Mashujaa

To the heroes and heroines

Who get no plaques.

Who in their small ways

And endless battles

Fight their own villains.

To the heroes and heroines

Who on their sleeves wear their hearts

Who demand neither staues

Nor favours

Who trudge on and mind their brothers

And put first their sisters

And defend their sons and daughters.

To the heroes and heroines

Who ride the waves

Who keep raising their heads

Their hands

Their voices

To speak up

And act right.

To the heroes and heroines

Who know that they are kings and queens

Leading princes and princesses.

To the faceless heroes and heroines

With no marching bands

With no chase cars

No ceremonial swords

Or pretentious smiles

Who dig deep each dawn

To stay true to themselves till dusk.

To the faceless heroes and heroines

Who work the works

Without waiting for pats on their backs.

Moments

A heartbeat

A smile

A fluttering stomach

And an epic night.

A missed glance

A limp handshake

A loose hug

A lost connection.

Memories past

A tattered present

Sight set on a new dawn.

Fast fading dusk

Lost light

Hope.

Runs.

Eternal.

Nirvana

Its all about the simple things

That make you believe you have wings

Wings to soar past all things

Gory and pretentious

And transport you to a new age

A new page

Of poetry transformed into a reality

Of less tears

Less fears

More belief and satisfaction

To the birth of a new nation

Of hope

Ambition

Little destruction…

A time of love and devotion

Unborn civil movements

Proposing all of society’s improvements

Compassionate governments

Not obsessed with undersea cables

Selfless leaders

Defined not by sycophancy

Unperverted men of god

Who see boys as protectors

And not commodities

For short term pleasures

A simpler time when we all looked within

And not over the burden on our shoulders

Towards a haunting past

Playing tag with our futures

Ignoring the urgency of our present

And erasing all effort

Towards our individual nirvana.

The simple things

That broke open our faces with smiles

Filled our souls with little joys

Teared our eyes with laughter

Simple.

Things.

Simpler.

Times

Very cool

I dreamt last night

Not of the always imminent grenade threat
Nor of the seemingly disappearing Nairobi heat
Not of the never ending party scenes
Nor of the muffled December screams
But of something much more neat
Something cool
Something provoking
I dreamt of an old man and his never-ending rant
Something very cool

In my dream there were no sounds
No words
No syllables
Just looks and nods
And occasional winks
That all ended in questions

Questions without answers 

Answers that were in front of me 

Answers I could not find 

Something very cool 

So his eyes asked if I pray 

My eyes responded that I do 

His lips demanded to know how and why 

My hands made the cross sign to show 

That indeed I do pray 

My heart pounded to a certain beat 

Then murmured: 

To the father, the son and the holy spirit 

His ears laughed 

Something very cool 

His forehead coughed 

His nose twitched Then demanded: 

Whose father? 

Ours. 

Whose son? 

His. 

And the spirit? 

Theirs. 

Is this how you were taught to pray? 

Each night and every day. 

Son of my son 

Do you know your God? 

Yes 

Does he know you? 

Yes 

Do you now where he is? 

Up in heaven. 

Wrong. 

He is you. 

He is me. 

He is everywhere. 

Something totally cool.

barua

Letter to my 13-year old self.

Dude, first of all let’s get one thing straight: chicks do not dig guys who do not wear socks. It is not a ‘murui’ look… they say it is just stupid. I have no idea why. Its just a chick thing. So from now on, always ...always wear socks with those safariboots!

Anyway, I guess I should warn you to keep off Lingala music, contrary to what your older brother is telling you...Kanda Bongo Man will not save humanity and Shabba Ranks is not a long lost cousin. And ‘slope’ the hairstyle is not immortal. I know stuff is pretty confusing right now. So some advice…

To begin with, that neighbour chick that keeps asking you for the Topmark textbook isn’t that interested in History. She digs you! Big time! So strike while the iron is hot! If you don’t, she will hate you for he next 5 years then you will have a love-hate relationship thereafter.

I know mum is always telling you that you watch too much TV. She is definitely right…it ain’t right to spend the whole day at a neighbours place watching cartoons, help out a bit. But just to set the record straight, TV CANNOT make you retarded. It’s all a lie invented by mother to make you read a bit more! If it’s a consolation, the future you watches thrice as much TV!

Boarding school sucks. Get over it already, its been five years since you reported to that military camp. You got used to the weevils in the beans, the quarter cup of porridge for breakfast and the omni present hunger pangs. You will not die. This letter is proof that we made it into the future *insert loud cheer here*

You know that dream we had while in Std 3? The one in which we got employed as a driver for a No.9 manyanga? Well, it didn’t come true…we are currently employed though I have no idea how we landed the job! Sports pays. A lot! So wachana na bano na rounders uanze kucheza futa! PS: we no longer call them manyanga’s.

We are not rich….yet. But am working on it…hio Datsun kama ya uncle Brown tutanunua through hook or crook. We have the internet now. I cant tell you what it is. You guys haven’t invented the right vocabulary yet.
By the way, before you fret, the creativity and the random stuppidity is still there. The light hasn’t dimmed one bit.

I know dad is always on your case about mathematics. In fact, tell him the worst is yet to come. You will score a series of E’s in math exams over the next few years. This will in no way darken your future. Tell him in a few years, you’ll be sharing beer with him. LOL! LMFAO! (Refer to glossary for meaning)!

So ndio venye kuko. Keep doing what you do. Next year in secondary school, you will be accused of trying to burn down the school coz of the world cup. This should be your defense: DENY! DENY! DENY!

Bye for now, before you go to bed, hide that porn magazine somewhere else! A random raid by mum will discover the stash, and if she does, trust me, she will never look at you the same!

Oh? Ati love? Discover my friend…live and learn.

PS:1: when you write back, do not use sheng…hio mambo ya ma sonyi na ma ponyi hatutumii siku hizi.
PS:2: Hizo mocassin zako zimechapa mbaya.
PS:3: You will meet friends and foes along the way
PS:4: Sex is awesome!
PS:5: Alcohol is good for you.
PS:6: Future you still has big eyes. They haven’t invented corrective surgery for that yet. Fingers crossed!
Xoxo: (again, refer to glossary)

Baadeye mboys…

NB: that @Urbanekenyan dude is still black as hell!

Evolution

Evolution…

Kutoka kati na blada
Cha mama na cha baba
Chobo ua na futa
Na kuona Tv kwa ma neigbour

Kutoka slippers na sandak
Bata bullets na ngoma
Sunday best na sahunya
Na uniform pair moja

Now even the estate joke
Dreams of greatness
Each thought dedicated to the pursuit of richness
In a world so soulless
That the dirtiest of us all
Stand tall as this decade’s heroes.

After innocence is dropped
Other people’s blood shed
And the books balanced
To reflect just a little more
Than previously owned
Or previously owed
We wake up again
And do it all the same

Change.
Running away from ourselves
Running towards no one else
To find ourselves
Alone
Evolved.
Survived
By nothing
But raw ambition
In a quest
To be different
From who we really are.

Evolution.

Kila mtu anahama mtaani
Kuishi kule anatamani
Hakuna kitu poa kutoka zamani
Tunasahau mpaka si ni nani.

Look in the mirror
Horror?
Pleasure?

Evolution: Revealing you to yourself since 0000B.C

ThEkEpTpReGnAnCyFrOmPoStElEcTiOnRaPeS.

Now I know why
Why they don’t celebrate my birthday
Or shower me with candy
Once annually
To appease their restlessness
In an attempt to cleanse
Their conscienceless wickedness.

Now I know why
Why on every eve
They are like thieves
Uneasy in their silence
The only exchange is that of glances
Or a regret of missed chances.

Now I know why
Why she can never look me in the eye
Without a tear
Or a sneer
Or an unsaid sigh
That brings me from a high
To a low
That only she and I
Understand.

Now I know why
Why she vowed never again
To stand in line
At the pretence of democracy
To speak her mind
Through the silence of her vote.

Now I know why
Why I am light
And everyone around is dark
Why I am plump
And everyone else is slight
Why my teeth are white
And everyone else’s are not
Why they call me ‘Amani’
Yet every eye
That looks towards me
Recognises the traces of the enemy
Stamped all over me

Now I know why
Why 5 years later
I do not know the language of my father
Or the ways of his people
All I know
From muted mutterings
Is that he did something wrong.
Something so wrong to my mother
That even he cannot explain.

“God left me for a moment,”
So he says.

No one else believes him.
By default,
They await their turn
To avenge their daughter’s pain.

Solitude at the mosque…(Rants of an old shoe)

Why are they looking at me this way?
As if am one of those who sway
This way
And that.

Its all a bunch of crap

Really.

They stare at the mud on my skin.
Yet they know well beauty isn’t skin deep.
I may not be as hip
As Mr Adidas over there,
Nor with it like Ms Nike over here.
But as a 7 year old moccasin
I know I have character
And Ms Peeptoe digs me.

I think.

But as they coo at the brush strokes,
And melt the kiwi with their hot skins,
They know they can’t match me.
Am soft and warm inside.
I keep my master warm..
In all these years of our relationship,
He’s never looked elsewhere

I just don’t know,
Whether it’s the look in his eyes every morning before he enters me,
Or the way he keeps me dry
As he hops, steps and jumps over sewers
Or when he defends me whenever somebody steps on me.
I don’t know.
I just don’t know.
But our relationship is royal.


Not always though
Once, it almost went up in flames
Just because of Ms Bathroom Slippers.
That whore!
She was spending all the quality time with him
Just because he was on leave
And wasn’t leaving home each dawn
She thought she owned him!
How dare she!
But I showed master!
One day when we went for a walk,
I slit my wrist as he tried to jump over broken glass.
He rushed me to the ICU
Down at Otieno’s
Shoe repairer ExtraOrdiNaire
It was he who first solemnized our marriage.

So they have nothing on me!
I saw the Tims come and go.
Did away with the Northstars,
And the Hushpuppies too.
Not to mention the Airforce ones.
So what the hell are they all about.
I may be old,
But the thing between me and my master
Is real.

strangers

Isn’t it strange?
So strange?
That after all this time
A smile is all I get?

That after all the history
My arm can’t go past your elbow?
Come on,
I thought we had chemistry!
In fact,
One full of mystery!
Then why do you give me the shoulder,
That was once oh so tender?
But you returned didn’t you!
They said you would sue
That it’s you I used.
Touched.
Probed.
Poked.
Then robbed?
But you sobbed
So they had to believe,
That relief
Wasn’t what I claimed to give.

Isn’t it strange
That after I held out my palm
You flew?
Up…
Up…
And away…
Leaving me with no calm.
The sky seemed so bright
Lights.
Camera.
Action.
But just for a while.
Then the clouds.
Then the darkness.
Then the fall.
And back onto my palm again.
And onto the page
And onto the blog.

Isn’t it strange?
How we always end up together?
How our letters always cross
And fall into a perfect simple symphony
Of words so sweet
So…
So…
Strange…

Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

It has been 6 weeks since we last kissed.
It has been 42 nights since we last touched.
It has been 42 days since we last danced.
But I promise all that will be erased
By the joys of a simple embrace
Your white on my black is all it takes
For the steps to be retraced
Into the intimacy that once was.

Forgive me Lover for I have sinned.

It has been a while since I last looked into your eyes
You must have thought inside I turned to ice
A cold winter night or worse
But it has been hard
Inside I’ve been dead
Buried
I almost forgot about you
But I didn’t
Am back for more
Hear me out before you throw me out the door

Forgive me lover for I have sinned

But I promise never to leave your side
It’s so cold outside
Allow me back inside
Let my pen once again slide
Over your virgin purity
And your whiteness
And my blackness
Will create a history
Immortalised in words.

So dear blog, am back and I missed you so, take this as a long overdue apology for my long absence from the blogosphere.

सोल.

I once met an interesting question:
“What’s the style of your soul?”

I thought about it for some time. What exactly is my soul style? Is it casual? Official? Neat? Smart? Gothic? Renaissance? Modern? Traditional?

Do I even have a soul to style?

How can I prove that my soul exists? What exactly is it- this soul?
I guess it is what keeps me going. Where and how, I don’t know. It’s like a hidden turbo engine that turns on automatically when my spirit hits rock- bottom. It refreshes me when I am so deep in shit that a mere whiff of fresh air hurts my lungs.

My soul is what pushes me on. And sometimes, stubbornly holds me back for no reason. It is as arrogant as a well educated rich fool, but at times as humble as a life giving angel.

When my soul is mad at me, nothing goes my way; it will delay my fortunes and fast- forward my tribulations. All at will.
When I make it happy, the heavens open up for me and I hear angels singing with the clarity of fire crackers during Diwali. Each time I argue with it I am left bruised and torn inside.

My soul's shadow was once seen. It was in the form of the reflection on my mothers face when she held me in her trembling hands after I had made my way out of the warmth of her womb.

My soul is what pushes me to do things no one else would understand. It makes me defy every inch of my body and the rest of humanity, and do what will make my conscience rest easy.

My soul is voiceless, but when it speaks I listen and obey. It is my master. I, its willing servant. It is formless, but there are times I have touched it.
It is weightless, but its presence can burden my heart and make it sink.

Each morning, I know it is looking at me. In me. Over me. Knowing how far I am from mortality and how close it is to immortality. That is my soul. In one word, restless. It describes my spirit and gives expression to my face.

It charges me up and continuously protects me from the ills of humanity. It protects me from evil eyes, and endears me to admiring ones
It is the one true friend that if lost, will never be found again.

That is why it will profit you nothing to gain the whole world and lose your soul. And like Hitler, you will be pampered by crowds on the outside, then choked slowly by the vacuum created by the absence of your soul in the inside.

nkem

inspired by you...yes you...not you..YOU. Yeah.

My own,

Each night before dawn,
My guava eyes dream on,
Of only you being my own,
Sweeter than cane,
You possess my soul
Like the spirit in Luanda Magere
Or like satan did Jamin Mukhobero
For you I’ll climb the crying stone,
And come back with its tears,
To wash away all your fears

Your skin is like a healthy pawpaw,
Soft and sweet and smells like nature,
Smooth like simba’s tongue,
I like the way sweat droplets form on it
Like simsim drying on my mabati roof.
I like how it rolls down your back
Like a ripe mango down a slanting branch.

Your hips kill me.

But unlike Elijah Masinde I resurrect.
Not to form a cult,
But to eternally look at them,
Beautifully jerking from side to side
Like the choreographed hump of my fathers prize bull.

Your eyes are perfection.
Bright and clear.
Like the star studded skies of circumcision nights.
In them I see much more than black and white
Beyond,
To the colour that fills your life.

Your legs are not bamboo reeds.
Like twin sweet bananas
They are thin and fat in the right places
Sturdy enough to support a baby within.

Your lips are like a wise grandmother

Never offending.
Always caressing the ears around
With a voice that can lay hungry babies to rest.

You nurture me with your touch.
Like a cow’s first lick to its calf
Like the midwife’s cradle of the chief’s son.

When you are in my arms I feel like Kimathi
Holding down a colonial informer.

When we part you leave me deflated
Shrunken inside like sunbathed kunde.

I may not wear the red shirt and black pants
I may not buy Dutch chocolate and gifts
But my heart will always be stained
In red from ochre that colours our house
And in black from the fields that nourish our maize.

For to me it always is

Another day

Given to me to love you more.

आफ्टर Four

Had to pull t out again after last night's 'Fist to Five'...

Hope it touches something within you...

After four

Step outside into the cold
For a minute from your hold
From the light into the shadow
From the calm into the storm.

Forget your joy and feel the pain
Embrace the loss ignore the gain
Humane, not this time
Mundane, a bit like Caine
Rejoice in blood it’s just a game
And take it like Abel
Unless you’re God and able
Whose tears make things unstable.

The prick of the thorn loses its pain
But scars remain
Like those on the heart of a woman scorn
Open the door and let them in
Unless of course you’re deep in sin
Let the crawlers through
Never do the shoo
Or else they’d blow
Spear or arrow
You and your kin
Come next election.

Caress the flames

And lick the sparks

Fan your passions

Draw the swords

After four

It will be twelve

And then again

We destroy ourselves.

Mathiokora edition.

At times I cast my eyes westward, towards my ancestral home and wish that my mother comes down from the land of ugali, chicken and bullfighting and swing her iron hand at all these delinquents.

She is no Margaret Thatcher, but I swear upon my grand father’s walking stick that she can discipline any and all of these manner less people walking around in Nairobi.

I am actually tired of the people who dot alleys with mosaics from their insides. What kind of man or woman squats in the middle of a dark alley in the city and lets rip what he ate for supper!

I swear, if this was in my village, such a social misfit would have lost one of his buttocks, preferably his left one, to a wild T9, which is in effect a starving rabid dog! That would have been the better option, the other being that the owner of the piece of land on which you desecrate, casts a spell on a sample of whatever you have deposited. The rest as they say is history. You will be forced to proclaim your sin to the whole village at a special public baraza, or else your ears will forever remain deaf to the long calls of nature.

And this children of god who are in the business of preserving their livers in flammable liquids. The official pass time for Nairobians is no longer binge drinking, it is more of beat drinking. You consume your drink until it beats you or someone beats you to a pulp. My mother would never let them escape with this.

Simply, she would refer you to my grand mother who would in very few acts of subtle aggression make you regret your actions.

One day, according to my uncles, my dad wobbled into the homestead, drunk from some funny ceremony that he had not been granted permission to attend. Seeing that he was very bubbly and the function was yet to end, my grand mother actually gave him express permission to attend the rest of it.

My father, in a drunken stupor, hurried to the river, washed his shoeless feet, changed into his special white calico shirt and shot off into the dusk towards the drum beats and vibrations from the feet of dancing village girls.

He returned at dawn. A few minutes later, he was dispatched to the village market, 17kms away, to sell three cockerels and take the money to his aunt, several kilometers further. All this distance was covered on foot and under the hot sun.

He never drunk again…till he moved into the city. This is the kind of hard-line discipline required in today’s world.

Often, I meet very beautiful women, dragging along old wrinkled white men who look like they have forgotten their IV tubes in Kamau’s Taxi(he obviously sells them to a doctor in Kayole) onto dance floors.

I am not sorry to say that I find this in bad taste. It can not be justified. I do not however blame them for this drastic action. Desperate times call for strange measures. Maybe we are letting our women down. For a long time, the average Nairobi man has thought a night out spent grinding against your date on a sweat covered dance floor, is romance enough to warrant submission on all other fronts from her.

When I was growing up, any acts of disrespect towards my sisters was looked upon as a personal affront towards all the women of the world. After which a harsh lecture followed, then the thrashing, delivered to a soft bottom by a stiff hand via a Sandak sandal. Ever since, I have learnt to respect women.

defend us madam

The skirt wills to defend the trousers. And why not…the skirt wearer has much more room between her legs that she can use to out- manoeuvre the enemy.

So naturally, I am happy that she has come up to defend our sovereignty in the face of arrogance from those who think they can play god to us black Africans.

I smiled when she said that the envoys are lowest in the order of Peking in their countries. I felt proud when she told off the man with a malleable sur- name.

But I am concerned.

Madam Minister

Loyalty is an admirable trait in anyone who purports to serve others. But when it is pursued blindly without any individual thought or in put, it may end up offending the very people to whom the allegiance is meant to be pledged.

I am a respecter of personal space. So I was quite elated when the honourable, most just and most constitutional citizen of our republic, went head to head with foreign overseers, who play the role of international watchmen whose only difference to our shirandula’s is their claim to a stamped passport and a healthier allowance. More politely, envoys.

Naturally, I am offended whenever they behave like the villager whose path to fulfilling his lifelong ambition of becoming village chief, is by poking his fat sweaty nose in everyone’s business. Whether invited or not. Their manner at times reminds me of a village elder who takes offense after he learns that your daughter went to Form One and you forgot to inform him.

I am neither Mugabe nor Fidel. But I am Kenyan. As much as I appreciate the fact that you became our nights in shining armour in our time of need, bear in mind that although you plotted and charted our map, we still determine what goes on within the borders.

No man has the right to play god over others. Your sins are not lesser than ours.

We are the wind. The most you can do to us is harness us for power to drive your capitalist economies, but you can’t possibly decide the direction in which we ought to blow. Even when you give your travel advisories to your citizens while comfortably issuing visas for Iraq without question, know that respect is mutually earned.

Our feet may not be big enough to step on your toes, but one day, we might just grow big enough to crush them.

That aside. The theatre of the absurd has come into town. And no. they are not dressed in funny baggy pants. They do not have orange hair or red noses. They dress in designer suits, drive customised cars, and dine at expensive restaurants, but they certainly do laugh loudly at their own jokes. How on earth do they vote on taking a break!

After working for around seven hours, our honourable MPs, decided to go for a break after the strains of saying ‘nay’ or ‘aye’ to a bill! And they are now proposing a ministry for Nairobi Metropolitan! Isn’t our dear president borrowing too much from Mu7?

What a wonderful world.

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!!!

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.

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.