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!!!

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.