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.