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.

Don’t let the baby in them fool you.. Food thieves, or rather food bandits, we see you

I was on the internet the other day (don’t ask Googling what) when I came across this sex position called the Lap. I know what you’re thinking… It isn’t a sex position invented by the Kalenjins. But I did come across a sex position for you Luhyas out there tho called the Spoon, feel free to check it out. As for the Lap, apparently the lady sits on your lap and you hump away. It is – not my words- best carried out on a couch. I would suggest, if you’re going to try it, to do it with a laptop size lass, you know, the ones that won’t break your legs and couch in the process. And it isn’t anything I have against fat women, most of them are really amazing people, but they’re also full of themselves..

Anyway, some days back somebody tweeted about how he’d been robbed. Well, it was a pretty lame story, until he mentioned what he’d been robbed and the entire twitter community in Kenya was suddenly interested; the guy was robbed of his phone. And Chapatis he’d purchased for supper. Your guess is as good as mine. Either he’d carried the chapatis in his wallet- which is highly unlikely- or I want whatever weed those guys were on because that is a new level of munchies.

But the thing is, his story relates to mine, which I remember blogging about some years back. To refresh your memory, I’d bought myself half a kilo of beef- it’s something I often do when I want to congratulate myself- along with all the ingredients I needed for the meal from mama mboga downstairs; nyanya, vitunguu, dhania, hoho, pilipili… I’d even marinated the meat in garlic and ginger. Next, I made sure there was enough maize flour, nothing goes better with beef than ugali. Satisfied everything was in order, I set out to get beer. Sadly, as we all very well know, one for the road usually turns out to be six for the night in a ditch. I over stayed out, mixing Vodka and water like a Russian  like I wanted to re-incarnate the Holy Spirit. That day I was like a bee… I went to the pub and came back buzzing.

I came back to find my door open, the padlock missing and the lights on. Which at first didn’t occur to me as very odd considering I could barely stand on my feet leave alone string a few sentences together in my slurred speech, plus there was still a half bottle of beer in my hand. But then on entering the house something else struck me as out of place. There were dirty dishes on the table, which is very odd because I am usually a very tidy person (Bae has accused me of having mild OCD because when I start cleaning I don’t stop till everything is sparkling.) I somehow managed to ignore the dishes because at this point all I wanted to do was to jump into bed. It was the aroma of food that really shocked me because I honestly could not remember cooking. I assumed it was the neighbors that were cooking because it was not uncommon for them to cook at odd hours of the night.

Till I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

There was food alright, beef and ugali and more dirty dishes. At this point I was wondering just how high I was or if I’d had a concussion. But then, I realized my gas was missing, at which point I was suddenly very sober; Mututho would have been proud. Now fully alert, I proceeded to do a quick stock check. Everything was in place in the kitchen except the gas canister, in the living room everything was in place except my pair of leather shoes and my subwoofer (thankfully I’d left the laptop at a friend’s who wanted to copy stuff) and in the bedroom, my ironbox and my deo were missing, along with a few notes I’d left on the table and my red scarf.

I did what any normal man would do. I went back to the kitchen, served myself whatever was left of my beef, cut a chunk of ugali and sat down on the kitchen floor to eat. When I was full, I picked my bottle of beer and drank. I knew Alcohol was not the answer or solution, but I was fully aware it would make me forget the question- in this case, wtf had happened. When I was done with my alcohol I gracefully went back to bed and dozed off. I will not bother narrating to you the confusion I had in the morning when, not remembering my gas was missing, I bought eggs to make breakfast.

Perhaps I’ll never know wtf exactly happened that night, but I do know this, I hate food thieves. Bruh, stealing is okay, just don’t steal people’s food, it isn’t cool at all however or wherever you look at it, even in a freezer; in my book that makes you a terrorist. I think I was more upset about my food than all the other items. But hey, at least I wasn’t robbed at dick point like one Wateba, plus it was beef not pork because I’d literally have broken down in tears. Which makes me question how people survive in places like Githurai and Dandora, because, as I’ve said before, I imagine I’d feel like Alibaba knowing that I’m surrounded by 40 thieves all around me.

Happy Valentines Day love birds

It is common knowledge how much I dislike Valentine’s Day. It’s not the fact that we choose to associate sex- let’s all face it, Valentines is all about sex- with a Roman Priest that was clubbed and then stoned (no pun intended) and finally when getting stoned didn’t kill him (Again, NACADA, I am not trying to convince people that weed is not harmful), he was beheaded to death. Or the fact that it is the one day that is full of more hypocrisy than a marriage. Where all ladies suddenly want you and want to spend the entire day by your side, for the cost of your entire January savings of course, the reward of which is that you’re not even sure you’ll get some at the end of the day.

In the light that this day is barely a week from now, following thorough research with the help of our learned friend the internet, I have come up with a complete full proof guide on how to avoid Valentine’s Day; but then again, nothing is ever truly full proof to a sufficiently talented fool. No, it doesn’t involve faking your death, or pretending to be sick. The former is too drastic while the latter will only make her want to come over to your place having bought herself roses and chocolates and whatever, with the excuse to make you feel better- you will refund the money she spent later. Anyway, ladies, it would be best you stopped reading from this point onwards.

My method is relatively simple: simply convince her you never existed. How you ask? I will expound.

Step 1: Sneak out at night:

Yes, you simply walk out while she’s asleep and you vanish into the night. It is of extreme importance that you remember to carry all your belongings with you. Clear everything, including your scent and your wank sock. The scent will be the hardest to clear, but it can be accomplished by soaking her clothes in Jik (make sure she’s aware) so that the entire house reeks of Jik. That way, your scent will be masked.

Step 2: Erase yourself from all her pictures:

Assuming you’re computer literate, then you’ve heard about Photoshop. You know, that little tool all women use to deceive us how they suddenly grew boobs. The same one darkskins use to alter the colour spectrum of their skins. Leave no traces. If she has password-protected her phone, throw it in the loo and flush it away. I doubt she will dip her hand in the loo anyway. This will also delay her from trying to call you in the morning. Burn all photographs and make sure you do it outside so she doesn’t smell the smell.

Step 3: Change your phone number:

Well, it goes without saying that if you’re running from her you need to change your phone number. It also means that you will have to delete your Twitter account as well your Facebook and Instagram profiles. I know you don’t use it, but your email address will have to go too. Don’t worry about your follower count. You can get new ones in no time.

Step 4: Pay everyone that knows you to deny your existence

This is the most crucial step. After she has tried to reach you on your phone, various social media accounts and email, the next logical step she will take will be to ask around whether anyone has seen you. It is therefore important that all your friends are in on the conspiracy too. Pay anyone who knows even as little as how your fart smells to the ones who know your deepest secrets. These include the bartender and your parents. Your parents might not take the news that you want to erase your existence, but you will have to convince them. I know you have what it takes to accomplish this. If you have a criminal record, pay whoever you have to, to expunge it, as well as remove records of your birth from government records. In short, be a ghost.

Step 5: Take a vacation

After you’ve accomplished all the above, you will be in the clear. Also, you need to make sure you’ll visit a faraway land so that she doesn’t run into you before she checks herself into Mathare. With that done, you will be a man, my son.

Difficulty level: 9/10

Disclaimer: If after you accomplish all that and she still manages to find you, wife that bitch. You’re safer if you keep her close to know her whereabouts and plans for you. Trust me.

(Special mention: http://iwastesomuchtime.com)

As i found out, this is actually not as easy as it looks.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine told me it was time to grow up and buy myself a wallet. Before we continue, I should mention that this friend was female, and to vanquish any other questions about her, we are just friends. You see, I have had this phobia of carrying money in a wallet ever since I got robbed in the company of a girl called Sofia.. I am not sure whether that was purely coincidental or not, because to date I still fear carrying lots of money when in the company of anyone called Sofia. Nhu, I decided it was a long time ago and bought myself a nice leather wallet. The kind that are just fat by nature regardless the presence of money, the ones you use to confuse both your enemies and would be chips fungas.

I was happy. I had just been paid. I swiftly headed to the bank after work and withdrew a sizeable amount of money, after which I proceeded to pay a house call on one of my oldest friends. Yes, the bartender. Within no time, I was singing mwenda wakwa mariru and feeling overly philanthropic. Alcohol makes you feel like you own the central bank. Knowing fully well I had to be at work the next day at 9 am, I was in no hurry. And that’s when she showed up. Shiku. She was beautiful. She had all the goods. With my blood draining from one head to another and with alcohol quickly replacing the blood draining from the former head, I made my move. We bonded almost instantly. I bought her a couple of drinks and when it was time to leave, you cannot imagine my joy at discovering she lived in Kasarani, which as it turns out, is where I live. The gods were on my side.

We boarded a matatu and very soon we were on our way. I had done my quick calculations and discovered that I could pass by her place and get some chips deep fried since her place was closer than mine, and that I would still make it to my place by 12 am. The makanga, after making sure all the seats were filled, started collecting bus fare. I told Shiku I’d pay for her fare. After all, a small amount of money was nothing compared to what I would get at Kasarani. So when the makanga was standing right next to where we were seated, I produced a note from my pocket without even bothering to check what its value was. I was pretty confident it was a Ksh 1000 note, which was sufficient to cover three objectives: one, pay for Shiku’s fare, two, impress Shiku that the money was not about to run out soon, and three, cover for my bus fare.

Except it turned out to be Ksh 100, as the makanga quickly pointed out. “Haya, hiyo nimelipia mresh,” I said in full confidence.

Shiku was smiling. Ah, simple mistake. That must have been the change I received from the bartender. I quickly slid my hand down my pocket to retrieve my wallet and get cash to accomplish objectives two and three in that order. So, you can imagine my shock when my hand came back with nothing but a few beads of sweat on them, more of which was quickly starting to form on my face.

“Mzae kama huna pesa ebu shuka. Ama hiyo umelipia mresh tuseme ikuwe yako alafu yeye ajilipie?” the conductor asked, with a menacing smile because he knew he was about to cock block me. I hated the bastard more because my fellow passengers, who had been intensely following the proceedings like a Mexican soap opera all laughed. As well know, Alcohol rarely lets you make well informed decisions. So, I found myself saying this next:

“Apana. Hiyo ni yake. Sa si juu tunashukia hapo Equity si unaeza nipea dakika mbili nikimbie ATM nitawithdraw nikulipe.”

The makanga after slight deliberation agreed, then as though we were thinking on the same wavelength, it dawned on both of us that there was no way I could withdraw money from the bank because, well, I had lost my wallet. My ATM card in it.

“Ah weh maze wacha za ovyo. Utawithdraw aje pesa ka ATM imeibiwa kwa wallet? Kwani wewe ni mwizi?”

More laughter. Shiku at this point declared she had no money on her either.

“Ama, hiyo simu yako si uniuzie elfu nne alafu nitatoa fare hapo. Halafu change nitakubeba sare miezi sita hadi iishe.”

If there’s one thing I absolutely love, it is my phone. I flatly refused. But then again, I was growing desperate. So, I slowly took out my phone and tried to call anyone that was willing to lend me cash on M Pesa at that time of night. As you might have guessed, I had forgotten to purchase credit before we boarded the matatu. All I had were internet bundles, which were of no use to me since my phone had no Whatsapp and all my closest friends have flatly refused to join Twitter because it is too complicated (?????). I decided there was only one thing left to do. I slowly stood up, much to the mixed emotions of amusement of my audience, some of whom felt I pity. By now, the matatu had stopped. I slowly walked to towards the door. Until one brave passanger, God bless his soul, suggested that I be given a chance to earn my money.

How you ask? I was to be a tout for the next trip to town and back to Kasarani. Everybody suddenly seemed to be on his side. Bear in mind that my knowledge of makanga-ing, if there’s such a word is limited to “Beba! Beba! Tao Mbao.”

Seeing as my only two options were to either sell my phone, was value was way above that Ksh 4000 offered, or to be a tout for two trips, I decided to go for the second option. The tout, having already completed collecting fare for the trip proceeded to hand me the maroon jacket all touts are required by law to wear and. Then after showing me how to hold on to the door and how to notify the driver how to stop by banging on a specific part of the vehicle’s body or window, left me to my means and went to his seat. Sorry, the seat I had been seated in next to Shiku. I deleted Shiku’s number from my phone.

Besides ‘The Dog ate my homework, blame it on the alcohol is the next best.

NACADA has today identified the main cause of Kenya’s population explosion, which has seen an unexplainable increase in Kenya’s population from 40 million as of the last census, to 48 million as of December 2013. This is expected to increase exponentially at the same rate to about 60 million by the year 2030.

In a press briefing held at NACADA offices, Mrs. Meakins today said that alcohol has been identified after many months of research to be the main cause of the ever increasing rate of growth in Kenya’s population.

She went on to add that men are not particularly hungry for sex, but like Mary the mother of Jesus who blamed it on the Spirit, we too should blame it on the Alcohol. She further went on to regret a heartfelt apology why NACADA did not take it seriously when Jammie Foxx declared that we should blame it on the alcohol.

As such, Mrs. Meakins has today warned all men that are regulars at parties, clubs, pubs and anywhere alcohol is sold to be wary of any alcohol that is offered by any female. She further went on to add that NACADA will partner with Mr. Mututho to battle Alcohol. Mr. Mututho further explained that 80% of the women in Kenya use this date drug called Alcohol and are in cahoots with EABL. According to Mr. Mututho, the drink is available in liquid form and is relatively cheaply available in all parts of the country.

The drug apparently comes in all forms of containers, ranging from glass bottles, which is the most common, to plastic bottles, cans, or from taps specially crafted by EABL for use in heavy metallic barrels otherwise referred to as kegs. The drug can also be brewed at home by people that are sufficiently knowledgeable from concoctions containing sugar, water and any carbohydrate among other ingredients such as preservatives like ARVs that can be broken down by an array of biological agents, usually bacteria. These local brews are commonly known as Chang’aa, Busaa, Muratina, among various other names depending on what part of the country you come from.

Alcohol is apparently used by most female predators at the above mentioned locations to persuade their male counterparts to go home with them and in many cases, to sleep with them. Usually, as few as five bottles are required and the female only has to ask the male to take her home. She doesn’t need to specify that she wants him to go home with her for a clever invention dubbed as ‘No strings attached’ sex. It is in fact rumoured that one Jonny Walker has been walking around the earth non-stop for nearly five decades now trying to find the woman that first offered him No strings attached sex. Jack Daniels and Jameson are a few other famous men that have in the past fallen prey to this vile act.

It is reported that men are often rendered helpless against this demonic approach, especially because after a few beers lose the ability to determine whether a female was born in the zoo or not. As a result, men have little option but to accept to sleep with women whose faces look like Satan peed on them, whom they would normally not have sex with. These women are said to target these men since it would require a mallet to hit that. It has been suggested that Alcohol was discovered by the descendants of one @JoyceSabali, who is remembered as being remarkably ugly.

After drinking this Alcohol, men will usually not wake up with any memories of the previous night, with one of our informants saying he woke up with the so called ‘dents.’ These females are reported to escape the homes of their victims very early in the morning, avoiding sight by any other male in the region, which is often referred to as the Walk of Shame. At KetiHapa, we suspect he was a poor victim of a fight among Alcohol influenced men to fight for a descendant of @JoyceSabali. Our interviewee, like most other interviewees we talked to, said he woke up with the feeling that he had did something really ugly. We weren’t sure whether he said it with or without pun intended.

Occasionally, a few of these men are coerced into spending all of their savings for Alcohol in a scam that has apparently been going on since time immemorial known as ‘Relationships.’ In extreme cases, a few of these females capture unsuspecting males for the above mentioned No strings attached sex and entrap them into lives of pain, misery and self-pity that they refer to as ‘Marriage.’ It has been discovered that men are much more susceptible to this scam after Beer is administered and sex is offered by these predatory females.

NACADA, in conjunction with Mututho, have enlisted the help of the Kenya Police to try and curb this heinous act and ensure that all men will be free of Alcohol. A nationwide campaign has also been launched to encourage men to avoid Alcohol offered by women in a desperate attempt to manage Kenya’s rapidly rising population. Three hours after the launch of the program, they are seemingly miserably losing, and as one of our reporters reports, most pubs are full and packed to the brim.

@Kym254, isnt she a beauty?

My dearest Kym,

It has come to my attention in recent days that I might be on the brink of forever losing you to one @_Kaana_ as a result of his so called ‘new found Christian faith.’ It greatly saddens me and the sorrow in my heart is beyond words. I can hardly concentrate on anything else nowadays and I almost lost my job as a result. In truth, nowadays, every morning is the dawn of a new error. My taste buds have deteriorated to the extent food has become tasteless. Water is bitter. I find myself shivering even in the hottest of days. The doctor suggested I might have a combination of flu and malaria, but I am convinced it is the prospect of falling further down your friendzone that is responsible for these adverse reactions.

My system is crashing and very soon I fear it will refuse to boot up. My hardware is turning into software. My hard disk has somehow turned into a floppy disk. As a result, all my CDs don’t fit my disk drive, which now seems too floppy and small for them. I cannot connect to anyone. Both my Wi-fi and Ethernet cards are not working properly. My Bluetooth has a cavity and now even my Adobe Reader doesn’t want to update either. My monitor tells me life has become a smoke screen for me and my Windows don’t even open anymore. Sweetheart I am suffocating. I feel you have thrown away all my feelings for you in the Recycle Bin.

If I knew where to sue for careless driving, I would sue you; because you are driving me crazy. If you were a mathematical symbol you’d be pi, because you are sweet. Your curves define perfect polygons and the two nodes on your chest make it complex for me to focus. You are a matrix that I want to solve. I want to part your legs like asymptotes, and if you let me, to perform a deviation of Runge Kutta and integrate you till you oscillate. I believe you are the one to turn the fraction that I am into a whole number.

Kaana may have promised to take you to the Promised Land but we both know the devil is a liar. He asked you to be his chic. But baby you are forgetting that it is never wise to trust a Lunje with chicks; hell, even their county government wants to introduce a tax on chicken. He said he has found Christ. Ask him a simple question, is he AVA find? As far as I am concerned, we are still waiting for his second coming. I might as well make you come in the meantime as we wait. In his letter he said he is a caring, sweet, handsome man. Honey I assure you that is a lie because all those men are already taken. By their boyfriends. I believe I have previously stated that.

In short, Kym, i want you to be mine. I want you to be the only element in my periodic table and the only ion in my electron configuration. Because baby you are the solvent in my solution; You dissolved my heart and nothing can distill what I feel for you out of this solution. Not even Kaana. You reacted with the base of my heart and now, no pH scale can measure how acidic my love for you is. You are the syllabus of my Chemistry and honestly Kym, I love you.

Yours forever,

Mwangi.

Ps. LOL jokes, I don’t really mean forever. One day you’ll get old and grumpy and the only difference between the you then and the you now will be the tits sagging between your knees.

Pss. If this letter doesn’t successfully win you over, could you at least demote Kaana back into the Friendzone so that he doesn’t roast me as we’ll both be at the same level?

End of Days: Judgement Day. Is it real?

“Next!”

I slowly approach the towering man dressed in white. He looks too old to be standing upright and I somewhat envy his large white beard. He has what looks like a scroll in his left hand and a bic biro pen in his right. I take my time to study my surroundings; Directly in front of me is another man sitting behind a desk that seems overly too large. He too, like the man on his left holding the scroll, is dressed in a white robe. To his right is a huge TV screen. Apple. Those fucktards have taken over here too. “Oh God please let nobody fart here and there is no sign of Windows here,” I find myself thinking. Behind the man seated at the desk is a huge gate that is heavily guarded and behind me is a long queue that extends to God knows where.

“State your name for the record please.”

“Mwangi.”

The man with the biro ticks something on his scroll and I assume it is a register. Now the man behind the desk clasps his hands together and looks directly into my eyes.

“Mwangi do you know why you are here?”

I nod.

“Good,” he says, now pointing a remote at the TV screen. “Mwangi today you are here because you died a few hours ago and we are here to determine whether you will go to Heaven or Hell. The gentleman you that just ticked your register is Moses and I am Saint Peter. Welcome to the Pearly gates. Since you did not repent before you died, the TV screen is here to display all the wrongs you have ever committed.”

A sweat starts breaking out when the TV comes on, not because I do not see a way out of this, but because everyone else standing behind me in line is going to see what sort of jackass I was back on Earth. Then, as luck would have it, lightning flashes followed closely by a loud clap of thunder, which somewhat seems to make the TV go off.

“Jesus! Dammit man do you have to do that every time I am about to start judgment? Ok, Moses, tell Steve Jobs to bring another TV.”

“I’m sorry Sir, Jesus told Jobs to go hell… “

“….to fix the iFire,” he adds, on realizing what he’s just done. “Apparently some idiot tried to jailbreak it and now it’s dead.”

Saint Peter does a face-palm and shakes his head. “Ok, we are going to have to take a break people,” he says, as he leaves for the gate. The beautiful lady standing behind me taps my shoulder.

“You can stop trembling now, LOL. Besides, with the high number of spirits here I’d think you’d be drunk enough to not care.”

I resist the urge to laugh as I turn to face her. She is pretty, no doubt and I find myself wondering whether if we’d met back on Earth I’d hit that.. or whether I’d require a hammer to hit that. Just then, a man that looks too confused appears from nowhere.

“Saint Peter Sir, Hell is hell right now. Those idiots are rioting. When the iFire didn’t work we tried to go back analogue and light the fire, but it is impossible. A group of gay men have taken over the fireplace and now everyone is afraid to bend over to put any firewood or light the fire for that matter. I barely escaped. Angel Michael told me to call for backup.”

He must be Steve Jobs, I assume. Saint Peter clenches his fist and says “Son of a…”

“Son of God!”

“Ok, we will have to revert to plan B. Ok, all ye sinners, since it appears we cannot send you to hell to burn in the everlasting fire of brimstone and sulfur, we will have to send you back to Earth as Zombies. “

He raises his hands and says something I cannot comprehend (I assume it’s Heavenly language) and suddenly, I find myself back on Earth. Suddenly a huge pang of hunger hits me and all I can see is meat. I try to run towards the source of the smell but I cant. I am dragging myself with both hands pointing away from me and I am groaning. Seriously, did he have to turn us into fucking zombies? Now someone is going to blow my brains out.

As if from nowhere, a sharp pain hits my head and I close my eyes. Some bastard must have blown my brains out just as I feared. Oh well, I had a good run – ok, sluggish walk- as a zombie. But then, I don’t die. Instead, I hear what sounds like a female voice.

“Mwangi snap the hell out of it!” I open my eyes and look at the source of the voice. A girl. “You smoked too much weed and now you are experiencing a severe case of munchies. You fucking tried to eat my arm. NKT!”

Silence.

I black out.