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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.






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I know right about now you’re probably racking your brain over what marriage has got to do with politics (seeing as it’s kinda what I’m supposed to be writing about).
Neither makes sense to me. That’s what.
So how exactly is the marriage part relevant? Good question.

This weekend I happened to find myself in a church, for a wedding. Beautiful affair obviously, relatively fancy definitely not fancier the than what I’ve been planning in my mind for the past 14 years or so. Kinda hard to compete with that I suppose, which is beside the point. So my aunt mentions in passing how no one can dare remove the ‘boda’ guys from town since they’re pretty much in every corner. At first I didn’t get it because my mind isn’t wired that way, which you have probably figured out by now. Then I remember -after a considerable amount of time – it’s that time of the decade, campaigns.

Before we go any further I would like to point out that I have next to zero knowledge on the politicians vying for their respective seats and if possible, less on who is vying for president seeing as I only know two. Uhuru and Raila(assuming he’s actually running). So it’s pretty clear how I’m the least and somehow most qualified person to be talking about this kind of stuff. I mean of course I care…….At least I hope you buy that I do.

Moving on.

Campaigns and Weddings.
So I made a revelation.
Campaigns (including voting) and weddings (including courting) -see what I did there – are pretty much the same thing.
It’s all in the seduction.
The words.
Rich with promises and hopes of a better future for the fore bearer.
Slow at first, you are taken in mesmerized. Enthralled by the bewitching tune that resonates deep in the words that have been used time after time. Tailored perhaps, but all the same, creativity slowly drowning into history, something to sing to our grandchildren. Somehow, these are the ones we choose. Change a concept we can barely comprehend, even when bent backwards by circumstance.
The dance.
Swaying the tune dutifully, a part of the masses.
The first step is taken.
A swirl here and a dip there, before one realizes they are lost in a cloud of lies and corruption not to be found again.
Luck only to be found by those with two left feet.
The seal.
Skin against skin.
Sheets against skin.
You no longer belong to yourself
Now property to the campaigner.
The suitor.
The seduction is now complete.
The vote is cast in faith eyes glazed over by a future never to be recognized
The weddings bells are heard from miles away.

Bands at hand, comes the distance.
The decision has been made not to be taken back.
Honeymoon phase; It’s a lovely time
Everyone is happy
Expectations are high and a deadline non-existent
We think it will last forever
Ignorance is bliss.
Still basking in the after glow, a month passes by, and another and another.
A year down the line, the glow has dimmed out.
The tendrils of reality begin to sink themselves inside us, eyes forcibly held open.
We tell ourselves they will come around.
We know better.
The best years of our lives gone, still we see no change
Along the way they have cheated on us, ignored us, lied to us and even then we stayed.
We still hold on to the idea that they love us, we can change them.
We cling on to the hope of a better tomorrow
Ignorance is not bliss.

Five years now they begin to see the err of their ways.
Suddenly they remember our birthdays and anniversaries.
For a moment we lose sight of ourselves.
We have grown accustomed to being ignored.
Vows are renewed.

Ten years down the line we are worn down and plagued with clinical depression.
A carcass of what once was.
Wrung dry by those we once loved
The consequences of our poor choices ours to face.
We really should have known better.

The Aftermath
We have picked ourselves up
We are whole
We are new
A new suitor walks into our lives
We don’t know better.
Down this road we go again.


ABOUT WRITER: An enthusiatic blogger at

She otherwise did not want me to publish her details due to wanting to avoid her crushes. I have her number though incase y’all need it.



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VILLAGE POLITRICKS-The gang and Verification


They do not like my sweatpants in this village. Ati that’s for females and spoilt Nairobi kids. So I wear my shorts because I am a big model. Role model that is. And also because I love the way the sun kisses my legs. I have cute feet, or so I have been told by a few damsels in campus. Cute sounds unmanly but again I’m not Blurry Face, I don’t care what you think.

We have a place where we meet, three of us. Okay, let me introduce the gang.

The tailor.

He sits here limbs in constant motion : Stiching and mending and sewing and shouting. He is the loudest of us three. Especially when he is sticking out for his MCA candidate or talking matters footbal. He knows what Puyol told Messi at the dressing room in 2008. All of his footbal facts are always true and I never waste my colgate breath arguing with him. Yesterday someome defaced his candidate’s poster. He came this morning guns blazing saying he knows who disrespected daddy-( His candidate). He is livid. He swears he knows who did it. We are not sure he does because he says alot of things. Like how he will chase away his wife if he realises she won’t vote for daddy. I love this guy though because he gets to slim most of my baggy attire. I get skinnier by the day. Whoever bewitched me must be dead already. My damn body has refused to fatten.

The Painter

He does not have a lot of gigs lately. His paintbrush is drying up. But he is always smiling. He has a pretty wife which makes me think that’s why he doesnt take painting seriously. All you need a pretty wife and food can stay. So pretty you just cook ugali and touch it to her face and no one needs veggies. Damn, I have used a cool kids word. Forgive me. I meant vegetables.

I did something there. I dont know whether you saw that.

I envy him.

Me AKA “Oria”

I’m not sure that’s how it’s spelt. But if there is a Somali around will you please help a fellow ? Aye ?
So because I’m skinny and ribs are sticking at my sides like guitar strings they get to ridicule me. That somali name has grown on me. These guys love me. They respect me because I am pursuing a reputable course. They want me to finish school and come vie for a position. They dont know how many retakes I have. They should never. So I get to act like an intellectual. Spitting wisdom left right centre, quoting books I have barely read because well, google.

We meet at this hotel daily. Where the tailor has his machinery at the entrace. Doing what he does best.

I like this diggz for several reasons. But the holy grail is because it is within the political bluetooth of campaigners. I get paid to a tune of 500 a day for just having my buttocks warm the seats. Everytime they come to “sell their manifesto”, Kenyatta’s face kisses my wallet. Here you cannot talk to people and walk away without handing out anything. Kwani who are you? Boniface Mwangi? Unless that. But he doesn’t hail from here. So anyone else pulling a Besigye stunt will commit political suicide.

Today voter verification is ongoing.

“Name and polling station?”

The tailor spits his details. He speaks so fast like its a rap. Then its a wrap. ( haha, please keep up with terrible puns today).

“Please place your finger in this slot. “
Says the agent pointing to her electronic thingamajig

Up until this point I had not noticed how a marvelous piece of art she was.Like God must have created her at lunch time on a Sunday. After a good avocado dessert . The angels and Jesus were kids then and there was no adolescent in heaven to cause distraction. She carried face, as Davido would put it

” No I wont ! ”

Shouts the tailor swinging his round head from side to side raising his hands. In this state he looks like he has two left brains.

“My finger goes to two places only madam, my sewing machine and my wife! “

Silences befalls  the diggz as everyone waits for scenes to unfold. The silence is great you could hear a chicken fart.

“My fingers are either on my machine or my wife. My wife when I’m pointing at her warning her not to vote anyone else other than Daddy “

He caresses the defaced poster on the wall.

The tailor says this is a strategy by IEBC and the government to steal his vote. He insits the only place he will allow it is at the ballot. All the other people at the diggz seem to agree. Except me ofcourse.  The intellectual with a few retakes.

The agent is frowning. You have not seen a beautiful angry woman. She looks like pineapple on pizza. Ugly but still desirable.

“If no one else will place their finger here I will not verify. I am going go someplace else.” She shouts.


“We can go to my place.” I whisper.

“What’s that ?” She stares.

“Nothing, was coughing”

I’m a coward.

No one at the diggz save for me the intellectuaI with retakes,  verified their votes. I wonder whether daddy’s votes are intact.


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I  will be very brief and precise to take you through CPS 101; Introduction to Political Science…
Trust me will you? I am among the very few who entered the examination room with neither a mwakenya nor a phone. While still at it; my naivity must have made me believe that guys in campus cheat more in class. I was wrong; as we probably are wrong about most things, girls are the brains in cheating; at least in my school.
But I digress….

Politics 1;- The authoritative distribution of resources and values in any society.(David Easton). So if you thought that politics is people throwing words at each other…you were wrong.If you also thought politics is void of peace, honesty, integrity, service need an English class on the meaning of values.
However, to make it easier. Let’s dissect this arguement a bit more deeply. If politics is about authority, then it means power must be sought or contested for. It then makes sense when we say that politics is about the ‘haves’ and the ‘ have nots’; that when those elected into power have authority they will control the resources; and here is what happens, naturally, the haves will first allocate to themselves these resources which are scarce, they then will pass the remains to their kinsmen and relatives; then their supporters and if anything remains, if at all it does ; it passes to ‘others’. So if you unconventionally and perpetually ask why politicians only help their people while in power. The answer is simple; it’s their job description.
Politics 2:- Politics is about who gets what, when and how. (Harold Laswell). You know, when I was a kid. I always insisted to my parents that I want to be president. My mum would hear none of it. She would point out in a quick rejoinder that politics is a dirty game…Well, folks she was rights. Politucs is nothing short of a dirty scandal. If any of your politician woos you into believing that he wants to play clean politics; ferry him to the church by all means.
Politics 3:- God did not create man as only a social being but also a political animal.( Aristotle) . Given this scenario, man is happy indeed only when he engages in politics– He is eudaimonia( I know…the word sounds like the kikuyu word for demon ‘daimono’) But that is it…man happens to be a political animal through and through. And if by now you still haven’t got the hang of it; reread definition 1 and think about comleting for jobs, buyers and sellers in a market, parents at home, class rankings. Everything simply is politically ubiquitous.
When I attended my first political science class; this informatiom was not presented this way. It felt more of a jistification of who is the right political animal.
Probably, this is where it all goes wrong, that those with the right informatiom give it to us wrongly.Or that probably we the receivers of information receive it wrongly. You see.. I don’t think the problem with our country is ethnicity as much. Ethnicity is actually a good thing if you checked up its definition.I think the problem is that we are ignorant. That we do not understand politics. That our judgement is clouded by politicians who use our ethnic backgrounds to their advantage. The truth is, I do not think they are wrong, I think they are in politics. I think we are the ones who are wrong…I think we miss the point..because in this country what we need is a leader.
I think the problem is us, the electorate who appreciate gossip more than information. You will quickly skim through this peacw and since the title is not , ” President cheats on his wife” or “SGR has failed”, you won’t finish it. The problem is that right from high school to campus we are not committed to excellency, we are committed to getting it the easier way. Have you heard campus kids complain about how our country is corrupt? Ooh..they are viscious … and have you seen how they have great cheating skills during the exams?… I honestly cannot read the difference and I have no respect for you. I think you are a menace to this country.
Politics is complex, but we decide who we want by ceasing to be ignorant…about everything even about our own actions.
Lesson is over,
I guess that was easier than 3 hours of lecture.

Enjoy your evening.

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FOREWARNING: If your gut tells you you’re about to experience a saucy poetic piece in any way whatsoever similar to part one’s, you’re on the wrong flight. Pardon me in advance people. This is flight (insert any recent M-Pesa code) direct to Gossip City!! Welcome aboard J (Btw did you know the M-Pesa codes are not random number thrown around?)

First things first, if you’ve ever mailed me back in high school and told me to “salimia backbenchers” just know that I have never forgiven you.

Number two, Chelsea won the premier league and I’m not happy about it. Three, Kenyans are busy discussing the age at which kids should be allowed to own mobile phones. Yeah, diaspora guys, it’s a national debate. True story. Don’t I just love being Kenyan! If you asked me, I would say we should also discuss the age at which kids should be allowed to stand on balconies or own ropes for hanging themselves. I think these are the real causes of suicide, to be honest. But you haven’t asked me, so I won’t say it.

Sometimes I wish we had a national exam for promoting people to the next country. Like, we have a curriculum for being Kenyan (composed largely of how to perfect corruption techniques) then we have an exam at the end of, say, five years then we are promoted to Tanzania or something.

On to matters of less importance, which so happens to be my main story today, now.

“Wildest Dreams” by Taylor Swift is playing in the background as I enter the room. It’s my first time on the internet in like two months. Feels like it’s been forever though. The past two months have been the epitome of physical and metal exertion like I’ve never seen before in my life. If you’d told me at the beginning of this year (in a party I’d been dragged to by my brother) that I’d ever find myself in the Kenya Defence Forces cadet school, I’d have probably shot you dead. The other option would have been that I would have dropped dead at the prospect of so high a calling…but here I was people.

The two months of close to inhumane activity have taken their toll on me that I have almost forgotten my sim card’s PIN number. Oh, when I mean close to inhumane activity, I’m not talking about within the borders of humane. It’s on the outside. At any point in the training, inhumane would be, to us, considered a holiday. You really don’t have to believe me anyway so yeah.

The beauty of having someone on the inside is that I have been getting the rare opportunity of communicating with a few of those outside, however rarely. I have been intelligent enough not to call my parents though. I stare at my phone for the first time in two months and it looks exactly as I left it. Nothing has changed. My screen protector has partially peeled off on the top left corner like it was in February.

My mind is lacking in options of what to do with the gadget in my hands. It’s on Sunday and both my parents’ phones have been switched off. My inside man has sneaked me into the phone room for “extra duty” that should keep me here “working” for at least one-and-a-half hours. I try Temple Run and it does not evoke as much adrenaline rush as it used to. I scroll through instagram and notice nothing new really. I want to post a ridiculous photo of me in a navy blue “ngwati short” and a dusty grey t-shirt but I know better. YouTube tells me Kendrick Lamar dropped a new album and I honestly don’t like it that much. Ed Sheeran’s is lit!! Nothing new from Jermaine though. I log in to facebook and catch up on recent blog posts by the other three writers. I also notice it’s been changed to two. I realize one subtraction must be me and really pray everybody else is alive.

It’s interesting how they tried to answer the mystery behind my whereabouts, going as far as I went to India for a facial reconstruction. Oh lord! Were there really no other noteworthy things to say about me? Like, I’ve gotten over my phobia of heights, I learnt how to swim even in muddy water and I can handle the recoil of an M-16 against my shoulder, although it hurts every time but pain is an enemy we’ve learnt to keep closer than our friends. I have learnt the art of shaving using a knife and how to go with one meal and hope a day, not without an impact on my body weight though. I have learnt how to gain strength without accumulating muscle to attain a perfect balance between agility and power.

I realise a friend of mine was knocked down by a car and passed away. It stings me as I try to relive the memories we had together. I remember a day we played prefects’ soccer in high school and he scored a goal from the centre of the pitch. I had given the assist and I was more excited than him actually.

Three weeks’ experience with weapons of mass destruction gives an insight into how flimsy this body is. Few things shake you when you witness your friend drop breathless in a 60 kilometre trek in the wilderness with a log of wood on her back. She doesn’t come back and no one tells you what became of her. Even worse, you can’t ask. The chain of command is stronger here than the chains that bound Kunta Kinte to his name in that infamous flogging.

When training is the real deal, rehearsals could very well mean your life and the only thing standing between you and the other side from the front is you. At your back is a completely random person whose name you’ll be lucky to know. A stranger guarding your back in a crossfire and you know you have to guard his, because to get to him, a bullet will have to go through you first.  I have always been clumsy with hearts but never really fancied the prospect of gambling with my own.

Deadlines for projects here mean as close to literally as they can. Three seconds to change a round of ammunition could be the only reason you sleep on your bed and not the infirmary. Sometimes you weigh between which of the two types of discomfort you would take- a flogging or a late night and early morning of uncertainties. Problem is, the flogging too, here, is uncertain. You could take an intentional fall to skip jungle march drills the next day and they postpone your flogging. I have a friend who has a pending flogging and it drowns him in thought so much we are never sure he will survive another day at training. You certainly don’t want to be drawn with him as partners in a shoot-out.

While here, you learn to live life everyday but forget to live everyday life. The challenge is staying mentally strong even when your body has given up and pain is the only emotion you crave anymore. To stay prepared and knowing that it can always get worse but it is worth it as long as you’re alive at the end of the day. That you gather at night in whatever it is you’re sleeping in/on and laugh at how you could have died that day. you try as hard as you could to estimate the date and what could be happening outside the mortal walls you have created for each other meaning for them to be impenetrable by whatever may be thrown your way. To some of us musical enough, we lead the rest in singing songs this exercise has not managed to delete from our consciousness. We stand and dance Lipala, our strongest shoulders aching against the weight of our backpacks and guns that we have learnt to hold dearly to us as if they mean the difference between laughing one moment and laying breathless on the dirt the next, because it is.

On nights like this, I think of the people for whom we brave these cold nights. I think of a nation sharing in problems much deeper than the ones we fight against. I think of the enemies from outside at whose hands we lose our men every dawn. I compare them to the enemies we left behind us who account for more deaths than those whose caves we rush into, never to come out. I think of the young man who tried the recruitment four times and was successful on his fifth but never got to enjoy his second salary and for what? For people back home to have the freedom to kill each other on the basis of tribal inclinations? For leaders to safely embezzle cash to use to bribe us to vote them back because that’s the only language we listen to?

On nights like this, I want to speak to every person out there. I want to go back in time and take back all the nasty things I ever said about people who hailed not from where I did. I want to make a video of the things we brave for you free Kenyans out there. I want to make a monthly bill and let you know just how expensive peace is. That for you to sleep in your bed tonight, someone’s son, husband and dad is out in the wild, happy that he is breathing, albeit dusty, cold air. The laughter that rises like sparking embers from the fire that we bleed from our hearts for the souls of tomorrow; low, slow, distant, a sacrifice to the gods above hoping they’ll hear us one last time, everyday.  Just enough to keep us alive one more day. Tomorrow is a gift, best used in any way rather than remind fellow Kenyans that someone’s worth is eternally tied to his or her second name. For tonightwe close our eyes, having made peace with the fact that it could the last time we do so.

On nights like this, I feel like this country is not worth my sacrifice anymore. I feel like however much we give our lives to prevent its destruction, it will still find ways to destroy itself anyway. On nights like this, I think it must be so great to feel so safe that we have to invent new ways of putting ourselves in danger. On nights like this, I feel like this insecurity could have done us better. Isn’t it beautiful how we all come together to mourn when tragedy strikes? Why, then do we bring up our children to believe that our tribes are no longer pleasant enough to die for, but terrible enough to kill for?

On nights like this, I want to drag each one of you into a battlefield so that you learn that sticking to the ultimate goal is literally a matter of life and death. That you will stick with whoever has your back regardless of what tribe they come from because…you lose, you die. It’s that simple. On nights like this, I want to pack my bag in the middle of the battle and rush back into the arms of those who love me, for I think y’all can fight your wars anyway. On nights like this, I hold back a tear and balance a bitter lump in my throat as I stare into the vast expanse of a dark sky. On nights like this, all I want is for the wind

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Help Metrine.

Life is weird people; and what is more, is we all think it’s unfair. Even the Christian who believes in a just God is still faced with the dilemna of understanding why a merciful God would allow bad things to happen and especially to the good people and to people He claims to love. The atheist and scientist are thrown off guard in trying to prove theories and create solutions; but they never get to an ultimate point of gratification. Probably, this is the spice as well as gall of life.                                                                ******

Imagine you are 19-years old but in class 8. You have lived more years backward. Does that make sense? Let me try demystify it. You have lived for a decade doing nothing except fetching water, collecting firewood and doing house chores and then you have to start school, ten years later with kids who still have diapers on them. With kids who have to learn how to spell. It makes sense more to you than anyone else that time is an illusion; for so much has passed in its existence. You pass through life, because that is what we all do; pass and then die; then people read our eulogies and say we passed away.

In this 10 years, you know only your father and your siblings. Your mother died long ago. You do not know how a mother cares for a child. The emotion doesn’t even ring in you; three, four years later when you have your first period; you handle it on your own. It’s not an exactly bad life as everyone in the village lie the same sought of life as you. It’s a small cocoon which you have managed to survive in. But then disaster strike; and then you realize; misfortunes do not come singly but in battalion.

One night after election results are announced, armed men hit your village. They are people you know; your neighbors. You play with their sisters, you fetch water at the river with their mothers, your father works at the same mine or construction site with them. But apparently today; you are no longer a community; today you are tribe A and tribe B. They harass you and torture you and then kidnap your father; and that is the last you see of him; it’s now almost ten years later and you do not know whether he is still dead or alive. Sometimes you think about him and it shivers you, your lips tremble and you get panic attacks…but you never cry; no you don’t cry…where do more tears come from after 10years? Post-election violence left you with nothing but bronchitis which worsened when you lived at the police station; the only place that was safe around you.

A small ray of light flickers when your aunt comes and picks you and your siblings and brings you to Nairobi, the big city. She seems kind, no, she is actually kind. We can just blame poverty at this point because finally you have to sleep in a single room, which is a wooden shack with a mad flood and old roofs. It is not exactly the big city you have always perceived in your mind. The room is a six by six and you share it with your aunt and her family; a total of 18 and to sleep; you have to lay the mattress horizontally and you all have to sleep across it in order to fit. I will not reiterate that your aunt has his husband there. Yes, everything unfolds under your watch.

You start school at the nearby primary school and you are constantly position one. The teachers love you and you start thinking that probably one day you will get out of this poverty. You start crafting how you will be a doctor. You want to become a doctor because a while back they diagnosed you with polycystic kidney disease. It’s like two demons living in your body…one in your lungs and the other in your kidneys and they both have some collaboration to make your life miserable. Your life entails medicines and more medicines and you live with pain and nowadays you just consider it as that bad friend who is probably teaching you a lesson in life.

But there is still hope, a lot of hope, so you live and strive one day at a time; until someone decides to cut short that dream. Someone strips you off all your pride, dignity and everything that matters. Someone chooses to regard you not human but a sexual object; they rape you and defile you and threaten to end your life if you tell anyone. For days on end, you walk around wishing they actually killed you because you no longer understand life. So much has happened that life is not really worth living and now the doctor informs you that you have to live for two people; you and your expectant child.


There are just things in life we cannot explain and I’m tempted to veer off right now and talk about how unfair this situation is. But this is not a hypothetical story. It’s a true story of a girl I taught at Mathari Primary School in Mathare slums, Metrine Tamnai. She was my best student, had the best handwriting in my class and her compositions were more than admirable. She was neat and when you see her you cannot tell she is 19; you cannot tell that she was older than me; her teacher. You cannot tell that she has a kid; a son. You cannot tell that she is sick or that she lives in a house that is impoverished. At times, I wish she could look desecrated and defeated, probably, it would earn her help; but not Metrine. She is a fighter. She is the strongest person I have known my entire life. She deserves this chance and it behooves us to give it to her. We could talk more, but I just think today I will tell you that at least life has given you the fair chance to control some things; for others they have no absolute chance of doing it. They have been left with one strength in them; the will to fight on.

Metrine’s condition has worsened. The polycystic infection is eating up her kidneys even faster; she needs your help. She is due to start her dialysis urgently and her dialysis kit costs Ksh 30,000. I would literally beg, if I could, for you to help her for you to sacrifice just a bit of your money for this girl. She needs to fight for herself and her son and the many people she will treat in the future. It behooves us to make that step.

Her you tube video is here

And to contribute to help Metrine:

Go to MPESA, Select: Lipa na M-PESA,

Enter Paybill No. 891300 Account Number 10893