Posted: October 26, 2010 in In Living Memory

I’ve been reflecting on my love life lately and I realized the reason I don’t have a girlfriend right now is because I’ve been going out with so many different types of girls/women/ladies that at some point I honestly lost focus of the type of woman I would actually like to date. Not that I think any of you would be able to help in that department but I figured I should let you in on the various types of women out there. At least from my point of view. And just so they don’t get offended should they stumble upon this, I’ve named them after their corresponding music celebrities.

NB: This lineup is in no particular order.
Alicia Keys
She was fragile, gentle and sensitive. Almost like a glass. She was the most submissive person I ever met. She was there whenever I needed and even when I didn’t. Within a month of our dating, she had introduced me to her sister, brother, her closest aunt and if I’m not wrong we were supposed to meet her parents a week before we broke up. Honestly, she scared me. To top it off, it was never my intention for us to date. We just met on a random occasion and one thing led to another so I figured why not? Next thing I know were meeting the parents?! Either she was desperate or deranged because given the circumstances of our relationship, I wasn’t exactly the type to introduce to the folks.
She was drop dead gorgeous. I had to keep her hidden from my friends for a good while just to make sure I didn’t get sliced. That, by the way does not by any means imply that I was insecure. It only means I was trying to keep her extra safe. She was freaky too. I still shiver when I think of the naughty things we used to do. She was sensitive, caring and an absolute darling when she wanted and a raging tigress when the situation demanded. The trouble with this girl was…where do I start? She was an insecure, spoilt little bi*tch. Well, I did cheat on her once or twice but trust me, any man that doesn’t cheat on his girlfriend with another woman is probably doing it with another man. And in any case, if she wasn’t so nosy she probably would never have found out and who knows, maybe we would still be together today. She also couldn’t cook, clean or even make the bed. I could probably live with that but it was her constant nagging and incessant demands that drove me mad! The worst part is that she was the closest I ever came to real love. In another world, we would probably get back together but given the nature of our breakup, it’s safe to say that’s over and done with. Though I deeply regret having hurt her.
Nicki Minaj
We dated for about a month then realized that wasn’t getting anywhere so we decided to review the terms and conditions of our contract. So far its working out pretty fine for me except every now and then we have some disputes about one clause or another but the good thing is that there’s always an amendment we can make to put things right before were back in business. She’s a freaky little thing and is the definition of ‘gettin down and dirty’. She’s one of the best girl-friends I ever had. She doesn’t ask too many questions, does what she’s supposed to do when she’s supposed to do it and is there when you need her and gone when you don’t. We have a unique type of relationship with her. It’s a mutual kind of thing where we both gain not just physically but also emotionally and mentally. And she’s not my clande if that’s what you’re starting to think.
Mary J. Blige
She was beautiful, principled, focused and organized. Everything about her was almost robotic. From how she walked, to how she talked and even when she…you know. She had a maturity about her that stirred a lot within me. To a large extent, she helped shape much of the man I am today. I still wonder how we ever got along because back when we were dating, I was a rolling stone and she was…what’s the opposite expression for a rolling stone? Anyway you get the point. Were still good friends by the way. She’s one of the few people I can open up to without fear of being judged. I think we were destined to be friends as opposed to lovers. The one thing I hated about her (still do) was her domineering nature. I’m a hardhead as it is without a woman breathing on my neck which will only serve to arouse the rebel in me. I’m pretty sure she always has the best of intentions but I guess it’s a matter of ideological (in)difference.
Indi Arie
The only reason I’ve named her after India Arie is because India is my favourite female artiste and this lady was undoubtedly the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Also because whenever I listen to India Arie (which is a lot of the time), I remember her. I don’t like feel sorry for myself about her or anything but I like to think of her as my ‘one that got away’. She was perfect (for me). Gorgeous, real, focused, caring, sweet, smart and fun. We met in unanticipated circumstances though I had known her for quite a while but had never made any formal effort to approach her. It turned out she had it in for me too (sigh!). One thing led to another and before I knew it we were officially dating which would have been perfect by me if only I wasn’t already dating someone else at the time. I know, I’m a screw up! So in the end, my conscience (yes, I have one) wouldn’t let me cheat on her (notice, I wasn’t worried about cheating on my original girlfriend, it was her I didn’t want to hurt) and I had to let her go…just like that. We never even broke up…I just stopped calling and avoided her and eventually she just got the idea. I still feel like tearing my balls apart whenever I think of it. I’ve done ALOOOOOOOOOOOOOT of stupid stuff in my life but this will go down as my all time classic. The funny thing is that even when we bump into each other, I hardly know what to say because of the guilt and torment of what transpired between us. Sadly though, she’s changed a lot from the girl I used to know that I’m not sure we would even get along like we did during our brief stint together. But I guess life’s like that!


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!

The other day I went to places,

and in those places things happened,

things I had never before fathomed,

things that made my dead ancestors roll in their graves,

things that made my future offspring eager to exist.

I went to places the other day,

and in those places, women danced,

No! they slithered. like snakes,

and their naked  backs glistened in the glare of the neon lights that reflected off the oil that coated their skin.

I went to places the other day,

and in those places, the men were huge and buffy and frightening,

their hands were the size of an elephants thigh and they wore tight t-shirts and their muscles threatened to burst out of their skin

I went to places the other day,

and in those places young girls wrapped their stomachs and exposed their busts and groins,

and the boys wore hats at 274 degrees. and their trousers dangled below their waists like they were filled with excrement.

I went to places the other day,

and things happened that I will not forget anytime soon.

Disclaimer: I am not by any standards a poet so this was not intended to make any poetic sense.


Posted: September 15, 2010 in Palaver

“Good morning class, take out your writing books and calculators, LUV 101 is in session.”

This business of courtship is a tricky business. It is a business that requires a great deal of keenness to understand. I have tried engaging in it severally with varying results. Some have been good, most have been bad. But it is a business that all of us in one way or another are obliged to undertake. Which is why I feel duty-bound to share with you a few pointers on how to approach it.

Just like any business, this business of courtship is a competitive one. After all we do live in a Capitalistic world, don’t we? It’s called a free open market. Everyone is free to engage in any business they desire and the market is always open to new investors. It works a lot like tendering. When a business opportunity is available, the tendering committee announces to potential investors who then present their bids in the most enticing manner possible. Whoever proves to be the most alluring lands the deal.

Like most lucrative businesses, this business of courtship can be quite demanding. It requires a large capital investment to initiate. I will explain.

Capital is a crucial necessity for anyone intending to start a business. There are various types of capital. These include finance, labour and what-have-you.

Financial capital is the primary factor that an investor considers before venturing into any business enterprise. You must ask yourself; How much money is needed to start this business? Do I have such an amount of money? If yes, you are good to go. If not, then its best to withdraw before your goose gets cooked! Similarly, before deciding whether or not to initiate advances on a potential mate (I like the word ‘mate’ in this context; It basically summarizes everything relationships are about in two syllables, if you know what I mean.) one must evaluate how much financial investment such a venture would require.

To do this, examine the potential mate (alternatively referred to as ‘business’). If he/she/it adorns garments and you merely wear clothes, then you are incapable of running such a business. If the business is of large scale proportions and you can only be able to manage a small scale one, I advise that you reconsider your options. If the business is located in Upper Hill and you are clearly a River Road kind of person, don’t even bother about it. Because if you do, you will learn, much to your heartbreak why they say ‘mtu hujikuna afikapo’!

Then there is labour. Again, one needs to analyze a few factors here. How much labour is required? How much labour can you provide? To put it perspective, you must be able to meet the labour needs of your undertaking. If you are attempting to till a five hundred acre shamba with one jembe and panga don’t be surprised to find your neighbor having ploughed, planted and harvested in one corner of the shamba while you were busy working on the other. If you are understaffed, don’t be amazed if your customers knock on your doorstep every now and then to complain about the slowness of your services.

In this business of courtship, there are two categories of investors. There are direct investors and there are indirect investors. Direct investors are those who dig deep into their pockets to raise the capital to start the business. They take a lot of risk in such ventures and as such are keen to ensure that they get commensurate returns. However, in the event that the business should collapse or backfire, they stand to lose the most.

On the other hand, indirect investors operate on minimum risk. They only invest in those businesses which they feel will guarantee returns and even then, their involvement is highly precautious. Indirect investors prefer to wait until the business has been fully established (by the direct investors) before coming on board. If the business proves to be rewarding, they consistently buy small amounts of shares until eventually they end up buying out the original owners.

But like any other business, this business of courtship is ultimately about returns. Think profits and losses. If a business is creating losses, it is a bad business and only a fool would continue running it. Conversely, if it is raking in profits, it is a good business and only a bigger fool would want to shut it down. To ascertain whether a business is making losses or profits, a good investor must always keep a Profit and Loss account of the business. This will guide the investor to discern how practical the business is.

There are several indicators that measure the productivity of a business. If the business is consuming more than it is returning, it is making a loss and must be terminated. But if the rate of return of the business multiplied by the value of returns is equivalent to the total capital input, then the business is making a profit and should be registered as a sole proprietorship to keep away any lurking opportunistic indirect investors.

Class dismissed.


Posted: September 12, 2010 in Palaver

I was trying to bed a certain lady some time back when she asked me a rather intrusive question, but one that stimulated my mind and compelled me to think about a thing or two that inform the content of this post. She posed: “How many women have you had sex with?”

It’s a good thing my mum is semi-computer literate hence doesn’t even have a clue of what a blog is because she would disown me if she found out that I was unable to answer that question with the immediacy it demanded. Quite frankly, I still haven’t managed to come up with a precisely accurate answer to date. Anyway, I am not the focus of what I am about to discuss.

For starters, the said lady was entirely out of turn to enquire about my sexual dealings. As far as I was concerned, I had neither proposed to her nor was I intending to have unprotected sex with her so she had no ground to demand such private information. Needles to say, I kicked her out there and then. I can get far much better sex from the palm of my hand without having to tolerate such blatant infringement on my right to privacy. So sue me!

On to my next point. Repercussions. Assuming I had answered her question promptly, what consequences would I have had to bear? Depending on the nature of my answer, it would have either been embarrassment or dismissal. Simply because there is no standard answer to such a question.

Take for instance if I had said ‘one’ (and I’ll be damned if there’s any man my age – apart from my eunuch room mate – who would subscribe to that answer). One of two things would have happened. She would either have put her panties back on and stormed out in a huff (dismissal for me) or more appropriately, laughed at me in my face (totally embarrassing).

On the other hand, if I’d have answered ‘a hundred’ (FYI, I haven’t hit that mark yet but I’m steadily getting there – Onyancha style) her reaction would have been more or less the same only the basis would be reversed. She would either have high tailed it in fear of her life (embarrassing) or roundly rebuked me like I was the personification of the devil (and since I won’t be getting any at the end of it, that’s definite dismissal). Which brings about a rather complex dilemma. What should have been the right answer?

Ask any man this question and I guarantee eight out of ten answers will differ. Because there is no accepted standard. For women, it’s much simpler. Any woman who has slept with more than three men is loosely considered…well, loose. The first guy is usually the one who breaks her virginity. Unless he is remarkably gentle he will in most cases be condemned to that singular encounter at least until another guy has tasted the cookies in the jar. The good thing about being a ‘first’ is that most women always have an involuntary attachment to you. No matter how virtuous a woman is, she will more often than not fall back into her first man’s bed at the slightest prodding and beckoning. Don’t look at me, I’m not the one who programmed you to attach emotions to meaningless sex!

The second man is for experience. Once that hymen is out of the way, women begin to enjoy sex and since this usually happens during the late teenage years, they still have this misguided notion that having sex is an expression of love. I hate to be the one to break it to you but sex is just that, Sex. So while they’re busy looking for new ways to ‘show how much they love’ their man, he’s thoroughly enjoying himself but conscious of the fact that one of these days she will have to hit the highway.

The next man for any woman is her husband. At this point they have gained enough sexual and emotional experience to tell right from wrong and after eliminating the unworthy candidates they settle for a ‘Prince Charming’ who sweeps them off their feet and whisks them to a white castle where they live happily ever after. Ideally, any woman who does not conform to this three step program is not what you would consider a good girl.

For men however, things are less systematic and more random. To a man, losing virginity is like opening a Pandora’s box. They want to keep looking for what’s inside and so end up digging deeper and deeper (forgive the pun) into the bottomless pit (don’t forgive the pun!). A man’s level of experience is measured through his direct encounters including but by no means limited to masturbation. I will refrain from expounding on that point.

To a man, keeping tabs of one’s encounters can at times prove to be a tricky affair. For the first few times one is usually so excited to be having sex for it to even count as an actual encounter.

Additionally, the opportunities of having sex are so rare and spaced that one does not get the necessary skills to graduate from an amateur to an expert. Therefore the first few encounters don’t count for a man because they are considered as dry runs. Once the level of ‘sexpert’ has been attained, a man needs regular exercise and practice to keep his game up. Thus, he is allowed to explore the waters until he can find the right harbour to weigh anchor. Think of it this way, a man can be several women’s first and/or second but only one woman’s third. It is therefore important for a man to get enough experience to satiate his wife without needing to look elsewhere. So essentially, we do it for you.

So guys, if ever a chick pops such a question on you, try turning the tables on her and ask her the question. That way you’ll get an idea of the right answer to give without running the risk of missing out on an easy lay.

Dedicated to my gay eunuch room mate! mscheeeew!


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.


Posted: August 30, 2010 in In Living Memory

Last week I witnessed a murder. I recall the events as vividly as I remember the day I shed the foreskin of my penis in a traditional ritual designed to usher my initiation from boyhood to manhood and believe me it is not a pleasant memory.

To be entirely truthful, no one actually died in the incident. But my spirit did. Along with the hopes and dreams I had for the future of our not so great country. You might be justified to think I’m overreacting by condemning our motherland to a doomed fate based on a single and perhaps inconsequential occurrence but I beg to differ.

So anyway, on the material day, an innocent young man stumbled into one of the rooms in our campus hostels. He was visiting an acquaintance with whom they had shared one too many earlier in the night and they had decided to spend the night at the hostels since the visitor was too intoxicated and unable to make his way back home.

By some twist of fate, the host’s girlfriend happened to show up and what does he do? He kicks his male friend out in the middle of the night. In campus it’s called getting ‘exiled’ and I’m sure all comrades are all too familiar with this scenario. Personally I’ve had to spend many a night sharing a bed with a snoring friend whose sexuality I have been driven to question judging by his mannerisms whenever I am forced to spend at his room…No! I’m still a virgin in that area so nothing has really ever happened but I’m looking for another emergency bedmate just to be safe.

Now I’m trying really hard to understand this guy’s predicament but it still doesn’t feel right. Any man caught in a similar pickle would probably pull all his hairs out trying to figure out what the right thing to do would be. Of course if it were me, I’d spread a mattress on the floor for the guy and cuddle into bed with the missus then wait for the fellow to doze off before getting down and dirty. But then that’s just me. What?! The guy was drunk anyway so he probably wouldn’t even hear a thing! I’m just saying.

Anyways, this dude is tipsy, homeless and a bit confused so he wanders around the hostel hoping some Good Samaritan will see his dilemma and bail him out. And lucky for him, his guardian fairy appears out of nowhere. Well, actually they met in the loo’s while taking a leak but I figured that would take the shine out of the story so let’s imagine he appeared out of nowhere.

So this guy, after listening to the story, offers to help a brother out and leads him to a room where he would sleep till morning then be off. They get to the room and he opens the door for him, lets him in and goes on his way promising to check on him first thing in the morning. Now, comes the stupid part.

As it turned out, the guy who offered the room didn’t even stay there. He was giving out someone else’s room to a complete stranger without the prior knowledge of the owner. Meanwhile, this dude just walks in and makes himself comfortable only to find a lady lying in bed, presumably hoping to surprise her boyfriend or lover or clande or what-have-you. Before the intruder could say ‘hard-on’, the room’s legitimate occupant walks in and quite understandably is rather perplexed by the scenario that greets him. Pause.

This is precisely why I have argued time and again that women are the source of all of men’s woes. Take this guy for example. It was because of a darned woman that he got kicked out of the room where he was supposed to spend the night in the first place. Now he was about to experience an entirely new meaning of the word ‘beating’ courtesy of a woman he had not intended to meet to begin with. I would totally understand if this dude turns into a serial rapist who keeps women locked in his basement then slices their genitals one piece at a time to auction on e-bay! Continue.

So the room’s owner walks in and it so happens that he comes from a part of Kenya where bananas are in abundance and the women are so unattractive they would depolarize a magnet. In short, he was a hot-tempered Kisii. Without further ado, he pounces on the innocent lad and is almost immediately joined by two passers-by who must have either been medics coming from a group discussion or gay. Otherwise what would two sober guys be doing together in the middle of a Friday night on campus?

Anyways, the ensuing commotion awakens the occupants of the adjacent rooms and in no time the entire hostel is stirring with activity as every Tom, Ochieng’ and Omondi dashes to the scene of the crime. Oooh yeah! It’s like our brothers from the lakeside have radar that detects trouble and automatically sets their course in the direction of the cause.

Let nobody cheat you. Men are the worst rumourmongers! Men spread rumours faster than a Kao chick can take off her undies. If anybody asks, I never said it! In the midst of all the fuss, someone happened to whisper that the victim was a thief trying to steal from a comrade’s room and before anyone could clarify what was happening, there were pangas and nyahunyo’s flying all over the place. There is a deceitful solidarity among campus students. They will be so quick to stand up for one another under the cover of a crowd but wait till it boils down to an individual case. They will betray you faster than a…okay, no more dirty jokes.

In a bid to save his dear life, our guy makes a run for the window and blasts through in a lightning dash. You should have seen it I tell you. It was a like a scene from one of those Flash-Gordon cartoons in the Sunday Nation. I will soon introduce an M-Pesa fund for this blog so you guys can donate money for me to buy a digicam so I can capture such moments. How’s that for a worthy cause.

But this only serves to infuriate the mob further. They quickly make their way outside the hostel where they find the man lying helpless on the ground covered in shards of glass and a pool of blood. Someone kicks him to see if he’s alive. Eureka! He’s alive! And the mob pounces on him once more. Some Sudanese ex-soldier continuously pokes him in the chest with a sharp piece of wood as if aiming to puncture his heart. At one point he manages to draw some blood and wields the weapon in a celebratory gesture to demonstrate his accomplishment. He even promises to keep the piece as a souvenir. And you think the war will ever end in Sudan?

It took the intervention of a few sober-minded comrades (read: yours truly) to restore calm and save the poor souls life. Injured, battered and half-conscious, the guy was rescued by university security officers and taken to hospital where he received treatment for multiple injuries before being discharged.

I happened to witness the entire incident as it unfolded. Well, at least most of it. At first I was excited. The adrenaline rush was quite exhilarating since to be honest, I had never witnessed mob justice prior to that. At one point I almost cast a stone myself. But my conscience wouldn’t let me. And I’m glad it didn’t. Throughout the remainder of that week, word around campus had it that the guy, who had since been identified as a student from a local University, had died. Luckily, as is the case with most rumours started by men, it wasn’t true (like when we say we’ve had sex with each and every girl that has ever stepped into our rooms yet we were actually teaching them how to play Solitaire).

I saw the guilt in the eyes of my friends and classmates who had partaken in the orgy of violence. I felt the self-resentment dripping off their blood stained hands. I heard the sorrow in their hushed murmurs. Yet I did not feel an ounce of pity for them.

Such animalistic ways are intolerable and to imagine them coming from University students, the crème of society, the hope of our tomorrow, is sad. Not only is such behaviour primal, it is equally cruel and evil. One wonders what would happen if the same were to unfold in the streets of Kibera or Mathare or (God forbid!) Kondele. To witness such an event in the hallowed grounds of the university is demeaning and saddening. But it was also a lesson. One we must reflect on long and hard to realize exactly what the implications of such actions are.


Posted: August 29, 2010 in Uncategorized

I’ve been meaning to update and upgrade my blog for a while now but for some reason I kept postponing it for a day when I would be sufficiently motivated. Well today, I’m feeling both sufficient and motivated. I’m feeling meticulously needy to exorcise the realms of my thoughts of the demonic worms that slither within. I feel the breath of my soul as it flows through the strikes of my fingertips. Because there are voices in my head. And they want to speak.

So I’m going to write a blog about me and my thoughts. How we talk and have mental intercourse. About my life and lies. My wives (or at least would-be wives) and my miles. And to do that, I’m going to have to start by telling you about myself.

I’m sad. Not in a teary-droopy-soby-kind-of-face-way but more like a miserable-and-pathetic-kind-of-way. I keep flirting with destiny hoping it will lead me to a bed of roses. and somehow, I get the feeling destiny flirts right back. She’s treated me well you see. And I haven’t really had to scratch her back. Though like any relationship we’ve had our fair share of twists and turns. But then variety is the spice of life so, BRING IT ON!

They say satisfaction is the death of desire. Well, my desires constantly keep going higher and higher making sure I never get satisfied. That’s got to be what fuels my ambition. Which by the way I’m still trying to place my finger on a couple of decades after I stormed out of my mother’s womb.

Perspire to aspire. It’s embroidered in my spirit. An axiom that has always been the kicking hooves of my never-dying horse. My ex-girlfriends would be in a better position to expound further on that albeit in a completely different context but I want to assume you get the point to spare us both the graphic explanations.

While pinned on the cross of adversity, I would smile back at my jurists delighting in the secret knowledge of my unanticipated triumph. For my kind of wisdom can not be obliterated. It is enshrined in the omnipotent vapors of my essence. So yes, I am purporting to be unequivocally intelligent! Or at least that’s what I keep telling myself.

At my age, my mum was already a mother of me and my younger brother. I know! How times change, huh?! At my age, I’m already a father of one and two of her younger sisters. Who am I kidding? The closest thing I’ve come to fatherhood is hosting a couple billion tadpole looking thingies in my loins. Whoever claims I fathered them must have been a mutation of something that came from the amalgamation of one my leaks and the fabric off my bed sheets. I digress.

I was telling you about me. I’m really the worlds most average of Joe’s. Yet in a sense, I’m that everyday kind of person who only comes by every once in an eon. Like Harley’s comet. A spectacle to behold yet so rare you might never come across it in an eternity. I’m that soul mate you know so very well yet you’ve never met. I’m that whisper that whistles beyond the horizon of your cognition and seduces your person into a ghostly void. Although a handful of my closest friends would find the above paragraph laughable.

Ideally, I’m a nice guy. I’ve never been in a single fight my entire life. Well, there was that one time but I doubt if that counts. That was what I would call a violent monologue. For the sake of my image and self-esteem, I will keep that to myself. Anyway, I’m a nice guy. The kind of person you would feel secure leaving your sixteen year old daughter with to go on a vacation in Maui. True story.

I find words thrilling. Erotic, to be more descriptive. The alluring curves of the letters as they dance in rhythmic twists and turns forming seductive patterns of words that are capable of arousing our innermost emotions are simply irresistible. The sensations they elicit from our core are the sparks that ignite our imagination and illuminate our reality. I enjoy playing with them as a child enjoys fondling a venomous snake oblivious of the potent danger it portends. Indeed words are innocently volatile. They can either create or destroy depending on how they are applied. But their beauty remains constant.

In a nutshell, that’s me. I do not mingle with the high and mighty at the high table of opulence. I do not embody the sophistication and charm of royalty. Instead, I identify with the murk and grime of everyday life. My existence is dotted with an indignant defiance to conformity. Yet I have no intention of altering the status quo. It suits me just fine. For that matter, I feel obliged to share my thoughts and experiences with anyone who wanders into my life. And since I haven’t held a gun to anyone’s head I wouldn’t care much for your approval on what I write/say. On that note, welcome to my blog.

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?