HIGHLIGHTS 2016

1

 

There’s just five of us at the bar.

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

“Aha. Me too. What are the odds?”

 

“Ati?”

 

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

 

“Thanks.”

 

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

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Do you like the music here?”

 

“It’s not bad.”

 

“But it could be better, right?”

 

“I guess.”

 

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

 

“No. I’m fine.”

 

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

 

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

 

*Also startled* “Excuse me?”

 

Unanidinya ama haunidinyi? Chit chat baadaye.”

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

Losing Mzee

 

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

 

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

 

Forever in our hearts Mzee.

 

Nominations And Features

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

 

Awards

 

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

 

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

 

 

Graduations

 

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

 

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

 

Guys, go kick ass out there.

 

 

Tony Mochama

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Lost Friendships And Relationships

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

Gigs

 

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

 

 

Mentions

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

More Mentions

 

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

 

Unafanya?

 

Hakuna. Nimelala tu.

 

Aya. Toka kwa nyumba.

 

Say what?

 

Toka kwa nyumba.

 

 

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

 

 

Bless you too, Sir. To more debauchery.

 

 

Even More Mentions

 

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

 

 

And, as always, You Guys

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

HER PLACE

3

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

“Uhmmm, Excuse me?”

 

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

 

“Are you serious right now?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“What? Why wasn’t I invited to that?”

 

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

 

“Complaints? What complaints? What bloody complaints?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You wish.”

 

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

 

“Oh, grow a pair.”

 

“Already did. Wanna see those too?”

 

“You’re disgusting you guy.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Why? Because he sees something in me?”

 

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

 

“I hate you, Ian.”

 

“Oh, I hate me too.”

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

“I’m Ian. Can I buy you a drink?”

 

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

 

“Oh, you think I’m cute?”

 

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


“But you just called me cutie pie?”

 

“Who says that necessarily means cute?”

 

“The Urban Dictionary.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

 

“So does the government.”

 

“What’d the government do now?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Like, what, crappy pick-up lines?”

 

“Maybe. That could be a start.”

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

“Excuse me?”

 

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

 

“You’re scared of roaches?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Well, you should.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“I have a guy.”

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh. Can’t that wait till morning?”

 

“No, I want you to call him now.”

 

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

 

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

 

“Okay, Shoot.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You’re an asshole.”

 

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

 

“Whatever. Get out.”

 

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

LUPUS: A STORY ON RESILIENCE

stock-photo-old-sick-lady-lying-in-hospital-bed-114586114

 

 

As Written By Austine Arnold

 

Let me tell you something you may not know.

 

 

One day, your body may decide to turn against you. On a fine crisp morning like today’s, after several years of being relatively healthy, your immune system may wake up in a bad mood and start fighting your very healthy organs and tissues.

 

 

You will have no clue what will be going on but when you visit Dr. Samuel Juma at Doctors Plaza, he will tell you your kidneys are failing, or your lungs barely functioning. That’s the morning your life will take a swerve: a completely new turn. That morning most of your life will crawl out through the ventilation of the diagnosis room into the sordid outside air.

 

 

Dr. Juma will tell you about a condition called Lupus. A condition you had no clue even existed. A condition that cannot be treated, only managed.

 

 

More of your life will escape through your legs into the ground, as if your body is an earthing device.

 

 

Lupus is a chronic, autoimmune condition where the body’s immune system gets manic and begins to attack healthy tissues and organs in the body. Autoimmune here means your body cannot tell the difference between foreign invaders such as viruses and your body’s healthy tissues and therefore creates antibodies that attack and destroy the healthy body tissues. Imagine how sad that is!

 

 

It is a disease of flares and remissions. It therefore normally relapses in the form of flare-ups and remits at other times and the patient is well. It also exhibits itself differently to different people but Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE) generally results in inflammatory reactions in most patients.  Your body therefore swells and bulges. There is accumulation of fluids in your face, stomach, legs and most of the body parts. And the accumulation saps all the energy away from your body.

 

 

The thing about a condition with flare-ups and remissions is that it destroys your cycle of life. One day you could be hearty, happy and content, and the next you are strained by excruciating pain. It takes away most from your social life and career. Even when you are well, you never know when it will relapse into flares again. You therefore are constantly oscillating between moments of being well and moments you wish death on yourself. Between being bed-ridden at hospital and being at home.

 

 

Autoimmune disorders exhibit themselves in different ways, and are constantly misdiagnosed. Most Lupus patients normally do not realize their condition at early stages due to misdiagnosis. Most doctors only realize it could be Lupus in the late stages. It’s a story of resilience in pain.

 

 

When my friend Ken confided in me and told me the story of his sister who had been battling Lupus, it was intense to say the least. I, like you, had no clue what Lupus was. And I had to sit there as he explained five grueling years the family has withstood. He told me of the toll it took on the family and how the family has now decided to take Joyce to India, to see what that would mean for her. He told me of a woman who for those five years has been smiling like life has the most meaning to her. A woman who does not take every waking day for granted like most of us do. That’s how as a writer a story gets thrust onto your palms. I accepted to tell her story.

 

 

True to what Ken said, the first time I met Joyce she was smiling. A smile leaves a great first impression on all of us, one that is never easy to erase from our minds. She was seated on the couch watching The Surgery Ship on TLC. At first glance, she was any normal person. Her inflammations were not as pronounced other than on her legs which were neatly covered. I had expected I would be talking to someone by her bed side (which gave me chills). So for a while we watched The Surgery Ship together. The Surgery Ship is a show where a group of top doctors are going round the world performing complex surgeries on a ship.  This episode is on this Nigerian boy who has a tumor that has covered his left eye and bulges from the forehead. The thing about the show is that everything is done on camera. So you watch how the surgery is done. For someone who ducked Medical School because of being vain, I closed my eyes and avoided the ‘unpleasant’ sections of the surgery. She told me she watches the show whenever she can. I filled for myself it’s probably because it gives her the conviction that there are people in the world who suffer far worse, and that she isn’t alone.

 

 

When we settled for a chat, it was curious how she lit up every time like the pain she was undergoing was nothing. For a vain man again, every time she mentioned God (which was every time), she struck some chords in me. She was jovial, but you could see the pain by the paleness of her skin. It was a smooth pale, one that recounted its own tale of survival. Her hair too was short and soft, the kind that take time to grow out of their roots. But the thing I noticed more about her were how her eyes still had an unbowed look, that whatever she had gone through, she was still ready to face every day unbowed, unbent, unbroken.

 

 

She recounted her five-year journey with Lupus and overwhelming moments came to me in gushes. How she had at first been misdiagnosed with Rheumatism until later on when the Lupus persisted. How for five years she had oscillated between hospital and home, and the hospital was more home than home itself. Her struggle with immune-suppressants such as Mofetil that meant more life to her every other time as they were her survival. Her story on how she could be in remission and the next second the flares start that she could not even breathe. Her story on how her inflammations were so severe and how at one point she had an accumulation on her stomach that people always asked her if she were pregnant.  How from last year September till January she had lived with a pipe on her sides. Hers was a story, one she told me without letting back, and without shedding a tear. I sat there wondering how crushed I would be if that was me. How teary I would be.

 

 

When I asked her what made her wake up each morning and want to go on living, she was curt, ‘God and Family’. She was indebted to God, and that she repeated with each passing statement she made. But she glorified her family too, how they have been there for her every single time she relapsed. Theirs is a tight-knit family. Her condition has brought them more together, and its lent credence to that old saying, when the chips are down, its family you rely on. She may have lost contact with her friends, but family has been immeasurably supportive.

 

 

She feels bad for having lost her social life, and especially her career. She told me if she got well the first thing she will do is get back to job. She misses it, and yearns to go through the thrill of it once more. I asked her the one lesson her five-year journey with Lupus has taught her and she told me, ’Hope. The one thing you must never lose’.  One of her friends died last year with the same condition, but she believes God has not brought her this far just so she could reach this far.

 

 

This article is about a condition a majority of us remain ignorant about. A condition we erroneously assume could be Cancer or HIV/AIDS. A condition our government and health institutions do little to create awareness about, and has relegated that job to non-profit organizations such as The Lupus Foundation of Kenya and The Kidney and Lupus Society Kenya. A big shout out to the work they are doing. This is about a condition that ail over 5 million people around the world, and that kill thousands yearly. This is about a condition we need to know about and we have to create awareness that it can be managed. That one can live life with Lupus. A fulfilling life.

 

 

This article is also about a story on resilience. A story on how one woman has weathered five years with Lupus and knows God has even better plans for her life. A woman who refuses to give up on life just yet: who smiles knowing tomorrow will be a better day. This article is about Joyce and the people who battle Lupus everyday hoping to one day win the fight. You will. That kid with a tumor on her face in The Surgery Ship may never have believed his better days were ahead, now he basks in the glory.

 

 

This article is about hope: the one thing you must never lose.

 

 

(PS: Joyce will be heading for medication in India. If, out of the abundance of the heart, you would wish to help, please contact Nancy  at 0720 393 942).

 

 

Photo: Courtesy

OF RANDOM RANTS AND NEW BORN BABIES WITH INSTAGRAM ACCOUNTS

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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?

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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]

DEAR SOCIAL MEDIA PRINCESS, WHAT ‘HATERS’ ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?

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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.

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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.

jAMEY jOE

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.

TO THE MAN WHO MAY ONE DAY DATE MY DAUGHTER

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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’M A WRITER, NOT A BLOGGER!

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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!

OH DEAR, TRIM THAT BUSH!

blackCoupleHgging

 

You’re somewhat inebriated – and at your doorstep – with your right hand fumbling in your pockets for your keys while the other neatly wrapped round the waist, and a little bit onto the rear, of the dolly belle in whose company you’ve been engrossed for the better part of the night. You don’t know her; you probably don’t even remember her name by now. But she seems like a nice girl – I mean, she doesn’t look like the type you’d bang and then wake up the next morning only to find her missing and your T.V set gone. But, in any case, you don’t even have a T.V set [or anything worth making away with for that matter] so what the hell. Plus she has a nice ass. An ass so fine it could make an atheist believe in the mysterious ways of the Mighty Creator. An ass so fine it could make the gay community reconsider their stand.

You put the keys into the key-hole, turn it a little onto the right to open and swing the door ajar; ushering in your companion with the naughtiest of grins. You want to mumble “Mi casa es su casa” but the words just won’t come out. Not that you feel like talking anyway, you say a lot of dumb shit when you’ve had one too many. So you hold her softly by the arm, marshal her in and shut the door behind you.

Then you turn facing her, and without even switching the lights back on, pull her towards you with the force of a magnet drawn to another and lock your lips into hers in a warm long-lasting Fifty-Shades-Of-Grey-like kiss. You move your itchy hands up her body; fondling her thighs, bottom, hips, back and now steady breasts in the process. You run your tongue up and down her neck – kissing it furiously – as she grabs you tightly on the back, breathing heavily down your neck, and her sharp finger nails dig deeper into your skin. But you don’t feel any pain. If anything, the thrill only turns you on.

You take off her blouse and undo her bra gently like it’s some sort of bomb that will blow up at the slightest wrong touch. You stare at her boobs for a second – with your eyes wide open like some kindergarten kid who just saw candy for the first time – before digging into them with your whole face. You have never seen breasts so round – so sizable; so spotless; so perfect – before. You graze over them; licking and nudging her nipples in the most seductive way possible. Her breathing increases and she rips off your t-shirt, and dips her right hand inside your pants; in search of the ‘man’ with the iron fist. And when she finds ‘him’, you couldn’t be any more at peace your whole life. The pleasure is infinite; the tingle is incomparable. You don’t want her to stop.

You pull up her short skirt, revealing the fairly whitish knickers underneath those shapely thighs. You remove these too – with sharp precision and immense lust – sliding them down her long randy legs. You notice she’s struggling with your belt so you help her, and within a few minutes, you’re both naked and staring at each other in longing silence. You lift her up – your hands on her now warm ass – and toss her onto the bed. This is a promising night, you tell yourself.

You remember some piece of advice a friend of yours once told you, advice that is just about to bring to a grinding halt an almost perfect night. It rings in your head.

Son, if you ever go down on a woman, rest assured, she’ll come back begging for more”.

You definitely want this one coming back. You want her asking for your number [instead of the other way round] when she leaves the next morning. You want her texting you ten minutes after she leaves saying how much she misses your soft lips between her thighs. So you heed to that albeit gross crappy piece of advice with all that you got.

You gently tease her nipples with your tongue, moving down to her tummy and then her navel –making camp there in anticipation and to get her ‘horned’ up for the next station. Then, sweetly and provocatively, you move your tongue down to her genitalia.

Your tongue stumbles upon something; something furry. Hair. Pubic Hair. It’s just a little at first so you ignore it and move on. Then more hair. And even more hair. You begin to wonder if you really stuck your tongue in the right place; where it belonged. Down there feels more like Karura Forest than the serene point of desire mankind has for ages presumed it to be. It feels like you just bumped into some orchestra conduction for stray cats down low.

Your tongue feels a tad bit shaggy and prickly by now. Like you just stuck it into a beehive; Like you just swallowed the chin of Anyang’ Nyong’o. You couldn’t find what you were looking for; it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Or chasing an Asian man through China town [is it just me or do all these Asian folk look the same? With their tiny eyes and baby- faces and soft creasy hair]

Okay, that’s enough graphic display for one article.

Understand this ladies, a man’s pubic hair is his pride; his symbol of man-hood. We can fondle with it when we’re bored and let it grow ten-fold but, take this to the bank, it will still emit the saccharine whiff of a Chris Adams perfume if you go down there. If your region is still smooth, don’t worry kiddo. Just don’t watch any Angelina Jolie movie either. Yet.

But a woman’s pubic hair is just her destruction. You’re an automatic turn off if I touch your vajayjay and it feels like Amin Dada dumped mutilated bodies from Uganda down there; or World War freaking II was fought down there and all manner of weaponry discarded.

Female genitalia covered with hair feels like a training camp for freedom fighters with their long dreads et al and looks like some slack-jawed feckless pack of bozos wanked themselves off on it. It’s disgusting, in the very least.

Trim a little, from time to time. Check the garden every now and then. Make sure the weeds do not overstay their welcome.

Keep your privates neat and smooth at all times ladies. We want women who can keep themselves clean; especially down there; especially if you have a man who loves his occasional trips down town. Don’t just sing along to Kelly Rowland’s “I love my kisses down low” when you know it’s a freaking hell-bound train down there. Be wise.

So if you know you have a bush and your boyfriend is coming over this weekend, run to your nearest waxing boutique [is that what they’re called?] real quick. Your relationship depends on it, take that from me.

As T.I raps in ‘No Mediocre’, “Girl I should see nothing but p***y when I look down there”.

 

And that’s free advice. Take it or leave it.

WHEN I’M GONE…

funeral

Like love and hate, there exists an unusually thin line between life and death. You could be breathing one moment and kicking it with your boys at Seven’s Lounge, then they could be mourning you the next. Death is an evil force; one that strikes like thunder – without fear or favor. It steals your loved ones away from you without as much as a warning. It’s like that neighbor I used to have at my previous flats that would just barge into my cave without even knocking, grab a packet of condoms from my bedroom drawers and just walk out. No Hi’s; No Bye’s.

Over these past years of my miserable existence, I’ve stood by and watched my best friend lose his step-pop and a classmate of mine lose his old man. I’ve watched buddies of mine and close associates lose their colleagues. And I’ve watched my country lose great leaders and her future charges. And I have shed a tear in the shower each time, not because I knew them personally, but because it got me thinking that that could have been me; Or my closest allies; Or my good old man; Or my no-nonsense adorable mother; Or even my siblings. [God forbid].

Because the truth of the matter is, death changes you. It has this uncanny way of bringing out a side in those related to the deceased that not even they would have seen coming miles away in their worst nightmares.

These happenings, albeit unfortunate, have opened my eyes to the prospect that I could kick that sadistic bucket today without having lived life to the fullest and achieved any of my long term goals. I do not just want to be remembered as the loser whose only achievement in life was bashing law students and getting 4000+ views on his blog post in the first hour of posting [I had to say that]. Or he who spent the night of his buddy’s birthday behind bars.

I deceive you not, I dread the day my heart will finally cave in and my bodily functions will paralyze; paving way for the untimely. But death is inevitable. And regardless of how much it gives me the creeps to even think about, it is destined to one day come knocking on my door. I know I may not be ready even then, but my only wish is it finds me a satisfied man; having lived a full life. And that that door will be made of gold, a man’s gotta dream, right?

But just in case I lay my head on the pillow after banging this piece, to a glorious beautiful slumber from which never to wake, here are a few pointers someone should tell my old fogeys for me;

No woman shall claim me. This had to be the first due to very obvious reasons. Look around you. Everyone is either married to someone and banging another or just banging someone but not putting a ring on it.

If I should breathe my last this instant, I die a single happy mofo [Well, not exactly happy but…don’t kill my vibe]. So no higgledy-piggledy bimbo in mismatched heels and Avatar-ish make-up with hell-bound weaves and clads that look like they were dragged out of a vulture’s beak should show up at my funeral claiming to have been my swiry poraro. The Omondi’s are already struggling as it is, they don’t need another mouth to feed in my absence. Jaber, God help me, I shall rise from that grave and smack your burgeoned nose to the tiniest bits.

Take my body to Vegas. I’ve heard all sorts of tales from Las Vegas; crazy tales. I know everyone has. Vegas is like the sin-city of our universe. I’ve even named my man cave after it, because just like Vegas, whatever happens here stays here. Don’t ask me questions which beg obvious answers.

I want to see MGM Grand, where  the biggest fight of the century happened this morning, [I’m still of the opinion that Manny Pacquiao beat  Floyd ‘Money Mayweather a good one though. I just said ‘beat’, not that May didn’t deserve the win. Sit down, Roy] and possibly dine where Jay Z sat. Just so to have a feel of what having a cool $550 million in the bank and a woman of everyone’s dreams feels like.

I want to go to those flashy Casinos and gamble my life earnings away. I also want to partake of a little Vegas delicacies. [Okay, that’s my code word for strip clubs, women and booze. Are you still there, Dad? No? Okay.]

As I bang this down, I’m still saving and planning for that trip with bated breath. I have to go to Vegas someday. If not in body and soul, then at least let my corpse get there.

Omondi Were, you might have to grab a loan for this one, Sir.

Tell my story. The things I’ve had to go through in this city and the secrets I keep would scare Mugabe out of power.

 

No one wants to be associated with mediocrity, but greatness. Even in death; especially in death. We all want to leave legacies. We want our statues erected somewhere beside Tom Mboya’s and worshipped too; even if just by a bunch of uncouth stone-hurling loud mouths. I want fellow bloggers to put me in their list of Fallen Heroes and write moving tributes about me. If I go before Magunga Williams, I want him to do me the honors [although I know he’s still pissed off about that article on lawyers]. Should the goon succumb before me, then Ian ‘Sketch’ Arunga of the ‘Dear Doris’ fame would you be so kind? Just avoid the typos on this one Baba, you don’t want my old man reading ‘ass’ where you meant ‘ash’, aye? Kamano!

Oh, and tough luck on the 2015 BAKE Awards guys. Next time!

Make my dreams a reality. This one’s for you big brother, and my partner in hustle, Austin Arnold. Sir, make Edgy Media and Entertainment a reality. Build the empire; see it thrive with the last drop of your blood. If I should die now, this would be my only regret. You’re the only other person who trusts in it besides me. You’re the only other person crazy enough to believe that we can make a million bob in just one day; Legal money. Even Chacha [guys, you remember Chacha, right?] still says it’s just a pipe-dream; Theo and Ogenya merely laughed it off.

Show them what a Son Of Were is made of. And ensure the old fogeys back home never have to work another second in their remaining lives. I trust in you.

No fundraising/contributions in my honor and, for the love of God, serve no food at my funeral. I don’t consider myself mean, just a little conservative. I want a small send-off, attended only by friends, relatives and family. No bulls, hens or goats with horns long enough to be used as hunting spears shall be slaughtered at my funeral. I don’t want strangers crossing hills and borders to just come, not to attend my burial, but to treat themselves to the variety of delicacies that has become the norm in most memorials today.

This should also help cut down on any unnecessary expenses.

Besides, it’s a funeral. If you wanted free food you should’ve attended a damn Indian wedding.

Less wailing. This one’s for you, Mum. Turn it down a notch, aye? [*British accent here*]

And, on a final note, someone Get Rabbit Kaka Sungura (King Kaka) to perform at my funeral. I’ve listened to this bozo’s music ever since he got into the industry. Ninja just speaks to me, his hustle inspires me. You compare his first ever video with the latest, and the difference there, he says, is all hard work and determination. Go out there and be whatever you want to be.

I’m bumping to his latest album [Legend of Kaka] as I bang down this piece. I want Promised Land to be played while my casket is lowered to whatever hole my will have been dug for me to serve as my final resting place.

Oh, and did I say I attended his daughter’s birthday party the other weekend? Gorgeous kid, she just turned a measly year old yet Obinna of ‘Offside’ show was already trying to hook her up with his son. Beautiful life, Gweth. And stay away from Obinna’s son, the apple doesn’t fall so far from the tree. Heheh

Cheers!

OF LAW STUDENTS AND THEIR MISLED EGO

Harve Spectert

 

Have you noticed how law scholars walk into a room and suddenly it’s like everything’s about them and nothing else? How they strut the floors with one hand in their sore pockets and the other swinging freely beside them like abandoned windmills. How they keep their heads held toweringly high like ostriches got nothing on them. As if they were the most intelligent of beings this side of the equator. Like they were molded with Gold carats sticking up their ass.

 

Let’s call him Harry. Clad in his grey three-thousand-shilling Eastleigh suit possibly fitted to preference by some small time tailor in the heart of town, which you can clearly tell was a miserably soiled attempt at a Harvey Specter look, with just a tiny bit of finesse to make him stand out from a mediocre crowd. You’d be forgiven for thinking he has barely two pairs, those suits. His shoes look more like spears than they do footwear. They are those old school sharp shooters that would make you file for anal rape if you were kicked in the butt with them. They make Katt Williams look like a fashion icon.

 

Harry has a huge gadget he walks around with, in the name of a phone. It’s always in plain sight, never hidden, as if to make sure it’s seen by anyone who cares [which is basically everyone]. It will be in some flip cover that he can totally spread wide across your face, just in case you missed it the first time. He will unlock it and swipe on the screen [at nothing in particular] like he’s closing the biggest deal of his life. When it finally manages to ring, the ringtone will probably go something like Salute Me by Octopizzo or Chamillionaire’s “They see me rolling/ They hating”. These chaps don’t know the first thing about good music. They will bump to anything that glorifies themselves, and downgrades others. They live in some kind of twisted fantasy where they are gods, and everyone else is below them. Just staring up at their butt-cracks.

 

A normal human being should make a woman feel like the Queen on the first date. And tell her all those things Sauti Sol brainwash our ladies with. How wamekaliwa chapatti and all that other bunkum Romeo whispers to Juliet’s ear in Shakespearean productions.

 

But Law students will approach a lady and make it sound like she will have done herself a huge favor by falling for his banal charms. Take Harry for instance, his introduction is always in just half a dozen crisp clean words;

 

“Harry. Law. THE University Of Nairobi!”

 

After that he always expects the mami to follow him back to his crib and bang his eyes out of their sockets like they been married ten years.

 

I'm Specter

 

Notice how he says “Law”, like it was all too obvious. Like those of us pursuing other interests are just but wasting our precious seconds and our old folks’ dough in campus. We might as well drop out now and start polishing those stupid shoes for a living.

 

“THE” University Of Nairobi. Like it’s the Biblical Promised Land. Soaked to the skin in bread, milk and butter for all and sundry. Like it’s a kingdom of its own down there. Made up of kings and queens, and their subjects. Son, some of us trim our hair at barbershops that charge 300 bob on the hour. And we don’t even receive HELB. Terwa uru moss!

 

And they always think they know everything about politics and the country at large. Any opposing argument is always met with a swift, “I’m a Lawyer kiddo. I know.”

 

31347745

 

Those arrogant ducks.

 

Nothing makes me sicker [besides Octo’s insistence on rapping] than being caught up in the middle of a conversation between two or more law students. The way these chaps address their colleagues; Learned friends. Shit makes one sound like the earth rotates around his nose and the sun sets on his chin. They will always find a way to infuse some law-related terms somewhere within the dialogue, even when it’s totally unnecessary. Especially when it’s totally unnecessary. Just to make you look like a complete fool. That ‘Amicus Curiae’ mumbo-jumbo. Lingua has always striked me as something that was invented by some drunk man taking a dump behind a liquor den in Bar Mathonye. Probably an Omondi. Because am an Omondi. And I could write a whole dictionary of new words when under the influence.

 

Look here law students, calm your tits. You are not gods. Your shit does not stink of strawberry and your walking styles are not half as smooth as Denzel Washington’s. You will never be Harvey Specter. And Vioja Mahakamani is as real as the courtroom will ever get for you. Let Hollywood not fool you. So get a hang of that cocky shmuck y’all always put on your faces and be real with yourself for just a second. You do not rule these streets.

 

Know People.

 

P.S: This was nothing personal.