I step out of an Uber and into Q-Lounge, right opposite Royal Media offices, a couple weeks ago. I’m here to meet an old friend I once featured during my days at The Nairobian Newspaper; he called, out of the mist, and said he wanted to meet and discuss some business over a drink or two. I wasn’t really feeling like going out for a night on the tiles that weekend but rent was due and I didn’t know where it was going to come from. So I showed up because I figured when a Kikuyu tells you he wants to “discuss business,” there’s usually money involved. And I desperately needed money if I was going to keep the lights on in my house.


It was a Friday, about 10pm, and the weather was chilly-ish; not too cold and not too warm. There was a swarm of kids in funny colorful attire trying to get into the Royal Media offices for what was most likely 10 over 10 show. (Ezekiel Mutua may have his qualms with it but ‘10 over 10’ is the best thing on TV on Friday nights, NMG killed ‘The Trend’ when they gave it to Amina, she can’t handle it.) The parking space at Q-Lounge was almost full, so I told the Uber guy to just drop me at the gate and I would cover the remaining 2 meters inside myself.


I find the guy I’m meeting at the counter, sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels with some Citizen TV anchor. They tell me they have been drinking since 4pm. That they began with beers – White Cap, which I absolutely hate – but the anchor guy said he wanted “something that stings because it’s Friday” so they switched to whiskey. Their eyes are red and their coats hang behind their chairs and, going by how much they’ve had to drink, their manners are most likely out the window. They trade a bunch of silly stories and laugh and stare at the World Cup match going on in the big screen ahead of them and laugh and drink some more and point at beautiful women passing by. They look happy; the kind of happiness that only Jack Daniels on a Friday night will give you.


The bartender passes me a glass and I ask for a bucket of ice cubes and the chaps urge me to catch up. I hate it when people around me are drunk and I’m not; It makes me feel like I’m missing out on so much in the world. It makes me feel left out, like I’m the weird nerdy kid with glasses in the middle of all the cool kids with snap backs and iPhones. And you don’t want to be the weird nerdy kid with glasses in the midst of cool kids because cool kids are mean and heartless and will make fun of your teeth and your torn socks.


Three doubles in and I feel like my bladder is about to blow up. So I get off my seat, dash to the gents for a quick leak and, as I’m headed back, I hear a voice – a woman’s voice – hollering at me from within the darkness.


“Excuse me,” she says, “can you help me.”


She speaks in that sweet Eve voice that convinced Adam to eat the forbidden fruit and got their naked asses kicked out of Eden. She leans out of the wall, from the darkness, and approaches me; the light from her phone illuminating her face. “I’m trying to call a cab but I can’t find one in the area, can you help me out?”


I get a clear view of her when she finally steps into the light, handing me her phone with the Uber app on. She’s in a tight black dress and red heels, with her hair flowing down her back. She has on a dash of reddish lipstick and a stream of bangles on her left arm. She doesn’t look too old, but she also doesn’t look too young to know what ‘lamba lolo’ means.


I take her phone and order the first Uber; some guy called Ali, on the other end, says he’s dropping a client at Nairobi Hospital from Yaya Centre and that “ukipenda unaweza ngoja ama uwache.” I hung up, because I’m not in the business of talking to arrogant people over the phone. (Point to note: This was during that period when Uber and Taxify drivers were on strike.) I hand the phone back to the lady and she says, “Just keep trying until you get one. Kindly, I’m not so sober right now.”


I order the second cab, he says he’s along Ngong Road and where we are – Maalim Juma Road – is too far so he can’t make it. Then I call a third – who is dropping off a client at Valley Road – and a fourth – who sounds like he’s drunk and chewing mogoka in the car so he can’t hear me clearly – and a fifth and a sixth.


Finally, I land one who just dropped off a client at some embassy a few blocks away. I tell him to find us at the Royal Media Services’ gate and he says Sawa. So I give the phone back to the mami, tell her someone’s coming and she says, “Just stay with me until he arrives.” In my head, I’m thinking “Excuse me? Who died and made me your servant?” But I’m three doubles in. I’m a nice guy after three doubles. I can give you my Mpesa PIN after four doubles and I can pretty much jump in front of a bullet for anyone at five doubles. At six, I’ll give you the coordinates to a hole in the middle of Chalbi desert where I keep my savings.


While we wait, she says, “Can you get me two glasses of wine in a bottle from the bar?”


“Wait, What now?”


“Yeah, just tell them to give you two glasses and pour it into a plastic bottle and bring it.”


“And, pray tell, where am I supposed to get this magical plastic bottle? But, most importantly, is that even a real thing; wine inside a plastic bottle?”


“Yeah, it’s no big deal. Just ask them for one. Let me send you the money, how much is a glass of wine?”


[Inner Voice: Woman, you’re asking me the price of a glass of wine? Son of a teacher who doesn’t even know how to use a T.V remote? Mayie. Thunder fire you.]


“I’m not sure, maybe Ksh.300, but I’m not doing that.”


“Why not? It can’t be a big deal.”


“It is. If I want to keep my balls.”


It’s about half past 11 now. She has a coat on but she looks like she’s freezing. I can tell because her lips keep trembling every time she speaks and she has her arms across her chest. Her boobs appear bigger in that midnight breeze. Her lips seem fuller and her palms look so frail and so soft; like a baby’s ass. Even though she’s hammered, she still seems aware of her environment. She looks polished and mature. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman that calls men chauvinists for refusing to carry her handbag. She looks more like the kind that has a book club membership; the kind that doesn’t take three full moons to make an order during a date. She seems mature. If we had met under different circumstances, I wouldn’t argue if you told me she was the CEO of some multinational corporation.


The Uber guy calls. He says he’s outside the gate, I tell him to give us a second. I tell her the cab is outside and she asks me to escort her to it. “Hold my hand, I can’t walk properly,” she says. So I put her left arm over my shoulders and – steadily – assist her onto the waiting cab. I open the door, tuck her in and tell her to “get home safe” like we’re bosom buddies who didn’t just bump into each other five seconds ago and, right before I shut the door, she says;


“Can I have your number?”




“Yeah, let me send you something, you’ve really helped me.”


[Inner Me: Take the money! Take the money!


“It’s fine, you don’t have to, I just did what anyone else would have done.”


[Inner me: Really? You broke asshole.]


“You’re such a nice guy. You look so young but I’m 43, you know?”


[Inner Me: No, I don’t know. Who do you think I am, Jesus?]


“I’m not that young either?”


“Good. How can I ever repay you?”


“By getting home safe and having a decent night’s sleep.”


“Okay. But I want to do something nice for you too. Just put your number into my phone, save it as ‘Nice Guy from Q-Lounge.'”




So I keyed in my digits, gave her back the phone and waved the cab away because the driver was already beginning to show impatience.


Dear Cougar, if you’re reading this, ‘Nice Guy from Q-Lounge’ is waiting for that call. Or at least an Mpesa text.


Folks, if you see me cruising around in a Prado next time we meet, don’t ask silly questions.


I’m slowly beginning to realize that only the little things matter in life.


On Thursday last week, I walked out of the office circa 7 p.m. I was tired and broke, with a bag carrying an extra set of clothes huddled to my back. All I wanted was to grab a beer and get some sleep. But my Dad’s first anniversary was the following morning, so I took out the very last 1000-bob note I had in my pockets, hopped onto a bus that stank of piss and headed home.


I slept the entire journey; not once getting off that bus to pee, take a shit, or grab a snack because I was afraid the bus might leave without me and, because I didn’t have any money left, I would remain stranded in that town and turn into a glue-sniffing street kid or a security guard at some Sacco offices or one of these chaps that come to you as you’re trying to reverse your car from the parking lot and pretend to be telling you how and where to move just so you can leave them with some 20 bob as you drive away.


I arrived home at 6 a.m., Friday morning, and found my mum, brother and sisters preparing for church. So I dropped my bag and joined them. And for the first time in a long period, that morning, I realized how out of touch with the church I had become. I didn’t know the words to any song or prayer; hell, I didn’t know when I was supposed to kneel or stand or clap. Nevertheless, that service was dedicated to my father’s soul; so we sang whatever we could and prayed along to whatever sermons we had mastered and knelt and stood and knelt and stood some more and shook hands with the rest of the congregation and paid tithe and knelt again. And it was beautiful and quick; 45 minutes, in and out.


Then we drove down to the village that afternoon and went to my father’s grave and my mother led us in a million songs only she knew the words to so we just hummed along and she didn’t mind because, at that moment; she wasn’t our mother anymore; she was his wife. She was a wife singing for (and to) her dead husband. She was a woman reminiscing on the decades of beautiful life she had spent with a man who could now neither hear, speak, nor touch her. She was a woman struggling with finding her footing after losing the first man she ever loved, dated, and later got married to.


And we understood. So we hummed along as she kept singing. And, when she was ready, she stopped. And she led us in prayer, then we cleaned the grave and put flowers on it and hoped he was doing fine up there. And then we went into the house and had fish for lunch because we believe that was what he would have wanted us to have; not chapati, not omena, not beef…fish. Because he loved fish. I stayed alone with that man for about a year after finishing high school and he would let me cook anything but on the days he came home with fish, he would tell me to go watch the T.V and he would take his sweet time cooking that fish to perfection. Then he would serve us both and, when he was done eating, his plate would be so clean you wouldn’t need to wash it. Which is why I knew his illness was serious when he asked me to buy him fish one evening and, after making it, never touched his piece.


Throughout that entire period, it was just us; my mother, brother, three sisters and my mother (occasionally, my cousin too.) We slept in bug infested mattresses and blankets, under a roof that leaked at some parts when it rained. We were all broke; one of us had just lost their job, the other had just received their first pay but had to use that money to pay for some exam in school, another was yet to pay their rent and was busy playing cat-and-mouse games with the caretaker (leaving the house at 5 a.m. and coming back at 11 p.m.)… between just us siblings, we had a solid Ksh. 50 bob. But we were happy. We were a bunch of broke ass happy souls. We ‘beat’ stories and cracked jokes and watched Afrosinema from a 14-inch screen and ate chicken and fish and laughed.


I loved that trip. Because I was with just the people that matter. Your father dies and the world calls to tell you, “Stay strong, it will be well.” A year down the line and nobody remembers anymore. They call you on his anniversary, because it is a Friday, to ask whether you’ll be buying drinks and you say, “I don’t have money. I’m also at home.” Why? They ask. “It’s my father’s anniversary.” And then the next thing is, “Ooh, Sawa. Niambie ukirudi.” And then a beep. And it’s okay, because some of them don’t matter; it’s the ones that pray with you at the grave that do.


And, so, as I turn a year older today, I’m starting to appreciate the little things more. I love how the sun shines on my face; I love how traffic weaves along Thika Road in the evenings; I love how Tdat says “Kaasabun” in all his songs; I love the ‘Samsung’ ring around the top of KICC; I love Kevin Hart and Tiffany Haddish movies, and I love a cold bottle of Coke.


Here are 23 other useless little things that have come with my age;


1. I have reduced my drinking. Not stopped, just cut down kidogo. I’m gaining the courage to say ‘No’ to people who call me out for drinks on odd days. Because, in as much as I love me some (good) whiskey, I have realized I can no longer drink from Monday to Monday. Not because I can’t, but because I just don’t feel like it anymore.


2. My Father died a week to my birthday. That did it for me as far as throwing birthday parties go. So, if you were planning to call me about a cake; don’t. I won’t buy no cake. I won’t buy no booze. However, it falls on my day off so if I do go out, it will be just a normal night out, nothing to do with a birthday. Maybe someday when I have finally moved on I’ll have the courage to throw one. But not today. Just not today. Not Yet, at least.


3. I’m also discovering I actually love walking long distances. I walk from work almost every day. I breathe in the fresh air and admire women I will never get driving cars I will never drive. It’s a thrill, really. Somebody also told me it’s good for the heart.


4. I gave another shot to burgers and pizza the other day; they still don’t taste right in my mouth. Chapo-Madondo are still the shit.


5. Khaligraph Jones may just be the best rapper Kenya will ever have. But King Kaka is still the Best Artist to ever do it (Yes, there’s a difference.) Timmy Tdat is also a legend, don’t argue with me. .


6. Miguna Miguna, the most famous man in the country at the moment, has singlehandedly kept the biggest airport in the country at its feet for three whole days. That tough-headed Son of Nyando will go down in history books as one of the greatest activists of our time. Nobody can take that away from him.


7. I have dreamt about winning the Sportpesa Jackpot three times now. I already know what car I would buy and how I would distribute the money amongst relatives. Yet I don’t even bet. Perhaps that’s a sign that I should start, No?


8. Everybody seems to be flocking there these days, but I think Blend Bar, along Mombasa Road is overrated.


9. Don’t ever spend your money on people – especially women – who don’t spend theirs on you.


10. For the first time ever, I boarded a Thika-bound matatu and the driver (a Kikuyu) played Musa Jakadala the entire way. I gave him a 100-bob note as I alighted and asked the Lord to bless his soul.


11. I’m not a morning person, but ever since I got this 8-5 that kind of pays the bills, I have found myself waking up at 4 a.m. many a time. I don’t like waking up at that hour, but I think it has instilled some kidogo sense of discipline in me that I wouldn’t have acquired otherwise.


12. By whatever means, I don’t care how, I have to be driving by end next year. I don’t care if it’s Uber Chap Chap or kuendesha chooni.


13. A friend of mine called me out for a drink a while back. We downed a whole bottle of whiskey before some mamis joined us. He went home with one, and I was tasked with ensuring the other got home safely. My phone had gone off, and I had just about 100 bob in my pockets.

So I tapped my boy and he handed me some loose 300 bob as he got into an Uber. Now, I normally don’t have any cab service on my phone but, even if I did, I couldn’t hail one because my phone was off. And I didn’t bother to ask if the other mami had Uber because I would still not have been able to pay for it with my phone off. So I did what any other man would do, I told the mami we were going to board a matatu; straight up. Midway, she asked for Chips and Chicken and I had to buy that shit for a mami I wasn’t even going to bang, at 3 a.m. in the bloody morning. Which meant I now remained with just 150 bob. Fare for two came to about 140 bob. The matatu took a while to fill up, during which time she was pestering me to call an Uber. “How, you have the app stashed somewhere in that huge butt of yours?” is what I really wanted to ask. Instead, I said, “But I have already paid.” “It’s just 140 bob,” she responded. I even called her after she had arrived at her destination to ask if she was Okay. Yet I hear she is now grumbling and saying things about me. There are some good women in this world; and then there are those that would just have been turned into newspapers at birth tutumie kufunga nyama na kuwasha jiko.


14. I pride myself in having an ear for talent, and I’ve listened to some amazing artists during my time. And then I went to a friend, Brian Oguna’s house in Embakasi a couple weeks back and, as we drank whiskey, an upcoming artist walked in and played us a few songs from his soon-to-be released album. His name is Bassil Vishindo and, I guarantee you, by the time you guys will be hearing of this kid it will be too late. Sample his first track HERE.


15. There is an old muscled chap in Drake’s ‘God’s Plan’ video that says, “I ain’t got nothing, but I look good, it’s the good life.” That chap is my hero from now henceforth.


16. No, seriously, someone should kick Octopizzo out of the studio already.


17. I just got a text from Blaze saying “Hi, Ian. WHOOP WHOOP, It’s your birthday today…” yada yada yada. I mean, “WHOOP WHOOP?” What year is it, 1960?


18. Here’s to two decades of eating Chapos. The amount of Chapos in my stomach right now and that that I have released over the years could probably buy me a piece of land.


19. I need to switch banks, KCB keeps stealing from me and they think I don’t notice. Any recommendations?


20. I still haven’t watched Black Panther. Or Game of Thrones. But I’m breathing just fine. How about you? Now that you have watched them both. Does T’challa file your tax returns for you?


21. Lang’ata has some of the cheapest bars. They also have some of the hungriest cops. I was literally arrested for just walking across the street at midnight, in the name of “Nyinyi ndio mafisi wa hapa Lang’ata sindio?” T.F does that even mean?


22. To those men who go to fast food joints and buy chips with just one of those tiny packets of tomato sauce, the Lord is also watching. There won’t be space for you in Noah’s Ark should these floods persist.


23. Gifts acceptable are only in form of Mpesa or aged whiskey. Thank You.


Thursday, 23rd March 2017. 11:44 a.m.


Is a day (and time) I will never forget as I live out the rest of my years. Because it stands as the day the man who raised and taught my siblings and I the value of everything we know finally caved to Cancer and left us to fend for ourselves in this big bad world; all on our own.


I would like to think that my father, Thomas Omondi Were, held out for as long as he possibly could. When we kept asking him how sick he was and he kept replying, “I’m fine,” I’d like to think he did that for us. Sometimes when he would fall asleep with a mug of lousy porridge that I made and unconsciously produce the sound of a man having a blade driven through his heart but deny it when he woke up, I want to keep feeding it into my mind and soul that he was fighting. For us. I want to continue living knowing that he fought on and tried his best to stay on, until his number came up and he couldn’t put on a brave face anymore. And so, with the little remaining strength floating away from his fragile body one gloomy morning, he would turn in his hospital bed at Aga Khan in Kisumu and ask Austin, my big brother, three questions a father should never have to ask his son;



“If I should go now, is there anything I haven’t provided you people with?”


“Is there anything you would lack?”


“Is there anything you would need that you don’t know where I kept?”



To this date, my brother admits that witnessing our father in that state ‘messed up’ with him. Broke him as a man. As it did me. I will never move on. I will continue going about my days – getting up at 5 a.m., preparing for work, and drinking neat whiskey – like I’m Okay and nothing is wrong because that is what a man must do but, deep down, I will never be “Fine.” I will never be just “Okay.” And I need people to understand that I’m perfectly comfortable admitting that on this blog and not in person because you, reading this, cannot see the tears flowing from my eyes and onto the keyboard as I bang this down. Because that is the kind of man my father raised me to be; to keep my emotions in check and act like a man. And, to be honest, I don’t know whether that’s a good or a bad thing. But I know that, on a 29, 000-bob monthly salary, Omondi Were took my siblings and I through some of the best public schools in the country and not once delayed in paying the school fee. Because that was how important education was to him.


I’m still figuring my shit out, but my brother graduated the other week. An LLB from the University of Nairobi.  The old man would be proud. Because, like he used to say, “The difference between successful men and the rest is found only within the pages of a book.”


Folks, I’ve had a rather slow year so there’s not going to be much on this post. Nevertheless, here’s the rest of how my 2017 has been;


Reconciling with my Mum

My Mum and I haven’t been in a good place for a while, since way before my Dad passed on. We could go without speaking for three months straight and I wouldn’t feel like I was missing anything in life. And, I’m not passing blame here but, a part of that was my fault…but most of it was hers.


But then my Dad died. And I saw what that did to her. And I couldn’t live with myself. I couldn’t live with not knowing how she was doing every once in a while. I couldn’t live with being the family black sheep anymore. I couldn’t live with knowing I was always going to be a disappointment in her eyes.


So I called her one evening, after a sit-down with an uncle in town, and we spoke. We’re not on the best terms yet, but we’re getting there. Because a broken iPhone screen or burnt chapati you can replace; what you cannot replace is your Mother.


Friendships. (This one is a bit petty so if you hate drama you might wanna skip on)

My Dad’s death (and I promise this is the last time I’m referring to it in this post) taught me a lot of things about Friendship.


The most important being this; Nobody owes you a damn thing in this world. Nobody! There are people I considered so close to me I would have crossed miles for in their tough times. But, as I came to realize, just because you would do something for someone does not automatically mean they would do the same for you.


From the convoy that came to bury my Father, only 10% were my actual friends. The rest of the group composed of people who were my friends just by the virtue of them being my brother’s friends (great folks, those chaps.) And I think I’ve said this here before, the morning after we buried my Father, my brother came to me and said, “Omera you have no friends.” And, even though we laughed about that, it stayed with me. It sunk a hole in my heart and made a home in it.


And so, if you consider yourself my friend and we drink together and hit each other up for loans when we’re broke and talk about girls but you couldn’t even spare a day out of your ‘very busy schedule’ to come bury my father, I want you to know this; we’re cool. Just that if I were in the house on a Saturday night watching a movie and you were out and, accidentally, got arrested, I wouldn’t pause my movie to come bail you out. And it’s nothing personal.



Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would wake up at 5 a.m., go to an office and sit at a desk till 5 in the evening. I always thought I’d land one of those flexible (or conservative) jobs; like those advertising firms where you get to the office at 12 p.m., work till 3 and pour yourself a double of whiskey from the office bar (yes, most of these advertising agencies have bars in the office) to round off a day of hard work. I always thought I’d enjoy that kind of thing; it’s what I’m made for.


But, No, I landed an 8-to-5 job towards the end of 2017. And, at first, I thought I’d hate it (I’m not a morning person) but, truth is, I actually love it. I love it because it involves the one thing people, including my Mum, say I’m decent at; Writing (well, there’s also drinking and dissecting Chapos but who’s keeping record.) And I love it because I also get to work and interact o the daily with people I grew up admiring but never thought I would ever meet in my lifetime.


Irvin John Jalang’o; May the Good Man Above keep opening doors for you and expanding your horizons Baba. I’m forever in your debt. Ero Kamano. Always.




I realized this year that I’m still not ready for anything serious just yet. Found myself in situations where I was almost in a couple relationships but they all fell apart because, apparently, I’m an emotionless jerk who just can’t seem to find time to call every day. I don’t see myself finding that time in 2018 either so that shit might just have to take a back seat. But I wish the rest of you in relationships the best of luck this coming year. To the ladies, just remember this; nothing is more of a deal breaker to a man than a woman who, for the life of her, just cannot cook Chapos.


Folks, I’m getting tired of apologizing for posting less every year. Which means that you are too. But bear with me, I’m trying to switch it up kidogo in 2018. Let’s  redesign and re-brand the blog first then move on from there, ama namna gani my frens?


That’s my time, I need to go grab a beer now. Have a blissful 2018. Stay safe. Stay alive. Stay happy.




There’s just five of us at the bar.



I’m at the counter with my phone in hand and a glass of local brew staring me coldly in the eye. I’m on my second glass, to be precise, and the ground is starting to feel a little shaky. Could be a mild earthquake or just the brew kicking in, I don’t know. All I know is my ex called me sometime during the day and wished me a “happy new year” in a voice so sweet it almost sounded divine and I find myself unnecessarily thinking about her now. (Okay, scratch the earthquake, it was the booze, it was definitely the booze.)



There’s the Waiter behind the counter. Some chap in a dull black t-shirt written ‘Under 18 asipewe’, eyes red as a monkey’s ass, nose bloated, and eye brows hairy as a pedophile’s ass crack. His face reads frustration; like, you know, those times in high school when you were pressed and had to use the loo but it was the deputy head teacher’s [Math] lesson and you knew he wouldn’t grant you the permission even if you asked so you just sat there and hoped, in the very least, it came out as a trifling fart instead?



The DJ is on the corner to my right. There’s a packet of what appears to be a million greenish leaves on his decks and his mouth is so full you would think a Brazilian bee bit him on the lower lip. He’s playing a lot of Konshens and Tarrus Riley and Vybz Kartel (believe me, I’m ashamed I can even spell these names right); which is pissing me off but he seems to be enjoying himself just fine.



There’s this chap at the table right behind me. I think he’s on his gazzilionth glass of the brew. He looks higher than the peak of Times Tower. His eyes are half open and his hair is disheveled and his mouth is warped in a not so great way and his trouser has multiple holes that look like breathing points for his ding dong. Basically, this guy is the perfect guide book for scoring a Hollywood zombie role.



And then there’s the mami at the other corner. She has sunglasses (I don’t know why) perched to her forehead and her nails look longer than the Nile and scarier than the ending of ‘Night On Elm Street’ and her face has loads of make up on. She’s in a fine red dress and her chocolate thighs are sticking out for all and sundry. She’s drinking from a can of Red Bull and has her eyes glued to her phone. Sometimes she glances up and her eyes meet mine and she blushes and goes back to her phone like she didn’t just awaken emotions in my heart (read: pants). She’s not even eti cute or anything. She’s just hot. I don’t know if you guys get the difference? Like, say, Anita Nderu and Huddah Monroe. Anita Nderu is cute; her face looks like a cup of Vanilla ice cream, I would lick that baby till dawn. But Huddah Monroe is hot, like Game of Thrones Season 7 hot; I want to bang her till all the fluid in her body comes out via her nose. I understand that that description might have been a bit too graphic for some of you but do you guys understand the difference now? Good.



I want to know what she’s doing here. And, most importantly, why she’s here alone. Is it the music? Is it the ambience? Is it the warm seats? Or does she just like hanging out with guys who look like Mahatma Gandhi (if he smoked weed and chewed mogoka, that is)?



“Hey there, waiting for someone?” I advance and say.


“Not really. Just having some ‘Me’ time,” she replies.


“Aha. Me too. What are the odds?”




“Never mind. So…nice sunglasses by the way.”




“I dig the dress too. The color blends in well with your skin.”




“Do you like the music here?”


“It’s not bad.”


“But it could be better, right?”


“I guess.”


“Can I get you a glass of something stronger?”


“No. I’m fine.”


“Okay. Well…uhmm…how about some breath mints and a new attitude?”


*Looks up. Startled, and pissed off* “Look, dude, niko kazini hapa. Kama huongei pesa songa. Izo lovie dovie pelekea kuku zenu.”


*Also startled* “Excuse me?”


Unanidinya ama haunidinyi? Chit chat baadaye.”



And then it hits me. Homegirl here is actually the resident hooker, waiting on some drunk horny chap to take home to bang the few hours left of 2016 out of her brains. And I looked to the sky and said to myself, “Lord, is this how I’m really ending my year? Is this how you’re really going to let me go out? With a glass of fifth generation liquor in hand, a stoned Mahatma Gandhi in the distance and an arrogant hooker with an Infinix and a choking breath?”


Ladies and gentlemen, these have been some of moments of 2016. Some happy, some sad, others just a complete waste of your time.



Losing Mzee


Even at 86, he still went to the shamba and herded his own goats. He was old and weak and you had to use 99 or more microphones to speak to him. But he was the kindest soul. He spoke with a calm voice; one of finality, no less.


Gramps finally succumbed to his age-long battle with Cancer this year. On his deathbed, in his final hour, they say when they requested he be returned to the hospital for further medication he said, “No. Call me a Preacher. I’m ready.”


Forever in our hearts Mzee.


Nominations And Features


A friend of mine going by Irvin Jalang’o and I began this other blog in February, this year, where we tell all the silly stories people go through. Like Irvin talks about misplacing his socks in the pad and I rant about women who can’t cook kick ass Chapo a lot. By the way, Kenyan women, let’s just come to an agreement today, every single one of you is learning how to make Chapos in 2017, sawa? Kick ass Chapos; not Chapos that taste like unleavened bread and look like a goblin’s ears. You are not going to get a husband hell, even a boyfriend if you can’t cook kick ass Chapos. Okwabisecho.



We called the blog Mister Left. And, midway, Mister Left was nominated in the OLX Social Media Awards under the ‘Best New Blog’ category. We didn’t win, but the overwhelming support we witnessed from some of you guys was enough for us. We will forever be indebted.


We Mister Left were then featured in Couture Africa Magazine’s ‘Male Gaze’ section. And Irvin and I shared a beer and reminisced on how far we had come.





Fresh from losing the OLX Social Media Award, I was nominated in the Jomo Kenyatta University Student Awards as the ‘Blogger of the Year.’ I was scared and expected the worst, so I didn’t campaign much. And so when my name was called out as the winner that Thursday evening, I took a second to thank The Good Ol’ Chap Above before strolling across the stage to receive my award. I was in old faded jeans and an oversized trench coat but I didn’t care. I had won. We had won.


Asanteni sana to everyone who voted. Here’s to many more.





A lot of my guys graduated this year from the school of Academia to the unforgiving School of Life.


Earnest ‘Riccobeatz’, Owiso, Ken Jacks, Roy Omae, Daniel Katana, Brian Gitonga, Eric ‘Dogo’, Kevo ‘Juicy J’, Caro, and the entire Bsc. I.T Class of 2016.


Guys, go kick ass out there.



Tony Mochama


Tony Mochama is an award-winning Author and Poet of over 3 books and a Standard columnist, but most of you guys might know him as Pulse Magazine’s Smitta Smitten; the chap who writes in a language only he knows.


I ran into Tony in a South B jav juzi. He held a book in his right hand and was in a fitting vest. He was walking by when I called out, “Ontita” and he paused to shake my hand, saying, “Niaje Boss.” All I could get out was, “Big Fan.” And he smiled and replied, “Asante sana.” Then he walked to the back of the bus. And as I was alighting, he waved at me in the air and smiled and I waved back; like we were teenage lovers who had their own language or some shit.


The lady friend I was with asked me, “Who was that?” and because I knew she wouldn’t recognize any of his books, I said, “That’s the guy who writes for Pulse as Smitta Smitten.” And she screeched and said, “Oh, Shit, that was Smitta?” and I replied, “No. That was a unicorn riding a bicycle.” Okay, I didn’t, but I really wanted to.



Lost Friendships And Relationships


I’m a selfish egotistical prick who loves nothing but words, Chapos, and aged whiskey. And sometimes, that gets in the way of people I care about [Look at me getting all mushy and shit.]


I may have offended a few friends in 2016; some unintentionally, others intentionally (let’s face it, some of y’all dicks too.) Some cut ties with me, some stayed.


To the ones who stayed, I’m sorry. Shit happens. Nothing we can’t solve over a bottle of beer and nyama choma.


To the ones who cut ties, I wish you all the best in 2017. I’ll be here if you ever need me. If you never do, just remember this: vegetables are healthy for you.





I have been privileged to bang copy for a few publications this year. But the highlight of those has been being the Chief Editor of JKUAT’s upcoming Student’s Magazine. We did a kick ass job guys, look out for that mag. in January 2017. I’m literally breaking protocol just telling this to you guys.





The female friend I was with when I met Tony (up there), her name is Brenda. Lovely mami. Has the smile of two moons, the laughter of a new-born cricket, and the soul of a gold coin. But she’s also loud after a couple shots of vodka and needs to stop thinking she can drink more than I do. Hehe.


Anyway, homegirl here bailed my ass out of ‘jail’ a couple months back when I was nabbed in town for doing literally nothing. I wrote a ka-small piece about that incident on social media the next day but may or may not have blacked out her role in it. I met her the weekend after that and she gave me a hard time about it.


So, here, Brenda, bless your soul. And can I just have my whiskey already? Madeni za 2016 tusiingie nazo 2017 tafadhali.



More Mentions


Also, there are friends, and then there are chaps like Tom Chacha. Chaps who will call you during the weekend like;




Hakuna. Nimelala tu.


Aya. Toka kwa nyumba.


Say what?


Toka kwa nyumba.



And then take you to a joint in Westlands and ask, “What do you want?” and you will say, “I feel like a little Jack Daniels today” and he will say, “Knock your face out.”



Bless you too, Sir. To more debauchery.



Even More Mentions


There are also guys like Brian Ogenya. Guys who will accidentally take you to a gay club in Westlands and call you a ‘bitch’ for being mad about it. Like, dude, it’s a fucking gay club? What, I’m supposed to be glad? I’m supposed to buy you a beer and pat you on the back and say “Atta boy” for taking me to an all whites gay club? Hehe. Lok Pachi Baba.



And, as always, You Guys


I realize I haven’t posted as much as I would have wanted this year. But there’s always room for improvement, right?


Thank you for always wasting those five or so minutes of your time to come here for a giggle. This blog wouldn’t be what it is without you. And, for that, I will forever be grateful. You’re going to keep coming in 2017, Yes?



Folks, that’s my time, have yourselves a blissful 2017. And go slow on the bottle, will you? Because I won’t. And one of us has to stay alive to witness the Trump Presidency.




Man in suit sit at bar counter



He sits at the bar counter in silence. Head lowered, eyes staring straight at the cold hard bad floor, right hand holding a bottle of beer and the left holding onto an empty glass. He’s dressed in a suave fitting black suit, a tie with cute polka dots, and those multi-colored socks Larry Madowo wears. He looks deep in thought – or loss – like the burdens on his shoulder have finally outweighed him and he wants nothing to do with the world anymore. Like he has given up and surrendered his whole-being to his inner demons and they’re having a field day with it.He takes out an iPhone from his breast pocket, fiddles with it for a couple of seconds and shoves it back with a disappointed look on his face. Perhaps he was to meet up with someone and just realized he got stood up. Maybe he just got a work mail reminding him of that report the Boss needs on his/her desk by 8 a.m. the following day. Maybe, the wife had finally had enough of his broodiness and texted, “I can’t take it anymore. I’ll be at my sister’s place if you need me. I took the kids too.” Or, maybe, the mpango wa kando had gone through Huddah’s Instagram account and was now demanding her own line of lipstick as well. I don’t know, I’m just spit-balling here.



He lifts the bottle to his face, stares at it for a while, mumbles a quiet “Fuck It” (I assume) and in just one long swig, downs the whole goddamn beer. He then lets out a loud careless belch, summons the waiter and says, “Another one.” (Like he’s DJ Khaled or some shit) And as the waiter walks away to fetch his order, he summons him back and says, “You know what, bring me two more.”



It was a frosty Monday night, I was at The Alchemist Bar in Westlands (great place, their food is shitty, but great place). I was at the bar because, despite already being jobless and broke and single, I had just lost a gig that would have well set me up for at least five months’ rent and I needed something, something stiff, to get my mind off it. I was meeting a friend here but he left after the second double because he had to go in early for work the following morning. I joked that the missus had put a curfew on his ass and he said he was just tired. So he ordered me another double, called an Uber, and disappeared into the fickle night. Now I was alone; Angry, depressed, slightly drunk, and starting to wonder when Adelle was releasing her next album.



Usually, when I’m troubled, I always just get shit-faced drunk and then go sleep it off. But not that Monday. That felt different, I felt different. For the first time, I actually wanted to talk to someone about my shit. And, maybe, that was in some way connected to the two doubles working their way up my system but, I needed to talk to someone who was nearly as messed up as I was that night.  Or much more. And I wasn’t going to call the boys because they would think I’m just a sissy who needs to suckle his mother’s tits and calm down. My Counselor was out of the question because she once told me I wasn’t as tough as I pretended to be and that deep down my heart was just as soft as everyone else’s and I’d hate to make her feel like she was right. But, Mister-Polka-Dots over there at the counter seemed like just the right fit. So I grabbed my glass, walked over to the counter, sat a chair away from him, sighed and said, “One of those days, huh?”



He took a quick look around as if to ascertain he was the one being addressed and when he saw no one else within earshot, he hissed and said, “Yeah. Tell me about it.” I moved from my seat to the one next to him and chimed, “You look like you could use something stronger than a beer, brother. Name’s Ian.”



“Sam. The beer is just because I still have to drive home.The last time I drank whiskey and drove, I ran over my wife’s dog. You a fan?”


“Of what, whiskey? We’re practically in a relationship.” He lets out a quiet struggled laugh, sips his beer then shouts to the waiter, “Double of whatever my new friend here is having on my tab, please.” The waiter turns to me and I say, “Singleton, neat.” And that, ladies and gentlemen, is called breaking the ice.



“So, was she mad?” I ask. “Your wife, I mean, when you ran over her dog.”


“Mad is an understatement. She went bonkers. You know, sometimes I think she loved that thing more than she does me. Can you believe she bought the damned thing a casket, buried it at our backyard and had me read the bloody sermon?”


“Damn, that’s cold.”


“Yeah. She got over it eventually, though. At least that’s what she said. Methinks every time I do something wrong her mind still races back to that day, and then she gives me one of those looks…you know.”


“Women, huh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”


“Don’t I know it. So, what about you, son. Why are you here on a Monday? Girlfriend troubles?”


“Little bit of that, but mainly work problems. I lost a major deal today, can’t think straight.”


“Don’t sweat it, you’ll get another one. Believe that.”




“What exactly is it you do?”


“Oh, I write. Anything. Everything.”


“Hmm. Good for you mate. Me I’m in Real Estate. And, between you and me, I hate every second of it.”[Sips beer.]


“Why? Real Estate seems fun.”


“Yeah…from the outside.”


“Well, what do you want to do then?”


“I have absolutely no idea, that’s why I’m drinking. All I know is I hate that shit, but I can’t really quit because I have baby shoes to buy, salon and reckless shopping expenses as well as rent to pay. Whatever settles the bills, son; A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”


“You plan on talking to your wife about this?”


“Been there, done that. Says if I quit I’ll find divorce papers on the table when I get home. The nerve. And the sex is not even eti that good anymore.”


“Hahahah. What do you mean?”


“She gives pathetic head and won’t let me bang her doggy style bana. Says she wants to make love, not just fuck. The hell does that shit even mean?”


[Still laughing.] “So it’s just missionary, huh? Yeah, that doesn’t sound any good.”


“It’s shitty, I tell you. I mean, I don’t want to look at the pimples on your face when I’m climaxing bana. Psht. Anyway, enough about me, what about your girlfriend troubles?”


“Oh, yeah, that. Well, it’s not really girlfriend troubles per se, but…I think I screwed it up with this girl, man. She was there for me, I wasn’t there for her, one thing led to another and now we’re complete strangers. And you know what pisses me off in all this? Chic could make kick ass Chapos, man.”


[Laughs.] “Ouch! You don’t leave a chic that can make kick ass Chapos, my friend. Those are rare these days. Lord knows my wife has a stick far up her ass but the one thing I can always look up to are her Sunday evening Chapos. Makes everything better. You gotta get that chic back, son.”


“Yeah, I’m not so sure I wanna do that.”


“Why not? You’re here drinking over her, aren’t you?”


“It’s complicated.”


“Two words said by every loser I know.”



Sam checks his watch and says, “It’s running towards midnight now, gotta get home.” He then beckons to the waiter, settles his bill, pats me on the shoulder and says, “You’re still way too young to be having lady troubles, son, so I have no advice for you on that end. But as far as work goes, if you love what you do then keep holding on tight; something will always come along eventually. And when it’s time for marriage, don’t marry a woman with a stick up her ass; otherwise you’ll be served your food cold when you get home past midnight. Warm night, son.”



As he walked out, I remember thinking to myself, “Lord, if the woman I marry ever chooses to bring a dog home, in as much as I will want to, please prevent me from running over it.”





A little past midnight – a couple Saturday nights ago – I’m stumbling into my boy’s place in South B. I’m a little high. The door is wide open, he’s blacked out in the bedroom, mouth ajar, hands crossed over his chest, snoring like an Albanian field wench. That’s how you know someone had a good night. I make myself comfortable on the sofa, make a few drunken calls and soon doze off. People tell me I sleep with my eyes half open, that I scare them. My only questions to them always are, what the hell are you doing awake in the middle of the night looking at people who are already asleep? What, you want something? Something you can only get from me in the middle of the night? When I’m dead asleep? Shit.



Tom – the chap I’m at his place – wakes me up at 9 a.m. the following morning. All dressed up. Says he’s on his way to some hotel in the middle of Amboseli. I ask why and he goes, “Some of us actually work.” I hate it when people tell me things like that, it makes me feel idle. It hurts my feelings. It makes me feel like applying for license to carry. Because I’m pissed off, and I’m still nursing a persistent hangover, I want to ask him, “So why the hell you gotta wake me up? You want a goodbye hug or something?” But I don’t. I just roll back over on the sofa and go back to sleep. Then I hear him say, “You know what, you don’t look like you’re doing anything today, get up, let’s go.” I turn to see if he’s pulling a fast one on me and he gives me that “I’m serious, fool” look. And then he adds, “All expenses covered. Get your ass in the shower and let’s go.”



Tom runs this cleaning and pest control outfit – Imagine Care. He started it soon after campus, he says he has never wanted to work for anyone. Wants to get off bed when he feels like it, not because he has to. Has always wanted to be the one running shit. Now they go round the country to some of the best hotels helping them handle their pest problems. As I bang this down, they just got back from the Mara and are off to Mombasa before the weekend. He’s the C.E.O and Founder of the outfit, which basically means he doesn’t do jack. He walks around in a blue suit supervising as the work is done, and cashing six figure cheques. He gets the best hotel suites and dines with Chief Chefs. Sometimes I joke that he has the best job ever and he says, “No, Bikozulu does. And Larry Madowo.”



We pitch up at Sentrim hotel, Amboseli, circa 8 p.m., after a five hour long drive on tarmac and another hour on a rough road through the Amboseli national park, with hyenas running and howling beside us. Sentrim hotel is located right in the middle of the Amboseli. The only thing separating them from the park is an electric fence that is supposed to electrocute the elephants’ nozzles when they come too close. Half of the staff down there are Maasais, which means this is not the place to cause trouble. At night they walk around in shukas and sandals probably made out of leopard skin, carrying rungus the size of my head, talking in hushed tones and laughing loudly. One of them told us he had been bitten by a snake before, and the way he said it was like it was nothing. Like it was no big effin’ deal. There we were, scared out of our hoots, talking about how afraid we were of snakes, and then this guy with very big earrings hanging from his ear walks by and goes, “Mimi nimeumwa na nyoka by the way,” while smiling, like it was normal; like it was cool. You know how in high school Math was such a pain in the nut, yet there was always that one cocky chap with the long nose and the stinky breath who always seemed to know everything? Like, you would be there, fidgeting in your seat, all sweaty, trying to solve for ‘x’ and he would show up behind you, grab your pen and go “This is actually quite easy” then go ahead and solve the bloody sum in 30 seconds. A sum that had already taken you 5 hours yet you hadn’t even gone past the second step. Pricks!



They put us up in these really cool tents designed in the shapes of actual houses. Like, they were normal houses, but instead of cemented walls and a mabati roof, they had tents. Cool, right? The floor was made of wood and there were a set of seats and tables  – all wooden – outside looking into the wild that would have made for a good spot to smoke a cigar, if you’re one of those people, or down a bottle of Whiskey. There were a couple of beds in each room – tiny comfy beds – with a Bible on a stool beside each bed for the occupant to read some scripture from before hitting the sack. How thoughtful! There were also three bottles of water, in case, for some strange reason, you got thirsty in your sleep. And then there was a fan as long as the Eurobond trail on the farthest corner of the room. Here’s the thing, me I come from the ghetto; deep down in Eastlands. We shower in basins using kina Geisha and Flamingo soaps gikmakamago. But here, to turn on the shower sijui you tilt this ka-metal thingamajig to your left – for cold water –and to your right – for hot water. Alafu their bathrooms are so clean I almost said, “Hell, bring me a mattress in here, this is where I’m napping.



There are just two things I don’t understand about Sentrim Hotel; Every night at 10 p.m., they shut the lights off. Complete blackout. If you’re one of those people who have to use the gents in the middle of the night, you’ll be lucky if you don’t knock the stool containing the Bible on your way. Two, They have minibars, only problem is they’re not stocked. I mean, si that’s like having a girlfriend you ain’t even smashing, No? I’m just saying. But, in their defence, they said it was low season. Ati that’s why the minibars weren’t stocked. Sawa, I’ll let it go, Mr. Manager.



The following morning Tom and I were called to have breakfast at the main restaurant. They first served us a glass of passion juice, and a plate containing well-arranged slices of mangoes, oranges, and an apple. Basically, it was just fruits. The ghetto in me blurted out, “The hell is this?” and Tom replied, “Welcome to the life,” like he was some kind of a Saudi Prince used to this kind of life and shit. As if his shagz is not Tanzania down here. After the fruits they served us tea along with an omelet and a small round bun, this time the ghetto in me smiled and said, “Now we’re talking.” Then the Chief Chef, a nice chap by the name Livingstone Wanga, comes and sits next to us, asking how we are faring so far. Deep down, I want to say, “Well, now that you ask, Sir, how do I eat this bun using a fork and knife?” Hehe. But what really comes out is, “Fantastic. Thank You.



He – Chef Livingstone Wanga – then goes on to tell us about his career and what it’s like to be a full-time Chef. Says most people, especially bachelors – like yours truly here – think cooking is just about rounding up the tomatoes and the onions and pilipilis into one sufuria and coming out with something edible. Apparently it’s more complicated than that. He shows us a sample of his own unique creations and we’re left wondering how people are even supposed to eat that. I mean, do you use a fork and knife or do you just dig in, you know, like a normal person from the hood? “What do you call that?” Tom asks. And he goes, “This one here is flakes of beef stir fry in a blind baked pastry case on tomato soufflé rice, and then the other one was pan seared perch fillet set on a warm potato salad, green beans and laced with doria lemon butter.” Okay, I’m not even going to lie to you that I understood any of that. The whole time I was just thinking, “Where’s the bloody bar?” So we asked him to repeat those names but by the third time we still hadn’t gotten anything past ‘beef stir fry’ so we just said, “Listen, Sir, just WhatsApp us the names, Sawa?



Some of you guys here must think I’m making this stuff up, ndio hizi hapa;



Chef Livingstone Wanga’s ‘Flakes of beef stir fry in a blind baked pastry case on tomato souffle rice’


Pan seared perch
Pan seared perch fillet set on a warm potato salad, green beans and laced with doria lemon butter’
avocado fan
‘Avocado fan salad with a 1000 Island dressing’



Chef Livingstone Wanga (you have to address him by all three names like that) is a man with an interesting perception about life. Takes every day as it comes. Does his work to the best of his ability, leaves the rest to the customers. And, Chefs also go an attachment. Whodathot? Chef Livingstone Wanga says when he’s on leave, he likes to go to the Norfolk to sharpen his skills. His work is not as easy, because he has to ask for feedback on how the food was from every customer that tastes his meals. This Chinese couple dined while we were there and when they were done, he went to them and asked, “How was the food? Good?” The Chinese couple said, “Food good.” Then he asked them, “Food too much or too little?” And with a straight face the man said, “Too little.” We just laughed that one off, as Chef Livingston Wanga assured them of an increased quantity at dinner. I almost walked up to that Chinese guy to ask, “How much did you want, Sir? An elephant?” But it wasn’t in my place now, was it? Besides, we were also just visitors here.



Sentrim Hotel has this spot from where you can see Mt. Kilimanjaro that is just the most beautiful view I have ever seen. Go there early in the morning, when the grass is still wet (no, not in that way) and the birds are still singing from the trees. Go there in your sweatpants, or your boxers if you have to, and enjoy that view. Breathe in the warm smell of the morning mist, enclose yourself in the beauty of nature and let it reel you into captivity. From that view – and for that split second – all your troubles will go away. They will fly away with the birds and disappear, like  Nairobi men after getting under your pants. During the day, go to the swimming pool area and if you’re scared of drowning, or are just a terrible swimmer – again, like yours truly here – just sit by the bar and order a mojito or a cocktail named Monkey Dance. If your Boss calls you at that particular moment, just laugh and tell him, “I’m at Dik-Dik Bar.” He won’t get it. Chances are he’ll probably say something like, “You’re fired.” Keep him calm, tell him you’ll work overtime next week, then say, “No, seriously, it’s called Dik-Dik Bar.



When the guys who were doing all the work were done and we were about to leave, Chef Livingstone Wanga (Ok, I see it now, the name is a mouthful, hehe) took Tom and I to the bar and told the guy behind the counter, “Wapatie soda baridi,” which we downed while bothering the bartender with silly questions. Say;



“Which guys drink the most here? The Whites or the Africans?”


“The Whites. Especially the Germans. Those guys love the bottle a tad too much.”


“But which ones misbehave the most after one too many?”


“Oh, The Africans, most definitely. Once the Whites have had to their limits, you’ll just see them walking out of the bar towards their rooms. But the Africans, man, saa hizo ndio sasa anataka kukuonyesha ako na pesa. And they become arrogant.”


“Na wagani hawatoangi tips?”


“Haha. The Chinese. Those ones are tough to crack.”


“Who is the most famous person that has ever walked through these doors?”


“Wako wengi sana. We’ve even hosted some Saudi Billionaires here, and those guys come with their own security, hawa wetu wanawafukuzanga waende walinde wanyama. But Michael Rannerbarger has been here. Even Serena Williams was here sometime back.”



Guys, this is me begging, if any of you goes to Sentrim Hotel anytime soon, book the room Serena Williams slept. I’m not asking for much, just bring me the towels she used. Sawa?





You are with three of your boys at some swanky joint in Westlands. One of these joints where they ask you for I.D at the entrance and, if you’re below 25 years of age, they tell you to go back home and suckle your Mummy’s breasts, do your homework, watch a Mexican Soap or something. It is packed, the DJ is playing some Wizkid song [something to do with bending down and pausing], ladies – with their already short skirts pulled way up to their thighs – are breaking sweat on the dance floor; shaking their asses with all their might, shaking so hard you’d think they were auditioning for a Konshens video, shaking and grinding their butts against the loins of pathetic lazy men just standing and making foolish grins behind them. I’ll admit it, like every man, I sugua too [mostly because people insist I’m a  buzz kill, so they’ll send some bold mami to come sit on my lap and dare me to a dance and I’ll be forced to prove I have balls too]. But I will never understand the obsession with twerking and grinding. How do people enjoy that shit? I will never understand why everything has to be explicit with this current generation. Why can’t people just dance the good old fashioned way our grandfathers – and theirs before them – taught us? Face the lady, lose yourself in her eyes, put your hands round her waist and her arms over your neck, move slowly – to the left, then to the right – and engage in a simple conversation. Talk about how much you love her necklace [even if you don’t], let her tell you how firm your grip is and ask you if you’ve been working out. Nowadays people don’t even talk while dancing; you just walk to the dance floor and jump behind any random lady you find, without as much as a “Hi”or a “What’s your name?” Nowadays women are bitches and men are…well…bitches too [going by the whining on social media]



There is a bottle of Jameson Whiskey [because everyone wants to be seen drinking Jameson these days] on your table, and three bottles of Kingfisher – for one of your boys’ cat. Normally, it’s just the boys, but she insisted on tagging along tonight. She said she wanted to see what ‘Boys Night’ was all about. That she wanted to witness the tomfoolery men engage in away from their women. Your boy – her boyfriend – had asked her if she’d be OK sitting in the midst of all the idiocy and she said, “Sure, Honey, I’ll be fine. You just have fun, do whatever you want.” When a woman says she’s fine, she’s not; especially when she says it with a smile, worse when she touches you on the arm while saying it. When she says, “Do whatever you want,” it’s a setup. Don’t you even think about looking at some fine piece of ass walking by, because when you get home and you try to get some, your hand will be slapped off and you will be given that look of “Go touch that bitch you were looking at.” So sit tight, hold your liquor to your chest, look only at her, stroke her gently on the thigh,tell her, “Have I ever told you how lucky I am to have you?”and watch her gloat and say, “I know.” Sip your Whiskey, refill her glass, and – every once in a while -recite the ‘Hail Mary’. Maybe then you’ll get lucky.



You like your Whiskey neat. If you have to drop something in your glass of Whiskey, maybe just a couple ice cubes. You consider men who add soft drinks to their Whiskey to be pussies.Pussies who watch ‘Jane The Virgin’ and ‘Real Housewives of Atlanta’. Pussies who secretly wish to rock skinny jeans and Mohawks. Pussies who call their Mummies twice a day.Pussies who follow Sauti Sol and Nick Mutuma on Instagram. Pussies who suckle on PinPops and call their girlfriends ‘Bae’. Pussies who bring their women to the club on bloody ‘Boys Night’.



Three or so glasses in and the Whiskey is beginning to kick in. You know because your eyes are blurry, your head is going round in circles, and you feel like telling the DJ to play you some Drake. You also feel like dipping your face into a pair of boobs; a pair of firm, perky, beautiful boobs.  Two of your boys are at the dance floor by now. They have shitty moves, they couldn’t dance if it was the last thing remaining to save humanity, but because we have Jameson on our table – and women love men with Jameson on their table – they’ve already scored some mamis, who are now busy groping and making out with them like their rents depend on it. It’s pitiful, and disgusting; sort of like listening to Octopizzo’s music while driving.



You get up and head towards the Gents to do your business. It smells like shit – because it’s where people shit anyway. There is some chap being told to cool off in there. Blue cap, hairy knuckles, red eyes, crappy shoes. He looks mad at something, or someone. These guys are telling him, “Hatuwezi pigana hapa na sisi ni maboyz maze. Kesho bado tutakunywa tu pamoja.” He looks like those guys who really like starting fights but don’t even know how to fight. Those chaps who just want to appear vexed so they can be pulled back and sweet talked; it gives them some sense of authority, it massages their ego, it makes them feel important. Mimi I never start a fight because I don’t know how to fight. I talk big, a lot, but when shit hits the fan, I get my ass the hell out of there. Real quick.



“So what do you guys normally do anyway? Do you just drink and make fun of people and dance like robots all night?” Your boy’s cat asks when you get back to your seat. She’s alone at the table, Frank must have followed you to the loo, or gone outside to pick a call, or finally decided to hit the dance floor regardless of the consequences, Whatever. Now, because you’re drunk and you’re feeling like a smart ass [also because you never liked her ass from the get-go and have just been waiting for an opportunity to embarrass her], you say, “Nothing much. We usually just walk around the club tickling all the ladies’ nipples.”



“Uhmmm, Excuse me?”


“Okay. Well, we also spank them on the ass and kiss a few but I didn’t think you’d wanna know all that.”


“Are you serious right now?”


“It’s Boys Night. What do you think we do? Braid each other’s hair, drink Chardonnay and watch The Good Wife?”


“I thought maybe you guys just played FIFA and talked trash about women or something.”


“Oh, Yeah, We did that too. Before coming to the club.”


“What? Why wasn’t I invited to that?”


“Technically, you weren’t even invited here, you just bloody showed up. Secondly, you’re not a Boy. And thirdly, invite you so you can hear all the complaints Frank has about you? Hells to the No.”


“Complaints? What complaints? What bloody complaints?”


“Well, for starters, your food tastes like ass, that weave on your head stinks, and you don’t even know how to give head.”


“The Fuck? But he says my food is perfect.”


“Every man says that because they don’t want to sleep on the couch.”


“I’ll have you know, nobody gives head like I do.”


“Well, do you want to try it on me? I could be the judge, from neutral grounds, you know”


“You wish.”


“The only thing I wish for in this world is a lap dance from Rihanna. Naked.”


“Oh, grow a pair.”


“Already did. Wanna see those too?”


“You’re disgusting you guy.”


“I know, right? I wonder what women see in me.”


“They don’t see anything in you. Something’s just not right with their heads.”


“Something’s not right with Frank’s head either.”


“Why? Because he sees something in me?”


“No. Because he’s been seeing that thing in you for two whole years. I dont know how he does it.”


“I hate you, Ian.”


“Oh, I hate me too.”


“You know, when I first met you, Frank told me you were a nice guy.” [She’s beginning to get mad. Which means you’re succeeding.]


“But why would he misinform you like that? I’m a total ass.”



Frank comes back to the table. “Take me home, Babe. Take me home,” she says. Frank turns to you and goes, “Chief, what did you do this time?” You say, “Nothing, man. I only said her hair looks amazing.” They walk out. And that’s when you lock eyes with her.



Over by the counter, seated alone, drinking something – wine, presumably -from those really long glasses, dressed in a classy blue dress that transcends to just above her thighs when she sits. You notice each other almost at the same time. She smiles, then shifts focus back to her glass. She looks beautiful. She looks happy. She looks free. You grab your glass and walk up to her and say, “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” She smiles, again. “Well, it is now,” she says.



“I’m Ian. Can I buy you a drink?”


“Lisa. And that line only works in movies cutie-pie.”


“Oh, you think I’m cute?”


“I think flowers and puppies are cute. I don’t know about you.”

“But you just called me cutie pie?”


“Who says that necessarily means cute?”


“The Urban Dictionary.”


“The Urban Dictionary was written by a human being, just like the Bible.”


“What, you don’t believe in The Bible too?”


“I believe there is a God. I just don’t believe someone gave birth without getting down and dirty under the sheets.”


“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”


“So does the government.”


“What’d the government do now?”


“What didn’t they do? Have you been living in ice?”


“Okay. How about I buy you that drink and we talk about something other than the government and the Bible and puppies, aye?”


“Like, what, crappy pick-up lines?”


“Maybe. That could be a start.”



Three tequilas later, we’re talking like old pals. She’s telling me about her stubborn folks and her brother – he’s a rapper – and her schooling – she’s in Medical school, she hates it – and how her ex-boyfriend left her for some top government official’s daughter. She’s yapping on and on about how the world is twisted and she’s pissed that Ben Carson endorsed Donald Trump and all the things she would do if she were President for just a day. You hate people who talk too much after a couple of drinks, but you just sit there and listen, because it feels like it’s going to be a good night.



An hour later, she says, “Let’s get out of here. I stay not so far away.” And you let out a silent sigh of relief. So you call an Uber and, about 20 minutes later, you’re pulling up in Desai, Ngara. A neighborhood so shitty it looks like one of those places that receive relief food from the West. Ngara doesn’t move an inch at night, it just stays still, like a month old piece of dog shit. She walks you across some corridors and into some building that looks like government housing for the homeless. She fumbles with her keys and when she finally opens her door and turns on the lights, you want to scream for help.



You walk in and you wonder if this is where Hitler plotted his moves during the World War. The place is a mess. There are clothes tossed all over, all manner of dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, the floor looks like it was last cleaned when Museveni was a teenager, hell, there’s a family of roaches on the wall. What kind of woman lives like this? I’ll tell you what kind of woman, the kind that harvests balls and armpit hair and ships them off to Timboroa for auction. That’s what kind of woman lives with a family of roaches. Lisa disappears into the bathroom and comes back with only her bra and undies on. You want to ask her if she’s homeless, but that sounds offensive even in your head. So, instead, you ask if she shares the room with someone else [like a freaking vampire, maybe]. She chuckles and she says, “No, I stay alone. Don’t worry.”



“You’re not a serial killer though, are you?”


“Excuse me?”


“Forget it. The roaches, they don’t get on your nerves?”


“You’re scared of roaches?”


“I’m scared of snakes and my mother. Roaches? I just don’t think it’s healthy sharing walls with them.”


“I don’t mind them. There’s probably even a rat here somewhere, eats all my bloody food, but it’s nice having them around.”


“A rat? You stay with roaches and a rat and you’re cool with that? I wonder what’s under that bed, a bloody zoo?”


“I didn’t say it was cool, I just said I didn’t mind.”


“Well, you should.”


“Fine. I’ll do something about it tomorrow. For now, just come closer.” [She’s taking off her bra, slowly, seductively.]


“No. I think you should take care of this now.”


“Now? It’s the middle of the fucking night. What do you want me to do, call the police?”


“I have a guy.”


“You have a guy? I’m taking off my bra, getting ready to have sex with you, and you’re telling me you have a guy? Well, what the hell were you flirting with me for?”


“No, Shit, I didn’t mean it in that way. I’m straight. I meant I have a guy for this sort of thing. Pest problems.”


“Oh. Can’t that wait till morning?”


“No, I want you to call him now.”


“Jesus Christ. Well, do you have a bloody card or something?”


“Not really, but I have his details. Just take out your phone and punch them in.” [Puts bra back on. Takes phone out from her purse.]


“Okay, Shoot.”


“His name is Thomas Chacha, but – when you ring him – call him Tom, he likes that better. He runs this company that deals in cleaning and pest control, it’s called Imagine Care. Their email address is


“Too much information. Just give me his bloody phone number damn it!”


“Right. 0734 912 982 . That’s 0-7-3-4-9-1-2-9-8-2…….”


“I heard you the first time, Idiot. So, taking care of pests, that’s all they do?”


No, actually, they also do indoor cleaning. Say, you had a party and you’re tired of doing the dishes, call them. You spilled food or wine [or blood from one of your victims, hehe] on your couch or sofa or car seat, call them. Bedbugs keep you up late at night, call them. Or, maybe, rats keep running around in your office when you’re trying to work, call them.”


“Okay. Oh, and just so we’re clear, I’m not interested anymore. You can go sleep with the moon tonight for all I care.”


“I texted my Taxi guy the second I walked in here.”


“You’re an asshole.”


“Funny thing, I’ve been told that twice tonight only. But, hey, at least I care for your well-being. Now, you promise me you’ll call that Pest Control guy tomorrow, aye?”


“Whatever. Get out.”


Why do people always have to be so mean even when you’re just trying to be helpful? Ama she was just angry she wasn’t getting my balls and armpit hair tonight? Hehe.




Between you and me, I hate photos. I strongly hold the opinion that men should not have too many photos of themselves in their Gallery; or make duck faces in front of a camera; or take a lot of selfies. A man should know his rightful place in the society; like playing FIFA or drinking Whiskey or kissing random girls under the influence. A man should know how to polish his shoes and eat a sandwich without spilling things on his shirt and throw a punch and duck from one. But a man should never have to take a lot of selfies. Or walk into a joint and say, “White Wine, please. With a slice of lemon on the side.”



A couple of years ago, my boy – Dennis Wyre – introduced me to this modelling agency; Versatile. You chuck 2K for Registration and all you have to do is go for photo sessions every other Saturday and they’ll call you when a gig comes up. Now, first of all, I drink like almost every other Friday [even when I’m dead broke, especially when I’m dead broke], which means I’m always too hung-over on Saturdays to even leave the pad. Secondly, I don’t know how to pull off fake smiles. Photo sessions require you to smile, even if there’s a spiky snail crawling up your butt-crack. You have to smile; you don’t want to be the guy that comes out looking like Ice Cube or Bifwoli Wakoli when the photos are released. The only [amusing] thing I loved about Versatile photo shoots were the ladies. Chics love photos; chics can kill each other for a moment in front of the camera. They put their best foot forward, literally. They smile like goddesses and wear heels taller than the Eiffel Tower and walk gently; like they’re pieces of glass or some shit. They put on loads of make-up that conceal the pimples and signs of Athletes Foot disease growing on their faces. If there’s one piece of advice I can give men it’s this, don’t marry a model; with make-up, they look like Megan Good, without make-up, even Young Thug’s got bragging rights before them. Marrying a model is like marrying two completely different women; when she’s all dolled up for a night out, you feel proud walking her by your side. You want to hold her close and look into her eyes and see stars twinkling in them and never let go; but when she wakes up the following morning, after all the make-up has wiped out beneath the sheets, the only thing you want to look at is your face in the mirror when you’re saying, “How the hell did this shit happen?”





Suffice it to say, I went for a couple of photo shoots and then stopped. I just faded, away, into oblivion, without as much as a goodbye or an “It’s been real guys” quip. I know they don’t miss me, but sometimes I just wish they would at least text me. Even just to ask how my day was. Chips Fungas, you guys understand this, right?



Anyway, so Dennis Wyre invited me to an outdoor photo shoot of his clothing line a couple of weeks ago, at Arboretum Grounds. You guys should know Dennis Wyre, right? Co-founder of DilRay Inc , now runs Good Vibes clothing line. I once asked him why he settled on the name ‘Good Vibes’ and he simply said, “I just wanted a feel good lifestyle brand.” Then then he added, “Besides, who’s got time for bad vibes anyway?”  Hence, the title of this piece. Catchy, eh? No? Okay.





By this generation’s standards, Wyre is a bit of a cool kid. He has over 10K Instagram Followers; his pictures come with hash-tags like #InstaFresh, or #ShoeGame, or #FeelingMyself; he calls his peers ‘Fam’; and he introduces himself on camera as “It’s yo’ boy…” I went to that photo shoot for three reasons; One, Wyre is my boy, and boys always come through for boys; Two, I like the hassle ladies go through to appear perfect for photos. I like how they pose and the faces they make when cameras flash and how they brood when a Photographer is delaying with a shot; Three, the invitation text read “Beautiful ladies only”. So I asked Wyre if I could bring a plus one and he texted back, “Send me her picture first.” Ladies and gentlemen, this is where you scroll through your contact list and shit gets so real you decide to just text back, “You know what, I think I’ll just come by myself. Si that would be less baggage?”



I swung by town circa 11 a.m. and Wyre and his peoples picked me up in this bluish sexy Rav4 whose insides stank of pizza and burgers and Hugo Boss cologne and…you know, just rich people stuff. You know you’re doing something wrong in life when a guy you shared a room and broke bread with in first year is driving a Rav4 and you’re just there at the backseat, reeking of Vaseline jelly, staring outside the window and marveling at how tall Anniversary Towers is.



[Quick Pause, Guys, Can we all just agree that this chic has nice legs, aye? Hehe.]



Before cameras began clicking, some light introductions were done and when Adam – the talkative chap who was introducing us – got to me, he said, “And, guys, this is Ian Duncan, he’s a very cool Writer.” I smiled, felt like a million bucks, felt like Donald Trump’s hair, and – for a second there – almost blurted out, “Oh, Staaaahp!” But then he added, “He’ll be manning the clothes for today” and I went “Great, watchman duty. Just perfect.” But Adam is a warm fellow; he’s those guys you will meet on the first day but feel like you have been boys all your life. He will engage you as you walk down University Way, and at some point he will ask you where you stay – just for shits and giggles – and you will say “Juja.”  Then he will let out this boisterous laughter, give you a certain look of sympathy – like that one we give those street kids who ask us for cash near Archives – and say, “Man, How do you survive in that place? It’s like a bloody desert down there.”  And you will restrain yourself from saying, “Well, seeing as we’re camels, we get by.” Hehe.


DSC02149 copy



I have a confession to make; I’m a boring guy. I’m not as funny or as cute in person as people think. People come here and read my shit then draw their own images of me in their minds. I’m that guy that minds his own business; I don’t talk to a lot of people, a lot of people don’t talk to me, and – as weird as this may sound – I like it that way. At events like these, I sit at some corner and look at people creepily and judge their hair styles and make snobby comments at their weaves and giggle at their walking styles and – occasionally – when some girl with a packed ass walks by, I just smile and say to myself, “Damn, Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was a fool.”



This one time this model came to my station [I was entrusted with the very heavy responsibility of manning the clothes, you guys remember, right?] and started ransacking the sack of clothes, looking for something to wear. I was standing right there, she never said a word to me, just went about looking for that crop top and sweat-pant that she really wanted to take pictures [possibly for the ‘gram] in. Then when she couldn’t find it she looked around and asked, “Excuse me, who’s here? I’m looking for a pink crop top but I can’t find one.” Adam pointed at me and said, “Talk to him.” Then she gave me a cold hard stare – like she had just seen a friggin’ cyclop or something – and went, “But he’s not even talking to me.” I swear, I was a second away from grabbing her softly by the arm and saying, “But I was standing right here when you came. What, you thought I was just some fucking statue? Or you wanted me to bow down and say ‘Welcome, Princess. What can I get for you today?’ like those waitresses at Java? Maybe also massage your feet and kiss your palms in the process?”





Also, I have a problem with men walking around bare-chested. I mean, fine, we get it, you have a six-pack, you have a ripped chest, you go to the gym and we don’t, yiddie yaddah, but just put some clothes on for crying out loud. This is a public place, not your bathroom.



I have met and interacted with a lot of young Entrepreneurs, but I have never met any other as driven as Dennis Wyre. The guys knows what he wants in life, he’s motivated, he pushes himself to the limits, he knows his shit, and – sometimes – he’s also full of shit. Hehe. Like sometime back he told me he was looking for another business to invest in. I asked, “But why do you need another business? The clothing line is already doing so well” and he said, “The average Millionaire has at least seven sources of income.” I texted him back three lines of those laughing emojis with tears spurting out of their eyes.



DSC02193 copy



But, in all respect, the photo shoot was a success. The ladies were a sight to watch [I mean, guys, look at those pictures though] and the gents – save for that walking bare chest thingy – deserve pats on their backs as well. My hats are tilted. Wyre also brought these two guys to make an after movie out of the photo shoot. Mimi, in all honesty, I thought those guys would do a whack ass job. No kidding. But then I was WhatsApp-ed that after movie the other day and I said to myself, “Shit, Khaligraph Jones should hit up these chaps to direct his next video.” [But, seriously though, Khaligraph really needs to stop shooting every damn video in Kayole.]





I don’t know, maybe you guys will differ, maybe you will agree with me, but for what it’s worth, watch the VIDEO – it’ll take barely five minutes of your time – tell Wyre what you think, and while you’re at it, also mention you got that link from this blog so he knows I’m a bigwig in these streets. Hehe. Also, because I’m terribly lazy, I can’t post all the photos from the photo shoot here, so if you’re one of those men who get high on a lady’s smile, or you’re one of those mamis who go cuckoo over a guy’s abs, then just view the rest of the photos from HERE



Before I wrote this piece, I asked Wyre if it was OK to publish. He agreed, under one condition. Apparently I have a reputation of never writing anything positive about women here. So he asked me to be nice, that some of the ladies are sensitive and can easily catch mafeelings. Guys, you don’t think I was so hard, do you? No, Really, do you?












Friday is the new weekend, that’s the notion in any current-generation campus, and rightfully so. It’s the day when even the pigs fly and the cattle lay eggs. Sex is indulged in at worrying rates, alcohol is consumed in catholic quantities and diversities, Project-X type parties are thrown, pants are unworn, and some unlucky beds are wrecked by the weights and the bobbing subjected to them.


Yet of all these wide range of wicked activities that a present-day campus student can choose to engage in, the home boys over at JKUAT decided to stage a demonstration. On a freaking Friday night!


So here’s a buddy of mine [let’s call him David] and I stepping out of Uchumi supermarket buildings. We’re from shopping for some snacks and a bottle of wine. His birthday fell sometime earlier on in the week but since everyone was busy then, he decided to have this ka-hangout today. Because what better day to celebrate the day you finally left your mother’s womb than the day you were probably bundled in there.  Statistically speaking, of course. Oh C’mon, let’s not act like our good old fogeys don’t get their freaky out on Furahi-Day [No offence].


David gets a call from another buddy of ours [Sam] who seemingly had been left in charge of the system to be used for entertainment during the ka-hangout. Samson says he was in his room one minute then the next thing he knew, chaos amidst roars of “Comrades Power” rented the whole vicinity and he was forced to flee for his life, leaving behind the system. As they speak, he’s in a matatu on his way home; Komarock. David is enraged. He hangs up, starts cursing all over the place and am put in a ridiculous position to cool him down [I hate having to cool fellow men down. I mean, we both have sacks of balls hanging below our waists man, get your shit together!]. Without any music, the future of the hangout looks bleak already. Meanwhile, am having a hard time believing that JKUAT mates can actually riot. Because, for one, I just left there like 20 minutes ago and there was absolute calm [beside the usual Friday flare]. And two, a strike at JKUAT is unheard of; it has never been witnessed in as many years as Mugabe has been in power. But to erase any strikes of doubt still lying in my mind, Chacha calls to confirm the same. He’s fleeing too. Exactly where he is, he says he’s unsure. But he says he’s safe. You know shit is real when a local hoodlum who has schooled here the past 4 or so years and knows all the local joints in town has no idea where his feet took him.


Now, fully convinced that the comrades have gone honkers, David and I rush back to his place and drop the shopping items. Then he gets a call from some ole buddies of ours from Yala who had been invited for the hangout. They’ve arrived, and are asking to be picked up from the stage. By now the commotion has reduced significantly so we leave to go fetch them. Sharon is supposed to be coming too. She texts saying she just boarded a Juja-bound mat from town and expects to arrive in about 30-45 minutes. Stay with me here, this story is just about to hit the roof.


There’s about three jamaaz and three dudettes when we get to the stage; I can only recognize the three guys we high-schooled with [say Daniel, Kinsley and Bonnie] and one mamsilla, Brenda. Kinsley’s comptroller. I remember her ‘cause she’d attended my below-the-belt birthday party and I had kynda hit on her. Unknowingly of course, that was before Kinsley grabbed me by the collar and said something within the lines of, “Kijana, you’re treading on very dangerous grounds!”.   And so I backed down. You can never hit on your boy’s chile, says the bro-code. Folks, you can lie to your women all you want but never go against your boyz. Or the bro-code. Any violation is punishable by stoning. And survivors shot in the face.


A few muffled pleasantries and we’re headed back to David’s place. Barely a couple of strides further, loud, almost deafening, gunshots swamp the air. We’re brought to a startling halt. No one dares move a muscle, or utter a syllable. Everyone is scared, especially Brenda. So much so that even the guy seemingly engrossed in a somewhat interesting WhatsApp conversation with his bae is ordered to reduce his phone’s damn brightness or just shut the silly Blackberry off. Silence engulfs the air. And for a while there, we remain rooted to the spot.


After about two minutes of awkward silence, all calm returns and we head back to David’s place, via the bus stop where we pick up another mate. Then Sharon texts; she has arrived and is waiting at the gate. David’s roommate is headed out to buy the ladies something for supper so I go out with him and we pick up Sharon on our way back. A little stampede ensues while we’re there and everyone runs off [apparently even Sharon runs faster than I do…Heheh]. I find her a slight distance ahead of me and we too head back towards Jubilee House; David’s.


At this point, it’s important to note that David’s place is not even the intended venue for the hangout. Apparently, this was just the convergence point. The venue is some other mamsilla’s place, metres away from here. Now I have a bad feeling about this.


It’s now a couple of minutes past midnight. Peace seems to have been restored again. But Daniel and I still feel like we shouldn’t go out there. We suggest to David to hold the hangout right here, at his place, instead, but he’ll have none of it. His reason being the lights at his place have been cut off so there’s a total blackout. I find this explanation so mediocre since had the power even been there, they’d still have turned it off eventually. There’s something about partying in the dark that just makes campus folk tick. Nobody knows what it is, but it’s provocative. It gets the people going.


Oblivious of our [Daniel and I] views, David asks everyone to get ready to set off for the venue. But it’s his ‘birthday’ and this is his place after all, yes? He calls the shots. So we leave for the intended venue.


Two blocks further, almost near the bus stop, we come face to face with the men in blue who immediately fire aerial gunshots, scattering the whole group. Some go North, others face South, but I see Sharon, Bonnie and four other chiles going to take cover inside some abandoned building so I beckon to Daniel that we follow them. We should be safe here. Will we really?


We’re terrified out of our skins. There’s a pin drop silence [I’ve always wanted to use that expression] in the room. The only audible sounds now are the heavy breathings and the loud heartbeats threatening to break our rib cages. For a second there we feel a little bit safer. That is until a ray of light from some mammoth of a torch is engaged right into our hide out, catching Bonnie right in his tracks.


Tokeni apo haraka!” The bearer of the spotlight commands.


We hesitate. No one wants to move. There are only two exits from this place; the torch bearer is standing at one of them, and the other is completely covered in water so deep you could drown if you went right into it in panic mode. Now I was a sportsman  back in my high school days so I would have had no problem passing through had I decided to make a run for it. Bonnie did. But none of the ladies would have made it half way through without being caught. A lot of people have told me I was stupid to do this but yes, I stayed. Alongside Daniel, who seemed to share my sentiments. And so we surrendered and were caught, together with the ladies. Who would’ve known it would turn out the way it did anyway? We just thought he would pester us a little and then he’d be on his way.


I don’t care how you take this but I have a few principles; morals, if you please. Don’t get me twisted here, am no Makmende [as some other bozo who had fled North posted on my timeline a couple of days later]. Neither do I try to act like one. But if am going out with you, I need to be 110% certain that you’ll have my back when push comes to shove. As I will have yours. Am not going out into the dead of the night with some scary ass buggers who’ll take cover and leave me out in the open at the first sight of trouble. That’s not how I roll. We ride or die. Both [All] of us. If that makes me foolish and a coward in your universe then that’s a title I‘ll hold with my head held high, thank you.


So we march out of the hide out towards the bearer of the torch, who’s now mulikaing us right in the faces. He hits one of us, I don’t know who, and orders us to walk towards the police barracks just a few metres ahead with our hands up in the air. Here, we’re met by more than a dozen men in blue, some brandishing AK47s while others waving around blocks of wood. We’re ordered to sit down, still with our hands above our heads, and we comply. Then quicker than it takes to say “Freeze”, they start raining whacks and blows on us like we’re already guilty of some heinous crime. We’re struck and flogged all over the place like a bunch of deadly criminals. One of the lasses is bleeding on the forehead right about now, but even this doesn’t slow them down. What surprises me is that the ladies are hassled and trodden even more than the fellas. Their dressing doesn’t seem to wash down well with the ‘law enforcers’. Those with above the knee dresses are hit right where the dresses end, the ones with trousers are banged too. Women, I suppose your dress is not your choice after all. At least not according to these cops. But I digress.


They then grab our I.Ds, check them scruffily and give them back amidst a bunch of rhetorical questions and smacks. Why would someone ask you where you were headed and then hit you when you answer the damn query? This is why cops and I don’t get along. The red-eyed bastards just don’t seem to have any sense of reasoning in them. Now my old folks were bad asses back in the day. True story. My mum would spank the living daylight out of you for the slightest mistake. We’d think it was unfair, but I tell myself I wouldn’t be half the man I am today [I know I’ve barely achieved anything yet but am getting there] if it weren’t for them. And those beatings. But my whole life, I have never been man-handled or trampled the way I was that day. And to think I hadn’t even broken any law even makes me sicker. I find myself cursing and murmuring unprintable words which loosely translate to life is a female dog. You never get what you want, you just man up and find a way to deal with what you’re given.


Anyway, so the police van arrives and we’re jostled inside and driven off to the station; from where I mull over all this as we walk into the cells..


*to be continued.


The cruiser pulls up in front of Juja Police Station. Judging by the position of the moon right above us, am guessing it’s something a little past midnight.


Vile tu mliingia ndio mtoke. Haraka!!” A penal voice booms from within the half a dozen heavily armed officers.


We hold hands, each with the person behind and ahead of them, and march inside in a single line, escorted with scorching smacks and innumerable strokes of something far more fatter than a normal cane. Am second. First is a female friend of mine, let’s call her Sharon.


See, when someone [just a close PAL guys, easy] crosses multiple borders and bridges from a far off land like Rongai to come say hi to you in an equally remote dusty town like Juja, you’re responsible for them and their safety. Their comfort is your number one priority. So you’d understand why I feel remorseful for Sharon to have to go through this brutality and utter animosity.


“Hey, whatever happens tonight, am sorry,” I whisper to her ear.


“It’s not your fault,” she replies, trying to conceal the coldness in her voice but I can almost sense it. The regret on her face wears me down. She shouldn’t have come. I had failed her.


We’re now being shoved behind the OB desk, as if in an attempt to prevent anyone from escaping. There’s about seven of us; 5 ladies and 2 men. We find another couple of chums being tended to back there; and by ‘tended to’ I mean beaten. Remorselessly, ruthlessly and without the slightest sh*t of care in the world. One of them says he knows his rights, but this only serves to worsen his situation. More whips land on his back as jabs and upper-cuts are pelted up and down his already swollen and slightly bleeding face. It’s not a pleasant sight at all, even from a neutral ground.


Eti you know your rights? Sisi tuko na rights na powers! Unaskia?” One of the men in blue quips, in between the mobocracy.


After what looked like a scene straight out of Nairobi Half-Life, the mates’ details are finally recorded in the OB and then, like sheep to a slaughter house, they’re led through some puke-drawing metal door to the cells.


The merry on the faces of the men in blue right about now can send a grown ass man with hirsute balls weeping. They’re clearly having a blast. It’s like they just captured, or murdered, an Osama protégé up in this b*tch. What is it with cops and beating people? How in the freaking hell is pounding a fellow human being to bits fun?


Saying am scared at this instant would be a gross understatement, if not an insult to the bozos over at Oxford. Am fossilized [eih, hii Ujaluo yawa]. These crooks have clearly proven that they mean business here, whatever that means. And that “Innocent until proven guilty” is all but a bad joke only meant to instill false hope in the general public. Until you’re caught. A weighty whack lands on my bony cheeks, sending me spiraling back to realism.


Nyinyi ndio mnajua kutupia polisi mawe, sindio?” The accoster, an out of this world bald-headed fugly muthaf****r in a K’Ogalo jersey with the words ‘NYAMITA’ [I presume that was his name] inscribed at the back, asks rhetorically.


Now, good citizens of our land, help me here, here is a Gor Mahia fanatic, universally known hooligans, reprimanding a neatly-dressed teenager in stripped official shirts for ALLEGEDLY casting stones at opposing law enforcers. [See what I did there? Gor Mahia fanatic? Stones? Opponents? Aargh, forget it!]


Nevertheless, let’s assume I did throw the stones and was stupid enough to stay back and get caught; that I had dressed neatly in my one Khaki trouser and two-thousand-five-hundred-shilling shirt bought for me by my mum [forget the old fogeys stopped buying us clothes eons back] to go and participate in catch-me-if-you-can with the cops; that I had tagged along five strikingly gorgeous lasses one dressed in a knee-high white dress and black tights to the parade to, perhaps, help me hold the gravels in their Louie Vuitton purses; that I had passed on an invite to shots of Flirt vodka by my hombre Chacha to protest over matters that held not a hair against my meager existence; that I had stood up a date with a potential soul mate [sshh!] over at Gate C for a date with tear gas and aerial gunshots at Gate A. Really? Are you kidding me? I mean, is it just me or this room stinks of bullsh*tters and their relentless bullsh*t?!


Get this, the protests were over a proposed new fee policy [which sought to send students who hadn’t cleared their fee balances by the time of CAT sittings home] and increase in accommodation fee. Here’s the jist, my old man makes sure he clears my semester fees when I report for opening, which means am pretty much always in the clear even when sitting for my CATs. He also sends my house rent every month [as it turns out I don’t even occupy the school hostels either]. That good old man, God bless his hustle, er, soul. And then, am on attachment this semester. Which means no CATs and I don’t even have to pay any fee. So, tell me Sir, yes, you there in a blue uniform, what reason do I have to take to the streets? And what exactly are we being charged for here, again?


But after what happened to the previous bloke who yanked open his mouth at these animals, I figure an answer at this point would be just as useless as Prophet Doctor Kanyiri[though I realize this joke is fast getting old] trying to plead his case; useless. So I remain adamant, only nursing my now hurting cheek. He then moves on to the lady behind me, grabs her by the chin, pushes her hard against the wall and blurts out;


Mbona mnasumbua watu?”


You know that feeling you get when you want to help someone but you know you’ll just be digging your own grave so you hold back and your conscience condemns you? I just stand there and bad-eye [is that even a word?] the guy in eerie silence, as if waiting for the perfect moment to seize his rash infested neck, but he continues with his oppression of us to his fill.


One of the cops now demands for our names as he jots them down while we shout them out, albeit involuntarily. Which reminds me, why must everyone always ask for my third name whenever I introduce myself as “Ian Duncan”? Is it that hard to believe that a black son of a mere high school Principal would share a name with a famous white rally driver? That’s some racist sh*t right there. If big bro was done with Law school I’d have him sue their asses for all they got [which am sure is not much but what the hell!]. And to the next John Doe I meet who wants to know my names, please, Wuod [Son of] Were will do just fine, thank you.


The female officer in charge for the night then commands us to each take off a single shoe, our belts, phones, money and any other valuables to which we duly comply. Then our details are hurriedly recorded in the OB, after which we too are led to the cells. The ladies are locked in first before we, the men, are harshly pushed into an almost-full filthy room with the words ‘Cell 1’ roughly scribbled on the door, which is loudly and firmly locked from outside as it hits me that I only know one person in here.


My boyz, let’s call him Daniel, with whom we had attended the same high school and goes to K.U, and were with at the time of arrest. So from now till we’re released, it’s us against them other niggaz. Against the world. No homo.


Ladies and gentlemen, Son of Were is officially behind bars!




*to be continued [with events leading to the arrest].




Meanwhile, I wrote this piece almost a two or three weeks back. But a brother been seriously ill and bedridden ever since, which is why am posting it just now. I was held down by a combination of Malaria and some other disease the doctors say is caused primarily by stress [I suspect brought about by these bimbos I’ve been chasing of late]. For half that time, I could neither talk to anyone, not even to my own mother, nor walk past the bathroom three steps away during my numerous trips to do what you absolutely don’t want to know. My only meal became a cuppa uji alongside three unrefined humongous pills. In simple terms, sh*t got real. And depressingly real, at that. As they say, if you want to know who your true friends are, feign your death and see how many really come to your ‘funeral’. Am just saying it’s good to know the kind of friends I keep. I’ll leave that at that!