind whenever I think of Mututho and his goddamned laws!



Recommended read:snyanchwani

Happiness is so overrated.

It’s Friday evening. My friends are plotting the weekend’s rendezvous. I on the other hand am sandwiched between a box of stationery and a steaky screamy rambling mammoth of a woman in a ramshackled contraption destined for the land of my forefathers. Some melancholic composition by one Bahati Bukuku (sp) is playing. Let me educate you a little about my people.

You’ve probably heard a lot about the despondency surrounding my motherland but kindly allow me to put things into perspective for you. Most of the land that birthed the seeds of my existence is dry and arid. Poverty, misery and despair are a permanent visitor. And with the kind of leaders we have, our fortunes don’t seem to imply much will change anytime soon. Yet my people still very desperately cling on to the hope that as the distant rays of tomorrow’s sunrise begin to advance, their forlorn looks of despair shall blossom into beaming smiles brimming with happiness.

My people have an unshakable attachment to salvation. Ask any random person amongst my kinsmen and I promise every other one of them will pledge their unyielding allegiance to He who has no beginning and no end-The Alfa and Omega. It is in Him that they believe all happiness comes from.

I am here to send off the remains of my grand-uncle who just kicked the bucket. No need to wear any sad faces, he died out of illness emanating from old age. He had reached the end of his long winding lane. In his time, he had seen many sorrowful and grim times. Not for any particularly unique reason, but because sadness is a demon that continuously stalks my folk. So you understand why I was sneeringly amused when in his eulogy they were desperately trying to paint the picture of how happy he had been.

Tonight I spent the evening with my cousins. I realized how little it takes to be celebrated in these here parts. Simple gestures which to we ‘civilized’ urban folk would seem like a mountain of a task here are rewarded with tons of goodwill and blessings. And with utmost sincerity. Somehow, with all the turmoil that clouds their gloomy existence, my people still care to share the little happiness they can spare.

After the funeral, in the company of my fellow visiting cousins from the city, we proceed to sample the groggy swallows of my kinfolk. Many mouthfuls later, the conversation veers towards examination of the achievements of our toils in the city. It strikes me that everyone present is straining to present a decorated report card. Each with the ultimate goal of gloating about how happy they are.

On my way back, my old man and his Mrs. offer to let me hitch hike on their automobile. Typical of my mum, always eager to show how together her home is. Even when she has to bend over backwards to do so. Never mind that her back is already cracked from the years of labouring in an effort to ensure our tomorrow would be a tad better than yesterday. Her youth ebbing off, along with the dwindling traces of happiness she once glowed with.

Even as I retire to my bed this evening, my thoughts still linger on the smile from my little cousin from the village. Filled with innocence and peace. His heart-prodding eyes beseechingly cast in an empty gaze. Oblivious of the twists and turns that beckon his sprouting existence. His disillusioned father and desolate mother too deeply drenched in poverty to ever notice the potential of his future. Shall he know happiness?

Hello again. Pardon me, it’s been a minute. The city’s hustle and bustle kind of gets to a brother sometimes. Nevertheless, pleasure to have you staring at me again.

So 2010 just upped and whizzed! Jeez man! Don’t just walk out on us like that! Here one second, gone in the next! But anyhow, that’s life! A bitch with no conscience. So I’m in my retrospective zone and I start to wonder; “what was it like?”

I learnt a lot by the way. And all the bits and pisses paint the colourful portrait that informs the content of this post.


Bro’s Before Hoe’s

Sorry to spit it out so bluntly and in public like this honey but you aren’t the one riding shotgun on this excursion.”… This perhaps has been the most significant discovery I made last year. Bro’s will have your back through the hunting, killing and skinning, hoes will only show up in the banquet. I know it sounds very bigoted, primal and archaic, but sadly, it’s a fateful fact of life. For me, 2010 taught me to see the real ties that bind. (no homo)

Growing Up Can Be A Pain

A pal of mine introduced me to this song by some old school blues musician I would otherwise never in my life have listened to. I can’t recall his name but the chorus goes like: “growing up can be a paiiiiiin…” (errr!…that’s about all I can remember). Anyway, never in my life have I experienced first-hand the reality of those words like I witnessed in 2010. You know how you really couldn’t wait to grow up and be an adult so life stops sucking so damn much? Well whaddayaknow? It actually gets worse! From family drama, to girlfriends, to how the hell I’m going to get my shit together after I’m done with college in the next six months, to how broke my ass is, to…WTF???!!!! The only thing good about being an adult is sex! And even that’s overrated!

You Can’t Teach An Old Dog New Tricks (I’m working on a theory that will validate this hypothesis).

I have a dog. He’s called Silas. He’s my dog {American slang for ‘brother’} and also my dog {domesticated four legged mammal that barks and bites}. I’ve tried to teach this egghead everything. From how to pronounce “thirst” (trust me, it’s not so easy for a guy with a deep Kisii accent), to how not to wear ‘don’t-touch-my-ankle’ trousers and (most fruitlessly) how to get a chick laid. Just thinking about it gives me depression.

In many ways, my dad and Silas have a lot in common. Which is probably why he doesn’t understand why my mum refused to talk to him for two months when he didn’t bring her a rose on Valentine’s day. Essentially, these two guys are old dogs. They’ve reached a level where their rate of adjustment to change has stagnated. Based on my most recent dating relationships, I would say I have grown into an old dog too. Trying to introduce any new modification on what I have formed as an opinion on a particular subject will be an effort in futility.

You Can Be Anything You Want To Be

This statement very aptly captures a summary of what my year was like. If you set your mind to it, you can be anything you want to be in life. There is nothing more rewarding than to see the seed of your imagination blossom into an amazing reality. Last year, I tried a more…hands on approach to life. And I can confidently say it put a smile on my face. I may not have conquered any extraordinary challenges, but the sheer hope in the possibilities that await those daring enough to merely make an attempt overwhelms me. And so I made a resolve to try as much as possible to milk whatever is left of my potential for all its worth.

Chelsea FC Rocks!!

I just felt I should say something to piss you off!

Let Haters Hate…

…otherwise they wouldn’t have a job. So think of yourself as an employer when you get haters. Just in case you get the wrong idea, I’m not talking about me. I’ve got nothing for haters to hate on. Anybody hating on me is one bored son of a bitch! Anyway, this is directed to those guys who always find a reason to undermine other peoples’ achievements. I see people hating on Alfred Mutua because the guy is trying to get his hustle on. The same guys will find a reason to poke holes on Churchill’s brand of comedy when the guy is actually good at it. Heck, same guys will hate on Eric Wainaina for hitting that TPF chick when it’s obvious she wanted it too!!! Yeah, that last one was probably a tad uncanny. Bottom line?…just dust your shoulders off and tap them the fuck out of the way.

Do Something Good For People When You can

Believe it or not, God exists. And he exists in the hearts of men. Over the years, religion has lost a lot of value in my eyes. But my spirituality has grown in leaps and bounds. In other words, I’m not looking forward to a trio of angelic forms riding out of the sky on unicorns. But I know for a fact that the good or evil you do upon a fellow human will beget the good or evil that another will do upon you. And thus we revolve within this vicious cycle. (Deep,huh?)

My self-actualization dream is to provide medical assistance to those guys who lie around the streets in town with placards pleading for donations. I’m talking about the ones who have eye watering medical conditions and have no one to come to their aid. Deep within me, I feel disgusted to belong to a society that tolerates such blatant disregard for one another’s plights. Very few things move me but these particular cases touch me in the deepest, most sentimental crannies of my being.

Happy 2011.



Ps: Do you think any of my future bosses reads this blog? I’ve heard nowadays employers examine any potential employees’ internet profiles before hiring them. Is that true? If the answer to any of the two questions is in the affirmative then I guess I’m screwed, aren’t I?

Happy New Year

Posted: December 29, 2010 in In Living Memory, Palaver

2010 is dead and gone. 2011 is calling on us…like a virgin waiting to be deflowered. One of my New year’s resolutions is to slave my ass off to ensure this blog becomes a lifeline to other demented sociopaths like yours truly. And that my friends, is one resolution I intend to fulfill come sh*t or piss!

In the meantime, here’s to hoping you had a good 2010 and to wish that 2011 will be even more awesome! Do Mary and make merry…as long as you don’t indulge in anything that might lead you to stick a phone up your rear like that guy from Naivasha.(I have no idea where that came from).



Posted: November 17, 2010 in Published Works

I’ve been really lazy of late. I just can’t seem to get myself to write anything worth posting. But I promise I will get round to it soonest. In the meantime, I ‘borrowed’ and reworked this post from one of my favourite bloggers-Jackson Biko (Hope you’ve read his blog – BIKOZULU). I trust you will enjoy it and that he won’t sue me for plagiarism or anything of the sort.

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By Jackson Biko

Men are born. Males are made. A man is verb, not a noun. Men aren’t static, they are fluid. A man is only a man as long as he feels he is a man, after that the bottom falls off and he stops being a man, he becomes a noun. And when a man becomes a noun he buys poodles and starts wearing purple skinny jeans.

A man isn’t afraid to cry, but not before his daughter because in his daughter’s eyes he is more than a man.

A man is aware of his susceptibility and he uses it to spur ambition.

A man doesn’t watch Sebuleni show.

A man can fix a broken sink.

A man eats with his hands if he has to.

A man is not defined by his drink, he defines his drink, even if it’s Sauvignon Blanc.

A man should be able to laugh at himself, to take a joke, even a bad one.

A man takes care if his mother.

A man doesn’t ask a woman, “Do I snore in my sleep?” Because snoring is the euphemism for roaring in the animal kingdom.

A man appreciates a woman’s bare skin, the revelation of nakedness- and so Ricky Martin isn’t a man, at least not enough.

A man rises up and defends his woman’s honour even if his woman is obviously on the wrong.

A man doesn’t gossip. He takes a punch on the chin.

A man leaves the house when his woman has those women’s kyama meeting over. And he never carries her handbag. Never.

A man has no qualms saying he is sorry because an apology not only redeems his soul, but it averts a woman’s rabid tongue.

A man pays his debts, if not his taxes.

A man knows his children by name, and what they had for dinner last night. And he kisses them.

A man can make an omelet-or at least try and he isn’t afraid that doing dishes will make him less.

A man loves sex but learns to tame the beast of his loins.

A man helps a blind man to cross the street.

A man isn’t afraid of age, no less than he is afraid of ageing.

A man never sings aloud to Celine Dion, even if no one is listening.

A man listens more than he argues. He picks a book sometimes, perhaps more than he picks a beer.

Alcohol doesn’t change a man, he changes it.

A man doesn’t get into a woman’s purse- even if she sends him there.

A man never hits a woman, no matter how obnoxious and rabid she is. He sends her back to her mother.

A man never, ever under any circumstance says “woishe” in his conversation.

A man isn’t afraid to fail, but only if he will try again.

A man never takes his best friend’s woman, even if she has an ass like Toni Braxton’s. And he never snitches on a fellow man.

A man has to watch The Godfather, and like it damn it.

A man doesn’t pretend to know everything; he prefers to learn from those who know.

A man wears a watch that works.

A man makes many mistakes in his life, it’s the hallmark of manhood.

Sometimes, a man masturbates.

A man believes in something, anything; a value, a thought, a principle, and defends it like he would his child.

A man lets the woman order first.

A man doesn’t leave when the chips are down; he takes a long breath and finds a way.

A man loves the TV series MadMen and doesn’t find Don Draper a nuisance, only emotionally stunted.

A man doesn’t need this article to inform his manhood; he reads it, maybe smiles a bit and continues being the man as he, and only he understands it.



Posted: October 28, 2010 in Published Works

I found this on the internet and figured you might enjoy reading it.


What other language do people drive in a parkway and park in a driveway?

Why does night fall but never break and day break but never fall?

Why is it that when we transport something by car, it’s called a shipment, but when we transport something by ship, it’s called cargo?

Why are people who ride motorcycles called bikers and people who ride bikes called cyclists?

In what other language do they call the third hand on the clock the second hand?

Why is it called a TV set when you get only one?

Why – in our crazy language – can your nose run and your feet smell?

Sometimes you have to believe that all English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane:

If olive oil is made of olives, what do they make baby oil from?

If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian consume?

A writer is someone who writes, and a stinger is something that stings.

But fingers don’t fing and grocers don’t groce.

If the plural of tooth is teeth, shouldn’t the plural of booth be beeth?

If the teacher taught, why isn’t it also true that the preacher praught?

If harmless actions are the opposite of harmful actions, why are shameless and shameful behavior the same?

English is a language in which you can turn a light on and you can turn a light off and you can turn a light out, but you can’t turn a light in;

In which the sun comes up and goes down, but prices go up and come down.

In which your nose can simultaneously burn up and burn down and your car can slow up and slow down, in which you can fill in a form by filling out a form and in which your alarm clock goes off by going on.

English is a crazy language. What is it that when the sun or the moon or the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible; and why when I wind up my watch, I start it, but when I wind up this essay, I shall end it?

Tricky Plurals===============

We’ll begin with a box, and the plural is boxes;

but the plural of ox became oxen not oxes.

One fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice;

yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?

If I spoke of my foot and show you my feet,

and I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beeth?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

and the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

but though we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him, but imagine the feminine, she, shis and shim.

Lets face it, English is a crazy language hehehehe

I have come to the conclusive deduction that corporates are the biggest jackpotters in the world today. Only that unlike politicians, their fast money schemes are well guised under the veil of corporate social responsibility activities, product launches and a host of other cleverly constructed projects and events. Nevertheless, I have never shied away from attending such functions if only to get my share of the free booze, women and goodies on offer. Recently, I had the privileged pleasure of attending one such event courtesy of a newly launched establishment and the events that unfolded were a script-like tale of what goes down in such functions.

The location was at a new five star hotel in upmarket Nairobi. The beauty of it is that it’s only on such occasions that they let my type into such establishments. Of course on such occasions, the formal dress code helps but under ordinary circumstances, the furthest they would let me in would be the lobby where the butler would promptly inform me that they have a ‘No Hawking’ policy. It would make so much sense if they held those shindigs in more appropriate locations like the estate local or some pub in downtown.

So there I am, looking so out of place among a bunch of pompous corporate bigots. I should mention at this point that they had official colours which everyone was supposed to wear and it seemed to me like every chick in attendance used this as an excuse to wear the most outrageous outfit in their wardrobe. If it raised one too many eyebrows, they could always defend themselves with “it’s the only purple dress I have.”

While we waited for the event to take off, some Jackie-Chan looking Chef came over with some thingies that we were supposed to eat. I didn’t even touch them. They looked and (from what I was told) tasted like pig poop. They served this with some funny looking cocktails that looked a lot like dog urine. They called them ‘Mohitos’. I should have sensed there was something scary about the drinks from the name and the way they looked but not wanting to appear backward or uncultured, I just swallowed as they came. And they tasted like piss too. But then alcohol isn’t supposed to be sweet. That’s why I think whoever came up with Black Ice hadn’t the least clue about making beer. My grandfather in the village brews better beer in his bedroom than that pathetic excuse of a drink!

Eight Mohitos later, I felt like I was standing on my head. At which point the MC announced that the event was about to begin and invited the guest artiste to perform. That bugger probably walked away with a five figure paycheck for cracking my skull open because what I heard during his performance sounded like a war of musical instruments was taking place right at the centre of my head. I’m not sure whether he was that bad or it was the Mohitos punishing me for having the nerve to underestimate their merit.

At least the next performance was a bit soothing. I’m a fan of Neo-Soul and locally, Afro-fusion comes as close as it can get. There is just something pleasantly melancholic about such kind of music that makes my body and soul orgasm in blissful ecstasy. The only thing I hate about the music is the artistes. For some reason they like to accord themselves an imaginary air of importance and sophistication that makes me want to spit on their bloated egos. To this class also belong this new breed of poets who act like they are God-sent emissaries to make the world a better place through verse and rhyme. But that is a story for another day.

Next came the speeches. I hate listening to speeches. Not so much for the listening but for the fact that in reality, whatever the speakers are saying is usually just a Public Relations attempt to make them look good. They will be smiling and saying how much they appreciate you being there when at the back of their minds they are wishing you would just buy their damn product or donate some money so they can get back to plotting how they will screw that Secretary before the night ends. So I will skip that part because this blog is not a P.R firm.

After the formalities came the partying. Which was why I was there in the first place. The MC announced that they had an open bar. What he meant to say was that I had died and gone to heaven. Just to make sure I wasn’t getting a raw deal, I ordered six bottles of the most expensive beer I could think of. That waitress must have thought I was joking or something because she just smiled, left and came back with one bottle. I was about to cause a scene when she whispered to my ear that they were only allowed to serve one customer one bottle at a time then handed me a napkin with her number on it. I know! I didn’t see that coming either! She must have assumed I was rich or something but (un)fortunately, I don’t do waitresses so I passed it on to my pal who later hooked up with her…in his car.

The DJ was playing some banging jams and I figured I should join the growing crowd at the makeshift dance floor. That was my first mistake. The second was giving in to the loud cheers beckoning me to dance in the middle of the pack. My appointed partner was a curvaceous little thing who gyrated like her ancestors were descendants of non-vertebrae reptiles. Trust me, until a lady has grinded on your groin until you get a full hard-on in public you will never understand what I went through.

Tentatively, the attendees started to make their exits and I couldn’t help but notice that while many of them had come alone, they left in heterosexual pairs that suggested they were going to have a lengthy analysis of what this new establishment had to offer…in the privacy of one of their bedrooms. Meanwhile, yours truly was trying to figure out how I would get my drunken ass to my bed without puking my guts all over Nairobi.

All is well that ends well. Cheers!