Posts Tagged ‘Njoki Chege’

Dear Njoki Chege

Posted: January 24, 2016 by ketihapa in Letters
Tags: , , , ,
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Njoki Chege, the creative City Girl....

Dear Njoki Chege,

First and foremost I have to congratulate you on your new role. I mean, the upgrade from being a blogger to a creative writer at Nation Media! What! Hell of an accomplishment. It’s so sad that when I Google you I find you listed as a blogger though. Someone ought to inform Google (and everyone in Kenya for that matter) that you are no longer a blogger. You are now a creative writer – the City Girl- for Nation Media.

Because, how could they think of you as a blogger? It is deplorable to imagine why. After all, you did say that “A blogger is typically any dimwit with internet connection, rent to pay and a lot of free time.” Why then, should they think of you as a dimwit with an internet connection that has to pay rent but is too idle to go work to find money to pay for the said rent? I fail to understand that part. Especially because you submit your work via emails which don’t require an internet connection ( I am so envious right now) and you also don’t need to pay rent.

I am not certain of one thing though. You did not define whom a dimwit is; because you see, Urban Dictionary defines a dimwit as “someone who does things just to gain acceptance from others, not because he is a real personality.” In other words, an attention seeker, or as most people call that, an attention hoe. Sorry, as a blogger I have no money and rent to pay and the only dictionary I could afford was the online one; so please forgive me if my grammar is not up to your standards.

But back to the point at hand here; I am particularly confused because that definition of a dimwit describes you perfectly – every post you have written, including the one that landed you that job as a blogger, sorry, as a creative writer for Nation Media, has always been scathing enough to get people to notice you. Advertising agencies typically use boobs to get people’s attention; hell, those guys could advertise hell using boobs and people would line up to buy tickets to hell. Personally I know I would.

But what you do is essentially the same thing, only you can’t use your boobs because, after all, you are the polished ‘City Girl.’ Instead, you write stuff to trash other people, which you excel at by the way, (congratulations are in order – I should buy you a drink to celebrate that but as I mentioned earlier on, I am just but a poor blogger with rent to pay. And it’s Njaanuary.) so they are pissed off enough to respond to you and read your work.

I hope you see where I am going with this. You write rubbish, sit, wait for comments (that you don’t bother replying to) and then sit back as you think about whom to trash next. You are like that street preacher that will call our girls sluts because they chose to dress up in tights and tells them that they get raped because of their choice in dressing, as he looks on in gratification when they pass by sneering at him. But hey, they noticed him in the end, didn’t they?

In other words, hopefully much easier for your top-notch brain to comprehend, you are just an attention hoe as well. Rather a dimwit just like the rest of us. Which therefore makes you a blogger as well, just an expensive one that hates Eastlands and Subarus and pretty much everyone except yourself.

And we will only consider you a writer when you can get over your insecurities and actually do write anything worth reading, like a novel for instance, or a play, or just a simple manuscript for the ailing Tahidi High. Before that happens, you too are a blogger.

Yours faithfully,

Keti Hapa.

I hate October

October. I always hate October and to some extent, September. Too many bad things happen around these two months. A quarter of the world dies during these two months; wars, suicides, road accidents, laughter… Ok, wait, I am not sure laughter fits there. Then there are tragedies. Houses collapsing, teachers not getting paid, children opening school to study for four weeks (never mind that parents will still pay for the entire term), Kenya beating a team 5-0 then failing to reproduce that form at Kasarani, Airtel cars- that we’re supposed to win if we use their services stalling on roads and causing traffic jams. My neighbour announcing that we can longer be friends because his girlfriend thinks I am better girlfriend to him than her (SMH), never mind that we cooked beef at his place once and we were all drunk. In short, I hate October. Rocktoberfest can’t do anything to absolve this.

And this October still wants to be miserable. For starters, the promised El Nino that was to keep me indoors instead of having to wake up at 5 in the morning to go to work hasn’t happened yet. Only Mombasa citizens have had a taste for it so far. And it didn’t even last three days. Then there are rumours Airtel will move from Kenya soon. I don’t even use their services, but imagine how much Safaricom will charge us once their biggest rival here is gone? I foresee a day when Kanjo will partner with Safaricom and we will be required to pay for public toilets using airtime. And don’t even get me started on the fact that our leadres are fighting. And from the look of things, this will not be okay. Then there are wheelbarrows that civil servants can only afford to buy if they save up for a year. And MCAs that award themselves six million on a whim. And half built markets that cost millions.

I hate October.
And I haven’t even talked about the elephant in the room; that Njoki Chege wants fat women held responsible for their cheating spouses simply because they are fat. I know I shouldn’t wish it on anyone, but the day that insensitive, Subaru hating, insecure, bile loving… (I have ran out of adjectives, sorry)… poor lady gets a husband, humanity will have failed me. Fat people don’t choose to be fat (most of them anyway), it just happens. Some people just have better metabolisms. And some people are just idiots.

I hope you’re starting to see why October isn’t my favourite month, ever.

Never mind policemen who are more interested in money than actually saving your life or offering you any help at all. It’s worse in October because it is a dry month and the farmers don’t really have any food to transport to the market; most of them are preparing their farms for the short rains. Which means that there are fewer people hiring cars to transport their produce, which leaves the cops strolling around town for anyone with anything that looks like luggage; and if you don’t have a receipt for it, you are either forced to pay at least Ksh 300 or go to jail for ‘theft’. Like most of them even see the irony. You don’t believe me? Try carrying a bag full of stones on Luthuli Avenue this month and watch yourself branded a terrorist who stole stones from a government building. And we all know how many government buildings are on Luthuli Avenue.

Then as if I don’t already have enough on my plate, there’s my brother. I love him to death. He is tall, funny and an awesome brother. He is the kind of person that would jump off a cliff if there was any chance his jumping would let you live if you only had one piece of rope between you and that rope wouldn’t support the both of you. He is the kind of person that will find you lying on the ground, in pain, from where a snake bit you and he would literally suck it out without minding what the poison would do to him. But.

There is always a but.

You see, he is what women call a player nowadays. He has too many exes. Most of them are beautiful, young things. And very naïve. As the good brother I am, I always try to be friends with them, because I know being friends with his girl can only get me closer to him. But they are naïve. Too naïve- I don’t try to hit on them, ever- but they are too naïve. Take for instance yesterday. I had been feeling a little down following disappointments in my company and when something great finally happened, I thought I would do something for myself. So I bought myself congratulatory meat. Nyama Choma. Then this lass walks over to me and says hi, she actually says hi. I remember her vaguely but she looks familiar. She tells me she is Ann and she is an ex of my brother’s. I smile. I remember her now. I invite her to my expensive nyama choma and order the waiter to get her two Redds Vodka bottles. Two turns to four. Then six. Then she blackouts.

So, here I am, a small, very young girl by my side and a half drank bottle of Redds Vodka. I gulp the remainder and try to wake her up. She doesn’t budge. I do what any self-respecting man would do. I try to get her home. I know she lives in Kasarani, so I decide to get her in a cab. But a cab will be too expensive, especially for an ex that isn’t even mine. I decide to get public transport. Kasarani isn’t so far away. So I pay my bill and drag her off the table. By now, she is basically a zombie. I take her arm and try dragging her towards the stage. Then the worst happens. The cops show up. I won’t bore you with the details, but this is how the conversation went down:

“Do you know this man?”

“Yes”

Do you know where he is taking you?”

“NO.”

Let’s just say nobody likes a man with a drunk woman who doesn’t know where he’s taking her. My Ksh 1000 will attest that we learnt this the hard way. And that is how I was unable to go to Sarakasi Dome to watch a play I had been waiting to watch for two weeks. I hate October.

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But Why? Lord!? Why won't they tell me I am awesome!?

It is officially three weeks since my accident, and approximately four weeks since I joined Instagram. Yes, I know, I know. I vehemently swore a couple of months ago that I would never join Instagram, or IG, as I hear cool kids call it nowadays. It wasn’t anything I had against IG, but I have always felt Instagram is for girls whose fathers are really disappointed of them. As for my accident, ladies, hold your horses, no accidental babies were made in any back seats- it was a genuine accident. I will probably have a scar on the right side of my face just above my right eye for the time being, but I can assure you I am still as handsome (no pun intended) as ever… *wink*
Anyway, yesterday evening, after reading the much talked about fuckboy (If you’re the author, I admire your writing prowess, I just don’t respect you because you and Njoki Chege are unmistakably similar), I decided to reply to it. People have consequently argued about it all day. I was probably a little harsh, but yeah, I felt pissed off. But the thing is, early morning today, which was completely unexpected since I am rarely on Facebook, I find a message, again completely coincidental, from Joe, telling me that he belongs to a group of bloggers that have actually been readers of my blog, and who think I would be an excellent addition to their Whatsapp group. Ladies, I think I now understand why sweet words send streams down your panties.
The problem is, as awesome as it was to be considered awesome, it left half a dozen of unanswered questions. The biggest one of them being, why wont women find me awesome as well???? Whyyyy??? Followed closely by, should I actually start taking a career in writing more seriously than I have been doing over the past couple of months? Magunga and Ifehenia think I would go farther than I already have should I ever decide to be a full time writer. My folks, not so much; not after they spent half their income every month to get me to complete my undergraduate studies. That, I was able to logically deduce.
What I couldn’t quite explain was the former. I would love to understand women. Remember the story of the guy that found a magic lamp and on rubbing it a genie appeared that asked him for the proverbial wish and the dude said all he wished for was a road that joined the Earth to the Moon, and the genie laughed and said that was impossible, and that he had to make another wish? When the guy said he wished he could understand women the genie promptly shut up and built the road? Well, yeah, that is exactly what I feel right now as well. I will never understand women.
What do I have to do exactly to be considered awesome by you ladies out there? I am genuinely confused. Some female friends (yeah, sorry guys, I too, are inevitably on friend zones on some girls’ lists) suggested I learn cooking. I did that. Now, practically none of them can cook anything better than I can. Did any woman call me awesome? I would honestly be more shocked if they did, than if I ever found myself having lunch at KFC. ‘Next, they suggested I start writing, one of them actually did the post ‘Date a Guy That Writes.’ Look where that’s got me. Replying to annoying posts like Bye Fuckboy. SMH. Most recently, I was informed I should buy myself a car. We both know that isn’t happening this year… soo…. LOL. I hate my life.
Now, I am at the point where I feel I have to give an ultimatum to these women. If none of you tells me I am an awesome human being in the next week, I am declaring celibacy. Because FFS I really do not see the point of trying so hard and none of them will ever consider me awesome enough to offer nudes. Or perhaps I should just stop listening to my female friends, whose friend zones I really have no hope of leaving any time soon. Oh, crap, wait. I think that was an own goal.
I give up.  😦

Dear Cousin

Dear Cousin,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Your favourite cousin,

Nguku.

 

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

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