Posted: August 28, 2016 by ketihapa in Why?????
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Dear Gladwell,

You were right. And wrong at the same time. Men born and brought up in towns are a problem. Men born and brought up upcountry are good. I agree, men brought up in Nairobi are a problem. As you pointed out, they all love pizza. They all have a fetish for emojis. :C And they all have a weird taste in clothing. Half of them wear skinny jeans and laugh at baggy trousers.

You forgot one thing; they all have the Nairobi Accent.

The Nairobi Accent is good;  It has got a lot of people employed. Homeboyz, Capital FM, etc…  Half of the guys there don’t know the proper spelling of pronunciation, yet, they are experts telling everybody how to pronounce KFC properly as ‘Kei Eif Cei’ because Kienyeji Chicken is Kei Eif Cei chicken…. Chicken that a Luhya guy James Bonded off a chopper because it was free at a funeral. It got him Nation wide fame by the way. And a free airplane ride. (And half of us haven’t even boarded a plane yet- the most we have flown is Angry Birds, over a bunch of angry, over green, over fed pigs, that stole our cartoon eggs.)

See, the point is, nobody can explain where the Nairobi accent came from. At all. We will be quick to point out USIU. And Strathmore. But we all know they pronounce computers as kampyuters, yet half of them can’t even compute 1+2. It’s Threy to them. But hey, it’s kampyuting. What the hell would I knouuw abait it? My English isn’t that good; haven’t been to either schools of late. And my lecturays were from Muchatha as I am.

You see, Gladwell, you’re being petty. Or as they would pronounce it, perry.

First and foremost, it’s sora, not soda. And I’m getting a fana  bleck curren, not a fanta black currant. I hope we’re on the same page. Then we don’t go to animal orphanages. We go to zoos. To watch elephens and lyans. Lions are too over rated. And it’s Ryaena not Rhino. Their haans are fiesam. I am stepping out of bounds, sorry. I din wan you to think I wa a hyener.

Second, I loved your post. But sisi kama watu tumezaliwa ocha we have to remind you, it’s not all about Ugali. It’s not about not cuddling. We actually love cuddling; but with the right girl. Those that will kiss us and tell us they wish they could make ugali as good as we do. Those that will be confident enough to tell us that they had sex with other guys but they are sorry we weren’t the ones they had sex first with. Those that will tell us that we seem old, yet, are better than the born tao sponsors their friends told them about even if our English sounds imported from Uganda.

Third, Arsenal won today. Pole, I am being the exact definition of the guys that were not raised in Kayole, but it feels good!!!!

Fourth, I still dont understand the Nairobi Accent; or why i didn’t talk about it. Just know one thing, if you call it a torch instead of a flashlight when you’re in USIU, you’re done.

Kind regards,




Posted: April 10, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Life
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Sundays... Learn to love Sundays!

So, today is Sunday; Sunday evening to be precise if you’re reading this now, or Monday, if you’ll be reading it in the next few hours. Sunday is a great day; it is slow and mostly very boring, but it is one full of blessings. Even people who got paid before you and happened to finish their salaries before you finally remember they are your friends and are willing to pay you a visit for you to buy them lunch or whatever. A drink sometimes even. Your pastor reminds you how wonderful you are and how much God is taking care of you. And even better, you do not have to go to work! So yes, Sunday is a really great day.

But somehow, Sunday is never your best day. In addition to being bored and nursing a hangover, you’re mostly upset and angry that in a few hours, it will be Monday morning and you will be expected to be at work at 8:00 am which means unlike Sunday morning you will have to wake up at 5:00 am to get ready and find a good enough vehicle to drive you to town or to your office. (3:00 am if you’re the female types that have to shower twice, make sure the reading on the weighing machines says the makeup on their faces hasn’t exceeded a ton, blend vegetables and drink the sloth to keep themselves very fit in case the traffic forces them to run to the office to avoid being late and getting fired.)

If you’re a man, Sunday is an even worse day for you. Even worse than the fact that tomorrow morning you will have to be in the office in a suit, ironed pants and shirt, polished shoes and a tie whose colour the vendor assured you is red but you aren’t sure of. Yet- which is a bad reminder that you have no woman with you to tell you that the tie you have chosen is pink and that your boot accepts luggage too, instead of red.

This is also a reminder that for the rest of the week, you will experience nothing but a growing shade of blue on your balls till Friday. Unless you will manage to convince one of the ladies that abruptly remembered were more than friends with you last Sunday that instead of the lunch you both had then cooked by someone a friend just warned you cooks dog meat instead of beef, this time, you will make dinner for her; a dinner she will never forget and one her friends will be salivating over when she posts the photos you will let her take on Instagram, probably more than they are currently over this Brock O’Hurn illuminati fellow causing most of their bodies to heat up more than Judas in Hell’s flames.

You will therefore convince her that you have perfected your cooking skills in a week and that in fact, you are on your way to being awarded a certificate of merit to show how amazing a chef you have become if she will taste the food and give her testimonial to your trainers. That you will be genuinely happy to know she won’t have to spend the coming week heavily sedated on meds and in pampers should she decline the dinner and eats food cooked by someone she doesn’t know and trust again. In short, that she is very important to you today. Woe unto you if she is not convinced after your well rehearsed lines.

After you have successfully convinced her how important she is to you (mostly to your testicles though), you still have the uphill task of finding a car to pick her, because you will be so busy trying to convince the other one from last night that suddenly believes she will be meeting your parents (her parents in law to be) next week, that you were born in Mbabane, hence you are a citizen of Swaziland but you have perfected your Swahili, so your parents will not let you marry her since when you met her she wasn’t a virgin; hell, you are afraid of the curse they would mete out should you marry her.

After successfully organizing for a ride to pick her (you will later on sort out your friend with a good through pass to the girl you can’t marry because you’re from Swaziland and she wasn’t a virgin when you met her), you will then have to work out how to ensure the food she will dare to come see and take photos of is ready. There is only one problem however, even boiling eggs is problematic for you; one it takes too long for them to cook, you don’t even know if they are cooked when the water finally boils and even the ones you buy from street vendors are better than yours. The only eggs you could possibly prepare perfectly are hers… for pregnancy and childbirth.

Which will remind you yet another thing- after you have paid off some mama to cook food in your house that you will later on declare you cooked and offer to teach her how to do it- that you bloody need a dozen condoms in your house. You are in absolutely no mood to prepare any eggs yet. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future. The only responsibility you can see yourself handling properly is making sure your bottle and or glass of beer does not pour out any of its contents when you accidentally slip; that is your version of drinking responsibly.

That done, only one thing will be left to do now; to buy sufficient airtime to call her and tell her you are ready to pick her up now. You will purchase Ksh. 200 worth of airtime, although Ksh. 100 will be deducted to pay off your Okoa Jahazi, which you had to borrow in order to organize for everything else. You will proceed to call her and you will be very sweet, courteous and polite on the phone, addressing her not as ‘Bae’, the wannabe version of sweets, but as Sweetheart.

She will need to know how much you care for her, after all you told her how important she is to you earlier on. That will be until she tells you “Aki sweetheart, wacha nitakuja next weekend… I am so sorry I should have told you earlier, my cramps just got worse. I can’t travel. I really need to rest sweetheart. I love you. Gosh! I will miss you!”

And there and then you will feel all your energy draining out, what was left of it anyway. The remorse in your heart will be immense; not because you she has bad cramps and cant come to see you, but because you have already used up your money trying to organize for her trip and with your resources including time (considering it is now 7:30 pm) gone, you will not be able to find another suitable one to fill in for the emergency.

You will proceed to your local and convince Mama Shiko to give you a bottle of vodka to drown your sorrows in, that you will pay for tomorrow. She will see the hurt in your eyes and give it to you; except now in addition to owing a through pass to your friend that lent you his car, you also owe Mama Shiko and before long, you will be drunk AF again meaning your Monday morning in the office will be miserable as hell (hopefully your boss will not smell your breath) and even worse, your blue balls will develop as foreseen early in the morning.

Sundays. Sundays are just sad for Mafisi Sacco Members.


Posted: March 6, 2016 by ketihapa in Exams, Life
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You have 3 minutes left! Confirm your name, index number... Sorry you had 1 minute left, time's up!!!

The KCSE results were released a few days ago. Partly, I am proud of everyone that performed well and I wish I had the means to congratulate each of you personally, but I still haven’t been able to figure out which of you cheated, hence which of you will make it to campus to become doctors, engineers, lawyers, etc, only to drop out when you suddenly realize your brain does not have the intelligence, wisdom and knowledge required to become that.

Then you will further stress out your parents because they will not understand why their child cannot become the wonderful doctor they have been preaching to their friends, why the said child is increasingly looking more and more depressed, why he/she is always drunk daily, alcoholic rather, and where they will find the money to pay for a parallel course that the child will feel is easy enough to complete and find a job, when the parallel course at university level is 5 times more expensive than the regular course you were admitted in campus for by the Joint Admissions Board (JAB) after spending sleepless nights cramming leaked exams into your cranium.

Soon, if you do get admitted again into another campus for the other easier course you chose, you will vow never to cheat again, you will dare yourself to complete campus as a respectable man or woman and get a wonderful job. But at the end of the day, you will hate yourself because you will realize you did snatch someone else the chance to be the doctor you did not become who truly deserved the opportunity.

And you will also realize that soon enough, you will get a kid and take the child to a doctor that doesn’t even know the difference between a heartburn and an ulcer, because they cheated, got into campus, realized they did not know whether men have X or Y chromosomes or both, decided to cheat further in exams, and graduated as a cheating doctor. A miserable doctor who will spend half their free time in bars, drinking hard liquor, trying to forgive themselves and forget all the innocent people they misdiagnosed, hence failed to save their lives, or quite simply, unknowingly killed.

There you will feel sorry for everybody else. If you really are human at all anyway. But here is the thing, I want to tell you in advance before any of this happens that I do not really blame you. Mostly I blame KNEC, for failing to do what they were supposed to do in the first place; to ensure that candidates and teachers will not gain access to leaked exams because they did everything in their power to protect the exams with their life. I also blame the government, whose existence has so far seen corruption be the new Kenyan trend, where the people KNEC hired to safe guard the exams saw it as an opportunity to make serious money!

Well, don’t be so hard on yourself. Perhaps one day things will change. Perhaps one day exams in Kenya will be good enough. Perhaps they will give students the chance to fully utilize their brains to get the best of the knowledge, wisdom and understanding needed in order to push this country forward. Knowledge is always power after all. Perhaps the said exams will be as great as this one i did sometime back on Facebook, LOL!


QUESTION: Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)?

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle’s Law (gas cools when it expands and heats when it is compressed) or some variant. One exceptional student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So we need to know the rate at which souls are moving into Hell and the rate at which they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let’s look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Most of these religions state: that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there is more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.

Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle’s Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand proportionately as souls are added. This gives two possibilities:

1.If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

2.If Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop  until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?

If we accept the postulate given to me by Teresa during my Freshman year that, “it will be a cold day in Hell before I sleep with you”, and take into account the fact that I slept with her last night, then number 2 must be true, and thus I am sure that Hell is exothermic and has already frozen over.

The corollary of this theory is that since Hell has frozen over, it follows that it is not accepting any more souls and is therefore, extinct … leaving only Heaven thereby proving the existence of a divine being which explains why, last night, Teresa kept shouting “Oh my God.”

THIS STUDENT RECEIVED THE ONLY “A”, which was thoroughly deserved, a I truly hope everyone that was awarded their results thoroughly deserved it!

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?


Chuny Min Oaye.

Original story from Ian Duncan’s Facebook:

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.


(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.


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. 


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
Tags: , ,

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….