Written By Eric Winston



I went to both Primary School and High School with Eric Winston. In Primary, he always came First; brilliant chap. In High School, he was the football team Goalkeeper. Hehe.



Considers himself some sort of a Smart Ass, his WhatsApp status reads, “I use Sarcasm because it’s illegal to beat up people.”



Ladies and Gentlemen, ERIC WINSTON.



Remember when some nice-looking lady with a crooked behind sat pretty in office while her employees were buying dildos with your taxes? It’s sad that there are rumours she wants to be a Governor now, because I would run to the remotest cave there is this side of the Equator and hide there for the rest of my life. I’m not sure which one, between being a Ministerial head and holding a Gubernatorial post, has lighter duties. But if you can’t stop well educated people from blatantly including sex toys in a public budget, I don’t really think you can lead thousands of illiterate former city council askaris who were mostly employed on who-do-you-know basis and were absorbed into their new posts because getting rid of them was more difficult.



We have a society full of people who need help, serious help, but don’t even realize that they do. We’ve had future leaders die from plain drug overdoses, and their deaths blamed on unclear circumstances. Harambee Stars have, on more than one occasion, been sabotaged by sex addicts who sneak out of the team camp for random lungula on the eve of a game. And have you heard of that Shabana FC fan who thinks he is the ONLY ONE fit to run Kenyan football? Such fuckery!



But forget these ones – they are serious cases that can only be helped by prayers from The Mighty Prophet of The Lord, even though he himself needs help (before he creates the next ISIS from the people he’s brainwashing, just my two cents).



There are minor offenders, people whose actions don’t have much influence in the society. People whose scale of impact and decisions they make are negligible. But they need help all the same, before they self-destruct, because it’s just annoyingly tiring to be around them sometimes.



Serial Chatters


These are those folk who are always typing into their phones you would think they are data entry clerks or some shit. Ask them to do something, and they will be on their phones two minutes into the task. It will take them 90 bloody working days to complete a 30-minute task. They spend 99.99% of their waking hours replying to a chat. This – ladies – is not to say you should reply to a text 3 days later, but you should distinguish between your private life and social life. Have time for people you care about but are far away, and in the same measure have time people you may not care much about but are right next to you. And have time for yourself too.



You should be concerned when you go to bed past midnight yet there’s nothing significant you’ve done that day. Come to think of it, you can’t chat with one person for over 12 hours each passing day. Simple logic tells you that these people are cheaters too.



Who are you talking to all the damn time? Who is that person you can’t tell you’re taking time off your chat to do something meaningful? What do you say to each other all that time? Are you tracing the Eurobond?



Have some principles, tell people not to text you after 10pm, don’t text at the dinner table, keep your phone away when having face to face conversations, get your shit together.





The allure of easy money is mouth-watering; let’s not beat around the bush on this. Otherwise we would know where our $999million is, and our Supreme Court wouldn’t sacrifice its reputation for a $2million bribe. So while our government is embracing the Biblical philosophy of ‘to those who have, even more shall be added to them’, it is a blessing in disguise for the entry of sports betting into Kenya.



People however need to understand that betting is meant as a leisure activity and not an investment. Betting is becoming the main occupation amongst the youth of today. We should be worried about the impact of betting in the next five or so years. If you can’t see a reason why, visit any campus and find students betting with their parents’ hard-earned money meant for their school fees. Worse still, ask them what they will do with the money in case they win. If their answers still don’t get you bothered, check into the nearest mental institution, you have way bigger problems than theirs.



Ticking Time Bombs


At this exact moment, there’s some nosey Internet stranger waiting for you to say something so they start ranting. They have a certain unexplained bitterness welling up inside just looking for the smallest of cracks to come out. No matter how small your post is, they will always find it sensitive and/or offensive. Even when it’s just a mature argument, there are always those people who will resort to insults and unprintable expletives at whoever does not share in their views. I mean, who hurt you? Who stuck their finger up your ass? It’s never that serious.



You can lie to yourself that your social media life is different from your real life, but the two are correlated and your online bitterness points at an underlying problem in real life.



Holier-Than-Thou Human Beings


On his final day of the US tour last year, The Pope asked Christians to pray for him in his line of work and non-believers to wish him luck. No standards set, he didn’t ask the non-believers to convert to Christianity and pray for him as well. Non-believers just wish me luck, that was all he said.



We all understand that everyone is imperfect in their own respective ways, and everyone wants to be accepted with their imperfections. The problem is that there are some perfectionists out here, some holier-than-thou wannabees, who want to be accepted for their imperfections but are not willing to accept others with theirs. Such are people who, upon realizing that they have an inadequacy, try to hide it by highlighting others people’s weaknesses.



Accept yourself the way you are, and accept others the way they are. Life is not a play where a given script has to be followed. If the Pope didn’t deem himself fit to set standards, who are you? Who the fuck are you?



About The Writer




” I was supposed to be the Kenya National Football Team #1, but shit happened somewhere in between 2009-2010. Now, I’m an Upcoming Sports Writer who occasionally indulges in other topics, like this one here. I’m a Chelsea fan, on loan to Leicester City till the end of the season, just because Arsenal is in the title race. And when I’m not doing any of these things, I’m a kick ass Communications Specialist. “



First things first, I don’t know why nobody ever believes me when I tell them I’m a model too; except that I’m the commercial type, not these runway punks. See, runway modelling asks for waay too much than a guy like myself can offer. A couple of years ago, when I was still a freshman, I went to town to audition for some runway modelling gig and those guys didn’t even look at me twice. Soon as I appeared, they asked me if I had read the requirements memo and when I replied in the negative, they simply barked “Next” and signaled me away from their sights like I was some stray dog feeding from their left overs; Or some useless piece of trash stinking up their free fresh air; Like I was a nobody. Never ever felt insulted like that before. Never told anyone about it, swallowed that shit like a man and left with my head held high.

I later went through it and understood why. They stated that six packs were a must; that there was no way one would strut that runway with a sagging stomach, looking like you’d just gobbled up a live elephant. Neither would you with a malnourished belly; one from which even a blind person could count your ribs with as little effort, looking like the last meal you ate was back when Jesus hoofed the earth performing turning water into booze and whipping hawkers in church. Back when the word ‘ass’ was only used in reference to an animal on all fours.

It also stated in there that you had to be a certain height to make the cut. Meaning, short mofos like me had practically no chance in hell. How do I put this to my fellow dwarfs out there dreaming of becoming runway models without actually hurting their feelings and coming out as a complete douche? Well, let’s just say Raila has a better shot at the house on the hill come 2017. Don’t tell me, I know that wasn’t funny, smarty pants.

You even had to be on a diet; consisting mostly of water bwana. And no booze!! Eti sijui alcohol makes your body weak. Omera those people should see me swing a punch after three shots of Grants. I could knock out Floyd ‘Money’ Mayweather without even flinching. That shit makes you more bad-ass! Mututho can kiss my hoot.

The rants went on and on with some part even implying that folks [especially the ladies] with lighter skin had a 50 plus 1 percent chance of being picked. If that’s not racism, I don’t know what is. Hell, they might as well just have placed a big poster on their doors saying, “NO NEGROES ALLOWED”.

Technically, they were looking for an all-round perfect person. Probably some guy with a laudable set of snowy teeth that partakes a meal of Ugali-sukuma using a spoon and fork and removes the chaff from his mouth with dental floss. Some guy with a neatly stacked pack of abs that make ladies drool in their sleep and feel like unleashing a pair of their boobs all over his face for an autograph. Some guy with a strong bust-out chiseled arm you’d feel like you were run over by a train if he shook your hand (Am not talking about you Katana). Probably some guy who shaves his head every morning let alone the fact that it’s already bald (Okay, now I’m talking about you Katana).


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But I was clearly not that guy. I don’t eat Ugali-Sukuma with a spoon and fork. Hell, I didn’t even partake of a meal of rice using a spoon till I came to campus. I dig into food raw, with my bare hands. Like a bauss! And I have no abs. Ladies, I’m that guy you wouldn’t wanna see shirtless. Ever. Lots of grossly disturbing hair beneath, you’d think I live in ice. I’m that gross, even for myself. And my arm feels a tingle of pain whenever I shake someone else’s hand. I don’t even like greeting people. I don’t have short hair. Neither am I bald. I like my hair tall. But my sister said it looked creepy so she dragged my butt down to this barber at Re-Insurance Plaza in town who, without even asking what I wanted, gave me this crazy ridiculous shave that some people annoyingly mistake for a Mohawk while others say it’s just those ‘90s box-cuts [Punk, as they were referred to]. I don’t know what to call it either. But everyone says it looks nice so I’m keeping it.

Anyhow, so I thought the demands were outrageous, to say the least and I decided to get into commercial modelling instead.

Fast forward to this day and I barely have a single friend who doesn’t wish to venture into modelling sometime; especially the ladies. It’s only a matter of who goes first now. And the line is getting longer by the day.

Even ladies with weaves that look like they were shed off Chinese monks are in line, waiting for their turn. Patiently. And full of hope. Weaves that stink of rotten eggs and look like breeding grounds for sore maggots. Weaves so worn out and craggy Methuselah would turn and spit in his grave up in the mountains.

Blondes that wave their hands all over the place like gay dolphins when they speak and emit fake English accents that would make a British native crawl up under his bed and stab himself in the throat in disgust are now a common sight in photo studios. They walk in high heels with their hand bags hanging loosely around their arms and apply distinct blood-red lipstick you’d think they were straight out of a ‘Vampire Diaries’ set. They smell of cheap cologne and shop for their animal print dresses at Ngara; you know those ones that lay everything on display and will always tell you whether she’s putting on her pants or going ‘ka ni mbaya mbaya’ for the night. [I’m not sure whether that’s really a thing, I just made it up].

Their make-up will make you wish you’d never watched ‘Walking Dead’ in 3D and their teeth may seem white on picture [all hail Uncle Photoshop] but their breath smells like a mixture of stale busaa and overstocked matokes dipped in a sea of bat piss. And they have those sly walking styles you see in big offices when one is speeding towards the loo after sitting tight in a three-hour boardroom meeting, the whole while just holding back themselves from releasing a guduwan in front of their boss and fellow workmates.

Their conversations revolve around Kim Kardashian this, Amber Rose that. Vera Sidika here, Huddah Monroe there. Matter of factly, you will ask an ordinary modelling first-timer Kenyan girl to name you a few models she looks up to and Miss Sidika and Ma’am Monroe [who, technically, are not even models to begin with] will always find themselves somewhere on that list; of course alongside kina Ajuma that the whole world know.  These girls don’t even know any Kenyan fashion designers yawa.  Puh!

Modelling is literally one of the easiest careers on earth. I don’t care what they tell you. All you need to know is master how to walk down that runway like a pregnant cat, swing your hips left-right and center like a blonde UoN chic on her periods, pose for the cameras with the smile of a Colgate commercial and you’ll have your few coins in the bank.

Modelling/Photography agencies and Fashion houses are making a kill as it is now. Every girl is leaving the village to come grab their 15 seconds of fame at modelling. They could be thinking they’ll be as lucky as Vera Sidika and Huddah were; upload a few semi-nude mischievous photos from BuoArt and get everyone talking about them. Then post some horrible nightmare-evoking videos of themselves shaking their extremities on YouTube and get even more tong’ues wagging. Then join Instagram and start posting photos beside broke loud celebrities and in Naija-bound flights. And then maybe date an oil tycoon and live happily ever after.


Oh, and speaking of BuoArt, did you hear that Kevin Buo owns two German machines? Omera those things even my old man couldn’t fuel one with his yearly salary bwana. Eih!

Ladies, modelling si ya kila mtu. Spare yourselves the embarrassment and just take a chill pill already!

With Regards.


A lady at my school lost her precious life to a raging fire incident in her room sometime later last week. Nobody really knows what happened but reports claim the fire was sprouted by an electric kettle which she had been using to heat some water, plugged into the sockets before fatefully dozing off with the doors locked from inside. I don’t recall the last time someone got burnt in a fire and never screamed for help. I mean, even if you were dead asleep, you gotta feel the smoke being emmitted choking you and wake up right? Or lets assume flames didn’t billow. Didn’t she scream for help? I only have a problem with the neighbors. How can someone be literally burning to death in the next room and you don’t hear a thing, only living to tell the story to the media in the name of ‘witness’ ? I am pretty heavy sleeper myself, I have once been carried off my bed and laid on the couch and I woke up the next day like nothing ever happened. But a fire, seriously? C’mon guys…


Now, it so happens that the deceased, Faith Victoria (R.I.P), was actually the better-half of someone I went to high school with and currently attend the same university with. Now I’d be gravely lying to you if I said the guy and I have been the closest of friends. We haven’t. But with the four years we spent together at Saints Yala and now the second year we’ve been together at JKUAT, I’d say we get along just fine. Cool dude, ever cheery whenever we brushed shoulders and always in a nice pair of shorts. I’ve been with this guy in the same campus for the second year running, and though we never see each other seven times a week, not once have I met this guy not in a pair of shorts. I know change is good but this guy’s consistency with his shorts, remarkable bana. You gotta give it up.


Any further details regarding what happened at the scene are not mine to divulge, we have relevant authorities for that. Besides, I have no idea myself. What turns me off are these crazy rumours milling all over JKUAT that the dude has since been arrested following the incident and is currently the Number 1, or Prime, suspect on the police list. I hear that’s what made the Prime time news yesterday too. I mean, guys, this ninja just lost his girlfriend. Don’t you think the last place he wants to be right now is on your stinky mouths? Quit talking already, the only thing we should be yanking wide open right now are our arms in support of the guy. We owe him that, at least I do. We’ve heard of guys commit suicide after breaking up with their girlfriends. That’s stupid. Take me to such a person and I’ll personally untie his loose body from the noose and set it ablaze. Know why? ‘Cause the girl is still alive and you have a practical chance of winning her back if you love her that much. Well, guess what? This dude will never see his girlfriend again! Painful, right? Now you know what he’s going through. So think hard before you go swirling baseless baloney regarding this issue.


Faith Victoria. I only had the pleasure of meeting her twice in her short lifetime. The first time was when a couple of friends and former classmates of mine were chilling in one of the guys’ hostel and he walked in with her. Actually, I wasn’t in the room when they came in. They were there when I came in. ‘Cause I remember I was about to get my groove on when I was informed by one of the jamaas that she was his bae. So I backed off. First rule of the Bro-Code; Never hit on your bro’s bae. The second time was at an end of semester bash that those very guys in that room and I organized. Averagely slender, tall, dark-skinned chic with the fashion sense of a Hollywood celebrity. She knew how to dress well, the very first thing that caught my eye when I walked into that room the first day and she was sitting there just tapping silent buttons on her phone, presumably WhatsApp-ing with a few pals.


Two days is a short period to fully know someone. And to be honest, I feel like I never really knew a thing about her. Well, except for the fact that she was gorgeous, fashionable and she didn’t snub me like most JKUAT chics do. But what I do know is that she didn’t deserve to kick the bucket that soon. No one does. And nobody deserves to go through what that guy is going through right now (By now should know already that am not stating his name here, for obvious reasons).

Fare thee well, Faith. I celebrate you.


And Sir, all shall be well. Take heart.


This is my tribute to a fallen comrade. A partial stranger.




(Now I don’t know if it’s negativity that fills me but am sure as hell some bugger somewhere has by now already concluded that this article is a shot at publicity, monetary gains…or whatever you may call it. Be informed that this is just a damn WordPress blog; nobody pays me a cent to publish an article here. Whatever I write is strictly from deep down and for the love of the pen. I mean what I write, and I don’t write what I don’t mean. I sat down this morning to write about my experience at Coke Studio yesterday but I thought about that girl and a discussion I had with a few friends last night on a WhatsApp group and I felt this girl deserved more than just those numerous ‘R.I.P’ comments floating all over the JKUAT group. This is just my way of saying her memory lives on. Peace! )