Posts Tagged ‘Arsenal’

The Sugar Mummy

Posted: September 20, 2015 by ketihapa in Drama, Life, Musings
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Usually, I am a pretty normal guy, at least I hope I am. I have more or less the same problems most guys have; girl problems, money problems, beer problems, Arsenal problems (this was compounded yesterday, sigh), appearance problems- like most guys, when i step out of the shower i tend to think about where i will find money that day, not lotion. I know I have a brilliant mind,but sometimes I wonder how my brilliant mind is going to feed me. But at the end of the day, I try my best to make it work; I have to. We all have to try.

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

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

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

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

Here goes:

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

 

HOW TO GET WET

Posted: October 21, 2013 by ketihapa in Alcohol, Women
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No, this is not the kind of wet i am talking about..

As a fact, God punished women with periods and child birth and getting wet when it’s not even raining; doesn’t matter if they have umbrellas. Of course, our God is a fair God; He had to punish men too. He made us deal with women on their periods. I have stated this before in this blog time and again, I am NOT homophobic; but you understand why God hates gay people. They obviously found a loop hole in His punishments.

Away from religion, there are few things that scare me. Among them are losing the people that I love and care about and being anally raped by any one. Ask the guy that was robbed at dick point, Wateba it was, I think, if you don’t think this fear is valid. I also fear failing. No, scratch that. I hate failing. I fear that I will end up alone- and at this rate that is where I am headed- and I also fear that the Muslims were right all long and that Christianity is bullshit and we’ll all end up in hell as the terrorists have sex with their 70 virgins. Naturally, I also fear death, as well as my dear team, Arsenal, losing. Not to worry though, we have the Wizard of Oz11.

Then, there is the new fear I discovered I have not very long ago. Over the last weekend actually. I fear being pissed on. Especially if the person that’s going to pee on you is female.

I am not insinuating anything. But one thing is clear; I am never talking to any female first year students. With the exception of Daisy that is. Ever. Let me explain my decision.

As everyone who reads this blog knows, I am a drunk. I love beer and everything it stands for. As I once pointed out, beer is possibly the best thing ever invented. Beer allows you to see things as they are. Beer helps you get rid of that brain so everything is clear.

That ugly neighbor of yours, just drink two bottles and suddenly you will see beauty as God intended it to be; in the inside. That girl you’ve wanted to hit on for ages, beer will make that possible; It will give you all the confidence you need to grab a hammer to hit that. Beer will allow you to tell that asshole that’s been making you feel like shit that he’s shit. Yes, beer allows you tell him he’s shit even when you’re not in the toilet. Beer is also the best slimming chemical ever invented; beer makes you lean. On tables and random strangers though.

But that’s beside the point.

So, last weekend I found myself drinking beer for all its above mentioned benefits. And she walked in. She was beautiful. Again, refer to the benefits afore mentioned. She wore a short dress that exposed her long legs and made her cleavage seem like it would divert the attention of any sniper. That includes the sniper from the movie Saving Private Ryan. Yes, she got a number of men slapped by their girlfriends for staring too long at her. I needn’t say the girl I was currently hitting on slapped me too. From the moment she walked into the place, for me it was love at first site. Literally. And no Pepper, that wasn’t a typo.

Anyway, this beautiful lass walks up to the counter and orders a bottle of vodka. Vodka; and she’s on her own, which effectively signals the race to get her number. After all, we’re in Juja. Men here sense fresh female blood the moment it steps out of a jav. Count Dracula would be proud. If you don’t believe me just visit the JKUAT swimming pool. If God suddenly decided to unleash a virus that made all men cum at the very same moment, the JKUAT swimming pool would be a national resource for sperms.

Nonetheless, the girl walks up, aware of the attention she’s receiving and (miraculously) sits at the table next to the one we’re seated in. I assume my natural charms have something to do with it. I mean, it wasn’t my fault I was born very handsome. Wafunya, when I talk about handsome I am not talking about the other kind of handsome that involves Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. Anyhu, either that or the Axe deodorant I’m wearing if the Axe adverts are to be believed. I decide to take advantage of my obvious advantage. I ‘accidentally’ spill what’s left of my drink with a very precise aim that’s aimed at her shoes and I curse out loud, of course after saying sorry. She turns and laughs. My cue.

I turn to her and boldly proclaim her hotness must have heated my bottle to the point I couldn’t hold it any more. Cheesy, I know, even for my standards. She keeps on drinking her vodka. My pals, who’ve been following the proceedings carefully burst out laughing. One of them offers me his not yet opened bottle of Tusker.

Then a waiter places an empty glass on the table, right where my arms are. Suddenly, the girl pours alcohol into my glass and says she’s sorry her hotness made me spill my drink. Yeah, my pals shut up in unison. First time that’s happened in ages. She raises her arm and greets me.

“I’m Audrey.”

“I’m Victor. And I have no idea what’s going on.”

Audrey laughs and says takes a sip off her glass. Then:

“You’re an idiot. If that’s the pickup line you use to get girls you deserve to die a virgin. You’re lame.

“Do you see me in a wheel chair?”

Audrey gives me this priceless WTF look.

“Plus you just poured alcohol into my glass.”

“Yeah, I was sorry for your obvious effort.”

At this point in time I have to mention I can’t really remember anything else because Audrey’s vodka got me pretty drunk. So we’ll just fast forward to 9 am the next day. However, right now I do feel like I have just drank a bottle of varnish… I do expect a lovely finish.

******* 9 a.m. The Next Morning***********

We’re at my pal’s house. On the couch. I refuse to speculate whether we had sex or not. As afore mentioned, I can’t really remember anything. Killi and someone else I can’t really remember are playing FIFA. Killi is losing- as always- and Audrey is texting on her phone. And then I reach for my phone in my right pocket and freeze. My pants are wet. I instantly wake up like Rihanna and Ariana Grande just told me we’re having a threesome. I rush for the loo.

The moment I’ve locked the door I reach for my boxers. They’re dry; which doesn’t make any sense at all. I calmly remove my pants and smell them. I hope it’s beer. As you’ve all guessed by now, it’s not. I slowly wear my pants and walk out of the toilet.

“Audrey, ebu kuja nje kiasi.” I don’t really care for English now. I walk out and Audrey follows.

“Ok,what happened? Why do my pants stink of pee?”

Silence.

“Errrrm, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry boo. *whispering* I peed on myself. I didn’t think it reached to your pants.”

Silence.

“You whaaaaaaaaaattttttt?????????”

“I’m sorry.”

At least, she does look genuinely sorry. I calmly walk into the house and get the cushion. Killi and the other guy I can’t remember are too busy with FIFA to notice. Killi has just equalized. I place the cushion on the rail in the balcony.

“If anybody asks, you accidentally spilled water on the seat.”

Audrey nods.

I tell Killi I’ll see him later on during the day and walk out. Audrey tries to pretend nothing happened. As I walk out, I delete her number from my phone. It officially goes down in history as the first time I got a girl wet and she returned the favour. Only her’s is too literal to be even minutely sexual. You can thus understand why I am never hitting on any girl that’s more than two years younger than me.

Oscar Pistorious displays his winner’s medal at the 2012 London Paralympics.

For lack of an excuse, I think I’ll just come out and say it honestly; I haven’t been blogging because I have been lazy and all I’ve accomplished in the past month is to gain weight. And yes, I still look like a toothpick so don’t dare guess how much I weighed before. But receiving the news last week that i passed last semester’s exams and landing the job I wanted in Westlands this week has somewhat cleared my mental/writers block. So, here i am, back to my usual antics: I am typing as I look over my shoulder every three minutes just in case my new boss realizes that I am not replying clients’ emails…

Nevertheless, a lot has happened and I’m sure you do not need reminding, but i am going to offer my expert opinion of the events that unfolded this month. And first of them is Oscar Pistorious.

Oscar… honestly, I am still in awe. Who shoots his girlfriend on Valentines?? Just who? SMH. That is just prosthetic.. Sorry I mean pathetic. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of the bugger before he wasted his girlfriend with four accurate shots. I give him credit; He shoots better than my dear Arsenal. Oscar in my opinion should have pleaded for temporary insanity. Hear me out. He’d say the voices in his head told him Cupid was dead and he was to assume the honourable duty with immediate effect. He’d then go on to explain how he decided to spice things up a little and use a gun not some old fashioned arrows. And his first assignment was to get his house in order: he’d practise with his girlfriend.

Ok, now I don’t make sense. No court would ever buy any of that. The story has bearing.. A better idea would be to plead guilty to chronic stupidity. Who hears strange noises and assumes burglars are invading his home, and the first place he runs off to check is the bathroom- bear in mind the door is wide open at this time. Anyway, Oscar was granted bail, much to the dismay of South Africans… at least the court has decided to preserve his anal virginity for a little longer. Who knew people with no legs can shoot more accurately than Torres.

Then the pope resigned. Good for him. At least we no longer have to hear advice about sex (that I am currently starved of) from an 80 year old virgin. He said God asked him to. And to prove it, lightning struck the Vatican. Coincidence? I think not; though I am sure God must have been disappointed Lightning doesn’t have the same dramatic effect it used to. He should never have let man invent lightning arrestors. But who blames the pope anyway. When you’ve performed your duties diligently for years and your boss is just never around to buy you lunch once in a while, it’s heartbreaking. On the bright side, reports claim we might finally have a black pope. Woot woot!

And as if we don’t have enough drama already, Njeru Githae, it was found out, apparently slept with his dead son’s girl. Jesus. As the dude of the ‘they kidnapped everything in our pockets’ fame said, ni kama ndurama… ni kama findeo. People do some crazy shit, but there should be a limit for insanity. Apparently, Githae was also the reason his son, Brian Njeru, then a fourth year student at the University of Nairobi, committed suicide in the first place. And yeah, Kirinyaga residents did not take it kindly; he ultimately lost his bid for Kirinyaga County Governor on a TNA ticket. Serves the bastard right anyway. I hope he has a special place in hell.. And that the devil is gay… that should be enough punishment in addition to the eternal fire of sulphur.

Anyhow, as I accept the sad fact that I have run out of things to write, I want to correct the bastard that called Africa a hoe for, and i quote, “Riding on YANA tyres.” I also profusely thank everybody who retweeted me over the weekend when we needed blood for a 3 month old boy called Kenneth Mugo. You guys came through wonderfully and it was humbling. My twitter followers, I love you all. He is now recovering well and will thanks to you, hopefully live to suffer a bad sexual dry spell like the rest of us.

And with that, I am out.

The ultimate symbol of undying love in modern marriage is a ring

Dear wife,

I don’t know who you are and you don’t know me either. If it were up to me, this is how it would remain. In the event that we do meet (sadly, as we will eventually do), I want you to know that I will do my best to love you and be there for you. However, in order for that to happen, you will have to observe a few guidelines that I have take the liberty of coming up with.

First and foremost, if, God forbid, we do at some point in time discover that I am impotent, please do not panic. I have been saving up my sperm in an undisclosed sperm bank for an undisclosed fee. I am fully aware that many marriages break because of the absence of children to hold them together; however, you have Beyonce and Rihanna to thank as that is not going to be the case, thanks to the saved sperm. I refuse to elaborate further on this issue for moral reasons. Unilever Company, the company that makes Vaseline, wouldn’t be too amused either if I revealed the exact nature of our transactions.

And speaking of children, if our first child is a girl, I will name her Beyonce or Rihanna in gratitude to them. Not buts- refer to the previous paragraph above why this must be so, unless you will be okay with Julie Gichuru for our second daughter. If on the other hand it will be son, then, WE will sit down TOGETHER and come up with a good name. Nothing fancy like Ashton or out-dated like Leon or common like Kevin and definitely not, a religious name like Eustace or anything that declares him gay at birth like Bieber.

Another thing, I will expect you to dress up and behave like a lady. To that effect, I ban long dresses, skirts, baggy trousers, mothers’ union panties, condom shoes, weaves, wigs, Equity Bank T shirts or any other beauty product designed to fool my eyes. In fact, the shorter and the scantier the dress, the better. Also, NEVER roll yourself in a bale of flour like Sheila Mwanyigah or even possess her genes if she’s your mother. I expect you to wear see-through night dresses or night gowns or nothing at all and not pajamas. For recommended dressing in my house, please feel free to download Beyonce’s or Rihanna’s photos. They are free on the internet.

In addition, I expect you to fully support Arsenal FC. I therefore declare it the family team. You will attend games with me in proper attire (read an Arsenal jersey) and you will not under whatever circumstances make fun of the family team. It will also be your duty to teach our children to adore support the family team like their parents. If your friends support Manchester United, Barcelona, Chelsea, Manchester City or Tottenham, please ditch them in advance. You can however be friends with people that support Liverpool on grounds of extreme pity, while those that support Real Madrid and Juventus you will honour for their immense talents and or wealth. Please note that I am exempt to the above guideline.

Next, it will be an unforgivable mistake to let me cook my own food or to let me eat food cooked by anyone else but you, and that includes the house-help. I expect you to perform your wifely duties diligently. You will cook and take care of me and in return, I will reward you with the D whenever you ask for it. In addition, you will be expected to know how to prepare Mukimo, which will be our family food, as dictated by Kikuyu custom and tradition. (I doubt my mother will give me her blessing if I marry a woman who can’t prepare Mukimo). In the event I do marry you and you don’t know how to cook Mukimo, I will expect you to learn how to do it within the first six months of our marriage. During this period, I will eat food that is not prepared by you and that will include Chips Funga(s) and or Chips Mwitu(s).

It is also, in my opinion, very important that we should have adequate time for each other if we are to form a strong family bond. As such, we will spend as much time as possible having sex. At least two times a day should suffice. Nevertheless, no one is perfect and neither will we. We will therefore allow a sex expert of the female gender to join us and evaluate our sex-life. This should be at least once every three months. You can call it whatever the hell you want, but I personally prefer the term ‘three-some’. Remember, AT LEAST once every three months.

Moreover, you will be a church-going woman. You will thus have to attend church every Sunday in order to pray for our family, as well as to pray for me so that I succeed- I am the breadwinner of this family after all, right? My success, as you already know, will determine how well I am able to take care of you and our kids. I therefore urge you fast at least once a month (just before pay day) so that I will have enough money for you and the kids after I drink, party and go wild. You are welcome to tag along whenever I go out drinking, but make prior arrangements for someone to take care of the kids. Also, if we go out, I cannot promise that I will not pick up any Chips Funga(s) or Chips Mwitu(s). I will however allow you to attend one or two parties every four months because I do not plan to be a selfish husband.

Finally, you will respect my friends and more importantly, my mother as well as the above guidelines. In return, I will love you till the day I take my last breath and I will support you, respect you and make you the queen of my heart.

Yours faithfully,

K.H.

P.S.- For a successful marriage, Chips Funga and Chips Mwitu are exclusively to be eaten by one of us; in this case, me. Chips Mwitu refers to any woman I will pick up on the street, not a prostitute. I will not give you AIDS.

P.S.S.- Failure to observe any of the above will be grounds for an immediate divorce.

The Al Shabaab is is a real menace in Kenya

Hello good people. No, scratch that. I should start by first of all apologizing for my recent inactivity. I really shouldn’t explain myself but I have for some weird reason grown a disturbing attachment to you all, who for the last couple of months have taken your time to read the memoirs of a drunk you hardly know and for that I thank you. Anyway, the last month has been pretty hectic for most of you, I know, myself included and just now am I starting to get back on my feet again. Don’t worry; I didn’t add an extra level of intelligence. That ship sailed a long time ago.

The last month was full of drama and unexplained events and it would be a gross error not to at least mention a few of them. So I decided to review them one by one and give my very fair analysis:

1.       Alex Kinyua

There are more things that got me more surprised than this one; like for instance the fact that America published a guide on how to survive a zombie apocalypse. Yes. If you’ve watched AMC’s The Walking Dead you will understand what a zombie apocalypse might look like, but I really think the guide on how to survive one published by the American Centre for Disease Control would have been intended for people who really needed it; you know, like the actors in the Walking Dead. But hey, we all know at least one daft person in a place of authority. In Kenya we have Mike Sonko. I’d gladly trade him for the 80 MPs in Parliament who didn’t go to school however.

Seriously though, I tried to understand how Alex decided to eat up another man and I came up with the conclusion that Alex and his victim were both gay- no in fact, they were an amateur gay couple. I imagine the scenario where Alex’ lover, God rest his- or her soul, don’t know who the woman was in the relationship- said to Alex, “Baby you can have my heart,” which Alex, being the daft romantic that he was, understood to be “Take a knife and cut out my heart.” Another possible scenario would be where Alex was trying to woo his friend and only he knew, like we all do, that the shortest way to a lover’s heart is through the chest. Using a knife. Nyeri men can attest to that. That or Alex had been reading the best-selling cannibal book, “How to Serve your fellow man”. I hope his victim suited his taste.

2.       The Heist

Shortly after my laptop got fried- Alex Kinyua, no pun intended- I lost all hope and sunk into a very depressed phase, which saw me turn into a serious alcoholic. Ok, I’m just trying to justify the fact that I consumed a bottle of vodka with hot coffee as the chaser at 4 am in the morning with an accomplice you will soon come to know. Anyway, I walk back to my place to find the door wide open and the lights on. Still drunk, I thought the girl of my dreams had finally found out that in one of my fantasies, I find her in bed completely nude on my bed, smoking a cigarette as she waits for me. I may or may not have undressed, I’m not sure, but the instant I walked into that door and she wasn’t there, I lost it.

I think I was even more pissed off because I couldn’t understand what kind of low life steals from another man and leaves his lights on. Electricity is damn expensive in Kenya. Anyway I decided to give the house a visual inspection. Everything was in place, except my gas was gone- so was my new pair of leather shoes and my modem. That’s not all. There was food in the sufuria and undone dishes. Like Clint the Drunk said at the Night of a Thousand Laughs- thank God for the internet- “Don’t worry, be happy”, I simply emptied the food into a clean plate, sat down on the floor and ate. I was famished after all; and my thief was a pretty damn good cook.

I learnt something though. Never use a Solex padlock if you live in the sort of neighborhood where you’ll buy a woman pizza and she’ll take the empty box back home as a trophy or if the phrase “see the doctor” literary means looking at a doctor’s photograph. Also, if in your place fuel is sold in sachets. Another thing, if you get angry, your phone is no match for the floor.

3.       24 season 9

Remember 24, the action packed series that shows a series of events all leading to one major event, usually a terrorist scare of a bomb, that will be stopped by one Jack Bauer all in a span of 24 hours? Yeah, Kenya finally has that. Only in our case, we have no Jack Bauer and the big event does go through. I mean the Al Shabaab people. Their plans are so creatively hatched that their events only happen in a span of ten minutes tops. Usually, a man will leave a bag containing a bomb in a shopping mall, hurl the bomb in a church, or two churches to be specific and most times, drinking dens and bus terminals. The one thing I do give them credit for though, is their unmistakable love of life.

The Al Shabaab has re-invented the art of suicide bombing. Suicide in this case means placing a bomb very close to yourself, then performing a glorious disappearing act just as the bomb is about to go off. Houdini himself would be proud. One might even think they have a blast watching the bomb go off. But hey, what do I know. I actually blame the City Council; what do you expect when you put up signs at bus stops telling people “Alight here”? I bet they will alight all right, terrorists will do better; they will go off. Literary. Also, I think they finally found out that the only virgins left in Kenya are Miss Karun and Jimmie Gait.

The problem with fighting terrorism is that it’s like being a goal keeper; an Arsenal goal keeper more realistically. You can make a hundred saves, but people only remember the 8 shots that got past you. In my opinion, the only way to fight terrorism is by using women. Give them guns and tell them Al Shabaab think they are fat and ugly.

Have a great week people.

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.

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