STORIES FROM AMBOSELI

CHEF WANGA

 

 

A little past midnight – a couple Saturday nights ago – I’m stumbling into my boy’s place in South B. I’m a little high. The door is wide open, he’s blacked out in the bedroom, mouth ajar, hands crossed over his chest, snoring like an Albanian field wench. That’s how you know someone had a good night. I make myself comfortable on the sofa, make a few drunken calls and soon doze off. People tell me I sleep with my eyes half open, that I scare them. My only questions to them always are, what the hell are you doing awake in the middle of the night looking at people who are already asleep? What, you want something? Something you can only get from me in the middle of the night? When I’m dead asleep? Shit.

 

 

Tom – the chap I’m at his place – wakes me up at 9 a.m. the following morning. All dressed up. Says he’s on his way to some hotel in the middle of Amboseli. I ask why and he goes, “Some of us actually work.” I hate it when people tell me things like that, it makes me feel idle. It hurts my feelings. It makes me feel like applying for license to carry. Because I’m pissed off, and I’m still nursing a persistent hangover, I want to ask him, “So why the hell you gotta wake me up? You want a goodbye hug or something?” But I don’t. I just roll back over on the sofa and go back to sleep. Then I hear him say, “You know what, you don’t look like you’re doing anything today, get up, let’s go.” I turn to see if he’s pulling a fast one on me and he gives me that “I’m serious, fool” look. And then he adds, “All expenses covered. Get your ass in the shower and let’s go.”

 

 

Tom runs this cleaning and pest control outfit – Imagine Care. He started it soon after campus, he says he has never wanted to work for anyone. Wants to get off bed when he feels like it, not because he has to. Has always wanted to be the one running shit. Now they go round the country to some of the best hotels helping them handle their pest problems. As I bang this down, they just got back from the Mara and are off to Mombasa before the weekend. He’s the C.E.O and Founder of the outfit, which basically means he doesn’t do jack. He walks around in a blue suit supervising as the work is done, and cashing six figure cheques. He gets the best hotel suites and dines with Chief Chefs. Sometimes I joke that he has the best job ever and he says, “No, Bikozulu does. And Larry Madowo.”

 

 

We pitch up at Sentrim hotel, Amboseli, circa 8 p.m., after a five hour long drive on tarmac and another hour on a rough road through the Amboseli national park, with hyenas running and howling beside us. Sentrim hotel is located right in the middle of the Amboseli. The only thing separating them from the park is an electric fence that is supposed to electrocute the elephants’ nozzles when they come too close. Half of the staff down there are Maasais, which means this is not the place to cause trouble. At night they walk around in shukas and sandals probably made out of leopard skin, carrying rungus the size of my head, talking in hushed tones and laughing loudly. One of them told us he had been bitten by a snake before, and the way he said it was like it was nothing. Like it was no big effin’ deal. There we were, scared out of our hoots, talking about how afraid we were of snakes, and then this guy with very big earrings hanging from his ear walks by and goes, “Mimi nimeumwa na nyoka by the way,” while smiling, like it was normal; like it was cool. You know how in high school Math was such a pain in the nut, yet there was always that one cocky chap with the long nose and the stinky breath who always seemed to know everything? Like, you would be there, fidgeting in your seat, all sweaty, trying to solve for ‘x’ and he would show up behind you, grab your pen and go “This is actually quite easy” then go ahead and solve the bloody sum in 30 seconds. A sum that had already taken you 5 hours yet you hadn’t even gone past the second step. Pricks!

 

 

They put us up in these really cool tents designed in the shapes of actual houses. Like, they were normal houses, but instead of cemented walls and a mabati roof, they had tents. Cool, right? The floor was made of wood and there were a set of seats and tables  – all wooden – outside looking into the wild that would have made for a good spot to smoke a cigar, if you’re one of those people, or down a bottle of Whiskey. There were a couple of beds in each room – tiny comfy beds – with a Bible on a stool beside each bed for the occupant to read some scripture from before hitting the sack. How thoughtful! There were also three bottles of water, in case, for some strange reason, you got thirsty in your sleep. And then there was a fan as long as the Eurobond trail on the farthest corner of the room. Here’s the thing, me I come from the ghetto; deep down in Eastlands. We shower in basins using kina Geisha and Flamingo soaps gikmakamago. But here, to turn on the shower sijui you tilt this ka-metal thingamajig to your left – for cold water –and to your right – for hot water. Alafu their bathrooms are so clean I almost said, “Hell, bring me a mattress in here, this is where I’m napping.

 

 

There are just two things I don’t understand about Sentrim Hotel; Every night at 10 p.m., they shut the lights off. Complete blackout. If you’re one of those people who have to use the gents in the middle of the night, you’ll be lucky if you don’t knock the stool containing the Bible on your way. Two, They have minibars, only problem is they’re not stocked. I mean, si that’s like having a girlfriend you ain’t even smashing, No? I’m just saying. But, in their defence, they said it was low season. Ati that’s why the minibars weren’t stocked. Sawa, I’ll let it go, Mr. Manager.

 

 

The following morning Tom and I were called to have breakfast at the main restaurant. They first served us a glass of passion juice, and a plate containing well-arranged slices of mangoes, oranges, and an apple. Basically, it was just fruits. The ghetto in me blurted out, “The hell is this?” and Tom replied, “Welcome to the life,” like he was some kind of a Saudi Prince used to this kind of life and shit. As if his shagz is not Tanzania down here. After the fruits they served us tea along with an omelet and a small round bun, this time the ghetto in me smiled and said, “Now we’re talking.” Then the Chief Chef, a nice chap by the name Livingstone Wanga, comes and sits next to us, asking how we are faring so far. Deep down, I want to say, “Well, now that you ask, Sir, how do I eat this bun using a fork and knife?” Hehe. But what really comes out is, “Fantastic. Thank You.

 

 

He – Chef Livingstone Wanga – then goes on to tell us about his career and what it’s like to be a full-time Chef. Says most people, especially bachelors – like yours truly here – think cooking is just about rounding up the tomatoes and the onions and pilipilis into one sufuria and coming out with something edible. Apparently it’s more complicated than that. He shows us a sample of his own unique creations and we’re left wondering how people are even supposed to eat that. I mean, do you use a fork and knife or do you just dig in, you know, like a normal person from the hood? “What do you call that?” Tom asks. And he goes, “This one here is flakes of beef stir fry in a blind baked pastry case on tomato soufflé rice, and then the other one was pan seared perch fillet set on a warm potato salad, green beans and laced with doria lemon butter.” Okay, I’m not even going to lie to you that I understood any of that. The whole time I was just thinking, “Where’s the bloody bar?” So we asked him to repeat those names but by the third time we still hadn’t gotten anything past ‘beef stir fry’ so we just said, “Listen, Sir, just WhatsApp us the names, Sawa?

 

 

Some of you guys here must think I’m making this stuff up, ndio hizi hapa;

 

 

BEEF FLAKES
Chef Livingstone Wanga’s ‘Flakes of beef stir fry in a blind baked pastry case on tomato souffle rice’

 

Pan seared perch
Pan seared perch fillet set on a warm potato salad, green beans and laced with doria lemon butter’
avocado fan
‘Avocado fan salad with a 1000 Island dressing’

 

 

Chef Livingstone Wanga (you have to address him by all three names like that) is a man with an interesting perception about life. Takes every day as it comes. Does his work to the best of his ability, leaves the rest to the customers. And, Chefs also go an attachment. Whodathot? Chef Livingstone Wanga says when he’s on leave, he likes to go to the Norfolk to sharpen his skills. His work is not as easy, because he has to ask for feedback on how the food was from every customer that tastes his meals. This Chinese couple dined while we were there and when they were done, he went to them and asked, “How was the food? Good?” The Chinese couple said, “Food good.” Then he asked them, “Food too much or too little?” And with a straight face the man said, “Too little.” We just laughed that one off, as Chef Livingston Wanga assured them of an increased quantity at dinner. I almost walked up to that Chinese guy to ask, “How much did you want, Sir? An elephant?” But it wasn’t in my place now, was it? Besides, we were also just visitors here.

 

 

Sentrim Hotel has this spot from where you can see Mt. Kilimanjaro that is just the most beautiful view I have ever seen. Go there early in the morning, when the grass is still wet (no, not in that way) and the birds are still singing from the trees. Go there in your sweatpants, or your boxers if you have to, and enjoy that view. Breathe in the warm smell of the morning mist, enclose yourself in the beauty of nature and let it reel you into captivity. From that view – and for that split second – all your troubles will go away. They will fly away with the birds and disappear, like  Nairobi men after getting under your pants. During the day, go to the swimming pool area and if you’re scared of drowning, or are just a terrible swimmer – again, like yours truly here – just sit by the bar and order a mojito or a cocktail named Monkey Dance. If your Boss calls you at that particular moment, just laugh and tell him, “I’m at Dik-Dik Bar.” He won’t get it. Chances are he’ll probably say something like, “You’re fired.” Keep him calm, tell him you’ll work overtime next week, then say, “No, seriously, it’s called Dik-Dik Bar.

 

 

When the guys who were doing all the work were done and we were about to leave, Chef Livingstone Wanga (Ok, I see it now, the name is a mouthful, hehe) took Tom and I to the bar and told the guy behind the counter, “Wapatie soda baridi,” which we downed while bothering the bartender with silly questions. Say;

 

 

“Which guys drink the most here? The Whites or the Africans?”

 

“The Whites. Especially the Germans. Those guys love the bottle a tad too much.”

 

“But which ones misbehave the most after one too many?”

 

“Oh, The Africans, most definitely. Once the Whites have had to their limits, you’ll just see them walking out of the bar towards their rooms. But the Africans, man, saa hizo ndio sasa anataka kukuonyesha ako na pesa. And they become arrogant.”

 

“Na wagani hawatoangi tips?”

 

“Haha. The Chinese. Those ones are tough to crack.”

 

“Who is the most famous person that has ever walked through these doors?”

 

“Wako wengi sana. We’ve even hosted some Saudi Billionaires here, and those guys come with their own security, hawa wetu wanawafukuzanga waende walinde wanyama. But Michael Rannerbarger has been here. Even Serena Williams was here sometime back.”

 

 

Guys, this is me begging, if any of you goes to Sentrim Hotel anytime soon, book the room Serena Williams slept. I’m not asking for much, just bring me the towels she used. Sawa?

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BLANKETS & WINE

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

The first ever edition of Blankets & Wine went down almost seven years ago. The event, a brainchild of Muthoni Ndonga – famously known as Muthoni The Drummer Queen – had a simple but creative concept, the first of its kind this side of the Equator. It wasn’t one of these ordinary events where chaps in Versace sweatpants and mamis in booty shots went to get stupidly inebriated and listen to loud music from Konshens and grind and twerk their butts off. It was more of a family event that, unlike most Kenyan events, happened during the day. It was an event you could take your whole family, including your kids, to. It was an event you could bring with you that sacred bottle of wine or that aged Whiskey you had been saving for a special occasion, and enjoy slow sips from. It was an event that had the concept of a picnic; folks would come with their shukas and lessos and blankets, spread them on the soft grass, unwrap their packed lunch, pop their bottles of wine, and dine and wine with loved ones, all the while listening to mature music; music you didn’t need to shake your ass to, to enjoy; music you just had to move slowly to, groove with it’s rhythm, and if you were a poor dancer like myself, all you had to do was shake your head from your seat. Nice and easy.

 

 

But last year, Blankets & Wine sort of took a sabbatical from the Kenyan events scene. We waited but it never came. We waited some more – until it almost felt like what Raila goes through before election results are announced – but still, we got nothing. Instead, they took it down to Museveni’s home turf. Sources claim the sabbatical was caused by slight disagreements between Muthoni The Drummer Queen and one of her silent partners, a well-known billionaire businessman in the region. The businessman is said to have later come up with his own event to rival Blankets & Wine. When asked for comment – early this year – by some local daily on the validity of these rumors, Muthoni is reported to have said, “Blankets & Wine is unstoppable. We’re coming back this year, bigger and better.” Well, come back they did. Bigger and better they are. I mean, while some guys are bringing in Ali Kiba and sijui Koffi Olomide, Blankets & Wine is bringing in kina Aloe Blacc. You can’t argue with that.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

I’m strolling into Ngong Racecourse circa 11 a.m. this past Sunday with my usual Photographer; Sammie Andre. I’m in light blue Khaki trousers and some checked long-sleeved shirt [not the best outfit for a Sunday event but what the hell], Sam is in a white Good Vibes T-shirt, a trench coat and jeans [with a bag carrying his camera hunched to his back] I have been to Racecourse exactly twice my whole life; during Jameson Live and for some photo shoot I was invited to. Sammie says he’s been here twice as well, both times on duty. So this would make the third time for both of us. Look at that, what are the odds? We are here today for the 59th edition of Blankets & Wine. Before today, we had only heard – and read – about it. We don’t know what to expect, we’re just hoping it’ll have been worth getting off bed on a Sunday – and abandoning ‘Lucifer’ series – for.

 

 

Numbers are slowly streaming in. A few Land Cruisers and Range Rovers and Subarus can be spotted in the parking lot. An ambulance and a firetruck are parked on either side of the entrance, in case shit hits the pan, and you can even hear some chap in a blue suit howling on his iPhone, “Come straight ahead after passing the cemetery, you will see some ka-billboard inscribed Ngong Racecourse up ahead. Find a nice spot to park that Mercedes and find me inside bwana.” In all honesty, I’m beginning to feel a little out of place. Chaps here are sharply dressed and holding onto gorgeous lasses with accents; it’s kind of like being the only person who wants Chapo-Madondo in a table-full of Pizza enthusiasts. You feel like you’re not wanted; like you’re a plague. Son of Were is a very simple man, my wardrobe is pathetic, and so is my hair cut. I board matatus and drop whiskey in my coffee and watch ‘The Blacklist’. The one thing I do not do is dress sharply. Okay, and listen to Adelle. That woman nearly destroyed my life after my last break up.

 

 

And, like I’ve said a gazillion times before, I do not bring ladies to events like these, and not just because the entrance fee is 3000 baab, but because of all the other things I would have to buy after paying that entrance fee. I mean, soft drinks, whine, Pizza, chicken, popcorn, hell, even, clothes. And attitude. So I roll up alone – or with my Photographer – and I enjoy the music, then when it’s time to go back home, I hurl my ass home. No fuss.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

I had heard that this was going to be Just A Band’s last show as a group. That they would be taking a two-year break after this, to focus on individual projects. So when Sam and I ran into one-third of the group – Daniel Muli – I asked him what the cause of the break up was and he just beat about the bush. He said, “It’s not really a break up, it’s more of a time out, you know, to focus on our own things.” Which is, basically, what every group that’s breaking up says, ask Camp Mulla and P-Unit. “But for two years? Isn’t that a little too long?” I push. He gives me the most vague answer anyone could ever say. Ati, “It is, but then again, it’s really not.” Is it just me or is that just the shittiest response ever? Si that is one of those break up lines you tell to a nagging woman? A woman that wants to come over all the damn time but just won’t let you smash, sindio?

 

 

Scores of people have arrived by now. There are white guys – with their families – and, you know, regular black folk, smoking Shisha and holding glasses of booze. There are groups of light skinned ladies drinking Chardonnay and eating burgers at the V.I.P section. They look like the type of ladies who buy their own drinks in a club. Those types of ladies that don’t need a man to take care of them. The kind that say a whole bunch of nothings about being Independent and call themselves Feminists even though they haven’t the slightest idea in the devils balls what that means. The kind you walk up to and say, ‘Hey, you look nice’ and they roll their eyes and say, ‘I know.’ The kind you really want to punch on the chest but you remember FIDA will come for your broke ass.

 

 

There are tents all over the place. There is a PWC tent somewhere, there is a HelloFood tent somewhere, there is a Afri-Na-Ladi tent somewhere, there is a WhatsGood Live tent somewhere, but the sexiest of all is the Ciroc tent. They have these neat white seats in their tent, plus half a dozen or so beautiful lasses in tiny shorts walking around, that just make you weak on the knee and invite you in. But you don’t go in because maybe they might bring you a double of their vodka and Lord knows that bill would send your whole family towards bankruptcy. So you walk onward. Towards the backstage. Guys, let me tell you this first hand, like Sam puts it, there’s no greater joy than trying to get through to the backstage at a high-profile event but the bouncer holds you off and tells you you’re not allowed back there, so you just whip out your ‘All Access’ wrist band to his face and watch as he crumbles and apologizes and tries to kiss your ass. You feel like pinching his nose and telling him, “Know people,” but the last person that did that to a security personnel is now out of a job, so you just smile and pat him one the back and say, “It’s Okay Boss. It’s Okay.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

When Mayonde gets on stage, the first thing you notice is not her curves, or her figure hugging dress, or her boot [pun unintended]; it’s her smile. You can tell a lot about somebody by their smile. You can tell if someone is happy, sad, broke, or just undergoing a dry spell by how they smile. Mayonde has an amazing smile. If I were married to Mayonde, we wouldn’t even have to talk when I was sad. I’d just ask her to smile and everything would be Okay. And I’m not one to put my hands in the air for a performing act but for Mayonde I did. You just can’t resist it, her voice has such kind of power over you. It soothes your soul, and makes you feel like giving yourself up to her, so she can do as she pleases with you [hopefully something dirty, hehe]

 

 

Whatever happens to Just A Band, these guys are still the Shit. I don’t care if Sauti Sol perfoms for Obama or the Queen, they will never be as good – or even half as creative – as Just A Band. That’s all I will say about that.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

Khaligraph Jones and Kagwe Mungai were supposed to join Muthoni on stage during her set. Before their time came, Sam and I are talking to Khaligraph backstage about music. I ask him why they excluded U.B from the ‘Iz Vipi’ video and he goes;

 

 

The only thing that sets you apart in this industry is discipline, my man. The guy never showed up for the shoot. On the day of the video shoot, I was in Bondo for a show myself. And I caught the first flight back immediately the show ended and I went on set. But U.B stays hapa Nairobi West and he can’t show up for a bloody video shoot? C’mon. I don’t have a problem with drinking, as long as you do it responsibly and have your priorities correct man.

 

So you’re saying you don’t drink?

 

I don’t. And it really pisses me off to see artists mess themselves up on stage, because then whole world believes all artistes are like that. And that gets to me because there are those of us that don’t roll like that. Mimi ntaanza tu kupiga wasanii hapa Kenya waache ujinga.

 

 

When Khaligraph says something like that, you don’t know whether he’s just joking or he’s really serious. Because he says it with a straight face, and he’s tall, burly, and dark as night. Khaligraph is the kind of guy that can diss you in the studio and still come whop your ass in your house. So you don’t really laugh, you just chuckle and move on.

 

 

About this beef you and Octopizzo have, is that personal or it’s just business?”

 

At some point it was personal, but right now it’s purely just business. He’s not on my level, I’m not even looking at the Kenyan market anymore. But, the bottom-line always is, Octopizzo and I can never be friends. Never.

 

 

 

Then the mood of the conversation changes and he starts asking Sam and I the questions. He stares at us for a second and asks “So, what gossip blog do you guys work for?” and we say, “Just personal blogs, basically.” Then he asks, “How’s that going for you? These guys paying you well?” I smile and say, “Well, we get by.” And then he notices my phone charging from a power bank and he jokes, “Well, my nigga, if you can afford a power bank in Nairobi then you must be doing quite well.

 

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

 

Muthoni Drummer Queen does not take her performances lightly. She shows up and she shows out. She sings and she raps and she dances, all in one set. She even had Khaligraph and Kagwe singing and dancing along to ‘Nai Ni Ya Who’ backstage for a while there. And she came with a full band, dancers, and a choir bana. No kidding, she has this choir that calls themselves ‘The Individuals’. It consists of about three ladies and two men, and those guys sing so wonderfully they make you want to repent all your sins and accept Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior. They sang this song titled, ‘No Man, No Cry’ that ironically, only made me feel like shedding a tear. It was beautiful.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

And then came the man everyone paid an arm and a leg for; Aloe Blacc. And, I swear this is not a diss, but Aloe looks like your ordinary Luo friend who comes from somewhere on the shores of Seme, except he has an accent. Like myself [ahem] he doesn’t dress sharply. He had on an official black shirt and trouser, and shoes you can fetch at Ksh. 1000 in Gikomba. And I know I’m not supposed to say this about a another man, but I love Aloe Blacc. He’s simple and cool and, shit, brother can dance. And when I say dance I don’t mean Dab, I mean really move his feet. At one point he was talking about Nairobi traffic and he was saying how L.A is cool and there’s no traffic. Then he said, “One of these days I should invite some of you guys in L.A to experience how smooth traffic goes. But we gon’ need one or two white people in the car, just in case the cops pull us over.” I thought that shit was hilarious. I even laughed just typing that statement, seriously.

 

 

Blankets&Wine Kenya
Blankets&Wine Kenya

 

 

Aloe Blacc is easily one of my favorite artists at the moment. Because at a time when guys are trapping and shit, he still writes and sings from the soul. Aloe Blacc is The Man, and not just because he sings it, but because he says things like, “A Hit Song is not a song that tops the charts, but a song that Hits you every time you hear it.”

 

 

PHOTOS: SAMMIE ANDRE PHOTOGRAPHY

 

 

 

 

 

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.

BECAUSE WHO’S GOT TIME FOR BAD VIBES?

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Between you and me, I hate photos. I strongly hold the opinion that men should not have too many photos of themselves in their Gallery; or make duck faces in front of a camera; or take a lot of selfies. A man should know his rightful place in the society; like playing FIFA or drinking Whiskey or kissing random girls under the influence. A man should know how to polish his shoes and eat a sandwich without spilling things on his shirt and throw a punch and duck from one. But a man should never have to take a lot of selfies. Or walk into a joint and say, “White Wine, please. With a slice of lemon on the side.”

 

 

A couple of years ago, my boy – Dennis Wyre – introduced me to this modelling agency; Versatile. You chuck 2K for Registration and all you have to do is go for photo sessions every other Saturday and they’ll call you when a gig comes up. Now, first of all, I drink like almost every other Friday [even when I’m dead broke, especially when I’m dead broke], which means I’m always too hung-over on Saturdays to even leave the pad. Secondly, I don’t know how to pull off fake smiles. Photo sessions require you to smile, even if there’s a spiky snail crawling up your butt-crack. You have to smile; you don’t want to be the guy that comes out looking like Ice Cube or Bifwoli Wakoli when the photos are released. The only [amusing] thing I loved about Versatile photo shoots were the ladies. Chics love photos; chics can kill each other for a moment in front of the camera. They put their best foot forward, literally. They smile like goddesses and wear heels taller than the Eiffel Tower and walk gently; like they’re pieces of glass or some shit. They put on loads of make-up that conceal the pimples and signs of Athletes Foot disease growing on their faces. If there’s one piece of advice I can give men it’s this, don’t marry a model; with make-up, they look like Megan Good, without make-up, even Young Thug’s got bragging rights before them. Marrying a model is like marrying two completely different women; when she’s all dolled up for a night out, you feel proud walking her by your side. You want to hold her close and look into her eyes and see stars twinkling in them and never let go; but when she wakes up the following morning, after all the make-up has wiped out beneath the sheets, the only thing you want to look at is your face in the mirror when you’re saying, “How the hell did this shit happen?”

 

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Suffice it to say, I went for a couple of photo shoots and then stopped. I just faded, away, into oblivion, without as much as a goodbye or an “It’s been real guys” quip. I know they don’t miss me, but sometimes I just wish they would at least text me. Even just to ask how my day was. Chips Fungas, you guys understand this, right?

 

 

Anyway, so Dennis Wyre invited me to an outdoor photo shoot of his clothing line a couple of weeks ago, at Arboretum Grounds. You guys should know Dennis Wyre, right? Co-founder of DilRay Inc , now runs Good Vibes clothing line. I once asked him why he settled on the name ‘Good Vibes’ and he simply said, “I just wanted a feel good lifestyle brand.” Then then he added, “Besides, who’s got time for bad vibes anyway?”  Hence, the title of this piece. Catchy, eh? No? Okay.

 

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By this generation’s standards, Wyre is a bit of a cool kid. He has over 10K Instagram Followers; his pictures come with hash-tags like #InstaFresh, or #ShoeGame, or #FeelingMyself; he calls his peers ‘Fam’; and he introduces himself on camera as “It’s yo’ boy…” I went to that photo shoot for three reasons; One, Wyre is my boy, and boys always come through for boys; Two, I like the hassle ladies go through to appear perfect for photos. I like how they pose and the faces they make when cameras flash and how they brood when a Photographer is delaying with a shot; Three, the invitation text read “Beautiful ladies only”. So I asked Wyre if I could bring a plus one and he texted back, “Send me her picture first.” Ladies and gentlemen, this is where you scroll through your contact list and shit gets so real you decide to just text back, “You know what, I think I’ll just come by myself. Si that would be less baggage?”

 

 

I swung by town circa 11 a.m. and Wyre and his peoples picked me up in this bluish sexy Rav4 whose insides stank of pizza and burgers and Hugo Boss cologne and…you know, just rich people stuff. You know you’re doing something wrong in life when a guy you shared a room and broke bread with in first year is driving a Rav4 and you’re just there at the backseat, reeking of Vaseline jelly, staring outside the window and marveling at how tall Anniversary Towers is.

 

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[Quick Pause, Guys, Can we all just agree that this chic has nice legs, aye? Hehe.]

 

 

Before cameras began clicking, some light introductions were done and when Adam – the talkative chap who was introducing us – got to me, he said, “And, guys, this is Ian Duncan, he’s a very cool Writer.” I smiled, felt like a million bucks, felt like Donald Trump’s hair, and – for a second there – almost blurted out, “Oh, Staaaahp!” But then he added, “He’ll be manning the clothes for today” and I went “Great, watchman duty. Just perfect.” But Adam is a warm fellow; he’s those guys you will meet on the first day but feel like you have been boys all your life. He will engage you as you walk down University Way, and at some point he will ask you where you stay – just for shits and giggles – and you will say “Juja.”  Then he will let out this boisterous laughter, give you a certain look of sympathy – like that one we give those street kids who ask us for cash near Archives – and say, “Man, How do you survive in that place? It’s like a bloody desert down there.”  And you will restrain yourself from saying, “Well, seeing as we’re camels, we get by.” Hehe.

 

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I have a confession to make; I’m a boring guy. I’m not as funny or as cute in person as people think. People come here and read my shit then draw their own images of me in their minds. I’m that guy that minds his own business; I don’t talk to a lot of people, a lot of people don’t talk to me, and – as weird as this may sound – I like it that way. At events like these, I sit at some corner and look at people creepily and judge their hair styles and make snobby comments at their weaves and giggle at their walking styles and – occasionally – when some girl with a packed ass walks by, I just smile and say to myself, “Damn, Whoever said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach was a fool.”

 

 

This one time this model came to my station [I was entrusted with the very heavy responsibility of manning the clothes, you guys remember, right?] and started ransacking the sack of clothes, looking for something to wear. I was standing right there, she never said a word to me, just went about looking for that crop top and sweat-pant that she really wanted to take pictures [possibly for the ‘gram] in. Then when she couldn’t find it she looked around and asked, “Excuse me, who’s here? I’m looking for a pink crop top but I can’t find one.” Adam pointed at me and said, “Talk to him.” Then she gave me a cold hard stare – like she had just seen a friggin’ cyclop or something – and went, “But he’s not even talking to me.” I swear, I was a second away from grabbing her softly by the arm and saying, “But I was standing right here when you came. What, you thought I was just some fucking statue? Or you wanted me to bow down and say ‘Welcome, Princess. What can I get for you today?’ like those waitresses at Java? Maybe also massage your feet and kiss your palms in the process?”

 

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Also, I have a problem with men walking around bare-chested. I mean, fine, we get it, you have a six-pack, you have a ripped chest, you go to the gym and we don’t, yiddie yaddah, but just put some clothes on for crying out loud. This is a public place, not your bathroom.

 

 

I have met and interacted with a lot of young Entrepreneurs, but I have never met any other as driven as Dennis Wyre. The guys knows what he wants in life, he’s motivated, he pushes himself to the limits, he knows his shit, and – sometimes – he’s also full of shit. Hehe. Like sometime back he told me he was looking for another business to invest in. I asked, “But why do you need another business? The clothing line is already doing so well” and he said, “The average Millionaire has at least seven sources of income.” I texted him back three lines of those laughing emojis with tears spurting out of their eyes.

 

 

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But, in all respect, the photo shoot was a success. The ladies were a sight to watch [I mean, guys, look at those pictures though] and the gents – save for that walking bare chest thingy – deserve pats on their backs as well. My hats are tilted. Wyre also brought these two guys to make an after movie out of the photo shoot. Mimi, in all honesty, I thought those guys would do a whack ass job. No kidding. But then I was WhatsApp-ed that after movie the other day and I said to myself, “Shit, Khaligraph Jones should hit up these chaps to direct his next video.” [But, seriously though, Khaligraph really needs to stop shooting every damn video in Kayole.]

 

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I don’t know, maybe you guys will differ, maybe you will agree with me, but for what it’s worth, watch the VIDEO – it’ll take barely five minutes of your time – tell Wyre what you think, and while you’re at it, also mention you got that link from this blog so he knows I’m a bigwig in these streets. Hehe. Also, because I’m terribly lazy, I can’t post all the photos from the photo shoot here, so if you’re one of those men who get high on a lady’s smile, or you’re one of those mamis who go cuckoo over a guy’s abs, then just view the rest of the photos from HERE

 

 

Before I wrote this piece, I asked Wyre if it was OK to publish. He agreed, under one condition. Apparently I have a reputation of never writing anything positive about women here. So he asked me to be nice, that some of the ladies are sensitive and can easily catch mafeelings. Guys, you don’t think I was so hard, do you? No, Really, do you?

 

 

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VIEW FULL PHOTO SHOOT

WATCH AFTER MOVIE 

 

PHOTOS: COURTESY

LUPUS: A STORY ON RESILIENCE

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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

FOUR TYPES OF PEOPLE WHO NEED HELP BUT DON’T REALIZE IT

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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.

 

 

Gamblers

 

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

 

 Winston

 

” 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. “

THE SPORTPESA FESTIVAL

Meeting Muthoni

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“Hello. I’m Muthoni.”

 

“Hi. Ian Duncan. I don’t know if you were informed but…”

 

“Ooohh. You’re the Blogger? Yeah. Sorry I couldn’t see you earlier, I’ve just been so cramped up putting together this show and getting everybody on the right track, you know how it is.”

 

“Yeah, I noticed. You seemed so busy and stressed up I didn’t want to come bore you with small talk for fear of being punched in the nose.”

 

“Heheh. C’moooon.”

 

 

 

 

That was the first time I ever met and spoke to Muthoni The Drummer Queen. She was nice, chatty, welcoming, pleasant to engage, and with a smile that could swing open Hell’s Gate without even trying. That night as they’re dropping me off in town – on their way to an interview on The Trend – they [MDQ and her manager, Hillary Ng’ash ] are talking about something I can’t quite wrap my head around, mostly because I’m still trying to get over the fact that I’m in the same car as Muthoni freaking Drummer Queen! I’m only jilted back to reality when I hear her say, “Don’t write about that!” and I’m like, “Write about what? Your Manager’s driving? I mean, you guys auditioning for Fast and Furious 8 or something?” Heheh. Of course I didn’t say that out loud.

 

 

 

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People ask me why I like Muthoni and I say, “She’s nice.” Then they go, “C’mon, All celebrities are nice,” and I say, “Have you met DNG?”

 

 

 

 

Let me explain;

 

 

 

 

I have a friend, goes by Dennis Wyre, runs a kick-ass clothing line known as Good Vibes [because who’s got time for bad vibes anyway?] So a couple of weeks ago Wyre calls me and says, “Yo, I just received a D.M from DNG on Instagram. He wants me to dress him. Going to see him at his office tomorrow, wanna come along?” and I say, “Sure.” Next morning we’re at DNG’s premises by 11 a.m. Wyre calls him to say we’re at the gate and he tells him to just ring the bell and someone will open it for us. We’re ushered in by DNG’s lap-dog; a slightly brownish, medium-height fella dressed in official wear with shoes sharper than Ciru Muriuki’s tong’ue. He leads us to some seats under a shade just outside of the building and tells us to get comfortable, that DNG will be with us shortly. Thirty minutes later he comes back, says, “I’m sorry guys, DNG says he’s too busy he can’t see you now. But he says you should just leave the apparels with me and he’ll get back to you.” And, just like that, he grabs the package from the table and walks his groupie ass back to the office. Take note, DNG is the one who contacted Wyre; Wyre didn’t kiss his ass to dress him, he came to Wyre. The least he could have done is spare 30 seconds – even if he was meeting the bloody Pope – to see the guy, No?

 

 

 

 

So now, do you guys get why I like Muthoni? Because, unlike some celebrities we know, she understands that the world doesn’t revolve around her nose. That, at the end of the day, we all go back home and, while some of us may eat Chapo-Madondo as others take sirloin steak, we all go to the loo before bed and drop the same smelly stinky shit.

 

 

 

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She knows that only way you earn some else’s respect, is if you give it to them as well.

 

 

 

***

 

 

Main Event

 

 

 

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Anyway, Sportpesa came into our lives and stuck; like a bad habit. It refused to leave our minds and, instead, took a spot at the finest corners of our brains, made a nice comfy bed, and lay in it; still, unfazed. It corrupted our minds, gave us an easy way to quick cash, and we jumped at the opportunity with arms wide open. Right now, everybody I know is either already on Sportpesa or planning to the join. Some lose – and miserably at that – others win; all in a day’s work. From where I’m standing, Sportpesa may just be one of the biggest corporates around here in the next two years. When that time comes, remember I said it first, come back to this blog, read this post again, tell me how awesome I am, and – like Nairobi blondes – wait for me to reply, “I know.”

 

 

 

 

30th January 2016.

Time-Check: 12.00 p.m.

 

 

 

 

Sammie Andre [Photographer] and I are strolling into Nyayo Stadium for the Sportpesa Festival. After almost an hour of waiting and making endless calls, Nick Mutuma finally sends some nice chap at the gate to hand us our Media Passes. Instead of ‘Photographer’, Sammie Andre’s Pass is labeled ‘Blogger.’ They have written my name as ‘Alan Dancan’ instead of ‘Ian Duncan’ on mine. I don’t know how one would even confuse the two, and we’re feeling like shoving knives in someone’s ass by now, but there are cops with guns here. So we keep our cool, and we stroll into the venue with our heads held high and our Passes dangling proudly from our necks, like we’re from the New York freaking Times or some shit, here to shut the party down.

 

 

 

 

We take a quick tour around the stadium before the festival begins. A multitude of games are lined up at the other end of the stadium, we shoot some Paintball while at it and I hit Bull’s Eye twice out of three shots. Makes me think about switching careers, what do you guys think of me as an Assassin for Hire? Picture me strolling around town in the middle of the day, dressed in all black, a long trench-coat, gloves, and cool black shades, carrying my sniper gun in a long case; never smiling, never saying jack. Si I can fetch a killing? But, in service to my country, there are some people I would be willing to put a bullet between their eyes for free; people like Politicians. 100% Discount. On the house.

 

 

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The setting is exquisite, done to perfection. The stage is huge and magnificently set; the DJ is playing some Young Thug song where he’s just shouting ‘Lifestyle’ and then the rest of the words become gibberish. The VVIP arena looks like some place where characters from the Bible meet in heaven to take stir-fried chicken with Chapos and trade gossip about their Master. “He’s such a darling, did you hear he parted the Red Sea for Moses the other day,” I imagine Angel Gabriel saying to the gathering. “Yeah. And he dropped some manna for his starving people also,” another Angel would quip. “Lakini you people don’t know him well, he tried to make my Father chop off my head. And the old bugger was going to do it, had it not been for that poor sheep stuck in the thickets,” that would be Isaac. Then I imagine them taking selfies and posting on Instagram with one million hash tags.

 

 

 

 

Time-Check: 5 p.m.

 

 

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H_art the Band takes to the stage, clad in their everyday old school vintage attire [which, for the life of me, I will just never get] and, boy, are these guys energetic. Whatever they smoke, they need to share it with Nonini because this brother’s performance is just downright boring. No stage presence, no crowd interaction whatsoever. If he hadn’t called Chege when he did, he would have been booed off that stage. He was this close. Wangechi is still way too young for the big stage. She kept running out of breath and rapping inaudible things. I have always said Wangechi was over-rated, she has a long way to go. Shikow FemiOne, on the other hand, is a screamer, needs to go slow on the mic lest we start calling her the Female Meek Mill. And King Kaka, the next time you get off stage without performing Promised Land, I’m scrubbing your name off my Top 3 list. And, guys, just in case you’re wondering, No, Octopizzo is not on that list. Neither is Juliani.

 

 

 

 

[Also, before you guys get your knickers in a twist, I feel I need to say at this point that this is a general review of the performances as I remember them, in no specific order. Sawa?]

 

 

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There’s a song by Fena Gitu that gets me every damn time. I danced to it at Jameson Live and again at the Sportpesa Festival. She’s praising her ideal African Man in it, and the bridge of the track is an afro-fuse rendition of that song we used to sing when we were kids, “Nampenda mpenda [Nani?], Nampenda mpenda [Nani?], Kijana Mmoja [Nani?], Kijana Mmoja [Nani?]” And it’s just the most beautiful song I have heard in a long time, besides Mercy Masika’s ‘Mwema’.

 

 

 

 

Abbas Kubaff can still wreck the mic, any day! Ninja never lost it. What I don’t understand is why he performed in that tuxedo suit he wore when he came in while others changed. Oh, and who the hell was that white mami who sang the Toklezea chorus? One time she shook her ass with so much vigor I thought we were going to be treated to an episode of ‘White Girls Gone Crazy’. Khaligraph Jones can actually rap ‘I Am King’ that fast on stage. Also, now I understand why Juliani said, “Apart from gym, rap tu ndio weh hudo” Khaligraph looks like he could break your arm just by looking at it and thinking about it.

 

 

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Because I couldn’t be around to see Sauti Sol and Redsan perform, my highlights of the evening were Kagwe Mungai and MDQ performances. They have this new song which they performed like some sort of a back and forth role play; like Kagwe would say something while Muthoni was just standing there, looking at him. Then when he was done, she would rap something and it would be Kagwe’s turn to just stand there, like a statue. That was among the only performances that ended with cheers and applause from the audience.

 

 

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Then Kagwe ended his set and left Muthoni on stage for hers. Now, personally, I can’t dance for shit. I couldn’t dance if my life depended on it. You could put a gun to my head and tell me the dougie was the only way to set myself free and I still wouldn’t dance. It’s one of those gifts I always blame The Good Ole’ Man Above for not bestowing upon my feeble self. I mean, do you ever watch a move on Sakata and just ask yourself, “How’d they do that?” Dancers are cool folk; A Dancer doesn’t even have to fight you for a girl. He just has to break into ‘Now watch me Whip’ and I guarantee you, that girl will be his. So I have utmost admiration for people who can dance. Especially if the people in question are wearing 3-inch boots and a dress that looks like what Rihanna would wear to some award show.

 

 

 

 

I told you guys how much Muthoni can dance, and I told you guys about her drums. Now, they say a picture speaks a thousand words. Sasa if I leave a couple of pictures here, si that will be two-thousand words? And I can just stop talking already, donge?

 

 

 

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What maybe I haven’t told you guys yet, is that Muthoni also Produced the Sportpesa Festival. She was in-charge of who performed after whom and at what time. She organized the festival in a flowing manner. Such that; let’s say Wyre has a collabo with Nonini, then Wyre would come to the stage, perform two or three of his solo tracks, then his collabo with Nonini would be the last song on his set and Nonini would come on during his verse. At the end of the song, Wyre would get off stage and Nonini would do his set. And it would continue like that. I don’t know if you guys get what I’m trying to say here? The production was marvelous, to say the least. Muthoni made sure every Artist was available before their time so the festival ran smoothly without any hitches.

 

 

Also, and picture this guys, artists were picked up from their residences by taxis hired by the production team [Muthoni’s production team] and dropped off at the nearby Kenol Petrol Station from where they would be driven to the stadium in…wait for it…Limos. I mean, I have never wanted to be a Celebrity but for a ride in a Limo, I’d kill anybody for that. Once at the stadium, the Artists would then be paraded at the blue carpet for a barrage of photos – with tall gorgeous models holding onto their arms – from Sammie Andre and crew, after which they would then be directed to the Media Lounge for short interviews with the various available media outfits – including Clouds T.V from Tanzania – then taken to the VVIP Arena where they were treated like gods visiting our humble land. If you will take anything from this piece, let it be this; Muthoni is a top of the range Events Organizer. I have never been to her Blankets N’ Wine gigs [where’d they go by the way] but if she can do all this at a festival she’s only Producing, imagine what she can do at her own event. Ma’, bring back Blankets N’ Wine, and we want Limos for the media too. Hehe.

 

 

After her performance, I tried chasing her backstage for a couple of questions to no avail; stupid questions, really. Like, What goes into your mind before a performance? Have you ever been booed off the stage before? Did you cry in the shower or under the pillow? How do you manage to do all this and still keep your cool during a performance? Do knickers get thrown at female artists too? Have you ever had a crazy stalker who liked your Instagram pictures from 369 weeks ago? Does the old man approve of this hairstyle? Heheh. Okay, I just thought of that last one now.

 

 

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***

 

 

A.O.B

 

 

Two last things; One, that thing Muthoni said in the car – Don’t write about that – why do people do that? Why do people think Writers are snitches? That we put on our blogs everything we hear? Free Advice, Writers are like Teenagers; you tell them not to do something, and that’s exactly what we’ll do. So when you start bantering about something and then tell us not to write about it, that’s what we’ll write about. At least I will.

 

 

Two, I’m a Writer. Not a Blogger. There’s a clear difference between the two that I really don’t want to get into now because I’m past my Word Count. I just let it go because, well, it was Muthoni The Drama, er, Drummer Queen. Hehe.

 

 

Photo Credits: Sammie Andre Photography

CLEANING CLOSETS AND CROSSING BRIDGES

2016

 

The entire Omondi Were family has travelled back home to spend the upcoming New Year celebrations with the old chaps during. My big brother, Austin, had to go earlier on because he was told his Simba [man cave]was crumbling. And my elder sister, well, I don’t know if she just missed the old guards or she finally found an answer to that one question Mum keeps asking, “When are you getting married?”

 

 

So the whole family is in some remote village – in Siaya County, where Wi-Fi is yet to be invented – by now except yours truly. You know, sometimes I picture them gathered around the table for dinner; Mum going round monitoring the quantity of food on everyone’s plate and smacking whoever’s plate is overflowing, Dad digging in silence, with the T.V remote by his side.  Hates Mboga, that grumpy old man. One time it was just the two of us home so I cooked Sukuma Wiki. When I served, he gave me that look of [and read this next part with a Jamie Fox voice], “The hell is this shit? You tryna kill me boy?”

 

 

Anyway, I decided to stick around this time because I was curious as to how Nairobi drinks during the festive season; I wanted to see how Nairobi sleeps during Christmas; I wanted to smell what Nairobi shits during Boxing Day; and I wanted to suck in the air Nairobi breathes during the New Year.

 

 

So I’m currently alone in the digs. Which basically means I’m free to do as I so please: I could spend the whole day watching ‘How To Get Away With Murder’; I could go to the loo, take one long ass dump, leave the bloody toilet seat up and not spray the air freshener [because who doesn’t love the smell of their own shit?]; I could whip up a quick meal, dine for hours, and do the dishes three days later; I could got to the neighbourhood bar, take one for the road, and come back deep into the night without worrying about being hassled over my whereabouts; or I could just carry home a bottle of Whiskey, drink  myself silly and black out on the floor in a pool of my own vomit. Not because that’s how I roll, but because I can!

 

 

A couple of nights ago I’m at the bar, alone, with a beer on my table, WhatsApp-ing with a friend of mine. Goes by Suzzy, the friend of mine, but I just call her Sue. Has little bit of a touch to it, doesn’t it? I mean, C’mon, Sue. Doesn’t it just make you want to rip her clothes off and smell her knickers? Hehe.

 

 

Okay, I digressed.

 

 

Sue tells me she was in Nakuru with her family during Christmas, having the time of her life. I scoff. Then she asks where I was and I say, you know, just out and about. She asks if at least I was with the family and I respond in the negative. “Naah, My family is twisted”, I say. She asks why I feel the need to isolate myself and I say I’m not. “I’m fine, and that’s all that matters.” Besides, I’m getting sick of this back and forth by now, why do ladies do that? Try to make mountain hills out of mole hills?

 

 

Then, check this, she texts back “You’re not. Maybe in mind, but not at heart.”

 

 

Let me say this for the last time before we cross over into 2016, I hate people who give me reality checks while I’m getting hammered. I hate people who think they know more about me than I do. Who the fuck y’all think you are? Uncle Phil? So I switch off my phone, put it into my breast pocket and down the last gulp of my beer. Then I let out a showy belch, just for shits and giggles, as I walk out of the bar.

 

 

But that night as I stagger home, earphones plugged to my ears listening to Drake’s ‘Hold On, We’re Going Home’, two things hit me: One, Guys, never listen to Drake under the influence. Two, I want my Mummy.

 

 

Let me explain;

 

 

See, sometime mid this year Auma Nyar Keya [that’s what I call My Mum, keep up] was in town. She calls me one Wednesday morning and goes, “You up for some Kuku Choma?” and I say, “Shit, Is the Pope Catholic?” That evening I grab some faded jeans from my closet, pair it up with one of my many red t-shirts and – with my hair looking all rugged – I show up for the Kuku Choma. Austin is in his usual official wear, because, you know, he’s into politics and Boston Legal. My eldest sister is pretty much decently dressed too, I mean, you don’t get a job at Oxford looking like Lil’ Kim.

 

 

Nyar Keya takes one glance and says, “Boy, you disappoint me. You look like Michael in Jackson Five. Hata a simple haircut yawa? Psht, ebu get off my face!”

 

 

The following morning I wake up to a long ass text message from the old man saying if I wanted to be a Thug in this town, it was up to me. That he would only fulfill his obligation of paying my school fee, then he would be done with my stubborn ass. All this, just because I didn’t comb my hair and I wore a faded trouser; all because of a fucking faded trouser and bad hair!

 

 

Then I remembered that time after high school when Nyar Kenya told me blankly – to my face – that I wouldn’t be shit and I sulked in my room. I didn’t talk much that day, I called the boys in the evening and we went and drank our asses silly at the local. Then we laughed and made jokes as we staggered back to the digs. But deep inside, those two incidences remained in my heart, etched in steel.

 

 

So maybe Sue was right. Maybe I’m not fine; Maybe I walk around smiling and pretending to be funny but with a heavy heart within; Maybe I didn’t go back home – not because I was curious as to how Nairobi drinks and sleeps or what Nairobi shits but – because I feel like a big disappointment; Maybe I didn’t go back home because I wanted to have the house all to myself – not to watch reruns of ‘How To Get Away With Murder’ but – to sulk and cry in the shower and soak in my disappointment then bitch over it here; Maybe I didn’t go back home because I haven’t changed my wardrobe yet and my hair is still as hirsute as ever and I didn’t want to give the old guards heartaches with the festive season.

 

 

There are things a man can recover from; like being dumped by your girlfriend of ten years, or cutting your fingers accidentally while chopping onions in the kitchen. What a man can never recover from is his own mother looking him in the eye and saying, “You’ll never amount to shit” or his old man texting him saying, “Go on boy, be a thug.”

 

 

***

 

 

I’ll be honest with you guys, I haven’t had a good year. Of con unprofessional Editors and sleepless nights that don’t pay off and accrued debts, I have seen it all this year. I see folks in these streets counting all the things they achieved in 2015 and I’m just here like, “Well, hell, I saw B.o.B bitches!”

 

 

But where I come from, we were taught to never sulk at the negatives, but to learn from them. So here are a few things and people that capped 2015 for me:

 

 

Jameson Party Live and Shiko

 

I’m an events person; I love live performances. I’m hardly moved by just bumpy beats and studio-manufactured vocals blaring on my stereo. I live for an Artist’s creativity, blow me off my socks then I’ll give you a second thought.

 

 

Two days to the Jameson Party Live and I get a call from one Hillary Ngash. Calls me to a meeting at TRM and hands me a complimentary ticket. Just like that! Well, the catch was I do a ka-small review after the event but once he put that ticket in my palm, I wasn’t really listening to all the yiddie yadda he was saying.

 

 

And I felt every inch of proud in there, as B.o.B strolled onto the stage with the Kenyan Flag on his back.

 

 

Here’s to Shiko, the nice waitress that made me feel like my shit stank of Vanilla. How is Nyeri, Jaber?

 

 

Oyunga Pala Referral and The Standard, Crazy Monday, Publication

 

I had slept late the previous night – doing only God knows what – so I was pretty much still asleep when that call came through. I picked it up half conscious and the voice on the other end said, “Hello, this is Tony Malesi, Crazy Monday Editor, am I speaking to Ian Duncan?” I jumped off bed and pinched my nose at “Crazy Monday Editor”.

 

 

But here’s the thing, it wasn’t even being asked to submit a piece for Crazy Monday that shook me. Here’s the part where I almost ran out of breath; the guy says he read something from my blog and got impressed so, naturally, I ask how he even ran across my blog and he says…wait for it…

 

 

“Oyunga Pala referred me there. He’s the one who actually sent me the link to that particular article and asked what I thought about it. You know Oyunga Pala, right?”

 

 

Sir, I’m going to forget like you didn’t just ask me if I know Oyunga Pala. Any Writer who doesn’t know Oyunga bloody Pala is in the wrong line of work, believe that.

 

 

So, to Oyunga, if you’re somewhere around here – lurking in the shadows – or if this reaches you from the comfort of your man cave – with a glass of some smooth Whiskey in hand – Ero Kamano Baba.

 

 

And to Tony Malesi, Asante Sana for the opportunity, Sir. Here’s to more publications in 2016, aye?

 

 

Maina Kageni Trending Topic and Kick Ass Shoes

 

That article Crazy Monday published? Yeah, turns out it was the topic of discussion that morning on Classic 105 with Maina and King’ang’i. Austin woke me up that morning saying, “Ondiek, either Ian Duncan the Safari Rally driver is now a Writer or Maina Kageni just mentioned your name.”

 

 

The ladies calling in to contribute that morning were saying all sorts of mean stuff and calling me all sorts of mean names but I didn’t really give a rat’s crack. For once I felt like a socialite listening to Gossip segments on radio after leaking her nude pictures and saying, “Fuck y’all, I’mma do me!”

 

 

Later on that day my sister put aside her work and said, “You know what, let’s get out of here guys.” So we went down to Gikomba [Yes, we shop at Gikomba, who the fuck keeps burning that place down?] and she bought me these kick ass shoes that I just can’t seem to keep off my feet. Austin got Topman Brogues, lucky bastard.

 

 

Ero Kamano Nyakamachiegni. Just less Nigerian movies in 2016, Sawa?

 

 

JKUAT BSc. I.T Class

 

Guys, blunt talk, the School of I.T already squandered your money. Stop waiting on a trip that will never come, move on.

 

 

You guys are weird, but in a fun way. Keep being you: Peter, Lenovo – Keep puffing that smoke; Rash – Keep perfecting those beats; Idris – Keep Modelling, we didn’t cross borders to come cheer you bagging that Mr. JKUAT 2015 crown for nothing; Ken, Johnny – Keep being the Mafisi you are; Roy – I want to stay slow down on the booze but I know you won’t so keep downing them bottles Sir; Eric Dogo – Bidii kwa hizo chuma Boss; Ladies- Keep…uhmm…being pretty? Hehe.

 

 

To Katana, those article ideas you gave me this year that I was too lazy to write, I will write them this coming year. Thank you for always pointing out my bullshit Boss. Thank you for not being one of those people who skim through two or three paragraphs of my blog posts and then text me, “Nice article”. Because in this business, you need people who have the balls to tell you your article was shit and that you need to go back to the drawing board. Compliments don’t shape a Writer.

 

 

Now guys, seeing as I may or may not be with you guys this coming year, keep kicking ass.

 

 

You, The Readers

 

To the rest of you, ladies and gentlemen, who have read my nonsense all year long, I salute you. Because without you guys, I would be the failure my mum thought I would be. So here’s a big THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart.

 

 

To those who follow this Blog via mail and to my Top Commenters – kina Brio Muiruri – Muchos Gracias.

 

 

Chacha and The Classifieds Website

 

You guys remember Chacha, right? From the previous post, the one about the bar? The loud-drinker with an ego bigger than a Luo man’s pride?

 

 

So Chacha calls me sometime last month and goes, “Boss, I’m developing this Classifieds website. I want you to be the Admin, you know, with your I.T background and all. 70% shares go to me, 30% to you.”

 

 

Something tells me he’s drinking, because that’s the only time ideas like these hit him. They’re usually gone with the wind by the time he gets sober. So I laugh, then I ask, “Where are you drinking bana? How’d you not invite a brother though?”

 

 

I hear him chuckle on the other end like some kid who just got caught stealing Candy before he says, “Niko mbali Boss, Next time.”

 

 

I’m like, “Whatever.”

 

Then last week – out of the blues – the chump calls me and says, “Boss, the website is ready, just putting some final touches to it. Get your shit together.”

 

 

To my peoples at the School of Human Resource, a classifieds website is something like OLX, simply put. It’s an online shop; Sellers post their goods, Buyers survey the goods and purchase whatever tickles their fancy. But this one is sort of just for you Campus folk. Gents, Michael Kors watches are available; Ladies, we have MAC Giambattista Valli Lipsticks just for you [Okay, Even I don’t know what that shit is but it sounded fancy so…whatever]. We don’t even want you to buy anything yet. We just want you to drop by, look around, and tell us what you think. Sawa? Good.

 

 

Go to: UzaPal  

 

 

Just one thing, Chacha, we need to renegotiate those percentages Baba. 30% yawa. Hehe.

 

 

Folks, It’s been real. See you on the other side.

 

Happy New Year. Blessed.

CONVERSATIONS FROM THE BAR

juggy

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

Dero: Aaah, wapi? Toa evidence.

 

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

 

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

 

Rube: Oh, Gerarahia. Peleka wivu mbali.

 

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

 

Chacha: [Loud laughter] What mami?

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Rube: Hahahah. Pombe sio supu Kijana!

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Roy: Now that’s a man with taste.

 

Me: Ahem! [Boastful cough]

 

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

 

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

 

Me: [Ignoring]

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Rube: Oh, you know who.

 

Me: Shut up.

 

Dero: Ahaaaa. Iaaaann. Heheheh.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

[We all laugh]

 

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

 

[We all laugh, again. This time louder]

 

Roy: Hapo ulijipiga noma solo wewe Nyasi. Hahahahah.

 

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

 

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

 

Chacha: Maze Writer joh.

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

To be Continued….Next Year.

ON JAMESON PARTY LIVE AND MUTHONI THE DRUMMER QUEEN

Jamie

 

 

You know the problem with telling an African man an event begins at 7 p.m.? Because then an African man leaves the house at 7 p.m. And have you seen an African man rushing to a place he doesn’t even know? It’s a mess; it’s like trying to drive through Bangkok.

 

 

I made it to the Jameson Party Live with B.o.B at the Ngong Racecourse this past Saturday night. And I made a friend; a waitress in the name of Shiko [as per her name tag]. We became friends immediately I arrived; she saw me walk in and she came at me with a bottle of Absolut Vodka in one hand and another of Jameson Whiskey on the other. Then she had a string of a gazillion other bottles of booze – some I can’t even pronounce- and shot glasses hooked to her waist. She asked if I wanted some vodka, I asked how much they go for, she said Ksh. 250 a shot and I said, “Sorry Ma’, I’m just the son of a high school teacher. Not Chris Kirubi.” Then she let out a warm laugh, and I complimented her teeth. Folks, do you know how beautiful a girl has got to be for you to compliment – not her smile, not her face, but – her teeth?

 

 

Anyway, we spoke for a little while before I finally gave in and took that shot. Then she moved along to other customers. But not before she touched my arm and said, “I’ll be back.” Did you get that ladies and gentlemen? She freaking touched my arm! *Sings ‘Twende Nyumbani’*

 

 

Fena Gitu got on stage at about 10:45 p.m. and gave the audience their money’s worth. She performed Brikicho, African King and Jabulani before introducing Xtatic on stage for the remix. Look here, Fena Gitu has the two utmost things I desire in a woman; She can dress well, and she sings like hell. But what I love most about Fena Gitu is that everything about her is African; from the way she sings to the way she dresses. Even her smile is African. You can hate a woman who cooks like she’s been living in a forest and having leaves for dinner all her life. You can hate a woman who walks like a dwarfed baboon. But you just can’t hate a woman with an African smile.

 

 

Blinky Bill came next, and he brought out Abbas Kubaff later on in his set. Quick question; How many people actually know who Blinky Bill is? You’d be surprised. Blinky Bill came on stage that night and some lady behind me asked this clown next to him, “Sasa huyu ndio nani?” And that’s not even the catch; listen to the guy’s response: “Sijui hata. Labda some Comedian.” Have you ever wished they allowed people to carry machetes to events? I mean, someone just called Blinky Bill a comedian right behind me? What, I’m just supposed to take that lying down? Call Mejja a comedian; hell, call the entire ‘Kansoul’ comedians, but Blinky Bill? Oh, Hell No! Kenyan DJs, see what happens when you play too much ‘Dorobucci’ and less Kenyan music?

 

 

There are very few things in this world I can bet my life on. One of them is that no woman is loyal; don’t ever trust a woman. The second is that Blinky Bill is a stroke of musical genius. Don’t ask me, just attend a Just A Band concert. If you’re not swept off your feet, put laxatives in my coffee.

 

 

***

 

MDQ

 

Muthoni The Drummer Queen was then called to the stage at about 11:30 p.m. And this is actually the highlight of this whole piece, forget all that jabber up there. I just wanted you to know I met a cute girl. And I saw B.o.B. Heheh.

 

 

Her crew came to the stage first, and set up her equipment – including a video presentation for the audience – before she finally showed up, dressed in a short nice colorful dress and black boots.  MDQ took her time with her set, she came prepared, and she made it clear from the onset she wasn’t just here to sing and rap and be on her way; she was here to perform; she was here to give a show.

 

 

Here’s the thing with our local artists; most of them just come on stage, lip sync to a couple of their club bangers, bother us with baseless chants of “Kila mtu mikono hapa” and then when you think the show is just beginning, they’re already on their way. There are two things in the Music Industry: there is just being an ordinary Artist [and any idiot with money for studio expenses can do that], and then there’s being a Performer. Kenya has a great deal of Artists [And I mean a lot, MCSK statistics puts the number of new Artists at 15000 per day] What Kenya lacks are Performers.

 

 

Who’s ever been to an Avril live performance here? I mean, no offence, but what do you guys see in that chic anyway? Okay, Yes, she has a backside capable of flying a man halfway across the continent just to seek her hand in marriage but what else? Chic couldn’t sing if her life depended on it. Now have you listened to Dela , Atemi, Wendy Kimani, Sage, Nessa and Kalahi? Then you get what I’m talking about.  Take King Kaka for instance, ninja just jumped and hopped from one part of the stage to another, dropped a couple of bars, called himself the Only King [expectedly] and called it a wrap. Here’s a free piece of advice from your biggest fan, Sir, don’t get into that ring with Khaligraph Jones!

 

 

 

From the events I have attended so far, there are three guys I can label Performers in Kenya right now; Blinky Bill, Fena Gitu, and then there’s the bowl creativity that is Muthoni The Drummer Queen. Let me explain;

 

 

See, MDQ performed stunts I haven’t seen any other Artist in Kenya even attempt. In between her performances she’d take slight pauses and play for the audience this V.O.K video/soundtrack presentation on the projected screen behind her. I know it sounds like something simple – probably because I didn’t put it as well as I had hoped I would- but take this to the bank, that shit puts her on a totally different pedestal from all these other Local Artists you see running around in borrowed cars. And then sometime she dropped her mic, picked up the drumstick and pounded those drums so energetically I almost felt my ears block. Let me be honest with you, I have never fully understood why she calls herself ‘Drummer Queen’. I thought it was just some cool name she picked up growing up and decided to keep it, I mean, that’s what almost every artist says about their stage names right? But NO! ‘Drummer Queen’ really does stand for something; and it means she can hit those things till the podium shakes; hell, the whole of Ngong Racecorse shook. I swear I’m not exaggerating anything here. Let me put it in a way you will understand, and I already said this before, you haven’t seen shit in this lifetime [or the next] until you’ve watched MDQ pound a set of five drums. Or do the ‘Dougie’. If there’s one thing I never thought I’d see in this lifetime, it’s MDQ dancing. We already know she can Sing, she can Rap [even better than some of her male counterparts, Octopizzo sijataja majina hapa] and she can put together a kick ass event…but dance? Hell, if you told me that a week ago I’d have smacked you across the face and sent pieces of your chopped fingers to your old man’s doorstep. But she danced, and in a dress.  I’ll let that image go around your mind for a second now.

 

 

MDQ Jamie

 

 

“The Kenyan music industry has a long way to go as far as the rest of the continent is concerned, and we’re going to lead that pack if we have to. We’re not just trying to make hit songs here; we’re not just trying to sing and rap and do top of the range collabos; we’re not even concerned with these petty debates of Who Is King and Who Is Queen on Twitter; we’re trying to create a revolution; A legacy. We’re trying to create a Brand the whole world can resonate with. Muthoni The Drummer Queen is not just a Kenyan Artist, she’s a Worldwide Artist that just happens to live in Kenya,” says Hillary Ngash Kamau, MDQ’s Manager.

 

 

So what makes a Good Manager, I ask.

 

 

“A lot of things. But most importantly, you have to understand your Artist. You both have to be on the same page. Think of it as completing each other’s sentences,” says the good ole’ scruffy-moustached chap, raising a bottle of Coke to his lips.

 

 

Shiko comes back with her goodies just as MDQ is shouting out her stylists and designers and dancers [who are now holding flags inscribed with the a well-done picture of a crown and labelled ‘MDQ’. Now that is what I call royalty] and preparing ready to get off the stage. I’m just about left with my fare back home now, so to drive her off the topic of booze, I ask;

 

 

So, Jaber, when you look at Muthoni The Drummer Queen, what do you see?

 

 

She pauses for a second, gives me that look of “Are you serious right now?” and then finally says.

 

 

Well, a crazy hairstyle for one.

 

 

I laugh. “C’mon, give me something I can write home without being fired. Or I’m not buying another shot from you,” I declare, with a tone of finality. That shakes her, and for a second there she seems like she’s about to leave. But then she takes out a bottle of Jameson Whiskey from beside her, fills the shot glass, gives it to me to hold and then says;

 

 

Uhmmm. Wait, she’s the one of Blankets N’ Wine, sindio? And she was also on the Top 40 Under 40 Women in Kenya a couple or so months ago, sindio? Napenda that she doesn’t just do music, but that she’s also a Businesswoman. Wasanii wanafaa kulearn from that, when they get old music won’t be paying their bills anymore. Na si amepiga hizo drums kwa nguvu sana walai? Kwani yeye ni Mluhya? [Hehe, I don’t think so, Shiko] Oh, and I want that dress she’s wearing. Ona vile inatoa thighs zake supuu. Haya, sasa nipatie hiyo 250.

 

 

Uhmmm, you know what, si you just give me your number then I’ll Mpesa you when I get home, Sindio?

 

 

Moral Lesson; Never dare a waitress.