The deal

On the last day of his miserable life,he told us that he would die rich.That he had a deal.An auspicious bargain that would save his ass for the rest of his life.We doubted him.

“Aba kalaa ka Kathemba iruarii katuria untu,”Kabukuthe couldn’t hold his mockery remark.

It was 2004,and notable events were taking place all over the world.

Arsenal had won the EPL title unbeaten,and Julia Roberts won the people’s choice award.Wangari Mathai won the Nobel price,and president Kibaki declared food crisis a National disaster.

In this “era”,Sundays were glorified in my village.It was the only day of the week that boys found it necessary to take baths,wear their best outfits and wander around the miniature market places.In fact,it’s the only day of the week you would see people like kina Kiogora in shoes.

“Kwa Nana”-a show room made of rusty mabatis was always crowded with young boys till 6pm,after which they were chased away for the horny adults to watch what they called “Sinema ya masaa”.Unlike the other movies,”Sinema ya masaa’s” cover was never placed on the board in the entrance!The audio volume was almost in mute that you could hardly hear from outside.None of them talked about their favorite actors as we ranted of Chang Chang (Jackie Chan),chausniga( Schwarzenegger),Bruce lee…

Girls and a few boys,those with unexploited gay genes,crowded at Kabichia’s place for the photo session.A black and white picture went for 20bob while the colored one was 25bob.The 5bob difference might be insignificant to you,because you never seen the 5bob andazi from “Sabasaba” hotel.

Gacheke-the salonist was famous among the school girls.She had the magic of making their hair look awesome.My sister used to call it hair straightening.In those days,there were no blow dryer’s.So,A metallic rod would be heated over a kerosine stove and then passed over the head when hot.The resulting smoke from the hair would make you appreciate the weaves you now criticize!

Then,there were “cool” guys.Those who would ride their excessively washed bikes to the nearby playgrounds,park them under the mango tree as they silently sat in groups chewing miraa.Occasionally sipping from 500mls of fanta to cool down their throat.I liked these chaps:Their comic arguments.The unending idiotic stories.The way they talked in low tones as if undertaking a secret oath,their laughter merely a grin.It was exasperating listening to them.

Kabukuthe,my cousin,was one of them,and he occasionally dragged me to the “base” as they used to call it.I would sit beside him,pick a few “sticks” of the stimulant and occasionally strain to drink his fanta through the tiny hole drilled on the bottle top.

“mwiyi miraa ii ukuirutana tha ii waremwa utanika ukamia,”a random guy from the group would say to me.And I would wonder the science behind miraa chewing and my foreskin.

In the evening,after the sadist darkness had gobbled up the sun’s light,I would follow kabukuthe and his friend Murithi in his cottage.He had fixed the radio speaker in a cylindrical container to amplify the music.Miraa chewing and music is as inseparable as Siamese  twins.Reggae is what defines the chewers.It touches their souls.And you didn’t have to understand the is rhythm.Its flow.Lyrics are a mere words.Or how else am I supposed to explain Kabukuthe,a class 2 dropout,who have a problem in spelling his own christian name,closing his eyes and raising hands in the air to a Lucky Dube hit?

It’s in this hovel Murithi mentioned about his kick ass deal.Kabukuthe made fun of it.We laughed.But still,there was a feeling.A feeling that things were not on a safe side.There was something malevolent in the way he said it.You would feel it hanging in the air menacingly.His strained voice.Like a dyeing husband in the hospital bed,explaining to his wife that he has a kid outside the wedlock.

He was true to his words.He disappeared the following day.No one knew of his whereabouts.There were contrasting roamers.Some said he had turned into a street boy.Others said he had been kidnapped by destitute mamaa in search of a companion.There were those who said he had teamed up with a dangerous gang in town.Si you know people talk.

Kabuku and I never talked about it.We knew that he was safe.We knew that he had a deal and he would come back rich.We knew he would never forget about us.Although we sometimes wondered why he never elaborated about the deal or at least tell us that he was leaving,but it made no difference.Nothing would about him would change.He wouldn’t avoid “the base” on Sundays.He wouldn’t quit making fun of those females with a small behind.He was our Murithi.Our own Murithi!

Unfortunately,he never came back.He only appeared,after a month.A month which had done quite a remarkable change on him:He had gained some weight that his male features stretched impressively.His cheeks now looked full,His arms broader and chest wider.He no longer wore that white trousers whose original color I bet was blue.Boy,he looked cool,fashionable and all grown.

He never came to base anymore.He mostly came home on Mondays and vanish on Wednesday till the Monday of the next week.He made an honorable task of building her mum a house,demolishing the round,grass thatched thing from the homestead.He married a yellow yellow woman with a ass that commanded attention.Beautiful woman.A dream woman for every masturbating teenager.

On his last trip to wherever he went to pick his fortunes,he bought a car.A 14 seats PSV Nissan.The car his brother would later sell and disappear with his beloved wife to the coast.

In the evening,Kalulu-the bodaboda guy drops him to the stage where he takes a Nairobi ‘mat‘ He says he works in Nairobi.His wife is never comfortable in these night travels.”wewe na safari zako za usiku siku moja utakukutwa kwa mitaro bila nguo,”she innocently joke over the phone, when he calls to say that he has got into the mat.She doesn’t know that he won’t go past Meru town,that the people he works with calls him a sniper for his accuracy with the gun.She doesn’t know that she is a true definition of a woman living a lie.

Murithi was killed the in the dawn of the following day in the hands of the mob after an attempted theft.His wife wondered whether she would moan his death or pity herself for being such a dunderhead.His stories warmed up “kwa Mwontune‘ as the older gents gathered for a tin of maroa.And when the Starlites,You’re the wanted man popped up from the radio as we silently chewed miraa,kabukuthe closed his eyes and said that he dedicate the song to the “deal” which robbed away our Murithi.


raising a brat

girl reading book : Outdoor portrait of a cute young black little  girl reading a book - African people Stock Photo



Now that I’m just a couple of days shy of 25years,their is this feeling I can’t detach myself with anymore.The feeling of growing up.

At 25,you feel like everyone is watching.It becomes morbid to relax your ass and enjoy a fight.You feel guilty to turn your neck when a lass with with an ass passes because someone else might be watching you.You can’t even watch Dj Afro movies,damn it: Someone might bump into your door and realize how uncivilized you are.

Then,the scary thought of starting up a family of your own crops up from nowhere.This is the very thought you have never flirted with.It’s intimidating.It makes you as cold as witch’s tit.Aren’t you the same Mike who used phrases like ‘single and happy’ and ‘forever single’ whenever asked of the relationship status? What the hell has changed? To hell.That was kiddish.You are now 25,that’s what matters,you can fucking get a wife.

I look at myself in the mirror with a deprived thief smile.The beards I shaved just the other day seems like they have never experienced a barber cut.Their thirst of making me poorer seems to be at peak.For a moment i feel like shouting at them:A barber cut cost Tsh 500 and not dollars, dumb ass.Away from the beards is the baldness greedily eating away my hair as if pissed off by their blackness.I never understand what causes baldness.Is it a malnutrition? Well,If you are a scientist and stumbles in this piece accidentally while doing a research on Angiogenesis ,please have a heart of explaining to me the baldness theory.Like,why do the animal eating away the hair on my head don’t do something on the beards instead?

I am pissed off because what I see in the mirror doesn’t reflect what women need in men.Handsome,tall and rich.Maybe,I wont end up with anyone.Shit,maybe I will end up alone.If so,GOD,don’t take me away before I raise up a daughter.

I really want to raise up a beautiful girl into a woman.A girl I will have the responsibility to defend from the world.A girl who will ask me all the rubbish questions like why her mum has bigger boobs than us,not knowing that hers will grow too.And I will have to think hard before I answer.

I picture her in kindergarten because obviously, that’s where fatherhood should start.You don’t win a Nobel by babysitting your and changing diapers.Leave that for females.She is in class, wearing a white blouse and a grey skirt, wondering who the hell feeds the sun because the teacher has just drawn a sun with eyes and a mouth.She doesn’t ask the teacher that question.Maybe she is afraid of her.Maybe she doesn’t trust her.You cant tell why children decides to keep thing for themselves,sometimes.But in the evening while I’m peacefully watching Papa Shirandula,I will have to mute the damn TV and explain who the fuck feeds the sun and whether it’s true Papa Jim can beat me up.The papa Jim I even don’t know about and I will have to assure my daughter that I can kick the shit out of him because his dozy son made my daughter cry, by saying his father can beat me up.Don’t ask me the obvious questions:what if he is the army guy?what if he is those mountain-like club’s bouncer guys?What if he’s a professional bank thug?

Years will rush that I will be astonished by how fast she will have grown big.

Life will happen.

The evening talks will drastically minimize.She will grow breasts and start locking herself in the room because she needs privacy.I will wonder what she does in the locked door she calls her privacy.I think this might break my heart.What do fathers feel at this stage when their daughter want to be away from them for their privacy?Do you feel dejected that you feel like deworming yourself with rat poison.But,I really want to see this.I want to shout on top of my voice because she has earphones thrust in her ears.

I dread to see this moment that a slim chap with a baby face,earphones stuck in her ears,wearing skinny jeans and chewing his shit will come home looking for her.Looking for MY daughter at MY home because just like me,he has a nice pair of balls and he loves her and he have something to give her.Something I can’t afford to give her.His member.The penis I would not hesitate chopping off given the opportunity because I know the son of a bitch is only here to fulfill his sexual drive and not the promises.But I will pretend that I grew up surrounded by the Vatican walls that I can hardly tell what a boy and a girl do behind the closed door.

I will eavesdrop him telling my daughter that I’m quite a nice guy.That he thought I would be hard on him.Bile will choke my throat with loathing.Loathing and not hatred,their is a difference.I will wish I had done a little destruction to that delicate baby’s face my daughter adored.Something to make her ask him that question men hate;are you the one?

It won’t be a simple task but I just want to experience it.C’mon a 25years grown ass can deal with this.

I will inwardly laugh when she lies,correct where necessary and support her education heartily.I hope she will love books because book will empower her.Books will help her differentiate when a guy is sincere and when he’s fucking around.She will be able to place people in characters she has read and judge wisely.

As I wait,don’t tattoo your breast,If at all you think you will be the mother..

This girl and her tattoo

I sat there staring at her.Her right leg in contact with my left leg.Her curvy hips begetting mine to blush. My boxers,khaki jeans,her tight cut-off jeans,knickers or anything she wore underneath between her and me.God!

I know it might sound quirky,but,believe me.At that moment if she asked me to marry her I would say yes.I mean it.I’m crazy.Hot girls can make you crazy.

Don’t have a wrong impression about me,please.It had never happened before,I swear.Not in my sober mind,for chrissake.Am ain’t a womanizer either.But…well,what else was I supposed to think when a very hot girl strut past all the empty seats and lowered herself beside me?Uh?I assume that she felt sort of cold and needed some warmth by staying close to me?OK.It would be true if this scene happened somewhere in Kisii,but this is Dar where thermometers has never read anything below 30°c.

Anyway,she walked across the aisle with a lofty proud gait and sat beside me.Despite of my stares!She had guts,that girl. The seat squeaked a little as she sat.The tout and a few people in front seats turned and glanced at her.More of staring.Not that I’m embellishing this:she had a body every boy would want and the girls envy.

We stayed like 10minutes before the mat was full.Silent.Boy,I have never experienced such a sickly silence before.At some moments I felt like starting up a conversation with her but again I thought against it.Fear I suppose.Am a yellow person when it comes to beautiful women.They are unpredictable and can say anything.Occasionally,Insulting.Maybe,they think voices of some of us-the guys with thin wallet might jinx their beauty.

When the mat was full and started moving,she also moved.Closer to me!Anyway,she only moved because,here,the daladalas are never full till the number of people standing on the aisle doubles that in seats.Weird?What about having to join a per-form 1 before enrolling to a regular secondary school course?So,this huge sweaty mamaa was kind of pushing her.Amen?Can you smell some miracles happening here?

Ntakosea nkikuegemea?” She asked in Shania Twain’s voice.

Hamna shida wangu”.….yes,wangu.Not the dadangu crap which would have caused being friend-zoned.I said it suave as hell.And in a very mature voice.You would think I had just celebrated my 100th birthday.

She smiled.

Mmmh,una bega nzuri.” she was now becoming either flirty or scornful.But I didn’t mind.I only wanted her to keep talking.

Ni ndogo”

“Sipendi kubwa mie”



Unapenda vitu vidogo ama” I joked.

Ndio“She said after a faint giggle,but after getting my joke she laughed quite hysterically and said that for some things,she loves them big.Oh,no medium.

I laughed too.You don’t let hot damsels laugh alone.Its an insult to their beauty!

Look, I will be honest, that bit of
conversation only happened in my mind,but it should have happened.I wished it happened,but it didn’t.She only moved closer to me.And not by choice,damn it.Now,she was so close that I could hear her heart beat.Her breathe warmer than the air.I found myself thinking a lot about her.Her long hair and anything happening beneath her skull.I wondered if she was thinking about me too.Was she wondering about this mute guy who was only staring without saying a word?Hell,did she think I was sort of dumb?And felt like pitying me?Or she was used to being stared at just like Mugabe is used to university degrees!Like a child,I pictured opening her skull,unspooling her brain and sieving it,picking all her thoughts and laughing like hyena while doing it.

Anyway,I could tell she wasn’t thinking about me.You can easily tell when people’s minds are miles way.But,you could tell she was nervous from the way she chewed a gum.Why do beautiful girls chew a lot,anyway?She removed a pair of white earphones from the abyss of a bag lying on her hips,gave me a sharp glance which didn’t last a second,then she thrust them in both ears killing a chance for any kind of a conversation.Girls! I looked down in submission.But,down-on the metallic floor of the daladala,I mean.The only thing I saw was some quite pricey pair of saddles,short feet with podgy toes!Boy,I love girls with short leg feet with podgy toes!Who the hell hates girls with short feet,anyway?

I might have stared at them for too looooong before I saw those fine feet drag the saddles and slipping into them.I knew she was going,with infinity chances of never meeting again.The comfort of her thighs in contact with mine was going to be replaced by this hulk-like mamaa!I felt lonesome.Bile and dread itched up my throat.I cursed myself for the lack of balls to ask for a phone number.Maybe she would have given it to me.Maybe that what she wanted but I became mute.Jesus,It killed me.

I raised my head to catch the last glimpse of her back as she walked out though the aisle.She might have had rubbed against someone,thus her blouse moving upwards,reveling a tattoo just a few inches to the ridge of her ass.It was a heart with a spear piercing through it.Well,I know sometimes a heart is used represent love.But what about a pierced heart?Pierced with a damn spear and not a nail,at least.Doesn’t mean she was terribly heart broken or something?I mean,She was madly in love-drew the heart.Then her heart was broken and it was so painful that she drew a fucking spear piercing through it?But the big question killing me till now is why the hell was the tattoo on the back and not on the arm?C’mon,Isn’t it crazy to tattoo a pierced heart on the back?



I wish I was Merlin-the magician.Or gods would be fair enough to endow me with powers to stop time.Everything to come to a halt like a paused movie.The sun to stop wherever the position it will be.I don’t care whether it will be mid-day and folks back in Turkana and Marsabit might hunt and stone me to death for it.

I’m not a wuss.Everyone who survived the 4 years at St. Luke’s secondary school,in Meru is a vi lour.A titan with a real pair of balls.I am one of them.But the thought of facing my sister tomorrow makes me a chicken shit.Am scared of her reaction when she sees me.Will she break into tears?will she hug my lanky body,and tell me that it will be okey?Hell,will she be embarrased?And wish that she never had a brother?…

I’m afraid because this will make me regret the worst decision I made.And regretting makes me vulnerable and weak.Regrets are for girls.A man of regret should have menses and disgusting cramps as a top up.He should support Manchester United,at least.

I’m sure you are asking;whats up with fella?That am blabbing all this nonsenses.OK.Let me explain.Its 6months since I dropped out of campus.Sigh.Shocked?C’mon boy,I ain’t the only one.Si you know kina Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Lawrence Ellison…he he,am one of them.

Though I cant point a finger on a single thing which led me drop out of Campus,but,among other things,lack of motivation takes the lion share.You see,I have always wanted to be a writer or anything to do with business.I swear I have sweat my ass to achieve the two or one of them, at least.The corporal punishments back in high school,Sleepless nights,nasty meals with paraffin to kill our debauchery thirst or rather to save our soaps whenever the lasses in brown skirts,from the neighboring school paid us a visit,cold baths…the list is endless.I endured.And the good God rewarded me with a B+.A super grade for us who never attended Alliance boys.

But,my dreams were shattered when I received a letter from Kenyatta University,school of Education.I would only end up being a teacher!Business school is for those skinny girls with crooked wigs and thick lipsticks smudged in their fleshy lips.Those who use words like “woshie” and “oh,my gosh” quite often.It is for those chaps who sag their pants and uses hip hop slag.Those whose parents drive the Marc x and unfortunately,my dad don’t knock shoulders with those gangs.I mean,school of education is for those wealthy guys who can afford the expensive parallel program.

So,I dropped out of campus because I would rather be a fucked up,good for nothing bleeder than being a teacher.You see,teaching isn’t bad as a career.The problem is that teachers have nothing.If you doubt this,go to my shags and ask Simon.A mathematics teacher who wont be shy when he asks you for 5bob to buy the cigarets.Anyway,do teachers buy you a drink when you meet in pubs,gang?with tuition money?

I had this plan when I dropped out of campus.My master plan.I would do any casual job during the day,saving up to the last coin and studying for the CPA exam over the night.Brilliant,right?And so the first job I landed to a truck as a turn boy.I paid for the CPA exams but never got the time to study for them.Most times I entered the house too tired to read.Other times we worked overnight.I gave up the job and quit.Another decision I wish I never made.

To date,ask me what I do in Nairobi and I will go numb.Speechless.Job hunting in Nairobi is a misery.It is nothing less of looking for drinking water in Sahara.I have gone through shit while searching for a job.I have been conned.I was tempted to plant those money seeds Nairobi pastors talk about.But I had nothing to plant.I have done shitty jobs to survive.I lost my pride.My self-esteem went south.Everything has gone vice-versa,even the ladies who used to be after me no longer reply my texts.I am the one chasing them!Sleeping hungry became a routine and got used to it.I never told anyone what I was going through.I was ready to go through shit till I make it someday,though I didn’t see that bright future happening.

Its till last week,after having my endless unspoken monologues with God,that I realized I will never make it on myself.That I need some stepping stone.That the blumoon vodca I have been hiding in, as my sheath will never solve my misery.That I have to do away with the braggadocio part of me and walk back to the right people who will be glad to pick me out of mess.I realized that I wont live as a pretender forever and I have to face the reality the way it is.I gave a call to my sister who will be picking me tomorrow.I hope she understands and wont question me.That she will understand I wont joke around with this second chance.

I am going to finish up with my education in Tz.He he,maybe, I will be posting here in kiswahili.Pray for me people.Marry xmas and a happy new year.


       Slowly,I lower my hand and touch it.I feel it.Its softness between my fingers.As soft as a baby’s bottom.The softness which makes it worth touching.The softness I adore.I close my eyes and pinch it with my long,sharp nails and it hurts. I nip it harder,clenching my jaws and squeezing my left hand’s fist tighter.It hurts and the pains spreads to the whole body like the wildfire. I stop.My hands,my legs,the whole body starts shaking.I shake in fear.I shake because the cold water they poured on us, to act as anesthesia was nothing but bullshit.I
shake because I am scared of the knife.Scared of the fact that the damage from the knife will be infinitely higher than anything I can imagine.Scared because I know the pain I inflict to myself with the nails is just a toddler’s pee compared to what Nchebere – the circumcisor is going to do to me.
I open my eyes and stare.They are the only organs of my body which seems to be functioning right.They never betray me.The day they will give up on me I will be a dead man.Apart from the clear skies,everything else looks pale and dull.Pale and dull and it fucking scares the hell out of me.I turn and goggle at the chap sitting behind me.Straight into his eyes with a hope of seeing something to hold onto.Some life,some  boldness,something to make me feel everything will be alright,that its just a cut like any other,a mere insignificant cut…But, his eyes are blank and i quickly turn away from him.
We wait,the ten of us if my eyes are to be trusted.We are all nude,arranged in a queue starting with the smallest.The circumcisor hasn’t yet arrived and the few hours of waiting,sitting on the wet grass from the morning dew makes it seem like decades.The anticipation is far worse than the ordeal I am about to endure. The older men who have been singing traditional songs overnight seems exhausted.They hum.Their voices weary and hoarse.I pity their effort but at the same time wonder whether they are going to use our fore-skins to make some soup to soften their damn throats.

     From nowhere,he appears in my mind.,I see him.I don’t want to see him at this moment but he appears and nothing can be done to purge him from where he is standing.He is wearing his favorite white cap,snow white.He stretches his hands to hug me but I am not comfortable with the hugs.I step back,stretch my right hand and
we shake.

“Are you afraid,son?”
“Yes dad.”
“Don’t worry son,you’re going to be okay.You’re
going to be a man.”
“Thanks dad.”
     I turn and walk away. Embarrassed.Going to be a man?Who am I?A woman?I have grown up in the family of girls,accompanying them to the canteen whenever it was dark to scare away the goons who might be tempted to snatch away their golden piece.I swear I never declined this duty.I did it because I felt that I am a man.But,just because of a small part in me, which has to be chopped off my father thinks I am not a man.That apart from the sexual organs there is no difference between my sisters and I! Even after topping in the mocks exams in the district, dad? C’mon man.What about staying by your side when you divorced mum?Was it not
manly enough?Ama you forgot?
I am interrupted by the cries and screams of the men who seems energized by something peculiar i cant see.They dance,raising their swords and thick branches of trees above our torso.Threatening to kill us if we don’t divulge our fake braggadocio and spat on circumcisor’s forehead.Yeah,we have to show the shitty pop
that we are tough.Tough enough to wrestle a buffalo.That his cut is something we could comfortably undergo while sipping a mug of maroa (some corn based local brew) from the famous Mwontune,EABL competitor hehe.At a distance, women ululate.A tremor in their voices tells you that they don’t have a cheery in this.That deep in their hearts they mourn with you.Its at this point the swahili saying ‘uchungu wa mwana aujuaye ni mama’ crawls and sticks somewhere in your brain.And you wish you had that chance to mysteriously vanish from here,to go hug your mama.Hug here quit tight against her bewilderment.Its something you have never
done.Its a taboo.But you just feel you can.
    We start moving,sliding our bare asses on the morning dew is the only movement allowed here.Sliding to the hell.I haven’t seen the circumcisor yet but I know the kind of a guy I am going to meet.Lucifer.The Que is moving quit slow and the anticipation is consuming me raw.I can hear the cries of others as they soak in the
screams of the elder men.Something they do to bluff the women standing a distance from us.Yes,your Mama must know that she raised a valor even when you’re a chickenshit.


You just have to pretend to be tough.

I face him.Its my turn.My legs wide apart like some experienced whore in those well paid coitus moments.I stare at him in his face.His rheumy,canny eyes scares me but I pretend to be fine.He keep staring at me and I cant tell what the hell is he waiting for! Oooh,I had to spat on this wrinkled forehead.I try.But my mouth is as dry as a well in kalahari desert.He then lifts his both arms and slap me on my thighs,hard.But the pains don’t recede the fear in me.I shake.The fear spread to the whole body.Even to my man,who now looks as if he has been struck by the lightening.He has shrunk to a point you cant differentiate him from a toddler’s phallus.Jane would have laughed hysterically if she ever got a chance to see him in this condition.

To vanquish any question about Jane.She is this lady with fine,straight legs and long hair I have been chasing for 3months now.All graced with a canny dry spell.She said no hole till I slide a ring in her finger!Its till yesterday evening that the truth unfolded before me when she kissed me on my cheek and said,go and be a man and win the jackpot between my legs.

He then takes a grip of my foreskin and pull.I hold the wet grass tight.Worms in my stomach rumble.My eyelids give up the stare and shut.I pass out.Darkness.


The two years i have been away from my shaggs-Meru,left my brain clogged with weird imaginations.Now,with a University a few strides from home and a bunch of educated chaps,I had this childish vision of a market flooded with grotesque buildings which demand the attention from every passers-by.In my dreams,I would see the partially clothed campus damsels strolling along the streets,hand in hand with their boyfriends, as if showing to the world what fashion and romance is all about.I smiled at the thought of the miraa chewing lads,probably siting on a bench outside the ‘pool-table’ building,cracking their necks to have a glimpse of the couple and at the same time cursing the act to hell.

But, reality is a better aesthetic.The moment I stepped outside the mat,Kianjai actually broke my heart.With exception of old buildings which now seemed to give up on life,the market looked the same way i left it.No change.Across the road from where i was standing,next to a slanting-almost falling ‘supermatch’ kiosk,I could see dad sand witched in the middle of miraa chewing guys.Endless Tanzanian tales,I murmured.Dad is quite a genius story teller.

Staring at the kiosk,I felt a sudden revulsion towards the supermatch company.It is almost a decade since my father took the possession of the kiosk,placed it along the highway to encourage the passers-by smoke their brand.To show his loyalty to the company,he further,went ahead and painted our gate with quite vivid ‘supermatch’ labels.The gate gave me a damn harsh time in my primary school class,as i was constantly reminded of its uniqueness.Only that i was skinny and coward,i would be freezing my ass in a juvenile prison for killing an idiot who once called me ‘mtoto wa manager’ It saddened me that with all that kind of promo,the freaking company has never thought of rewarding the old man’s effort!He deserves some kind of an Oscar for chrissake!

The dusty winds brought me back to my senses.I might have stood there for a couple of minutes.paralysed.I then hurriedly crossed the road to meet dad.This isn’t a place of strutting like models on the runway,the miraa laden hillux won’t hesitate to sweep you away,you run.

The crowd was now gazing at me, as i strolled towards them.Dad too,he had paused his story telling.Looking at his eyes ,I saw more of bewilderment than excitement.It made me almost pee in my pants.Shocked.But quickly,i figured out the meaning of all this.I am not a fool.I can see things in a three dimensions.My step mother had eventually lured the old man into hating me,I thought as I struggled not to let the tears find their way out.A real man dont cry,worse before his father and his friends.It is the embarassment the old man would never accept.I stopped walking.My guardian angel whispered into my temple that things have already gone south and the best thing to do is to turn my back to these old fellas and vanish but my guts advised to find out the reason for such drama.”Be a man mike,You faced a knife without flinching,You spent four years in those shady buildings you call school,carrying water in a basin up the slopes of Mbaarua.Do you remember how many times your ass had received beatings there?Do you even remember your surname?Its meaning?Do you?”A voice from nowhere pondered into my soul.

“Dad ?”I eventually managed to call out,still in fear of rejection.

I have never seen such enthusiasm in the old man.He rose to embrace me with a hug.I shied off as he held me tight,its the first time we hugged.I never knew its you,he murmured,you have grown big.I nodded,I couldn’t talk.

He gave me his bike to ride home,its not far from the market.The ride is exasperating,you ride against the wind,cool air blowing your shirt upwards.Those endowed with an appealing chest,find fun at unbuttoning their shirts.I was struck to meet Jane,my best friend youngest sister on her way to take her 2 months old son to the clinic!I swear before i left,even her breast had not yet developed.They were just nodule-like features struggling to push the t-shirt outwards,as if begging for attention from every lousy man.And now they are full on the chest!For just only two years?But what the hell.Two years were long enough to make my own dad forget about me.Two years were long enough for the dad’s dog to grow old enough to make me a stranger at our own home.The damn dog ensured i would never pee at night.

Within the two years,i had gained 15kgs and no one could call me skinny anymore.Why should I be shocked with Jane’s pregnancy and birth?Why should I be that jealous to be the only one to enjoy the privilege of change?I observed the-then small girls who were embarrassed with the growing of the breasts,covering them with every piece of cloth, to hide them from the straying eyes,were now in the middle of their adolescent.They looked happy of the new shape of their chest.In fact, they fantasized about it that whenever your eyes wandered in that part they were rewarded with a quit fleshy piece of cleavage.Pity was to those i left bragging on their full chest.Change seemed harsh on them.The pair of boobs had eventually swayed off,maybe due to lots of touches that it would be evil to joke about it.Change is actually inevitable.

My granny’s grave was no more.In fact,dad had replaced the christian cross with a miraa plant.”Say a blessing to your grand mom whenever you chew from this.”He said pointing at the plant which the mild wind made it sway cheerfully as if responding to my conversation with dad.I smiled.Anyway,why keep frowning over the body when the soul was in a better place?You should have seen the healthy bean plants on this part of the farm-my grandma grave!


            My friend Koome on top of a miraa plant.Looks high,right?

The next day i had focused my mind to meet with Kabuku,my cousin.Dad explains that he was put behind the bars for six months for what he termed as sharing a girl,no,a whore with bwana mkubwa-the village chief.After jail,the nigga has found it rather impossible to pick up his life.He now spends his days as a waiter in some changaa brewing den,with food and a few glasses of the nasty brew as the only payment!Looking for him and trying driving some sense in his skull would be the best way to spend my Sunday in shaggs.God would bless me for it,I thought as I remembered of Jesus.The thing which made me smile to the amusement of the old man.I never knew he was looking at me.”Menyera kithomo kii kiaumba ukurita nthuu.”He said jokingly as we both burst  into a laughter.



  • I never imagined i would ever have balls to publicly blab anything about her.Not Caroline.Caroline is a monarch.An empress.A potentate.She belongs in that rare clique of individuals who speculate that relationship should be an entirely confidential affair.I respect that.

    Hell,I hate it when people refer to her as Carol.Carol doesn’t sound like a woman who crosses her legs till her husband returns from his miserable hustles.By the way,do Carol know how to cook?What?Tea?Whenever someone mentions Carol,a figure of a tall damsel with crooked wig and green lipstick smudged on her fleshy lips pops in my mind almost instantly.

    Caroline is my diary.


    I bought her from discovery bookshop-in Meru,with no slight idea of what i would write.Impulse buying?No.I was complying to one of those shitty doctor’s advice after being diagnosed with ulcers.I had to quit alcohol and the only way to make it a success was ensuring i didn’t have a single idle coin in my pocket over the weekends.

    The two years we have shared the same roof might have been terrible to her.From the first day i picked her from the bookshop,the same day we got rained on,making her spend the next day on the iron roof.Sunbathing.

    But she has never complained.Not a single day i have confronted her with a pen for some nookie and be disappointed.Never complained of headache or any bullshit as an excuse to prevent me from my conjugal rights.Never complained of my miraa chewing habit whenever i asked for a kiss.Ooh my Caroline,a woman who wakes up in the middle of the night to polish her nails.A woman who wakes up in the odd hours of the night to straighten her night dress.

    Have you ever witnessed the kind of a relationship where a woman never talk?A relationship where a man does all the talking while a woman sit her ass and listen?Does it even exist?In which planet?Earth?..That is how my Caroline behaves.She is always there to listen but not talking.Like a statue,I pours my sentiments to a woman who never respond.

    Being an introvert i have been having a lot to write about;anything.Sometimes the barking dogs would displace my sleep in the wee hours of the night,half-asleep glance at the Caroline proudly sitting on the stool beside my bed,stretch my hand lazily and tap her sexy,pages and before a short time we are in another romantic world.

    I go against Caroline odds and i share our secrets in this blog.I still don’t know what pushed me to do so!Maybe it has something to do with her current looks.The two years have corroded her beauty beyond my expectations.The wrinkles on her face (read as cover) are so intense that no makeup can fool anyone of her age.Not even the colored newspaper my niece tried to cover her up with the other day can restore how i used to see her.

    I am not going to fold my hands and watch her vanish from my life.I am not going to let her disappear with everything we have been sharing for two years and pretend nothing has gone wrong.Yeah,I am going to share with you everything and even if you don’t give a f**k about it i am glad this will act as a platform to store words between lovers.Somewhere i will stop years to come,long after she has gone and remind myself of the happy times.Somewhere i will rush to console my heart whenever i weep her departure.

    And for those who might be tempted to touch her privates,i will kill the jealous part of me and allow you.Though you will have to bring along your own pen,not mine!No man will allow you to cheat with his own wife and go ahead buying a packet of condom for you.And for my dear readers,subscribe and share the blog with your friends.It is the only way we are going to grow bigger.Not that its will change anything about you but it wont break your heart.will it?