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!!!
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