Posts Tagged ‘Westlands’

Lessons From A Senior Mafisi Sacco Member

Posted: February 2, 2016 by ketihapa in Dating, Humour
Tags: , , , ,

We are Many!

The JKUAT Students’ Union – led by Jomo Erick and Victor Marende Nzoka – today organised the first ever A.G.M in Juja. They bought us free lunch and gave us sodas to wash it down with. Our job was simple, to sit down, listen to the union talk about what they promised to do and why they didn’t do it and, if need arises, ask questions; questions they would dodge, like politicians do. Same old shit.

One lady impressed me though. Goes by Josephine, the JKUAT-Westlands Students’ Union Vice-Chair. Pretty mami, medium height, yellow yellow, smooth skin, authoritative voice, blue skirt, nice ass (Hehe, C’mon, like you didn’t know I was going to do that).
Gets up, jokes “I come from Eritrea by the way…” to screams, cheers and whistles from the crowd. Then switches to a serious tune, goes “We as Westlands Campus are highly disappointed in this leadership. You people came to us, promised us heaven and earth, only to deliver zilch. Come back this time round, and you will be shown the door. We are tired of this nonsense.”

Meeting ends in Chaos – Juja goons feel their President has been insulted, leave barking, with Jomo Erick lifted shoulder high. I approach the lady next to the Dean’s office, feed her some bullshit story about working for a certain media house and wanting her official statement, just to look her in the eye as she explains her point.

After 20 minutes of pretending like I’m really listening – during which time I’m mostly just shaking my head, and staring at her boobs – I tell her, “Look, so, take my number, call me by the end of the week and decide if you want to buy me lunch or Whiskey, you will have been famous by then.”

She smiles, does that “Aaawww” thing ladies do (for no reason at all), takes out her phone and punches in my number. [Gents, First Lesson of Picking Up Women, Don’t ask for her number, it makes you seem desperate. Give her yours, makes her want you more.]

Here’s the thing, I don’t work for any media house. I won’t make her famous, if I had that power, my Grandma would be on the Papers by now (She makes some mean Uji). The hell she think I was, Mzazi Willy Tuva? I’m full of shit, you just have to take one look at me to know that. I fed her that bull ’cause she blew me off my socks.

I like my women strong, made of substance, outspoken, well-dressed, and emitting fragrances that smell like freshly-cooked Chapos. Now I’m at the den with the boys, taking one for the road, thinking, Will she really call me? If she does, what will I tell her happened to her story?

Maybe I should just tell her I got fired, ama? Si it will make her sympathize with me at least?


Chuny Min Oaye.

Original story from Ian Duncan’s Facebook:

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.

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 🙂

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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