Posts Tagged ‘Christmas’

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Mother Nature, you cat fish

First and foremost, happy new year people. I am hoping you had more fun than I did over Christmas… Mine involved lots of house hunting meaning I only went home after securing a new house on 26th, and lots of beer. A lot of beer drunk by my new landlord whom i had to get drunk first in order for him to agree to keep my house on deposit at least until the new year.

Then from there i still had to dig a compost pit for my mom (I feel very manly right now) and still make sure my kid brothers werent giving other kids bruises and scars. Thank God those brats start school today.

But that was that. I hoped the new year would be better. It isn’t. Not until I get back my Ksh 9,000 owed to me by one Mr. Njonjo from last year. Not forgetting i already missed spending new years with her and now I have absolutely no idea how to make it up to her. Never mind the fact that I am broke already and I know I wont gain access to any good money until next week when my new ID card comes out so I can go to the bank for my salary. Shopping for a new house is depressing. The only positive here is that I know I am not the only broke man in Nairobi. In fact, ladies reading this, someone pointed out that if your man isn’t broke in Njaanuary, that nigger has a sponsor too.

Which brings me to the reason I am particularly pissed off agitated angry mad this morning. Not at any one of you or any other human for that matter; I am mad at Mother Nature. In fact I am starting to suspect Mother Nature isnt even a woman in the first place. She is one of Satan’s toenails. That one toe nail Satan cut off and threw in the fire but refused to burn in the eternal flames of hell. Mother Nature, I am starting to think is even more of a bitch than Karma.

Because sincerely, how can she be so damn inconsiderate of other people and their feelings? Even Kanye West at least is considerate of other people’s feelings he just doesn’t give a shit unless they’re Kanye West. What part of Njaanuary doesnt she understand honestly? What part of ‘everybody is broke and in need of divine intervention to get through January’ doesnt she get?

Before you think I am being unfair on Mother Nature, I will explain my plight. Early today morning I boarded a matatu bound for town for work. It was precisely at 7:30 am; I know this because some guy was ranting on the radio about his wife leaving him and how he’s suffering because he doesn’t know how to cook ugali (like seriously, your wife leaves you and you’re more concerned about ugali than your kids? Or your impending dryspell?) Anyway, it was a glorious morning and I was psyched up and full of energy. I will stop making this sound like a high school composition now.

I took a window seat and proceeded to put on earphones so I could listen to a little of Monsters and Men and Lupe Fiasco while checking whether Arsenal have signed Aubameyang yet on BBC’s transfer gossip column. I replied to pending emails and Whatsapp messages. That’s when I looked up and saw the conductor had already started collecting bus fare. Being the good passenger I am, I went ahead to get out a Ksh 1000 note from my pocket and held it in my palm ready for the conductor.

That’s when Mother Nature happened. It had started drizzling. It was just a light drizzle but it was windy. Very windy. Soon the conductor was standing one seat ahead of mine. I cannot tell you how it happened but the wind suddenly burst forth in a fury. There went my Ksh 1000. Gone with the wind. It was on Thika Super Highway so stopping and running back for the money was not an option. And besides, this was public transport. For a second I was in shock not quite believing what had just happened. So was the lady seated next to me.

Then the conductor, who had witnessed the incident, came to ask for his money. Money that i no longer had. Explaining was a lot harder than I expected. But thankfully my expertise in choosing whom to sit next to paid off- I always advice men to sit next to women. The lady, Annet, offered to pay for my fare provided I paid back when we got to town.

So now I have Annet’s phone number, that I will not use because my finances already have a deficit of Ksh 1000, and a ton of guilt because when she hugged me she made me promise I would call her back. Any of you #TeamMafisi fellows interested in Annet let me know so I can give you that assist Ozil style. 

Dear Cousin

Dear Cousin,

Omusahkulu! Cousin. How much I have missed you. How is everybody? I hope everyone is okay. How are the quadruplets? Have they started their vaccinations? Did you find another job? Ama are you still idling at the market hoping somebody sees some value in you and presents something of value? How is Mama Omollo? That lady never ceases to amaze me.

Where are my manners! I am sorry. I should have started by saying I am sorry. I am writing to inform you that Brother Yahke passed away. Again, I am sorry. I know, you made me promise that I would inform you in steps about how he died; I was supposed to tell you that he went up the roof… then one week later tell you that he jumped…. Then tell you that he broke his back one week later… then tell you that he did not make it on his way to the hospital. I couldn’t. You see, we are all traumatized. Cousin Bahati (you remember him, don’t you? He was supposed to give his heart to Pande last year, remember?) tells me it is easier to tell you straight away what happened, for both our sakes.

Yahke, as I said before, is Kaput. Gone. Finished- literally. Damn that Isaka. You see, it was two days before Christmas. Isaka had already chosen one of our enemies (Bata), as his chosen. Then I don’t know what happened alafu this Eric Omondi fella appeared on TV saying that he (Isaka) could make dozens of money just by selling Bata. I remember because Oyuko had just been proclaimed the winner of gameweek 18 of our Fantasy Premier League. The bugger caught 18 worms that weekend. I think it was called OLX, or something of the sort. Now, as is custom, Oyuko took us out for drinks- on his tab of course- at Club Koo Koo. I will not lie to you that we had a few.

If you recall correctly, Yahke, the drunk that he always was, decided to pick a fight with one of the locals, who eventually turned out to be stronger than he was. The idiot decided to run. You should have seen him. But then, he decided to answer one of our biggest questions; why did great-great-great-grand-i-lost-count-20-years-ago-father decide to cross the road. A blue Subaru came out of nowhere. Aki si he was floored. Oyuko almost died. And his wife fainted on the spot. I was too drunk to react. Then as if to rub salt to injury (again, not ours) the driver of the blue Subaru stepped out of the vehicle and imagine instead of rushing to see if Yahke had suffered any serious injuries, he inspected the tyres of his vehicle! Asshole. Omondi picked him up about 30 minutes later. I hear his wife made stew out of him before we were sober enough to say RIP. I am very sorry cousin; there was nothing we could do.

Anyway, I hear that Yahke’s death is the least of our worries; Roomers -We at Kakamega are not sure whether it’s Rumours or Roomers. Cousin Bony from Nairobi hasn’t told us which Nairobi Aviation College decided is acceptable. And by the way he’s been training at Wilson Airport. Their motto there is “All birds can fly”; if you need internship tell him to hook you up- are that February 14th is in the next two weeks and that more than half of our families have been promised to females out there. Aki I don’t know where we will hide. I am not willing or ready to end up in somebody’s stomach like brother Yakhe.

As to that effect, we are holding a brain storming event on the 11th of this month to find ways of how we can avoid being eaten by these females. Bahati proposes we pay off their men. We can also get them drunk. Recent studies suggest that if we get them sufficiently drunk, they will forget 14th and will instead feed on kina guka Ng’ombe. More of them will feed on kina Mbuzi and The Nguruwes (good riddance). Personally, I suggest we join Nairobi Aviation College and learn to fly so we can escape. Singh will try to grab some land that we can use to practice our flying skills.

Anyway, I have to go now. Mama Odhiambo has just come back with fresh worms that she intends to use for fishing. Hehe, how we will feast on them during the night. Goodbye dear cousin.

 

Your favourite cousin,

Nguku.

 

P.S. If anybody else from Murang’a tries to rape you guys tell us so we can lynch him. We as chicken cannot continue living like this. And if we survive 14th, we will hold formal talks with the government to disband Kenchic, Chicken House et al. We will also write a formal petition to ban games that portray our relatives as idiots who have nothing else to do except catapult themselves to their deaths as they try to kill pigs. SMH.

P.S.S. Njoki Chege must go also. She has made blue Subaru drivers more of assholes than they already were. Aki nashuku kuendesha ashawai endesha ni kwa choo tu.

The Shawshank Redemption is undoubtedly the best movie ever produced that details what redemption and self forgiveness is all about

With a heavy sigh, he forces himself to stagger away from the window, where he’s been standing in his boxers for the past thirty minutes, no longer able to bear the sight of the man staring back at him. His eyes are partly bloodshot, his head heavy and his hands are trembling. Taking one last sip from the bottle of vodka firmly in his grip, he places it on the small table beside his bed, gently, before reaching for the pack of cigarettes next to the now empty bottle. With a slight hesitation, he lights up a match, but his trembling hands cause him to burn two of his fingers in the process. He winces. More scars. It doesn’t matter to him; what are two more little scars compared to the millions of scars that blight his life anyway.

He lights up another match and this time, he successfully manages to light up the cigarette already on his lips. He inhales and feels the head rush hit him almost instantaneously, even before he blows out the poisonous smoke. The woman on his bed coughs and stirs up, her gaze now fixed on to the back of his head. Annoyed, he takes two more puffs in rapid succession, almost choking him. He didn’t pay for her services to care a morsel about her; besides, it’s his room. Like most smokers, he resents how the cigarette makes him feel like shitting a ton. He wishes the cigarette, now almost halfway, could make him release all the shit in his life.

The events that led to this night are still fresh on his mind, burning him, scorching his soul and will to go on in the process. His gaze is fixed on his right hand; he wishes he could cut it off. After all, Jesus did say any part of the body that causes you to sin should be cut off. He wishes it were that easy- to cut off the hand that drove a dagger deep into woman’s chest only hours before and forget the whole thing happened. He knows he’d give anything, including his own life to go back in time and warn his past, angry self before the bugger did the heinous act, because like most murderous, he didn’t intend for it to happen that way. He also knows his anger for her cheating didn’t warrant her death… for starters it has only added more misery into his life… but what is done is done. They are probably looking for him now, but he’s made up his mind not to run.

God knows he already misses her; if she were here he’d probably tell her something cheesy to make her laugh, just to see her warm smile one more time… to hear her beautiful voice call out to him telling him to stop making her ribs ache. He knows he’d probably respond with something even dumber. He’d tell her to forgive him for making her tired, because she’s always running through her mind. He still remembers the very first time he saw her. He was having lunch with a friend when she walked into the hotel. Disappointed they didn’t have pork ready at the time, she left. He’d run up to her and told her he wanted a picture of her to show Santa exactly what he wanted for Christmas that year. He bursts into a drunken, hysterical laughter when he remembers the priceless look on her face. For them it had been the proverbial love at first sight; there had been no need for him to walk by again. People had once described them as the perfect couple.

But like everything else on earth with the exception of Herpes, love too fades away. He makes a resolve.

He staggers one more time to his bed, where by now the hooker, whom he can’t remember her name, has already helped herself to a cigarette, but was too occupied with his thoughts to notice it. He takes out another cigarette and hands the remaining pack to her; where he’s going he won’t need them. Then, he pulls out a bunch of notes without bothering to count them and hands them to her. She knows she was lucky this time. To show her gratitude, she tries to pull him back into bed to give him one last fuck. He declines and she starts putting back her clothes- her work here is clearly done.

She follows him out of the door and watches him as he slowly locks up and without as much as a goodbye; both of them take to their different directions- two strangers that will probably never meet again, at least not in this crowded neighbourhood of Ngara. He pictures his destination in his mind. Outside, it’s began raining but he keeps walking straight ahead, willing every muscle of his legs not to let him stagger, knowing he’ll soon reach his destination. The darkness coupled with the rain trickling down into his eyes make it hard for him to see where he’s going, but he soldiers on, unafraid someone might jump him at any instant in these unsafe streets of Nairobi.

At last, he arrives. He looks up at the signpost that reads ‘Nairobi Central Police Station.’ He smiles as he lights the last cigarette he’s ever going to smoke again. He finally knows he can have a chance of redemption by taking the first step of taking responsibility for his actions. He reduces his pace now, taking one step at a time. He knows he may be drunk, but his mind is clear. This is what he wants to do. What he has to do if he’s to live with himself. Finally, he’s at the doorstep and he throws away the remaining cigarette.

He takes his first step inside the building, his gaze firmly at the book on the desk ahead, unconcerned about the curious glances directed at him. Then his phone starts ringing… A new number. He might as well find out whom his last call will be with.

“Hello, is this Alfred?”

“Hello, yes it is… Who’s this?”

“I’m Dr. Kimana calling from the Nairobi Hospital… We want to let you know your wife was brought here today with a stab wound and we performed an emergency procedure. We managed to save her life.. She’s awake now and she’s asking for you….”

He doesn’t bother letting the doctor finish… Alfred drops the phone and crumbles to the floor, tears in his eyes…