Archive for the ‘Life’ Category

SUNDAYS

Posted: April 10, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Life
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
image

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.

KCSE: PHYSICS PAPER 1

Posted: March 6, 2016 by ketihapa in Exams, Life
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
image

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!

PHYSICS

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!

The Sugar Mummy

Posted: September 20, 2015 by ketihapa in Drama, Life, Musings
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

Usually, I am a pretty normal guy, at least I hope I am. I have more or less the same problems most guys have; girl problems, money problems, beer problems, Arsenal problems (this was compounded yesterday, sigh), appearance problems- like most guys, when i step out of the shower i tend to think about where i will find money that day, not lotion. I know I have a brilliant mind,but sometimes I wonder how my brilliant mind is going to feed me. But at the end of the day, I try my best to make it work; I have to. We all have to try.

But is there a line as to how far you should try to make it? What are you allowed to do and what aren’t you allowed to do for money regardless how difficult it is proving for you to make money? Murder? Prostitution (stop looking at me weirdly, male prostitutes exist and they are called gigolos)? Theft and Scams?

I have been struggling with that question all morning today. Ever since some weirdo psycho sent me an SMS introducing himself as a brother from abroad (read Rongai), and that he was in search of a sugar mummy who could.. pause… satisfy his needs.. pause… Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round? The sugar mummy finds a guy that can satisfy her needs? Whatever happened to this world. Anyway, my first instinct was to ignore the idiot and move on with my life, but not before taking a screenshot of the message. (Stop judging me, it was funny!)

I proceeded to post it on Whatsapp on a special group of guys, all amazing writers like me, that we call the Lounge -you should be a writer and join by the way.. you will never get bored, only your phone will run out of charge rapidly. Even Biko Zulu- yes, that Biko Zulu- and Magunga are part of the community. Then Essie (she is the proud owner of five husbands in the lounge, including me) suggested I should send a reply; pretend to be a woman and play along. Troy (he did the guest post The Surrogate) did warn me but his warning came a little too late. I had already sent the reply.

Dont worry,I will not make you beg for the screenshots, hehe. This is how I instilled some discipline in a man who was clearly going beyond the line. You simply cannot try to make money this way,not in this age of HIV/AIDS anyway. And that is the least of the problems. You haven’t considered her husband sniffing you out and choking you to death. And if you, I should tell you that I despise you for not being man enough to tackle your problems like a man.

Here goes:

wp_ss_20150920_0001 wp_ss_20150920_0005 wp_ss_20150920_0007 wp_ss_20150920_0008 wp_ss_20150920_0009 wp_ss_20150920_0010 wp_ss_20150920_0012

 

Yup, I told Moses to find a fucking job. Was I too harsh? Haha. I dont think so. And Rongai people, seriously? You see why we don’t take you guys seriously?

 

Maroon 5’s And She will be loved….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

image

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

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

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.

THIS IS PURELY HYPOTHETICAL

Posted: February 18, 2015 by ketihapa in Life
Tags: , , , , , , ,

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!

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)

Teachers took it to the streets this week demanding for better pay.

My mother recently dropped a bombshell on me that she’s expectant with her fourth child and she hoped that this time, she’d bear a daughter. I understand why my mother hopes it will be a daughter this time round. Well, my brothers and I weren’t always the best behaved kids in the neighborhood, especially since I was the default leader of the pack by virtue of me being a first born. I remember how one day I wanted peanuts, but I had absolutely no money on me. So, I decided to do a little extortion on mama mboga, whose stall was just outside the balcony of our third floor flat. I know my charm wasn’t fully developed back then, but I still don’t remember how or why she denied me peanuts. All I remember is that instead of sulking, I simply climbed back to our balcony and incited my brother that we needed to teach her a valuable lesson in sharing. We peed all over her stall. Did I mention the beating that followed by the way?

But I didn’t intend this piece to be about motherhood. That memory made me realize that my actions were genuinely normal and natural. Think about it, isn’t that what teachers and doctors are doing, albeit more formal? An industrial strike, generally, is a protest when you don’t get what you want or think you deserve, right? The only difference this time round is that I actually support them. And so do MPs, who are keen to appear righteous after investing tax payers’ money on a grand renovation of parliament, complete with Citroen seats that you only get to see in the VIP stands of the Etihad Stadium. They all accept that the government needs to fulfill the pay increase promised to the teachers back in 1999. Yeah, you heard right. 13 years ago.

Though I do not support the public display of hooliganism that was when teachers decided to take it upon themselves to strip head teachers on National TV, in all fairness to the teachers, living in Kenya is getting really hard; the cost of living is going up. But as I have said before somewhere on this blog, life still remains very popular. Ask the bartender who made the mistake of asking a lady why she looked depressed and regretted it three hours later. Hell, even the government couldn’t afford to give our athletes at the Paralympics armed escorts for their safety. No pun intended by the way.

And it isn’t just the teachers or the doctors. Hookers too are having it rough and have now resorted to Facebook and other social networking sites to solicit for sex. I fully expect thieves to follow suit with this trend. Back to the hookers, their goals, as evidenced in the Facebook page ‘Campus Divas for Rich Men’, are clear; if you have no money, beat it. Ok, don’t pretend you’re surprised we’re paying universities to get our kids’ virginities broken. Cum-pus. Get it? That aside; dating is proving to be a very expensive affair. In fact, to get hot dates nowadays you need to follow these steps: one, buy or pluck dates from a tree. Two, fry dates or put dates into a microwave for two minutes. Ta-da!!

Anyhow, childbearing is worse. Kenya isn’t like China where they have factories for everything including children. Here everything is different. You have to first and foremost get fooled by a woman into getting her pregnant. Then she has to surprise you that she’s pregnant and that you’re bound by law to take care of her and her baby. That includes medication. But as things are, who is going to afford a doctor when it’s one doctor’s photo per patient? Mauvimivu yakizidi utamwona daktari yupi? Where are you even going to get the money to pay the newly-introduced tax on rent, leave alone the rent itself?

Ever wondered why bakers, including those who make donuts never decide they are tired of the HOLE thing and quit their jobs? I’ll tell you why. Frankly speaking, bakers are the only people not affected during these tough times. Bakers never go broke; they just keep making lots of dough. Plus they earn the majority of their income by noon – they make most of their dough at yeast by a leaven o’clock. Take my advice, if you want to survive, become a chef or a baker, although I should warn you in advance that you will have to be grilled before you get the job. And wipe that shocked look on your face, I didn’t mean literally you dumbass.

The saddest part about it is that I now have to give up my dream. It is common knowledge that since the discovery of oil in Turkana I have a dream of investing in the area. I thought I’d hit jackpot when a friend and I came up with the genius idea of investing in toilets in Turkana. Sadly, now, as things are, it is cheaper to watch a movie about food and reminisce about its taste and smell than to actually buy food. Movies are Ksh. 50 after all. I know I won’t be the only one that’s had a cup of strungi with a vivid imagination of mandazi; but hey, maybe you’re the type that lives solely on the Fruits of the Holy Spirit. Anyway, even people in Turkana did have food, who’s going to afford toilet paper?

I have come to the conclusion that we will be okay- at least I know I’ll be okay; even if it means resorting to leaves for toilet paper, twigs for toothbrushes and smoke signals for communication. And I’ll date alright. Thank God my History teacher taught me all about the various methods of dating. Contrary to popular belief, Fission Track Dating, and not Carbon Dating, is the best dating method as observed by scientists.

Have a great weekend people and may the teachers get paid.

Abortion is an expression of free will, but it is murder.

Today I feel special; special enough actually to not whine about how women make life difficult for men. I actually feel like I am one in a million. Of course I know how invalid this argument would be if I were in China, where one in a million translates into roughly three thousand other ‘one in a million people’ exactly like you, but what the hell. This is Africa; Kenya to be specific, where everything is either made in China or made in Kenya- by the Chinese. I feel special not because i finally got laid by Julie Gichuru, but because for the first time in my life, I feel I made a difference in someone’s life. In fact, if anyone cares, I feel I deserve a Nobel Prize.

As you all very well know, I now realize my days to fill the Earth are numbered courtesy of the woman that scared me half to death at Kenya Cinema the yesterday. Quite frankly, I understand what the Calendar in my living room feels to have her days numbered- yes it is a she. Don’t ask why, just know it has something to do with the photo on her that I realized is the ultimate icebreaker when I bring a chic home and has consequently gotten me laid a number of times. So anyway, since my near death experience, I decided to make my remaining days on Earth count. I just didn’t know how yet. However, the more I thought about it, the more I came to the conclusion that I first had to accept the fact that everyone is entitled to their opinion and that I had to figure out how to accept people’s opinions without compromising my own. You see, opinion, like an asshole, is one of those things that everyone has. No matter how big or small or how stinky or fresh they are, at the end of the day, everyone has an opinion. It means that you are accommodative enough, but it is up to you to convince people why they should go with your opinion. It was this decision that got me to the events of today and consequently, this post.

It all started yesterday in the morning when Ken, a pal of mine and a colleague at work, told me he needed to find an excuse to skip work; somehow for the next hour, it led to a serious brain-storming session as we tried to figure out the perfect excuse that was guaranteed to work. To cut the story short, we decided to tell ‘his highness’ that my colleague’s girlfriend was pregnant and that she had just called from the hospital saying that her water broke. You see, the beauty of it was that we had been making jokes in the office about who was going to be a father before the other and my boss is one of those people who just cannot avoid listening into conversations- his secretary too, although I tend to overlook this fact because she is totally bangable. And we knew he is the sort of person that takes things a little too seriously, hence it was undoubtedly going to work. True, it worked like a charm. He fell flat for the lie and at that point, we were convinced the pair of us would have made the best defense lawyers in the land. I really have nothing against lawyers, except I always warn people, be wary when dealing with one. Many lawyers are genuinely good people… it is the other 99% of them that give the rest a bad name.

By this point, I know you must wonder how Ken skipping work turned from being a solo project to project “WE skip work” I am sure. The simple reason is that I take my friendships quite seriously. I am the sort of friend that will be beside you in jail when you get caught committing murder because I was caught as I tried to help you conceal the evidence. So in this particular instance, I wasn’t going to let Ken enjoy his freedom alone. The sad thing about karma is that it always has a way of getting back at you… it is like misfortune, which never misses either. And it did strike us when we least needed it. Murphy’s Law dictates that bad things always happen when they are least needed or expected.

The instant we got out of that office, we knew we had a whole day to ourselves to party and simply spoil ourselves. We had made a list of people to call in advance- people that were jobless enough to turn up no matter what. We were happy; happier than my friend Elvis when he discovered he could actually delete Windows to create more space for porn in his computer hard drive, and then use a Linux Ubuntu Live CD to boot the computer and access the stash. No more creating folders and subfolders like ‘Office/Documents/Important/Backup/New folder/etc…/’. (It works by the way, this is not made up.) He is way past that age now, or so he tells us. Anyway, we had just left town and we were on our way to Ken’s place when his girlfriend, Anita, called.

That single phone call changed our day. Karma. Turns out she had missed her period and she actually thought she was pregnant. It gets worse. She was just from the clinic and they confirmed it. And she wanted to keep the baby. Her father is a senior man in one of the current government’s offices. And she’s still in school. Ken wanted an abortion done as soon as possible and he had somehow convinced her it was the best way forward. I would have been okay, except, I did not agree with them. In my honest opinion as I told him, Anita’s initial decision was the right one. It was finally time for him to take responsibility for his actions and I demanded they keep the baby. This baby was the product of a sperm that had fought so hard to beat the rest of the pack to the jackpot and only God knows whether it might have been the one with the DNA of the next president of this country… Okay, on second thought, maybe even the Antichrist, but hey, just like you and me, it deserved its right to life and to see the light of day. Human life is precious, it doesn’t matter how tiny. Besides, if WE did go through with the abortion, how the hell were we supposed to drink away OUR sorrows with no money?

To cut the story short, after I had successfully sold my opinion to Ken, we spent most of the day trying to convince Anita to keep the baby and then, she spent the remaining hours trying to convince us that the best step to take was to inform Ken’s parents as well as hers. In the end, neither party’s parents have been informed yet… We are in fact nursing hangovers and I don’t see either of us making it to work or school tomorrow in Anita’s case. What does matter though is that I feel proud of myself because today I saved a life. The moral of my story or rather, what I learnt from my experience is that not all babies are made as a result of alcohol and two, that alcohol does save lives at times. I believe God finally found a use for my alcoholic tendencies. I may have been selfishly trying to save money for alcohol by preventing Ken from going through with the abortion but it has to count for something that because of me, Kenya’s population expects to increase by one, or God forbid more, in the next nine months. Now, sadly, I have to say bye. My boss is calling I know to ask why I am not in for work and I am off to apply for my Nobel Prize.