There are days when you will have zero interest in dating. This Nairobi of ours has shown you things, and you've have had enough.

To find an alternative, you will start yoga and fail in week two.

Gym? Ata tusiguzie.

You'll be tempted to join the people talking over the Nairobi events space. The runners and walkers. Buana these people are built different. They called walk from Cardinal Otunga pale jiji all the way to Nakuru and back. And they'll go to work the following day like nothing happened.

Trust them when they tell you, ‘We can't be the same.’ Even this, you failed.

So you decided you'll join tech-ish events. Usually hosted around Westi, Lavi and Kilii. Good spots to check out some of the coolest tech products of from 254. There's always some refreshments (cocktails in the mix) in plenty. Who can say no to free food?

You will be in one pale Lavington. A place where the washroom is ten times better looking than you croc-sized, trapezium bedsitter. Where the restaurant adjacent to it had menus engraved on mahogany tables, and waiters only speak English of the nose.

There she will be. Sophisticated in style, a long red dress, and what looks like a very expensive wig. One that can easily be used as an insult on you. You know the ones that goes like “Kijana, hii wig inaezakulipia rent for five months. How dare you hit on me?”

Your eyes will meet like three times. At the back of your mind, you don't even think about asking for her number or anything. That part of you brain is locked.

At the end of the event, she asks if she can give your her number so that you can stay in touch. You're not surprised. People in many social events usually want to keep in touch. Some even go ahead and teach each other. It is not shocking. So you take her number and promise to drop her a text so that she can have yours.

You keep your word. Text her the usuals. It was nice meeting you, I hope you had a fantastic time.

You go ahead and ask what stood out for her. She says you did. You want to text “aaaawwwww” but you know your thong-wearing ancestors will not be happy with this. Laughing emojis follow. And then some more.

Conversations flow like lies do from Mtukufu Lies. Effortlessly. You come to appreciate her sense of style, her great humour, and more importantly, that cute smile that has you giggling at 1AM.

It is a typical honeymoon stage of any taking stage. It's fun. It's lovely. And you wish it lasts longer. She says she saw you checking her out. You remember looking at her, but you don't remember if you could consider that checking her out. However, you play along since it's been a minute since someone paid this much attention to you.

On your first date, you go to a spot in town. She comes late but it doesn't even matter. She matters. And for her, you'd be patient. You'll do anything buana. She deserves it. She has earned it.

You have some.great conversations about the tech space (she is a software engineer who has a start up that's honestly questionable). You can't quite understand it. But you nod here, mmmh there, and ask for clarification here. Besides this, the evening flows so well, by the time it is 8PM, you're worried you might spend the coins you're saving for a GLE on her. You carry her trenchcoat and see her off. A great first date. One for the books.

The honeymoon is fading and some realities are kicking in. It is brought to your attention that she is the only one who initiates conversations in that DM. She wonders why you're behaving like that and you're the one who checked her out in the first place. You say no, I actually didn't. You go through the texts and come to the conclusion that her accusation is far from the truth. But truth is relative. You apologize (for her mistakes of forgetting and accusing you falsely) and promise to do better. She's happy. The texts start flowing naturally, the humour top tier and the stickers out of this place.

Until she texts one day saying aaaaah….”I am moving to Eldy, so I don't see this working out.”

There's no better way to take this news, so you just start revising the texts.

There was never moving. She just needed to get you out of the way. Even your thong-wearing ancestors couldn't believe it.

Dearest Mimah,

I have written a lot of letters. To strangers. To lovers and love interests. To family and friends. At some point, as much as I try my best, these letters lose meaning in the eyes of the receivers. Instead of making them feel special as I intended, it makes them question my motives.

There is a certain intimacy placed on letters and words that many people do not think if I wrote to a stranger and to my lover, the two could be different. At the very least, many would think as long as it is a letter, whether it is going to a friend or a crush, it’s simply the same thing.

I know it is not.

And I started with the text above so that you know, as much as I have written a hundred letters before, I hold you in high regard, and there will never be a letter like this.

Stunning like beautiful poetry

When I first met you, I did not know I would leave that place with your number. I did not think about it. But then I saw you passing by. Suddenly, I felt like my Ikolomani ancestors were sending me a sign, so I poured a little coffee on the floor to appreciate them.

I only had a few minutes where you work, and I needed to do something. In this world, getting a babe’s number is one thing, her responding is a whole other thing. Most of the time, you eat blueticks, and I suppose this is truly what they meant when they said kukula lifa na adabu. Sadly, sometimes hitting on someone can be the most painful and embarrassing thing to do. I was not doing that, and hope that that is not the message that registered in your mind.

I wrote you a note. I left my number in it (I have probably done this a couple of times). I do not know exactly why I did that. But I was hoping I could talk to you someday. That even though we would be naturally miles away from each other and smoke signals and messengers do not work anymore, we could somehow keep in touch.

You are as stunning as beautiful poetry. Please call me sometime.

Looking back, this was bold of me. I must have assumed you were waiting for this day to come. For me to appear. Then I had to leave. Then I had to wait for your call/text. Then life went on.

Salaam stranger, sorry it took me a while to Reply

On the night that you texted me, I literally shed a tear. It had been months since we first met, and so seeing your text was all I needed to appreciate the universe for placing humans like you around.

I have written so many letters, and only a few times I have gotten a response. Mostly because I never bother to leave my contacts. However, there is always that one person that you wanna connect with beyond pen and paper. You are one of them. And I was so happy when your text landed, I had to sit up from my bed to chat with you properly.

You recapped what had happened. You misplaced the note and recently found it. You had so much joy I wanted that divine moment to linger for long. We chatted for a bit and I learned you are not much of a chatter, and we promised to call when there was time, no pressure.

Even at this stage, I hadn’t known your name. And that was fine because what mattered at that moment was that we were connecting, and that is all that matters.

Wallah It’s Sooooooooo Beautiful

As if I was not done with you, I sent you another letter. This time, after knowing you for a while. I now knew your name, how you sounded, and a few things you like. It is unfortunate I did not get to talk to you a lot. Adulting has a way of coming between certain things. However, maybe it is not adulating. Maybe, to me, that familiar feeling that creeps into you when you fancy someone was calling me by my two names. Maybe you started appearing more than just a friend. And I hated my heart and feelings for betraying me. I think we had a beautiful friendship going one. But what are feelings jameni!

It was my pleasure to hear that you loved the letter. I had met a friend who was travelling North and I couldn’t help but use them as a messenger. I am glad that my words found you well, and kept you smiling. That would be the last letter I sent you, as I started feeling things I shouldn’t have.

I will Visit Soon and other Short Stories

I told you about how I felt about you, and after hearing your side of the story, I swallowed painfully, and life continued. What was interesting was that I did not resent you, unlike other people, I would stop engaging them further. I still kept checking in every now and then.

And I wanted to let you know that you are such a source of joy for just existing. I hope that wherever you are, you find joy and love and keep smiling.

I know I have promised a lot to visit. I will (hopefully).

Till then,

Khavs .

Writers Note: Hey there Smiler. Thank you for passing by. I really appreciate you for making time to read my work. I have a little ask. If you would like to support my work, please head over to Keychele and tip/donate any amount you can. Your support keeps me going. See you in the next. Click here then click on ‘Support Me’: https://keychele.co.ke/Khavs

I first heard of Altona in King Kaka’s Mr. 254. I was still a teenager and had never been to Nairobi. When I moved to Nairobi for uni (kutafuta makaratasi), I passed by Altona Fish and Chips along Tom Mboya Street, just near the Kenya National Archives and Ambassadeur Hotel, rather accidentally.

I listened to the track again. I wanted to understand why King Kaka, an elite hip-hop head at the time, mentioned a fish-and-fries eatery in Nairobi. Was he a regular, or was he just using the name to complete a rhyme scheme? You know how poets are.

Here is what he raps;

Men lie, women lie but bado numbers don’t/

Chiling na watoi wangu wako busy, connect the dots/

Mtanikoma (sana sana)/

Bado boy mwitu na issues na chipo za Altona/

Ulimi inadribble kama Suarez, Na-finish ka Caltona*/

Bado na-predict the weather, niite Francis Ngwata/

Now, away from getting a lot of wordplay in the track Mr. 254 (basically his way of saying he was the King of Rap in Kenya at the time), I figured he used Altona as something cultural. Something tied to Nairobians and their way of life. It’s why I started visiting Altona Fish and Chips, especially when the pocket was mocking my efforts to go out. And there were a lot of those days in uni, when, despite the desire to go to a restaurant in Westy or Kilii, Altona Fish and Fries easily seduced you. And when Altona Fish and Fries calls, unaitika babe!

When I started organizing hangouts in mid-2023, I quickly realized that the people who were attending my events were mostly comrades, or people who had just graduated like myself. Between paying for fare, the event, and sometimes the themed attires, sometimes there was little to no cash to spare on food and drinks. And while some could still afford food and drinks, others, including myself, would struggle on some ocassions.

The thing that brought us together, community and connection, would slowly start creating cliques and a social class that you would not desire in a community of people with shared interests. It reminded me of days in high school where we had to wear Toughees shoes (I never wore them, not because I was above the ‘Law’ but because we could not afford them.) The school uniform was supposed to make us look like we were on the same level (and stop competing with teachers, who, if we are being honest, were not getting great salaries to facilitate them wearing luku baridi every now and then.) Even with the uniformity, the rich would just be known by their sharp shooters and bb(blueband), and huge shopping during opening day and visiting days. It’s hard sometimes.

We needed a space that would make us equals. A space where one person would not buy a dish worth 2K, while another sat in a corner, busy on their phone when, in reality, they were hiding their shame. We wanted a place where we could laugh, gossip, eat, and banter so hard that the owners would chase us away. We wanted a place we could visit over and over again, where people would not feel the pressure to spend. That’s when we learned about Sonford Fish and Fries.

Like any other Fish and Fries place in Naiorbi, Sonford is characterized by westernized ‘Deco,’ No Mpesa Payment Policy, and quite affordable fries. And just like any other, they do not have any fish, which is surprising for anyone new. False advertising? Fish wouls sell here sana, ama? Maybe, maybe not.

As a tradition, we’d go to hangouts, and after, around 7/8 PM, we’d pass by Sonford and order fries and Bhajias (watu wa Coast tulieni), and make merry as we eat. It is in this establishment that most of the connections are forged. It is here people followed up on what piqued their interest at the events. Not in a perfomative way. But in a way that suggests, we are all eating 120 KES worth fries na juo ya 30 bob (juice worth 30 KES.) There are no filters. Just us with good vibes. Zero pressure.

It was even more interesting to learn that it was not only us, the guys from my community, who enjoyed some time at Sonford. Other Gen-centered communities would pass by as well. To date, it is still an equalizer of sorts, although as Gabriel Omolo once put it in his hit song Lunchtime, when money hits the bank kidogo, people easily change their behavior. In the song, Gabriel Omolo observes the Kenyan worker’s behavior at lunchtime. Some would eat chapo-ndondo, others would be lying under trees, while others would walk around shops pretending to be window shopping. Once their meagre pay hits their accounts, they would go to high-end restaurants kupigia mwili pole.

When I think of the song, and the amount of time it has been since I last visited Sonford, I wonder if it is growth or if I am now ashamed of going to the fast-food joint. Gabriel Omolo concluded that what bothered most Kenyans in the '70s, which made them behave the way they did, was shida (problems). I cannot explicitly conclude that this is what makes people go to Sonford, but I know what it has done for me and my community. I will always treasure the memories we made there: the grainy, blurry selfies we took, and the hugs and laughter we shared. In the end, I believe a community should feel like a safe space where people from different walks of life belong. It’s not easy, but as I have learned while building and hosting events for communities, we can be intentional about it. It does not always go as desired, but people appreciate the intentionality and the effort.

Note 1: I stumbled upon this article while researching about Sonford and the many fish and chips places (I had to change my subject and personalize the story to my experience), but I found interesting things kwa comments section. Check it out.

Note 2 (which should be Note 1): If you loved the story and feel generous today, and especially if you feel like sparing some coins/supporting a creative fuel their craft, kindly tip me here. I will massively appreciate. Na nitaenda Sonford. Asante.

You will start your year on a 15, 000 KES retainer. It will be the lowest you have ever earned for a while, and especially because you are now in charge of paying all your bills, and rent alone easily swallows the whole amount.

For the longest time, this has been your excuse not to date. Logically speaking, dating with this kind of income would easily send you to Mathare. Dates alone are expensive, not just financially, but also mentally. To date someone in Nairobi with an income like that is like living beyond your means, below the poverty level. There are those who manage. Those who understand. Then there are those who have passed through the hands of men and women with what I call a “shyness to provide” (financially), and they have come to the conclusion that being scarce around such people is probably the best decision they can ever make. And that’s okay. We all want ease. Convenience. We all want a good life. So we go out there to seek it. We go out there to create it. We hope that we can find people who care for us as much as we care for them, and that the easy life is not the foundation, as much as we do not have a problem enjoying it with them.

But the thing with your heart is it wants what it wants. And you meet this girl. Within a week, things are going well, and you are thinking to yourself, maybe this is the one. You have thought like this several times, but with her, you are almost sure. You want her. And you want to finally propose to her. Ask her to be your girlfriend. Officially. Only that there is a problem. Talking stage.

Now, for a very long time, your talking stages haven’t been leading anywhere. You suppose being in a talking stage it is the right thing to do. Get to know someone. And while you cannot really know someone within a month or two, it’s safer to give yourself sometime to build trust, know them a little better. Some that have come before ruined the pattern by asking you “What are we?” after a week or two. You have always found that kind of speed to label things a bit too eager, a bit too irresponsible. While some may be seeking clarity, you have felt the pressure to answer that question. It has gotten you into relationships that you probably should have never been in, and got you meeting people into depths you should have never gone.

The talking stage did not take long before you started drifting. There were days when she’d send those view once on a random Thursday afternoon, her smile sitting pretty on her face, her eyes lazy with sleep. Even when tired, her beauty was constant. It was there, in her voice, in her eyes, in the way she held your hand on those evenings when you went out. Even when your income did not allow it, you tried your best to accommodate a dinner date here and there, which was not a long time to be honest.

After a month or so, the girl you liked could not text back, call back, or even just say hello. You figured that was probably the end of her reign, ni uoge urudi soko. When y’all talked about it, trying to find out why she was no longer interested in talking to you, she was vague about it, the disinterest evident in how she texted, what she said. You left. Roho safi. When you hit her up a month or two later, trying to get her back, meant things, she assured you she had moved on (haraka aje?) The conversation surrounded how she was battling mental health issues and you ran away. That she was afraid you’d run again. And mahn, how terrible it must have felt to know that she was not ignoring you but dealing with something even bigger. Yaaani, you lost someone for not being aware. And while you wished you knew, you felt sorry for her. That this time, what needed to be done was for you to be present, no questions asked. A part of you still wished you had met this side of her as well, not just the hyper and bubbly version. Even while it stung you that she was with someone else, you wished her good, and a considerate partner, one way better than you can ever be. She deserves that and so much more.

This would form a foundation of other talking stages that seemed not to lead anywhere. You have been thinking, maybe there is a problem in how you lead. Why is it that the people you like (a few of them like you too), always seem to get lost on the way. Are there things you are not doing? Are there things you do that scare them away? When they leave, are you certain they always give you the real reason? When such situations, you have always tried to find a palatable lie to tell. One that you thought would probably hurt less. One carefully picked, the other party would not suspect that it was not real. Oh, how we lie just so we are no longer in a relationship with someone.

The thing with being someone who is constantly looking for a partner to be with is that, without even realizing it, you have talked to five girls in three months. You wonder what is it that you are actually looking for? The women you have met are great. But somehow, there is always something missing. As if being human alone is not enough. There are filters you use. There are standards you have. There are standards you do not meet when it comes to the other parties. This has been it for long, compatibility and compromise do not seem like they are possible in your lifetime.

It’s hard to understand. What is wrong with a girl listening to Marvin Gaye or Kwaye? What is wrong with them enjoying shawarma even if you do not? Why are you afraid to live? Why are you intimidated by the girl who writes prose, builds software, and is the president of their Toastmasters club? Why is it so hard for you to accept a gift from your admirer, who, by the way, has been giving you all the hints that they would like to burn the upper lip of your mouth with their tongue? Maybe I am looking at it the wrong way? That you are just trying to seek love, just like the rest of us. How come some people find love, drama-free, beautiful, over-the-moon love, yet you do not?

There’s the church girl, remember? If only you were spiritual, you’d probably be with her right now, praying? (I don’t know). You still think about her, don’t you? There is a certain calmness that comes with her. One that invites you closer. Nowadays, when you see her, in her element, you wonder if she thinks of you. Does she still break down from being conflicted whether to choose you or focus on her faith journey. Does she wish she could live in that moment where she held your hand prayed for and with you? She was not ready then, and what you have wondered, and maybe you should ask her is, will she be ready someday? You should not go there with the hope that she will be. She may be. But the mistake you should not do is to imagine she can also be ready for you. She is on another dimension, and you might never match. She’ll be out your league. You have always wished her the best, and hope that whoever she ends up with treats her well, that’s what you would have done for her.

The girl who talked about quantum physics texted you a few days after you went on a date. It was your first intentional meet up after seeing her at events severally. When you went to her, after being pushed by your friend for talking endlessly about her, she was warm, and spoke beautifully. It was like her tongue measured what to say to you, and did it so well that when she spoke, she said just the right words, nothing more, and nothing less. You had been talking for a while, and when you took a trip to Eastern Province, you couldn’t help but write her letters and add the names of the three towns you stayed at throughout your safaris.

Even in her text, the one she said she felt no chemistry between you two, she was kind and gracious, and it is one thing that has stuck with you. She stuck with you, because even without physical contact (apart from a few hugs), she still touched parts of you that had never been touched. Peace be with her.

On days that you did not wish to have a solid relationship, you went back to that one person you swore you never wanted to talk to again. Like the toxic fools you two are, you decided that it’ll be nice to hook up from time to time. Only that that never happened. In a complete plot twist, they started demanding for a proper relationship, and you did not like it. She is a good one. A keeper. Loyal. We could even say she has been waiting for you. Mbona usimpee chance? In your last text exchange, you two agreed that you could never be friends, neither could you date. It is something you had tried to work out but without success. Somehow, someone always need more. Strangers you became.

You do not consider yourself someone who has been shown dust, just some tough decisions that had to be made so that some people could be free. Free to like better. To seek better. To find better. And so that you were free to find what you are looking for.

You have seen shege. A bit too much. But you have always bounced back. And gone for another date. You argue that for you, it’s all about the experience. Meeting new people from different walks of life. To connect with the smart earth girls or the alcoholic cool kids. To share a meal with the introverts of Tilisi, or the certified yappers of Komaa. Whether you are meeting at The Chat Room, Kilimani, or Pork & Go in Tao, you have always maintained that going out with different people is part of the human experience. Why would you deny yourself the chance to live this experience? To have it first-hand. Surely, if you can afford it, can make time for it, and there is a willing participant, why not?

You are seated outside the Naivas Supermarket at Hazina Trade Centre. You are meeting your date, a girlfriend you have not seen for so long.

The last time you met her, you were super broke. She bought pizza and soda. You did not like the pizza. Thanked her for the effort and a great conversation.

She is the kind to talk about work and how great or stressful it is. You do not like that. You love her regardless.

Today, as you sit outside the supermarket, you cannot help but notice the two guys at the corner. They have sat too close to each other, concentrating on something interesting on an electronic device that appears to be a phone. They are so serious you’d think they are waiting for a multibet iivane.

You are drinking water. Bought it at 30 KES. You cannot tell whether you are happy about it or not. That you saved some money. But then again, the only thing you did was spend 30 bob, so even though you did not buy a bottle of water worth 50 KES, you did not actually save anything. Yet, you console yourself that you have, and I think this is how human beings easily make bad financial decisions. I am, however, not good at math, so don’t mind me.

A soldier walks to the stairs. There’s this guy, a homeless guy? A chokoraa? He lies on the stairs, and shouts at a passing girlie, “Uko na kutu!” The girl is not moved. She passes him like he does not exist and walks straight into the supermarket. The guard comes and talks to him. It looks like he’s trying to tell him to leave. He does not. The guard surrenders and goes back to the entrance of the supermarket.

A couple walks to the empty seat next to you. They are fairly young. The guy has a piercing. You have always wanted a piercing on your ears. They seem to go well with guys with dimples. And you are blessed to have one on your left cheek. The gilrie has this dress that sweeps everywhere she passes. They have coconut bread and soda. They are smiling at each other, contented with the choices they made earlier. You are slowly cursing, saying this like “Mtaachana tu.” You are the enemy. And you are suffering.

There’s this guy who used to work at your campus. He walks by with Mrembo fulani. You do not get a chance to see her well as you are busy exchanging greetings with the guy. He is one of those people you know work somewhere, but never know what they do there for a living. And talking of making a living, are you sure you make a living really? Hio kazi unafanya si karibu inakumada?

He proceeds to where the babe is.

You are starting to feel uneasy. The friend you are meeting is late. Lately, you have been meeting people who hardly keep time, and it has been pissing you off deadly. Sasa, one hour later, this one has not arrived. Yes, they have communicated, but it makes you sad to realize how much grace you give people who show up late on dates. The last date you were on, you simply could not wait past 30 minutes and decided to go back home. Interestingly, the person you were to meet did not bother to text you until 8 PM. You were meeting at 2 PM. Shaka sana.

The seat is a bit higher even for you. It starts to get awkward that for one hour, you have just been drinking water. It’s not like you cannot afford a decent meal. It’s that you thought you’d wait for her for about ten minutes or so. It did not occur to you that they could actually spend about an hour to get where you were on a bodaa, in a place they could use about 15 minutes max. But you wait for her. It’s the noble thing to do. It’s a thing a simp would do. Heck, it’s a thing anyone else in your situation would do. Wait.

Fed up with waiting, you fire her a text, “Btw kama hukuji sema tu. We don’t have to waste each other’s time.” You anxiously wait for her response. You first see the two ticks go blue, then the screen reading ‘typing,’ then it stops. Five minutes later, you dispose of the water container you just had, having finished the contents, and walk back to your stage. Why is meeting people this complex? You wonder.

Huku Kanairo tumekuja kusaka za maziwa. Kuput something on the table. Kuna wale walicome for higher education, myself included. Kuna wale wale-come for work. Sisi ni wa kukuja. Kuna wale walicome tu. Waliamka one day wakapack their belongings na wakamove to this sin city. Hawa ni watu wanaezaishi kama ndge. The minimalists. If they decided to move out again, they will do it bila worries. Wanarisk kama sneaky links but wanapenda adrenaline kama watu wa hiking. Now, Nai ni shamba la mawe. Shamba la opportunities. A big city that robs you peupe. A city that ikiamua kukupea, inakupa big portions. Hii city ina vituko na visanga. Inakulea. Inakutema. Inakupenda. Inakuchukia. Inakuaccept. Inakutumia. Inakutema. Haina balance. Haina rangi moja. Rangi rangile.

John Mureithi, aka Joni Mtembezi, ni among watu Nairobi imewalea. Nairobi imewatoa ushamba. Nairobi imewasafisha. Nairobi imewapea opportunities, na other times, most of the time, Nairobi imewastrip off their dignity. For the short period of time nilimjua Joni, life ilikuwa inamtandika proper. But Joni ni hustler. Joni amekomaa shida. Joni ni msee mwenye hakuwa analipa rent hii Kanairo, yet everyday alichomoka kejani (not his) na akaenda job (yenye sijaijua adi wa leo). Joni aliishi. Joni alishawishi. Joni alitushawishi. At his lowest, Joni came to us. I was staying with a schoolmate. A third year. Alinirescure from the hungry taloons of living kwa hostels. Pathetic. Convenient. But still, pathetic. Nilidai freedom. But to do what? Freedom ya kudo? Kuget bragging rights that nilikuwa nastay nje ya hostels? That I had ‘my place?’ Perhaps ni juu ilikuwa cheaper ku-cost share. Na ocassionally, kuhave a sleepover. I was a kid. Sleepover meant sleepover. But Nairobi can corrupt you. Itakushawishi. Na wale maarif pia, wangekushawishi. Ubaya uko wapi kama ujana ni moshi na tunawaka moto. Ubaya u wapi kama raha tunajipa? Ujana ndufu yangu. Unajana tu! And just like that, tulikuwa tunahost Joni. Three men army kwa bedsitter. Shaka sana.

Earlier that day, nilikuwa nimecall Andy, a classmate. Tulikuwa tumemake plans anihost juu roommate wa me alikuwa ametembelewa na mamaa. Ilikuwa inconvenient, but whenever she came, alikuwa anabeba kashopping kiasi. Mkono mtupu haulambwi, and so is the owner. So sikuwa namind sana. Not sure nini ilikuwa inago through her mind, knowing very well that we shared food na boyfriend wake. It seemed like hakumind. One of those kind and understanding girlfriends. What was sad ni ati my roommate was a big cheat. I used to pitty that babe, but I knew how to mind the business that paid me (which was nothing really juu nilikuwa bado comrade and very much unemployed). Even when they guy cheated, walikuwa wanafind a way to make this work. And unlike Sakaja’s let’s make Nairobi work, hao walikuwa na mastrategy deadly deadly.

At 7 PM, Andy came with breaking news. Na habari ilikuwa inagonga vichwa vy habari ni ati alikuwa anaishia Roysambu, sherehe. How unreliable! I made a few more calls, no one was willing to host me. Sikuwa na maarif wengi hio area, only a few guys tulikwa tunajuana by virtue of being in the same school. I was tempted kutext Cynthia Wa Mbagathi flats. And I did. Cynthia said alikuwa ameenda out of town, angekuja the following day. Which felt like a lie because mtu akitokanga kwake Friday, the next time to expect them ni Sunday jioni ama Monday.

I called Vic and Eddy and Cheptoo. Wote walikuwa na plans.

It was 8PM. Nikakumbuka Joni. Joni, yule morio anajua kusurvive hii Nairobi.

He picked. Akanishoo hakuwa na memo that Boni, my roommate, alikuwa ametembelewa na ‘mgeni.’

Tuliagree kupatana South B shopping centre tujue niaje.

9PM. South B.

Two guys. No slid plan. One, a student. The other, an ex-barber from avery prestigious salon. Salon yenye hatujui kama inaexist. Tunazisikia tu kwa Riba za Joni from time to time.

Sikuwa nimedishi. Had no money. Joni hakuwa amedishi. He had no money.

Tulipiga roundi mwendaa from South B Shopping Centre Adi RTI. Railway Training Institute. On the way Joni alinichapia how situations kama hizi zimemkumba from time to time, but thanks to God, hajawahikosa mahali pa kudoro .

Ilikuwa inanikalia strange. How casual alikuwa anachukulia hii situation. Like haikuwa inambother sana. Na hii ni kitu moja Nai inaezakufanya. Inacultivate a sense of belonging in you. Unaona ni kama unabelong na the community around you. Inakumould into this tough guy who does not fear for their life. Unaroam around the streets like you own them. Nilikuwa scared deadly. Nilikaza haga sana mdau. Nilisweat sana babayooo. Haikuwa rahisi.

In my mind, sikuwa na idea what to do or where to go. Sikuwa na connections. From 10 PM, I left my life in the hands of Joni Mtembezi. Cos we really walked. Alinitembeza nikatembea. Nikaona mengi. The night was morphing into silence. There was one place we could go. A bar. A dungeon. Hii ni zile baze fulani huwa kwa chochee zingine huweziji zinaexist. Mchana zinafanya laundry, usiku ni place unaenda kushika your fav botro. Bouncers kwa place ni wengi kushinda security ya Statehouse. They deal with rowdy people, na hawataki attention from the cops. Mabouncer wanatisha. Mabouncer walinitisha. Mabouncer walinitishia.

Joni aliitisha glass yake moja safii. Nikakaa kando yake. Hii place you can only stay ukiorder. So kuna mabouncer walikuwa wanazungukazunguka karibu na sisi. Whatever Joni ordered was not even worth one smocha. Iliisha before we knew it. Two bouncers wakawalk towards us. They never said a word. Vile my eyes locked with the ones of one of them, they had a moment where they understood each other. In the name of not kuzua zogo, I signaled Joni tujitoe. Hapo nje, we met wale wa kuuza. Man, too broke to even buy that. Shaka mdau.

The next step was a church. Kulikuwa na kesho going on nearby. Not people to go to church, we hesitated. But sasa what other option was there? Already ilikuwa inaelekea 12AM na hatukuwa na plan. As soon as tumeingia tu kwa hio church, wakapiga worship song moja ya mwisho, n amaombi ya kufunga mkutano. Before we knew it, wasee walikuwa wanawishiana a good night, with a lot of “Thank you sista,” “Tupatane ushirika,” “And Kwaheri mchungaji,” filling the air. Nilipromise kuwekana kwa maombi na kukuja kesho tena na tena. Tukawalk towards the main road and people scared wakielekea manyumbani, most of them just walking nearby to their houses.

It was me and Joni again. Nilifeel kumuuliza maswali but ndio adoo? He was probably just like me. Clueless on what to do but hopeful. He was older. So sikutaka kijali. I expected him akuwe na solutions. Hakuwa nayo. Angetoa wapi. Just the same way Boni alinitoa timing, ndio vile tu alimtoa. Just the same way njaa ilikuwa inaninyorosha ndio ilikuwa tu inamtandika. Vile tu baridi ilikuwa inaninyemelea, ndio vile ilikuwa inamlemea. What was there to expect from him but kuzidi kuhope na yeye. Kusay a silent prayer. That ata kama hatutamake kupata place ya kudoz, God atukeep safe. Tuone the next day.

We walked back towards South B Shopping Centre. Madukani. Hatukuwa tunaongeleshana. Part of me felt like we expected some much from each other na tukawa tunablame each other silently.

He stopped to to talk to a Maasai guy. The one wenye hu-man properties. Top tier security. Madakitari wa mitishamba by day, security guys by night. Wnajua kubalance hizi vitu.

Haikutake long Joni akaniita. Akanishoo amebonga na huyu Maasai guy akatukubalia tuchill hapo na yeye. Kulikuwa na some sense of security, but sikuamini I was the one nalala nje na nyumbani niko na wazazi. Na niko na keja yenye nalipa rent ata kama ni half. Yaani, baridi ilikuwa inanicharaza juu tu kuna msee alikuwa anaambiwa “Harder?” Riswaaaa!

Baridi ilikuwa inaeat my bones. Nikaamua kufocus na kitu moja. Usingizi. Nikajikunja proper, na nikadrift into slumber land.

Niliamshwa na pilka pilka za watu wakiishia job na wengine wakifungua mabishara. Hio place tulidoz huwanga place wasee huset up mabiz, kuuza macladi, mabags na such things. Nilichekii left and right, Joni was nowhere. The Maasai guy was nowhere. Kifua ilikuwa imejaaa. As I walked back to my place, nilithank God kufika morning although my kifua ilikuwa imejaa, na shingo kuganda side moja. Nilifika kejani, 6:30 AM, Napata bado mafala wanalala. So ikabidi nitulie kwa stairs. Ningoje wamalizane.

Fridays 8 PM hupata kama ushatoka kejani. Whether uko na kichele au umesota, shughuli zako in your soap-dish mansion huwanga scarce sana kama truth kwa words za Kasongo. Hii Friday ni different. Hii Friday hakuna form sides za Rongaa, or pale Nairobi West penye mnapatananga na madem wa Amref au wa Stath, na wale mapeng wa USIU hawajakuitia kingwelo (huwa wanadhani ati you are a different breed ya cool kids ati unaringa kukiwasha na wao, but reality ni ati unaogopa hio kitu videadly). So wamekuwa wanakulabel a snob, but hawajui hujavunja ubikra ikicome ni kuchoma. Hii Friday ya leo iko tu. Haina anything interesting. Nothing even boring. Yaani umekaa kwa bed yako, phone in hand, unascroll tu pale IG. Ata hizi video za Flaqo sio funny. Za Kenner sio crazy na za Mwalimu Rachael hazikufunzi anything you already don’t know. Mawazo chungu nzima.

A familiar tune inapenya kuingia kejani courtesy of your open window. It’s a sweet SDA gem, straight outta Rwanda, Kwetu Pazuri by Ambassadors of Christ Choir. “Mpendwa njoo turudi nyumbani/Asubuhi yaja tuyakimbie ya dunia/Atakayekosa hapo kweli ni hasara/Aya matatizo ni mitego ya shetani/Ili tushindwe kufika nyumbani.” Hii song inakubamba deadly. Inakuremind of the good old days in highschool, days za kukuwa choir member. As you reflect on it, wewe kuchoose kujoin SDA was purely out of the need kuhepa duties za Friday evening na Satoo (Sabath Day). That, na kuishia rally. Rally was everything hizi days. Utamiss Science contests, symposiums, Drama, Games, na pia umiss rally? Kitu haitaki academic excellence? Hapana bana. So unaijoin. Unaingia pracoo every Friday night after preps .Unaattend church services every Satoo without fail. Consistency muhimu. Lazima uonyeshe uko serious. In the process, unakuwa pro wa hizi SDA songs. Unazijua by heart. On days unafeel low, hizi songs zinakuliftia spirits. It’s why today, vile tu ulisikia jirani akiongeza volume, heart yako ilianza kudance na joy. Kasmile kalichomoka on your lips, na ukaanza kusing along. For a moment, ukasahau nini ilikuwa inakubother.

Last week, mlikuwa mnabanter kwa group fulani ya WhatsApp. Ulikuwa fairly new, a good chance ya kuhunt for a peng, someone mnaezakuwa mnachochana every evening after classes, na morning siku ikianza. Rizz umeivisha but shida ni kujiona unaezakatia kila mtu. So unajipata kwa talking stages kibao, zenye huwa unashindwa kumaintain. Relax kijana. Game haitaki pupa.

As you are looking for yule mdem ako na jokes kali kali na memes moto moto, Jean alitext kwa group akiinvite wasee wafike pale Roasters, kutakuwa na sherehe ingine bwaku sana. It was her birthday, na kama kuna kitu moja huwa habahatishi, ni kupiga sherehe siku yake ya kuzaliwa. ‘Pombe itakuwa kwa wingi. Na warembo pia.’ Those days, hii ilikuwa inanasa maboys from every corner of Kanairo. Ikicome ni uroda, huwa tuko kipaumbele. Hii conversation ikiendelea, Jean was seated kwa couch kwa hao ya arif wake. Hakuwa amerudi kwake from last week. Waliishia kupiga sherehe Mirema, na hivyo ndio alibaki huko, 5 days later. Sio strange kitu kama hii kuhappen, but juu ni birthday yake, anafaa kufanya juu chini arudi kwake, Githurai 45.

Two days later, Jean alipost that sherehe ilinasa sana. Among the photos zilitumwa kwa group, ni zile zinaqualify for #IfikieWazazi. Watu wa kukembwa walikuwa wamekembwa, wakulewa wamelewa, but all in all, sherehe ilikuwa imepewa heshima yake. From the look of things, kila mtu alikuwa happy, and that’s all that mattered. After kutuma malove emojis, ulislide DM ya Jean. Ukamwish belated birthday, na ku-fake apologize that haukumake kufika maeneo kum-celebrate. “Haina issue,” alikushoo. Mkiendelea kubanja, Jean alidai while haukumake kufika Roasters, birthday celebrations zake hutake the whole month, so uko welcome bado kufika kwake. Ilikuwa a strange but tempting offer. Hii conversation ilidrag from Monday morning adi jioni. By 6PM, Mlikuwa mshaagree utafika Githurai 45 on a Tuesday evening, juu then ndio alikuwa anarudi kwake. Funny thing, ulikubali so casually ata haushtuki. Utakufa vibaya ndugu yangu!

Siku ya kupatana ulijipeleka Githurai kama mbuzi anayejipeleka kichinjio. She picked you kwa stage, akamake one stop kwa shop fulani, then mkahead kwa hoteli kudishi. Mlihave some small talk as you eat. Alikuwa mrefu kukushinda kiasi. From your judgement, alikuwa kama one year older than you. The universe imekuwa ikikubless na older women. Uko tu happy huyu sio kama ule wa Kikuyu mwenye alikucatfish, ukafika huko ukapata ni jimama. Ngozi yake ni maji ya kunde. Chocolate if I may. Anakuinterrupt juu ni kama amerealize una-stare. Smile yake inafanya kalie kakitu kanapitanga kwa spinal cord kapite mbio! Mnamaliza kumunch, then she holds your hand mkiishia kwake.

Ni bedsitter. No power. Jean anawasha candles. In your mind, unashangaa mbona huyu mdem anaishi kama morio. Anacall caretaker kumremind amelipa rent a few minutes ago, amrudishie stima. Unachill kwa bed, nervous. Mtu akikuona umechill, haezijua deep down unasweat haga. A million things zinago through your mind, unaamua kusettle on her smile. Iko na calmness fulani inakufanya unafeel safe. Jean is the kind of person unaezafall in love with without her doing much. Effortlessly. Kuongezea her sense of humor, unadedi. Anakuuliza kama huwa unachoma, you shake your head. Ndio inadawn on you that ile time mlimake a stop kwa shop fulani huko stage, alikuwa anabuy kingwai. Hio transaction ilikuwa very short with no words exchanged between the buyer and the seller. Haukujua ata ni nini ilikuwa inahappen. This is an art hujawahiget kuistudy, but huwanga on your bucket list pamoja na kudate a Randwese/Ethiopian pengting.

Shughuli aliichapa kwa ustaarabu. Thereafter, alipiga shower, then akakujoin kwa bed. Alikuwa anasmell fresh, so ukajua cuddles zingeslap that night. Kichwa yako ilikuwa imeanza kukuwa mzito, thoughts zikawa clear and exaggerated. “Uko na CD?” Alikuuliza, amidst kukuvua vest. Ilikupata off-guard, no lie. To break the silence, ulimshoo hauna. Face yake ilionyesha dissapoinment. Then akasmile, her lips caressing yours in ways haukuwa umewahiexperience. Damu ikaanza kuchemka. Alikushoo ako safe, na kama haumind, angependa kukupeleka places haujawahienda, na akuonyeshe zile vitu hujawahiona. If it were not for your curiosity, that night would have ended in cuddles tupu. However, msichana alikupeleke maeneo hujawahifika, kwa ufundi wa hali ya juu. With every ‘niguze hapa,’ and other tanakali za sauti, hii experience ilikuwa blissful. Design huyu madam alikuwa anakupiga mechi, ulitamani ingekuwa imeisha already so that ukuwe na kitu ya kulook forward to again. After an hour of mazagazaga, mliretire to bed, all sweaty, with smiles on your faces, na giggles here and there. Ulimanage a weak, “Thank you,” na usingizi ikakubemba.

At 5 AM, uliamka with her face next to you, a smile all over it. For a very long time, umekuwa ukihave shumpuza basic sana, na umekuwa ukijiblame. Every effort umekuwa ukiweka kujenga mdem shughuli moja fiti, haijakuwa ikiwa appreciated. With Jean, kila kitu ilikuwa inaflow, and for all you know, hio ndio ilikuwa the best shamkwale ever. Mlizidi na shughuli before mruke kwa shower, realities za your lives zikianza kuwanyemelea. She had work, na wewe ulifaa kutravel back mtaani, then ufike chuo. Ulikuwa na class 11AM, so ulikuwa na a good time kumake it bila kuchelewa. Ulimwahi a goodbye kiss, kwa stage, na ukapanda gari za kurudi tao. Haukubelieve ni wewe unapigana mate hadharani. Your thong-wearing ancestors would be shocked sana. Your mother, mwenye alikuambia ujiepushe na anasa na madawa ya kulevya, would be pissed off vibaya sana. Nevertheless, ulijiambia mambo ya dunia exists to be experienced. Tuko dunia, are we not? Katambe.

Your favourite song by Ambassadors of Christ ina-come to a sudden halt. Huelewi why. Maybe tokens za jirani zimeisha. Maybe amekanyaga waya ya speaker ikakatika in the process. Whatever it is, it is so sudden that your thoughts zinaanza kurudi place umekuwa ukihepa. Reason why hii Friday haina ladha ni juu kuanzia last week Wednesday after umetoka kwa Jean, haujakuwa na peace of mind. After being a raw abiding citizen, umekuwa ukifeel funny funny. The more mmekuwa mkibonga na jean post your shumpuza, umekuwa ukilearn vitu about her zenye your judgemental self could never approve of. Lifestyle yake ni so different from yours. Inakutisha. And a consequence of that lifestyle ndio imekulead kubuy an HIV Self-test kit. After kucollect a sample from your mouth, uliiseti into the device na kuanza kuwatch videos za Flaqo na Crazy Kenner. Now, you have to look at the results because it has been like 37 minutes after ulichukua sample. The other side of the test ni scary, yet this experience iko so humbling. Mikono zako zinatremble but unajikaza tu kupick the kit. Unaclose your eyes, count up to ten, then…you can’t open your eyes. Inafeel ni kama eye lids zako zimeshikanishwa na glue. On a second attempt, your eyes zinahave a memorandum of understanding na the results na unapata ni kamstari kamoja. Unachomoka faster adi kwa washroom. You cannot believe it. You text Jean. “Uko free lini tupatane?” She never responds.

I was inspired to host a Substack Hangout after our Oga brothers did theirs in Lagos, Nigeria. It seemed like a serious event, in the sense that it was well-marketed, well-attended, and fun was had, at least from what I saw as I was researching for the Nairobi Substack Social.

The ideas seemed viable, and I had gathered that there are many Kenyan Substackers here, both avid readers and writers. After consulting with my thong-wearing ancestors from Shamakhokho, I decided it was time to organize the event. I shared the process here, giving you a behind-the-scenes look at what it takes to organize an event. From day one, I received so much love from the people on this platform, many of whom were open to supporting me. I just had to say where they were needed. Some I reached out to, others I did not. All the same, it felt beautiful to know there are souls here willing to support the initiative to create a community that will drive conversations on issues that affect us.

Meet the Team

is the woman she thinks she is. Analytical. Sharp. An idea-surgeon. Ready to offer insights and willing to be challenged. I loved working with her through and through. She co-created the idea, and conceptualized the panel, curating questions (risacha mdeadly). She moderated the event. I cannot thank her enough.

. A logistics pro. He basically helped me run this event, from making calls, inquiries, and follow-ups, and even picking calls during the event. He did it all. Proud of this young man.

. Photographer extraordinaire. He captured the moments at the event like his life depended on it. He did a thorough job and I am rooting to have him as our official photographer. I'm definitely going to send gigs his way. Asante sana!

. A co-creator as well. She is a visionary, dissecting the concept like the Doc she is (congratulations on your upcoming graduation), and giving me a look at how future events could be. Thank you so much.

. Oh, my daring Beatrice. She ushered us in with such kindness and Grace. She does her work diligently. I love her to bits.

Loise Lenser. Helped us capture reels. Amazing person who creates from the heart. Will update that soon on our IG. Follow us.

My G Nick Customz sold me a denim pair of trousers that was customized with paint patterns. He had come to one of my events. Nikamark hip tao. I had to get it. On my birthday, a baddie sent me some monies (hey Doroo). I promised to get a shirt. I love me some floral or Cuban shirts. This one in particular caught my eye, and after 37 minutes of bargaining, the plug sold it to me at a price that I was comfortable with. I took it home. Wore it to the event. I use Asali body splash from Chanira and some cute perfume I got at Moyale a few weeks ago (I will tell you about Ethiopian, Moyale, Marsabit and Isiolo women in another post when I grow up). I wore Vans. And was confident that this was the best I could offer in terms of style. Nothing much, honestly.

I took an Express Way Supermetro to town. The journey was as short as the period money stays in your account after salary hits it. I was in town to run some errands, get food, and pick the Substack Social notes (they weren't done on time. Printers na fundi wa nguo, same wozap group). I took a bodaa to Westy to pick up the sound, and headed to the venue. I was extremely surprised that the guys actually came on time. We basically set up when a few guys were around. I love timekeepers, honestly. We were late to some extent. We apologize for the shortcomings on our end.

Although many people think I am super extroverted, I am actually not. I easily make friends. I easily socialize. But when I get home after that, I need a three-week vacation at Tem’s sitting room, to just chill and recharge. Or, or, just chafua meza with the biggest fanta orange baridiiii available at a supermarket near you.

The event was mostly packed with women—pretty babes left, right and centre. It felt like we were surrounded by beauty all over. It felt like if we wanted to leave the space, that was a crime. Beautiful minds. Beautiful faces. Great style. Drip so sleek, you’d want to turn them into your stylists, pay them your rent, and fight with your landlord. Oh, the fine young men, oozing with aura, a pinch of philosophical swagger, and positive masculinity. From how they interacted, to how they smiled, to how they laughed, they were love personified. Happiness galore. Pockets of joy.

I met so many people we had spoken to on the phone. Those that spoke highly of their crafts. Those that cracked jokes. Those that gave such beautiful hugs I wanted to kidnap them for myself. Those who wrote me notes (mmenisoma sindio?). Those that came to support their writers and friends. Those that came to meet new people and be the ‘people’ others came to meet. Those that specifically came because this is a community that means something to them. Those that, while they have been to various events, felt like this was a warm blanket covering their legs on a cold, rainy evening. Those that did not feel anxious at the space. Tall guys who were hit by the hanging fluorescent lights (me included). Handsome men and beautiful women who came in good numbers to support, to articulate, to be part of, to network, and to unwind. A people so in love with the craft and the culture that they dedicated a whole afternoon to be part of our mustard seed story.

I met people there I never thought I’d meet. People who desire to change the ecosystem, like , who wishes to open a publishing house. Innovative minds like and , who want to offer a payment solution to Substack creators. Oh, how happy I am about this. I met people who shared space with our queer friends without making them feel like outsiders. And it is with such things that I find artists to be awesome people.

I am happy that while the event might have not been as expected, y'all shared feedback with me in the kindest way possible. I also love that you poured your hearts out in those reviews you sent me on WhatsApp after the event, and the recaps you did here on Substack. I appreciate the pressure from the likes of Kenkei, Nita, Bambi, and Chebet. Wapi picha. Wapi videos. Mtulie btw!

I loved Kenya @50. The laughter. The fierce competition. The thinking and scratching of heads. The almost-fights (in a beautiful way). The chaos and everything in between. From a distance, I could tell people were having fun. This is officially a game we wanna invest in, and get all the latest versions for that matter. Thanks to Youthing Africa, our partner, as represented by Tina, Kairetu, Ogonji, and the team. Y'all made sure we had so much fun. Asanteni sana. The music sets from Olive and Susan was soulful and nolstagic. Every word from they uttered reminded us of how beautiful the art space we are in is. May they never lack! Thanks to Greg from Creative Spills for the sound. And to Njoki at Creatives Garage for being super supportive. And poleni sana wasee mlipotea. You guys were going by road? (Hii ni mtaelewa tu by force).

Intricate Face did our face and body art. It is lovely to see how something as simple as a pattern on someone’s face can brighten their day, widen their smile, and make them happy. Intricate Face is working on painting hundreds of faces by the end of the year, and if you’d like to be part of them (learn to paint and make some extra coin), you can hit me up for a connect. They attend various events every weekend.

Final Thoughts

I think we (organizers) can do better. My thong-wearing ancestors are happy that I did them proud, and so I am happy that I did this. And for asking when the next hangout would be, I think we all deserve that. So before the year ends, nataka tupige sherehe moja hatari. Chill vibes. Good music. Good food. Drinks. Fun games. Before the year ends. I promise. Then we will start afresh next year. Clean slate. Same vision. Talk soon.

Alafu kuna dem alikuwa na sister locks…ama wacha tu.

First, this entry is not about Quiver or kuiva. But as you will come to know, if you stick around for a minute or two, things are co-related.

Now, to start off, I’d like to point out that when it comes to my dating life (or lack thereof), I have two major problems.

1. I meet a lot of church girls. The ones who want someone with some level of spirituality, and physical intimacy (not necessarily sex), is until marriage. I am just there when it comes to religion, so that knocks me out early.

2. I associate drugs and its consumption with violence (mostly from where I grew up), and however much my friends are cool when high, I have never accepted to date anyone who indulges. I think it is unfair to do this, but they (people I talk to with intentions of dating, prove me right everytime). I think it is unfair that I choose who to date based on these two lenses (among others), but there seems to be no other way around it that I know of, and I am super open to learning before I date another person.

On this day, I had a photography gig at Fairview. Some consultancy firm hired us to document their alumni day. Good peeps. They train CEOs and top ranking employees in NGOs, Business, Government and CSO spaces.

I was meeting her in town that evening. The event took a turn that I do not like, extending beyond agreed hours (without more pay). She said she'd be late, so I smiled a bit knowing I was still gonna see her on time.

However, she made it in time before I did. I hate keeping people waiting, but it was not long before I jumped on a bodaa and within few minutes I was seated next to her, admiring her eyes, and wishing I could hold her hands.

Let’s call her G. Because she’s gojaaaas.

I met G years ago at an event. I have met some of my prospects at events. While this is a good thing, it does not help that when things do not work out, one of you will either stop coming to said events, or it becomes weird to run into them. I am shameless though. I will never stop going somewhere because of anyone.

We met at a restaurant in Westland. An artist I know was playing, and I was in the era of getting myself out there (simply because I was super shy then and wanted to build my social skills and confidence).

It was her locks first, then her cute smile. I did not think much about it but when guys were going home, I took a photo of her and her best friend, and we hugged goodbye. Now, I like a proper hug. And she gave me that warm hug that makes you want to ask them to marry you. One that leaves you wondering kwani where was she this whole time.

We stayed in touch for a long time. And while I have been telling people I have been single, in my head, she was my girlfriend. Only that she never knew this.

I have lived life with her through her photos on Instagram and WhatsApp stories. She’s an artist, so the aesthetics are super pleasing. I am in awe of her growth, but it took an unexpected turn, and this is where the rain started beating me.

As we sat facing each other, Iced tea in my lips (I wish it was her lips on me though), and a milkshake in her hand, she told me of how she has started her spiritual journey. Surprisingly, I was not bored by it. I did not switch off like I’d normally do, and it was refreshing to have a conversation that was purely honest, not these pretentious Nairobi narratives of self-fashioning. It was refreshing to sit with someone who has decided to give their life to Christ, and they were standing on business.

She told me about their church. It sounded beautiful. I promised I’d go there one day. Not as a lie. But a promise. Maybe not the following Sunday. But someday. I am not sure when, but someday.

After our date, she asked if she could pray with and for me. She held my hand gently, and said a word of prayer. It was the first time she was seeing me without a hat, I am not sure if she judged, but she never mentioned anything. For context, I have a receding hairline and it’s such a huge problem kule sokoni, kwa streets, kwa market. The ones looking for Tall, Dark & Handsome do not easily look my way. The ones looking for a generous man (fat bank account in my translation) do not look my way. Yaani, even the babes who wanna settle for bare minimum do not look my way? Riswaaa!

After prayer, she took a cab back home. I had written a note for her (I do this mostly but nowadays it seems like people are more prone to ask “Umeandikia wasichana wangapi?” than enjoying the fact that I intentionally thought about this, and crafted something with hopes that it’’ll either make them smile, or make them appreciate either beauty more.) I do not wish to stop this craft of writing notes but I see where they are coming from, and all I can say is, I will see what I can do, to make the people I like feel appreciated some more.

When G got home, she was tired, so she slept. I woke up to a voice not detailing how she had a good time. I did too, as I had shared with her the day of the meeting. She said that she really likes me or whatever girls say when they are about to drop you like a hot sufuria. She was genuine, I could tell. Her commitment to her faith was a priority, and it made sense. I assured her there was no problem, she needed to do what she had to. We laughed about it, and that’s how it ended.

Now, I have had a few almosts here and there, and maybe I will write about them. And in it all, I found myself being picky. Sometimes, too picky. Except for situations where I do not fit a certain criteria to be dated, I have mostly been the one who says I cannot date someone who drinks, smokes, or many other things. Someone I was recently talking to said ‘love is love’ yet they chose to focus on their relationship with Christ (I think at this point I feel like this is a sign to get saved. CITAM Jogoo road babes, where are you at?). Love is love yet we have all these lenses that we see people through. Love is love yet when we are loved we are so sacred we run away/self-sabotage. Love is love yet we cannot recognize it even when it is right in front of us. Love is love yet we are afraid to accommodate. Love is love yet we are in constant pursuit of things that will make it not work. And maybe love is love, yes, but it is not enough for dating. For marriage. Even for the in-betweens.

Khavs.

Niajeeee?

I trust you are well.

I have a quick one. For weeks, we conceptualized a hangout, and finally, we released the poster a few days ago.

It was and still is a team effort. I have loved how strangers came through to support this initiative. Santeee sanaa.

Now, I do not wanna say much, but to invite you to the event. We are open to creators and readers on this app, and by the mere fact that you are reading this, you are either both or either of the two.

I will keep you posted on more developments

I cannot wait to see you soon.

Dear universe, correct me if I am wrong. On that morning that I woke up sandwiched by two females, who identify as she/her, I had taken a strong alcoholic drink that I cannot remember. I had these things they call shots? Kadhaa. Club Tribeka was full the previous night with wababaz of all sizes and shapes. Young girls, my two ‘friends’ included, frequented the club for free booze, a weekend in Nanyuki, a night drive to Machakos, or some good time. Used to judge them so bad. I was a young boy. No source of income but my parent’s hard-earned money. Nairobi demanded that I know the lyrics to Calvin Harris and Dua Lipa’s One Kiss, but I could only find Dundaing by King Kaka, Kristoff, and Magix Enga to be the perfect Friday earworms.

Now, I am not saying that waking up with two ladies on my side was the worst thing in the universe. Not even the fact that we squandered all (their) money on alcohol. Not even the fact that we walked from CBD to Nyayo Highrise from 3AM to 5:30AM (It’s a 30-40 minute walk for a sober person who is not stressed by the government or left by their partner). The worst thing was that when I work up, one of the girls was all sweating. I was like, kwani jana kuliendaje. But no. She was not sweating because I took her to places she had never been before (aki this would have boosted my ego), but because there was the presence of another male in the house. The man of the house. He was making cheap coffee. Nescafé. He stood at the door like he was directing a low-budget porn scene. Mug in hand. Kukaza haga. That was my occupation. He looked at us, then said sarcastically, “Naona umewatumbuiza usiku mzima.” He walked back to the kitchen. The babe (whose boyfriend was threatening my manhood with his miraba minne na misuli tinginya), asked me to run. I do not ask much. I run. To my place. To my hiding. Because, if you are not new to these things, then you know the Navakholo proverb that says, bibi ya wenyewe is a no-go-zone.

Where did this all start?

I was in my early days of campus. I cared about my grades, Afrocinema movies, and chapo beans. When others went for Sherehe at Madaa (Nairobi West), Westy or Kilii, I was tucked in bed, my eyes fixed on my tablet. I had few friends. Just my classmates. I was shy (still am) and so in the girls department, I was nowhere to be found. It did not bother me much. I was in my own little world.

The call came on a Friday evening. Maybe 4:30 PM. The voice on the other side was calm and urgent. “Uko?” There is no better question to ask someone without a plot than this.

“Kejani tu.” I said. I was not too close with this one. She was one of those students who were loud and outgoing. They’d made friends with anyone. Other than what I knew, which was her name and the fact that she was always all over, I knew nothing much about her. So we were not friends. Yet, here she was, calling me for sherehe. Now, you might be tempted to think that I am/was a party animal. And you’d be wrong. I do not drink. I do not smoke. I did not do it then, and do not think or wish to do it again. Sina reasons. I just don’t.

“Tufike Tribeka.” She said. “Tutakuwa na Nancy.” Now, Nancy is one of those quite baddie. She was tall and lightskin. Tall to the effect that if we were to let our lips have a memorandum of understanding, then I’d have to be on my toes. And I wouldn’t mind. She talked very little. I liked her. I really really liked her. But I had no access to her as much as we went to the same school. Told myself, ipo siku.

Imperial leather, T-shirt, and jeans later, we were off to CBD. Now, I was not exactly rich on comrade standards. I was not CDF or HELB-rich. I had 756 KES in my Mpesa, not fuliza limit, not Mshwari. And why was this so? They assured me money was not the problem, and indeed, it was not. On the way, we had directionless banter. Mostly, I was listening in on their chat. They talked girl stuff. Edu did not perform. Ericko hujifanya ako na doo, anadhani money will make (Nancy) fall for him? Last week was crazy. School is so fun. Someone’s period came late. The usuals.

We landed in town, alighting at Ajip, like DCI sleuths ready to pounce on an innocent Kenyan for reasons unknown to many. We walked all the way to Banda Street where Club Tribeka was located. The girls were on causal wear, cute tops, jeans, and converse. Mark that. It will be relevant later.

We arrived. There was a small line. Frisking. The usuals. The ladies entered first. Sliding in bila mambo. When it was my turn, I was asked for my ID. I proudly presented my national identification, the document that showed that I was of legal age, an adult if you may. The bouncer, black as soot, pink lips, miraba minne, just directed me with his eyes to the signage that said, “Men below 23 years are not allowed.” I remember thinking how unfair that was. The ladies were younger than me. Maybe 19/20 there. I quickly came up with a plot. Told the guy, I was with the ladies. That, should anything happen to them, he’d be responsible. For a minute, I felt important. But deep down, kijasho chembamba kilinitiririka. In that moment, nilikaza haga videadly. I was dying inside, but couldn’t let him see that. Fight to the end. The night was young, and there was a huge line. People who came after us. The ladies were already in. The lack of concern for me was shocking. The bouncer finally let me in, not because I convinced him, but because wababaz were getting furious. Once I was in, I found them standing inside, and they showed me to the first floor, where we took a sit. I needed about 15 minutes to come to default setting. The ladies went to the ladies.

I scanned the surrounding like a rookie CIA agent. Feeding in the place. Neon lights. Loud Rhumba music. Beautiful Rhumba music. That, I could appreciate. The place was packed by wazee mostly. People who just want to down some bears before the hit the road home. Some were here because just a few hours back, they were in court, divorce manenos. Others had just closed down their businesses, and all they needed was someone to massage their vitambi, as they enjoy the last coins they had. There were women here too. Those who felt going to malls and restaurants was for campus girls. They knew what to drinks and to what extent. Some were never married, no kids. Others were divorced. Others were here for the hot blood of young men from Ngara and South B. They were here, then they’d go to Zodiac. Alafu, there were those who just came for the music. All in all, from my judgement, everyone was happy and they were building the nation. Mhudumu, ongeza glasi.

A few minutes later, the ladies interrupted my observation. Nancy had this tight dress that showed her perfectly contoured body, and Silvia, had a short dress, above her knee, you’d think she specifically instructed the tailor to make sure skin was available for show. They now had heels, and that explained why they had bags instead of handbags. Lakini, I wouldn’t be shocked if they could carry a change of clothes in those to small handbags. The organization skills of some ladies is top tier. They could carry their entire life in a handbag with ease. Such is the beauty of life.

“Utakunywa nini?” Silvia asked. She seemed to be the sponsor of the night, so I had to be careful with my desires. Now, I was new to this world of drinking, so I knew nothing. Alcohol brands. Their percentages. Nothing. “Anything iko sawa,” I said. Deep down, I wished I had told them I am not a drinker. But here we were. Faking it till I made it. They ordered Ciders. Sweet, sweet, ciders. Not bad. I am not sure how many of those I had. Rhumba was playing. Franco Luambo. Madillu System. Tshala Mwana. And the likes. It was like home again. My father tuned on Fred Obachi Machoka’s Roga Roga show, or some show on KBC. The stereo, a Sonitec, fueled entertainment and news at home. Batteries? Eveready. There were only a few owners of such devices, so this was a privilege. The music? Rhumba classics. Nothing beat the tunes threaded and sung by kina Les Wanyika, Maroon Comandos, and M’bilia Bel. When the presenters were kind enough, they’d let Ayub Ogada’s Kothbiro play. Ayub Ogada is one of the finest artists of our soil. And in this club, as the late Oliver Mtukudzi’s Todii come on, I couldn’t help but feel so much at home. I am not sure how many ciders I had taken. Everyone was looking cute. The wababaz, wamamaz, and all the company. I was dancing. To Todii. Shots were ordered. Green in color? Tasted like aloe vera juice. It was pathetic. But what was fun without downing these things?

The foreplay might have gone for too long because as soon as the shots hit my intestines, I wanted to go home. They were doing to me what nothing else had ever done to me. Took me places I had never been before. It was 2AM, the girls were high, singing-along to classic Congolese Rhumba. You had to give it to Club Tribeka. They music DJs knew how to curate music for a Friday night. My girls said tosha, it was time to go home. But not before they got a phone number from this dude with Timberlands and 17 chains on his neck. What was he trying to do? Overtake 2 Chainz? Once they got the phone number, we went outside. It was cold. But the kind of cold that kisses your face and you feel alive.

Did we have Uber money? We were all shocked to find that all the money we had was used in the bottles we had. And we only live once. Nothing to regret. But we needed to get home. Time was slowly seeping into the morning. Before we knew it, people would start their helter skater, kuingia mjengo. The city was vibrant, yet somewhere in the nation, there were people who were tucked in bed, oblivious of what was happening. Some were cuddling, trying, for the seventh time, to get kababa to rise to the occasion. And they’d retire to bed angry at each other, but softly whisper to each other they’d try again. When it hit 3 AM, we knew we had to do something. Silvia suggested we walk home. It is not thaaaat far, she said. In reality, it is not. However, when you have had a number of bottles and it’s at night, it is not a good idea. But we had no money. They had squandered all their money, and mine too. So we walked home. From Banda Street to Nyayo Highrise. There were occasional complains that “aki ni far” from the ones who suggested that we walk home. But we kept going. We passed through Upper Hill, past Kenyatta, down Mbagathi Way. It was 5:30AM when we arrived. Heads heavy, legs tired. We all jumped on Silvias bed, no words uttered, just an understanding that fun was had, and it was time to rest.

Until the boyfriend. Until the man of the house. Daaah!

I have written hundreds of notes for my friends, people in my community, and strangers. What I have loved about this habit that I can’t seem to drop is, I carry joy in me, and I share it generously, widely, lovingly, and it plants a smile on many faces.

My friends have reminded me how my notes found them in places where they needed that silly dad joke, that affirmation, that little line that just makes the world pause, and give the reader all the warmth they needed. Words so perfect, so needed. Words that let time know while it is aging, they remain every time they get a chance to kiss the mind of the reader.

I have been on the receiving end of long prose, beautifully written poetry, and words packed with gentle whispers that are calming and poetic; words that celebrate me, affirm, and remind me of the beautiful human I am. Words threaded with intention, carrying the purest forms of love, pockets of joy, and life. Well-meaning words that have left me admiring the minds, hearts, and hands of those that saw it fit to share love with me. I have kept these notes somewhere safe, somewhere I can always go to when the world is driving me crazy. That’s my happy place, a place where tenderness and warmth resides; a place I always want to be at. (Thank you to all the strangers, friends, and acquaintances who wrote to me or responded to my writing to them.)

When I see someone seated somewhere, I panic. I panic because I know I could easily disturb their peace just to write them a note. I know this because it’s not the first time I gave someone a note that I hoped would put a smile on their face, and they refused to take it. It was understandable. I was a stranger to them, and they to me. I have always wondered what life would be like had they taken and read the note. If they were weak in the knees, they’d probably have asked for my number, and we’d have, like, how many kids? Three and counting?

So, when today I thought about her, I wrote her a line. I told her I liked how she spoke and could possibly tune to her show if she was a radio presenter or podcaster. It was the longest I ever conversed with her(I usually just say a quick hello and walk so fast so that we do not engage in an awkward eye-contact). She talks good. Like she is well trained. Like she was beaten for not reading well or pronouncing the words properly. Sauti nayo tamu. Yaani, it was just lovely. She wrote me a note back. I was still anxious, not knowing what to do. She acknowledged my compliment and even wished me to always get something that sets my heart on fire. If I was in my prime, I would have taken this as a sign that she was into me, go home smiling, and call her and talk to her for two hours. However, I have seen enough dust to entertain such thoughts.

The thing with writing notes is that it does not get you exhausted. You keep giving and it feels like more is added. It’s like you can’t wake up one day and say, no, I don’t want to do this. Because the next day you see a guy in a cool suit, you secretly ‘drop’ a note on his table and wish he does not immediately see it because then he’ll ask the proverbial question, “Why are you gay? You are gay.” But also hope he can pick it and know besides kuvunja shingo, he sticks his neck out to ensure he’s actually breaking necks (with his luku).

Sometimes, it’s unexpected. Someone shows up, and the mood of the room becomes elevated. Their energy is inviting, their eyes welcoming, and their smile? Reassuring. You suddenly feel safe and at ease, and you want to write them a note but you can’t because you did not carry a notebook or a pen. And you politely ask them if they can give you their phone because there is something burning inside you, and you wish to share the fire with them. Trust me, you ask them. They do. Not because they trust everyone in Nairobi, but because they believe energy does not lie, and in that moment, your aura is giving. You write them one of the finest art pieces yet. A gentle reminder to them, showing them pieces of themselves that they sometimes forget. The beauty they carry. The resilience and the radiance. They kiss you on your cheeks and pull you into a beautiful hug, tight and warm, and tell you that you are such a sweet guy. And you part ways, no numbers exchanged, but a certain understanding, a certain feeling, a moment shared, that will live with you for as long as you carry the memory.

Other times, your friends randomly find your notes somewhere in their houses, and they text you to tell you about it. And they are so happy about it, and you start wondering when you will start asking for a subscription fee. Yaani, even without knowing it, you could be making people happy out here.

And even when your taking stages wanted you to exclusively write to them, you are happy you did not listen to them. Being fulfilled is far more beautiful than the high that comes with liking and talking to someone. So you keep writing, seeking correspondence from strangers online. You keep writing notes to self, to friends, to strangers. Because even when everything else does not make sense, intentional words are a home one can go to, and in that moment, that place, life gets meaning.

I will forever have a handwritten note for you. Yes, You.

Khavs.

My alarm, set for 6:30 AM had gone off. Not that I need alarms. I wake up before the noisiest jogoo kuwika. I am the early bird and the worm too. I believe, if I was not celibate (in imagination), I would be a good candidate for morning glory. Is there a plural for morning glory? Morning glories. Or something like that.' I’d be a perfect candidate.

I look at my phone again. I don’t have my glasses, so it’s almost in my face. It’s 6:40 am. I have a few minutes to prepare for work. Kuoga. Luku napiga wanjapi. And ready I am to go. My PA, Candid, is online. She asks why I haven’t slept and I am like what do you mean? Prior to that, I was checking Instagram and saw that S was online. I had sent a good morning text that was met with a “enyewe ni morning, wacha nilale.” I wondered what she was talking about. It was morning (to me). I asked her, “Kwani what have you been doing all night?” She must have fallen asleep a second later because she never opened the text.

Now, I was multitasking, texting while also preparing. When I was ready to go to work, I opened my door, walked to the gate and yoooh, giza totoro. Checking my phone, it is indeed 2 AM as Candid has said. I check my phone, and it’s 2:40 AM. I go back to my chats and it starts to make sense. But no, when I checked first, it was 6:40AM and not this early and I had talked to people hours ago before I went to sleep.

I know I just turned 28 the other day, but I did not know it comes with this abnormal behavior.

I tell H this, and she laughs at me so hard. She cannot comprehend how I could prepare to go to work at 2AM. She’s used to waking up at odd hours of the night to listen to Indian Amapiano, text her Nigerian crush (who is a Yahoo boy by the way), or watch one of those K-Dramas, or both.

I go back to sleep.

I woke up at 6AM (the real time), and went to work after a little freshening up. Happy that kumbe sijachizi.

And now, I am toying with the idea of starting a fundraiser to support my memory loss. Si mtanisupport? Alternatively, maybe what I need is dawa za kuzuia macho mbaya. Evil eyes. So, if you have a plug, do not hesitate to link me up. Or cmp. Call My Phone or whatever this generation calls it.

Haya, it has been a tough week. Mnirushie za kuenda Quiver kuiva. It’s a Friday, sherehe must sherehe.

Tony has written about me twice to massage my ego.

He gave me two insurances to say, “Mama, I made it.”

He seemed to have removed the two stories from his portfolio, and so I can’t find them to provide you with substantial and overwhelming evidence. And for that, I say an arrogant, “Sorry baas.”

A few things you should know about Tony.

We first met in Kisii.

He’s a dope copywriter (Ads za TV na Radio, Billboards, and sometimes, a Chat GPT assisted text to his former caretaker/campus sweetheart, Bosibori).

He got me a writing gig pre-COVID 19. Writing sheng’ articles for a certain blog. I was happy sana.

He holds grudges. Once, we assembled somewhere in an undisclosed location, cooked above comrade-friendly food, talked writing, books, and life in campus, and I served them well, and added juice ya kuteremsha. The boy complained that I served Larry (a mutual friend in our midst) more food than him. He has never healed from that traumatic experience.

While I have moved on, in a few occasions, I promised to make it up to him, but I do not think I ever will. He is still waiting for that day. Bwana Tony, if you are reading this, I’d like to inform you that that will never happen. Thank you.

He went to Oriwo Boys. He probably never got a chance to talk to those babes from Asumbi Girls. But he’s a writer, so I know he probably might have written a few letters here and there, dedicating Tony Nyadundo’s tunes to some Kipsigis babe, hoping to one day win her heart. He probably never won any heart(s). And that’s okay. I never did too. But this is not about me, please.

You cannot watch a movie/series with Tony.

He will pause, google the cast, the directors, producers, even makeup artists. He will read, listen, and watch everything about them. Watch other movies by these casts/directors/producers as if he is preparing to defend a thesis. Tony thinks he understands film more than the people who created it. And I dislike him for that. He has a way of criticizing films that unahurumia the producers. And he is so good at it so much so that I like him for that.

Tony does not call me anymore (I also do not, and have never called him, but this is not about me). How dare he?

I learned, from his status, that he made a trip to Bosongo (or so it appears). The details are scanty.

Apparently, he has been mocking us, wondering if emails are finding us well. Well, Tony, the emails are not finding us well. He thinks that going for a ‘vacay,’ as he calls it, in shagz, is something to brag about. He is right. But how dare he?

Upon arrival, a bunch of kids were lined up in front of their home because ‘Ankoo’ was around. He had not gotten them sweets as he had promised to do so the last time he was in the village.

Of course, the pressure is boiling. Where is his wife and kids, the kinfolk wants to know. He does not have an answer, just the same way he does not have an answer to why his Computer Science Degree is not in use. He gave villagers a hard time, walking around with a chain made of computer parts, crisscrossing every boma with a Bluetooth Dewise, playing Duke Ellington. He’d do this during long holidays, and the village-mates would be amused. Parents advised their kids to be like Tony, a role model. He was, and still is, a smart kid. I am calling him a kid because he was born the other day. Someone who does not know to peel marabuoni is a kid. Someone who has never eaten misheveve/mreda is just but a toddler. And lastly, someone who considers Gengetone classic/old school music, is, and you have guessed it right, a kid. Tony, is a kid.

His family is wondering why he is not doing some code. Maybe even repair a broken laptop. Install a VPN. Something that screams computer science And I know, at this time, you might have got a glimpse that I do not know what a Computer Science degree holder does for work. But you have to understand, I need to write something.

Wewe just know, Tony wants to do creative stuff. And he does them well. He writes well. even directs a film well. Kijana mchapa kazi. He pretends to go to the office to do work, but I know, and this is a secret he hides under his nose, he is a fraud. He goes there for the snacks. Then wakes up in the middle of the night, calls his boss, who could be anyone really (He does not have one job, this one), and share the revelation. The two will jump on a quick call, their tiny heads appearing on each other’s screens due to the illumination from their devices (and the darkness) and create a campaign that will bring the company millions, and pay them just enough to pay rent, two rolls of tissue, and a new bucket hat. He will then take three days off, lying that he’s in a creative block, and disappear to events around Nairobi, where he makes sure he hangs out with two of his favorite friends (the only ones), Amanda and Frank. To be honest, they hang out a lot. I’d like to let the two know that they have stolen a friend from me, and I wonder, am I not doing enough? Tony should know, I am ready to do anything to win back his heart. In fact, I can take the next bus to Bosongo, with a hot-pot full of round chapatis. Abehave by the way.

And, because it is important to say this, Tony’s compliments are short and to the point.

And repetitive.

“This event is amazing.”

“What you have done for us is great.”

“This is the best thing you have ever written.”

Just those three.

I thank him for his friendship.

I thank you for reading.

It was Father’s Day just the other day.

As most people posted their fathers, father figures, and everything in between, I stayed calm. Unmoved.

I have never had a moment where the day meant something to me. Something good.

I have never had a day in my life where I proudly shared wonderful messages about him. Yet, from time to time, even if I tell these words to myself, I tell them anyway. That I am proud of him.

Last Sunday, on Father’s Day, a friend asked if I had called my dad. I had not. And maybe it’s just me. Or maybe we are one of many around the world. Whatever the case, I wish I had.

Look, a few years ago, I decided to take the personal initiative to work on myself. To confront my childhood traumas. One of them was the authoritative regime where the parent was always right, and the kid had no say. No defense.

These things affected me badly. Some of the coping mechanisms, like walking away from conflict, have followed me into adulthood. I never choose violence. I want peace.

After writing a reflective essay on the same and talking to a ‘mentor’ (and I have it in quotes because it was never an official thing), I got more clarity. I decided to move on. Forget about it. But how do you do that when the person who hurt you—or who you believe hurt you—is still present in your life? Do you cut them off? Do you not talk to them? What?

For the longest time, I avoided going home. I stayed in Nairobi for almost all of my campus life (plus more). I never called home. Had no contact. If you asked me how my siblings were doing, I wouldn’t know. I was a stranger to them, and they to me. When I went home, I found that they had grown big. Like, really big. My two brothers have broad chests now, and while they are struggling in the beard department, they are adults now. My sister, who is the lastborn, is now asking me about ‘in-law.’ Buana, she’s growing super fast. My mama is still strong, although old age is catching up with her. She is always demanding grandkids. Na sijui ata kama niko fertile. Even with her situation, she still gives the best hugs and cooks the best layered chapatis. She calls me often, and we banter a lot. Dad, on the other hand, has been doing his part, keeping the family going. Ever since I let go, our relationship has improved. I even run errands for him— something I would never have done around 2019. Things are better now. Not perfect. And I love it.

He taught me the art of being present. Growing up, he’d come home by 6 pm at the latest. It did not matter what was going on. We’d always have dinner together. Unless he was out of town, we’d always have our meals—breakfast and supper (and sometimes lunch, especially on weekends)—as a family.

In his own way, he showed up for me. He came to all visiting days, all academic days. He took me on my first trip to Homabay and Kendubay. He took me fishing ( I never caught anything, haha). He brought me to Nairobi when I was joining campus, occasionally telling me all about the Great Rift Valley and many places he knew about. It was refreshing. He looked like he was well-traveled. Maybe he was. Maybe not. That has never bothered me. I was happy then, knowing he actually was there.

We used our first elevator together in Nairobi. It is still here in this chaotic city that we first experienced using a washroom that was not necessarily a pit latrine. What a joy we had.

As I start to appreciate these little things, I am starting to question if by being distant from him, I was also being an absent child. That maybe, just maybe, parents crave connection too, sometimes in their own weird way, but we never create space for them. That maybe in our world, we do not see how important that could be because any relationship can only work better if both people are putting in the effort. I have even started to believe that while sometimes we fault our parents, we might forget to hold ourselves accountable for the wrongs we have done.

In no way do I support bad parenting. However, I welcome the imperfection that comes with parenting. I welcome intentionality. I welcome a life with parents that feels like an experience and not a duty. I welcome shared moments. I usher in intentionality and carry this lesson with me. I want to be present more often. I want to show up where it matters.

NOTE: Thanks for reading and (subscribing). You help shape the blog and I am glad you are here.

So, I got a 9-5. You’d think I have been praying about it, and you’d be right. Maybe not kneeling, saying a scripture, and asking for it. But with how things had been going in my life, I needed a fat paycheck. For the bills. Mostly for the bills. And of course, the occasional dates that I dodged because I did not have money to take someone’s daughter somewhere and treat them to a nice meal, buy her some flowers, or even get her a cup of uji power. Kuna kama hawa. You might think it’s humility. You might be right. Or wrong. The ways of the universe are diverse. They do not lie, like your president, though.

The thing about getting a new job is that you start seeing life differently. It’s like when you have been single for a very long time and now you are seeing someone. Suddenly, you have to think about them and place them somewhere in your plans. It’s been a few days, and I have already started reflecting on a lot of things. Things that should have happened but they did not. I question, why so? Because if something is beautiful, even momentarily, can we not stretch its goodness a little? Can we change the outcome to a desired one?

Sometimes almosts can trick us into believing that we got the real deal. This is what scares me the most about life and its simple pleasures. Other times., something unexpected happens and changes the outcome completely.

Back in campus, I almost gave up on my education. I had a huge fee balance, and had I not cleared it, I would miss CATs and Exams, and that meant I’d miss graduation.

I was an alright student. I took my work seriously and did well in the co-curricular, mostly running a campus-based online radio station, Fresh Radio. One time, the DVC-Academic affairs, a man I had feared to meet on several occasions, called me for a meeting.

We sat in the boardroom, him on one end, and I, the other. He asked me what was wrong. I explained that the situation back home was tricky and there was little income to support me and my siblings.

The thing with misery is that it clouds your mind. Misery punches you down and it thrives on that.

After a long conversation with him, I had already devised a way I would clear the arrears and graduate. It all took a conversation for me to change my mindset. Started looking at life differently.

Now I had a plan, and a mindset shift. And months later, I graduated among the top of my class barely getting a First-class honors that I throw around a few times to feel important. And that is because you can’t start bragging about having a First class while being jobless. Even my parents kept asking me “Kuna matumaini?” because freelancing was not doing it for me (and for them).

There were others too.

When I almost slept with a married woman but couldn’t because…eeeew!

When I almost moved out of Nairobi but couldn’t because life turned out differently. A positive outcome.

When I almost got an opportunity for an artist I was doing PR for but mentioned the name of the competitor and lost it right there.

When I almost not picked my dad’s call. He had been calling me for days and I was panicking. I do not know where the anxiety was coming from. The call came at a time when I was employed and I always avoided calls because I thought I’d be asked for money. Having gotten a degree and passed well, there was always that pressure to get formal employment. A real job. It was shocking to hear that my dad just wanted to check-in. Kujua vile niko. Damn!

I think almosts are chances to rethink.

Restrategize.

Re-evaluate your position, choices, styles.

They are how growth happens. A redirection. And while some of them are unfortunate, I think better things usually come out of almosts. Sometimes.

I am learning to embrace them. Allow things to happen the way they desire to. They have lives of their own, and I would love to just sit and watch how they become.

I found comfort in the words of Haven Diaries, I blog I stumbled upon while reading about almosts. There is this passage that I absolutely loved;

My “almosts” aren’t failures. They’re proof of my willingness to chase what matters, to risk my heart, or to dream. They’ve also slowed me down, expanded my perspective, or even shaped who I am. And most importantly, they remind me that the door is still open — for another chance, another try, another moment to turn almost into something more.

Their words are a reminder that there are second chances.

That we can try again.

That if we do not realize a desired outcome, it is okay.

May your almosts turn into beautiful endings.

Dear Daisy,

Perhaps you are wondering why the silence. You might even consider that I have not been thinking about you. It’s not what it looks like, walahi!

I have been thinking about you. In more ways than you could imagine. I have written about you countless times, my friends think you are a fictional character. The closest ones have never seen you, so they have had their own narratives. Some say you might be someone they have never met. Or maybe you are not as beautiful as I make you look (in my narratives). They have asked me countless times, huyu Daisy ni nani na ako wapi? I have protected your identity, not because I do not want to be associated with you, but because I cherish you. Or maybe, just maybe, I never wanted people in our business. The mystery is beautiful. I think.

The last time we saw each other was on July 24th, 2023. We had graduated top of our class. It’s something we always wanted, wasn’t it? I had hoped I’d be the valedictorian so that I could mention your name in my speech, but I never made it. I guess the chapatis I had at Kwa Pastor had a thing to do with it. Unajua that ka-afternoon usingizi after lunch? I had many of those. I was once thrown out of class for sleeping through lessons. It is such a natural but embarrassing feeling. I was glad you were never in my class to witness it.

You said I should not see you off when you were going abroad. Ati you are not good at goodbyes. Buana you should have let me see you one more time. July 24th, 2023 should never have been the only (last) time I saw you. While it was lovely, and this, I must admit, there was a certain tear in my heart that has not healed to date. I knew you all my campus life. I had known you when I was single and when I was dating and when I was single again. I knew better not to run to you crying when I broke up with Kate. I never wanted sympathy love. I let you know that I was finally single. And you laughed at me so hard. You walked all the way from South C to laugh at me some more. This was one time I was mad but allowed us to laugh it off. You must have sensed that I was a little too far in the heartbreak spectrum and offered to buy me super that day. What you do not know is that I actually was going to sleep hungry that night. So thank! I was so shocked by the gesture that I called all my boyz and we had sherehe in from of Ugali-beef-greens. And when I say Ugali, I mean a mountain of Ugali. We ate! And ate!

Daisy, I had always known that I would be your lover, and you, mine. Ours was not love at fight sight. You were seeing Conrad when I was seeing Kate. And both Conrad and Kate raised eyebrows when they knew we were hanging out. I once told a friend I was meeting you. He observed that my eyes lit up when mentioning your name. The things that I could not say in words. My body language communicated. I wonder how many messages might have been lost in my body language.

When you went abroad, I was left here, no one to cuddle, to have silly fights with, send long voice notes with nothing but my interpretation of crime films and books, and deeply erotic poems. I tell people we have never kissed and they think I am lying. the audacity! How dare they likened me to Must Go? They should know that it’s not that we never wanted to, but we made a commitment to wait. Soon after our exams in April, I officially told you how I felt about you. You held my hand for a hot minute, kissed me on the forehead (shuwally, short people, it is such a struggle. You could just have kissed my hand. It would have been fine). You said no other words. You almost made me believe that I left you speechless. Then you asked me what made me like you. I knew it’s that nice ass. But I couldn’t say it. There was something else. Your big dreamy eyes, your masculine voice, and the act that day or night, you’d always be there for me. Had I whispered this to my mon, a delegation of wazee would have been sent from Ikolomani to Siaya to start dowry negotiations. So I never told her a thing. The pressure on that end is getting worse, with each phone call from her turning into a polite request for wajukuu.

I loved the waiting. You asked me to wait until the day you’d feel ready. I did. And there was never a rush, really. Knowing you got me was the real deal. I figured we still had more time to get to know each other as romantic partners. We were not even there when you shared that you’d be travelling abroad. I understood. Masomo and greener pastures. I have never really pictured myself in another country. Like where would I see cute women, type yangu tu, like the ones we used to see palee Archives? I love the chaos in Nairobi, I do not know how y’all do it out there, far away from friends and Family. I specifically do not know how you do it without me. Because, if we are being honest, I have gone to CITAM Jogoo Road a few times to say a prayer. Not really for your return, for I understand what you are up to, but for God to keep you safe. There is something beautiful about a safe place to say a prayer, it is something I am welcoming, albeit kwa starehe zangu. No rush.

Daisy, I miss you! My life has been like a village where KPLC wameanua stima, affecting economic activities and leaving the place in darkness for days. You were my light, baby. The angle socks you left have faded, and one has a huge hole as the perfect hustle of my toe. I look at it and remember how you were obsessed with buying angle socks. I partly assumed you must have had a fetish or something. I did not get it. You should tell me the reason behind the obsession one day. Sometimes I go to Kukito, the one in Hurlingham so that I can remember the first time we went on a date. You had this black off-shoulder that showed your beauty bones, beautifully framed and molded into you. Other than that, I do not remember much. Maybe the fact that you fart so hard that evening at the Junction near Daystar, that I was sure ants in the vicinity died. That fart was so horrible it took me five minutes to get back to the default setting (and I wonder what business I had standing next to a farter for the whole time).

Daisy, I met someone when you were gone. They are super intelligent, and a little psychopathic too. I think there is something wrong with their upstairs, I wish you were here, we’d have helped her with paperwork for Mathare Mental Hospital. I let them go. That’s what life has taught me. A friend called Josie used to say that we are perfect imperfections. I resonate with these two words a great deal. And they keep reminding me that yes, I am not perfect. I come with flaws. But this should never be a reason to settle for less.

I met two church girls. Adorable human beings. One of them said I had to have a close relationship with God. The other simply did not like my receding hairline, which is worsening by the way. I will tell you about them someday. I miss telling you these things. I know it is hard to pick up where we left. Getting to know each other. Sleepovers and those kind of things. I know it will be too much to ask of you after all the years that have gone by. What I know is that whatever is between us, is bigger than ourselves. And I do not pretend to know what that means. I heard it in a movie. And I was sleepy anyway. But yeah, I cannot explain what I feel for you. I am neither a lover nor a friend. You are neither. You are my constant. And I can’t wait to collapse in your arms again…in like, what? 3 years from now?

Fervently yours,

Khavs.

I intend to write once in a while. So don't come at me with, "When is the next story?" I am busy. Doing life. Looking for a girlfriend, na kujenga nchi. Which reminds me, Kasongo must go, au vipi?

Do not expect the best of tales. I am still learning how to write humor. It might take a while. Even you, dear reader, have been looking for mpoa for the longest. The one you have, you do not realy like them like that. Yet they have had many chances with you than you have actually had a shot at a healthy relationship. Na sikujudge.

You can expect a great time. I’ll share letters, short stories, and my 20’s experiences. Mostly, I will make fun of my choices. You will laugh, and if you don’t, I will send goons your way. We do not want that, do we?

This substack will help me create a habit of reading and writing more. I hope it gives me friends (with benefits too). I do not discriminate. Think about friends who can give me a house for a weekend in Nanyuki so that I can go listen to Asley and Harmonize in peace. Or friends who can pay for a spa day for me (or bring a spa my way). Little things to ask for but utaona kuna mtu anapinga. Hopefully, we connect on bigger things that my stories. Maybe the relatable experiences, the social impact my tales have, or other interests. In the end, all I pray for is that, more than anything, I can find a girlfriend, mpoa, omwana inyanya, as soon as possible, so that I can write about her too.

I want to write about my discoveries, biased opinions, adventures, and my very good relationship with chapati and avocado. I want to write about my eyesight, and glasses and why you should take care of your eyes because the world is filled with beautiful things to see. I want to write about the girls I have met and why I think I have fumbled a lot of them. In these stories, I will apologize and tell some to go fuck themselves for doing me dirty. But in the end, I wish to write stories that will shed light to things we all struggle with, using humor as a tool to reduce the stigma, lighten the conversation, and help us make hard conversations normal and easy.

Can’t promise consistency.

What I can promise is real conversations. Real stories.

So if you can, join me in this journey.

I obviously will have to promise you more so that I can work hard to deliver! That’s the only way to do this. I hate failure. I know you wish to encourage me that I should learn from my mistakes. Buana, mimi usiniadvise. I want to do stuff. Do them well. Move on.

So, I promise that you will laugh. I don’t know how I will make you laugh yet. I will learn on the job.

case closed.

My name is Brian Khavalaji. I am learning how to write humor and anything you say (or think about around me) can and will be used in my stories. Beware!

Let me add another “Hey” to the previous one.

Badae.