Posts Tagged ‘Alcohol’

Maroon 5’s And She will be loved….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

image

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cancer is no joke… and you ought to take it upon yourself to take care of yourself to minimize the risk

***As appeared on 14th issue of The Campus Chronicles Magazine link as follows: http://www.chroniclesmedia.org/014/ ***

A couple of days ago, I posted on Twitter that I quit drinking and a few weeks before that, I’d posted that I quit smoking. Problem is, I’ve created this bad boy, care free image of the man that drinks, note my words, not a drunk. Ok, basically a drug addict who’s somehow got it under control- it’s the image that has somehow got me the 1400 or so people hanging on to my word on Twitter, coupled with the fact that I am a funny guy, sometimes an asshole, but a definitely good guy; or so I’m told.

Wrong.

First of all, I do not have it under control and second of all, I am neither of those things. I am just a typical recovering alcoholic and one who’s proud to quit smoking. Now, I really do not sharing with random strangers the misery that bugs my life, it was paramount I mention because otherwise this post would be meaningless.

Last night I found myself awake at 2.45 am trying to Google the early symptoms of throat cancer. And yes, I had all the symptoms. A dry cough, a hoarse voice, a severe sore throat, lumps on my neck and difficulty breathing and swallowing. And most important of all, I was in pain; both physical and psychological. For the first time in my life, I found myself crying and hoping it was a bacterial infection and not the former and the saddest part is, courtesy of my inability to let any woman get close to me, I had nobody to talk to. I didn’t want to give my mother a heart attack.

In the morning, I woke up at precisely 6.30 am, sweating and with tears dried on my cheeks- I didn’t even have my usual glorious morning wood. I didn’t even take a cup of tea. I simply put on some decent clothes (I sleep in my boxers, ladies take note, if you want to take advantage of me in my sleep it is allowed) and rushed to the nearest hospital i could find. All this time, I was considering what I’d do if it turned out to be cancer. I chocked back a couple of tears on the way. I knew I would never forgive myself for problems I’d whole heartedly gone out looking for and inhaled.

Thankfully, it turned out to be a severe case of bacterial infection, so don’t worry about me. The irony in it being I preferred it’s short term suffering as compared to what Cancer would do to me.

Now, I know when you look at the title above and the story, they are two completely different things. But as I said, it was important I describe my life to you so you’d understand where I’m going with this. And my point is simple, even men cry; hell, I’m glad I cried and reinforced the decision to stay off cancer sticks and booze. I’ll miss it and it’ll be hard, but I’ll do it for myself. Another thing, it is important to have at least one person you can lean on when all hell breaks loose and you have nobody to tell you it is going to be okay. At least I know now I definitely need a genuine friend, not one of my alcohol buddies and preferably, a woman.

As a man, you’ll be faced with lots of such times. You might even find yourself crying like I did. The question is, will you have somebody to lean on because you were as stubborn as I was and the only heart I followed was some handle called ‘heart’ on twitter? Think about it.

The Doctor told me to take only one glass per day... fair enough....

The Doctor told me to take only one glass per day… fair enough….

Dear Consumer,

My name is Vodka. Yeah, the one and only. This is a one-time thing. It will never be repeated and you will not argue about it. You’ll just have to listen, nod and I’ll be done in few. If at any point in time you do try to argue to argue with me I’ll straightaway assume you’re on your periods and I’ll give you a tampon- for free of course. And you will also, at any one time, not assume that I have feelings for you. Do not catch that shit.

Anyway, I am here to give you advice on me and most of my friends. First of all, I am, contrary to popular belief, your friend. Doctors will tell you all sorts of misinformed nonsense about me. For instance that you should drink water instead of me; well, tell me this, who kills germs and who causes pip0es to rust…

For purposes of this monologue, you are from now hence forth to disregard their stupidity, unless you’re dying and do not have a liver donor. They tell you that I am not the answer; hell, i make you forget the question. They also tell you that I give you cirrhosis, that I make you stupid and that you will engage in irresponsible sexual behavior and that you will be carefree and very happy. Other than the cirrhosis, tell me what else among those things that you do not enjoy doing. Name one. And I’ll quit. I’ll even refund you.

Thought so. Since we’ve established that I add value to your life, now please listen..

I’ll not exactly brag that I am responsible for 90% of the fun you have, I am a humble being. However, I will profusely apologize for lying to you that I can make you dance like Keko; or that I can make you lean. You will dance like you suddenly have two left feet and the only lean I will make you do will be on ugly people, tables and chairs. Which reminds me, sorry about the ugly thing. I just think it’s funny watching you make out with a hideous creature that you’ll be totally embarrassed of the next day. Kwanza that time you jumped off a balcony to avoid being seen coming from Ugly Susan’s apartment, hilarious! I instagrammed that. You should thank me for making you a celebrity on social media.

Another thing, whenever I ask whom you think is the best person to call when you’re with me, keep off your ex’s number. Hell, I have no idea what you’re doing with it in the first place. It is however allowed to call your crush, stalkee and or the girl you think is not giving you enough attention. Also, I may have misled you that girls love illegible text messages at 3 am; I swear I didn’t know. I only learnt recently it was the reason our friend Mutinda found himself a bachelor last week. We ought to help him get back with his ex…. loooool. Just kidding. It’s awesome he’s single now. We can drink till morning now.

Oh, and by the way, I forgot to tell you I discovered what your fist is finally perfect to hit with; the guy who just bumped into you. But you could spice it up by trying to call him an asshole first… the slurred speech will make it hilarious. However, don’t you dare tell the first man you see that has a bike and lots of hair ati “Hagrid! OMG you’re real!” You’ll gerrit. A swollen face that is. After you’re done, celebrate your victory. You see the swimming pool down there, jump into it- of course after you have taken off your pants first. Trust me you don’t want these to get wet. Women hate competition. **pun intended** Hold on a minute, i think my cousin Beer is on the line.

*muffled conversation*

Yeah, it was him alright. Haha. Beer is a funny one; he never fails to make me laugh. Anyway, Beer says to tell you that he’s sorry he lied to you that some girl needed new makeup. He’s sorry about the whole vomiting incident. He says he’s offer to buy you lunch but he’s kinda broke right now. Actually he was borrowing me money. That idiot thinks just because I’m from Russia I am loaded. He should meet my brother BlueMoon from Ruiru. Personally I think he should accept that he’s broke and settle for what he has like Keg did. See how happy he is now? He even rolls in a metal drum that weighs at least a ton. He also told me to tell you not to dare mixing him up with me. Ever. You’ll black out, but not before you decide your neighbor’s door is the best place to take a piss.

Alafu, I am told to warn you by the Society of Alcohol and other Drugs (SAD) that they accept responsibility for their actions. Alcohol did make you a tad too truthful and it sucks because you ended up admitting to your boss that you hate him and the bloody job. You’ll probably never get a promotion… but don’t you worry friend, I will always be there for you.

Before I go, I need to tell you something. I think Maggie likes you. For some reason she couldn’t stop laughing last night when you walked up to a lorry and whispered “Optimus Prime, I know your secret. Show your face just this once…” Also when you told her, which was very responsible of you, to drive you home… Only problem is, the party was at your place. Wife her man… OK, sorry. Have sex with her. All you have to do is to let me help you. In fact, my younger brothers Tequila and Black Ice can do the job for you. I will instruct them promptly to get on it. Somebody say Bow-chicka-wow-wow!!! 😀

I hope we’ll be meeting later on today… you know where. I can’t wait to get you fucked up.


URINE AND THIEVES

Posted: December 11, 2012 by ketihapa in Alcohol, Crime, Ugly, Women
Tags: , , , , ,

My muggers saw the light.. but not this light. Sometimes, the light at the end of the tunnel is the headlamp of an oncoming train

A wince, followed instantaneously by a rapid series of blinks. I stumble onto a rock and almost lose my balance, but I lean against the wall just in time to avoid tumbling to the ground. Nevertheless, I still have enough eye-hand coordination left to light up a cigarette and not burn my fingers in the process. The head rush kicks in almost immediately and for the second time, I lean against the wall, with my back this time.

That’s when I notice the hooded man slowly making his way towards me. Alcohol, I know is supposed to make your mind foggy but not me. Alcohol is like rain. It makes all things look clear and beautiful actually- the grass, the flowers. I can only assume my neighbor doesn’t get rained on much though. Don’t get me wrong, I like her- the world wouldn’t be the same without her. You see, everything comes in twos; fear and bravery, male and female, light and darkness… I suppose there wouldn’t be beauty without ugliness either.

Anyway, my eyes are fixed onto the shiny, pointed object in stranger’s hand. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s a knife and I try to run away but I know I’m walking in zigzags. Most people call it staggering. The hooded man has already picked up his pace, but I know in a few more steps I’ll be out of the dark alley and out harm’s way too. I don’t see it coming. An arm leaps out from the shadows and grabs me by the neck nearly choking me. I try to shake him off but by then, the hooded man is upon us, pointing his knife towards me. Words are not necessary- I am either getting mugged or raped. I silently pray it’s the former.

He reaches into my pockets and I almost thank him for not going for my zipper instead. He calmly removes my wallet but just then my phone starts ringing and I can almost sense a smile forming on his face. Bastard. He goes for my pocket again, this time fishing for my phone. It’s the man walking by with a torch that gives me my window of opportunity.

As soon as he sees the light (no pun intended), my assailant tries to find cover in the darkness and the man choking my throat loosens his grip in the process. I punch him hard in his belly with my elbow and throw him against the wall, which hits his head and he passes out. His partner lunges at me with the knife but he stops in his tracks when he sees the barrel of my gun staring him in the face. Poor bastards missed it and it was tucked under my shirt all along. Like before, there is no need for words.

He drops the knife in surrender and I force him to kneel down. He starts pleading for his life but I proceed to shove the gun on his head, making sure he feels the cold of the steel. He pees on himself and I almost burst out laughing with satisfaction. I retrieve my phone as well as all the money he stole, leaving him with just enough in case he’ll need bus fare to get home. Then, calmly, I stagger away and it’s all over in just under 10 minutes. Unless you’re gay, you can call me a badass.

Well, except, as you may have already guessed, that is not how the story ended. For starters, when my assailant grabbed me I lost the fight against gravity and I fell down, bruising my hand in the process. Nobody passed by with a torch and I did not kick or hit anything and they took everything in my pockets- my phone, wallet, cash, the remaining cigarettes, as well as my shoes and my bag. The keys to my place were in the bag, mind you, and I had no spare keys. And sadly, unless it was my entire lower abdomen that produced that much sweat in a minute, I may have peed on myself.

Regardless, three weeks later, I am now okay and over it so you do not have to worry about me. Worry instead about the fact that Someone gets mugged every ten minutes. Poor guy. Anyway, I am sure we all hate thieves, muggers and robbers; especially the armed ones… let me rephrase that. We all hate them, especially those with weapons. Of that lot, I personally despise muggers most; they make you pee. You got to hand it to muggers; they are… wait that doesn’t sound right. They don’t need you to hand anything to them, they just grab it. The most unfortunate of the lot on the other hand are thieves who steal clocks and calendars. If they’re caught, they face time, while those that steal calendars get 12 months. Get it? No? Moving on.

The worst of the lot, however, are women, who steal your heart then trample on it with no remorse when they’re done with it. I don’t blame them; a woman has to find a man who has money, a man who is great in bed and a man who adores her…. Finding all these three men, who should never meet by the way, is not an easy task. I have therefore vowed, for the last time this time, to take my studies seriously if I’m to get filthy rich in future and eliminate the need for a woman in my life.

On that note, I am now off to study as I have exams this week thanks to the lecturers that have selfishly refused to go on strike. Oh, before I forget, ladies- my bad, I mean Jimmie Gait- if someone offers you free tampons with absolutely no strings attached, don’t take them. It is a bloody bad deal…. Also, you’re an idiot if you call it being mugged when you’re hit with a huge cup.

Adios.

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?

Expensive handshakes are the order of the day in Kenya.

On Friday my friends and I decided it was about time we went out, drinking indoors wasn’t quite working out. Let me mention in advance that this was, as usual, an alcohol motivated decision that was largely influenced in part by absence of female company. Being in absolutely no state to drive, we decided to travel to town by public means, though that may also have been due to failure to secure a car earlier on, a story I will recap once I am over the trauma caused by Mr. Malenje’s dogs.

The journey was uneventful, although we almost got thrown out for singing. According to the conductor, we were scaring all the would-be female passengers away. Nobody moved an inch. Not even Elvis, who soon befriended the conductor when he generously offered him a couple of gulps of the concoction we had been consuming… Don’t worry; nobody lost their sight… yet.

Anyway, one hour later we reach Thika, our preferred destination for our drinking spree having paid nothing for the trip. We conclude the conductor is either really drunk or he knows not to bite the hand that feeds him. We get to the club and there is some ‘big star’ performing so the entrance fee had sky rocketed. This we did not mind until we realized the conductor did charge us but he didn’t return any change and we forgot to ask. Conniving bastard drank our Ksh. 2000 alcohol didn’t return change! Now, if you’ve been with a drunk, you will know that reasoning is at a minimum, especially if another drunk is with him. In this case, we were four of us. It was unanimously decided our drinking spree could wait; we needed to find this conductor, fast.

We hit the streets once more but he is nowhere in sight. At this point somebody comes up with the brilliant idea of reporting the idiot to the police. We agree they will help us best. Somehow on our way to the station one of my pals notices a Pesa Point ATM machine and like sheep in the big city, we follow. After all, more money can only do us more good in alcohol terms once we have accomplished our quest for justice. We are almost done when a police Land Rover passes by. Somehow in our stupidity, we decide to yell that they should come back. We were on our way to see them in any case and now that they found us, it would mean we wouldn’t have to walk to the station. A good omen!

What we didn’t realize is that the police are sinister people. In fact, if a man ever steals your wife, don’t tell them; to them, there is no better punishment than to let him keep her. The police happily drive back to where we are standing yelling after them. Two of them jump out of the back and from where we are standing; I notice that the back of the truck is loaded beyond capacity. It’s barely been one month since Michuki left and the police themselves are flaunting the same rules he fought so hard for. Anyway, I decide the people in the back are idiots for getting caught. By this time the two men are with us.

“Vijana mnafikiria nyinyi ni nani kusumbua watu usiku?”

“Afande tunahitaji usaidizi wenu….”

“Nyang’au nani amekuuliza!? Jibu maswali na majibu sio vitisho!”

“Apana, si vitisho…”

“Kwanza mnafanya nini nje ya bank usiku?”

“Hawa wanapanga kuiba!”

At this point we start protesting in earnest because it now occurs they think we are the criminals. We decide to proceed to the station to see their boss. These idiots clearly don’t understand we are the victims here and we need a man who poses grave danger to society apprehended.

“Kama unaeza kimbia haraka kuliko bunduki toroka!”

We stop dead in our tracks, not quite believing what is unfolding and alcoholic levels in my bloodstream have suddenly fallen enough for me to vaguely understand what is going on. You see, in Kenya, the police assume everybody is guilty of something until proven otherwise. Here you can be charged for anything including ‘Loitering with intention of murder’, ‘Looking at government buildings suspiciously’, ‘Smoking with violence’, ‘Soliciting for sexual favours from unwilling female customers’ and ‘Smiling like a terrorist.’ I found myself panicking but the worst was yet to come. We were ordered into the truck which was almost as depressing as the man that was arrested for indecent exposure then released for “INSUFFICIENT evidence”.

I need not describe our state at the back of the truck. Two armed policemen at the far end, people on the floor and those that did manage to find a seat were seated in twos- one on top of the other- even PK doesn’t have it that rough. The journey wasn’t really long, but when all you can smell are people’s armpits and feet, it is unbearable. It wasn’t uneventful either; a fat woman was fighting with a boda boda guy for ruining his bike. Apparently she was so big the bike literally, got smashed, ‘ilibondeka’. The police didn’t want to know whose fault it was- they were both dumped into the back with the rest of us and told ‘The issue will be sorted out at the station.’

I think I may be the only person who still knew the whereabouts of his phone by the time we got to the station. Anyway, we try to explain ourselves to the police once more but they hear none of it. According to them, we were going to be booked for standing outside the bank with intention for pulling off a heist in addition to being drunk and disorderly, but we could be let free if we knew what language paper talked. It didn’t take very long for four drunks to pay up. Quite literally, fools were soon partying with their money, just not the way we had hoped. It was the same case with everyone else except the poor girl accused of prostitution. I hoped her freedom wouldn’t have to be purchased along the lines of what I was already thinking.

We did eventually have our drinking spree; it was to end with me in hospital with severe alcohol poisoning characterized by loss of vision for a full day thanks to the same ATM machine that got us arrested in the first place. The difference is that we were accompanied by our new body guards, the police, whom we learnt are a kind lot once you are fluent with this language of paper. They even offered to catch the conductor and inform us the moment they did. We also learnt two things; never get arrested in front of an ATM machine, and if you do get caught, don’t panic and cause headlines by turning into a goat like the Nigerian man back in 2009; there is a language spoken by paper that you should be fluent in – bribes. It has no rules, no grammar ninjas, nothing. Oh, and if you don’t drink and drive, don’t drink to die either.

Africa's beauty is best illustrated by this beautiful photo

Few of you know I am an avid reader, I love reading anything that doesn’t lead to exams. Anyway, one day I’m reading some journal and I stumble upon a piece on insecurity in the US. It went on to describe how three lads who were out in the city were attacked by a mugger, who demanded they give him all their valuables or he would inject them with AIDS. Two of the lads immediately gave up their money and everything else they had, but the third, man the third made my day. He refused to give up anything on him and told the mugger to fuck off. The mugger injected him and ran. So the first two lads look at him in dismay and ask, “Are you crazy? Now you have AIDS because you wouldn’t part with a few coins!” This third guy smiles confidently and says, “No, no, it’s alright, I’m wearing a condom.” PAUSE. I should leave you to guess whether or not I was banned from the library by the Librarian on grounds of gross disturbance of peace and violation of a million other rules I think he made up on the spot.

Now, my point was not to illustrate that some people only gargled from the fountain of knowledge. No, that story got me thinking, and I came to the conclusion that in Africa, that story wouldn’t have ended as it did. We all know how that script would have read had the same mugger attacked three black people. One of them would claim he already has AIDS and he isn’t scared, which would give the rest an opportunity to jump the mugger. They would proceed to beat him senseless then, to teach him a lesson, they would share among themselves what the mugger made that day. A crowd would have formed by now; someone would already have nicked a tyre from any car parked close by. Another would produce petrol while another from the same crowd would have a matchbox ready. The mugger would be dead before the police arrived at the scene while people would go home like nothing happened; after all, he wouldn’t be the first mob justice victim, right?

Wrong. The above is a white man’s perception of Africa.

Someone once mentioned to me that Africa will never reach any level of development minutely close to that of the first world countries; he was wrong. According to him, we strive hard to get to where the developed countries are, forgetting that by the time we are able to use nuclear energy, they will have discovered and started using another source of energy, perhaps sand? That by the time an African country manages to build a car, the West will have moved on to something more convenient, teleporting may be? He went as far as to say he was convinced the West would develop wings for mankind. Had it not been for non-existence of eye-hand coordination courtesy of my dear friend Alcohol, I would have given this fellow a beating. I opted instead to give him a piece of my mind, that he was wrong.

I know we may be the only place on earth where it is okay to rig elections, organize post-election skirmishes, then resolve the whole issue like it never happened through a power-sharing deal constituting 42 ministers in one ‘grand coalition.’ True, I still think African presidency is the biggest conspiracy since the ‘Americans landed on the moon conspiracy.’ I also acknowledge that my opinions do not matter to the Kenyan government because they would just form another of the 10 million named committees of experts to look into the matter. But hey, life gives you lemons. You make lemonade and if you don’t know how, you eat it. Either way it ends up in the stomach. That is the African spirit. I simply do not care that we will be rebuilding railways every five years after general elections because some idiot in Kibera thought the absence of the railway hurts Kenya more than the citizens of its landlocked neighbors, Uganda and Rongai. My point being, it is what makes us Kenyans and thus, Africans.

I am also fully aware, as you should, that Africa is the only place on the face of the earth where a 14-seater matatu will carry double that number of people and somehow everyone will find a place to sit. The Luhya people can bear me witness that 15 of them, including the driver will fit into a 5-seater Pro-pox (for the record I still don’t buy that they think Pro-pox is some variant of chicken pox or that Mascara is the plural of the Swahili word sigara.) In Africa, we have our own way of doing things. We will even act pornography in local dialects and we won’t be embarrassed when the star of the show decides halfway to tell her fellow actor “Mastyro perekea bibi yako“. In fact, we are so religious that the ratio of churches to available brethren is 20:1. Hell, it is illegal to take alcohol regardless that you are over 18 years of age or not thanks to one Mututho. And if you didn’t already know, everyone here is a businessman- we all know the quickest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your pocket; plus you can’t make good money if you sell SHAMpoo. In Africa we have REALpoo.

That same Anti-Africa friend of mine also thinks that the 2010 FIFA World Cup tournament held in South Africa was the worst football disaster ever witnessed, far more grave than Arsenal’s recent grass 8-ting competition. It is 2 sad my eyes had to witness it. Anyway, my friend was yet again wrong. I believe South Africa organized the best World Cup tournament ever witnessed, because they managed to creatively blend football with a colourful concert… the Vuvuzela Concert. Sure they have a clown for a president, who happens to think AIDS can be washed away with a cold shower, but I have to give credit where it is due. The event captured the true African spirit. In fact, the only reason an African country did not win the World Cup is because of our good hospitality. We let our guests pick the best food before we can pick some ourselves. Charity begins at home after all. I would say Africa and Liverpoop are solely to blame for the death of our trusted match-fixer, Paul the Octopus. Poor thing laughed so hard when he heard Africa actually hoped to win the tournament he died.

To the West we may be barbaric, backward, uneducated and primitive but truth is, most of them are so narrow minded they can see through a keyhole with both eyes. They came in the name of Christ, looted our land and our wives and all we got to show for it was a damn bible. That we couldn’t even read mind you because it was written in their damn language! As far as I’m concerned we have the best weed on earth and our women don’t need Silicone implants in their breasts to look beautiful. The scenery is simply exhilarating. Besides, money is not really an issue because if we need more we’ll just print it (ask Mugabe); and the people are great. The people man! Africa is best defined by its people, and I love them no homo. Long live Africa.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.