Posts Tagged ‘Twitter’

So let’s assume Jesus came back today. Or tomorrow. Or you know, whenever. Christians have been waiting for Him to come back for over 2,000 years now, while Atheists claim 2,000 years is too long to wait for someone to come again (yes, full pun intended). Personally I do not mind the wait.

As an Engineer I have learnt one thing, never rush things. All you can do is wait; hopefully the wait won’t be as long as waiting for Kanye West to apologize to Wiz Khalifa for insulting him using a 2 year old. In hindsight (LQTM) Amber Rose did do Wiz some justice… And as someone pointed out, that is why you have to pay for child support.

Anyway, back to the point; If Jesus were to come back today. A few friends and I, brilliant bloggers as well, had this argument yesterday. As expected, most were for the idea that Jesus should come back already, while the faint hearted chose not to participate at all, labelling us Atheists. But come on, we have all read the Bible. His coming has been anticipated more than His actual birth.

Regardless, the discussion continued, for those that stayed anyway. The initial view was that if Jesus were to come back today, He would be imprisoned. He would be labelled a political blogger out for blood with unsubstantiated claims of miracles out to oust the current regime (that we are tired of anyway) and He would be labelled an unpatriotic Son Of Kenya. Because God is Kenyan. Smh. In fact, He would be stoned, not like the  Stephen-Stoned-To-Death-From-Weed type, actual stoning. And pastors would be behind it because all the money they collect to ‘give to Jesus’ would be claimed by Jesus, legally. Well, that’s what the church is about nowadays anyway, right?

But then someone else argued that Jesus would be respected because He would perform miracles. The general consensus however, was that only one miracle would stand out. And your guess is as good as mine was. It wouldn’t be the ability to cure AIDS or to raise the dead back to life. It would be more along the lines of dethroning EABL, KWAL and Keroche Industries.

Yup, Jesus would be the perfect fit for Kenya if He could re-do the miracle at Cana. And I am sorry Meru people, I really do mean MIRACLE not MIRAA-CO. Afterall, Kenya is a drinking nation, second only to South Africa. Nigerians tell us they swim in pools full of liquor as Kendrick directed them to so they really aren’t in contention… Plus we don’t believe them. If they said they swam in oil, perhaps we would believe them.

I digress. If somehow Jesus would turn water into wine yet again… It was agreed everyone would follow Him. Not on Twitter, nor on Facebook and neither on Instagram… None. It would be a physical following. The kind that would have me be a water boy for Him, a job I would serve very diligently, as i pointed out. We keep saying hoes are thirsty, but we both know you would be thirsty as well. After all, it would be Holy Alcohol; which would be safe to drink because He would never allow your liver to get damaged. Talk of the Holy Spirit…. Wait, what?

Which brings me to the other point. As a Kenyan, we will always be business minded; someone somewhere would try to get Jesus to turn their local dam into a brewery. Well, personally I know I would. It would be a goldmine! Because the infrastructure already exists. He would deliver the beer through pipes right into people’s homes from their taps. Doesn’t matter what type of pipe you would have, PPR, GI… it wouldn’t matter.  Imagine it! Beer in taps.

So on that note, I am kindly asking all potential investors to consider my offer. I am registering my Beer In Taps Company Limited next week in anticipation for Jesus’ coming. You shouldn’t be scared of the legal constraints because we have no law against it, yet.

In short, what I am asking for is your money and your continued support. The government told us to be entrepreneurs and create jobs after all, right?


(Photo courtesy of flckr)

Dear Mr President,

I hope you’re finally back in Kenya and that you are faring on okay. I saw a recent photo of you making out with your wife (that I am really jealous of) but I am not sure if it was all a match in the political game. I hope you will not be hangovered as you read this, but if you are, please feel free to visit Kerugoya where they still sell second generation alcohol. That tab will be fully mine, and will be fully paid as soon as you fire all corrupt individuals so I can get my Youth Fund.

When you get to Kerugoya, find a boda boda operator called Kinyua. He was once an employee of your government but some ass of a senior appointment your government made stole money and the institution he worked for had to downsize. Thankfully he had saved up quite a bit so he bought a motorbike that is helping him feed his family. He doesn’t have any ill feelings towards you, I should add. He, like me, are loyal citizen of this wonderful country called Kenya.

Anyway, back to Kinyua. Tell him to drop you off at a pub called Masafara Bar; i like the name… Reminds me I am still Kenyan. However, on your way you might need to pay Kinyua in advance for fuel. You see, Kinyua’s eldest son is in High School but his principal directed the parents pay an extra 5700 for toilets for the teachers and a bus, which is more than Matian’gi directed school heads to ask for. I suspect he might be broke at the moment and that his landlord added an extra 500 because he paid his rent a day after the deadline, so don’t mind paying for fuel, please.

When you get to Masafara Bar, find a lady called Lilian. She is lightskinned but is modest; not like these other hoes Uganda is currently buying for her citizens. She is lively and young – perhaps too young. She had to drop out of college to find work in order to support her ailing mother who has cancer. But since the country has very limited radiotherapy machines, she has to bribe someone at KNH just to get her mother treated. But she is doing well and although it is against her morals, she still pays the bribe so her dear mother won’t die.

When you’re finally seated, ask her to give you any alcohol your heart may desire, some lemon (she may take a bit to find lemons because lemons are really expensive thanks to the new tax rates. Cigarettes too) and some water or soda. Any soda. Personally I would recommend the water because apparently KEBS put an expiry date on it despite the fact that it has been running in oceans, lakes etc for millenniums.

When you get your drink, first pray that no woman who has been forced to sell her body for money because she graduated and couldn’t find work will prey on you. Or worse, put any pills in your drink. But just to be sure, always have your drink in your hand at all times.

Thereafter, I want you to ask yourself where this country is going. Do we need Jesus, or a ship, or a plane to get us developed? Do we need Judas to come tell our corrupt leaders that corruption ends in disaster? Do we need Pharaoh to tell them that sooner or later, the oppressed will find a way to be free? Do we need paediatricians to tell our politicians that like diapers, they need to be changed often to ensure babies are okay? Or do we need you to be like Magufuli and dare to change this country?

That said, I must mention that I am a loyal citizen of Kenya. In fact, I have fought many wars for this country. Against Al Shabaab, CNN, Nigeria, Tanzania, South Africa, ISIS, AIDS, Illicit Alcohol, among others, on Twitter. When will all my (our) efforts at making this country a better place come to fruition?

Be about something Mr. President.

Yours faithfully,

Keti Hapa.


Posted: December 24, 2015 by ketihapa in Kenya
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I will dream we will be better than this

Someone said my dreams are valid. That same person went ahead to feature in a Star Wars movie, but not before she got Mexicans trying to fight for her after she won an Oscar. She dared to dream, and her dreams came true. I am not sure having people that have chilli with everything save for sex counts, but yeah, her dreams came true. They came hard and fast (no pun intended), all because Lupita dared to dream.

So i will dream too…

I dream that one day we will have a country that is defined by love; not greed. Not hate. A country i will be happy to let my kids grow up in. Where they wont have to buy milk for ksh 100 because someone slept with someone to steal money intended for the Youth Service and the government’s only option is to raise taxes to recover the money- not counting some Euro bond rubbish. A country where my kids will be known as Kenyans, not Kikuyu or luo or Luhya or Kalenjin or Maasai or Kamba.

I dream that one day my country will be the best place to live in, and we wont have private developers grabbing lands meant for schools that my kids will attend. Or money meant for laptops to help them become better scholars. And that their teachers will be paid enough to nurture my kids to be amazing people. I dream that nobody will stop them in Nairobi to demand for ksh 200 because they were carrying an over-size paper bag and they didn’t have a receipt with a KRA stamp on it.

I also dream that everybody will have food and water. Perhaps China will get us food and water because my government seems more interested in buying wheelbarrows worth Ksh 109,000 and shutting down websites that report they are outside the country buying Jameson instead of procuring quality vaccines for our kids, more of whom are dying due to poor health care and absence of health workers because the government refused to pay them and instead opted to bankroll expensive flights to heaven (in doubt) and hell and allegedly Mars.

I dream of the day we wont have to buy guns to protect ourselves; that day when my country wont have to spend billions to buy gun when in truth the biggest and fiercest guns have been in our possession all along- the guns called love, understanding and compassion. I dream of the day the media wont have to report that a woman was shot in church and the bullet went straight through her and dislodged in her two year old child, who barely knows how to protect himself and his mother. I dream that one day, i will walk in town and no child will stop me to beg for money because my government ensured all kids go to school. Because they had the hindsight to know that education, hence knowledge, is all the power needed to make my country a better place.

I also dream that one day, my kids will be wise enough to know that Instagram is for girls whose fathers are disappointed of; that Twitter is a powerful tool to connect with fellow human beings, but one that ignorant people can use to force other people to hate other people. That it is a tool that can be used by people borrowing money from their parents to buy bundles to sack Cabinet Secretaries.

Most importantly, i dream of you. I dream of the day i will put a ring on your finger; i dream of the day i will marry you- you can have your grand wedding then. I dream of being a wonderful husband and an even better father to our kids.

In short, i will dream that my dreams will come true, because i realize that a man without a dream is just a bad dream.


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.

Happy Valentines Day love birds

It is common knowledge how much I dislike Valentine’s Day. It’s not the fact that we choose to associate sex- let’s all face it, Valentines is all about sex- with a Roman Priest that was clubbed and then stoned (no pun intended) and finally when getting stoned didn’t kill him (Again, NACADA, I am not trying to convince people that weed is not harmful), he was beheaded to death. Or the fact that it is the one day that is full of more hypocrisy than a marriage. Where all ladies suddenly want you and want to spend the entire day by your side, for the cost of your entire January savings of course, the reward of which is that you’re not even sure you’ll get some at the end of the day.

In the light that this day is barely a week from now, following thorough research with the help of our learned friend the internet, I have come up with a complete full proof guide on how to avoid Valentine’s Day; but then again, nothing is ever truly full proof to a sufficiently talented fool. No, it doesn’t involve faking your death, or pretending to be sick. The former is too drastic while the latter will only make her want to come over to your place having bought herself roses and chocolates and whatever, with the excuse to make you feel better- you will refund the money she spent later. Anyway, ladies, it would be best you stopped reading from this point onwards.

My method is relatively simple: simply convince her you never existed. How you ask? I will expound.

Step 1: Sneak out at night:

Yes, you simply walk out while she’s asleep and you vanish into the night. It is of extreme importance that you remember to carry all your belongings with you. Clear everything, including your scent and your wank sock. The scent will be the hardest to clear, but it can be accomplished by soaking her clothes in Jik (make sure she’s aware) so that the entire house reeks of Jik. That way, your scent will be masked.

Step 2: Erase yourself from all her pictures:

Assuming you’re computer literate, then you’ve heard about Photoshop. You know, that little tool all women use to deceive us how they suddenly grew boobs. The same one darkskins use to alter the colour spectrum of their skins. Leave no traces. If she has password-protected her phone, throw it in the loo and flush it away. I doubt she will dip her hand in the loo anyway. This will also delay her from trying to call you in the morning. Burn all photographs and make sure you do it outside so she doesn’t smell the smell.

Step 3: Change your phone number:

Well, it goes without saying that if you’re running from her you need to change your phone number. It also means that you will have to delete your Twitter account as well your Facebook and Instagram profiles. I know you don’t use it, but your email address will have to go too. Don’t worry about your follower count. You can get new ones in no time.

Step 4: Pay everyone that knows you to deny your existence

This is the most crucial step. After she has tried to reach you on your phone, various social media accounts and email, the next logical step she will take will be to ask around whether anyone has seen you. It is therefore important that all your friends are in on the conspiracy too. Pay anyone who knows even as little as how your fart smells to the ones who know your deepest secrets. These include the bartender and your parents. Your parents might not take the news that you want to erase your existence, but you will have to convince them. I know you have what it takes to accomplish this. If you have a criminal record, pay whoever you have to, to expunge it, as well as remove records of your birth from government records. In short, be a ghost.

Step 5: Take a vacation

After you’ve accomplished all the above, you will be in the clear. Also, you need to make sure you’ll visit a faraway land so that she doesn’t run into you before she checks herself into Mathare. With that done, you will be a man, my son.

Difficulty level: 9/10

Disclaimer: If after you accomplish all that and she still manages to find you, wife that bitch. You’re safer if you keep her close to know her whereabouts and plans for you. Trust me.

(Special mention:

As i found out, this is actually not as easy as it looks.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine told me it was time to grow up and buy myself a wallet. Before we continue, I should mention that this friend was female, and to vanquish any other questions about her, we are just friends. You see, I have had this phobia of carrying money in a wallet ever since I got robbed in the company of a girl called Sofia.. I am not sure whether that was purely coincidental or not, because to date I still fear carrying lots of money when in the company of anyone called Sofia. Nhu, I decided it was a long time ago and bought myself a nice leather wallet. The kind that are just fat by nature regardless the presence of money, the ones you use to confuse both your enemies and would be chips fungas.

I was happy. I had just been paid. I swiftly headed to the bank after work and withdrew a sizeable amount of money, after which I proceeded to pay a house call on one of my oldest friends. Yes, the bartender. Within no time, I was singing mwenda wakwa mariru and feeling overly philanthropic. Alcohol makes you feel like you own the central bank. Knowing fully well I had to be at work the next day at 9 am, I was in no hurry. And that’s when she showed up. Shiku. She was beautiful. She had all the goods. With my blood draining from one head to another and with alcohol quickly replacing the blood draining from the former head, I made my move. We bonded almost instantly. I bought her a couple of drinks and when it was time to leave, you cannot imagine my joy at discovering she lived in Kasarani, which as it turns out, is where I live. The gods were on my side.

We boarded a matatu and very soon we were on our way. I had done my quick calculations and discovered that I could pass by her place and get some chips deep fried since her place was closer than mine, and that I would still make it to my place by 12 am. The makanga, after making sure all the seats were filled, started collecting bus fare. I told Shiku I’d pay for her fare. After all, a small amount of money was nothing compared to what I would get at Kasarani. So when the makanga was standing right next to where we were seated, I produced a note from my pocket without even bothering to check what its value was. I was pretty confident it was a Ksh 1000 note, which was sufficient to cover three objectives: one, pay for Shiku’s fare, two, impress Shiku that the money was not about to run out soon, and three, cover for my bus fare.

Except it turned out to be Ksh 100, as the makanga quickly pointed out. “Haya, hiyo nimelipia mresh,” I said in full confidence.

Shiku was smiling. Ah, simple mistake. That must have been the change I received from the bartender. I quickly slid my hand down my pocket to retrieve my wallet and get cash to accomplish objectives two and three in that order. So, you can imagine my shock when my hand came back with nothing but a few beads of sweat on them, more of which was quickly starting to form on my face.

“Mzae kama huna pesa ebu shuka. Ama hiyo umelipia mresh tuseme ikuwe yako alafu yeye ajilipie?” the conductor asked, with a menacing smile because he knew he was about to cock block me. I hated the bastard more because my fellow passengers, who had been intensely following the proceedings like a Mexican soap opera all laughed. As well know, Alcohol rarely lets you make well informed decisions. So, I found myself saying this next:

“Apana. Hiyo ni yake. Sa si juu tunashukia hapo Equity si unaeza nipea dakika mbili nikimbie ATM nitawithdraw nikulipe.”

The makanga after slight deliberation agreed, then as though we were thinking on the same wavelength, it dawned on both of us that there was no way I could withdraw money from the bank because, well, I had lost my wallet. My ATM card in it.

“Ah weh maze wacha za ovyo. Utawithdraw aje pesa ka ATM imeibiwa kwa wallet? Kwani wewe ni mwizi?”

More laughter. Shiku at this point declared she had no money on her either.

“Ama, hiyo simu yako si uniuzie elfu nne alafu nitatoa fare hapo. Halafu change nitakubeba sare miezi sita hadi iishe.”

If there’s one thing I absolutely love, it is my phone. I flatly refused. But then again, I was growing desperate. So, I slowly took out my phone and tried to call anyone that was willing to lend me cash on M Pesa at that time of night. As you might have guessed, I had forgotten to purchase credit before we boarded the matatu. All I had were internet bundles, which were of no use to me since my phone had no Whatsapp and all my closest friends have flatly refused to join Twitter because it is too complicated (?????). I decided there was only one thing left to do. I slowly stood up, much to the mixed emotions of amusement of my audience, some of whom felt I pity. By now, the matatu had stopped. I slowly walked to towards the door. Until one brave passanger, God bless his soul, suggested that I be given a chance to earn my money.

How you ask? I was to be a tout for the next trip to town and back to Kasarani. Everybody suddenly seemed to be on his side. Bear in mind that my knowledge of makanga-ing, if there’s such a word is limited to “Beba! Beba! Tao Mbao.”

Seeing as my only two options were to either sell my phone, was value was way above that Ksh 4000 offered, or to be a tout for two trips, I decided to go for the second option. The tout, having already completed collecting fare for the trip proceeded to hand me the maroon jacket all touts are required by law to wear and. Then after showing me how to hold on to the door and how to notify the driver how to stop by banging on a specific part of the vehicle’s body or window, left me to my means and went to his seat. Sorry, the seat I had been seated in next to Shiku. I deleted Shiku’s number from my phone.


Posted: September 6, 2013 by ketihapa in Twitter
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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!

Dear newbies, we love you and we want to help you. Please listen to us

I know it’s been a while since I last blogged, but hey, absence makes the heart grow fonder, right? Ok, except if you’re one @mbusih, in which case it makes you grow fodder… Anyway, it’s Sunday and instead of lazing around in my house, slowly dying a little every hour that goes by bringing Monday closer and closer, here I am at work, blogging. One of the few free perks I never anticipated when I started my new job. I won’t even get started about my meagre salary- you just know that if any thief tried to rob me all he’d gain is experience.

The thing is, I have some unfinished business with newbies on Twitter. I’ve tried to get past it, but I just can’t. So this one is strictly intended for all newbies out there, who one day hope they can make a name for themselves.

First and foremost, who the hell lied to you newbies that we are your family on Twitter? We love your tweets, not you. Don’t get me wrong, if you’re female and hot, I and the rest of the #TeamMafisi will automatically like you and follow you. We’ll in fact brag we’ve followed you; and for that slight honour, we’ll expect you to respond by following back and commence DM-ing us with immediate effect. The rest of you, if you’re not hot enough we’ll expect you to work hard. And no, please take note that by hot I do not mean that ice cream or chocolate melts in your hand, or that working hard means kissing ass like one @mikeztyme. When we need you to lick our asses we’ll let you know when we’ve run out of toilet paper. Else, you can work smart. Make us laugh using your tweets, and they better not be stolen.

Second, what is the point of being on social media if you’re going to protect your tweets? From whom? Osama? Churchill? Us? Please. We’re not interested in stealing your 12 tweets- and Churchill usually has a whole week of cramming the tweets with the most retweets, which if I’m right, you don’t have. It’s the reason you’ll desperately trying to get noticed in the first place. If you wanna be private, that’s fine by us, but beware Blogger Y always has a way of finding out what you’ve been up to. My advice, don’t give him a damn reason to be curious. And if Blogger Y doesn’t catch up with you, @Droid254 will eventually create a MEME of you. Ask @leee_yo… she knows.

Then, your names. Or rather, your twitter handle. If you’re a dude and you call yourself something like @switsammie or @swit_william, you can go help @Sir_LV do her nails. After you’re done, you can be a darling and help @Kirigwi pick her dress or do something fun like watching the wedding show or tweeting Taylor Swift whom you think would make a perfect boyfriend for her. I’m sure @gaynairobiman will understand if you’ll run out of time to do Karaoke of Justin Beiber’s latest album- I hear it’s called PMS- with her. Ladies on the other hand, what is the point of including the name pretty or pritty or hot or whatever else you dug up from the dictionary in your name? Especially when it’s pretty obvious that the only logical place a man would take you shopping is Photoshop? Hint, the craftier your handle, the more likely people are to follow you back.

There’s also the slight issue about your language, which includes, but not limited to your grammar. We hate typos. Deal with it. You have a dictionary, you have the internet and you have a brain. Even Homer Simpson, with all his stupidity uses correct grammar. You are allowed to hurl insults, be as sarcastic or employ whatever other elements of speech you wish, but not typos. Words such as xaxa and xema are, needless to say, immature and we have a place for them. It’s called Facebook. Or rather, #MKZ. Twitter is full of Grammar Nazis, myself a very renown one for that matter. You can bet your ass that like Liam Neeson of Taken, we’ll find you and we’ll make your life a living hell.

Next, your avis, or avatars if you prefer. Get a decent picture of yourself, your dog, your cat, your crush, your feet, we don’t care. Anything that makes you happy really, provided you do not have an egg for an avi. Only one person is allowed to have that, and that is @babakayai, because thanks to him we now know which came first- the hen. Thanks to him we also know why the chicken crossed the road- to run away from him, you should notice we don’t have a @mamakayai. The point is, I will not and nor will most other people, follow you back if you have an egg for an avi. Ladies, use what you have, use the assets your momma gave you.. it works. Just ask @lencer_B… but avoid at all costs any photos that reveal your gigantic forehead, overgrown teeth, backgrounds that are better looking than you, et cetera et cetera. Basic common sense really.

Finally, we expect you to use numerous hash tags in all your tweets so we see you from afar and know you’re newbies. You are fully expected to stick to your lanes or you’ll end up like one @leondecow, who was once significant. We of the #TeamMafisi fraternity miss his unmatched eyesight when it comes to spotting fresh meat. Also, if over-speeding subarus come your way, because they will, relax. You’re not @sickolia_ or @crazynairobian yet. Your time to engage yourself in pointless tweefs and get labelled a drama- seeking attention whore is still yet to come. Failure to calm the fuck down will prolly result in a twicide.

Avoid the stupid mistakes I made while a newbie myself. Weka akili mpangoni.

Cancer is no joke… and you ought to take it upon yourself to take care of yourself to minimize the risk

***As appeared on 14th issue of The Campus Chronicles Magazine link as follows: ***

A couple of days ago, I posted on Twitter that I quit drinking and a few weeks before that, I’d posted that I quit smoking. Problem is, I’ve created this bad boy, care free image of the man that drinks, note my words, not a drunk. Ok, basically a drug addict who’s somehow got it under control- it’s the image that has somehow got me the 1400 or so people hanging on to my word on Twitter, coupled with the fact that I am a funny guy, sometimes an asshole, but a definitely good guy; or so I’m told.


First of all, I do not have it under control and second of all, I am neither of those things. I am just a typical recovering alcoholic and one who’s proud to quit smoking. Now, I really do not sharing with random strangers the misery that bugs my life, it was paramount I mention because otherwise this post would be meaningless.

Last night I found myself awake at 2.45 am trying to Google the early symptoms of throat cancer. And yes, I had all the symptoms. A dry cough, a hoarse voice, a severe sore throat, lumps on my neck and difficulty breathing and swallowing. And most important of all, I was in pain; both physical and psychological. For the first time in my life, I found myself crying and hoping it was a bacterial infection and not the former and the saddest part is, courtesy of my inability to let any woman get close to me, I had nobody to talk to. I didn’t want to give my mother a heart attack.

In the morning, I woke up at precisely 6.30 am, sweating and with tears dried on my cheeks- I didn’t even have my usual glorious morning wood. I didn’t even take a cup of tea. I simply put on some decent clothes (I sleep in my boxers, ladies take note, if you want to take advantage of me in my sleep it is allowed) and rushed to the nearest hospital i could find. All this time, I was considering what I’d do if it turned out to be cancer. I chocked back a couple of tears on the way. I knew I would never forgive myself for problems I’d whole heartedly gone out looking for and inhaled.

Thankfully, it turned out to be a severe case of bacterial infection, so don’t worry about me. The irony in it being I preferred it’s short term suffering as compared to what Cancer would do to me.

Now, I know when you look at the title above and the story, they are two completely different things. But as I said, it was important I describe my life to you so you’d understand where I’m going with this. And my point is simple, even men cry; hell, I’m glad I cried and reinforced the decision to stay off cancer sticks and booze. I’ll miss it and it’ll be hard, but I’ll do it for myself. Another thing, it is important to have at least one person you can lean on when all hell breaks loose and you have nobody to tell you it is going to be okay. At least I know now I definitely need a genuine friend, not one of my alcohol buddies and preferably, a woman.

As a man, you’ll be faced with lots of such times. You might even find yourself crying like I did. The question is, will you have somebody to lean on because you were as stubborn as I was and the only heart I followed was some handle called ‘heart’ on twitter? Think about it.

Oscar Pistorious displays his winner’s medal at the 2012 London Paralympics.

For lack of an excuse, I think I’ll just come out and say it honestly; I haven’t been blogging because I have been lazy and all I’ve accomplished in the past month is to gain weight. And yes, I still look like a toothpick so don’t dare guess how much I weighed before. But receiving the news last week that i passed last semester’s exams and landing the job I wanted in Westlands this week has somewhat cleared my mental/writers block. So, here i am, back to my usual antics: I am typing as I look over my shoulder every three minutes just in case my new boss realizes that I am not replying clients’ emails…

Nevertheless, a lot has happened and I’m sure you do not need reminding, but i am going to offer my expert opinion of the events that unfolded this month. And first of them is Oscar Pistorious.

Oscar… honestly, I am still in awe. Who shoots his girlfriend on Valentines?? Just who? SMH. That is just prosthetic.. Sorry I mean pathetic. To be honest, I hadn’t heard of the bugger before he wasted his girlfriend with four accurate shots. I give him credit; He shoots better than my dear Arsenal. Oscar in my opinion should have pleaded for temporary insanity. Hear me out. He’d say the voices in his head told him Cupid was dead and he was to assume the honourable duty with immediate effect. He’d then go on to explain how he decided to spice things up a little and use a gun not some old fashioned arrows. And his first assignment was to get his house in order: he’d practise with his girlfriend.

Ok, now I don’t make sense. No court would ever buy any of that. The story has bearing.. A better idea would be to plead guilty to chronic stupidity. Who hears strange noises and assumes burglars are invading his home, and the first place he runs off to check is the bathroom- bear in mind the door is wide open at this time. Anyway, Oscar was granted bail, much to the dismay of South Africans… at least the court has decided to preserve his anal virginity for a little longer. Who knew people with no legs can shoot more accurately than Torres.

Then the pope resigned. Good for him. At least we no longer have to hear advice about sex (that I am currently starved of) from an 80 year old virgin. He said God asked him to. And to prove it, lightning struck the Vatican. Coincidence? I think not; though I am sure God must have been disappointed Lightning doesn’t have the same dramatic effect it used to. He should never have let man invent lightning arrestors. But who blames the pope anyway. When you’ve performed your duties diligently for years and your boss is just never around to buy you lunch once in a while, it’s heartbreaking. On the bright side, reports claim we might finally have a black pope. Woot woot!

And as if we don’t have enough drama already, Njeru Githae, it was found out, apparently slept with his dead son’s girl. Jesus. As the dude of the ‘they kidnapped everything in our pockets’ fame said, ni kama ndurama… ni kama findeo. People do some crazy shit, but there should be a limit for insanity. Apparently, Githae was also the reason his son, Brian Njeru, then a fourth year student at the University of Nairobi, committed suicide in the first place. And yeah, Kirinyaga residents did not take it kindly; he ultimately lost his bid for Kirinyaga County Governor on a TNA ticket. Serves the bastard right anyway. I hope he has a special place in hell.. And that the devil is gay… that should be enough punishment in addition to the eternal fire of sulphur.

Anyhow, as I accept the sad fact that I have run out of things to write, I want to correct the bastard that called Africa a hoe for, and i quote, “Riding on YANA tyres.” I also profusely thank everybody who retweeted me over the weekend when we needed blood for a 3 month old boy called Kenneth Mugo. You guys came through wonderfully and it was humbling. My twitter followers, I love you all. He is now recovering well and will thanks to you, hopefully live to suffer a bad sexual dry spell like the rest of us.

And with that, I am out.