Posts Tagged ‘Safaricom’

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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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.

When you try to connect with him/her but it just isnt working

My heart is heavy. Still, it could be worse. Today, I almost broke up with my girlfriend of five years (or more, I am not entirely sure how long we have been together.) Well, we have settled things and we are now talking now, I can now connect with her, but it scared the shit out of me. It’s not like I even cheated on her or anything; nothing like that. In fact, I hate hookers. You see, all of them cheat you how you will have the time of your life, till five minutes later they tell you your time is up. So, clearly, wao ni ma-laya.

Anyway, it all started a couple of weeks back. We were in love and we still talked every day, every hour, every minute, every few seconds of our time together. You don’t believe me, do you? I see. But will I die whether you believe me or not? This is a blog anyway. Ivy, that’s my girl’s name btw, started complaining that she couldn’t get through to me a couple of times. She said, her words, “You don’t seem to be in touch with me nowadays. You don’t relate with my relatives.”

Naturally, I had absolutely no idea what on earth she was yapping on about. And the reason I couldn’t understand where this was coming from was, for starters, I had never felt more connected with her. In fact, I felt our connection was growing stronger, fast. And just the other day, I managed to connect with her sister. Whatsapp will bear me witness. I respect and love Ivy too much for me to ignore anything she says. But then, her words seemed to come to life one fateful morning when I had just booted up and I tried to send a ping to her. At first, I was informed that our connection was timing out, just as she had said. Then, as if from nowhere, I was informed that she could not be reached. I started panicking. Almost a full system interrupt.

I sent parity bits. Nothing. Nada. I tried to sleep it off by uninstalling and re-installing my hardware. Still nothing. I switched to my secondary Ethernet device. NOTHING! I decided may be I should reset my configurations and remove all IPs except hers. Nothing was working. I set my Ethernet card to DHCP. I have never liked Static configurations. Full panic mode now. Still, I could connect with my neighbor via wi-fi. (She’s a beauty. She is slim, quite shapely and has all the right features. Granted, she is Android, but she clearly beats any iPhone or iPad. Meh. Nexus!) I decided to check the last 24 hour’s ping stats. I had been online and so had she. In fact, we had been in touch and she had not known it, right till the moment I shut down the previous evening and booted up in the morning. I even checked to see whether my firewall or hers was refusing the connection ffs.

With clearly little else to do, I decided to connect to the internet. I knew how much she loved the internet so I banked on the fact that she would be online. I sent a trace-route. Nothing. I got as far as her ISP but from there she was just nowhere to be found. The real problem was, when I contacted our mutual friends, they had all been in touch with her. In fact, they complained they were not marriage counselors. Apparently, she too had tried to reach me and when she couldn’t, she reached out to them and asked if any of them had been in touch. We hadn’t. I was offline then, remember? My bundles were due to be renewed in the morning when I booted up. Safaricom, man, Gaddem. I have no idea why I haven’t embraced Unliminet yet. It was a relief tho.

Now that for a fact I knew my hardware was in the right shape and was working fine, I decided it had to be my software. I checked to see if any of them had enabled any proxies accidentally. No proxies were active. I checked if my immune system was blocking any connections; in fact, all it reported was that it was out of date and that it needed to be updated. Naturally, I decided to do a complete system restore. I selected the date before we last shared anything, which was the day before yesterday. I didn’t care if any programs I had installed or drivers I had hired the day before would be affected. I just didn’t. Now all I really cared about was reconnecting with my dear Ivy.

The restoration was done. NOTHING!!!!!! I almost crashed and broke down in a binary stream of tears. I was crushed, completely. 101 years had been lost just like that. 11111011111 clearly wasn’t our year.

Then, just as I was about to give up, drop all my security protocols and allow any interested viruses and malware to infiltrate and destroy my system, I received word from Microsoft that they had just discovered a bug. (WTF! I had updated my system just the other day!) Apparently this bug caused false IP addresses being assigned to the Wireless and Ethernet cards and it didn’t matter what you did. You could flush your entire system including the DNSs and it still wouldn’t reach some specific IPs, especially those that you are in communication with constantly. WTF!!!!!!

I didn’t bother applying the fucking security fix.

I have since formatted my system and installed Linux. I had no idea the software was this good. I don’t even need an antivirus anymore because no virus can infect me. Literally. My user interface may look like shit, but hey, I have The Terminal! That Beast! In fact, just seconds after applying Linux, I connected with Ivy seamlessly. Of course I had to explain to her what had happened and why we couldn’t connect for most of today, but she believed me. A couple of her pals had warned her of the same a few days ago but she hadn’t taken it seriously. So, as of now, we are back together. I love you Ivy. (She has since warned me of connecting with the Nexus.) She is also due to install Linux on her system tomorrow.

So, we have come up with a very simple resolution; fuck these daily Safaricom bundles. Fuck Microsoft for its shit of a product called Windows and fuck everyone that believed we were done. Also, fuck you if you still haven’t figured out that we are computers; I am HP and Ivy is Dell.

 

Ps. If you somehow got this post, mate, you are a computer nerd, geek, whatever you call yourself. LMAO.

LOVE.HATE THING

Posted: September 6, 2013 by ketihapa in Twitter
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Love vs Hate: Take your pick what rules on Twitter

We signed Ozil bishes \o/. Anyway, first of all, I need somebody to explain to me in a manner I can understand why we don’t call corridors in mental institutions psychopaths. While you’re at it, will you also explain to Mckym that girls hate men with vaginas. A relationship can have only one vagina at a time. Also, Lencer needs to act an age that’s bigger than the size of her bra and quit telling everyone how men’s penises always drown in her Basin.

In addition I am still depressed that you assholes chased Dopest from my Twitter Streets. Just when we’d found someone to sweep the trail of pubic hair she leaves behind; I guess we’ll just have to find elsewhere for StanSubru to sweep coz that’s all he seems to be doing nowadays. Sweeping up where men have just finished coming.

However, that isn’t the reason for this blog post. I need someone to invent a time machine to take us into the future so we can see what the world will look like 20 years from now with all this hate on Twitter streets. Or just take us back to the time before Twitter. I’m sorry guys, I don’t want to give advice no one will follow like Canduh, but it had to be said. As someone pointed out, Hitler probably had less hate in his heart. You people will shoot down anyone- and with more accuracy than Van Persie’s shots.

Take for instance the “If United want depth they should sign Huddah” tweet during the recently closed Transfer window.

Where am I going with this you ask? Simple, can everyone please take a fucking chill pill and calm the fuck down!? At least for a day? You can remind Dorcas to calm her tits down too or we’ll get Mbunde to twerk and scare the shit out of her. Because at this rate I foresee Twitter being listed by the government as the leading cause of suicide.

I mean, I’d kill myself if I were a fat person and someone told me my stretch marks prolly have more exercise than me. Or that the only form of exercise you get is when you jog your memory? I’d go on and on about fat people but I don’t want to make them full of themselves. I’m sorry if you still haven’t seen what I just did there.

The next group that you guys love picking on are the ugly and the dark-skinned. If KOT were allowed to draft the constitution I’m 70% sure it’d be illegal to be ugly. You guys would just ship them off to Uganda in exchange for Milk- the shoes I mean. Wait, I think I just described Bata trade smh. My heart goes out to those wonderful creatures of God. Some of my best friends are actually dark-skinned.

At least dark-skinned women don’t reply to your 30 page text with ‘IKR’ or ‘Aaaaawww’ or ‘LOL’ or as someone noted last week, reply to Safaricom’s insufficient balance texts with ‘I have a man’. The only trick is, remember to get yourself drunk in advance so your brain lets you see their inner beauty. At that point they’ll look so hot your zipper will fall for them. There’s also the added benefit in that you’ll not remember when you ‘make sex’ and she calls you Tiger.

Finally, for Heaven’s sake, please don’t keep any grudges with a bigwig or tell everyone you shared a hole or you’ll be dancing to Hole of Fame when the hate boils over and your TL is full of ‘Shots fired’ tweets. Trust me. Ombajo, or Paapa or whatever knows. Or at least he found out the hard way. Now all women know he smokes. And that the stove is all to blame.

They say 666 is an evil number, which means that 25.806975801127880315188420605149 is the actual root of evil. Personally, I think Twitter is the root of evil. Anyhu, I am off to edit my Fantasy Football team. And y’all can bet whom I’m making my Captain for the next game week. Later fools!

Yes Mr. Mheshimiwa... Here's a dustbin for all the rubbish you gave us over the past 5 years....

Yes Mr. Mheshimiwa… Here’s a dustbin for all the rubbish you gave us over the past 5 years….

First and foremost, happy new year to all my avid readers and fans. I guess we should all be thankful to the grossly poor forecasting abilities of the Mayans and consequently, I think it is about time we all put the movie ‘2012’ in the comedy section. Unfortunately for me, my predictions did come to pass and this is why I am here posting blogs about my sad, miserable life.

My predictions were simple, that by age 22, which I turned last week, I would be wifeless and without a car or a house and definitely, not a job either. Also, we still wouldn’t have invented toilets that warn you when you’re full of crap and need emptying- which is a good thing because it means that KetiHapa is still here and full of the useless bullshit that you all love reading.

On the plus side, I do have two newborn twin brothers, Andrew and Adrian, to whom I’ll dedicate a blog one of these days, and a brand new skill set that includes changing diapers, cooking exquisite porridge, rocking babies to sleep, getting peed on and sacrificing my sleep for someone else. And no I am not trying to market myself to the ladies owing to my single status; rather, I am kindly asking ladies to please take note. Or of all of those 9 months will have been for nothing if I can’t get laid out of it.

Seriously though, I love them already. Ok, except when they conspire to cry at the same time like they’re auditioning for some choir from Western. Or when they’ll eventually start laughing, because trust me, I know in a few more weeks their eyes will have grown enough to focus on my face and then the only thing that will stop them from laughing at me will be plastic surgery.

Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I attended an interview at Safaricom. Yeah, it was horrible. They had us sit in an exam room and do a written exam that was timed. Can you believe that!? Me, sit in exam room during my holidays and do an exam? As if that wasn’t enough, they had cameras all over the room, meaning that copying, mwakenyas and any of my usual exam room antics and paraphernalia that includes but is not limited to temporary tattoos on my arms with answers were effectively rendered null and void. Rumour has it though that I passed, but when Safaricom did a background check on me and discovered that I follow a certain Mr. Brian Mbunde on Twitter, it was unanimously decided there was a certain black mark on my otherwise perfect resume.

I’d say the only good thing that came out of that interview was  that I learnt never to buy fast food in Westlands unless you own a car, which if you recall, I do not, because there are no dustbins in Westlands. That is unless you’re prepared to hear a watchman- whose tribe I will not disclose for fear of being accused of promoting hate speech and having myself prosecuted-  tell you “Poss tustpin sichaona mimi. Lakini lapda kachai kitogo itaamsha akili yangu nikumbuke mahali niliona mocha…”

Eventually I ended up buying a dust bin and placing it at a strategic position on one of the streets, where I proceeded to dump my unrecyclable garbage and to dare the city council to arrest me if there’s a rule against philanthropically donating much needed dustbins in Nairobi. I still however wish I had donated it to parliament instead for all the rubbish our lawmakers give us; I am however not sure whether one Arthur Guinness may have had a say in that decision or not…

Regardless, that heart breaking ordeal did not deter me from attending the next interview I was invited to: the Independent Electoral and Boundaries Commission my prospective employers this time round. I figured I might as well copy our MPigs in a bid to get paid off mwananchi’s hard earned tax money, who coincidentally were trying to award themselves massive send-off packages that same week.

Perhaps I was trying to validate my decision not to vote in the forthcoming general elections, because the fact of the matter is, I am fed up with electing good people only for scum to be sworn into parliament. Someone said that there’s no place in the world for people who do not work. He was wrong, in my opinion. There is one such place for such people; the Kenyan Parliament building. If I were a bird, I am not sure whom I’d shit on first, but I think I have a pretty good idea where I would start. Yeah, again, you guessed right. I’d start right outside parliament buildings.

Anyhow, I found myself in a mad rush headed for the Wang’uru County Hall at 2 p.m., because I got my invitation sms at 1 p.m. never mind that the sms said my interview was supposed to start at 9 am. A few important calls to a few people in high places ensured that somehow my case would be heard. I refuse to call it corruption because absolutely no money was exchanged. Plus they did owe me a few favours after all. I got there at 3.30 p.m., a full six and a half hours late and the whole thing was done twenty minutes later.

So as the rest of you prepare to vote on March 4th, yours truly will be sitting this one out. I will be there alright, but as an observer to ensure that the best man does not lose. And getting paid in the process. Not a bad deal if you ask me; But the honest truth is, I choose to be called  a bad citizen for refusing to vote rather than participate in anything that results in violence and consequently, destruction of human life and everything we’ve worked so hard to achieve over the past five years. But that’s just me- I do not know whom you intend to vote for nor will I tell you not to vote or try to influence your choice in any way. No, nothing of the sort.

All I pray is that there won’t be chaos as has been witnessed in various parts of the country at the just concluded candidate nominations.

And with that I refuse to continue with this blog post because I have absolutely no idea why or how in the first place I am writing political shit. Anyway, please do have a good week people 🙂

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.