Posted at 12:51 pm , on July 9, 2018
You stand there when the storm comes. You smile at her. You make promises of assurance. She calms down. You look at her and see the green in her eyes, and you set your camp on her conscious.
In your solitude, your blankets rise in your bachelor den every morning and you wish you had your palm on naked skin that is not your own. You choose her skin and you say it is love.
So, you corner her to leaving the natural warm love of her home and she obliges. Now she puts her head on your chest every night and you put your hand on her bum. You pinch it like a loaf of bread, and you happen to think that she likes it. Look at what you are about to do with your own hands…
Posted at 8:02 am , on June 18, 2018
I was nineteen when I began writing her as my next of kin when opening bank accounts and creating Chama Accounts. It came naturally and in a way that I cannot even explain. The registration form would ask the relationship between her and me and I would write Fiancée. The bank attendant would look at me, and then look at me some more like that was something I did not qualify for.
I did not even have a beard. I am one of those guys whose beard came late, like a guest from Nairobi in a function at Murang’a. I watched my age mates use the no shave November hashtag in silence and defeat. They could have all the beard they liked, I had Harriet.
Posted at 8:58 am , on May 21, 2018
I once got hit by a truck at Roysambu. It happened fast, really fast. I was actually minding my own business on the side of the road with white earphones slack from my phone to my ears, checking out my twitter notifications; my bomb ass tweet must have gone viral or something. Suddenly, a truck came, left the wide road it was meant to be on and came straight for my face. Anyway, it was not a big deal. I recovered fully after an entire year. Momma made nice food and I added weight from 54 to 68Kgs. Oh, before I forget, the truck company refused to pay my medical bill and two years later we are still chasing each other like cats and mice in courts of law.
What I have not recovered from is a huge dick when I was five years old. A huge dick that was meant to do unspeakable things to me had my siblings not walked in from church. I remember who the dick belonged to. His face looks like his dick. He is a dickhead. He was an esteemed fellow brother at our church. He would tell my parents that he would take care of us on Sunday afternoons when they went to church meetings and functions. I remember vividly that he undressed me and chucked his dick but was hesitant to use it. I think my angels were scolding his bad behaviour in his conscience. Anyway, he took too long to decide what he wanted to do with his weapon and my brother walked in and he pretended to have been adjusting his trousers.
Posted at 7:54 am , on April 30, 2018
Recently, my parents grabbed themselves a piece of land. They paid for it though, unlike your favourite politician. They say they want to build themselves a retirement home, leave the city and never come back. They chose Malindi as their future home. They sat down in a silent meeting of two in the living room and discussed how they had lived in Central, Eastern and Nairobi provinces but never been to Coast. So instead of getting an SGR ticket to Mombasa for a weekend like everyone else, they just called Douglas from Urithi Housing and Cooperative and he gave them an offer they could not refuse.
Their reason for settling in Malindi still beats my logic. We are Meru people, we have a romantic affair with Mt. Kenya. We wake up to the sight of the snowcapped Lenana, Batian and Nelion. Malindi was just far-fetched, but who understands these ones anyway but themselves?
Personally, I have never been to Malindi but it sounds like a place with no Wi-Fi so it would be a total buzz kill for me. It sounds like a place you go to retire though. A place you build a two bedroom tiny mansion with a lot of living room space and an extremely huge master bedroom, but because you do not want your kids or your relatives to bother you, it almost has no space for guests. In fact, it only has one extra bedroom. An extremely tiny one. The kind you open the door and, BOOM! You are in bed already. The kind that are prominent here in Nairobi, particularly, Roysambu. Bedrooms that are inhospitable. You make one wrong turn while sleeping, you will wake up hugging the wall.
Posted at 6:57 am , on April 16, 2018
Easter Holiday was my boyfriend’s birthday and I was determined to get him a gift. I did what any cool girlfriend would do – I decided to offer myself like a Christmas gift from Santa Claus. Men do not need socks, ties or loafers for a birthday. Watches are so mainstream and no man wants to be taken out for dinner on his birthday. I had thought this through and in my head, it was very clear and I figured out it would be easy.
I got a lingerie from an online shop – these weird lingerie that uncovers the parts that are always covered in ordinary circumstances. The lingerie I chose would make the angels of heaven pause their music in bewilderment. But what the hell! We are here for a good time not a long time.
A gift is all about the packaging and delivery so I squeezed myself into my new lingerie at around 10 am on Friday in my house. The idea was to cover it all up in a trench coat and make the easy ride to Kiambu to surprise my boyfriend who I was confident was going to get his mind blown. I could already see his social media captions afterwards…
Best girlfriend ever…
Coolest chile on the block…
My ride and die…
Posted at 9:37 pm , on April 2, 2018
I met Maria the second the time in a strip club as she was busy shoving her nice pair of big breasts on my face. It was a club in the dingy dark dreadful streets of Nairobi. She was my sister but I would never have recognized her from the bushy synthetic hair on her head to the little amount of blood in my alcohol circulatory system.
She was not my sister really, at least not biologically. She was just the nosy girl next door in my parents’ neighbourhood when I was growing up. She was always in our house looking for food and she never went away. This was not the first time I had seen her nice pair of breasts but that is another story I might decide or decide not to tell later.
The first time I had met Maria was a few days after I was born. A three-year-old girl looking down at my slimy small disfigured face straight from the maternity hospital. There is an old photo of that moment at home.
Posted at 7:57 am , on March 26, 2018
City food is either shitty or expensive. For this reason, I will climb the stairs of Ujamaa Building in CBD to the rooftop. Stairs always, never the lift, this is my ritual. Then I will pull out my carefully packed lunch gazing at the city life below disinterestedly. Occasionally she will be there, awfully close to edge, like she is about to jump, splash her brains down thirty six floors to the hard pavement below. She always looks ready to jump but never actually does. She does not have the guts to jump but one of these fine days she will jump, I am almost certain about that.
She also works in Ujamaa Building too, somewhere around floor six. I have no clue what she does or who she works for. I have never bothered to ask. This is Nairobi, you do not bring your village antics here. You only speak when you are spoken to, smile when you are smiled at and hug when arms are spread towards you. In Nairobi you mind your own business, always.
Posted at 6:03 pm , on January 22, 2018
I walked from school to home, the same way I had done for the past six months. It was an uncomfortable five kilometres walk, hard to imagine walking to and fro each morning but the white man was sharing all his knowledge, all the people had to drink from his cup of wisdom. Every African parent in my village sent their kids to school stating the importance of becoming knowledgeable like the white man.
So we went to school. Got hit several times on the butt for being late or being indiscipline, but it was acceptable to our parents, therefore enforceable to us. We knew nothing and he knew everything. Times were changing fast and no one wanted to be left behind.
In the hilly outskirts of Murang’a town on one cold and windy evening in June. I was barefoot as most of us were in a six-month-old white man’s green uniform that was only worn on school days. It started like a commotion from the boys that were walking home a few paces ahead. They had heard a gunshot up ahead. They were getting excited and they quickened their pace to get a glimpse of what had transpired for the white man to shoot from his killing machine. I was barely interested but as I kept walking, a dump and cold feeling settled in my gut and I also began walking fast.