Being Kenyan

Posted: November 2, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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Being Kenyan, who can complain?

“Tao ngapi?”


“Niko na mbao!”

“Hiyo mbao yako peleka choo ya kanjo labda utaendesha!”

“Ok, mbao ndio pesa loose nilikuwa nayo…”

“Huna pesa ndogo?”

You proceed to fold up the Ksh 1000 note into four…

“Haha! Kijana uko funny! Dere shukisha huyu hapo mbele!”


I have come to accept that being Kenyan is no longer about citizenship. And chances are, you would never trade being Kenyan for anything; not for a second. I have come to realize being Kenyan gives you an identity- a sense of being; a sense of purpose. It gives you the chance to be legally screwed up. Being Kenyan allows you to fuck up, get taken to court- perhaps even the ICC and still get away with it- trust me, my president has set an exceptional example. We can even ignore court orders. It allows you to set up a church and go about deflowering women because God told you to. And the said women will appreciate it. Hell, the news will find it funny and you will feature on headlines; especially if the said women paid you Ksh 310 to get deflowered. I foresee being Kenyan being a movement.

Case 1: Police

Being Kenyan affords you the right to walk in Nairobi. But also affords you the right to be stopped by armed policemen (who or may not be actual policemen) and being told you have to produce a receipt for the bag you are carrying- they won’t bother to check whether you’re carrying weapons. But even if you are, all you will need is a receipt. But that has to be accompanied by an ETR receipt intended for KRA. But let us assume you won’t have either of those; you will be forced to produce tea- chai, rather- and imagine being Luhya! We all know Luhya people would rather go to jail than give up chai. You will be faced with a host of atrocities against the country though. Staring at government buildings suspiciously, idling with the intention of bombing a government statue, impersonating a government officer, spitting harmful substances on a public pavement, disturbing the public with smelly sweat, soliciting for sex from unwilling members of the public… The list is endless. And so are the possible charges you will be charged with.

Case 2: Elections

Being Kenyan means you can basically vie for a leadership spot. And it doesn’t matter whether you lose; You will be the man. You will be accorded the title mheshimiwa. Even if ants will not stop for you when you come across them on the road- actually, you will stop and wait for them to pass- especially if you will be high on weed like most of our elected leaders. You will be a millionaire in six months after the said elections. And you will despise Tanzanian elections for being transparent. In the six months, you will instigate a construction worth Ksh 200 Million, even though the said building will have half a wall. You will also convince the people who voted you in that a wheel barrow is worth Ksh 109,000, even though the teacher with whom you trust your child will be paid Ksh peanuts. And you will somehow convince the people that voted you in, who have lost confidence in you already, that the devil told you to lie to them. You will invoke the spirit; even though your liver will have suffered more from the spirits than your citizens.

Case 3: Music

As a Kenyan, you will be entitled to hours of bad music; riddims they call it. You will dance and perhaps do bend overs if you’re lucky- to music you don’t even understand, whose lyrics probably mean you are an idiot. But you will love it. You will laugh at people that don’t listen to riddims. And for those that will find riddims distasteful, they will tune into Matatu FM each morning to report how they cannot get laid to someone who probably doesn’t even like women in the first place. You will ignore good music; people who try to come up with good music like Eric Wainanina and Elani will be ignored- unless they come up with a sex video like Sauti Sol. And every major TV or Radio station will endorse it. Your life will be reduced to music the lines of “Girl With The Biggest Behind’ or ‘Una jump, una ruka… shida zina shuka…”

Case 4: Food

Being Kenyan means you will get to taste the best variety of food. You will get to taste boiled animal intestines that you will later come to call mutura. You will do the math in your head and decide that mutura is worth more than airtime – which at this time is imperative we refer to as kadi za kujikunakuna as the Tanzanians say- to call the butcher and tell him to reserve some steak for you. And woe unto you if you end up marrying a Kikuyu woman; you will have pizza full of soup and potatoes.  And if boiled miraa if you’re Meru. Or worse, nothing if you’re from Kitui.

I just can’t understand why anyone would hate being Kenyan. We rock!!!!!


Posted: October 29, 2015 by ketihapa in Africa, Drama
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Welcome to Nairobi, Sir.

(Written by Ketihapa, Troy Onyango and Nick Muthumbi)

The vehicle comes to a grinding halt as the conductor says, “Mwisho! Huku ndio Nairobi.” Other passengers start rising from their seats; he is patient. He waits till they are almost all out then he stands up and makes his way towards the door, his bag with a few clothes he brought along with him his only luggage. Once out, he takes a moment to take in the scenery; it is nothing like he had expected. He had expected to see elegant sky scrapers towering over him, beautiful women wearing things they call fashion that his grandmother could sew in an hour, men in suits, flashy cars, fancy hotels… Instead, the place is muddy and dirty, garbage strewn all over. There is an acrid smell- one he can’t quite figure out- a mixture of fish, garbage, piss, excrement, sweat. He wants to throw up. He calms down. He is clearly a stranger in Nairobi; anyone can see that without trying too hard. He feels for his pocket; good, the little money he has left is still there. Now, he has to trace his uncle Mwaura whom he hopes he can stay with for a while before he has figured out where to get a job. He takes a step forward, then another into the green city in the sun.

He stands there for a while and uses his eyes to take everything in. The dusty air fills his lungs and a whiff of sweat from the burly man walking past him jolts him back to reality. He focuses and sees a large crowd gathered in front of a cream old building. Bag firmly clasped in his hand, he moves towards the crowd. The man at the centre of the crowd who is talking loudly in a raspy voice notices him and pushes toward him. His legs feel wobbly before he notices the smile plastered on the round face of the man. He moves closer to him until he can feel the man’s breath of sour milk down the nape of his neck. He does no turn around to look at the man standing behind him and he notices the bible in his hand. This must be a good man, he thinks to himself. The whole crowd turns to face him and that’s when he realizes all attention is on him. After a long stare, the man opens his mouth and amidst the stench of a mouth long divorced to the toothbrush he speaks, words that sound like they are carved in stone

“Bwana asifiwe!” His voice reverberates through the hot air and his whole frame moves in tandem with his words.

“Amen!” Meekly he responds in unison with the elated crowd.

“Wewe ni mgeni hapa Nairobi, si ndio?”

Unsure, he responds, “Dio.”

“Na umekuja huku kazi?”

How did he know that I have come to Nairobi to look for work?

Before he responds, the preacher man’s voice rises again, “Mungu amenionyesha ya kwamba unaenda kuishi na mjomba wako.”

This must be a real man of God. How else would he know that I am going to live with my Uncle?

“Dio.” He tells the man.

“Mungu ameniambia nisipokuombea mabaya yatakutendekea. Unaamini?”

He doesn’t know the response to this question and so he nods slightly.

“Haya basi piga magoti tuombe.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a minute and as soon as his knees meet the dusty ground he closes his eyes shut. His grasp on the bag more firm than ever. That’s where all the money and his certificates are. If he loses that he loses everything.

The crowd bursts into a frenzy of song with the man’s voice still rising above the rest as he chants prayers on his behalf. He screeches at the demons and casts them away. Njoro feels the demons depart from his body and they sap his power and he falls to the ground. The preacher’s voice fades and soon it becomes so distant he can barely hear the once thunderous voice. He is in heaven.

He opens his eyes to the sound of feet hurriedly passing by and the rowdy touts shouting their various destinations. The singing crowd is no longer there and the preacher too is nowhere in sight. He feels dizzy and turns to look for his bag.

But it is nowhere to be found. The old Daso Rano bag that his dad had bought him while he was being admitted to high school was at large. And in that bag were his miniscule belongings. The crème de la crème of whatever he called his. Plus the meagre cash he had saved. It was all gone.

He panics. The world starts spinning. But he is shoved out of the stupor by the sharp pain caused by a shoe that had fallen in love with his pinkie finger. Amidst the best of curse words he can summon, he sits up trying to recall what really happened. But all he can remember is kneeling before a man of the robe moments before he floated to heaven.

But how did I end up here? Well, maybe I forgot my bag in heaven.

He comforts himself as he looks around in a bid to familiarise himself with his surroundings.

Then he spots a man in grey uniform swinging his baton across the street. For some reason the grey uniform seems familiar and so he feels it will be better and safer to ask for help from him unlike the rest of the Nairobi busy bodies who walked past him, pretty oblivious of his existence.

As he picks himself from the dusty street pathway that had played bed for the past couple of minutes, he feels something bitter well up his gut. With little hesitation he spits the bitter saliva onto the pavement.

As soon as the spit makes contact with the ground, the “friendly” across the street is already tugging at the worn out generic leather belt holding his Kaunda pants in place.

“Kijana unatema mate ovyo ovyo kwa nini? Uko na mimba?” asks the man in grey.

Njoro is caught off guard. Since when did lubricating the earth with oral liquids become an offence?

“Ahhh! Habali blatha. Kwani kuna chida nikitema mate?” he asks meekly, rocking that sheepish signature smile of his, the smile that he used to nail ladies back in the village, with an accent heavily influenced by his mother tongue.

The smile seems to offend the officer even more.

“Nikitaka kuona meno zina matope nitakwambia! Kwa nini unatema mate?!”

Taken aback, he wishes he had a mirror; Njoro knows his teeth are perfect- hell, half the ladies back in the village wishe they had his teeth. His teeth are a blend of white and brown- not yellow from all that green stuff his peers have been chewing of late to seem cool- and not too white as to get confused with those of that Mzungu that tried to lure him to her bed a few weeks ago. God, she was old!!! And her sense of shame was like that of a toddler.

“Apana, nimekuja Nairobi leo, ata dio nimefika… lakini kuna vubi mingi sana. Ata ukaweza nisaidia na ten bob naweza nunua maji kidogo  niweze kuosha mdomo kidogo nitashukulu sana!”

The man in grey laughs.

“Ati ten bob!” Ten bob ata kucha haiwezi nunua kijana! Kwani umetoka Uganda?”

Wait, ten bob cant get me water? He asks himself. But then again, his grandpa told him Nairobi is full of conmen… His train of thought is interrupted by the man in grey, who has by now magically summoned an old white pick up… there are about half a dozen other people in it.

“Leta chai!”

“Chai nilimariza kitabo. Irikuwa kwa chupa kwa ire bag imeibiwa! Huwezi nisaidia?”

“Kijana wacha nione vile nitakusaidia. Ingia kwa gari.”

“Asante sana! Wewe dio mtu wa kwanza nimepata mzuri Nairobi. Hii lift unanipea itanisaidia sana!!! Natafuta uncle yangu!”

Half the people in the pick up laugh, the other half are not sure whether to explain to Njoro that he’s just been arrested or to pity him or to laugh or cry on his behalf. The man in grey is laughing as well. Nonetheless, Njoro gets into the truck; he says hi to all of them, and they all say hi, most of them cant avoid laughing though. Someone creates some space for him to sit on the hard bench.

“Uko tu sawa brathe,” he says, putting his arm around him, a hint of a hopeful smile on his face. “Labda watatuweka cell moja!” Njoro has founda friend in the big city finally!

“Ata mimi blatha, naoba watueke pamoja tujuane saidi.”

This time the guy definitely smiles. A hint of a boner… Njoro doesn’t see it…

After what seems like half an hour, collecting other people in need of lifts as well, they finally arrive at the destination. The sign on the building reads “City Hall”. Njoro and his new friend are ushered out of the vehicle into the building. His new ‘friend tries to reassure him they will be okay as long as they are together. After all, they will have more time to know each other. Njoro still has no clue he has been arrested for spitting and what will later turn out to be gross destruction of the environment by bodily fluids.

It finally dawns on him when the man in grey responsible for his ‘lift’ says, pointing at him,“Mwas leo nimepata fala fulani! Hehehe aAti anadhani tulikuwa tunampea lift!”

But when the man turns it is almost unbelievable.  There stands Njoro’s uncle! Mwaura in the flesh!

“Ndiye huyu fala unasema!?”

He knew his uncle was an important man in Nairobi, just not this important…

Sorry Alexas, but this was funny as hell... The Brother hood

Sorry Alexas, but this was funny as hell… The Brother hood

For the better part of the day, since morning actually, the Lounge has been in turmoil; ever since we all submitted our letters to our future spouses. (I will not bother posting mine here because I was labelled a chauvinist, ignorant and a host of other words I can’t remember by Essie.) The argument has been a nonstop affair. You see, the whole reason why the Lounge is so amazing is because we have all these great writers that all share diverse views on a number of topics. The problem is, as expected, we tend to over-think stuff. And today was no different. Today’s argument was sparked by Ian. Yes, Ian Duncan. Then somehow it spiraled into a debate about feminism which very quickly went to The Independent Nairobi Woman, hence, Naiman.

You see, Naiman is supposed to be this independent woman that doesn’t believe in men; she isn’t gay, for the record. She just doesn’t need a man. The Naiman is the woman who walks up to you and you start shivering, apparently. She can fix her own computer (sorry nerds), her own lights, she knows what bolt fits where on her bed, how the thermostat on her iron box works and how it behaves when the iron box (and or instant shower head) is utilizing too much power, how to create a wi-fi hotspot- not from her phone- from her router, how to fix the leaking sink and of course, how to jump start her car. She doesn’t need a man. The Naiman is superwoman. She wields the power; she can go drinking out all night with her friends and expect to come home to find cooked food, the kids in bed and the house smelling like Jesus’ feet walked there- no stink whatsoever- especially in the toilet. And in the morning, you apparently have to be loving enough to change the kids’ diapers, clean make the breakfast, nurse her back to health (never mind her problem is a hangover) and make sure you collaborate her story with the boss when she tells him, sobbing, that she feels sick.

Bear with me, the Naiman sounds like an absolutely lovable woman so far; we should correct that. Let’s retrace her roots.

You see, the Naiman was once a girl. This girl is intelligent. She has the brains. She got all the right scores in high school. She may not have been as bright as you were; perhaps she got a C+. She managed to get into college- at this point it doesn’t really matter if she got an A. She made it into college. And that is when you met her. You wowed her; she was your life- and you were hers. You can’t really remember using any pickup lines. Who cares anyway? Her heart melted for you. You were inseparable; in fact, most of your friends looked up to both of you. You were the model couple. Your HELB, for which you now have to part with some money regardless whether you received or not, was spent with her. She made you happy. You didn’t care.

Then you graduated. You were happy for a few months. Then she suddenly told you, I can’t see you. Actually, she says, you are the love of her life but she can’t see you anymore. You remember you once told her love can’t buy her food; it stuns you how you were just predicting your demise. (If you are lucky enough to work things out at this point and convince her you will be by her side in a year, you are lucky. Especially if she loves you- you have just given her hope and she will wait for you.)

But now, you have no job, you have no prospect of doing anything. And she has the world at her feet; after all, she is young. Okay, correction, she is young, hot and wild, as her friends tell her. You see, she has finally landed a job, at least which is what her friends tell her. And to compound things, she has a job. It doesn’t pay very well, but she soon notices that every man in the office is giving her more attention than you have in the past four months. After a while, you receive an SMS, “I am sorry, I just can’t deal with this.” You call back. She picks, then she tells you to stop bothering her because she is out with friends and you are making her embarrassed. You quit calling after it happens a couple of times. You try your best to forget her, and finally, you decide, “This is not worth it.”

But she goes on.

She declares herself independent when she gets her pay rise. At this point, she decides to get her own house. She has no responsibility to anyone after all. She goes out on a daily basis- her newly acquired circle of female friends validate it. They go out week in, week out. Nobody really knows how they manage to get to work the next day. At this point, she is 24. More importantly, she is on the lookout for Mollis. Her vagina has had more poundings than an Akorino drum. But who cares? She is still young, hot and wild. She insists on protection. She is safe. At this point, she resents any man that cannot get her wailing to Jesus.

Then she gets to 28. Her circle of female friends slowly declines; until she is left with Angie- they all have an Angie, or Debbie or some other fancy name- who doesn’t seem like she will stop soon. Angie tells her she doesn’t have to be lonely and broke; she can be lonely, but at least she can’t be broke. Her dead weight job doesn’t matter. Angie introduces her to Magunga. Magunga is loaded. He takes her out and makes her forget stuff. He checked her out at a massage parlor once and when he left she could still feel his eyes on her. It doesn’t take very long; Magunga parts her legs faster than a Kalenjin cow on heat.

In 9 months, she has something that resembles someone she has come to hate and loathe over the past 9 months. In fact, they are calling her Mama Kim now.

Mama Kim is smart; she went to campus after all. She doesn’t need any man, remember? (Despite the numerous chances Magunga has offered to marry her- he is simply beneath her. When she does a little digging she finds out that Magunga isn’t her type.) Anyway, she cares for Kim. She is there for him. She feeds him on her tits, she waits the full six months the doctor said before she forcefully makes Kim quit after applying hot pepper on her breasts, which hurts more than Odom’s death hurt the Kardashians. She goes back to work.

But the bosses at work do not understand she has a small baby at home; actually, she doesn’t trust her house help, whom she pays peanuts (Yes, Jesus gave up so much for us because He was worth nothing). She is determined. In fact, her boss gives her another pay rise. One look at her breasts tells her no wonder no man wants her. She wants a father figure for Kim. He has been too inquisitive of late. So Mama Kim goes to a doctor, if she can afford it, and declares she doesn’t want her tits on her navel’s level. She revamps herself.

With her new form, she remembers all those sweethearts she turned away back then; she starts with you, but you are happily helping your wife make supper for the kids and you can’t wait for them to get into bed so you can do it in the kitchen. In fact, you helped them do their homework quickly so you would have her all to yourself. Then she tries Alexas; that guy she always hanged out with, who was always so jealous of you.  He took her out shopping and never asked for anything, other than a kiss ob Instagram, after which he was always sent back to the Brother Hood. But no, he has a wife now too.

She grows desperate; never mind that the Akorino drum gave in a long time ago and burst, while her vagina still wants a pounding. She joins all these online pages; perhaps someone hot blooded will pick her up, but all she does is to encourage herself and perverts who think a sugar mummy is their solution. She tries the church, but all the pastor is interested in doing is planting a seed in her that will cost her 310 Ksh. She gives up the church as well. By now, her tits are almost somewhere between her knees.

So she turns to Maina Kageni who tells her everything will be okay, when he himself hasn’t even figured out his/her sexuality, on Morning Radio, to which Wakanae responds, “Kama unataka bwana, nyenyekea.”

People laugh, and so does your college boyfriend when he listens to the audio on Whatsapp but doesn’t recognize your battered voice, as well as Kim who has grown so distant of his mom he thinks this is just one of those women, but Wakanae doesn’t. You suddenly realize he has a point. And he isn’t talking about church, where for so long you have tried to seduce the pastor and choir boys and God knows who else. She is just a Naiman after all.


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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I hate October

October. I always hate October and to some extent, September. Too many bad things happen around these two months. A quarter of the world dies during these two months; wars, suicides, road accidents, laughter… Ok, wait, I am not sure laughter fits there. Then there are tragedies. Houses collapsing, teachers not getting paid, children opening school to study for four weeks (never mind that parents will still pay for the entire term), Kenya beating a team 5-0 then failing to reproduce that form at Kasarani, Airtel cars- that we’re supposed to win if we use their services stalling on roads and causing traffic jams. My neighbour announcing that we can longer be friends because his girlfriend thinks I am better girlfriend to him than her (SMH), never mind that we cooked beef at his place once and we were all drunk. In short, I hate October. Rocktoberfest can’t do anything to absolve this.

And this October still wants to be miserable. For starters, the promised El Nino that was to keep me indoors instead of having to wake up at 5 in the morning to go to work hasn’t happened yet. Only Mombasa citizens have had a taste for it so far. And it didn’t even last three days. Then there are rumours Airtel will move from Kenya soon. I don’t even use their services, but imagine how much Safaricom will charge us once their biggest rival here is gone? I foresee a day when Kanjo will partner with Safaricom and we will be required to pay for public toilets using airtime. And don’t even get me started on the fact that our leadres are fighting. And from the look of things, this will not be okay. Then there are wheelbarrows that civil servants can only afford to buy if they save up for a year. And MCAs that award themselves six million on a whim. And half built markets that cost millions.

I hate October.
And I haven’t even talked about the elephant in the room; that Njoki Chege wants fat women held responsible for their cheating spouses simply because they are fat. I know I shouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the day that insensitive, Subaru hating, insecure, bile loving… (I have ran out of adjectives, sorry)… poor lady gets a husband, humanity will have failed me. Fat people don’t choose to be fat (most of them anyway), it just happens. Some people just have better metabolisms. And some people are just idiots.

I hope you’re starting to see why October isn’t my favourite month, ever.

Never mind policemen who are more interested in money than actually saving your life or offering you any help at all. It’s worse in October because it is a dry month and the farmers don’t really have any food to transport to the market; most of them are preparing their farms for the short rains. Which means that there are fewer people hiring cars to transport their produce, which leaves the cops strolling around town for anyone with anything that looks like luggage; and if you don’t have a receipt for it, you are either forced to pay at least Ksh 300 or go to jail for ‘theft’. Like most of them even see the irony. You don’t believe me? Try carrying a bag full of stones on Luthuli Avenue this month and watch yourself branded a terrorist who stole stones from a government building. And we all know how many government buildings are on Luthuli Avenue.

Then as if I don’t already have enough on my plate, there’s my brother. I love him to death. He is tall, funny and an awesome brother. He is the kind of person that would jump off a cliff if there was any chance his jumping would let you live if you only had one piece of rope between you and that rope wouldn’t support the both of you. He is the kind of person that will find you lying on the ground, in pain, from where a snake bit you and he would literally suck it out without minding what the poison would do to him. But.

There is always a but.

You see, he is what women call a player nowadays. He has too many exes. Most of them are beautiful, young things. And very naïve. As the good brother I am, I always try to be friends with them, because I know being friends with his girl can only get me closer to him. But they are naïve. Too naïve- I don’t try to hit on them, ever- but they are too naïve. Take for instance yesterday. I had been feeling a little down following disappointments in my company and when something great finally happened, I thought I would do something for myself. So I bought myself congratulatory meat. Nyama Choma. Then this lass walks over to me and says hi, she actually says hi. I remember her vaguely but she looks familiar. She tells me she is Ann and she is an ex of my brother’s. I smile. I remember her now. I invite her to my expensive nyama choma and order the waiter to get her two Redds Vodka bottles. Two turns to four. Then six. Then she blackouts.

So, here I am, a small, very young girl by my side and a half drank bottle of Redds Vodka. I gulp the remainder and try to wake her up. She doesn’t budge. I do what any self-respecting man would do. I try to get her home. I know she lives in Kasarani, so I decide to get her in a cab. But a cab will be too expensive, especially for an ex that isn’t even mine. I decide to get public transport. Kasarani isn’t so far away. So I pay my bill and drag her off the table. By now, she is basically a zombie. I take her arm and try dragging her towards the stage. Then the worst happens. The cops show up. I won’t bore you with the details, but this is how the conversation went down:

“Do you know this man?”


Do you know where he is taking you?”


Let’s just say nobody likes a man with a drunk woman who doesn’t know where he’s taking her. My Ksh 1000 will attest that we learnt this the hard way. And that is how I was unable to go to Sarakasi Dome to watch a play I had been waiting to watch for two weeks. I hate October.


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!”

People getting rid of the second generation alcohol after a government crack down on the lethal drinks

Last week, a couple of friends and I were talking, just reminiscing really about how far we have come. They are former school mates, high school- I am inclined not to reveal what school though because none of you will believe it anyway. All you need to know is that girls fondly referred to us as the Caltex Boys. And it had everything to do with the fact that we did resemble Caltex attendants, thanks to the benevolence of our founders who decided that boys in blue shorts and red shirts looked amazing, that couple with a pair of over-sized sharp shooters and brilliant minds.

Anyway, it all started out after one of us pointed out that we were no longer the cool kids, which shouldn’t have stung, yet for some reason it did. So we responded by telling the culprit, Kaks, that he has always been a cool kid. So we reminded him he used to belong to the crew that used to ‘dandia’ number nine matatus that ply along Nairobi to Eastleigh. Once in, we would demand a selection of music that ranged from but not limited to Beenie Man’s King of the Dancehall and Kat Deluna. The music was loud and being teenagers with exceedingly raging hormones, would occupy at least half the bus and pay for a round trip top to Eastleigh, to town and finally back to the school gate. We had practically no regulations and teachers on duty after 4 pm, and throughout the weekend, so try imagining a couple of unregulated form twos.

The day was never deemed complete until we visited Race Course for fries, rather, chips. This time though, we walked all the way there and by the time we got there we were dusty and hungry. The fries, weren’t great, in fact, they were soggy and dripped more fat than a fat man running on a treadmill, and the tomato sauce basically had more water than the whole of Kamba land. But we ate and drowned them in soda, mine has and will always be Fanta Orange, or Krest Bitter Lemon. Sometimes we got tired of the bad, expensive fries, but we had options; I mean, these were the cool kids. On such days, we usually found ourselves at Mzee’s place, where we had bone soup, which was delicious, and over boiled goat legs and ugali that smelt more of roast than Twitter.

On other days, we would simply go for bhajias or pilau, or both, at some Swahili lady’s place just near the school gate. While the pilau wasn’t that good, the bhajias on the other hand were great, and each piece was a ‘bob’ and the sauce (home-made) was delicious. Frankly I have always thought that was the reason we loved those bhajias as much as we did. Eventually we discovered Nyagah. That man could cook I tell you. At Nyagah’s the most common delicacy was ‘mandondo’, a dish made of beans and every other vegetable you could think of from chilies to dhania to hoho and avocado, and chapati. When I said Nyagah could cook, I meant it! Never in our entire lives had we seen chapati that was so monstrous, it made the Goldenberg scandal look like a total joke. The damn things literally scared you before you even had a bite. I could never get past one and a half of those things. After a successful supper, we would head back to school and keep off the dining hall like the building was made of farts. (Also, one of the side effects of our Mandondo, which other people later came to associate with our being at Nyagah’s were the unending farts during preps).

Then came the mad craze of the Blazers. The blazers were the result of a mad financial genius called McSimon, who usually went for them at the nearby Gikomba market, fitted them, dry cleaned them, then sold them to us back in school. And the guy made a killing from it, eventually making more money than the JA could ever dream of. That coupled with the biscuits and magazines he was selling (I will refrain from mentioning which types of magazines), he was practically a business king pin. Practically everyone had them when we got to form three; and they had two main purposes; to look distinguished during the Friday night Barazas, which I have always insisted was an epic idea introduced by the founders, which gave us students a chance to air out any grievances and issues we had, either with the administration, teachers, prefects, dorms (we called them houses), dining hall, field-basically anyone, and it would never be held against you by anyone whatsoever, by direct orders of the Director.

But usually we just went to kill off time instead of attending Friday night preps. Mostly most issues raised were valid, but like any other community, there were jokers – many of them. One time a friend of mine, Okubasu was his name, went to protest at how he was being mistreated by prefects for refusing to stop when called out to. So the guy told them flat-out that he would continue ignoring them until the administration introduced reflective jackets for the prefects at night, which would allow him to spot them and avoid them better so they would never have to feel ignored and neglected when he didn’t stop for them.

The other reason we needed blazers was for the girls, who usually came over on most weekends for ‘funkies’. Funkies were typically boring, but the girls made it worthwhile. Pangani Girls were our favourites, considering the rumour that had been going around of how they had unjustly attended to the sexual needs of their watchman; we deemed them valuables, followed closely by our beloved Buruburu girls. Not to say we didn’t like State House girls or Riara and St Georges Girls, they were gorgeous, but usually they breezed right past us like we had buttocks on our faces. It was a very risky affair approaching one of these. But then we realized that the SCAN room was always full of them.

Now SCAN was the place to be. It was the school’s journalism club, and published magazines twice every term and a full-page newspaper on Founders day with the help of Standard Media Group. But SCAN had all these privileges; they had a computer that was mostly full of movies and games, and articles that the members themselves would contribute and the Editors would read through and give guidance. SCAN was actually a serious place, and respectable writers the likes of Tony ‘Smitta’ and Waga Odongo passed through, but I am almost sure we all joined for the same reason; the girls! Of course it was the place I honed my writing and eventually became an Editor and a Production Manager, but you get the point.

Anyway, one day after the girls had gone home and everyone was bragging of a girl’s number, complete with email addresses (we were such idiots) and school postal addresses, someone had the brilliant idea of getting soda. Coca-Cola. Usually, as I mentioned, I am not a huge fan of other sodas, but on these particular day I was very jovial after having secured not one but three girls’ numbers. I happily drank the soda, but it was too late before I realized what was actually in the soda; most of you call it Naps nowadays. Given that I had never actually taken any of that stuff before, you can imagine my state of mind after an hour. Then the worst happened; the school captain summoned us Editors to his office to discuss the upcoming Founders Day paper. We had no choice but to go. We called him Timopithecus, a reference to the generous amount of hair God had so generously bestowed upon him.

It did not take long for Timopithecus to realize most of us were a little under the weather. I will spare you the details, but the conversation that followed after demanding we stand on one foot, which we all passed, ended up with him asking me what I had taken and I said I honestly didn’t know, which was true, but not before bravely blurting out “I just drank half, gave out the other half and poured the other half!” Why he never pursed the issue further I will never know, perhaps he just so amused he thought we made it up, or the fact that the Founders Day paper was due in two weeks so he needed us horribly (no pun intended), but that, my friends, is how I started out on my Second Generation Alcohol.. I have since quit though, so don’t worry about my liver. Also, we all passed KCSE with flying colours, which was quite a shock to the administration.

In other news, why doesn’t the government want to pay teachers so other high school kids can waste their fours years like we did?

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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