The JKUAT Students’ Union – led by Jomo Erick and Victor Marende Nzoka – today organised the first ever A.G.M in Juja. They bought us free lunch and gave us sodas to wash it down with. Our job was simple, to sit down, listen to the union talk about what they promised to do and why they didn’t do it and, if need arises, ask questions; questions they would dodge, like politicians do. Same old shit.
One lady impressed me though. Goes by Josephine, the JKUAT-Westlands Students’ Union Vice-Chair. Pretty mami, medium height, yellow yellow, smooth skin, authoritative voice, blue skirt, nice ass (Hehe, C’mon, like you didn’t know I was going to do that).
Gets up, jokes “I come from Eritrea by the way…” to screams, cheers and whistles from the crowd. Then switches to a serious tune, goes “We as Westlands Campus are highly disappointed in this leadership. You people came to us, promised us heaven and earth, only to deliver zilch. Come back this time round, and you will be shown the door. We are tired of this nonsense.”
Meeting ends in Chaos – Juja goons feel their President has been insulted, leave barking, with Jomo Erick lifted shoulder high. I approach the lady next to the Dean’s office, feed her some bullshit story about working for a certain media house and wanting her official statement, just to look her in the eye as she explains her point.
After 20 minutes of pretending like I’m really listening – during which time I’m mostly just shaking my head, and staring at her boobs – I tell her, “Look, so, take my number, call me by the end of the week and decide if you want to buy me lunch or Whiskey, you will have been famous by then.”
She smiles, does that “Aaawww” thing ladies do (for no reason at all), takes out her phone and punches in my number. [Gents, First Lesson of Picking Up Women, Don’t ask for her number, it makes you seem desperate. Give her yours, makes her want you more.]
Here’s the thing, I don’t work for any media house. I won’t make her famous, if I had that power, my Grandma would be on the Papers by now (She makes some mean Uji). The hell she think I was, Mzazi Willy Tuva? I’m full of shit, you just have to take one look at me to know that. I fed her that bull ’cause she blew me off my socks.
I like my women strong, made of substance, outspoken, well-dressed, and emitting fragrances that smell like freshly-cooked Chapos. Now I’m at the den with the boys, taking one for the road, thinking, Will she really call me? If she does, what will I tell her happened to her story?
Maybe I should just tell her I got fired, ama? Si it will make her sympathize with me at least?
Chuny Min Oaye.
Original story from Ian Duncan’s Facebook: