Olive Mugenda should be a writer. Anapenda storeys. There are so many buildings under construction in our school I've lost track. Not that I'm complaining, infrastructure is a very important part of any learning institution. Hopefully when we're done with the real estate phase we'll concentrate more on research. Some students here are really passionate about what they do and it challenges me a lot.

Joining KU came with the added advantage of leaving home and having my own place next to school. This meant one thing, freedom. You know how freedom just gives you the ability to choose your own slavery. I left our lovely home in Kajiado County with its serene environment and not very interesting traffic throughout to stay in a sombrero in Kahawa. Thus I have become a slave of bhajias from my favorite restaurant here and of three little birds who peck at my window every morning.

Not that we live in a Mexican hat, we're just used to saying sombrero to refer to anything and everything. That's our culture and no one lacks culture, only a dead people. The first time Jewel, my roommate, said sombrero to mean eggs I was like "Oh great wind thou hath blown and left thy servant with a maiden that knoweth not the difference between sombrero and omelet. Whence shalt I run? What hath thy done to deserve this?" Now I'm cool.

So welcome to our sombrero. We have a neighbour who sings do re mi fa so la ti do when he has had one two many and another one with a very lovely sombrero (read househelp). I try to have little conversations with her every now and then. I figured if I invest in a friendship with her she'll remember me the next time she's cooking chapatis.

The sombreros who live in this house are not morning people. We struggle each day to wake up early enough to attend morning lectures. Alarms are snoozed like crazy here because no one wants to wake up. However when we do, and we always do, our days kickstart with energy. In the evening, when we are tired of hanging out in the kitchen because that's the only place with a semblance of phone coverage, we'll sit on couches and discuss the events of the week or weekend. How Sarabi should do a live album because the studio did them zero justice or how the Chinese kid from Trophy Wife is the real sombrero. Or we could talk about the recent strike which was exciting to watch from afar.

She's writing a book. She has draft files which she will compile one day into a novel. I write blogs, these ones, a collection of my stories and other people's. We talk about how some Kenyan writers are meh! And African writers are meher! I'll express my disappointment when I read Half Of A Yellow Sun because it reminded me of Shreds of Tenderness a setbook we did in high school. But what do we know? Every writer has their own style and their own story.

Peer pressure skyrockets on Thursday evenings and Friday mornings. This time should be used on the balcony writing while sipping some wine but our balcony is too dusty to enjoy since our place is next to the road and HELB has not given us money so being the economist I am, wine is an unnecessary luxury. What is a creative juice anyway? One of us will decide to have a chilled out weekend, go home and just relax with family. That is until one of us suggests a gig and because we are suckers for art, we'll find ourselves at Sondeka fest or a small exhibition somewhere.

When I take a matatu from our stage to KU it takes five minutes or less that's enough time to hear a mama complain about her husband's mischief on Maina Kageni's show. Then I have to listen to lecturers and it's not like they are the most interesting people in the world. I'll meet random people like two Tanzanian guys talking about how Nairobi ladies wear vijikaptura (booty shorts) and dudes listen to Kendriki Ramari. By the end of the day I just want to crawl back to my little sombrero.


To Kimani,
I am celebrating our one week anniversary since we met in a matatu on our way home at midnight. We were both coming from our different Friday night escapades and fate had brought us together. In the middle of our perfect conversation I told you my name; Wanja. We talked. I was fascinated by how much we had in common. We talked. I wondered how awesome it was to meet such an interesting person in the drunk jav. We talked. I fell in love.

I am on the road to town hoping that our paths will cross again tonight. Have you ever seen all the Mganga kutoka Tanga posters around Ngara? I had never noticed them but I have today because of   all the traffic. I'm saving one of the  numbers on my phone just incase you don't call anytime soon. I'll have to contact these guys for a portion or spell to get you back. Why haven't you called anyway? Is it that you don't like me because I was pretty sure you did. Or maybe I gave you a wrong number by mistake. My guess is that you've actually called me a few times and I was mteja. In that case I'd like to apologise for living in a place with no network coverage so my phone is always off even when it's not.

Meeting you has made me think about going back to church. I have not been there for three years because I felt like God was betraying me. Why would a loving God allow me to date these shaggy boys from Muratina University? I'd never go out with them even if my life depended on it. Oh! Nie? Digehota! Sahau forget! Now He has sent me you. A man who is loaded enough to treat me well, smells nice and looks nice. I like being seen with people who look like they are from a Buoart photoshoot. You should also thank God, you know. I noticed you were short sighted but since I am not that tall you don't have to struggle while looking at me. We both know that you wouldn't have found another chic like me anyway.

Did I tell you how great you were looking that night? Especially in that suit that made you a walking HELB loan. I spent most of my weekend looking for a house in Runda. We will need a big place to keep your nice suits and the nicer ones you'll buy for me. Kwanza I saw a very beautiful one with sixteen rooms. It looked like Kim Kardashian's. I just assumed we will have five children so that every kid gets two bedrooms but if you want a bigger family we can always look for a bigger house.

When are you going to call me? My pal Njoki works at Artcaffé and she can reserve for us a table next to the footpath so that everyone can see us enjoying our love. I have written my phone number at the back of this letter if your phone was stolen and you had to buy a new one. You could also google me and find my social media names. I'm an upcoming socialite so it won't be that hard to find me.

With love from

My mom says hi. She was wondering when you are coming to bring my brideprice.