Lessons From A Senior Mafisi Sacco Member

Posted: February 2, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Humour
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We are Many!

The JKUAT Students’ Union – led by Jomo Erick and Victor Marende Nzoka – today organised the first ever A.G.M in Juja. They bought us free lunch and gave us sodas to wash it down with. Our job was simple, to sit down, listen to the union talk about what they promised to do and why they didn’t do it and, if need arises, ask questions; questions they would dodge, like politicians do. Same old shit.

One lady impressed me though. Goes by Josephine, the JKUAT-Westlands Students’ Union Vice-Chair. Pretty mami, medium height, yellow yellow, smooth skin, authoritative voice, blue skirt, nice ass (Hehe, C’mon, like you didn’t know I was going to do that).
Gets up, jokes “I come from Eritrea by the way…” to screams, cheers and whistles from the crowd. Then switches to a serious tune, goes “We as Westlands Campus are highly disappointed in this leadership. You people came to us, promised us heaven and earth, only to deliver zilch. Come back this time round, and you will be shown the door. We are tired of this nonsense.”

Meeting ends in Chaos – Juja goons feel their President has been insulted, leave barking, with Jomo Erick lifted shoulder high. I approach the lady next to the Dean’s office, feed her some bullshit story about working for a certain media house and wanting her official statement, just to look her in the eye as she explains her point.

After 20 minutes of pretending like I’m really listening – during which time I’m mostly just shaking my head, and staring at her boobs – I tell her, “Look, so, take my number, call me by the end of the week and decide if you want to buy me lunch or Whiskey, you will have been famous by then.”

She smiles, does that “Aaawww” thing ladies do (for no reason at all), takes out her phone and punches in my number. [Gents, First Lesson of Picking Up Women, Don’t ask for her number, it makes you seem desperate. Give her yours, makes her want you more.]

Here’s the thing, I don’t work for any media house. I won’t make her famous, if I had that power, my Grandma would be on the Papers by now (She makes some mean Uji). The hell she think I was, Mzazi Willy Tuva? I’m full of shit, you just have to take one look at me to know that. I fed her that bull ’cause she blew me off my socks.

I like my women strong, made of substance, outspoken, well-dressed, and emitting fragrances that smell like freshly-cooked Chapos. Now I’m at the den with the boys, taking one for the road, thinking, Will she really call me? If she does, what will I tell her happened to her story?

Maybe I should just tell her I got fired, ama? Si it will make her sympathize with me at least?

Signed.

Chuny Min Oaye.

Original story from Ian Duncan’s Facebook:

https://mobile.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=762922313842873&id=100003753347495&refid=7&_ft_=qid.6244791662956399593%3Amf_story_key.-8447596908158658421&__tn__=%2As

So let’s assume Jesus came back today. Or tomorrow. Or you know, whenever. Christians have been waiting for Him to come back for over 2,000 years now, while Atheists claim 2,000 years is too long to wait for someone to come again (yes, full pun intended). Personally I do not mind the wait.

As an Engineer I have learnt one thing, never rush things. All you can do is wait; hopefully the wait won’t be as long as waiting for Kanye West to apologize to Wiz Khalifa for insulting him using a 2 year old. In hindsight (LQTM) Amber Rose did do Wiz some justice… And as someone pointed out, that is why you have to pay for child support.

Anyway, back to the point; If Jesus were to come back today. A few friends and I, brilliant bloggers as well, had this argument yesterday. As expected, most were for the idea that Jesus should come back already, while the faint hearted chose not to participate at all, labelling us Atheists. But come on, we have all read the Bible. His coming has been anticipated more than His actual birth.

Regardless, the discussion continued, for those that stayed anyway. The initial view was that if Jesus were to come back today, He would be imprisoned. He would be labelled a political blogger out for blood with unsubstantiated claims of miracles out to oust the current regime (that we are tired of anyway) and He would be labelled an unpatriotic Son Of Kenya. Because God is Kenyan. Smh. In fact, He would be stoned, not like the  Stephen-Stoned-To-Death-From-Weed type, actual stoning. And pastors would be behind it because all the money they collect to ‘give to Jesus’ would be claimed by Jesus, legally. Well, that’s what the church is about nowadays anyway, right?

But then someone else argued that Jesus would be respected because He would perform miracles. The general consensus however, was that only one miracle would stand out. And your guess is as good as mine was. It wouldn’t be the ability to cure AIDS or to raise the dead back to life. It would be more along the lines of dethroning EABL, KWAL and Keroche Industries.

Yup, Jesus would be the perfect fit for Kenya if He could re-do the miracle at Cana. And I am sorry Meru people, I really do mean MIRACLE not MIRAA-CO. Afterall, Kenya is a drinking nation, second only to South Africa. Nigerians tell us they swim in pools full of liquor as Kendrick directed them to so they really aren’t in contention… Plus we don’t believe them. If they said they swam in oil, perhaps we would believe them.

I digress. If somehow Jesus would turn water into wine yet again… It was agreed everyone would follow Him. Not on Twitter, nor on Facebook and neither on Instagram… None. It would be a physical following. The kind that would have me be a water boy for Him, a job I would serve very diligently, as i pointed out. We keep saying hoes are thirsty, but we both know you would be thirsty as well. After all, it would be Holy Alcohol; which would be safe to drink because He would never allow your liver to get damaged. Talk of the Holy Spirit…. Wait, what?

Which brings me to the other point. As a Kenyan, we will always be business minded; someone somewhere would try to get Jesus to turn their local dam into a brewery. Well, personally I know I would. It would be a goldmine! Because the infrastructure already exists. He would deliver the beer through pipes right into people’s homes from their taps. Doesn’t matter what type of pipe you would have, PPR, GI… it wouldn’t matter.  Imagine it! Beer in taps.

So on that note, I am kindly asking all potential investors to consider my offer. I am registering my Beer In Taps Company Limited next week in anticipation for Jesus’ coming. You shouldn’t be scared of the legal constraints because we have no law against it, yet.

In short, what I am asking for is your money and your continued support. The government told us to be entrepreneurs and create jobs after all, right?

Dear Njoki Chege

Posted: January 24, 2016 by ketihapa in Letters
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Njoki Chege, the creative City Girl....

Dear Njoki Chege,

First and foremost I have to congratulate you on your new role. I mean, the upgrade from being a blogger to a creative writer at Nation Media! What! Hell of an accomplishment. It’s so sad that when I Google you I find you listed as a blogger though. Someone ought to inform Google (and everyone in Kenya for that matter) that you are no longer a blogger. You are now a creative writer – the City Girl- for Nation Media.

Because, how could they think of you as a blogger? It is deplorable to imagine why. After all, you did say that “A blogger is typically any dimwit with internet connection, rent to pay and a lot of free time.” Why then, should they think of you as a dimwit with an internet connection that has to pay rent but is too idle to go work to find money to pay for the said rent? I fail to understand that part. Especially because you submit your work via emails which don’t require an internet connection ( I am so envious right now) and you also don’t need to pay rent.

I am not certain of one thing though. You did not define whom a dimwit is; because you see, Urban Dictionary defines a dimwit as “someone who does things just to gain acceptance from others, not because he is a real personality.” In other words, an attention seeker, or as most people call that, an attention hoe. Sorry, as a blogger I have no money and rent to pay and the only dictionary I could afford was the online one; so please forgive me if my grammar is not up to your standards.

But back to the point at hand here; I am particularly confused because that definition of a dimwit describes you perfectly – every post you have written, including the one that landed you that job as a blogger, sorry, as a creative writer for Nation Media, has always been scathing enough to get people to notice you. Advertising agencies typically use boobs to get people’s attention; hell, those guys could advertise hell using boobs and people would line up to buy tickets to hell. Personally I know I would.

But what you do is essentially the same thing, only you can’t use your boobs because, after all, you are the polished ‘City Girl.’ Instead, you write stuff to trash other people, which you excel at by the way, (congratulations are in order – I should buy you a drink to celebrate that but as I mentioned earlier on, I am just but a poor blogger with rent to pay. And it’s Njaanuary.) so they are pissed off enough to respond to you and read your work.

I hope you see where I am going with this. You write rubbish, sit, wait for comments (that you don’t bother replying to) and then sit back as you think about whom to trash next. You are like that street preacher that will call our girls sluts because they chose to dress up in tights and tells them that they get raped because of their choice in dressing, as he looks on in gratification when they pass by sneering at him. But hey, they noticed him in the end, didn’t they?

In other words, hopefully much easier for your top-notch brain to comprehend, you are just an attention hoe as well. Rather a dimwit just like the rest of us. Which therefore makes you a blogger as well, just an expensive one that hates Eastlands and Subarus and pretty much everyone except yourself.

And we will only consider you a writer when you can get over your insecurities and actually do write anything worth reading, like a novel for instance, or a play, or just a simple manuscript for the ailing Tahidi High. Before that happens, you too are a blogger.

Yours faithfully,

Keti Hapa.

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(Photo courtesy of flckr)

Dear Mr President,

I hope you’re finally back in Kenya and that you are faring on okay. I saw a recent photo of you making out with your wife (that I am really jealous of) but I am not sure if it was all a match in the political game. I hope you will not be hangovered as you read this, but if you are, please feel free to visit Kerugoya where they still sell second generation alcohol. That tab will be fully mine, and will be fully paid as soon as you fire all corrupt individuals so I can get my Youth Fund.

When you get to Kerugoya, find a boda boda operator called Kinyua. He was once an employee of your government but some ass of a senior appointment your government made stole money and the institution he worked for had to downsize. Thankfully he had saved up quite a bit so he bought a motorbike that is helping him feed his family. He doesn’t have any ill feelings towards you, I should add. He, like me, are loyal citizen of this wonderful country called Kenya.

Anyway, back to Kinyua. Tell him to drop you off at a pub called Masafara Bar; i like the name… Reminds me I am still Kenyan. However, on your way you might need to pay Kinyua in advance for fuel. You see, Kinyua’s eldest son is in High School but his principal directed the parents pay an extra 5700 for toilets for the teachers and a bus, which is more than Matian’gi directed school heads to ask for. I suspect he might be broke at the moment and that his landlord added an extra 500 because he paid his rent a day after the deadline, so don’t mind paying for fuel, please.

When you get to Masafara Bar, find a lady called Lilian. She is lightskinned but is modest; not like these other hoes Uganda is currently buying for her citizens. She is lively and young – perhaps too young. She had to drop out of college to find work in order to support her ailing mother who has cancer. But since the country has very limited radiotherapy machines, she has to bribe someone at KNH just to get her mother treated. But she is doing well and although it is against her morals, she still pays the bribe so her dear mother won’t die.

When you’re finally seated, ask her to give you any alcohol your heart may desire, some lemon (she may take a bit to find lemons because lemons are really expensive thanks to the new tax rates. Cigarettes too) and some water or soda. Any soda. Personally I would recommend the water because apparently KEBS put an expiry date on it despite the fact that it has been running in oceans, lakes etc for millenniums.

When you get your drink, first pray that no woman who has been forced to sell her body for money because she graduated and couldn’t find work will prey on you. Or worse, put any pills in your drink. But just to be sure, always have your drink in your hand at all times.

Thereafter, I want you to ask yourself where this country is going. Do we need Jesus, or a ship, or a plane to get us developed? Do we need Judas to come tell our corrupt leaders that corruption ends in disaster? Do we need Pharaoh to tell them that sooner or later, the oppressed will find a way to be free? Do we need paediatricians to tell our politicians that like diapers, they need to be changed often to ensure babies are okay? Or do we need you to be like Magufuli and dare to change this country?

That said, I must mention that I am a loyal citizen of Kenya. In fact, I have fought many wars for this country. Against Al Shabaab, CNN, Nigeria, Tanzania, South Africa, ISIS, AIDS, Illicit Alcohol, among others, on Twitter. When will all my (our) efforts at making this country a better place come to fruition?

Be about something Mr. President.

Yours faithfully,

Keti Hapa.

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Mother Nature, you cat fish

First and foremost, happy new year people. I am hoping you had more fun than I did over Christmas… Mine involved lots of house hunting meaning I only went home after securing a new house on 26th, and lots of beer. A lot of beer drunk by my new landlord whom i had to get drunk first in order for him to agree to keep my house on deposit at least until the new year.

Then from there i still had to dig a compost pit for my mom (I feel very manly right now) and still make sure my kid brothers werent giving other kids bruises and scars. Thank God those brats start school today.

But that was that. I hoped the new year would be better. It isn’t. Not until I get back my Ksh 9,000 owed to me by one Mr. Njonjo from last year. Not forgetting i already missed spending new years with her and now I have absolutely no idea how to make it up to her. Never mind the fact that I am broke already and I know I wont gain access to any good money until next week when my new ID card comes out so I can go to the bank for my salary. Shopping for a new house is depressing. The only positive here is that I know I am not the only broke man in Nairobi. In fact, ladies reading this, someone pointed out that if your man isn’t broke in Njaanuary, that nigger has a sponsor too.

Which brings me to the reason I am particularly pissed off agitated angry mad this morning. Not at any one of you or any other human for that matter; I am mad at Mother Nature. In fact I am starting to suspect Mother Nature isnt even a woman in the first place. She is one of Satan’s toenails. That one toe nail Satan cut off and threw in the fire but refused to burn in the eternal flames of hell. Mother Nature, I am starting to think is even more of a bitch than Karma.

Because sincerely, how can she be so damn inconsiderate of other people and their feelings? Even Kanye West at least is considerate of other people’s feelings he just doesn’t give a shit unless they’re Kanye West. What part of Njaanuary doesnt she understand honestly? What part of ‘everybody is broke and in need of divine intervention to get through January’ doesnt she get?

Before you think I am being unfair on Mother Nature, I will explain my plight. Early today morning I boarded a matatu bound for town for work. It was precisely at 7:30 am; I know this because some guy was ranting on the radio about his wife leaving him and how he’s suffering because he doesn’t know how to cook ugali (like seriously, your wife leaves you and you’re more concerned about ugali than your kids? Or your impending dryspell?) Anyway, it was a glorious morning and I was psyched up and full of energy. I will stop making this sound like a high school composition now.

I took a window seat and proceeded to put on earphones so I could listen to a little of Monsters and Men and Lupe Fiasco while checking whether Arsenal have signed Aubameyang yet on BBC’s transfer gossip column. I replied to pending emails and Whatsapp messages. That’s when I looked up and saw the conductor had already started collecting bus fare. Being the good passenger I am, I went ahead to get out a Ksh 1000 note from my pocket and held it in my palm ready for the conductor.

That’s when Mother Nature happened. It had started drizzling. It was just a light drizzle but it was windy. Very windy. Soon the conductor was standing one seat ahead of mine. I cannot tell you how it happened but the wind suddenly burst forth in a fury. There went my Ksh 1000. Gone with the wind. It was on Thika Super Highway so stopping and running back for the money was not an option. And besides, this was public transport. For a second I was in shock not quite believing what had just happened. So was the lady seated next to me.

Then the conductor, who had witnessed the incident, came to ask for his money. Money that i no longer had. Explaining was a lot harder than I expected. But thankfully my expertise in choosing whom to sit next to paid off- I always advice men to sit next to women. The lady, Annet, offered to pay for my fare provided I paid back when we got to town.

So now I have Annet’s phone number, that I will not use because my finances already have a deficit of Ksh 1000, and a ton of guilt because when she hugged me she made me promise I would call her back. Any of you #TeamMafisi fellows interested in Annet let me know so I can give you that assist Ozil style. 

I DREAM

Posted: December 24, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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I will dream we will be better than this

Someone said my dreams are valid. That same person went ahead to feature in a Star Wars movie, but not before she got Mexicans trying to fight for her after she won an Oscar. She dared to dream, and her dreams came true. I am not sure having people that have chilli with everything save for sex counts, but yeah, her dreams came true. They came hard and fast (no pun intended), all because Lupita dared to dream.

So i will dream too…

I dream that one day we will have a country that is defined by love; not greed. Not hate. A country i will be happy to let my kids grow up in. Where they wont have to buy milk for ksh 100 because someone slept with someone to steal money intended for the Youth Service and the government’s only option is to raise taxes to recover the money- not counting some Euro bond rubbish. A country where my kids will be known as Kenyans, not Kikuyu or luo or Luhya or Kalenjin or Maasai or Kamba.

I dream that one day my country will be the best place to live in, and we wont have private developers grabbing lands meant for schools that my kids will attend. Or money meant for laptops to help them become better scholars. And that their teachers will be paid enough to nurture my kids to be amazing people. I dream that nobody will stop them in Nairobi to demand for ksh 200 because they were carrying an over-size paper bag and they didn’t have a receipt with a KRA stamp on it.

I also dream that everybody will have food and water. Perhaps China will get us food and water because my government seems more interested in buying wheelbarrows worth Ksh 109,000 and shutting down websites that report they are outside the country buying Jameson instead of procuring quality vaccines for our kids, more of whom are dying due to poor health care and absence of health workers because the government refused to pay them and instead opted to bankroll expensive flights to heaven (in doubt) and hell and allegedly Mars.

I dream of the day we wont have to buy guns to protect ourselves; that day when my country wont have to spend billions to buy gun when in truth the biggest and fiercest guns have been in our possession all along- the guns called love, understanding and compassion. I dream of the day the media wont have to report that a woman was shot in church and the bullet went straight through her and dislodged in her two year old child, who barely knows how to protect himself and his mother. I dream that one day, i will walk in town and no child will stop me to beg for money because my government ensured all kids go to school. Because they had the hindsight to know that education, hence knowledge, is all the power needed to make my country a better place.

I also dream that one day, my kids will be wise enough to know that Instagram is for girls whose fathers are disappointed of; that Twitter is a powerful tool to connect with fellow human beings, but one that ignorant people can use to force other people to hate other people. That it is a tool that can be used by people borrowing money from their parents to buy bundles to sack Cabinet Secretaries.

Most importantly, i dream of you. I dream of the day i will put a ring on your finger; i dream of the day i will marry you- you can have your grand wedding then. I dream of being a wonderful husband and an even better father to our kids.

In short, i will dream that my dreams will come true, because i realize that a man without a dream is just a bad dream.

Shit is Real

Posted: November 21, 2015 by ketihapa in Random, Uncategorized
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Sorry guys, i couldnt resist this one

They say water is life. I always knew it, but I didn’t think shit could get this serious without water. And I literally mean shit. Try waking up early for work, run to the nearest shop to buy breakfast (read 2 mandazi) which you intend to gobble up real quick with some hastily made strungi… Till you get back to the house and realize, oh God! There is no water. It’s six AM.

Your neighbors are a bunch of campus kids whom you can’t wake up to beg for water because they’re drunk. You know this because just before you dozed off last night they came back all rowdy and they had the idea crack a few bottles on the rooftop before they decided to let everyone else know how horrible their taste in music is… Riddims aren’t even played in Hell for Heaven’s sake… Wait, what?
Back to the point. You don’t really talk to your other neighbors. Then just as you spot the glass on the table that is half full of the water you drank last night, the horrible realization comes to you. You haven’t showered yet nor washed your face. And on top of that, there is something gravely disturbing your rectum that wants to come out. Shit!
Now you know you have a decision to make, leave a floater or hope it can hold on till you get to the office toilet, or make a quick dash to the bush behind the apartment before people wake up and blame it on the naughty kids in the plot…. Suddenly neither your breakfast nor your shower seems important anymore. Even the idea you had of carrying your soap dish and towel to work and getting a quick bath on the sink in the washroom vanishes….

HOLY SHIT!!!! SHIT IS REAL

Being Kenyan

Posted: November 2, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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Being Kenyan, who can complain?

“Tao ngapi?”

“Salasa!”

“Niko na mbao!”

“Hiyo mbao yako peleka choo ya kanjo labda utaendesha!”

“Ok, mbao ndio pesa loose nilikuwa nayo…”

“Huna pesa ndogo?”

You proceed to fold up the Ksh 1000 note into four…

“Haha! Kijana uko funny! Dere shukisha huyu hapo mbele!”

 

I have come to accept that being Kenyan is no longer about citizenship. And chances are, you would never trade being Kenyan for anything; not for a second. I have come to realize being Kenyan gives you an identity- a sense of being; a sense of purpose. It gives you the chance to be legally screwed up. Being Kenyan allows you to fuck up, get taken to court- perhaps even the ICC and still get away with it- trust me, my president has set an exceptional example. We can even ignore court orders. It allows you to set up a church and go about deflowering women because God told you to. And the said women will appreciate it. Hell, the news will find it funny and you will feature on headlines; especially if the said women paid you Ksh 310 to get deflowered. I foresee being Kenyan being a movement.

Case 1: Police

Being Kenyan affords you the right to walk in Nairobi. But also affords you the right to be stopped by armed policemen (who or may not be actual policemen) and being told you have to produce a receipt for the bag you are carrying- they won’t bother to check whether you’re carrying weapons. But even if you are, all you will need is a receipt. But that has to be accompanied by an ETR receipt intended for KRA. But let us assume you won’t have either of those; you will be forced to produce tea- chai, rather- and imagine being Luhya! We all know Luhya people would rather go to jail than give up chai. You will be faced with a host of atrocities against the country though. Staring at government buildings suspiciously, idling with the intention of bombing a government statue, impersonating a government officer, spitting harmful substances on a public pavement, disturbing the public with smelly sweat, soliciting for sex from unwilling members of the public… The list is endless. And so are the possible charges you will be charged with.

Case 2: Elections

Being Kenyan means you can basically vie for a leadership spot. And it doesn’t matter whether you lose; You will be the man. You will be accorded the title mheshimiwa. Even if ants will not stop for you when you come across them on the road- actually, you will stop and wait for them to pass- especially if you will be high on weed like most of our elected leaders. You will be a millionaire in six months after the said elections. And you will despise Tanzanian elections for being transparent. In the six months, you will instigate a construction worth Ksh 200 Million, even though the said building will have half a wall. You will also convince the people who voted you in that a wheel barrow is worth Ksh 109,000, even though the teacher with whom you trust your child will be paid Ksh peanuts. And you will somehow convince the people that voted you in, who have lost confidence in you already, that the devil told you to lie to them. You will invoke the spirit; even though your liver will have suffered more from the spirits than your citizens.

Case 3: Music

As a Kenyan, you will be entitled to hours of bad music; riddims they call it. You will dance and perhaps do bend overs if you’re lucky- to music you don’t even understand, whose lyrics probably mean you are an idiot. But you will love it. You will laugh at people that don’t listen to riddims. And for those that will find riddims distasteful, they will tune into Matatu FM each morning to report how they cannot get laid to someone who probably doesn’t even like women in the first place. You will ignore good music; people who try to come up with good music like Eric Wainanina and Elani will be ignored- unless they come up with a sex video like Sauti Sol. And every major TV or Radio station will endorse it. Your life will be reduced to music the lines of “Girl With The Biggest Behind’ or ‘Una jump, una ruka… shida zina shuka…”

Case 4: Food

Being Kenyan means you will get to taste the best variety of food. You will get to taste boiled animal intestines that you will later come to call mutura. You will do the math in your head and decide that mutura is worth more than airtime – which at this time is imperative we refer to as kadi za kujikunakuna as the Tanzanians say- to call the butcher and tell him to reserve some steak for you. And woe unto you if you end up marrying a Kikuyu woman; you will have pizza full of soup and potatoes.  And if boiled miraa if you’re Meru. Or worse, nothing if you’re from Kitui.

I just can’t understand why anyone would hate being Kenyan. We rock!!!!!

NJORO

Posted: October 29, 2015 by ketihapa in Africa, Drama
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Welcome to Nairobi, Sir.

(Written by Ketihapa, Troy Onyango and Nick Muthumbi)

The vehicle comes to a grinding halt as the conductor says, “Mwisho! Huku ndio Nairobi.” Other passengers start rising from their seats; he is patient. He waits till they are almost all out then he stands up and makes his way towards the door, his bag with a few clothes he brought along with him his only luggage. Once out, he takes a moment to take in the scenery; it is nothing like he had expected. He had expected to see elegant sky scrapers towering over him, beautiful women wearing things they call fashion that his grandmother could sew in an hour, men in suits, flashy cars, fancy hotels… Instead, the place is muddy and dirty, garbage strewn all over. There is an acrid smell- one he can’t quite figure out- a mixture of fish, garbage, piss, excrement, sweat. He wants to throw up. He calms down. He is clearly a stranger in Nairobi; anyone can see that without trying too hard. He feels for his pocket; good, the little money he has left is still there. Now, he has to trace his uncle Mwaura whom he hopes he can stay with for a while before he has figured out where to get a job. He takes a step forward, then another into the green city in the sun.

He stands there for a while and uses his eyes to take everything in. The dusty air fills his lungs and a whiff of sweat from the burly man walking past him jolts him back to reality. He focuses and sees a large crowd gathered in front of a cream old building. Bag firmly clasped in his hand, he moves towards the crowd. The man at the centre of the crowd who is talking loudly in a raspy voice notices him and pushes toward him. His legs feel wobbly before he notices the smile plastered on the round face of the man. He moves closer to him until he can feel the man’s breath of sour milk down the nape of his neck. He does no turn around to look at the man standing behind him and he notices the bible in his hand. This must be a good man, he thinks to himself. The whole crowd turns to face him and that’s when he realizes all attention is on him. After a long stare, the man opens his mouth and amidst the stench of a mouth long divorced to the toothbrush he speaks, words that sound like they are carved in stone

“Bwana asifiwe!” His voice reverberates through the hot air and his whole frame moves in tandem with his words.

“Amen!” Meekly he responds in unison with the elated crowd.

“Wewe ni mgeni hapa Nairobi, si ndio?”

Unsure, he responds, “Dio.”

“Na umekuja huku kazi?”

How did he know that I have come to Nairobi to look for work?

Before he responds, the preacher man’s voice rises again, “Mungu amenionyesha ya kwamba unaenda kuishi na mjomba wako.”

This must be a real man of God. How else would he know that I am going to live with my Uncle?

“Dio.” He tells the man.

“Mungu ameniambia nisipokuombea mabaya yatakutendekea. Unaamini?”

He doesn’t know the response to this question and so he nods slightly.

“Haya basi piga magoti tuombe.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a minute and as soon as his knees meet the dusty ground he closes his eyes shut. His grasp on the bag more firm than ever. That’s where all the money and his certificates are. If he loses that he loses everything.

The crowd bursts into a frenzy of song with the man’s voice still rising above the rest as he chants prayers on his behalf. He screeches at the demons and casts them away. Njoro feels the demons depart from his body and they sap his power and he falls to the ground. The preacher’s voice fades and soon it becomes so distant he can barely hear the once thunderous voice. He is in heaven.

He opens his eyes to the sound of feet hurriedly passing by and the rowdy touts shouting their various destinations. The singing crowd is no longer there and the preacher too is nowhere in sight. He feels dizzy and turns to look for his bag.

But it is nowhere to be found. The old Daso Rano bag that his dad had bought him while he was being admitted to high school was at large. And in that bag were his miniscule belongings. The crème de la crème of whatever he called his. Plus the meagre cash he had saved. It was all gone.

He panics. The world starts spinning. But he is shoved out of the stupor by the sharp pain caused by a shoe that had fallen in love with his pinkie finger. Amidst the best of curse words he can summon, he sits up trying to recall what really happened. But all he can remember is kneeling before a man of the robe moments before he floated to heaven.

But how did I end up here? Well, maybe I forgot my bag in heaven.

He comforts himself as he looks around in a bid to familiarise himself with his surroundings.

Then he spots a man in grey uniform swinging his baton across the street. For some reason the grey uniform seems familiar and so he feels it will be better and safer to ask for help from him unlike the rest of the Nairobi busy bodies who walked past him, pretty oblivious of his existence.

As he picks himself from the dusty street pathway that had played bed for the past couple of minutes, he feels something bitter well up his gut. With little hesitation he spits the bitter saliva onto the pavement.

As soon as the spit makes contact with the ground, the “friendly” across the street is already tugging at the worn out generic leather belt holding his Kaunda pants in place.

“Kijana unatema mate ovyo ovyo kwa nini? Uko na mimba?” asks the man in grey.

Njoro is caught off guard. Since when did lubricating the earth with oral liquids become an offence?

“Ahhh! Habali blatha. Kwani kuna chida nikitema mate?” he asks meekly, rocking that sheepish signature smile of his, the smile that he used to nail ladies back in the village, with an accent heavily influenced by his mother tongue.

The smile seems to offend the officer even more.

“Nikitaka kuona meno zina matope nitakwambia! Kwa nini unatema mate?!”

Taken aback, he wishes he had a mirror; Njoro knows his teeth are perfect- hell, half the ladies back in the village wishe they had his teeth. His teeth are a blend of white and brown- not yellow from all that green stuff his peers have been chewing of late to seem cool- and not too white as to get confused with those of that Mzungu that tried to lure him to her bed a few weeks ago. God, she was old!!! And her sense of shame was like that of a toddler.

“Apana, nimekuja Nairobi leo, ata dio nimefika… lakini kuna vubi mingi sana. Ata ukaweza nisaidia na ten bob naweza nunua maji kidogo  niweze kuosha mdomo kidogo nitashukulu sana!”

The man in grey laughs.

“Ati ten bob!” Ten bob ata kucha haiwezi nunua kijana! Kwani umetoka Uganda?”

Wait, ten bob cant get me water? He asks himself. But then again, his grandpa told him Nairobi is full of conmen… His train of thought is interrupted by the man in grey, who has by now magically summoned an old white pick up… there are about half a dozen other people in it.

“Leta chai!”

“Chai nilimariza kitabo. Irikuwa kwa chupa kwa ire bag imeibiwa! Huwezi nisaidia?”

“Kijana wacha nione vile nitakusaidia. Ingia kwa gari.”

“Asante sana! Wewe dio mtu wa kwanza nimepata mzuri Nairobi. Hii lift unanipea itanisaidia sana!!! Natafuta uncle yangu!”

Half the people in the pick up laugh, the other half are not sure whether to explain to Njoro that he’s just been arrested or to pity him or to laugh or cry on his behalf. The man in grey is laughing as well. Nonetheless, Njoro gets into the truck; he says hi to all of them, and they all say hi, most of them cant avoid laughing though. Someone creates some space for him to sit on the hard bench.

“Uko tu sawa brathe,” he says, putting his arm around him, a hint of a hopeful smile on his face. “Labda watatuweka cell moja!” Njoro has founda friend in the big city finally!

“Ata mimi blatha, naoba watueke pamoja tujuane saidi.”

This time the guy definitely smiles. A hint of a boner… Njoro doesn’t see it…

After what seems like half an hour, collecting other people in need of lifts as well, they finally arrive at the destination. The sign on the building reads “City Hall”. Njoro and his new friend are ushered out of the vehicle into the building. His new ‘friend tries to reassure him they will be okay as long as they are together. After all, they will have more time to know each other. Njoro still has no clue he has been arrested for spitting and what will later turn out to be gross destruction of the environment by bodily fluids.

It finally dawns on him when the man in grey responsible for his ‘lift’ says, pointing at him,“Mwas leo nimepata fala fulani! Hehehe aAti anadhani tulikuwa tunampea lift!”

But when the man turns it is almost unbelievable.  There stands Njoro’s uncle! Mwaura in the flesh!

“Ndiye huyu fala unasema!?”

He knew his uncle was an important man in Nairobi, just not this important…

One last breath

Posted: October 25, 2015 by andanje in Death, Love, Marriage
Tags: , , ,

The moon is out. Full and beautiful. The ground is soft beneath the sole of his feet. He walks briskly. He should be home soon.
He smells roses. Pink roses. The ones he picks for his beloved. She always likes the pink ones. A smile creeps onto his lips.  Yes! The pink ones that reminds him of her darting toungue that does wicked things to him. He sighs. He can’t wait to touch their petals that reminds him of her petal soft skin. She even baths with rose soap.  A pink bar she has him buy on his occassional trips to the city.  Well here he was from one such  trip, carrying a parcel with the thing she loves. He just needed to pick a few pink roses and his gift would be complete. He can’t wait to hear her voice as she say “mpenzi, umerudi”, (beloved you are back) as she takes his coat and the package from him. She will squeal with delight as he hands her the pink flowers.  He will watch as she brings them to her nose and smells,  eyes closed in happiness. Yes, she will have her roses.

He creeps into the opening, an opening he remembers creating a year ago just for this purpose. At the edge of the fence. Thank God there hasn’t been any repairs since then. Not that he wouldn’t just borrow pliers from Okothe his neighbour and snip the fence open again if repairs were carried out. But that always takes time and energy. Plus the danger is too high. He walks quitely to the warehouse. He usually sets a bunch of roses behind the cold room. His job was easy, pick the flowers and hightail out of there. He listens for any sound. All is quiet.  Good. The guard is somwhere asleep. He knows this from the many trips he has carried out for this same purpose. The guard should be asleep just infront of a green house or somewhere near the gate. Thats why he never puts the flowers near the green house.

He has the flowers now. There is something wrong.  The flowers are not pink. The petals are a fiery orange with red tips. “No! No! No! This are the wrong colours”, he lamets. His eyes are lifted to the sky as though seeking an answer.
“Who is there”, a voice booms.
Shit! The guard is awake. He crouches down as a light sweeps across the property.  He is almost kissing the ground now. He spits out the dirt that gets into his mouth. The guard seems satisfied after awhile and walks away cursing at animals that interrupt his sleep. He waits for ten minutes, to be safe, then walks to the opening. In his rush to get away the barbed wire on the fence gripps and tears at his arm. He sees red and a million stars. He lets out a howl of pain, as he hits the fence. The fence feels no pain. The gravity of the situation hits him and getting up he starts to run. It would be foolish to be caught now.

He runs like the wind. His coat bellowing, feet barely touching the ground.  He feels light.  He is flying across the dewy grass as the dawn starts to break. The fiery yellow of the sun tinged with orange steals his breath away. He stands and watches as the big ball rolls from under the sky. He takes the flower and puts them to his face. Eyes closed, he inhales.

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There is no scent. There is just beauty with no scent. He chuckles then he begins to laugh. His laugh trembles his chest making it rise and fall in quick successions. His hands hug his sides as he laughs, tears streaming down his face. He finally understands, he hates those bloody pink flowers. He has stolen flowers for her. Became a thief for his beloved. He is a parker for God’s sake. His work is to measure, sort and park flowers bound for Europe. Not to steal. But her love for pink flowers drives him to steal. “No one leaves with flowers from the farm” the farm manager always says. That was the rule. If they catch him, he dies.

Not only is he a thief,  he has become an errand boy for her as well.  He picks the envelop from his pocket and withdraws the packet of pink soap and flings it in the swamp. He has had it. He will not buy her the soap that she likes. The flamingo soap with its pink wraper. The one she had said smells better than geisha.  On one ocassion she refused to talk to him because he brought geisha. ” But it says wild roses on the packet”, he had pleaded. He knows better than to repeat that mistake. He feels liberated as he watches the soap submerge into the swamp. The burden of being at her beck and call eased momentarily.

“No more! he screams no more!”
The words jolt him back to reality.
Yes, she was no more. Her with the love for every thing pink had breathed her last yester week. The kid in her belly with its pink skin had ripped her apart. So ironical that pink will eventually kill her. As if killing his beloved wasn’t enough the babe had decided to follow soon after. It was a boy goddamnit. A beautiful boy. A boy that would have established his status as a man. But even he could not choose to stay. They left him. Both of them with their love for everything pink.

He had never seen so much blood. She lay there, the shadow of death looming over her with sheets stained with blood. Pink sheets with red stains. “There is nothing more we can do”, the mid wife says as he kneels on the side of the bed. He had wanted to put the sheets to her neck and squeeze. But his mother puts her hand on his shoulder.

They were lain to rest side by side. He lay pink roses on her head. And a single rose on the pink little one who was no longer pink. The coffin had to be pink as well. In the end there was so much pink to last him a lifetime.

He shakes his head and touches his arm that had started to sting.  Blood oozes from the torn jacket now. He jabs his finger into the wound and collapses in pain. Yes! Thats is what he needs. Pain.

He has to have the soap. Why did he throw it. He gets up quickly.  He has to get it back. Clutching the roses on one hand lest he loses them as well, he wades through the swamp. He has to find it. He needs to find it. He feels with his toes. Nothing. He moves the reeds on both sides and feels again. Still, nothing!He moves a little further to where his toes don’t touch the ground. He dives under once,  twice. There is nothing. He lets go of the flowers and dives in one last time. He is not coming back up until he finds the pink soap that smells like pink roses which smell like his wife. He can feel the tears coming. He blinks rapidly. He needs to go up for air.
His jacket is caught on  something.  He tags once then twice. It doesn’t budge. He looks up deafeted. He feels the pain of the water rushing through his nostrils. Beautiful pain. His head starts to ache from lack of oxygen. He hits it twice. He tags again and decides he did not want to fight.

He feels like he is floating now. He looks down. It is dark. So dark and so cold. Who knows of the creatures that lurked in such dark and cold places. Maybe it was Ibilisi. Ibilisi likes the dark.

He looks up. He could see the sun. So much light and so much heat. It feels distant and cold from where he is. There was nothing for him where the orange ball shines. There was no significance to orange flowers with red tips.  There was no smell to remind him of dear wife. He has to accept that.  There was only pain he thinks as he takes in one last  breath.

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They found him floating in the swamp. Flowers arranged round his body. Fiery orange flowers with red tips. The orange clashing with the green of the reeds and the murky water. His face was serene, at peace as if he had accepted death. The sun saluting his corpse. There was beauty in his death.