Maroon 5’s And She will be loved….

Her gaze is trained towards the image in front of her eyes. She studies it carefully, it has a beautiful face, and its eyes are like two shiny diamonds that seem like they could pierce through any soul. The lips are full and well rounded the hair a flowing mess of black. Beautiful is what it is. Then suddenly, she could swear she saw it sneer at her. What does she care? A long time ago-that’s what it seems like now- she had a vivid imagination; perhaps this is just one of her imaginations too. She used to sit in the daytime and imagine herself in the passenger seat of a car-she could never quite guess the make- next to a wonderful man that would every now and then glance at her and smile and she would smile back. He would momentarily let his left hand wander off the steering wheel and reach out to her… clasp his palm in hers before resuming his driving. He would make her heart throb… almost jump out. She loved him.

And in the night, when she was asleep, she saw herself walking down the halls of Justice Hall, her hips swaying with full confidence. She was a brilliant lawyer on the ladder to being a judge. And in the evening after work, having spent the day saving the world, literally, and helping right the wrongs of this world, two little wonderful children would run up to her to embrace her and she would hug them as tightly as she could and kiss them on their foreheads.

But what would this image staring down at her know about her imaginations? After all, wasn’t it just a reflection of herself on the water? It would never understand even if she told it her life story, she decided. For once, she realizes she is freezing, trembling even; perhaps that’s why she had seen the sneer. So it wasn’t an imagination after all. Then they were all gone for sure if she couldn’t even imagine something as nonsensical as that. The air around is cold too, and the breeze leaking through the cracks in the window isn’t helping either; she can’t exactly remember how those got there, but the shattered glass tells her that she too, like life shattered her tender heart, could shatter something. Whether out of anger or frustration or both, or neither. Perhaps she was just in a drunken stupor. Still, she reaches out with her arms and grabs the handrail. Slowly but very carefully, she lifts herself up and out of the bathtub.

When she has dried herself up and is dressed-she won’t need the make up today, not where she knows she wants to go anyway- she grabs her purse and walks to the front door. She pauses a little before locking the door, almost amused at how meaningless it all is. She would care very little today if someone broke in and stole every single thing in her house, just like everything else has been stolen from her. In one final act of defiance to life, she decides not to lock up. She leaves the key in the keyhole, dangling in the wind, daring life to do as it pleased today. She starts walking. Slowly at first, but as she nears the place, her pace quickens. She feels impatient.

She proceeds direct to the counter and orders two shots of vodka; the first of the night, but definitely some of her last. She takes them in rapid succession. The bartender doesn’t even lift his eyebrow when she doesn’t wince. He is used to her. Usually she comes here, drinks herself silly, then just as when she is about to blackout, before any man can take advantage of her by offering her a ride back home, she staggers out into the night and somehow, she always manages to disappear. Nobody ever knows where she goes. And those who do in fact try to hit on her are received with an iciness that beats their Smirnoff Ices. Her routine is always the same, two shots in rapid succession, then a bottle of whatever shots she started out with. Today, it is vodka.

The alcohol makes the memories come flooding back, as they always do when she is drunk. Perhaps that is why she likes the alcohol; it never allows her to forget. She wills herself never to forget. She remembers clearly walking back home from work one evening, happy as usual and excited because she had finally got the recipe for the Black Forest cake she had always wanted to try out. And then as if from nowhere, he appeared. At first she didn’t know what was going on and she froze, but when he grabbed her, she started screaming. All this time she hoped it was just a mugging. Then the bugger proceeded to pin her to the ground, all the while slapping and beating her to shut her up. He ripped off her skirt and forced himself on her, one of his hands on her breast the other on her mouth. She remembers the pain like it was yesterday. Then when the animal was done, he left her there in her shame and despair and pain. It was a couple walking back from their date that found her and took her to hospital…

The nurses had given her emergency contraceptives as well as those life-saving pills that prevent you from getting infected with HIV, the post exposure therapy. They were kind and helpful and had helped her file a statement with the police who had come to see the rape victim, as she was now referred to. But then the insensitive doctor had told her a few days later when she was feeling much better that while treating the wounds inflicted on her genitals, she had discovered something else..

“Jane, my dear, she had said, you have Ovarian Cancer… your wounds will heal up and hopefully the post exposure treatment will prevent you from HIV, but we will also need to start treatment for the cancer as soon as possible. You are lucky we found it early…”

The irony that the animal that raped her had also probably saved her life. It was infuriating and hurting and nauseating to even believe it or accept it. It was for her, unacceptable. After weeks of trying to find justice but with no solace, she had started drinking and she had refused to start the treatment.  She had quit her job. What was the point of trying to get other people justice when she couldn’t find it herself? And that was what led to today…

She takes a gulp of the vodka and rises from her chair. She walks out, her destination, the bridge. She knows she will jump. But in her drunkenness, on her way to the bridge, she bumps into him and falls down. She knows it is him because when she looks up and looks at him she recognizes him immediately. It is the man she always imagined. Almost like a déjà vu. He smiles as he lifts her up, just as he used to do in her imaginations. She wants to say sorry first but she is too dazzled, and taking the cue, he does. He notices the bottle in her hand and smiles… he takes it from her hand and takes the last sip, before throwing it away… slowly, he leads her to the coffee house just ahead…

In her head, she makes the resolve, she will imagine again… she will hope and dream again. She will try to smile again. And tomorrow, she will begin her treatment and hopefully get her job back… Maybe life isn’t too cruel after all, she decides and smiles for the first time in months.

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Seriously, if you havent listened to Echosmith's Cool Kids, you need to ASAP

I wish that I could be one of the cool kids, coz all the cool kids, they seem to fit in… Echosmith said this. I am inclined to agree… cool kids do seem to fit in. I have only one problem, who exactly are cool kids. I would stop writing this post if at least one of you had a solid answer but none of you do, IMO. You all seem to have exemplary different definitions of whom a cool kid is. And yes, nobody seems to have a concrete answer. Not even the coolest kids (that I know) can answer this question. So, yes, you can understand why I decided to do this post. I am tired of being labeled uncool along lines that nobody really understands. There are more double standards than that ex of yours that still swears Water is Life yet KNEC swears they taught her that water is H20. Whom do you believe?
It is in this light that I decided to do a little research on whom exactly should be considered a cool kid.
Echosmith swear that a cool kid (despite already being cool themselves) that a cool kid is that person whose heartbeat seems to be faster than yours yet you all have the same heart rate. That person who- whether you’re walking together with or not- never seem to walk in a straight line. Pardon me guys, but I honestly think- if my biology teacher wasn’t as bogus as the principles of life she taught me- that the first person is suffering from Blood Pressure while the second is suffering… sorry scratch that… (If you literally did, congratulations. You are a DJ and effectively a cool kid.)…  enjoying something my Chemistry teacher introduced me, then tried to tell me wasn’t awesome despite giving me numerous tests and exams on it… Alcohol.
Then there’s Facebook. According to Facebook… sorry guys, can’t find anything that’s cool about Facebook or anyone on it. The only way you guys on Facebook are going to be cool is if Facebook freezes your accounts.
Twitter. Sodom and Gomorrah if you will. According to Twitter, you are a cool kid if you meet the following criteria: First you have at least 2000 followers and receive about 400 nudes per day. Then, you have linked your IG to your Twitter account. You also need to tweet things that don’t necessarily make sense, but which people (read other cool kids) can relate to. You also need to have lunch at KFC on a daily basis and post photos of your lunch on the aforementioned IG account. Failure to post the said pic means you had lunch so awesome it couldn’t even be captured on a camera. This includes special treats like Air Burgers and Imagine Pizzas. You also have to be light skinned. If people cannot see it, you are allowed to take a torch and brighten the area of skin you need them to see before posting it on, you guessed it, the aforementioned IG account.
You also need to be very outgoing and attend all sporting events, including imaginary ones like Unicorn Hunting and Bungee Climbing (I personally thought it was Bungee Jumping, but hey, I am not a cool kid.) You have to have a girlfriend that is very okay with you receiving the above mentioned nudes and who would be willing to give you a BJ on top of the Bungee rope that the two of you just climbed. She, bae, in other words, needs to have personal beef with that Safaricom chic that tells her you are not available because she gets overly jealous and feels the entire world is at her feet… including the condom shoes she wears because she doesn’t want to expose her feet to premature pregnancy.
To be deemed a cool kid on Twitter, you need to be not more than 19 years of age. By this time, which by default you’ll have more than more than 2000 followers, you also need to own a house and a car and not complain when it rains because your said car can also transform into a chopper and fly to Mombasa because cool kids expect the weather in Nairobi to beg them to come back. By extension, they also don’t spend time in traffic. Traffic stops for them, just like Cocaine is the one that suffers an overdose of them. To them, everyone is a feminist. In fact, they refer to our Eminem as Feminem.
Then there’s the parents’ description of a cool kid. I will not dwell on this, but the rest of us know that an African mom’s definition of a cool kid is one that gets straight A’s in school and doesn’t get a girlfriend till form 24, and knows how to avoid other cool kids like the plague. In fact, church wine isn’t really made of grapes and doesn’t contain any alcohol. If you drink too much of it and you get drunk, you will be beaten up for trying to consume too much of the blood of Jesus.
Then there’s what you think. Honestly, I can’t really tell you if I am a cool kid, but I do know this one thing; a cool kid does not make stupid typos. Also, a cool kid does not tell people that he got her pregnant by accident because he knows she did not happen to have been walking on the street then she slipped and accidentally fell on his dick. He is responsible enough to acknowledge he got her pregnant and will not look for a scumbag doctor to perform an abortion. He works hard to achieve his goals in life and he will be there for, not only his friends, but also his family. That IMO, is what makes a cool kid.

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You will know when you find her

Yesterday, the EPL season came to a close, a dramatic finish to 38 games per team (the clueless, kina Bix, there are 20 teams in the EPL, each fielding 11 players plus an additional 3 substitutes if they so require), which took place over the course of roughly 10 months. Of the 20 teams, like every other league, including the ones that are yet to be completed- ladies this does not include the Europa League or the Champions League- there were the top performers, the beasts, the ones that were actually favourites to win from the start to the finish. The ones that everyone else was scared of. The ones that actually managed an average of at least 1.974 points per game, translating roughly into about 75 points at the end of the season. Again, Bix, please mind your business.
Promptly, the transfer season will officially start. Ladies, I am sorry, but this does not necessarily mean that you will get more attention. From the TV and the pub, his attention will also promptly shift to constant checks on the phone of websites such as goal.com, bbc sport football, transfer sources, etc. However, this will significantly increase your chances of busting him online, when usually he claims he doesn’t have bundles. You will not understand, trust me. That I can promise you. He will undoubtedly spend more time online than you do, yet the number of Whatsapp texts that you get will exponentially decrease, depending on what he finds online.
You will hear all sorts of rumours; some will claim that someone is about to get signed. Some will insinuate that the said person has already been signed and some will claim that someone else that offered better incentives has snatched the said the said person, or in better footballing terms, snatched up the said person. In some rare cases, you will learn that the said person has suffered and injury and as a result, interest has weaned. His agent will appear from time to time to deny or approve the amount of interest shown in the said person. Then someone will appear as if from nowhere and proclaim that the deal is done. You will question it, perhaps even laugh at the sheer absurdness of it all, but in due course, you will learn that the transfer window is about to close.
On the deadline day, you will learn, sadly, that the said person has been signed. On the rare occasion, the said person will suddenly reveal how wrong they were to even consider leaving and will opt to stay on, if anything to win trophies with the current team. If this happens, they will inevitably receive pay hikes and obviously better benefits.
In two months’ time, on average, he will be excited. He will tell not necessarily tell you about it, but you will know. You will hear rumours of friendly games, pre-season matches and whatnots. You will unexpectedly find yourself on the verge of trying to find out what all this pre-season madness is all about. You will not like it, especially when you find out that the new signing is especially awesome and all his rivals are jealous. Then, the new season will start his Twitter handle will change from his name to a strange name you may or may not have heard about in the course of the two months. The said person will inevitably be on his FPL team for the new season and there will be nothing you can do about it. At that moment, you will know it is official.
You will also ask where I am going with this.
I will tell you; because this is exactly what happens on the dating field. One moment she’s yours. The next, the season is coming to a close. Someone else is trying to sign her and there is nothing you can do about it, except hope you can manage to convince her to stay. She will be faced with a big decision; to stay on or to leave. Sometimes, if she really does love you, she will stay. There will be no pre-season matches and no one else will get to experience her love except you.
But sometimes, she will decide she is better off signing on away; there will be nothing you can do about it. You will try to get her back but she will throw you into the bottomless pit that is the friendzone if you do insist on pursuing her. You will understand that you pushed her away, but you will never quite accept it. She will forgive you, with time, but yes, you both know it will never be the same. If you’re lucky, Fabian will offer you a place on his support group, having experienced the process approximately 17 times (that we know of).
But sometimes, she will realize that you two were always at your best when you were together (Katunge take note  ) and she will come back running into your arms and you will never let her go, not for anything. Because by then you will have learnt from your mistakes and you will be willing to do anything for her. Then, you will know that you found the one.

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But Why? Lord!? Why won't they tell me I am awesome!?

It is officially three weeks since my accident, and approximately four weeks since I joined Instagram. Yes, I know, I know. I vehemently swore a couple of months ago that I would never join Instagram, or IG, as I hear cool kids call it nowadays. It wasn’t anything I had against IG, but I have always felt Instagram is for girls whose fathers are really disappointed of them. As for my accident, ladies, hold your horses, no accidental babies were made in any back seats- it was a genuine accident. I will probably have a scar on the right side of my face just above my right eye for the time being, but I can assure you I am still as handsome (no pun intended) as ever… *wink*
Anyway, yesterday evening, after reading the much talked about fuckboy (If you’re the author, I admire your writing prowess, I just don’t respect you because you and Njoki Chege are unmistakably similar), I decided to reply to it. People have consequently argued about it all day. I was probably a little harsh, but yeah, I felt pissed off. But the thing is, early morning today, which was completely unexpected since I am rarely on Facebook, I find a message, again completely coincidental, from Joe, telling me that he belongs to a group of bloggers that have actually been readers of my blog, and who think I would be an excellent addition to their Whatsapp group. Ladies, I think I now understand why sweet words send streams down your panties.
The problem is, as awesome as it was to be considered awesome, it left half a dozen of unanswered questions. The biggest one of them being, why wont women find me awesome as well???? Whyyyy??? Followed closely by, should I actually start taking a career in writing more seriously than I have been doing over the past couple of months? Magunga and Ifehenia think I would go farther than I already have should I ever decide to be a full time writer. My folks, not so much; not after they spent half their income every month to get me to complete my undergraduate studies. That, I was able to logically deduce.
What I couldn’t quite explain was the former. I would love to understand women. Remember the story of the guy that found a magic lamp and on rubbing it a genie appeared that asked him for the proverbial wish and the dude said all he wished for was a road that joined the Earth to the Moon, and the genie laughed and said that was impossible, and that he had to make another wish? When the guy said he wished he could understand women the genie promptly shut up and built the road? Well, yeah, that is exactly what I feel right now as well. I will never understand women.
What do I have to do exactly to be considered awesome by you ladies out there? I am genuinely confused. Some female friends (yeah, sorry guys, I too, are inevitably on friend zones on some girls’ lists) suggested I learn cooking. I did that. Now, practically none of them can cook anything better than I can. Did any woman call me awesome? I would honestly be more shocked if they did, than if I ever found myself having lunch at KFC. ‘Next, they suggested I start writing, one of them actually did the post ‘Date a Guy That Writes.’ Look where that’s got me. Replying to annoying posts like Bye Fuckboy. SMH. Most recently, I was informed I should buy myself a car. We both know that isn’t happening this year… soo…. LOL. I hate my life.
Now, I am at the point where I feel I have to give an ultimatum to these women. If none of you tells me I am an awesome human being in the next week, I am declaring celibacy. Because FFS I really do not see the point of trying so hard and none of them will ever consider me awesome enough to offer nudes. Or perhaps I should just stop listening to my female friends, whose friend zones I really have no hope of leaving any time soon. Oh, crap, wait. I think that was an own goal.
I give up.  :-(

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This is the kind of REAL MAN you want, right? Ffs have some standards

So, apparently, someone called me, and a lot of you, a fuckboy. I would be offended, except, I have absolutely no idea what a fuckboy is, leave alone where they are made. By the author’s definition, a fuckboy is an ‘aint shit nigga’; the type of man, guy, whatever, I am confused, that will tell her girl that he misses her and that he cant wait to see her. He is the type of person that will tell his girl that he is willing to ‘chill’ with her and just enjoy her company without necessarily having to rip off her skirt. He is also the type of guy that will want to introduce his girl to his best friends, and ensure that they all know her and respect her. By her admission, a fuckboy is the type of person that will try as hard as he can to ensure you have a good time, even when his money just isn’t enough. He will ensure you eat the best of what you can afford, even if it means sometimes he will ask you to help you do it, because he knows it will not always be that way. Finally, a fuckboy will be the guy that will tell you he will protect you and care for you as best as he can, because that is the only feminism he knows; you are the number one female in his life.
You can therefore understand why I feel I, and lots of other awesome guys out there, have been labeled fuckboys and told to fuck off. If the above make me a fuckboy, so be it.  Because, at the end of the day, I will do these things, maybe not every day, but I will. That is how much I care for my woman.
From my perspective, I cant really call you a fuckboy, that would just be gross, but I wish there a female equivalent for that. (Ideas, guys?) I will tell you why.
First, you don’t want to chill. Apparently just chilling makes me a scrub- Makers of Trust Condoms, please take note as well. When I say I want to see you, the first thing on your mind is sex. If I call you a sex addict or a nymphomaniac, as Nico and Vinz said, Am I Wrong? Lady I do not know what to call, listen, I have no idea who your biology teacher was, or whether you studied under a tree in the same class as the birds, but I hope, if you aren’t already, aware that it is practically and physically impossible to have sex everyday of every month, all year round. Know why, first and foremost, YOU get periods. Heard of those? I hope so, or your REAL MAN, will dump you pretty quickly when he says he will just chill with you coz he knows what time of the month it is and you don’t.
Then there’s the other issue of you refusing to hang out with my friends. Newsflash, YOU are supposed to be MY best friend if we are in a relationship. I am supposed to expect to have the time of my life with you, as Neyo said, regardless I have money or not. I also expect you to be cool with my friends. Yes, I know I will not always have friends that are the best of character, but I will expect you to get along with them. You know why, sometimes, even I disagree with them a lot of times and on a lot of things. Do we go about splashing nonsense on the internet and calling each other fuckboys when that happens? No, we do not. Sometimes, I will tell you to join us because even if I agreed to hang out with them, I just cant imagine spending a single second without you by my side. Then, when we hang out, don’t I always ask you what you want to drink before we make a decision with my SQUAAAAD, and when yours runs out, isn’t it my obligation to ask you if you want a refill? Then, why do you see it so necessary to complain after we get you what you want and we get what WE want? Trust me, person I do not even know what to call anymore, I will not hang out with you if you cannot get along with my friends.
Don’t even get me started on food. A lot of times you get really broke I have to send you cash via M-pesa. Do I go about telling you how I want you to refund my money? Or do your money problems recur whenever I have money problems as well? As I pointed out on Twitter the other day, females your type will have handbags that are seemingly full of everything; from tents, sufurias, shoes, umbrellas, condoms, tissue-practically every survival tool needed, EXCEPT CASH. Yes, I do acknowledge the fact that when I invite you for lunch it is my responsibility to foot the bill; I will from today henceforth note that If I don’t have enough money to buy you what you want, I should not even bother trying to call you just so I can see you. Will you however acknowledge the fact the YOU do get broke at times too and you need someone to help you out?
Also, I will never be a feminist. At least if that’s what your description of a feminist is. I do know one thing though, women deserve respect and to be cared for. That I will always do and give to the women in my life. If you don’t like it, fuck off. Plus the fact that you know who CHIEF KEEF is already tells me one thing, you’re worse than we, the fuckboys you so eloquently insulted and dismissed and that neither of us can ever take you seriously. You can now proceed to hug your cactus, if you were waiting for my go-ahead.

When you try to connect with him/her but it just isnt working

My heart is heavy. Still, it could be worse. Today, I almost broke up with my girlfriend of five years (or more, I am not entirely sure how long we have been together.) Well, we have settled things and we are now talking now, I can now connect with her, but it scared the shit out of me. It’s not like I even cheated on her or anything; nothing like that. In fact, I hate hookers. You see, all of them cheat you how you will have the time of your life, till five minutes later they tell you your time is up. So, clearly, wao ni ma-laya.

Anyway, it all started a couple of weeks back. We were in love and we still talked every day, every hour, every minute, every few seconds of our time together. You don’t believe me, do you? I see. But will I die whether you believe me or not? This is a blog anyway. Ivy, that’s my girl’s name btw, started complaining that she couldn’t get through to me a couple of times. She said, her words, “You don’t seem to be in touch with me nowadays. You don’t relate with my relatives.”

Naturally, I had absolutely no idea what on earth she was yapping on about. And the reason I couldn’t understand where this was coming from was, for starters, I had never felt more connected with her. In fact, I felt our connection was growing stronger, fast. And just the other day, I managed to connect with her sister. Whatsapp will bear me witness. I respect and love Ivy too much for me to ignore anything she says. But then, her words seemed to come to life one fateful morning when I had just booted up and I tried to send a ping to her. At first, I was informed that our connection was timing out, just as she had said. Then, as if from nowhere, I was informed that she could not be reached. I started panicking. Almost a full system interrupt.

I sent parity bits. Nothing. Nada. I tried to sleep it off by uninstalling and re-installing my hardware. Still nothing. I switched to my secondary Ethernet device. NOTHING! I decided may be I should reset my configurations and remove all IPs except hers. Nothing was working. I set my Ethernet card to DHCP. I have never liked Static configurations. Full panic mode now. Still, I could connect with my neighbor via wi-fi. (She’s a beauty. She is slim, quite shapely and has all the right features. Granted, she is Android, but she clearly beats any iPhone or iPad. Meh. Nexus!) I decided to check the last 24 hour’s ping stats. I had been online and so had she. In fact, we had been in touch and she had not known it, right till the moment I shut down the previous evening and booted up in the morning. I even checked to see whether my firewall or hers was refusing the connection ffs.

With clearly little else to do, I decided to connect to the internet. I knew how much she loved the internet so I banked on the fact that she would be online. I sent a trace-route. Nothing. I got as far as her ISP but from there she was just nowhere to be found. The real problem was, when I contacted our mutual friends, they had all been in touch with her. In fact, they complained they were not marriage counselors. Apparently, she too had tried to reach me and when she couldn’t, she reached out to them and asked if any of them had been in touch. We hadn’t. I was offline then, remember? My bundles were due to be renewed in the morning when I booted up. Safaricom, man, Gaddem. I have no idea why I haven’t embraced Unliminet yet. It was a relief tho.

Now that for a fact I knew my hardware was in the right shape and was working fine, I decided it had to be my software. I checked to see if any of them had enabled any proxies accidentally. No proxies were active. I checked if my immune system was blocking any connections; in fact, all it reported was that it was out of date and that it needed to be updated. Naturally, I decided to do a complete system restore. I selected the date before we last shared anything, which was the day before yesterday. I didn’t care if any programs I had installed or drivers I had hired the day before would be affected. I just didn’t. Now all I really cared about was reconnecting with my dear Ivy.

The restoration was done. NOTHING!!!!!! I almost crashed and broke down in a binary stream of tears. I was crushed, completely. 101 years had been lost just like that. 11111011111 clearly wasn’t our year.

Then, just as I was about to give up, drop all my security protocols and allow any interested viruses and malware to infiltrate and destroy my system, I received word from Microsoft that they had just discovered a bug. (WTF! I had updated my system just the other day!) Apparently this bug caused false IP addresses being assigned to the Wireless and Ethernet cards and it didn’t matter what you did. You could flush your entire system including the DNSs and it still wouldn’t reach some specific IPs, especially those that you are in communication with constantly. WTF!!!!!!

I didn’t bother applying the fucking security fix.

I have since formatted my system and installed Linux. I had no idea the software was this good. I don’t even need an antivirus anymore because no virus can infect me. Literally. My user interface may look like shit, but hey, I have The Terminal! That Beast! In fact, just seconds after applying Linux, I connected with Ivy seamlessly. Of course I had to explain to her what had happened and why we couldn’t connect for most of today, but she believed me. A couple of her pals had warned her of the same a few days ago but she hadn’t taken it seriously. So, as of now, we are back together. I love you Ivy. (She has since warned me of connecting with the Nexus.) She is also due to install Linux on her system tomorrow.

So, we have come up with a very simple resolution; fuck these daily Safaricom bundles. Fuck Microsoft for its shit of a product called Windows and fuck everyone that believed we were done. Also, fuck you if you still haven’t figured out that we are computers; I am HP and Ivy is Dell.

 

Ps. If you somehow got this post, mate, you are a computer nerd, geek, whatever you call yourself. LMAO.

My twin brothers, Adrian and Andrew (From left)

My twin brothers, Adrian and Andrew (From left)

Yesterday, as I was leaving for work- I have no clue how they always manage to wake up before I do- one of my twin brothers, Andrew, (his twin, the evil one, is Adrian) wanted to have a taste of my coffee. Naturally, my mother would not stand for it and in her words, “Kahawa ni mbaya kwa watoto!” So I backed off. She then decided to make him something milder; chocolate in this case. But then, she forgot the golden rule you never forget when dealing with children’s beverages: Make sure there is plenty of sugar in whatever it is you’re trying to get them to drink. Naturally, Andrew, who’s recollection of chocolate only goes past a bar of brown stuff that was purchased at Uchumi, did not understand how my mother could possibly have procured chocolate that fast, yet he hadn’t seen her leave for Uchumi, nor was there a paper bag labeled Uchumi. To make matters worse, this so called chocolate was in a cup.

But then, like all kids his age, curiosity got the better of him. He decided to go have a taste of this so called chocolate in a cup. He had a sip.

“Yuck!” he frowned, “Mummy wewe pea mimi tope!” he exclaimed, utterly disgusted. He proceeded to take this now labeled ‘tope’ to his twin to have a taste, who equally disgusted proclaimed “Tupa tope.” And he emptied the contents of the cup into the sink without further ado. I have never seen the rascals happier to eat their porridge, without my mother having to threaten them “Ngukuringa uume ndogo!” (I will beat you up till smoke comes out of you) as she usually threatens them. Needless to say we were in uncontrollable fits of laughter by then… my mother, God bless her soul, later swore she felt a slight headache from the laughter. For us all, and even more to her, it was more than a memory. It represented the culmination of her efforts to raise her sons wonderfully up to until the stage of their lives they were in.

The whole thing, as amusing as it was later caused me to reflect on my own life. I am now 24 years of age; a full grown man who’ll no doubt have his own family in the next few years (Bae, she’s given me a deadline for our firstborn btw). 24 years ago that woman clothed me, breast fed me, wiped my tiny ass whenever I shit on myself and changed my diapers. She rocked me to sleep and sang to me to stop me from crying for hours like all babies do and carried me on her back and sat me on her lap even when I didn’t need her to. She watched me take crawl and heard my first words. She devoted her entire adulthood into ensuring that I received proper education, the best she could afford. She was there when I passed my KCPE and joined Starehe Boys Centre and was still there when four years later, I passed and qualified to join University and eventually graduate as an Engineer and a useful member of the community. A journey that started 24 years ago when she was still in campus and barely able to support herself or us both for that matter.

Her love never weakened, didn’t dim as love usually does. And it’s not like I never did anything to test her or to get her really mad at me and upset. Trust me, I was a handful. And most of them usually ended with me on the receiving end of a painful, merciless, but loving beating.

This one time I don’t think I will forget any time soon, she literally tied me up – you know, like how they show us the CIA ties up suspected terrorists and beats them up senseless in a bid to discover why they were plotting to attack the USA. Which quite frankly doesn’t really make sense because well, they are terrorists. To be fair, I did deserve that one. I was 9, if I remember correctly and in class 4 and yes, I was a little cheeky, naughty boy- people who know me will attest I was an extraordinarily gifted kid at finding or making trouble if there was none. Anyway, being the bright kid I was, I always had a passion for learning. And since at school the teacher always taught us using the blackboard, I thought, hey, why shouldn’t I make my own blackboard and teach myself. That way I don’t have to go to school. I did just that.

We lived in a second floor apartment back then and it so happened that the landlord was adding yet another floor on top. So one day I got my chance when they accidentally left black paint in one of the rooms; they didn’t have doors yet so it was easy to get in. I painted my blackboard and stole chalk from my mother, coincidentally happened to be a secondary school teacher. For the next few days I was happy. Blissful. Till the the landlord showed up at our door demanding compensation for damages. That a 9 year old was responsible for. Naturally my mother argued but you cant really argue with the testimony of all the other kids in the apartment who claimed I had been teaching them Mathematics on our board. In addition, the landlord demanded that we move out. So here we were; with an eviction notice, a dent in the already bloated monthly budget in the form compensation, and an angry landlord. I will spare you the details of what ensued, but you should know that my blackboard did make my wish come true. The next day I was too sore to go to school.

Regardless, I still loved my mother and she still loved me. Today, I appreciate all those hard (painful) lessons, her sacrifice, her love, all of it. She still does. My point is, if your mother is alive and well, why should you have to wait for a single day called Mothers Day to celebrate her? Why not remind her every opportunity you get that you love her and you appreciate her? Send her an SMS, call her, visit her every once in a while. If you haven’t already done so, buy her a decoder so she can watch her favourite channels now that we’re already doing the #DigitalMigration? Because the fact is, you’ll never get another mother, not one that loves you more unconditionally than flies love the smell of shit. To me, she, and not Martha Karua or Margaret Thatcher will always be the Iron Lady in my life.

Get out of your High Horse and make something for yourself…

This is purely hypothetical.

Suppose one day you woke up and on your way to buy milk and bread for breakfast, you find journalists and cameramen outside your front door.

“James!,” they shout, “Would you care to comment?”

You’re confused at first; your head still isn’t clear enough and your head is buzzing. You are still hangovered from yesterday, and anyone within two inches of you can tell that you’ve been drinking. Your first instinct is to rush back into the house. Still breathing heavily, more from the effects of the booze in your system than from the panic you feel right now, you carefully push a way the curtains, just enough to see what is going on outside. Someone spots the movement at the window and in no time, they’re at the window, trying to catch a glimpse of you and perhaps take a photo or two. You retreat back to your couch and switch on your TV, hoping there might be a news item that could perhaps jog your memory. With the magnitude of the number of reporters outside, you must have done something newsworthy.

But then, a blank screen stares back at you, almost mocking you. You’d forgotten that Kenya made the #DigitalMigration from Analogue TV and you still don’t have DSTV or Zuku. Next, you reach for your phone. 16 missed calls in total and 13 messages. Most are from your friends, Andrew and Adrian, a few from your neighbor and three from a number you cannot recognize. None is from your girlfriend; which is weird because she usually calls or texts you in the morning to check up on you and find out your plans for the day, hoping to sneak in an hour for lunch- which you will inevitably buy if she has her way. You dial Andrew first. No answer. Adrian next. No answer. You try your girlfriend’s phone- unreachable. You try logging into your Twitter hoping you might find some information that could help you. Nothing.

In full panic mode, you walk over to the cabinet in the kitchen and take out a bottle of Vodka that you had left there a couple of nights before. You take a huge mouthful and wince at the taste of pure, undiluted Vodka. You light a cigarette and smoke hurriedly, hoping it will calm down your nerves. Another sip of the Vodka. Nothing seems to help. You still have this cloud over your head telling you that you did something very bad. But what could it be?? You ask yourself. Finding no answers in your head and absolutely no clues, fear starts gripping you.

You then decide to try to retrace your steps. You fumble your way to the bedroom and start inspecting the clothes and shoes you wore yesterday, hoping to find perhaps a receipt, a piece of paper that could help you, anything. Nothing is missing from your wallet as far as you can tell, and you don’t have any blood stains on your clothes. You let out a sigh of relief, but that is short-lived because as soon as you check yourself in the mirror, besides the usual bloodshot eyes, you have a bad bruise on your head. You wonder why it doesn’t hurt. Now, you’re in full panic mode. You’re terrorized and a hostage in your own home.

Then, you sirens outside your door and before you know it, there’s loud banging on your front door. Police. It has to be the police. Nobody else uses sirens save for the ambulances. You almost pee on yourself because now you’re almost certain you committed a terrible crime and they’ve come to arrest you. The saddest part is, you have no idea what. You give in to your frustration and sink to the floor, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other. You take a huge gulp, again, from the bottle of Vodka, but it’s too soon. You feel like throwing up. You try to suppress it but it’s no use. In no time you’re kneeling on the toilet floor retching. Your wipe your mouth with the back of your palm and take another sip to wash the foul smell away. You flush the toilet but just as you do so, you hear your door give in. They’re IN the house!!!

Slowly, you rise from the floor and start walking towards the living room, the bottle still in your hand, and you take yet another sip. By now, the hangover is gone and you’re just as drunk as you were yesterday, as far as you can tell. In fact, you realize you’re staggering and you have to support yourself with the nearest wall to prevent yourself from falling over. But then, a police officer is already with you. You put down the bottle and raise your hands above your head in surrender.

Laughter.

Why aren’t they arresting me? What is so damn funny!?

“Sir, you’re James Mwangi Kamau, ID number 27123456, right?” a policeman asks, amid bouts of laughter.

“Yes. WTF is going on. What did I do?” You ask, bewildered.

“Sir, calm down. We’re here to take you to see the President. He wants to see you urgently. I suggest you sober up. And fast!”

It isn’t a request. It’s a bloody order. But at least he doesn’t draw his gun or handcuffs.

“Please, would someone tell me what has happened? I am dying of panic here!” you plead. More laughter.

“You’ll find out more at the State House. All you need to know now, Sir, is that you’re a lucky son of a bitch!” he says, which helps you calm down a little, but it still doesn’t put you at ease. Slowly, they lead you outside, where the reporters are in a wild frenzy trying to get statements from you and photographs, and into an awaiting cruiser. You black out almost as soon as the vehicle takes off.

At the State House, when you’ve sobered up enough and had almost a bucketful of water at the president’s orders, you will learn that the girl you were dating, your girlfriend, is actually the president’s daughter. The president just wanted to meet his future son in law. You will laugh about it with Andrew and Adrian later and realize how gullible you are. But you really don’t care, because you are about to become a President’s Son In Law.

***********************************************************

You’ll ask yourself, WHY THE FUCK doesn’t this happen to me? I’ll tell you; because it is just a purely hypothetical scenario that will never happen. It is about time you got off your high horse and seized the opportunities accorded to you. Work for it. Make something for yourself yo!

Dear Cousin

Dear Cousin,

Omusahkulu! Cousin. How much I have missed you. How is everybody? I hope everyone is okay. How are the quadruplets? Have they started their vaccinations? Did you find another job? Ama are you still idling at the market hoping somebody sees some value in you and presents something of value? How is Mama Omollo? That lady never ceases to amaze me.

Where are my manners! I am sorry. I should have started by saying I am sorry. I am writing to inform you that Brother Yahke passed away. Again, I am sorry. I know, you made me promise that I would inform you in steps about how he died; I was supposed to tell you that he went up the roof… then one week later tell you that he jumped…. Then tell you that he broke his back one week later… then tell you that he did not make it on his way to the hospital. I couldn’t. You see, we are all traumatized. Cousin Bahati (you remember him, don’t you? He was supposed to give his heart to Pande last year, remember?) tells me it is easier to tell you straight away what happened, for both our sakes.

Yahke, as I said before, is Kaput. Gone. Finished- literally. Damn that Isaka. You see, it was two days before Christmas. Isaka had already chosen one of our enemies (Bata), as his chosen. Then I don’t know what happened alafu this Eric Omondi fella appeared on TV saying that he (Isaka) could make dozens of money just by selling Bata. I remember because Oyuko had just been proclaimed the winner of gameweek 18 of our Fantasy Premier League. The bugger caught 18 worms that weekend. I think it was called OLX, or something of the sort. Now, as is custom, Oyuko took us out for drinks- on his tab of course- at Club Koo Koo. I will not lie to you that we had a few.

If you recall correctly, Yahke, the drunk that he always was, decided to pick a fight with one of the locals, who eventually turned out to be stronger than he was. The idiot decided to run. You should have seen him. But then, he decided to answer one of our biggest questions; why did great-great-great-grand-i-lost-count-20-years-ago-father decide to cross the road. A blue Subaru came out of nowhere. Aki si he was floored. Oyuko almost died. And his wife fainted on the spot. I was too drunk to react. Then as if to rub salt to injury (again, not ours) the driver of the blue Subaru stepped out of the vehicle and imagine instead of rushing to see if Yahke had suffered any serious injuries, he inspected the tyres of his vehicle! Asshole. Omondi picked him up about 30 minutes later. I hear his wife made stew out of him before we were sober enough to say RIP. I am very sorry cousin; there was nothing we could do.

Anyway, I hear that Yahke’s death is the least of our worries; Roomers -We at Kakamega are not sure whether it’s Rumours or Roomers. Cousin Bony from Nairobi hasn’t told us which Nairobi Aviation College decided is acceptable. And by the way he’s been training at Wilson Airport. Their motto there is “All birds can fly”; if you need internship tell him to hook you up- are that February 14th is in the next two weeks and that more than half of our families have been promised to females out there. Aki I don’t know where we will hide. I am not willing or ready to end up in somebody’s stomach like brother Yakhe.

As to that effect, we are holding a brain storming event on the 11th of this month to find ways of how we can avoid being eaten by these females. Bahati proposes we pay off their men. We can also get them drunk. Recent studies suggest that if we get them sufficiently drunk, they will forget 14th and will instead feed on kina guka Ng’ombe. More of them will feed on kina Mbuzi and The Nguruwes (good riddance). Personally, I suggest we join Nairobi Aviation College and learn to fly so we can escape. Singh will try to grab some land that we can use to practice our flying skills.

Anyway, I have to go now. Mama Odhiambo has just come back with fresh worms that she intends to use for fishing. Hehe, how we will feast on them during the night. Goodbye dear cousin.

 

Your favourite cousin,

Nguku.

 

P.S. If anybody else from Murang’a tries to rape you guys tell us so we can lynch him. We as chicken cannot continue living like this. And if we survive 14th, we will hold formal talks with the government to disband Kenchic, Chicken House et al. We will also write a formal petition to ban games that portray our relatives as idiots who have nothing else to do except catapult themselves to their deaths as they try to kill pigs. SMH.

P.S.S. Njoki Chege must go also. She has made blue Subaru drivers more of assholes than they already were. Aki nashuku kuendesha ashawai endesha ni kwa choo tu.

Crowns for Clowns

Hello my peoples. I know what most of you are wondering; WTF has yours truly been? Why TF did he/she forsake us? I haven’t. I have longed to resume blogging and making you laugh for some time now and I am sorry I couldn’t do it sooner. I am not about to make excuses, but I really tried- I couldn’t. In between my final year project (which was awesome) and final exams and the pressure to convince my wonderful parents that I was not going to graduate University as an Engineer (yes, you can call me that now) without a wife, or as they’re called nowadays, bae… you get my point. I will bore you with that story much later…

Anyway, during my long exile I came across one of the funniest things I have ever read, though unfortunately the author signed off as anonymous, and I will share it with you:

 

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Heaven, God was missing for six days. Eventually, Michael the archangel found him, resting on the seventh day. He inquired of God.

“Where have you been?”

God took a deep sigh of satisfaction and proudly pointed downwards through the clouds, “Look, Michael. Look what I’ve made!”

Archangel Michael looked puzzled and said, “What is it?”

“It’s a planet,” replied God, “and I’ve put Life on it. I’m going to call it Earth and it’s going to be a great place of balance.”

“Balance?” inquired Michael, still confused. God explained, pointing to different parts of earth.

“For example, northern Europe will be a place of great opportunity and wealth while southern Europe is going to be poor. Over there I’ve placed a continent of white people and over there is a continent of black people,” God continued pointing to different countries. “This one will be extremely hot while this one will be very cold and covered in ice.”

The Archangel, impressed by God’s work, then pointed to a land in the eastern part of Africa and said, “What’s that one?”

“Ah,” said God. “That’s Kenya the most glorious place on earth. There are beautiful beaches, mountains, streams, hills, and water falls. The people from Kenya are going to be very handsome, modest, intelligent and humorous and they are going to be found traveling the world holding good jobs. They will be extremely sociable, hardworking and high-achieving, and they will be known throughout the world as diplomats and carriers of peace and go to the Olympics.”

Michael gasped in wonder and admiration but then proclaimed, “What about balance, God? You said there would be balance!!!”

God replied wisely, “Wait until you see the clowns that will lead them :D.”

 

You ask where I am going with this, right? I will expound. The author brilliantly explained what is happening in our beloved country. I am not about to mention any names, primarily because I don’t want to suffer the same fate as one Wadi. For those that watched the Keter video, you will agree with my sentiments that most of our leaders are selfish, immature, arrogant, corrupt and I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-any-more. It is one thing to intimidate people with authority (which Keti Hapa doesn’t condone) if you’re the president, not some lowly official that the majority leader of senate has never heard of nor spoken to. No Mr. Keter, we, the Matapakas, refuse to pick your calls. Hell, even the cool kids here declared they don’t even pick calls of nature anymore.

Then, as if we don’t have enough clowns in the administration, there has to be even more in the Church. First it was Kanyari, who took sowing seeds very literally. His philosophy was simple; confuse them till they’re dumb enough to give you a lot of money (and or sexual favours). Now, we have Kiuna. For somebody that was born in a slum, I would she would have more humility, but no. Kiuna warned us poor people not to go to her church, while urging our women to leave us and go live in SQs in posh neighborhood so they can find wealthy men to marry them, that’s what you did, right? I am assuming her definition of poor people is us, us that have to eat cereal (when we can afford it) with forks so as to save milk.

Us, that don’t care whether it was the chicken or the egg that came first, or whether the chicken was crossing the road in order to reach before the egg, as long as its destination is our stomachs. Yes, we that have to go to Nairobi Aviation College and build castles in the air during class so we can get degrees in Architecture to better our lives, or dump our girlfriends before Valentines so we can be awarded degrees in Financial Management. Kiuna, at least you were straight forward… you despise us. I’ll tell you a secret; we don’t care. You can lead your followers like the sheep they are- they go to baa baa shops too, right?- and you can keep boiling the hell out of water if you think that will get you holy water, we got the message.

I could go on and on about the kind of leaders our beloved Kenya is bestowed with, but I don’t see the point; we live in a land where its crowns for clowns. I will wish everyone else a great week ahead and I love you guys.

 

PS:

If you don’t already know it, Valentines is just around the corner. Feel free to consult my guide on how to avoid Valentines. If you do however still feel the urge to celebrate Valentines, please do so responsibly. Don’t choose the types that spend hours on Instagram showing us how much of disappointments they are to their fathers.