He sits on a plastic chair at the center of the living room; his legs – swollen as a balloon – hoisted onto a stool in front of him, his left hand supporting his head, the right on the armrest of the plastic chair. The T.V is on, to full volume, and some flimsy Nollywood film about a Prince falling in love with the Princess of a rival land is on. His eyes, unflinching as ever, stare directly at the T.V screen. And, for a second there, it beats me how a man as old as he is would be enjoying such a distressingly pathetic script about how a Prince and a rival Princess fall so deep in love that when their two communities go to war, they jump into the middle of the battle and declare themselves sacrifices for the sake of Peace. Because, “Love trumps All.” Such baloney.



And then I take a closer look and notice that he’s really not watching the television or paying attention to the Prince’s incessant whining about how great Love is. He’s staring into space. He’s staring into thin air. He’s staring at empty nothingness.






My Mum called me sometime mid last month but it went straight to voice mail. So she texted, “Your Father is Sick. Get back to me.” I called her that evening and, after her usual shouting and bickering over what I really do in Nairobi, she said, “I need you to come back home.”





“Didn’t you hear me, Mzee is sick?”


“Sawa. Wacha I come kitu next week.”


“Kama hutaki wacha. Utamwona kwa coffin.”



Then she hangs up. That was Auma Nyar Keya being her usual self; dramatic as ever. I called her back.



“Sawa. I’ll come Monday or Tuesday.”


“If you cannot be here by Monday morning then just let your brother come. Hakuna shida kama hutaki kuona Baba yako.”


“Sawa. I’ll travel Sunday night and be there by Monday morning.”



She didn’t even acknowledge what I had said, just hung up. And so, that Sunday night, I hopped onto a Busia-bound bus and was home before the dogs evenwoke up for morning glory. I sat next to this pretentious loud mouthed Luo chap in a stinky white hoodie, ugly dark sunglasses (but why are some Luos hell bent on embarrassing us?) and these ridiculously shiny shoes who seemed to want the whole world to know he was going back to Kisumu. He called close to 12 people and the script was always the same (and you have to read this part in a Luo accent);



“Omera narudi Kisumu bwana.”


*Other person*


“Eeehh. Tunaenda kuangalilia Baba ground bwana.”


*Other person*


“Ntakaa wiki moja hivi alafu nikirudi ntakupigia.”


“Eeehh. Hahahahah. Si unajua lazima ka-GlenFiddich kaanguke nikirudi.”



By the time he was on his fifth call, I could recite his conversation word by word. So I fell asleep and, gladly, woke up as he was alighting. I almost poured libation to the goods in gratitude.






“Ian…” he goes, “…what’s someone got to do to get some porridge around here?”



I put aside the book I had been reading and head for the kitchen. I have never made any porridge all my life. Shit, I don’t even like porridge. But, for my ailing father, I will learn how to cook squirrels if he wants me to.



Thirty minutes later, I serve him a bowl of what, in my mind, is the most kick ass porridge human hands could ever make. He takes a sip, twitches his face and says, “This is the shittiest porridge I’ve ever tasted.” Then he attempts what sounds like a laugh, but only a cough comes out. A long strenuous cough. A painful cough.



The old man has been ill ever since we buried my Grandfather – his father –in September, 2016.He has grown thin and weak. He barely eats, only drinks porridge, and rarely speaks.He coughs 973238 times an hour and, when he walks, takes every step like it could be his last. There are days he can barely get off the plastic chair – never sits on the sofa – and then there are days he gathers some little strength and drives around.



The other day he had to pick up a parcel from the Post Office so I took shotgun while he drove. We arrived at the Post Office at 12:58 p.m., exactly 2 minutes before their lunch hour. He parked, we got out of the car and as we headed for the door, we saw the Post Office guy close. And we know he saw us see him close because we were right there, literally less than five steps away. And I got so pissed off I remember saying to him in my head, “Makes you feel pretty good, doesn’t it? Denying an ailing man a simple thirty second service?” I imagined him going home that evening, tucking his children into bed, kissing them on the forehead, and hopping into bed with his wife. And she would ask him, “How was work today?” And he would sigh and say, “Great. I sent away this old sickly man and his bushy son at lunch time today. You should’ve have seen them beg, it was hilarious.”



“Kijana,” he began, soon as we got back from the post office and I was assisting him back to his chair, “would you do me a favor?” I said, Sure. He said, “Shave that bloody beard.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “Because you’re young yet too old?” And that’s the most confusing thing my father has ever said to me my entire two decades of existence.



Get Well Wuod Agatha.


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.”





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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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


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


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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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



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




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




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




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




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




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




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


Dero: Aaah, wapi? Toa evidence.


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


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


Rube: Oh, Gerarahia. Peleka wivu mbali.


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


Chacha: [Loud laughter] What mami?


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rube: Hahahah. Pombe sio supu Kijana!


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


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


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


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


Roy: Now that’s a man with taste.


Me: Ahem! [Boastful cough]


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


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


Me: [Ignoring]


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


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


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


Rube: Oh, you know who.


Me: Shut up.


Dero: Ahaaaa. Iaaaann. Heheheh.


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


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


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


[We all laugh]


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


[We all laugh, again. This time louder]


Roy: Hapo ulijipiga noma solo wewe Nyasi. Hahahahah.


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


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


Chacha: Maze Writer joh.


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


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




To be Continued….Next Year.



Ladies think they are complicated and shit. With their stinky weaves and long nails and crappy outfits and putrid perfumes and warped walking styles and lewd accents and rotten attitudes, they think being a Woman is a task. A task so grand they have to spend two hours in the shower [which would be understandable if they used those Ksh. 3700-a-piece soaps], another three hours polishing up their faces and applying facial creams that feel like they should be applied to a baby’s ass instead, then another five goddamn hours choosing an outfit from a set of two.

Fact: Women clothes are cheaper than a Man’s belt. Let me explain.

See, I went to my cousin’s Prayer Day the other Saturday. He just sat for his Primary School final exams. Success, Kid. Cheeky little rascal, that one. Kid put himself up for Special Diet without consulting the old geezers. You should have seen the look on his old man’s face when the school slapped him with Ksh. 155 000 in fee arrears. I kid you not, if that boy had been born into the Omondi Were family, he wouldn’t have seen sunset that day. We’d probably have had his soft cheeks for dessert. Two things Omondi Were does not joke about; Education, and his Money.

Anyway, so as we were leaving I heard my other cousin [she’s a lady, this one.] conversing with another relative of ours [Also a lady. And, No, I don’t know exactly how we’re related. To be honest, I don’t even think we’re related at all. All I know is that she’s a fine piece of cake, and my sister may or may not have made up that we’re related hoo-hah to prevent me from hitting on her. Well played, Sis. Well played. Folks, depression hasn’t stared you in the face till you’ve been cock-blocked by a woman. Your own blood, no less. Smh!]

Apparently, she [my lady cousin. Keep up chaps, I’m getting tired of putting these side notes for you to understand who/what I’m talking about] was thinking of an easy way to get cash. One that doesn’t involve wiping her mum’s shoes and cooking for her Chama women and feigning sickness and kissing the old man’s ass for an extra buck. And because she goes to USIU and the general assumption about USIU lasses is that they’re rich, spoilt and clueless [that’s a whole blog post on its own] as to how much a fucking crop-top costs, she had come up with this brilliant plan and was now laying it out to that mystery relative [Hehe] of ours. She was saying something along these lines;

Aki mimi ntatafuta tu mia tano niende shopping ya tops Gikomba, alafu niuzie wasichana wa USIU at double price”.

Stay with me here, there are two morals to that story: First, USIU ladies, if you come across some slender well-dressed sweet lady who can explain – in crisp details – plots to an entire season of productions like ‘Love &Hip Hop Atlanta’ or Tyler Perry’s ‘If Loving You Is Wrong’ and may or may not be walking around with some big ass green paper bag filled with women clothes hunched to her back, please, that’s my dear cousin. Be a lamb and buy something. And don’t bargain too much. Don’t be one of those people who even when told something goes for 50 baab, still want to bargain for it to be brought down to 30 baab. And they will be there standing over you, hands crossed over the chest, like they just can’t let you have that Ksh. 20 because the whole of humanity depends on it. Like the Pope will cancel his trip to Kenya if he lets you have it.

Secondly; Ksh. 500 is more than enough money to stock up a lady’s whole wardrobe. Hell, you could start a business dealing in lady outfits with just Ksh. 500. [Yet there are still some ladies out here in short white dresses and long heels looking out for Sponsors on chilly Friday nights at G-Skyye Lounge. Hayo ni Mapepo!]

For a Man, you will not even get a decent t-shirt at Ksh. 500. You will have to fast, pour the first double of your Whiskey to the ground in appeasement to the gods every Friday for a month, and tell the missus her red wig looks nice every day in good faith before those Hassans and Abdis in Amal Shopping Mall, Eastleigh, let you buy a pair of belts for that price.

Here’s how you know that being a Man is more daunting a task than being a Woman. Have you ever gone to a shop that sells women’s knickers? [Strictly for observational purposes, don’t be getting any ideas, you disgusting folk] More importantly, have you observed a woman shopping for knickers? How they hold those things up high in that fashion shop attendants do when checking for fake currency. They swing them around in air, perhaps checking if there are rats camping there. They stretch them, smell them, toss them upside down and inside out, put them down, grab them and lift them back up. If you pass by, they will tap you softly on the shoulder and shove those darn things to your face and your nose and ask you questions even Calvin Klein wouldn’t have the answers to. And Calvin Klein makes those fucking things.

Excuse me, Sir. What do you think about this undie? Do you like the color? Here, Smell it. Is that Strawberry or Vanilla cent? Would you like a lady in this one or the other one? Do you think it will fit me? Do you think it’s too tight?”



“Uhmm. I don’t know if it’s too tight, lady. Perhaps I should see your hoochi first, don’t you think?


Yes. This one. Totally. As Al-Shabaab continues to threaten Kenya and I-don’t-know-who is bombing Paris and cops are stabbing civilians in Burundi, there’s nothing I’d want more than to go home to a lady in red knickers to remind me of all that bloodshed. Totally.”



[And, about Calvin Klein, quick question; how miserable has someone’s life got to be for them to sit down and say I want to make knickers? I mean, do you even call your mother and go, “I know what I want to do with my life, Ma’. You know how you’re always telling Papa to stop walking around the house buck-naked flashing his junk to the kids and shit? I’m going to change that, Ma’. We’re going to be rich, Ma’. Rich!”No?]


A woman will hang her knickers out in the line shared by the whole plot. And she will not give the tiniest hoot. So you will be out there in the balcony trying to grab a quick smoke, then you will lift your head up to exhale that puff and – there in the distance – a shiny little ripped pink thong will cuff your vision. Then suddenly you will not be interested in that smoke anymore. You will need something stronger, a whiskey, perhaps. Neat.

Now watch a man shopping for a set of briefs. We don’t even look at the size of those things. Or the color. Or smell them for another man’s balls [if you’re shopping in Githurai]. Or check to confirm whether they will suffocate the boys or allow them some air. When a man goes shopping for briefs, you’d think he was buying C-4 or some shit. He walks into the shop, heads straight to the boxer section, grabs a couple of Abercrombie & Fitch briefs and whispers to the attendant, “Funga hizi buana! Chap chap.”all the while stone-faced. Now, hanging those damned things after washing is the real deal. You will find a man’s briefs underneath some hefty towel on the line. Or stashed below his pillow, so the last thing that hits his nostrils before he goes to sleep is the smell of his own balls. Now, that is a proud Man- a Man that loves the smell of his own balls – forget Luos and their masins [put up your hand when you see it. Now put it down and go grab a beer.]

Even during sex, men relish removing the ladies’ knickers. I was told it’s the true measure of man; removing a woman’s knickers during migwatos. Forget six packs and hairy beards, guys, if you hit it and the lady took off her own knickers; please note that your seat at the Table of Men has been rescinded with immediate action. And you need to take off those knickers like you mean it; slowly, lovingly, passionately, seductively.  That’s Foreplay 101 gentlemen, thank me later.

Now, ladies, have you noticed how the men act when it’s turn for their briefs to come off? They won’t even let you touch them. Or if they do, they’ll rush you so much you won’t even notice the damned things coming off.

A lady’s knickers have to be clean and presentable and emit a welcoming scent. Ours don’t have to. You’ll find a middle-aged man at the hospital with boxers so torn you’d think he rears rats in his closets. We’re just like that. Because we’re Men.



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.