We are in Migingo. Not in Lake Victoria, but somewhere in Pipeline. If you haven’t heard about Migingo, that’s fine. We haven’t heard about you either. To my international audience, it’s a restaurant, but to the locals it’s a kibandaski that offers culinary delights kwa bei ya mwanachi. It doesn’t have a door. The menu is written on the wall. I’m with Ken. He frequents this place a lot. How do I know? The waiter, who also doubles as a cook, asks him “Utakula nini Leo?” And he says “Kawaida”.

“Na je wewe kastomaa?”

I stare at the menu, and I don’t see anything-partly due to my short-sighted vision, and mostly because of the soot that has accumulated on the menu. With much conviction I say, “Kama yeye”

Soon, a plate of tilapia, flanked by greens, and a huge ugali like this arrives.

As I pick through the bones, my mind starts wandering into dangerous territory. I begin asking myself life’s toughest questions. Do fish ever get thirsty? Most importantly, is a fisherman’s net part of his net worth? The more I eat, the wiser I become. Suddenly, I understand why my parents insisted I eat fish the night to an exam.

Then I think about the fisherman. Where does he belong in the food chain? That thought quickly turns inward. Where do I belong in the food chain? And you…wewe…where do you belong in the food chain?

See, when I left university, I was a fair man. I still am, to some extent. I believed in justice. I believed that people should reap where they sow. I believed that if you worked hard and played fair, life would reward you accordingly.

Then adulthood happened.

Out here, things don’t always work like that. You have to fight for your spot in the food chain. It’s a jungle, and there is but one rule: hunt or be hunted.

I’m a little older now, and I’ve realized something else. The older you get, the more baggage you have to carry, and somehow, the less strength you have to lift it. I don’t know if I’m wiser, but I’ve learned a few things.

I’ve learned that if you are in Nairobi and your parents know exactly what you do for a living, then your chances of owning an S-Class, a Maybach, or a G-Wagon are slim. I’m assuming you know what those are.

I’ve also learned that the more physically demanding your job is, the less you are paid. Akili Mjini, Nguvu kijijini. Somewhere along the way, I realized the food chain isn’t just in the lake. It’s in the office, on the streets, in boardrooms, and heck, even in bedrooms. Everyone is trying to eat. The only difference is the menu.

I flip the fish the other side, you know, Samaki haliwi pande moja. As I do, I find myself reflecting on my own life.

My mum doesn’t know what I do for a living. To be fair, neither do I on some days. I do many things. Vitu mingi. Ma one two. Because these days you can’t just be one thing. You can’t simply be msee wa nduthi. You also have to be a goon, or be the one recruiting the goons. Side hustles, you know?

I’ve done a little bit of this and a little bit of that. Jobs came and went. I took my beatings like a man. Somewhere along the way, I miscarried a few dreams. I wanted to become a scientist, these days I dream of becoming a columnist in what people keep insisting is a dying profession.

I have tried my hands at almost every word that ends with “graphy”. Photography. Videography. Cinematography. Choreography. Everything except…well… you know pornography. A man has to draw the line somewhere.

See, my cousin Kukeys, an artist. I know you haven’t heard of him because I know you haven’t heard him. But despite his fame still being under construction, he once wrote a line that perfectly highlights the situation kwa ground, he says:

“Ile kazi unafanya si matokeo ya shule…kazi ni kazi umepatiwa ina manufaa jitume”

And he’s right.

Most of us aren’t doing what we imagined we’d be doing when we graduated. But every skill I’ve picked up, every job I’ve stumbled into, has put food on the table. On most days, it has given me bread. And on the lucky days, it has even come with butter.

Now I’m on the head, because that’s the part you eat last. It’s also the hardest part for me. The struggle of devouring the fish head reminds me of the struggles that I’ve had to chew through huku njee.

Those I thought were doing me a favor by telling me, “Don’t call us; we’ll call you,” so I could save on airtime never called back.

I’ve had wins. I have suffered huge losses. There were mornings I woke up having nothing to do or nowhere to go. Tough times I remember. I even borrowed money with no intention of ever paying it back-Hustler Fund. But everyone’s done that, and in that regard, I am nothing special. To me, in this Bottom-Up economy, it was a fair game.

Somewhere along the way, I became brave, bold and shameless because that’s what you become when you don’t have a connected relative or when your last name doesn’t have the prefix “Kip” or “Chep”

You learn to knock on doors that were never meant to open for you. You force yourself into rooms, or you leave them. I’ve sat in rooms that smell of fresh air and in rooms that smell of air fresheners.

I’ve shared spaces with the rich, the powerful and the ordinary. And let me tell you, there’s nothing glamorous about being at the bottom of the food chain. I’ve even been called “mkubwa” by a man old enough to be my father’ age. What a pity.

Despite being a coffee lover, I’ve had to give out chai. Not for breakfast. Kitu kidogo, just to get what I know is rightfully and constitutionally mine. Of course, I am not writing anything new. We all selectively apply the gospel…turn a blind eye when we are benefitting. I am not condoning it, which is part of the problem, but I am not condemning it either, which is the other part of the problem.

Look, if we concede life is not fair, then we must also concede that someone is benefiting from that unfairness.

I may not be out of the floods (yet), but I know one thing: I can swim.

I have a lot to write, but I refrain from writing a lot. So, if you’re still wondering what I do for a living, just know two things: first, I breathe; and second, I might just be the sharp boy, so stay guided. And, judging by the way things are going… I could soon become a fisher of men.

Mmh!

This place smells, erm… fishy. Let me wash my hands.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

“…Manyopesa mano kela Nairobi…”

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Cc: To all men

I have good news and bad news. The good news is I’ve found someone I’d like to take home and do beautiful things with. The bad news is… I don’t have the home yet, simply because I’ve been waiting for deal fulani iivane. So, how far is the President with his affordable housing agenda? Because at this point, love is available, but infrastructure is pending. Welcome to the new Singapore. Or … is it Singapoor?

Anyway, it’s that sacred season again when most women will be shaving and waxing their valentine gift, and most men’s pockets will suffer, struggling to give Caesar what clearly does not belong to Caesar, all in the name of pleasing the daughters of Eve.

How do I know this?

Roho amenionyesha.

As an investor, I am here to warn and liberate you as a man. If she gets you a boxer and a pair of socks, refuse. You deserve better. Secondly, as a Nairobian, I’ve learnt that somethings sio lazima ziwork. Let your heart do what God intended it to do: pump blood. Hii mambo ya mapenzi wachana nayo, especially during Valentine’s simply because most of it is performative, showy, and rarely authentic.

If anything, it’s a trap, a commercialization of what was once a traditional day for lovers. In fact, extensive research conducted by me, shows that Valentine’s is an invention of feminists designed to legally consume men’s money. Don’t Google that. You won’t find it.

So, here are a couple(hehe) of things that you should know and absolutely not do. I will say this once. No questions, please.

1. Remember the auction is won by the highest bidder. We are men, donge? Competing is what we do. It’s in our DNA. All what a man want’s to do is smash. So, naturally, the chosen woman, the lass with the ass, has to be spoiled and well taken care of, because if you don’t, rest assured, someone else will.

2. Therefore, as long as you live, remember that with the right amount of money, you can buy love. A lot of it. Willing buyer, willing seller. In fact, a man is often only as faithful as his options. Or in cheaper terms, your men’s loyalty is sponsored by his brokenness. When he gets more money, he will naturally gravitate towards his type. The same, logic applies to women too.

3. You owe no woman a good life. Build yourself first.

4. Don’t borrow money to finance pleasure. Don’t use your 30k salary to impress her. And above all, don’t let titles like Bazenga or Mheshimiwa fool you. You are not rich(yet). The goal is to become rich, not to look rich. Save that change because well, change starts with you.

5. Put your mouth where your money is. Read that slowly and let it sink in. We have lost many men to crimes of passion. Do not go to her house. Someone else is paying the rent. Away matches rarely end well, they are historically unpredictable. Always maintain home advantage. Stay woke.

6. Don’t go down on her. Not in that way you, filthy bastard. I mean go down one Knee in town and pull out that red suitcase and a question. It’s absurd. Embarrassing. Leave that kind of theatrics to reality TV stars.

7. If you must propose, do it in your house. Not in the streets. First of all, town is dirty and full of potholes. Utaumia magoti bure. Wacha upuzi. Secondly, chances are that she won’t agree to spend the rest of her life with you. Don’t do that shit no matter what Holy Wood would make you believe. We will “woishe” you hapo X then immediately convert you into a meme. Don’t risk it.

8. If she didn’t love you in January, what makes you think February will suddenly change things? My brother, you are delulu. She’s on a mission to eat your little money before heading back to her richer boyfriend(s). She’ll use your little money as transaction costs for her trip to the coast, courtesy of her richer boyfriend or mubaba.

9. Don’t waste your money passing by City Market for flowers. Instead do what ArrDee said. Give her some good wood. Tell her, “People are hugging trees, but I have the only tree worth hugging.” A 72-hour record won’t be too bad. Trust me, Valentine’s performance metrics are subjective anyway.

10. If you don’t get your flowers as a man, don’t fret. Men don’t really need flowers. Your first bouquet will arrive at your funeral. Think about it: haven’t you wondered why roses are red? And why we call it a “red flag”? Coincidence? I don’t think so.

11. Don’t pay for anything. If anything, pay attention to other aspects of your life. Health. Wealth, and self-growth. Valentine’s is temporaty, buy your empire lasts forever. If she calls you stingy, simply tell her it’s because you are saving for a trip to Singapore via Canaan.

12. If you are not ready to be a father by November, wrap it before you dip it. #condomize.

13. Lakini yote tisa. Ya kumi, (or is it thirteen, who’s counting?) Don’t spend all your energy on sex and all your money on women; they have destroyed kings. If you must indulge, make sure she’s a Proverbs 31: 10-31 woman.

If you follow this advice blindly, that’s on you.

I am drunk. I am drunk in love. I am writing this from an Airbnb in Nairobi’s Sodom and Gomorrah-Kilimani. There’s a girl beside me, asleep. Don’t ask why. I took out my laptop and started banging the keyboard waiting for her to wake.

Now she has. And I have to go,

To ladies, happy valentines. To the men, see you at men’s conference. But before I disappear… just one thing. How affordable is affordabable housing?

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

“….Instead do what ArrDee said. Give her some good wood.”

More Humorous Articles by D.A

On this side of town, we are not known for our extravagant taste, posh lifestyle, or any ground breaking business acumen. If anything, people know us for one thing-appetite. Not taste, just appetite. Our major investment is the kisiagi, which explains why tume-unga. We are also proudly known for our flawless Wallah Bin Wallah Kiswahili mufti, and our signature suffix “-ko.” For instance: “Hebu kamatako hii salamu”. And of course, Radio Jambo is our revered radio station. It’s our unofficial mediation Centre; that’s where all our relationships problems are fixed-Patanisho.

The only time, you will hear about us is when something bizarre or utterly ridiculous has happened: “Shock in Kakamega as dead man is buried in sitting position,” “Drama in Kakamega as coffin refuses to be buried,” “Kakamega dead body sets itself on fire.” “Shock in Kakamega as man…” Well, the shock and the drama are usually for the rest of the nation and sometimes the world. For us? It’s normal. Hizi vitu tumezoea.

Everything else you’ve heard about us is true. We are welcoming, and yes-we are great in bed. The great Nabongo Mumia of the Wanga Kingdom, the first Luhya to ever own a vehicle and a motorcycle, once said you are still a virgin until you’ve been with a man from Kakamega. Okay, fine, I made that up. But you get the point. In fact, rumors have it that King Solomon himself was from the great tribe of Luhya and not Judah. This is all thanks to our unlimited supply of mukhombero and Njugu.

But that’s all stating the obvious. If I were really into business, saa hii ningekuwa nauza sera, but I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know.

I’m writing this because my mind has been taking me places, I don’t like to visit. I hate going to funerals because I’m not a mourning person. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my own mortality, and every time the thought shows up, my mind drifts back home, to my hometown and how we conduct our funerals.

There is something unique about how me mourn the dead. If you are new, you’ll probably say it’s ridiculous- because honestly, it is. It is well orchestrated. It’s a play. It’s a celebration (for a life well lived). We have professional mourners. We have disco matangas-where somehow more women end up pregnant, and where you will enjoy plenty of free nyash, and a lot of illicit drink from mama pima. Food is always in plenty. You might have died of starvation, but trust me plenty of chickens and cows will be slaughtered to give you what the English men call “a decent sendoff”. You might think it’s Dishi na County.

And then there’s the pecking order, which always cracks me up. Even in the face of death, hierarchy still stands strong. You get special privileges at funerals especially if you belong to the sacred society of “watu wa Nairobi”.

Constantly the MC would step onto the podium, tap the microphone twice: “One two, mic testing…” then announce: “Haya, Kay-Ti-Chi-1-4-2-Hech[it’s supposed to be KDG142H…but you get the accent], umepak kari kwa raini. Ningeombako kwa heshma ya marehemu ukuche utoe. Arafu nawasihi watu wa Nairopi wapangeko raini Kwanza ndiposa tupate maankuri…”

You see, we are very hospitable and welcoming.

“Wafura, toka kwa tent…nimesema tent ni ya watu wa Nairopi. Omanyire?”

See. We take good care of our visitors.

All these experiences make me contemplate my mortality and the fleeting nature of life. All in all, we are all going to die. The only difference is the where, the when, and the how. It’s like a game of chess. You can prolong the endgame, but eventually death triumphs. There is no stalemate here. We are all just waiting for the moment when the Grim Reaper knocks so that we can take one final road trip and sing Luwere.

I’m dead serious as I write this. Okay. I’m not. I know it’s November, but there is so much(hehe) in life that is out of our control. Like how and what my mind decides to think about sometimes. But since we are all certain nobody is getting out alive, why not poke fun at death a little? After all, didn’t the wise Marcus Aurelius say, “Death smiles at us all; all a man can do is smile back”?

Me? I don’t just smile back at death; I laugh at it with dead(ly) jokes and puns. I crafted some. They are dark. Extremely dark. Example, joke number 17 & 18 will make you raise eyebrows. Ha! Nime ku warn. Therefore, by virtue of you still reading, consent is implied. If you find the jokes funny, it shows you are aware of your mortality and that of people around you. If you find them offensive, just think of it this way: you are not getting out alive. You are not that dude from the chariot of fire. I keep forgetting his name; Is it Elijah? or Elisha? Whichever.

The point is: understand your time is limited. And if you still don’t get that, then honestly there is no difference between you and a vegan… or someone who drinks tea without sugar. You all have bad taste, and you are boring. Enda huko.

When you look closely enough, everything in life is either tragic or hilarious. I choose hilarious. So, let’s go six feet under and unearth the jokes. But before that…

Hey Siri?

Hebu chezako “Wanajua Ni Mazishi” by Khaligraph Jones.

Puns

1. When we finally burry a person, is that we call being down to earth?

2. They dug the hole 4 feet, instead of 6 feet. Damn. That was a grave mistake.

3. Funny how the only certificate you’ll ever have but never use… is the death certificate

4. He was dying to work at Lee Funeral Home.

5. They attacked him and killed him using a drill bit. Safe to say…he was bored to death.

6. She finally passed her exams to be a mortician — talk about killing it.

7. After buying land in Kamulu, Malaa, Joska, and many parts of the the country… the only thing left was a burial plot.

8. If your final wish is to be cremated… that’s what I’d call a burning desire

9. Her last wish was for her body to be cremated. We had no choice but to sing one song during the process: This Girl Is on Fire.

10. When Cachagua dies and is finally laid to rest. Si atakuwa anaskiza ground?

11. Do you know why the musician drowned?
    He went mainstream.

12. Do you know why the musician died during the studio session?
    The producer was Murda on the beat.

13. I short him in the head.

    Safe to say I blew his mind.

14. I dated a girl called Patricia. I told her, “Till death do us Pat.” (Hello?)

15. Research shows if you want to dispose a dead body, do it at the cemetery. Nobody thinks to check cemetery for a dead body. How you use that information is up to you. This study has been verified by a scientist. Sometimes my friends call me “scientist”

16. Tom Mboya, Pio Gamma Pinto, J.F Kennedy and Charlie Kirks eulogies were written in bullet points.

17. My friend was on a rooftop with a rope ready to take his life. After much pleading he did it anyway. Do you know why?

    I told him to “hang in there.”

18. He lost his arms in an accident. A month later, he passed away. During the funeral, the pastor made a certain remark that made us laugh. Do you know what he said?

    “Wacha tumpe mwendazake mkono wa buriani.”

19. I can’t let my friends down. Maybe during the funeral.

20. Live your life before you leave your life. Hii sio joke.

21. When I die, my epitaph will read: He was known for his killer puns.
    But if you still see my jokes after I’m gone… just know I became a ghost writer.

This marks the end of the Dead Puns... Mwendo nime umaliza.

R.I.P…Rest in puns.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

More Humorous Articles by D.A

Hey Siri? Hebu chezako “Wanajua Ni Mazishi” by Khaligraph Jones.

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I’ve just come from seeing my barber. And to keep the record, erm… straight, he’s the only man I ever give head… ahem, a head(hehe). The guy’s more skilled than Delilah herself. His name’s Mesh; short for Meshack. But the locals call him Kasee, just because, well… he’s kasee. Me, I prefer calling him Ben Carson because the man’s got gifted hands.

I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror and I’m like…huyu ni mimi kweli? Honestly, we need to amend Psalm article 139:14 because the way I’m looking right now, there’s no way I was “fearfully” made. Let’s just stick to “wonderfully made.” Hide your women and your men because I might just be the weapon fashioned against your relationship. Call me porcupine, because honestly… si shikiki.

Any way… it’s November, and that only means three things. One, Christmas is next month. Two, Black Friday deals are popping everywhere. And three-No shave November. I know, I Know. Stop rolling your eyes. But hey, I don’t have beards(yet)…though I do need to be-ard. And since it’s No Shave November, I feel obliged to say a thing or two about men: courtesy of my barber.

To fully understand this story, we must first go to the barbershop. See, the strangest stories begin where you least expect them. And this one began with a simple, “Uweeh, mtu wangu hii economy hainipeleki vizuri.”

I interjected, “Haitupeleki vizuri”

“By the way, unafanyanga kazi gani?” he asks. I cringe. This is the fifth time I’m telling him this. Part of me wants to say, “I breathe.” The other part wants me to say “I do my best.” But my mouth betrays me and says, “I’m a private investigator.”

Lies. It was meant to be a joke, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t even ask a follow-up questions. Instead, he just nods and says, “Ohh… hiyo ni poa. Ng’a ng’a na manzee.”

“Manzee, uskii sahi ningekuwa na choma makaa Kitui,” he says.

I look at his reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t see me, he’s busy with my head.

“Ungekuwa unategea deal fulani iivane,” I reply.

He loads for a moment, then the joke sinks.

“Iivane…haha!”

We laugh. I want to commend him for at least reducing his carbon footprint or for the fact that he hasn’t turned Kitui into a desert by now. But I doubt whether he’ll get it.

“Manze kama si kutumia hii…” he says, holding the shaving machine against his head. I can’t tell whether he means the machine or the head. I also notice he starts every sentence with “Manzee.”

I nod.

With his left hand, still holding the afro comb, he points at a sticker that I have always seen it but never paid much attention to. He underlines it with the comb-once, twice, thrice. It reads: “Akili mjini, nguvu kijijini.”

I smile. Now it hits me, he wasn’t referring to the shaving machine. He was talking about the brains.

He tells me he has tried not once, not twice but three times to sell land to someone, and failed each time. That, he says, is the only thing he hasn’t succeeded at in this Nairobi. In my head, I’m like how many lives has this man lived?

Then he laughs and adds, “Ohh… nimekumbuka. The other thing I’ve not succeeded at is getting a positive feedback from those emails that I sent after campo. They always start with ‘We regret to inform you…”

We laugh.

“Manzee me ni kazi gani sijafanya hii kanairo? Me nimekuwa hadi Donda.”

I wonder whether all the jobs he’s done were halal or haram. But I don’t ask. We listen, but we don’t judge. Sio?

“Uweeh ngori” I sigh.

“In these streets you either go hard or go home. And me, I made a commitment that I’m not going back to Kitui.”

Me I’m already at home. Maybe I just get hard. Of course, I don’t say that. I say, “Manze ni ukweli.”

“Manzee kuna maboiz wangu tulikuwa tuna hustle nao ocha… manze wako huko tu. Hakuna wera. Kumekauka. Job unapata ni hiyo ya kuchoma makaa ama kulimia msee shamba.”

I pause to think about his friends-the ones he left behind. I don’t know their foot number, but I try to fit into their shoes. I think about unemployment and what it does to a man. The modern man. The 21^st century man.

The Modern Man’s Silent Struggle

But it also affects women… Someone will say. And sure, it does. But I don’t want to pull that gender card on who’s worse off between men and women when it comes to unemployment. I haven’t been a woman. Naturally, I’ll share the man’s perspective.

See, a man is not who he is, it is how he’s perceived.

Maybe you’ve already trudged this slippery, unforgiving slope of unemployment, or perhaps you’re in the thick of it. But what does unemployment mean to the 21st century man? You see, being unemployed is profoundly dehumanizing. It’s waking up each day, staring at the endless hours ahead, and realizing there’s nothing to fill them with. No tasks that feel meaningful. No where to go. You are just...there.

At that moment, desperation sets in fast. You call someone, and the moment they see your name flash on the screen, they sigh, already making a mental note that you are reaching to borrow money. It stings.

Or worse, they actually pick, only to say, “I will call you back,” knowing full well you used your own airtime to call them. It’s not like you have reverse called them. They understand that misery loves company, but they also know you might soon become a burden, an omba omba. So, they avoid you.

Things get even more painful when it comes to family. They stop reaching out for your input on big, life-changing decisions. Why? Because in their eyes, you have no money: so what could you possibly contribute, you broke ass nigga!!!

Your opinion starts to matter as little as Samia Suluhu’s seems to matter to some Tanzanians-it just doesn’t count. Even your own parents slowly stop calling and start prioritizing the siblings who “send something small” every month. It’s tough. Brutally tough.

The “3 Ps” of Modern Masculinity

You see, the horrific picture society has painted for a man is built around the idea of mastering the “3 Ps”: Provide (financial capability), Protect (shield your family against any significant curve ball that life might throw in their way) and finally Penetrate (you know exactly what I mean). It’s unsettling, but that’s how the 21^st-century man measures his worth.

And let’s be real: if you are unemployed, you can’t provide. Didn’t Gwen Gutherie set the bar high when she sang, “No romance without finance... you got to have a J-O-B if you wanna be with me.” Men out here aren’t getting laid; they are getting zero penetrations because their wallets are on life support.

Men around men with money!

Unemployment makes a man lose their self-respect. I mean, have you seen how certain men behave around men with money? Have you? It turns you into a full-time simp. Suddenly, you start calling every other guy “bazuu,” “kiongozi, ” or “mheshimiwa”. Imagine soothing another man’s ego just so you can get “something”.

The bar gets so low. You become an errand boy. “Hebu chukua hii key… uende hapo kwa gari yangu uletee dem yangu jacket.” Crazy. Sio poa.

Just pass by at Nairobi City Hall and you’ll see what I’m talking about. A bunch of men whose entire job description is “waiting for mheshimiwa.” It’s not that they want; but honestly, what’s the better option? These are the same people who’ll be given 200 shillings to go “disrupt a peaceful protest.” You become an undignified man, who’s stripped of pride, direction, and purpose.

The Toll on Mental Health

Let’s not forget it’s toll on mental health. There’s a reason mental health begins with the word men. Men are often the worst hit by unemployment. Suicide rates among men are alarming-many dying silently under the crushing weight of not being able to provide.

The pressure gets so intense that some see no other way out but to end their lives. Others turn to drugs and alcohol, trying to escape reality, to numb the pain, to quiet the noise. I told you. We don’t use drugs; we abuse them.

In this relentless hustle culture, everyone is so desperate to live the so-called Kenyan Dream: Dream ya Kutoka kwa block. And young men have made this their mission. They don’t care whether its’s halal or harm; they’ll do whatever it takes to “make it.”

They’ve invented all sorts of “ingenious” ways to get that bread. Their motto is simple: impossible is nothing. The idea of “get rich or die trying” is not far removed from their reality. It’s a survival strategy. That’s why we’re seeing more twenty-somethings getting involved in wash wash (money laundering), robbery with violence, OnlyFans, or even mumamas (sugar mommies) for financial gain.

Can you really blame them? Honestly, I can’t.

With no jobs available and everyone clawing to survive in this concrete jungle, young men are pushed to their limits. At the end of the day, a man wants to feel valued, important and seen. He dreams of women, big flashy cars, a hefty bank account and being able to put something meaningful on the table-even if it means bending or breaking the rules. So be it. The game was rigged long before he even entered it.

The pressure on the 21^st century man to provide is relentless. Even when his girlfriend is working, she may still expect him to be the main source of income, clinging to the mantra, “my money is my money, but your money is our money.” The burden is becoming unbearable. No wonder so many modern men choose one-night stands and clears of relationships whenever possible because he is afraid of the responsibilities that come with love.

(Un)fortunately, these are the thoughts that run through my mind when my barber tells me about the men he left behind. I wish them well.

Hey, I don’t know what boulder you are currently pushing, but I know it’s heavy. It’s tough being a man or woman in these times. No jobs, just a somber cloud of hopelessness floating above us all. But I’m here to tell you: do what you can with whatever you have. And whatever you do, avoid crime. Don’t reap where you didn’t sow.

In the mean time, hold on. Hang in there like a tout clinging to a moving matatu. Better days are coming.

And Speaking of hair and hustle, a few years ago I put my pen (and razor) down and wrote about No Shave November. You can read it here

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

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As a man… you got to risk sometimes. Like letting a new barber line you up or sending that job application you’re not “qualified” for. Today’s song recommendation: Risk-Khaligraph & Nyashinski

Republic of Hustlers

22^nd October, 2025

I’m writing this with my left hand clutching a 500 ml bottle of Krest. Not because I am about to crack a joke, but because a slight provocation might just reveal how hard-headed you are. I could not wait till January to make changes; I’ve already signed up for a gym membership. I’m ready to roll with the punches. There’s pent-up anger in me, I’m feeling villainous, and honestly, I’m in a foul mood.

I need a gun by any[legal] means necessary. I’m not Paul, but like his counterpart, I need a Sila-ha. I’ve realized you need to have a thick skin to survive these cold streets of Nairobi. We can’t keep living like this anymore. People can’t keep reaping where they didn’t sow. Enough is enough.

Rember that dude from the famous Kenny Rogers song? Not The Gambler- I don’t want to hand him my bottle. I’m talking about the small boy from Coward of the County. Well, sometimes, you’ve got to fight when you are a man.

So, what happened? Why the pent-up anger?

I hate explaining myself. This would be my sixth or is it seventh time I’m doing it. These things happen. They happen to everyone. They can happen to you. They happened to me.

Okay, D.A. So, what happened?

For the taste of this bitter lemon, I will tell you.

As you all know, last week was one of the longest weekends in the history of weekends. Depending on where you rank in the social hierarchy and your love for Baba, you were either in Karen or Bondo. And if you couldn’t make it to those two, at least you found your way to JKIA, Kasarani, or Nyayo Stadium.

Me? I didn’t make it to either.

16^th October, 2025

Whoever said lighting doesn’t strike the same tree twice lied. I was welcomed to the city again. Here’s what happened:

This week, I had taken some time off work. Patriotic Kenyans were flocking to JKIA to “receive” Baba for his final walk. And that’s when Satan paid me a visit. See, part-time, I create documentaries for my passion projects, and I thought, this would make for a good one. I wasn’t going to work, so why wait for briefings from Stephen Letoo when I could experience the moment firsthand?

Bad, bad idea.

I couldn’t make it to the airport, so I decided to wait at the Imara Mall footbridge for the procession. I’m in a cheers-baba-half jacket, a cape, and a backpack. Inside the half-jacket’s pocket rests the pièce de resistance: an iPhone 13 Pro Max.

While waiting at the footbridge, I watch nduthi guys pulling stunts that I usually see in Red Bull’s Instagram page. I’m mesmerized. Then I decide to leave the flyover and head down to the road where the real action is unfolding. Kwa ground vitu ni different.

I take a couple of shots: people waving placards that read Jakom, Agwambo; others carrying branches, chanting, and dancing. The whole road is alive with chaos and excitement. Mombasa Road and Express way are both flooded with people.

And then it happens.

I spot someone in an orange reflector jacket staring straight at me. He’s got a silver tooth and struggling dreadlocks. The jacket is written Simba Arati. In my head I’m like, why is this nduthi guy staring at me? Kwani I’m this attractive to men as well?

I ignore him and keep capturing the moments. A few minutes later, another nduthi pulls up a few meters from me, five people crammed on it, all wearing the same orange reflector jackets. They look rough; some have unkempt hair, others flashing silver teeth. My instincts kick in. I lower my phone and pause.

Suddenly, someone’s elbow locks around my neck, choking me from behind. Well, I’m not new to choking, but this one is different. Against my will. Na haitishi ruhusa kuguza.

I can see 7 men, all in the same orange reflector jackets. One of them says, “Leta hii simu,” as they all reach for my phone. I can barely breathe, but I struggle. I even try to yell, “Jowi! Jowi!” but my voice won’t come out clearly. A lot is happening at the same time. Others are on my back pocket. Someone is punching me on the ribs. I guess it’s safe to say this was wizi wa kima-mbavu (see what I did there?).

I tried my level best, but my country failed me. Nobody came to my rescue. What happened to Sonko rescue team by the way? As a man you have to acknowledge that you are limited. Life is not a Hollywood movie. If it were, I’d have beaten them all and walked away unbruised. And even if I’d be wounded, I would still survive: stop the bleeding, use alcohol as a disinfectant, and stitch myself up, then walk away as if nothing happened.

But I’m not John Wick. In fact, I was weak. Eventually they managed to take it. One handed it to another, who passed it to the next like they were following a certain chain of command. Talk of an organized crime. Men at work. It finally landed with two guys on a nduthi, who sped off with it. The whole shebang (been waiting to use that word) was as brief as a cock on a hen, and voilà, phone gone.

That’s when a woman nearby screamed, “Uwii…wezi! Wezi!”. What the heck? Are you still using 2G? You could have shouted sooner!

I was confused. I let out a few curse words that rhymed with suck and puck. Even some Latin words that start with “Ma-” and end with “-ko” and “-nde”. I was pissed. I was helpless.

Pawa pawa… niliishiwa pawa.

Man, I just wanted to take aerial shots of the procession, little did I know what I would be getting was a mwosho mmoja. I’m sure this will put Baba off wherever he is. This is not what he fought for. This was so unlike him. In fact, this was Baba-ric. But hey, bora uhai.

I regretted leaving the house that day. I should have just waited for Stephen Letoo’s coverage.

But let’s be honest: It safe to say the Kenyan dream is to be a thief. Either small scale like these goons or a large-scale like a politician. It’s either or. We are all hustlers, and therefore everything and everyone is a hustle. Maybe this was the deal they had been waiting iivane. Maybe after the heist, one of them called his wife and said, “Pika ugali, leo nakuja na nyama.” I pray one day, they face justice. Especially mob justice! And we see it on prime news: “Three Goons Have Been Beaten and Set Ablaze.” And do you know what would make me even happier? If Stephen Letoo reports it.

I thought of reporting the matter to the police, but what would they do anyway? They would probably tell me, “In Nairobi, you don’t lose your phone. It simply changes ownership.”

But come on goons, have some mercy on someone with glasses. If you’d seen me that day, you’d have thought I was mourning Raila, but in truth, I was grieving that iPhone.

I have never been one to profile people, but now I find myself judging everyone I see on the street including girls with tattoos. I know the fight-or-flight has officially kicked in. Where two or three, or even more are gathered, and they have unkempt, shaggy hair, a silver tooth, and they are rolling on a nduthi… those are goons. Stay vigilant.

For now: “Karibia karibia customer upate line ya airtel 4G free of charge, Kisha tuna kuzawadi 100 mbs of data!”

Stephen Letoo, back to you in studio.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

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I can only wish one thing… I know they won’t suffer for now. But I pray for speedy karma.

You must understand that today there would be some mildly lewd and inappropriate jokes forthcoming in the next few paragraphs, and by virtue of you continue reading, consent is implied. But first…

That green company along Waiyaki way and my bank have both texted me about the so-called, “Customer service week.” My church, however, has been suspiciously quiet. I guess, we’ll settle that matter during the Sunday Service. Also, today is 10^th October, as Kenyans, are we going to plant trees? Like trees trees? Because some of you mnapenda miti(into the woodlands), but you don’t like planting them. A few weeks of tarmacking under the Nairobi sun will make you truly appreciate Wangari Maathai’s efforts to save Uhuru Park and Jeevanjee Gardens.

Also, I’m fully aware that lecturers are on strike; but hey… experience is still the best teacher. So, I am going to share these experiences only once. Maybe twice. Okay, thrice at most. No questions, please. Because really, what is a man if not the sum of his experiences?

So here are some of the moments that define a man. And trust me, you’re not a man until you’ve been through the following:

1. Ukipewa utawezana?

One day you’ll be doomscrolling on Instagram at some ungodly hour. You know, every day we sleep tomorrow. Then it happens. A WhatsApp message pops up. A new number that doesn’t start with +254. This one starts with a +1. You’ll laugh even before opening it. In your head you’ll be like… “Who’s this that wants me to work 2hrs a day and earn 30-40K ivyo tu?”

But wait. The profile picture is not the usual one of a person in a suit, sitting in those high stools. Hmm. Suspicious. This can’t be those people from Aim Global. So, curiosity wins. You open it, and to your surprise it starts with:

“Dear {Your Name}. I got your contact from +254…. He told me you are the best person for this fit. Kindly let me know if you are up for the task.”

Is that even a question? You were born ready. Not only will you grab the bull by the horns, but by the balls as well. This will be one of those miss-it-and you’ll-never get it opportunity. Because, so much of a career is just the right person saying “yes” at crucial moments.

And this? This will be your “Yes” moment. And as you know with the words “Yes, I do,” life is never the same again. For better or for worse.

2. Some things you just learn on the Job

One day, you’ll walk into a pharmacy to buy the only thing that doesn’t need a doctor’s prescription. You’ll face the pharmacist man to man. You’ll want to speak, but your tongue will betray you. “Nipee hii,” you’ll mumble, pointing at it. You won’t be SURE if that’s the right move, but you’ll have to TRUST your gut instincts. And just when you think it’s over, someone will walk in, and that will be the perfect moment for the pharmacist to “burn the photo”: “Ati umesema nini kijana?”

Sasa mbona ana shout?

You’ll want to tell him, “KISS my ass,” and walk out. But that would be gay. You won’t look back. If you still don’t get it, remember the best things come in three.

But hey, nobody teaches us men how to buy condoms. It’s a skill you learn on the job, and it’s one of the hardest(hehe) things to do. I’m not saying this happened to me…but I’m not saying that either.

3. Heart Break

One day you’ll take a girl out. Let’s call her Rose, because that’s her real name. There is a reason they say roses are red and violets are blue. Red! That’s a red flag. She’ll devour your money and leave you for her real, rich boyfriend. For the first time, your mother’s prayer won’t protect you from these descendants of Jezebel. It’ll be your first major heartbreak. That experience will transform you to a devoted follower of Andrew Kibe and Amerix. From that day forward, you’ll forever #FearWomen.

4. I’ve missed my periods. I think I’m…

One day. Your girlfriend will call.

“Ukoo?”

On a normal day, you’d respond with “we ukoo?” But you know how to read the room. That tone doesn’t require that. You’ll reply with “kwani umesha ni miss?”

“This is serious...wacha jokes.”

She hangs up. Seconds later, a text comes in.

“We need to talk”

typing...

“Now” She adds.

“Now?” You ask.

“Kwani hujui kusoma? What part of now don’t you understand?” She replies.

Before you can type another word, another message drops:

“I’ve missed my periods. I think I’m ....”

Your head starts spinning. You’ll stop everything and rush straight to her apartment. There, on the table, you’ll find a pregnancy test kit. Still unused.

“I was waiting for you before I do this...” She says.

You’ll cross your fingers. She does what they do, and after five long minutes, the results are out.

Negative.

You’ll breath out. Relieved. Because you are not ready to be a father. You are a scientist, not a sire-ntist. From that moment on... you’ll cease to be a raw-abiding citizen. You’ll always use two factor authentication. Better safe than sorry, especially when you are horny.

5. Loans

One day, you’ll borrow money you can’t pay back. I know Jesus paid all our debts on the cross. But you’ll console yourself with, “If the government has debt, who am I?” That’s the moment you will realize being a man requires money. That implies that you are not man enough until you have at least one of the following:

• A debt you’re avoiding,

• Your name in the CRB.

• A court case pending, or a coat in your closet.

• Or a 50 by 100 plot somewhere in Kamulu, Joska, or Malaa.

6. The Letter That Didn’t Find You Well

One day, you’ll receive one of those letters that start with, “I hope this finds you well.” But the truth of the matter is that it won’t leave you well. It will leave you unwell. It’ll either be a rejection letter…or a dismissal letter. That’s just part of being a man.

7. When Your Ever-Present Father Becomes Absent

One day, your mum will call you very early in the morning from your room. Her voice will be trembling: “Your dad is sick. We need to rush him to the hospital.” You’ll find your old man lying on the floor unconscious. 911 doesn’t work in Kenya. You’ll take a taxi. He’ll be admitted in the ICU for six days, and on the seventh…. he’ll rest.

Of all the moments that define a man, nothing beats this one. For the first time, your ever-present father, will be absent; from your life, from the face of the earth. There’s a moment in every man’s life when he realizes he’s now the captain of his own ship. That moment is when your father dies. In fact, no man is truly a man until he buries his own father. For what’s a father if not the answers to the unknowns of life? You’ll become a man at 18. Life does that to you.

8. Vindu vichenjangaa

One day… you’ll have to make a choice. To elect your leader. But you can’t do that if you haven’t registered as a voter. Go register; that’s the only way we will liberate our country. In case you have forgotten, I’d like to remind you the slogan was and still is wantam! Lero ni lero guys. Remember ovolanga mukamba ni muvei…leo ni leo, asemaye kesho ni mwongo. Enda jihandikishe!!!

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

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“…But when a man and a woman builds their home. A man’s gotta do what his family needs him to do…”

Mbele Haiko Sawa

Today, I wanted to write something comical. Maybe it’s because I just came back from a road trip in murima and I thought I could pen something hill-arious. But I won’t. For two reasons.

One: someone’s daughter told me she’s pursuing her master’s and I, in my infinite wisdom, replied, “I’ll make you, my slave.” It’s been two weeks now… sioni DP. But I get it. She’s a chemist, and therefore very reactive.

Two: I’ve been receiving flirty messages from someone you don’t need to know. She tells me I’ve got good genes and she wouldn’t mind If I unzipped my, erm, jeans. This is why I fully advocate for women empowerment-just go straight to the point.

She’s ripping her heart out in my inbox, telling me, how “amenikufia.” She doesn’t know it’s Suicide Awareness Month. But I will keep you posted about the burial. And that’s why we need to talk. Not about the burial, but about suicide. Because it doesn’t matter whether you are using Sawa bathing soap or not, the truth is: things are not okay. Mbele haiko sawa.

Look, some of the bizarre stories I used to hear back in my hometown are now happening in the city, to the people that I know and care about.

“A man kills himself after being denied a plate of ugali.”

“Son kills father over an argument in a posho mill.”

Read it in Gatete Njoroge’s tone. And you will realize, this is not a laughing matter. Because when such things stop being distant headlines and start happening to the people around you, that’s a dangerous path. A slippery slope.

Your brother, your sister, your friend, your neighbor, that workmate-they might look good from far, but in reality, they are far from good. That’s why when we get news that someone, we knew took their own life, our reaction is disbelief: “Huyu kamau mmoja huyu? Si alikuwa fity?”

No, he wasn’t okay.

Bien lied. Kaa uko sawa, me siko sawa. I mean, when was the last time you checked up on a friend? And I mean a genuine check-in, not they type where you use “How are you?” as a preface to borrow that “2 k urgently?

The 8th Wonder

As a country, and as individuals we are going through a lot. Scratch that. A lot is going through us vaane. We are grappling with mental health issues. People walking these cold Nairobi streets are carrying unresolved pain, years of underlying trauma.

Just observe people on their way to work in the morning (or evening?). The faces are serious. People are sad. People are angry.

Anyone who has a job in this country will tell you: getting a job is like trying to convert an alcoholic in a bar. This economy has forced us to eat misheveve when all we want is sarat. Then season it with SHA, add a sprinkle of housing levy, and you have yourself a ticking time bomb. A walking dead.

Honestyl, how we are surviving in this country without therapy should be declared the 8th wonder of the world. And so, I ask, in whose hands are we safe?

We are living in a pressure-filled world. And just to prove how much we’ve normalized it, we even brag on our CV’s: “I can work under pressure”

Pressure to perform in school. Pressure to perform at work. Heck, even pressure to perform in bed. The outcome? High blood pressure. Then add, social media. Add peer pressure. And suddenly you have a concoction that is as potent as a grenade: “A 22-year-old boy gifts his parents a house.” Those are the headlines that make you question your entire existence. Self-doubt creeps in.

“Am I doing enough?”

“Should I do forex?”

“Am I… enough?”

By the end of the day, you are overwhelmed. You have nobody to talk to. No safe space to offload the burden. We are more connected than ever, yet never have we been this disconnected. A sad, depressed, anxious generation… hiding behind with happy pictures.

Honestly, I’ve reached a point where I don’t even want to know how my friends are really doing because I can take a pretty good guess; everyone is battling something. And I’ve realized I am not ready to top up their decade of pain into my ears. Not because “staki hizo stori” but because my people say, you can’t pour from an empty cup or erm…thermos. Jesus nailed it(hehe) the first time when he asked: “Can a blind person lead another blind person?”

Exactly.

Look at you. The wide-eyed, curious boy or girl you once were is now shedding off his skin, revealing a life-crushed man or woman, walking like a city in ruins. People are losing hope. Once, you wanted to be famous. You wanted to be wealthy. You wanted to be loved. You wanted to win. You wanted to do it all.

But now there’s nothing to look forward to. Hopelessness hangs in the air like the scent of a Somali woman-pervasive, impossible to ignore. We are hopeless about the economy, about our leaders, about ourselves. And when hope dies slow, everything else follows.

Look, I’ve never been a woman-naturally, so I’ll share the man’s perspective. Go to any restaurant and look around. Ninety-nine percent chance, you’ll see a woman with a woman, or a man with a woman sharing a table. Very rarely will you spot a man with…a man. And no, don’t jump to the buzz word “that’s gay”.

But trust me, that smell step of men actually sitting with men is the beginning of emptying y(our) mind. We, mostly men, live on autopilot. We don’t pause to take stock. We don’t gather ourselves. We don’t pour back into our spirits. Dear men, don’t just take women out. Take yourself out too. Make it a habit. Self-care my people.

Don’t Grab the Rope, Tie the Knot Instead

Man, I don’t know exactly what pushes someone to take their own life. I can’t fully grasp what would make a person choose that final step. What I do know is this: suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Maybe I am speaking from a point of privilege.

I’m lucky. I’ve got an incredible support system. My day ones. The people who have been there for me in good times and bad. The ones who pull me out of bed and help me fix my life. I can’t trade that for anything. Peace of mind is everything.

It’s human to feel all those emotions: sadness, anger, emptiness. But if it ever gets to the point where you feel suicidal. Please reach out. I’m not great at giving advice. But I won’t be shy to tell you this: therapy saved my life. Brother, sister, you can always call.

Asking for help is not weakness. Remember the first step to solving a problem is to acknowledge that there is one. I’ve lived the life, the good, the bad, the ugly. I know what it feels like spending the rest of the day not building the nation. I have suffered heartbreaks. But one thing I’m sure of: it gets better with time. We’ve already lost good people to this monster. I don’t want to lose you.

Check out on your friends as well.

Me, don’t ask me how I feel. Honestly… me niko tu. I’m out here juggling side chicks and side gigs. Let me see if I can handle that lady mwenye amenikufia. I may be on heat, but she seems too hot to handle. Only time will tell.

But hey, I pray you don’t reach out for that rope. There’s a lot you can do with it: you can use it to tie the knot. Enough about me and the nasty lady. Otherwise? How are you?

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

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“So pour out a shot for me
Keep pouring out the bottle for the real ones I lost
Who can no longer walk with me
For the ones still right here, yeah, for the ones who still care”
Lukas Graham-Not a Damn Thing Changed

For the record…

Look, this article won’t say good things about me. So, I’ll keep it as brief as a cock on a hen. Don’t be too quick to judge. You didn’t go to law school anyway.

Right now, my Stanbic account balance is stuck at someone’s favorite coital position-6’9. I’m broke. But hey, I decided to start this piece on a high note. See what I did there? We’ll get to the reasons behind my financial misery in a bit.

I’m a Luhya man.

Why does that even matter? Well, word on the street is you are still a virgin until you’ve been with a man from Kakamega. I’m just putting that out there to keep the record erm…straight. If you catch my drift. Secondly, it supposedly speaks something about my taste. Wait. Scratch that. Does a Luhya even have “taste”? Anyway, let’s just say it speaks to my appetite for the finer things in life. Which brings me to this girl, right? Of course, there is a girl- where did you think this second part was headed?

Three major things happened in 2019: the first case of Covid-19 was reported in Wuhan, China. I joined campus. And, most importantly, I got a girl. The order of these events doesn’t really matter. Our focus is on the latter-the girl.

My ex

Now, pull up that wooden chair, hopefully not one made from the proceeds of unethical logging and let me tell you a story about my ex. My toxic ex. I want you seated for obvious reasons…usininyonye damu.

See, I had never loved a girl (or boy) before. I was new to these things. Naturally, I needed the approval of an old(er) friend of mine-Thomas. Not my brothers. In Africa, we don’t discuss matters of love with family. Why? Because they’ll always advise you against what you want. They’ll say, zunguka kila mahali lakini usiguze murima.

Thomas had been in the game for far too long. He knew the way to a lady’s heart. An expert. A connoisseur. In language you’ll understand best, let’s just call him a fuckboy. They say a good woman is hard to find. But Thomas knew how to spot the real deal. And that’s how I met my baby. My first love. Much to the dismay of my mother and my in-laws, she was from the UK.

I’ve never been the type to trash talk my ex(es). I’m a gentleman. And do you know what they say about us? We don’t kiss and tell. But for the sake of this story, I’ll make an exception. Let’s call her…erm… Hellen. Because she almost drove me straight to hell.

See, there’s always that one ex who lingers in your mind. For me, that’s Hellen. I remember the very first moment I set my eyes and hands on her. I had never felt anything like that before. The feeling and the experience cannot be put into words.

Truth be told, I hadn’t envisioned her as my first. A Kenyan dating a fine chick from abroad? Those are things you only see in movies. But even though I hadn’t planned it that way, one thing was clear: I wanted us to last longer than the career span of a gengetone artist in Kenya. And we did. Six years! That’s no joke. It’s something to brag about.

But here is the kicker: falling in love is easy, the real magic is staying in love. Six years might sound impressive, but what’s harder to say is I wasn’t happy. The first two years were smooth sailing. The next four were a chaotic mix, the kind that happens between you and your partner between the sheets- a lot of up and downs. Our relationship got way toxic than Lyrikali.

Okay. Okay. Weak joke aside.

The downs were too many. I wanted to walk away, but I chose to stay. For two reasons. First, convenience. I had something that she wanted and she had something that I needed. Second, I hoped things would get better. They never did.

We were just holding on.

The very things that first attracted me to her slowly began to put me off. Nyash. Oh, her nyash could rival Vera’s (at least according to the court of public opinion). But isn’t it the modern-day philosopher Scar Mkadinali who said “big booty hufanya na choka”?

Because, truth is, man shall not live for nyash alone. Nyash might get you to the top, but nyash won’t keep you there. And she? She had nothing else to bring to the table apart form gluteus maximus (Google/ChatGPT that word)

As time went by, she grew detached and emotionally unavailable. I used to turn her on with just a single touch. Now it took a whole thesis of foreplay. She only turned on when the mood suited her. She used to be romantic even in way she picked my calls. But it reached a point where she answered with one cold: “Sema.” Nkt.

Before things got dirtier and murkier, I once had her on my laps, trying to turn her on. Small small (kidogo kidogo), she fell. Man, she never looked at me the same way again. She broke her glasses and twisted her arm. Bad. Bad. Idea.

From that moment, she became moody than Awori.

Nothing excited her anymore. She slowed down, in her thinking and in her replies to my calls and texts. She could sleep whenever she wanted. Her social battery draining lower and lower by the day. That wasn’t the same lady I had fallen for. Something was off.

Our master, Robert Greene, in his 10^th law of The 48 Laws of Power, writes: “Infection: Avoid the Unhappy and the Unlucky.” Simply put, people who are perpetually miserable spread misery like an infection, and if you’re not careful, they’ll drown you in it.

I knew it was time to prioritize my happiness. But before walking away, I did some background checks. I wanted to know what really went wrong so that the same misery wouldn’t catch me in my next relationship.

The findings were shocking.

First, she was slightly older than me. She had lied about her age. Second, she had been into multiple relationships huko yurop. Third, she wasn’t a virgin as she had claimed when we met. He best days were already behind her. I just sat there like, “Sasa hii ni mambo gani?” Our incompatibilities had become painfully obvious.

It was time.

There comes a point in every man’s life where he has to upgrade, by not letting his current girlfriend stop him from finding the love of his life. And that’s exactly what I did. And let me tell you. Despite this soko being chafu. I managed to land a malisafi.

Now, I don’t know what’s that you are thinking I’m talking about, but I’m referring to my relationship with my ex-UK laptop.

My most expensive relationship (yet)

Yes, I moved on. I got someone else. An elegant, newer thing of beauty that mesmerizes my soul. She’s young. Bold. And beautiful. She’s got every girl’s dream and every man’s desire. No need to go to the gym. She has a flat tummy. She’s petite-just how I like them. I know it is easier to be hit by a train than finding a virgin in Nairobi, but trust me, unlike Helen, she was when I got her. How do I know? The mandem got experience now. I learnt from the best: Thomas.

My ex, her maker called her Hp EliteBook. But my current, she’s a pure Gen Z. The best of her generation. It’s a Hp Z Book Studio G8. She comes boasting an 11^th generation Intel Core-i9 processor. This one is a certified baddie. A perfect definition of beauty with brains.

Her speed of thinking is unmatched. Imagine her RAM size is someone’s entire phone storage. 32 GB owada. And if that’s not enough, she’s packing a dedicated 4GB Nvidia RTX graphics card with a 512 SSD internal storage. This one is for keeps.

I can turn her own with a single touch. When I look her in the eye, she blushes- thanks to the eye security lock. She’s hot. Her battery capacity is in the same WhatsApp group as a Redmi. I can’t even remember the last time I tethered her to the extension. She’s a free soul. She wants to explore.

But she’s nasty too. She pulls up some mastyle deadly deadly. Even 180 degrees yawa. Her design is sleek, classy, pure posh. No tattoos. She can’t have a tattoo. She will never have a tattoo. Hapana. The only sticker she proudly wears is that one written: intel CORE vPRO i9.

This one cost me a fortune. I can’t disclose how much I paid for her dowery. I filled Nill returns. So, I don’t want to be charged for tax evasion.

But if you really want to know the price, just understand if you are in an entry-level job with that standard pay in Kenya of 25k or 30k, and your employer is deducting SHA and Housing Levy, you’ll at least have to work for 9 months straight just to bag her. And that’s why we say, akili mjini, nguvu kijijini (how you choose to use that information is up to you)

Oh, and she sounds heavenly. Not with that high-pitch soprano like the Second in Command. No, she adjusts according to situations, smooth, balanced, soothing. Thanks to her high-end Bang & Olufsen speakers (have you heard about those, ama ni Oraimo ndio umezoea?)

Finally, she’s light in weight. Only 1.7 Kg, and that’s why every single day, I remind her of what Ruth told Naomi: “Where I go, you shall go and where I stay you would stay,” I hope now you understand why my Stanbic balance is 6’9. I’m financially fucked. It’s safe to say this is my most expensive relationship yet.

As I wrap up this piece. This lady shows up again for the third time. “kwani humalizi?”

It’s my mum. She’s almost losing her patience. She wants to send me to Naivas. Let’s see if that little errand will actually save us money.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

Deals Kibao…na D.A😂

Since you are my loyal reader, I got good news for you. I want to plug you into the first ever Kenyan Substack hangout. Usikose hii. Shh... Don't shout. So, if you want to buy an early bird ( which is ending on 30th) you'll only pay 350. If you buy an advance... You'll pay 550 which runs till the event date. Send money to the number on the poster (0112680521-Khavalaji ) And use D.A as your PROMO CODE. Come meet your favorite writer's writer! Pia kama uko soko, I guarantee you utatoka na mtu😂

#PrOmO code D.A

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In the words of Nonini: Hii ni celebration ya watu wote wale wana-live their dream.
umekuwa uki-struggle through thick and thin finally mambo yako imeanza kuenda poa. Through patience na persistence tumetoboa.

Enjoy the song:

Where I come from, we use the same word twice to confirm something. Let me explain.

Version 1:

Peter and Susan are dating.

“Are they a couple couple?”

“Nakushow they are friends friends”

“For real, for real?”

Version 2:

Stacy is married.

“You mean married married? Huyu Stacy mmoja?”

Even in death:

“Ati Maina died? Huyu Maina mmoja?”

“Eeh, maina maina”

And of course, in gossip:

“Faith ako na ball? Faith wa pastor? Uweeh”

“Ati walirudiana na Kevoh? Huyu Kevoh mpenda manyonyo?”

Where I come from, we respond to questions with even more questions. A friend asks, ‘uko wapi?’ and your automatic response is, ‘we uko wapi?’ or someone asks, ‘is it true that...’ and the best you come up with is, ‘we nani alikuambia?’

Where I come from, vagueness is our modus operandi. Do we communicate? Sure. Do we do it clearly? Not really. Is there a problem with that? Not at all. Take for instance, when someone says, ‘Naenda hivi nakuja’ or ‘wacha nifanye one, two, three’ what does that mean? And when it comes to passing information, we are all guilty of saying things like ‘Amesema sijui...’ or ‘mara ohh...’.

Where I come from, we strongly live by the unspoken ordinance that some rules are just made to be broken. A sign that says, ‘usikojoe hapa’ practically dares us to pee there. Imagine we are not even scared of the disclaimer that comes with it: Onyo kali. But hey, be a man. Usikojoe hapo. Kojoa hapo kando.

Where I come from, the economy is so rough, using some English phrases will be completely laughable. Phrases like, ‘you can take it to the bank’. I mean take what exactly? Empty wallets and promises? Hell no, imagine I can’t even ‘mind my own business’ let alone ‘paying attention’. I got bills to pay and girl(s) to enter-tain.

Where I come from, most things work better in theory than practice. Take the EACC, for example. Let’s just say it removes the stink but keeps the shit. In fact, the “CC” in EACC. Stands for “Corrupt Country.” Around here, that’s normal…but it’s not strange either. Maandishi haya sio mageni jijini…

Where I come from, people have more faith in quack pastors and preachers than the sytem. In fact, here people are suffering from a lack of faith in the system.

Where I come from, asking the right questions might open doors, but asking too many questions, that’s opening a casket. Shhh…we’ll lost you like Jacob Juma.

Where I come from, becoming the Minister of Defence doesn’t require a degree in criminology, military strategy or any related field. Nope. Imagine you don’t even need a basic certificate in Cisco’s cyber security? But you already knew that, didn’t you?

Where I come from, people say we lack a proper sewage system because the water ends up in open drains and the sewer line leaks. But let me help you understand something. Where is Kenya located? Right on the equator. And do you know what they say about countries along the equator? We get intense, consistent sunlight all year round. So, our version of a “proper” drainage system is simple: Evaporation. I won’t teach you everything by the way.

Where I come from, men are strangers to the phrase “giving love.” On this side, they only prefer to “make love”- and they make a lot of it. But the dating scene is dirty any way… I believe that’s why is called, erm… Soko.

Where I come form…ama wacha tu. Now it’s your turn. Drop something weird, wild, or painfully accurate on the comment. But it has to start with “Where I come from…”

The funnier, the better. Let’s do it.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

Announcement:

As promised, the first-ever Kenyan Substack meetup is happening soon! 🎉
📍 Venue: Creative Garage
📅 Date: 13th September

You don’t want to miss this! Reserve your slot by sending your payment to the number on the poster below(+254792876906):

Tupatane huko — come, let’s have fun!

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'Got my city on my back. If you feel me holla back. I do it for the 254Flow

27^th July 2025

Lazima niskize ground

Did you know that the Democratic Republic of Congo is not erm… democratic? Neither is the capital city of Africa-Kenya. Well, It used to be. But ever since the infamous wheelbarrow manifesto handed that chicken seller from Sugoi the keys to the country, he seems to have forgotten that “Justice is Our Shield and Defender”.

The Goon Z’s have made sure we can’t dwell in unity, peace and liberty. Top it up with the likes of Kipchumba Murkomen and that self-procalimed “engineer”… what’s his name again? Ah yes, Oscar Sudi. Raha na ustawi tutapata kweli?

But I don’t want to bore you with things you already know. I’m just out here doing Gachagua’s job: Lazima niskize ground. Because based on the current state of the economy, if my church used to bag in X amount every Sunday, today they’ll be banking a slightly less. It’s not that I ate my offering like I(we) used to do back in Sunday school, then filed nil returns.

No. After a long week of kujituma, all I wanted was to rest and relax. Wait. Aren’t resting and relaxing basically the same thing? Me sijui.

It’s cold. I’m cold in places I dare not describe. I’m sprawled on the couch, scrolling and switching between these billionaires’ platforms in one swift motion. X. IG. Tik Tok. WhatsApp. Repeat. Bien is playing on the stereo. He’s taking me to ingo, reuniting me with my ancestors through “All my Enemies are Suffering.” (Wacha nitume salamu. Mulembe?).

I’m happy. But a quick scan of my enemies list shows none of them is suffering. In fact, they are all living large, eating life with a big spoon. One, a professor, is out here making it rain on podiums, constantly asking us to confirm if he’s fire or not. The other, a PhD holder, has taken the legacy of Ludwig Krapf and Johannes Rebman a step further. He’s planning to build a billion-shilling church (with his own money). It’s funny how they are well “educated” yet they can’t see the education system is criminally underfunded. What an error?

No rest for the weekend

My phone rings. I wasn’t expecting a call from anyone. I stare at the screen, contemplating whether to pick up or not. I press the power button and feign ignorance. If it’s an emergency, he’ll call again, I tell myself.

He calls again.

What does he want on this cold Sunday? There’s only one way to know.

3 seconds.

5 seconds.

7 seconds.

I finally pick up.

“Yoow bro…” I say with a lot of excitement, like I hadn’t just ghosted the first ring.

Damn. It’s not Stano.

A soft-spoken lady is on the other end. I know that voice so well. I fall in love with her soothing tone…but I hate what she says: You’ve received a reverse call request. If you accept it, you’ll be charged at a normal call rate.

Fuck.

I curse. Repeatedly. Then I press one.

“Buda, uko wapii?”

And as every Kenyan knows, there’s only one proper response to that question:

“We uko wapi?”

“Nilikuwa napitia hivi mtaa, nikaona nikugotee…nimekutana na bro akanishow uko kejani.”

“Eeeh, niko home. Unaweza come.”

Fuck it. What’s that Newton said? A body at rest remains at rest unless acted upon by an external force? He was that external force.

Now I understand why Isaiah, after flexing his Rolex and peeking into the future, wrote:

“There shall be no rest for the wicked…and on weekends.” (Okay, the last part is mine)

If he hadn’t pulled the “nimekutana na bro” card, nyasachiel, I would have told him I’m practicing farming somewhere in Iraq or Telaviv. I was in my sweatpants, hair unkempt, looking suspiciously like Peter Salasya. But that wasn’t even the real problem. Men don’t dress to impress other men. The problem…was the house.

It’s not that it was thaaaat messed up. It just looked like the police had stormed in for a manhunt or something illegal. If you were in love with chemistry, I’d have told you that the state of the house was perfectly aligned with the Second Law of Thermodynamics-entropy. Which tells us that everything in the universe tends towards disorder. And in complex systems (like this country of ours), chaos is the norm. So, you'd naturally expect the universe to be messy.

But ona sasa you did HR. Hii huwezi elewa. And neither does Karen Nyamu.

Anyway. Where were we? House? Right.

I had to hastily try to restore some semblance of order to the chaos, shoving clothes to the nearest closet. By the time he arrived, I’d barely managed to make the place look like it was inhabited by a somewhat civilized human being. Somewhat.

Where two or three are gathered…

He sits on one end of the sofa, and I on the other. The middle section remains empty honoring the sacred bro code of urinal etiquette: always leave a gap. Always.

Society tends to make it seem like when men meet, all they talk about is sex, women, cars or worse, having sex with women in cars. I won’t confirm or deny. But if it wasn’t for the rage bubbling over this bottom-up government, we would probably be discussing more pressing matters. Matters like why Alicia Kanini deserves to be made CS for Water and Irrigation (if you don’t get it, forget about it).

But now the bar is so low that I can’t even finish a sentence without mentioning nanii’s name. Everything is political. Kila kitu.

My friend, knows a lot of things. Too many things, actually. He tells me stuff he probably shouldn’t, things I could, but won’t share with you.

So I ask him why he thinks the KK government loves Subaru. He leans in and says,

“It’s because Subarus are all-wheel drive (AWD). They can drift through potholes on Kenyan roads with ease.”

Now what the hell is all-wheel drive? Me, I only know four-wheel drive because all cars have four wheels. Duh. Simple math. A Tuk Tuk is three-wheel drive. A nduthi is a two-wheel drive. Easy things.

“Na pia zinakimbia sana,” he adds. At this point I can’t tell whether he’s dazzling me with brilliance or baffling me with bullshit. So I just nod, throw in a few “Oh!”s and “Uweehs!”, you know.

But me, I think… if that’s the legacy they’re hoping to leave behind, it won’t be that impressive (Catch that?)

He turns to me and says,

“Bro ukipewa perform.”

I pause. Just like that, we’ve gone from matters of national importance to matters of personal importance. The switch-up is so smooth, I almost miss it. I nod cautiously.

Then he adds,

“We have a performance problem with this regime. The things that were supposed to work like Universal Health Coverage are not working. Even Nairobi is not working. But then again, sio lazima iwork.”

I stare at him for a second. I tell him to watch his tongue because he’s starting to sound like a terrorist. Or someone who’s plotting to overthrow the government.

For security reasons, I can’t disclose that we are in Embakasi South. But even if I did…can the NIS boss, Noordin, really come for us?

No. I don’t think so. Simply because Noordin hajii. (See what I did there?)

We talked, until dusk sets in. He checks his phone and just like nanii, now he Must Go. I won’t lie; I felt a bit wasted because I didn’t get a chance to rest. But si you know how it is…kuna shughuli inatakanga mbogi. Me, I will tell you what I think, and what I think is simple. Three things:

One, if you don’t have form, kaa home. Kaa kwenyu. Kaa kwako. Some of us just want to rest. We are carrying the emotional weight of this country on our backs.

Two, and most importantly, don’t show up unannounced. You are not Jesus. Text. Call. Send smoke signals. Send a raven or a dove. Whatever. Just let me know a day or two prior. Tenga siku. Also, I insist. Yes, insist that you read this masterpiece: “When You Are About to Shoot Your Shot but Realize She Still Calls Fries 'Njiva'.” Then you’ll understand exactly where I’m coming from.

Finally, things don’t go wrong. They start wrong. Rember the wheelbarrow? Hang around someone long enough and, you will eventually know who they truly are. This applies to your friend, your lover, and that senior government official.

So, as long as you live, remember this: You don’t ask for change. You take it. This advice works well especially when you are in a matatu.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

Shout Outs

I’m genuinely happy to see more Kenyan writers holding it down for the culture. And being a Luhya, I’m tempted to tuma salamu, but I won’t. I’ll do what’s right and shout them out loud: , , , and . These ones? Impeccable storytellers. Go check them out before they start charging us subscription fees. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Oh, and by the way the first Substack hangout for Kenyan writers is cooking. Once everything is set, I’ll take you all with rada.

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This Baldman is reuniting me with my ancestors. So here is a fun fact about me: I’m a Khwiserian.

What I am about to tell you does not leave this blog. It’s supposed to live here. In fact, it was never supposed to be written down at all...

6:45pm

We are in that restaurant where I’m pretty sure Martha Koome, Willy Mutunga, and David Maraga would unanimously approve of: CJ’s (see what I did there? Chief Justice). Word on the street is, if you speak nicely to some of the familiar faces who frequent this spot, your missing friend, uncle, cousin, or brother might return home safely. But if you talk badly about them, you might get a free road trip in a Subaru. Whether it would be an Outback, Forester, or Legacy that’s up to them.

I’m a coffee lover, so naturally, we are having coffee but I’m about to serve you some tea. The caffeine in coffee stimulates the central nervous system, increases libido and makes you have stronger erections. Okay, fine. I made the last two.

I’m chilling with a long-lost friend. You know, since we’re both from the leafy suburbs of westy, okay. Fine. I meant Western. Kakamega. Khwisero. For the sake of this story’s sensitive nature, let’s just call him...umm.... Waingo. Duuh, ilmradi.

I haven’t seen him in years. We meet occasionally in the ghost town of WhatsApp status. I’d always hit him with, “Inafaa tutaftane,” and he’d reply, “nitakutafuta.” This ritual has been going on since 2018 BC (Before covid).

But finally, tumekutana.

Waingo is old(er). When I was joining Form One, he was in Form Four. I know he’s doing well in life because the last I checked on LinkedIn, he was humble-bragging in that classic dialect, you know: “I’m excited to say that I have began a new role as ...”

He’s a civil servant. Permanent and pensionable. He keeps touching touching his beards every two minutes just to make me feel small. It’s obvious he’s meeting himself (anajikuta). The only problem is that he thinks he looks like Lebron James. But in essence, he’s giving Pastor Awuor.

“Rada yako ni gani unajishika shika kila saa?” I ask him, side-eyeing his beard ritual. He laughs, rubbing it again just to annoy me and says, “Ndevu ni kitu ya kukosa kweli?”

We catch up on the lost years. How’s work? How’s family? Hii economy. Ruto Must Go. Maandamano.

After the usual script, “Za masiku” “umepotea sana” “me niko tu” “Ni God manze” I tease him with:

“So harusi tunakuja lini? Ama wewe umeamua you can’t buy the cow when you can get them milk for free?”

He bursts out laughing.

“Uweeh. Harusi gani? Na nanii?”

“Si that lady that you used to post since I don’t know when. The one with braces”

“Argh. Huyo we achanad a long time ago. She went to states for her masters. We still talk till date. We ended it peacefully”

Achanad? Tf? Who even says achanad? Any way.

“So, you’ve been single?”

“Bro. Single wapi. A man must hunt. Ruthlessly. But uweeh. Soko ni chafu. Ile shida nimeona wacha tu. Sikurahisi”

“What do you mean bruh?”

“It’s complicated and messy. I don’t even know where to start.”

He takes a slow sip of his espresso.

“Do you remember that day after you released the Ghosted, Blocked, but Definitley not Forgotten series? I texted you, told you I had some story to share.”

I look up, stroking my chin, which currently screams join-the-dot for the beard, pretending to remember the text.

I wasn’t.

“Oh. Nkt. Nakumbuka,” I said, purely to propel the story forward and get to the tea.

“Kwani what happened?” I added, feigning calm but fully activated.

He starts rubbing his palms like he’s about to welcome someone with claps. He does this for a full four seconds. Then brings both palms closer to his chest like he’s praying and looks up. “Mmmh,” he starts.

“I had this chick whom we dated for three years.”

He throws three fingers in the air and shakes his head, face suddenly engulfed in bitterness. My brain wants to sprinkle a little, “Kwani unataka kulia?” But I hold back. This is not the time and place.

My mind starts racing: Did she run off with the kids? Did she eat his money? Was it a betrayal?

“Kwani what did she do bro?”

“She cheated manzee.” He lets out a laugh. Or maybe he pretended to be laughing. Not a humorous laughter. But the type you shouldn’t join.

A part of me felt sad. Not for him, but for myself. Because I just realised, I missed a chance of going to a potential Ruracio. Damn. But another part of me desperately wanted the full story because listen, men love gossip. I wanted to get the juice: How did he find out? Did he find them in the act? Who was the guy? Do I know him? Why would he undress a woman she doesn’t dress?

To squeeze the juice, I did what seasoned gossipers do:

I banged the table lightly with my palm and said:

“Cheated? I can’t believe it bruh. Please tell me you are kidding”

Pro tip: Always say “I can’t believe it” or “Please tell me you’re kidding” to unlock the next level of tea. It’s a bonus if you preface it with “Wacha” or “For real” or both.

(Example: “Wacha. For real? I can’t believe it bruh”)

He goes, “I’m not kidding you bruh. I’m for real”

“Damn. That’s diabolical.” (Been waiting to use that word.)

“How dare she do that to you? How did you find out?”

See, men love gossip.

His eyes are watery now. If he were a lady, the next natural step would be a comforting hug. But these are two Luhya men. And men need hugs. Just... not from other men. Even if I attempted some movie-style bromance comfort, he’d probably squint and ask, “Bro, are you gay?”

After a couple of sips, he continues.

“She had been going out a lot. Every time it was ‘hanging out with the girls’. It was hard to suspect anything, bro.”

I shake my head and throw in a couple of “damns” and a necessary “fear women”. Because honestly, what else do you say? Fear women.

“Slowly, I began noticing changes in her behaviour. Sometimes she’d get a call in the evening and switch gears from sitting room and walk all the way to the balcony.”

He pauses.

“As a man, I couldn’t let that slide. Not in my house. I asked what was up and she told me her friend Lenah was going through a lot, and she needed to be there for her.” That behaviour persisted. When I brought it up, she told me...”

He scratches the air in quotes. “I’m insecure.”

“Uweeh. Fear women. They can gaslight you vibaya sana.”

“Then this one Sunday,” he says, shifting forward. “A day after her usual girls’ night out, we were at home and she gave me her phone to record her. Si you know Tik Tok things. As I was recording, a WhatsApp message popped up. A message I wasn’t supposed to see. From Lenah.”

Again, he air-quotes, the message that he read.

“Yesterday night was awesome, babe”

“I ignored it,” he says. “Had to act cool, as if I didn’t see a thing. You know me, I don’t shughulika with people’s phones.”

“By the way, it’s true. Si poa kushugulika na phone ya dem yako. That’s utiaji.”

I pause.

“Oh, by the way, that Lenah ako single? Pia mimi natafuta mtu ataniambia hivyo.”

We laugh.

“Tulia bro. L-E-N-A-H. Uweeh. She kept calling her. Alot. Manze even at night. And she did that thing of going to the balcony. I was like, kwani this ‘Lenah’ anateseka aje? Something just wasn’t adding up.”

“Things started going south,” he continued. “Ministry of Bedroom Affairs shifted from several times a week, to sometimes, to...never.”

He looks away, takes a deep breath.

“You see how Raila usually get close to clinching victory and then it slips through his hands? That’s what used to happen.”

“Uweeh. You could see the promised land but kuingia ndio tricky.”

He laughs. I laugh. I laugh at my own jokes. I prefer getting high on my own supply.

“It didn’t take long.”

“You cheated?” I interject.

“Zii,” he says. Then leans back and says:

“A few weeks later, I received a photo kwa WhatsApp. From an unknown number. I didn’t believe my eyes.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s what I’m thinking,” I said, already picturing what I hope it’s not.

“I’m not telling you what you are thinking,” he replies.

We both laugh.

“Uko na ufala bro”

“It was dimly lit but I could clearly tell it was her”

Come on. What’s up with this guy with building suspense? Can’t he just say what he saw instead of toying with my curiosity?

“It was who?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Doing what?”

“Having an intimate moment with Lenah. They were kissing.”

“Mmh” I did that thing that people do. It’s not that I hadn’t heard him. I just needed confirmation.

“Basically,” he continued, “my girl and Lenah have been shagging. Why would Lenah go for my girl and somebody here is single and lonely?” He said, pointing at me. I Looked behind me, like maybe that lonely person was someone else.

This sounded like something straight out of Patanisho. A part of me felt like asking for that photo. But another part told me wacha tu. I decided to wacha tu.

“Crazy. So, your girlfriend plays for both sides? That’s interesting.”

“We wacha. There is nothing interesting hapo.”

“But do you know what’s the craziest part?” he added.

“Zii.”

“The person who sent that photo was a guy. And do you know how he captioned it?”

I wanted to light the mood a little, so I tried:

“Je, yeye anamtambua wewe au wewe wamtambua yeye?”

Being the Luhya, he is, he responded exactly how Rashid and Lulu did:

“Sio lazima iwe wewe au yeye. Lakini muhimu ni ushirikano wa wewe na yeye.”

We burst into laughter.

“Bro Enyewe wewe ni fala. Hizo vitu unatumia sikuhizi zitakumaliza. Peddy wako ana overwork,” he said, still cracking up.

“But for real. What did the caption say?”

“Tell your girl to leave my girl alone”

I blinked. “I told her, but all this felt like advising my pastor to follow me into a strip club. Very difficult, I tell you. I’d heard before that when a lady walks out, she already left emotionally along time ago. I had to call it quits. When I confronted her, the best she could say was that she was still discovering herself. Man, I can’t believe I wasted all that time.”

“Thats sad. Do you have any of her photos? I would love to see the legend herself.”

He scrolls through his gallery. I see a smile sneak onto his face as his index finger comes to a slow stop.

“It’s an old picture. Not her best. But yeah, that’s her,” he said, handing me the phone.

“My heart aches just thinking of those days”

“I feel you bro”

I did that thing that my mum does when I give her my phone. I swipe left. And I see how happy the look. I look at the eyes and the smile- not hers. I only have eyes for Waingo. He seems deep in thoughts. Waingo got taste. The ex, seemes like she was raised on some other planet and then transplanted to earth. Mali safi. He chose well. But sadly, the girlfriend had eyes for somone else. Aki vane!

“Ulimpenda, lakini alipenda wasichana zaidi,” I say, as I hand the phone back to him.

“Go write about it,” he says, half-smiling. “I know you will draft something dope. Plus I know she reads your stories. Just...let her know there is a hole in my heart. And she’s the only one who can fill it.”

“Have you tried seeing a cardiologist bro?”

He smiles. He pays the bill. We leave. I give him a fist bump and say the usual, “Tutachekiana.” He says, “usipotee sana.” But I know we are going to do the exact opposite: Tutapoteleana sana.

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

More Humorous Articles by D.A

These streets of Nairobi!

17. If your friend breaks their phone screen, look them in the eye and say: “Kuuliza swali ni bure, kujibiwa ni bure ... kwenda na screen protector ndio pesa.”

31. Getting robbed or conned in Nairobi is a rite of passage. In fact, it’s highly recommended you lose something here early on. The sooner, the better.

3. It’s called “Taking a walk” when you have money; otherwise, you are “loitering”. Or, to be more precise, “unapiga maraundi” you hear?

22. Waah! Sa utado?

28. There are many things this country lacks- roads, jobs, justice- but one thing we don’t need is another wines and spirits shop. Just throw a stone in your neighbourhood and I swear, it’ll land on the neck, not of a person but a bottle of spirits.

29. Facts: There are way more spirits than wine in those wines and spirits shops.

37. There are seven SI units of measurement- and then there’s IG: the standard unit of pressure. Instagram is where peer pressure is manufactured and standards are set. It makes you believe everyone is living their best life... except you!

21. My love language is words of confirmation. Words like “nikuekee kwa number gani?” “Eee, weka kwa hii number”

30. Fun fact: Mama fua is into wash wash business.

14. Nyash! It has built empires ... and broken hearts and relationships. But hey, to whom much nyash is given, much is also expected. It’s biblical.

15. Man shall not live for nyash alone. Get a purpose, my guy.

27. I come from a place where people don’t grow up with a silver spoon or silver plate, but somehow, they have a silver tooth.

1. Besha. Dooh. Chums. Cheda. Bread. Mullah. Hela. Kichele. Mukuchu. Maziwa. Bag. Ganji. Mang’ondo. Pake. Pesa. Extensive research done by me shows money has more synonyms and euphemisms than any other word in the world. Sex comes second, work third.

34. There is “bei” and then there is “bei ya kuongea”. My advice? “Fika bei”. Kwani shi’ngapi?

11. If an atheist comes to borrow your money, don’t give them a cent. Just look them in the eye and say, ‘Ni God manze.’ I mean- why are they asking for money that was clearly given to you by God?

23. Did you know the world is full of people who start things and never finish them? They’re called DJs. Because why on earth won’t they ever let a song play to the end?

7. You haven’t suffered heartbreak until you are dumped by a babe whose IG bio says “God’s Favourite.” You’ll be a living testimony that God works in mysterious ways. Anyway, God’s case, no appeal.

13. Chapatis have the same regard to pancakes. Just like you and me: They need that dough. Nataka hiyo dooh!

4. Don’t just know many people. Purpose to know the right people. The kind who come to mind when you say, “Do you know who I am?... Unajua mimi ni nani wewe?”

5. But my Everest-sized ego will still ask you “kwani unadhani wewe ni nani?”. I, too, know people in high places, people who can take you to even higher places. That high place is called Juja (Juu-ja). Nani ako na lighter? (on a light note, hehe)

32. If you’re invited to a housewarming party, carry a matchbox and some charcoal. That’s the only logical way to make the event lit.

19. Dear men, the alphabet has 26 letters. If Agnes doesn’t work, there’s still Betty, Caro, Diana, Esther, Faith... you get the idea. And the same applies to ladies. There’s Austine, Bernard, Clement, Denis(mmh), Erick, and so on. My point? Don’t get stuck in a toxic relationship. Also, ukiachwa achika!

8. Sure, nyash can get you a seat at the table, but it won’t keep you there. Why? Refer to number 15. So... what else are you bringing to the table? Me? I bring the whole damn table.

26. Can a lady in heels make silent moves?

2. A lot of things are wrong in this country, but nothing beats this: A young man, a kijana, being called mzee. Mmh. Anyway, we mzee.

6. Bro to bro: Condomize. Wrap it before you dip it. Have you seen the price of diapers?

35. ‘Dragon moto testing. Dragon moto testing. Waaah.’ Giving a shout out to Stevo. But is he really simple?

18. If you don’t know what it is, you don’t know what it is. Kama hujui hujui.

24. Isn’t it weird that “W” starts with the letter “D”?

25. And speaking of “D” ...Why do DJs keep reminding us of their names every 2 minutes? Do they think we’ve got a short attention span, or is it because they want to make a lasting impression? Scratch that.

12. Kuna watu wa beamer, watu wa Mercedes, watu wa Subaru, and then there is you: Mtu wa watu.

36. In Africa, the next president is almost always worse than the current one. Somehow, that drunkard was much better than the hustler PhD holder. In fact, he must...ama wacha tu.

10. The economy is so rough that people who are selling cashew nuts are not making any money.

9. Swali. Can a person who is afraid of heights brag that s/he’s lonely at the top?

38. Two important women in a man’s life: Mama Mzazi and Mama Mboga.

16. They said I wouldn’t go far. Joke’s on them. Have you seen the number of steps on my smartwatch today?

33. Does a Lorry or a bus qualify as a “gari kubwa’?

20. Every tombstone tells a story. The question is- what will yours say? Me, I am still writing mine. But one thing’s for sure: before you die, live. Life is for the living- so live it. Live fully, and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

More Humorous Articles by D.A

Now, as you ponder these thoughts, I’ll leave you with Jamnazi Africa’s Riziki- because pia mimi, Nalo Jambo lanisumbua akili

Deni-s?

I appended my final signature and submitted the loan for approval. As I walked out of the building, I found myself humming Craig David’s “I’m walking away from the troubles in my life.”

What would I do with Ksh 60,000? Offset the national debt. Improve Riggy G’s security detail. Give Peter Salasya Ksh 200 to have a fresh hair cut. Fuel a private jet to China and borrow more loans. And heck, buy a new wig for president’s daughter (SHA-lean). Ama namna gani?

Whoever said money talks wasn’t lying. This money hadn’t even hit my account, but I was already budgeting for it like it had. My life was about to change. Completely.

A few weeks later, I got a notification that I should check with my bank within 48 working hours, the funds were about to be disbursed. I smiled all the way to the bank, not to start my investment journey, but to consume.

That was 6 years ago.

Did I see the terms and conditions? Well, if I saw them, I didn’t read. And if I read, I definitely didn’t understand. So, what did I do with the money? Well, let’s just say I handled it the same way the funds for Kimwarer and Arror dams were handled - I ‘embezzled’ it.

Easy come, easy go.

I was a freshman. Kijana mdogo, before I met the kind of guys my parents told me to avoid. Back in high school I had straight A’s in almost everything including Business Studies. But when it came to my financial literacy, I couldn’t balance shit! (See what I did there?) I was “new money”. The only financial advice I had ever internalized came from P-Square: “Chop my money, 'cause I don't care”

HELB me Out

Marry in haste, repent in leisure. Campus life and the HELB money faded faster than a TikTok Challenge. Or to be more precise, it was a wantam affair.

Like every other graduate, I had dreams- big-paying jobs, fat cheques, the whole package. But what I am getting now? A whole lot of... reality checks. I started receiving constant notifications from them telling me that my loan was overdue. Just last week another threatening message popped up:

“Following the lapse of the 7-day notice, HELB is proceeding to engage your guarantors for the loan recovery”.

I have not refused to pay.

It’s just that finding a job that is permanent and pensionable, has proven harder than figuring out how “bobo” is a shortened form of “Wambui”. Aje sasa?

So, like most unemployed graduates in my situation, I did the only logical thing... I ignored the message. But I find solace in knowing that my government and I share one thing in common: We’re both in debt, and the good thing is? We’ve not defaulted (yet) like some of our peers.

I checked my “national debt” status and it was ...dangerously close to hitting Ksh 260,000. These days, I’m just surviving in the gig economy to make ends meet. Suppose I finally land an entry-level job earning 30,000 a month. Of course, give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and by Caesar, I mean KRA. My pastor also demands 10 percent for God...But he’s the one who’s going to eat it.

And let’s not forget, being an African Child is not a blessing, it’s an investment. There’s black tax to pay. So, tell me, how many years will it take me to walk out of this debt? And by then... how old will I be?

Mazmatics

Let’s assume I get that 30K. Just an assumption.

After taxes, and after giving someone’s daughter 2k urgently, I decide to be more generous and start repaying Ksh 4,000 per month towards servicing the loan. Assuming I will be consistent like nanii in lying:

With the current interest rate of 4% per annum, it would take me 6 years to clear the loan. By then, I’ll be in my early thirties. Hii block nita toka kweli? When will I live life like my typical rapper? You know, fast cars, women, women in fast cars.

I haven’t had a mumama(yet), but I’m not ruling out that option. That might be my solid plan for “affordable housing”. Usini judge, but most importantly, usini advice. One does what one does to get ahead. It is what it is. Haven’t our ladies and men taught us so? Using what you have to get what you want? Shagging, discussing passion and pension with a wo(man) almost thrice my age just to get by?

As I contemplate working from home, sorry, I meant opening an OnlyFans account, you can tap tap the screen and send gifts. Tuma kitu, manze form sio poa.

I have tried to escape the matrix but I figured out the system is engineered to shackle us in debt. I knew something was deeply wrong when I saw my friend, an accounting graduate, CPA certified making the worst financial decisions I’ve ever witnessed. John Mbadi rada with the proposed 2025 finance bill? See, if even the “experts” are fumbling the bag, what hope is there for the rest of us?

As for me, I genuinely want to pay. The spirit is willing but my pockets are weak. At this rate, I might just have to leave my girlfriend alone before she asks me for a loan.

For now, my guarantors will have to bear the burden. They signed the document too. What were they thinking? Didn’t they you know my name starts with debt: Deni-s? Any way, that explains a lot why my favourite musician is Post Ma-loan; for I have tasted HELB and tasted Branch, Tala and Fuliza... I highly recommend IMF and the World Bank.

#RejectFinancebill 2025

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

📢 Backed by Popular Demand

The demand is higher than HELB’s interest rates. Unlike Must.. ama, wacha tu, I’ve listened. I’ll now be releasing two articles a month, every last Friday of the second week and last Friday of the fourth week. Keep reading, keep sharing... before your guarantors find you.

I don’t know about you, but for me, manyo pesa mano kela Nairobi. Let me send myself—jitume pia wewe.

Lust Stop!

It was ‘lust’ at first sight.

I stepped into the matatu, and there she was; the first person my eyes locked onto. The kind of girl who’s hotter than yours. Lanes my friend. Lanes! It’s a Sunday, and no, I’m not heading to church. I’m off to meet someone you don’t need to know.

The reasons and details are irrelevant to today’s sermon. Period. But come on, what’s the harm in admiring a Porsche 911 GT3 RS while cruising in a Rolls-Royce Phantom? Si dhani. After all, kama kitu ni kali, ni kali.

I even consider humming “I am happy today, so happy” as I make my way to the seat next to her. But since this is about “mambo ya dunia” a more fitting tune would be “leo me na dandia tu kama matt”

Clean wealth. Mali safi. Oh, and just like my charger-she’s my type, see? (see what I did there?) I’ve got to address her. I know the female versions of Amerix and Andrew Tate love to quip: "A man can undress who he dresses."

Uliskia wapii? Watch me.

If I steer the conversation vizuri, dropping a few lies here and there, selling my manifesto like nanii, who knows? I just might undress her...or better yet, get under her dress. Like this government’s transformative agenda, she’ll probably be at the Bottom while I am Up. (Hehe. Kasongo asione hii.)

As I approach her seat, she gestures for me to take the window spot. Happiest.

I like trying new things. Last night, I stumbled upon a YouTube video titled “6 Ways to Make a Woman Fall in Love With You Madly. The Fourth One Will Shock You.” Oh, the thumbnail was steamy. Hata kama ni wewe, would you have let that slide? I mean, you’d probably click it too, just to gather enough confidence to slide into her DMs.

Now, that’s exactly what I wanted to try out in this matatu. More of a practical class than theory. Just to see if it actually works. Lazima iwork. And if it does, I will definitely share the link with my boy Norman. Help him secure a woman before he officially bids goodbye to his prime. Otherwise, the streets will soon start referring to him as a Senior Bachelor. He’s been in the market for too long.

One minute passes. Two. Then three.

Where do I even start? Pickup line? The video advised to be both fun and funny. Should I look her in the eye and drop, “Soko ni chafu, but wewe ni mali safi? Or maybe, since it’s a Sunday, I should kick things off with a question. Something like: “Is your name Mary?” And then when she asks why, I hit her with, “Because umebarikiwa kuliko wanawake wote.”

Will that bring me closer to her, or completely ruin my chances? Ah, kwani iko nini? There’s no harm in trying. The worst she can say is “Staki stori zako.Unaboo...” But me? I stand by my Luhya people’s wisdom: Hakuna mkate ngumu mbele ya chai. Right?

Just before I unleash my pick-up lines, she makes a phone call:

“Sasa Jaymo. Uko aje? ... Hiyo ni poa. Manze umenitupa. Bado uko Kikuyu? Nilikuwa na come hivyo nione kama tunaweza meet, we catch up. It’s been a minute... Oh, ati uliama?... Wee, ati uliamia mlosi...ah, sawasawa. Otherwise...”

Dials Keypad. Again!

“Hi Kevoh. Za masiku? Bado unaishi Kikuyu? ... Sawa sawa ... wacha nitapitia hivyo nikugogotee alafu tuishie ile baze ya njiva.”

I haven’t said a word, but clearly, I’m not the only one in this matatu with “prospects.” Jaymo, now Kevoh...

A few thoughts cross my mind:

(a) Who even gives someone an impromptu call to “pass by”? On a Sunday? The day of the Lord. I thought you were supposed to alert someone a day or two in advance. That’s basic human decency. I mean, hii economy, we’re surviving on a budget. Sasa utakuja ukule? Stories? For real, if I were Kevoh, I’d simply say: “Niko...but kuja kama umekula”

What if I just want to relax? Maybe Jaymo was still in kikuyu, and he had plans for the day. And Kevoh... well, maybe just like the earth before creation: he was formless and desolate.

(b) Which lady still calls fries “Njiva”? Let me not even get started with “Mlosi” for Mlolongo. You, do you still refer to fries as njiva in 2025?

(c) And finally...how exactly is someone supposed to respond to “Otherwise?” Like, what do you even say? No other wise?

Wasted. She seemed good from far, but now she’s far from good. How can someone be this beautiful and still... you know. Now I know why ladies post their friends with that cliche caption, “Beauty with brains.” It’s a subtle way of saying, “We know there are some who come with the beauty part, minus the erm... brains.”

She has what I call “psychotic behaviours.” There are 3 on my list.

One- people who press the toothpaste tube from the middle instead of bottom-up. (Uweeh)

Two-those who comment on a YouTube music video with “2025, anyone?” Like yes, we’re all here.

And three- the most unforgivable, those watching TikTok videos on loudspeaker in a matatu.

She was guilty of the last one. No earphones. No shame. Why can’t you use earphones?

Complete turn off. I turn my gaze to enjoy the finer things that Mombasa Road has to offer. And what’s that, you ask? The Express way? Fancy Hotels? Malls? Maybe.

I pass by Mega and spot those fine Toyoras (yes, Toyoras- I refuse to say Toyota) and pristine Mercedes-Benzes gleaming behind the glass. Zero millage. Untouched. Unbothered. I sigh. One day, I tell myself. One day, I’ll have one of those machines in my possession, just so I never sit next to someone watching TikTok on loudspeaker again.

Uwongo is Our Shield and Defender

In that moment, another passenger in front of me picks up a call and boldly says “Eee, nimeingia gari za kuja hivyo. Sahi niko past Garden City”.

Liar.

Even on Sunday mnadanganya? The audacity. But then again, I presume the fish rots from the head. That hustler PhD holder lies. A lot. He’s a chronic liar. Politicians lie, and so does the common mwananchi. Tailors lie. Video editors lie. Graphic designers lie like it’s part of their job description. Men lie. Women lie. That person who has your debt lies. Talk of a lying nation. Uwongo is our shield and defender.

Before long, the Nairobi Sun starts melting me. Wait, when she gestured for me to take the window seat, I was happy because I thought maybe she was alighting soon, and I’d finally get a chance to inspect her...behind the scenes. Kumbe, she had done calculations on the sun’s angle of elevation and depression. Mungu mbona unaipatia punishment?

I started thinking of all the jokes that I had lined up for her. One after the other, ready to deliver like a seasoned stand-up. But that’s all it was. A dream.

Would she have loved them? Would she have tilted her head, giggled, and said, “Aww, aki wewe ni mfunny”? Would she have stood my jokes? No. I know she wouldn’t. Because alikuwa ameketi.

Cr{U}sh Landing

“Aki unaweza fungua windooow tafa?” She asks. Who even says “tafa”? I pretend not to have heard her. Not because of “tafa”, but because maybe that would have been her cue to ask me for a “favour” urgently. I don’t want to sponsor someone’s airtime or lunch budget. Not today.

“Shukisha Agip,” I tell the conductor, already halfway to the door. What did Wahenga say? “Mpanda gari hushuka.” Right? By this time, only one frustrating line of Bien’s song is stuck in my head: “Usiulize ka' niligonga niulize kile niliona”

As usual, live fully and love wholeheartedly. Remember to live is to love, and to love is to live. So:

Live and let live.

Adiós

OTHER RELATED STORIES

By this time, only one frustrating line of Bien’s song is stuck in my head: “Usiulize ka' niligonga niulize kile niliona”

This story is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

(Today)

A Knock at the Wrong Time!

A bra strap snapped in the dark. Urgent fingers fumbled with his belt as he hurriedly pulled off his shirt. Gravity helped his trousers to the floor. His hands found her waist, pulling down both her skirt and the lingerie in one swift motion- talk about killing two birds with one stone.

A faint squeaking sound echoed from afar. Then the squeaking got louder with each passing second as did the voice of a woman giving orders:

“Oh. Ah. Stop. Go. Yes. Yes. Yes. Ahh...hold it there. Faster. Don’t stop. Oh. Jesus. Go on!”

Her legs hung suspended in the air, her fingers gripping the sheets. He’s above her, swinging his waist, rising and falling like the dollar against the Kenyan shilling.

“Is it there yet?”

“No. Yes. Yes. Go on, baby.”

“Oh my god. I missed your dick so much.”

“Ahhhh!” He let out a sudden sound. A sigh of relief. His body relaxed as he caught his breath. “That was crazy,” he murmured as he dismantled and collapsed beside her.

“That was insane,” she said, still catching her breath, “... it’s been a while since I felt that. My body has been desperately longing for a man’s touch.” She chuckled, trying to keep her thighs from trembling so noticeably. Lying side by side, they stared at the ceiling and they laughed.

Du! Du! Du!

A knock at the door shattered their moment.

“Were you expecting someone?” Ken whispered to Fridah as they scrambled to dress.

“Zii. The only person I expect is my roomie, and she’s just gone to class. She’ll be back at around three,” Fridah whispered pulling on her clothes in panic.

Du! Du! Du!

The knock intensified.

“Chill kiasi nafungua,” she called out.

“Kwani bado sahi unalala we mzee? Hebu stop being lazy. Unashinda aje kwa bed as if you are in a hospital ward? Or have I interrupted your self-service session?” The voice outside laughed.

“Oh, shit,” Fridah muttered under her breath. “That’s Val. My roomie.”

Ken froze. He knew that voice all too well. His body tensed.

Fridah dragged her feet toward the door, switching on the lights before opening it.

“Kwani class imeisha aje mapema leo?” She asked Val, trying to sound casual.

“Fuck huyo lec,” Val scoffed. “After waiting for him for 30 minutes, anashow classrep ati hatamake. So hivyo ndio class imebounce manze.” She said, kicking off her shoes at the door and stepping inside.

As soon as Val stepped into the room and set her eyes on Ken, she froze. Her body tensed, eyes locking on him as though trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Ken, sitting at the edge of the bed, couldn’t meet her gaze either. The air in the room was thick with awkwardness.

“Sasa Ken...” Val finally greeted him, her voice carefully controlled. Then she turned to Fridah, her face unreadable. “Nitacome baadaye. Wacha nifike hivi nacome...” She didn’t wait for a response. She quickly exited, the door closing behind with a soft thud.

But whatever she had seen had already told her everything she needed to know. First, Ken’s T-shirt was inside out, an obvious mistake in the heat of the moment. Second, the bed was a disaster, something that never happened with Fridah. And finally, lying in plain sight was Fidah’s bra.

Fridah frowned. “Why is Val behaving weirdly today? Or is it because I didn’t tell her we got back together?” She didn’t have the answers. But Ken...Ken probably did.

He seemed disturbed and uneasy. His face was tense, his jaw tight, and a visible tendon ran from his temple and buried itself right between his furrowed brows.

(3 months ago)

Sisterhood or Snake hood?

“Imagine we broke up with Ken last night after 3 years of dating. He cheated,” Fridah broke the news to Val, her voice shaky as tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, siz. Are you for real?” Val responded, bracing her. Fridah couldn’t hold back anymore. Tears flooded her cheeks.

For hours, they cried over the loss of love, but eventually, their pain turned into anger. They began speaking ill of Ken, their words filled with bitterness.

“Men will use you, chew you, and then spit you out like khat. Nkt. Argh,” Fridah muttered, breaking the silence.

“These dogs think with their dicks. They don’t see logic past a skirt,” Val added, her voice sharp. “They see nothing in women other than their pretty faces and the wet hole. Fuck men!”

“That guy was using me and wasting my time, telling me sweet nothings. ‘Oh, she will marry me after campus.’ Men are trash. Umbwa yeye,” Fridah spat out, her voice bitter.

“I tell you these men watakuonyesha mambo. Me, I fear them. They are useless piece of shit!” Val agreed, her anger burning.

“How was I blind to see the red flags?” Fridah sighed, frustration in her voice.

“Don’t worry siz. Remember, we are the prize. And we will always remain the prize. Lose on him,” Val reassured her.

“Aki that’s so true baby girl. You got wisdom.”

“Mimi na Solomon hapa...” Val said, flashing her two fingers- the ring and index- making them go up and down, “same WhatsApp group.” They both burst into laughter, the mood shifting.

“Remember what Megan Thee Stallion sang in the song ‘Savage’?” Val asked Fridah with a smirk.

“Mmmh...” Fridah paused, gathering he thoughts. “I’m that bitch...” she eyed Val suspiciously, her tone playful.

“Yes... go girl!” Val nudged her to continue, urging her to embrace it.

“Been that bitch, still that bitch. Will forever be that bitch” They both laughed out loud, and in perfect harmony, continued singing the song together.

“I'm a savage. Classy, bougie, ratchet. Sassy, moody, nasty. Acting stupid, what's happening? Bitch. What's happening? Bitch”

Megan Thee Stallion, (1995- ), American rapper and songwriter.

(1 month ago)

Some Ghosts Never Die

“Babes nowadays you smile a lot with your phone,” Fridah chimed in one evening, a playful glint in her eye.

“Not really. Just TikTok things.” Val brushed it off casually.

“Liar. I know you are seeing someone. You go to a lot of sleepovers, and I’ve noticed you pick some calls outside”

Val giggled, her smile widening, “wacha hizo”, she said.

“I knew it!” Fridah said, and they both laughed. “I am happy for you.” She said, and her face turned a little gloomy.

“Aki babes, I feel like I am slowly missing Ken. It’s been 3 months, and I can’t stop thinking about him. He’s the last thing I see before I go to sleep, and the first thing that crosses my mind when I wake up. I low-key miss those moments, babes”

“That guy is crazy. Remember, he dumped you via text after you caught him cheating. Babes, you honestly deserve better.” Val said, trying to shake off the jealous thoughts rising in her.

“That’s true babes, but I’ve tried to get rid of him but I just can’t. I blocked him from all my socials, deleted his contacts lakini wapi. His contact is ingrained in my mind. All I see is him. Can you really forget your first Kiss? Your first love?” This struck a nerve in Val. A mixture of jealousy and anger swirled inside her, but she controlled it.

“Listen babes. That’s the folly of your first love. It poisons your senses. Drowns your intelligence in dreams that will never come to pass. It has blinded you from seeing how Ken treated you in the first place.” Val took a long pause before continuing.

“I know it’s difficult leaving your first love. But honestly, even if you two get back together, your relationship will only go one direction- south! Let bygones be bygones. Remember, love is like death. You don’t find it. It finds you. So be patient. Your Mr. Right is coming.”

Fridah was listening quietly, loving how wise her roomie was in matters of love. She was the real Dr. Love. She just nodded her head, not knowing what to say.

“Babes... be like me. I don’t look back. I never look back even when I scratch my back... not unless we are backbiting.” They laughed, the tension in the room lightening a little.

Despite all that TED talk, Fridah’s spirit was willing, but her flesh was weak. Val had forgotten one vital lesson: there is only one way to advise someone who’s in love: JUST DON’T!

(2 months ago)

Pillow Talk with the Devil

Provided a lady looks good, a man will never hesitate to shoot his shot, all in the hope that someday he will lick from her honeycomb.

Yes, Val was right when she said men don’t see logic past a skirt, but what she forgot to tell Fridah is that men see logic behind a skirt- nyash. Every true love or one-night stand has to start somewhere, and for most it’s usually on a date. But not this one.

They weren’t strangers to each other. They had crossed paths before. Okay, more often than not. As usual, she played hard to get- just like they all do. She played adamant so she wouldn’t seem desperate. But deep down, she knew this was an opportunity she had been waiting for.

There was just something about him that made her heart melt. Was it the smile? It had to be. Must be. Or was it the way he used to hug her gently, the feeling of his chest against hers that made her feel safe and cared for? Maybe it was the way he looked at her every time he came over, making her feel naked and vulnerable.

“What if she finds out we are dating?” she voiced her fears one day to Ken, as they lay in that post coital exhaustion, having done to one another everything they had promised to each other through text messages and heated phone calls.

“Who?” Ken asked, his voice a bit distracted.

“Fridah!” Val replied, her concern clear.

“Don’t worry. She won’t. She’ll never. Just play your cards right. We’ll keep it professional,” Ken reassured her…

-MWISHO MWISHO-

When a good girl gone bad what you gonna do? Simple: Run, go meet her dad? But what happens when a good man goes rogue?(I don’t know)

About the Author

He's got plenty of thoughts, and just as many dad jokes, despite not being a dad(yet). Maybe a dzaddzy or a father figure. His 6th sense is called sense of humour. The only problem? He's trying to do stand-up comedy while sitting down. He writes boldly and authentically, because he believes in preserving the integrity of the story, telling it as it truly is: raw, unfiltered. Kama mbaya, mbaya!
Follow him on IG @its_arunga
Follow this platform on IG @dagotthoughts

This story is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

It’s 18:45, just 10 minutes after a one-and-a-half-hour dreadful bus ride. The Citi Hoppa isn’t much for comfort, but it does get us places. Dom, the only other person in the room besides me, can’t tell if I’m mad, happy, or crazy. I am worried about making the call. After all, it’ll just add to the fifteen that I made on my lunch break.

1 minute later, the call ends, no answer. Five more, and the results aren’t changing. I catch myself hyperventilating at the kitchen counter, about to make the sixth. I’ve been told I give up too fast or I am not persuasive enough, sometimes a coward cherry to just top the vanilla humiliation.

For a few years, I had known the face of this dreadful bond and ambivalently refused to be a reflection of it. I didn’t mind being alone; sure, a longing hit now and then, especially in the 15 minutes before bedtime or the dusk walks around the city streets.

I can feel myself replete with emotions that are not fear, anger, or happiness. At this point, I’m just about to lose it.

19:30, I reach for my coat and head out for a destinationless impromptu walk through a town I’ve just known for 3 weeks. “One more call—The very last one,” I tell myself, but… seven more later! I changed the tune; I bought the minutes: OFA MOTO YA MTAA.

I can’t tell how long I’ve been on the road. I think I’ve walked too far, but with the line of street lights and the smoky jikos of vendors roasting maize casting a brown misty effervescence assures me it’s still early. I can’t keep walking anymore, for obvious reasons: I am not Johnnie Walker.

I grab the front cover of an A4 Kasuku book page from a swept-up pile on the corner of a minimart and decide to rest a little. I’m at that point where if you had a little space you’d probably decide to pace back and forth. I can’t walk on. Yet still, I can’t go back.

A myriad of personal insecurities stormed into my head at once. This is no longer a case of ‘walk it off’; I need to run a mile. When I no longer feel in control, I am no different from a drunk person. My speech gets impaired, and my motion is as if I stood under the rain. I am bottled with compunction, and rhetorical questions manifest as versions of me become my judge, jury, and executioner.

I wish I’d remained apathetic but no. I had to dig my own grave. I knew I was getting myself into something that was not tenable, but impetuously, I brought a diving board. All this self-loathing was not extenuating my circumstances anyway.

I start having pareidolic visions of this person. Everywhere I look, mannequins, and contorted shadow figures, all start to morph into familiar attributes that have one job-to haunt me. Just one job, they had one job—not to do it—but they quit, and this useless self-healing talk is their last paycheck that I am using to replace a stapler they broke: my heart.

Then ensuing are the feeble sorrow-drenched affirmations of I will never again because no amount of cursing helps my case. Normally, I am a reticent person but this is too much for me.

I scroll through my contact list of 92 people, eleven of whom are family members, 60 are the static people you keep around, comprising of former classmates, former or current workmates, or someone who just gave you their number when that moment felt right.

After skimming through I can only call my sister and Miriam, a new friend whom I’m yet to meet for that matter. When it comes to my sister, she has a way of blending, asking for money and therapeutic talk, so she doesn’t pass the chance to talk to her big brother.

I can’t really tell what I said but one thing still stood out, ‘Antony, you’re like the weapon formed against women, you’ll never prosper’, she said. We jokingly laugh about it. Apart from that, she just laid a canvas for me to project my insecurities and later on hit me with the ‘Get over it’.

The capricious thoughts of jumping in front of a moving vehicle or slamming my phone against the floor are replaced by ostentatious whimsical smiles as I get myself ready to make the second call and head back to my house. ‘Hello’, Miriam answers. I haven’t said this to her yet, but her voice is amazing.

I put a disclaimer first before we begin that no matter how my voice might project, in no way I’m under the influence whatsoever. I try to play it off by asking a question but masking fresh cut wounds isn’t something I am good at, especially if I am oozing blood from the words covering them.

After approximately 11 minutes, she notifies me she has to get back to work and I can’t spend the whole night wheezing on self-inflicted pain. I guess when you become a comedian, everything is a joke, it’s only when you get the joke that you can decide if it’s a good or a bad joke. It’s 21:00, I …

I don’t know who to blame for my misfortune—maybe I’ll just blame it on the lifestyle.

About the Author

Skipper pens the unspoken, where emotions blur and the ordinary becomes profound—where words dance between joy and sorrow. Engage with them on IG: @Iambskipper

And for the grand finale: A Stranger in My Own Bed—this one’s X-rated. It’s steamy, messy, and unforgettable. So let’s close the curtains, lock the doors, dim the lights, and let the story begin.

This story is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

Kasandra called me excitedly the day before Christmas,

"You won't believe where I am"

"No hello?"

"Who still says hello?"

"Ahhh normal people with an ounce of decorum."

"Well, you're about to lose all the decorum you have when I tell you where I am."

"Are you sure?"

"Wanna bet?"

"Why waste money?"

"What you call waste, I call investment "

"Spoken like a true gambler."

"Don't Kenny Rogers me!"

"Sure, I will just let you be the next Terrance Watanabe."

"Buzz kill! Fine, I won't bet! Anyways, let me turn my camera."

I am a huge fan of Celine Dion. However, I have never understood the words of her song "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" as much as I did at that moment. It was our place. Well, his place that we spent so much time in, it became our place.

We had changed the seats, changed the layout, but parts of that place remained us-raw, pure, and unadulterated. The ceiling of that tiny movie shop still had the colors I had splashed on the ceiling board while he was painting.

My favorite corner still had a collection of old movie posters that I picked. And on the back exit from the movie shop to his room, I could still see the door knob we fixed together because we wanted privacy.

"Hello, are you still there?" Kasandra said over the phone, bringing me back from my reverie

"Where else would I be?"

"In your head."

"I am not!"

"Of course you are!"

"I told you! See you lost all decorum."

"I did not!"

"So you say! Anyways, I will catch up with you later. Let me see what the gang is up to."

"Have fun."

A lot of things feel wrong in life, like sending flirty texts in church, running past someone in a wheelchair, talking back to your grandma, or laughing at a joke in the middle of a serious conversation, or worse, a funeral.

But what feels even "wronger" is how sometimes the memories of people "we used to know" cling stubbornly to our minds, no matter how thoroughly we’ve cut them off. It’s as if the past refuses to let go, or is it us? Since that call, he has been stuck in my head; in all wrong ways.

It's been seven years now! You'd think I've figured out how to let him and let communication die out. Well, the later maybe. I have blocked him on Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, and he doesn't have my number so he doesn't have access to me nor I him.

However, I still see when our mutual friends post about him. I fight the urge to ask how he is doing. I fight the urge to look like I care. Because if they know they will ask me why I walked away.

Why did I walk away? Did he not love me like a boy should love a girl? Did he not sneak snacks into my pocket? Did he not make everyone watch movies I liked? Did he not cover up for my faults at work? Did he not walk me down the street after our shift? Did he not hold my hand whenever our boss gave us an earful? Did he not wipe down my tears? Rather lick them dry?

I remember our first kiss. I had a bad day at work and when I went home, my mum unleashed more hell on me. I felt like I was omena, moving from hot water to boiling oil! I needed a minute with just air! Space to catch my breath. So I left home.

It was raining! The road was muddy! Thunder and lightning were striking and the air smelled of nothing more than wet soil. I removed my sandals and walked on the mud directly.

The soft slippery soil and the rain on my face made me break down! At that moment I realised I had been holding a lot inside and I just crumbled. I was almost at his house and I just sat down crying.

One of the friends he was playing cards with saw me and told him. He came outside running with a jacket and covered me. I didn't have the energy to stand! I didn't have the walk! I didn't have the energy to talk! So we just sat there; him in silence, me in tears and the rain a background noise I needed.

When I could finally stand, he led me inside the main house. He got me warm clothes; a white t-shirt, blue sweatpants, and an oversized hoodie before making me a cup of tea. I had stopped sobbing but there were still tears on my cheeks.

This time, he wiped them. So slowly, so tenderly, as if he added a bit of energy he would break me. He told me it would be okay while tenderly stroking my hair. His mouth angled over my own until our lips touched.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was neither soft nor searching. It was claiming, all wild and unchecked. As if he was trying to absorb all my hurt and fix all my pain through that kiss.

It's raining right now. I am having a cup of tea while wearing a white t-shirt, blue sweatpants, and an oversized hoodie. I find myself in moments like this more often than I can admit.

Moments where I think how it all began, of him and what we could have been. However, I never allow myself to think of how it ended; because it will mean I have to admit to myself that I let the world outside and social media ruin what we had.

I started desiring what influencers, friends, and movies claimed I should have had instead of focusing on what I had; a tender and unblemished love that awakened emotions I didn’t know existed. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours; and now, it only exists in my memories.

We all have our love regrets, I don’t know if broken hearts will ever mend, and so when you see him… Mwambie nampenda roho ya mtamani bado nampenda ukimwona...

About the Author

Favor Khaoya, a Kenyan author who is passionate about spitballing. She writes about anything and everything because when she writes, she is as unburdened as a piece of dandelion fluff and the words are the wind that stirs her about the world.
You can engage with her work on Favorkhaoya.blogspot.com

Next: The Mobile Subscriber Cannot Be Reached—Please Try Healing Later—honestly we need customer support when it comes to heartbreak and loneliness. Hey, Doctor Love?

This story is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

There he was: my covid crush, standing just a few feet away, completely unaware of my presence. I had rehearsed every possible insult, from A to Z that I would unleash at him if we ever crossed paths again. But when the moment came, I choked on my own words. I was flooded with mixed emotions. Anxiety was right at the top.

I couldn’t bring myself to talk to him, to seek closure, ask him where he disappeared to. I should have walked up to him, tapped him on the shoulder, demanded an explanation, but I didn’t. Some ghosts aren’t meant to return to the living.

As I stood there, frozen, memories of us came crashing back. It’s as if it were yesterday. No. A few years back, yet it felt quite recent. The emotions remained raw. I met a man, or did he meet me?

From our very first date, I knew he wouldn’t leave my thoughts. He was everything that I ever wanted. A complete package. His beard felt like a cushion. His hands were soft and tender. He was a bit advanced in age, and his way of thinking leaned old school. He said I intrigued him and filled his life with adventure.

Then boom! COVID happened. The pandemic didn’t just kill people. Its death toll was far more devastating-it killed relationships alike.

"If we continue to behave nomari, this disease will treat us abnomari"

Mutahi Kagwe(1958- ) Kenyan politician

You see, disaster always strikes when you least expect it. I had no issues with those words from the former Health CS, but what followed was the real nightmare. Following the surge in COVID cases, it didn’t take long before county-to-county lockdown was imposed. He had gone back to the village to do the usual one-two-three when the restrictions kicked in.

I was stuck in Nairobi. We hadn’t moved in together, but at least when he was in the city, we saw each other often. He just didn’t know my name, he knew me in depths unimaginable.

The so-called “social distance” couldn’t tear us apart. What could possibly separate me from the love of my life? (Social)distance? No. Lockdown? No. Masks that might have made him unrecognizable? Definitely not. If anything, we grew even closer despite the miles between us. He was always in my ears, his sweet voice filling the silence.

And then, just like how COVID crashed into our lives, things began taking a twist slowly, then gradually.

The frequent calls, the sweet nothings: “Baby I miss you so much”, “I can’t wait for the lockdown to end so that we can be together again” started dwindling. Three calls a day became two. Then one. Then occasional. Then random, like the unpredictable Nairobi rains. What was happening to my sweet, loving, and caring man?

At first, he said he was broke. Times were tough. I understood. The lockdown had wrecked many people’s finances. But even after the ban was lifted, he still didn’t come. He kept telling me “Kuna deal flani nategea iivane and then I will come. ASAP.”

I waited. And waited. Annnnd waited. Kwani alikuwa anachoma makaa?

Then, a few weeks later, out of nowhere, the texts started coming. A new number. A new nightmare.

“I knew I would find you. Hebu leave my man alone you stupid girl.”

“Mjinga wewe. So, you are the reason he’s been ignoring us huku nyumbani?”

“His one-year-old daughter is starving because of you!”

Wait...His one-year-old daughter? Us huku nyumbani? What in the plot twist was this?

Okay. Okay. Okaaay! So ‘my man’ had a whole child stashed somewhere in ushago? News to me. All this time, I thought maybe my man was self-quarantining; staying home and staying safe. Little did I know he was safe in someone else’s bosom.

I wanted to ask him if all those allegations were true, but his phone was “mteja”. And on those rare occasions it went through, guess who picked up? That woman, armed and ready to insult me like a young kid.

I couldn’t trace him. Days passed, and I kept hoping he’d resurface. Lakini wapi? He vanished like a ghost and not even Halloween could lure him back. Maybe that’s why they call it a crush because... because, oh boy, did my feelings and castles come tumbling down.

It was evident that the virus had infected more than just bodies; it had infested our relationship too. What else could I do but to social distance myself from that mess?

Remember that thing I alluded to the first and only letter of Paul to the Romans? What will separate me from the love of my man? Shall COVID, or social distance, or masks? Now that I am wiser, I know the answer. I am persuaded that neither COVID, nor social distance, nor masks could have separated us.

But another woman from ushago – the mother of his child did the job just fine. Arggh! She was the special variant I didn’t see coming!

Now, here I am, staring at this ravishingly handsome man who still has the audacity to give me goosebumps. My body seems to defy my mind, acting on its own will. The spirit is so willing, but damn, the flesh is weak. I open my mouth, ready to call his name but then I stop. What would I even say?

“Hey, remember me? The girl you left wondering during lockdown?”

No. That’s not me anymore. I’ve evolved. Matured. Maybe I don’t need answers anymore. Maybe some stories are meant to remain unfinished.

No. Hapana. I’ve lied. I need answers.

Honestly, I can’t help but wonder. Was it the pandemic that tore us apart? Or did a metaphorical meteorite cause the last disconnection? Crashing into our love? Or maybe, just maybe, like Jolene from Dolly Parton’s song, another woman stole him away?

What remains now is the ghost of his memories. Perhaps, in time, the ghost will feel less haunting and more like a quiet, cherished part of my story.

So, I let him stay in the past where he belonged. I turned and walked away. And for the first time, it felt like I was the one disappearing.

For now, the only drug I need is Medicine from Bensol

About the author

Samara Munene is passionate about poetry, life's philosophies, traveling, dancing, culture, and storytelling. She runs a blog called Samara's Blog Journey where she writes about poetry, life's adventures, real-life experiences, fantasy, and romance.

Engage with her on all socials: X: Samara Munene IG: Samara Wanjiru FB: Samara Wanjiru

Next: So It Was, Or Is It?—when the past keeps knocking like an unpaid debt: Hustler Fund.

This piece is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

Countless nights of grieving, wailing, — oh, I wept,

Looming and clutching onto the memories we once had,

I desired to loathe you, but my heart strongly rebelled.

Fragments of you still linger in my mind, echoing what my lips are too scared to express.

Time is a healer they say,

Only my heart will tell.

Nothing could have ever prepared me for your betrayal, it —

Seeped deep in my soul, I was scared to question, did you ever really love me?

Heart to heart, skin to skin, we once danced, did that also mean nothing?

Understanding you,

Killed me inside, I had to burn myself to keep you warm yet —

Rarely were you ever satisfied.

At last I had to let you go, for you to be happy, My Last Act of Love.

Neglecting my desire to save you, saved me,

I now realize, My Last act of love for you, was The First for myself.

About the Author
Bruised Petal is passionate about writing mystery novels but that’s just it. Passion.  She’s never written a novel to completion because life always keeps life-ing. But that should change soon. 
She loves singing and she dances sometimes. 
She isn’t vocal about her writing and prefers to stay anonymous when writing vulnerable pieces. She probably will write another work under a different alias, but when you look deep enough, you’ll know it’s her;) The young miss is always evolving and growing in her writing, because she writes so that she can forget and let go.

“I hope as you go you know that I fought. Letting go wasn't easy. The old me is gone, accept and move on. I gotta free me. I'm not the same person you left that day. It tore me to pieces, but I really needed to feel that pain”

Next: She Was the Variant I Didn’t See Coming—no symptoms, no warning, just pure chaos.

This story is just one juicy part of a bigger picture. Read the intro here to get all the tea!

“Do you know how incredibly rare it is to successfully move on?”

No one actually tells you the excruciating details of healing, but I will. They say you never forget your first love, but I just might have dementia. I might have forgotten your face and how you used to make me feel, but I have not forgotten what you made me.

Before you take all the credit, you broke me first, and yet you weren’t Tate McRae - whom I started listening to when we were dating. I went through the five stages of grief for a love I now see was never meant to be mine. For a long time, I could not believe that we were done.

When I did, I was mad at you because you had relations with another guy while we were on a break like Ross and Rachel. I was upset when I reread our chats and started realizing the cracks that had begun forming.

All I asked was your patience for a few weeks because I was to travel to Nairobi but you weren’t patient. I tried renegotiating when we had a brief fling after your transgression but that did not work. Every time I looked at your IG page, a piece of me would die whenever you’d post a new picture of yourself.

I told myself that my time to shine would come, and it has started showing up on the horizon. By the way, I am into anime at the moment and to make my point home, like Kaiju No. 8, I am at 39% unleashed “attractive” power.

I would stalk your IG and Twitter for months and tea would taste like mwarubaini a little more every single time I saw your pictures. My grief for you was the biggest indication that love, indeed, existed between us.

If I knew how excruciating my depression would have been, I would have accepted my fate earlier. I accepted that what we had was young and immature love after poring through our photos and emails. I resigned knowing that you were never mine to begin with and I was just to experience you.

I still know a lot of information about you that I don’t know what to do with. What can I do with your elation whenever you talked about Spongebob? Or how you’d cut yourself weeks after we had officially broken up? What am I to do with the memory of Kelechi Africana singing to you that horrific night?

For the record, I’ve been to Juja more times than I can count after I knew you — once was so lit I slept in Ruiru! So, my question is, why the fuck weren’t you patient? Because I am. However, I have to give you your props for being part of making me who I am today.

Remember how I used to cringe in front of a camera and never took pictures? I am sure you’ve seen more of my pictures in the last thirty days than you’ve thought of whoever that guy was. I’ve made amazing friends, and despite you, I wouldn’t have thought twice if our paths hadn’t crossed. I am more outgoing and more exploratory that you can say I am a new person.

We can’t appreciate the present without acknowledging the past. So, I am giving you your props for letting me know what I don’t want in a relationship. Thank you because it is through you that I know how to love Nyx better. And a final thank you because I have to hand it to you because if you weren’t who you were, I would have never become a loverboy.

I reiterate. “Do you know how incredibly rare it is to successfully move on?” I hope you have moved on and found love just like I have. I wonder, after you read this, will I be the one to linger in your thoughts? Because I can assure you that you will never be within five hundred meters of me for the rest of your life.

Giving absolutely zero fucks,

Me.

If things hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, I’d probably be somewhere vibing to Wakadinali’s Maproso, because: Mapumziko yetu yangekuweko Mombatha

About the Author

Chacha Lesley writes when happy, sad, introspective, and when his salary has been delayed, which gives him ample time to observe the universe without the lens of a bank with a lot of money. He is on Instagram as @whowoulda.thought and tweets on X as @Thothincarnate. He runs a blog called Coffee With Lee, check it out if you'd like to read more of his amazing stories.

Up next: My Last Act of Love—a poetic farewell, where love takes its final bow.