my sisters
Women can be stupid when they choose to. In search of Mr Right, they easily let go of the proverbial bird in hand to grasp at the imaginary one. Often, they struggle to hold a none existing one, and let the real one fly away sadly.
I love ladies and I have nothing against them or their sense of judgement. At times they leave me wondering why they are so blind to the obvious even if the only thing between them and reality is plain country air.
To illustrate my point, I borrow from Aesop:
A Serpent in the course of its wanderings came into an armourer’s shop. As he glided over the floor he felt his skin pricked by a file lying there. In a rage he turned round upon it and tried to dart his fangs into it; but he could do no harm to heavy iron and had soon to give over his wrath.
It is useless attacking the insensible.
Recently, a very close friend of mine confirmed that the love she thought existed between her and her sweetheart only existed in her head. After going out for years, it faded away like darkness at first light. Slowly but surely.
Not wanting to accept, the fairer sex resorted to strong arm tactics. From stalking to threatening. These did not work with our dear brother. As a last resort, she thought that going out with his best friend would hurt him so bad that he would eventually come back home. She couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Ladies, such tactics do not work. You cannot bruise a man’s ego by going out with his best friend after he has already had his cake and eaten it. Granted, fists may be thrown, but be sure that they will have made up before the next round of beers.
In Mexican soaps, egos may be bruised, but such plots don’t even work in Nollywood films, so sisters, just cut the crap.
The only person who will be bruised will be you. Your reputation will be taken through hell and left there. And the fires will be fanned by your closest friends.
If the love ends, just walk away. Retaliation has never been part of the package. We are senseless. We do not feel emotional hurt. The more you abuse me for dumping you the more sympathy I will get from your friends, and the further you will slump into a depression.
The noble thing to do at such situations is to accept the inevitable and move on. If he dumped you and you believe you are that great, then probably he was not the right choice. Any man who has a gem of a woman and lets her slip away must be the dumbest bloke in the village.
In this day and time, we do appreciate the difficulties in finding worthy women. I once knew one who was always after something: my throat or my wallet. At first I thought that she was just kinky, but it turned out she was a downright psycho. That is a story for another day.
Ladies, don’t get too attached to us unless you love football, think that beer breath is sexy, and you don’t mind me inviting my buddies over on Sunday afternoon when we are meant to have our quality time. If you don’t have the above yet, learn them. These are the only things standing between you and happiness. And of course once in a while the seducing pretty faced Medusa called Njeri.
Remember; never love what you can’t have in totality, or you will lose not only that, but your belief in mankind too.
FFing mother FFers.
Whenever I think of FFing mother FFers, be assured that there is a black mzungu on my mind.
I don’t mean a nigger, hell I have never even seen one outside my palm top TV. Rest assured, I am not bragging.
Compared to my neighbours 32’’ plasma, my 14’’ SQNY resembles an unsophisticated palm top. Yes the spelling is right. Upon purchase I was made to understand that SQNY is a sister company of SONY.
I have no reason to doubt that shifty shifter down in Luthuli Avenue. And the picture clarity is as crystal as my neighbour’s plasma.
Back to these FFing mother FFers. What is so cool about faking an accent? I don’t know.
Now that I have begun the bachelor life, circumstances have forced me to know the names of mama mboga. So there I was watching her chop the spinach at the speed of light (I swear there was no contact between the deformed knife that resembled an over used sickle and the board, but the spinach managed to be cut) when a black mzungu came buy.
Ears pierced, jeans down to his thighs.
“Nafungae mbawwga ya twennie bawwb.”
Those who know me have already guessed what I did. Yes, I laughed. Hard and rapturous laughter. Not because whatever he said was funnier than a cows fart, or that internet forward of a dog getting angry at its own leg, no.
I laughed because I couldn’t understand what kind of hallucinogen that dear black mzungu had taken.
I mean who in his right mind would talk to a mama mboga with a forced American accent?
At first I thought it was a hidden camera show like the Redykyulass episode where the piss was scared off misbehaving men fertilising our Nairobi streets with urea. But after a while the cameras did not magically appear so I figured it wasn’t a show.
So this is what comes to my mind when I think of FFing mother FFers:
Men who fake New York accents while buying matumbo- ugali in down town Nairobi.
Chicks who tell everyone they only wear designer but think that Prada and Louis Vuitton are names of cocktails, Fundi Frank is an honest tailor, and Ojay Hakim is an NBA star.
Men and women who have refused to age gracefully. Its one thing to like Nonini, but seeing a graying man at Tacos grinding against his grand- daughter’s bum against the Banjuka beat is not cool.
FFing mother FFers!!!
I don’t mean a nigger, hell I have never even seen one outside my palm top TV. Rest assured, I am not bragging.
Compared to my neighbours 32’’ plasma, my 14’’ SQNY resembles an unsophisticated palm top. Yes the spelling is right. Upon purchase I was made to understand that SQNY is a sister company of SONY.
I have no reason to doubt that shifty shifter down in Luthuli Avenue. And the picture clarity is as crystal as my neighbour’s plasma.
Back to these FFing mother FFers. What is so cool about faking an accent? I don’t know.
Now that I have begun the bachelor life, circumstances have forced me to know the names of mama mboga. So there I was watching her chop the spinach at the speed of light (I swear there was no contact between the deformed knife that resembled an over used sickle and the board, but the spinach managed to be cut) when a black mzungu came buy.
Ears pierced, jeans down to his thighs.
“Nafungae mbawwga ya twennie bawwb.”
Those who know me have already guessed what I did. Yes, I laughed. Hard and rapturous laughter. Not because whatever he said was funnier than a cows fart, or that internet forward of a dog getting angry at its own leg, no.
I laughed because I couldn’t understand what kind of hallucinogen that dear black mzungu had taken.
I mean who in his right mind would talk to a mama mboga with a forced American accent?
At first I thought it was a hidden camera show like the Redykyulass episode where the piss was scared off misbehaving men fertilising our Nairobi streets with urea. But after a while the cameras did not magically appear so I figured it wasn’t a show.
So this is what comes to my mind when I think of FFing mother FFers:
Men who fake New York accents while buying matumbo- ugali in down town Nairobi.
Chicks who tell everyone they only wear designer but think that Prada and Louis Vuitton are names of cocktails, Fundi Frank is an honest tailor, and Ojay Hakim is an NBA star.
Men and women who have refused to age gracefully. Its one thing to like Nonini, but seeing a graying man at Tacos grinding against his grand- daughter’s bum against the Banjuka beat is not cool.
FFing mother FFers!!!
so called women....
I have given up on trying to understand women.
In other words I will not try to understand my feelings for them. Instead I will classify them into two: love or hate. Friend or foe. None of that ‘he- is- like- my- brother’ kind of thing. How often do you see a man introduce a girl as an almost my sister friend…? Never happens…and whenever it does, be sure there is a love triangle in the whole mix.
So please, girls, don’t give us mixed signals. Don’t say you like me then ask me if your boyfriend is cool enough. That is way off. I mean, even if the other guy might be a Brad Pitt, I will tell you he is as uncouth as a Nordic Viking.
A friend of mine (honestly!) was recently led on by this model of a chick. They had been going for coffee for months on end. Even almost getting passionate. Then they organized a night out- it was clear, after the night out, to the dudes place…and after that I don’t know.
Woe unto him. The chick invited his ex- boyfriend ati to floss to him.
All I can say is that history repeated itself. And the poor lad went home alone and cold.
The funny thing is that the chick tells him nothing happened with her and the ex. Of course nothing happened! Nothing saintly anyway!!
So please, don’t give us coded messages…give it straight to us. We will appreciate the hard truth with a solid face and a melted heart.
In other words I will not try to understand my feelings for them. Instead I will classify them into two: love or hate. Friend or foe. None of that ‘he- is- like- my- brother’ kind of thing. How often do you see a man introduce a girl as an almost my sister friend…? Never happens…and whenever it does, be sure there is a love triangle in the whole mix.
So please, girls, don’t give us mixed signals. Don’t say you like me then ask me if your boyfriend is cool enough. That is way off. I mean, even if the other guy might be a Brad Pitt, I will tell you he is as uncouth as a Nordic Viking.
A friend of mine (honestly!) was recently led on by this model of a chick. They had been going for coffee for months on end. Even almost getting passionate. Then they organized a night out- it was clear, after the night out, to the dudes place…and after that I don’t know.
Woe unto him. The chick invited his ex- boyfriend ati to floss to him.
All I can say is that history repeated itself. And the poor lad went home alone and cold.
The funny thing is that the chick tells him nothing happened with her and the ex. Of course nothing happened! Nothing saintly anyway!!
So please, don’t give us coded messages…give it straight to us. We will appreciate the hard truth with a solid face and a melted heart.
20 things that make me hate travelling...
1: The mother with four children who booked only one seat.
2: The guy next to you who can’t stop coughing.
3: The old man who eats everything offered by hawkers only to unknowingly (or knowingly) terrorize you with silencers, a.k.a undercover farts.
4: The new mother in the front seat who removes her baby’s poop then throws it out the window. Physics: some crap is destined to come your way.
5: The singing pastor who begins after everyone else in the bus is asleep.
6: The Lunje who travels with his pet cockerel; it crows every hour.
7: The politician: he probably understands the pros and cons of politics and shouts them all aloud. Despite the fact that the nominations in question, are for the primary school sub- locational assistant secretary’s post.
8: The dude who falls asleep and drools all over your shoulder.
9: The armpit dude with serious BO issues, and the chick with too much perfume.
10: The dude who sits as if he is carrying the African continent between his legs.
11: The chick next to you who behaves as if you are a leper; each time your shirt touches her jacket she flinches and sneers at you.
12: The drunkard who stops the bus driver every 30 minutes to use the bushes.
13: The lovers; thinking that the back seat is as isolated as Guantanamo Bay.
14: The newspaper guy: he borrows your paper and goes away with your magazine pullout.
15: The socks guy; he removes his shoes, shuts the window and spreads out his toes in total disregard of the fumes from his feet.
16: The smooth operator; looks around the bus to identify single ladies…then stalks them at the first stop over.
17: The carjacker; acting out his childhood Rambo fantasy using live bullets on humans.
18: The careless driver and the rude tout; they don’t give a s**t if your brains and guts spill all over the tarmac.
19: The cop who will let an overloaded death trap pass him by for a few notes.
20: Finally, you; the passenger who will willingly get into an already full matatu.
Feel free to add to the list.
WATOTO HIGH CLASS...
I can’t get these cerelac babies.
Recently at my sister’s place, I had the misfortune of watching her trying to force feed her six year old son. Not that the meal was made of bitter herbs and unleavened bread a.k.a ugali na kunde- chemsha.
He was refusing to eat chips and chicken…yes I too, dear reader, expressed shock at this kind of behaviour.
When growing up, chips was only eaten after your end year exams and you had managed a top three position in class. Only then would mother consider buying you a packet.
She would never give you the 7 bob for the purchase…after all a kid doesn’t need money. What for?
Back to the feeding. Now this small boy had totally refused the delicacy. So his mother sweet talked him into ordering what he felt like eating.
He finally cracked and ordered a pizza and coke! His supper was brought and he ate. Probably a habit he picked from watching a documentary on ‘Super Pipo,’ his idol.
A.k.a Phillipo Inzaghi.
Any way, we are going soft on parenting. I could never dream of refusing to eat what was offered. Even if it was cassava and warm water.
If I ever pulled such a stunt, I am sure the plate would have been passed on to one of my many siblings.
My sisters and brother would have split the catch between them and devoured the contents without flinching and I would have slept hungry.
Not that am ranting, but it seems we have lost our grip on our kids. Households are being ruled by manner less kids who go around calling their mothers by their first names and kicking maids all over the place.
That was another no-no in my days. Anyone of your parents’ age was aunty or uncle so and so. So we ended up having uncle Maina, aunty Achieng’ and cousin Kiprono…
But at least we had respect, or didn’t we?
I see parents in supermarkets bargaining with kids on which kind of Weetabix to buy.
If he is told no, the brat throws a tantrum and leaves a trail of broken bottles and burst carton boxes behind him. All this while hurling explicits at the parent.
I swear, those days, a total stranger would tear your ear away for simply failing to answer to your mum's call.
In order to grow up, a kid needs a steady hand to guide him into maturity. If the supporting arm will be fragile, then his growth, physical, mental and emotional will be unstable.
A bad seed grows into a diseased plant. Lets do away with this NGO- ban- canning stuff (this should not be interpreted as child battering) and raise our kids right. Lest we breed our very own Evan Ramseys, Michael Carneals, Eric Harris’s, Dylan Klebolds, James Sheets and Seung- Hui Chos.
Recently at my sister’s place, I had the misfortune of watching her trying to force feed her six year old son. Not that the meal was made of bitter herbs and unleavened bread a.k.a ugali na kunde- chemsha.
He was refusing to eat chips and chicken…yes I too, dear reader, expressed shock at this kind of behaviour.
When growing up, chips was only eaten after your end year exams and you had managed a top three position in class. Only then would mother consider buying you a packet.
She would never give you the 7 bob for the purchase…after all a kid doesn’t need money. What for?
Back to the feeding. Now this small boy had totally refused the delicacy. So his mother sweet talked him into ordering what he felt like eating.
He finally cracked and ordered a pizza and coke! His supper was brought and he ate. Probably a habit he picked from watching a documentary on ‘Super Pipo,’ his idol.
A.k.a Phillipo Inzaghi.
Any way, we are going soft on parenting. I could never dream of refusing to eat what was offered. Even if it was cassava and warm water.
If I ever pulled such a stunt, I am sure the plate would have been passed on to one of my many siblings.
My sisters and brother would have split the catch between them and devoured the contents without flinching and I would have slept hungry.
Not that am ranting, but it seems we have lost our grip on our kids. Households are being ruled by manner less kids who go around calling their mothers by their first names and kicking maids all over the place.
That was another no-no in my days. Anyone of your parents’ age was aunty or uncle so and so. So we ended up having uncle Maina, aunty Achieng’ and cousin Kiprono…
But at least we had respect, or didn’t we?
I see parents in supermarkets bargaining with kids on which kind of Weetabix to buy.
If he is told no, the brat throws a tantrum and leaves a trail of broken bottles and burst carton boxes behind him. All this while hurling explicits at the parent.
I swear, those days, a total stranger would tear your ear away for simply failing to answer to your mum's call.
In order to grow up, a kid needs a steady hand to guide him into maturity. If the supporting arm will be fragile, then his growth, physical, mental and emotional will be unstable.
A bad seed grows into a diseased plant. Lets do away with this NGO- ban- canning stuff (this should not be interpreted as child battering) and raise our kids right. Lest we breed our very own Evan Ramseys, Michael Carneals, Eric Harris’s, Dylan Klebolds, James Sheets and Seung- Hui Chos.
POLITICS...
Politics is not my thing.
In fact it bores me stiff, but the nature of my job dictates that I know something of it. Not just of the Railas, Kalonzos, PNUs or TipTips.
A lot of things. About Obama and Hillary’s campaigns, about Giuliani’s pro- abortion and pro- gay policies and how he stands a chance on being Americas next president. Then I imagine him receiving a gay activists state visit…men clad in leather pants so tight that a mere fart can burst their seams and shapeless women in oversized Levi jeans feeling bad about their breasts and wishing their chests were as flat Thatcher’s jokes.. On how the maximum amount of cash a single contributor can donate (in hard cash) to a candidate in the US is 4300 $.
While here, guys cough up a million for a plate of rice, nyama and a glass of fanta. How in Pakistan an exilee can be welcomed back only to later on defy her host. How a former cricket captain can emerge from hiding to lead a student protest march. How Europeans charged with child trafficking in remote Tchad can be rescued by Super Sarko and chartered to Brussels. While dogs are set on blacks who have swam to the Canary Islands through shark infested waters hoping for a better life.
In fact it bores me stiff, but the nature of my job dictates that I know something of it. Not just of the Railas, Kalonzos, PNUs or TipTips.
A lot of things. About Obama and Hillary’s campaigns, about Giuliani’s pro- abortion and pro- gay policies and how he stands a chance on being Americas next president. Then I imagine him receiving a gay activists state visit…men clad in leather pants so tight that a mere fart can burst their seams and shapeless women in oversized Levi jeans feeling bad about their breasts and wishing their chests were as flat Thatcher’s jokes.. On how the maximum amount of cash a single contributor can donate (in hard cash) to a candidate in the US is 4300 $.
While here, guys cough up a million for a plate of rice, nyama and a glass of fanta. How in Pakistan an exilee can be welcomed back only to later on defy her host. How a former cricket captain can emerge from hiding to lead a student protest march. How Europeans charged with child trafficking in remote Tchad can be rescued by Super Sarko and chartered to Brussels. While dogs are set on blacks who have swam to the Canary Islands through shark infested waters hoping for a better life.
Yes I must fit this into my big head. And there is more…Khartoum is ignoring Juba…those coffee- drinking, turban- wearing, east- facing, light skinned ninjas want nothing to do with Salva and his band of merry men. Yet children are losing the fight to live. Can we blame them? I mean what will you live for if all in front of you is dust, oil pipelines heading north and the Janja Weed? You’d rather meet your maker and hope he answers some of your questions on justice than wake up to this sight.
By the way, I have never understood what kind of devil rises from hell each five years to get into the heads of Kenyans.
People are hacking each other…the season of hate is finally here…on which side are you?
WELCOME BACK
Is there anyone who knows how the prodigal son felt when he came back home?
Well, I do, or at least I claim to know.
Last Sunday, was my first time in church in six years. Six years punctuated by sin and bouts of holiness. Though in between I attended mass on Christmas, weddings and funerals, but that doesn’t count- so they say.
So on Sunday the, 11th I was convinced half heartedly to attend mass. The kind of service that is beamed all over the nation on national TV. I thought church was a subdued affair but I was shocked otherwise.
First, none of the songs being sang connected with me, and the large projector displaying the lyrics did not help. I was totally clueless!
There was none of the “mungu yu mwema” stuff, in stead there was a full band and choir. Singing in a peculiar twang’.
I am naturally not one to get surprised by things. But the praise and worship session blew me away! The spirit literally came down and carried the worshippers away. Leaving them speaking in a language that didn’t sound legal to me!
Then came the pastor, a white old man from Trinidad who looked like Dr. Yusuf Dawood.
His accent only amused me further and each time he paused I silently whispered ‘yah mon!’ and more than once I actually blurted out ‘irie!’ This though, greatly angered my host, who expected manna to fall down anytime into her handbag a reward for getting me to church.
Since I am of generous spirit, the offering bit wasn’t unbearable to me. But I again had to go against my upbringing. Offering to me always constituted of coins, but no one around me had given anything short of a note with three zeros. Humbly, I did the same.
At the end of the service, I managed to recite the first three lines of the lords prayer and mumbled to the end! The guy to my right didn’t say a word. The first time he opened his mouth I was hit by the smell of stale vodka. His wife glared at him and he didn’t dare defy her.
Later, as I walked to my local, I felt as if I had been away for ages. So I sat down with my cold beer and smiled.
Nothing defines the feeling of a cold tusker and newly acquired blessings. That my friends, is the prodigal son effect!!
Well, I do, or at least I claim to know.
Last Sunday, was my first time in church in six years. Six years punctuated by sin and bouts of holiness. Though in between I attended mass on Christmas, weddings and funerals, but that doesn’t count- so they say.
So on Sunday the, 11th I was convinced half heartedly to attend mass. The kind of service that is beamed all over the nation on national TV. I thought church was a subdued affair but I was shocked otherwise.
First, none of the songs being sang connected with me, and the large projector displaying the lyrics did not help. I was totally clueless!
There was none of the “mungu yu mwema” stuff, in stead there was a full band and choir. Singing in a peculiar twang’.
I am naturally not one to get surprised by things. But the praise and worship session blew me away! The spirit literally came down and carried the worshippers away. Leaving them speaking in a language that didn’t sound legal to me!
Then came the pastor, a white old man from Trinidad who looked like Dr. Yusuf Dawood.
His accent only amused me further and each time he paused I silently whispered ‘yah mon!’ and more than once I actually blurted out ‘irie!’ This though, greatly angered my host, who expected manna to fall down anytime into her handbag a reward for getting me to church.
Since I am of generous spirit, the offering bit wasn’t unbearable to me. But I again had to go against my upbringing. Offering to me always constituted of coins, but no one around me had given anything short of a note with three zeros. Humbly, I did the same.
At the end of the service, I managed to recite the first three lines of the lords prayer and mumbled to the end! The guy to my right didn’t say a word. The first time he opened his mouth I was hit by the smell of stale vodka. His wife glared at him and he didn’t dare defy her.
Later, as I walked to my local, I felt as if I had been away for ages. So I sat down with my cold beer and smiled.
Nothing defines the feeling of a cold tusker and newly acquired blessings. That my friends, is the prodigal son effect!!
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