Posts Tagged ‘Whatsapp’

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Mother Nature, you cat fish

First and foremost, happy new year people. I am hoping you had more fun than I did over Christmas… Mine involved lots of house hunting meaning I only went home after securing a new house on 26th, and lots of beer. A lot of beer drunk by my new landlord whom i had to get drunk first in order for him to agree to keep my house on deposit at least until the new year.

Then from there i still had to dig a compost pit for my mom (I feel very manly right now) and still make sure my kid brothers werent giving other kids bruises and scars. Thank God those brats start school today.

But that was that. I hoped the new year would be better. It isn’t. Not until I get back my Ksh 9,000 owed to me by one Mr. Njonjo from last year. Not forgetting i already missed spending new years with her and now I have absolutely no idea how to make it up to her. Never mind the fact that I am broke already and I know I wont gain access to any good money until next week when my new ID card comes out so I can go to the bank for my salary. Shopping for a new house is depressing. The only positive here is that I know I am not the only broke man in Nairobi. In fact, ladies reading this, someone pointed out that if your man isn’t broke in Njaanuary, that nigger has a sponsor too.

Which brings me to the reason I am particularly pissed off agitated angry mad this morning. Not at any one of you or any other human for that matter; I am mad at Mother Nature. In fact I am starting to suspect Mother Nature isnt even a woman in the first place. She is one of Satan’s toenails. That one toe nail Satan cut off and threw in the fire but refused to burn in the eternal flames of hell. Mother Nature, I am starting to think is even more of a bitch than Karma.

Because sincerely, how can she be so damn inconsiderate of other people and their feelings? Even Kanye West at least is considerate of other people’s feelings he just doesn’t give a shit unless they’re Kanye West. What part of Njaanuary doesnt she understand honestly? What part of ‘everybody is broke and in need of divine intervention to get through January’ doesnt she get?

Before you think I am being unfair on Mother Nature, I will explain my plight. Early today morning I boarded a matatu bound for town for work. It was precisely at 7:30 am; I know this because some guy was ranting on the radio about his wife leaving him and how he’s suffering because he doesn’t know how to cook ugali (like seriously, your wife leaves you and you’re more concerned about ugali than your kids? Or your impending dryspell?) Anyway, it was a glorious morning and I was psyched up and full of energy. I will stop making this sound like a high school composition now.

I took a window seat and proceeded to put on earphones so I could listen to a little of Monsters and Men and Lupe Fiasco while checking whether Arsenal have signed Aubameyang yet on BBC’s transfer gossip column. I replied to pending emails and Whatsapp messages. That’s when I looked up and saw the conductor had already started collecting bus fare. Being the good passenger I am, I went ahead to get out a Ksh 1000 note from my pocket and held it in my palm ready for the conductor.

That’s when Mother Nature happened. It had started drizzling. It was just a light drizzle but it was windy. Very windy. Soon the conductor was standing one seat ahead of mine. I cannot tell you how it happened but the wind suddenly burst forth in a fury. There went my Ksh 1000. Gone with the wind. It was on Thika Super Highway so stopping and running back for the money was not an option. And besides, this was public transport. For a second I was in shock not quite believing what had just happened. So was the lady seated next to me.

Then the conductor, who had witnessed the incident, came to ask for his money. Money that i no longer had. Explaining was a lot harder than I expected. But thankfully my expertise in choosing whom to sit next to paid off- I always advice men to sit next to women. The lady, Annet, offered to pay for my fare provided I paid back when we got to town.

So now I have Annet’s phone number, that I will not use because my finances already have a deficit of Ksh 1000, and a ton of guilt because when she hugged me she made me promise I would call her back. Any of you #TeamMafisi fellows interested in Annet let me know so I can give you that assist Ozil style. 

Sorry Alexas, but this was funny as hell... The Brother hood

Sorry Alexas, but this was funny as hell… The Brother hood

For the better part of the day, since morning actually, the Lounge has been in turmoil; ever since we all submitted our letters to our future spouses. (I will not bother posting mine here because I was labelled a chauvinist, ignorant and a host of other words I can’t remember by Essie.) The argument has been a nonstop affair. You see, the whole reason why the Lounge is so amazing is because we have all these great writers that all share diverse views on a number of topics. The problem is, as expected, we tend to over-think stuff. And today was no different. Today’s argument was sparked by Ian. Yes, Ian Duncan. Then somehow it spiraled into a debate about feminism which very quickly went to The Independent Nairobi Woman, hence, Naiman.

You see, Naiman is supposed to be this independent woman that doesn’t believe in men; she isn’t gay, for the record. She just doesn’t need a man. The Naiman is the woman who walks up to you and you start shivering, apparently. She can fix her own computer (sorry nerds), her own lights, she knows what bolt fits where on her bed, how the thermostat on her iron box works and how it behaves when the iron box (and or instant shower head) is utilizing too much power, how to create a wi-fi hotspot- not from her phone- from her router, how to fix the leaking sink and of course, how to jump start her car. She doesn’t need a man. The Naiman is superwoman. She wields the power; she can go drinking out all night with her friends and expect to come home to find cooked food, the kids in bed and the house smelling like Jesus’ feet walked there- no stink whatsoever- especially in the toilet. And in the morning, you apparently have to be loving enough to change the kids’ diapers, clean make the breakfast, nurse her back to health (never mind her problem is a hangover) and make sure you collaborate her story with the boss when she tells him, sobbing, that she feels sick.

Bear with me, the Naiman sounds like an absolutely lovable woman so far; we should correct that. Let’s retrace her roots.

You see, the Naiman was once a girl. This girl is intelligent. She has the brains. She got all the right scores in high school. She may not have been as bright as you were; perhaps she got a C+. She managed to get into college- at this point it doesn’t really matter if she got an A. She made it into college. And that is when you met her. You wowed her; she was your life- and you were hers. You can’t really remember using any pickup lines. Who cares anyway? Her heart melted for you. You were inseparable; in fact, most of your friends looked up to both of you. You were the model couple. Your HELB, for which you now have to part with some money regardless whether you received or not, was spent with her. She made you happy. You didn’t care.

Then you graduated. You were happy for a few months. Then she suddenly told you, I can’t see you. Actually, she says, you are the love of her life but she can’t see you anymore. You remember you once told her love can’t buy her food; it stuns you how you were just predicting your demise. (If you are lucky enough to work things out at this point and convince her you will be by her side in a year, you are lucky. Especially if she loves you- you have just given her hope and she will wait for you.)

But now, you have no job, you have no prospect of doing anything. And she has the world at her feet; after all, she is young. Okay, correction, she is young, hot and wild, as her friends tell her. You see, she has finally landed a job, at least which is what her friends tell her. And to compound things, she has a job. It doesn’t pay very well, but she soon notices that every man in the office is giving her more attention than you have in the past four months. After a while, you receive an SMS, “I am sorry, I just can’t deal with this.” You call back. She picks, then she tells you to stop bothering her because she is out with friends and you are making her embarrassed. You quit calling after it happens a couple of times. You try your best to forget her, and finally, you decide, “This is not worth it.”

But she goes on.

She declares herself independent when she gets her pay rise. At this point, she decides to get her own house. She has no responsibility to anyone after all. She goes out on a daily basis- her newly acquired circle of female friends validate it. They go out week in, week out. Nobody really knows how they manage to get to work the next day. At this point, she is 24. More importantly, she is on the lookout for Mollis. Her vagina has had more poundings than an Akorino drum. But who cares? She is still young, hot and wild. She insists on protection. She is safe. At this point, she resents any man that cannot get her wailing to Jesus.

Then she gets to 28. Her circle of female friends slowly declines; until she is left with Angie- they all have an Angie, or Debbie or some other fancy name- who doesn’t seem like she will stop soon. Angie tells her she doesn’t have to be lonely and broke; she can be lonely, but at least she can’t be broke. Her dead weight job doesn’t matter. Angie introduces her to Magunga. Magunga is loaded. He takes her out and makes her forget stuff. He checked her out at a massage parlor once and when he left she could still feel his eyes on her. It doesn’t take very long; Magunga parts her legs faster than a Kalenjin cow on heat.

In 9 months, she has something that resembles someone she has come to hate and loathe over the past 9 months. In fact, they are calling her Mama Kim now.

Mama Kim is smart; she went to campus after all. She doesn’t need any man, remember? (Despite the numerous chances Magunga has offered to marry her- he is simply beneath her. When she does a little digging she finds out that Magunga isn’t her type.) Anyway, she cares for Kim. She is there for him. She feeds him on her tits, she waits the full six months the doctor said before she forcefully makes Kim quit after applying hot pepper on her breasts, which hurts more than Odom’s death hurt the Kardashians. She goes back to work.

But the bosses at work do not understand she has a small baby at home; actually, she doesn’t trust her house help, whom she pays peanuts (Yes, Jesus gave up so much for us because He was worth nothing). She is determined. In fact, her boss gives her another pay rise. One look at her breasts tells her no wonder no man wants her. She wants a father figure for Kim. He has been too inquisitive of late. So Mama Kim goes to a doctor, if she can afford it, and declares she doesn’t want her tits on her navel’s level. She revamps herself.

With her new form, she remembers all those sweethearts she turned away back then; she starts with you, but you are happily helping your wife make supper for the kids and you can’t wait for them to get into bed so you can do it in the kitchen. In fact, you helped them do their homework quickly so you would have her all to yourself. Then she tries Alexas; that guy she always hanged out with, who was always so jealous of you.  He took her out shopping and never asked for anything, other than a kiss ob Instagram, after which he was always sent back to the Brother Hood. But no, he has a wife now too.

She grows desperate; never mind that the Akorino drum gave in a long time ago and burst, while her vagina still wants a pounding. She joins all these online pages; perhaps someone hot blooded will pick her up, but all she does is to encourage herself and perverts who think a sugar mummy is their solution. She tries the church, but all the pastor is interested in doing is planting a seed in her that will cost her 310 Ksh. She gives up the church as well. By now, her tits are almost somewhere between her knees.

So she turns to Maina Kageni who tells her everything will be okay, when he himself hasn’t even figured out his/her sexuality, on Morning Radio, to which Wakanae responds, “Kama unataka bwana, nyenyekea.”

People laugh, and so does your college boyfriend when he listens to the audio on Whatsapp but doesn’t recognize your battered voice, as well as Kim who has grown so distant of his mom he thinks this is just one of those women, but Wakanae doesn’t. You suddenly realize he has a point. And he isn’t talking about church, where for so long you have tried to seduce the pastor and choir boys and God knows who else. She is just a Naiman after all.

 

The Sugar Mummy

Posted: September 20, 2015 by ketihapa in Drama, Life, Musings
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Usually, I am a pretty normal guy, at least I hope I am. I have more or less the same problems most guys have; girl problems, money problems, beer problems, Arsenal problems (this was compounded yesterday, sigh), appearance problems- like most guys, when i step out of the shower i tend to think about where i will find money that day, not lotion. I know I have a brilliant mind,but sometimes I wonder how my brilliant mind is going to feed me. But at the end of the day, I try my best to make it work; I have to. We all have to try.

But is there a line as to how far you should try to make it? What are you allowed to do and what aren’t you allowed to do for money regardless how difficult it is proving for you to make money? Murder? Prostitution (stop looking at me weirdly, male prostitutes exist and they are called gigolos)? Theft and Scams?

I have been struggling with that question all morning today. Ever since some weirdo psycho sent me an SMS introducing himself as a brother from abroad (read Rongai), and that he was in search of a sugar mummy who could.. pause… satisfy his needs.. pause… Isn’t it supposed to be the other way round? The sugar mummy finds a guy that can satisfy her needs? Whatever happened to this world. Anyway, my first instinct was to ignore the idiot and move on with my life, but not before taking a screenshot of the message. (Stop judging me, it was funny!)

I proceeded to post it on Whatsapp on a special group of guys, all amazing writers like me, that we call the Lounge -you should be a writer and join by the way.. you will never get bored, only your phone will run out of charge rapidly. Even Biko Zulu- yes, that Biko Zulu- and Magunga are part of the community. Then Essie (she is the proud owner of five husbands in the lounge, including me) suggested I should send a reply; pretend to be a woman and play along. Troy (he did the guest post The Surrogate) did warn me but his warning came a little too late. I had already sent the reply.

Dont worry,I will not make you beg for the screenshots, hehe. This is how I instilled some discipline in a man who was clearly going beyond the line. You simply cannot try to make money this way,not in this age of HIV/AIDS anyway. And that is the least of the problems. You haven’t considered her husband sniffing you out and choking you to death. And if you, I should tell you that I despise you for not being man enough to tackle your problems like a man.

Here goes:

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Yup, I told Moses to find a fucking job. Was I too harsh? Haha. I dont think so. And Rongai people, seriously? You see why we don’t take you guys seriously?

 

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You will know when you find her

Yesterday, the EPL season came to a close, a dramatic finish to 38 games per team (the clueless, kina Bix, there are 20 teams in the EPL, each fielding 11 players plus an additional 3 substitutes if they so require), which took place over the course of roughly 10 months. Of the 20 teams, like every other league, including the ones that are yet to be completed- ladies this does not include the Europa League or the Champions League- there were the top performers, the beasts, the ones that were actually favourites to win from the start to the finish. The ones that everyone else was scared of. The ones that actually managed an average of at least 1.974 points per game, translating roughly into about 75 points at the end of the season. Again, Bix, please mind your business.
Promptly, the transfer season will officially start. Ladies, I am sorry, but this does not necessarily mean that you will get more attention. From the TV and the pub, his attention will also promptly shift to constant checks on the phone of websites such as goal.com, bbc sport football, transfer sources, etc. However, this will significantly increase your chances of busting him online, when usually he claims he doesn’t have bundles. You will not understand, trust me. That I can promise you. He will undoubtedly spend more time online than you do, yet the number of Whatsapp texts that you get will exponentially decrease, depending on what he finds online.
You will hear all sorts of rumours; some will claim that someone is about to get signed. Some will insinuate that the said person has already been signed and some will claim that someone else that offered better incentives has snatched the said the said person, or in better footballing terms, snatched up the said person. In some rare cases, you will learn that the said person has suffered and injury and as a result, interest has weaned. His agent will appear from time to time to deny or approve the amount of interest shown in the said person. Then someone will appear as if from nowhere and proclaim that the deal is done. You will question it, perhaps even laugh at the sheer absurdness of it all, but in due course, you will learn that the transfer window is about to close.
On the deadline day, you will learn, sadly, that the said person has been signed. On the rare occasion, the said person will suddenly reveal how wrong they were to even consider leaving and will opt to stay on, if anything to win trophies with the current team. If this happens, they will inevitably receive pay hikes and obviously better benefits.
In two months’ time, on average, he will be excited. He will tell not necessarily tell you about it, but you will know. You will hear rumours of friendly games, pre-season matches and whatnots. You will unexpectedly find yourself on the verge of trying to find out what all this pre-season madness is all about. You will not like it, especially when you find out that the new signing is especially awesome and all his rivals are jealous. Then, the new season will start his Twitter handle will change from his name to a strange name you may or may not have heard about in the course of the two months. The said person will inevitably be on his FPL team for the new season and there will be nothing you can do about it. At that moment, you will know it is official.
You will also ask where I am going with this.
I will tell you; because this is exactly what happens on the dating field. One moment she’s yours. The next, the season is coming to a close. Someone else is trying to sign her and there is nothing you can do about it, except hope you can manage to convince her to stay. She will be faced with a big decision; to stay on or to leave. Sometimes, if she really does love you, she will stay. There will be no pre-season matches and no one else will get to experience her love except you.
But sometimes, she will decide she is better off signing on away; there will be nothing you can do about it. You will try to get her back but she will throw you into the bottomless pit that is the friendzone if you do insist on pursuing her. You will understand that you pushed her away, but you will never quite accept it. She will forgive you, with time, but yes, you both know it will never be the same. If you’re lucky, Fabian will offer you a place on his support group, having experienced the process approximately 17 times (that we know of).
But sometimes, she will realize that you two were always at your best when you were together (Katunge take note  ) and she will come back running into your arms and you will never let her go, not for anything. Because by then you will have learnt from your mistakes and you will be willing to do anything for her. Then, you will know that you found the one.

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

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

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.

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.