Archive for the ‘Me and My Crayziee World’ 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


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?

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!

I am mad for many reasons. I am mad because the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. I am also mad because the sky is blue and the earth is brown. I am mad too because Jesus’ mother was a virgin. But that is not why I am writing this post. I am writing this post because I am mad at women!
To put you in perspective I will tell you about the women in my life. There are three. The first is my mother. She is the most precious being I have ever encountered. The only breathing creature I would give my life for. I emphasize on ‘breathing’ because there are other inanimate creations that I would readily die for (or die with-depending on which comes first). They come in bottles. Brown bottles. Anyways, back to my mum. She’s my rock of ages. My priceless jewel. My all. I could write an entire script for a Mexican soap opera about her alone. She’s really great!

The second woman in my life is my sister. She’s thirteen so I guess that makes her more of a girl than a woman. But she always says she’s thirteen and a half which is funny because I still think of her as the eight year old I’ve always known. I love her for her innocence but then she’s growing up so fast I might have to think of new reasons to keep loving her. And while were on the subject, any man who even dreams of getting anywhere near her in the next seventeen years should consider himself past tense in advance.

The third woma(e)n in my life is(are) the rest. It is this group that I am mad at. You see life has taught me a lot of lessons. Some have been good. Others have been bad. And in all the lessons I have learnt out of life, I have deduced that women are the root of all evil. With the exception of my mum and sis. And like all things evil, they have entrenched themselves so deeply in our lives that they have become indispensable. This flash of infinite wisdom came to me a couple of days ago when I was in the company of two female acquaintances.

We were casually tossing them back at a certain joint in town with a pal of mine when my excuse of a cell phone rings and guess what, it’s ‘X’ and ‘Y’ and they just happened to be idle in town so they felt indebted to come keep us company. Being the gentleman that I am, I obligingly invite them to join us which they are able to do in an astonishing record time that would wipe out Usain Bolt’s claim to fame.

So were gulping away amid some chit chat and my friend, who happens to be a married man, asks if it’s safe to ‘chips funga’ one of the damsels. I should have started by asking him what he meant by ‘safe’ seeing as not even primary school girls are ‘safe’ nowadays in that context but then alcohol has a way of making everything appear ‘safe’. At first I was taken aback since his wife is a personal friend of mine but in the spirit of brotherhood, I urge him on.

Tentatively, he summons me to a quiet corner of the club and whispers something in my ear that made me laugh. It was that obnoxious kind of laughter that comes with the secret knowledge of a hidden truth that disguises some malicious intent. And with that, he dials a number on his cell phone and hands it over to me. What follows is a carefully choreographed explanation to his missus regarding his whereabouts and why he would not be able to make it home that night because it was my birthday and he was celebrating it with me. (I have since written a proposal to Nokia to introduce a lie detector device on cellular phones that ignites an electric charge to the liar’s ear whenever a falsehood is detected to curb this thriving vice.)

His wife reminds me that tomorrow is Sunday and that we should make a point of going to bed early so that we wake up in time for church. This I dutifully communicate to my accomplice who admonishes me for suggesting that we should pass out on such an enticing opportunity for a two hour lecture from a grown man who has never had the pleasure of experiencing carnal bliss. That, I presumed, was in reference to his parish priest. Besides, he adds, “God has enough sheep to look after. I don’t think he will even notice we are missing.”

Momentarily, we are seated back at our table drowning our guilty consciences in frothy beverages. Several dozen swallows later, another male acquaintance of mine stumbles upon our table and in compliance with the drinkers’ code, I get him a seat and ask him to join us. At one point I must have either passed out or out-passed my drinking limit but when I came to, my wallet and phone were gone and so was he. Did I mention his name was Kama? Anyway, at the moment that didn’t seem like a big deal but believe me the following morning when I needed to make a call to a friend to come settle the Ksh. 1,600 bill on our tab it did.

As expected, my conniving married friend stealthily disappeared with ‘Y’ who by the way I noticed was wearing a ring on her middle finger. And from the look of it, it wasn’t just a piece of jewelery. So there I was, penniless, phoneless and clueless as to what to do with ‘X’ who isn’t exactly my type. Lucky for me she conveniently had to get back home A.S.A.P because she apparently just remembered that she had an early morning appointment. Yippee! More beer for me!

In retrospect, I observed that in that one night, we directly and indirectly broke eight out of God’s Ten Commandments without even noticing it! And from what I have seen and/or heard, there are men who have killed because of women which by the way I believe to be the epitome of stupidity. On that premise, I posit with supporting evidence that women indeed are the root of all evil…with the exception of my mum and sis.


Posted: October 25, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World

Disclaimer: This post is rated “A” (for Adult). It contains highly offensive content, coarse language and sexual imagery. But then if you’ve been reading any of the other posts on this Blog you should know that by now!

Some time back I was hanging out with a bunch of rich kids. And when I say rich kids, I mean the stinking rich types. And when I say stinking rich, I mean more stinking than what’s between an old prostitute’s thighs.

I was visiting some pals in USIU. And believe me whoever said the world is a rotten place must have been talking about that little corner of the globe. I know what you’re thinking; I shouldn’t be pointing fingers at nobody. But believe me that was traumatizing even for me.

The first thing I noticed about the place was the girls. The second thing I noticed was more girls. The third thing I noticed was their asses. It’s like those chicks don’t shit!! For real. It’s like all their excrement just accumulates in their behinds over the years forming huge wobbly masses of fatty flesh! But then it could just have been my wild imagination. Point is, chicks in USIU have asses to shit for!

I was in the company of my male pals and we were visiting a chick friend of theirs. By what I had initially thought to be an AWE(……..wait for it…….)SOME coincidence but later learnt was premeditated design, some other chick friends of hers also happened to be visiting. At one point in an attempt to turn my charm on, I even pointed out that it was destiny that had driven four dudes and three chicks to visit the same lady on the same day. Smooth, huh?

Just when I was beginning to relish the possibility of completely spontaneous random sex with multiple partners who are total strangers, (for the record I’m still looking forward to it, Hint! Hint!) the unimaginable happens. Now, lest all you ladies start contemplating issuing me with lawsuits (which will be futile anyway because apart from my manhood I’m not worth much-especially if you factor in the wear and tear, Sic!) it was nothing of my doing.

So were sitting there lazily chatting about everything from King Mswati’s umpteenth wife to the different hue’s of menstrual flow (which I must point out was quite enlightening) when out of nowhere one of the girls pulls a penis out of her trouser! Imagine that! Wouldn’t this story be way more colourful if that would’ve actually played out like that?…Anyway, she pulls a roll of weed out of her trouser.

Now contrary to what you might be swayed to believe, I don’t smoke weed. Really, I don’t. Which is why I will delete any comment below that so much as attempts to suggest otherwise. In any case, assuming, hypothetically, that I did smoke weed, I would be greatly offended by what followed. Those girls did not just abuse weed, they molested it! They ripped its soul out and robbed it of all its respect! In fact, they insulted not just weed but all of its nuclear and extended family. If I was weed, I would report them to the anti-narcotics police for drug abuse.

I am not one to be easily influenced by peer pressure, so I merely watched the ‘weed orgy’ as it unfolded. Blunt after blunt after blunt…they smoked. They smoked like their tomorrow depended on it. Like their yesterday demanded it. And when they were done, they got more weed and smoked some more. Inevitably, after a while they were high as a kite in a tornado.

At this point, my prospects of breaking one of the ten divine commandments were looking up and my groin was naturally beginning to get excited in anticipation, if you know what I mean. As it unfolded, I was in for a rude shock.

Without warning, those little demons began groping and grabbing at each other in manners that reminded me of some dirty porn I watched back in high school. My instincts nudged me to provide some input in the activities and since I ain’t no coward, I offered. Their response was not just surprising. It was infuriating and equally frustrating.  “No, thanks. We’re good. We don’t do guys.”

Heck if they’d have told me that earlier I’d have carried some Vaseline and a set of unrated movies with me on my way to the damn place! And that, good people, was how my pals and I spent the longest night of our lives together. Needless to say, I’ve never been to USIU since!


Posted: September 6, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World

I wish I had Amnesia. Because the events I am about to recount are not pleasant. I am writing this post while under the influence of a particularly toxic brand of alcohol. The type that usually have an image of a weeping tiger on the cover. This weekend, I learnt why that tiger cries.

It all began last Friday. I was in the company of some 60 students in a bus headed for Eldoret for a sports tournament in Moi University. Incase you are wondering, I do not play any sports. The only reason I was in that bus was because it was a free opportunity to visit Eldoret which I had never been to before and also because they were giving us allowances. Life has taught me to always be wary of free things and I am cursing myself for not having sensed that something was amiss from the word go.

On the way, I saw the grizzly aftershocks of 2007. I had never really gotten a clear picture of the impact of the post election violence until then. In my hometown, the violence was minimal. People were more interested in looting bars to get free booze than hunting down certain tribesmen. The scenes that litter the stretch between Nakuru and Eldoret are however far more disturbing.

I happened to be seated next to the driver of our bus who incidentally resides in the region. When you want information, there are three groups of people who will never disappoint; bus/matatu drivers, prostitutes and shopkeepers. These guys always know everything about everyone and in this case, my driver proved to be highly resourceful. He pointed out to me the homes of every Kikuyu along the highway and explained that it was not by coincidence that all that remained of them were mere shells. He showed me the spot where he came to collect the charred remains of Ndung’u, his workmate, who was torched by incensed youths while transporting the corpse of another workmate from Kitale to Nairobi. He showed me the deserted homesteads and the scorched farms that had once been the sources of livelihood for their occupants. He showed me the blood in the earth. He showed me the tears of the womenfolk and the scars on the children. And I cried. I’m still not sure if it was my emotions or the alcohol I had been swallowing mercilessly but beads of tears just rolled down my cheeks (the last time I used that phrase was when I was writing compositions in high school. As it turns out, 8-4-4 isn’t just a load of crap after all!).

But I also saw hope. Thanks to Red Cross, some families are being resettled though three years down the line, there still seems to be no urgency in addressing the injustices that were witnessed in December 2007.

So we traversed the hilly regions of Timboroa and Burnt Forest in the darkness of the night until the virgin rays of the morning sun caressed our foreheads. By 8am, we were in Eldoret. The first thing I could think about was mursik. I had only ever heard of it from my Kalenjin friends and it sounded to me that it was probably the most common thing in Kalenjin-land. But Lo and behold. I could not instantly find a place that sold the god dammed drink! And when I did, it was a dingy little joint in the outskirts of the town centre run by (no prizes for guessing) one Kamau! I find it particularly amusing that someone had to come from another province to sell a product that is supposed to be the symbol of the regions culture. I am no tribalist but either Kalenjins need to get serious or Kiuks have just outsmarted their asses hands down!

Anyway, we proceed to Moi University. In English, we usually compare things in the comparative or superlative forms (i.e good, better, best). However, to give you a perspective of Moi Uni, I will need to invoke another basis of comparison. There is bad, there is worse, there is worst, then there is Moi Uni. Maybe I am biased because I identify with the best University North of the Limpopo and South of the Sahara. When you think about it that way, you might be inclined to be a bit more lenient (seeing as there are only two Univeristy’s in Kenya: UoN and the rest) but since I’m a stickler for standards, that argument just wont hold.

Pray tell, why would anyone in their right senses want to be associated with a university that doesn’t have a bar? I know…it’s just baffling! In case you are wondering, a bar is one of the most essential amenities in any institution of higher learning. The greatest ideas are conceived in university bars. I bet Isaac Newton was sitting next to a window in his campus local when he saw that apple fall from the tree. Heck, I’m pretty sure Barrack Obama begun planning of becoming President of the United States in Harvard’s local. Google it! I’m sure you will find a trail of evidence to support my theory.

The closest thing they have to a bar in Moi Uni is a makeshift pub called Fracas…and yet again, you’re right, the name suggests everything the place is about. It is located about 100metres outside the University grounds in a small market that resembles a chang’aa brewery in Kibera. Sad, I tell you! Needless to say, we had little choice but to venture within the muddy and murky drinking den because come what may, we had to get some.

The biggest regret I have had in all my twenty something years was to call a soldier’s girlfriend a whore while still inside the barracks, but that is a story for another day. The second will be revealed further below as you read this post. Entering that pub comes a close third.

A close friend of mine has always posited that certain drinks should be the reserve of men and women should not even touch the bottles in which they are sold. I have severally rebuked him for such chauvinism but that night I saw another perspective of his argument. He was afraid. Afraid for his ego and the image of manhood. And my word, if what I witnessed that night is anything to go by, I am afraid too. At this rate, we men might as well put on some skirts and start spotting sanitary pads and leave the trouser-wearing to the women. She was about 21.

Indeed, she was beautiful by any standards. It was her birthday and by God and the devil she was out to celebrate! While my friends and I watched in hushed amazement, she downed two bottles of Smirnoff Red-label whisky…then ordered a third. Not the dwarfy 250ml bottles. She was drinking the gigantically towering 750ml ones. I can feel my ego shrink just by recounting the story. And that is why I will leave it there.

Everything went on smoothly from there onwards. Until it was time to head back to Nairobi. I guess it was the excitement in the atmosphere or the incident with the birthday girl that nudged me to voyage beyond my limits. No, in fact I’m sure it was that hell sent guzzler that stirred me to challenge my abilities. And on that note, I bought myself a 750ml bottle of brandy. That was the second worst thing I have had to live with in my adult life. There are two classes of brandy. There is good brandy and bad brandy. Good brandy is smooth and mild but expensive. Bad brandy is coarse and tastes somewhat acidic, but it is also cheap. I will let you figure out which one I bought for myself. To hint a little, it is christened after a Belgian monarch who conquered half of Europe and made thousands of white people kiss the ground he walked on. Yep, he was one hell of a bad-ass. So you can imagine what kind of drink would be named after such a man.

Two hours into our trip, I was lecturing the occupants of our bus on the procedure to follow when taking a dump. At some point, I remember giving them free unsolicited advice on what to do with the allowances they had received. If my memory serves me well, it had something to do with my cell phone, M-Pesa and a trip to the coast. Not that there are any forthcoming trips to the coast that I know of. A few minutes later, I was sprawled on the floor of the bus swimming in a pool of my own vomit while clutching the empty bottle of brandy as if my life depended on it. Or so I’m told. To be honest, I have no recollection of any of the events that took place between Timboroa and Uthiru, although the photos my friends took tell a lengthy story that would make a good Anti-drugs script for a documentary sponsored by NACADA.

If by some miraculous stroke of metaphysical intervention I ever do quit alcohol, EABL should sue that birthday girl for making them lose one of their most precious customers. I don’t immediately intend to quit anything but there are some events in our lives that define the paths we follow. For me, that was one of the most demeaning points of my life so far, but if it’s any consolation, there will be many more such points in future. That, after all, is one of the reasons I started this blog. To strangle you with stories of my dramatic existence. But I did learn something from that incident. And while I choose to keep the lesson to myself, I will tell you its outcome; I will keep away from brandy and stick to beer from now on…at least until another trip comes along.

Of late I’ve been doing a lot of web surfing and one of the things that keep popping up every time I’m on the net is the ‘Apocalypse’. Apparently, the world is on its final bend. According to the Mayan’s, Nostradamus and a host of other supposed prophets and fortune tellers, the world as we know it will cease to exist come 21st Dec 2012…I’m scared. Naturally I would choose to ignore such hypothetical assertions but in this case it got me thinking…what if the world was to really come to an end? Am I ready? Are you ready? The macho thing to say would be ‘bring it on’ (which is probably what was going through your mind right now) but when you take time to think about it, it’s not all that simple. For instance, have you ever thought of what death is like? Just lying there, immobile and unaware of your surroundings. Totally lifeless. You can’t see, smell, touch, talk or hear anything. Your body a heap of decomposing matter comprising of all the junk you have been feeding on for your entire lifetime. Garbage in, garbage out. If you’ve been eating a lot of beans while alive you might want to put that as a disclaimer in your will for the sake of those attending the funeral because that will be one stinking corpse. Picture the other side. As a kid we had some Jehovah’s Witness neighbors who would give me these little books with artistic impressions of what heaven would be like and that’s more or less the graphic image I have of heaven. For one I know there’s going to be a lot of food. And tigers. I don’t know why but those books always had a tiger somewhere in the picture. And from my Bible knowledge I know there will be a lot of singing and dancing. I’ve never really thought about what hell would look like…it just doesn’t sound like my kind of place. I know one thing though; hell is going to be one big party whenever you can stand the heat. Imagine the guest list over there: 2 Pac, Eminem, George W. Bush, Adolf Hitler, Lawyers, the French…believe me, it is a very long list. One thing that gives me goose bumps is how I’m going to go when my time comes. Ever heard the phrase; ‘six million ways to die. choose one’? If you could, which one would you choose? Would you rather die in a car crash or drowning? Would you prefer to die in a fire or from AIDS? Imagine death being sold in a marketplace; which one would you buy for yourself? And which one would you buy for your mother-in law? Which reminds me of another quote…’I want to go peacefully in my sleep like my grandfather. Not screaming like the rest of the people in the car he was driving’. Imagine if the Apocalypse was to actually take place and you were the sole survivor? Basically that would mean you will have to wank yourself pregnant and start another human race. What will the world look like? 6 billion dead people… Whether or not we will all die come 2012 only God knows but one thing is for sure, we will all die eventually. Question is, are you ready?

The Monkey-Bar Effect

Posted: January 26, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World
I know mst of u went 2 shady nursery schools and ur neighbourhoods dint ofer modern(if any) playground facilities 4 u 2 play with while kids so lemme start by xplaining what a monkey-bar is…Its tht horizontal ladder usualy suspended on some sort of metal frame with narrowly spaced metal bars running acros the wat u do is swing on 1 bar with 1 hand whyl trying 2 grab on2 the nxt bar with the otha hand.if u make it u move 2 the next bar..if u dont..wel at least u stil hav sumtin 2 hold on2..u digg? rememba that ex of urz who neva seems 2 get ova u n always comes bak 2 u evry nw n then?..he/she just monkey bared yo ass!!

Dear Pilsner…

Posted: January 26, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World
Dear pilsner,how are u?apart 4rm the terible hangova i got since the last tym we left,id say im quite aim of writing is to tel u how much i love love 4 u surpases dat 4 women or worldly love 4 u is eternal..rivaled only by the maternal love 4 u is bliv me wen i tel u i luv none else bt u!i love ur desirable n inviting it leaves al men wanting.i love da sweat trickling dwn da arch of ur bak.i love da coolnes of ur touch dat sends a tremor down my gut.i love it wen u open ur lips 2 kis wet..n seductive..i luv it wen u embrace me..ur soothing feeling fils my soul..oh the u light me ablaze wen u rush dwn my insides leaving my every nerve awake in ur path.n most of al..i love ur xter.unlyk my mum..u neva quarel..unlyk my wifey..u neva deny my..unlyk my palz..ur eva thea 4 me..n best of al..wit u i cn get a 3some,4some or even 20some weneva i want!true u drain my walet sumtymz bt dats a smal price 2 pay 4 wat we hav.I LOVE YOU DEAR PILSNER.

It Is What It Is…

Posted: January 26, 2010 in Me and My Crayziee World
inspired by a true story..

she lay in bed thnkin about what just hapened.she had given herself to him.the feeling was intense,almost giving him her purity she had solidified the love they they would be together,in sicknes and in good and bad times..til death do them part..just like in the movies!it was perfect!

he watched the beads of sweat trickle down his chest as a crooked smile creased on his face.finaly!it had been a long time coming but the wait was worth it.he tried to remember the last time he had sex with a virgin..back in primary school.but then he had been a virgin too so it wasnt anything worth writing home was diferent.that was the best sex he had had in the past 24 hours!now al he had 2 do was look for an excuse tn get the hell out of thea..delete ha numba n move on 2 the next patient..