Friday, April 26, 2013

Like I said earlier, April is the month of the devil in my calender. If you happen to live in the eastern side of Nairobi, you can wager a good deal that every day there has to be a peculiar drama of sorts. By fate or forces that I cannot understand, I am one among the many Kenyans who live somewhere beyond the famous Donholm round about. Call me a sufferer if you are buying me a drink. If you are not, you are also broke as I am. Where was I?

This post is not motivated by alcohol and that is why it is taking this long to get to my point.

Schools are closed again. What does that mean? Children in the pupae stage are everywhere making noise and running in-front of my jalopy as I drive through the estate. But the dirty offspring of the middle-class is insignificant. It is the female high-school going children that have motivated my fingers to caress this keyboard with my tongue hanging out like a dehydrated bear. These women in their larvae stages of life have so much glory around the abdomens. They swing and sway as they walk in the estate and if you are a testosterone fountain like I am, you will certainly feel some boxer activity just by looking at one or a pack of these kids walking.

So there is this particular one. Let's just call her Jess because I still don't know her name. You can bet I am mulling over a number of tactics that will see me conquer her mind successfully. It has become apparent that women have started to love with their brains and so we have left the hearts to the surgeons and we are also chasing the brain. A good example is leaving the glove compartment open and letting a woman see a bunch of browns like 30 of them. The next day, let her see 15 and the next day you make them 30 again. And when you go to spend, you fetch like 5 from your pocket to pay the bill. Woman is smitten. The orifice in her pelvic area will be crying with erotic pulp and her eyes will be shouting your name singing.....'werocamuuuu wero, werocamuuuuu...........'

So Jess is always having those china wires with speakers at the end. In our days they were called earphones. These days they must be ear shackles or something. Why else would someone have them plugged to their ears all the days of her adolescence? I really curse the day I bought a silver car. A silver car means you can pass anywhere and if anyone is asked if there is a car that has passed, they will shake their head to the negative. Jess is no exception. I even hoot as I pass by her gate. This woman just shakes her head to the beats of FUSEDOGG or some Jamaican nut-head like Konshens or Popcaan(my small brother, 2013).

Now Jess has a habit of wearing shorts whose ambition is to become hot pants but they are restrained by the width of her thighs. Show a man some feminine meat above the knee and he will give you an idea that works best when people are naked. I beg to be tempted Jess. Just go on, tempt me like you never have to any man. At this juncture dear reader, words cannot really give meaning so I wish I could have a photo of her and you could relate to my object of lustrous desire.

Jess must be a halfcast of a Kamba woman and a man from a very prolific tribe like Luhya or kisii. Her lips are somewhere between pouty and very sexy and her mounds of diary point towards mt. Kilimanjaro even on the sunniest days. Who said things sag when heated?? They should try their experiments on Jess. But after I am done with her.

The sad thing and the reason why this father and husband and boyfriend of 3 has not yet passed a gesture is the fact that I think that this lass is not a day over 16 years old. My kinsmen from the core of the country say that capital crimes will make you locked up in the behind. This is not what I want to go through for a night or 30 minutes of juvenile pleasure in hotel Jimlizer. There is another week before school opens and this young woman will strain my boxers every other day as I enter the court with her harmless skin straining to hold the wobbly muscle inside.

I could go on and on but at this point I realize the missus could be wondering how quiet I am and she cannot see a YouTube video of Kenny Rogers on this screen. So I beg to halt as I ponder on the best way of sending a signal to Jess that she could be my kelekele love. Ideas are welcome from well-wishers.

Till then,
I remain,

Thursday, April 25, 2013


Before you come for my throat telling me I have double personality problems, let me explain my names.

I have held many names in my 20+ years of nothing but wading around in this green country of ours.

Some of them are Eng, Mr. Reality Check, Chairman, Big Man, Dad, Kironji (only my mum and aunt Beth), Babe (by the swanky women who come around at my table to confuse me to throw them a round), Sweetie (by the mother of my daughter) and bro (by all my rugby brothers and my brother who spends half of his time knocked out by bluemoon or napoleon.) I always ask him how a bottle the size of his palm can knock him a good sucker punch that keeps him out for 8 good hours. He folds his face like someone looking for an answer in his head and takes a big sip of his bluemoon hoping to get the answer like you find a stone in a multitude of ndengu by running your tongue around.

I was explaining names.....

I use Eng on some forum. You can't afford publicity in Kenyan forums. Those villagers have too much energy and if they direct it on you, it doesn't go down so well unless you have Robert Alai tendencies. Come to think of it, I will have to get a twitter handle for this blog. *Note to Self - I should visit a brand rehabilitation center.

I use Reality Check on stage. I used to. I was a poet before poetry in Nairobi went the direction of music. Commercial makes everything suck. Money corrupts the best minds. Look at Prezzo bragging about a $40000 pair of jeans that do not hold to his sorry loins. I imagine that with less money he could be an auditor working with Ngugi and associates. A family man who drives a Toyota Premio and he is raising chicken in a small farm that he drives to once in a while.

Where was I?

Oh Reality check is the name that I used on this email.

But I always remain,


Its 0420hrs Nairobi time. My eyes are half shut but no sleep in my head. I know that is poor grammar. But the Nigerians speak worse and christen it pidgin. I will call mine Engin.

Some guy on the radio is saying that we should not revenge since it is like biting a dog after it has bitten you. I digress.

April is one of those months that suck. The children have closed school and they open their mouths loudest outside my door. Is there a recipe that you can make with 100 ounces of child? I have adequate supply. I pity the employed folk. Yes i'm jobless but I don't have rent arrears. I do some business here and run an errand there and at the end of the month, I have food.

What is the subject of these many words? Nothing. Must a bunch of words lead somewhere? Yes? I guess i'm different. I am just writing to release the pressure in my head. You see what it did when it accumulated in the former premier's head? He had to go all the way to Germany (name I use for all European countries) to have the pressure bowel scalpelled. A mosquito stings me. I scratch and try to recollect my train of thought. It's gone.

What was that guy at the bar saying? Will I manage to wake up before 10am? I have a project survey at Syokimau. Which reminds me; what will Wavinya Ndeti gain from now that cabinet secretaries are being vetted for integrity and she has a Nigerian joined to her at the left fourth finger and a sale of airport land case attached to her behind.

I wonder.

The radio presenter says that the men should call and say a prayer. I need prayers. Ok. She has decided otherwise, she says that youthful ladies should call in. Then she says both. She is having a hard time saying the studio numbers. Its a local dialect radio station. The name dialect sounds like someone who kicked the bucket and the arose at the other side of the tunnel. I am drunk.

I wish you a great Thursday people. Thank heavens for the invention of the internet. You can sit in your boxers or bare-assed and hurl an insult at an innocent villager who is venting to avoid going to bed to sleep in a straight line because the wife spreads her bountiful bottom all over the 5x6. She takes 4.5 and a man who lost a foreskin and bought cigarettes for the entire village youth-hood is supposed to occupy 0.5 of the bed and mattress he bought. And you people say we married? Really? And why do they call our houses, 'kwa mama brenda, stacy or mama the other one?

These women will make the world flip a goodu one. Pray that it doesn't flip when you are as whiskeyed as I am.

I Bail,