Posts Tagged ‘Marriage’


Posted: September 7, 2013 by ketihapa in Relationships
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The unwritten rule of life: Hold your child’s hand till you’re sure they wont fall when you let go

If you’re reading this one of three things has happened; one, I resigned my chairmanship of #teamMafisi and got married, or two, one of my mortal enemies found out where I keep my stash of condoms and decided to poke holes, or three, I discovered I could earn money by watching pornography then jerking off and selling my stuff. Whichever the case, the inevitable truth is that here you are reading this letter. Also, it means you’ve turned 18 today… Still, Happy Birthday son.

In truth though, this letter is more of a contingency plan. Not that I do not love you, because I do- my balls are rolling at the moment actually- Your birth may have averted the apocalypse. And now God is so pissed off He wants to send me to hell. Son, I refuse to be sent to hell. I don’t want to spend the rest of eternity telling Osama how his daughter was the bomb. That is the reason I had to make sure you reached 18 before you could read this letter and the reason I didn’t tell you before my untimely demise; because only then can I be sure that you’ve grown enough to handle what I’m to tell you.

So here goes. First of all ensure you have no gas leaks in the house- just a safety precaution because this letter will self-destruct in approximately five minutes if the lab results are anything to go by. That gives you roughly four and a half minutes to finish reading. Now, I need you to kiss the top right part of this letter with an X on it. Your saliva will contain sufficient DNA to reveal the rest of the letter.

Good. The fact that you can read this means that you are indeed my son and not the milkman’s. Sorry, I had to confirm. If you were born as a result of my supposed marriage to your mother or as a result of the holes in the condom (refer to the first paragraph), your mother still blames me for the tattoo on her butt. Marriage wasn’t exactly my idea son, I wanted to die a virgin. Then God said he’d grant me eternal life. I am sorry I had to turn down that offer as appealing as it was.

That aside, I’d very much like to know whom you’re dating before we go any further. Oh shit, wait. I forgot there’s no return address. Doesn’t matter. Coz guess whom I’m hanging out with!!!!!!


Don’t know about you, but I think this guy is just a dick. He brags how he invented the Ford, ati how his vehicles have perfect braking systems and superior engines even if they look ugly. Then to make matters worse, he once tried to criticize God ati how Women were God’s worst invention of all time. You should have seen his face when Jesus told him his invention is shit. Jesus simply pointed out, I’ll quote “My ‘HORRIBLE’ invention, granted, may have a rear end that protrudes too much and emits too much exhaust fumes when they’re asleep, but at least men still ride my invention to date.”

Crap, I just realized you have only two minutes left before the letter explodes. Anyway, back to the reason I wrote this letter, the contingency plan (sorry, I was waiting for the saliva to dry up). After your birth son, I might have glued your glued your mom’s vagina shut. I’m sorry, at the time it seemed like a good idea because apparently our milkman, Wanjala, was taking advantage of the increase in the price of milk to seduce your mother. The bastard was selling her milk for 10 shillings cheaper. But that’s not the point, to cut the story short, apparently it was God’s plan for Wanjala to seduce your mother and get her pregnant. And as we all know, it was the glued vagina that killed her.

Your mother was supposed to give birth to the Antichrist.

I know it’s a hard decision, but I want you to find the notebook your mother buried in the garden outside our house. In it you’ll find detailed instructions on how to invent a time machine. When I wrote it I thought it was utter gibberish but apparently Einstein thinks it was brilliant and that it just might work.

So will you build a time machine son? Your mother’s vagina depends on it.

And I think time should be up now, so I’ll need you to get rid of this letter very urgently or it’ll blow up in your face, and I mean literally.

Goodbye son. Remember, no matter what, I love you. The tattoo of your name on my butt proves it. (Seriously, they allow tattoos in HEAVEN!)

Yours faithfully,

Dad here resting in peace (LQTM).

P.S: When you build that time machine and unglue her vagina, please do me a favour and kill that idiot Wanjala, of course BEFORE he has sex with your mother. Or this letter will be pointless. I lied, it’s a fucking revenge letter.

P.S.S. You’ll get further instructions when you build the time machine, coz well, if you reverse time you’ll undo my death in the process as well and I’ll get to re-watch Kidero slap Shebesh. Neither of them will see it coming till it hits her.

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,


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.

No way in hell I'm getting married!

No doubt many of you have heard of the young boy who once asked his father how much it cost him to get married. It was an innocent question but his father, like most fathers, was point blank. He said, “I don’t know son, I’m still paying for it.” That same father was later overheard telling a close friend that he used to hold his wife’s hand before the marriage out of love and lately, he had been doing it for self-defense. That man was my father, and I was that little boy. Although I later understood what marriage is like, I hated my father since for not doing everything he could to save his marriage with my mother. I hated him a little more on Monday morning when my mother called me, sobbing. I had been trying to decide whether to use the office toilets instead of the one in the house because there was no water. I forgot about my shit, literally, when I heard her heart broken voice amidst her sobbing. Apparently, she had been fighting with my dad and now she wasn’t sure she loved him anymore.

I finally decided the office toilet was a better idea and I was soon on my way to town. As usual, there was a jam on Jogoo Road so the driver decided to take a detour. In Eastlands, a driver is considered qualified if he knows how to use all sorts of shortcuts and routes to avoid traffic jams and get his passengers to or from town in time. This one, clearly, was over-qualified. Anyway, with thoughts about my poor mother burning up my head, I found it hard to fall asleep like I usually do and I couldn’t concentrate on the journey either. For the first time in a long time, I was barely able to come up with readable tweets on twitter. All this changed when I realized we were driving past my former high school, which for fear of retribution I will not name. Let’s just say memories of Blue shorts and badly mismatched red shirts came flooding back as well as those of my first real experience of love.

Few of you know me, but those who do know that I’m absolutely a sucker for romance… Jokes. I just love getting laid. That was what my first experience at love taught me to endeavor to do. Being in form one in a Boys’ High School, I slowly came to terms with the fact that girls were no longer at my disposal to ignore like back in my primary school days. There, it was talk or walk dry. I eventually got fed up of walking dry- we called it breezing– and as we had been brain washed to understand by the older boys, breezing was an early sign of dropping out of school. Apparently, it was a sign that you were as straight as the character known as the tilde (~). According to them, your unnatural love for other men would eventually be found out and then you would be either beaten to death, or you would drop out on your own when you found out there was no one else like you in school. Either way, you would drop out of school. I should say I never witnessed it happen all through my high school life.

So anyway, I psyched myself up one Saturday that I was no longer going to be a breezer and when the girls did come that afternoon, I confidently walked up to one. I had even borrowed the best pair of sneakers in my dorm (we were allowed to wear non-uniform attire in the evenings and over the weekends). I also got hold of the hottest ‘perfume’ then, whose synonym I later came to learn in an English lesson was not : (colon) but cologne. She turned out to be one of those short form three girls who die of laughter the moment you mention you’re in form one. I learnt my lesson and moved on; no more mentioning I was in form one, got it. After enduring a couple more lessons, I finally found the perfect girl. She didn’t laugh at me, she actually laughed at my jokes. What’s more, she was only a year ahead of me. The more I talked to her the more I fell deeper in love and I even took her to the field- I am still trying to find the idiot that lied to me and my fellow form ones that the field was the perfect garden to cultivate your love in.

Anyway, we had to part ways in the evening when it was time for her to go back to school and the very next day I wrote her a letter. She never wrote back. In fact, about a dozen more girls never wrote back and I soon stopped trying to feel loved. It was a difficult lesson that life taught me back then, but you know what, I am actually thankful for it. It taught me to shut out my feelings and the next time I did talk to a girl without showing my emotions, I did get laid. Okay, almost- my mother walked in on us, God bless her. Because of that experience, I learnt three things; to get laid is better than to get loved and two that love is really over-rated that three, that women are responsible for all the cold-lying-bastards called men out there. This is how it works, woman lies to man she likes him, man gets heart broken when he realizes it was a lie, man now uses lie to get back at women and protect him from future heart breaks, man discovers lie gets him laid. He doesn’t go back when he discovers the trick to not having to use Vaseline. Most importantly, men realize that you don’t have to get married to get laid- there is no love. Trust me, most of what men do is geared to either getting laid, or getting money to get laid. Not marriage.

You see, love and marriage, as my parents have sadly come to learn, are two different things; love may be blind, that I cannot dispute, but then that would mean that if two people fall blindly in love and get married, then marriage is basically an institution for the blind. Usually, it starts with, the man talking, while the woman listens. A little later, the woman talks while the man listens. Now, all men get fed up pretty fast and as a result, both of them start talking, while the neighbors listen. It now becomes survival for the fittest. Whoever can get the other shut up gets the bed. Usually, the woman wins. After a couple of nights making love to the mosquitos that suck quite well, the man decides he’d rather spend time in the local bar than on the couch. After all, he’ll still be on a seat, right? It doesn’t take the woman very long to find out her man- yes, she still calls him her man- has taken up singing as his new hobby when he comes home the very next week feeling like a superstar, having learnt overnight all the lyrics to “Mwenda wakwa mariru…” God forbid the married couple live in Nyeri or Pangani because shortly after, the rest of us hear an all too familiar desperate appeal to the government… “Naomba serikali iingilie kati…..” on Citizen TV. In short, love, if it exists, is one long dream and marriage is the alarm clock, so what’s the point?