Posts Tagged ‘Nairobi’

NAIROBI ACCENT

Posted: August 28, 2016 by ketihapa in Why?????
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Dear Gladwell,

You were right. And wrong at the same time. Men born and brought up in towns are a problem. Men born and brought up upcountry are good. I agree, men brought up in Nairobi are a problem. As you pointed out, they all love pizza. They all have a fetish for emojis. :C And they all have a weird taste in clothing. Half of them wear skinny jeans and laugh at baggy trousers.

You forgot one thing; they all have the Nairobi Accent.

The Nairobi Accent is good;  It has got a lot of people employed. Homeboyz, Capital FM, etc…  Half of the guys there don’t know the proper spelling of pronunciation, yet, they are experts telling everybody how to pronounce KFC properly as ‘Kei Eif Cei’ because Kienyeji Chicken is Kei Eif Cei chicken…. Chicken that a Luhya guy James Bonded off a chopper because it was free at a funeral. It got him Nation wide fame by the way. And a free airplane ride. (And half of us haven’t even boarded a plane yet- the most we have flown is Angry Birds, over a bunch of angry, over green, over fed pigs, that stole our cartoon eggs.)

See, the point is, nobody can explain where the Nairobi accent came from. At all. We will be quick to point out USIU. And Strathmore. But we all know they pronounce computers as kampyuters, yet half of them can’t even compute 1+2. It’s Threy to them. But hey, it’s kampyuting. What the hell would I knouuw abait it? My English isn’t that good; haven’t been to either schools of late. And my lecturays were from Muchatha as I am.

You see, Gladwell, you’re being petty. Or as they would pronounce it, perry.

First and foremost, it’s sora, not soda. And I’m getting a fana  bleck curren, not a fanta black currant. I hope we’re on the same page. Then we don’t go to animal orphanages. We go to zoos. To watch elephens and lyans. Lions are too over rated. And it’s Ryaena not Rhino. Their haans are fiesam. I am stepping out of bounds, sorry. I din wan you to think I wa a hyener.

Second, I loved your post. But sisi kama watu tumezaliwa ocha we have to remind you, it’s not all about Ugali. It’s not about not cuddling. We actually love cuddling; but with the right girl. Those that will kiss us and tell us they wish they could make ugali as good as we do. Those that will be confident enough to tell us that they had sex with other guys but they are sorry we weren’t the ones they had sex first with. Those that will tell us that we seem old, yet, are better than the born tao sponsors their friends told them about even if our English sounds imported from Uganda.

Third, Arsenal won today. Pole, I am being the exact definition of the guys that were not raised in Kayole, but it feels good!!!!

Fourth, I still dont understand the Nairobi Accent; or why i didn’t talk about it. Just know one thing, if you call it a torch instead of a flashlight when you’re in USIU, you’re done.

Kind regards,

Ketihapa.

 

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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. 

Being Kenyan

Posted: November 2, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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Being Kenyan, who can complain?

“Tao ngapi?”

“Salasa!”

“Niko na mbao!”

“Hiyo mbao yako peleka choo ya kanjo labda utaendesha!”

“Ok, mbao ndio pesa loose nilikuwa nayo…”

“Huna pesa ndogo?”

You proceed to fold up the Ksh 1000 note into four…

“Haha! Kijana uko funny! Dere shukisha huyu hapo mbele!”

 

I have come to accept that being Kenyan is no longer about citizenship. And chances are, you would never trade being Kenyan for anything; not for a second. I have come to realize being Kenyan gives you an identity- a sense of being; a sense of purpose. It gives you the chance to be legally screwed up. Being Kenyan allows you to fuck up, get taken to court- perhaps even the ICC and still get away with it- trust me, my president has set an exceptional example. We can even ignore court orders. It allows you to set up a church and go about deflowering women because God told you to. And the said women will appreciate it. Hell, the news will find it funny and you will feature on headlines; especially if the said women paid you Ksh 310 to get deflowered. I foresee being Kenyan being a movement.

Case 1: Police

Being Kenyan affords you the right to walk in Nairobi. But also affords you the right to be stopped by armed policemen (who or may not be actual policemen) and being told you have to produce a receipt for the bag you are carrying- they won’t bother to check whether you’re carrying weapons. But even if you are, all you will need is a receipt. But that has to be accompanied by an ETR receipt intended for KRA. But let us assume you won’t have either of those; you will be forced to produce tea- chai, rather- and imagine being Luhya! We all know Luhya people would rather go to jail than give up chai. You will be faced with a host of atrocities against the country though. Staring at government buildings suspiciously, idling with the intention of bombing a government statue, impersonating a government officer, spitting harmful substances on a public pavement, disturbing the public with smelly sweat, soliciting for sex from unwilling members of the public… The list is endless. And so are the possible charges you will be charged with.

Case 2: Elections

Being Kenyan means you can basically vie for a leadership spot. And it doesn’t matter whether you lose; You will be the man. You will be accorded the title mheshimiwa. Even if ants will not stop for you when you come across them on the road- actually, you will stop and wait for them to pass- especially if you will be high on weed like most of our elected leaders. You will be a millionaire in six months after the said elections. And you will despise Tanzanian elections for being transparent. In the six months, you will instigate a construction worth Ksh 200 Million, even though the said building will have half a wall. You will also convince the people who voted you in that a wheel barrow is worth Ksh 109,000, even though the teacher with whom you trust your child will be paid Ksh peanuts. And you will somehow convince the people that voted you in, who have lost confidence in you already, that the devil told you to lie to them. You will invoke the spirit; even though your liver will have suffered more from the spirits than your citizens.

Case 3: Music

As a Kenyan, you will be entitled to hours of bad music; riddims they call it. You will dance and perhaps do bend overs if you’re lucky- to music you don’t even understand, whose lyrics probably mean you are an idiot. But you will love it. You will laugh at people that don’t listen to riddims. And for those that will find riddims distasteful, they will tune into Matatu FM each morning to report how they cannot get laid to someone who probably doesn’t even like women in the first place. You will ignore good music; people who try to come up with good music like Eric Wainanina and Elani will be ignored- unless they come up with a sex video like Sauti Sol. And every major TV or Radio station will endorse it. Your life will be reduced to music the lines of “Girl With The Biggest Behind’ or ‘Una jump, una ruka… shida zina shuka…”

Case 4: Food

Being Kenyan means you will get to taste the best variety of food. You will get to taste boiled animal intestines that you will later come to call mutura. You will do the math in your head and decide that mutura is worth more than airtime – which at this time is imperative we refer to as kadi za kujikunakuna as the Tanzanians say- to call the butcher and tell him to reserve some steak for you. And woe unto you if you end up marrying a Kikuyu woman; you will have pizza full of soup and potatoes.  And if boiled miraa if you’re Meru. Or worse, nothing if you’re from Kitui.

I just can’t understand why anyone would hate being Kenyan. We rock!!!!!

NJORO

Posted: October 29, 2015 by ketihapa in Africa, Drama
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Welcome to Nairobi, Sir.

(Written by Ketihapa, Troy Onyango and Nick Muthumbi)

The vehicle comes to a grinding halt as the conductor says, “Mwisho! Huku ndio Nairobi.” Other passengers start rising from their seats; he is patient. He waits till they are almost all out then he stands up and makes his way towards the door, his bag with a few clothes he brought along with him his only luggage. Once out, he takes a moment to take in the scenery; it is nothing like he had expected. He had expected to see elegant sky scrapers towering over him, beautiful women wearing things they call fashion that his grandmother could sew in an hour, men in suits, flashy cars, fancy hotels… Instead, the place is muddy and dirty, garbage strewn all over. There is an acrid smell- one he can’t quite figure out- a mixture of fish, garbage, piss, excrement, sweat. He wants to throw up. He calms down. He is clearly a stranger in Nairobi; anyone can see that without trying too hard. He feels for his pocket; good, the little money he has left is still there. Now, he has to trace his uncle Mwaura whom he hopes he can stay with for a while before he has figured out where to get a job. He takes a step forward, then another into the green city in the sun.

He stands there for a while and uses his eyes to take everything in. The dusty air fills his lungs and a whiff of sweat from the burly man walking past him jolts him back to reality. He focuses and sees a large crowd gathered in front of a cream old building. Bag firmly clasped in his hand, he moves towards the crowd. The man at the centre of the crowd who is talking loudly in a raspy voice notices him and pushes toward him. His legs feel wobbly before he notices the smile plastered on the round face of the man. He moves closer to him until he can feel the man’s breath of sour milk down the nape of his neck. He does no turn around to look at the man standing behind him and he notices the bible in his hand. This must be a good man, he thinks to himself. The whole crowd turns to face him and that’s when he realizes all attention is on him. After a long stare, the man opens his mouth and amidst the stench of a mouth long divorced to the toothbrush he speaks, words that sound like they are carved in stone

“Bwana asifiwe!” His voice reverberates through the hot air and his whole frame moves in tandem with his words.

“Amen!” Meekly he responds in unison with the elated crowd.

“Wewe ni mgeni hapa Nairobi, si ndio?”

Unsure, he responds, “Dio.”

“Na umekuja huku kazi?”

How did he know that I have come to Nairobi to look for work?

Before he responds, the preacher man’s voice rises again, “Mungu amenionyesha ya kwamba unaenda kuishi na mjomba wako.”

This must be a real man of God. How else would he know that I am going to live with my Uncle?

“Dio.” He tells the man.

“Mungu ameniambia nisipokuombea mabaya yatakutendekea. Unaamini?”

He doesn’t know the response to this question and so he nods slightly.

“Haya basi piga magoti tuombe.”

He doesn’t hesitate for a minute and as soon as his knees meet the dusty ground he closes his eyes shut. His grasp on the bag more firm than ever. That’s where all the money and his certificates are. If he loses that he loses everything.

The crowd bursts into a frenzy of song with the man’s voice still rising above the rest as he chants prayers on his behalf. He screeches at the demons and casts them away. Njoro feels the demons depart from his body and they sap his power and he falls to the ground. The preacher’s voice fades and soon it becomes so distant he can barely hear the once thunderous voice. He is in heaven.

He opens his eyes to the sound of feet hurriedly passing by and the rowdy touts shouting their various destinations. The singing crowd is no longer there and the preacher too is nowhere in sight. He feels dizzy and turns to look for his bag.

But it is nowhere to be found. The old Daso Rano bag that his dad had bought him while he was being admitted to high school was at large. And in that bag were his miniscule belongings. The crème de la crème of whatever he called his. Plus the meagre cash he had saved. It was all gone.

He panics. The world starts spinning. But he is shoved out of the stupor by the sharp pain caused by a shoe that had fallen in love with his pinkie finger. Amidst the best of curse words he can summon, he sits up trying to recall what really happened. But all he can remember is kneeling before a man of the robe moments before he floated to heaven.

But how did I end up here? Well, maybe I forgot my bag in heaven.

He comforts himself as he looks around in a bid to familiarise himself with his surroundings.

Then he spots a man in grey uniform swinging his baton across the street. For some reason the grey uniform seems familiar and so he feels it will be better and safer to ask for help from him unlike the rest of the Nairobi busy bodies who walked past him, pretty oblivious of his existence.

As he picks himself from the dusty street pathway that had played bed for the past couple of minutes, he feels something bitter well up his gut. With little hesitation he spits the bitter saliva onto the pavement.

As soon as the spit makes contact with the ground, the “friendly” across the street is already tugging at the worn out generic leather belt holding his Kaunda pants in place.

“Kijana unatema mate ovyo ovyo kwa nini? Uko na mimba?” asks the man in grey.

Njoro is caught off guard. Since when did lubricating the earth with oral liquids become an offence?

“Ahhh! Habali blatha. Kwani kuna chida nikitema mate?” he asks meekly, rocking that sheepish signature smile of his, the smile that he used to nail ladies back in the village, with an accent heavily influenced by his mother tongue.

The smile seems to offend the officer even more.

“Nikitaka kuona meno zina matope nitakwambia! Kwa nini unatema mate?!”

Taken aback, he wishes he had a mirror; Njoro knows his teeth are perfect- hell, half the ladies back in the village wishe they had his teeth. His teeth are a blend of white and brown- not yellow from all that green stuff his peers have been chewing of late to seem cool- and not too white as to get confused with those of that Mzungu that tried to lure him to her bed a few weeks ago. God, she was old!!! And her sense of shame was like that of a toddler.

“Apana, nimekuja Nairobi leo, ata dio nimefika… lakini kuna vubi mingi sana. Ata ukaweza nisaidia na ten bob naweza nunua maji kidogo  niweze kuosha mdomo kidogo nitashukulu sana!”

The man in grey laughs.

“Ati ten bob!” Ten bob ata kucha haiwezi nunua kijana! Kwani umetoka Uganda?”

Wait, ten bob cant get me water? He asks himself. But then again, his grandpa told him Nairobi is full of conmen… His train of thought is interrupted by the man in grey, who has by now magically summoned an old white pick up… there are about half a dozen other people in it.

“Leta chai!”

“Chai nilimariza kitabo. Irikuwa kwa chupa kwa ire bag imeibiwa! Huwezi nisaidia?”

“Kijana wacha nione vile nitakusaidia. Ingia kwa gari.”

“Asante sana! Wewe dio mtu wa kwanza nimepata mzuri Nairobi. Hii lift unanipea itanisaidia sana!!! Natafuta uncle yangu!”

Half the people in the pick up laugh, the other half are not sure whether to explain to Njoro that he’s just been arrested or to pity him or to laugh or cry on his behalf. The man in grey is laughing as well. Nonetheless, Njoro gets into the truck; he says hi to all of them, and they all say hi, most of them cant avoid laughing though. Someone creates some space for him to sit on the hard bench.

“Uko tu sawa brathe,” he says, putting his arm around him, a hint of a hopeful smile on his face. “Labda watatuweka cell moja!” Njoro has founda friend in the big city finally!

“Ata mimi blatha, naoba watueke pamoja tujuane saidi.”

This time the guy definitely smiles. A hint of a boner… Njoro doesn’t see it…

After what seems like half an hour, collecting other people in need of lifts as well, they finally arrive at the destination. The sign on the building reads “City Hall”. Njoro and his new friend are ushered out of the vehicle into the building. His new ‘friend tries to reassure him they will be okay as long as they are together. After all, they will have more time to know each other. Njoro still has no clue he has been arrested for spitting and what will later turn out to be gross destruction of the environment by bodily fluids.

It finally dawns on him when the man in grey responsible for his ‘lift’ says, pointing at him,“Mwas leo nimepata fala fulani! Hehehe aAti anadhani tulikuwa tunampea lift!”

But when the man turns it is almost unbelievable.  There stands Njoro’s uncle! Mwaura in the flesh!

“Ndiye huyu fala unasema!?”

He knew his uncle was an important man in Nairobi, just not this important…

People getting rid of the second generation alcohol after a government crack down on the lethal drinks

Last week, a couple of friends and I were talking, just reminiscing really about how far we have come. They are former school mates, high school- I am inclined not to reveal what school though because none of you will believe it anyway. All you need to know is that girls fondly referred to us as the Caltex Boys. And it had everything to do with the fact that we did resemble Caltex attendants, thanks to the benevolence of our founders who decided that boys in blue shorts and red shirts looked amazing, that couple with a pair of over-sized sharp shooters and brilliant minds.

Anyway, it all started out after one of us pointed out that we were no longer the cool kids, which shouldn’t have stung, yet for some reason it did. So we responded by telling the culprit, Kaks, that he has always been a cool kid. So we reminded him he used to belong to the crew that used to ‘dandia’ number nine matatus that ply along Nairobi to Eastleigh. Once in, we would demand a selection of music that ranged from but not limited to Beenie Man’s King of the Dancehall and Kat Deluna. The music was loud and being teenagers with exceedingly raging hormones, would occupy at least half the bus and pay for a round trip top to Eastleigh, to town and finally back to the school gate. We had practically no regulations and teachers on duty after 4 pm, and throughout the weekend, so try imagining a couple of unregulated form twos.

The day was never deemed complete until we visited Race Course for fries, rather, chips. This time though, we walked all the way there and by the time we got there we were dusty and hungry. The fries, weren’t great, in fact, they were soggy and dripped more fat than a fat man running on a treadmill, and the tomato sauce basically had more water than the whole of Kamba land. But we ate and drowned them in soda, mine has and will always be Fanta Orange, or Krest Bitter Lemon. Sometimes we got tired of the bad, expensive fries, but we had options; I mean, these were the cool kids. On such days, we usually found ourselves at Mzee’s place, where we had bone soup, which was delicious, and over boiled goat legs and ugali that smelt more of roast than Twitter.

On other days, we would simply go for bhajias or pilau, or both, at some Swahili lady’s place just near the school gate. While the pilau wasn’t that good, the bhajias on the other hand were great, and each piece was a ‘bob’ and the sauce (home-made) was delicious. Frankly I have always thought that was the reason we loved those bhajias as much as we did. Eventually we discovered Nyagah. That man could cook I tell you. At Nyagah’s the most common delicacy was ‘mandondo’, a dish made of beans and every other vegetable you could think of from chilies to dhania to hoho and avocado, and chapati. When I said Nyagah could cook, I meant it! Never in our entire lives had we seen chapati that was so monstrous, it made the Goldenberg scandal look like a total joke. The damn things literally scared you before you even had a bite. I could never get past one and a half of those things. After a successful supper, we would head back to school and keep off the dining hall like the building was made of farts. (Also, one of the side effects of our Mandondo, which other people later came to associate with our being at Nyagah’s were the unending farts during preps).

Then came the mad craze of the Blazers. The blazers were the result of a mad financial genius called McSimon, who usually went for them at the nearby Gikomba market, fitted them, dry cleaned them, then sold them to us back in school. And the guy made a killing from it, eventually making more money than the JA could ever dream of. That coupled with the biscuits and magazines he was selling (I will refrain from mentioning which types of magazines), he was practically a business king pin. Practically everyone had them when we got to form three; and they had two main purposes; to look distinguished during the Friday night Barazas, which I have always insisted was an epic idea introduced by the founders, which gave us students a chance to air out any grievances and issues we had, either with the administration, teachers, prefects, dorms (we called them houses), dining hall, field-basically anyone, and it would never be held against you by anyone whatsoever, by direct orders of the Director.

But usually we just went to kill off time instead of attending Friday night preps. Mostly most issues raised were valid, but like any other community, there were jokers – many of them. One time a friend of mine, Okubasu was his name, went to protest at how he was being mistreated by prefects for refusing to stop when called out to. So the guy told them flat-out that he would continue ignoring them until the administration introduced reflective jackets for the prefects at night, which would allow him to spot them and avoid them better so they would never have to feel ignored and neglected when he didn’t stop for them.

The other reason we needed blazers was for the girls, who usually came over on most weekends for ‘funkies’. Funkies were typically boring, but the girls made it worthwhile. Pangani Girls were our favourites, considering the rumour that had been going around of how they had unjustly attended to the sexual needs of their watchman; we deemed them valuables, followed closely by our beloved Buruburu girls. Not to say we didn’t like State House girls or Riara and St Georges Girls, they were gorgeous, but usually they breezed right past us like we had buttocks on our faces. It was a very risky affair approaching one of these. But then we realized that the SCAN room was always full of them.

Now SCAN was the place to be. It was the school’s journalism club, and published magazines twice every term and a full-page newspaper on Founders day with the help of Standard Media Group. But SCAN had all these privileges; they had a computer that was mostly full of movies and games, and articles that the members themselves would contribute and the Editors would read through and give guidance. SCAN was actually a serious place, and respectable writers the likes of Tony ‘Smitta’ and Waga Odongo passed through, but I am almost sure we all joined for the same reason; the girls! Of course it was the place I honed my writing and eventually became an Editor and a Production Manager, but you get the point.

Anyway, one day after the girls had gone home and everyone was bragging of a girl’s number, complete with email addresses (we were such idiots) and school postal addresses, someone had the brilliant idea of getting soda. Coca-Cola. Usually, as I mentioned, I am not a huge fan of other sodas, but on these particular day I was very jovial after having secured not one but three girls’ numbers. I happily drank the soda, but it was too late before I realized what was actually in the soda; most of you call it Naps nowadays. Given that I had never actually taken any of that stuff before, you can imagine my state of mind after an hour. Then the worst happened; the school captain summoned us Editors to his office to discuss the upcoming Founders Day paper. We had no choice but to go. We called him Timopithecus, a reference to the generous amount of hair God had so generously bestowed upon him.

It did not take long for Timopithecus to realize most of us were a little under the weather. I will spare you the details, but the conversation that followed after demanding we stand on one foot, which we all passed, ended up with him asking me what I had taken and I said I honestly didn’t know, which was true, but not before bravely blurting out “I just drank half, gave out the other half and poured the other half!” Why he never pursed the issue further I will never know, perhaps he just so amused he thought we made it up, or the fact that the Founders Day paper was due in two weeks so he needed us horribly (no pun intended), but that, my friends, is how I started out on my Second Generation Alcohol.. I have since quit though, so don’t worry about my liver. Also, we all passed KCSE with flying colours, which was quite a shock to the administration.

In other news, why doesn’t the government want to pay teachers so other high school kids can waste their fours years like we did?

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Seriously, if you havent listened to Echosmith's Cool Kids, you need to ASAP

I wish that I could be one of the cool kids, coz all the cool kids, they seem to fit in… Echosmith said this. I am inclined to agree… cool kids do seem to fit in. I have only one problem, who exactly are cool kids. I would stop writing this post if at least one of you had a solid answer but none of you do, IMO. You all seem to have exemplary different definitions of whom a cool kid is. And yes, nobody seems to have a concrete answer. Not even the coolest kids (that I know) can answer this question. So, yes, you can understand why I decided to do this post. I am tired of being labeled uncool along lines that nobody really understands. There are more double standards than that ex of yours that still swears Water is Life yet KNEC swears they taught her that water is H20. Whom do you believe?
It is in this light that I decided to do a little research on whom exactly should be considered a cool kid.
Echosmith swear that a cool kid (despite already being cool themselves) that a cool kid is that person whose heartbeat seems to be faster than yours yet you all have the same heart rate. That person who- whether you’re walking together with or not- never seem to walk in a straight line. Pardon me guys, but I honestly think- if my biology teacher wasn’t as bogus as the principles of life she taught me- that the first person is suffering from Blood Pressure while the second is suffering… sorry scratch that… (If you literally did, congratulations. You are a DJ and effectively a cool kid.)…  enjoying something my Chemistry teacher introduced me, then tried to tell me wasn’t awesome despite giving me numerous tests and exams on it… Alcohol.
Then there’s Facebook. According to Facebook… sorry guys, can’t find anything that’s cool about Facebook or anyone on it. The only way you guys on Facebook are going to be cool is if Facebook freezes your accounts.
Twitter. Sodom and Gomorrah if you will. According to Twitter, you are a cool kid if you meet the following criteria: First you have at least 2000 followers and receive about 400 nudes per day. Then, you have linked your IG to your Twitter account. You also need to tweet things that don’t necessarily make sense, but which people (read other cool kids) can relate to. You also need to have lunch at KFC on a daily basis and post photos of your lunch on the aforementioned IG account. Failure to post the said pic means you had lunch so awesome it couldn’t even be captured on a camera. This includes special treats like Air Burgers and Imagine Pizzas. You also have to be light skinned. If people cannot see it, you are allowed to take a torch and brighten the area of skin you need them to see before posting it on, you guessed it, the aforementioned IG account.
You also need to be very outgoing and attend all sporting events, including imaginary ones like Unicorn Hunting and Bungee Climbing (I personally thought it was Bungee Jumping, but hey, I am not a cool kid.) You have to have a girlfriend that is very okay with you receiving the above mentioned nudes and who would be willing to give you a BJ on top of the Bungee rope that the two of you just climbed. She, bae, in other words, needs to have personal beef with that Safaricom chic that tells her you are not available because she gets overly jealous and feels the entire world is at her feet… including the condom shoes she wears because she doesn’t want to expose her feet to premature pregnancy.
To be deemed a cool kid on Twitter, you need to be not more than 19 years of age. By this time, which by default you’ll have more than more than 2000 followers, you also need to own a house and a car and not complain when it rains because your said car can also transform into a chopper and fly to Mombasa because cool kids expect the weather in Nairobi to beg them to come back. By extension, they also don’t spend time in traffic. Traffic stops for them, just like Cocaine is the one that suffers an overdose of them. To them, everyone is a feminist. In fact, they refer to our Eminem as Feminem.
Then there’s the parents’ description of a cool kid. I will not dwell on this, but the rest of us know that an African mom’s definition of a cool kid is one that gets straight A’s in school and doesn’t get a girlfriend till form 24, and knows how to avoid other cool kids like the plague. In fact, church wine isn’t really made of grapes and doesn’t contain any alcohol. If you drink too much of it and you get drunk, you will be beaten up for trying to consume too much of the blood of Jesus.
Then there’s what you think. Honestly, I can’t really tell you if I am a cool kid, but I do know this one thing; a cool kid does not make stupid typos. Also, a cool kid does not tell people that he got her pregnant by accident because he knows she did not happen to have been walking on the street then she slipped and accidentally fell on his dick. He is responsible enough to acknowledge he got her pregnant and will not look for a scumbag doctor to perform an abortion. He works hard to achieve his goals in life and he will be there for, not only his friends, but also his family. That IMO, is what makes a cool kid.

Crowns for Clowns

Hello my peoples. I know what most of you are wondering; WTF has yours truly been? Why TF did he/she forsake us? I haven’t. I have longed to resume blogging and making you laugh for some time now and I am sorry I couldn’t do it sooner. I am not about to make excuses, but I really tried- I couldn’t. In between my final year project (which was awesome) and final exams and the pressure to convince my wonderful parents that I was not going to graduate University as an Engineer (yes, you can call me that now) without a wife, or as they’re called nowadays, bae… you get my point. I will bore you with that story much later…

Anyway, during my long exile I came across one of the funniest things I have ever read, though unfortunately the author signed off as anonymous, and I will share it with you:

 

Once upon a time in the kingdom of Heaven, God was missing for six days. Eventually, Michael the archangel found him, resting on the seventh day. He inquired of God.

“Where have you been?”

God took a deep sigh of satisfaction and proudly pointed downwards through the clouds, “Look, Michael. Look what I’ve made!”

Archangel Michael looked puzzled and said, “What is it?”

“It’s a planet,” replied God, “and I’ve put Life on it. I’m going to call it Earth and it’s going to be a great place of balance.”

“Balance?” inquired Michael, still confused. God explained, pointing to different parts of earth.

“For example, northern Europe will be a place of great opportunity and wealth while southern Europe is going to be poor. Over there I’ve placed a continent of white people and over there is a continent of black people,” God continued pointing to different countries. “This one will be extremely hot while this one will be very cold and covered in ice.”

The Archangel, impressed by God’s work, then pointed to a land in the eastern part of Africa and said, “What’s that one?”

“Ah,” said God. “That’s Kenya the most glorious place on earth. There are beautiful beaches, mountains, streams, hills, and water falls. The people from Kenya are going to be very handsome, modest, intelligent and humorous and they are going to be found traveling the world holding good jobs. They will be extremely sociable, hardworking and high-achieving, and they will be known throughout the world as diplomats and carriers of peace and go to the Olympics.”

Michael gasped in wonder and admiration but then proclaimed, “What about balance, God? You said there would be balance!!!”

God replied wisely, “Wait until you see the clowns that will lead them :D.”

 

You ask where I am going with this, right? I will expound. The author brilliantly explained what is happening in our beloved country. I am not about to mention any names, primarily because I don’t want to suffer the same fate as one Wadi. For those that watched the Keter video, you will agree with my sentiments that most of our leaders are selfish, immature, arrogant, corrupt and I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-any-more. It is one thing to intimidate people with authority (which Keti Hapa doesn’t condone) if you’re the president, not some lowly official that the majority leader of senate has never heard of nor spoken to. No Mr. Keter, we, the Matapakas, refuse to pick your calls. Hell, even the cool kids here declared they don’t even pick calls of nature anymore.

Then, as if we don’t have enough clowns in the administration, there has to be even more in the Church. First it was Kanyari, who took sowing seeds very literally. His philosophy was simple; confuse them till they’re dumb enough to give you a lot of money (and or sexual favours). Now, we have Kiuna. For somebody that was born in a slum, I would she would have more humility, but no. Kiuna warned us poor people not to go to her church, while urging our women to leave us and go live in SQs in posh neighborhood so they can find wealthy men to marry them, that’s what you did, right? I am assuming her definition of poor people is us, us that have to eat cereal (when we can afford it) with forks so as to save milk.

Us, that don’t care whether it was the chicken or the egg that came first, or whether the chicken was crossing the road in order to reach before the egg, as long as its destination is our stomachs. Yes, we that have to go to Nairobi Aviation College and build castles in the air during class so we can get degrees in Architecture to better our lives, or dump our girlfriends before Valentines so we can be awarded degrees in Financial Management. Kiuna, at least you were straight forward… you despise us. I’ll tell you a secret; we don’t care. You can lead your followers like the sheep they are- they go to baa baa shops too, right?- and you can keep boiling the hell out of water if you think that will get you holy water, we got the message.

I could go on and on about the kind of leaders our beloved Kenya is bestowed with, but I don’t see the point; we live in a land where its crowns for clowns. I will wish everyone else a great week ahead and I love you guys.

 

PS:

If you don’t already know it, Valentines is just around the corner. Feel free to consult my guide on how to avoid Valentines. If you do however still feel the urge to celebrate Valentines, please do so responsibly. Don’t choose the types that spend hours on Instagram showing us how much of disappointments they are to their fathers.

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…

Lighters up, ladies and gentlemen. You are about to be de-lighted

Last week was quite uneventful; except for the slight tremor in Nairobi on Monday morning and the blackout on Wednesday night, there was really nothing much. The tremor never made it to be a news item although Kenyans on Twitter did manage to blow it out of proportion, as usual, and it ended up being a trending topic for most part of the morning exclusively in Nairobi, with people in Rongai having been warned against trying to fit in. The blackout on the other hand did make it to be a news item. Reason, the blackout was in fact a national event, which somehow managed to extend beyond the borders of our beloved country and into the little landlocked country of Rongai, whose citizens as I later learnt, finally got to understand what life in Kenya is as they were plunged into darkness for four days.

But that was beside my point. Wednesday to say the least was one of the most chaotic nights of my life. I had been looking forward to getting home early from work because as it turned out, a team of midgets from Spain with unique diving talents was due to play 11 old people from London that are funded by divorce settlements and a wealthy Russian mafia boss. I’m talking about the Barcelona vs Chelsea game for those of you who haven’t realized who I’m talking about yet. I therefore needed to get drunk as soon as possible so I would have the strength to sit and hurl insults throughout the entire match without necessarily having to watch the game. Needless to say, I was home by seven pm and in the pub by twenty minutes later with my good neighbour Gitonga, who as his name suggests, is a wealthy man with everything except money.

Having secured seats at our favourite corner, beer-shara was soon underway; it didn’t take long for the alcohol to kick in and Gitonga was soon dazzling everybody with his pre-match analysis, that he had researched using my phone mind you. Not that I really cared, he is fun to watch football with and it was in fact the reason I brought him along in the first place. By eight the place was almost full to capacity; nothing brings men together than alcohol coupled with a night of Champions League football and reports of free oil from a fallen oil tanker, confirmed or otherwise. We even placed bets. Then the lights flickered. Once… twice… thrice…. Then it was dark and the place turned chaotic. Somebody told Baba Boi (read the bartender) to keep away bottles of STONEy from anyone who happened to be from Komarock.

Ten minutes later the lights were not yet back so Baba Boi asked for volunteers to go buy diesel for the generator from the nearby petrol station. Gitonga and I volunteered and we left just as Baba Boi went to fetch the generator. Gitonga has this incredible torch that is made is China that has incredible capabilities as a phone too and we used it to find our way to the petrol station and back to the pub in five minutes. We were determined to watch this match but fate had other ideas. As it turns out the generator had not been used in a long time and wouldn’t even start. We embarked on a hunt for another pub that had a working generator. We ended up travelling all the way to Donholm where we endured watching 90 minutes on our feet and I finally learnt how to iron my clothes without electricity. The trick is to get the iron box hot, so you simply place the iron box on a controlled flame and hope it doesn’t burn.

Anyway I have never cursed KPLC more. I cursed them even more the next day when I found out that their excuse for this gross violation of human rights that prevented millions of football lovers countrywide from watching Chelsea’s historic win over Barcelona and even resulted in the death of an innocent woman in a hospital at the coast was “A fault in one of our substations in Juja”. Condescending bastards even went on say that the power failure was a Current event. Okay, that was funny and I hope you get it, but still. Shouldn’t somebody tell them already to plant bulbs if they want proper power plants not the fake ones they currently have? I have a valid point here; just as it is valid to say that KPLC get their electricity from electrons and morality from morons.

Once a pun a time, KPLC used to be up to date because they were to be current specialists… I even used to joke that the lights usually go out because they like each other. Now, honestly they are just a bunch of, literally, dark sadists who are delighted when Kenyans get de-lighted. I understand the rise in cost of production of HEP power because it is true we faced some rather dry spells, but how do you explain paying more for more power outages? And that is why I have made a stand. I am no longer paying for electricity; I am going solar. Hell, Samsung even have a solar powered laptop, which for the record I find really discriminatory considering the device is only sold in Africa like they still think we’re a dark continent. Okay, again, KPLC are proving them right.

To the rest of you, if you do continue paying for power blackouts, know that you’re only making it easier for the fat cats in that damned company to buy more Volts-Wagons, sorry Volkswagens, with your hard earned money. So I will tell you this, if your lights go out, pray. If they are not back in five minutes, read my advice again and if they are not back by the time you finish re-reading, stop whining and pay the damn bill; it was your choice anyway. Anyway there is this wedding I want to attend badly so I am off till next week. Apparently Mr. Ohm is marrying Mrs. Ohm because he could not resistor… Bye till then.

Ngamia 1 well in Turkana, Kenya, where British company Tullow struck oil

Kids, this is the crazy story of how I met your mother. The year is 2014. The place is in a night club known as Pavements in Westlands, Nairobi.*cue for audience to laugh* I am really drunk- and I think high- and there is this chic giving me weird looks, like a chicken that wants to grow horns; oh wait, I think she’s horny. I know a woman is horny when I start seeing cute little horns growing on her head. Anyway, she is and really drunk and that is my cue to take advantage of her. End of story. Okay, well no. I actually have a condom on. *audience laughs again* Later on I will get to the part where I was paid by the government to have kids about eight seasons or so from now. Hah! Jokes.

This is the sad story of how an archaeologist in the year 2030 decides to excavate an unnamed location in Kenya and he is digging away unmercilessly when he strikes gold. He has come across a cute pile of bones that he will later on discover in shock belonged to Mike Sonko. You see, there is no space for a brain in the skull he has found. Almost as shocking as the skull he found a little while earlier on belonging to Eugene Wamalwa that had three nostrils instead of two. He will care less about the shocking find because as a bonus, he will have found the greatest oil reserve the world ever has seen. He will later on be declared a national hero by the then ruling Army General, who toppled the government a few years back and has since established himself as the new Furor.

Okay, where exactly I am going with this I have no idea either, but that was how I always hoped oil would be discovered in Kenya. Shock on me. Kenya finally struck black gold. I have been dying to make a joke on our oil but no, it would be too crude. You see, I’m neither a pessimist nor am I an optimist. I am like the guy who found the glass half full and instead of whining about how half full or half empty it was, he simply emptied it into a smaller glass and it was full. Two sides of the same coin. I am actually thrilled we have oil, but when I think critically about it, all it means is that enough people finally died and decomposed enough to form oil. Oh, come on. Don’t pretend you had no idea oil is nature’s way of recycling the carbon in our bodies. Think about it, it’s why Arab countries – where so many people died in various wars throughout the centuries – have so much oil.

Now, I know it seems like I am already biased towards our oil reserve but being realistic is also important. I am skeptical that this find will actually be of any use to the people of Turkana. Well, I could spend hours trying to convince people that it is Karma’s way of getting back at Turkana for standing by as the rest of Kenya was colonized but again, no. I’ll, lay down the facts. When Richard Leakey came to Kenya, he said, “It is virtually impossible to control Northern Kenya, which is populated chiefly by migrant nomads.” I maintain that he couldn’t have been more wrong. Fast forward to the year 2012; Kenya discovers there is oil in Northern Kenya. Suddenly there is a mad rush for this arid, sparsely populated area. Coincidence?

I am not saying they won’t get to benefit from the oil directly; what I’m saying is that the game is rigged. It’s called an oil rig for some reason. Who do you think gets to reap the fruits of our new found oil; the fat cats of this country or the people of Turkana? In a way, it’s like the colonization they never really got to enjoy because gradually, they will be pushed out of their land by the fat cats only this time instead of bibles, they might receive some money- quite unlike how white people tricked the rest of us. When they came they had bibles, we had the land. Then they taught us how to pray with our eyes closed and when we did open our eyes, they had the land and we had the bibles. What these poor people will get in truth will be hard menial jobs on these oil fields. Not the worst of jobs, but I’d rather be a cow. Cows have moo-oo-oovies and all miners have is a boring job. Got it, no? Moving on…

So now I have a decision to make; quit school and become a fat cat or go on with school and end up working for one of those fat cats. I once said I wanted to be somebody and only now have I become specific – the decision is clear in my mind. First thing I’ll do is to visit Njoroge and Sons Co. in River Road and obtain a degree that is complete with a university seal and genuine signatures. They can do it, trust me. Then, I will take a loan and become a politician to steal some more money from public coffers and when I have stolen enough, I will look for a willing accomplice, preferably a Kikuyu like me. Together, we will start a company known as Mwangi and ‘somebody’ Company. And no, we will not use vegetables to make vegetable oil or use babies to make baby oil or worse, become miners; we will head over to Turkana and invest in some poor nomad’s land that we will have stolen.

You see like the kid that was asked by a pastor what eats grass, goes moo and gives us milk and he answered, “I suppose the answer is Jesus but it sounds like a cow to me” I know oil is supposed to be the answer, but you got to think outside the box. The oil is only there to facilitate development of Turkana and that is where the money is going to be. I am going to be one rich bastard, all thanks to women who did not use their heads, literally, which caused the population explosion in our country that finally brought us oil. To those same women, DIAPERS is REPAID backwards without ‘s’… Think about it… Also, oil money doesn’t buy everything. Manchester City please take note.