The boys ganged up on me a couple of weekends ago. They said I whine a lot, like “a little bitch”.  They told me to get my shit together. That if I can’t keep my sly ass in a steady relationship, I should stop discouraging those who are doing a fine job at it. And that if I keep bashing women every time I post something, I’m going to end up forty, miserable, single, and with nothing to my name; no pension to ride on, no grandkids running around the house playing brikicho and cleaning up their poop with my white shirts, no social life, and no wife to give me a hard time about where to keep my socks. Nothing, nada! I frowned for a bit. Then I made a smug face and asked, “Okay, prophets of doom, will I at least have a bottle of Whiskey? Surely, if The Good Ole’ Chap above should decide that I be glum, He’ll at least provide Whiskey, right?”



They didn’t get it. They never get it. Nobody gets my Whiskey jokes. Oh, shut up, I know you didn’t either.



So I asked them, “Well, what would you rather have me write then?” They went quiet. And just as I was about to hit them with a “that’s what I thought” look, Roy grabbed my arm and said, “Write about us.” I swear, what was going through my mind after that statement was, “Wait for it, this maafaka ‘bout to come out of the closet!” Hehe. I know, but why would a man ask me to write about them? And while holding my arm! Cheesy, No?



Then he continued, “Write about us, at the bar; the conversations, the booze, the environment. All that shit.” And Chacha said, “Yeah. Write about Maggie’s, we want everyone coming to Juja to know this place. And us!”



[Here’s the thing about Chacha, ninja likes feeling like a Don. He’s that guy that will find you chilling with some cute cat, ignore you and say to her, “Jaber, my Mercedes is packed right outside the door. It is at your disposal. We can go for a drink at Aqua right now. Or take a road trip to Nakuru, or go for a bite at Teriyaki. Just say the word, Jaber. Just say the word.” Do you guys have any idea how annoying that shit is? Not the taking your girl away from you bit, you can always find another one. That he says things like ‘Jaber’ and ‘Mercedes’ with so much grandiose and poise and he’s not even Luo. Such fuckery!



Chacha is also too much of a fisi; he’s that bozo that will hit on a damsel and her friend and then her friend’s friend. But in all fairness, he’s also a cool chap. I like the guy – not in that tacky way you guys are thinking of – because he’s fun to share a bottle of Whiskey with.  Also because he’s that guy that when you’re broke and he just got paid, he will always call you and say “Boss, si we meet at iClub, grab one for the road and see where the night takes us, aye?”



Roy, on the other hand, is cut from a different cloth. Even I sometimes don’t understand the guy. Roy drinks from Monday to Monday, quite literally, but he’ll still whop your ass in a random Calculus test. True story! Ninja has the highest number of A’s in our I.T class yet, still, all the bar tenders at every local pub around know him by name. You remember that thing about all fun and no play making Jack a dull boy? Take out Jack’s name and put in ‘Roy’.



Oh, and nobody makes hangover meat stew better than this son of a gun. I repeat, nobody!]



Everybody is now chiming in, some like P.K and Ken saying that, should I decide to do the piece, I shouldn’t drag their names through too much mud, that their Mamaas [this is slang’ for Girlfriend] are something else. Others like kina Philo and Dero and Rube telling me not to call them by their real names.



Ati, “Mimi I’m ‘The Beast’ buana, call me Philo and someone will lose a tooth.”


“And I’m Carrick, you know, like the footballer”, adds Dero. [Everybody knows Carrick the footballer Baba]


“Junior Memphis is what the ladies know me by”, declares Rube.



[Kwanza, Look here Chief, I wouldn’t be proud of the ladies calling me that if I were you. Junior Memphis sounds like some guy who asks for a glass of Red bull every five seconds during migwatos. Or one of those chaps that you accept their Friend requests on Facebook and they inbox you, “Tnx fi di +”



P.K is the other amusing character. Go through his contact list, you will find some names saved as “Dem nilipata kwa Kinyozi”. Or “Dem anafaa kukuja bash”. Or “Nyasi  wa Gate B”. P.S: ‘Nyasi’ is our code-name for a not-so-good-looking damsel, or just anybody in general. It’s also what P.K and Roy call each other, they boys like that.



Philo is that mammoth of a fellow with a loud booming voice. I was so scared of him when we met in first year because I thought he’d break my neck just for the hell of it. There was this hotel we used to go to for lunch in first year, Philo would walk and if the line was too long, he’d shout his order from the door, pick a table and it’d be brought to him. Folks, that’s how you know you’re the shit!



Ken is that guy that has been in a stable relationship with the same lass from first year, and still going strong. They’ve even introduced each other to their families; the lass’ mum and he are on a first-name calling basis now. They even chat sometimes. Ken is one of those boys you know will always have your back.



Then there’s Dero and Rube. These are those chaps that will always be just fine at a house party so long as there’s Whiskey, mogoka, a packet of Fresh chewing gum, and poker cards. To hell with women!  Dero is also one of the most loyal Man U fans I have ever met. You know how players mumble some light prayer and then motivate themselves by clapping before kick-off? Dero does that shit too bana.]



Now, folks, this is not Ghafla or some socialite contest blog. Here, we keep it simple and as real as possibly can. So those aliases – mara The Beast sijui Carrick sijui Junior Memphis gikmakamago – will not fly here. I will call you by your real names. And that’s settled.



About the bar, I honestly didn’t need much convincing. I’ve always wanted to write about the bar; I’ve always had this incessant nudge deep within me to write about those chaps that crap in their pants after the first glass and those that stagger home after midnight singing Kumbaya; Those that get so emotional they start calling their exes and those that just sit there, still, unmoved. Sometimes when I need a good laugh, I just stroll to the bar, order one drink and sit where I can observe everybody. Forget those posh bars stocked with expensive bottles of Johnny Walker, Jameson, Grants and Chivas where they sell a double at Ksh. 1200, I’m talking about the locals here. The ones that serve keg and Kibao and Blue Ice and Moonwalker and all that other hooey Kamwana tried to get rid of the other day. The bars made for true legends; for real men [have you seen that London Distillers advert?]. The bars you go to with just Ksh. 50 and leave crawling to your digs. The only place a man can truly ever have some piece of mind.



So I thought about it for a second and said, Sure, what the hell!



First of all, here’s the thing about the bar, men talk a lot of shit here. When we’re at the bar and we’re with our boys, we’re completely oblivious of the rest of world.  At that moment, we own the whole fucking universe. The President couldn’t tell us shit, the Pope couldn’t tell us shit. Hell, my Boss couldn’t tell me shit. He could call to give me that pay I’ve been grinding his ass over [get your mind out of the gutter] for the last month and I’d say “Get your toi some new diapers mate, I’m busy!” The bar is where we go to unwind and talk about men issues. It’s where a man can complain about his woman’s mediocre cooking and doleful fashion sense and awful walking style and below-the-belt moves in bed and not get kicked out of the bedroom to the couch for it. So, to my boys’ Mamaas who may come across this piece, don’t throw his briefs into the bin because you saw his name here saying something you don’t like. It’s never that serious, donge? Also, these conversations happened so long ago I can’t remember exactly who said what. Most of it is just my imagination.




Also, and you may have noticed already, this is going to be an X-rated piece. If you’re one of those uptight folk who can’t even say ‘ass’ unless you’re referring to that animal Jesus rode into Jerusalem on then I’m afraid this one’s not for you. You may want to close this tab now and click onto something soft – something teary – like, maybe, go to YouTube and listen to Adelle’s ‘Hello’. Sawa? [By the way, have you listened to Jimmy Gait’s cover?]




Now, when you go to Juja, ask for directions to Rising Cock hostels at Gate C. I beg to digress here for a second, there’s a hostel in Juja named Rising Cock. And another named Golden Balls. Believe that. I don’t know about you but methinks these hostels are owned by some horny rich old ladies that probably nobody wanted to fuck anymore so they put up these buildings and gave them those names so whenever they thought about them, it gave them immediate orgasm. No, Really, I’m just saying. Mimi my woman tells me she’s having a cocktail at Golden Balls and we’re done.  Place sounds like somewhere a lady walks into and gets an immediate turn on and a sudden urge to fuck anything that walks. No shit!




Okay, si you’re at Rising Cock now? Take the next sharp turn and walk straight ahead. You’ll see some place where they sell pork in the distance. Opposite it will be some bluish kibanda-like establishment christened ‘Sunrise Hotel’; this is where I take my Chapo-Madondo. Their ­Chapos are huge, tasty, and they go for just 10 bob. As a rule of thumb, I don’t buy Chapo for more than 10 bob. Don’t ask.




After Sunrise Hotel, skip two doors and walk into the next one. That’s Maggie’s. You’ll know when you get there, because you’ll probably find a bunch of bozos howling and laughing at the top of their voices by the entrance. Those bozos will most probably be us, we like sitting next to the door, because it has this amazing view from where we can see all the ladies passing by and give credits where it’s due and criticize where it is so deserved. Maggie’s is a dingy joint, you will walk in and all manner of smell will strike your miniature nose; whiffs of cigarette and weed smoke, smell of cheap liquor, even sweat. But we’re men, and this is just how we like it. This is the setting of this story.




There are three or four jugs [not bottles, jugs] of booze on the table. We’ve started talking a lot of shit and arguing over a bunch of nonsense by now, which means the liquor is starting to kick in. We’re evenly spread all round the table, howling, debating, agreeing, disagreeing, stomping glasses. Ken is probably on his phone, texting the Missus, telling her not to wait up. I’m at the corner, silent, pretending to be listening, yet struggling to fight the urge to drunk-call some random chic on my contact list. Free advice; keep your phone away when you’re drunk. I have a friend who thought he called his pregnant girlfriend and accepted responsibility for his actions. The next morning he got a text from his mum saying, “You have a baby? So this is what you do with the money we gave you after selling Atoti, our only cow, donge? Nyasachiel ka amaki nyathini…” You know your goose is cooked when your mum leaves a sentence trailing off for you to complete.




Rube: Oya. From here on forth, I’m the shit. Jana I was on a roll, man. Side chic and Main chic on the same day bana. *Bangs chest, sings from glass*


Dero: Aaah, wapi? Toa evidence.


Rube: Hahahah. What evidence? Kwani you guys want a sex tape?


Chacha: Eeehh. Bring the damn sex tape, all this is just hearsay. 


Rube: Oh, Gerarahia. Peleka wivu mbali.


Me: Heheh, Ni sawa Rube. You’re the man Baba. And you, Chacha, what about you and that mami? Kunaendaje?


Chacha: [Loud laughter] What mami?


Me: You know, the one saved as ‘Eye Candy’ on your contact list?


Chacha: Hahahahah. There is no ‘Eye Candy’ Boss. Cheza chini.


Me: Okay, what about the other one saved as ‘Her’?


Dero: ‘Eye Candy’ na ‘Her’? Eh, Boss, Si I told you to stop fooling around? Utakufa mapema bana.


Chacha: Hahahah. Who’s fooling around? Kuweni wapole. Wewe Ian kwani you’ve been going through my phone?


Me: You remember last night how you were so wasted you asked me to call ‘Her’ and ask if you could go over? And ‘Her’ said she was out of town so you asked me to call ‘Eye Candy’? Yes.


Chacha: Uhmmmm……aaahhhh…..when did this happen again?


Rube: Hahahah. Pombe sio supu Kijana!


Roy: [Goes through his phone Gallery, pauses at one picture, points the phone towards P.K] Wasee, look here, rate this mami for me, on a scale of 1-10.


P.K: Ah. Huyu ni nyasi sana. Hata 4 ni mingi.


Ken: She’s not that bad. A 5 should do. 


Me: Daamn, she fine, y’all stop hating. She’s a shy 8.


Roy: Now that’s a man with taste.


Me: Ahem! [Boastful cough]


Chacha: Aaaah, I’m with P.K on this one. Ako down!


Roy: Kwendeni huko. Nyinyi nyote ni manyasi. Alafu Ian yule yellow yellow wako yuko aje? Heheh.


Me: [Ignoring]


Ken: We see you, Ian. Quit trying to ignore the question.


Chacha: Thought I was the only one that noticed. *Corky giggle*


Me: Hahahah. What yellow yellow though? I don’t know what y’all talking about.


Rube: Oh, you know who.


Me: Shut up.


Dero: Ahaaaa. Iaaaann. Heheheh.


P.K: Bana ebu look at that ass out there.


[Everybody turns, there’s no ass, everybody turns back]


P.K: [Laughing] Hahahahah. Wah, Team Mafisi ni real kweli. Unaskianga tu Juja Boys.


[We all laugh]


P.K: Na jana I was at this crazy bash maze. Sasa si there was this chic whom I was eyeing and, from her reaction, I think she was eyeing me too. So I got my groove on, went up to her and we started talking and laughing while touching each other and shit. Kumbe there was this other guy who also liked this same chic. So he comes over and starts pestering the chic with more booze and trying to grab her away from where we were. She seemed hesitant, like the guy was bothering her or something. Sasa si I tell the guy to beat it but the stupid mofo talks smack back at me. So I got up, gave him a good one across the chini and the weak motherfucker went out cold bana. Akableki hivo! Sasa si the competition is out and I’m feeling myself, thinking I’ve shown the chic I can protect her sindio? Guess what, the chic gets up, looks me in the eye and says, “I don’t like violent guys.” Imagine!


[We all laugh, again. This time louder]


Roy: Hapo ulijipiga noma solo wewe Nyasi. Hahahahah.


Ken: Hahahahah. Inaitwa kujislice. Usijali msee, hivo ndio kunaendanga.


Dero: Wewe Ian si you order two more jugs with that blogging money bana?


Chacha: Maze Writer joh.


Me: [Confused] What blogging money? The fuck you think I am, Bikozulu?


Rube: Sasa Bikozulu ndio nani tena huyo? Ama ni ile Whiskey mpya?




To be Continued….Next Year.




The first distinct feature that meets the eye as you walk into these cells is the tiny opening acting as a window located right opposite the door from which you walked in. Shaped in the form of a rectangle and fitted with squat firm bars, it’s so minute a knocked up rat wouldn’t mosey through it without risking a miscarriage. It’s this miniscule opening that will serve as your source of air till mother luck smiles on you and you’re released from this hell-hole.


The cell setting itself doesn’t do much to quell my already foul mood. The walls look like they were last painted when Apple and Blackberry were just fruits. Inscriptions of blokes who previously spent some of their hours in here and wanted their legends to forever remain told reign the walls. “Otieno was here, 2011-2012”, reads one part. Funny how not even a year behind vile correctional facilities as these can scrape a Luo of his pride. But we don’t say!


The room looks no bigger than a bachelor’s shack. More than a dozen pair of eyes stare as we stroll in. “Welcome home”, they seem to be telling us. Home indeed! Given the number already in here and the ones walking in now, quick math tells me there’ll soon be limited space so Daniel and I hurriedly squeeze ourselves at some spot next to one of the corners. Albeit standing, we try to get as comfortable as we possibly can. Home, again, Yes? The officer locks the door after us. It’s something past 1:30 p.m. now. The morning looks so near yet so far. In the meantime, as far as the night is concerned, Daniel and I are prepared for the worst but still praying for the best. Anything goes in here. Boondocks will teach you about the only rule to live by in jail, Don’t drop the damn soap! Pun intended. I had accepted the possibility that I could be robbed or beaten half-dead in here, but I’d have to be fully dead and six-feet under before anyone tried sticking anything up my ass. Not in this lifetime. You can take that to Faulu Kenya or Kamiti Maximum!


We’re all strangers in here, so it’s only natural for there to be some awkward silence the first couple of minutes or so. 98% of the folks in here are students, all wrongfully arrested. Then there’s one being held for stealing a laptop, and another who never mentioned his crime to anyone. All we ever knew about him was that he’d been here longest. Even the cops addressed him by name and he was accorded a few pleasantries we weren’t, like a shopping bag of bread, milk, tissue paper and a bathing soap at dawn break. Then there were two or three nduthi riders arrested for staying out past curfew time and presumably being under the influence.


Then out of the blue, the laptop thief and the veteran [he who had been here longest, I called him that] start harassing this nduthi guy over some cigarettes that he’d apparently promised them. When he said he didn’t have it, he was asked to fork out fifty shillings. When he said he didn’t have that either, even his screams for help from the officer at the OB desk couldn’t do anything to stop the multitude of blows and kicks that came pouring down on him like hailstorm. And boy did he scream! By now Daniel and I are probably thinking we’re next so we sit down on the floor, rest our heads on the knees, cover the heads with our hands and just feign oblivion to the present situation. This is the part where you drift to a sound slumber hoping you’ll wake up in the morning, only to find you were asleep a measly five minutes. The irony of Time is, it moves with baby steps at your worst and only flies at the best instants. Like that moment when you’ve chilled with your bae in your room for two long hours and then when you finally decide you want to hit it, your roomie walks in howling like a retarded seal. The people we call friends!


Morning came and we were served cold tea, Daniel and I forfeited it. We were then taken out of the cells and a roll call conducted. Just as everyone thought we were being let go, the cop in charge told us to “get comfortable” as we were probably going to be locked up till Monday. Outside, the demonstrations were evidently still on, going by the melee at the station. During lunch, we were served a plate of Ugali and cabbage that looked like it had just been dipped in a trough of cold water and placed on the plates. Daniel and I went without that too. By now we’d decided we weren’t going to take anything as long as we were still in here. If they were going to keep us here till Monday, so be it. But the only way this shit was going into our tummies would be if they cut us open and stuffed it in there. Straight talk!


We talked about the first thing we’d do when we left this place. Daniel says a cold shower would do for him. Me? Well, an ice-cold mineral water. Having gone a whole day without anything, I was both thirsty and hungry as hell. But the hunger would have to wait. They say you can go a week in the desert without food but only three days without water.


Then the cell doors were opened and the officer called out Daniel. He, either, had a visitor or someone had come to bail him out. I wished him all the best after, of course, telling him to remember us too. The door was once again opened twenty minutes later and Daniel was ushered back inside. When I asked him who it was that had come to see him or what had happened, he first burst out into a loud disturbing laughter before telling me.


See, Daniel comes from a kinsfolk of top-dogs. His big brother was an Embakasi West MP aspirant in the last elections. He also founded some organization that protects children [or is it women?] rights and is currently the head honcho at another. This is a ninja who has once single-handedly triggered a jam in town because some inane traffic police officer had tried to flag down his custom-plated German machine. Cops, know people bwana!


His cousin is no stranger to the showbiz industry. The mohwak-haired soft spoken chum acts in a local soap opera, models and is also a KLAD House Ambassador. His sister, well, besides being a well-known a model/video vixen, let’s just say that mamsilla can paint the dance floor red.


If anyone had come for Daniel, it had to be one of these jamaas.


Given that look on his face, and going by the fact that he’s back here and that suspicious laughter he just dropped, am guessing thing’s aren’t any rosier. You know those laughs you give when shit is real but you’re trying to convince yourself all will be well? Eehh!


So Daniel tells me the visitor had been the big scary brother himself. That explains why the officer in charge had seemed a little shaken when calling him out. He didn’t push and shove him around like they did us previously. But that’s not even why Daniel is laughing. Apparently the big man had only come to confirm that his dear beloved younger brother had indeed spent the night behind bars, after which he’d laughed at and mocked him to his face before ordering the officer to take him back to the cells, for the simple reason that he wanted him to learn a lesson. Of course he sent a confidante of his to bail him out later on in the evening, assuming he’d have learnt his lesson by then. Sir, this is generation X. The generation of selfies and social media. All we know how to do is get wasted, have random sex, post photos on Instagram, like each other on Facebook, troll Ole Lenku on twitter and repeat. All day. What lesson? Puh!


We had been locked in at 1p.m on a Friday and freed following the intervention of our outgoing student organization Chair on a Saturday at around 7 p.m. That was 18 long hours of frowny faces and pressy asses. We came, we saw, we left. My goons tell me am a man now. I don’t know. Chacha, Austin and your gang of Musketeers…can I drink at the high table now?


As the countdown to Election Day closes, now more than ever, candidates and their handy followers are folding their sleeves all the way up in readiness for a long two days of gruesome and possibly decisive campaigns.


There have been claims by some candidates that their opponents locked them in their rooms, thereby crippling their campaign tracks. Even some have alleged to have had their names dragged numerously through the mud; that they’re projects of outgoing leaders in a bid to extend their reigns, or that they sold rooms to fellow students during their tenures as hall representative; all in the name of cheap propaganda.  They say they won’t be cowed by malice and/or ill-fated attempts at pulling them down. But this is politics; it’s bound to get dirty. And it is in this final stretch that it gets even messier.


Aspirants with soft spots are driven to the ground solidly with no benevolence whatsoever; this is not your Mama’s playground. Go hard or go home. This is a world where only the crafty, the financially endowed, the fierce, and the sweet-tong’ued have a shot at glory.


Comrades Power…,” yells a voice on the microphone. The venue is the basketball court and the students are slowly streaming in; possibly to hear the words of wisdom about to be drilled into their ears or just to treat themselves to the free refreshments on display beside the speaker.


Power!!” They howl in return. The momentum is fast picking up, more people are pouring in and the voice from the mic is growing even louder.


This is the time for change. This is the time for true leadership. Let us be conscious of the decisions we make, lest we hand over power to people who will only serve their selfish interests and not those of the students. I’ve been here since 2012, and not once has the JKUSO office been opened to the students. Kazi yake basi ni nini? Wanataka tuambie mashida zetu nani ikiwa wameweka vifuli mlangoni mwa ofisi? Vote me in, and I will make sure that office is open day in day out so that students access their leaders whenever they have issues to be addressed, au sio? Comrades!!!” The voice, now submerged deep somewhere in the middle of the crowd, continues.


Eeeeeehhhhhh……Power!!!!” The audience replies with vigor, confirming to the speaker that indeed they’re still alive and well taking notes. They are with him. Or, perhaps, only waiting for him to finish talking so they can be served the drinks already. But either case works just fine; as long as they’re cheering and making noise to every remark he makes, he’s satisfied.


The ears of the leader must ring with the voices of the comrades. Vote Victor Marende for Secretary General; Vote conscious leadership. Thank you!” The voice declares with a tone of irrevocability, confirming his identity in the process; finally putting a name to the voice. Now just the face. But even that isn’t too long before his campaigners shove his poster or a piece of his manifesto into your feeble hands. Or he, himself, moves around from one person to the other, shaking hands and reminding them how important their support to his mission is.





At the assembly hall, all hell is breaking loose. A debate for the candidates running for various seats is in tow, but the bouncers are having a hard time controlling the gathering. Everyone is shouting the name of his/her preferred candidate. A fight is inevitable between two rival supporters seated next to each other, so there’s no surprise when a few blows and jabs are seen flying from the back row. The bouncers are quick to react, and the bout is contained. For now.


Sports and Games docket aspirants are up first. Two men stand tall; one Kelvin Bett and Joseph Achoka. Bett is the captain of the school volleyball team; he feels that his capacity allows him to understand better what the sportsmen go through and therefore at a better position to serve them better. But Achoka begs to disagree. After all, even Maradona was the best player to ever come from his home country during his time. But when appointed coach, he drove the very team he had led to multiple victories during his heydays as player to the ground as its leader. Yes? But Bett is still confident he’s the man. And so is Achoka. They stand their grounds, and put out their manifestos to the public. When asked what they’d do if they failed to deliver their promises, Mr. Achoka is quick to declare that he would tender his resignation with immediate action. Bett, on the other hand, only has four words for the horde;


I will not fail!”.


Achoka    Bett


Now to the ballot boys. Good luck.


The Vice Chair candidates are next. There’s only two of them, both ladies; Elzie Chebet and Irene David.




Elzie is evidently the proverbial crowd’s favorite. A decent lady, and humble to the core. She walks to the stage at the mention of her name, takes a slight bow at the crowd and proceeds to her seat amidst ear-piercing cheers and unending roars of her name. She even has a bouncy track by some JKUAT artist to her name; a lady of the people, this one.


Irene walks in and the cheers reduce, by a huge margin. But she’s undeterred. She struts the floor head held high and takes her seat right next to Elzie. Calm and composed. Then the grilling begins.


Elzie has previously served as hall representative, and currently holds a post in JKUFESA [I don’t know what that stands for either].  By the sounds emanating from the hall as she speaks, the people seem to have been satisfied by her previous and current leadership qualities just fine. Irene too has served as a hall representative. A question comes in that she was rumored to have been selling rooms to students during her tenure and she’s placed on the spot to defend herself. She denies it [who wouldn’t though?] in between boos from the crowd. Folks, politics si mchezo.


All the best, ladies.


The Secretary General’s seat debate is by far the highlight of the evening. It’s a highly sensitive post that requires deep connection with the students. So jeers, sneers and cheers rent the air in equal measure. Obadiah Kipkoech, Nahashon Julu and Marende Victor [the voice from earlier on at the basketball court] are the men standing on the cliff.


Even from the front seat, it is practically impossible to hear what the candidates are saying. The mass makes sure every time their preferred candidate holds the mic, their voices are heard the loudest.


Nahashon Julu, apparently, is a man who has been in the university previously, before securing a job [with the army?] and is now back for a second stint. He denies any possible rumors that he came back because of his greed for power, but because [and only because] of his deep desire to further his education. He just stumbled upon politics as a by the way. A valid reason; with just its fair touch of controversy nevertheless.




Marende Victor speaks with authority, affirming that he’ll make sure no JKUSO official owns any tuck shop as is the case currently since this is a violation of power. He vows to root out corruption with his last remaining bit of strength. He is the voice of the voiceless, he believes.




Not much can be said about Obadiah Kipkoech, blame it on his rowdy goons. One could never make out his words clearly, but from his actions, he spoke with a deep conviction and ferocity as well. He was whisked out when the debate came to an end by his people, almost kicking my nose with his feet in the process. I digress.




There was no debate for seat of Chairperson. Jomo Erick, the man on whom I did a grand piece [read here: ] was nominated unopposed and therefore, as it stands now, is the JKUSO Chairperson 2014/2015. When the nomination list was released, buzzes could be heard from every corner; querying how exactly it came that the most powerful seat in the institution had only one person. Supporters of the other missing candidates [Abdi Siyaro, Maimuna Said and Elijah Ng’ang’a] were outraged. They petitioned, asking why their preferred aspirants were omitted from the list. But as it turned out, two of them had apparently gotten supplemetaries in class while the other had fee arrears; thereby automatically disqualifying them from vying as they ran short on a few qualifications required to be met by all candidates. All the while, Jomo fought like an enraged bull. He saw injustice being dished out and he reacted, thereby securing his post. Pundits view him as ‘too humble’ for the seat but you can never judge a book by its cover, he might just shock everyone. Personally, having interacted with him a few times and listened to some of his views, I think he can. And that’s that! Read his manifesto here: [ ]


Jomo Erick




Finance docket is the other contentious seat. Eve Maina, one of the contestants, last Friday promised the school one helluva launch party and delivered zilch. But we understand, shit happens. Wamui Thiong’o and Chemonges T. David are the other contenders. If there’s one race to watch out for, it’s this.


eve Thiong'o Chemonges


Then there’s Academic Secretary with kina Eucabeth and Job Gacheru;


Euca JB


And then there’s Entertainment with ‘Hozzie’ against Alfy;


Hozzie  Alfy


[Bana are those even campaign posters? SMH…]


Meanwhile the Student’s center has become a haven for drinking, wrestling and ratchetness. This is where people get wasted before running around the compound with posters of their Messiahs. This is where ladies come wearing squat skirts, exhibiting their panty colors, and put their best foot forward on the dance floor; grinding every Dick [pun intended] and Harry in sight. This is where stoned folk massage each other on the cheeks at the slightest even non-offensive insult. This is also where Ken cock-blocked my thirsty arse and played pool after a meal of fries and a sip of who knows what!


Tomorrow JKUAT decides. And the boys will be separated from the men; and the girls from the ladies. Whoever wins, stand by your word. To the losers, you’ll live to fight another day. I was gon’ say ‘Accept and move on’ but I saw the cliché in it; no one relishes a loss. Ask Magunga Williams. Or the big man from Bondo. While you’re at it, enquire how his back is faring. I hope he’s well.


You get into first year with your fair share of hopes and ambitions. And a multitude of pressure from your old fogeys [if you have a dad like mine] to perform well and do them proud.


“The son of a WHOLE Principal can’t be failing his exams. You will subject me to untold shame,” Omondi Were declares.


So you’re motivated. And determined. You must work hard. You must emerge the best. You must assert that indeed, you are your father’s son. You avoid folk of the opposite sex at all costs.


“They will distract you,” states your elder brother.  “They are nothing but bad luck. Walking time bombs,”




You are your only friend. You talk and listen only to yourself. And your guts. You frequent the library as much as you can. The silence in the vicinity sometimes drives you to long uncomfortable sleeps but you keep coming back. Those sleeps from which you awake and wonder, “Did I snore? Did I fart? Did I say the name of my crush out loud?” But you digress. ‘Cause nobody cares. This is campus; your business is your business. Besides, you wouldn’t dare ask the geeky guy seated next to you deeply engrossed in his Calculus assignments if indeed you did do all these things or not. Because what if you didn’t? He’ll probably look at you like you’re the weirdest guy he’s ever met [though chances are it’s a reality] before moving on to the next table in grueling silence. The kind of silence women accord us when we refuse to give them money for their salon [weave] expenses. Or what if you really did fart, snore disturbingly and totally shout out the name of your crush in your sleep? Then asking would only make the moment more awkward for the both of you. So you let go altogether. And you just sit back up and continue with your studies like nothing ever happened. Prepared for the worst but still praying for the best.


You never miss class. You have a clean slate on your attendance sheet. And you’re earlier to lessons than ‘happy-hour’ enthusiasts at Lavish Lounge where 4 beers retail at half the normal price from 6p.m – 8p.m. Your assignments are always complete in time. And you can’t help but express gross disgust at those who struggle to finalize theirs at the last minute, or offer to kiss your sore arse just so they can copy one answer from your script. Where have they been these past two weeks since the assignment was given? What have they been doing? You grill your conscience with queries to whose ripostes you don’t have but eventually you stop. You don’t wanna know anyway, you resolve.


The weekends are your rest days. You lie in bed all day watching Vampire Diaries or reading a romance novel. And Facebooking. You’re not on Twitter, so you wonder what the hoot the ‘#KOT’ everyone’s been talking about all week is. And you hope it’s the newest clothing line in town ‘cause, heck, even The Man Above knows you’ve just about had enough of Versace this… Versace that. You hear drunk folk yelling foul words to each outside your window at night but you pity them for not having anything better to do with their money than splashing it on cheap liquor at Maggie’s. The women in short revealing skirts give Johnny goose bumps but you remember your big bro’s advice so you cool the little fella down. Plus, you’re Christian. ‘He’ll’ probably have to wait till you’re married before going all commando on whoever it is your folks have in store for you.


And life continues. And the first semester ends, then the second follows. And the third. Then you’re through with your first year and you’re proud of yourself. And your grades. Even Omondi Were looks at your transcript with a little grin in his face before urging you to do even better next time. Although in his mind he’s still tryna figure out why you, being an I.T student,  just had to score an A in HIV/AIDS of all the units then get a C in Programming. “Priorities, Son. Priorities,” he proclaims. But nothing ever pleases this old man, you conclude. Nothing. You could buy him a Vitz if he was old, poor and riding on bicycle but he’d still get grumpy about why it was so damn small. Nevertheless, you still love him to bits; that grouchy old man of yours.


Second year beckons. First semester, same old same old naive you. Then the second semester summons and you start getting bored. A burning desire strikes deep within you to try out something new. You want to feel a part of the movement. You don’t want to be left out in the early Monday morning class WhatsApp conversations about which is the hippest joint between Klub Image and Brown Bottles, or which video parades the most flesh between Pombe Bhangi and Moneymaker. So you start hanging with/around the big boys. The cool kids. And you do everything they do. Everything they tell you. They say jump and you don’t even ask how high, up you go. They say sip and you don’t even ask what it is, you just stick your slimy tong’ue into it. And lick till you need a saliva refuel.


You get into a few relationships here and there. Then you leave and start sleeping around. And you enjoy every bit of it. You remember your brother’s words and you wonder why he wanted to deny you of such a satiating quest. Screw him, you’ll deal with him once you get back home.


Meanwhile, back in class, nothing is working no more. You are failing your C.A.Ts, exams, handing in your assignments last and showing up to class late. Looking as wretched as a plastic-surgery-gone-wrong Vera Sidika someone would think you ran into Vin Diesel’s fist on set Fast and Furious 7 the previous night and it totally dismembered your whole face. And slowly you start copying other people’s assignments too. You stop reading and start carrying mwakenyas [tiny pieces of paper containing the whole syllabus] and smart phones with PDF files to exam rooms. You and your boys have a seating arrangement, the answers rotate all round. When the results come back, everyone passes with ‘flying colors’. Everyone is happy. You hit Maggie’s, the very place you had criticized in first year, and you celebrate over a glass [or jug] of keg. Life is good.


You’re now fully into the system. You understand how everything works around here. Whenever you miss class there’s always someone signing against your name on the attendance sheet, making it look like you did attend the class. That’s your ‘boy’. Your ride or die partner. His assignment scripts are yours too and yours his, save for a few details on the cover page which you alter. You sign against his name too on the attendance sheet whenever he’s out nursing his Monday blues too. Yours is a ‘Scratch my back I scratch yours’ relationship.




The lecturer gives out projects at the beginning of the semester but by the last week, even one person is yet to begin. You lift one off the internet and change a few details here and there so it daen’t look like a complete copy-paste. Then you present your work with a “To hell, whatever happens happens” attitude. And when you’re through you take a stroll towards Maggie’s as always. You’re now a customer here. You and your crew. She sees you and she doesn’t even have to ask your order. But just in case she does, you could always bellow, “Kama kawaida” to refresh her memory. Life is good.


You and your boys drink together, and study together when C.A.Ts or exams are around the corner. You sit together in the exam room and you help each other. Yours is an education system in which nothing is as important as knowing the person sitting next to you in an exam room. Because in this generation, there’s very little you can do on your own. Especially academics. You can never get a First Class honors by keeping just to yourself only. Few have succeeded. It’s a combined effort; teamwork.



At the end of it all, when you’re sitting at the back during graduation with your honestly acquired Second Class- Lower while the very ninjas who used to drink like fish but carry each other’s weight as their own during exam time are at the front with their cheeky First Class Honors, you’ll realize only one thing; Son, Degree ni Harambee! ‘Cause lets face it, employers out here just want what you on have on your papers these days; not how you got it. The end justifies the means.




Just so it’s out there, before the order of the day,  in no way should the sentiments expressed in this article be viewed as criticism or anything of such sorts. This is just one man’s unbiased point of view. I am into Events Organizing myself so I know how difficult it could get to pull off a successful event without any hitches. With that said, pardon any lines of text that may seem as ‘bad-mouthing’ here. No harm, or offence, intended to any concerned party.


The Good

If there’s one thing I represent in this world it’s entertainment. I love entertainment. I literally eat, breath and live entertainment. From the Daylight Festival at Mamba Village, UoN’s Free Travelling Theatre Monthly Shows, to the Hip Hop HookUps at Sarakasi Dome, I’ve attended and seen it all. There’s something about events and entertainment as a whole that just makes me tick. This nagging urge is soon going to lead to the inception of an entertainment outfit, Edgy Media and Entertainment, a brainchild and collaboration of the Sons of Were but we’ll talk about that some other time. First things first.


So JKUAT’s Kipaji Entertainment brought us this semester’s second edition of the ‘Kipaji Night’ which, without a doubt, recorded the largest number of attendance since I stepped foot into this institution. I’ve never missed a single edition of ‘Kipaji Night’ from my first year to date so trust me, I know what am talking about. Coming to think of it, this year’s freshers are actually good for business, speaking from an events organizing point of view. They attend just about every event in the school and have absolutely no problem with paying the entrance fee. Mmmmhh…I think that pool party DilRay Inc. and I had thought of but given up on after noticing how stingy JKUAT pockets were last year wouldn’t be a bad idea after all this time round. Am just saying.


Anyway, so the event was scheduled to start at 6 p.m. (according to the posters) but it began at around 8 a.m. for untold reasons. But get this, freshers were already in by the scheduled 6 p.m. C’mon guys, is it just the confusion that comes with the first three weeks in school or y’all never attended any event before? No event ever starts at the exact scheduled time yo’. Okay, I’ll stop my bashing of the first years now.


‘Kipaji Night’ began on a relatively high tempo. A group of ‘riddim heads’ calling themselves ‘Eturian Dancers’ (or something like that) took to the stage and totally blew it up before the host MC of the day, the Story Teller, grabbed the mic and cracked the crowd up then invited on stage the first performer. I can’t really quite recall the names of all the performers but all in all, JKUAT has talent too. Gospel artistes, rappers, poets, singers, spoken word artistes…you name it. But like I always say, don’t believe everything I tell you. Make a date with the Kipaji crew on their next summit and see for yourself. I give credit only where it’s due and so far, these guys are doing a helluva job revolutionizing the whole concept of entertainment in JKUAT. Hats off to you; C.E.O Solo, MC Story Teller and company.


Fun was also in store for the audience when for a minute there, MC Story Teller brought to the stage some cute little lass with a monstrous weave above her head (presumably a fresher) and invited representatives of the ever-present Team Mafisi who believed they had what it would take to toa nyoka pangoni. Basically, he wanted a guy who would tune the damsel till she was practically drooling over him. Sema wanaume kujiamini. Four guys went up the stage (though I was practically responsible for pushing the forth guy up there) to have a piece of their 15 seconds of fame. Now, the guy I pushed up the stage goes by the name of Davie; a buddy of mine. A Luo by nature, a goon by behavior but a real nigga nonetheless. This is a guy I literally snatched a girl from his fingertips back in high school but still believes he has a smoother tong’ue than mine. That’s partially why I pushed him up there; to prove to him that he gat nothing on me. So he was given the mic to go up first and the very first thing he said to that chic proved my point. You know how Willy Paul went to the States for 3 weeks then came back calling water ‘worah’? That was the accent my man Davie used on the chic. Picture the male version of a K.U blonde trying to get laid after solitarily downing a whole bottle of ‘Kibao’ vodka, you’ll get my point. Needless to say, Davie was booed off the stage by the incessant crowd and he came back to his seat baying for my blood, blaming me for pushing him up there. And for the record, the sole reason I didn’t go up there to tune the chic myself was because she’d have been waiting on my bed by the time I was done with her. I’m bad like that. But am a married man now so the goon in me has to lay low. Word of advice, son, never mess with the Son of Were. But what beats me was the fact that, out of the four guys who had climbed up the stage to tune the chic, it’s some drunkard that laughed straight to the bank having swept the girl off her feet with a couple of smooth flowing lyrics. And this is not a joke people, the guy was stark drunk as he bagged that innocent girl’s heart. He had even been kicked off the stage twice but insisted on taking part in tuning the girl. Fellas, when a drunken man takes a woman away from you is when you know you have no game whatsoever. Davie, I assume you’re taking notes. Aye?


So after the performances from the JKUAT fraternity, the host MC invited the guest MC, one Marlboro from Churchill Raw, to do what he does best before introducing the guest acts of the night. And he did. Then he brought us DK Kwenye Beat, Hopekid and Willy Paul who has a special place in ‘The Ugly’ segment of this review. On a serious note, DK needs to trim down that weight. Dude’s kitambi was falling all over the place. The guy can’t even dance to his own ‘Furifuri’ dance style right now. He sure can still move a crowd though. Then there’s Hopekid ‘The General’, the kid who stole some Jamaican song called ‘Dream’ by one Popcaan and turned it into his own. Labelling it ‘Like a dream’ instead. But it was a nice song though, to be fair. It’s actually his only song I actually enjoy to this date. ‘Delilah’ and ‘Holiday’ have never washed down well with me though. Am a hard man to please people, I don’t bow to mediocrity. That’s why if you enjoy the (in)famous ‘Tam Tam’ song I would probably stop reading this article here if I were you. You were warned.


I’ve gotta give it up for one particular JKUAT performer though; one dancer by the name of Mathias. Guys, this ninja dances. Forget those stupid riddim moves, Mathias dances like those zombies on Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video. No gimmicks. You put anything within the strokes of ‘No air’ by Chris Brown or ‘Miss Independent’ and I tell you, this kid will blow you away. I bow. If you’re reading this, boss, I’m looking for you. Find me, we can make a lot of money together. Heheh…Not that am a dancer too, am just a self-proclaimed talent scout like Mzazi Willy M. Tuva. I can take you places, no gimmicks! Find me.


The Bad

There was this one guy in the room, his friends called him Kabaka (who names their child that?), who was dressed like he had just had an encounter with the rainbow. White trench coat, pink shirt, light blue khaki trouser and white ‘sharp-shooter’ shoes…does fashion get any worse? And to make matters worse, this son of a gun was the loudest throughout the whole event, screaming at any and every performer he felt was half-baked. Getting on stage to perform in front of a full campus assembly hall is no joke folks, respect those who have the courage to do so. So, ostensibly to shut Kabaka up, MC Marlboro got off the stage, went to where he was and cracked some joke that must’ve come out like “Boss, next time uko na dem make sure umetumia condom bana. Budako alishafanya mistake na wewe, usirudie ivo wewe pia. Wewe mwingine sasa iyo itakuwa noma zaidi.”


Let’s take a minute to digest this first. I agree, it was mean jest. But it’s a whole different issue when you decide to start a physical exchange with the MC in a hall full of people just ‘cause he threw a nasty tantrum your way. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the guy was merely seeking cheap recognition. Dude, we already know you drink like a starved fish and are louder than the horns that tore down the walls of Jericho, we don’t need you heckling our guest MC to prove anything else. Sit yo’ ass down!!


Then there was this one Spoken Word artiste called ‘Mende’ who quite literally forgot his lines on stage, was booed down and asked for one person “mwenye ako na nguvu akuje hapa aone”. LOL. JKUAT people really gotta stop ‘catching feelings’ aimlessly though. And booing performers too, it’s kiddish and downright backward.


The Worst

Willy Paul was the last perfomer of the night. Get me right here, Willy Paul is a big name in the Kenyan Gospel industry. The kid can sing, that you can take to the bank any day of the week. Give all the Gospel artistes in this industry just a microphone, no instrumental whatsoever, on stage and I tell you ‘Silly’ Willy will emerge somewhere up there (behind Bahati of course…ahem!). The boy has talent, no one can refute that. Not even I. But I adore the Willy Paul of ‘Sitolia’, ‘Mpenzi’, ‘You never know’. Where did he go? What did the Willy Paul of ‘Kitanzi’, ‘Kwa vile’ and ‘Tam Tam’ do to our original Willy Paul. People change, Yes. But I’ve always thought it’s for the better. Not for the ‘stupider’. No offence but we all know Willy and Size 8 stole ‘Tam Tam’ right? Here’s a piece of evidence courtesy of Ghafla!, a conversation between Size 8 and the actual owner of the song, one Elijah Prince. And get this, she was apologizing for being part of the ‘thuggery’:




Meanwhile, all was going well with Willy Paul’s performance. He even taught the ‘Eturian Dancers’ how to dance to ‘Tam Tam’ and got the whole crowd off their seats to the front so they could sing along. Not the whole crowd per se but majority of it. Of course I didn’t get off my seat. Why would I sing along to stupid lines like “Kama ni kachumbari…oohh tulikula lala. Kama ni katurungi…blah blah blah? I’d have to be mad to get off my seat for such mediocrity.


Well, as fate would have it, Willy Paul’s performance was brought to its knees by an electrical fault coming from some extension, or socket…I don’t really know these electricity stuff so well, in the room. The mic wasn’t working and the music went mute. ‘Silly’ Willy tried to explain to what had happened but the crowd would have none of it. They wanted him to continue performing. They wanted more songs. Davie was now practically baying for his blood, shouting some ballards within the lines of “Hatutaki ufala. Tulilipia bana!!” Mark you, the guy hadn’t even paid the entrance fee. He had been boasting of how he had gotten in through the window unnoticed all night long. Like it was something to be proud of; getting through the window to avoid paying a Ksh. 50 event entrance fee. Really? 50 bob bana? Puh!


Willy even agreed that once the situation was fixed he’d come back to perform but no one was listening. Unprintable insults were flying all over the place. The kid finally had it and got off the stage and just went away without as much as a goodbye.


And that, ladies and gentlemen, was September’s second edition of the ‘JKUAT Kipaji Night’ courtesy of Kipaji Entertainment. I understand more are still to come so be on the lookout for Solo and crew. I took no pictures this time, blame that on whoever stole my phone ‘cause I have no camera, but I sure should next time.








The first day I stepped into JKUAT I was under the company of my big brother-turned-politician, Austin Arnold, who had strict instructions from Omondi Were (our old man) to register me into the school. He never did. I mean, it’s not everyday a big brother registers his young’un into campus before he, himself, even joins first year. Aye?  Heheh, I just had to shove that to his face. But that’s not why he didn’t register me. As it turns out, my confused self had left my birth certificate (which was necessary since I was still an Under 18) back home, thereby declaring the whole process null and void. That was on a Thursday. The birth certificate was sent through E-Coach by my old man on Friday and Austin travelled back home to visit the old fogeys on Saturday. I left my elder sister’s place on Sunday evening and registered the next morning. On Monday.


I endured line after line until I finally finished the whole process. Occasionally, I would get lost somewhere within the school and I’d call Chacharito* (not his real name), an old friend of Austine’s, for directions. You know how in high school, on your first day, you’re assigned a ‘Guardian’? Yeah. Well, apparently, before he left, Austin had told Chacharito to be my ‘Guardian’. Now Chacharito was a 2nd year tall hefty chap with a stomach just a few inches shy of Kibaki’s and a knack for anything in a skirt. Or a protruding chest. He was probably too busy getting laid (as is the campus norm) to worry his a** about a confused first year. A real nigga nevertheless, once he started buying me beers, we became ‘boys’. Drinks on me next weekend, Sir.




My first year was quiet, seeing as I was always the silent one. Probably still am. Always keeping to myself, observing keenly everyone and everything around me. Taking notes. I learnt a lot during that first semester only. Probably much more than I took home during my Calculus classes the previous semester. I had a cool (no homo) roommate by the name of Dennis Wyre. If you’ve heard of that name elsewhere then it’s probably from an outfit known as DilRay Inc, which, together with his best friend, they founded and I happen to be an ‘affiliate’ of. The ninja has done well for himself, good for him. But first year wasn’t always rosy. We (actually he…seeing as it was his) had only a radio in our room. No woofer. Just a typical radio, from which we’d always catch the latest gossip in town, listen to Miss Mandi’s ‘The Morning After’ every day before class and rush back in the evening for a date with the crazy Jeremy Odhiambo a.k.a Saliva Vic on 91.5 Hits. I love Saliva Vic (no homo…again). To this day, I fringe in my seat whenever someone tells me Maina Kageni is the King of Radio. I mean, have you listened to this dude bana?!!


Wyre was the room’s Batman, and I Robin. Always bringing ‘home’ the cute girls, I owe my very first hug from a lady in campus to him. But on the topic of ‘Exile’, we had a rule. One was only allowed to bring a lady to spend the night during the weekends, when the other was away. I was always at my sister’s place during the weekends. She’s the one who always persuaded me to go. It was a way of slowing down the weekend expenditures and thwarting peer pressure. Everyone gets his/her ‘freaky’ out in campus on the weekends, a lot of money is spent on women and booze. Money which could be saved for more meaningful use. Those days when I barely spent a meager 50-baab per meal, I couldn’t bear spending a cent more on booze. That would’ve subjected me to untold bankruptcy. And when you’re broke in campus and you don’t know anyone, son, sh*t never gets any realer. Been there, done that. Trust me, living in Turkana will seem like a haven.




First years, campus is a different world. Depending on your personality, campus could be the devils playground or Disneyland. Nobody gives a sh*t about you here. Your business is your business. If you want to drink your brains silly and crap in your pants, the best I can do for you is tuck you neatly by the bushes beside the road so you don’t get run over by an oncoming vehicle. ‘Be your brother’s keeper’ is a phrase that applies only to the birds around here. Know who you hang around, fake friends come with wider smiles than a Colgate ad. And in plenty. The very bimbo you consider your ‘closest’ friend could turn out to be your downfall; stabbing you in the back at every opportunity, laying the very damsel you’ve had your eyes on since day one.


Attend classes. If you don’t attend classes in first year, you probably never will. If you were the ‘bad boy’ in your school, that was then. This is campus, not high school…where students report bullies to the administration for punishment. Respect is earned the right way around here, not by pushing the smaller fellas left, right and center. Stand out from your peers, not by crook. Your I.Qs will be put to tests here. You’ll be forced to make judgment calls and discern right from wrong. You do what you want to do, whenever you want to do it, and with absolutely no one on your back.


Ladies, keep your damn legs closed already. I’m not saying there are no Romeos here, I’m just saying boys will always be boys. This is Generation Y; lust is the blood that flows through our veins. Don’t wait for an ‘I love you’ text when all you keep getting are ‘Am horny’ messages. That brute will not as much as remember your birthday when he lifts his face up from ‘down there’.


Make friends with the bookworms. They sure come in handy when ‘Maths for Science’ assignments are issued and you have absolutely no idea what the value of x is. And they will never miss a single class, so they could sign against your name once in a while on those attendance sheets when you’re in bed nursing your Monday blues. Or getting laid.


Social media statistics puts 70% of women in relationships while 30% of men single and openly mingling. Someone’s lying somewhere. Men…er, boys, never spend your money on a girl you just met. She’s never worth a dime. Girls, trust a man with anything else but not your heart. Or your ‘cookie’. One point of correction though, not all men are dogs. Unless you’ve been with all of them, in which case, you’re worse than a dog. Am just saying.


If you have to go out, always tag along that one sober friend who never gets wasted. I’ve been around too long to know that a gang of drunkards never have a good story to tell. The outcome is always the same; bottles broken and heads smashed. Take that to the bank.


One more thing, people die around here. Whether it is by drowning at the swimming pool, accidents at the hostels, bar fights, love triangles or gun shots, death is real. And to answer your question, Yes, people get shot too. Don’t make enemies. Protect your life.


All in all, first year is fun. Live it, love it. Take alcohol as much as you please, hop from as many beds as you deem fit. Attend events, get wasted, have one-night stands. Screw your brains so hard you don’t recognize the person you see in the mirror the next morning. Just make sure you don’t regret any second of it. And don’t get supplementaries.




I’ll be straight with you guys, I don’t like politics. I don’t even like politicians. The whole bunch of them. Bloated stomachs, fat wallets, sticky fingers…the whole package. Everything about politics abhors me to the bone marrow. I don’t watch local news because of politics, I watch because of Lilian Muli’s overgrowing weave and Janet Mbugua’s rapidly growing hips. And perhaps to see who else Van Gaal is shipping in to avert the looming Manchester United crisis.


Look at what politics has done to our country;

Neighbors slaughtering neighbors over tribal and opinion differences? Politics!

Doctor and teacher demonstrations over peanut salaries? Politics!

Student demonstrations over increased school fee? Politics!

Immorality in the society? Politics!


Don’t even give me that look of disapproval; we all saw the pictures of outspoken Nairobi Senator Mike Sonko and Nairobi Women Representative Rachel Shebesh supposed romance. The two were again involved in a fight at the Parliament buildings where the former allegedly slapped the latter because, apparently, she was revealing camp secrets to an ‘enemy’. Then came the infamous “Aiyayayayaya Kidero you slapped me?” outburst at City Hall. Kidero, who is the Nairobi Governor (but of course we all know that), defended himself saying the Women Representative had grabbed (or was it hit?) his crotch. Yes, these are our leaders. Our role models. Our politicians. And that, my friends, is politics for you.




This Man, Jomo Erick


So, presently,  I admit I was a little bowled over when I got a call from one Jomo Erick (a JKUAT Student’s Union Organization Candidate for the seat of Chairman) telling me he’d read my post on the Mr. and Miss JKUAT affair and was impressed by my writing. Now normally, when you get compliments like these, your first instinct is to say “Thank you”. And so I did. But in this world of linguistics, you can never really discern a fake compliment from a real one. Some people actually think you’re good at what you do, but some, on the other hand, just don’t have the balls to say to your face how horrible you are with the pen. And so they hide behind sheepish compliments, keeping the wolfish ones buried deep inside of them. But who doesn’t love a compliment? All that matters is at least you read the work. Aye?


Anyway, so Mr. Jomo Erick invited me to a meeting to discuss the possibility of having me on board as a contributing writer to his soon to be launched online journal, to which, by the way, am inviting everyone who reads this post, sometime within September. Gigs are a big plus for every solitary writer out here. It helps you mature your writing, besides putting food on your table. Get me right here, am just as crooked as the next guy. But I have principles. Morals, even. I didn’t agree to attend that meeting to put pen to paper on a fat bank account. I heeded the call just so to observe the man. To see how he conducted himself. Was he one of these selfish ignorant buffoons parading themselves as candidates we’ve become so accustomed to? What were his lines of thought? What was his perception of student leadership? Was he a leader, a servant of the people? Or was he a LEADER, a ruler of the people? If he gave the answers I sought, then we would talk. And if it’s any help, we didn’t even have that discussion about money so, technically, am not being paid a cent to write this piece. Yet. Am just saying.


Don’t get me twisted people, if I don’t like you, I just don’t like you. If I don’t agree with you, you can drag your cheesy opinions down your throat as far as am concerned. That’s just the Son of Were for you. Loud SONU Chairman, Mr. Babu Owino, could hit me up today for a job offer and before he names his price, I’d bang down that phone with a ‘Shove it up you’re a**’ attitude. One, because the guy is an open crook. We’re not discussing that. Two, because I don’t share any of his ideologies. And three because a late-twenties year old light-skinned bloke from the lakeside with an archeological name like Babu who has an exclusive access to an invites only house party by a man of William Kabogo’s stature and rides a Hyundai Tuscani to lectures sparks nothing but eyebrows. His business is none of mine but it’s still debatable. Oh, and hey, someone tell the guy that “obnoxious, cantankerous and obliterate” all mean the same thing goddamnit!


Meanwhile, I attended the meeting and found the humble lad just as he was getting off another meeting with D.B Katana, Mr. JKUAT 2014. The first thing I notice about Jomo Erick is his carefree nature. You expect a politician to shake your hand formally amidst rehearsed introductions. At least at a meeting. But not Jomo. He went the youthful way, striking his palms hard against mine as the thumbs twitched a little bit and the shoulders knocked. Alongside him was the Director of the project; the vivacious Nicholas Wambua, a.k.a Justice Nic, a man who expresses his opinions with not as much as a single hoot in the whole universe. I say this because he also doubles up as my Class Representative and I can’t tell you that he’s everyone’s best friend but this is one bloke who sticks to his guns no matter what anyone else says.


So we exchange a few little pleasantries before the duo fill me up on the whole concept of the journal. Basically, the journal is supposed to cover everything that goes on around campus. JKUAT- Main Campus, to be precise. From the staggering drunkards along Gate C at midnight on Fridays, the campaign trails within the school, the humongous plates of African stew at F-Class, the thirst at Hall 6, the staggering number of beauties in the school, all the way down to the ratchetness at house parties. The journal will cover it all, and bring it up to you from the comfort of your phone at no costs whatsoever. Okay, it’ll probably drain you of one or two MBs but you get the point. All you have to do, on a free day, is log into and read your brains through.


The journal is a brainchild of Jomo Erick himself. And NO, it’s not a campaign platform. It’s an information-based platform. I mean, how selfless can a leader get? I’ve heard of probably 5 or more candidates vying for that seat of JKUSO Chairman. Only difference is, while the rest are still busy promising the students heaven and earth when they get into office, Jomo Erick has taken it upon himself to provide the school with an online based platform for providing the students with information on various issues facing and affecting them. And the most selfless thing about this act is that he’s doing it all from his own pockets with absolutely no sponsorship from the administration.


As it stands now, to an elite mind, this election is a one-man affair. All these other candidates making unnecessary noise on the JKUAT-JKUSO Facebook page need to step up their game if this race is to get any interesting. I rest my case.


Ladies and gentlemen, Jomo Erick…JKUSO Chairman Candidate 2014:


Jomo Erick



And the official journal launch poster:


Journal launch