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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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



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


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

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

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

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

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




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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



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

[All Pictures courtesy]



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shughulikia those dishes. Chap Chap!”


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

Scrub this floor then.”


“Effie is almost halfway done doing that.”


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



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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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


“Kanywet? Who is Kanywet?”


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



[Lord forgive me for placing this image here]


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





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

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


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

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

big booty

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

Ess Food

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be blessed.



This is a Guest Post by Carey Baraka. You guys don’t know Carey, so I’ll tell you a little about him.

You know those guys that you went to high school with and were your best friends but then they disappeared after high school only to resurface eons later? Yeah. That’s not even close to it.

Carey is a guy I went to school with. High School. We could have been friends by virtue of having a couple mutual buddies but I don’t think we even talked to each other much. On most occasions, we just said our Hi’s and Bye’s. When it stretched, we argued over football. He’s an avid Arsenal fan…to the hoots. Which, for the cool guy persona he portrays, still baffles me. Who in their right cohorts still supports Arsenal at this day and age? What loser? Okay, that was just a retaliatory attack for a few shots he’s going to throw my way towards the end of this guest post. You’ll see. Arsenal is alright.

So, where was I? Yeah, football and banter. Carey was just a class behind me. Language Guru, used to bag awards for leading in English whenever results were released. He was lucky we weren’t in the same class though, I woulda whopped his corny ass. [Lanes, kid. Lanes. Hehe!]

Anyway, so Carey and I only began talking about a month ago when we realized we had something in common; Writing; That deep-seeded love for the pen. He has this crazy style of writing, he bullshits 90% of the time and will keep your mind going in circles with random wit and simple sarcasm. You will enjoy his writing, if you have a sense of humor somewhere deep within you. Believe that. 


Dear Form Four leaver,

Earlier this week, your college admission status was made available to you. You have finally been admitted to that dream course of you always wanted. Alternatively, you may also have been admitted to that course you never dreamed you would do (Yeah, it happens, don’t fret, you aren’t the first one.) You can almost call yourself a college student. Almost here; meaning not yet – till September. Unless, of course, you sneaked into that university that only offers business. I hear they got in the other week. Still, you deserve a pat on your back. And a beer or two to accompany that pat. In fact, I should change the addressee of this letter…

Dear Almost College Student,

Please note that the key word there is ‘almost’. Don’t go bragging about how you’re in college; how you are at Moi, or KU, or the like. You haven’t been admitted yet, have you? Foot on the brake pedal, fellas. Unless you got into that University that only offers Business. Then you can confidently and proudly proclaim yourself a student of Business University. For the rest, keep your lips shut. Don’t go bragging about how you are a student at The University of Nairobi. You’re not, yet. You are just an Almost Student of the University of Nairobi…

Which brings me to the actual addressee of this letter…

Dear Almost Student of The University of Nairobi,

Allow me to offer my hearty congratulations to you on your admission into this great institution of learning. All your four years of hard work, or four weeks of massive exam irregularities, have been rightfully rewarded. You are now an ‘almost’ student of the only University in Kenya, nay, Africa, with the article ‘The’ in its official title.  The University of Nairobi. The ‘The’ should be italicized, capitalized and boldified (if that’s even a word). The University. That is how you introduce it when someone asks you which your (almost) institution of learning is. Better yet, you can just refer to it as “The.” Be arrogant. They’ll know what you’re talking about.

That’s brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. You remember being taught to always be humble? You remember being told repeatedly how Pride comes before a fall? You remember where you were told some bullshit story about how a hare was proud and was beaten by the chameleon in some insignificant race? You do? Good. It’s time to toss those teachings out the window. Here at The University, we are batshit arrogant. We are proud, vain, conceited, narcissistic, vainglorious, self-important, bigheaded and inflated. Like what I did there. You see, a normal person would use the word proud, and be happy with himself for conveying his intended meaning across. A normal person. Well, here’s the problem, we are not normal, that has never been our style. To us, it makes better sense to use a million words, even at the risk of ambiguity, to refer to a single action. We are The University. The. Aye, Babu Owino?


The owner of this blog, the blog upon which you are reading this, is a student at JKUAT. Wait, why do you have a look akin to one suffering constipation on your face? What’s that? You don’t know what JKUAT is? Oh, sorry, Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology. No, it doesn’t have the article “The” in its official label. Yes, yes, it’s the one found somewhere in Thika. Or Juja. Or Kiambu. Ian, where is your university found? (Loud whisper: Ian is the owner of this blog) Let’s just say that this JKUAT place is somewhere on the outskirts of Nairobi. So, some time ago, students JKUAT unveiled a laptop they had allegedly assembled. And I use the word allegedly because I am vexed, annoyed, angry, irritated, displeased, cross, upset (see what I did there?) that those bastards at Juja Boys (that’s an endearing term for JKUAT) developed a laptop before The University. My dear almost comrade, you will find that an almost JKUAT student will repeatedly attempt to sneak this laptop story into any conversation you’ll have henceforth. You are to nip this act of flagrant indiscipline in the bud by politely reminding said JKUAT student that we had assembled a car (Nyayo 1 anyone?) before their institution existed. Slight exaggeration there, but they wouldn’t know, would they? They’re from Juja, after all. And you are almost from The University. The only institution in Kenya where, as Ian so politely put it, students have KEBS stamps inked on their asses.

You must also be aware by now that POTUS will be in Kenya for some time, and part of his schedule involves him giving an address at Kenyatta University. I would like to take this chance to inform you that for current and future KU students, this will be the zenith of their entire university life. They will talk about his visit for the next couple of hundred years, because nothing of a similar nature has and will ever happen to them. You are to listen patiently at their gloating, then completely ignore everything they just said and ask them about the weather. Or something equally mundane. Crush their tiny egos to smithereens. Better yet, ask them how many of their alumni have ever won the Nobel Prize. Or whether any of their alumni has ever been a Prime Minister in Kenya. Or whether their alumni occupy more than half the cabinet in Kenya. By jove, I think their most decorated alumni ever will be Vera Sidika, if she ever finishes her degree. But it’s none of my business.

Please note that I have gone soft on KU only because my mother learnt there. (Hi mummy!)

Dear Future Comrade, you must also know a bit about Moi University. They go on strike a lot, around once a fortnight. Tsk tsk. Rowdy bastards. Moi University is in Eldoret. Wait, it is in Nakuru. Where exactly is Moi University? Oh, one more thing about Moi, my ex learns there. This is totally personal information, but there are no secrets between comrades, eyy?

There are other tertiary institutions in Kenya. We don’t really talk about them.

Young one, I have imparted all the knowledge you need to know for now. The rest will be availed to you when you join up in September. Otherwise, cheers!


Student at The University.

PS: When you are sharing this article with your pals at KU, give them a dictionary too, okay?

PS2: Ian, I swear this is not a waste of time. This is valuable academic information that will change a nation…Ah, crap, who am I kidding? This is bullshit.

PS3: You should stop reading now.

PS4: FIFA on PS4 is quite good.

PS5: Okay, I’ll stop now.

You can follow him on his Blog, Kenyan Philosopher-



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

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

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

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

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

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


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

So, tomorrow then.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I want you to know this about me;

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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


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

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




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

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

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

Him: Hello…

Me: Hello Sir.

Him: I saw you walk in…

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

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

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

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

Me: [Confused] I’m Sorry?

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, That’s a threat!


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The year is 2013, a cold evening in the month of August. I’m just coming back to the digs from a long boring Programming class, in which the lecturer kept blabbering on and on about stuff like ‘#include’ ‘printf’ and ‘scanf’. [But you probably didn’t need to know about all that]


So I walk in and I find my roommate with a friend of his, listening to Saliva Vic’s rants on 91.5 Hits F.M.


My roommate is Dennis Wyre, and he introduces his chum to me as Dilna Ayce…Rapper Dilna Ayce. And we get acquainted. And we chat like long-lost buddies of yore. Then he leaves right before dusk.


 Dennis Wyre

Dilna A.

Dilna Ayce

A few days later he’s back again. And the three of us are talking about Kenyan Showbiz. Wyre is declaring his profuse admiration for Camp Mulla while I can’t stop chattering about just why Rabbit is the best artist Kenya will ever have [sorry, E-Sir]. Then in the middle of the discussion Wyre looks to me and says;


“By the way, we are thinking of starting our own company; Dilna and I. Unaonaje?”


And I look at him like he just rose from the dead. And I look at Dilna, he’s just sitting there. Calm as always, nodding his head in agreement at Wyre’s last statement, and looking straight at me in anticipation for my response.


And I almost burst out laughing but I don’t want to seem rude so I just smile. I mean, these guys are barely even into their 20’s, one is in his first year in campus and the other should be joining the following semester and they’re already thinking of starting their own company? The hell do they think they are, Mark Zuckerberg?


So, naturally, I ask what their supposed company will be doing and they explain it to me in slow crisp details. I’m not really following; they’re saying something about social media blah blah blah…marketing blah blah blah… But the sounds of their voices and the excited bulging in the eyes paint the whole picture in bold: These are boys with a dream; These are boys on a mission to chase their dream; These are boys on a mission to succeed.


A few months later, their Facebook page goes up and voila, a bouncing baby Dil-Ray INC. is born; alive and kicking.


So now, champs, due to PUBLIC DEMAND, I bring you the Founders and C.E.Os of Dil-Ray INC.- the Mohawk-prone certified all-round jack of all trades Dennis Wyre and the fun-loving rapper-cum-businessman-cum-sneaker-maniac Dilna Ayce [I’m serious, he loves his sneakers way too much, don’t step on them!].



In their first ever online interview, the lads open up to you like never before and tell you just why they’re the guys to watch.


Q: Introductions first, gentlemen, tell us a little bit about yourselves. Who is Dennis Wyre? Who is Dilna Ayce?

Dennis Wyre [as D.W, from here onwards]:  Dennis Wyre is 20 years of age, founder of Dil-Ray Inc., a social media consultant, an Entrepreneur and a student at Jomo Kenyatta University of Agriculture and Technology pursuing a Bachelors’ degree in Business Information Technology.

Dilna Ayce [as D.A, from here onwards]:  As a co-founder of Dil-Ray Inc., I am a student at JKUAT pursuing a Bachelors’ degree in Business Information Technology (BBIT). I have majored in music as a recording and performing artist. My other interests include acting, dancing, graphic design. You can call me Mr. Entrepreneur too.



Q: I have heard guys ask whether Dennis ‘Wyre’ and ‘Dilna Ayce’ are even your real names. Care to elaborate?

D.W: Dennis Wyre is indeed my real and government name just that ‘Wyre’ is spelt as Wairey on my Legal Documents.

D.A:  Dilna Ayce is a name that came up through originality and uniqueness. It has a meaning though which is D.I.L.N.A.  (Do It Like Never Again) to be Ayce (The Best).

Q: Uh-huh. Okay. Now the world of today is filled with backstabbers and ‘water melon’ kind of friends. You can never know who to trust and who to cut off.  So, tell us, how and when exactly did you two meet and when did you decide that you could fully trust each other and do business together?

D.A: We actually get this question asked a lot. I met Wyre at some acting audition back in the days. I mentioned earlier that I am an actor. Just as we were socializing we realized we have a lot in common, that’s how we became good friends and the rest is history. If one is a REAL friend then trust would never be something to worry about.

D.W: Sometimes in life, you have to take risks and trust different people along the way. That is exactly what I did and I haven’t regretted any part of it to date.


Q: When was Dil-Ray Inc. officially established? How much capital did it take to put the company on its feet and how did you even come up with the name?

D.W: Dil-Ray Inc. was born on the 1st of November 2013, through the creation of our fan page on Facebook. We were naive then and didn’t know exactly what we were going to do. We have since grown exponentially over the December festivities, and decided to major in Social Media Marketing and the Clothing line. We registered earlier in 2014 and are now proud to say that DilRay is 100% legal and ready to do business with everyone.

D.A: As we all know starting out comes with its own challenges but we thank the Almighty for this far He has brought us. On the capital part I won’t put it to the public but whoever wants to really know can snap me on my snap chat (Username: DilnaAyce )



Q5: But still, what does the name Dil-Ray Inc. mean and where did it come from?

D.W: The name Dil-Ray Inc. is a basically just a combination of both our names Dilna & Wyre, as follows Dil – Dilna, Ray – Wyre, Inc. -Incorporation.

D.A: We settled for this name as originality is always a priority for us.

Q6: And to those who don’t exactly know you yet but would like to have a piece of you in the near future, how would you describe your line of business to them? By that I mean, what exactly does Dil-Ray Inc. deal in/do and where/how can an interested party reach you guys?

D.A: Dil-Ray Inc. is a clothing label offering you the latest trends. Our shop is located along Biashara Street, Yala Towers, First Floor, shop No.105.

D.W: Dil-Ray Inc. can also handle all your social media services for companies, brands and artists – which includes branding – as well as events, which involves social media marketing.

You can reach us through any of our social media platforms:

INSTAGRAM & TWITTER: @dilray_inc




PHONE: 0701856644

If you want the quickest feedback be sure to give us a call, text or WhatsApp on 0701856644, and we’ll be glad to do business with you.


Q: And how has the journey been so far, since you founded the company? Tell us some of the events, persons or parties you’ve worked with.

D.W: It’s humbling how within a short span of time you can move from looking up to guys to working with them and eventually being really good friends. We’ve worked with META, which is the powerhouse behind the controversial Daylight Festival Series. We have also, in the past, worked with BEAT INTERNATIONAL who are best known for JUMPOFF and ALL FOR LOVE festivals. And we’ve also been doing some bits of social media marketing for popular events such as “THE HAKUNA MATATA FESTIVAL” and Skyluxx Lounge’s “ART OF LUXURY”

D.A: We also do the social media marketing for corporates such as “The Jockey Club Of Kenya.” This is just to mention a few because the list is endless.

Q: Being that both of you are still students pursuing your degrees at the university level, how do you manage to juggle between your studies and staying relevant in your industry? Or do you have separate people managing things for you when you’re cramped up with exams and all that school stuff?

D.W. Dil-Ray Inc. is obviously not a two man team, we thank God for our support team who always got our back (#TeamDILRAY). Balancing between schoolwork and handling Dil-Ray Inc. matters calls for a lot of planning to ensure that everything runs smoothly even when we are overwhelmed by the studies or are out of town. But I have to admit that it is one of the challenges we are dealing with, but luckily we are two.

D.A.  It also calls for creation of more time and very good time management. Like for me my day starts at 6am.



Q: Do your folks and family know and support what you guys do?

D.A: My Parents are always my consultants hence they know and are always behind our backs. Like I remember there was a time mom had my song as her ringtone. Even when we go for TV or Radio interviews they are always tuned. You know what I’m saying? I thank God each and every day for such a family.

D.W: My mum is my biggest fan, and has always been behind my back. My brother is in Dubai but still buys our products and Reps the brand in that side of the world. My sister and her young kid were among the first to buy the newly launched hoodies, so I am very glad to have a family which supports me. Every member of the family is a proud owner of at least one Dil-Ray Inc. product.



Q: What motivates you guys? What drove you into doing what you do so well and, if any, who do you look upto? Generally speaking.

D.A: I look up to my dad. I admire how he does his work and despite any challenges he overcomes them, anytime I need any assistance I usually run to him. As young as we are I was also motivated by Willow Smith. She started mainstream music at a very young age and yet she succeeded. It’s never too early to start chasing dreams!

D.W: I look up to Mark Zuckerberg (Facebook founder and CEO) because of the various business decisions he has made in his life and simply because of the fact that he is a young self-made billionaire. Locally I used to look up to Camp Mulla back in the day as they successfully put Kenya on the international map. Currently I admire Tanzania’s Diamond Platinumz for being arguably the best Musician from Africa, and if you think I’m nuts then let’s just wait and see the results of that at the end of the year.

Q: What is your proudest achievement as Dil-Ray Inc. and the highlight of your lives since you started out this hustle?

D.W: I can’t simply point out one single achievement that I would call my greatest so far but Thanks to God we have our share of notable achievements so far such as a TV Interview we did last year which opened some new opportunities for us. I also remember H.E President Uhuru Kenyatta attending one of the events we were marketing and although we didn’t get to personally talk to him, he still showed up. That’s kind of a big deal, Yes?


D.A: Dil-Ray Inc. has made me meet a lot of people, hence connecting which is key in business.

Q: So besides schooling and running your outfit, anything else you guys do?

D.A: Music, Music and More Music. Practicing dance moves. Drawing which includes Graphics design, Any IT related stuff I’m an addict. The list is endless; you can never get me idle at any one given moment. Follow me on Instagram @DilnaAyce and you will get to see the other side of me.

D.W: I am currently doing my Internship at Kenya Revenue Authority but besides that I’m also doing some research and looking to venture into other businesses soon enough. I’m also learning some bits of programming on the side.

Q: And suppose you guys were not doing all this, what would you be doing? Who would you be?

D.W: I would probably be a footballer, I used to love soccer so much growing up plus I got the skills to match the love.


D.A: I would be an athlete on the same track with Usain Bolt. I’m a fast guy and I love fitness. My mom too was an athlete, so I guess I inherited some of her genes.



Q: Ha-ha, Soccer and Athletics? Really guys? [LOL] If you could relive the last 5 years of your lives what would you differently?

D.W: I can’t think of a single thing I would change, maybe just start Dil-Ray Inc. immediately after high school instead of the following year.

D.A: I also can’t think of any particular thing at the moment.

Q: Now I hate to ask this question, but I have to…at least for the sake of the many single ladies reading this out there, any special opposite sexes in your lives? And please don’t mention your mothers and sisters here.

D.W: At the moment I am focusing on chasing my dreams and making myself a better person, which is also a more sophisticated way of saying I’m single.

D.A: Let’s just cut to the chase, I’m single.


Q: Now to my favorite question. Do you consider yourselves successful? And if so, how?

D.W: Ha-ha, no, not even close. Until the day I have complete freedom to do whatever I want to for the rest of my life and still have food on my table is when I’ll consider myself successful.

D.A: I couldn’t have put it any better.


Q: What are your greatest strengths and weaknesses?

D.W: My greatest weakness would have to be the fact that I hate hard work, which inclines me more towards working smart instead. My greatest strength would have to my entrepreneurial instincts which have helped me in coming up with ideas of making money out of the weirdest or strangest of situations I find myself in.


D.A: My greatest strength is definitely creativity especially in artistic environments. I’m also a perfectionist hence rarely associate with errors. My weakness is anger; I tend to get angry very fast but have learnt to control it through guidance and counselling.

Q: What should we expect from Dil-Ray Inc. in the near future?

D.W: We just came from our photo-shoot, unleashing the new set of products for the year 2015! We also have a surprise coming for you pretty soon so you better keep it locked to all our platforms as it involves everyone.

D.A: Expect the unexpected because the future is bright.

Q: From pioneering the evolution of social media marketing in Kenya to running your own clothing line, any words of wisdom to the youngsters coming up in the game?

D.W: All I can say to the ones reading this is “Originality and Persistence” I would be lying if I said it has been an easy road for us with Dil-Ray Inc., we have had difficult moments indeed but have just been persistent with what we do. Also remember to put God in all you are doing.


D.A: Yes he said it. God first and focus on the goal with a lot of patience.

Q: Any people out there you would love to shout out?

D.A.: Shout out to all the people who believed in Dil-Ray Inc. from family, friends, customers… just everyone!

D.W: I would first of all like to take this moment to appreciate anyone out there who has ever bought anything from Dil-Ray Inc. or has ever done business with us together with the thousands who are following us online across all platforms, I thank you for all the love shown to us thus far.

Shout to all the haters’ outchea too!

90Z_9011  Dil A

Q: Hahahah! Lastly where can guys follow you online? Your personal accounts.

D.A: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Snapchat: @DilnaAyce.

D.W: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram & Snapchat: @DennisWyre.

Meanwhile, some of our local celebrities who’ve also grabbed their Dil-Ray apparels:






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


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


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


So, ladies and gentlemen, AGNES. By AUSTIN ARNOLD


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep her, this Agnes.

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



From my previous article, I can now fully say I comprehend the whole concept behind the cliché, Ain’t no wrath like that of a woman scorned. The comment section on my blog as well as my WhatsApp chat list were spewed with bile, insults, hatred and all mannerisms of odium. One particular mami even says she wants to see my shaved man-hood now. All in a day’s work. But I digress.

Moving On. This will be my shortest piece ever. And I will not repeat a word so read between the lines and listen carefully.

This post is mainly for JKUAT- Main Campus students, and anyone else who loves a warm quiet evening of fun, poetry, good music, and watching of a bevy of beauties walking down the runway – strutting their goods left right and center. Yes, JKUAT has beauties too omera. Juja Boys ni wewe!


MC Teller, in conjunction with Soundtrick Events, presents you with, The Invasion. Featuring Spoken Word maestro, Teardrops, ‘Kamua Leo’ hitmaker Kidis and a surprise guest that I’m not going to tell you now. Okay, mainly because not even I know who he/she will be yet. But then again if I did then it wouldn’t be a surprise, Aye?

What’s more, if you think you can sing or rap too (just not like Octopizzo please), you will get to take the stage too and show us what you’re made of. ‘Us’ here being the noisy judgmental critics in the audience most of whom are always scared shitless and wouldn’t get in front of a crowd if their lives depended on it.

I’m a big fan of events myself; Real events, not teenage douchebaggery like Masaku 7’s et cetera. Especially live events. They have this eerie way of separating the chaff from the real deal; Auto-tune and studio tricks from real talent. I once went to an Octopizzo concert and almost demanded my money back yet it was free. [See what I did there? No? Okay.]

So come Thursday – this Thursday, 11th June – find your way to the JKUAT- Main Campus Assembly Hall and enjoy. I will be at the front row seats. If you can spot me, maybe I can score you a few drinks and foodstuffs that will be passed around to the VIPs. I said maybe, stop texting me Davy.

Check poster for details and early bird ticket purchases.