I don’t like doctors very much. I don’t like medical personnel, period. Which is ironic considering I have a few friends in medical school and one of my sisters is a trained nurse and I will guillotine the head off any man who breaks her heart. With the exception of just them, I don’t think I can stand being in the same room with any doctor, nurse, or basically anybody who works in a hospital, for five minutes without beginning to feel an itch on my balls. And it’s nothing personal, really, I just don’t like anyone who feels like they’re better than the rest of us mortals.


Doctors – like lawyers and engineers – think the air we breathe comes out of their asses. Doctors walk into the room with an explosive self of entitlement and their stethoscopes hanging from around their necks and their egos hovering above them like a dark cloud. They talk down to us and tell us we have diseases we have never heard of and expect us to understand them like they are some sort of gods and we are their subjects. And then they send us off with notes inscribed with prescriptions in barely readable handwriting. Why do all doctors write like chimpanzees high on codeine? Does it make y’all feel special and deserving of Head of State Commendations?


I also hate doctors because no matter how simple a problem is, they will always find a way to magnify it. You go to the doctor with a simple stomachache but, No, all of a sudden it’s, “Sir, you have acute necrotizing ulcerative gingivitis.” Or you knock your right foot on the stool and limp to the ward and suddenly you have Rheumatoid Arthritis. I hate doctors – oh, I hate doctors; darn nosy brats.Like, dude, I came in here with an itch on my nipple, why can’t you just let it be an itch on the nipple and treat it and let me walk away? Why you gotta start poking around places you weren’t invited and find diseases – like Cancer – that I was perfectly Okay not knowing I had? You think I want to find out I have gout? You think I’m going to be happier knowing I have gout?


The fact that I hate doctors thereby means I hate hospitals as well. Growing up, getting me out of my bed to the hospital when I was sick was always like World War Z. I would kick, scream, wail, bite, abuse, scratch, and wake the whole goddamn town up before accepting to be admitted. To this day, I have only ever spent one night in hospital. And that was because I refused to take the medicine I was given so my mother left me there to teach me a lesson. She came back the next morning with bread and uji and tea and peanut butter and a whole basket of apologies but I wouldn’t have none of it. I sulked the whole week after that and never spoke to her. I was a young brat – and I was the last born – which means when I was sick and sulking, I got anything I wanted.


A while back I was busy laughing at memes and poking my celebrity crushes on Facebook in the office when a mail came in from HR. The mail said the company would be conducting a mandatory medical check-up and all employees were required to show up. It tried to come off as polite and failed miserably; only coming off as dictatorial, with a slight hint of “fail to show up and you can find another job” tone Now, normally, I don’t do group things. They (company) had organized a team building session deep in the forest at Lukenya previously and I begged to be excused and they said it was fine… so long as I paid back to the company the money that had been used to book my room and other expenses because all arrangements were already complete. The rooms were 10K a night for two nights; so, yeah, I dragged my ass up and went.


Anyway, a couple of days later the company set out an entire room and loads of doctors and medical groups pitched tent in there handing out leaflets and carrying out tests on us mortals. The mail also advised us not to eat or drink anything, at least 6 hours before showing up. But I have a PhD in smelling bullshit and that stank like one of them even from a mile away. So I pounded three Chapos, beans, 2 avocados and 5 bananas that Thursday lunch time before rocking up on a full stomach at 3p.m.


The first table was where you signed alongside your name and payroll number and, later on while leaving after completing the tests, you came back to pick an apple like a loyal servant on your way out. On the second table was a health and fitness company; which is just a fancy way of saying a gym. I have wanted a little paunch for years and, going by the number of people who meet me nowadays and say “kwani unakulanga nini hii town?” I think I’m already beginning to sport one. Ain’t no way I was going to throw away all those years of hard work just for some silly abs so I can impress women. So I skipped that table like a boss.


The second table lay nutritionists; which is just a fancy way of calling bossy ass women who tell what you can and cannot eat because, god forbid, one day you’re playing with your kids at the park when you’re 40 and you collapse and die from all those burger festivals you attended in your youth. I have always held the opinion that a healthy body is a Chapo-Madondo body. So, as far as my diet went, I was spot on. So I skipped that table too.

At the third table were a couple of chaps with one of those machines you see in the CBD used to measure heights and whatnot. That was my first stop. I climbed onto that machine and they recorded my height and weight and I don’t know what else. Then I got off but had to climb back up again because one of the results they got was too strange; like I wasn’t human and shit. So they took the measurements again but I think they got the same result because one of the sighed and looked at me with his eyes wide open like I was walking around buck-naked. I said “what?” and he responded with “nothing,” which is what made me feel like there was really something, so I cursed him and his entire clan and made a ‘yo’ mama’ joke in my head and giggled a bit because I’m funny in person and even funnier in my head.

Then one of them sat me down and said;


“Your metabolic age is 40.”

“My what?”

“Metabolic age.”

“My balls are what?”

“No, your metabolic age. It’s 40. That means your body is functioning like that of a 40-year-old man.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?”

“That depends. How old are you?”

“Uhmm… 23? Yes, 23.”

“Then that’s not good.”

“Why not? You’re saying being 40 is bad; like a disease? That’s pretty discriminatory, don’t you think? Even Churchill is 40. Do you want me to tell Churchill you said being his age is like a plague.”

“No, that’s not what we’re saying. What I mean is you’re not living healthy, and you’re stretching your body too much. Your metabolic age should, at the worst case scenario, be two or three years more than your actual age. It’s, however, best when it’s lower than your age.”

“Oh. So if I’m 23 and my metabolic age is 40, what does that mean exactly?”

“Like I said, it means you’re not living healthy. You’re not eating right; you’re not exercising enough; you’re not having enough rest; you’re not sleeping enough; you’re drinking too much; you’re stressing and stretching yourself too much. In short, you’re overworking your body.”

“Okay. So what should I do to get it back to normal?”

“The opposite of those things I have mentioned. Say, how many bottles of beers do you drink on an average night?”

“Average? Just three.”

“Can you get it down to one?”

“One beer?”

“One mango. Of course, one beer.”

“But… how the hell does that count as drinking?”

“Then your metabolic age is only going to get worse.”


I frankly did not know how to take that news. I mean, look at my dilemma: I know 40 year olds who go to the gym and spot clean shaven beards and wear Clarks and do not post what they had for lunch on Instagram because they’re busy leading decent lives and raising twins who will grow up to become poets. That doesn’t sound so bad, right? But then there are the other 40 year olds: The ones who DM young campus girls things like “Hey bebe gal, you have nice boobies, can we meet?” The ones who drink White Cap and belch loudly in bars and swat waitresses’ behinds and reek of warthog sweat and show up at their children’s graduation ceremonies with only the Daily Nation Newspapers. Terrible people. And you see that scares me because I don’t know on which side I lie yet; and I’m on Instagram so I’m guessing I’m not off to a great start either.

Anyway, when the guy was done telling me how to lead a healthy lifestyle, he directed me towards a fully tented section of the room with a sticker on what was supposed to be the entrance of the tent printed with some doctor’s name. He told me to walk into the tent and see the doctor for “some more tests.” For the sake of this piece, and because I would like to think of myself as a half decent journalist, we will call that doctor Dr. Mugo.


I walked into the tent and Dr. Mugo shook my hand so happily you would think we were the only two human beings left in a world consumed by a plague; or like we were the only two black people at Buddha Bar in Westlands. He smiled widely and his eyes lit up and his body movement was swift. What I did not like, however, was that he spat a little when he spoke – like some goddamn miraa chewer – and his spit landed somewhere on my face. I felt like taking myself to a laundry mat for a whole body scrub.


After the usual pleasantries, guess what Dr. Mugo tells me. No, just guess. Okay, fine, I’ll tell you.


“Take off your clothes?”


“Yes. Take off your clothes.”

“That’s it? You won’t even wine and dine me first?”

“Huh?” (He missed the joke. I hate it when I’m on fire and people miss my jokes.)

“Nothing. Also, No, I’m sorry but I’m not taking off my clothes… not for you.”

“Hahah. So you’re one of the sensitive types, eh?”

“Not really. I just think it’s rude not to wine and dine somebody before asking them to take their clothes off. It’s ungentlemanly.” (I gave him another chance at the joke.)

“I just want to check if everything is in order in your body; from your chest down.” (Of course he missed it again.)

“My knees are fine, if that’s what you mean by ‘down below.'”

“No, I meant your testicles, to be more direct.”

“Oh, those are fine too.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I take them out for a spin every once in a while. How would you know?”

“I don’t. That’s why I want to check them.”




“Okay. At least take off your shirt and let me check your chest and stomach; a lot of diseases hide there nowadays.”

“Fine. But just my chest.”


And so I took my shirt off and lay on something cold that was made to look like a hospital bed and tried not to throw up as I watched another man move his heads around my very hairy chest.


I maintain my stand: Doctors are terrible people!




Okay, I’ll admit it, I only joined Instagram for stalking purposes. I’m not much of a picture person myself, so I didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about Instagram in the beginning. But a couple chums of mine would keep coming at me with pictures of these stunning belles on Instagram with ample asses and asking me to rate them and I was like, “Daamn, I gotta get me some of that” you know. I mean, we’ve already established that I like fine ass, Yes? It doesn’t necessarily have to be big. It just has to be well-formed, you know. A sexy ass (does that make sense?); an ass that is not too much trouble swinging around the kitchen; an ass just firm enough; an ass that covers the seating space just perfectly, neither overflows nor floats on the chair. An ass that walks into a room and when it leaves, declares “I came, I saw, I conquered”. Do you guys get the picture I’m trying to paint here? I like my women Huddah Monroe-ish, not Vera Sidika-ish. You dig?


Besides, I was getting tired of running into people and hearing, “Yo, did you see that twerk video Noti Flow posted on the ’gram last night? Maad you guy.” Then when I’d say I wasn’t on Instagram, I’d be told how backward I was; How stuck in time I was; That I was still living in the ‘50s; That I had some styling up to do. Right, like saying “Yo” in 2015 is being ‘styled up’.

So I bowed to the pressure and finally joined Instagram a few months ago. By the way, while we’re on this topic I might as well get a few things off my chest, there are three types of Men I don’t like [‘hate’ is a strong word] in this world. Men that don’t take Beer; the ones you walk into a club with and they order an ice cold Black Ice and drink from those glasses with really long stems. Men that carry their women’s handbags; Let me just make it clear here today, If we run into each other in town and you’re holding the missus purse for her – hata kama ameingia tu hapo kwa hizo choo za kanjo for a quick dump – rest assured, we cease to become friends that instant. Don’t even try waving at me, I have bitch-phobia. Unfriend me on Facebook, Unfollow me on Instagram, Don’t retweet my shit on Twitter, don’t even think about texting me on a Friday night asking, “Mpango ni gani?” I will put a restraining order on your ass. Be wary of guys that carry their ladies’ purses, uptight folk, those. They’re those fellows that will begin giving you life advice when you’re busy getting drunk. Men go out to get wasted, talk crap about their women and make bad decisions. So don’t come up to my table with that “go easy on the bottle” shit. Who died and made you Mututho?

Then there are those Men that call Instagram ‘IG’. For a lady it’s fine. But for a guy, you come off sounding like those chaps that shed tears when their favorite character is killed in a movie; Chaps that peep at other guys’ weapons in the Gents; Chaps that carry pocket tissues.

Anyway, Instagram is alright; Data-consuming as shit, but alright. There are just people I think you shouldn’t follow though. For instance, there are those people you look at their ‘FOLLOWERS’ section and it displays 100 000. Then you look at their ‘FOLLOWING’ unit and you see something like 30. Or 0. These are people that don’t deserve you. These are people shitting on your face, all the while telling you, “Suck it, bitches!” By clicking that ‘Follow’ icon, you’re basically sliding your tong’ue up their ass cracks in between deep mumbles of “Mmmmh. Yummy” I know how that sounds, it was purely intentional.

Then there are those people whose profiles read such bitter things you begin to wonder what they’re so mad about, and why they want everybody to know about it. And this is mostly ladies. Bios like these:

” I’m the Baddest Bitch!!!!”
” I’m the girl your Mama warned you about!!! “
” He’s not your man, he’s our man!!! “
” IDGAF!!! “
” I’m allergic to Fakeness!!! “
” You dont like me, go die!!! “
” Your life is my TBT!!! “
” I’m the chiq he’ll come to your funeral with!!! “
” I don’t Fuck with broke niggas. Call me if you have a private Jet!!! “

Ladies, what is it yawa? Who woke you up from your Idris Elba reverie? Life is too short to be mad at imaginary people. But if you look something like Khaligraph Jones’ ‘Julius Yego’ video vixens then, by all means, your frustration is understandable. My deepest condolences.

There are also those very rich people; or celebrities. I usually don’t understand why someone would bother following personalities like Kim Kardashian, Beyoncé, Rihanna, Vera Sidika and This Is Ess.  I mean, these are people that post pictures of their escapades in yachts somewhere in Ibiza or hotel reservations in Dubai or wine-tasting sprees in France with glasses of 1985 Richebourg Grand Cru [don’t even pretend like you pronounced that right] in hand. Meanwhile you’re just seated there – somewhere in Eastlands – in the confines of your bedsitter, with a plate of ­Chapo-Mbosho staring at you right in the eye lids. Lanes, people. Lanes.

There’s just one thing I don’t understand though, why do celebrities think their young’uns need Instagram accounts too? I mean, look at Jamari JamJam, DJ Crème de la Crème’s kid. [And forget North West, Jamari JamJam is the most senseless name I ever heard. Shit sounds like some exotic toy for middle-aged women who can’t get laid]. Or Gweth ‘Geezy’, Rabbit’s baby girl. Or Tiffah, Diamond’s princess. Hell, even Janet Mbugua might just create an account for her little rascal too. [And I say “little rascal” with no hints of disrespect whatsoever.]

So you will check Jamari’s Instagram feed on a dim Friday morning and see a very adorable picture with captions like, “Dad just left for work, I miss him already”. Or on a sour Wednesday afternoon and see a picture of the rascal’s Mum with a caption of “#WCW #WCE I love you Mum”. Or probably on a warm Saturday evening, you’ll see a selfie of the rascal holding onto a box of Pizza captioned, “#WeekendTings  #SelfieManenos  #Food  #Hungry”.


Now we all know a boy that age couldn’t probably know how to navigate around the web yet. Which means, someone else is most definitely running that account; expectedly. But that’s not even the problem here. I’m more concerned with who the fuck is teaching their kids how to take a damn selfie? And who’s telling them it’s OKAY for a man [even a little one] to say shit like ‘Tings’ and ‘Manenos’?



To the Odieros reading this, kindly bear with me, there’s just no way I could ever say this in English – or proper Swahili – without losing its intended meaning: Sipendi kubebwa ufala!

[All Pictures courtesy http://www.buoart.com]




I see you there. On Facebook and Instagram; with your 5000 friends and 30 000 followers. Feeling like a couple billion bucks; feeling like a renewed Vera Sidika getting off the surgery table.

You come from one of these struggling towns in Nairobi, probably Githurai or Jericho; towns where you have to always be on the move, your shoes could be auctioned off while still at your feet, when you stand. Towns where – during migwatos – the mamis there don’t go ati sijui “Yeah, Baby. Just like that. Harder. Harder. Yeaah, Baby, I like it!” [And not that I’ve been watching blue movies of late or anything] Their screams and moans go within the lines of, “Iende buda. Kanuke kabisa. Brathe acha katambe. Kazidi!”


Your folks are struggling peasants living off their pension. They’re determined to see their only child through school, so they put together the little they could after possibly selling their favorite goat and now you’re a proud student at ‘The’ UoN. Or K.U [Has to be either of these two, blondes have established breeding grounds there.] They probably have no idea that you’ve been failing your exams, because you know a guy who edits your result slips for you, and it’s not like you care anyway.

Your good looks have made it easier for you to wade through life. You have a sweet face with gorgeous dimples; the kind you can’t say NO to. The kind corporates use to woo rich folk in their commercials. You have an outstanding hip that draws itself only too nicely above that glowing ass; An ass worthy of the name; An ass with its own zip code; An ass that commands a standing ovation from the Guinness Book of Records board. The kind of ass my friend Irvin Jalang’o says you run into and you get confused so bad  you start randomly apologizing for things that are not even inches within your control; Like “Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to refuse to pay the teachers.” Or “Jaber, will you ever forgive me? Martial missed an open goal against Arsenal.

big booty

So you’ve carved out a niche for yourself on social media. You post ‘Good morning world’ and ‘Off to bed, love you fam’ selfies; pouty duck-faced, and in your white pyjamas, looking like a warm glass of milk. You post pictures of your lunch plate, stuff a regular guy like me pronounces with two fingers holding onto the nose, with captions of ‘Who is here? #KempinskyTings’.

Ess Food

You post pictures of your escapades at Aqua Lounge, holding onto a half-full bottle of Jameson Whiskey with a trillion hashtags of “#NightLife #BoutThatLife #JamesonTings #HavingFun #LivingLarge #WeDemGalz #IloveMyLife #WorkHardPlayHarder #KeepHating #Outchea” By the way, if I may digress here kidogo, what is it with Jameson? Everyone takes pictures when drinking that shit, no one can ever just drink Jameson and keep it to themselves. There will always be pictorial evidence. Does it come with a separate flyer that says, “Boss, if they don’t see it, it never happened.” Or do the waiters just threaten to pull your nose if you don’t snap a selfie? I’m just asking, I have no idea. I don’t drink Jameson. Konyagi eeh? No? Okay.


You’re always up to date on what events are happening where during the weekend. You hang out with the ‘flyest’ celebrities. Gossip blogs have begun calling you Prezzo’s girlfriend; you’ve put him up for MCM twice and there’s a picture of him grabbing your butt at Blankets N’ Wine.

Your pictures garner a gazillion likes and a million more comments. Comments of ‘Gal u soo sweet, DM ur no.’ or probably something like ‘I looove you gal, pls follow back’. Men are always lurking around somewhere on your timeline, looking for something to quench their thirst. Or just something to fap to. Maybe that picture of the one time you were by the swimming pool in a revealing bikini, with your thighs looking all soft and your boobs almost falling off their bra. Or that other time you were all faded at a night out, slumped out on the couch, and your short dress just went a little further.

So you think you’re a bigwig now. That you’re influential. Famous, even.

It’s all starting to get to your head. All of a sudden you start addressing a new breed of people; people of an imaginary kind. People you feel are a nuisance in your life. People you feel don’t want to see you prosper. People you feel only want to see posting a picture of Jameson Whiskey. People like myself. People that scroll through your pictures without hitting that ‘Like’ icon twice. Haters, you call them.

Now, Jaber, stay with me here, Does everyone in your village know you? Has Larry Madowo ever invited you over for a cuppa Cappuccino and small banter on #theTrend? Do you play golf with Chris Kirubi? Does Wikipedia have your profile? Or, quite simply, have the homeboys over at Ghafla and Mpasho taken naked pictures and twerk videos of you for their socialite contests yet?

You have no ‘haters’. Relax, keep your eyebrows ‘on fleek’, go shopping, do your nails, gossip with your girls, drink Guarana, have fun, live life, be yourself.

Haters [if they even exist, I always think ‘Haters’ are just Critics who know their job but what do I know?] are for people who have really made it in life – Beyoncé has haters, Davido and Wizkid have haters, Octopizzo has haters.

You? You just have a bunch of people that know you for who you really are; a nobody – a worthless attention-thirsty nobody. Stay within those lanes.

Be blessed.



You will probably meet her at some nice laid back coffee lounge in town; perhaps Mocca, Gibsons or even Valley. You will walk in and notice her seated at the corner, by herself, fully engrossed into the pages of some corny book. A book you will soon discover will have been written by me – her good old man – and you will apologize for even thinking to yourself that she was insane for reading such a funny looking book with an ugly ass cover, and authored by someone with a rash name like Wuod Omondi Were, instead of something by Chimamanda.

A glass of half-empty Vanilla milkshake will be placed neatly on the table before her, and it will be so still you’d think it will be savoring the moment as well, taking care not to lose its balance by the sight of unfazed beauty a few inches off it.

She will look as dashing as ever. Her [natural] hair will look flawless and shiny in the mid-day sun like some lone diamond in a heap of coal; her perfectly-cut nails and soft hands will be holding onto that book so warmly you will wish it was your face instead; her shapely hips will be revealed distinguishably from her cute yellow knee-high polka dotted dress and her legs. Boy, Oh, Those long spotless legs. They will remind you of the woman in your dreams; the one for whom your heart yawns; the one for whom your emotions crumble whenever you picture yourself with her; the one to whom you dedicate a moment of silence every time you pray before bed; the one you have christened The One.

She will yawn and take a slight sip of her milkshake, giving you just enough time to notice her white perfectly aligned teeth. She will sweep you off your marks. Her smile will take your heartbeat from 0 to 100, real quick. And your heart will call out to her; begging, pleading, imploring. You will fall for her charm. You will fall for her calm nature You will fall for her guts. And your feet will, albeit unwillingly, drag you to her very presence.

Her bold personality will intimidate you. Probably because you will have been used to picking up girls from the club on Saturday nights; Inebriated cheap damsels with bottles of Black Ice in tow who fuck on the first date and actually think “You look familiar” is still a pick-up line, not intelligent sober-minded lasses like these who read books in coffee lounges. Well, that, and also the fact that you will come at her with some dumb line like;

Hi. How does it feel? To have fallen from heaven, I mean. Coz you’re an angel.


She will be unmoved by your obvious lack of game. But she will still let you sit and engage her anyway. You will ask for her contacts, but she will tell you she doesn’t give them to strangers; at least not on the first day of meeting. You will insist. So she will tell that if you really want them, you’ll arrive a tad early the following day [at around 4p.m] and find her seated at that very booth in that very lounge, before she begins reading her book. Because once she does, all her focus shifts from the rest of the universe. And with that, she will shoosh you away, smile welcomingly and say:

So, tomorrow then.


Then go back to reading her book. And you will go back to your table; confused, amazed. And for some strange reason, you will find her interesting. You will like her even more.

You will be seated at her booth the following day, by 3:30 p.m. Half an hour earlier.

She will stroll in a little past 4, her purse in arm and book in hand, and show surprise at your timing; or that you even came at all. You will have rehearsed the way you want the conversation to go this time round to avoid another embarrassing shun.

Because she will have been impressed by your punctuality, she will give you her attention this time round. And you will not disappoint. So she will give you her contacts. Then because you will not want to distract her from reading her old man’s book, you will excuse yourself. Say that you’ll call her or something. Just be nice.

She will dodge you for some time but after insisting for a while, she’ll agree to your request for dinner. On the condition that she settles her own bill [Levels, Kenyan ladies. Levels] and she goes straight home afterwards. Of course you’ll agree, she will be a tough one to convince to change her mind, that one. [She will get that from her Mama, probably. It’s not a trait of mine, I’m easily swayed. Like I’m supposed to be studying after this but try calling me for a glass of Whiskey. Heheh.]

Fast forward to six or so months later and you will be a couple; professing your profound love for each other at every instant; calling and texting each other every second of the day. That is when she will deem it fit to introduce you to me. So she will call me that Saturday night and tell me not to go drinking with the men, that she’ll be bringing someone special home to dinner. And she will call her Mama and beg her to cook something nice, one of her specials.

Now, Kiddo, this is where my letter to you actually begins. Forget all that mindless imagination of mine.

I want you to know this about me;

I will be a mean old man. Mostly seeing as I’ll have been forced to cancel a date with Whiskey and the chaps just to meet your lousy ass, but also because I will want to oversee the best for my princess.

So I will be tough on you. I will question everything in your life; practically everything. You will walk through my door and I’ll be on your neck in an instant. Like;

 “Why are you stuffing yourself in a Sir Henry suit at 9 p.m. in the night, Son? Is it meant to brag or something? Perhaps show me that you’re perfectly capable of buying anything for my daughter? Or do you just think your shit smells of Blackberry and the rest of us here wearing t-shirts and Chino pants are losers?”

At the table I will bug you about your eating habits and ask you tales from your childhood.

Why are you eating Ugali using a spoon and fork? Is that how you grew up? Didn’t your Mama tell you to do as the Romans when you went to Rome? Where do you come from exactly? How are your parents? Does your old man love Hennessy too? And your Mama, does she love those lousy soaps too? Does she fight with your old man for the remote when he wants to watch football?  What was it you said you do again? How much do you earn? Do you have a Blue Subaru?


Then I will lead you outside the house for some slight Man-talk. And I will hassle you about you music preference [Do you listen to HipHop or Riddim? Do you like Rabbit?]; I will hassle you about where you took my daughter for the first date; I will hassle you about how far you’ll have gone with her as far as romance will be concerned [If you will have deflowered her by then, then it may be important for you to know at this point that I’ll have a gun neatly stashed somewhere in my person at all times]; I will hassle you about your feelings for my daughter and how deeply you really care about her; I will ask you to give me just one concrete reason why you think you’ll be the right one for my daughter. And I know you’ll probably say something stupid like;

Because I love you daughter, Sir. That’s why.


And I will laugh louder than the demons in Naija films. And I will grab you by the shoulder, dig my nails into them deep till I feel them emerging from the opposite side and whisper in your ears;

Kid, I don’t like you; probably never will. But if she says you’re the one for her then I won’t argue with that. Just one thing, if you ever do anything that will make her cry or even imply it, if you ever put her in harm’s way, if I ever see her tears flow because of you, and by Jove if you ever break her heart. Son, I’ll break your teeth. All of them.


You’ll probably smile, thinking I’ll just be pulling your legs. But the stern expression planted on my face will tell you otherwise. And you will get the point loud and clear. Then I’ll let go of my hold on your shoulder, put on my trademark cocky smirk, tap you softly on the back and say;

One more thing. For Fathers’ Day I want a bottle of Famous Grouse Whiskey inscribed ‘World’s Best Father-In-Law’. Aye?




I was at the newly opened Garden City Mall the other day to meet a cousin of mine who’d just jetted back in from Korea [South, I think]. We even bumped into Comedian YY there; he wore a blue blazer and was in the company of some damsel whose looks and physique I don’t really have all the words to describe at the moment. I’ll get back to you on that.

Anyhu, and since I was meeting the old chap at Nakumatt, I figured why not look around for things I’d buy when writing finally starts to pay while at it.

So I walked in and was still just hovering around when I noticed this really odd queer-looking guy staring right at me, without as much as a blink. At first I just ignored him and moved on, maybe he was only admiring my adorable T-Shirt. Then I noticed he was walking towards me and I hurried on to the nearest security guard [I’ve been robbed a couple or so times before in the most public of places so pardon my paranoia if you find it nauseating], stood there and looked back. He was still coming. I had assumed he was a thief, or a mugger. But if he thought he was going to raid me right next to this hefty broad-shouldered security guard then he had some heavy balls, I’d give him that. So he reached where I was, stretched out his right hand at me for a hand-shake and I can almost swear the conversation that ensued went within the following lines;

Him: Hello…

Me: Hello Sir.

Him: I saw you walk in…

Me: [Interrupting him] Yes, I noticed. [I mean, dude, you were staring at me like I stare at fried chicken]

Him: …Would you, by any chance, happen to be Ian Duncan?

Me: [Curious] That depends. If it has anything to do with Safari Rallies then you have the wrong guy.

Him: Hahah, No. Not at all. My name’s Jim. What did lawyers do to you man?

Me: [Confused] I’m Sorry?

Him: You’re the Blogger who did that article on lawyers, right? I read your blog, awesome piece.

Me: Oh, That…Yeah. I wrote that piece. [Still Shaken Kidogo] How’d you recognize me anyway?

 Him: You attached your Instagram handle to the article, I just recognized you from your pics.

Me: Uhmmm…Did I really now? [Unsure of whether I should be flattered that I just met possibly the hugest fan or creeped out that I just met my stalker]



But that’s a story for another day; you don’t really need to know the rest of the conversation anyway.

See, I have never met anyone out in the streets before who recognized me from the rants I post here. The furthest I’ve ever gotten is my classmate and good chum Peter Maina who keeps yelling “Mr. Blogger” whenever we run into each other during lectures or drinking sprees. Good man though. So, naturally, I was elated. You should have seen me smile to myself as we walked out of the mall with my cousin and his Korean friend. I felt famous. I felt appreciated. I felt like I deserved the Pulitzer, for no particular reason at all.

But here’s the catch, guys need to know there actually is a difference – no matter how slim – between being a Blogger and being a Writer; at least to me. Everyone is a Blogger these days, all you need is a free WordPress platform like this one here to put out your nonsense and you can plaster that tag across your forehead for all I care.

Writing, on the other hand, is different and more complex than it may seem to Layman eyes. It requires creativity, deep thought and interaction with people. You don’t know the struggle till you’ve sat behind your desk for a whole day and managed to fork out only three lines. Writing is difficult my friends.

If you called me ‘Blogger’ back when I started this Blog, I’d probably have bought you a beer or taken you to SJ for a shot. But that label has lost meaning these days. It has become more like modelling; overcrowded, fusty and irrevocably mundane. There are a growing fleet of folk coming up that seem only interested in putting the literature fraternity to shame. And I have no interests whatsoever in being grouped among such gobbledygook.

Now, – Jim and co. – let me explain to you just why I’ll have your guts for garters if you ever call me ‘Blogger’ again.

Bloggers are people who do nothing with their time but sit online all day looking for shitty pieces of gossip that will get tong’ues wagging, with the main aim for diverting traffic to their blogs/sites. They are people who go around scouring around social media looking for buzz on who’s got the biggest butt, who dumped who and who fucked who. They’re people who use words like ‘ratchet’ and ‘socialite’ a gazillion times in their less than 300-word pieces. They’re people who write screaming demeaning headlines like “Lo and Behold! Brenda Wairimu spotted stroking her pussy in public! Shocking! Click to see pictures!”; stories that should you open, you’ll only find out that the poor lass was merely clutching onto her pet cat. You get my drift?

Bloggers are cheap wannabe Writers with no self-esteem whatsoever. Bloggers are people like Philip Etemesi, Chimwani Obiajulu Khasiani [or Uncle Chim], Cabu Gah and Njoki Chege. Bloggers are people behind sites like GhaflaKenya!, Mpasho, Niaje, Nairobi Wire, Mwalii and Daily Post.

Writers, on the other hand, are people who live for words; People who practically eat and breathe the beauty of stories; People who can turn the most embarrassing or sad moments into a tale worth those three or four minutes of your time; People who write because it gives them some sort of healing when burdens become too heavy and there’s nowhere else to turn to; People who write because it provides them with a safe haven; People who write because they’re addicted to the pen and the splendor stories ooze.

Have you ever read Dear Doris? Like the story about when he almost fell into the pit latrine as a toddler; silly story yet so beautifully and amusingly penned even the words ‘maggot’ and ‘defecate’ for once sounded like something Luhyas take for dinner. Or Magunga Williams and the tales of how his old man’s kidneys gave up on him on his birthday; stories you read with tears flowing down your flabby cheeks and a wide gawp of awe spread across your face.

These are writers. People like Jackson Biko, Ted Malanda, Oyunga Pala, Mark Maish, Sarah Lebu, Abigail Arunga, Silas Nyanchwani, Arnold Austin, Jude Mutuma, Aleya Kassam, Shadrack The Rackster and this one lady who pens at Worded Veil [her name evades me. Anyone?]

People tell me I’m too harsh on women, but that’s because none of the ones I’ve met and interacted with have given me anything nice to write home about yet. [Okay, maybe three or four]. The piece I did about Kenyan ladies being the problem and not the men was inspired by a few ladies I’ve had in my life over the past few years. One lady I dated fucked some artist friend of mine; Another told me we should part ways because she’d met another guy who had wheels [I’m really avoiding to call that thing a car because it emitted the sound of a broken down windmill and looked something like what Hitler drove to war. And with that said, I realize I sound like a jilted lover but really, I’m doing just fine]. The one about ladies shaving their privates was courtesy of a friend of mine’s true experience. See, I don’t make this shit up. I don’t just wake up in the morning, grab my laptop and say “Ladies, you gon’ learn today” I write what I see, what I go through and I write about the stories I come across in my daily exploits.

Now I don’t know what all those other folk I mentioned up there feel about being categorized as Bloggers or Writers; that’s their own cross. Everyone has their own opinions and beliefs; whatever knocks your hustle. As for the Son of Were, don’t ever call me a Blogger or God so help me I will carve out your eyes from their sockets with a blunt butcher knife.

Yes, That’s a threat!