There's an extra hill in Ngong' that outsiders don't know about. No one goes there to hike or take beautiful pictures of the sunset. You will never find the fake deep smoking and taking selfies up there while filling your Instagram feeds with long irrelevant posts. There is no sight of windmills or breathtaking birds and animals. Considering it's a lot lower than its sisters one would expect to find lazy faithfuls praying or couples on dates enjoying themselves. Far from it, this heap of garbage is for no good. It defies every law of hygiene and environment conservation.
When it rains, this lovely hill is generous enough to donate its components to the environment. The water carries away some waste towards the road making them flood and in some cases render them impassable. I can only imagine the health risk it poses on the informal households nearby. Unlike the Nairobi residents, they don't take it to twitter to complain about their situation. This is probably because their governor's name, Honourable Doctor David Ole Nkedianye, seems like it has already reached the 140 character limit.
This hill had a lot of memories for Linyonyi. The married women had always preferred to meet here because no one would go round garbage heaps to look for them thus their chances of getting caught by their husbands were low. There were also times while driving his nduthi away from home where he needed to take a piss and this was his preferred washroom.
That day's experience however, would definitely surpass them all.
His fellow townsmen had woken up that morning with the soul aim of getting rid of him. They showed up at his house early, giving him several punches and kicks then carrying him to the garbage heap to burn him alive. Anger, which was mainly caused by jealousy, was in the air as the men accused him of 'spoiling' their women. Instead of using his sweet tongue to find a woman to marry, they said, Linyonyi was using it to lure all the women of the town and making them unfaithful to their husbands and boyfriends.
From their faces he could tell they really wanted to do away with him. They were also curios to know what kind of powers he possessed to entice such a huge number. The women he had slept with pretended to be as disgusted as the crowd but one could see that deep down they were hurt by the way he was being treated. One lady could not bear it any more and suggested that the better way was to take him to the police station. There was some resistance but they finally agreed. They put him on the back of his bike stating that they would steal it but they wanted nothing to do with him.
Liyonyi's cellmate in prison was a Pastor Jim. He had been accused of using his ministry to exploit followers and steal their money. He talked a lot about how big his church was and how much money he had amassed. Infact, he talked so much that Linyonyi wished he could just churn him into busaa and drink him. He said that after getting rich off a congregation it was always good to go to prison where he could change tactics, learn new ones and modify his appearance. He had even began working on a white beard during his court hearings. As an added advantage the prisoners were a good audience to preach to because they were a desperate people, similar to the ones he targeted in the outside world.
"For the last time Pastor Jim, my name is not Wanyonyi." It always pissed him off when people mistook his name. Back in Ngong, his numerous clandes would piss him off when calling him the wrong name during moments of passion, "Litonyi, Loliondo, Lolita."
He knew it was only a matter of time before he gave in to the name Wanyonyi and as it seems that was the only name his colleagues would use to refer to him, it began to bother him less.
Months in prison were spent listening to Pastor Jim's sermons.One night when they both could not sleep Pastor Jim told him about Moses and the burning bush. That God asked Moses, "What do you have in your hand?" Moses saw a staff in his hand and that's what God used to bless him. In the same way God would only bless Linyonyi using the talents and abilities that he had.
This message changed his thinking. He decided to stop feeling sad about his poor state and began working with what he has. He got so challenged that he used his gift of speech to become Jim's co-pastor, preaching once in a while to the prison congregation that was growing everyday.
Fellow prisoners began to prefer him to Pastor Jim and this did not go well. Linyonyi would receive threats and he thought it best to look for another place to sleep.
Luckily, one of his former lovers paid a good lawyer to appeal his case and he soon got acquitted. He received a letter from her on the day of his release that apologised for not helping earlier as she had to find a way to steal the money from her husband without him noticing. The envelope also contained a one million shillings cheque and the madam's workplace address so that he could look for her later on.
Outside the prison gates he found his nduthi waiting for him. It looked as beautiful as ever with a FORD Kenya flag at the front and the seat lined with empty packets of branded maize flour. In this world, his nduthi was the only thing that he truly cared about. Even while behind bars he often bribed the guards to take it from where it was locked and drove it around in a nearby field. He would talk to it as if it could listen and tell it that one day they would run away to see the world.
As he folded the letter back into the envelope he remembered how this particular woman would scream the name "Jehovah" while making love. It made him uncomfortable at first but he later got used to it.
Then it hit him, if he was a better pastor than Jim who had amassed billions for himself, surely he could be god himself. Plus, doesn't it say in Psalms 82:6 that we are gods? So technically he wouldn't be doing anything wrong.
With a well thought out strategy he reached Cherangani town with his nduthi that show the meekness of a servant. The people were glad to see one who could speak their own language come to rescue them from their troubles. He told the people that he would give them special seeds that would do well in their soils, give them money to use in development and generally help in improving their welfare.
Never had they seen a leader fulfil his promises, surely he could not be a man like the rest. So when he introduced himself as Jehovah Wanyonyi, they did not refute.
Wanyonyi really believed he could make a difference. He encouraged people to work all morning, refresh themselves then come for a service where he would be worshipped. There was no need for a preacher as his followers would hear directly from their god who had divine eloquence.
There were visible signs that he was trying to help the community, comforted the afflicted and was ready to listen to their sorrow. Even though he did not peform miracles, they left his presence with the one thing they all needed most; hope.
Women filled the seats on Sundays, leaving their abusive husbands for good. They sang praises to Wanyonyi, prayed to him to bless them and their children. His easy ways, smart mouth and the leaked information from his wives that he was good in bed made them eager to please him while they waited for Christmas when he married a new wife.
Within two years he had built for himself a large temple where his followers would bring offerings and sacrifices. His private homstead had a main hut and six smaller huts for his wives and children. In another enclosed area there was a school and a hospital where only those trained by Jehovah himself would work.
His hut had a room that was always locked and no one was allowed to enter.
That was where he kept the one item that reminded him of who he truly was, his nduthi. He would open the room each night and remind himself of his past and where he should be in the future. Using the stickers and hang-ons he had customized his bike into an item that would keep him in check.
Trouble started in paradise when Wephukulu in a nearby village started convincing people that he was a deity as well. Wanyonyi's sons were also becoming of age and they got into fights with each other about who would inherit the throne. The wives, drowning in jealousy, accused each other of hoarding Jehovah's attention. The media and outside world became increasingly interested in the happenings of his village. Life, as they say, was happening.

One night he took all the money he had gained from farming and other activities, brought his bike outside the hut and silently took off. He drove it to nowhere in particular. As long as it was a place where he could be a Linyonyi, a little bird.
Bananas were Marvin's thing at first. "It reminds me of home," he said, "the places I've been and conversations I've had when eating it in the past." After a few months of having dicussions with Marvin over a bunch of bananas , they became Doctor Mwitu's thing too. Together, they would sit at the empty kibanda outside the hospital and eat some while talking about issues they found interesting.
Marvin had shown up at Doctor Mwitu's hospital seven months ago after hearing of the man's professional and affordable healthcare. He was a struggling journalist, unable to pay for medical covers in private hospitals, sickened by the half-baked treatment the government gave but in dire need of someone to check his persistent cough. Like most people in his neighbourhood, he survived on luck hoping that he would not fall ill because getting relief was a luxury that only the rich could afford. He was really impressed by the doctor's professionalism. While in the diagnosis room they discussed about the nation's welfare and what led them to pursue their respective careers. The doctor wanted to be part of the solution in curbing diseases while Marvin went freelance because employed journalists did not enjoy some fundamental freedoms. The two realised that they had the same grievances, acknowledging the strides being taken by their government but wishing for more. Within no time, Marvin rented an office next to the hospital in Industrial Area making it easier for their afternoon meet. Rates were becoming increasingly cheaper at the 'factory city' that was once famous for producing local goods but business was destroyed by international players.
They found themselves talking a lot about how the rich and powerful deal with competition. Marvin was working on a story about Betty Wap, a former politician, and the alleged conspiracy to murder her business rival, a Mr. Wytte and the doctor could tell that he was passionate about it.
Mr. Wytte had come across a poster that showed Positive City as a positive place with positive people and positive vibes. He knew that would be a good place for business. He quickly relocated to Positive City and found everything to be just as the poster said. Upon retiring, he set out to start his own production company, an industry that Betty Wap was already involved in. Betty was an angry woman who lacked a left eye. When she saw how quickly Wyte's company was rising against hers, she had to get him out of the way. Her company was the best, unbeaten in many years but given the threat she gave her rival one could only wonder if the methods she used to get to the top were noble.
Rumour had it that Betty Wap was a pirate in her former life. She stole ships worth billions carrying loads of gold and jewellery. Life there was not easy and she lost her eye during one of the encounters with the authorities. Once she heard about Positive City and how easy life was for powerful people she decided to resign early and become a politician there.
This conversation wore the doctor out. He could not understand why Marvin was stuck up on the murder conspiracy while that was something that happened everyday. The rich committed crimes to benefit themselves and always get away with it. It was inevitable that Betty Wap, like all the rest, would get acquitted. "This is Positive City. Bad things happen all the time and you can't change that. All you can do is focus on the good stuff."
The case against Betty was strong. There was enough evidence to convince anyone that she was guilty. Phonecalls, text messages and receipts showed that she wanted Mr. Wytte dead. Were it not for the greedy assassin she hired who approached Mr. Wytte to ask for money her wish would be granted.
Marvin was in the library when the earthquake happened. He had just received news about the Betty Wap case. The files and evidence against her had suddenly disappeared. He was drafting his rant when all of a sudden, he noticed the ground was shaking. The intensity and effects increased as he saw the library shelves started moving. By the time he got up to run, the history shelf fell on his legs. Two other shelves landed on either hand and the pain was unbearable. He was sure that it would be his last day on earth but was glad that it happened in a bookstore where wisdom of many men before him could be found.
When Doctor Mwitu did not hear from Marvin that day and didn't see him at his place when he stopped by, he knew something was off. In the morning he decided to check up on his friend at the local library where he loved to spend time. It was a quiet place since people were not much readers in the city and Marvin found it a serene place to write his work.
He brought Marvin to the hospital when he was still unconscious and when he woke up he found himself in a strange place with Doctor Mwitu examining his leg. The painting on the wall and the nearby sounds of a factory suggested that they were at the hospital but he had never been to that room before. The doctor explained that he found him unconscious in a poor state with books and shelves all over him. It was unexplainable how he was still alive. His hands had never seen before markings that looked like a million words when seen under a magnifying lens.
Later Marvin was feeling a bit better and they were able to go outside for their bananas. They talked about the earthquake and the many patients who streamed into the hospital with numerous injuries. By then, the hospital had acquired more doctors to meet the demand but it would take months before everything could go back to normal. The radio they had in the kibanda announced that Betty Wap had been set free due to lack of evidence against her.
The anger that rose in Marvin frightened the doctor a bit. His hands started shaking and the veins in his hands became more and more visible by the second. Right then before the the doctor's eyes, he ran out of the kibanda and flew up into the sky. All that could be seen was a green streak moving rapidly into the sky.
Betty Wap was still outside the courtroom telling the press that it had all been a plan by her enemies when a man appeared and slapped her. Everything happened too fast for any camera to capture and all the recorders noted was Betty screaming in pain and disbelief. A few seconds later, the magistrate who had ruled over the case and was still inside the courtroom was also slapped by a man who ran outside immediately after.
Back in Industrial Area, the doctor was still trying to figure out what had happened to his friend. Marvin had just walked in lying with burns on his hands and immediately figured that he was the man who had slapped Betty and the magistrate. He then became even more curious about what exactly happened during the earthquake.
Even before the press had time to fully cover the slapping story, reports came that Betty Wap had confessed to the crime and was ready to face the consequences. The magistrate also apologised for a compromised ruling and admitted that Betty was guilty producing the documents that were allegedly stolen.
Betty did not know what had come over her and it was never her wish to cause harm. It was like an extraordinary thing had happened and now the two culprits suddenly acted with reason. Had the wisdom from the library books transcended into Marvin's arms?
"Has he become some sort of Slapperman that could slap sense into people?"
There are two things I hate; three that I find detestable; poverty, a man who cannot dress well and a man who does not know how to spoil his wife with expensive gifts. Lord knows I was not put on this earth to suffer in marriage or start a family with a man who I'd be ashamed to take a stroll with because his clothes do not complement who I am as a brand. I therefore took it upon myself to find the one. The one who would take me to the land of plenty treat me like the queen I was.
I found myself in the world of dating which is known for defying a lot of scientifically proven laws. In the real world, unlike poles attract but not when you're talking about love. Here, like poles are the ones that attract. The person that is thinking of you all the time and is obsessed by everything you do is most probably a true reflection of yourself. It is true that no two people are the same but most relationships begin with the words, "we have so much in common" even if no one acknowledges.
How would a girl who had just arrived from the village catch the attention of her ideal man? I had not even grasped the vitals of Nairobi civilisation. It took me a while to realise that when someone says Kanye west, they are talking about an American musician and it was not a new version of our native greeting, "Idhi kanye?" The only way I could afford to make my ojuglebas look better is to stuff socks in my bras. There was simply no chance a city boy would look at me twice. What with my face that was full of pimples looking like a sheet of braille.
I had to do the inevitable. There was no choice. If what my pastor said was true, that one day we'll stand before BigMan and witness our sins kama vindio I will ask for 7D effects when it comes to the part where I bought kamote to attract my husband. I would like the whole world to know where I got the love potion from. If her powers made such an honourable man profess his love for me all this years surely she could save us from eternal fire. Plus with all that marketing on my part she would definitely give me a discount when selling the spell that would help us avoid everlasting damnation.
The only rule that came with the kamote was to make sure that only the targeted person should eat the food laced with the love potion. It would be dangerous if his then girlfriend tasted some of the food as well. That would mean two people would have deep affection for me and I can't handle all that attention.
It was only a matter of time before Wamusee became mine. The result was unbelievable. He would bring me boiled maize, roasted maize, smokies and boiled eggs every evening. I slowly worked towards being the woman that was worthy of him even and learnt how to deal with opposition from people around him who knew our union was definitely not normal. Soon we became the power couple to watch.
When you take care of a man the way I had done with Wamusee it was only a matter of time before admirers start envying what belongs to you and try to have it for themselves. With such a good man, competition was expected and I had prepared myself on how to deal with them.
There are those that were not much of a problem the ones that Morio One would call non-issues and that is just what they are. Those girls cannnot stand a chance of taking my man and after a few weeks their plan to steal my lover ends up destroying them instead. Usually I pay no attention to such. Since I am an artist by profession, kuchorea hio story si ngumu.
Then comes the girls who are persistent about having Wamusee for themselves. They refuse to understand that he is for one person and one person only. Strategies are drawn and plans are devised to lure him and when I feel threatened or insecure about them I call my mboys who know how to make a person disappear. Once my goons are done with their job the lasses are nowhere within reach or something wierd happens to them. They are nothing a little threatening cannot do.
The strength of a woman is to acknowledge her point of weakness.
Mine is you, Njoki. I have tried everything to make you leave Wamusee alone. Can you even count how many times I have hired my mboys to drop you in a dangerous forest or quarry? I cannot because they are too many. Yet you keep coming back. Last month you really got on my nerves and I slapped you but you showed not even a speck of emotion. Sometimes I think you are not capable of such. It's like the only thing you feel is that kabreeze that hits your exposed stomach when you're wearing a cropped top.
Wamusee can't keep his eyes off you Njoki. I can tell that he tries to remain faithful but you are a force he can't contain. Maybe you need to give me your witchdoctor's business card. His stuff seems to work pretty well.
I am tired of spending money to import spells from around the world just to get you off my husband. I don't even want to beat you up because it seems like everytime you go to the hospital with bruises you come back looking more beautiful than when you left.
All that's left is for me to plead with you woman to woman because there is a way that we humans with two sets of lips can communicate with each other. You know how much I love Wamusee and how our love has stood the test of times.
If this is a battle then you have already won. You possess such beauty that no man can resist. I simply cannot compete with you. But I beg you Njoki Njoki Njokiiiii in the name of God please don't take my man.
It's too cold for us to get out of bed
But that's the best dilemma right?
When I can hear all the feelings your words won't say
And live the dreams we don't wake up from
Coz I've been holding out my hand
Hoping you stretch yours out too
But all these fingers have been getting are tips
You know this is real, stop playing then.
I don't think you understand
What people do to get what we have
There's a lot of disgust and mistrust
out there
So don't you dare dismiss us
Or what we share
I love the way you look at me
I love the way you look
I love you.
Why don't you give yourself to what is true?
You know this is real, stop playing then.
No, men are not all the same. We all do different things when drunk. They are those who become experts at second generation moves; moving their limbs up and down, keeping silent as though they are meditating. The moves look as impossible as what you see on TV but these ones are accompanied by unsteadiness before the participants lie flat on the ground. Some transform into gifted singers. A Bruce may walk into the pub but once he's had a few he sings better than any Caitlyn.
I choose my drinking buddies according to how they act when intoxicated. Take for example Baraka, he's a good guy but no one wants to hear his lame jokes for the rest of the night, "Unajua Usain Bolt anaeza kimbia hadi apite exams." Ngatia on the other hand, he is quite something and I always look forward to when he would invite me take one for the road. He gets extremely generous when under the influence and I take advantage of that. He can sort your bills, buy you a watch, get you a plane ticket. Most people have benefited from this and it's no surprise that he's going bankrupt.
Me? I do nothing interesting when intoxicated. Just the ordinary guy who mumbles to himself and later dozes off. Unless of course you consider the date where our story begins. That night where, all the booze in my head took an ultimate high when I was talking to a lady. I can't remember what I said to her or whether her hair smelt of coconut oil or shea butter. I don't even know why she agreed to go home with me or why we saw each other for the better part of the following week. I just needed to get my mind off Joanne and the fact that she won't be in our bed when I go back home. I was desperate and when the brown bottle told me a one night stand would do it seemed like a good idea. A longing to vent out on someone else is what drove me. With this new chic I didn't have to face my problems. This escape that everything is fine made me safe.
But that's the problem with us humans. We are such suckers for safety. We can always carry an extinguisher or break glass in case of a fire but our preferred option is to be where there is no risk at all. Doesn't matter if what is out there is better than what we have we'd rather stay inside and let our eyes dance with the flames but never responding to their call.
****
No one likes Mondays. Solomon Grundy would be happy because it was the day he was born but the thought that he would be dead and buried in a matter of days kills his celebratory mood.
Weekend hangovers became harder to deal with when they put the weekly meeting on the first day of the week. The last thing you need when your body is half-asleep and a migraine is noisily munching your head is someone screaming at you saying what is expected.
One Monday morning, a bigger problem presented itself. I looked up and saw beauty staring back at me smiling with the promise of love. It is hard to be seated opposite an attractive person. Your whole mechanism gets confused wanting to stare at the lass but doing so with caution so as not to alert the person that attention is on them.
The struggle became harder. Changing seats did not help; it is as if the whole energy of the room is concentrated on that one person. I gave in a little after that and walked up to her hoping to find answers for my emotions.
Her eyes did that eye sex thing that very few can do. A spectacle that happens when you look at her and my system becomes faulty. Mouth speaks incomprehensible words, hands sweat as though the temperatures are too much, legs become jelly weak and mind cannot explain why heart is happy.
An angel had walked into my life and I was determined to keep her. My whole life revolved around her until we became complacent with each other. The dangers of being used to someone presented themselves where one doesn't appreciate the other. All of a sudden someone is not as amazing as they used to be storm they would cause within becomes a little drizzle. Not that we had problems. None whatsoever. We were not as happy as before.
On my birthday she would get me chicken wings and even though she now worked at KFC where such a meal is very easy to get our relationship had reached a point where such a gesture demanded a lot of effort. The fact that the chicken wings was accompanied by chicken thighs and later on her thick thighs and thin lips suggested that maybe there was hope for us.
That hope, however, kept dwindling. Any tiny aggrevation would ruin what we had built. We were fed up with each other and a quarrel we had confirmed what we had feared; that maybe we needed some time apart.
Seeing her suitcase wheel away crushed me. Thoughts of what we first shared rushed through me and I got scared of a future without her. These same thoughts led me to the bar for a quick fix. Just a small affair, that's what I told myself. Something to get my head back in the game.
The affair was indeed short and when Joanne came back to give us another chance there was no trace of any girl around. I was happy about our rekindled love I knew I had to tell her what I had done.
Every day I left the office planning to confess to my girlfriend. I wasn't the cheating type, never will be and my mind was set on making things straight before moving on. But I swear the way she welcomed me to the house and her effort to make things work made me postpone my confession and just enjoy the moment. All my objectives went back to factory settings; loving her and I became a fool of her love.
It was like I was entering a forest. At first I didn't want to get lost so I tied red strings on the trees I have passed to make my return easier. Then, as soon as I got in deep enough, as though I was not myself I rushed back and destroyed all the red strings. Suddenly being lost in her arms and warm embrace was the only thing I wanted. Her lips on mine made me erase any other agenda.
She almost died when I had told her what I had done. It broke my heart to break hers. Something I'll never forgive myself for. Something I am still paying for. Thus time she left for good and nothing I could do would change that. Our pleas became a round song ; I was begging for another chance and she was screaming that it was not possible.
I should have followed her that day for I have gone everywhere we used to go together to look for her. She changed jobs, changed towns and she probably changed her name because no one seems to recognise her. Maybe if I left the red strings, it would be easier to find her. Nothing is torturing me more than knowing I did this to myself. All I need now is wings; wings to fly and look for my Joanne.
Which soap
Tell me
Do you use
To brainwash millions of people
And convince them that they are unable to do
That which they see in everything they look at
You negative thoughts you
Look what you did to Ogana
A confident man who when taking nudes
Places his ID next to his mshulunthes
Just so they know that's not some googled shit
But once the blues kicked in
This illicit blues
Told him he would amount to very little
That his name is good enough for nothing
Not even a matatu sacco.
Have you ever heard someone say
That they've lost their death certificate and need to replace it?
Is it because
Dead people don't need to prove that they are
That's what you're doing to us
Making us unproductive
Inactive
Unable to give or create
You make us doubt ourselves
And you make us lifeless
Because a man is only as living as they aspire to be
I appeal to you
Insecurities that live within us
Energies that destroy what we have not started building
Do not unhope us
Do not discourage
For their is little we can do
If we do not believe in ourselves.
I love the way you look at me. I love the way you look. I love you.
*****
There is this boy. Actually, there is always a boy. If there is no boy, there are many boys.
I decide to write him a letter to say that I have built him a place in my heart; permanent and free of Nairobi floods. The words stress how I feel about him and the number of times I find myself dreaming of the two of us together. My plan is to post it as a piece of writing because personal experiences can be changed into works of art. With letters, there is no word limit and so emotions can be expressed the same way they are experienced. Mine contains phrases like the one above to make my intentions very clear. 

Once I am done with my letter, I'll have to consider some things first. My readers are many and I have to make sure they all feel comfortable with the work I put out. These are people who have walked with me in this writing journey. Surely I can't let them down because of a fling.

First on the list is my mum and all other moral authorities in my life. I don't pay my own rent or buy my own food. Even if I was financially stable, I would never live with the scolding and mean stares. I therefore can't tell this boy that my loins have not known the touch of a man in many moons. I might also need to delete the details about new positions we need to try out and the props we can use. Those are things I can always snapchat him anyway. The detail about missing class to go meet up with him to get high an unnecessary detail. He knows I skived school to get high, he was there, we don't need the whole world to know just incase someone decides to enrol us to a rehab.

All my friends know I write and they are my die hard fans. They always pay keen attention to the stuff I say about them. I can't afford to walk alone so I better cut back on the trolls. Convincing my man that I'm better than they is my main aim but I'm not in the business of stepping on others to get to the top. I'll have to scrap off this line, the one that shows Cindy still calls nail polish cutex and she has no idea what box braids are, bado anashuka *pees.

For the sake of my new cool kid friends I have to replace 'guan like Guantanamo Bay' for something gisty like 'chill like an old man without his blue pills.' Street cred muhimu maze.

I have to make my work activist-proof. Omitting the fact that  we first met when I threw a bottle of soda out of the window hitting his face would keep people like Jewel and other environmentalists off my neck. I'll earn points if I say that the first night we spent together was after an #Occupy protest and he was afraid that I was too teargassed to go home. They need to know that I am aware of my rights as a Kenyan citizen and I fight for them. Anything contoroversial has to go. Me I don't want to be termed ignorant or heartless. Everything has to be politically correct and unabusive.

How writer-ish does my work sound though? Maybe I should look at Arunga's Dear Dorises and see if they sound the same. I think I'll be safer if I sound like another established writer. That will mean that my work is commendable. All these experiments, 'nights with you are cold. so cold that they're burning me,' we can try out new things once we get to the top.

But who am I kidding? I'll never be as good. When I sit with my fellow writers and show them this piece they will probably look at me with disgrace. These are people who spend sleepless nights coming up with otherwordly phrases like 'muthokoi blue' and I show up with a love letter? Does this article even have structure? Am I saying something that people want to hear?
By now my work sound basic like Taylor Swift lyrics. For sure, this boy, like everyone else will not appreciate taylor words because they seem like they were done swiftly. I should just write about basic stuff... like the weather.

Something like, 'it was a dark and stormy night.'
Okwonko rescue team please save our lives
The terrorists are killing us
And our leaders are acting like everything is okay
Over and over again,
We lose lives of our loved ones and no one does anything to improve the situation.
Okwonko rescue team please save my voice
I have been singing and escorting waheshimiwas to the Integrity Centre for probing
I don't know if they are innocent
I don't know how their alleged corrupt actions affect me
I don't even know their name
But I know I need my voice to sing for a suspect tomorrow and get something for my hungry kids.
Okwonko rescue team please save our government
Instead of serving and developing the nation wanatafuta kura
Because finders keepers and losers weepers
But not for long, losers will get nominated to the private sectors and help steal money there.
Okwonko rescue team please take me to Kempinski
So that once Evans is done gaining e-fans
We could talk about real issues affecting the city
Okwonko rescue team please save our church
Impostors are taking advantage of the brethen
Jesus loves them Kanyari says, "So?
Only a fee and my bended knee
Will bring you victory."
Okwonko rescue team please save us from the media
Minor Kunguni is on radio each morning telling Classic tales which don't help us us
One of them has been sacked for being corrupt
All he has left is grandpa tales and the one English word he knows, "chronometer."
Okwonko rescue team please okoa my jahazi
So I can hashtag our problems away
If I protest on the streets they'll ask "who gave these children placards?"
I want to troll other people on the internet
Hoping that will make me forget my insecurities
You will most probably take after your father. His calm and polite ways are written all over you. Before him, I dated all types of men. Some were of honour, but others were leading reckless lives. My first boyfriend, Juma, had a scandalous reputation. Women were always fighting over him and even though I knew he was bad news I still could not resist him. I learnt to enjoy his company whenever he was around and not cry when he wasn't. Whenever he wished to see me my door was open and so were my legs.
I often wondered who I would eventually settle down with. I still had that fairytale dream of finding a man who would marry and start a family with me. When Phil came along, I was pretty sure he was the one. We met during a corporate meeting and that's where I discovered that he was a radio presenter. We didn't exchange contacts then but I found myself listening to his show that evening.
I was impressed by what I heard and started touching myself to his voice, my fingers becoming his manhood giving me pleasure. I tuned in to his programme two weeks later and it felt like he was there with me having an actual conversation.
I had put myself in an awkward situation which I had not realized until I bumped into him later on at another gathering. Here is a man I've been infatuated with and he just remembers me as some woman he met at a few months ago. I calculated my words very carefully fearing I might disclose what I have been doing and scare him away. I mentioned that I had become a fan of his show and he said he had noticed my comments on the fan page a few times.
Dating this guy was a confirmation that fairytales do exist. How often do things like this happen to people? But we soon discovered that we had very few things in common. At that point having a fight would have probably been the most exciting thing in the relationship. We soon fell apart and I felt so sorry for myself.
Rina and the neighbour's baby reminded me of your dad and I. The way Rina was always pushing him around and the helpless kid would just smile until it was too much. I was the loud one in the relationship and at times it felt like I was the only one talking and he was just staring at me. It made me look stupid as if I was talking to myself but the few words he said made me fall deeper.
There was something about your father that made me want to stick around him to the end. He was probably not the best man when it came to dressing and at times he smelt of armpit juice but I knew I could work on that. He made me want to work hard and better myself daily.
That was why I did not know how to tell him I could not find Rina. It was hard enough for me to understand that my daughter had been kidnapped. What kind of human being steals another person's child? We had been through a lot and our firstborn had brought so much joy. Thankfully your dad did not fault me knowing very well that I had also been drugged. He asked all the questions to the police, put up posters on the roads and even put word out on social media but there was no sign of my girl.
The worst punishment has to be bearing a child and not knowing where they are. At least if they died you would cry and bury your tears with its body. It would be difficult to move on through the pain but there is closure in death. However, when you have no idea of their whereabouts nothing makes sense and you sit waiting for a text, a demand for ransom, a body, anything. Do I blame myself for taking her to the clinic that day? Maybe if I had a car and drove instead of walking my little princess would still be here with me.
Your sister would have taught you a few tips on how to speak up and air your views. I can tell you're going to be a bit boring just like your father. Rina would have helped with that. She would play with you and on some days she was the only one who vould calm you. Your crying would piss her off and she would start shouting at you. The house would get really quiet with your crying and her shouting but now I would give anything to hear her screams. Now the world has cheated our destiny. What if they use her for those devilish rituals? O God! Take care of my baby.
Historically, men are known to pursue women and not the other way around. Men are referred to as the 'hunters' and women 'the hunted'. This inexperience can be a disadvantage at times when you want to talk to someone but all your pick up lines are whack, "Look up in the sky, oh no, you're superfly," or worse, "I want to do riddim things to you." Initiating the relationship, however, is never a big problem. It's so easy to hook up but it's the issues that come with dating that makes love difficult to find.
Enters Yunior. You probably think that Yunior is some guy from Ukambani right? Wrong. There aren't enough books about Ukambani peeps and I'm too broke to buy the ones that are already in the market. This Yunior is Dominican, the main character on 'The Cheater's Guide to Love" and eight other stories in Junot Diaz' book, "This is How You Lose Her".
The book shows how messed up Yunior's love life is. He grew up seeing his older brother and father living in infidelity all their lives and this shapes how he views women. His struggle to find love despite his unfaithfulness which is persistent. In my opinion, it was all his fault. There's no way you can cheat on your girlfriend with fifty different women. Kwani you were looking for Carmen san Diego?
If he did that to my friend I would pay thugs to beat him up. If he did that to me I would cut out Mickey Mouse shapes from all his clothes, pay thugs to beat him up, clone him then beat up his clone as well.
The author does a very good job with this book. He uses Yunior's story to talk about immigration, cancer, poverty; themes that are not very exciting but are brought out well in this story. The language used has a bit of Spanish which is very expressive. One feels as if you are in a Spanish family gathering and everyone is screaming and shouting. At some point when you're deeply engrossed in this book and someone interrupts you, you will look at them angrily and shout the only Spanish word you know, "El Classico!".
By the end of the book you will get the impression that maybe cheaters are not so horrible after all. They are human beings just like you and me. Infact at the very beginning he defends himself by saying, "I'm not a bad guy...I'm like everybody else; weak, full of mistakes, but basically good." You will even sympathize with him, surely he sounds like he could be your brother, classmate or even boyfriend. Losing a brother to cancer, having to grow up without his dad around and basically having a normal life kills the monster idea of Yunior that his infidelity creates.
Unless you are going to write an excellent book like this one, I'd advise you to stay true to one person. If Yunior with sick lines like "the half-life of love is forever" could not get his woman back how about you whose lover has Kilimani Mums on speed dial?
My last two reads were Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and John Grisham's The Broker. The coincedence in these books is that they are both about an American who found themselves in Italy and got to sample the food there. One was a divorcee travelling around for spiritual conquest, work and also because she could while the other was an ex-prisoner hiding from certain groups that wanted him dead.
These two writers are very good at vivid description especially when it came to the cuisine part. My mouth watered the whole time and I often took snack breaks. It also got me thinking about my own cooking.
I don't like cooking.
It's not that I can't cook. I know enough to survive. Compared to prison food, I do a pretty good job. It just doesn't excite me at all. However when I read these two books I was sure I wanted to change that. Wanting to eat exciting food meant knowing how exactly to prepare it.
This is where Kaluhi's blog comes in.
I had seen it a few times, tried a few recipes and ogled at most of them but this time I typed kaluhiskitchen.com with envy trying to find out if one day I'll be able to cook just as well. Maybe, I thought she's a catfish and the pics she uses are googled.
There's a joy that comes with cooking food that looks the same as the one pictured on the website. Of course I tried out the easier recipes first but soon I'll escalate to stuff like fritatas. Most of her plans are based on basic ingredients put together to make an excellent meal.
Atleast Kaluhi is a driven writer, someone who contributes to society. Unlike her, the girl who shall not be mentioned is driven by unreasonable factors. As if trolling blue subarus was not enough she is now focused on someone who minds their own business on social media. I couldn't finish that article and to think she was paid to do it. You mean there was an editor who actually approved such an article for a nationwide audience? You Ngara be kidding me!
Anyhu, where was I? Yea...Diana Kaluhi. She was gracious enough to answer some of my questions. Make sure you read and visit her blog later.
FL: Tell me something about yourself.
DK: My name is Diana Kaluhi Adagala. I am the third of five girls. I am a finance major graduate who is crazy about cooking and loves being in the kitchen. I am a girly girl who enjoys good laughs and intelligent conversation. Most importantly, I am a Christian.
FL: When and why did you start food blogging?
DK: I began blogging last year after graduating from university. I had plenty of time on my hands and found myself spending much of it in the kitchen. I would then develop new recipes which my family would love. I wanted to share the same with the rest of the world and found that blogging would be the best platform. I took the plunge and that was the beginning of my journey as a food blogger.
FL: Any handy tips you may have for use in the kitchen?
DK: Try new flavours to add some oomph to your everyday meals. Always make an effort to serve food that has amazing taste and a visual appeal.
FL: What are you reading?
DK: I just finished reading Pride and Prejudice and hoping to get my hands on 'We Need New Names' by Noviolet Bulawayo.
FL: What advise would you give to a large group of people?
DK: Dare to dream and believe that you can achieve beyond what you could ever imagine. Dare to become.
FL: Have you thought of opening a restaurant?
DK: Yes, it is one of my longterm objectives since I've always wanted to be an entrepreneur. Keep my contacts, I shall invite you!
At this point I wanted to say "Actually, you are officially my friend. Please feel free to use me as your kitchen lab rat. Your home-made meals will be accepted as gifts everynow and then."
Kaluhi is doing a great job of showing how to have fun in the kitchen in an inexpensive way. Her recommendations are to die for!
I have a crush on Blinky Bill of Just a Band. He has this really creative mind which I love and even though I don't think he has a lovely voice I most definitely love his music. Last year after one of his shows I walked up to him, hugged him and told him that I loved him. He was talking to a white woman so he wasn't really interested in what a girl half his height who looked a bit under the influence had to say. He responded with the proverbial "I appreciate my fans," which was not what I wanted to hear. Whether the mzungu was offering him a gig in Paris or it was just a casual chat there was no way I was going to compete with that. Besides, I bet he sees girls like me all the time.

I went home and played 'Probably for Lovers' a million times that night emphasizing on the "we could be good but you're probably okay" line. How could they write such a song then do the exact same thing to me? If I were crazier I would have found out where he lives and spray painted the lyrics all around his house. But come to think of it, was I expecting him to run into my arms and say "Oh Nyonde, I have been waiting for you and that love you have for me. Here is my heart," and then we ride off into the sunset? Yenyewe, makes sense now.

During that time when I was excessively infatuated with him I realised that he was in KU and I thought to myself, "OMG we have so much in common. Surely this is fate." It was that time when guys were dropping out or changing courses and my mind was in the same place so when I heard Blinky Bill dropped out of school, I was pretty convinced that I should do the same because he's a major inspiration when it comes to doing what you love and making money off it.

My sister is about to join campus. I want her to be a rapper so I can give her some of the lyrics I've been working on, "Wanabonga sana I guess mi ni murmur yao," or "nimeenda kukula-nimeenda kudishi-I've gone to do the dishes." She'll probably do a degree in something different so I'll just have to have kids of my own then pressure them to be rappers. Her situation reminds me of that time when I was joining university.

I had no idea what I wanted to do but Economics and Statistics sounded like a course that would make everyone think that I'm smart. My dad wanted me to do law. He used to sit in his hospital bed and watch Kethi Kilonzo and wished that that could be me someday. I knew I was too lazy to read torts so I dodged that bullet. I know for a fact that whatever I had chosen I'd still be in the same rut I was a few months ago.

After the excitement of having all the freedom in the world dies out you open your eyes and realise Weirraminett! All these people will be competing for the same job. How about the ones who are already unemployed and underemployed? How about the ones who are still in high school and primary school? Then the frustration kicks in. Going to class becomes a struggle not because you know you can skive but because school is not as exciting anymore. It all becomes pointless.

You think everyone is as undermotivated as you until you go to class and see people who have been enthusiastic since the day they stepped into KU. Right now I'm at a better place because I enjoy studying Economics. I am also pursuing other passions because I am Kenyan and 'side hustle' is my middle name.

To my sister joining campus I'd like to tell you that:

1. School is hard
No matter what course you take you will have to struggle to get good grades, attend classes and do assignments.

2. School is important
The education we get and most importantly the exposure in campus is to die for. If you get the chance to study, take it because dropping out is not the best option. Unless you have other options and honestly majority of Kenyans don't so go to school.

3. School is not everything
The little economics I've learnt shows that unemployment is a necessary evil. That means that even though I'll use my knowledge to ensure full employment in Kenya, I'll keep some people out of jobs to keep my job atleast. It's unfortunate that we base our life stages according to school levels; primary, high school etc but we all know we learn most outside the classroom.

Lastly, school is fun. Too much fun.
Kids, for the better part of 2014 and the beginning of 2015 I was a kleptomaniac. Nothing fancy like Bonnie and Clyde. I was a shameless petty thief. My sticky fingers were attracted to chargers, earphones, USB cables and any other wire necessary for the 21st Century life. Not that I didn't have any of my own, believe it or not, I was doing it for my friends. When my dad died I felt like I needed to protect the people around me and their belongings. As an impulse I started collecting people's cables subconsciously to protect them from thiefs. I know it sounds really ironic now but I was doing it out of concern. This was until I had millions of earphones on my bed which I never used because the Luhya in me likes music banging loud from a speaker not whispering selfishly into eardrums. I also started realising that people I hang out with were complaining about their property.

I'm not about that life anymore. These days I only 'borrow' UP magazine copies. I stole this month's issue during an art exhibition at Kuona Trust. That's also how I treated myself to the December issue from my sister's stuff. That issue was about how Blankets and Wine is the best place in Nairobi to meet men and Kuona the best place to meet women.I could have given you my copy but if you're reading this it's too late. I already used it to light a jiko. No need letting it hang around my room till my sister finds out about it. Burn the evidence!

It's a habit I'm trying to quit. It's wrong to look at people's things and think you can have them for yourself just because you have the power to do so. That's how land grabbers and thiefs operate. They snatch people's things with the confidence that no one will fight back. I am well aware of this no- fighting-back game. My tiny body cannot allow me to fight back unless I'm tired of life and I decide I want to meet my Maker asap. I'm too small to even show that I'm not happy with a decision that's been made. Someone can just take me by one hand and throw me into a ditch never to be remembered. Therefore I understand the helplessness of not being able to defend yourself.

I'm reading Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt. The first part of this book shows how difficult their childhood was, languishing in poverty and sadness. I have to admit that my first mental picture was of African kids because it's not everyday you hear about hunger in America. It was quite frustrating reading of how Frankie's three siblings died of sicknesses which had cures and his drunk father whose pride could not let him beg or do certain jobs. So the kids are living from hand to mouth waiting for their dad to get some money from the government hoping he won't spend it all on booze.

Offcourse the theme changes when Frankie grows older but it felt like his early years were a series of "serikali nisaidie." They mainly depended on the state, family members or the church.

I don't want to live like that. I don't like seeing people who live like that. It's a hopeless life when someone does nothing else with their existence than take take take.

Be about something, kids. No need,living a life where the only entertainment you can afford is sex. Contribute to the society you live in. Maybe you could discover something new. One needs to live without being a victim of circumstances.




A concentration camp of girls where religious fanatism, heightened dryspells and the usual struggles of teenagehood were a must-find. That was high school for you. I went to Moi Girls School Nairobi also known as Quabbz. We found some crazy traditions and names and we did our best to preserve them although most are now non-existant. I have here a sneak peek of those words.

1. Mapenzi Gardens
Maybe there were teachers or students or a teacher and a student who used to have romantic dates there. I was probably writing wahenga na wahenguzi inshas when the garden was named. I can remember, however, a call booth (payphone? Whatever they were called) with a timetable showing the class that could use the phone on a particular day. Ours was Wednesday afternoon and I'll never forget how Quinter used to run after preps to call home only to find a Form Four student using the phone. Fourth formers never followed any timetable. They'd just walk up, call their boyfriends and hand over to their classmates who would take another three hours talking to God knows who. Miserable Form ones would miss supper waiting for their turn. When the booth was removed, Mapenzi Gardens became a parking space for Mrs. Mwai's cars. A secondary school teacher with a Freelander 2, a Navara,a mini-morris and the rest. Eighth wonder of the world.

2. Agugu lessons
They used to happen at the Shrine (Chemistry lab 6) hosted by Mr. A. A. Not Alcoholics Anonymous but Andrew Agolla, the master. If you're lucky he would tell you about how he was in the CID using a bicycle to chase bad guys who were speeding away in a Mercedes. He believed that every time was Chemistry time. Whether you have just opened school, come from a funkie, come from an English lesson or having an English lesson, everytime is Chemistry time. His life is the true meaning of dedication and although I dozed off during most of his lessons, I was sure I'd pass.

3. Fear Street
It's really annoying that we went through these things and when it was our turn some angel finally realised that the traditions were wrong. Smh. Karma is not a bitch after all. I repeat Karma is not a bitch. It is a government official sleeping on their job.

They named it Fear Street for the slow ones who needed to be reminded that they should not be seen on that side of the school. For the even slower ones there were bumps showing where a Form One could reach. If they ever crossed the bump to a senior class or even breathe the air that belongs to a senior student they would be shouted at and stuff like eggshells, banana peels and other nasty stuff would be thrown at them. It was a pretty embarassing scene. Until offcourse they decided that everyone was equal which is nice but they should have done that when I was a victim not when I was on the other side of Fear Street.

4. Kaudi
The best part of a Saturday evening. Heck, back in the day kaudi would come on public holidays or any night people decided they didn't want to read. It was a jam session where students would dance, scream, do anything to relieve stress. It happened before a movie when Form Ones were still carrying chairs to the hall. Once they're done 'pumping' they'd place their chairs on top of tables because it's difficult to see when you're at the back of the hall and the tables gave them a boost. They would 'pump' chairs back to their respective classes the next morning. As you can see being a Form One was a career.

5. Kurouge na kubomboch
Right now we are all sophisticated BCBG ladies doing exploits in whichever fields we find ourselves in but nothing could separate a Quabberian from her food, not even a fellow Quabberian. Kurouge was basically applying rugby skills to acquire basic commodities like evening tea or coffee, milk, avocadoes and crust -the first and last slices of bread. Offcourse there were civil ways like waiting in line and having a timetable but a hungry Quabberian is an angry Quabberian is a rugby Quabberian.

Kubomboch was enterring or leaving a place illegally using the back door or in most cases the back fence. So you don't have twenty bob for the Saturday movie? You can bomboch into the hall using a window. Did you sleep in and want to avoid a punishment from the matron? Bomboch from the hostels. Want to go for a gig at Carnivore Gardens? Just Bomboch as long as you bomboch back in before anyone notices.

6. Vampsugarlumps
No. No, this one will remain an inside joke. I don't want nightmares.
My French teacher had a very strong personality. Moto bin pasi! One time she wore a miniskirt to school which was out of the ordinary for a lady in her fifties. When her female colleagues called her aside to express their concern she asked them if they were lesbians. That would be the only explanation for their interest in her outfit. When news about her skirt spread among the students and some of them peeped at the classroom door to see how she was dressed, she made them stand outside and stare at her until the lesson was over.

She advised us to write our journals in French for practice and once I started I could not stop because I enjoyed it a lot. Until one day she asked us to hand in the diaries as part of an assignment. Wueh! Double wahala part two! I had filled my diary with complaints about her methods of teaching and some crazy teenage stuff so I was really scared. I even started reading Business Studies from scratch because if I'd still be alive after facing her wrath, I'd most definitely not sit for a French K.C.S.E exam.

After that I started writing in a way that would edify everyone who read my work. I looked for a notebook and wrote stories about anything I could think of and gave it to my deskies to read (front deskie, side deskie, back deskie. Funny how we had side deskies. Si the person seated on either side is your deskie so what exactly was a side deskie. Smh) I enjoyed writing stuff and giving it to someone who also enjoyed reading.

I finished high school and spent most of the time with my dad who was sick at the time. He was asleep a lot and I easily got bored during the afternoons. I started thinking about a blog I had registered back in Form Two and worked on it a bit.

That's how I started. Why I continue? Because I need a place to ask questions like; Did I remember to feel like Doc Shebeleza when I woke up this morning? Will Pierre Makena ever cough ama she likes her voice that way? Does your anaconda still want some if she's a nun hun? I write because I can't think about Ellie Goulding all the time or play games such as hop-skip-and-EllieGoulding, rock-paper-EllieGoulding and tic-tac-EllieGoulding.

I write because it's one of those things I do well. Considering no one will ever pay me to find coins dropped in sofas or on the road, I might as well do something valuable.

Writing is what I find myself doing and the Bible says whatever your hand findeth to do, do it as though you are serving God and not man. It makes me happy to contribute to a world of art which inspires me a lot.

I'm working on a dance routine for Beyoncé's song, Upgrade You. It's actually a new year's resolution since I didn't get time to finish it last year. After that I'll do a routine for "Partition" but that will be very hard because the tutorial video is done by some dudes with huge butts and they're doing all these moves on the floor so I feel quite intimidated. In asmuch as I love dancing, my passion is writing.






"No such thing as a life that's better than yours" -Jermaine Cole

There was no place he would rather be. Showing up at her house gave him so much joy even though she never invited him in. Tall dark and slim like those straws they give you at Java, he would be there every morning with a bouquet of flowers hopeful that she would accept his offer. He had fallen in love with this girl and would do anything to get her. It was her he wanted rolling up his chest hair into ndengus during pillow talk.

One day she showed up in his living room claiming to have had enough of his gesture but the son of Mosongi smiled because he knew the love of his life had just walked in and was in no hurry to leave. Thus began their relationship. She complained about everything but he was too stoked to let her noise bother him.

He was never enough for her. A girl like her deserved someone like the president, a man whose dad was C-in-C and he followed suit. A man who found time in his busy schedule to be a South African kwaito musician. No kids were born yet just incase a better offer came her way. Why didn't Mosongi pay someone and get these contracts and tenders everyone is getting? Does it make him less of a man to steal for the sake of his family?

There was a semblance of peace in the evenings when the crazies of parliament overpowered theirs. Laughter made them forget their troubles making them friends, lovers even. He wondered why it wasn't always like this. As if reading his thoughts she would mock a local MP and say, "The passion of a woman, Mr. Speaker, can only be seen at night." Boy did he take advantage of this mood. However, when morning came the situation changed.

She said one day she would get tired of this love and walk away. He got tired first and walked away into the sunset with a damsel who spoke less, smiled more and made him feel like the only man in the world. He soon realised that the walk was too silent and only one smile made him weak.

He ran home to his wife who had run out of things to complain about and they lived happily ever after (LOL).
Uptown funk you up. Uptown funk you up! The white hat is MIA so my Bruno Mars outfit is a bit flawed.I wrote this one for all my overthinking fellows. It's not our fault we have a wild imagination.



"Maureen, the coach wants to see you in his office."

See me? Mo the mocha-skin beauty? Why? Does he have a thing for me? I've seen the way he looks at my particulars when I'm running towards the goalpost. I don't mind him though. He's grown so I bet he doesn't use the word 'though' all the time. This chicken though. I'm awake though. I love you though. I want to stop using this word but I can't though.

I can see myself in his pretty car cruising with him eating all the pizza in the world. Who doesn't love blue subarus? Unless you are the girl who shall not be mentioned and you think they cost 600,000 and getting rid of them will cure AIDS, cancer and ebola. Moha Jicho Pevu needs to do a "Paruwanja la Subaru ya Buluu" and find out what those cars did to the poor girl. Dating the coach means I'll finally dump Mutua. I could have done it earlier but I can't afford to be alone.

Maybe my Sports scholarship has come through. I can't wait to go to Spain and see Hose Louis. Who said we were not meant to be together. I had better okoa bundles and google how Spanish hair looks so I know which weave to buy. I think it's Daniella. Ama I go with this Brazilian weave and say I'm from Sao Paulo. I'll still have to dump Mutua. No way I'm spending my last days in this country sharing a man with Joyce wa Wines and Spirits.

I bet he wants to kick me out of the team. It's because I'm fat right? My ex told me I'm so fat if I were involved in an accident, villagers would rush to siphon oil from my body. It's a full figure you dumbass and you'd be surprised how many men and women this bod attracts! I'll make sure I take action on him and this school. You can't do away with me simply because I love fries more than anything in this world. I know my rights! These days you can't go around discriminating on minorities. Does he know the power of a hashtag? I can even say he tried to sleep with me. It's my word against his.

He had better be calling to say I'm the new captain. After all I've done for this team that's the best he could do. Boys fill this field cheering for us because they can't get enough of my flawless legs highlighted with stretchmarks. My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard plus there's soda and iced tea for those who are allergic.

Everyone knows I am the biggest motivation for this team. Remember that time I brought cakes for everyone. You think anyone will love this team that much. Yes, they were a bit stale and our strikers spent the whole afternoon in the washrooms but still, it's the thought that counts.

"Maureen?"
"Yes coach?"
"I'll see you tomorrow."
A few weeks ago a man gave me a thousand shillings after the church service because he appreciated that I was seated next to him tolerating him for about two hours. I'm only used to shaking peeps by the hand and saying grace. Is this a new thing because I don't have money to dish out but I don't mind receiving cash every Sunday. I tried looking for this man during the Christmas service. Maybe he was going to Watamu after that and had space for one more person.

2014 is finally coming to an end with all the douchebags we dated(mhhmm) and all the pics we sent (mmmmhhhhmmmm). At some point this year I seriously wanted to become a rastafarian. I was spreading the gospel that not everything that comes from Jamaica is bad. Rambo Kanambo is undoubtedly in my 'top one hundred songs of 2014' list. New things are always exciting and so is a new year. That's why people buy new clothes during Christmas and eat with new plates. I probably need a new roommate. The one I have makes me repeat certain jokes then she says, "Ai! It sounded funnier the first time." Do you know how mortifying that statement is? Do you? What I've done is start on my resolutions now so that even if I forget them by January 15th I'll have made a difference.

My reading mojo is also on holiday. I've been reading a lot about women and I got a bit bored. I decided to read Game of Thrones to try and spice things up a bit. The thing about that book is that it's actually a five-book series each with about 750 pages. They use words like lordlings so it takes more time than normal books. So I have started a 3800-word journey, four books waiting for me in the library gathering dust as I read the first part of the sequel. Why am I doing this to myself? The answer is simple; SPOILERS! That's it. My joy will be to torture people with spoilers once I'm done.

I discovered the Veon's blog and have enjoyed perusing it because it's off the chizzle for shizzle my nizzle in the dictionizzle. In the process I discovered that we have a lot in common with this lass who I once thought was a boy. She's as short as I am although I like to think I'm an inch taller at 5'4. Like me, she hasn't listened to Forest Hill Drive. I have it on my phone but I don't have the morale to listen to it. Guys have spoken about it so much I already know I'll like Adolescence, Wet Dreamz and Don't Save Her.

I hope you're enjoying yourself as much as I am. I'm spending time with my family discovering which uncle was in a rap crew calling themselves the Last B'z (lastborns). Circumsion ceremonies among the Luhya community are the real deal because it's an excuse to eat nyama choma and dance lipaala. Happy holidays to you all. Remember if you buy VIP tickets to Sundance I'll be waiting for you on your doorstep with my clothes and my cat ready to move in with you. Cheers!

In the late 20th Century a boy met a girl. This is not your ordinary girl-sits-on-bundle-juggling-boy's-chapati story. Reasons why it is not:
1. The boy had no idea what bundles were at that time.
2.Sauti Sol did not exist and so no one had the torture of figuring out what 'umenikalia chapati' meant.
3. The couple had a baby who is of great significance to this blog.

The baby in question is me! I feel like writing in third person so let's pretend it's not me.

Like most girls her age, she takes at least two thousand selfies a month but unlike them, she does not like oreos. They're too hard. Her eyebrows are not fleek. Infact, they are on bushy. Dorobushy!

When she's not perfecting her plan to kidnap Usher Raymond, she studies at Kenyatta University. According to a recent article which she does not believe, she is taking one of the five hardest courses in Kenya; Economics and Statistics. She has just finished her exams and it feels good to be on the other side of the semester. Sometimes when you're in an exam room all you see is stars and they make you cry more than when you watched "The Fault in our Stars".

She wants to share about four books she has read in the recent past. Because she's the most awesome person she knows she is not going to give any spoilers. First off is "The Book Thief". The narrator is death or to put it in a better way, the grim reaper. She wishes she had read this book earlier. She can't remember the last time she read such an interesting book that did not touch on matters consummating. It was about a girl who's life can be summarised according to books; those she stole, those she read and those she wrote. The setting was Germany during the world wars. Our reader even learnt some German words. "Mein kampf" means my struggle.

She has read "Americanah". You know how you finish a book and think you've been dumped because you didn't want it to end? Well this book has a blog to pick up from where the book left. After a few blogposts she got tired and was ready to see other books. She would recommend this book to anyone who hasn't read it especially those who want to try African literature. She wants people to understand what ceiling means.

She has also read "Half of a yellow Sun". It was pure torture and she does not want to recall how she struggled to read about political unrest. That theme makes her psych go too low; like two lawyers.

"Adultery" was her last book. When she starts reading a Paulo Coelho book she imagines she is about to see her old Japanese therapists who walks very slowly but can still beat up five men in three seconds. This particular book did not do much for her. She knows Paulo fans will still go ahead and buy it so she won't waste her time.

All this reading is making her feel like the girl from that movie, Lucy. However, she doesn't want to unlock 100% of her brain because she doesn't want to turn into a flashdisk. Flashdisks can't eat hotdogs. If the average man uses 10% of their brain, let's assume she uses 5%. After all, she's an economist. This means she has a long way to go.

She is currently reading "The Kite Runner". Another book she wished she had read earlier. She wishes people could recommend more books for her to read.

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.