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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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



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


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

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

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

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

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



I haven’t watched any local content in a while, mainly because most of them are crap. Citizen T.V is the most watched station nationwide but they have the most poorly written local programs. I mean, just look at Papa Shirandula and InspektaMwala; sometimes I’d watch these shows and just wish I had a gun to blow my brains out – or those of the Scriptwriters – with. ‘Classmates’ on KBC is the only local program worth a minute of my time; simple jokes that will get you gasping for air, forget Churchill comedians who pick up jokes from social media and perform them to a bunch of shallow minded folk. Speaking of Churchill comedians, someone tell Consummator I can’t take anyone in a red suit serious [ignore the irony, assuming you saw it]. I just can’t. Your dressing defines you; a red suit says “I can’t keep my shit together”. You look like those chaps that sing ‘Isabella’ in the shower and drink Chardonnay on Guys’ Night; Chaps I’d like to punch in the face. You can’t crack me up when I’m thinking about punching you in the face.

Anyway, I somehow found myself watching ‘Tahidi High’ this past Tuesday. That episode where a group of students went to some house party and drank their brains out, then the girls showed up to school in the morning still high as a kite and their mothers’ came asking about their whereabouts as they hadn’t shown up at home the previous night to watch Empire with the family. The girls were so high one of them told her mum she had four eyes, two noses, and nice tits. Another told her mum she had a nice ass she should consider a career Huddah Monroe-ing. [Okay, I may be adding a few details here and there but just sit tight, I’m going somewhere with this. Also, before anything else, let’s just agree that Empire is a chic flick, Yes?]  And those Mothers just sat there, calmly, talking to their daughters, questioning the Principal.

That was by far the worst depiction of a Kenyan Mum I have ever seen. I don’t know about you guys, but I could take Konyagi, Legend, Jebel, Jameson or Smirnoff and smoke Wiz Khalifa’s weed but when I come face to face with Auma Nyar Keya – I tell you – I will be sober as a newborn baby.  That woman doesn’t joke; she will smack your nose back to your Maker and pinch your cheeks from here to Timbuktu at the slightest hint of obnoxious behavior.

I still remember my first time in Nairobi almost too clearly, never mind I was still young then. I heard my mum say she was going to Nairobi and I cried my ass out till she let me come along. The trip was fine, but I learnt one thing; crying was the best way to get what I wanted. During the journey I’d ask her to buy me stuff and she’d refuse, but then I’d let out a cry so loud – that, coupled with sympathies from the other passengers – she had no choice but to buy whatever I wanted. So we arrived in Nairobi with half eaten maize cobs, chocolate stains on my clothes, bottles of ‘ready to drink’ juice and boxes of biscuits I hadn’t even opened yet. She was mad, but I was happy. And that was all that mattered.

On the day we were to travel back home, I had become so attached to Nairobi I didn’t want to leave. We had stayed at a family friend [Mama Oscar]’s place,  we had attended the same Primary school with her twosons – Oscar and Earnest ‘Young’ – back in the day, and they were the coolest chaps I had ever met. They had the best music collection, the grandest taste in movies, and we would stay up till 5 o’clock in the morning playing Boxing, Football or Basketball on Play Station. The house was well-heeled and Mama Oscar was one helluva cook; her meals left this sweet taste in your mouth you didn’t feel like brushing your teeth the next morning, even with a gun held to your head. Every Sunday after church Baba Oscar would take the whole family shopping or on a drive in town or drop us off at these posh kids’ events where we would partake a meal of nyama choma then play our own version of ‘Wrestling’ in the jumping castles, walk under water while holding our noses in the swimming pools, before heading back home in the evening. Those were some good times man. You can’t blame me for not wanting to leave.

[P.S: Oscar is now a kick-ass Photographer with his own agency and Young is a Producer, you might know him as Riccobeatz; they guy who worked the Instrumentals for King Kaka’s ‘Gerarahia’ smash. Great chaps, these.]

I have digressed too much, where was I? Yeah. So when we were supposed to leave I cried kidogo in a bid to convince my mum to let us stay on just a little longer. She wouldn’t budge, she grabbed my hand and – quite literally – pulled me right across the estate to the stage. I gave her the silent treatment for most of the journey to town but she didn’t give two cracks. When we got to town we walked to Machakos Bus Station and this is where this whole story was actually supposed to begin. Machakos Bus Station was where everybody boarded back then; there was no Easy Coach, Transline or Guardian Angel. Akamba Buses were the shit, but they were a tad too expensive for regular folk like us so we stuck to our lanes; kina Emirates and Eldoret Express.

Machakos Bus Station was a mess – still is. Hawkers went about their business, buses that shouldn’t even have been roadworthy were all over the place, and Conductors howled like hungry hyenas at the sight of prey. One would be pulling you left and another right, all the while they’re hurling unprintable expletives at each other. My mum held my hand on her right and our luggage on the left. We were right in the middle of Machakos Bus Station when my mum’s phone rang and she had to receive the call, so she let go of my hand and asked me to hold the luggage for just a minute. Now, we all know women can’t talk on the phone for just a minute. That call must have gone past an hour because I could no longer hold my balance with that luggage. So I let it drop down to the mud and I let out the loudest wail even I had ever heard. I will pause here while you vainly try to figure out what happened next.

Nyar Keya ended the call all right. Then she picked up the bag and wiped it with her own leso. See, crying works.

You remember when I said I let out the loudest cry even I had ever heard? Yeah, well, when Nyar Keya got up from wiping that bag, she turned round and smacked me across the face so loudly and so painfully I felt like Machakos stood still for a second there; and that was just her left hand people. Let’s just say I didn’t ask for anything the entire journey – even when she honestly wanted to buy me something, I cowered – and I arrived home with a story to tell. To date, there are only three things I fear in this life; Girls [especially Blondes, those one that can’t keep their hands down when they talk. It’s like they’re always secretly hoping they ‘accidentally’ poke someone’s nose], Heights, and Auma Nyar Keya.

My mother is something else; she could be smiling with you one minute and then spanking you the next. Not in a bad way though, she’s fun like that. No matter how good you cook, she will always complain; maybe the soup wasn’t thick enough [What did you use? Cat piss?]; maybe you chopped the mbogainto much bigger pieces [The hell are these? Elephant ears?]; or maybe your mind wasn’t fully into the cooking, you could have been thinking about other things [Tell that Nyar Otiende if I find her crooked behind here again…heh, weh…I will decorate my necklace with her teeth, Iwinjo? Maybe then your Ugali will stop looking like Uji]

Auma Nyar Keya is just your ultimate Kenyan Mum. You could be playing football with your friends in the field two neighborhoods away but she will send someone to come call you. You will find her seated on the couch, holding the Sunday Nation upside down, and she will point to the pair of glasses lying on the stool next to her and say “Ne, Omera, give me these things!” Do you know how close to one something has got to be for them to say THESE and not THOSE? Heh!

Nothing bores her like idle people; especially ones who love their sleep like yours truly. So she will wake you up at 4 in the morning as she prepares to go to work just for the hell of it.

Shughulikia those dishes. Chap Chap!”


Si Sharon washed them last night yawa?”, you will retort.

Scrub this floor then.”


“Effie is almost halfway done doing that.”


“Well then grab a slasher and go trim the grass behind Otiende’s granary yaye. Don’t just sleep there.”



She called me a couple of weeks ago and said, “Ne,Omera, si that is an Okuyu I see you fondling on your WhatsApp profile? I know I said I want grandkids and that elder sister of yours is not giving me much hope but is that the Jaber you want to bring here? Wueehh! Try me. You will know what is taking El Nino so long.” The Old Man is also on WhatsApp. So now I can’t even put a profile picture of a lady just to impress her [all guys do that] or that one of Meagan Good I’ve always wanted to parade for WCW without raising eyebrows back home. Eih!

I have hated my Mum a couple of times. She could be a nuisance. Like when we’re in public and she notices I didn’t wash my face in the morning so she takes out her handkerchief, soaks it in her spit and wants to wipe my eyes with it. All mothers do this. She still does to date. And I hate that shit. I’m a grown ass man, that’s like telling me, “Son, go take a dump and come I wipe your bum for you.” I saw your face twitch, annoying, right?

I haven’t had a proper conversation with her in a while. The last time we met, I was dressed like a homeless hoodlum. My brother was dressed in his usual official thingamajigs, thereby making me look bad. So she told on me to the old man, said I was a disappointment; just because my hair was long and of how I was dressed. I woke up the following morning to a long ass text from the old man; he said if I wanted to be a Thug in Nairobi, it was entirely up to me. That once I was done with campus, I would be on my own and he will not want to hear jack from me again. Nothing. That after campus when I do call him, he expects to hear only things like, “Look, Ondiek, I want to buy you a suit Bwana. Has your stomach become any bigger with all that beer you’ve been drinking?”  So sometime in August next year if you run into a brother selling oranges apo Archives, just be a lamb and buy one. Donge? Si We Are One?

Every conversation I’ve had with her since then has basically just been her calling and scolding me on why I haven’t found a place for internship yet and whether I was really even looking, or her asking whether I have shaved my hair yet, and then scolding me again. Once in a while she tells me how sick she is and that one of these mornings we will wake up and she’ll be no more [God forbid!]. That statement is usually followed by a long distorted cough after which she says, “Aya, we anind [let me sleep]” and then the line goes dead.

I read some article questioning the role of mothers to the lives of their children in society today a couple of days ago. I was having a talk with some friend of mine last night when she asked me the last time I called my Mum. I took a long pause, as if I was trying to remember. Then she asked me, “Dude, are you serious? Like for real?” in that dramatic fashion ladies do. I was still quiet. Then she said;

Wewe, I’m going to hang up now. I Want You To Call Your Mother. Today. Right Now.



Then there was that beep sound. So when I leave work today, I’m going to call my mother. Not because some chic I wanted to bone but shoved me to the friend-zone told me so; and not because it’s Still A Mum day and I wondered what it would have been like had she had a miscarriage and didn’t have me.  I’m going to call her because I have missed her. I’ll call her because I want her to scold me again. I want to tell her that indeed I will be bringing home that Okuyu, not because it’s true, but because I want to hear her loose it.  I want to hear her tell me that an Okuyu lady will love my money more than she loves me. Then I want to tell her, “What money? I’m broke as a piece of wood. And I don’t see any prospects of inheriting anything from you people either, si I hear Sossion told you people to down your tools and you did? Now see, no salary. Si you tell Sossion to pay you sasa I see.” Then I want to hear her laugh and tell me I’m almost old enough to start sending her money.  Then I want to tell her I got that internship she was whining about.

Where? I hope you’re not stealing money from your Boss. You know money has a way of pulling a Malaysia when you’re around here” She will probably say.

Hahahah! Wewe you want money ama you want to know where it comes from? Kama hutaki I’m sure the Okuyu Jaber won’t mind a new dress, she likes those ones Kanye West unveiled the other day”


“Kanywet? Who is Kanywet?”


“Nobody Ma’. Just some very rich American with a lot of rats in his closet.”



[Lord forgive me for placing this image here]


Ladies and Gentlemen, to you too I say, Call Your Mother Today. Call any Mother figure in your life. Make them feel appreciated. Make them feel loved. Make them feel special. They deserve it.





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

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


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

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

big booty

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

Ess Food

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be blessed.



Now, guys, this is a Guest Post by Austin Arnold, whom you might remember from this interview [ ] as one of the main reasons I even took up writing in the first place. This is a chap who literally used to mark my essays as a kid.


Austin is one fellow who prides himself in wearing many hats; at least that’s what he says. He will go M.I.A on you for two weeks and when you finally reach him and ask him where the hell he was and what he was even doing, Austin will give you a resounding sigh and reply, “I’m a busy man Baba!” And you will let it slide because he called you Baba.


The good ole’ bloke started blogging around a year before me but towards the end of last year till now he’s been a little held up with other affairs [*sneeze*Politics]. When he mailed me this piece and told me he wanted to feature on my blog, I was humbled. I read it and it swept me off my books; impressively written and well thought outside the box. Folks, he still got it. And he’s back.


So, ladies and gentlemen, AGNES. By AUSTIN ARNOLD


This is how you want your story with Agnes to turn out.

Yes, you want a woman named Agnes because nothing screams phonier than Bianca. And you want her to hate her name so much she prefers to be called Angie. You want to call her Agnes every time just to upset her and see her twitch her face in that sexy way your heart skips to Kapedo. You will tell her that her name sounds so colonial Dedan Kimathi turns in his grave, but its way hip than Bianca. You will not tell her your hatred for Bianca is because she dumped you just when you started loving her.

You do not want to meet her in a conventional way. You don’t go to Church on Sundays. You hate clubbing on Fridays, and you hate people so much house parties are an anathema to you. But you want to meet her at Aqua Lounge on Tuesday night, with a Guinness in tow. And you want to ask her why the hell someone would take a Gino on a Tuesday night, and hear her reply “Because I have an extra ball hanging from my penis”. You want to savour the taste of those words for so long, because they would be the beginning of something magical. Of magic itself.  Because you want to sit with her at that same spot on Tuesdays for the rest of your lives.

You want to meet her donning Bantu knots or Marley twists. And you want to tell her you are impressed, because, like in a man, you have always held that what a woman flaunts on her head shows how neat her brain is. And you want her to call you out for such kind of bullshit. But you want to meet her in a natural hairdo just so you can know what she thinks about hair politics, and Chimamanda. And for the first time, you want to be in the presence of a woman who doesn’t think Chimamanda is a disease, and who will tell you The Purple Hibiscus made her cry. And she will pinch you for saying Taiye Selasie is a better writer than Chima.

Agnes will tell you she is adventurous, and that she is taking an online course in Greek Mythology. She will tell you she did three years in Medical School and got so bored she dropped out, because conforming is not her thing. And that her dad never talked to her for two years because of that, but she never gave a fuck because she did not have any fucks to give. And you will orgasm. And then dive headlong into why Socrates was not as wise as Bias of Priene. And you will fall head over heels in love.  For the second time after Bianca.

She will tell you that sometimes she likes to have someone fuck her so hard. You will admit you have never done any woman so hard, but it’s a challenge for which you are ready, and you will be all guns blazing when that time comes. Because you will fuck her so hard you will be too tired to get out of bed the next morning she will bring you breakfast while humming to Liquideep’s ‘Still’. And you will grab her, fuck her one more time and tell her she is the only breakfast worth any struggle.

You will offer to take her out to dinner and you will argue between Chinese and Ethiopian. Her choice [Chinese] will win because you hate winning against her, and you will spend two hours Googling what it is the Chinese really eat other than snakes. You will settle on Sweet and Sour Pork because of your love for Pork Chops, but she will again box you into ordering the drunken chicken. It will be shit of course, and so you will look into her eyes and tell her she is turning you into someone else. She will look into your eyes and give you an even curt reply ‘You are at Liberty to change me too. That’s why we are doing this’. Fuck this orgasm.

She is not as beautiful as Sarah Hassan. Because in your myopic mind Sarah Hassan has been the all-time litmus for all beauty. But she will be so comfortable in her skin Sarah Hassan would be envious. Her legs will be so beautiful you will remind her they are the kind of legs that one would not just stare at once then look away. And for the first time, a woman will tell you that you are not as handsome, but your eyes drive her crazy. And that they are only things that made her speak to you that Tuesday night at the club. The next day you will ask your buddy Bianca what she thinks about your eyes and she will tell you ‘they are intimidating’. The Fuck.

On a nippy Thursday evening you will assemble your buddies at Wambugu’s to introduce them to Agnes. They will smirk about you dating someone called Agnes in 2015, and you will smile wryly and tell them to shove that up their asses. They will come nonetheless, and an hour later Agnes will show up with her best friend Joyce. And you will have a whole evening taking meat and talking about nothing in particular.

Then later in the evening you will ask your gang what they thing about her and they will have no words for you.

Keep her, this Agnes.

You can catch up with him on his blog, Zeal Chronicles [ ]




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.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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