Posted in Uncategorized


‘The greatness of any nation lies in its fidelity to the constitution, adherence to the rule of law, respect to God and above all the love for mutura,” Chief Justice David Maraga 2017 AD, The Year of the Lord.

If you want to treat me to a good meal in this economy, do not take me to a restaurant where I have to wait for an hour to be served something that does not even cover a quarter of my plate. Do not take me to those overrated places in town where I am offered a  tea spoon, a regular spoon, fork, knife, a machete and an axe before food is brought to the table. At that level, the only meal I would expect served is a briefcase from the NYS loot. My Gusii self even gets troubled when I have to tie a piece of handkerchief on my neck( I was later informed it is called a napkin). All this trouble for you to only bring me a slice of chapati and an avocado seed. It reminds me of a time I lied to a voluptuous lass called Nyaboke for months on end about how strong my “bed-minton” game is. When I was finally given a chance to tour the coveted territories, I was done before she could say, “gaaki!” Those are not fun times to make a lad remember.

So if you want me to win the hunger games take me to a kibanda, or where us who come from the upper and fertile region of River Gucha call Villa Rosa Kibandaski.( Nyamira people are not allowed to say that; get your pronunciation from Matiang’i.)In those days of the year when I am extremely broke, I take my meals from a Kibandaski; and for someone whose streak in broke days is unbeaten, that is saying a lot. The Kibanda has always been a place of mystery due to its unwritten codes of conduct.  The most important one is what has helped me survive my recent escapades as a newbie mutura enthusiast; Never be curious about the preparation process.

When I first dragged my village ass to the city, I was dropped at a place in downtown called Nyamakima which translates to “A person of Ugali.”  I walked around tentatively expecting to see a kibanda that sells Ugali. Imagine the thorough disappointment when the only thing I saw was several barbeque stands that sold what I later came to know as mutura. Its resemblance bordered between a roast tapeworm and charred intestines of an elephant ailing from Obororo; a disease that terrorizes chicken in my village. Chicken that suffer from Obororo are known to pee a lot. Your city ass has not seen a chicken pee in your life but I have; so trust the terror that was the mutura first impression.

Have you ever asked yourself a question like, “Self, what the heck is happening here?!” That was my consistent reaction when I saw people from all crawls of life huddled over a chopping board along the streets, devouring something so vile I considered it to be a burnt sacrifice to the Shit gods. I mean, how do you eat something that is possibly colon that has been stuffed with excrement? I had to check my high school Biology to confirm that large intestines are right above that word Trump used on African countries. I also figured out longtime ago that the reason as to why mutura is sold in the evening hours was to allow everyone to have diarrhea at the comfort of their houses at night.  There was no way I would partake in that nonsense. I confirmed I was the sane one. Well, at least until last week.

You see, we all have one life to live and no one has confirmed what happens to us on the other side after our air supply is cut off. On Monday last week, I got to deep thoughts about life after death. What if after I die God asks you,

 “What did you do with the mutura that I gave you?” 

 I would stutter for the answer. In the corner of my eye, I would see Jesus producing a master key for my special room in purgatory . Mbugua, the mutura guy would be the one handling my torture in his white lab coat that has now turned brown with stains of large intestine juices.

          “I had thought I should trust my gut instincts when around those pieces of guts,” I would answer the almighty.

 Angel Gabriel giggles because he is the only when who saw what I did there. Cool guy that one.

  “Oooh, Jesus Christ! Who told you to do that?” God shouts .

Looking up from the key-duplicating machine surprised, Jesus answers, “ummmmh, You did.”

“Aaah. Sorry son, I’m not talking to you,” God would reply, face to his palm.

 Gabriel chuckles. I stifle mine and fist pump him real quick.

   But I digress.

Where were we? Aaah, yeah, last week. Have you ever felt a rainbow that is salted exploding in your mouth? No?  Then you have probably never eaten mutura because that should have been your first reaction to that awesomeness getting in contact with your mandible. Mbugua wa mutura didn’t even wash his hands after handling charcoal. He wiped real quick on his lab coat and progressed to cut me a piece of that roast tube-meat. I learnt that you don’t put salt unto the mutura. No,No. You roll the piece on a patch of salt that is on the chopping board.

When that awesomeness landed in my mouth, I had to close my eyes and feel it with every part of my body. It took the intervention of loving comrades to press me to the ground and prevent me from flying off the cosmos with orgasmic impulses that my brain was having, as a function of the contents in my mouth. I turned around and looked at people walking home peacefully and shook my head in sorrow. How can one just  walk past a mutura stall and go to sleep in peace at night? Is that how they plan to spend their valuable time on earth?

Yesterday as I was rolling a piece on salt and exercising my jaws for the torture I was going to conduct on the product of my well-spent 20 shilling coin, a lass I had tagged along asked me whether I knew what was in the mutura. I paused for a moment and realized it had been six consecutive days since I started eating mutura and I had no idea what it was yet. It got me into a lot of soul-searching on what uncultured swine I had become . Do you now want to assume that as a sane, Gusii-bred and mannered adult I will continue eating something whose contents I have no knowledge of? Because if you did, you are damn right!



It would be one week before Christmas when everything starts getting heated. You remember the previous year and how events were awesome beyond your expectation. But currently as you sit outside your hut swinging that metal cup of porridge in your hand to moderate its temperature for the sake of your fourteen year old mouth, you muse upon your broke status. Your mama arrives with a container full of cow dung and starts the process of mixing it with very yellow loam soil. Your houses are only smeared around this time of the year. Aaaarh! The smell of wet soil always gives you an appetite for something your mind cannot quite place. So you leave and allow mama to pimp he hut.  An overly overrated fruit called avocado falls from the tree outside the house as you walk away.

“Mama, is this ripe?” You ask as you bend to pick the overrated fruit. (Okay, I think you all get my point)

“No. It just fell to impress you handsome.”  She strikes you with a low blow without even looking up from her work.

As you strut your ass away you remember last year when you almost got lucky with Nyaboke, that voluptuous lass from across the road that every lad drools for. Rumors are that her grandfather’s grandfather was a cousin to your great grand aunt’s in-law from Nyamira. But in the moment of heat that Christmas night you were legally blind you could not look that far up the lineage tree. You were so close in fact, were it not for that untimely cane that pierced your young buttocks making your manhood recoil inwards with such velocity you decided never to waste your money going to a tortoise park. Nyaboke’s bastard older brother had been passing by the bush when he heard your sounds in the bush humping and preparing for a romp.

The speed that got you off a thorough whooping by that douche bag could make your mama proud but in totally unrelated circumstances of course.  Like during night-running sessions. Because that’s what you city folks think we always do down here! You people must really think that when a Kisii kid gets to about ten years of age they receive a Hogwarts letter to join witchcraft. By the way if that actually happened it would be so cool I would not even think twice about joining. But I digress.

At such a time before Christmas everyone is looking to solicit gifts from their parents or relatives from the great Nairobi who will be arriving in a few days. But you know you will get nothing from them apart from their annoying and attention seeking spoilt kids you call cousins. They come here speaking sheng in their clean tongues and it is only a million times you’ve held yourself back from punching  their smug faces down into their throats. Their parents are no different; promising you shit they always never deliver. This year, your aunt with a shrilled voice promised you a bicycle. Okay, that aunt who has one eyebrow because all of your aunts have shrilled voices anyway. Or it’s just your eardrums that have a knack of filtering the gutter that comes out of their small mouths into shrieking sounds.

It’s an awesome thing that your ears can do. You feel like a god. It is way better that being promised a bicycle that will not get delivered because of three reasons. One, you do not know how to ride a bike because when your age mates used to saddle bicycles with their small groins you were busy doing better things like thirsting for that voluptuous lass Nyaboke. Two, you really have no interest in receiving gifts from city dwelling aunts who always want to talk to you in English. Something about that bugs the sauce in you.  As for the third reason,I really have no interest of telling you baggers. You must be really miserable if you want to hear it.

The chime of coins from near bushes gets your adrenaline rushing: its korondo season. Korondo for you spoilt city folks is a money game where one hides coins in their palm in a random order and you place your arrangement next to it for prediction. You earn your correct prediction and lose the unlucky ones.  Because it’s a few days before Christmas, every lad is huddled in the bushes playing korondo like nonsense. You are not to be left behind. You reach into the back pocket of your shorts and your hand touches your ass in the cowboy underwear. Your heart skips a bit. Your pocket is torn. Your coins are not there. You stop and check all your front pockets and luckily your coins are safe. It took a great deal to steal them; you cannot afford to lose them. Yeah, stolen. I wonder where y’all fancy folks expect a fourteen year old brat to get his money from.

Custom and tradition prevent a circumcised boy from stepping into their mother’s sleeping chambers. But screw traditions, right? You remember the ordeal last year when you had tiptoed into your mother’s den to gather some coins and came out to sit under the avocado tree like the pretentious little crap that you are. Your friends and your mother had just arrived in the compound. In your escape from the bedroom, your mama’s mothers- union knicker had gotten stuck on your head but you didn’t realize so. The laughter from those scoundrels  as your mama whoop your ass still echoes in your head most nights. She does not negotiate with terrorists that one.

“That woman needs a leash.” You think as you run your palm on your head to double-check and then step into a korondo den.


At around six in the evening most if not all households have prepared dough for mandazi or chapati. It is the only time of the year that you will get to eat such delicacies. If you are lucky enough, some meat will be prepared for supper and so you will walk with some raw pepper in your pocket as you prepare for that butchery product.

From my thorough research which is sponsored by Hogwarts Department of Festival Wizardry, I have come to realize that on the eve of Christmas Witches do not ride their brooms across the Muggle villages of Kisii. Fear the power of a pregnant virgin woman! They cannot possibly wand their way through such a phenomenon. So when night ushers in darkness on the 24th of December, children come out to ululate.

All across the huts in the village, drums will be mercilessly beaten with no particular rhythm as children sing on-spot composed songs. One will shout from across the valley how their Christmas chicken is currently boiling. The other from across will brag of how they have had a taste of busaa. It is only during these periods that children are allowed to have a taste of that sweet drink. They will sing and shout through the night till their voices are sore.  Let it be known that I matured from these children behavior and as the adult I am I stopped doing it long time ago when I was eighteen years. I am nineteen now .

Most of the times, the children will go around households and get a piece of whatever is being cooked in each hut. This is like the way whites give candy to children singing carols. Only there are no carols in Kisii and definitely no candy. We are too busy training for inter-village Witchcraft World Cup for that.

It is around this time last year that you almost got lucky with Nyaboke. So you leave adults in the house to beat stories as you head out to look for her at midnight among the flock of children singing and shouting at the roads and village paths. If you know where her bastard brother is then you might just get lucky. If you don’t know where he might emerge from, you better carry a charm for protection. For the night is dark and full of terrors.

You will wake up and slip into your new T-shirt and jeans attire that was purposefully bought for Christmas. Your old sports shoes were well wiped and kept since a month ago. You slide into the Reeboks. It doesn’t matter whether they are Nike or Puma or Jordan, all sports shoes are called Reeboks in Kisii. After gobbling your breakfast and confirming your hundred shilling note in your pocket, you head out to town. The movie den is open by that time and you cannot even fathom how many Dj Afro movies you will watch with your hundred shillings.

You look up and see a plane in the clouds. Someone has probably packed for Seychelles, or the Kenyan coast, or Europe with their family for the holidays. You in your cheap new attire and hundred shillings have no idea about this and would really care less if you did. Because in your Reeboks, and hundred shillings, and a night of shouting and singing, you feel like you had the best Christmas period on earth. The virtue of simplicity is the supreme haven of happiness!

Have a Reebok Christmas gang!






10:45pm on Sameta Hills

“Can you imagine how many people are making love at this very moment in all these houses?” I ask her

She turns her face abruptly towards me and stares as if she has just found the man who betrayed the great Sakawa.

“Going by the fact that it is a little before midnight, I’d have to say it’s more than half the huts.” She replies.

“I would hate to be that guy that has to be unlucky tonight. In a night like this when the moon is kissing the stars and the blush from the pink of their billion faces is bespoke. I would hate to be that guy that quarreled with the wife and now their backs have to lie facing each other. Or that one who ate his wife’s avocado that she had so much looked forward to and now the tips of their buttocks is the best contact they have. Or the one who is polygamous and got too drunk he forgot which hut he was to pleasure his groins from.” I say subconsciously.


I am losing her in the train of thoughts.

“I am just happy I am not the unlucky guy. I mean, here I am on top of a hill with the love of my life being slapped by a biting breeze while watching the village sleep like it’s a strange new dog.” I smile.

“Well guess what?” She turns to me yet again.

“Sakawa is not really dead and 911 was an inside job?” I spew a chuckle

“You’re such a hollow person.” She replies as she starts off down the hill

“Come on, I was only pulling your broomstick!” I shout and pick my Chief’s staff to run after her.

I take one look at the village from up here. Tonight I be the lucky guy, tomorrow I begin my rule.

Footnote: Pulling your broomstick is potterhead for pulling your leg. I am the newly crowned Village Chief. Also, Chapati is overrated. Did I say Chapati is overrated? Yes. Chapati is overrated.






I might have to bid the city goodbye and go back to my village because there is a cycle of unprecedented events there,

My village Chief started small like it was a joke. He said water that swept downhill to his farm had carried weed seeds. Weed is meant to be uprooted. But we never realized his was a different kind till youths started flocking his compound. It is not peculiar for youths to be in a Chief’s compound frequently. But when your elder brother impregnates the village chief’s eldest daughter, the girl with two left buttocks who was found taking a dump at the church podium on a fine Sunday morning, then shit has hit the fan. (Pun intended). When you hear that your village chief is now a bhang peddler, you garra go because the whole village depends on your academic prowess to solve this issue. They do not give a mad girl’s ass whether you are studying Anthropology or Economics in campus; they raised you to learn the entire world’s politics.

I might have to leave this toxic city and pack for the village soon because my father is troubled,

My crack-head brother was on his way from the river with our flock of cattle when he spotted Nyanchama, the two left buttocks girl. The geography of the village is that the path to the river stream passes right outside the chief’s compound. His senses must have seeped right through his porous pothead and he forgot about the cows. It so happens that the weed farm is right next to the path where he was. The cows had a feast while his hands were exploring the geography of the two left buttocks girl. As we speak, the village chief wants compensation for the damage on his bhang. As we speak, my father has already sent word to the chief telling him in no uncertain terms will he be summoned by a bhang farmer and if he feels offended he should go sit on a hot jiko.

I might have to go to the village immediately because scenes are turning ugly,

My father who owns the sole butchery in the village sold weed-meat to church members who are having a camp meeting in the village. The cow that he had slaughtered is among the ones that fed on the Chief’s weed farm. My village members do not care whether I study Computer Science or English Literature; I have to be a Forensic Scientist and solve this matter. Now the pastor is said to be quoting severally from the burning bush scene in the bible. The choir members are all singing about Mt Zion. They are talking of dreams of brighter days, and aliens , and possible ramifications of existence of parallel universes. The weed has taken effect.


I might have to go to my village this moment because events have escalated real quick,

After dealing with munchies and eating almost all of the week’s food that they had carried from the camp in one day, the church members must have had a lot of energy to release. Now, it so happens that the ground they were camping at is just uphill from the Chief’s farm. It also so happens that this is coincidentally where the water that brought weed seeds to the Chief’s farm allegedly came from. The Church members with their newly pumped energy picked hoes, I mean a lot of hoes, hoes of all sizes and shapes and attitude. They also carried other farm tools but the hoes were the most. They set down the campsite and decided to do volunteer work. My village members do not care what I study at campus, but they think I should know theology and come and help sorting the crisis.

I might have to go to the village because reports reaching me minutes ago are scary.


The church members are uprooting everything in every farm they come across. The first one right next to the campsite is the Chief’s. The Chief is sharpening his panga while cursing. My father sips busaa and laughs hard as he tells me this on the phone. Seconds later I receive a text from my crackhead brother:

“Bro, I accidently dropped a blunt in Dad’s busaa pot. The same one he was drinking from when he called you. I am afraid to tell him.”

Bruuuuuuuuh. I garra go. My village needs me!

Posted in THE CITY, Uncategorized




Just below snakes and enclosed spaces, street bullies( street kids?) scare the shit out of me. I don’t know how to put this in a nice way so as not to seem as if I am talking from a point of privilege. But it’s true, street kids scare last night’s dinner out of my colons. And if I happen to take porridge for supper, then they don’t even have to try to scare it out. They are right there above my fear of mutura, so you should know it is pretty serious. Therefore when I walk in town I tend to keep myself. Dodging mutura stalls and street kids or I will have to resort to carrying diapers. Nasty lifestyle. I go to town only when it is absolutely necessary. And absolute is absolute, you can never argue with Mathematics; it is the language of the gods after all.

When you have to meet me, please make sure it is not in town. We can meet in a church, a jungle, a bar, a strip club, our houses, heaven, but not in town goddamit! The probability of me being bullied by a street kid is 1, and that’s absolute. Let’s also not meet at a mutura stall, because that stuff is shaped like intestines, which therefore does not do me good by reminding me of the part of my body that is scared shitless when I am bullied by a street kid. Do not also organize a meeting at a snake park. Not even a snake graveyard, if there is one. I don’t trust those things even when they are dead. They made Eve eat the apple at the Garden of Eden and we have never stopped since then. You can’t trust something like that. Also, apples are very expensive.

Nairobi scares me the most, and then all other towns cram for second place. I think Kisii street kids scare me the least. Or not at all even. I used to think it’s because I cannot get scared in my own mother tongue but then I remembered that is the language my mother uses. If a Kisii mother wants to whoop the hell out of you just stay still and cover your face. If you run away make sure you carry along a hoe. No, no, no. not that type. Carry a hoe to help you dig your own grave. Because threats in a Kisii tongue are not bluffs. If your neighbor is a Kisii and you have an altercation and then they suddenly switch to Kisii; you better apologize even if you are on the wrong.

(The next paragraphs were written two hours later because Khaligraph came on TV while I was typing. You garra respect the OG. Let’s not even argue.)

Where were we? Ooh, yes. If it is necessary to meet me any town, make sure it is in Kisii Town. But does the Magunga online bookstore know that? Your guess is not as good as mine. Okay, it is. They don’t!

When I won a book from the Storymoja Festival, I received a call only a snake park owner would want to torture me with.

“Hello, is this Mr. Richard?”

First of all, I am 18 years of age; Mr. is kind of overreaching.

“This is he, how may I help you?”

“I am calling on behalf of the Magunga bookstores to organize for you to pick your book from town at a time of your choice.”

“Will you carry diapers for me?”

Okay, I did not ask that last one. A few things to note: I had really hoped it would be Magunga himself who would be making that delivery. Or at least the call. You read a man’s blog like it’s your bible but he cannot make a call when you need it. Ja Karuoth yawa! I cannot wait to be famous like that. It comes with its own standards. Again, there will never, ever ever, be a time of my choice to meet in Nairobi town. Unless you plan to fly my ass all the way, and back. My life has been threatened not a few times in this town. So no thank you there is no time called ‘time of my choice’.

I rechecked the title of the book. I crossed my fingers and hoped it would read something like, “How to change your diapers in the midst of town”.Damn! It was not. The book was called “Tuesday” by John Elnathan. From what I heard, he and Magunga had met in town to eat fish. The audacity! They make it look so easy this meeting it town business. It’s like…like going to a strip club. So there was no way his book had prepared me for street kids. He does not know the struggle.


“Are you there?” The voice at the other end brought me back from my thoughts.
“Tell Magunga I am scared.”


“Is there a way you could just deliver it to Ruiru?” My stomach started doing back flips.

“Well yes, but I was of the opinion that Town is convenient to both of us.”

“Well, you can eat your opinion for supper then.” I muttered under my breath.

Silence. Silence. (Meanwhile, Safaricom is chopping moni at the other side.)

“Let me see what I can do about it then call you again.” He says before boycotting the call.

Shit! I don’t have diapers in this house.

Posted in Uncategorized




Prepare to get bored,


I am currently sited outside my crib typing my fingers away despite being as hungry as every sense of the word comes. I have a roommate ( or is it roommates?), who has not bothered to know what I have eaten for the past fortnight. I am prepared to bore my readers due to my indisposition to exertion on matters concerning this blog.

No. I don’t want to bore you all about how my creative juices have become diluted, how I have a writer’s mental block or any philosophical blabber towards such. No. I will not do injustice to the few readers who walk into this space with a thirst in their guts like a virgin on her wedding night. I know you are bored already but bear a little.

I am giving up. No, not on the blog (or not yet?). I am giving up on a lot of other things. An effort to not laugh when people I hate make really nice dry jokes. I am an enthusiast of the driest of jokes. Jokes so dehydrated, joke so bare and lacking moist they could be Sahara desert’s bastard. I am giving up on holding shit inside when I’m pressed. (Okay, I got to rush inside and have a quick dump. Bear with me. Listen to Sia when I’m gone or something.)

Aaaaaah. That was great. Taking a good dump is one of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Right above ummmh….what were they?? Anyone?

I really love this blog. I love her. I need a name for her. My lips curve in excitement when I think of the beautiful stories she makes me tell her. I blush when she stares at me when I don’t have stories to tell her. At such moment, we listen to some good music (Most of the times Sia calms her soul). It is at such times that she stares across the laptop from me while she tears up telling me of her lonely days. Of days I have abandoned her for Calculus. Or Java. Or physics. It is at such times that I hold out my hands and feel hers and assure her that I am just friends with science. She cries and says I lie. She has seen the texts. All the notes I have on the Laws of Thermodynamics. I feared it. She says she has seen all the PDFs I have stored in my PC.

“You are my one true love,” I assure her in between her sobs.

I tell her how all the laws of the universe and how math and science and techn….But she cuts me short by placing her index finger on my lips.

“I want to hear about your bad days, not about your friends that I am jealous of,” she whispers.

She still maintains her beautiful face when she cries. It’s my turn to cry now. I tell her of my father, my family, my sick aunt who has been in hospital for close to a year. I tell her of the days I cried sited at a bench in a place I will not disclose. All the while she is silent.

I tell her also, of the beautiful thing I have thought of the two of us. How far we have come. How much we need a vacation. But money seems to elude me. How I want us to completely move out of this ghetto and have our own beautiful place. A place we could tell the world even greater stories. But money seems to elude me.

“Where do you want us to go?” She asks

I look far past her across the laptop and squint. I am in deep thought.

“Domain baby. Domain.” I say.

A new tear forms in her eyes.

“What will you call me now. I have been waiting for the name for a long time since we moved in together.” She asks with great concern. It’s a question that has pestered me for not short a while also.

“I will tell you when I get more creative about it,” I answer.

“Just don’t cheat on me with science,” She says with great concern.

I cup her face in the laptop and give her a goodnight kiss as I kick the Calculus book with a heel way back under the bed.





How foolish I was,
to think I could write and satisfy the hearts of men like a  maiden to a master,
How naive I was,
to imagine I could twist alphabets with crisp efficiency and quench the souls of mortals,
How stupid could I get,
to lift fingers bony and expose naked mind in the literal auditorium and brace self for a duel,
How eager I was,
to see them applaud and nod in satisfaction like does a director in an erotica.


Yet here I am,
crawled out of my reclusiveness, languidly boring good men with words of no essence,
Mothers know the secret wishes of men, writers are men,
But a bird whispered, “The complexities of the social realm, cannot be caressed, in the same nature as dominant fantasies,”
Yet here I am,
a fraud,  willing the souls of men, like the ceaseless roar of wind in a hungry storm,
Please prevent the harpoon that wants to roil my emotions, even for a second of transient love, for my works of art.

Posted in Uncategorized



High school relationships were one of the best high school experiences. Some of us can feel proud of having gotten the privilege of experiencing this deep-felt affection that is if at all high-school love does exist. If it does not, which rather has some aspect of truth, then it also is a privilege to have you and your G.f console yourselves, or rather, lie to yourselves that your passing fantasy is real. Obviously, much has been frequented about high school relationships; stories like it wastes your time, it kills part of you that should have been invested in your better half to make your marriage more worthwhile et cetera. The fact remains that the affair is somewhat personal and the weird mechanisms you two invent now and then to keep your fantasy intact are all up to you; the ‘couple’.

Chad Kultgen in The Lie says that there is nothing like love in this world. It’s just a lie where each gender is using the other for selfish reasons of achieving the aim to sate their carnal desires. I remember this girl I met some few months back. Her name was Stella or Sandy, I can’t really remember but it had an ‘S’ somewhere. We courted each other for a while, nay, she thought we were. How times have changed, I now eagerly wait for a female figure, any female figure, to pop up in my conversations and not want me to help her with my reports to copy. Anyway enough of that.

I had just arrived from school from a very brief mid-term break. I remember before we broke for half-term, on the dismissal parade, the Deputy Principal Academics having said something like “you are only shifting your workshop”, he always does, I mean, that’s pretty obvious but I came to realise that this phrase addresses very few Busherians(if at all any). Reason? (1) We are extremely ignorant and our ignorance is beyond repair or (2) we have no workshop. Wait. How can you even shift a workshop which you don’t have in the first place? Some of us also prefer to have their work done permanently in one place, you might shift and forget some of your tools.
Back to my arrival. When I set foot in school, I realised that I had forgotten to bring with me the school address of some St. Gee girl I had met online and managed to woo her within my intended line of fantasy within the 2 days. (Also, I had considered the bragging rights having a St Gee chick would earn me among my peers and the offer was too lucrative. I took it!) This I did with much ease. Like, this even wasn’t the first time. I had no doubt the school directory would be of no use .Then, nature extended its hand of pity towards me the following day. This was because the administration was kind enough to send those of us with fee balances back home. With glee therefore, proceeded back home specifically to get that address.

It so happened that Stella’s (okay, let me just use the name Stella. I kind’ a like it) administration had also been kind enough to refer them to their guardians for the same reason as I. That’s the untenable situation on which we met. There is nothing I’m trying to overate about that first meeting but I pretty much did not expect to hold on to her as much as I did. I remember the way the sunrays fell on her radiant face and she looked so glamorous and full of charm. Her smile was really fascinating and at some moment as I looked intently at her as she smiled at me and I couldn’t help admitting to myself how gorgeous she looked. I found it very difficult to keep my very-true opinions to myself since I’m not that watertight when it comes to secreting feelings so I expressed myself to her. You should have seen the look on her face when I complimented her. Really? Stop flattering me. Are you serious? I remembered some statement I had once read that implied that striking conversations are only maintained by beautiful minds; I was impressed. I liked that conversation with her. I know she liked it too.

I took the step of writing to her first. I like kind of feel weird and a bit nerdy when a girl writes to me first. I don’t know why but the whole thing is really strange. My words were unpretentious and simple. I tried not to lay off any unnecessary emotion on that letter. It was the first mail, you understand, and I did not want to look desperate. It’s surprising how we gentlemen invent new mechanisms to instigate our lows of self-respect by proving to these lassies just how desperate we are. I was not ready to drop my self-regard on anyone.

“I don’t know how to stop getting overly excited whenever I think of you; how to stop this yawning emotional kick. I know you knew I liked you from the first moment our eyes met, that’s why you smiled. Some things just… some things just make sense, and one of those is you and I” I penned off.

Her mail was in my hands two weeks after, with an Edwardian script ITC Calligraphy; my favourite romance type-face. I loved it. I had almost forgotten about her then, I mean, I had written like four mails the same week that hers arrived and received almost double the same week, Stella’s included. What can I say, business was good! I don’t know why I saw this but her letters were poles apart from the rest. I was enamoured to her use of words. She let our conversations flow smoothly. I did not at any one time receive hypocritical and exaggerated trash like you are all I need, I’m the luckiest girl in St Gee, you are my every thought et cetera. Her words were nice. Not passionate, not gross or anything but just really nice. May be this is the reason I replied to every one of her talks.

By the time the term was drawing to a close, we had exchanged a couple of I miss yous, I’m thinking of yous et cetera. All those pleasantries, you know. Not like I was enamoured with her or anything; I didn’t follow up on such trash as love in high school. I was kind of playing along the fantasy, the high school fantasy, though I almost felt at one time that Stella did sound earnest. But then again there was no way I could have changed my strategies. I say ‘strategies’ because I was not playing any game back then; I was the game.
I reminisce when I met her the following holiday. She looked really adorable and everything but thank goodness I did not realise this. Sometimes I get this image of hers stuck at the back of my mind, how she looked at our last meet, and I can’t help admitting how dumb I was then. I don’t know why but at one moment, I remembered my childhood crush. Her name was Erin. She was just as sweet as the name. There is no way I can erase her memory. I used to be so into her. When I first told her I liked her,
She was like, “I like you but only as a friend.”

I was like,” Ok.” Whatever I have got friends, skank! I wanted to add but I rethought my thought. She wasn’t worth it anyway. Lol. Side note though, Erin was probably one of the founding figures of the dreaded friend zone we know of today.

I was pretty much sure I would come to end my fantasy with Stella, sooner than later, but this turnout was actually more exothermic than I imagined. She drew close to me and after a hug, she looked deep into my eyes. She embraced me tighter than usual. For a moment, I thought I knew what she was driving at. This one time I hoped I was really mistaken but then there was no denying it.

She enfolded my palm. Tightly. This arose within me some weird sensation I still find difficult to describe.

“I love you,” she cooed.
I was like, “Cool.”

Honestly, I know you are like, ‘what the!? What’s wrong with this guy?’ I can’t explain it. I might have been the dumbest person on earth. Stella took it so hard on herself. I knew her emotions were shattered. She did not even cry or anything. I’m sure she expected like, I would embrace her, tell her ‘I love you too’, take her to the top of the world, sing to her some John Mayeret cetera. But I wasn’t such a haphazard sort of person; I watched her walk away, dejected. I did not feel anything whatsoever.

I’m coming to the end of this and I am holding on at some point, lifting my fingers off the keyboard. I try to conjure some feeling of emotion after evoking Stella’s memories but surprisingly, none has come.


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“If you need motivational words, don’t do it”

-Elon Musk-

For those of you who don’t know who Elon Musk is,  uummm…Google.


Most of you think this is one of my numerous military outbursts I’ve been having since …idk, whatever!! (hadn’t really thought that statement through thoroughly and now it’s too late or/and I’m too lazy to delete it)

No, it’s not Department of Defense propaganda.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present…(drum rolls please…) my squad.


I’m not talking about those people we call to ask for a cash grant after a long spell of no-speak-no-see. I’m talking of those people whose numbers we dial in the middle of a drunken stupor to explain just how much we love them. Those who tell their parents they’re sleeping over at your place while are like 300 miles away from your crib doing god-knows-what with whoever their crush that Friday is. (enters RogMo)

It’s not about the people who will prevent you from drinking yourself silly to the point of calling your ex. It’s about those who will buy you a million rounds, dial your ex’s number and put you on the phone with him/her just to screw your life up. Basically, squad to me, is the people, outside family, that I spend most of my time with…who mostly help in ruining my life just as much as I do theirs.

Squad doesn’t exactly mean closest friends btw but…it does, you know wha’am sayin’? No? Oh, Alright, I’ll just move with those already in this boat.

In increasing order of “why do I hang out with you?” , here we do goes the squad.

BHope is the one person in this squad that I almost entirely know why we hang out.

I swear, that’s her real name!

We all have that one friend who cares about us almost to the point of putting themselves in harm’s way. That one person who will buy the whole squad ice cream on her last 500 bob and help you in complaining about her spending habits. That one friend with the easiest parents ever but somehow manages not to have her life down the drain.

If you want to know how cool her parents are, they are Kikuyu, and she still watches Nickelodeon…even after Inooro TV was launched. If you are Kikuyu and your parents haven’t yet discovered Inooro TV, you don’t know what God is doing for your life, seriously!

See, Brenda is the friend who will tell you when you’re doing something wrong but won’t tell you, “I told you so” when life beats the pulp off your buttocks after you blatantly ignored her warnings. She’s the person who will take time off mourning her personal loss to address yours. I don’t approve of this kind of lifestyle but I don’t disapprove of it either. (yeah, for selfish reasons)

If you’ve ever gone out to drink and you get really messed up then one friend takes your phone and keeps it for you, then you have yourself a Brenda. She is the one who sings like her voice was carved off the strings of a violin. Brenda is a neat freak, at the very least. Once she pestered the whole group because our shoes were dusty and we were still walking. I know some of you are like, “yeah, si she’s right, how do you walk in dusty shoes?” Calm your tits people, let me tell you where I live first/let me first tell you where I live (one of them). Nanyuki. For those who don’t know Nanyuki, it’s the town on the side of the mountain that doesn’t get anything out of its proximity to Mt. Kenya apart from a beautiful view, which you’ll be lucky to see if the dust doesn’t block your sight.

Okay, it’s not that bad but you catch my drift. So you get my agitation when having dusty shoes is a problem to Brenda. Even our Governor has brown shoes that were once white…either that, or I’m drunk.

Brenda is the one person in the squad who normally has coins to drop off into beggars’ bowls and feels guilty when she doesn’t. she’s the one who takes the whole crew to get our weight and height measured every now and then. She has blonde moments and the most recent almost killed me but I survived. She is the friend who will not allow you to behave out of character but won’t be overbearing at it. Basically, Brenda is the core of this squad.

She’s the face of the group and probably the one we would have speak to the police on behalf of all of us, because, if being all that didn’t convince you enough, she also studies law. You’re probably wondering why we have measures in place for if we ever encounter the police but I will get to that soon enough.


Well, Timmo isn’t technically always around but he’s part of the squad nonetheless. This is the critical thinker of the group, and if we decide to grow our squad, he’ll be in charge of our expansion strategy. If you live in a small town like I do, you certainly know that one friend who knows everyone…at times you have to ask, “How the hell do you even know that one?”

Now Timmo’s sweet tongue is a bad thing at times. Only last month he fucked Brenda’s life up by convincing her to “invest” in public likes. He made quite a sum before the scheme collapsed on dear sweet Brenda. I had my “I told you so” moment and I’m not even sorry about it. That is not the only thing. Last year he hyped us to turn up for the end of year party then he went to Church “Kuanza Mwaka na God bana.”

Now the rest of us are here waiting for 2018 since clearly 2017 wasn’t our year. Timmo is the guy who says anything and you all laugh, then when someone asks what is funny and you try to recite, they look at you unfazed and you have to tetea yourself, “It’s how he said it that was funny,” (Reminds me of one skinny Gusii brother who is always in the business of cracking other people’s ribs just to confirm we also have ribs-since he can’t see them like he can his) Basically, Timmo’s jokes are Timmo’s jokes. Ikikupita niivyo (if it passes you, it’s that way)

Timmo is the guy who knows the best mutura places in town. (I seriously don’t know how to translate mutura, if you can, please leave it in the comments section) Timmo can make y’all light skin girls living in your studio apartments (pronounced bedsitter) drink ‘supu ya kichwa’ (soup for the head) from a champagne glass and say aaw afterwards. Eww ni wewe!!

From here folks, it only gets worse.


This was a late entrant but has managed to catch up pretty fast and is now deep into the squad. We all have that really close friend who at first felt like OH HELL NOO! Yeah, that’s Charlene for you.

Have any of y’all ninjas ever met a pretty girl and asked her name and she says “Sharlene…with a ‘C’” and you know you can’t bitch because your dumb black ass knows you had that spelling all messed up right from the moment she said Sh… And it doesn’t help if she’s clearly younger than you and has intimidating (pretty) eyes. So you swallow your bitter pill, allow life to just roll and swear by the libido of Khal Drogo that you will never be friends with her. No chance in Seven Hells.  (if you don’t know Khal Drogo btw, shame on you!!)

So Charlene is that one person who doesn’t talk a lot, which is a good thing because I wouldn’t have it any other way. Few of you want to be drawn in a roasting crossfire with her, because someone’s self-esteem has to go down and it won’t be hers. She can get pretty (pun intended) annoying at times especially when she insists on holding on to a wrong perception of stuff. Charlene is like that last born you would actually consider going back in time and preventing your parents from having but the one you would kill someone for hurting. (if she won’t have done it herself)

You don’t speak carelessly in front of Charlene because she finds your weak spot and just hammers repeatedly at it. She finds an area of discomfort and nudges at it until you seriously want to tear her face off her skull. She still has yet to decide whether she likes to drink or not and I really hope she chooses wisely because we can only handle so much (you’ll know why in a short while)

She is careful to a fault and tries as much as she could to stay away from trouble, though not as much with me since she is almost always on my wrong side. Charlene can be a bully if given the muscle, and in the absence of Brenda. We all have that one friend who only needs one selfie to get the perfect  picture while the rest of us try all 360 degrees but end up putting a cute cat as our profile picture…then they post the “best” one and you just have to break up with yourself.

Charlene is that one person who comes up with facts 101s that completely ruin your perception of life. The other day she was ranting about the number of penises we come into contact with when opening doors in a day. Just when I was trying my hand at chivalry. I guess there’ll be no more holding doors for you dear(sic) ladies…a-ah…OH HELL NAH!!  I’m not touching no dick for no damn woman for a “thank you, aaww you’re so sweet!!” anymore. You can all go blame your frustrations on Charlene because even Brenda’s hugs and ice cream can’t fix this.


If you were going to get popcorn at some point within reading this, now would be a great time.

Have you ever asked yourself everyday of your life why you hang out with a particular friend…Like, ever!! Yeah, you get that popcorn first while I look for words to describe this one. I’ll go take a piss while you’re at it. (door knobs come in mind) On second thought, you just go, I’ll be here trying not to touch anything at all (Damn you Charlene!!)

Oh you’re back, huh?

Let me introduce to you Alexis. First and foremost, I share a birthday with this one, literally. We were born on the same day.(I know, I know…and it gets even worse)

There’s that friend who always puts the needs of everyone else before theirs, tries as much as possible to stay on the safe side, is kind to everyone, (including the ones who don’t deserve it) listens to sound advice, falls in love with normal people and studies a course that a parent would be proud of, has safe bets in life decisions, allows you to make your own choices and cares about more than just her nails. Well…that isn’t Alexis!!

Remember when I said I’d tell you why we have put in place measures in case we ever get in trouble with the cops? Now that’s Alexis. If you have a friend who will have lived life if the world ends today, then you know what I’m talking about. Alexis is the girl with fire in her voice, doesn’t live with rules and speaks her heart out all day. She parties hard, has the craziest crushes, attends all the lit events, (on behalf of the squad) she always knows someone who knows someone when it comes to events and I can’t remember any event she ever paid for. Nothing gets in her way of having fun and whatever tries to had better have written a will already. There is no hypocrisy in this one. She can get the entire squad into trouble any time but knows how to get us out of it. We have managed to convince the whole town that we are actual twins and that isn’t as blissful as it sounds.

Alexis happens to know all the goons in this town, so you bet being her twin brother is a full time job. If you have spent time with me you know just how much I hate it when people shorten my name to Lewi, which is exactly what Alexis’ goons know me by. If you live in a small town you understand short shorts are a taboo to wear even in bed at times…but Alexis hapana tambua hiyo. And not that her dad is game for it, no. We are in town walking and Alexis just jumps into some random alley…then we meet on the other end of the lane and she goes like, “that was my dad’s car”

I know you people wonder why we would allow her to jump in an alley alone and not follow her but remind me one of these days to tell you of a story of how her dad almost killed a friend (male) of ours when he found him at kina Alexis’ home during the Project X wave last year. Okay, don’t even remind me, I’ll just tell you here.

So this ninja had been nyemelearing Alexis for a while. Then when the Project X saga came out, Alexis’ dad put a ban on guys visiting Alexis and her sister IN the house. They could only meet outside and even then… so I don’t know this guy saw himself who… He decided love is stronger than a dad with two pretty daughters and a high perimeter walls with those serrated barbed wires at the top. And this is why I repeatedly tell young Africans, this is not the movies…Priss don’t try those romantic movie moves you see on TV.

So my guy is beating stories in someone’s living room. Si he knows Baba Alexis is at work (I have a feeling Alexis also liked him but she always denies the claims so we will just believe her) Small small, they hear a revving engine of her dad’s car. He tries circling round the house but forgets there is only one exit. Next thing he knows, he’s on the ground with hands on his throat. If you think your crush’s dad cannot kill you, wait till he finds you at his home and tells you he has a constitutional right to end your life because you’re trespassing, and you can’t hear whatever the hell moral lesson he is pointing at because you’re just trying to get some air through anywhere, your ears even.

So that’s why Alexis will have to walk those alleys alone for a very long time.

Alexis gives the most uncomfortable hugs when she really needs it, and the warmest hugs when you really need it. She almost always knows what is best for you but will wait for you to screw your life over then tell you later. She falls in love with all the wrong guys and has a crush on Wahiga Mwaura. Remember when I said she’s my twinnie, I’m the one who has to buy her chocolate and sit through sad cups of coffee whenever these guys mess up, so her relationships are as much a personal affair to me as they are to her.

Alexis would fight for her friends, and probably arrange for her enemies to be tortured because she has no in-betweens. She either really likes you or really hates you. She has the most alive laughter I know of and the coldest eyes when she is angry. Alexis is the one person who will invite you to her Church and fail to turn up anyway, and tell you point blank that she overslept, then make your parents believe you are going on a date with her and then fail to tell you what time to leave home. Then laugh at you the next day. (btw Alexis I have never forgiven you for this)

Her nails are always on point, partly because they own the best acrylics shop in town and mostly because she’s awesome like that…and if you’re looking to get married to a wife who will wash your clothes for you herself, you have one less person to worry about having to vet.

Remember when Dwayne Johnson is told he needed an elite team in Fate of The Furious? He says, “Oh I already have a team!” So do I.

Rate your friends on a scale of Brenda to Alexis and have fun while at it. If your personality doesn’t fit anywhere, then you’re probably me, but that is a story for another writer.

Remember, Sharing is…well sharing is just sharing!




For those whose hearts are shaking, 

We have been bewitched and our collective throat shoved with dry yams we are not able to yelp for help. But who is this who has cursed us with a skin blacker than the bottom of our grandmother’s pots. Who has made the continent so dark the sun sets with clouds of shame for leaving behind crying mothers with their children clutched so tight on their chests suckling breasts so dry their lips have cracked. Why is our skin is so dark we want to sweep away our melanin as if it was a kid who has soiled himself in the presence of guests. Are our shrines so far up in the mountain that our jiggerd feet can’t climb the rocks?

Why have we become monsters that we have developed a sport in killing each other? Why do we need to sign signatures online to stop us from killing our people? A friend mused; “What next, shall we hold a referendum for us not to die?” We pressupose everyone is an enemy and forget that hell is deep within us. We spit saliva so dark our soil is growing infertile from the bitterness. We sleep on machete pillows with hands clutched tight turning cold on our weapons. Our wives are sterile because the white masters have told us we are over-populating our land. We are dying in rivers crossing into foreign lands, shot at by white masters because we are afraid of our own blackness engulfing us in the blanket of this dark continent.

Superficial talk and sentimental delusions won’t save our children being killed and our mothers being raped by the same democracy that should protect them. A democracy that is selective and sleeping with men in well manicured palatial compounds. Gates so high that our stinking skins from the neighboring slums can’t penetrate. But their farts are loud enough our kids are deaf. So deaf that our nine year olds can’t hear the sweet bullets of democracy that are kissing them at their own balconies. You slept hungry yesterday? But hey cheer up, you exercised your democratic rght, right? Standing there three hours risking Varicose Veins to get an ink on your rough fingers. Fingers so blistered our wives are at risk if caressed. Fingers so blistered with shame we can’t wipe the tears of our mothers because we are busy wiping the asses of our leaders.

Heck, why are our feet cracked and torn with jiggers? Why do we need foreigners with fancy gloves to clean us and take pictures for their pretty blogs? No amount of blogposts can build hospitals in Africa. Your pictures with street kids on social platforms don’t make me think you are for the common good because I can see how the melanin in your eyes has clouded your vision. You are kissing feet of men who have unleashed dogs with terror so unprecedented on their own people. Kissing the feet of men who are raping our economy. Kissing the feet of other men while the lips of our wives lie cold in our beds.

It’s easy to lose perspective when so much bitterness is clouding your sense of humanity. But every once in a while comes a time so magical and so exquisite that we notice the stars in the darkness of our mother’s eyes. And we look around and learn to distinguish between empty appearaces and brutal manners of the big heads that lead us and the real nature of people that appear thus.

But hear me ye children of Africa!  A man who has never been in the clutches of a viper can never know what poison is. When it shall drown him in his own saliva, a straw won’t be enough to clutch onto.