Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Shit is Real

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

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

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


WhatsApp Groups.

Posted: October 15, 2015 by ketihapa in Uncategorized



WhatsApp groups seem to be the latest maddening fad we are adopting. Quail farming clearly lost its lustre. We form a group for literally everything. You decide to hang out with this group of good pals you haven’t seen for a while and the next morning you find yourself in a WhatsApp group christened ‘The Fun Squad’. A group where participants look to when their debauchery is brimming. Every time you turn on your data you are confronted with over a thousand group chats of people hornier than a village she-goat. You wonder if that group should really be called the fun squad or the heat room. He-he.

But that’s not what caps it. It’s the fact that you are in several other pointless and infuriating groups.  Some idle bozo started a Primary Class of ’07 group because eight years is not such a long time for him to realise…

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Posted: October 9, 2015 by ketihapa in Uncategorized


Posted: October 2, 2015 by NickMuthumbi in Uncategorized



30 more minutes and she would be walking out of that office to see the love of her life. Her alpha and omena.
She hailed from the lakeside.

It had been 6 years since he had flown out but despite the long calls *on phone*, uncountable Whatsapp messages and innumerable video chats on Skype, she always felt a part of her was missing. She felt incomplete and only he could fill the void. That void that gave her sleepless nights.

The ticking sound from the second hand of the office clock was music to her ears.
Each tick drew her closer to meeting the only soul that made her feel like a woman. Not that the rest made her feel like a man, only that this particular human had a way of arousing emotions no one else would stir in her.


30 more minutes and he would be right by her side.
She inhaled sharply as she peeped down through the minuscule space her bandage skirt allowed her toned thighs to spread, re-scrutinizing the red bottoms he had sent her on Christmas.
They were unsullied. She loved them. His sense of class and fashion always left her mesmerized.

She walked out of the office like a queen ,swaying every inch of her lakeside backside and ignoring the cat-calls from the ever thirsty male workmates. Ever since the water dispensers broke down, things had become quite difficult for them. They could be such a pain at times.
He walked out of the airport to the taxi bay with an air of authority just like he was used to back at work. But the jet lag was proving to be quite a bummer. Glancing at his Omega Seamaster Diver Chronometer on his left arm, he figured out he had approximately 30 minute to beat the city traffic and meet his woman.
His rose. His chocolate drop.

The lady selling roses across the road smiled at him, as he walked across towards her, “Half a dozen roses please,” he requested as he handed her a couple of dollar notes. He knew she loved flowers. And making her happy was his priority.
“You must really love her huh?” she joked as she handed him the flowers which he carefully stashed in the inner pocket of his knee-length trench coat while smiling back at her.

“Yes I do. To the moon and back”, he replied, flagging down a cab.


His gold embossed iPhone vibrated in his pocket and he went for it immediately.
Then there she was.
Her picture on the caller screen was a sight to behold. She was so beautiful. Must have been God’s gift to him.

“Hey sugar, where you at?” came the question from the other end.
A voice so familiar that he could make a beat from the intonations. A voice that always gave him goose bumps for no reason at all.

“I am here already cherry” he replied as he stepped out of the cab before the line went dead. She had spotted him through the coffee house glass walls and was staring at him with her big lovely eyes.

They had spotted him too. He looked a tad too weird in the small quiet town.

For a moment he stood there taking in the sight of her lovely self before the cab driver tapped him on the back asking for payment.
“Asante sana” he said, in Swahili heavily laden with his acquired British accent, handing him the last batch of solid cash he had on himself. He did not need much money in cash around here.


The anti-terror squad a few yards ahead was watching him keenly, with their trigger happy sniper on the roof ready to shoot. They watched as he handed over money from his breast pocket to the taxi man and then freeze and gaze into the coffee shop.
“He’s up to no good” said the leader.
They had been on high alert for the past few days ever since a threat against public joints within the town was issued. Taking chances was not an option, and here they had what looked like a terror suspect. His trench coat was just perfect to carry terrorist toys.

He reached into his inner pocket to dish out the roses he had bought her.


She watched him in awe. She was convinced he was glowing. And she knew what he was about to get from that pocket. He loved spoiling her.

They saw him shove an arm into his inner pocket. And asked the sniper to train his scope on him. Ready to shoot. As soon as his hand started retreating from the pocket, the shoot to kill order was issued. And a lead slug was sent to seek refuge in his skull.


His brain splattered all over the glass as the bullet made entry at the back of his head.

She squawked, sprinting off to salvage him, but she got there too late. He was long gone.

They jumped out of their cars towards him, yelling at everyone to stay back and all that fuckery about having the situation under control.
A stranger held her back as she screamed her lungs out, kicking at everything.
Then the bomb expert who was on standby all along carefully opened the trench coat to find out what he was reaching for.

And there lay the roses. As lifeless as their dead owner with crumbled petals.

“You killed him you animals” she wailed. “You killed him!”
“It was just a bunch of roses!”

The girl under the Mugumo tree

Posted: October 1, 2015 by ketihapa in Uncategorized

And this is the sequel to The Mugumo Tree, which i did this time on… This time from the boy’s perspective in order to clear up some issues…


By Victor Mwangi


He wishes he could run faster. He wants his legs to run faster. He has to run faster. His left hand swings weakly at his side. He is losing too much blood. He feels delirious. He wants to collapse in a heap and give up but he can’t. He will not. He has to get there. He has to. If this is his last day on earth, he wants to spend it alongside her. No, he tells himself, she has to be there. He trips on a bush that he hadn’t noticed before but he doesn’t fall down. He cannot fall down. He knows that if he does he will never wake up and he will never see her again. God would be unfair if he let that happen.
He tries to block everything that happened from his head. They’re all dead. But he soon will be…

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So, guys, I did a guest post at This time i tried something different. African folklore


Victor Mwangi. Mwas. Probably doesn’t ring much of a bell, I know. But surely must. Because great art precedes great artistes. The honor today is mine, chimps, to bring you Mwas…He says, KetiHapa, Have a seat, relax and hear it as it is…

The Mugumo Tree  | Victor Mwangi

She is walking. She does not want to stop walking. She can’t, not now. She has to know what it all means; what it feels like. She wants to be a man; perhaps then she will be able to understand his mind. They say if you walk round a Mugumo tree seven times you can be a man, right? This is her third round. She loves him, and she knows he loves her, but she is tired of waiting. She doesn’t want to wait any longer for him. If she understands him maybe then she could be able to wait…

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Posted: September 26, 2015 by ketihapa in Uncategorized


Aliwa became a woman. She will no longer play kati and skipping rope. She is a woman, women don’t jump, and they also don’t skip. She will pass down her dolls to her younger cousins and neighbors. She would have given them to her younger sisters but she has none. She will no longer play with boys. It is only girls who play with boys, women like her don’t. She says she told her mother. Her mother should have smiled and hugged her tightly. She didn’t. She just told her to cut old clothes into sizeable pieces and stick them between her thighs. She also told her to wear two panties, for maximum protection. (She has three panties in total). Now she knows why her mother almost strangled her the other day when almost set their old clothes ablaze. She is going to get a wrapper, her mother could have…

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The Surrogate

Posted: September 18, 2015 by Troy Onyango in Uncategorized

“Why did you do it?” He asked, rubbing his scalp with the palm of his right hand. He looked away from her. His eyes darted from the door to the floor in one glance but not once did they settle on her.

“I…I don’t know baby, I don’t know what came over me” She replied, looking up at him, hoping he would at least look at her. Her voice was heavy from all the crying. She hugged herself and curled up on the grey sofa that had been spared from the madness.

“Shit…you are crazy” He barked, turning to face her. He clenched his fists. A vein appeared on his forehead. He was angry. He wanted to strangle her until all the life in her was gone. No, he could not do that now. It would solve nothing. Instead, he stood there transfixed like a statute, confused. His whole body was shaking, not from anger but fear. He feared this woman, this woman he called wife and she called him husband. This woman who sat there in a pitiable position but inspiring no pity at all. He wanted her gone.

She got up from the sofa and moved briskly toward him, unsure of what to do next. She knew his anger and deep inside, she was scared. She walked across the cold floor, her bare feet delicately stepping on the dry patch of the floor, barely feeling the cold. She got to where he stood and hesitated for a while before lifting her hands and running them to his face. She clasped his cheeks in her hands and pleaded, “I love you baby…Look at me…look me in the eye and tell me you feel the same”

“Dorothy, stop being ridiculous!” He pushed her hands away from his face and turned away. He stared at the window as if he was looking at the lush green gardens that sprawled on their backyard. She remained still behind him, tears rolling down her round cheeks. She stared at the floor, her eyes couldn’t take it. She fell to the floor.


“Haiyya mboga kundee mrendaa managuuu!”

Selfa. She said that was her name. She was perfect. Not too young and not too old. She said she was twenty six but Dorothy’s guess placed her age at twenty three or four on the higher side. She was in good health and with good features. She walked with a slight limp on her left leg but she assured Dorothy that it was from a recent accident. No genetic defects in her lineage. No albino relatives, which was Dorothy’s biggest worry. She had two children of her own with no difficulties at birth and no birth defects. Above all, she was willing, her only condition being that she be given a month to get used to the idea of carrying another person’s child. She had to tell her husband.

For the next few weeks that she brought vegetables to the compound, they discussed how they would go about it. The two women sat and talked for hours on end about everything from when they would do it to the conditions of the engagement. Dorothy proposed that she stayed with them until the time for delivery came. Selpha asked her husband about it. One hundred and fifty thousand. That was all he needed to hear. He would take care of their children, he promised. She could take all the time she needed as long as the money came in. They needed it. They would start a business and she would stop hawking vegetables.

“Honey, I found someone,” She told him the night before Selfa moved in. “She is willing to carry our baby for us. She is willing to come live with us until that happens.”

He woke up from his sleep and turned to her. They had agreed that they would look for a surrogate together. She had gone ahead to do it herself. That didn’t matter now. He didn’t want to antagonize her. She had found someone willing to let her uterus be rented for nine months. He asked her if she was sure the woman was right and when she responded in the affirmative he turned to the other side and pulled the blanket over his head and went to sleep. That was all he needed to hear. Under the blanket, tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t want it.

Selfa moved in the next day. She came with a plastic bag that had her belongings, meagre. Dorothy showed her to the bedroom that was next to the kitchen. There, she would stay until she gave Dorothy a child. Then, she would get the other half of the pay and leave. Her husband would pick her at the gate on that day just as he had dropped her off. But for now, she needed to get pregnant. Dorothy’s husband was ready for her in their bedroom.  Dorothy would watch, she would be there in the room with them. It was be uncomfortable so she sat there and watched her husband make love to another woman. She bore it all. That was the deal.

All went well and on the third day of July, a month after the act, they went to the doctor. Selfa was pregnant. Three weeks. That was good news, Dorothy and Selfa would be mothers on the same day nine months down the line and so the wait began.

Over the next few months Titus, Dorothy’s husband became fond of Selfa. A glimmer appeared in his eyes every time Selfa was in the room. Dorothy noticed. She wasn’t stupid. Her husband was in love with the surrogate. She knew something like this was bound to happen. James spent more time around Selfa than Dorothy. That was natural; he was bound to be attached to the mother of his child. Only, Dorothy didn’t want it.


“Do you love my husband?”

“No Madam, why would you say such a thing?”

“Because I know he loves you!”

“That’s not true. I have a husband.”

“That’s not my question. Do you love my husband?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Yes Madam…a little…I think…I don’t know.” She cried too.

She stopped filing her nails. The nail file dug into Selfa’s flesh.

The door bell rang. Titus was back from work with a baby cot.

More from this author: Troy Onyango

Yes, I am A FUCKBOY.. Go Hug A Cactus

Posted: May 23, 2015 by ketihapa in Uncategorized

This is the kind of REAL MAN you want, right? Ffs have some standards

So, apparently, someone called me, and a lot of you, a fuckboy. I would be offended, except, I have absolutely no idea what a fuckboy is, leave alone where they are made. By the author’s definition, a fuckboy is an ‘aint shit nigga’; the type of man, guy, whatever, I am confused, that will tell her girl that he misses her and that he cant wait to see her. He is the type of person that will tell his girl that he is willing to ‘chill’ with her and just enjoy her company without necessarily having to rip off her skirt. He is also the type of guy that will want to introduce his girl to his best friends, and ensure that they all know her and respect her. By her admission, a fuckboy is the type of person that will try as hard as he can to ensure you have a good time, even when his money just isn’t enough. He will ensure you eat the best of what you can afford, even if it means sometimes he will ask you to help you do it, because he knows it will not always be that way. Finally, a fuckboy will be the guy that will tell you he will protect you and care for you as best as he can, because that is the only feminism he knows; you are the number one female in his life.
You can therefore understand why I feel I, and lots of other awesome guys out there, have been labeled fuckboys and told to fuck off. If the above make me a fuckboy, so be it.  Because, at the end of the day, I will do these things, maybe not every day, but I will. That is how much I care for my woman.
From my perspective, I cant really call you a fuckboy, that would just be gross, but I wish there a female equivalent for that. (Ideas, guys?) I will tell you why.
First, you don’t want to chill. Apparently just chilling makes me a scrub- Makers of Trust Condoms, please take note as well. When I say I want to see you, the first thing on your mind is sex. If I call you a sex addict or a nymphomaniac, as Nico and Vinz said, Am I Wrong? Lady I do not know what to call, listen, I have no idea who your biology teacher was, or whether you studied under a tree in the same class as the birds, but I hope, if you aren’t already, aware that it is practically and physically impossible to have sex everyday of every month, all year round. Know why, first and foremost, YOU get periods. Heard of those? I hope so, or your REAL MAN, will dump you pretty quickly when he says he will just chill with you coz he knows what time of the month it is and you don’t.
Then there’s the other issue of you refusing to hang out with my friends. Newsflash, YOU are supposed to be MY best friend if we are in a relationship. I am supposed to expect to have the time of my life with you, as Neyo said, regardless I have money or not. I also expect you to be cool with my friends. Yes, I know I will not always have friends that are the best of character, but I will expect you to get along with them. You know why, sometimes, even I disagree with them a lot of times and on a lot of things. Do we go about splashing nonsense on the internet and calling each other fuckboys when that happens? No, we do not. Sometimes, I will tell you to join us because even if I agreed to hang out with them, I just cant imagine spending a single second without you by my side. Then, when we hang out, don’t I always ask you what you want to drink before we make a decision with my SQUAAAAD, and when yours runs out, isn’t it my obligation to ask you if you want a refill? Then, why do you see it so necessary to complain after we get you what you want and we get what WE want? Trust me, person I do not even know what to call anymore, I will not hang out with you if you cannot get along with my friends.
Don’t even get me started on food. A lot of times you get really broke I have to send you cash via M-pesa. Do I go about telling you how I want you to refund my money? Or do your money problems recur whenever I have money problems as well? As I pointed out on Twitter the other day, females your type will have handbags that are seemingly full of everything; from tents, sufurias, shoes, umbrellas, condoms, tissue-practically every survival tool needed, EXCEPT CASH. Yes, I do acknowledge the fact that when I invite you for lunch it is my responsibility to foot the bill; I will from today henceforth note that If I don’t have enough money to buy you what you want, I should not even bother trying to call you just so I can see you. Will you however acknowledge the fact the YOU do get broke at times too and you need someone to help you out?
Also, I will never be a feminist. At least if that’s what your description of a feminist is. I do know one thing though, women deserve respect and to be cared for. That I will always do and give to the women in my life. If you don’t like it, fuck off. Plus the fact that you know who CHIEF KEEF is already tells me one thing, you’re worse than we, the fuckboys you so eloquently insulted and dismissed and that neither of us can ever take you seriously. You can now proceed to hug your cactus, if you were waiting for my go-ahead.