Morning Blues

The sweat has severely drenched my shirt and shone on my oily skin yet it is only 9:15 am. The throbbing of my own eyes reminds me that I might arrive to work later still. The hammering in my head still hasn't stopped and I can literally hear the thumping of my heart against my chest.

8:02 am.

It was helter skelter as I rushed to leave home so that I could be at work by 8:30 am. Quite an optimist I was, although I knew boss lady would pardon me for being (at most) half an hour late. She either had a soft spot for people who could not afford private means of transport or young lads straight from campus who had mastered the true use of incognito mode on their computers. My female colleagues of course think it is the latter....but I digress.
Anyway, I left the house in quite the rush, fumbling with keys as my coat hang over my head like someone being rained on and ran down the flight of stairs. I may not be the most punctual guy in the world, all things considered.

8:06 am.

I often find queuing for matatus a tedium I would rather die than indulge in. My high school days have probably shaped that sense of self-entitlement hence I felt I had to wait for the next one. At last, I got into the next one, preferring to be sandwiched between the driver and the lady who'd beat me to the coveted shotgun seat by the window. She swiftly alighted and let me get in to the left-over seat. I smiled meekly but she gave me the stern look that said a thousand unpleasant words. I said hi to the driver. He nodded...something was off. My breathe maybe...In my morning rush, I had forgotten to brush my teeth. Natures way of limiting my bickering, I presumed.

8:15 am.

The traffic at Pangani junction was immense. I quipped to the lady beside me that the traffic officers ought to do better on regulating the flow of traffic. I also mentioned the inconvenience of making people who had important morning meetings wait. She gradually looked away, subtly sticking her head outside the window. I took the hint. I did not bother her again.

8:32 am.

We were finally past the diabolical junction and into the free flowing traffic. I listened pensively as Maina and King'angi debated on whether or not wives' dress codes ought to be determined by their spouses. I, for one, had my opinion on the matter but thought better than humiliating myself on the third time of asking. Once bitten, twice shy.
The matatu came to a disappointing stop at Ng'ara where vehicles had decided to camp on the highway so that yours truly would arrive late to work. I together with the lady to my left were tapped by the front sitting pedestrian; presumably for fare. That is when the trouble started...

8:37 am.

We were still stuck in traffic and the same hand relentlessly tagged at my trapezius muscle. That bloody moron seemed too zealous to do a job that did not put food on his table. My lady friend had dutifully passed 1000/= and unnecessarily bellowed "mtu mmoja." I had left my phone and wallet at home. Yet there I sat, in a cheap two piece suit - waiting for the axe to fall.

8:56 am.

"Pesa yako wewe hapo mbele!" The conductor shrieked as I begrudgingly acquiesced, pretending to reach into my pockets. My hands involuntarily shook in my pockets. My fingers are curled into a fist, nails digging into my palm. Fear churned my stomach and gave me this massive urge to urinate. I had no idea what conductors do to people who do not pay, but I'd heard stories. I'd heard stories of grown men who'd been locked in the matatu and a gang of manambas invited in to work on the truant fellow. I had heard stories of men who'd been brought to the emergency ward at KNH after being hit on the head with golf balls wrapped in a sock - the reason was almost always unpaid fare. I had heard cases of torture, stripping and sexual assault.....God forbid! Ngai. In that moment I made an impromptu prayer. I assured God that if he got me out of this I not only attend church without fail but also would pay my tithe to the last cent. I would quit sportpesa and give my surplus to the poor. I also promised not to covet the female caretaker. Nyasaye!

9:02 am.

The matatu finally arrived at the stage. The fear that had engulfed me had turned into a calmness I was suspicious of. I checked my pants to ensure they were still dry. They were. The lady alighted and stood by the door. I had then decided to let the chips fall where they may. I would take the beating like a man. I would even take the golf ball to the head with some minute dignity. It was the sexual assault that made me cringe and think about wailing in my mother tongue or fake insanity. I was a drowning man, with no straws to clutch on. Then it hit me, there were still about four people standing outside (including the friendly woman with 1000/=) for the conductor who seemed to be prostituting himself (he made begging gestures) to shopkeepers for change. My eyes lit up.

It is 9:15 am. I am still running. I alighted at Odeon bus station. I am now approaching Muthurwa. I work in Koinange Street. I feel like a fugitive, an outlaw and a criminal. The feeling is thrilling. I cannot remember the last time I felt so alive. Yet I have no money on me, no phone, bloodhounds who would kill for 40/= probably in pursuit and at least an hour late to work. All in an hour's work.

A Feast for a Peasant

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.

As I type this, it has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan Restaurant on Dubois Street in Nairobi's CBD.
It was a restaurant I had caught with the corner of my eye at around midday. It was not its pink decor that dazzled me and neither did the female waitresses standing at the door tickle my fancy. It was not even the fact that it had a convenient location and a short walk to the matatu stage. No, it was the bright red poster that had the grandiose offer for Chips, Chicken, Soda and tomato sauce for KSh. 180!

My friends, Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me. For the rest of the day, I thought about the meal. I fantasized about having such large chunks of hot chicken in my mouth that I couldn't speak if I tried. I knew I would have to pay for a second plate because such an opportunity needed to be properly utilized. The opportunity needed to be milked for everything it's worth. Those bloody restaurant fools I was about to take advantage of. In that moment, I thought I felt like a death row inmate having his last meal or Jesus preparing for his last supper.

8:45 pm.

I sauntered magnificently into the said restaurant. Walking up the flight of stairs, I praised the Lord for providing such a cheap way to fill my girlfriend's stomach in future. I took my seat at the very top and in the very kingly manner beckoned on a waitress. I explained to the waitress that I needed to place two orders; one would be devoured in the very spot I sat whereas the second serving would wrapped so that I could carry it home. She could keep one soda, I magnanimously offered.

8:51 pm.

Hence, I sat there, pensively staring at the roof as I thought about the difficulties of moving around the city on a full stomach. Why I sat alone in that restaurant baffled me. Couldn't people know a good deal if it hit them in the face with a heavenly fried smell? No matter, bloody fools......fortune favors the wise.

8:56 pm.

I watched as my meal was brought in a tray up the flight of stairs like a bride on an aisle. I felt like adjusting my shirt collar like an anxious groom, but I opted instead for the less subtle pulling up of my sleeves. My plate was placed before me and she stood there, in all her graces ready to be devoured by a famished lover. Fries on a saucer which looked like the end product of stale cooking oil. I winced. Immediately, I saw what was beside it, I called for the waiter as she attempted to flee in part embarrassment and part victory. You see, this was not my order, I tried to explain - disgusted at their incompetence. I did not and have never paid for what looked like an overcooked piece of fish fillet or a genetically modified dead cockroach... It was a chicken nugget fam, the size of a marble.

8:58 pm.

The pretty face confirmed that the nugget was the said chicken on offer! The ones confidently displayed at the entrance cost a lot more, and my meal could not be exchanged as I had already paid for it. A short argument ensued. She sneered at my confusion and sorrow and reminded me that I could as well fish out more coppers from my pocket and get the "real" chicken. I could immediately tell that she was used to disgruntled hustlers who seemed to know a lot about catering and hospitality. I waved her off.
I cursed. I writhed. I wished I were dead. Never had I spent money on such a small piece of chicken. My first bite almost made me cry as I could now see all the bones of what now appeared to be left-overs. It also happened to be my last bite, and not for a loss of appetite.

9:16pm.

As I hurriedly left that abyss, the good waitress reminded me to pick my "take-away" meal on my way out. God bless her heart.

12:41 pm

It has been approximately 15 hours and 56 minutes since I walked in and out of Michigan restaurant along Dubois Road. Nothing has changed since then. I still feel a bile-like, painful sensation rising up my throat every now and then. I can taste nothing but bitterness. My frens, I was conned. I was mocked. I was starved. All in half an hour's work.

A New Dawn and An Old Roof

"Drip. Drip Drip!" I was woken up in the dead of the night by the heavy downpour, some of which fell into the tin can strategically placed below the leaky roof while some rebounded to the tin walls by the door. Groggy from my three hours of sleep on a two inch mattress which had hugely important chunks missing, I dragged to the switch, turning on the lights as I could no longer sleep. "I should fix that if I'm to have a peaceful night's sleep," I muttered to myself. 3 am, and I was thinking of roof repairs. Wonderful.

The left over ugali sitting on my wobbly table contorted my lips with joy as I bit huge chunks, wishing that the probably moldy delicacy had an accompaniment....eeer...if wishes were horses. I had almost proceeded to waste my hard fetched water had I not seen my betting slip paper on the side of the bed. Eureka! At least, it would prove itself useful as a serviette if nothing else. "Not even my current state would hamper my hygienic culture," I told myself as I washed my face. The soap was as thin and rough as sandpaper hence I decided that my armpits would get first dibs on the water. Other delicates would be wiped, I reckoned, as today was not a special day anyway. 5 am, and my day was just beginning. Excelsior!

"Soldier!" I called out flatteringly to the cripple who manned the gate. I had not bothered to learn his name, as they were so many exchanging shifts and I was also not good with names. He did not take too kindly to being woken up from the blistering cold despite the fact that I was clearly putting him out of immense misery. His entitled attitude especially ticked me off as he belligerently walked in his comic gait to open the gates for the tenants leaving for work. How a man in his state would risk the wrath of armed bandits who were notoriously prevalent in Pangani will forever bewilder me. I missed waking up with a purpose, heading to work alongside my intellectual equals to make ends meet but today, at 6 am, I was seeing the rich off to work. Terrific!

I wore my ripped, oversize green t shirt and manually cropped denim shorts which were complemented by orange gumboots to complete the look of a seasonal clown. My metallic bucket could not hold as much water as I needed in order to wash the silver Toyota Vitz without much struggle. "Thank you love," said Angie as she threw a gracious tip my way. She was one of Kevo's girls, the one whom Kevo had forbid me from badgering and demanding for rent. It was an incident which had almost cost me my job as I had exercised my prerogative and locked her out one night to teach her a lesson on deadlines. Kevo's phone call ensured I not only let her in the house but also apologized for my stupidity. I had actually got down on my knees to apologize to a girl who was most probably my age and it hurt like getting a vasectomy in your early 20's. Even though her gratitude was marred in sarcasm, mockery was a small price to pay for 200 shillings. I smiled, folded it and push it down the tiniest pocket of my jeans and walked back to my house. 8 am, and it was shaping up to be a fortuitous day.

I have always hated Math, but compromise was less expensive than stagnation. The CPA Accounts textbook was torture but somehow solving imaginary arithmetic problems was a welcome distraction from the fact that I was now a glorified houseboy. I was halfway through "The Is-Function" when Zaitun from second floor complained that her shower was not working. "I'll send Njoroge, the electrician over in a minute," I promised and got back to my calculator, not bothered in the least to use my airtime for the benefit of such a rude woman. I should have locked the door, as when left ajar, it prompted the most silly of distress calls. George from fifth floor was apparently destroying the neighbor's toddler's eardrums with his heathen loud music. Mama Edwin from ground floor was in the middle of firing her house help and needed me to ensure the latter did not steal from the hand that had been feeding her for two years. I delegated these important tasks to "soldier" who seemed to enjoy poking his nose in other people's business. 11 am, and life was schooling me on the importance of library membership.

I was now a regular at Mama Oti's, a makeshift pocket friendly eatery where the high and mighty dined - the bulkiest of stone-masons and mechanics you will ever see in a non-work environment. The men talked of how a certain Lawi was most probably rotting in a ditch after getting too cosy with the boss' Mrs and could therefore not buy them lunch."Pity for their Robin Hood situation," I thought to myself as I took my final spoonful. I paid Ksh. 50 and hurried out lest they figured out that I was the chief architect of Lawi's downfall. 2 pm, and my shirt buttons were in serious trouble from my then protruding belly. Bliss.

Off I walked to Huruma, where I supervised the works of Kevo's construction site. It was truly a thing of beauty, seven floors up it went, blocking the sun's rays on either side of where it shone, casting an arrogant shadow on the slums behind it. As the cutting discs shredded the outside walls, I pondered on its actual safety. You see, I had long since stopped wondering why we had to pay county officials to look the other way. I was no lawyer but even a halfwit could tell that the works had broken more laws than a pedophile kindergarten teacher accused of multiple homicide at a school picnic. The workers greeted me with utmost respect and it felt better than serving my previous boss tea while dressed in a three piece suit. They seemed lively despite making only three hundred shillings a day and were always joking around, while showering me with praises and following my instructions to the letter. And I deserved it. Why not? I was not only the patron who paid them at sundown but also the master of their fates who decided the men who were to show up the next day. It was a barbarian system where anyone with a bigger chest and arms was first pick and as logic would dictate, the scrawny looking fellows were advised to seek work at salons and restaurants. Off I sauntered back to Pangani after playing God all afternoon, opting to turn the ten shillings intended for bus fare into four heavily bargained pieces of mutura as it was already 6 pm and traffic was at its peak. No harm done in hindsight.

Yet a day would not quite be complete without a visit to Monaco. The allure of alcohol on a Monday evening was more compelling than marital intercourse, judging by the number of married men in the bar that night. As usual, Kevo was rather drunk, telling everyone who cared to listen that Lawi was a rat who would henceforth amount to nothing in Nairobi. He could care less that everyone who listened to rumor mills knew that his wife had the loyalty of a freelance marketer. After all, he was not only the chief philanderer in town but so rich that no man would dare indulge him in the nitty gritties of the alleged indiscretion.

My eyes involuntarily drifted to Mwende, who was looking glorious, with her midnight black hair tumbling over her shoulders and her subtle lip-gloss on those saccharine lips giving her face a beguiling, bubbly outlook.
I tried to gaze into the constellation that was her eyes in a somewhat suggestive way but she sneered and looked away, not flattered and obviously not amused by my creepy sexual harassment which she had always seemed to enjoy. Perhaps it was the creased shirt, the hideous shoes or the coarse uncombed hair with hints of grayish cement residue. I cursed opting out of taking a full bath that morning.

Kevo loved my company nonetheless. He enjoyed my appraisal of the fast coming into being of his artistic construction. He blushed a little at the compliment of how fit he looked, his mates dying of heart attacks, strokes and getting cheated on while Kevo was drinking himself silly and maintaining his health whilst managing his home like the Kings in movies. "They do not make total men like you any more. You inspire me boss." I assured him.
I was halfway through the roasted meat ordered when Kevo decided that it was time for me to go and look after his property. He had received a call from Angie, you see, who was bored and felt like dancing all night. Her not so subtle disdain for men with nothing to their names meant that I had to leave.
It was lightly drizzling as I hurried home. I could not well repair my roof at this time. I hoped the rain would not force me out of bed again at 3 am. Hopefully, it would not rain much. 10 pm and I was back right where I had started, thinking of roof repairs. Wonderful.

Agent Provocateur

"Thirty...thirty one..thirty two...thirty..." I counted the seconds to midday as they passed by on my phone screen, wondering why bars did not bother to invest in a wall-clock. Perhaps to aid the drunk fellows in their 'disciplined' evening schedules as well as rescue the wife-battered patrons from peeing their pants by avoiding a constant reminder that they had broken curfew.

My 500 ml vodka bottle was almost empty and despite my joke of a financial status, voices in my head told me that I could afford another. You see, to say that life was not going according to plan for yours truly is a bit of an understatement. Just three days ago I had received a retrenchment notice from work, which was a polite way of saying that they were sorry it had taken them so long to find a computer software made by a ten year old Chinese which could do my work. Another sip of the good stuff reminded me that moving back to my parents' after I had made a grandiose walk-out pledging never to return was not the best idea, especially since my father was a barbarian who would see me dig pit latrines through concrete floors to earn a roof over my head. To cap it all off, my girlfriend had taken a break from our relationship - I had not quite grasped the concept, but my friends had some not so pleasant reasons for it that I'd rather not share. Poof! The vodka was gone and I suddenly wished that I salivated liquor.

Anyway, I was at Club Moscow in the middle of the day to sell my month old sweetheart of a smartphone. It had proved an unnecessary luxury and the depreciation phones were succumbing to nowadays coupled with my untimely loss of income made it a bad investment. Apparently, other sections of the city found wastage of money to be quite the pastime as I had found a buyer on OLX to take the phone off my hands for almost its worth when brand new. The chap was quite nice, and had even texted apologies for lateness and proceeded to send me money to buy drinks for myself as I waited for him. Apologies for probably thinking that I had been hitherto spending my own money, your naivety is adorable. The early bird had certainly caught the warm and no sooner had I started toying with the idea of increasing damage to my liver than he showed up....

He was quite tall, of lean build and overly dark complexion...donning a slim fitting suit that made him look like someone who would not be laid off a mediocre government job in a million years. He had that natural smug look that comes with fiddling with car keys in a bar just when the cute bartender Mwende came to take his order. Despite his creepy mustache, I envied everything about him. His breathe stank of fresh, cold bottles of Heineken, - and I kid you not, this fellow was living the Kenyan dream.
Lawi (as he quickly introduced himself) betrayed the remote hole he had crept out of as his accent and oratory skills reminded me of the infamous "Teach me English" tags in primary schools used to fix such situations regardless of the public shaming. From what I gathered, his had been a fast rise to wealth and he owed his fortunes to something greater than merit without a doubt. How else would a person without a college degree own a new shape Toyota Premio that started at the push of a button? How else would someone who could hardly construct a proper sentence in English don what seemed to be designer raiment from head to toe?  He was probably my age and quickly reminded me of the sense my father made in regretting spending a dime on school fees for a job he described as making tea in government offices. Anyway let me not delve into ironies of the failings of the current education system as well as the advantages of nepotism, witchcraft and human stupidity in modern times.

It was lunch time, he reckoned, and I deserved nyamachoma at the very least for deserting my work to deliver his phone. His referral of my formerly sweet phone (as I had deleted most things which endeared it to me for common decency) as his, probably made me less morose than assuming I was just another lucky bastard holding down a job in the cruel city of Nairobi. Skipping breakfast to make it in time for work had become a norm of mine but suddenly doing the name to save on my precious coins was threatening to send me to borderline starvation. It would explain why a silver tray serving of the most exquisite roast meat by a malnourished male butcher who gave me an envious glare made my eyes a bit watery.
Tell you what, drinking and making merry with this lad was far better than a night with my girlfriend when she had her usual 'headaches.' Quite like Kevo, intoxication was his truth syrup, only I enjoyed his stories more as lack of man boobs and a world of belly fat made for far less disgusting imagery. This was the man every boy in the slums of Kibera, suburbs of Buruburu and villages of Eldama-Ravine dreams of becoming, me included. He was a foreman, an assistant to a rich mogul in the city who derived all the niceties of working for a wealthy man who was too lazy to manage his own affairs. The job came with its perks - a car I'd get a vasectomy for, a rent free house I would gladly sell a kidney for and get this, a taste of the mzee's wife whenever he desired. Talk about managing the man's affairs! He proceeded to tell me how he and the lady of the house snuck around with none the wiser and engage in behavior only someone born of a virgin called Mary would pardon. At this point I took a huge gulp of the bitter vodka, chiefly because no amount of libation would wash away the envious breaking down in tears of a grown man in front of another man.


Having had enough of listening to the fairy tale life of a man who was in all aspects my better whilst going through hell in my life, I concluded the sale of the phone and asked to leave. "Stay a while longer man. Let the fool come along and buy us more drinks..sawa?..Waiter!" He called out at a volume that my wallet had never been authorized to. By now, you should know that I can resist a lot of temptations, but none that fizzles when it opens. Mwende came along with more beers, obviously confused as to how and why men always went out of their way to spoil me when drunk while treating her like trash. Quite the charmer I was. Yes. A jobless charmer who would soon be homeless and preaching on commuter buses for lunch money. God forbid!
I have always wondered why my life is full of theatrics, cliff hangers and despondency. Here I was, waiting for two people to get together and share their successes while my life was in shambles like a classic sucker. "Mzee!" Lawi stood up respectfully to welcome his boss. In a typical sheepish manner I stood up to this god-forsaken mzee that had no impact in my life whatsoever......or not!


"Kevo!" I blurted out, proceeding to give him the most thunderous handshake I had ever given a fellow human being before. Lawi just stood there, mouth agape, trembling like a twig in the winds of winter, trying to conjure up a miserable grin.
Well, well, well. Interesting... Small world.

A Fool and His Money

It is often said that if you want to know what God thinks about money, look at the people he gave it to. Of course, this is a quote for poor people with dead, unrealistic dreams, but hold that thought, lest I jump the gun.

I was earlier than usual at Moscow, our local club which operated day and night against the law leading many alcoholics to believe that there was a God after all. I sat at the farthest end, quarantined from the men in the establishment actually spending more than one hundred shillings. 

My feet wobbled as my two o'clock royally sauntered into the club, my face conjuring up a dreamy smile against my better judgement. He proceeded to indecently spank Mwende, the cute bartender, who quickly walked away, disgusted by the filthy pig. I smiled as I thought of the number of stitches I would have required had I amassed the nerve to do the same right in front of the club bouncers. Different strokes, I guess.

Kevo and I had already forged such a strong bond that people severally asked me whether we were related, a question I always answered in the affirmative, since people had an inclination to send their wandering minds to the gutter. 

Like a dog with a bone, Kevo immediately brought up the Chelsea-Liverpool game. You see, against all odds amidst suspicion of clear match-fixing and possibly witchcraft, Chelsea had lost in the slimmest of margins. Of course, Kevo, with the grace of a back alley prostitute, was quick to remind me how such minnows as ourselves had been billed up as competition was beyond him. I, on the other hand, took it on the chin, slipping my unpleasant rejoinders in the first of six Heinekens. Not long after, he ordered two kilos of roasted meat, and those who know me know that I would have happily taken photos of him urinating on my grandfather's grave at this point.

Half an hour in and I was wishing I was born a deaf mute. There are two things that I dislike about Kevo, first is that he never shuts his mouth, even whilst eating, he still finds a way to have words coming out of the same oversize mouth. Second, he loves over-sharing, not on relevant things like M-Pesa or ATM Pin numbers but on nonsense that makes you want to throw up in your mouth. No sane friend wants to hear about infidelity, family drama, life insecurities, dreams and aspirations. However, today, he brought on a distinctly intriguing subject. You see, Kevo was getting roped into gambling. He had recently joined Sportpesa, a mobile betting firm which had been milking money from him faster than a lavish divorcee, alcoholic ex-wife with sex addiction and an eating disorder.

He had apparently lost an amount I still can't bring myself to type for fear of breaking down and slitting my wrists. I could have sworn teardrops rolled down my eyes as I could not tell what made me more downcast, the fact that he had lost in a day what I make in a month or his ingenuity (unintended eye-roll) in making the bet. I could have told him the truth, which was, that him at his pygmy height getting struck by lightning, on a hot, sunny day in Nairobi's CBD was more probable than winning that bet. I however, chose to take the wiser path and assure him that he had lost by the tiniest of whiskers and his bet was borderline genius. Then it hit me, heaven had smiled down upon me and brought this wreck of a glutton to within a foot of me.

I then opportunistically proceeded to tell Kevo that I was a part time bookie and proceeded to explain to him the concept. You see, he needed a slightly less ambitious, less tactful man to handle his money, just like his accountant. In our arrangement, I explained, I would be in charge of betting on his behalf. I reminded him that compared to him, I was an idler with nothing to do but keep tabs on football games and provide him with current statistics in return for 10% of the winnings. Once again, I was able to bamboozle my way into his ego and wallet with none the wiser.

This man trusted me, owing to the fact that I had the integrity to return his wallet even though no one had seen me take it (I smirk). Just by the way he spoke about me, you could tell that in a few years, I would be drafting his will and driving one of his wives home, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. For now, I had the chance to turn his large deposits into a fortune for myself. The thought of the amount he'd let me stake on the first bet reminded me of my sentiments when my girlfriend's pregnancy scare turned out to be false.

Voila! The wait was over and his large phone screen displayed the amount he wished to stake...One hundred....shillings...! I thought I read that wrong. With the confusion of a teenage boy who had had his first wet dream, I checked a couple more times. "Now boy. Let us see if you can make me two thousand shillings from that and get your 10%," he said, almost sadistically. Great! Apparently this smug imbecile thought gambling was pulling a rabbit out of a hat. Terrific!

Just when I thought my fortunes were turning for the better. What did I say about God, people and money?

 

When The Deed Was Taken For The Will

I am at that point in my life where the only thing going for me are my literal skills as well as all the odds and ends of not being a cadaver. Just like any testosterone filled young man, I am looking forward to another weekend of football filled bonanza and relaxation. Giving renewed impetus to my anxiety moreover, is meeting Kevo, my new patron (insert Spanish accent).

Yes you read right. Hell hath frozen over and the prospect of meeting this man is giving me goosebumps, sending chills down my spine. Before you question my sexuality (which is just about the most integral asset I have in the courtship industry), Kevo is not just an ordinary man, not quite.

Standing (or sitting, it's all the same really) at about 5'2, he has the weight of a sumo wrestler, a fact he seems to be rather apprehensive about. Apparently, his doctor has warned him severally that failure to keep his weight down will leave his wealth in the hands of his Nairobi bred asthmatic sons, something that Kevo cannot stand. He claims to run a mile each day coupled with a hundred sit-ups and I, of course, am not foolish enough to tell him otherwise. "The beer belly is nothing but a product of hard work, good brains and determination. Indeed you cannot own a fleet of lorries or own apartments without one," I always encourage him. To this end, he quickly orders two beers for the clever boy.

In two days, my team is playing against his. It is Chelsea against Liverpool this Friday and due to the fact that I am not a complete moron, you can gather which team I plead allegiance to. Supporting different teams is usually a make or break for beer buddies, but not Kevo and I. You see, I am always keen to remind him that they do not have football like Liverpool had back in the day. The likes of Fowler, Gerrard and the black wizard Djibril Cisse were class acts. In fact, their 2005 Champions League triumph was something of a fairy tale, something no other team has the cojones to accomplish. I furthermore point out the exuberance of their manager and the budding crop of youngsters they have in their midst. "Champions in waiting this Liverpool," I explain as bitter bile runs down my throat covered by a fake grin. The Heineken basket that comes my way does make amends nevertheless.

We met a few weeks back. It was a grim evening, watching my Chelsea take the beating of an unpaid prostitute in a religious state for the umpteenth time. After my usual two sodas which enabled me to watch three consecutive games at the cost efficient price of 100 bob, it was time to leave. As I hurried to beat the gate closing time at my apartment to avoid begging a watchman who slept outside to open the gates and hand me a different fate to his, I bumped into this fat stranger. "Watch where you're going you imbecile!" he blurted out in his drunken stupor. Normally, a confrontation would ensure as I have a certain tolerance for disrespect when my team is filth, zero! However, this was different. As I had no money to cater for broken bottles or unnecessary arrests, I chose the high road and murmured a rather silent "Bite me!" Staring down the floor in rage, there before my very eyes lay a brown, big, fat, leather wallet, presumably the drunk's. I bent over to pick it up, only to stand and meet the eyes of Kevo, this arrogant, pompous smug looking drunk who reminded me of the corrupt politicians portrayed by newspapers satire cartoonists.


To my dismay, he just turned around and walked away, only to stop a few paces away, at the club's entrance. Clearly, he had seen me pick up his wallet and was waiting for me. He signaled one bouncer, who came to him at once. To the best of my knowledge, this had all the makings of a royal beat down for his amusement. He had sadistic eyes and the physique of a child who suffered bullying and was left out of sports and recreational activities (read flirting with girls), a combination for a monster in his rich prime. I had read stories of men who'd castrated, murdered and dumped others in a ditch for far less. I shan't lie, I was so scared that my cock shrunk, my feet trembled and my lips dried. I wished I had left a will or something, disposing off my broken bed, two pairs of shoes and the jiko I had been banned from using in my rented residence. I wondered whether my girlfriend would still love my rearranged toothless face and without the ability to achieve a full erection. Gathering up all the strength I had, I walked over to him ready to give him his wallet and take the beating he deemed appropriate for scum like me.

At least this once, I got to feel the anxiety of a virgin bride on the wedding night before her groom pulls down his pants. I knew that pulling any theater would be detrimental to the cute bar-tender whom I had told endless tales of my vast background in mixed martial arts, but all that mattered little then. Right there, in that very moment, I felt everything. I felt fear, rage, shame, sadness and guilt, which was probably why his hug caught me by surprise.
Apparently, he had no idea he did not have his wallet on him. The dimwit was so drunk that he could not have told whether I was picking up a unicorn or tying laces on my sandals.

He then pulled out two thousand shillings from the wallet which seemed to have more than a hundred of where those two came from. Holding back tears of pain and regret was probably the most difficult thing I have ever had to do in my life. Flashbacks of my landlord banging down my door while I proclaimed my great abundance of wealth to my woman came to me like Noah's flood. Unpaid bills and debts owed at my eatery, barber's and shop also lingered. Anyway, giving me the two thousand from his kitty, he urged me to call a cab as he left with his newly found bulky chaperone.


As soon as he left, murmurs of how wealthy this old geezer was started to tinkle one after the other, in quick succession. Apparently, he liked to be called Kevo to feel younger, no doubt a personality disorder according to most psychologists in the local tavern. It was common knowledge apparently that he had very few friends, but his well trusted aides grew rich quite quickly. He sold drugs of course (the source of all wealth people cannot explain) but had he not transformed Mathenge (the butcher who had tested meat on a cat before serving it to him and therefore saving his life) to a probox owning, hardware owner in Thika? Had his 'drug money' not bought him a fleet of courier lorries and  more apartments than King Mswati owned topless wives? Had all bar-tenders from Thika to Nairobi not allegedly been bedded by him, and all unanimously declaring that he was as great a lover as he was a money maker? Well, at this point, I could not help but stare at the cute bartender Mwende who started to seem disinterested in the way this conversation was going. I also left the club at this point out of spite, perhaps cognizant to the fact that Mwende would notice how brazenly I had stood to her honor against such vile rumors, which I knew in my bones to be true nonetheless.


I digress, anyway, my agony turned into hope therein. As I had earlier pointed out, Kevo is not just an ordinary man. I had the feeling that our run-ins would not stop there. Nor should they. For, I had woken up lost, but now I'm found. Hopeless but now tomorrow sits anxiously is in the corner of my eye. I was destitute, but now my cup of joy overflows. I was now looking forward to the endless possibilities of having such a resourceful acquaintance. I love life!

Pulling the Curtain on #mydressmychoice

So, they finally found a way to bowl using a golf-ball...eureka! By now, you might have had about the ranting activists trending the hashtag #mydressmychoice on the social site that actually matters, twitter.

You see, it all started when a lady was shamelessly stripped down to her most artistic state by illiterate hooligans at the Embassava bus stop a few days ago. There was another similar barbaric incident at Mombasa and some sneaky rumours here and there to follow it up.

Unfortunately, we Kenyans (and in this context human and women rights activists) are so myopic that we think that unrelentlessly demonstrating against women being undignified in the most uncouth public way warrants approval, far from it! If we think that this incident is the cancer in society, we have another thing coming.

To give my two cents on the issue, I think that deciding to wear mini skirts as a revolt against incident is like using a sellotape to silence an unbearable parrot. The miniskirts will not land the criminals who disgraced the unfortanate lady jail sentences and neither will they offer any solace to the girl(s) in form of justice. In fact, they might as well be sticking it to the man and forgetting why they are incensed in the first place.

The outcry should be directed towards the government in order to pressure the criminal and justice system to prosecute the pigs caught on tape sexually assaulting an independent woman free to make her own choices. And to think that the media was a buzz with a couple of geniuses claiming that the lady deserved the humiliation because she was dressed 'inappropriately'. They may have a point though, dressing 'inappropriately' leads to rape and sexual assault as much as guns kill people and spoons make us fat.

Furthermore, the irony that some of the angered men do not even have the decency to cover their derriers in the name of sagging -let us call it swag- and moreover, only chase short skirts is not lost on me.

The problem with this outcry is that it started when a lady was stripped in the streets. So with all due respect, forget rape, forget FGM, forget forced and early marriages......the vicious attack on the fashion industry should be prioritized.

The thing with society is that the resourceful always have their say and have their way. Decades have seen rural girls exposed to the most vile practices in form of genital mutilation and forced marriages. Whilst the revolt was understandably humongous because of the rise of women in politics, it has since died down because sadly, Turkana girls are not known for having twitter accounts.

In addition, majority of rape cases involve girls who are destitute in some way or another, be it poor, orphaned or fearful to speak out against the oppressive patriachs in society. I am yet to see women gather in Uhuru park because an orphaned six-year old has been raped.

However, now that majority of women are at a risk of being sexually harrased and seriously assaulted simply because a sexually starved tout has decided that he has seen beautifully oiled knees, they speak out. I laugh both sorrowfully and sarcastically.

They did well to use #mydressmychoice instead of #ourdressourchoice. I am all for the unifying initiative but do not kid yourselves that you are standing up for all women in your very selfish and hypocritical demonstration.So, if the cap fits....wear it!