Lets live in this moment

Lets live in this moment,
Lets dance with the tune
And enjoy the moonlight
Keep those worries for tomorrow,
 Lest you miss on this beautiful night.
Keep your eyes on the scenery,
The stars fighting with all their might
For their space in the sky
Lighting up our soul on their magnificient sight,
Twinkle twinkle little stars, make the sky so beautiful
And melt our hearts with its amazing beauty,
Making us wish that the night never ends
And Even if it does, the imprinted scene will always make us smile,
Before the night ends
Let live in this moment.

By Diana Rop

Tell Me One More Time

Tell me one more time
That it'll be okay
Tell me one more that
That the my darkest hour comes before dawn,
Tell me one more time
That you believe in me
Tell me one more time
That i can make it
Tell me one more time

by Diana Rop

I Carry A Poet's Burden

There was a morning, a Saturday morning

When the words echoed in my head

Exhorting me to rise and write them

That my heart beat for you

I was the titanic, setting sail

To you, the alluring iceberg

And our collision,

Oh! How beautiful a ruin

The simple thought of us

Wrecked every nerve in me

Sinking, I’d sink in a bliss

As unsure as tomorrow

I wanted to light the stars

The stars in your eyes

‘cause you lit the ones in mine

How much I wanted to

It turns out, sadly

There were things, certain obscure things

That you only felt in your thoughts

Among those things – love

Now I carry the burden of a poet

Expressing other’s feelings

Put my heart on the shelf

and, once in a while, read it like a book,

for the words inside it amount to a thousand pages

of feelings that died like untended fire

all I have is the ashes of a dream

how easily they slip through my fingers

just like you did, and I allowed

now I shoulder a burden,

a poet’s burden

Niruhusu Nikuite Baraddhuli

Kama kuku kwao mtama, chambo chako kikanasa,

Na kwa mkunjufu mtima, ‘kamchagua mkongwe hasa,

Matumaini yazama, vijana kwenye anasa

‘Kiniruhusu raisi, ‘takuita baradhuli

Kwa mapana na marefu, ukamteua Awori,

Nchi yetu tukufu, ‘mebaki la wenye gari,

Wakupa sifa sufufu, mwenye njaa ale mori,

‘Kiniruhusu raisi, ‘takuita baradhuli

Ulisimama jukwaani, ukanena wazi wazi,

Kama kundule kwa nyani, azma ya kijana wizi

Wamo wenye mvi vichwani, ila linavuja zizi

‘Kiniruhusu raisi, ‘takuita baradhuli

Andy Is Crazy Because of Love

Andy is crazy. People say it is because of love. Because he hasn't had a chance to confirm or dismiss the rumours, people believe it's true. 

There are not so many things Andy did when he was young that were those of a model child. He was truant, a thief, and generally someone who had grown immune to parental thumping. At school he wasn’t good at it either. Dropping out of class three, as was suddenly fashionable when one was circumcised, he disappeared from the village for close to a decade.

When he emerged, he was totting a digital camera, taking pictures of villagers who still found it attractive to have themselves printed in paper.  One time I accompanied him in his rounds of delivering the posed moments, frozen in time. We criss-crossed villages, and thankfully were successful in not being bitten by dogs. Other than that, people begged Andy to come another time. We crowned that day with a cup of chang’aa. He had money, a class three dropout, and I a university student, broke as broke can be.

On the way back, he told me stories which entailed who had HIV/Aids in the village. They were all people who we had made acquaintance in my brief stay at the local primary school. He named names, including that of a girl I had my eyes on. We later briefly dated, although we never met. She accepted my advances and left for Mombasa. He told me how Kale men are like currency especially among other tribes. He told about a Kamba chic whom he had managed to impregnate. She has my twins, he had said boastfully.

I would later spot one of the guys who he said was carrying the disease. His face had grown bony, and his hair had adopted a particularly pale and grayish color. His eyes must have began retreating back to its sockets, probably having seen enough already. With all the modesty I can summon, he was carrying death within himself. But then he was with a light skin girl, barely thirteen or fourteen. Being good with faces, I later saw the girl and almost warned her.

Andy left for Nairobi, hitchhiking my father’s car. We had exchanged numbers and promised to look for each other when I got there. I was not in hurry to get to Nairobi. It was pointless to go to campus during the official opening date. You spent a few days doing productive things such as looking after livestock until your classmates tell that they have been given a CAT. Then you would board a plane. And so a month later, I left for Nairobi. We never met with Andy, although he tried reaching me.

Fast forward, I cleared university, went to the village briefly and came back. There was no sign of Andy although I could see that he had erected a house. Nobody told me it belonged to him, it was just a hunch.  He would be in the village when I wasn’t, and I when he wasn’t. This should not be misconstrued that we had any important business. We were just playmates who life had caught up with them.

On that fateful day, I spotted my dad’s car in the compound. I was surprised considering that it was a Wednesday. He always came only on weekends, but then he always showed up when the sun had, observing the ancient ritual passed down by our forefathers. But then the sun was still up. Okay, it had set behind the hills that dotted the horizon, although it had not gone with its light. I did not give much thought to it. I may even have dismissed it with a remark such as ‘some rituals are bound to be broken, especially on Wednesdays.’

In every village, there are people who are always on top of things. They detect unusual activity, even in the wee hours of the night. You will be surprised by statements such ‘naskia unataka kuoa’ yet you could swear by god and sonny Jesus that you have never been seen with a girl, at least in broad daylight. In fact many girls get pregnant without ever having been seen with a man. Holy Spirit, you may say. But these people are in touch with these spirits. Just as Andy’s unusual presence, chauffeured all the way from the city of thugs, by my father, who would have had important things left to commune with office dust for a days.

“He was bringing Andy. He is mad,” my source told. “It seems malaria has climbed to the head,” he had added.

Later, he would tell me his story. Andy had a wife back in the village. She used to bicker with her mother-in-law a lot especially when Andy preferred to deal with his mother when it came to finance. When the bickering escalated, Andy took his wife back to Nairobi, and then came to the village to finalise a few secret things.

As people are prone to diseases, his wife called him that she had fallen sick, and had decided to recuperate among her people. I was not told whether he was aware about the fact that she had already gone to her people or not. My source informed me that he sold his motor bike and left to be with the wife. It was there that he parted with a bill of seventy thousand. Broke, he had sent an SOS back to the village that he was stranded in a strange land.

Then Andy came and did odd jobs here and there, perhaps to raise money to take him to Nairobi. His hunting ground, where he knew the paths of large edible animals, and also where the avoid serpents and other dangerous creatures, like political hit men. Then he went t Nairobi and can back, chauffeured by a Good Samaritan, and his mind was never the same.

He had gone crazy.

Since the village can never lack an explanation to anything, they said his wife made away with all his earthly possessions. She stripped the house of anything that had a value above fermented cow mucus. He now loiters in the village, finding himself in people’s beds, and sometimes talking about wanting his wife. hehe

A Day in a Dog's Life

A dog used to roam in my father’s compound (it’s his compound because I am past that age of recklessly using the word ‘our’). The dog had a name. Sura Mbaya. I will not dwell on how it got the name, because, just every dead human being, I am obliged to speak glowingly about it. Sura Mbaya did not act like a typical dog. To it, every stranger was a familiar, or he was just looking for someone familiar. People that roam in my father’s compound weren’t actually it first master. The first master went to jail for stealing cows. May be that’s why it looks for him in every stranger, only barking briefly before it remembers that it may be chasing its master and begins wagging its tail, as if to say in dog language, ‘I was only kidding.’or it may have been thinking that each stranger would give him a better name, or petition its change.

Well, Sura Mbaya was only good at three things- eating, shitting, and propagating its seeds. How did I know about the last one? It would disappear for days on end, and come back with bruises all over its body, but with a contented look in its eyes. From my experience, the dog world is a tough jungle because the bitches do not know anything about money. Instead, it’s about who has the strongest teeth, a menacing growl, and most importantly resilience. When the bitches emit the odour that tells other dogs that it’s that time of the year, a million dogs pick the oduor and follow it like that star that led them to where Jesus was born, only it leads them to where a million dogs, and one female have congregated for a night of brutal fights.

The lucky dogs, those which had had less fights during the day because their owners care about their conjugal rights, got their chances, quickly made out in their usual style that the dogs have been using for years, so much that human beings have aped it. I envy these dogs, except the brutality involved. There’s no one to tell them how it has to be done, because their females are yet to wear trousers and demand that dogs too have to take care of the cubs. But even when dogs attain that level of civilization, dogs will be dogs. Dogs will do their things and forget about it, and wait for the next time the female emits that oduor.

But woe unto us humans, we have to woo. I am not against the wooing, it’s the best part of living. What I am completely against are these human beings who want to tell how to do it. Experts. No, sexperts. Ever since the invention of the best thing after fire-the internet-you cannot rummage through the anonymous yet savage corridors of social media without stumbling upon headlines that explain how bedroom conquests should be done. Like, over time, we’ve grown progressively stupid in that department, so much that they owe our ancestors the need to re-educate us.

Errands In The Concrete Jungle

A giraffe with the Nairobi skyline in the background [Source/andBeyond]

You have lived a part of your life wallowing in the luxury of aloofness, cramming shit that wouldn’t even be a bargaining chip to use ‘toilet za kanjo’ for free. You cannot walk to that public toilet, umebanwa choo, and begin telling the mean faced attendant (by the way what does he talk about when people are discussing serious issues?) that you know about mitochondria, or, to descend to his level, that you know about salmonella typhi and vibrio cholerae. As far as he is concerned, you can shit on yourself with that gargantuan pile of knowledge. On the bright side, the cramming brought us to Nairobi, where we realized that those yoyos that made high school miserable came from high-rise slums-Pipeline and Umoja.

And so we came to the city. Over time, the grim and harsh realities of this god-forsaken concrete jungle has replaced the very knowledge we thought was a ticket to that Ferrari or Lamborghini with a huge void that’s very receptive of savage thoughts and ideas. For example you could be walking along Lang’ata road, and you suddenly see people milling around and peering into a ditch full of black sludge, and the mind receives the following signal; THERE COULD BE AN ABORTED FOETUS HERE. Or you could just be hawking your credentials in brown envelope then suddenly your eyes catch a glimpse of a man sprawled on the hot tarmac, still as if he can never vote again, and your brain picks the following signal: YOU MAY BE STARING AT A DEAD MAN. People could be fighting, and instead your mind waits for replays and slow motion, and blood spurting out of the fighters’ mouths.

On one occasion, I am walking home in the evening with the heavy burden of expectation weighing on my shoulders. I had prepared my body well in advance that the last time it took cheap vodka may as well been the very last one. May be I told it in a whisper, ‘baby, from now henceforth we will be drinking whisky, and sometimes beer. We will not frequent those dinghy pubs along Mfangano Lane.’ May be my body, using the correct apparatus, smiled in the same way a poet would liken it to the sun on a cloudy day. It turns out that without blue blood coursing through your veins, you may endlessly chaining yourself to the yoke of mtu wetu, renewing it after every five years. The only achievement you’d see that evening would be an accident. And the void begins engaging its savage receptors, roaring them to life like those cog wheels that mark the beginning of every Lionsgate movie.

It turns out that three Japanese cars decided to test their structural strength, catalysed of course by gross human incompetence. There were a pile of cars behind. Two potbellied policemen walked around without a hurry in the world, as if waiting for some instructions from above. Probably because there was a sparkling brand new V8. Accidents, just like all accidents are often a terrible inconvenience especially to pedestrians who planned on walking home without any interruptions along the way. As one of those pedestrians, I walked looking at the gloomy faces of the people who went to check out what had happened. There was disappointment, too, because there was no blood and no one was writhing in pain. Juts a slay queen in one of the cars fiddling with her phone trying to contact one of her sponsors to come and rescue her.

One of the guys involved in the accident drove a Toyota fielder. He was a middle age man, dressed and built just the way a taxi driver would be. I have never boarded a taxi but I have surely seen them hovering around taxi parking areas, talking animatedly like it is their sole job. The middle aged man was talking too, volunteering information to anyone who looked like they were about to ask what was happening. As part of my journalist training, I applied the principle of non-interference, leaned to grasp a few things he was saying then left surreptitiously as if I were some sort of wind. However, I gathered that the problem was solely on the slay queen, who had the letter L pasted in front and the back of her car.

“You see, she’s even a learner,” taxi driver said and everyone agreed with him. His car had born the greatest damage, having had to mount that barrier in the middle of the road. It decimated a few of those knee length plastic poles filled with concrete, crossed to the other side, the supposed Canaan, with a flat tire, patiently waiting for a handshake.

It is served to reinforce one prejudice about slay queens that I had held for some time; the only psychomotor skills the possessed were lifting one leg slightly up in strict adherence to standard photo taking procedures, which, if not obeyed, can lead to death. Whatever it is, do not put an L in your car. You can get knocked by a drunk driver and it will be attributed to your learner status.

The Phone Peeper

As a mature adult who gladly files nil returns every June, I take seriously my legal responsibility of peeking into people’s phones in matatus. It gives me a chance to make insightful remarks about strangers we happen to be travelling together, just in case we are asked to form groups on an impromptu trip to heaven.

For a long time, the arduous responsibility had been a dreary one, where the only things I managed to see were people chatting on whatsapp, or playing some really stupid game such as candy crush. That was nothing to report about, not until the other day.

It was a Friday, at noon, when I calmly locked the door to my house, walked a few metres and went back to check if I had really locked it. Satisfied that I had actually locked, proceeded (still calmly) to the stage. An excessively pimped up manyanga stopped and the conductor spread all his fingers to indicate the fare to town. Using the capture and recapture method, I concluded that it was the right amount.

I boarded it and scanned studiously, with passenger’s eyes encouraging this arduous intellectual endevour, whereupon I selected a seat at the back for one great aesthetic purpose – it was the only seat. As if it was fitted with thousands of tiny invisible thorns, I carefully laid my Kalenjin ass on the green seat.

The seat could afford me a 360 degree view of the passengers, and my attention was drawn to a fine lass seated in front of me. She had these bright red acrylic nails. I watched her dive these nails into what I considered a dangerous territory and fished out her phone.  The phone had a cover with bunny ears at the corners.

The lady with red acrylic nails pressed the power button and then proceeded to draw a pattern as complex as nuclear physics. From my experience, her phone was more secure than our IFMIS systems. She couldn’t draw the correct pattern on the first try. Neither the second.

On the third try, she managed to bypass he security feature, then entered a pin as long as River Nile so that she could open her whatsapp. At that point I was wondering the kind of job this lady did. One way or another it involved her phone. There’s no way in hell you can put such stringent security measures on your phone if you just used to receive calls, send texts, and occasionally updated you IG account.

A while later she switched to the gallery, browsed through a couple of photos. She stopped at some, studied them in the same way you would study a mathematical problem that involved numbers and letters either on top or below each other, went to another or deleted them.

Then bingo, the photo that I had all along been waiting to see on someone’s phone. It was the photo one of the greatest news quality as taught in schools; unusualness. There, standing at attention, was a cartoon drawing of someone’s mjulubeng, and a lady on her knees eyeing the promulgation weapon with the keenness of a surgeon. The lady looked at it and a wry smile registered on her heavily made up face. I can’t guess what was on her mind, but it must have had something to do with Chinese debt.

Happy about this unusual sighting, I concentrated on the music playing on decibels that suggested that all passengers were partially deaf. It was great music that awakened nostalgic feelings. Some really nice old school music that introduced our teenageness to the idea of love – pure and undefiled. I personally was yearning to go back to those days when I could just sleep without ingesting some mind altering substances into my body.

The effects of the music was quite profound as nobody wanted to alight from the matatu when it got stuck in that jam at Ngara. Everyone was quietly seated, engaged in their own teenage thoughts and perhaps wondering where the rain started beating them. As far as I was concerned, life can’t get any cruel.

The Conman

He dressed for other reasons except fashion; everything on him was rated G (G for Gikomba). And like everyone else, he was trying to make it in the big city. But then there was something striking about him. He walked like he had just survived a tornado. There wasn’t a sense of purpose in his strides, he went, wherever it took him. He seemed to be escaping demons, demons that have made it clear that wherever he went they’d be steady on his heels. And so he just walked knowing all too well that the government won’t even save him.

He tried to make an acquaintance with me along Haile Sellassie Avenue. I had just emerged from traffic that was steadily building up. The sun was a little hot. I was carrying a brown envelope. May be that’s was the reason why he approached me. He thought I was a little miserable, that I had fruitlessly tried to woo fate into agreeing a dinner date at Kempinski. You, the envelope was a little worn out from manhandling. Then he saw it fit to pass me a bit of his misery. He should have had the mind to see that tuko ndani ya serikali.

‘Boss habari,’ he greeted me.

‘Poa,’ I replied, trying to sound as repulsive as the price of unga (when the price of unga was plummeting towards the sky).

‘Do you know where I can convert South Sudan currency?’ he asked. I thought him rude. He should have at least commented on the weather, what he thought about the NASA lineup, the price of unga…..you know strike a conversation. You just don’t go about asking strangers where you can convert South Sudanese currency, which I was sure he didn’t have any way. Unlike you, he thought I am bothered by the rising price of unga and milk. He thought I’d he gullible. No, man, I man above that, because we are in government. In case you wondered why we often make pathetic political decisions, collectively, we would like to clarify that we don’t want to give up a special monthly stipend for jobless people whose people are in power and those special discounts that make us immune from hiked prices of important commodities. 

Just to know the extent to which he thought of me, I asked him the currency South Sudan uses. He said pounds. He then went ahead and told me about there being a south Sudan and a north Sudan. He was trying to win me, and subsequently try to ask me to give him Kenyan money, at a terrifically low prices compared to the current market rates.

But then the notes could have been fake and that would have left me with the option of looking for desperate Kenyans hawking the same story as his.

She Left in a Huff

She left in a huff, leaving a trail of her displeasure. She couldn’t hide disgust, and/or frustration at me. Stacy had been sort of meticulous in her plans to put me in the most uncomfortable of situations; a pile of soaked laundry, a kitchen floor that looked like an after party of chickens after prowling through muddy puddles and most of all a blocked kitchen sink. She left the toilet unflushed and the stench that emanated from it was way too putrid. Of all, the unflushed toilet stuck a sore thumb in me, something I am more than willing to stake my life to testify against her in heaven ( should she land there anyway). I can’t even wrap my head around it….how can a completely sane human being…..maybe I should done a background check if there was any history of retardation in her family.

She’s gone. Stacy is gone. It seemed her scent didn’t even hang around any longer. It is like she coaxed it to leave with her. She left for every other reason girls leave; unfounded infidelity claims. Stacy is gone. In a huff. She said I should grow up then banged the door as she left. She never even asked for fare, even though the previous week she had spent almost the entire second reiterating how a church mouse is richer than her. Whoever programmed girls to constantly whine about their lack of money in presence of men should be hanged for mental sabotage of the fairer sex as well as treason on fundamental rights and freedoms, if such a thing exists.

As I paced up and down the living room getting accustomed to the silence, I resolved that following her up and apologizing will be futile. In itself it would admission of guilt. I am not guilty. I subscribe to one man one woman kind of philosophy and to be accused of contravening my own doctrines is another matter all together.  A part of me also knew that it would be hard to adapt to the absence of her hearty laugh, a laugh that stilled echoed at a distance, filling every empty space inside the house.

Stacy will sober up. She will. I thought as a consolation. When she does the relationship would be on my own terms not hers. I can even go against my doctrines and cheat on her so that the next time she goes berserk it won’t for no reason at all. Then I will have known where the meat is sweet, a basis for my apologies if need be.

I am also paranoid of the fact that she may have already moved on immediately she stepped out that house. You never know with girls. Or maybe she doesn’t have transport and a dude will offer to pay and she ends up in his bed. I can only imagine me calling her a week or so later, having immensely missed her.

“Hallo,” I will say after she picks on the fifth try.

“Hallo, who is this?” I can imagine Stacy saying, a curdling in the stomach takes shape, seeking an outlet in the rage I will feel. I mean for all the resilience, calling more than five times only for her to ask for introductions? Jesus.

“I am the guy who will be stamping you ticket to heaven, “I will solemnly reply.

“Sorry?” she’ll retort and the disgust in her voice is palpable, you know the kind you can knead and make small balls of IDGAFs? Yes that one.

“I am the guy who will be stamping you ticket to heaven, “ I will not resist the temptation to repeat even though I know she heard me right.

“I am sorry I am not interested in heaven right now, it’s not a destination of my craving,” she will say again, without actually hanging up. A cue. You know those kinds of girls who will tell you they don’t want to talk to you yet they actually picked the phone, and they are not in any hurry to hang up?

“I know someone who might be of help…might actually know where you…..” bleep bleep! She hangs up.

That’s the kind of shit you just weren’t build for.

The Losers: Nice Guys

Even with a face of a scalded toad, it is still the dream of every gentleman to be desired, irrevocably and irresistibly by ladies. Some take the hardest way, building muscles, instead of making money and drawing the beauties through its magnetic powers. (Over time, we’ve learnt that it is quite advantageous to have both money and muscle).

Money and muscle aside, ever since the hoe ceased being a mere agricultural implement, ladies cannot the resist the opportunity of telling others that men are dogs. How do they do this? They date bad boys. Nobody knows why, but a wild guess would that nice guys are sore losers. Nice guys don’t to win at anything, and rather than telling a lady point blank that he wants to see her naked, he circumvents, beats around the bush like he is waiting for a fire, as Moses did in the bible. That’s why poetry sucks, and that’s what bad guys know.

To a nice guy, bad boys do not even deserve to get near any female, because they present a pleasant side of themselves. On the contrary, the bad boys just live their lives without seeking any form of validation whatsoever. They may even have the same intellectual depth as diapers, and ladies will think that they can change them. It never happens. You liked him doing the things he was doing and he is not about to change. Not the nice guy. He will do anything to please a lady, and they are not easily pleased. They want a challenge. They want the bad things so that they can say: see, I changed him.

All relationships are about giving and taking. The bad guy just gives without being bothered by what he gets in return. The nice guys however want people to recognize they are doing it themselves, and without them, the world may as well stop rotating around the sun. on that vacation, the nice guy will be out seeking praises instead of just having fun like the bad guy does. On drinks, the bad guy may just buy them without thinking about the reward. A nice guy will be thinking about the reward all the darn time.

When the nice are bottling up their emotions, the bad guys are quite expressive, telling whoever impresses or irks them the truth regardless of the situation. He does not care whether there will be conflicts in the end. Nice guys prefer tranquility, avoids conflicts at all cost because they focus on being nice.

Late Night Talk Show Humour

It is through a well known research technique known as ‘running stomach’ (it is lauded by well known researchers) that I find myself listening to late night radio talk show which I unfortunately forget the name. Luckily then names of the presenters did not escape me: Melody Sinzore and John Maloba. They played a lot –okay, they were only two, which is still a lot) of Luhya songs and gushed over them as if they had stumbled upon a secret formula to extend their lifespan.

The two presenters reminded us – listeners, although one gets the feeling he alone is being addressed –that the topic of the night would be revealed in the next hour. They reminded us more than once, which, under the research conditions I was in, was a lot. I wondered who the target audience of these late night shows is; thieves, night runners, or night shift workers.

Before the topic was introduced, Melody read news with extremely long pauses between news items. The three items that I thought were important were the rise in the price of fuel prices, Ruto reminding people that corrupt leaders would be accorded fair and just hearing – which meant they were already cleared to run for public office- , and lastly Museveni allowing Bobi Wine to go to America to seek treatment after his head exploded through thinking that Museveni would be removed as president.

After the rewarding news experience, the two presenters embarked on the topic. The topic is basically a snippet of the life of man or woman in severe distress, so much distressed that he or she wants complete strangers to put into context. As an intellectually upright person who has not undergone any form of major surgery whatsoever, I placed the topic of the night in the following context: it was not real.

I imagine the man send it as follows: ‘I, (name withheld for privacy reasons), has never in my thirty two year experience, discounting the time I waited for my organs to mature, has never had any conjugal experience. My parents have intervened by selecting ladies of diverse characteristics but, unluckily, my member has not been responsive. I would love to choose a lady for myself. I have a decent job and a tidy sum of inheritance. Also, my friends are laughing at me for being a virgin.’

The topic seemed to have been a continuation of the previous night’s. The presenters made subtle reference to it. Maloba repeated the topic two or three times more, which was way too much this time round. Melody interjected with thoughtful responses such as ‘ehe, hajawahi kula uroda…’ each time Maloba talked about it.

And then the lines were opened. The first two were intercepted by space aliens, ending with the eerie ‘duuud duuud’ sound. Subsequent callers managed to have theirs through. The first among those did not even have to introduce himself. Then he went on to offer his advice to the thirty two year old virgin, who I bet was fast asleep or fondling himself if he indeed existed. I don’t remember what he said because he made sense. He exited by saying that he will hung for his friend who has a more sound advice by virtue of his background: he has overtime demonstrated that he has an IQ of mboga ya kienyeji.

I was surprised that the callers did not even have to introduce themselves. And they all sounded like Kisiis. One in particular was an old man. You always know an old man when he begins a sentence by ‘wakati wetu….’ In a tone that suggests that human beings have mutated to something that does not at all resemble humans that came before, especially the youth. He veered off the topic by saying that in those days, women were virgins and the only known way of deflowering them was using a special cow horn. He said the bride would be held by strong men, and phew! she was no longer a virgin and the young man would harvest his fruits.

When it came to advising the young man, through his vast experience, he said that the young man should be taken to a cow pen, where a bull would make an excellent tutorial material for the gentleman. The bull of course would be present where a cow on heat would be, lying naked and ready to be serviced. Then the young man would take in the breathtaking copulation, picking up various stylistic devices that the bull has learned from other bulls, and practiced over a long period of time. The young man would be ready to face the vast world of women beckoning at his feet, because he learned a bull, thereby qualifying to be a bull. In the bed. But his problem was that his jethro toll never rose to any occasion, except peeing.

A horse would have been a better idea, I concluded as I fell asleep. 

The Ultimate Wing Man

In the days of our forefathers, days that the white man has duly assigned a word-primitiveness- women walked bare-chested and it was not something that Mutua (the film guy) would yap about in connection to morals. With all due respect, morality is now defined by western concepts and religion, and is passed down as African. Yes, because we’ve become too westernized. The white saw our nudity and determined that it was gross, gave us clothes and proceeded thereafter to found a million dollar porn industry.

We, the almost morally bankrupt millennials, marvel at this technology called the internet. I mean if you type certain words on your search engine, you are likely to stumble upon a million photos of naked women, in all their varieties. Well, some of us actively seek these photos day in day out, as we wait for our bets to ‘enter’ or ‘drink water.’ If you think deeply, it’s quite the easiest thing to do knowing that we do not have people who can walk into a ministry and withdraw ten billion shillings and walk away scot free. Almost always, these pictures seek us out too. It sometimes form the headlines in the local tabloids, or sometimes when you are taking a brisk walk down the anonymous and dark alleys of social media, bulky men accost you with the following headlines: LEAKED NUDES OF [insert the name your crush].

Perhaps you should begin thinking less lowly of nudity and stuff, because it has been proven to one of the qualifications to a ministerial position. Also, nudity and all that appertains to it is present in nature, just as espoused by that sculpture at JKIA. The animals are not ashamed of this act that human beings have associated with every diabolic thing possible. But then there are dogs that apparently are clueless about the act, so much that men, with all their brain cells functioning properly, decided to help them mate. It was gross to say the least; two grown men holding dogs, one the gonads of the male, and the other the ears of the bitch. This was a video conducting a guard of honour on twitter, whereby people expressed their insights, because it is a crime not to. One that caught my eye was ‘AND THE AWARD TO THE ULTIMATE WING MAN GOES TO…’ I presume he was the one holding the bitch.

Speaking of wing men, man (not the biblical man) has always been set on conquests and winning. In the ancient days, it was about masculine things such as hunting with crude weapons and going to steal cattle. The only manly thing left in this technological world, is actively soliciting nudes from ladies as well as banging them. It is the reason why men go to bars in the first place; to lose inhibitions and talk about their conquests in the same level Alexander the Great would have bragged. And then hitting on random ladies. It’s here that the wing man sometimes chips in. You never know what these ladies can do to you. Man, you could be slowly siphoning your favourite poison and all of a sudden the world gets dark, and you wake after William Ruto has been severely humiliated by the aristocrats in the year 2022. Masaibu ya boychild!!

The bar setting has ceased being the hunting ground for men. The only thing a man needs to do is wear a crisp suit and tie, look suave and stand at the matatu stage, waiting for fare to drop before he heads to his humble domiciliary. A lady will saunter around that gentleman, flaunting her credentials, once or twice before she realizes that the man is too engrossed in his phone to notice she is overqualified. She strikes up a conversation with him, where she decides that she’s also heading to the same direction as him. Because the gentleman does not want any more complications in his life, he does not even ask for the ladies number, which she notices and promptly volunteers. She’s called Beryl. The gentleman saves Beryl Beauty on his phone.

A day later Beryl claims that she’s been chased out by her brother for getting home late. She’s asking for a place to stay the night as she gathers herself. The gentleman, just like you and me, only has the house to sleep in, of course and pay rent. He recently moved, his living room is emptier than the hearts of politicians. Beryl coaxes the man until she gives up.  Later, she shows up in the middle of the night, not without a fracas with the boda boda guys. Typical Jang’o ladies. Here’s where the wingman steps in. knowing too well that it’s stupid to die for ladies who show up late in the night, reeking of cheap liquor, the wingman advises him to stay away from the fracas, as far as Timbuktu.

Being a prospective man does not make one ‘the man’. As a lady, you will deal with your squabbles before a man becomes the man. But then again nothing diminishes a man more than a lady who constantly picks up fights over extremely trivial things and expects a man to ‘sort’ the guys out. It always a losing situation especially in a public place where there are idle people itching to lay their frustrations on an innocent soul. Beryl may have learnt the hard way, escaping with only minor injuries in her internal organs.

Once the fracas has died down, the gentleman and his wingman escort Beryl to the domiciliary. There she is condemned to the coach. She sleeps like a piece of rotting log, waking up at noon. Upon waking up, she brazenly asks if there’s something to eat, and the wingman says no. the gentleman left strict instructions to the wingman before he left for work. He tiptoed out leaving her soaking in her drunken drool.  He then switches off his phone and the wingman is left all alone with a stranger in the house. His only job is to make her step of the house and then lock it.  But that’s not how Jan’go ladies operate. They came with a completely different operating manual, with some crucial pages missing. She obstinately refuses to leave, hurling curses that one feels straight in the bone, even though it is a language one barely understands.

When she asks for the tissue, the wingman knows that shit is about to go down. She enters the toilet, which also doubles up as the bathroom and the wing man promptly locks the door and calls the police who in the service to all, do not show up.

The Bullfight

He met me all grown up, a man by virtue of having undergone a minor surgical procedure on a very influential organ, rekindling my childhood. David. That was his name. He worked as our shamba boy. The details are all blurry now but I think it broke my poor little heart when he left, albeit unceremoniously. Without reason. Without good byes. It is hard to think highly of such a man.  

At the time, adults seemed like creatures sent from another planet to rescue us from our happiness. As children, we never asked too much: we wanted to play, eat, and sleep. And then we longed for Christmas, never birthdays, for our births were remarkable enough not to warrant unnecessary annual celebrations. There were chores, here and there. When there weren’t, mothers would invent them. ‘Watch that sufuria,’ she would say. That sufuria would be on the fireplace, containing a sacred liquid namely: water.  

I would escape to the farm to be with David. We would dig, him telling me stories or me telling him, none of which I can remember now. David might as well been the only adult who was not keen on reprimanding a child. Given the chance, I would accompany him wherever he went especially when he was on duty. My favourite days were weekends where we’d take cows to a cattle dip approximately 247 km away. We crossed two rivers to get there. Nevertheless I enjoyed them.

The morning would begin early, with a ritual David had cultivated over time. He would go and fetch the finest cypress branches, cleaned to a baby-ass smoothness. He would fetch two of them: his and mine, although mine was a little smaller. Those days, mother would milk the cows a little early, and we’d set of at six thirty latest. We would drive the cows, and cows being cows were always ready for mischief. They would stray into people’s compounds as if they sensed that some of their relatives lived there. The fine cypress branch came in handy at that moment, where David would whip the cow into submission. Not only would the errant cow submit, it also did download the map to the cattle dip, where it proceeded to guide the rest.

When he left, that responsibility became mine. But then mother wouldn’t allow me to handle a panga, I made do with twigs or if we were lucky, picked branches from pruned trees along the way. The cows would always be a mess, so much that I dreaded taking them to the cattle dip. Calves would always want to explore farms with densely covered indigenous trees. I was with a cousin, who was older but belonging to the other gender, who, for lack of a better term, I will call female.

Because cows and rowdy cowboys didn’t respect us that much, we had to stick to a plan: maintain a schedule (every other Saturday), and get there neither too early nor too late. Like any other plan, it is bound to fail one time or another. That’s when we learned the importance of sticking to a schedule. One time, just before we got to the cattle dip, a huge herd of cattle emerged from what seemed like a forest cover. It wasn’t huge at first but then, slowly by slowly, the cows trickled one by one until the filled the road. Ahead of the heard were finely built bulls, billowing with unspeakable horniness. They heard to be restrained by the herdsmen.

Speaking of bulls, they always got charged in presence of too many cows. It is either because they are overwhelmed by the fact that they can’t get the chance to sniff all the private parts of cows at their disposal. I imagine them having bull thoughts such as: All these cows, man there has to be one on heat. I gotta get laid. When their frustration gets to a certain threshold, they decide to go with whatever cow that’s near them. Sometimes other bulls. As a tradition, experts on bull psychology recommended that the bulls have bull rings in order to restrain them. Some risk their noses for a chance to get laid. As a result a lot of unwanted pregnancies would result, leading to many cases of abortion among cows.

As a policy, we never let our cows mingle with the rest. They would be infected with strange venereal diseases. No, that’s was not the reason. They would get lost especially calves. So we waited for this large cloud of doom to pass. We waited. We had to wait also when it got to the cattle dip.

Another time, we encountered a hard of indigenous cows just after ours had swum in that filthy insecticide ridden pool. The best part of this exercise was that cows would have these mournful faces, as if wondering what crime they had done to be forced into a pool of filthy water. For that matter, they always knew their way home. This is the time grow boys and girls took to flirt with each other. We had a ferocious bull at the time: small and stocky. If it would have been a human being it would have been a Mexican drug lord.  And this is how I knew it.

As we approached the indigenous herd, which also had an indigenous bull, the bulls began getting charged.  A small boy, I stayed close to barbed wire fence ready to escape to avoid being trampled upon. The adults taking the indigenous cows had brain capacities the same as used condoms. They spectated rather than drive away their bull, which was seven and a half times bigger than our bull. The odds staked against our bull would be similar to the odds given to Gor Mahia when they face a Barcelona: 2000 against one. The bulls charged at each other, the other fellows cheering and I cowed on the other side of the fence since I had long decided that the match was going to be completely unfair.

If that bull had been listening to me, it would have also cowed. It charged the zebu breed with all its might, making maximum use of is centre of gravity, which the other bull lacked. Fearlessly, (our bull didn’t have horns so I can’t use the term locked horns) the two bulls locked heads. As I waited for our tiny bull to be pinned to death against the fence, thereby being converted into meat albeit prematurely, a strange thing happened. It pushed the other bull almost effortlessly, and pinned it against the fence. The zebu bull whimpered away with barbed wire marks and its ferocious billowing whimpered away too. If the herd boys hadn’t stepped in, it would have been turned into mince meat. And we have demanded a share.

At that moment, I may longed David had been in charge instead of me.

Christmas and Guests

As a kid, there were only two occasions that I looked forward: Christmas and the days that guests came. Christmas happened once a year, and spaced too far between, leaving a vast and expansive field of days in which to expect visitors. They didn’t come often, but when they did, mother would prepare them tea and put an unusually high amount of sugar in it. Maybe she always wanted to prove that we were ballers, sugar-wise.  Also, mother exercised an extraordinary amount of restraint by not even pinching us. But when the last guest left….

There were no phones those days, at least a small part of my childhood. Phones at time competed with an eighth of an acre of a plot in prime areas. And so visitors came impromptu. As if to compensate for their unexpected arrival, they came bearing gifts. It was mainly a kilogram or two of sugar, a packet of tea leaves, and, if they were richer, a loaf of bread-family bread. The bread especially ensured that we kids never forgot their coming, made even richer by our fights of who would eat the upper and the lower slices.

Sometimes we’d predict that visitors would come when chicken fought. You could wonder how we knew about this really important prediction mechanism. We overheard mother once saying so when two hens, I presume in the teenage-hood and craving the attention of the hunk cock, fought. That’s when it triggered a huge sense of responsibility in us, trying to spot fighting hens. They fought two or three times. Each of these times, to our childish glee, no visitor came.

Those were those days. I believe they were good days. Even the music sung in those days, especially rhumba, has a way of sticking in the mind. The simple fact that you don’t understand a single word makes them even better. There were standards that were never breached. Standards to everything. I will devote time to talk about visiting standards. One of those was that you never showed up at a person’s place empty handed. Maybe the punishment was that you could be struck by lightning on your way back, or something disastrous could happen.

Not these days. The people of this generation don’t understand how protocols enhanced our childhood. They’d rather buy bundles and check how people are living better lives than theirs, make them even more famous especially if they have had their butts chemically enhanced. Perhaps the god of vanity overthrew the god that reminded visitors to take goodies wherever they went, and would be termed as visitors. Or the god that controlled visitor’s minds got choked by the tremendous amount of a cocktail consisting of industrial waste and illicit brew. 

I could be wrong by laying blame to these people who intend to be visitors, and have a positive impact on young kids. I mean all you have to do now is have a swanky game that kids like, and simply hand them your phone when you visit. But then what about us adults, with bills to pay, girls to impress, and basically the ever increasing vanity to look good on these numerous virtual spaces. You have to bring foodstuffs that will last you through your stay. Some people have perfected the art of going for days without eating. That would be troublesome especially if you have a medical condition that makes you eat after every thirty seconds.

It is quite unfortunate to receive a guest who has ulcers. My dimwitted interpretation of the condition, that it is caused by stress, would have made me write a bad word for these visitors, like they are somehow disabled. You know, we are used to a certain unchangeable diet which may not be conducive for your stomachial specifications. We could go a great length such as ensuring you starve so that you can quickly go away, and we resume our routine.

However, you could enhance your stay by bearing gifts. If not just come and create a wife hotspot so that we can bet and search for pictures of naked women on the internet. That way, we won’t forget to, and perhaps wish that you visit often.

What it Takes

The sun is high,

Theirs is a motivation to fly past it

For a dream is a dream

Unless it extends beyond

And past the confines of the dark hours

As the clock ticks

Efforts they put drive them closer

And closer

To their most sacred of ambitions

To grow, to mold and to inspire

Generations after them

For them tomorrow is an inspiration

To a tell a tale

Of hard work and self-motivation

That they can sit and spell

What it takes to be them

Dear Lord

Dear Lord liberate me from my prison

Illuminate my life with righteous thoughts

Thoughts that have elongated my nights

Straighten my paths, take away the meanders

Light them or at least make the journey bearable

Give me courage to believe in the impossible

Give me courage to shut my ears to naysayers 

Dear Karma

I am pretty sure that you are okay wherever you are, probably screwing up someone’s life. I don’t object that, because it’s your job to do so.

The reason for my writing is to formally ask you out on a date, does Friday sound good. I’m suggesting taking you to Vila Rosa Kempinsky, is that cool? My assumption is that bitches like you love life on the fast lane, like expensive wine against an expensive back drop, served with smiles that is part of the job description of the waiters there and most importantly expensive food.

I want you to eat to your fill, then slowly tell me when you’ll check into my life and fuck me really good. I’ve since long held the belief that everyone is your agent, unknowingly executing your mandate. With this notion I think I overstepped it and almost took over from you. I’ve failed two people greatly. If we ever meet think their eyes will pop out bullets or something more fatal. But I know you know what might happen in advance. I want you to tell me that it’s okay. That you were kinda indisposed on the day I made those decisions that have either irrevocably changed their lives or impacted negatively on it.

I want us to strike a deal. If I’ve done you any good please consider my footsteps henceforth. If I haven’t, please be lenient. Dish out my pain in doses, like medicine. 

Looking forward to meeting you.

Yours sincerely

Kipchirchir Rop

I am Beside You

When the nights seem like temporary forevers,

The world unforgiving, weary, and lonesome,

Know that this is water under a steady bridge,

Even raging floods will not shake,

Because I will always be beside you

Perhaps the distance, and time between us

May make your world seem full of dark clouds, hovering

And the rain, always imminent, an impending doom,

But always know I will be your umbrella,

Your shelter, a rock of refuge

Perhaps our lives seem like a stage

Without actors, without the lights, or the audience

And the two of us far away, practicing our lines

I, have mastered a few of the lines:

I love you, and always will no matter the circumstances

I am always beside you, cheering you on

Wayward Nights

Wayward nights stretch their gory limbs

To touch a face, worn with deep thoughts

Alone, in a lonesome dynasty

Whereupon nights stretch to a thousand infinities

Unfazed by sleeping pills, and perhaps opium

Searching, seeking a familiar face

In every stranger that smiles better than the setting sun

Drowning the world with certainties, and dreams

A NEW NOSE

Because of the floods that have wrecked havoc across the country, I have decided, to plead with nature, to grow a new nose. I want to be able to smell disaster from many miles, better than our meteorological department who up to now is faceless. We do not see them on television even telling us to plant trees, and then end up with a tag line that we have all come to associate inefficiency, corruption, blatant disregard to the rule of law: GOK DELIVERS. I cannot entirely blame them; they personify our cherished ideals.

As it is, I have not decided to grow any more noses. The ones I have are already in surplus. It is just one huge pimple that has implanted itself a few inches above my nose. It is painful. When touched. And I can’t resist fondling it every second, just in case I can pop the contents out and let my face be the normal and perfect.

As the alarm went off, signaling a new day to pursue the same old shit (lick some corporate arse), my new nose is keen on telling me that it is not worth it. It is telling me in a language that would as well have been Greek, which of course I would have perfectly understood, that I cannot let people see me in this condition. ‘Why let people think that a terrible biological experiment backfired on you?’ It whispers. “you know very well that you don’t like weird looks strangers will throw on you…it is like someone pouring dishwater you, and from experience it  is not a very good thing.’ It goes on elucidating various bad scenarios that would occur, to which I respond in a kind: I AM NOT LEAVING THE HOUSE TODAY.

The world has natured a need in us to be perfect. You have pimples on your face? Here, have makeup. Your eyebrows are not perfectly aligned? Shave them and redraw with this. And our ladies have swallowed the bait. Perfection is the new normal. We men sometimes are not conscious of these things until the day our lovers decide to leave us and all of sudden we understand why we often woke up to a foul mood because each one of those mornings we woke with a stranger. Save for that, when strange things begin to germinate on our faces; pimples and boils.

Hollow Halls of a Soul

the aches, the longings,

that sprout beneath the angst,

within the hallow halls of my soul,

sometimes numbing, sometimes fulfilling

filling the crevices that your sweetness once sought refuge

then there’s life, then there’s more of it,

when I realize how stranded I am, among a sea of people,

aching with longing, to once again put the feeling into words

immortalize it, let the it caress the longings, and the aches

as the echoes of my heart beats

reverberates in the hollow halls of my soul