Friday, 16 February 2018


And the rising sun brings forth uncertainties
A cold shiver runs through your spine
You loved a man that you barely knew
Now, you are almost sure he’s on his way
To lands yonder, having stolen your happiness

Nights find you sipping your favorite wine
Hurt and confused by all that’s happening
Scared too of thinking about the future
Drunk, you ask yourself, why would you care?
Yes, why would give a shit?

You are out of your mind, and you like it that way
You swear you’ll do whatever it takes
To get back even with him, whatever it takes
And when everything’s been done and dusted
He’ll live with regret for the rest of his life
But for now why would you care

When every has been broken and to trust
You must begin from scratch cautious like scientist
Yes, you are a scientist trying to experiment again
After a failed attempt, grave as leaving you broken hearted

But then you won’t care about anything anymore 


He makes a point of ringing the bell, before he slots the key to open the door, as to warn whoever is in the house of his entry, and perhaps finish any mischief before he enters. He then straddles in, with a newspaper and a black plastic bad, places the newspaper on the table and removes a coca cola bottle from the bag and places it on the table as well. All this time he doesn’t say a word to anyone, not even a hello. It’s fine. After all everybody is fine, except street kids and no one bothers to ask them how they are doing anyway.

The rest of the contents, he goes to the kitchen counter and drops them like one would do to trash. With this done he heads to his bedroom, changes into a shuka, then back to the kitchen where he fetches his ash tray. He proceeds and sits on his usual place, a designated chair where no one dares to put their bum, not for the fear but for the reverence he seems to have bestowed on the chair. He reaches out for the remote and switches to Citizen TV that is if someone switched to other channels, a rare occurrence.

He lights his cigar and smokes casually, without a hurry in the world, oblivious of the warning on the packet, SMOKING KILLS. He reads the newspaper in the process as thin wands of smoke find their way into the air, choking fresh air into submission.

Once he stops and gives me a lecture on how it’s important to talk to people. He says its important to talk to people because we learn from interacting with others.

“Don’t stare at your computer all the time. You could be hiding valuable information people would use,” he says. “You see, with me, the computer knowledge I have is archaic.” I nod. Truth is, I don’t find anything worth sharing about the computer. I am not a wizard. Most times I am just typing away my thoughts or indulging Pablo Neruda’s poetry.

I thought he was trying to show care. He even rose and gave me bananas and a bun, which I didn’t need but I remember staring at them and wishing they’d to be eaten. He was suddenly being too nice, an unusual thing for him.

But when the doorbell rang and a fine lass entered the room, I understood the message he had been trying to send to me. She would be the second girl in a span of week, but less pretty than the first. He orders her to make tea, and she boldly says hi to me. From the dressing, black tights, a brown flowered dress that flattered her and a stocking on her head, I deduced that she wasn’t a sophisticated girl; she could pass either a basic whore or a mboch.

She made tea, drunk and they went to the bedroom. When the dawn broke, she was nowhere to be seen. She might have slithered into the darkness to wherever gave her the most discomfort. 

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

A picture of Kenya in twenty years

It’s an assignment. One of those you will wait until it is due the next day then you hurriedly type down your thoughts, save and head to the printer, a normal day of someone yearning to get the paper and get done with school. But not this one, however. It requires you to picture yourself in the next twenty years, assuming you plan to live right into the edge of life (old age) and die peacefully in your sleep. Also, you will have to picture how to change the world as an intellectual too assuming that there are things around you that need change too.

It is easier to picture about one’s life in the next twenty years. For me, I intend to have completed at least two PhDs, should have had a family housed in a home that no one checks in every month to demand rent, a car to ferry my family around as well as myself. Nothing much, but a simple life devoid of wars with the ecosystem.

But how about the society? Of course every right thinking member knows that the crucial element of the society, which is politics, is wrong and needs to be fixed as soon as possible. In the next twenty years it is more likely that we will still be voting against tribal lines as opposed to ideologies, still battling corruption as opposed to hunger and diseases… much. Even then, it is more likely that a high number of Kenyans shall have at least attained college education.

It is quite sad that learned people are lauding blatant abuse of the rule of law, even when they are lawyers who should know better. Having a conversation with a university student comes with great risk such as brain hemorrhage when it comes to important matters such as the direction of our country. Personally, an ideal country should be one that feeds its people, provide adequate and quality healthcare services to its people, equal and adequate opportunities for everyone, fidelity to the rule of law, justice and fairness, education and infrastructure. None of these things ever come out of a university student.

The country has slowly entrenched a system where laziness is glorified, theft cheered upon, lack common sense enshrined in peoples DNA. The leaders have been active proponents of these backward ideals. Once in power, it is almost certain that their IQ rapidly races to a single digit. Their utterances make one cringe with shame, questioning if one should actually be proud of their country or not.

The youth are the ones who should be at the forefront in changing the ideals, just as others before them did when championing for democracy. It’s a wonder that one studies critical thinking as a core unit, studying the arguments of Socrates without examining their own lives. Instead, they bury their heads in gambling websites and scream about ‘mtu wetu.’ Such a shame.

In the next twenty years, Kenya should not be grappling with the same issues that it has  since independence. The youth should be at the forefront in ensuring that it is better than they found it.  If you are twenty years old now, in the next twenty years you will be forty and probably with a kid, a teenager perhaps, and you may be wondering where to take them next. If you don’t prepare the world for them today by demanding the best from yourself, then your neighbor, then the government, then of course you will find yourself swimming in the murky waters that you prepared yourself. 

Thursday, 8 February 2018


She lay there, still like she is dead. She stares at me with unblinking eyes for straight two days. I prodded her, slapped her, and almost flung her against the wall. But that’s not how I was raised, and besides she has been with me through thick and thin. Finally, realizing that she was not going to budge, I carefully placed her inside a bag, and went about town seeking someone who can heal her. We’ve been through this process a couple of times, save for one moment that I abandoned her for a slay queen. She’s been faithful, even when all around have been giving up on their lovers. I can legally say that we complete each other.

I am talking about my computer, an ancient piece of junk that I have been using since I can remember. It is a hand down. However, I do not plan on handing it down to anyone. A few days ago it became seriously ill. I thought it was the ebola of machines or something viral. It turns out it needed just a RAM. And I rewarded it with a 2BG. She’s happy with. There’s a remarkable improvement in her attitude. She doesn’t sulk when I command her to open a word document like she used to. It is like she’s just been reborn.

One thing that I do not like however is its gross forgetfulness. For example I can shut it down, and the next time I boot it up it says that I am in 1980 (its favourite so far). Sometimes I am in 2025.  It gives me problems when I open the documents folder, which I have arranged according to the date modified. I have documents that I have written sometimes in the future (hehe), others have been written or will be written later this year, then it comes the present (today), earlier this week, last week, earlier this year, and lastly those that have been written a long time ago. It allows me to time travel.

Sunday, 4 February 2018

And because I dream in series

I haven’t yet found someone to try my new insult on, preferably a woman. It’s mainly for the type of women who fall asleep too quickly, as if they dream in series and can’t wait for the next episode to begin. Knowing about this system of dreaming, it involves thorough intellectual skills such as sleeping all day and expecting to be a millionaire in a year. Through sophisticated research, I have discovered that you can perfectly dream the same dream, in continuous form if you sleep in on a Sunday afternoon. At exactly 4.37 pm, your mind will start by replaying the last scenes of the previous episodes. You should read the findings, I have pasted them on all public toilet walls. Pop into one and have a bliss.  

It’s perfectly normal and easy to dream the same dream as I have stated above. I am the authority in this field that’s why you should read my peer reviewed journal. For those who would rather empty their bowels in familiar toilet bowls, I am going to explain a few things so that you can make progressive political decisions henceforth.

The dream begins a long time ago. As young man, barely into my teens, I doused in gasoline a grass thatched house back in the village. It served as village drinking joint, an equivalent of your favourite joint, say Kiza Lounge or 1824. It had no name but it was perfectly useful so long as people would find it. As it turns out, three drunkards did not make it out alive. If you value progress like I do, you wouldn’t be bothered by the fact that the world was less of three drunkards. As fate would have it, I made away with the murder. Life went on normally; I ate and shit normally, breathed normally, and of course I will die normally in my sleep and in old age. People don’t do this anymore but that’s what is in my script which is being reviewed by god. Except for my transgressions, he may….I don’t want to make suggestions yet.

I may have lied that life went on normally, because I would dream being pursued by petite ladies who were on the trail of the bizarre and shocking murders. It think you can agree with me that there was something wrong with the ladies because we often ended up making out until the passed out but then I would wake up scared stiff that I may revealed that I killed people as men sometimes brag in when they let passion override the faculties. The ladies would show up. We would go through the same sequence again and again. For ten years. Until today. Fourth of February twenty eighteen.
And so today came. A call came through.

“Hallo, are we speaking to Kipchirchir Rop?” the caller asked

“Yes, that’s exactly me,” I said boisterously because that’s the name I would love to be known by when I become a famous author. I thought that may be someone one had spotted my writings somewhere and decided that I was good enough to be awarded a contract for my debut novel ‘The Sound of Invisible Things.’

“We are calling you in connection with murders that happened ten years ago,” the caller said.

I tried hanging up. It wouldn’t. I had to remove the phone battery. I hurriedly packed my clothes in a sack and left home. I had the idea of fleeing, to a country like Kenya where fugitives usually hide. 

When I opened the gate, I found a large number of soldiers with their guns trained on me immediately I stepped out. In shock, I dropped the sack that had the best clothes but instead rats squirmed out. In shock I woke up. I think in the next episode I will be in jail or Kenya. The later seems more likely.

Friday, 2 February 2018


Misty, blurry-the gleam of nothingness
And thoughts stream out incongruously
-everywhere at the same time-
Potent in its futile attempt to fill blanks,
The crevices that her sweet scent once filled, gape
With long –deep, desirous, almost delirious

Monday, 29 January 2018

And, Doctor, another thing has got me worried

And, Doctor, another thing has got me worried:
I’m not drinking as much as I should…

Distinguished men, and by that honorable term, I mean men who aren’t afraid of whatever shall befall their livers, call it poison. A favourite poison. It kills slowly, in fact so slowly that you actually enjoy its bitterness going down your throat. As a man of little means, my favourite poison is a kinda fifth generation. Street quacks have included it into their gimmicks to persuade idle people to hand them a few pocket change. You’ve seen them, rugged looking with dirty clothes. A glimpse will give you the impression that they just emerged from a hole. Their presence leads to a conclusion; survival.

I crave for the poison, just to get even with that cliché that people seek strength to accept things they can’t change. Frankly, I want the drink to accept that I have accepted to let life runs its course, the actors in it (important somehow) to choose their own stories which no longer shall involve me and I to seek enthrallment from the shreds of my solitude, fix them like a jigsaw, one at a time and until I can get space to write a line of a poem.

At the moment I am the emptiness in every liquor bottle, purposeless and contemptuous. I like it like this, it makes me string my worth from ruins, from discarded memories and dreams and may be even write. May be I can be Kenya’s Charles Dickens. Or may be some else that shall be referred to in future, as colossus in the literary scene, a thing I prefer.

Henceforth, I will be mesmerized by a woman’s ass because it will stimulate my favorite body part. And by favourite I don’t mean the part linked to manpower but my brain. Whenever I shall see a humongous behind, I will automatically think of kilos it weighs and wonder when the government shall announce a tender for the supply of such fine asses. I can begin to think the features; natural, unlinked, smooth and curvy…

I have accepted, most importantly, that my phone shall henceforth be vestigial. I will not bother to bother people’s daughters with text messages and I won’t accept any bother from them too. My second favourite body has to also accept that it has had its fair share of meat. We’ve closed that chapter unless sanctioned by a qualified medical doctor, which is highly unlikely.
And for music, I shall listen like a scholar would. I shall listen for the aesthetics and creativity. I shall listen for timbre, tone, pitch…..I will be a music scholar, bottom line.