What is freedom?

From my posts I do not seem like the kind of guy that would sit down and question the existence of freedom. But when you get to observe a few characters and scenarios in your life, you begin to question things. The definition of freedom is the power to act, speak or think as one wants without hindrance or the absence of subjection to foreign domination. But have you ever sat down and really thought about the concept of freedom and if it actually exists or just like the ufo’s, is the imagination of some witty person whose imaginary bounds were unlimited. I may come off as a person who just wants to draw controversy but after reading this for the first time, get rid of your bias and approach this piece with an open mind. It has become apparent to me, as I’ve stated from observation, that the concept of freedom is a state of mind.

Historically, slaves were denied their right of association and essentially their “freedom” as human beings. Aren’t we all bound by someone or something in life? Don’t we all have that part of our lives that we feel if we shared would leave us vulnerable? And even if we share it, isn’t it always with the person we assume we trust the most? Don’t we all have that one person we can do anything for? Aren’t we slaves to the relationships we have with the people we relate to? Don’t we always hope that what we share in confidentiality is kept as just that? To love and be loved is part of human nature and it is only natural that we look for that love where we feel it is readily available. This state of emotion lets us open up to those we perceive as loved ones and share the most intimate bits of our lives. Whether you do it in the first, second, third or imaginary persona, our emotions make us slaves to the various aspects that we are exposed to.

I am not against the idea of love and I personally believe to have a healthy lifestyle, every human being should be exposed to love. Look at Samson biblically; a strong, God fearing man who had all that a man at that time would ask for; freedom, superhuman strength, dreadlocks and the love of a beautiful woman. Even with all these, he still was a slave to the emotions he felt for Delilah. During the romantic era, Shakespeare wrote the famous play “Romeo & Juliet”. Both these characters’ demises lay solely in what they felt for each other. Adolf Hitler, a German corporal, made history, albeit in the wrong way. This was a great man who was a slave not to emotion but to his own self. The ambition that drove him to kill millions of Jews came from within. He was the leader of one of the most powerful nations at the time, but he had something motivating him that put him in a situation that made him a villain.

Jump to the contemporary times and we have people who are slaves to their ambitions and careers. Chief Executive Officers and business moguls have everything at their, disposal but are slaves to their own careers. It is not only the rich that are slaves to their lives. The middle class are slaves to their imaginations. They always want to go for the lifestyle that is beyond their financial bracket. Paying house rent of 50,000 shillings and driving a thirteen million shilling car on a 100,000 shilling salary. This is a person who is a slave to his own mind. The poor are not left out of this either. You thought poverty is a state of mind? Well, the mind is a slave to poverty. Most people are not poor because they are exposed to less privileged situations, but rather because they find reasons to support this notion. Freedom from one state only leads to slavery in another state. The poor get money, the lifestyle changes and class slavery reveals its ugly self.

I believe nobody can claim absolute freedom of any kind. Being of the world and around other human beings with systems we have to be in some form of slavery.

The slavery to some is psychological, others emotional, others physical and for some religious. Emancipation from these states is futile. Our preferences and principles also limit our freedom. Some things we never do because we are bound by certain tenets while others we engage in because our beliefs are in line with them. Doesn’t education channel out thoughts towards a certain thought line? Why would there be universal laws yet we all are different? Why would I need to be subjected to various tests which are the works of another being to prove my intelligence? Aren’t we slaves to our expectations and achievements? I certainly do not know for sure of the existence of freedom in this world. I may be wrong or I may be on the course to discovering whether I am right or wrong. One thing is for sure. We as humans have aspects that tie us down and one way or another we are a slave to them. Whenever you get a minute or two, put this into perspective and see what you are a slave to. The question at the end of the day is, “does freedom really exist?” And if it does, “are you free?”

Why in whoever’s name?

I am not going to defend myself on the allegations that most of my posts are based on the events of myself getting the better of an alcoholic beverage. I wouldn’t classify myself as a drug because I am abused by these genius chemical portions. I had been alcohol free for close to six months after the Sheeva incident and things were looking really good for me. I was able to save up some money and get myself enough alcohol just in case an apocalypse occurred and I was left behind. This is one Friday I would like to forget but its memory keeps on flashing before me every time I switch on the television or go to the city centre or school.

Friday the 13th it was and everything was smooth other than than the hunger pangs that were constantly clawing my intestines out. So Eric, my heavily built friend  shows up and after careful deliberation we decide to get a loaf of bread and milk. That was the first mistake I made. At the moment it seemed as the best option to nullify the curse from my guts. As usual, Eric was the one who came up with the bright idea to get ourselves a small drink just to get the day rolling. We headed down to Dong Fang and after careful negotiations settled for the king, “Napoleon”. This we drowned without an issue and headed back to school with beaming faces knowing the night was going to be epic and epic it was. After about half an hour, another sinner in the name of Junior makes his way in and on using his psychic abilities suggests we get another drink. That was mistake number two, listening to this character. We head out and on the way the devil incarnate appears. The realBIGmeat is his name. I can solemnly swear this guy hides his tail and horns during the day but his eyes are still red though. This was a big enough quorum and we head over to the liquor store at  Kenol Hurlingam and get a bottle of Kibao. Knowing my history with this drink I proceeded with caution and took like three chokes. By this time the naps was already checking in. “Where is it written dilute to taste? Where?” Yes. That was Byrone asking why we need to get soda for the kibao. By this time Oriwo (formerly a gangsta) had absconded his duty to love and chose the bottle. We obtained the second bottle and this is where, the devil opened up his home. We finished it in less than five and started to put the actions that follow into use. The first one was to hijack the night guards chair and refuse to move from it. I did the sitting, the devil did the refusing. This was probably the first and last time I approached a Sud mami. All I can remember is some Arabic mambo jambo and the next thing I was being held back. I shall avoid the next four hours because I have no recollection whatsoever of what transpired but the period after was more shocking. I woke up and just walked out of the room in my socks but it was colder than usual. I know we have no staircase in the house so when I went down the steps I started questioning myself. What woke me up was the mourning because clearly that was not moaning from one of the rooms to my right. Before I could recover from that shock, the sight of a watchman made it even worse. And just before I could question him, I see a lady walking out of a bathroom with nothing but her fro to cover her. I passed out for a second or two and when I came to, I started questioning the watchman. He narrated how a group of rowdy looking men had brought me there and promised to come pick me up in the morning. All this while I hadn’t realized that my shoes were missing, my spectacles were lost and I had large cut beside my eye. This is when it all got real. As I’m negotiating with this watchman to give me my phone and shoes that I had voluntarily abandoned in Hurlingam.

The sun was almost coming up and I could not walk out of a brothel at that time of the day with all the respect I am yet to command in Nairobi. So I coaxed the watchie into giving me fifty bob and walked around the rooms looking for someone who did not need their shoes. I luckily found one outside a room where some guy was using unorthodox means to pleasure this mama. I didn’t want to interrupt them just for gratitude, so I tiptoed away with the ladies rubber shoes. I rushed out of the place, went and got a jav home and tried filling in the missing puzzle to the night. I removed the rubber shoes as soon as I got to the gate and walked in innocently before blacking out. The best part about all this is that I went to Hurlingam the next day and found my loyal and durable Nokia phone still ringing on the road. I have not had such an experience since then but I always ask myself, “Why in whoever’s name did I have to do all that?

The One

Dear The One,

Thursday evening. It’s a bit chilly and I’m in the house going about my specialty;lazing about. It’s been two and a half months and I haven’t seen her. My heart wants to beat for her but it’s my mind that craves for her. Her scent is what I can call mature and I’m not referring to the ‘sweet’ scent of sweat. Her body was carved out of flesh only. Unlike dames i spare some glances at,she wasn’t created by angels on internship,no: the Almighty did it Himself and put time into it. My phone rings and who is it? My favourite. Yes,that’s what she is;my favourite. As if fate was listening in on my thoughts,I get music to my ears. “Hey, fav. I’m in town can you come see me?” Can I? She was asking the wrong question. I’d go see her even if she was in hell or the kuklaxklan had her in their headquarters. In no time I’m racing down the road to go and see my favourite.

Time slowly fades as I stare into her eyes and upper chest(she has great knockers). I have a lot to think about but her life is equally important and interesting. With every statement that comes out of my mouth charm smuggles itself in it. The Charmer. That’s my alias when i’m with her. She’s the type of girl you can spend a night describing and still not come close to how great she is. I’m a serial paraphraser but there would be no words that can paraphrase my feelings for her. She is the first girl I honestly fell in love with. I remember her falling down in primary school,her having a wrapskirt mishap. The list is endless. She’s the one girl I can frankly admit would have had me in her bag. We reminisce the good times and the not so good ones. She’s headed back home and it’ll be another three months before I can see her again. As we wait for her bus,I am glad to just have her in my arms. Made me feel like I was in a James Bond movie(You do know 007 is a smooth operator?).

This is a feeling I can’t explain but what I know is that it’s a good feeling. If I was in favour with God like Gideon was i’d request the time to stand still. Every moment I spent with her is a moment i’d like to relive. There is not a day that goes by without her popping up in my thoughts. If she was to get a cold it wouldn’t be a common cold and I presume nothing is common about about her senses either. All she has is heightened to another level. She’s the kind of girl you’d introduce to your boys as the hot girl and to your family as the wife to be. Yeah,I know I sound messed up,but all cartoon and comic lovers know that the protagonist always has a weakness. And my kryptonite is her. She’s my mystery girl. The girl i’d run out of a drinking spree to see how her broken nail is healing,but with the beers in tow of course. She has what we call the magnetic self. If you are blind and miss out on the visual attraction then don’t despair my brother in darkness. Her personality will grab you by the collar and you can feel it’s breath on your face. I’m not exaggerating. I’m sure the sun first shines on her before remembering its duty to the rest of the world. Ok,I guess that’s a lie. The sun shines only on us because she doesn’t like the spotlight. What makes her so special? She brightens up my world. Whenever i’m around her I forget all that’s going on around me.

Enough about her,and more of me. That comes in a later episode or possibly season. I am not in the literal zone yet but i’m in my comfort zone when she’s on my mind. Her name I will keep a secret not because i’m ashamed or afraid but rather protective. If I say it i’m certain the CIA,KGB or Mossad may try and whisk her from under my nose. If not,the CID may pull a GSU on me and beat me up but i have sworn not to disclose her identity. That is until they actually start to beat me up of course. She’s my future cardio. Intelligence is my thing. I have a thing for girls with brains not bimbos. I never open up to a girl unless I have ulterior motives. With her I had none. I opened up because five years of bottling up feelings for one person can be too much for a normal person to carry. But not me. I’m Edward Ochieng Oyugi alias Ted Pot. I didn’t open up until five years later. That’ a hero right there. I’m only giving you a preview of season two;The Charmer. As much as I would want to make her the heiress to thee Oyugi seed,certain factors are not at ceteris paribus. My real reason for being single? I believe that one day fate will deliver her to my door if not my hands. We all have someone we want so badly. It’s a human need to be loved for without the love of another human being you have no reason to fight for life. I wake up each day knowing she will one day get over the pain of losing someone’s trust and won’t be afraid to explore her emotions. I know that I will get the opportunity take her to another world. Disney world would be a great destination but that is a topic for another day.

We are like two very contrasting species that complement each other. She’s like a persian cat;warm,homely and furry. On the other hand i’m like a greyhound;lean(i mean really lean),live on the edge and have little care for what is around me. But just like a greyhound i’m reliable. I’ll try never to disappoint when she’s counting on me. Our differences are what pull us together. I’d give my life for hers in a mouth-mouth resuscitation situation. She calls me for long periods and i’d rather be silent but have her on the other end of the line. Her name in it’s native form means queen and mine royal guard. Now I see the source of the lean body and my urgency towards her welfare. I’d say it’s fate. Hope is used by people who have no faith in whatever they claim to believe in. This sounds like one of those fairy tales or soap operas but trust me there’s a gangstar side to it but I have to own a gun first and mum says no guns till i’m thirty. I know one day she will read this but if you happen to read it prior and have those African American names like Shaniqua or no English names like Wavinya Ndeti be certain it’s not you. When she reads this i’ll have given my first literal piece to her. I’m surprised at how a girl can make the Prince and heir to the crown of Lazyingdom write this in less than a day.(sorry have to take a bathroom break;i’m back now). Yes.she made me write all these in less than four hours. My word! I couldn’t even complete an essay in high school. That is my letter to you.

Yours lovingly,

Me

Here I am Pearly Gates

It’s been a while since I last sat down and put anything down that wasn’t going to earn me a grade or get me laid. So on this particular day Rodrigo and I had set our sights on attending a Homeboyz gig at the Carnivore grounds and nothing was going to stop us from turning it up that night and stunting like Alpha Blondie shopping at Junction while shottas are waiting for him at KICC. So we link up in the CBD since none of us had access to a private ride. But what’s the difference; I have a chauffeur, an entourage and a butler. So two other pals join us and we choose to get the poison of our choice. We walk straight into the alcoholic aisle; Mututho was still hustling back then. So we pick our vodka and head out of the supermarket knowing this was going to be the night when it all goes down. Knowing the night was going to be rough we chose to have some bitings before our ride got there. As soon as we heard a black rhyno tune playing in the background we knew it was out time to leave the city and get our night on course.

As soon as we get into the jav, the sight of caramel thighs, baby bearing hips and no bras was enough motivation to know this night was set aside by one of our ancestors, Solomon most likely. So we pop open our bottie and drown that poor man’s liquor so fast I should have got head from one of those mamis just for that. We get to Uchumi and since everybody is going in the same direction, the chauffeur decides to be a wuss and take us near the gate. As if the Lord was listening to my silent prayers, we meet a lone ranger who was out to conquer the night but was beaten to it by the liquor. After pouring libation we take the untouched mzinga from him and go on to show him how it’s done. And if I wasn’t so distracted by miss caramel thighs I would have realized I was the only one drinking the God-forsaken drink.

So far so good, the night was proving to be a great one. We walk in and who is the first person we bump into? Marie Curie (her story I will narrate later). All you need to know for now that she gives great lip service. She was the kind of chic that was always head over heels when intoxicated, that’s why we all loved her low shoes. So we all plot on who’s getting her for the night. One of us, we’ll call him Jakech, wasn’t planning on finishing up this deal in the morning. So as I stagger around, I bump into Marie again and when drunk, whenever I open my mouth it’s with the intention to lay. And that was all going well till the next thing I remember was handing Jakech a pack of rubber. So apparently for four hours I was out cold but that’s their side of the story. My side of the story is very different and that’s what we’ll go by.

In the process of putting Marie in the zone, I saw caramel thighs and I could have sworn there was a trumpet that was sounded and a beam of light shone on her bum and she signaled me to follow. That was when Jakech showed up and in the process asked me for the pack of rubber. So I head out with caramel thighs, hand over my personal belongings to Rodrigo and know I come from the 12th tribe of Israel. After a few shots of whatever it is that she gave me (my taste buds were numb) we decide as good people we should give some sort of respect to France and lock lips, tongues and other body apparels. Now this is where things got tricky. She said she wanted to have a seat and being the deviate I am, I obliged. We went to the sheesha gazebo and that is where everything changed. I turned to pick a poof and the next thing I saw when turning back was a bright tunnel, which unfortunately didn’t have a light at the end of it. So the first thing that came to mind was, the hell! I made to heaven and there’s no traditional song and dance, just Supercat playing in the background. I search, for someone to ask for my crown but I couldn’t get my eyes off the tunnel.Yeah, it was the inner thigh of an Indian chic. So I gather my courage and ask, “Where is Sheeva, I need to pay my reverence for not being turned into a sea horse?” They all laughed and handed me the sheesha to calm my nerves. All this times I was thinking, did the world end while I was tapping caramel thighs? And did we climax or at least did I? As I am busy thinking about my past life, miss bright tunnel crosses over to my side and places those blessed thighs on me. Never in my life have I felt so incapacitated. The best I could do was ask, “Are you Sheeva?” It didn’t get me laid but at least it got those pink lips plastered on mine. And immediately after they left, and no, my ass was intact, I confirmed. I found my way around and got to where Rodrigo was and found him with some mami, Jakech looking all worn out and Marie still smacking her lips after a job well done. I never got the chance to meet Sheeva or Caramel thighs again, but at least I have seen the Pearly Gates.

Alcohol Vs. Liquor

So there are very many times we are involved in the process of Science which involves getting induced in multiple distilled drinks. There is a very thick line between people who partake and those that indulge, as well as between liquor and alcohol. Alcohol entails the likes of Le Bleu (Bluemoon), Naps, KK and liquor contains the whisky family such as Glenfiddich, Jack Daniels etc.   So being a Gemini, I have been able to practice my schizophrenic personality and be involved in both. Whatever I write or don’t shall not be used against me next time I’m seen trying to hook up with a mama. The events of these nights are recorded separately and as much as some of the information may be scanty, I guess we have to deal with what we have.

Being the optimist I am, I will start with the liquor. This just like any other epic started off with the sun rising and the fact that I actually never saw it rising. It was one of those days that you just feel from the moment you walk out of bed and don’t remember what time your fries left and that nothing is missing. Yes, you guessed it right; it was my date of birth. Like every other normal human being, I had no hangover and I had run out of tissue. So I stroll out to go get me a roll and as I get to the shop, I see a headline on one of the local dailies screaming Mombasa. For a moment I thought I actually felt it touch my thigh and whisper “Come have some!” I rushed back to the house and after fulfilling my duty to the process of contributing my daily tithe to Ruai I buzzed my pal. “Hey, are you up for Coasto tonight?”  I did this to three of my pals, the third being me of course and it was a plan. So I went to school and it was all good. We were to leave on Friday night. All this time I was just thinking, this is going to be one awesome weekend. So at around 8pm we hook up in the city. This was before the onset of the Mututho laws so we were in no hurry to purchase our liquor yet, which we eventually didn’t. Alcohol on the other hand is a drink that should be taken with caution. On this night I made the mistake of carrying a bottle of Naps with me. So we were at my pals in Kabete and decided we were going to go out that night. We took kibao before heading out of the house and when the time was right. On our way I remembered I had a bottle of Napoleon in the pocket. I broke its virginity and offered it to the rest of the guys. I don’t know where they had left their balls because it’s a chic who accepted my generous offer. After a few sips she handed back the bottle to me. I didn’t know whether she was looking at me badly or the taste of the drink made her “fold” her face. We got to Westy and walked straight towards Changez. At this point, it was a discussion on whether we were to go to Red Tape or the former. I settled for the back seat of my pal’s car which had a kilo or two of khat. I remember having the first few grams then the next thing I remember these guys are driving off with me and I just shouted, “Follow the club behind you!” So they stopped just outside Havana and I staggered off to Changes. I can’t quite figure out how long it took me to get there but eventually when I did, I was still up for more booze. I remember leaving the house with a K and by then I had only 900 in my pocket. After buying the two beers at the entrance, I was left with a hefty 500 shillings. So I join my pals and after a few minute I’m already involved in an altercation. My pal’s girl is being vibed by some big guy and I just walk in, hold the mama’s hand and just look directly into the guys eyes. For whatever reason, the guy apologizes and takes off. The guy was a giant just for clarity. But the worst bit came three weeks later when some mama calls me and tells me the details of what happened before I got to Changez from Havana. Let’s just say I saw RDX trying to shag her on stage and she wanted me to chip in in raising her already born kid. Being the gentleman I am, I sent her 50 bob credit and told her to call the father of her child. I have since then been very wary of alcohol.

Rise of the She-wolf

So I’ve had a lot of confrontations with different groups of women in my life. From the mellow to the straight ghetto. So on this particular day, my pal( who also happens to host whack parties) rings me and tells me we can have drinks at his digz. I had some chumz so I buzz some other pal and pull strings to get mamiz to come through. At around 7 we hook up in tao. We go to our joint at Madukha for burger-samosa and juice. Amazingly, this comes at an amazing 100bob (or baab for the peri-urban). We chill and carry out surveys of the different species of females roaming the city. One of our high school pals shows up and jumps into the plot. At this point it was evident the struggle for broads would be real so we were just hoping that by the time we were getting to the locale he would have blacked out. After procuring our poisons for the night, we had to chill for the mamiz to prepare themselves(they live at central police station) and look all glamorous for the night that was about to ensue. All this time I was laying dibs on the fair skinned chic with curves in all the right places other than her face that I had not seen. It was around 9.30 by this time so I was starting to think this was going to be one major kebab-fest. Punda si punde, ni punda the broads show up. And yes, the mami was there. So we head to koja to get javs and get on our way to Kabete. At this point my mojo just like development in Africa was taking its time to show up, (At least that’s what me sitting next to my boy signified).

At around 10:15 we had checked into the hotspot. It didn’t take much time for us to start boozing and opening our hearts and arms to accommodate each other. All this while, the mami of the house was busy preparing a meal for the crew. Someone (not me of course) brought up the smart idea of lighting a doobie just in case the food was unbearable. We lit one which was eventually going to get things rolling for the night. For the sake of anonymity and people’s cv’s I will use codenames from lingua-hispanica. Rodrigo had come with his side dish, Maria. Without knowledge of the situation that was going to unfold, I had invited Roberta just in case the scoop wasn’t cooperative. Things got off to a smooth start and as soon as the food(that was surprisingly good) was done away with, we chose to indulge in an entertaining game of spin the bottle. The broads were a bit shy but after a few shots of life from our bottle they eased up. A few things happened and I was lucky things were going my way. Then, hell alighted from a jav and gave me a phone call. I gladly went to pick Roberta up but when I got to the stage, she had Paloma with her. (Paloma happens to be the estranged girlfriend to Rodrigo). I gave him a heads up of what was coming his way because Paloma had a history of Oscars,(the dramas she created were not to be compared to any). At first it was all good because Rodrigo didn’t even show up in the living room until later on in the night. The game continued with ease and my turn came. I was dared to make out with the fair skinned chic.This was not stage managed just to be clear. And just as I was about to plant my blessed lips on this damsel, the God-forsaken Paloma brought in Roberta, so I had to switch tact and let her swallow me alive. This turned out to be a good thing since my fair skinned Rosalia was now more interested in me. I was playing my cards right. Then Rodrigo had to mess things up. From nowhere, we just saw him burst out of the house, Rosalia in tow and Diego(our third pal) following suit. They rushed down the steps and go all the way to the gate. Rodrigo is throwing a tantrum saying he wanted to go home, Paloma shedding tears for the love of her life and Diego. Well let’s just say Diego was being Diego. At this point there were six mamiz in the house and two were on my case, I couldn’t think of anything better than a three-way arm wrestling. Then this is where the she-wolf rose. Paloma storms into the house making frantic calls to her other lover to come pick her up. This is where Alejandro (the owner of the crib) made a fatal mistake. He gives the ninja directions to the crib, even pointing out the door. He came to regret it later because that was the end of our night. I was foreseeing what was going to happen so I was rushing my mojo at this point. Roberta was tipsy so I pulled a guerrilla move and rushed Rosalia to the balcony before Roberta realized what hit her. The next ten minutes are blank because I was busy trying to consolidate the points I had lost. I walked back into the room and Roberta, like the angel she was, sat on papi’s lap. I will write this slow so that I can not drench my keyboard in tears. I was almost carrying Roberta to our rave point when the she-wolf grasped her from my claws and rushed with her down the steps. Before I could calm my groin down and jump over to Rosalia, she followed suit. At this point I was so confused I didn’t know whether Rodrigo had shaved his pubes on the sink or Roberta had pumped milk out of her chesticles and served it as Amarula. So I just sat there for a cool 15 minutes because only cool people can sit for so long without a care in the world. By the time I realized we had been jacked by a chic, everyone was in their own zone retracing their steps. By the end of the night, it was unanimously decided that Alejandro and Rodrigo were to carry responsibility for the events of the night. The bright part was that I got half the cake which I ate with greed. I have ever since been against any group clamouring for the empowerment of women or any minority group( She was picked up by a pointie).

All that Glitters may be fireflies

So, I hear stories of guys who thought they had landed the perfect chick until they get to some point and realize they had got some ratchet or Size 8’s clone. Personally that has never happened to me until recently. It took me hours of agony and resources to sit myself down and write this post. I’ll start from where I met the “queen of my night” or just a few minutes before that. I was in westie running some errands or as most people call it nowadays, hustling. In the process of looking for a dollar I had the urge to stack myself. I know of a nice oriental place in Westie where they serve all manner of delicacies. On this particular day I had settled for pan-fried matumbo with onion strips, teargas, ugali and managu. This I was planning while on my stroll to the joint. Just before I could reach the door, I bump into this lady that I had met at some bash some weeks prior to that. We exchange pleasantries and being the gentleman that I am, I openly told her she was blocking me from reaching Canaan. So out of her willingness to waste time, she offered to accompany me for lunch. At first I was like, “You don’t have to. I’m a slow eater, i’ll waste your time.” But the chick was adamant, all she said was, “I insist!” So like Samson, I gave in to her demands. So we get there, Atieno walks up to me and winks knowing today I had scored. The chick told me she’d had lunch already so I didn’t bother asking whether she’d cram her stomach with extra food which was not necessary. All the while she was cringing her nose as if to say,” Nigga, you brought ghetto to the west.” The plate comes just as I had imagined it, half filled with ugali, an eighth with managu and the rest with soup you can barely find and matumbo.

This is where I made my first mistake. The mistake goes like this, ” You can have a bite, it’s good.” Those words must have unleashed the barbarian in her because she went on to eat half my food and drink half my glass of unpaid for water. All this while I was cursing thinking I had to ditch her fast or things would spiral down from there. I pay for the meal with a heavy hand, even forgetting to tip the ever loyal Atieno. We head  out and along the way she notices an ice cream shop. I tried all techniques to get to the other side of the road, even volunteering to push an already moving vehicle. From my tone you can guess I failed in my endeavours and had to cough up more chumz for this English speaking madam. By this time I had settled on introducing her to The 1 who had been silent until later on in the day. As she was busy licking the last dribbles from the ice cream tin, my pal invited me for a party. Knowing this ninja had had the worst parties in town, I gladly accepted to go to piss this chick off. On this day I had the luck of having a full tank car at my disposal, but it wasn’t mine of course. She tagged along all my errands for the better part of the afternoon and evening. So we drove off to the crib which was just a few minutes away from the place we were at. The moment I get to the guys parking lot I realize, this isn’t going to be one of his usually whack parties. The number of girls that had already turned up, was overwhelming and funny enough he’d bought drinks. I later found out he was only hosting the party for another pal. So we get in and I immediately duck and join my pals for storoz. The chick was hot, but I had a bad feeling about her wanting to hang around me so bad. After a few drinks and acquainting myself with potential chipos, I hook up with her. She tells me how, she doesn’t feel the bash and wants to go somewhere quiet. From this point it is the one that took over. We head over to the balcony and now I can hear about her tough day and horrible make-up artist she went to from Paris. All this while my hand was trying to overcome the barrier that was her tight jeans. I eventually get past it and the rest is history. We get back to the party and she has one too many and blacks out. I take her to the car to come about and go back to the party to go about my agenda. At around 1am, I’ve had enough of the samples and decide it’s time to head out. I duck all my subjects and go to the car. By this time she’d come to so I volunteered to drive her home thinking this one must be from Runda with all this Paris talk. “So where do you live?”. There was a pause, then the answer came. “Along Mombasa road.” That was close to my place to I thought the gods were working overtime this time around. I drove off thinking, I knew a few good estos along M-road. So we drive past Capital centre and I’m thinking, maybe it’s Diamond Park. We get to the Airtel offices junction and I start to slow down but she says it’s just a short distance away. I think, it may be Imara Daima. We go past that junction and at this point I start thinking maybe she lives in Coast and just wants me to drive her home. So we get to the Cabanas junction and she tells me to turn. We drive into Pipleline estate and head towards some clubs. I’m thinking, shit! she wants me to buy her booze and we are from drinking? The bouncers took away all my fears. One of them just came to us when she stepped out of the car and was like,” Umechelewa kazi. Enda ubadilishe na upande stage!” (You are late for work. Get changed and get on that stage!). So she invited me in for a private show which I got for free. When I was leaving at around 4 am, she was like,” Si utanitafuta?” (You’ll look for me?) I just nodded thinking,”Nitakutafuta tufanye nini? Uniambie nikulipe?” (Look for you for what? So that you ask for payment?) So that fateful night I learnt even even fireflies glitter.

My City

Today I’ve taken a break from all the drugs that have been abusing me from my late teenage years and I’ve decided to take a serious look at my environment and made plenty of observations. First and foremost, is Imported Nairobians. Who is an imported Nairobian you may ask. These are the peeps who came to Nairobi simply because circumstances forced them ( Read school). These are the people who wear combat gumboots to class. For those of you who grew up in incubators, a gumboot is the ancestor of the modern day crocs and condom shoes. There is no problem with gumboots, but combat gumboots? Who are you? Idi Amin’s twin sister? I’m not the orthodox fashion guru but I know a thing or two about looking good. And combat boots or in this case gumboots only look good in series. Condom shoes aren’t good either, whether it’s the Salama looking like guy shoes or the Sure looking feminine shoes. The wooden shoes ladies wear are in this category as well. Just because we can tell you are stamping in from a kilometre away doesn’t mean you are wearing heels. No! Those things you get from your carpenter and masquerade as heels do not cut the mark. If wearing heels is a must, go to Engarasha and get yourself a pair. And when you do, do a dry run before leaving the house. Those mamis that gully creep and ride bicycles anytime they wear heels should be sentenced to a fortnight in Luthuli to learn how to operate in these objects of desire. And unless you get laid in those shoes, they don’t have to be so Spartacus-like with spikes all over.

The sisal many chicks have taken to putting on their heads. I know taking care of hair is tough business considering I have afro kinky hair(ndengu) but sisal, really? To make matters worse, these crop of human beings go as far as getting coloured sisal. Those that have managed to find a bearing in the city go for the more familiar horse tails. These come in different shades other than grey. I’m not a chronic or habitual hater as my post may suggest but I have a soft spot for identifying flaws and odd things. What’s my problem with this breed of hair? It stinks and looks like an eagle’s nest after a few weeks. Unless you have a rich parent(s), boyfriend or have the financial means, desist from this sinful trend. You are being tricked and you’ll end up in hell and the hair will be used to fuel the sulphur. It is a simple way of making life difficult for any guy trying to get brain. We shall fight for our right and that starts with ridding our city of weaves. You’d rather go bald if you have nothing to do with your hair. The things this product does to you is not fair even if you hate life. The sides of your head look like a set of Mandingo pubes and the worst of all is false impression. Chicks hide so many things under those things. If it’s not funny looking eyes ( no offence to my cross-eyed friends), it’s a scar she got while she was busy trying to shoplift for the given concealment product. With the rising confidence in our judicial systems we,(as the Anti-Weave Movement) will file a petition to make weaves illegal in this part of the country(Excluding Rongai, Syokimau,Ngong,Kahawa et al).

What annoys a native  Nairobian such as I the most is the lexicology of this breed. This simply means their language is to die for. I mean to literally die to save the language from these terrorists. I’m conducting a research to find the origin of the phrase “nayo”. The use of this word took Nairobi by storm but true Nairobians stuck to their vocab. This word doesn’t make sense and anybody found using it within the borders of Nairobi should be smacked with a bible to drive the gospel home. Words are tools of communication and when misused they can make a people look out of place. That word is the origin of these girls that wear skirts with plits then go chill at Psys and expect to get laid or the guys that buy napoleon( and I’m not referring to Chatelle) and borrow a bottle of Oudemeester to look classy. When you come to Nairobi maintain your own or do as the Nairobians do. But coming here and putting x’s instead of s in words will not be taken lightly. X is only used when rating movies, marking a spot or referring to something you left in the past. I am not a regionalist or in line with our current constitution, a countist. I am just a person who wants the city to maintain its status as the City of the Stars. I may have offended a few persons in this blog but I am doing it for a greater cause. You’ll hate me now but repect me when Konza city fails to kick off and people who moved to Syokimau and Kitengela to be closer to Kenya’s silicon valley try moving back to the city.

The man in me

Authentic or synthetic?

 

As Jim walked into the pub you could see he was a walking star. Not in the sense of being a celebrity but rather in his appearance. Nails well done, hair at golf course height and pants tighter than a hose fitted to a tap. “What the hell happened to you chap?” is all that ran through our minds. This was the modern man. The meterosexual. A new breed of men who were in touch with their feminine side. Groomed himself like a cat and walked like a one too. This begged the question, who is an authentic man and who’s synthetic? Most men, at least most of the authentic one’s that are left, believe that God created Adam. Not that they love being all bushy and sweaty but at least one should maintain the slightest bit of masculinity. In most cases, there is a very thin line between meterosexuality and crossing over to the other side. I have completely nothing against this group of men just to be clear.

 

On the contrary, I believe men should be presentable and well groomed. We can do this from the confines of our bathrooms or for the liberal, living room. A trip to the salon shouldn’t be treated as an invite by our feminine counterparts to join them in their haven. Certainly no man wants to be at a barber shop and the wife is reminding him of the unfixed bulb or broken tile in the bathroom. Meterosexuals are the kind of men who would sit back and wait for a tow track to tow his vitz because it ran out of fuel. They are afraid of getting their hands dirty. An occasional greasy hand isn’t a bad sight, it shows you remain true to who you are; biologically at least. A friend once told me God created man and woman created the gentleman. This idea has since been rooted in my mind. At times I think to myself, aren’t we misplacing our values and priorities? Whenever ladies see one of those modern Herculean men or simply the modern day Tyrese, they go ballistics. They don’t react in an equal manner when they see Michael Bolton or Neil Harris. This shows that as much as women are hygienic and well groomed they don’t want us to compete with them. The little experience I have had with ladies has given me the impression that they want a masculine figure around them. A few days ago, I had the opportunity to eavesdrop my way into a conversation. My friends and I had come from lunch and some guy just blurted out, “I don’t understand how four guys can have lunch together! I’d only have lunch with a guy if the situation found me at home.” This statement rang in my head.

 

I don’t mind having lunch with the boys at any restaurant. In guy time, lunch time is the time you get to check chics out. You can freely criticize that peach-like behind, praise those lovely melons or ogle at that diva in jeans sewn to her skin. Narrate how you had to fix the broken photocopier with no know-how just to please the secretary and lost your tie in the process. Basic things that a man can take pride in. That is an authentic man having lunch. A synthetic man would rather talk about his new pants, hair-do or number 234 nail polish with the girls. A man should spend time with the ladies but to an extent that does not compromise his manhood. I wouldn’t be propagating hate speech when I say,they make the work done by Dedan Kimathi,George Washington,Samora Machel and the likes seem fruitless. If these men had manicured nails or hairstyles they couldn’t afford to mess up, I probably wouldn’t be writing this. I’d be scouting for my fourth or third wife in the valleys of Lambwe(not that I would mind that of course). I want to be the man that changes a flat tyre in the blazing sun,the dad that can teach his son how to do it and the grandfather that remembers how he used to do it.

 

Meterosexual men aren’t really lesser men but I’m just saying they are giving the first man a bad name(whether it’s the ape,Adam or Gikuyu). A business man can be well groomed without having their nails done in the salon. When a lady says she wants a presentable man she doesn’t mean she wants herself plastered on a masculine figure. You can be a clean and still be a man. A trip to the beauty palour will just serve as an erosional process. Authentic men are now becoming extinct. The number of men we are losing to the other side is at an all-time high and action should be taken immediately. Otherwise, professions that are not keen on aesthetics will vanish. I will be responsible for the formation of a movement that will seek to save man. It is not a task for the faint hearted. It will require men who can say no being shaved around beautiful ladies for the more masculine barber shop, with two ladies that everyone wants to get touched by. It will need men who can eat at any diner or open air restaurant, instead of the fancy eating joints. Men who will learn how to fix a broke pocket even if involves breaking plenty of sweat glands. This is a race to save humanity. It may get boring (some don’t want to chip their nails) but it’s a worthwhile course. Let us save the authentic man. Let us go back to barber shops!