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!