INNERSENSE By Aduwa Otieno

He's seated on a campus bench, waiting for his other half. Like normal human beings, he’s glued on his phone screen. The message, of course, is that he’s not a loser as his attention is being fought for by the phone. 

Him: (murmurs indistinctly) Black men can’t be oppressive to black women… They don’t have systems that would foster that… white men do (pauses to reflect) Meh! But they’re intra-racial injustices against women…
Inner Him: Knock knock!
Him: (decides to play along) Erm… who’s there?
Inner Him: It’s the Inner You, dumbass. You created me. Made me a person. I can talk.
Him: That’s not how the joke goes, but… what do you want?
Inner Him: (excitedly) A chat. Is that so much to ask for?
Him: (staring at his phone) Yeah. I’, in the middle of something important.
Inner Him: (a bit angered) What? Reading tweets? Nothing new there. Just basic knowledge repeated ad nauseam with the expectation that somehow they’ll turn profound. Bleugh!
Him: You’re just hating.
Inner Him: No, stating as it is. “Oh, look how woke I am. I can use ‘hetero normative cisgendered bias’ in a sentence!” “Trump is a racist, sexist, ableist bigot that can never be the president!” It’s always a performance.
Him: How do you even know all that?
Inner Him: (sighs) I’m you, one way or another. You created me, and like god and his creations, in your own image.
Him: Okay. First it’s never a performance. These are people who just want to make a difference, and they have social media for that. Second, why the negative energy? Chill, bro.
Inner Him: Make a difference, huh. These are people deeply drawn into the call-out culture. All they do is lash at anyone they deem morally corrupt. They have the 140 character limit for that. Oh, I hear they do something they call threads these days. Anyway, it’s hard to tell if these guys have a genuine political commitment to change things for the better or they’re just being fans.
Him: They had that Congolese singer face the law for assaulting one of his female dancers. Ha! In your face! Explain that away.
Inner Him: (pauses for a while) That’s one way of looking at it.  Or, we could say that the guys who witnessed the actual assault reported the matter. Did the heavy lifting. Your horde of online activists were left to do what they do best – call out. You know, with overly used phrases like “person X is a racist who shouldn’t be in our country”.
Him: (clearly irked) Are you implying calling out people who do bad things isn’t one way of fighting the evils they perpetrate?
Inner Him: Nope. I’m just saying that’s only a step. There are further steps to be made. And stopping at one of them doesn’t help much as much as we’d like to think. One could say that we have Trump as the US president because of such. Liberals spent the better part of the campaigns mocking Trump and his supporters. Time which they would have otherwise spent debunking Trump’s myth about Moslems being terrorists or his immigration rants that would turn into policies. Instead, we had them glued on their phone screens, typing away patronizing sentiments towards Trump supporters. That, as far as it goes, is my theory.
Him: (reaches out for his cigarette pack and a lighter, then lights one) Are you by any chance anti-liberal?
Inner Him: Yes, and so should you. You label yourself anarchist, after all. Not that I’m against liberal values.  Far from that. In fact, most of values overlap. We both think oppression is a bad thing. The difference, however, is that libs just happen to rant about it. My ilk, on the other hand, are doing something about it. We plan and stage insurrections. We fight all power structures that put us in chains. We fight capitalism. We fight the state. Libs make exceptions. They don’t fight capitalism because, after all, most of them fall under the middle class threshold. Fighting capitalism would mean taking something from them. Libs don’t want to be a part of any insurrection. And if they are, all they do is vilifying those who choose non-pacifist tactics. Look at their passionate hatred towards the Black bloc. In other words, they put themselves on a pedestal.
Him: Wow! Impressive. Proudhon would have been proud of you.
Inner Him: I’m more of a Kropotkin guy. Proudhon, other than his criticism of private property, was by and large a douche. Guy was sexist. He fought systems of oppression but couldn’t patriarchy.
Him: Okay. Enough of the politics already. I’m waiting for my significant other and I just want to be in the mood when they arrive.
Inner Him: (clears throat) Do you love him?
Him: (acting surprised) What? Of course I do.
Inner Him: (long pause)
Him: What? Okay. A bit ambivalent about that. They are transgender. I’ve never dated one. So, it’s basically trial-and-error kinda thing. Wait, is referring to them as “they” even correct? I mean, they’ve never fully identified with genderqueer. And they switched from woman to man…
Inner Him: You said you loved them. How can you not know such an important detail about them? HE really doesn’t care about pronouns. Oh, he’s never had se—
Him: (abruptly cuts Inner Him) All right. Now that’s you swimming in territorial waters. Let’s not get there.
Inner Him (locks eyes with Him) You’re scared of his silicon dick. Hahaha! What happened to your liberal values on sex? You know, about gender being a non-issue. About there being sheds of grey when it comes to gender and sexuality. See, that’s the problem. You hold views, mostly good, but you can’t live them. Ian loves you, but you don’t really, owing to the fact that he has a silicon dick, and his suggestions about you being the bottom. You’re straight, but you want to identify with the non-straight. Now, you’re facing dissonance of sorts. All you have Ian do is spend the better part of your being proving that he’s worthy of your love. Obviously, fake love.
Him: (clearly provoked) I’m not facing an identity crisis, if that’s what you’re implying. You say something else and I’ll fuck you up! Inner Him: (laughs) Will you? Full disclosure, I’m only an extension of you. Your creation. You say you like Mr. Robot, although you think it ripped off Fight Club. I’m like Mr. Robot to Elliot. You might want to think about how it would look like if you beat the shit outta me.
Him: You’re not even real. Shut up! Inner Him: No. You shut up. I’m your gauge. Your guardian. I made it my responsibility to always bring you back to normal whenever you go off the rails. That’s exactly what I’m doing right now. You’re wasting someone else’s time, yours too. You don’t love him, he’s just one of your experiments. The truth is bound to come up, eventually. But there’s a chance. Break up. Save him.
Him: (plugs in earphone) I’m not listening to you. Not anymore.
Inner Him: (unplugs Him’s earphone) Damn it, Him! You have to listen. You –
Ian: (walks in on ‘them’, holding two Cuppa coffee) Hey! What’s up? Introspection or what? You seem to be talking to yourself.
Him: Honey, we’re breaking up.
Ian: (smiling) Okay. Oh, wait. What?!

Man, Check your privilege. By Aduwa Otieno

I will tell you a short story:
It’s almost 10PM.  My female friend and I are leaving Pawa254. We are from an art event, busy discussing how person X is a terrible poet and why we think person Y’s politics on gender is just bullshit. It’s just the two of us when we arrive at the junction that connects Valley Road and Upper State House Road. My friend, let’s call her Wangari, has to walk to town to catch a jav home, I, on the other hand, only has to walk to Mamlaka. Normally I’d just walk up Nyerere Road, then branch at the intersection with Mamlaka Road. But I’m in the company of a woman. , and that Serena stretch doesn’t look safe, at least for her. So, we trek all the way down Valley Road, connect with Kenyatta Avenue till we get to Odeon, where she gets a jav home.
You probably don’t get where I’m getting with this. Or, you just don’t see the moral of the story, especially if a man. You are not entirely to be blamed for not recognizing the gist of the story. You’ve been raised in a society that normalizes privileges to men at the expense of women. I’ll break it down for you.
Wangari, just by being female, is more likely to be a prey to sexual predators and other assaults perpetrated by men. I walk her to Khoja because, unlike me, she has to worry about her safety. She has to worry about the possibility of rape and being mugged, among other aggressions. I don’t worry about anything while walking back to Mamlaka. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen to me, as a man? Get mugged? But I don’t have valuables with me. And worth noting is that I’m relatively able-bodied. That means I’m less likely to be raped or assaulted than Wangari. And this comes as advantage by the virtue of my being male (and being able-bodied). That, friend, is male privilege. And it’s no rocket science how it marginalizes women.
Male privilege can be defined as unearned advantage men have over women just for being male. Obviously, male privilege is a creation of patriarchy. ALL men, believe me, are beneficiaries of it. Many men and even the marginalized fail to recognize this because it is deeply entrenched in our cultures, spaces and even religion. Its pervasive nature makes it hard for someone to view it as a gender issue. There are countless examples of male privileges that happen before our eyes, and we raise not a finger.
Before I began writing this, I was scrolling through my Twitter feeds. One tweet captured my attention. It was about a Saudi woman who, after reporting that she was a victim of rape, gets accused of extra-marital sex instead. It never felt real until I clicked on the link and read all through. The sexual aggressor, obviously male, was nowhere in the picture. To understand how male privilege is at work here, you need to look at the cultural and religious aspects of a country like Saudi Arabia. For a start, Saudi is deeply Islamic. Religion, as you probably know, codifies morality into absolutes that in most cases just aim to serve men. Pick up your holy writ. Look up the gender of those who happen to pass down the laws to the lay people.
In the case of the Saudi woman, the injustices perpetrated on her can thus be safely said to be religiously sanctioned. She lives in a sphere where consensual sexual is a non-issue when a man wants to bust a nut. She lives in a society where the law (codified by men) are harsher on women who have extra-marital affairs than male sexual aggressors. She lives in a culture that doesn’t even want her to drive a car. She lives in a country where writers of my kind get jailed or killed for merely stating this. Than a man could get away with rape just shows how male privilege is normalized in the Islamic world.
Here’s another instance: Male X, driven by the need to physically resemble Channing Tatum, decides to hit the gym. Female Y wants a Teyana Taylor body too. (She’s been watching Kanye West’s Fade video on repeat) They both meet at the same gym. In the process of lifting up heavy things and putting them down, it gets unbearable hot. Male X, without giving it any thought, takes off his T-shirt (size s, by the way. Yet he has a big upper body). Female Y, though, can’t bring herself to doing the same. Given the years of cultivation of the male perception that her nipples are for sexual arousal, she can’t possibly be like Male X without inviting the male gaze and other sexual micro-aggressions like sexual slurs. She’ll likely be called a slut. She could get slapped by some law with fancy words like ‘indecent exposure’. And the worst that could happen is sexual assault. Non-consensual sexual acts. Nobody has anything agains Male X taking off his shirt, but everyone will have everything against Female Y if she does the same. That’s male privilege.
This painfully reminds me of the incidence with Embassava touts. Men, of course. They undressed (read: sexually assaulted) a woman because apparently, how a woman dresses tells about what she wants to be done unto her. This is a case that captures the male privilege to authority. They feel like their authority should be extended to women. The walk around with a moral whip, lashing at any woman they deem morally wrong. Still on male privilege to authority, I’d argue that’s why we have mostly men in positions of power. How many women do you see in positions of authority? They were many back when Africa still valued its women. Back when Victorian ideals about women hadn’t been imposed on us. When Mekatilili Wa Menza were figures even men revered.
Male privilege also manifests itself in the academic sphere. Here’s your homework – use Google or your library to know why there are few female scientists and scholars. Tally up their numbers and then contrast with their male counterparts'. Also, look up the experiences these women go through while in the academic field.
Male privilege, just like other privileges, serves to marginalize a group of persons. Usually the minority. For instance, there’s straight privilege. Here, LGBT guys receive the short end of the stick. Imagine how hard it is, if not possible, for a gay couple to receive a marriage certificate when compared to hetero couple. Imagine how problematic it is for a genderqueer person to walk into a public washroom only to find that there’s only the gender binary, male and female signs on the doors.
Acknowledging that you, as a man, is a beneficiary of male privilege shouldn’t be seen as an admission of guilt. It should be an acknowledgement that women are victims to a system that lends you the upper hand. With that insight, you can work towards purging the structures that allow for such privileges.  There are many things you could do to balance the scales. For example, if your female colleague at work, who works just as much as you (maybe even more), gets paid less than you, raise a voice of concern as a start. Boycott if unheard. In other words, always check your privilege.
Beloved women, pick up your arms. It’s your fight. Be at the battle forefront. Fight to your last breath. That way your daughters won’t be put to chains by the society of men. If you don’t see a glimmer of hope in that, who will?

Photo credits to: questionsandtea.wordpress.com
menprivilege.tumblr.com

Let's feminist... Woman up! By Aduwa Otieno

Imagine a world where matriarchy was a thing…
***
I prefer sitting at the back. Be it in a class or just at any other gathering. I take comfort in imagining that no one’s watching. It’s you doing the watching, silently judging.
This one time I’m in class, at my usual spot. Our beloved, PHD-holding, been-to-Nyayo-house lecturer, brings up an argument: women can’t run a family business. To support their case, they tell a story about a friend of theirs who got scammed by the wife. To seal his argument, he mentions something about "women knowing their place”. There was a round of applause. I was still reeling over that when a lady, few seats from this pathetic sexist, raised an objection. She seemed pissed, rightfully so. Even then, she maintained her cool and said something along the lines of “screw gender roles!” Not having a sensible counter to that, the teacher replied with a “read the bible” suggestion.
I imagine even the religious find that problematic. He used religion to justify a system that victimizes women.
Yes, it’s hard to make sense of anything that violates your sensibilities as a woman and a feminist. Our lady, perhaps sensing a likely defeat, gave up. I think walking out would have been a revolutionary act. What would Emma Goldman or Chimamanda Adichie do? Not sure about the latter, but the former, given her political leanings (she was an anarchist), would have thought of “direct action” of sorts. Something between a slap and a full blown assault. [Pauses to reflect on Adichie’s disapproval of Beyoncé’s brand of feminism]
It dawned on me that we’ve been doing it all wrong. We don’t need equality between the sexes, we need female supremacy. That’s why Lucy Ellmann has been making a strong appeal to me lately. Look her up. She identifies as a radical feminist. Oh, and she has that up-in-your-face attitude. In her rom-com novel titled Mimi, she argues for matriarchy. She attacks patriarchy head-on. She imagines most vile things as creations of men. Like war. And yes, she alludes to history to back up her claims. She even goes back to when matriarchy was a thing. Before men took over, then remodeled everything to fit the male worldview. To balance the scales, she makes a rather radical suggestion: men should surrender all their property, including money, to women of their choice. As a start she had her loving husband do that. [Pauses to read a Twitter thread about the classic ‘not all X are…’]
Look around. Why do you think that a lady, even with the glaring fact that high heels are a pain in the ass, is still rocking them? And the wig? The mini-skirt? You guessed right – men want it that way. She’s living in a world that’s unjustly a male set-up. Men hold the view that a woman’s only worth is their physical attractiveness. That’s why you have men, mostly white, overlooking Serena Williams’ achievements because she doesn’t meet their standards of beauty. ‘Oh look! She’s a good tennis player, but that only counts  if she has a pretty face too'. Maybe also layer that with the race issue. Black and beauty aren’t bedfellows, apparently.
Ever asked yourself why that ad just before the news o’clock is that of a pretty woman? We call it exploitation of female sexuality for profit-making purposes. Consumerism pairs up with misogyny and what you get is female sexuality commodified. (By the way, I’d bet an arm that capitalism is a man’s invention. Women, I think, are socialists)
“Sure, some people are attractive. But so what?” That’s Lucy Ellmann in one of her online articles critiquing the obsession with looks. Hollywood, for example, fosters this  kind of obsession. In Hunger Games, Katniss (played by Jennifer Lawrence) is a revolutionary. But, for maximum relatability, they had to make her beautiful. Not just that. In Home Sweet Hell, women are portrayed as manipulative beings and psychopaths. Men, on the other hand, are portrayed as hardworking and only women bring them down. [Pauses to read an article by Laurie Penny – Are You Man Enough for Birth Control?] Sometimes, though, they repackage ideals we cherish as feminists and then sell them back to us. They did a great job with The Suffragette and Carol.
Back to ‘not all men are’. I was under the impression that it’s obvious  this line of argument is bullshit when the problem in question is rather systemic. In the case of  racially motivated police shootings in the US, it never made any sense to counter criticisms of racism with a 'not all (white) cops are bad’. That alone wasn’t enough to discredit the Black Lives Matter movement. Borrow that line of thought when bothered with a tweet about men being trash. Imagine how wrong it is to call a woman sexist. She could hate men of all kinds -- good and bad. But given the lack of structural support (men have patriarchy), she can’t possibly be labeled as sexist. It could be prejudice on a personal level. Even then, that would be a stretch. Can a black person be racist? The answer is an obvious no. But some would still argue otherwise, clothing it in confusing terms like reverse-racism. [Pauses to curse why the front seats at Safaricom Jazz Fest were mostly occupied by whites]
Feministing is something one can do as long as it takes. There’s always so much to talk and rant about (in my case, mostly the latter, seeing that women have been victims for ages now). The take-home point is clear – men are trash (clearly repeated by those ‘woke’ individuals on Twitter ad nauseam). A reversal of things feels necessary. I want my mom as the head of the family. In place of oppressive patriarchy, let’s have loving matriarchy. Oh, and if you find Lucy Ellmann’s proposal okay, surrender your property to women, if a man. If a woman, asking your boyfriend or husband to do that would be a start.
I choose  to identify  as male, by the way.

New Generation, Who Dis? By Esther Nyabuto

We are the daughters of the women that told us we could be anything, and we heard that we must be everything. That sounds like the most cliché, down the river pon de banks statement a twenty year old girl would say. However, leaving out the macho personality engrossed in the saying, there is some little bit of truth in that saying.  Aha…..the world where we beg women to be themselves and tell the confident women to calm down. Being born in the 90s is one of the most confusing things that could happen to a young adult. More so, being born a girl during that period. Don’t get me wrong, being a guy from that bracket is also hard….kinda. Being born during that period means that you were a link, the umbilical cord of two generations. The latter generation being the matured-at-two-years-old generation and the swiftly drifting “never-gon-grow-up-generation”. Translate all that into the mind of a woman…you can be exactly like your mother…or the woman your mother was scared of.  Of course, every woman wants to be like their mother. Or the one their fathers cheated on their mother with, you know the one that didn’t have kids in their twenties and maintained her strong features and lives in some posh estate in Nairobi. I meant to say that with no disrespect to the women that have stayed behind after being battered, had their ego insulted, dropped their life long passions and dreams to take care of their families and woke up every morning and made sure each member of the family got closer to their dreams. Have you ever wondered if that what your mother is today was what she dreamt of as a little girl…or like any traditional woman in this depraved culture, settled for.  I dream of sitting amidst huge conferences and   having my opinion valued. But then again, I feel my mother dreamt of the same too. You can then crush people’s worlds with one gesture or lean back, like our mothers and take the bait. You can jump high, but not too high, since there’s no man that wants a woman that stands that high. You have to be appealing to the eye, but not too much, they’ll say you seek too much attention. Show some skin….to show how progressive you are….but not too much…least they call you a whore. You can aspire to be a great entrepreneur with the latest brand of everything, but keep in mind at the end, you’ll get the same brand of life. The children born after the 1999 age bracket are wild, vicious. Trust me I’ve seen an 11 year old girl grind a 15 year old boy to an utmost seizure, a twelve year old girl that lost her “virginity” to an eleven year old boy as they played house and that’s just those that are bonkers enough to say it in front of my face.  And the whole time I’m looking at them with partial admiration as I wouldn’t bring myself to do such and disgust over where their mommas are when they grew into such *liberal Misfits*. So really, each morning I wake up, dress and walk into class, I look at the male students of my class with aspiration. Not the one I wish to shake their hands though. Hahaha….naah, but with the one that no matter how high they dream, no matter how far they aspire to build empires …..The chances of them doing so are much greater than I. I might have consoled myself through middle school and high school of being an equal, but in truth….I was always just an equal in thoughts. I mean, I could hide behind the notion of the 21st Century woman in the western world that has it all, a successful career, a loyal husband that cheats at least once every five years and children and grow so distant to my relatives they only see me on Christmas every five years.  But then again, I’ve grown watching my mother, the woman that took me to school every day, cooked my meals every day. Was at home every holiday and whacked the hell out of my behind every time she found me peeing at the bold and the beautiful { what the hell was with that show…did they meet at the African convection of strict parents and ruled out the show as a top secret affair… smh}.   And when the time comes, like my mother, will fold my dreams as a blanket and support the dreams of little ones.

Her highness By Gift Mwachofi

The silence of night. Its tranquil nature an ambience to adore. As the day light comes to an end, as its constituents retire from the hustle and bustle of life, she watches from a distance and takes pride at her accomplishment. She is beautiful. She envelopes the entire surrounding and brings with it a characteristic beauty that is irresistibly attractive.
Her composition: starry nights, bright crescent shaped moon (this specific night), a calm breeze whistling through gently, chirping crickets carefully tucked in withered leaves, naturally lit fire flies landing on withered vegetation, bats, violently creeping out of their caves and landing upside down on projecting branches nibbling on the readily provided fruits, some ferociously attack the lonely cattle left behind whilst the rest obeyed her authority. It is a sight to behold, as the stars twinkle almost simultaneously and in harmony with the cricket chirps. The silhouettes exhibited by the various nature’s components, absolutely admirable. Her beauty is incomprehensive.
She begins as the sun’s rays sink and fade gracefully giving space for her to be in charge. Almost like a shift. She then takes the wheel and has the command of the evening. Her arrival has an effect on almost everyone under her cover, quite inevitable. She takes pride in her agility and even gets more domineering. Satisfied with her ability to unquestionably progress, she then takes comfort in watching how everything unfolds.

She is pleased with the re-union of her subjects in various households, all because of her doing. The chuckles and giggles, cries and reproof, the tingly noise from the cutlery signifying a sumptuous meal, the moaning (pleasantly) thereafter, from particular rooms; with this she applauds satisfactorily and continues to enjoy the different scenes. Solicitude is the source of her pride.
The vast territory she commands brings forth the characters that help conduct the individual affairs she desires. The shadows that willfully comply offer an endearing camouflage to the shy couple that has been staring awkwardly into each other’s eyes for a while, long and unmoored lawns provide comfortable “motels” for animals that had spotted each other in the light and are now offered a chance to progress with their intentions at their own pleasure, the poor church mouse, by her help can now nibble on the grains in the fields without fear of its life, the seeds that were dutifully buried beneath the surface of the earth can now sprout to the pleasure of the sower.
Quite impressive, she exhales and the trees bow consequently.
However, her dominion is challenged by some very hard headed knuckle heads. The bliss that comes along with her leadership is rudely interrupted. She can do nothing. Helpless.
She is actually the cause of it all.
Ruffians, eagerly waited for her preeminence had been granted the courtesy to conduct abominable acts,
Mosquitoes,
Night-mares,
Evils that come with her reign. It is saddening. She looks forward to her counterpart taking charge. What she meant for good is now fashioned to further horrific events. It is under her own prerogatory. Wailing from one corner of her kingdom, signifying misfortune, subtle laments from a quiet abode aroused by the endless humming of mosquitoes, unbearable screams from a toddler running half asleep and half-awake to her parents for fear of monsters creeping up to her/him in a dream. Young fellows soiling their beds.
She has no amends to these.
She perseveres. Some things are beyond her control. She overlooks the faults and takes pleasure in the good she’s able to accomplish. Her silence is suddenly broken by an irritating and persistent rooster alarm. Its time. She humbly excuses her reign and light finally welcomes the same subjects to her dominion, beautifully and cordially with the gleams of the bright morning star-the Sun.

Her day begins…….

Sermon of Sorts

Sikio la kupe halisikii dawa.”
How wrong does that sound? Almost as wrong as the story of a certain penis expert at Haga Hospital. Haga Hospital is in Netherlands, by the way. Haga Hospital couldn’t be in Kenya. Definitely not, definitely not. But what if it was? Just hypothetically speaking? What do you think it would be all about? I’m not sure I want to go too much into it but one thing I’m sure of is that most of the patients would be members of the infamous FKF. And I am not talking about the Football Kenya Federation. Yeah baby, you got that right. The Fisi Kenya Federation. And they wouldn’t have trouble paying consultation fees. You would even hear phrases like, “you can keep change” at the reception. And the staff at our mystery hospital would be the most satisfied. The doctors? They would never strike. What about the nurses? They wouldn’t have a lot of work so they would just stay beautiful with their brief white dresses and would sure as hell be the greatest victims of the FKF members. The female nurses, of course. Who gives a shit about male nurses? The specialists that will experience severe symptoms of fatigue and a rare condition of endless work from all the traffic to their offices would probably be ophthalmologists. The Fisis need good eyesight. They will need glasses or an upgrade of the ones they have. They will need contact lenses and eye drops and advice on how to maintain the sharp eagle eyesight. They will need to know the specific species of carrots that gives optimum results. And they will pay like they all get free money as allowances from lame meetings and conferences. Lakini politicians wetu kweli hawapendangi ujinga. Back to our dear Fisi Sacco members; they need to see these haga things and they will do just about anything. Anything for the hagas. So they will pay and Haga hospital will be rich and famous. Haga hospital in Kenya would be the hospital of the century.
Sikio la kupe halisikii dawa. This is a sentence I heard someone say. I was half attentive but I heard it and I was really disturbed. I completed primary school aeons ago and probably I should have forgotten about the methalis we used in our spicy inshas, you know, the niliamka-na-kudamka-asubuhi-na mapema-kabla-ya-jogoo-kuwika-kisha-nikatembea-kwa-mwendo-wa aste-aste-hadi-malighafuni-kukoga kind of inshas. But here’s the problem: I had not forgotten that it was actually supposed to be a methali (that’s Swahili for proverb, divas!) and that it sounded awfully wrong. And now this street preacher was busy telling these evidently tired, obviously bored and without a doubt absent-minded Nairobi people sitting on benches and concrete along Aga Khan Walk about this tick that doesn’t “listen to medicine”. This tick, apparently, is very stubborn and wants to kill this person or cow or whatever that it’s biting and no matter how much pesticide you spray on it, it won’t “hear”. It definitely won’t die. And he preached on and on. I was part of his little congregation, only I was not bored and absent-minded and disinterested. Well, I was earlier but as soon as he dropped that punchline about the interesting tick, all my attention shifted to him. I forgot all about my hunger and my broke ass and I focused on this ignorant man. Linda called me, disguised as some HR in some Nairobi office offering me a job and I was so happy then suddenly felt very depressed again and stupid when she laughed her signature laugh and I knew it was a prank. Man, I had been looking for a job like a crazy woman and you can imagine how that felt. Damn, that crazy bitch Linda! Damn these Airtel lines that people have as sim two! I had planned to be very angry at her but who could be angry with anything when there is an incredibly ignorant man in front of them and they probably don’t know it? A man who is not afraid to display his emptiness to the whole world, especially Nairobi? That takes extreme courage. So I forgave Linda. And kept listening. And as I kept listening, I thought of all these street preachers who obviously are in business. And how they keep denying it. How they keep saying that they are not preaching for the offering, how you don’t have to contribute but if you do, you will be blessed very much because you will be promoting the ministry and God’s work. And then you feel very guilty for not wanting to contribute so you give him half of your savings and sleep hungry. Also because you are very screwed and hopeless in life and would take any risk to experience blessings. I didn’t give anything though. I was damn serious about my broke ass. And right there! The crazy ignorant man said it! He said he wasn’t asking for money because he was doing his thing for the service of God. But why was he, after ten minutes, holding out a ridiculous basket asking these innocently tired and bored people to help build the ministry? Anyway, my brother arrived and we took off. I had been waiting for my amazingly amazing brother for like ten centuries. (Oh yeah, there’s a bunch of men in my life and one of them is my brother Kev. He’s been gone for a long time but he’s back and I think he’s gonna go back again, this time for good. You’ll be seeing a lot of him. He’s so nice in every way. God, doesn’t any of you listen to Abba?!!) We took off faster than our Koitalel brethren. I couldn’t take any more of this ignorance. And Kevin doesn’t take shit any more than I do. In fact he doesn’t take any kind of shit at all. So we went and had some Cappuccino. I think we should have had a swim or something as well. After such an experience, one needs to wash off all the ignorance hanging around lest it seeps into their informed self. You’ve heard of Osmosis and Diffusion, no? The movement of ignorant particles from a region of unbelievably high concentration to a region of incredibly low concentration or no concentration at all in this case. (Boy, aren’t I humble!). That’s diffusion? Right, that’s diffusion.
Challenge: go sit at Kencom, at Tom Mboya’s base (God, don’t I love Tom Mboya?) or even Aga Khan Walk, just directly opposite Uchumi. Sit and wait patiently and with steadfast hope. One empty person will surely show up. You will see wat I am talking about. I think instead of walking around all day making a few miserable dimes from misleading the children of God, it would be more efficient to stroll to a nearby carwash, wash two or three Harriers and earn a decent meal for your family. But these people I am talking about can’t even think like that. Emptiness is real, I tell ya! Be everything else in your life, just don’t be empty. But if just unfortunately, accidentally, too-bad-too-sad- for-you, you happen to be empty, discretion is one of the best attributes anyone could have.

Sharon

Lady!
There's no better way I can say that. I'm no Phil Collins or Kenny Rogers, you know.
Well then, Three times a lady.
Sounds better, doesn't it? A can of beer for Rogers.
I've not had much chance, and most importantly, the time, to pen down anything about anyone, save for the mcGuffins my literature classes obliged me write about. Flattering, isn't it? But wait until I roast you on this grill.
First, I'll tell them how you place me on Top of The World, "..Everything I want the world to be is now coming true...and the reason is clear, It's because you are here.." The Carpenters! 
But I'll also tell them how much bother you are to my denim shirts (the ones made in Bangladesh, especially) and geeky t-shirts. Your pretence to iron them came with a price. I'm not forgetting you wore them to those never-ending job interviews. I'm surprised you're still talking about minimum wage things with me. Still, you manage to bless me with a few dimes when you're fit, and when my peanuts run out. (Thank the... Thank your financial wising up.) But, tell you what? I ain't rich but I damn sure wanna be, so I can buy you a boat, a truck to pull it and a Yetti 110 iced down with some silver bullets. And, of course, settle our odds and ends each time we go to town, plus a few bells and whistles.
I'm in no way forgetting the late-night conversations and films. The latter got you knowing Lewis can be pronounced as Louis. This reminds me, Lewis. My heart goes to thee. The conversations! Sarcasm-encrypted, about our common predators, life, and over the dinner (dinner?) table where you used me as a guinea pig. No problem. I did it for you, and my stomach.
How about our tonnnes of secrets? Can't mess around with you, unless I want everyone to know where noons and evenings found me early this year in Spring and a few weeks into Summer. Not that I know nothing about your undercover dealings. Neither did I swear by my left butt to keep everything to ourselves. Well, it's just that... It's you, Femmeless.
Could anything match the rows we've sailed through, me and myself? Hell yes! Waterloos with Sharon. Sometimes I wonder if you're that angel of death the clergy talks about. Maybe... Just maybe, but who cares? Aren't tough lucks the ones supposed to blood-tie us? Define us? Brand us? Team screwed, you remember? Femme Incomprise and Bad Boy 101, I tell you.
Nothing beats our zero damns, hoots and chills for the better. Stretching limits for a li'le bit of fortune. Taking risks for a li'le bit of thrills. Nothing beats this, I betcha.
Could I ever imagine food from Street Fast Food would taste better? Do you know why I could drain half my train fare to get us fried potatoes and half-cakes? I know why. I hated to find you disillusioned in (y)our stuffy room watching "Suits" or "Quantico. I also know why. I feared lentils would be in the menu that day. 
Street Fast Food tasted better with you.
Shared dreams between us come closer each time we talk about it. Your trips to Budapest, Shopping in New Orleans and the much coveted British accent(You'll have to pull extra triggers on this here, I assure you.) I need not mention mine..Go find them in her toe-tips...and nobody messes with her Highness's feet.
What happened to our accounting classes? Do they know we just got better and the classes became a bother so we decided they could Match to hell? Well, That's what happens to everything that's a pain in the neck for us. But sometimes I'm afraid you send too many things to hell sometimes but you're wising up, aren't you?
Tell you what, Sharon, you cultivate positive energy in me. Sometimes, achievement for me is sweeter because you're back there applauding, and railing me on. In as much as I do things for myself, I do them for you, sometimes. Just to appreciate your inspiration.
Now it's you. Let me tell you you what I used to every morning, Ciao at 6:45am then  'Rail on, Rail on.' 
You're just 21. Let me write about you next time from across the continents telling you how 22 years better you are.
I could still flavour this with some Infinite Imagery and Neat Nostalgia (Hey, Loki. How about that alliteration?) but hey, you'll have to blow 22 candles first. 
Candy for you.(On Pappsy's behalf.) Cakes for you. Glass of '21 wine for you. Ice cream for you. Budapest for you!
I could go places for you, Sharon. I could arrange a Birthday song from my Celine Dion, But Birthday tidings are all I have. 
Let me save the best for last.
Beautiful 21st Birthay, Femme Koitalel.

Love,
Kevin&Folks.

BREAKFAST By Kevin Koech

                           
I woke up late today. (Hey, you. Shame on me. Saves your having to say it.) Breakfast was an occasional cup of green tea, but this time with an omelette. Let's talk about my omelette. Don't freak out. Please. It's not every time a guy talks, or even better, writes about such shit.
My elder sister baked it, of course, after I had bought all the ingredients and forgotten cilantro (Cilantro is Dania, Dummy). I couldn't be talking the omelette if I didn't go back to the grocer's. Just that the grocer was rude. Cilantro? At this time of the day? You smoke cilantro? I can't tell whichever of the questions he was pondering over more. For all I know, he let me carry the few withering leaves with my bare hands, thanks to my miserable Dime's worth Contribution. I'm that broke, by the way. No plastic bag for that. Environmentalist, huh? Economist ? Match to Hell. I can't believe I'm fussing such a storm in a tiny tea-cup. Shame on me again.
Alright, so, the omelette. It was awesome. One of the best I'd ever eaten. (Hats off, Sharon). She's brilliant in kitchen. And in many other places. You should meet her. I forgot they were only two. I was half way into the second when she joins me at the table. She was not surprised. This happens often. I mean, the joining me at the table.
So we take breakfast, talking about my WhatsApp status, in between the messing up with cutlery use. Cutlery amateurs we are. (I'm improving, by the way, won't be a mess next time on the table.)
"Teach them that expressing oneself is a strength..." Expressing oneself. It's one necessity to humans next to oxygen. It's how we get to communicate, air out what we feel, such. In there comes Emotional Intelligence - knowledge of knowing how to behave, act, carry on in situations.Feeling irritated? Offended? Liking someone? Need some space?      (Well, I left you some space if you noticed.) Communication (Verbal, etc) is the beauty of being human.
And, by the way, While expressing oneself, you're never too much when you know you're making some sense.
That was breakfast. And, more important, a conversation. Did I say I have much respect for conversations? Well, I do. Sarcasm-encrypted ones, especially. We could talk about anything (How I went shopping for parties, etc.)
But poor conversations, they sound like a eulogy to me. On a bad day, I'll listen (maybe type) and conclude my inferences about the jackass on the other side, while on the good day, I'll go straight to sleep, or trade blueticks for the bollocks.
Let's learn to express ourselves, shall we?
Thumbs up, Sharon, for the Omelette. And the conversations.

YOU ALWAYS HAVE A CHANCE by Gift Mwachofi

Today, a large procession across the neighborhood marked the highlight of my day. The vast compound with beautifully manicured hedges was now filled with parked vehicles of them who came to wish the late her last respects. The porch to her bungalow was now the platform from which the burial was being presided. The preacher had his priestly attire on and as he read some of the scriptures from his well-structured sermon, I couldn’t help but think of how fragile life can be. The eulogy read by the son was almost describing a second mother Teresa. She was loved by all and admired by many (considering the numbers that showed up for the funeral.)
I proceeded to my barber shop “Ken Kinyozi” you’d almost think only Kens’ heads were offered his shaving services. Anyway, he’s a great barber. So as I am offered a seat he cordially asks about my day and I gladly share with him the events that were, in the course of my day. As he sips his afternoon tea, I ask him if he has heard of the sad news of the passing of an old woman around the area. He declines and by now he has already started shaving my voluminous hair. As we engage in a customer based conversation, wait, I’m less of a customer but more of a friend just for the record, he makes a very interesting remark.
“Kama bado angekuwa hai saa hii, bado wangemsifu vile wanamsifu saa hii?” (If she were still alive, would people still praise her like they are doing now), my barber is chilled he doesn’t speak in English, kwani is he in an interview or sum’n. I nod in agreement and share in his sentiments too. She is no longer around to receive the so comforting and reassuring praises, the acknowledgement of a life well lived. She’s just there lying peacefully in the expensive coffin you could tell by the design and the timber used to craft it. A corpse wouldn’t really mind the coffin they are buried in, after all the body that used to house the soul is no longer functioning.
Ken is done shaving my head and I pay him his due, and as is kawaida I say my gratitude as we fist bump and I walk back home. It hits me real hard as I take a walk back home. Really, how much does it mean appreciating a dead person? What does it mean to pay last respects? Did they pay it either way while she was still breathing or is it just a phrase that is used in burial occasions? Was she embraced by the numerous people that showed up in her funeral or we they there just for PR? It greatly bothered me. It really did.
We as human beings, how often do we recognize people? How much do we appreciate them? How much do you say hi and thank you to that mama mboga who diligently cuts your sukuma wiki? Or the kange who gladly waits for you to board or alight the matatu as he charmingly reminds you to travel with the same matatu the following day? Or the house help in your homes, who do your dirty laundry, and many of them knowing the affairs of the house choose to keep them secret and protect the reputation of your home? They are not slaves, they are as fleshly as you and I are.
Have we categorized human beings?
We recognize honorable figures: the presidents, the beautiful and gorgeous actors, artists, intellectual giants just to mention but a few. Valuable awards are handed to them and hearty applauds are granted them. I am not saying that man should not be awarded for his hard work. He should actually as he deserves. Here’s the catch however. We entirely value them that do the so called “hard and recognizable jobs” and forget the important jobs that the “others” as we put them, do.
Remember the mama mboga can also choose to intoxicate you, the kange can also hurl abusive words to you (which they do more often than not) but hey are you warm to them either way? They are human beings too. Just as you praise the Jack Bauer’s and the Chuck Norris,’ recognize your barber, who plays classic FM on his old radio from dawn to dawn (hyperbole); your salonist, who regrets not being a HR in some organization claiming how she has a way with people, mama mboga just next to your rental apartment, never tires to give you some interesting realizations of the on goings in the plot, the hilarious kange who charms you of how the bus he’s currently with has Wi-Fi and unlimited supply of water (I wonder where from, but hey kuna basi za Embakassi, rivers of God). Hehe clever right?
Anyway my point is, don’t wait for either of the mentioned above and more to die so that you recognize them, appreciate them now! Life is fragile.
James says that life is a mist, here today and gone tomorrow. You never know when he or she will be no more. Recognize them now, don’t be left with the burden of not saying them while you still could.
Ni mimi wako
Msema kweli.
Maneno magumu:
Kange –conductor
Mama Mboga- grocery woman
Matatu – Psv
Msema kweli- truth teller.
Maneno magumu- Hard words

AMAZING RACE by Sharon Koech

I am obviously a black woman. We all are black women unless, of course, we are lucky or unlucky enough to have a white woman with us today. A Mongloid even. Or a Latino woman (why are you so beautiful? And why are you so confused about your race? How could you not know to which race you belong?), in which case we appreciate you. Welcome aboard. But men, you can go to sleep now. It’s bed time gentlemen. Tuck tight and dream about us.
However, some of us are blacker (read darker) than others and I always ask myself why. Why? Why some us are, well…more endowed with blessings called melanin. Why didn’t The Big Boss up there just make us all the same? You know, evenly distribute this blessing. I mean, we are already black. We do not need to discriminate against ourselves on the basis of colour (our more than fifty shades of black). We already have races to worry about. And besides, I am sure if the darker species were requested to donate some of their melanin to the yellow, semi-orange ones so that afterwards  we can all become an in-between; some kind of brown, they would be willing (more than willing) to do it. We are a generous species. Black people are generous. We are an amazing race.
But then again, I don’t hate this idea of being black. And dark. In fact, I think it’s a really nice thing. I have thought about it. I will admit that I have, once or twice or thrice or four times in my lifetime wished I was a little lighter. Are there times you look at a photograph of yourself and you look so good. So much better. That photo session using your Infinix phone with a flash did you well. Or those times you take a selfie at sunset and a passing ray of light accidentally falls on your face and illuminates it perfectly. And your countenance glows like never before. And you look divine. But of course you know that you are as dark as midnight. Nevertheless, you’re happy. You are very beautiful, aren’t you? You immediately post the photo on Facebook and Instagram. Very good. Let’s see what your friends and followers have to say. Let’s see how beautiful everyone thinks you are.
There are people called light skins. Categorized into two: natural and artificial light skins.
Natural light skins: I really do not want to talk much about these people. They are the ones upon whom the favour of the Lord is bestowed. They make the rest of us look cursed. They who steal our boyfriends. A total betrayal to the black race. A total disgrace. I do not like them. I do not have a light-skin friend. If you are one of them and you think you are my friend, you are living a lie, sister girl.
The artificial light skins are the bunch that really fascinates me. These ones have not only had bad thoughts like me; they have acted upon these thoughts. They have actually done something about the situation. Drastic measures. Wonderful. I do not know what exactly they do to themselves but they transform completely and look like our natural light-skins, only scary. I think they mix up some highly reactive chemicals that totally kill the melanin. Veradication of darkness. Or to be more specific, Verasidikation of darkness. Witchcraft.
We are all wonderfully made, according to my pastor. Well, of course some are fearfully made but that only means people will fear you and not give you shit. And that’s a good thing.
I have never found a good enough reason why anybody would walk around with a bleached face and black elbows and knees. Some even bleach the face alone and so have to wear full necks and maxi dresses and boots and we all think it’s their swag. How hot do they feel? I mean literal hotness? Just being curious, lady, don’t you feel fake? I wonder what would happen if such a person was walking out of Mr. Price, just from checking out full necks; new arrivals. Then they start feeling some discomfort. First at the lower limbs area then higher, higher, at the thighs now. Both thighs and in the boots. More discomfort, pinching…pain. Too much pain. Ants. It’s an ant infestation. It is now widespread and the only way around it is to strip. Down to the skin. Everything from the full neck to the maxi dress down to the boots. We all see your body. Then your face. The contrast. The paradox. The confusion. Some shake their heads in disbelief. Tom Mboya gives a chuckle. Even he knows what is going on. He has seen the spectacle. He has seen it all, everything. He sees everything. He sees all the light-skin Nairobabes that pass by with their crazy crop tops and ridiculous weaves. He is always there. The ever-present, chubby Tom Mboya.
Even those who do not take drastic measures like our artificial sisters still express their dissatisfaction by doing make up of all sorts. But this one doesn’t seem to me like dissatisfaction over skin colour. Even white people do this. Again, I do not understand this witchcraft but I know one thing: after people who do not keep their promises and me when I do not keep mine, I hate makeup. But I won’t say much. I will stop there. I might lose many friends. I can already see Winnie looking at me with “bad eyes”. So I will say no more.
Have you ever walked along River Road, Dubois and other streets down there? Have you seen those women that persuade you to enter their shops to buy some lotions that make all the spots on your body disappear or some gel that smoothens your skin like you can’t believe? They are usually well (sexily) dressed but have you seen their faces? Tragedy. They look pale and they think they attract customers but really what they do is scare them away. Or at least they scare me away. If that’s what the products they sell do to people then no, thanks. I am perfect. Also, these ladies are always holding their phones. And they are always Infinix phones. Always. You can tell. You can spot an Infinix phone from a dozen miles away. Not just because of the crazy noises it makes but many, many other things that make an Infinix phone a particularly interesting device. The other day a very good friend of mine was telling me things about my phone. He is extremely positive and confident that my phone is an Infinix, an allegation I will neither affirm nor deny. That’s not all; he is very sorry for my predicament and has suggested some ways to ocope with being an owner of an Infinix phone:
Infinix phones overheat. It is just a problem that you have to deal with from time to time. Natural occurrence. It is not easy but what do you do? Simple. Go to your gallery. Check your photos. Select photos of people who have sweaters on. Delete them. Oh, and all the hot chicks. Delete them. All of them (God, I wonder if I'll ever be in any Infinix owner's gallery). This action automatically lowers the temperatures. Incredible, right?
Hanging. This happens all the time. But no need to worry. Again reach for your gallery. Select photos of all hard headed individuals. Erase them as soon as possible. Free your phone. Free your Infinix.
See, it’s possible to live happily ever after with an Infinix. It’s all in the gallery.
Now that cosmetics will be taxed in Kenya, what will happen to our ladies? I am very happy because we will all be real. Woe unto you if you were still saving up to buy some bleaching agent. This is a sign. Change your plans. Go buy chips and chicken at Altona and have a good time. You need to have a good time. You do not need to change yourself. You do not need bleaching agents. With your dark skin and black, kinky African hair, you're just fine. No, you're perfect. Gal, you are perfect.

SO THE OTHER DAY Continued by Duncan Kilonzo

Ako wapi Suzie!!?” the giant dude grunted again, in a much harsher and deeper tone, his eyes all red in anger, his big arms hanging out on each side, moving up and down with every deep angered breathe he’s taking, fists clutched in a tight fist ready to pounce on the helpless and confused creature looking back up at him. I am trying to escape the angered man, by moving, scratch that, crawling backwards away from him, but damn this tiny room and in no time my back is against the wall, cornered. All this time I am just speechless, you know one of those moments your whole life flashes before your eyes, well this was one of them. With the guy now too close to me, hovering over, I could smell his stench of sweat and unwashed socks. “Si-sijui ako wapi bana, I swear...” I mutter in response, shaken to the core. This answer clearly doesn’t go well with him and so he decides to use his might to beat the answer out of me. He swings his right fist aimed squarely for my jaw, that’s now trembling in fright, but the karate lessons I had learnt from watching too many Jackie Chan movies, interpreted casually by DJ Afro finally pay off. I duck my head just in time for him to miss and punch the wall behind, leaving a slight dent in its wake (deposit itaishia apo). So I seize this moment of weakness and quickly slide through his legs, chobo style and run out through the open door and onto the streets outside running for dear life. As my favorite DJ, DJ Afro always says, Cheki maneno…
Barefoot, with only a t-shirt na a pair of khaki shorts, I run through the streets and alleys, passing my usual mama mboga, C.K the mutura guy, ule msee wa mahindi choma and even Macharia, whose debt ya simu I still owe. He tries to stop me to ask for the same but I have more pressing matters at hand. I am running from a guy whom I don’t even know and whose issue with me is still uncertain, ni kama wale students wa UoN walishikwa na GSU wakisomea ADD (like my class rep) So anyway I rush on, and if any of you lives in Ngara, you can attest to the bad state of roads there, and so I end up stepping on some sewage water on my way as I maneuver a sharp corner headed straight towards Greezy’s place. He surely might have answers to these mashida I am having. As usual Wafula the watchman has issues with me, now especially since nakaa kama chokora, with my smelly bare feet, sweaty body and skimpy dressing, this will be really hard to explain to him. But it’s only after a really long argument and a promise that I’ll bring him some chai and ugali later on that he finally lets me through. I quickly head on to Greezy’s door and knock on it repeatedly and loud enough to wake up people from the next plot. This goes on for like 20 seconds before he finally, with a lazy eye, opens the door and without even thinking, I get in with my smelly feet.
Knowing the questions he is going to ask next, I hurriedly paraphrase the whole Suzie situation to him, all this while he’s opening the windows, and flapping the door to let out the odor that I’ve left in my trail. He however stops the flapping when I alert him about the angry giant guy part, at which point he hurriedly slums the door shut. “Msee!!!, Uyo ni Onyi, chali ya Suzie”, he says in a high-pitched voice of surprise. So all this while I had been involved in a confusing love triangle and I didn’t even know about it. This Onyi fella must have thought that I had tried to steal his girl from him all this while. It is then that it hits me…the reason why no member of team Mafisi had tried to nyemelea her at the party was because they were scared of the beast, na ndio maana unaskiaga usione simba amenyeshewa ukadhani ni paka. Apparently everyone at the party saw me leaving with her, and so assumed that I took her to my place and “got lucky”, especially since we were both smiling on our way out. Greezy now seems to get a good view of what actually happened after my quick narration, nodding his head all through, though a bit dazed from the offal smell that’s now everywhere. But like every other situation, I falsely promise to clean up later, and it is while I am trying to do this that we hear noises at the main gate. Peering out, we find an angry Onyi heading up the stairs, eyes squarely set at Greezy’s place, kwisha sisi.
My DJ Afro Jackie Chan techniques are no match this time and in no time Onyi breaks down the door, grabs us both by the neck and takes out outside by the balcony. Out of air and barely breathing, I think he’s done with us sasa but he’s not even halfway there. Now if you’re a wrestling or goat-eating fan then you can understand the next part. He expertly, and with a lot of brute grabs us by the legs simultaneously and hangs us upside down on the outer side of the balcony rails kama zile mbuzi za ushago saa ya Christmas. Your guess is as good as mine, this obviously causes a lot of commotion in the plot and everyone is outside of their rooms to stare at the unfolding drama, some even having their phones out, snapping the moment and taking videos to later share as memes and funny clips. But there’s nothing funny with hanging upside down, on the third floor, looking down at the concrete floor below, trembling to your core.” Si mniambie penye Suzie ako saa hii ama niwaachilie right now!” he threatens to let us go, something that brings back some flashes of my life and how I have achieved so little, I mean ata bado sijamaliza ile strungi nliacha home, bado I haven’t run for presidency, bado siajtoa ngoma na Ken Wa Maria, achieved so little. It’s while I am having this small self-pity party that the unexpected happens and makes Onyi almost let go.
My vision is a bit blurry and upside down, but I can spot Suzie at the main gate, waving at Onyi in a desperate cry for mercy, begging him to not let us go. For the first time since meeting the giant, I actually hear a sigh of relief and a light smile spread across his rough face. He’s clearly happy, but a bit too happy that he almost forgets about us down there, and it’s only after Greezy screams again that the guy notices us and pulls us back to safety. The floor has never felt as sweet before as we sit there trying to catch our breath. The giant is now gone to meet up his girl downstairs, not even looking back to check if we are okay. Neighbors are still taking pictures of us and giggling all through at our predicament. To avoid anymore embarrassment, we get back to Greezy’s place and stay there to wait for the buzz to die out.
To all members of team Mafisi out there, never approach a hot lonely chic at a party, it’s a trap, and I repeat, it’s a trap. There’s always an Onyi somewhere waiting for you to mess up. But at least I am relieved that he didn’t kill me because I am now trying to look for Ken Wa Maria’s number tuchape collabo moto ya kikamba. So watch out for that, ooh na kama ni wewe uliniibia viatu zangu rudisha tu, I don’t have another pair tafadhali

So The Other Day 1 by Duncan Kilonzo

So since it was agreed by the school management that our class will be having stupid meaningless breaks a.k.a long holidays after every semester, I have tried to become accustomed to the fact that I might not graduate with the same president in power or maybe even the fact that two World Cup games might happen while I am still trying to understand calculus and other non-related units in school. Like any other creative fellow yaani wale wajanjez, I have been making the most of these home periods by undertaking stuff that may or may not help me better myself. Four months, four freaking months of boredom is what I have to endure every other four months of study. Now I know most of you normally get jobs or internships or go back to ushago to help susu plough the land to get money for your next semester’s fee, mnajijua, you know, constructive things that provide a sense of belonging and purpose to your life. But I can’t classify everyone in this cocoon of brave and kind breed, of course kuna wale kama mimi who do useless, non-sensical things just to pass the time.  P.S; I am warning you that none of this while help you grow academically, financially or in any other way, but if you’re in my circle of time-wasters, then this is the perfect way to pass time.
It is Sunday and I am seated there, in my small bedsitter “apartment” in Ngara having breakfast in bed(as if I have an option) I peer out through the small opening that passes as a window to admire the sun rays that slowly filter and flood the place with ambient light bringing a cosy feeling with it. This feeling is however short-lived as I hear a loud banging of the door, followed by a huge silhouette figure that is now blocking the sun rays. This startles me out of my oblivious state and I almost pour what is remaining of the strungi that is my breakfast but I expertly catch it in time. I jump out of bed, accidentally stepping on what’s left of yesterday’s supper, ugali madondo and head on lazily to open the door. As soon as I have the door latches open, the weak door is swung wide open, hurling me backwards on my back onto the damp floor underneath. Confused and not knowing what’s up, I look up at the giant of a man that is now angrily staring at me, heaving heavily kama zile bulls za western kwa akina Khalwale. I quickly try to google his face in my brain memory up to no avail, who is this guy, but I immediately guess maybe it’s one of those mistaken identity cases, labda nafanana na mtu mwingine mwenye akona deni yake. But all this confusion is cleared up immediately when he, in a harsh grumbling sound asks, “Ako wapi Suzie!!?”
Now, I told you that during the long holidays I do some pretty stupid stuff, well this was one of them. You see, last Friday I had gone to my friend’s birthday party in the next plot, dressed in my usual killer Sunday-best outfit, a checked Vybz Kartel sweatshirt (zile za Ngara) a faded pair of trousers that I had inherited from my elder brother and worn out third-hand bubble gummers shoes I had bought for 200bob from my local shoe dealer, Mose, ooh and a hint of Binti wa Fatuma cologne. After a slight mvutano with the plot’s watchman, Wafula he lets me in after kumpea chai. Ian, or commonly referred to as Greezy, the birthday boy, welcomes me warmly saying, ”Falai mbona haujakuja na mzinga” slightly angered that I have arrived empty-handed with no gifts, I however ignore this with a smile and we head on to the third floor where the party is going down. Up to this day I have never understood how so many people could fit in a bedsitter room, smaller than mine. There are like 30 people present, all from around the estate, mostly here for the free drinks and staunch members of team Mafisi hard on the prowl. As in all previous occasions, the girl-boy ratio was too high, with one girl for every four dudes, just crazy. But that’s the exact moment I spotted her. Suzie.
Standing on the far end balcony by herself, slightly leaning on the safety grills, holding an almost empty red party cup, she seemed distant from the others, and given by her good charming looks, I was perplexed as to why nobody from team Mafisi was approaching her. So I gather my courage, have a quick breath check, get a red cup filled halfway and approach her. At first she ignores me, not even stealing a single glance in my direction, still gazing out onto the night sky. She is a snob, I immediately think to myself, and that’s prolly the reason why no guy is around her. But this doesn’t deter me from trying a shot at her. So I throw some vibes I had learnt from watching too much Tujuane show on my neighbor’s T.V, hoping ataingia box. This, surprisingly starts working as she is now laughing at my jokes, jokes that I didn’t even find funny myself, happy with the progress, I offer some drinks, an offer she accepts willingly. Being fully sober all through, I rummage through all of my jokes and pick-up-lines vocabulary, each cheesier than the previous, telling her of how pretty and soft her hair looks (ata kama tunajua ni ya Abuja) and to make matters even more interesting, she suddenly gets up, grabs my left hand behind her and leads my out of the plot, silent all through, with a wide smile plastered on her face. Everybody in the party notices this, and from the corner of my eye I could notice members of team Mafisi congratulating me for my “achievement.”
I am pretty sure what you are thinking happens next was what I was thinking would happen too, but things didn’t go as I had envisioned in my mind. So Suzie is still holding my hand, a bit too tightly for comfort and is walking hurriedly and in a jumpy frenzied mood, momentarily casting a seductive glance back at me, whilst biting her lower lip. Granted, at the moment all I know about this girl is her name, Suzie, full stop, other things like where she lives or what is her favorite color ama food is still a mystery to me. So I follow her blindly, not really sure of what to expect, of whether to be happy or curious. This is all interrupted as she abruptly stops next to some building, gives me a quick pec, a long hug followed by another quick pec on the other cheek and suddenly whizzes away into the darkness and into the nearby building without even uttering a single word all through…

 

Tales by Gift Mwachofi

The evening that was………..
So now
It is Thursday evening all is set.
Getting dressed, just from the frog’s kingdom (this is where I just ask myself, how frogs and the bathroom are related). Well maybe the English scholars would enjoy explaining that to us, that is even if it has any explanation.
Anyway, so mom screams out my name from the living room. When my African mother calls you with a loud voice, its either you have broken her thermos that she got from her chama ama  umekata slippers zake, or anything close to that.
So I am frustrated trying to think of anything she might have seen or what I might have done in the course of the day that might have slipped my mind. I make my way to the living room and I find my mum glued on the television that she keeps on reiterating she bought with her own money:
gift unajua hii tv ni yangu na baba yako, nunua yako Alafu autawatch mpaka uchoke, as though it ever happens. Mom does it? I know better not to ask her that question or else I’ll be asking artists to come up with a song about going away from home.
She was watching the Wednesday Samantha bridal show, and I took my seat next to her. Her countenance was priceless you could tell by how the weddings literally blew her mind away. Mom is a bit old school though not that old. So this scene, the bride is being made over ( make up na kila kitu) then she sees how the eye pencil is being drawn on her eye brows. Here’s where mom asks,,
Na sasaaa alikuwa amenyoa akaona achore ama?
I looked at her with mum did you just ask that question, face as I paused from typing on my watsapp. Then she continued,” si alikuwa na nywele hapo mbona akachora? (I know right?)
I never answered her, coz how do you even begin to explain why ladies even do that, no offence to the ladies who draw their brows. So the show continues.
She is keenly following as the wedding events unfold, and questions just about everything. This is where everything shifted, from watching the show to discussing how important it is to marry a graduate. The lady said she was courting the guy when she was doing her masters in the university, and that’s where it all began.
Gift you see how that couple was planned, they had no hurry they waited until they had finished their education and had their lives well sorted out. ( ata mimi nashangaa alijuaje hio na tunawatch na yeye hapa kwa nyumba.) I am left wondering, so mom no masters no wife? Then she continues,
unaona ata wamenunulia mzee wa mschana suti, mimi nataka nishonewe kitenge ya arusi yenye itamatch na suti yako. Haha,, yes she said that… believe you me, she did.
That’s when I remembered how we laughed ourselves off, my two friends and I (not literally), sometime back when we saw some guy on a boda boda dressed in some embroidered suit, utathani alishonewa na material ya kutengeneza kitambaa ya meza. So maybe the mother too had insisted on having her kitenge match her sons outfit on the wedding day. If that’s what mom has in mind, then respectfully, hell no.

The show comes to an end. All I heard from my mom was how to have a successful marriage by having a degree and a masters and a PhD.
I love you mom but hapo jameni ni uongo.
And that was the evening.

Dear Sponsor Continued By Duncan Kilonzo

Mouth agape, shook to the core, trembling in shock, speechless, Skremu stood still not knowing how to react to what we were witnessing. The same reaction on my face as we stood there watching what had just happened, not really knowing what to do next, I guess this is how Shebesh felt after the mighty Kidero slap ayayaya!!  You see, moments ago, while waiting for the lovely Fiona and her friend, the old guy had pulled up and started pacing around the waiting area while making a phone call to someone whom they exchanged a hearty laughter with and a brief period hanged up, tucking his huge belly under the belt. With a scarlet red rose in his hands, a smile plastered across his face and slight notion of happy eagerness in his gait, he stood across from us away from the amber street lights towering over us, I guess he didn’t want to be spotted by his wife or labda akona deni ya mtu hapo, (at least that’s what I do when I owe someone money). Anyway so we wait a bit longer with Skremu, comforting ourselves that probably their makeup ran out na wakaenda kuomba kwa neighbor (mnajijua). So we keep ourselves busy by checking out the lovely yellow-yellows that use the route, dressed in skimpy dresses and loose attires, lazily going to the nearby eating center, commonly referred to as Klabu, while at the same time responding to their smile greetings and faint hand waves. And it was while I was checking out one particularly pretty Chiquita, in a short light night dress that Skremu pulled me back to reality by pointing in the direction of the hostel entrance…Fiona was coming out.
Our faces light up and Skremu does a final mouth breath check, good to go as we spot the two girls emerging looking all awesome, Fiona leading the way while staring at her phone and dialing at it, probably trying to call Skremu to ask about our whereabouts. Skremu hence fishes out his kabambe waiting for it to ring and alert her of our location. So Fiona raises her phone to her ear while at the same time scouting the area for any sign of us, all this time I am just checking out her friend. Dressed in a short black tight tumbo kat, (these days I hear it’s called a crop top) revealing her flat stomach area that bordered the pure white ripped jeans below that complemented the brown timberlands still with the price tag attached. She was not a yellow-yellow but chocolate is still good for me, the darker the berry…So now at least my predictions and expectations were met, actually surpassed. Can’t wait for this night to fruition, so I nudge at Skremu to pick up the phone as Fiona was clearly calling him, but to my surprise his phone wasn’t even vibrating, not even a text message. To add paraffin to the fire, we could see Fiona actually talking to someone on the phone, she glances around and doesn’t even spot us, but her face lights up, in response to a wave she’s getting from someone else. Puts down the phone in her pocket, signals at Carol who accompanies her, heading towards our direction, Skremu adjusts his coat ready for a hug. This joy is however short-lived as the old guy comes out of nowhere, heading straight towards the pair, his arms raised out towards Fiona. Her DAD!!!
Waah msee hii story imekua tricky sana, uyo ni buda yake amekuja so itabidi tujichuje. I advised Skremu in a tone of alarm, taking some steps backwards away from the scene, not to be seen by her dad. Skremu was however way ahead of me and already increasing his pace away from the trio in shock, while at the same time glancing back to try and see any trace of relation between Fiona and the man. Oya Danko sidhani uyo ni babake, he pointed out, stopping fast in his tracks, squinting his eyes for a better view. His suspicions are however confirmed by their action, the old man holds Fiona by the waist even after the hug, with his hand slowly caressing it with a grin on his face, the other hand handing Fiona the rose flower and a bundle of cash. She lights up and screams hugging the man, mostly hugging his protruding belly, followed by a light pec on his fluffy cheeks. At this point his fat hand is no longer around her waist, but lower and Fiona seems to even enjoy it as she smiles seductively at the man, whose reciprocate smile reveals one gold tooth, complementing the enormous glittering rings on his fingers that seem really expensive. After a brief introduction of Carol to the man, he holds both girls around their waists, directing them towards his awaiting car. Carol jumps into the backseat as the man opens the passenger door for Fiona with an evil smile across his wrinkled face. On his way back to get in the car, he spots us and sends a mean green look at us, he’d obviously spotted us checking the girls out before. Closing the black tinted door behind him, he roars the fuel guzzler to life and screeches away, leaving a cloud of dust behind. That’s the part where I remembered Visita’s song, Ivo Ndio Kunaendaga
Coughing from the huge cloud of dust left by the car, we swallow our pride and start walking back to our places, heads held low in shame, hands inside the pockets, Waah enyewe sio poa kujichocha. Yaani all this swag is going to go to waste, stood up and left for the cold of the chilly night. It is times like this that you just want to go and buy a tree seedling, water it to maturity, buy a rope and hang yourself on it. The same girls who were previously giving us heey’s and HI’s pass by and snob our greetings, as we try to redeem ourselves by maybe finding plan B to avenge for the shame caused. The taxi guy calls Skremu, prolly to notify him that he’s arrived, but he doesn’t even pick it up in frustration and even almost throws away the kabambe. With the bonus money however still intact, we decide to hit Klabu for a heavy supper, heavy enough to accommodate the copious amount of keg cups we’ll later have at the local keg place, conveniently called Makombe’s. After munching down on some ugali fry na juice ya mbao, we head on to Makombe’s. As it is Friday, the place is fully packed and we meet up with some familiar faces. Three keg cups down, Skremu starts blurring his Fiona sponsor problems to anyone who’d care to listen. My friend, Masha just so happened to be present and conveniently advises Skremu to vent his anger towards Fiona, something he immediately does in text…
Kwenda uko kabisa, ata…ata sitaki kukuona tena, you have felled us (umetuangusha) a lot.
I hope ushikwe na bibi ya uyo jamaa ata...na pia upate sup kwa exams, sups zote, ata mimi
Nitapata gari na nkikuona kwa njia ata sitakupea lift, very stupid…
He’d text more cruel stuff but I snatched away the phone just as he hit the send button. And at that very moment Skremu swore that his new ambition isn’t to be a doctor or pilot anymore, it’s to be a sponsor when he grows up, to revenge against Fiona. I seconded him as we slowly sip the seventh keg cup and drink away our sorrows.
So dear sponsors and sponsors-to-be out there mjue mnatuumiza, now the only way we can compete with you is by betting on Sportpesa, otherwise we have HELB, iTax na deni za mama mboga to worry about, but ngoja tu nishinde jackpot, I will be the youngest sponsor around, ladies watch out for this hehe…

Dear Sponsor By Duncan Kilonzo

So last week my friend, Skremu won really big on that magic site, Sportpesa. “Msee nimeshinda bonus kubwa this time, ata saa hii naeza kuwa sponsor wa Fiona” he came jumping at me in a happy-frenzied manner, like that of Ronaldo after winning the Euros. At first I didn’t understand him, having sworn off betting and all, the terminologies have never, up to this day, stuck to memory and so I inquired further on this ‘bonus’ thing, something he was really happy to answer. I know most of you guys don’t bet so I will spare you the details and sum it up in one word…money, lots of money. So anyway, we are there celebrating and start building castles in the air of how many things we would do with the money including, but not limited to buying Thika Road, eating special madondo at Kempinski, visiting Oprah, you know, realistic things. Now I know you are there asking, who is this Fiona girl he is talking about, well don’t worry, lemme explain. You see there are lot of adjectives I could use to describe her, but beautiful sums it all up. From the long flowing hair (na sio ya farasi ama ya Abuja), to the curvy edges around the waist area, to the yellow-yellow skin complexion, to the starry eyes, not to mention the filled bosom that has all members of team Mafisi drooling over. And what’s more, she knows she looks good and so she always walks around in tempting gaits and dresses tighter than Michael Jackson’s pants, in short everyone wants to dandia her.
But by respecting the laws of economics of demand and supply of course it’s hard to actually get her, hell it’s almost impossible to even talk to her, of course unless you have money, when money talks Fiona listens, trust me she does. So anyway Skremu decides to chocha himself saying now that he has gotten some windfall gains he’ll be able to meet her huge financial demands, I clearly know this is next to impossible, but who am I to down his spirits…go for it man, jenga jina haribu wallet!! So Skremu texts, scratch that, calls (which he rarely does) Fiona. After 3 failed attempts, she finally picks the call; and with a bored tone answers, ni nani? Shocked and stocked that she doesn’t have his number, Skremu stutters his name with a forced hearty laugh, and expecting her to reciprocate the laugh and light up, patiently waits for her response, but to his shock she actually hangs up! This sends me rolling to the floor in uncontrollable mocking laughter, holding my ribs that were now aching in laughter. Clearly angered by her action, Skremu decides to reveal his actual intentions to the snobby girl and texts her….
Hi Fiona, ni Skremu the guy from UoN, we met last month at your friend’s, Rehema, birthday bash, nlikununulia ile keg cup and you said you liked my dancing after that and we exchanged contacts. Anyway I am just texting to ask if you’d like to go out this Friday with me to Club Aqua. Kutakua na shisha and some drinks =)  
This text was obviously not going to work, at least not the way Skremu expected, I am very sure Fiona has better plans for the weekend, given all the guys that are after her, most of them clearly richer than my broke ass friend who is about to spend all his newly earned windfall gains on a chic who doesn’t even know his name. That, and also the fact that he included the “I bought you a keg cup” in the text, an obvious turn off for the Ciroc and Jameson- used chic. But actually to our surprise, Skremu’s phone beeps and he immediately picks it up throwing a mocking face in my direction with the “in your face” look. He lights up while reading the text, and so snatch it from him and read it out…
Xaxa Alex, aki pole sikuwa najua ni wewe, nlipotexa ximu but nakukumbuka. Btw ata nlikua natafuta planx xa weekend xaxa ntakam twende, uxixahau kunikujia ama utumane taxi na shisha pia ikuwe kwa wingi kwa xababu nakuja na bexhte yangu pia…
Now I thought that  only guys from muchatha  use the ‘x’ instead of ‘s’, but apparently even the pretty upstate girls do, a part I pointed out to Skremu, but that’s not even the elephant in the room, it is the last part of the text that was the issue. She’s bringing her friend, which is an added cost, plus a taxi, something that will cause a huge dent in the budget, a dent Skremu was still willing to take. To balance out the girl-boy ratio, Skremu offers me a chance to accompany him to the event, something I reluctantly accept but then he comforts me saying he will cover all costs. I immediately consult my limited wardrobe options and settle for a simple look, a checked Vybz Kartel sweatshirt (zile za Ngara) a faded pair of trousers that I had inherited from my elder brother and worn out third-hand bubble gummers shoes I had bought for 200bob from my local shoe dealer, Mose. Believe it or not that’s my Sunday-best look, something I still pride myself in. So the day, Friday finally arrives and I am exhilarated about the evening’s offers. You know how birds of the same feather flock together, I have my fingers tightly crossed that Fiona’s friend, Carol is equally pretty, something that prompts me to spray on some borrowed cologne, like the ones Muslims spray, Binti wa Fatuma. All clad and looking fresh, I head on to Skremu’s place.
Clad in a slim-fit beige coat, with a Jordan 23 t-shirt underneath, well-ironed khaki pants and sleek red Converse shoes, Skremu was clearly dressed to kill plus a slight hint of Polo cologne wafting airily behind him. The Sportpesa guys had really hooked him up good, unless hizo zilikua nguo za kuomba. After a short phone conversation between Skremu and the taxi guy, we head on out, not even stopping for HI’s and heey’s from other girls who were waving at us, clearly impressed by our sharp look and that rich money appearance we had going on. With our sight set heavily towards the building that is the ladies hostels, we increase our pace, with a slight swagger in our step, looking like some superstars out of a James Bond movie. So Skremu calls Fiona up notifying her of our presence, and she responds positively, tunakam xaa hii. And so we decide to wait outside the hostels, knowing it would be like 30 minutes, wakiweka make-up. While we are still there, a sleek black carbon Mercedes AMG car pulls up and parks near the hostel entrance. Few minutes later a short, pot-bellied, triple-chinned man in his forty’s steps out with a big expensive-looking phone in his hand clearly looking/waiting for someone. At first we ignore him as we have more pressing matters at hand, but what happens next shocks the crap out of us…

SCHOOL BUS

I know what most of you must be thinking. But no, I am not going to talk about that school bus. Not today. That is in the past now. I am going to talk about my ride in a school bus this evening. My little brother’s school bus. You know one of those lucky days you’re “footing” and then a local school bus driver spots you and stops for you. And you get in. And you feel so lucky. And that’s how you save some fare if at all you had any. Yeah, so it happened to me today as I was walking home from the market* (type of market not specified) and boy, it felt good!
So I sat and after all the stares at me from all these kids and at my phone that was ringing, after my brother rushing to say hallo to my bag and its contents- what it had in store for him- and after I had received the uncomfortable call from my father, I realized that I was actually the only person seated in the bus. Well, plus the driver. The children were still playing, jumping from seat to seat…Good Lord! Don’t they ever get tired? I mean, isn’t this what they do all day at school? How do they do this? They were having a good time, these kids and I wished I could become a kid all over again. However, that thought lasted only about half a second. God, no, I do not want to be a kid again. I do not want to sit KCPE again. Or to learn parts of a bloody praying mantis again. Not again.
They made me think about my days in primary school. How we would walk to school every day, how we would cross our river faithfully and dutifully, come rain come shine, literally. And when the river was breaking its banks and we thought we could get an excuse to break the rules (skip school), our mums would carry us across it. So that’s how we managed to go to school every day; not using school buses like these kids around me still admiring my phone and now checking out my cool hairstyle –the girls just had boring lines on their heads.
During our days, buses were used to travel to the city and did schools have buses? No, maybe universities or those other schools in the city. Who knew? In our village, there was only one secondary school that had a pickup. We all wanted to go there when we grew up. It was unclear, however, whether the pickup belonged to the headmaster or to the school because it had the school logo and it was always driven around by the headmaster.
Our school had nothing close to a pickup, let alone a school bicycle. No, let alone a school wheelbarrow. You know, even a crippled one for display or a donated one for carrying yellow maize from the relief food lorry to Five East for distribution? (You remember yellow maize? You know, corn? The one they were testing on us to see if it actually doesn’t kill?). But we were just fine. We of the 20th century are an amazing bunch. Hakuna maneno mingi. Hakuna matata. Surely, children of this present century could not cope with half of what we went through. But then again they have their fair share of tribulations. 21st century problems: Waking up at four. Even before their fathers (or mothers for those prepped by the house help) so that they can catch the bus at five. So much for the early bird that catches the worm. Most of these kids are too young and it’s too early in life for them to be early birds. Too early in the morning to catch any worm. For Chrissake even the worms are still safely asleep in their holes.
But then there were still a few traitors in the 20th century that had school buses. Probably those that now eat burgers and don’t know what beans are. Those who don’t even know wat boerewors is. Those that studied at Sunrise Academy and Brilliance group of schools. The Sherryls and Beryls and Whitneys and Britneys. The Karls and Kyles and Lous and Lees. The Briannas and Biancas and Speciozas and Speranzas. Those that when asked wat COD abbreviates say “Call of Duty” instead of Cash on Delivery. The Brayos* and Kevos and Patos and Martos. *(emphasis on Brayo). Brayo from my discussion group in school actually said this. Haki Brayo utatumaliza.
Back to this particular school bus. These kids are speaking English, Kiswahili or a mix of both. A good mix. A beautiful mixture. You do not want to know what our mixture back in the day sounded like. I won’t even call it a mixture; that’s too decent. It was something else, more like a concoction. A nasty concoction. These kids are well dressed and are not stealing anything from the bus. The driver’s water is exactly where it was an hour ago. Even the sponges making up the seats are undisturbed, unpinched. Everything’s in order. There’s always one naughty one, though. Or two, or three. These are the ones that will promote themselves to the position of bus conductor but generally, these kids are civilized.
At school, they speak English, perhaps French. They eat good food, sing real songs; real lyrics. School is fun. Even children as young as my little nephew (we’ll call him Papsi) want to carry their daddy’s backpack or their mummy’s handbag and run (sorry, ride the bus) to school. Yes, they know about the school bus. Papsi knows about the school bus. “Skubash”, he says. You see, an enlightened generation, a bright future. The chosen generation.
Papsi. My nephew. Two years old. Very handsome. This guy is something else. A charmer, killer smile. Ever heard of involuntary responses? This guy stimulates one of those; the smile. A long face is a non-occurrence at their house. Try wearing a long face and this guy will give you a warm hug, a peck and he will look at you with those innocent eyes and that cheeky, chubby and cute face. Ladies and gentlemen when this happens you will have no choice but to smile from ear to ear. Involuntarily. He is full of warmth and charmth. When you meet Papsi, you can walk to the ends of the earth for him. That’s Papsi for you.
Hold on, did I say there were only two of us seated? Incorrect. There was Dylan. I hadn’t seen Dylan. The driver’s son. Woe unto you if the driver is your father. Woe unto Dylan. He has to sit next to his father every single day. And however much he seems to yearn to have a little fun with his friends, he has to sit there and be a good boy and be sad and watch his daddy drive the school bus. Let’s hope he picks up a few driving skills. Let’s hope that he owns a nice car in the future and that he drives it like a crazy man.
As you can see, I thought about many things during this little journey of mine but guess what, I didn’t miss my stop. I just couldn’t. You see, that’s the thing with school buses. You are reminded where your home is as though every time you leave home for school, everyone is reassigned a new home or your home somehow readjusts its position in line with the sun or the wind or the equator or anything else that matters. But then again perhaps that’s why our kids come back home every day. Perhaps why my lovely little brother comes back to this very home every evening. And safe.