Posts Tagged ‘Okoa Jahazi’

SUNDAYS

Posted: April 10, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Life
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
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Sundays... Learn to love Sundays!

So, today is Sunday; Sunday evening to be precise if you’re reading this now, or Monday, if you’ll be reading it in the next few hours. Sunday is a great day; it is slow and mostly very boring, but it is one full of blessings. Even people who got paid before you and happened to finish their salaries before you finally remember they are your friends and are willing to pay you a visit for you to buy them lunch or whatever. A drink sometimes even. Your pastor reminds you how wonderful you are and how much God is taking care of you. And even better, you do not have to go to work! So yes, Sunday is a really great day.

But somehow, Sunday is never your best day. In addition to being bored and nursing a hangover, you’re mostly upset and angry that in a few hours, it will be Monday morning and you will be expected to be at work at 8:00 am which means unlike Sunday morning you will have to wake up at 5:00 am to get ready and find a good enough vehicle to drive you to town or to your office. (3:00 am if you’re the female types that have to shower twice, make sure the reading on the weighing machines says the makeup on their faces hasn’t exceeded a ton, blend vegetables and drink the sloth to keep themselves very fit in case the traffic forces them to run to the office to avoid being late and getting fired.)

If you’re a man, Sunday is an even worse day for you. Even worse than the fact that tomorrow morning you will have to be in the office in a suit, ironed pants and shirt, polished shoes and a tie whose colour the vendor assured you is red but you aren’t sure of. Yet- which is a bad reminder that you have no woman with you to tell you that the tie you have chosen is pink and that your boot accepts luggage too, instead of red.

This is also a reminder that for the rest of the week, you will experience nothing but a growing shade of blue on your balls till Friday. Unless you will manage to convince one of the ladies that abruptly remembered were more than friends with you last Sunday that instead of the lunch you both had then cooked by someone a friend just warned you cooks dog meat instead of beef, this time, you will make dinner for her; a dinner she will never forget and one her friends will be salivating over when she posts the photos you will let her take on Instagram, probably more than they are currently over this Brock O’Hurn illuminati fellow causing most of their bodies to heat up more than Judas in Hell’s flames.

You will therefore convince her that you have perfected your cooking skills in a week and that in fact, you are on your way to being awarded a certificate of merit to show how amazing a chef you have become if she will taste the food and give her testimonial to your trainers. That you will be genuinely happy to know she won’t have to spend the coming week heavily sedated on meds and in pampers should she decline the dinner and eats food cooked by someone she doesn’t know and trust again. In short, that she is very important to you today. Woe unto you if she is not convinced after your well rehearsed lines.

After you have successfully convinced her how important she is to you (mostly to your testicles though), you still have the uphill task of finding a car to pick her, because you will be so busy trying to convince the other one from last night that suddenly believes she will be meeting your parents (her parents in law to be) next week, that you were born in Mbabane, hence you are a citizen of Swaziland but you have perfected your Swahili, so your parents will not let you marry her since when you met her she wasn’t a virgin; hell, you are afraid of the curse they would mete out should you marry her.

After successfully organizing for a ride to pick her (you will later on sort out your friend with a good through pass to the girl you can’t marry because you’re from Swaziland and she wasn’t a virgin when you met her), you will then have to work out how to ensure the food she will dare to come see and take photos of is ready. There is only one problem however, even boiling eggs is problematic for you; one it takes too long for them to cook, you don’t even know if they are cooked when the water finally boils and even the ones you buy from street vendors are better than yours. The only eggs you could possibly prepare perfectly are hers… for pregnancy and childbirth.

Which will remind you yet another thing- after you have paid off some mama to cook food in your house that you will later on declare you cooked and offer to teach her how to do it- that you bloody need a dozen condoms in your house. You are in absolutely no mood to prepare any eggs yet. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future. The only responsibility you can see yourself handling properly is making sure your bottle and or glass of beer does not pour out any of its contents when you accidentally slip; that is your version of drinking responsibly.

That done, only one thing will be left to do now; to buy sufficient airtime to call her and tell her you are ready to pick her up now. You will purchase Ksh. 200 worth of airtime, although Ksh. 100 will be deducted to pay off your Okoa Jahazi, which you had to borrow in order to organize for everything else. You will proceed to call her and you will be very sweet, courteous and polite on the phone, addressing her not as ‘Bae’, the wannabe version of sweets, but as Sweetheart.

She will need to know how much you care for her, after all you told her how important she is to you earlier on. That will be until she tells you “Aki sweetheart, wacha nitakuja next weekend… I am so sorry I should have told you earlier, my cramps just got worse. I can’t travel. I really need to rest sweetheart. I love you. Gosh! I will miss you!”

And there and then you will feel all your energy draining out, what was left of it anyway. The remorse in your heart will be immense; not because you she has bad cramps and cant come to see you, but because you have already used up your money trying to organize for her trip and with your resources including time (considering it is now 7:30 pm) gone, you will not be able to find another suitable one to fill in for the emergency.

You will proceed to your local and convince Mama Shiko to give you a bottle of vodka to drown your sorrows in, that you will pay for tomorrow. She will see the hurt in your eyes and give it to you; except now in addition to owing a through pass to your friend that lent you his car, you also owe Mama Shiko and before long, you will be drunk AF again meaning your Monday morning in the office will be miserable as hell (hopefully your boss will not smell your breath) and even worse, your blue balls will develop as foreseen early in the morning.

Sundays. Sundays are just sad for Mafisi Sacco Members.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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