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.

The Big Boss

Fathers’ day. Just the other day. Sunday. Well, two Sundays ago. And it got me thinking a lot about family. What family should be like, I mean how it actually is supposed to be versus how it really is. The reality of it.
Fathers are the heads and the focus of their families. Believe me when I say that more than 60% of the times, a family is what it is, becomes what it is depending on the kind of head it has. Fathers are important. Very important. And of course not every family has got a father but then there is always a father figure.
According to a new study led by Dr. Daniel Nettle at the University of Newcastle in Britain, children who spend time with their fathers have a higher IQ and are more socially mobile than those that receive little attention. Strong fatherly involvement in their early life improves a child’s future career prospects. They become better in terms of skills and abilities that endure throughout adult life; the differences are detectable by the age of 42!The research also shows that it’s not enough for parents to live together but that a father should be actively involved in a child’s life to benefit their development.
A dad may not change the baby’s diaper or spend sleepless nights worrying that it may be hungry again but they have a power that goes beyond that; a leadership role. He is an exemplary figure to be admired, respected and emulated by his descendants. That’s a father. A captain. The big boss. The top man. A role model. Don’t you hear kids all the time saying how much they want to be a soldier or a teacher like their dads when they grow up? How much they want to be number one in class because their father promised to buy them a bicycle if they did? And how much they get excited as they narrate these stories? How they threaten the nurse that injects them with the tetanus vaccine that daddy will be very angry with them and will punish them severely for hurting his child?
Fathers, most of you just don’t see it but you mean the world to your kids. They look up to you. They long for your presence. That’s right, your presence. Not your endless gifts and promises. They help, yes, definitely but being there; showing him how to buckle up a belt, teaching her how to write down your phone number, going out with him to hunt for rabbits. That’s what matters the most. Being a dad. Kids need not know about your existence, they need to feel your presence. Your love. Your fatherly love.
Fatherly love: As necessary as the polio vaccine or vitamin D. And this is not a joke. Its deficiency has adverse effects. Consequences such as some girls seeking sponsors, boys who have sworn never to marry and have families, young men and women with emotional issues; they who do not appreciate affection and cannot give it. Ask me why: Dad-deficiency. One of the worst kind of deficiencies.
There is no man I respect more than a man that is committed to his family and that takes care of his children. A man that teaches his kids responsibility in the right ways; corrects them when they do it wrong, applauds them when they get it right. A man that is proud of is family. A man whose offspring feel challenged by him and want to be just like him. You still don’t know what I’m talking about? That guy who in between his busy schedule and many meetings and perhaps travels still finds time for his family. Now that’s what I’m talking about! And such men exist. Big up to them. God bless y’all.
And something else, it is impossible to be a good husband before you are a good father and honestly for me that’s the first qualification I will always look for.
Reality: But then now there are these men who have totally changed the idea of family. I look around and I don’t see families anymore. This is what I see; a crowd of individuals with a common ancestry living within a given space they call home when the last thing it resembles is a home. A screwed up battalion with no commander. Or with a tremendously awful one. An actual home should be peaceful and full of love but mostly, these individuals confined within this particular space can’t stand each other. And that’s where fathers should come in to right the situation. But do they? Or how can they when most times they are the reason for the situation?
To the good fathers; you are my heroes. To the terrible fathers; I really hope with all of my heart that you can change and bring some joy to the hearts of the creatures you brought to this world. They didn’t ask for any of this.
And boys listen to me. When you become a father, be a father. Not a provider, not a donor, not a sponsor. Do this and see how good your life will be. How happy and peaceful you will become. Because your family will be happy. Just how much the whole society will transform. Just how much the importance of family will be restored.

Virtue and the Virtuous

“Beauty attracts the man but it’s the virtues that keep him. Beauty keepeth no man because it’s in abundance but virtuous women are rare. He who findeth a virtuous woman should cling to her like a tick on a Friesian’s mammary gland for there is no softer tissue to land on than that.” (Chadwick Bironga, 2016). I think Chadwick is right. Chadwick is wise. Chad, the noble one. And yes, mammary glands are soft and tender and wonderful. We all know that, don’t we, ma’men? Mammary glands are good. Mammary glands are beautiful. Mammary glands are productive. But let’s agree not to talk about them today. Let’s talk about virtue.
Virtue. What is virtue? Virtue is a word that may mean so many things to so many people but generally it is a behavior exhibiting high moral standards, and morality is controversial. High moral standards in a normal school may not be perceived as so in a Catholic school and may be seen as total immorality in a convent. I was in a Catholic school by the way; our school motto even had virtue in it. It went, “Knowledge flowers in virtue.” It is a good motto, the best I have ever come across. So good that a school that once came to benchmark copied then pasted it on their walls, right after deleting their own. And I believe that knowledge does really flower in virtue. Now, I am not saying that I am virtuous but I am knowledgeable. I know that Chadwick’s statement up there is valid. And I know that Chadwick is knowledgeable, so maybe I am virtuous after all, even just a tiny bit. That would depend on you, observer and that would depend too on my circumstance.
A virtuous woman can be an occurrence anywhere; in the club, in the classroom, in the matatu…even in the church! (Of course in the church) In the church where it is completely possible to find, by my standards or by any standards in existence, a non-virtuous woman. A slut. A whore (a hoe?) The kind that go to church to check out that new guy in the neighbourhood. She that knows all the men outside the church and so knows that she does not want to marry any of them and so goes to the church to try to know these faithfuls as well. (Men outside the church are not bad men, most of them. They are just real, unlike most of their religious counterparts). She whose aim is to confuse the man of God, to format his brain completely; who makes the mchungaji forget the first thing about the sermon he and his lovely and loving wife had prepared and rehearsed for six days. She who now makes the pastor begin to preach about the love of God.  She who sits in the front row with a short skirt and devastatingly gorgeous thighs. Fisettes.
Just now I am seated next to a man who has quite frankly made my day. He has been on phone and he has been saying this, “kama ulilala na kijana yangu si uongee na yeye na uache kunisumbua mimi…usinipigie simu tena…si uko over eighteen…” and I was laughing- at the subject of the conversation and the man’s tonal variations and his face as he spoke to this woman- everyone was laughing out loud so I didn’t really hear the rest of the conversation. I don’t usually listen in on people’s phone calls but don’t you agree that this one was an interesting one? I couldn’t help it. This was not a good conversation. It wasn’t a comfortable conversation to pay attention to. And it wasn’t normal. Apparently, the woman on the other end of the line was a twenty-three year old lady. I repeat, twenty-three year old lady. I tried to scan for any trace of virtue she may have acquired or contracted in the twenty three years of her life. I am still scanning. Why was she calling this man? He has said some mean things, a lot of mean things. He has quite a sense of humour. But he has left. And I am still scanning.
He has, however, left me wondering about virtue in the salon. Wondering if there is virtue in the salon. Our twenty three year old lass is a hairdresser. I have been in salons many times. Not too many but many times (I hate the pain I go through there; it’s one of the worst few hours of my life). So I have been there. And I have heard things, horrible things. Terrifying things. Things I will not comment on for local and national security. But I have nothing against salon people. I work there sometimes, I can braid. And I have seen upright women, women of substance.
So you see what I am talking about? Virtue is everywhere. When you see a woman in a club, drunk and wasted, do not judge. Know the full story. She is probably doing some research on the effects of alcohol and drugs. She is probably a mystery shopper. She may even be an undercover cop so be careful. She may be blossoming with virtue. She may be the very definition of virtuousness. Virtue is all around us. Find virtue. Identify virtue. Grab a virtuous woman today. Grab and be happy. Grab.

Sharon Koech.

Quit Calling me dear

Dear Safaricom, -and there is a very good reason why I just called you that- I think we need to talk. Am I really dear to you? No. I am not stupid. Today you go, “dear customer…” and the next day, “dear Sharon…” But you know what? I do not appreciate you calling me that especially since you do not really mean it. Let’s get real here. When do you call me that sweet name? All the time? Absolutely not. You only make me feel special only when you need something from me.
“Dear customer,” you go, “please pay your outstanding Okoa Jahazi debt before tomorrow 27/05/2016…” You even give me ultimatums! Look here, I know I owe you sometimes. I am a needy subscriber who chooses to utilise some of the few considerate services-with consequences, of course-you offer. Yet you will still harass me, “dear customer, pay your M-shwari balance of KES 500 before tomorrow…” You just won’t understand. You won’t even do this poor desperate consumer a little favour and extend her ‘safe days’. I do you a big favour every day, you know. Been doing it for seven years now. Oh! You are surprised? Let me enlighten you.
Every morning, I wake up with a chance to make the right choice. To run away with Airtel with his Unliminet promotions. To elope with Orange and all his free internet bundles. Sadly, I choose to stick with you, to stand by you every single day! But you never stop. “Dear customer, your daily data bundles are almost depleted. Please check your balance…They are now completely finished, please buy them again…log in to www.safaricom.com and check out our new amazing deals then promote us…it’s always about you. It’s always been about you!
Why do I never witness something like this, “dear customer, you have received Ksh.20 airtime from 713381204 at 13:05 am 14/05/2016?” Don’t you think I need that kind of support from you to get through the thought that my brother could send me only twenty shillings? I get it. You are not happy when something good happens to me but for Pete’s sake (who’s Pete anyway?) it’s just twenty freaking shillings! Not a hundred. Twenty. How mean can you get? Do you even know the significance of the word ‘dear’? Normally when somebody calls me that, my heart should do the happy dance. My butterflies should also dance and jump around and refuse to settle. But do you know just how much now you give them second thoughts? How much you confuse them?  My poor little butterflies.
So now I hope we are clear. Safaricom, I do not like you. I really do not. I am pretty sure you must be wondering why then I called you our little interesting name. Simple. You do all these mean, heartless, heinous acts to me. To us. I am not the only one. Then you come back smiling and trying to be romantic. How about you go to hell?  How does that make you feel, Saf? How do you feel right now? Well, that’s how we feel everyday. Just way worse. So please, please, please never call me ‘dear’. Ever. I am one “dear” away from bursting with fury.
But I love M-pesa. M-pesa is awesome.

Point of return

Are you afraid?” Martina asked Maria. And there was Maria already defending herself, “afraid? Is that even a word?"
“That was rather quick. You literally almost jumped out of your skin when I asked that. You are nervous and scared, I would say. And downright shaking.  And you know you don’t have to do it if you are not ready, don’t you?
But Maria was not one to be discouraged. It was a point of no return. “Don’t you even go there. We have been through this. I am doing it. I am actually doing it.” And now jumping while throwing her hands all over, it was unclear whether it was nervousness or excitement but she was screaming, “Martina, I am seriously going to do this incredibly crazy thing! It is however important to note that if anything goes wrong, it’s on you. Wasn’t it your idea? Was it not?"And off she was gone.
Her friend was confused whether to wonder what had got into her head or to run after her and stop all this crap. But this crap at this moment meant the world to Maria.  And Martina, her longtime friend (well, long enough to know the extent of damage Matayo had caused her), knew this. She watched her friend walk gracefully and she sank into the grass and hoped, even prayed for the best. Back to damage; Maria Magdalena Mahanda or “Triple M” as they called her was a troubled lady. A damaged one in her head, in her heart and clearly manifested in her performance in her work, her studies and social life. She was not half as efficient as she once was. She paid less and less and less attention to her studies and of course the detriment of that is quite obvious. Luckily for her, even without much studying, she still managed to pass. She was brilliant. Her social life was a mess. She did not interact very well with people around her, she felt uncomfortable and distant and out of place, poor Maria. Most of the time, she preferred to stay locked away in her room all by herself. Not that she did not like her friends, no. She just did not appreciate people crowding her space and she sometimes felt guilty for that. She hated it when she had to make  something up to send them away so that she could be left alone. She was not a liar; she just loved her freedom. And her privacy. 
This girl was a very private human being. When other girls would change their clothes publicly, she would be ashamed for them. She didn’t understand why anyone would do that. Why anyone would expose some “fundamental” parts of them and smile like nothing is wrong. But deep down, she sometimes wished she could be like everyone else. That she could fit in and be free. Be like other girls in many aspects except in the aspect of makeup. She loathed makeup. That and the way some girls treated relationships so casually. Just for fun, they said, and that sent fury waves through this lady that found relationships a big, big, very big deal. Big enough that she had never managed or even thought of getting herself into one. Because they are an incredibly big deal. And the girls stared at her with their cheap lip gloss fake smiles and there again she felt that familiar pang of rejection and complete alienation. Yet she felt she could share a room for a decade with Matayo without feeling anything but absolute happiness. She was not sure about the changing-her-clothes part though. But Triple M was sure of one thing: She could live in Kalahari Desert, Sahara Desert, Namib, Atacama, Mojave and Gibson deserts simultaneously and without a shred of sadness. Simply put, Matayo was joy and joy was Matayo. That was precisely why she went to seek him that day.
Matayo was an overly handsome man. Maria had noticed this the first second she set her eyes on him. That was two years, three months, one day and seventeen hours ago, around the same time she met Martina. She notice his height, his broad shoulders and a few other things she had never noticed in any man before. She even noticed the white T-shirt he had worn beneath his clean, well pressed, striped shirt and how much of a good boy it made him look. She thought she was going crazy and she was right. She was immeasurably crazy over this tall, handsome, athletic son of somebody. She was always blown away by his killer smile and perfect dentition. How they accessorized his already manly and dark skin. Normally she would have loved some beard to complete these good looks but abnormally, she loved him just the way he was. The thought of all that awesomeness compelled her to fasten her strides and widen her smile. She was finally going to profess her love for this unbelievable man. She was excited and let’s not even begin to talk about the level of the blend of anxiety and nervousness and fear that consumed her now that she was approaching his room. She had never been in it before but he had mentioned his room number to her many months back and of course she had not forgotten it just like she could never forget any detail of any conversation they had ever had. She even remembered why his cousin’s friend had sold his favorite duck and how his sister’s ex-boyfriend had choked on goat ribs on his grandmother’s friend’s burial. She liked to lie to herself that it was due to her excellent memory but she knew the real reason. Anyone would know.
She did not know if she would be welcome at his premises and how Dear Matayo would react to the news. She wondered if he would jump with joy and lift her high in the process. If he would inform her about how long he had waited to hear those words from her rosy lips. For the three hundred and seventeenth time she asked herself loudly if she thought Matayo would take her news enthusiastically and almost immediately heard Martina’s voice, “he will love you, sugar. You will tell me a good story tonight.” And now for the hundred and eighteenth time she asked herself the exact same question. This time, she did not require her friend’s voice or any other voices in her head to reassure her. Matayo’s friends walked past her speaking about the gorgeous lady that was in Matayo’s room the previous night. They were so deep in their conversation that they didn’t even notice her. That gorgeous lady must have been really gorgeous. She was broken. At that exact moment, Handsome Matayo emerged from the common men’s room with a towel wrapped around his waist and no other garment to conceal his perfect physique. He had obviously just taken a shower and he looked attractive as hell. “Hey Maria!” came his magnificently deep voice and our girl froze and instantly lacked words. “I…er…er…I had…uh…I’d come to see a friend at 412 but he is not around. I’ll…uh…I will leave now Matayo. Good to see you”. And she was gone.
“Maria, would you…like to meet my sister” But she was gone. “…she is just here in my room…” She was really gone.
Matayo stood there for a minute with an amused smile and Maria returned to her depression. Back to her damage. Fast.

FEMME KOITALEL

It's finally here! The Sharon Koech BlogSpot.
Hello and welcome. You know, I have thought about doing this from time to time but clearly thinking alone hasn’t been enough. I have procrastinated about it too much, I have become an expert at it. But this ends now. It’s about time. Some friends have encouraged me to create a blog, one of them even suggested I name it Femme Koitalel, which as you can see, I did. Though it pained me to do it. It always pains me to admit he’s got a good point. The last thing I want is to make him feel too important. But I thought about it, considered it and lowered my pride. He must be bouncing off the walls right now. But thanks, Mutembei. Just this once bruh, just this once. The guy thinks I am a Femme Fatale (probably a punchline) and that I come from a clan called Koitalel. Very funny.
Femme Koitalel. That’s genius, yeah? But then I am not even a Nandi. Never heard of a clan called Koitalel. My clan has one of those funny names. I only read about Koitalel Arap Samoei in the books of History. And I think he was a great guy. A legend. No, wait. My little nephew is a direct descendant of this legend, I hear. So maybe it’s just fine to involve myself with him.
Also, I’ve felt like a nuisance to some two small boys here. Two smart little boys whose blogs I have used from time to time. Damn! They inspire me. And I should be the role model, shame on me! Meet little Kevin at www.kevinkoech.blogspot.com Catch littler Martin here: www.martinmahanda.blogspot.com. These two people are awesome. I appreciate you guys!
Something else: Here we shall have fun, learn, have fun, criticize, have fun, applaud and have fun. A lot of satire and analyses of everyday happenings. We shall notice what no one else does and we shall talk about it. And you will feel at home because every issue I will bring up will sure as hell be relevant to your life or to the life of someone you know or someone you will never know. We shall be a little serious sometimes and very serious some other times. But we will never forget to have a good time. Nobody has to be sad. Tell you what, it has never helped anyone to be sad. But anytime you detect a trace of sadness in your life, grab a Sharticle, enjoy it and everyone goes home happy.

Cheers!