I once read about one Emmy Kosgei getting married to a certain Nigerian pastor honcho almost double my old man’s age. And they called it love.

I also read somewhere that it’s some West African oil tycoon bankrolling Vera Sidika’s bigger than life lifestyle. Chic posts flashy new pictures every second on Instagram like it’s her job yet she can still afford a half-a-million-shilling weave, a quarter-million-shilling pair of heels, a supposed fifty-million-shilling surgery, three nights at the prestigious Villa Rosa Kempinski and a holiday in Dubai – if gossip sites are anything to go by these days.

Then I read again that one of my celebrity crushes, Habida, had gotten [I don’t know if that’s the word am looking for] married to an Igbo mofo and relocated to the West.

That Avril has committed to a Zulu man and wedding bells are lurking in the shadows.

That Jolene of Tahidi High had received a brand new Kompressor as a birthday present from her South African sweetheart.

I read in silence. Profound, albeit disturbed, silence. And I wondered what it was that these bozos had that we, Kenyan men, didn’t. I wondered what it was that was driving our lovely women away from their motherland to go ride foreign mihoigos. I wondered what a guy with an accent sounding like he had just swallowed a live frog and it spat venom in his mouth could possibly do/say to my woman that’d make her walk out my door and straight into his arms.

The ladies told me we don’t treat them right, that our Oga brodas are as romantic as it gets. And I retorted that I know I’m an ass but even I pull out the seat for my date once in a while. And I’m a broke good for nothing son of a mere high school teacher but I’ve once hired a taxi to and from a date. Coming to think of it, I never even got laid that night. Huh!

Some told me it was about the money; that our pockets just aren’t deep enough. Or that we are too mean to go all out on them. To these, I told the story of Phil [not his real name], a former campus chum of mine who moved his beloved out of the institution hostels to her own fully furnished two-bedroom apartment. With a 42’ inch flat screen television, state of the art sound system et al. He dropped by unannounced one weekend and found her swallowing some other punk’s cum in the sitting room, all over the couch he had bought with his HELB money. He came to me seeking a solution to his bliss and all I could picture before me was that one time he refused to buy me a bottle of beer but, instead, sent that mami Ksh. 5000 bob to my face, telling her to go shopping. So I said good riddance, reminded him about the unwritten rule of Bro’s before Hoes and he broke my nose with a single swing. I didn’t care. I know I’m a bad friend. But you just do not not buy me a beer then expect me to mourn with you. Karma is two-faced ugly bish, son!

When I came to really think hard about it, I realized that maybe we weren’t the ones with the problem. It could just as easily be the ladies.

See, dating a modern day Kenyan girl is as demanding as it is tiring. You’d think you were pulling an unmoving truck glued to your ass.

It will always start slow; you on your best behavior and she playing ridiculously hard to get. You will take her to lunch, probably at Galitos [because that’s where all the ‘cool cats are’]; buy her chocolates and ice cream on her birthday; take her for evening coffee at Gibson’s; meet her friends and act like you’re the nicest character on earth, tolerating all their B.S and non-stop gossip; you will even take them out once in a while for a good time, where you may end up spending much more than you bargained for ‘cause these girls “don’t do cheap liquor” then hire a cab and drop their drunken butts back to their miserable hostels and walk on home.

Then she will begin feeling and hanging around you more; getting touchy-feely with you all the time, calling you sweet names. The goodnight hugs will turn into pecks and then, with time, full blown kisses. Then she will finally open the doors of her kingdom to you and you will slide in majestically, almost like a veteran soldier heading out to war with a Third World country, and with the precision of a butcher. She will moan and scream your name with a few inferences of the glorious Man Above in within and you will feel accomplished; And proud; And more like a Man than you ever had before. And a voice inside you will – almost boastfully – say. “Yes, say my name, Baby. Say my name. You smart. You loyal!”

She will agree to a relationship the next morning. [Count yourself lucky if she doesn’t ask the one question no man wants to hear after a romp. Ati, “So what are we?” My response is always BFFs. I’ve been punched by a lady before though, so don’t try this at home]

A couple months or so into the relationship and all hell will break loose. She sees you talking to another mami for two seconds and she goes red. You fail to pick her calls, even if you were just in the bathroom responding to an innocent call of nature, and it’s World War III. You can’t go out with your boys as much any more, she says she should be your number 1 priority, and that she deserves your undivided attention.

No matter what you do, she will always find a way to curve an argument out of it. You will do your best to make her happy but it will never be enough. She will even start comparing your relationship to that of her neighbor Tim and best friend Daisy, who the whole town knows will open her legs to anything that drives and has a valid ATM card.

She will want you to take her shopping, to the salon, even to the market. Not because she fancies your company these days, only so you pay for anything she sets her evil eyes on. Which is, basically, everything.

See, I’ve come to realize that MOST Kenyan ladies are lazy gold-digging twats. Again, I said MOST…chill out Kilimani Mums.

And that is why even a bigwig will say ‘Yes’ to a man with a measly 200 followers but who works at a bank and can charter a helicopter for a whole weekend to Mt. Kenya. I’ll leave that at that before I get slapped with a law suit.

Kenyan ladies want to secure their futures [which is not a bad thing, depending on how you look at it]. It’s never just about loving or caring about her anymore. It’s now about what you lay on the table; even if she brings nothing herself.

Now as far as I’m concerned, Kenyan men are trying. Kenyan men are working their asses off, feeding bimbos who do nothing but sit around in the house all day wearing yoga pants. We’re holding up our ends of the bargain. Then these very lazy putas with sagging breasts and overgrown hips will be the first to walk out the door at the tiniest sign of trouble – throwing all the blame on the poor guy – and jump into the arms of the next rich bozo that comes along.

Get me here, there are Kenyan ladies who know the real meaning of the overused word ‘hustle’. But there are the majority that just want to be fed off someone else’s sweat with silver spoons.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if you’re going out with a lady that won’t even pay her own fare then you’re wasting your time. A lady that won’t order herself the first drink at a club; a lady that won’t buy you a mere 200-shilling-watch on your birthday but will be so quick to send you a reminder – two weeks before her own birthday – about that necklace you promised her; a lady that, in this age and era, still texts with “duuuhhh [or is it, daahhh?]”, “OMG”, “Xaxa” and “K”.

The last category should just die; I’m not even discussing that with you.


valentines day couple gifts


Methinks men have sacrificed enough these past Valentines already. Ladies need to stand up and claim their own share of responsibilities. Funny how y’all are always fighting for equality on mediocre issues [like being sidelined on an article about lawyers] but never  willing to split the bills on a dinner date. I am a believer in change. A believer in progress. Change yields progress. If that relationship is to go anywhere, do something different this time round.  Not the same old sex after a night out claptrap. Cook, Stroll, Shop…do anything. Just do it different.


For those of you still not in the know, let me school you real quick; Valentine’s Day was named after a Christian martyr dating back to the 5th Century. Valentine, a Christian priest, was thrown into prison by the Roman Emperors for his teachings. On February 14, he was beheaded for his crimes of being a Christian and performing a miracle. He had supposedly cured the jailer’s daughter of her blindness. And on the night before he was executed, he wrote the jailer’s daughter a farewell letter, signing it off with “From Your Valentine”. The rest is unimportant.


Yes, ladies, you can “Aaaaawww…” now.


The men have always taken the mantle ever since; ensuring the ladies have a good time and feel loved year after year. Even when it meant going through the next day on an empty stomach. I have a friend who bought his missus a nice set of chains last Valentine’s, a fairly expensive chocolate, shipped in her favorite wine, and even hired a room for that special romp after a glorious night out at Brew Bistro but he still didn’t hit it. The lady hadn’t gotten him anything but she still wouldn’t give it up. Okay, am digressing now but let me just summarize that story for you already. They broke up the following week. She said he was too pushy. Too pushy?  Sweetheart, I spend that large on you there’s only one way that night ends. You can take that to the Hague.


My point here is simple. Ladies, step up your game this Valentines. Be the ones to wear the pants in the relationship, just this once. If only to know how heavy it feels.


Start his day with a warm breakfast. Serve him a nice meal [in bed, if possible], prepared just the way he likes it. There’s not a single feeling in this world as refreshing as waking up to the sight of a gorgeous woman [your woman] in nothing but immaculate white undies revealing her neatly-chiseled butt cheeks and your long shirt [which totally looks hot on her by the way] maneuvering through the kitchen. The sensation that engulfs one at that particular moment is indescribable. You fall in love with her immediately, even just for those five or so seconds. And you feel proud, and you just want to grab her and drag her smooth ass back to bed. But you resist and you just continue standing there. Watching her rinse the dishes and slice the onions into perfect pieces. Then you creep up from behind and softly kiss her on the neck, and she turns and smiles at you. Whispers in the most romantic voice you ever heard;


“Looks like someone’s being naughty this early.” Then she giggles and surges on with her cooking.


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Am digressing again, dammit!


Lead him onto the shower after that tasty meal, and thereafter give him a massage like you mean it. Like you know how hard he works for the both of you on a daily basis. Like you know how even harder he works in that noisy bed.


Massage him till he sweetly falls asleep on your lap like an overfed baby. And dreams about walking that velvety butt of yours down the aisle. You will see him smile in his sleep, he may even cough out some name. Not your name. But definitely a lady’s name. Another lady’s name. Be worried not, for all you know the poor fella could only be thinking of baby names just incase you got pregnant soon. How thoughtful.


Yes, Medo, you can “Aaaawww…” again. *Sighs*


When he wakes up, take him for a light stroll. Some shopping at the mall could do. No boxers this time though. Perhaps that Chris Adams spray he’s always talking about. Or that Michael Kors watch he came back complaining he was denied a discount on the other time. Those DilRay Inc. hoodies could go a long way in warming him up those numerous times he has to stay up late, working; you know how it gets. Or you could just get him a front row ticket to the ‘Legend Of Kaka’ album launch and call it a day. Okay, that was totally my idea but still… get a brother something he can hold on to for a long time.


Valz 1


Dinner is on you tonight. And the drinks too. Order his favorite bottle. Two, actually; one for yourself. Immerse yourself into his world of crazy, just this once. Don’t be clingy though, allow him get a little wild like he does on his birthdays. You’ll notice he’s had one too many when he gets up and brandishes his wallet while singing along to Wizkid’s “Are you gonna dance-eh, if I show you di money”. He’s a miserable dancer. He couldn’t dance if it was the last thing left for him to marry Ariana Grande. At this point, just grab the bozo and take him home before push comes to shove.


I hate lazy ass women. Those that wait for everything to be done for them. Those that you take to a club and won’t even buy themselves a fugging glass of water. Those that will always point at you when the conductor swings his hand their way. Even if it’s just a meager 20 bob drive. I can’t stand petty mediocrity.


I’ve dated a few of them myself. No good ever comes out of such relationships. Drop her ass like a worn out sack of potatoes and just run. It might be harder than it sounds though, but what is ever easy nowadays?


So, men, lean back and just do nothing this Valentine’s. That’s my only advice. If she doesn’t make a single effort, know you got yourself a good for nothing bimbo. Tembeza kiatu! Relationships are a two way street.


Or maybe am just a miserable single bitter twat who probably daen’t have a date and is now keen on getting even with those actually who do. I don’t know.


Either way, Happy Valentine’s Lovebirds.


Twitter: @KaSiPesaAuBizz_


I happen to be in a very complicated relationship right now. And I dare say complicated because I can’t really tell whether the damsel involved and I are really dating or we just relish being mean to and angry at each other. I probably get the idea that am getting dumped (God forbid) right after this piece but…what the hell?! That’s what you get for giving a writer something to take home. Pun intended. Let me explain.


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See relationships are supposed to be refreshing. Don’t ask me what that means, press F5 on your computer and see what happens to the screen. Everyone wants a partner they look forward to seeing and talking to even though you just saw him/her off the preceding minute. The ones you have sweet long conversations with deep into the night even when you have Calculus examinations that you haven’t studied for at 7 a.m. the following morning but just can’t let go. The ones who make you feel new and worthy of a little attention every time you’re with them. The ones that laugh and party with you even when you’re merely kissing the boss’ butt because they see the determination in your eye and know only too well that you won’t stop till you’re standing at the top of the food chain.


There’s no such thing as perfect boyfriend/girlfriend, plain truth. But nobody wants a girlfriend/boyfriend with whom you squabble every single time you engage in a tête-à-tête. Jumping at each other’s throats over practically nothing. Or over microscopic subjects such as WhatsApp/Facebook statuses and profile pictures. You need to understand something here ladies, boys will always be boys. Or men. You want to put our pictures on your profile with the caption “I love you boo”? Fine. Just don’t come barking when mine shows a seductive picture of a smoking hot half-naked Megan Good in a pool of liquor (Ciroć my nigga) with the caption, “Damn, that a**!” It’s just a status sweetheart, I have as much chance of even swatting Megan Good’s rear as Raila has of becoming President. Okay, maybe I over stretched it but you get the drift.


I don’t know what women want anymore. It’s like relationships are an autocracy and they reign supreme. You like her friends but your friends are either ‘too cocky’…’cry-babies’…’gangster’…’fugly’…or they just don’t like them. That’s the other plug you women pull inappropriately on us. Never disrespect your boy’s boys or make him choose between them and you. It’s a losing battle. Am not saying they come first, all I’m saying is they bail me out of jail when I get too wasted in the club and spit on the cops. You don’t. They loan me some cash when my a** broke. You don’t. Heck, I even spend that cash on you and that wretched weave floating above your inflatable head. So the next time he tells you he’s out drinking with his boys, you had better think hard before whining on and on about how much he loves his boys more than he does you.


Partners don’t stalk each other. Men like their privacy, do not go through my phone without my permission. Do not peruse my Facebook statuses and comment on all of my posts. Do not like my every status and comment on your newsfeed, and for crying out loud stop tagging me on all of your damn photos. What is it with you women? No man will tell you this to your face but baby, it’s a turn off. I love and treasure you but I don’t need you breathing down my neck squeezing the little air left out of me just to prove you love me too. No, sit yo’ a** down!!


Nothing personal.

(Anyway, the World Cup quarter finals are here. So the French lost to the German machines yesternight but they had a good run. You live to fight another day Karim. Meanwhile, my team, the under-rated Belgians, lock horns with Messi <my bad…I mean, Argentina> in a to-be cracker. I couldn’t give a rat’s hoot what the odds are, Origi is on fire. Can’t wait! Away from football, the week has been hectic y’all. Feels so nice to be Saturday, doesn’t it?! Legooo…)