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‘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!

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.


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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.


Posted in Uncategorized



“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!

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To the children of a generation, 

We are the children who have seen a little too much violence so nothing fazes us anymore. Violence only makes us shift uncomfortably in our seats and rant on social media; and that’s on a good day. We are the children whose parents forgot they did not inherit this land from their forebearers but borrowed it from their children.  We are the children whose continent suffers from a lack of self image; a continent of people who have lost their faces and their tongues. A continent of people who never wear shoes they can’t run in; if any at all. A continent that is slowly dying from survival. A continent of people who are weighed down by the thought of tomorrow as it spells another mouth to feed, another disease not yet suffered, another body to kiss the ground, there is never enough bloodshed. But the same people hope that tomorrow will come, that maybe it will get better. That maybe the sun will forget it ever sets. Maybe the darkness forgets it was born to swallow. Maybe the children forget the sound that death makes. Maybe tomorrow holds no reflection to our past.

We are the children of a continent that forgot it is the cradle of mankind so our womb has had too many miscarriages and abortions. We have become infertile. Our newborns are soaked in the blood of the dead, waiting to live lives trying to pay off our debts. A continent that forgot it had culture, that it had 54 countries in it, each with indigenous tongues rich in beauty, in depth, in difference. A continent that doesn’t have to fear difference because that’s what makes us the same, the same people, with the same problems, we have more in common than we have different.

We are a continent that died today, or maybe yesterday, we can’t even be sure. Butchered in the hands of dictators and failed leaders who hold on to their seats like bombs to falling or bodies to dying. They forget that crowns do nothing for kings but put a weight on their heads and a target on their backs. They have put taxes on our heads and weights on our backs yet put nothing on theirs, as if they too do not have heads or backs, as if they too are not mortals like the rest of us.

Yet when you see something thrive for too long it starts to become your normal. So we too believe that maybe they are not mortals. For how else do you explain a hand that raises a gun to a child or a mother who eats her own children when the chips are down? How else do you explain sons burying their fathers who died with revolution on their tongues? How else do you explain all these nameless bodies hovering above us like ghosts? How else do you explain all the blood that rains from them? How else do you explain that oppression wears a face? How else do you explain that sometimes we mistake the teeth in a smile for tombstones? How else do you explain that we forgot how to smile? That we have all the ingredients to die, yet we will rise and rise again until lambs become lions?



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Love is the death of duty. Scratch that; female presence is the prospect of imminent immobility. Or was for me back when I was young and afraid of girls. A time when I used to marvel at seniors in highschool flanked by pretty damsels laughing to their jokes walking around school. The awe I experienced just trying to fantasize myself in that glorious position they were in. Talking to a girl for me was akin to trying to dislodge phlegm from the back of your mouth right near your crush. That disgusting “khaaaaaaa!! Khaaaaa!” repetitive annoying sound you have to make but also contemplating to avoid. Then comes the decision of whether to swallow or spit. Hardwork. Oh come on! Don’t frown with utter disdain like that. We have come so far in this blog to hide stuff from each other. I think we should be naked around each other you know? What say you?
The first time I had to talk to a girl continuously, actually three hours straight was in form two. It was a mandatory school social event and I had to demonstrate my prowess in public since I was eyeing some powerful positions in school. The day prior I spent a restless night thinking about primal things versus rectitude of self in the presenve of girls with no conclusion.
and I lay there,
and I knew I would make a fool of              myself,

but I knew I was not born to be a fool.
My mother didn’t raise me to be afraid of little girls. Kwani aaaai? Si they come knowing they are to be vibed? I sure can’t be the worst person out there. And I wasn’t because there is dude who hid behind a tree. But I couldn’t laugh at him because I was tense the whole time. Sitting there trying to hold a conversation in the middle of a crowd of other people. People who made their girls laugh and peck them. Gosh! I was mundane in the presence of these humans; a mortal sitting in a crowd of gods. I was well dressed though, having taken a good shower and borrowed deodorant which I applied on my shoulders mostly. Well, I had prospects of a hug; which never came to pass. But we shall not dwell on failures. I am a positive man.
Now I am sitting there trying to cheer this mama. Damn! She was disappointing. Either I was boring or I was ugly.The whole thing felt like kitchen interview with her one word answers. I felt like someone should kick me right in the balls to ease the pressure I had. God! I could use a drink. But I practised on her and became better with time. The intricacies of courting started to grow on me like Hyacinth on a lake.
My second session was awesome. I kept my vibes vague, enigmatic, matching the drift of my own mind. The damsel almost broke one of her ribs with my witty humor. A rib I was so sure was part of me the very day we were born. Aaah,this one was my Eve and I was Adam. It seemed I had impressed her. I had two T-shirts and 3 vests to boosts my physique. Hey, a skinny boy got to do what he got to do. I looked like Johnny Bravo, very sexy and impressive.

Me doing what I was born not to do



That same girl sent me a Diss letter😭😭. A Diss letter is a dislike letter for those who did not go to normal schools like mine. That shit was more painful than circumcision. Machosi tu😭😭.I read the letter in a the form two wing abolution block rigt before a history CAT I remember. I used it as tissue paper just to make the girl feel I was still the shit. Haha. I swore women are evil. I still do.
No I don’t. Women are the most beautiful of creatures, gentle at heart most of them. Or maybe I just interact with the good lot.But people who used to vibe a lot back in school don’t like the womenfolk anymore. Maybe my liking for them has grown because I couldn’t handle them back then.Or maybe, just maybe its easy to lose perspective and become cynical when you’re close to them for ages. You start forgetting and focusing on the ugly parts forgetting the overall beauty that is up close to you.


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A wannabe techie, a poet, a feminist and some dude( sorry man, I had no title for you) walk into a bar- okay, make that a WhatsApp group. It’s an impromptu rendezvous. All of them inextricably linked by the fire burning within them, the urge to make words spin in so unique a way that people of the interwebs will bow at their feet. To tweak and twist narratives in a way that they even thought would eventually be lucrative. To become the gods . A thought shower was set up, brainstorms done and a name was suggested,

But the obscenity of humanity is that we often seek heaven to find hell.
“Dude, you should start a blog!” read a comment on a Facebook post I had uploaded. Someone thought I had writing talent. I chuckled at the idea. How will I maintain a blog? How will I churn out ideas progressively? Weeks later I put up another Facebook post, just to test the literary niche out there.
“Haha, we want more of this!”
“Damn, this is the best thing on the interwebs today!” read another comment.
But behind the keyboard I was like damn! I’m roast meat. I decided to foolishly start a blog. It is very easy to be carried along by the hype, to be swept away by the waves of a few comments and likes. I typed my first post from a Neon phone. If you don’t know a Neon phone you wouldn’t understand how much of a hustle that was. It is an incalculably immeasurable mobile gadget which sinks in your palm like a kipande soap. Typing and editing more than 900 words on that phone should have awarded me a Nobel Prize. I scratched my head and tortured myself with questions,

“Is it funny enough?”
“Will they laugh?”
“Can I really write?”

My first post was up. People loved it, or so they told me. All my social media accounts had the link. I was excited, checking the comments and replying after every two seconds. Notifications were trickling in I felt like Jeff Koinange. I even made the extinguisher signature when I saw girls share my post and call me funny. Hah. I still laugh when I think of it.

The waves swept me again. I felt great. Slayer of words, protector of the realms and King of all the blogs. But it was akin to getting ants drunk in a world full of bees. I walked with a bounce plotting of my next blog posts. Turning ideas in my head as I walked everyday, read famous writers and bloggers and even messaged some of them. I was snubbed of course. But that didn’t dumpen my spirit.”I am a lion!” I told myself as I typed on that Neon phone for my next posts. Splendour was mine though subtle.
“The poet should start, followed by me then the feminist. You funny wannabe techie guy, should be the last and then the cycle will begin,” Dude told us.

Very ambitious guy but I wonder why he placed me at the back of the writing cycle, I who is not to be found on the backside of anything. I am more of a front guy. Even as we have grown up, men putting themselves in groups of ass and boob. I have maintained my love for the milk production centres.

We were welcomed well. People applauded us and we felt like knights slaying dragons in an auditorium as we were cheered upon. We motivated each other, thought of buying a domain and discarding the WordPress theme. We typed our hearts out to readers. We were Kings and Queens until one day we were strangled in our sleep by boredom and writers mental blocks. We ran out of fresh ideas. Was it a deliberate or sudden occurrence? I am yet to know . But we were there, holding on to the last straw as the Voice of the African Child became muffles under the drowning waters. The rage of the water waves that carried us all to self-glory drowned us. Talk of shitting in our own pants right inside a toilet. I was sad. We all were

Guest writers were invited to buy time buy they could not buy us the zeal and machismo that we started with. The feminist had her feminine intuition kick in and opted for self-progress.Dude dissapeared and hasn’t been seen to date. The poet, well….she is of few words. I am yet to know her bipartisan view of the events.

As for me, I thought
How did it happen?
Was it a mismatch?
What a damn waste, the use of brains.


As I am huddled behind this keyboard, my thoughts wonder,

How do I do this? It felt like something great when it began and diverged to even greater. Something primal, something way back and far down. Something whispering deep in the bones and genes. It was the one. But now it is not. I am here all alone changing curtains of this space. It feels like a nasty break up. Having now to re-arrange the whole house and suddenly feeling it has expanded and become too large for my single soul.

See,I hate being lonely. It kills my spirit and chockes my happiness. Now I need to learn to be alone. To be the Voice of an African Child. I am yet to know how. But I assume like making love, I will get better as time goes by.

A man I admire, Tyrion Lannister said,
“It is hard to put a leash on a dog once you’ve put a crown on it’s head.”

Fam, we are changing sheets on this bed.


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Do you notice how they look at us when we hold hands in the streets?
As if love is a strange beast whose existence they had only heard rumours of
As if love is the eerie whispers made by beings lurking in shadows
As if love is just but smoke and mirrors
Do you notice how they look at us when we hold hands in the streets ?
Not knowing that we are those born with hands unapologetic for needing
Hands unafraid of building forts and sanctuaries for the lost souls this would has moulded
Hands carved by bullets and swords
Hands callous to vices in this society so we’re the hands pulling the trigger
Bang bang! Let the pigs fall as silently as ghosts do
Hands that mould sugar, spice and everything nice
They don’t know how your hands are the creeping vines that beg to touch the sun in my face
They don’t know how your hands are the only sermon i want to listen to, they speak to my body when they glide as if following a treasure map to seek a lost Island
Your hands are the stars that guide Peter pan in neverland
Baby when you hold me, you elevate me and I never want to land
They don’t know that when your hands sing the walls cave in
They don’t know that your hands are the only melody my demons dance to
They don’t know your hands gather me together
So forgive them for staring
They have only known hands that read them only to put them back on the shelf
Like the book you never get back to reading so it picks up dusts from the winds of time
They have only known hands that break at the sight of commitment
They have only known hands that strangle in the dark seeking to reap anywhere but their gardens
For maybe not everyone finds hands like these
Hands that fit perfectly despite the scars
Hands that become the only place we are content to dwell in
In your hands I feel everything that is alive
So honey,  forgive them for staring
Everybody was denied something

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TAKE ME HOME ( Part three)


If your gut tells you you are about to read a sequel to Take Me Home (Part 2), you are wrong.

Sidenote: You oughtta check the previous “Take Me Home”s. They are awesome.


It’s hard to breathe easy, when you are on a speeding nduthi and mentally revising Kyuk at the same time . Yeah,you heard that right…. revising one’s mother tongue is a thing for cultural misfits like me . I even wonder why it’s called mother tongue…. I mean, you try learning it but then it reminds you that it’s not your mother( sio mama yako) . Anyway ….I’m on my way to see my grandma. It has been almost two years since we last set eyes on each other. Trust me, I say this with a lot of shame. My home town is only three hours away .Much respect to @smeagol who boards the next bus to guchaland once he closes school. No wonder he’s so conversant with the perks of being Kisii.Guess he’s in the line up of being the next Sakawa. That guy….I really envy him. I’m dropped off at the entrance. The gate is a shade lighter than the way I left it,further reminding me of the magnitude of time I have been away. A wave of uncertainty clouds me. (Prodigal son , I feel you bruh).

Do I still remember the greeting? Have I mastered enough Kikuyu to hold a lengthy conversation with her? Is the shopping enough to make up for my absence? Oh Lord… The homestead is quiet…..and different , in a good way though. I noticed my palms are sweaty as I reach out for the door handle. Then I saw her. In the mild darkness of the room her eyes still glistened when she turned to look at me. We smiled and then embraced . Thank heavens I remembered the greetings .I was doing great! Sadly, this was short lived. “Who are you? ” She asked Silence… touchè… That hurt, a lot. I would be a fool to blame it on her failing memory due to old age. It was my fault . I allowed myself to be swallowed by the fast paced happenings of the city ,forgetting my old folks at home. It was only fair that they forget me too. Of course she remembered me when I told her my name, but that did not erase the fact that for a fraction of a moment there, we were, ironically, strangers to each other, yet one in blood.


Let’s face it fam. Gone are the days when our grandparents’ were just a hut away. Civilization ‘gifted’ us with urbanisation and retirement homes where we left them as we went on with our lives. We are convinced that they are happy and contented, with all the ample care and gifts that we occasionally send them. We are wrong. That’s neglect.

Yesternight asking @smeagol,

“What should I write as the last line to the post?”

“It’s 1 in the morning, write what you want,” He snapped

“Come on, I can’t write that,” I tease.

“Okay. Home is where the tong’ue kisses the heart,” he types.

“Tong’ues dont have lips,” I say. 

Smeagol is typing…..


 SMEAGOL: Last seen 1:13am

Here goes.

Home is where the tongue kisses the heart ( I cannot beleive I typed that).


So…….when is the last time you went to see cucu /guka /Dani /Gogo?

Take me home




GUEST WRITER INFO: Self-proclaimed nerd. Knows more about atoms more than the difference between social and shosho.