Archive for the ‘Kiguu na njia’ Category

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?