Posts Tagged ‘JKUAT’

Lessons From A Senior Mafisi Sacco Member

Posted: February 2, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Humour
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We are Many!

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:


Posted: October 21, 2013 by ketihapa in Alcohol, Women
Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

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?”


“Errrrm, what’s wrong?”

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


“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.

Yayha Jammeh, the self proclaimed king of Gambia that cures AIDS

It’s my phone ringing that wakes me up. I’m a little buzzed but clearly not drunk enough because I still have the capacity to know it’s 2 am. I’m also fully aware I have the right to reject that call but out of curiosity, I check who’s calling. No Name. I remember her vividly, No Name. We met at a club earlier on before I decided I’d had enough and called it a day. She’d given me her number, but as usual, I managed to forget her name, hence No Name in my phone book. Begrudgingly, I pick it up; again, out of curiosity.

“Joe, I need your help. Please. I’m in jail and I need cash to bribe the police. I’m desperate and I don’t know who else to call…”

Well, at least she remembers my name; the made up name I told her that is. At this point, I realize I have a stupid decision to make. It’s fine by me if she wants the D; but why on Earth would I in my right mind go to a police station drunk in the first place? It’s way past Mututho time. Not that it matters, Mututho stated I shouldn’t have any more drinks after 11, which technically means I can drink up to 10 drinks, right? Anyway, at this point, I’m pissed off. More at CCK than at myself for giving a drunk gold digger my number. If CCK had kept their end of the deal, hell, none of this would be happening. I probably gave her my number with full confidence that at 12.00 am 1st October her phone would be switched off. Bastards.

To be honest, I’m not quite sure I know anyone who’s phone has been switched off. In my honest opinion, I think it was a scam to get people to finally buy new phones. I assume No Name has probably not paid her Okoa Jahazi debt and Safaricom have instructed CCK to wait till their debt is settled. Or maybe she downloaded the app from China that supposedly prevents your phone from being switched off. Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that phones whose vibrations are louder than their actual ringtones that are made in Thika Road are still on.

I decide to play FIFA 13 so that I can sober up enough to make the stupid decision I know I still have to make. Ok, technically, I’m using No Name as an excuse to play FIFA at 2 am. Yeah, I guess I’ll forever be alone. But hey, on grounds of common sense I refuse to commit my life to a person who spends more time thinking about what men think than the actual amount of time I actually spend thinking. So, don’t judge me if I prefer to play FIFA and drink instead. In fact, FIFA 13 is so realistic, if you start your career mode with Joey Burton you start from jail.

2.47 am and I still haven’t decided yet whether to be the knight in shining amour for No Name. Somehow I decide to call her and ask what police station she’s been taken to. Thika. Great; just great. I hate Thika police station. It’s the same place my pals and I were locked up in for allegedly trying to rob an ATM machine. We were drunk, mind you. Policemen sure do know how to over-estimate people’s abilities.

To be fair, they have made a few right calls over the past few weeks; more specifically, Waititu’s case. It was a good decision you will all agree with me, to arrest a politician who seems to forget that hate speech is exactly what caused the Post Election Violence back in 2008. In fact, the 2 million cash bail he paid is not enough to repair the potential damage he may have caused. I presume his role model is probably a moron like him, like say, Yahya Jammeh, the Gambian president. The idiot claims he can cure AIDS if he kisses you and as a result, he should be made King. Which King executes people by firing squad?

Anyway, I decide this saga has gone on for far too long and that it’s about time I ended it. I have made up my mind to tell her that I am sorry I lied to her. I am not a teacher and I do not have a Ksh 13.5 billion salary increament backdated to July. Also, my uncle is not Kenyatta and that the money I used to buy drinks with was my HELB that has since been spent on drugs and other related activities. However, just then she calls back and tells me she’s been bailed out by a friend of hers who knows people and she appreciates all the help I was planning to offer. Also, I shouldn’t call her in future. She hangs up.

I’m seething with rage. I’m not sure why. But I assume it is the kind of rage Baraton University students had to dare to go on strike because they were being graded based on Church attendance. Brats. If someone gave me the opportunity to quit reading and get marks instead of going to church I’d gladly do it. I’d even get saved. Ok, maybe that I wouldn’t do, but seriously! At least UoN students had the decency to give absence of lecturers as a reason for setting up a strike within a strike. Inside information however indicates they went on strike to demand that the lecturers’ strike be prolonged- someone on Twitter called it Inception.

Again, I check the time. 3.40 am. Perfect. Now I have one less booty call whose name I still have no idea and my sleep is gone. The only good thing is that in Gay.K.U.A.T people never sleep and I’m sure I’ll find some party with more Dicksons than Punani to crash and I’m sure there’ll be free alcohol. Good thing I was in bed fully dressed, or Commando, as some of you would call it. And if I don’t I’ll just bask in the glory of knowing that Justin Beiber vomited on stage during a performance which proves she’s pregnant.

Private Jackson, the sniper who never missed in the 1998 Spielberg movie, Saving Private Ryan

I am a mad man, or so I’m told. But if you’re going to call me a mad man and you’re a Kenyan on Twitter (or #KOT) as they are famously known, then I’m sorry; coz guess what, all Kenyans on Twitter are mad people- lunatics that’ll stop at nothing to have a little fun. Sometimes, I think Caroline Mutoko of the numbskulls fame was right. When we’re not telling @Freddie_rich that he used sand paper to make his TV a flat-screen- yeah, the same TV where Sossi adverts feature bones and whose channels are separated by curtains- we’re busy reminding @_Mwass_ that a Galaxy SIII is just a phone that proves hard work doesn’t pay; at least not when you’re going to try to download Twitter for iPad on your sister’s ideos.

Sometimes you’ll wake up to find the car you prayed to God for the previous day right on your TL. Yes, in the form of a blue Subaru waiting for you to take a test drive. God knows @Kolaboof and @Paapa_ have a number of them in their parking lots. @LucyWamuyu has even more. Even Samsung, according to #KOT, seem to think that she cannot gerrit. Poor darling. It doesn’t matter how friendly you are with everyone. Twitter streets currently worse than those in Mombasa. At least in Mombasa, someone will spray you with bullets in a drive by and people will burn down churches in retaliation on your behalf. On twitter, people don’t even bother hiding their identity. They’ll not spray you with bullets; just one shot that will be more accurate than those of the Sniper in the movie ‘Saving Private Ryan’.

One minute you’re scrolling down your TL and the next @Gishuvski tells you that your pussy gets more hits than a Wakorino drum. BAM! You try your best to ignore and simply move on but #KOT aren’t done with you. On twitter, you, the victim, are actually supposed to take responsibility for any Subarus that come your way. You either laugh them off or you respond with something even nastier. And if you don’t, you’ve got @The_ONE_Adrian to tell you that he’s seen bigger boils than your breasts so wacha kuringa. I’ll tell you one thing, always respond with something of this caliber, “I’d kick you in the vagina, but my shoe would get lost in there.”

It’s even worse when you decide to stop all the madness so you follow @Cyvilldeillest’s example and start tweeting inspirational stuff like “Sometimes you need to challenge yourself!” Yeah, you even complete your transformation with an exclamation mark. Sorry brother, @JoeWMuchiri will simply reply with “Yes, you should. Eg. You can try to fap with your feet.” And if @SirLV smells even a whiff of your recent transformation, he’ll tell you that people who tweet inspirational stuff are the same people who read every day in school and still got D’s. His point, it fucking gets you nowhere. All you’re inspiring people to do is to unfollow you.

Sometimes you could be really down and in need of a joint like my @Sharzysharz and to drive the point home that nobody cares, @marto_kop will ask you, “Kwani huna magoti?.” And if he doesn’t, @Vynkev and @dannyceo will probably hit you with a MEME that reads “Negative Sir. Cannot locate any fucks around here” or “Hiyo story yako ingekuwa chakula tungeshiba.” Perhaps, like @AlchemistCB, you might have come across a great movie airing on KTN and so you decide to ask, “Hiyo movie iko KTN inaitwa?” Don’t worry, you’ll get an answer alright, but if @ilfabiano answers, it will be “Inaitwa na nani?” You decide it can’t get any worse and so this time round you ask for a good series to watch. Sadly, @RamZzy_ has been waiting for you in some dark alley and just when you think you’re in the clear, he’ll jump you and tell that the best series he could find for you was “1, 2, 4, 7, 11, 16, 22…” My advice, never ask any questions on twitter. NEVER!

One more thing, twitter is full of Ninjas and Grammar Nazis. If you’re not sure about the proper spelling of a word or correct punctuation, my dear, please Google. Trust me you really don’t want the scenario where you ask, like @_Anaisha_, “What’s the best colon for men?” and @Jayfreakay is the one to answer to answer your question. Yes, he’ll tell you that thisà;ß is the best colon available. You also shouldn’t wish that Michuki should rice back to life. Typos can either make or break your life on twitter. Case in point @kebubu (founder of Sguga and Sjula Inc. ) and @Wakamaa_  respectively. The latter was forced to change his handle from @Rockstarwakafs after this TT: #RockstarwakafsTweet.

On these Twitter streets, celebrities and important people aren’t spared either. Most people here think Miguu na Miguu na Pang’ang’a is irrelevant; but I’m not so sure @mbusih, @dannyceo and @leondacow would consider him irrelevant if the book he wrote were “Peeling back the Skirts” instead. Sheila Mwanyigah wil have learnt that the next time she rolls herself in a bowl of flour she shouldn’t twitpic it unless she’s ready for @Roomthinker. And this time, she’d better have an arsenal with her because you can be sure he’ll say something better than “You can tell from Sheila’s face that she’s been taking care of herself for years: self-raising.” Oh, and fyi by arsenal I don’t mean the team whose ambitions for this season have now changed from winning trophies to trying to finish the season with at least 11 players. A real arsenal.

So that’s about it folks, Twitter is not your friend. It doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings and it doesn’t care whether you’re a guy or a chic. In fact, it’s worse if you’re a chic because if you’re a loud mouth, you’d better be hot like @peachezk23 and @zawadibby. Pray to God you aren’t a momo and that nobody knows what school you’re from. Apparently @_Mwass_ thinks JKUAT chics steal your phone while USIU chics steal your girlfriend and likewise, K.U. chics steal sidemirrors. If you are any of the above, you’d better not care what in God’s ass people tweet about you like @ShirleyGhetto. If you’re the type to ‘catch feelings’ like @Mckym, you’ll definitely tweet from a retirement home (read @idaempress) when you act like Potiphar’s wife and leak fabricated DMs supposedly from old men (read @RobertAlai) who supposedly think you want the D.

So don’t tweet things like “My mum is fucking annoying”, because the eventuality of that convo will be @Eljayjoe telling you “Go tell your father.” Have a great weekend people.