Archive for the ‘Money’ Category

image

Mother Nature, you cat fish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

After all is said and done, Hitler was a monster to say the least

First and foremost, I want to vehemently state that my blog is not gutter press unlike most other blogs today out there. I will not point fingers either for that reason. At Ketihapa.wordpress.com, we do not wear over-sized blue grandma sweaters either that bring out the best of our nostrils and underline your social. We do not say who is fucking who, and who is who’s sweaterheart. Wait, what?

Never mind.

The real reason I wrote this blog is because I miss you fellas. It’s been a while since I wrote anything that’s relevant to Twitter as I have recently re-discovered a talent I had long forgotten I had; creative writing. However, a few things have caught my attention that require to be addressed urgently and which require your opinion. Not that I care about your opinions, but I do appreciate it because it keeps my blog going.

The biggest of those issues is the still to be solved death of a fallen hero of the Kenyan law and constitution, Mr. Mutula Kilonzo, whom, as it is now emerging, was a champion in the bedroom with a little help from another learned friend called Viagra. Yes, it was obvious Mr. Mutula, may he RIP, was with a woman the morning he died. However, I will not even begin to describe my shock and dismay after it emerged that the woman in question was in fact another champion; a champion of plagiarism.

Her name is Caroline Mutoko. After all, we all know she doesn’t date people with mediocre minds like the rest of us. We’re numbskulls, remember?

So, to put this in perspective, if it is proven she was indeed the said woman, she preaches water on how people to be faithful, when she’s in fact, drinking wine. Issorait. Carol, as someone pointed out, if this is true, this will be a big Blow to your Job. Never mind, KOT can be crafty with words. Point is, you have a daughter and you’re dating Radio Africa’s Patrick Quarco. The irony of it all being the speed at which you rebuke cheating partners. You’re a fucking cheetah.

But then again, as I said, all this is if it’s proven true. I am not ready for a defamation lawsuit. You can read the original post unmasking her here:

Then there’s the small matter of the bedbugs in Kenyatta University hostels. Well, it’s not like we’re really shocked; at least now we know who, ok, for purposes of this post, what taught the ladies at KU to be really good at sucking. Full pun intended. Dating a KU chic is hard, and reasonably so. First, she will suck your money, because granted, she will not be stealing side mirrors from motorists when you’re around.

Then, you finally think you’ve caught a break and that you’ll get laid; wapi? So she invites you over, and knowing how difficult men find it to reject sex, you’ll rush over.. Forgetting there are bedbugs that will see your erection as a thankful of blood. And guess what my friend, you cannot exile them. Hell, they call their friends over to enjoy the feast at hand.

To make matters worse, as if we haven’t had a bad enough past couple of weeks already, Jaguar released yet another music video from his recently launched ‘eh eh eh’ genre of music; you know the type of music where the words ‘eh’ feature after every three words to produce rhyming effect because the song doesn’t make sense.

I wouldn’t say it was a bad video considering he spent his fortune making it, featuring a convertible Bentley. Pause. And a plane, albeit a small, joke of a plane, but hey, a plane is a plane, so LANES people. He even got to throw a bash that featured Mugoya and Nick Mutuma.

Sadly, Jaguar has to learn that an expensive video doesn’t make the music sound good, especially when Vee Baiby is not in it. As some idiot on Twitter said last week, if Bamzigi and Jaguar were to fall off a cliff, it is Kenyan Music that would survive.

Finally, the condoms. I still do not get why Catholic priests are still against these life savers. I’m very sure none of you would be theoretically against it if altar boys were to theoretically get pregnant. Plus, you contradict yourselves. You preach the body is the temple of the Lord, yet you encourage people to kill the Lord’s temples with HIV/AIDS by not using condoms.

Do you sleep at night knowing because of you some people might never live their lives to their fullest? That some of them are right now considering committing suicide because they had unprotected sex following your advice and contracted HIV? Does it make you feel more significant contradicting scientific facts just because you don’t believe in it? Guess what, it only makes you sound ignorant and worse murderers than Hitler because, guess what again, you’re almost at the halfway mark of the total people that died due to his actions.

Anyway, that is just my opinion, but as I said, I’d love to hear what you guys have to say, especially on the condom issue. In the meantime, I’ll go back to picking up the scattered pieces of my broken heart because Grace Msalame called these two idiots @iDaywa and @mSale_ ‘babie’ on my TL.

*leaves holding onions to disguise the tears*

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.

Who says you have to read to pass an exam?

Another week, more drama. Kenya never ceases to amaze me. The mouthy-leggy woman finally launched her much awaited book. I mean the Miguu na Miguu na Pang’ang’a fellow, who barely a week later, has fled the country in search of God knows what. Reports coming claim though that he left for Canada, the only country whose national symbol is a weed leaf disguised as a red clover, although personally, I’d rather he fled to Poland; at least there I am sure this woman would find Poles because to be very honest, the only career I see left for her is to be a pole dancer. Unfortunately, I am not too sure her badly inflated ego would let her- plus she’d have to lose the horrible wardrobe she adores so much.

Seriously though, I would say it wasn’t a bad move, considering people in his hometown already tried to burn down his house and bury his empty coffin. The only problem, however, is that the people he implicated in his book can barely read- the MPs. It is worldwide knowledge that about 4 in every 11 of our MPs never went to school. I fully sympathize with them; and with the pressure mounting on them to go back to school, I think it is high time someone taught them the basics about how to pass exams in Kenya. I have therefore come up with a simple, yet precise guide on how to go about it hassle free.

I wouldn’t want to imagine the scenario where an MP, the candidate (read Mike Sonko) goes to an exam and when asked how to improve Black and White TVs the idiot responds with something like, “We should hire Peter Marangi to paint TV aerials with Dura Coat so as to make the TVs view in full colour.” Ok, that was a fail, but what if he really knew the answer to a question is 22 but didn’t know which 2 to start with? Sad, right? Yeah, it is. So first of all, you are going to need the following items: Kiwi and Shoe Brush, Mwakenya, Bell, Hair, any version of TeraCopy software (doesn’t have to be genuine), Alcohol and Money.

Ready? Here we go. I mentioned Kiwi and Shoe brush for one reason, David Rudisha once said, “Unafyong’arisha fyatu fyako sio fyatu pekee finafyong’ara.” What he meant was that you also get bright as you polish your shoes. And we all know what knowing you’re bright does to your confidence- it soars. In fact, look how well it worked out for the world athletic champion. So, you can go into that exam with full confidence that you are bright. However, please note that this is only applicable to Kiwi; not Lude and definitely not the black sweat of a Sudanese fellow.

Next up, you need the Mwakenya. If you’ve been through the Kenyan education system, you will bear me witness that as the rules get tougher, better ways of breaking them undetected emerge. That’s right; paper mwakenyas, or mwaks from now hence forth, are too mainstream. Anything else can be used as a mwaks; slippers, walls, the ceiling, the floor, your arms, the back of the head of person seated in front of you a.k.a. kisogo, anything really. Plus you MPs have money. Use it; get specially designed biros, socks and handkerchiefs with notes inscribed on them. Only two things though, mwaks does not apply if you’re going for a HIV test. Also, do not get caught.

Next you will need the bell. My friend, have you ever tried to remember something so hard but all you come up with is no more than the word ‘something’? No? Kenyan exams will do that to you. And this is where the bell comes in really handy. Simply follow these simple steps: one, pick up bell; two, bang the hell out of it against your head. I bet now your head should ring a bell, literary, right? For great results, a receding hairline is recommended, but nothing too extreme like Kibaki’s.

As afore mentioned, you need hair. The Swahili really had it right when they said “Akili ni nywele.” All sorts of hair are particularly useful in an exam and have their own different functions. Weaves for instance have the potential to be good mwaks if not hide other mwaks while braids are leakage and your beards should be quite adequate past papers. A wig on the other hand is a NO-NO (Esther Murugi take note). If it, God forbid, fall offs, you’re screwed and what’s more, you’ll look like a scare crow and end up scaring away any potential would-be marks in your exam.

Having done all that, now all you need is your counterfeit copy of TeraCopy software. Ok, maybe I over estimated you. I shouldn’t have expected you to know how to use computers when you don’t even know what parties you’re in. But in the event that you do somehow do know, TeraCopy is the ideal solution for you. TeraCopy is great software for all your copy-paste needs. You can use it to achieve quicker and more accurate results. Only a quick glance to your left or right is required and TeraCopy will do the rest; but a polite disclaimer, your eye-hand coordination should be excellent. Also, if the person to your left or right is Eugene Wamalwa, avoid that direction as there will be hardly any air there to breathe.

Now, when all else has failed, now you can use the Alcohol. Take out your bottle of Vodka and drink up; nobody said you cannot have alcohol in an exam room. You should drink in rapid, moderate mouthfuls and voila, now you are justified to blame your failure on the Alcohol and not your dumb brain. Many have done it, so you can follow suit, but if you’re the type that will chicken out, I have an alternative solution. Alcohol is brewed as a result of the action of yeast on starch. You can therefore consume about a kilo of starch and about two table spoonfuls- no more- of yeast, about an hour before the exam. The alcohol formed in your stomach should be adequate.

Finally, the money. As a proud member of the Kikuyu community, I believe I have earned the right to demand payment for successfully helping you dimwits pass your exams and graduate from whatever the hell you’re graduating from. Oh, and by the way, for an extra token of appreciation (read money), I suggest you also have a bulb with you. You never know when you’re going to need a light-bulb moment. So, my cheque please? When can I come to wait outside your office for 6 hours to collect it Mr. Mheshimiwa?

Ngamia 1 well in Turkana, Kenya, where British company Tullow struck oil

Kids, this is the crazy story of how I met your mother. The year is 2014. The place is in a night club known as Pavements in Westlands, Nairobi.*cue for audience to laugh* I am really drunk- and I think high- and there is this chic giving me weird looks, like a chicken that wants to grow horns; oh wait, I think she’s horny. I know a woman is horny when I start seeing cute little horns growing on her head. Anyway, she is and really drunk and that is my cue to take advantage of her. End of story. Okay, well no. I actually have a condom on. *audience laughs again* Later on I will get to the part where I was paid by the government to have kids about eight seasons or so from now. Hah! Jokes.

This is the sad story of how an archaeologist in the year 2030 decides to excavate an unnamed location in Kenya and he is digging away unmercilessly when he strikes gold. He has come across a cute pile of bones that he will later on discover in shock belonged to Mike Sonko. You see, there is no space for a brain in the skull he has found. Almost as shocking as the skull he found a little while earlier on belonging to Eugene Wamalwa that had three nostrils instead of two. He will care less about the shocking find because as a bonus, he will have found the greatest oil reserve the world ever has seen. He will later on be declared a national hero by the then ruling Army General, who toppled the government a few years back and has since established himself as the new Furor.

Okay, where exactly I am going with this I have no idea either, but that was how I always hoped oil would be discovered in Kenya. Shock on me. Kenya finally struck black gold. I have been dying to make a joke on our oil but no, it would be too crude. You see, I’m neither a pessimist nor am I an optimist. I am like the guy who found the glass half full and instead of whining about how half full or half empty it was, he simply emptied it into a smaller glass and it was full. Two sides of the same coin. I am actually thrilled we have oil, but when I think critically about it, all it means is that enough people finally died and decomposed enough to form oil. Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you had no idea oil is nature’s way of recycling the carbon in our bodies. Think about it, it’s why Arab countries – where so many people died in various wars throughout the centuries – have so much oil.

Now, I know it seems like I am already biased towards our oil reserve but being realistic is also important. I am skeptical that this find will actually be of any use to the people of Turkana. Well, I could spend hours trying to convince people that it is Karma’s way of getting back at Turkana for standing by as the rest of Kenya was colonized but again, no. I’ll, lay down the facts. When Richard Leakey came to Kenya, he said, “It is virtually impossible to control Northern Kenya, which is populated chiefly by migrant nomads.” I maintain that he couldn’t have been more wrong. Fast forward to the year 2012; Kenya discovers there is oil in Northern Kenya. Suddenly there is a mad rush for this arid, sparsely populated area. Coincidence?

I am not saying they won’t get to benefit from the oil directly; what I’m saying is that the game is rigged. It’s called an oil rig for some reason. Who do you think gets to reap the fruits of our new found oil; the fat cats of this country or the people of Turkana? In a way, it’s like the colonization they never really got to enjoy because gradually, they will be pushed out of their land by the fat cats only this time instead of bibles, they might receive some money- quite unlike how white people tricked the rest of us. When they came they had bibles, we had the land. Then they taught us how to pray with our eyes closed and when we did open our eyes, they had the land and we had the bibles. What these poor people will get in truth will be hard menial jobs on these oil fields. Not the worst of jobs, but I’d rather be a cow. Cows have moo-oo-oovies and all miners have is a boring job. Got it, no? Moving on…

So now I have a decision to make; quit school and become a fat cat or go on with school and end up working for one of those fat cats. I once said I wanted to be somebody and only now have I become specific – the decision is clear in my mind. First thing I’ll do is to visit Njoroge and Sons Co. in River Road and obtain a degree that is complete with a university seal and genuine signatures. They can do it, trust me. Then, I will take a loan and become a politician to steal some more money from public coffers and when I have stolen enough, I will look for a willing accomplice, preferably a Kikuyu like me. Together, we will start a company known as Mwangi and ‘somebody’ Company. And no, we will not use vegetables to make vegetable oil or use babies to make baby oil or worse, become miners; we will head over to Turkana and invest in some poor nomad’s land that we will have stolen.

You see like the kid that was asked by a pastor what eats grass, goes moo and gives us milk and he answered, “I suppose the answer is Jesus but it sounds like a cow to me” I know oil is supposed to be the answer, but you got to think outside the box. The oil is only there to facilitate development of Turkana and that is where the money is going to be. I am going to be one rich bastard, all thanks to women who did not use their heads, literally, which caused the population explosion in our country that finally brought us oil. To those same women, DIAPERS is REPAID backwards without ‘s’… Think about it… Also, oil money doesn’t buy everything. Manchester City please take note.