WHEN I’M GONE…

Like love and hate, there exists an unusually thin line between life and death. You could be breathing one moment and kicking it with your boys at Seven’s Lounge, then they could be mourning you the next. Death is an evil force; one that strikes like thunder – without fear or favor. It steals your loved ones away from you without as much as a warning. It’s like that neighbor I used to have at my previous flats that would just barge into my cave without even knocking, grab a packet of condoms from my bedroom drawers and just walk out. No Hi’s; No Bye’s.

Over these past years of my miserable existence, I’ve stood by and watched my best friend lose his step-pop and a classmate of mine lose his old man. I’ve watched buddies of mine and close associates lose their colleagues. And I’ve watched my country lose great leaders and her future charges. And I have shed a tear in the shower each time, not because I knew them personally, but because it got me thinking that that could have been me; Or my closest allies; Or my good old man; Or my no-nonsense adorable mother; Or even my siblings. [God forbid].

Because the truth of the matter is, death changes you. It has this uncanny way of bringing out a side in those related to the deceased that not even they would have seen coming miles away in their worst nightmares.

These happenings, albeit unfortunate, have opened my eyes to the prospect that I could kick that sadistic bucket today without having lived life to the fullest and achieved any of my long term goals. I do not just want to be remembered as the loser whose only achievement in life was bashing law students and getting 4000+ views on his blog post in the first hour of posting [I had to say that]. Or he who spent the night of his buddy’s birthday behind bars.

I deceive you not, I dread the day my heart will finally cave in and my bodily functions will paralyze; paving way for the untimely. But death is inevitable. And regardless of how much it gives me the creeps to even think about, it is destined to one day come knocking on my door. I know I may not be ready even then, but my only wish is it finds me a satisfied man; having lived a full life. And that that door will be made of gold, a man’s gotta dream, right?

But just in case I lay my head on the pillow after banging this piece, to a glorious beautiful slumber from which never to wake, here are a few pointers someone should tell my old fogeys for me;

No woman shall claim me. This had to be the first due to very obvious reasons. Look around you. Everyone is either married to someone and banging another or just banging someone but not putting a ring on it.

If I should breathe my last this instant, I die a single happy mofo [Well, not exactly happy but…don’t kill my vibe]. So no higgledy-piggledy bimbo in mismatched heels and Avatar-ish make-up with hell-bound weaves and clads that look like they were dragged out of a vulture’s beak should show up at my funeral claiming to have been my swiry poraro. The Omondi’s are already struggling as it is, they don’t need another mouth to feed in my absence. Jaber, God help me, I shall rise from that grave and smack your burgeoned nose to the tiniest bits.

Take my body to Vegas. I’ve heard all sorts of tales from Las Vegas; crazy tales. I know everyone has. Vegas is like the sin-city of our universe. I’ve even named my man cave after it, because just like Vegas, whatever happens here stays here. Don’t ask me questions which beg obvious answers.

I want to see MGM Grand, where  the biggest fight of the century happened this morning, [I’m still of the opinion that Manny Pacquiao beat  Floyd ‘Money Mayweather a good one though. I just said ‘beat’, not that May didn’t deserve the win. Sit down, Roy] and possibly dine where Jay Z sat. Just so to have a feel of what having a cool $550 million in the bank and a woman of everyone’s dreams feels like.

I want to go to those flashy Casinos and gamble my life earnings away. I also want to partake of a little Vegas delicacies. [Okay, that’s my code word for strip clubs, women and booze. Are you still there, Dad? No? Okay.]

As I bang this down, I’m still saving and planning for that trip with bated breath. I have to go to Vegas someday. If not in body and soul, then at least let my corpse get there.

Omondi Were, you might have to grab a loan for this one, Sir.

Tell my story. The things I’ve had to go through in this city and the secrets I keep would scare Mugabe out of power.

 

No one wants to be associated with mediocrity, but greatness. Even in death; especially in death. We all want to leave legacies. We want our statues erected somewhere beside Tom Mboya’s and worshipped too; even if just by a bunch of uncouth stone-hurling loud mouths. I want fellow bloggers to put me in their list of Fallen Heroes and write moving tributes about me. If I go before Magunga Williams, I want him to do me the honors [although I know he’s still pissed off about that article on lawyers]. Should the goon succumb before me, then Ian ‘Sketch’ Arunga of the ‘Dear Doris’ fame would you be so kind? Just avoid the typos on this one Baba, you don’t want my old man reading ‘ass’ where you meant ‘ash’, aye? Kamano!

Oh, and tough luck on the 2015 BAKE Awards guys. Next time!

Make my dreams a reality. This one’s for you big brother, and my partner in hustle, Austin Arnold. Sir, make Edgy Media and Entertainment a reality. Build the empire; see it thrive with the last drop of your blood. If I should die now, this would be my only regret. You’re the only other person who trusts in it besides me. You’re the only other person crazy enough to believe that we can make a million bob in just one day; Legal money. Even Chacha [guys, you remember Chacha, right?] still says it’s just a pipe-dream; Theo and Ogenya merely laughed it off.

Show them what a Son Of Were is made of. And ensure the old fogeys back home never have to work another second in their remaining lives. I trust in you.

No fundraising/contributions in my honor and, for the love of God, serve no food at my funeral. I don’t consider myself mean, just a little conservative. I want a small send-off, attended only by friends, relatives and family. No bulls, hens or goats with horns long enough to be used as hunting spears shall be slaughtered at my funeral. I don’t want strangers crossing hills and borders to just come, not to attend my burial, but to treat themselves to the variety of delicacies that has become the norm in most memorials today.

This should also help cut down on any unnecessary expenses.

Besides, it’s a funeral. If you wanted free food you should’ve attended a damn Indian wedding.

Less wailing. This one’s for you, Mum. Turn it down a notch, aye? [*British accent here*]

And, on a final note, someone Get Rabbit Kaka Sungura (King Kaka) to perform at my funeral. I’ve listened to this bozo’s music ever since he got into the industry. Ninja just speaks to me, his hustle inspires me. You compare his first ever video with the latest, and the difference there, he says, is all hard work and determination. Go out there and be whatever you want to be.

I’m bumping to his latest album [Legend of Kaka] as I bang down this piece. I want Promised Land to be played while my casket is lowered to whatever hole my will have been dug for me to serve as my final resting place.

Oh, and did I say I attended his daughter’s birthday party the other weekend? Gorgeous kid, she just turned a measly year old yet Obinna of ‘Offside’ show was already trying to hook her up with his son. Beautiful life, Gweth. And stay away from Obinna’s son, the apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree. Heheh

Cheers!