Of Africans and National Prayer days.

Kenya is an interesting country.
People are dying. Killed by our enemies they say. The police that are supposed to be guarding us are being ambushed by Al Shabab they tell us. In another part of the country, families are mourning. Their lost ones because of ethnic and castle rustling wars. In the other corner, the Aids scourge is wiping away families. Bread winners. Fishermen that ensure you can call the waiter and insist on ‘Tilapia ya lake Victoria’. Its terrible everywhere. The capital city included. Where dwellers are dying from a Cholera outbreak. And the county government says you can’t sell reja reja food if you don’t have tap water. But the taps are dry. Bone dry. And you have to buy water from cartels. Maybe its the water that is supposed to run in your taps. Maybe. And the places with water, its really not running water. Its ‘swampy’ water. From a fresh water burst pipe that has remain unfixed for months. In the bottom corner, young men wake up early in the morning to snatch bags, fill matatus and carry loads for commuters. Its 6Am, and their eyes are dazed. ‘Oya Omari mchukue huyo matha umbebe mzigo. We vipi wewe?” One asks. But Omari can’t lift a thing let alone construct a proper sentence. He just had his fix. His ‘steam’ fixed from kichuri and ‘unga’. The drug war is being lost. Hundreds of thousands are succumbing to the menace. From school going boys to call girls.  Call girls that we all know exist and probably even enjoy their services. But we will not register them to know how many they are. To give them access to medicine and ARVs for those that are infected. ‘Its un African. Its unacceptable.’ The big man says. He that we probably know of one of his side dishes. A side dish that is probably even of the opposite sex. But hiding our head in the sand is a brilliant idea.
And then there is the one monster that is eating us all up. That one that almost 99% of us have been caught up in. The famous ‘Si unajua afande hununuliwa chai.’ The ‘Hiyo file ni kama imepotea. Ebu nunua lunch tutaitafuta during lunch break.’ That ‘The media cannot afford to name names in exposés because most have had a fat envelope sent their way to run a front page story. Or to push it to the last pages where no one will see it. That is why they all want to talk about freedom of the media but no one wants to mention integrity.’ That ‘Hii si kitu kubwa. Hata ukienda Kwa lands utapata search iko sawa Munene. Uyu mugunda ndungiaga kwendio.’ Corruption.
All these are happening under our very eyes. But to us its a way of life. We have accepted it, we have embraced them.
And then there is the other side of the nation. The one that holds ‘National Prayer Days’ in big flashy hotels as they feast. The one that tells us corruption will be rooted out yet you will find their names in a scandal. The one that is praying. Steadfastly praying. Praying not because we are doing well, but because of all the above. Yet ironically, these are not Acts of God. They are not national calamities. They are man made problems. Problems that we can eradicate. Problems that we can look at and say ‘Hey. Enough is enough’ and weed it out.
But we are African. We rejoice when things go wrong. Because that means your company will get a tender. As you chill in your swanky house talking about, ‘Hawa ni wale wale. Hapa nikienda nimwage pesa, hii maneno haitakuwa Kwa news ya saa saba’.
We are praying for things that we can control. A child that has broken his leg playing on the stairs. And we can the neighbour to join hands and fast and cast out demons. No one will take him to the hospital. Medicine is Western. And western is bad. So let’s eat, feast and pray. And hope that that solves our every problem.


Let’s blunt up and pimp the chapos. Another munchies story without a cownapping incidence

Manze talking of kukatiwa katiwa chapo in the kitchen kwa kibanda. I’ve just remembered this one time back in campus me and my room mate smoked some good kush. Okay. I really don’t know whether it really was good ama ni juu nilikuwa starter.
So we are sat watching a movie. Baked as a fucking muffin. Minutes later we realize its heading to 9pm and since its Eldoret, most places are closing down. So we head out in pursuit of supper to some place called King Solomon where we get one packed Ndengu and 6 chapos. Head back to the house and do this thing we called ‘Ku pimp chakula’. For the bougie kids that use to eat funky foods, Ku pimp chakula was when you’d go and buy beans, ndengu or githeri and since Kaleos cannot cook even to save their lives and it looks like its just boiled, you would kata vitunguus, nyanya and refry the food with royco to make it more palatable. Also, it became a little ‘more’ since you added soup.
Anyway, so we pimp, eat and go back to watching telly. We really don’t know what was happening but it was interesting.
Minutes later, my housemate sits up and goes, ‘Eh Shobs, is how leo hatujakula? Man twende tutafute dishi ama tulale njaa.’ Too which I aptly responded, ‘Enyewe. Unaona ni saa ngapi. Tuishie kabla hawa wasee watinge.’
So sisi hao…back to King Solo. ‘Boss, chapo sita na ndengu takeaway’.
“Buda buy chipo tukulange kable tupike” Jamo says.
‘Oya. Niongezee chipo’.
We head back to the house, pimp the ndengu and eat. Sisi hao, back to this movie that no one understands.
Then we black out. Only to wake up at around 11pm hungry as fuck!!
“Buda. Amka. Wallahi leo tumelala njaa.”
I wake up, look at the time and cuss the fuck out. How could this happen?
“Unaona??? Na nilikuambia tununue dishi mapema. Sasa cheki. Na hakuna food kwa hao.” I retort as I head to the kitchen.
“Kuna food yoyote?”
Me: Zii bana. Kuna tu hii. I say as I head back with a box of cornflakes. “Na hakuna maziwa.”
“Leta. Tutaikula kama njugu”.
Baaaaad baaaad idea.
I never knew of the cotton mouth effect. That thing you feel like your mouth dried the fuck up after a joint.
“Buda nanyongwa bana. Enda ukam na maji. Alafu tutengeneze kama coco puffs. Tueke cornflakes kwa bowl, tueke maji kidogo, drinking chocolate na sukari alafu tukoroge. Atleast ishike flavour.”
“Sawa. Enda ukam na hizo vitu.”
I swear I’ve never tasted something so terrible. And the water made it soggy.  But the munchies would not let us prosper bana. So we cane up with a smarter idea.
“Do hivi, call Kama wa cab atupeleke Tao. Niko sure hatuezi kosa food Tao bana. Hata kama ni chipo na kuku prime chic juu saa hii niko sure Brightons imefungwa.”
He calls Kama and we head to town. Its a little past midnight now. Now the hunt for food. See there was this kuku place next to Blackball. We head there, order kuku quarter mbili na chipo mbili.
Then as its being prepared we realize that we are sobering up, so we go down huko Ukwala parking and smoke two more joints. I swear we are so high right now, you’d need a joint to come get us. We walk back, our food is on the table and since we are high, we decide to make it a full chicken. So we order two other quarters.
That is when I whisper, ‘Buda hawa wasee wamezoea kutuibia. Sii tumeitisha quarter mbili, na saa hii tukaongeza mbili, hiyo ni kuku full. Wacha ntakushow. Usikule kwanza.’
So they bring the other half and I ask for those white wrapping papers, by this time Jamo has joined me iny plan to protect our rights. Sisi hao. Sasa ni kujaribu kushikanisha hizo quarter nne tuone kama itakuwa full.
Boss…drugs are bad. So we have three vifuas and one mguu quarter. Wacha tuzushe mbona kuku yetu ina mguu moja. Saa hizo jamo ako hapo akisema, ‘Mnajua we are in law school? This is breach of contract. We will sue you.’
Na mimi niko hapo nachangia, ‘Yes. Hata kwa Donoghue vs Stevenson you owe us a duty of care’.
Long story short, the next thing I remember was waking up in bed, with body aches and a maaaaaad hangover na stamp ya Club Spree kwa mkono. To date no one knows whether we ate that chicken, or paid for it, or how we got home.
Life ni hard. Smh.

I wish most Kenyan businesses understood what the customer really wants.

Today I saw an online discussion between two of my friends. One Kabuga Mwangi and Healthy Chef Kahonge. And I thought I should write down a small piece about my two cents.
See…Malls are bloody expensive to build. And the money must be recouped. So renting space is bloody expensive for a small or mid sized business. And this leads to a common mistake. Mediocrity and aloofness.
See, I’m not a hype person. I’m the kind that find little spaces (gems) and make them my space/place. That little eatery at a corner, that coffee house that has really really nice coffee but since its not swanky and ridiculously priced people ignore it, that ‘always fresh that you can only get some meals like Biryani from 12pm to 2pm’ anything after that hautapata food kahotel that is usually fully packed, that ‘we will give you a real good serving of food and at a really good price that you will want to bring your ‘I only go to uptown eateries friends’, that we are not just a business with capital to invest so we will give you really good personalised services complete with follow up calls.
I bet we all know of one such joint. Me, these are my favourite. Why? Meals are almost homely, always fresh, fast service, amazing taste, absolutely well priced and above all, they are passion driven. And no. Their is absolutely no problem with being a swanky joint if that is your business plan from day one.
The problem comes in when most grow their customer base and instead of expanding the space or opening another ‘brick and motar’ joint in another corner with the same consistency, they close shop and move to an upmarket mall.
Now their food is always stale since no one goes there, they don’t get as much business so they hire ‘ushers’ to entice you at the door, the quality of service is mediocre, the always smiling waiter/waitress that knew you is replaced by a ‘pretty face’ team leader that knows nothing about the menu or the difference between mutton and chicken Biryani, now you have to pay 50 bob for a fucking bloody banana that you use to get for free, the fresh juice is lighter and just sugar and food color, the kachumbari is two slices of tomato and some bitter onions, you can’t just chill after a meal and not be harassed by the pretty face waiter who comes to check up whether you have put the bill cash in the ka leather thing that reeks and is filthy and above all, for all that nonsense, you pay thrice the amount that you used.to pay for a meal. A plate of Biryani that cost you 300 bob is now 850 bob. Clusterfuckery!!
And no, the eateries are not alone. Electronic shops too. Tried walking into one looking to purchase an item and you saw two screens that are similar but the product number varies slightly? You call for the assistant and ask, ‘tofauti ya hii na hii ni gani since bei ziko karibu?’
And he stand there with a ‘Dude. Si usome face the he walks back to the counter, gets brochures for the two and hands them over to you ujisomee.’
Sales rep with zero grasp of the products they are selling. From TVs, to cameras to laptops. Nothing. A salesman that does not even know the difference between a TV and a white projector screen.
As if that’s not enough, we have the bars with waiters that have no clue on drinks pricing and availability. You walk into a bar, order a cold beer and you are met with a ‘Hakuna hizo saa hii. Lakini kuna vodka quarter…richo…’
Wait. Who asked for liquor? How about throwing a, ‘Hiyo tuko nayo ni warm, sijui kama itakufaa kabla zingine zishike baridi’.
And you wonder why you can’t afford to keep the fridges on. No. Its not bad luck ama kurogwa. Its your bad business strategies.
Know your clients, build relationships with them, if they are comfortable at a certain location, stay there! We will find a way to get there or to order a delivery.
Most businesses are failing because of the same reason most conscious musicians are failing. Changing what you do to appease a bigger crowd. Forgetting that the people paying your bills have grown with you. Stay true, stay loyal, stay hungry for knowledge, be you, do you, and the true fans will stick with you. Mpaka ile siku wataanza kukuambia, ‘Aki si mueke hata tent hapa nje mu expand. Siku hizi hatutoshei Ndani bana.’
Then you will know that’s your cue to expand. And no. Expanding does not entail moving 8 kilometres to a new premise because its the new swanky place. And above all, LET YOUR PEOPLE KNOW THEIR SHIT!!!
No one has time to read brochures over a simple question.

Of Holidays In Diani, Instagram models and New Money Sponsorships.

So jana when I talked about people investing chums from their sponsors, someone said something very interesting. ‘Sponsored people don’t invest. Theirs is a trickle down effect’. I believe it was Moses Munene M’Kuciana.
Which had me thinking. This is true on so many levels.
This is how it happens. A rich mzungu/CEO sponsor is on the Internet’s and bumps on a pretty mamis profile so he starts nyemelearing. First, the lady ignores him then learns the guy is baked. All of a sudden she is in swanky joints, flashy rides, racking up bills in lounges, Instagramming her #ShoePorn #Cocktails and #HolidayInZanzibar with her secretary salo because #GodHasBeenFaithful.
Then in that harakati, a young guy starts hitting on her because now she looks like dime and smells like a million bucks. Her makeup is always on point and nowadays she wears the ‘I only date rich men’ mbalass that has curls from here to Dubai and back. But he is a busy man. And she gets lonely too. So she starts chatting up this guy. He is a good guy really. Smart, maybe just finished campo, struggling with his start up hustle, you know, life. And one day they meet up for a drink. She likes him. And mdhamini will only be available later. So they grow close and feelings develop. This is when she decides to chip in kidogo to facilitate one two things hapa na pale in his biashara. I mean, she always has some cash to spare and he, is her man.
Days go by, the business (boutique mostly) picks and all of a sudden he is doing okay for himself.  Moves from the crib that he shares with two of his boys and gets a ka well furnished ‘executive’ bed sitter. Now he is dressing mpaka his mamis friends and has access to one of her cars on weekends when she’s ‘out of town visiting her mum’.
He is doing okay by society and friends standards. At this point he now joins the one Instagram he once referred to as ‘Vitu za mashoga’. He has a medium priced Samsung and can throw a bottle of whiskey here and there. And the mami still treats him to fine lunch. #FoodPorn hashtags are now his thing. But its not enough. He has tasted the good life. And its like a drug he wants more.
Months go by, and on one fine afternoon, a forty something year old lady walks into his shop looking to buy a hat. Or a dress that she saw on his Facebook page. In her hands, a German machine ignition. This is it. His breakthrough.
He serves her well. And promises to bring new stock some time next month. She gives him her card. He should contact her when they arrive. Her husband is rich. CEO rich. She’s seen it all. From shopping in ‘radan’ to ‘gorod shains’. But he’s never home. And she gets lonely too. So she gets online to pass time and stumbles on this guy. Refined, easy going and a ladies man. He us interesting. And witty. So she walks to his clothes shop to ‘buy a hat’ and make conversation.
Days go by and innocent talk turn to flirts then to a drinks hook up that ends up in a hotel room with mind numbing steamy sex.
But she knows he has a girls. And she doesn’t mind. So he writes him a check to ‘help clear with customs’ for his new shipment.
He doesn’t have that problem so who cares? No one ever refused a cheque. He pockets it and is now ‘balling’. Can now call his crush out for drinks on a weekday. She is in Campus. Pretty but that’s just it. No flashy clothes, no designer shoes. Just a pretty face campus girl with lots of followers because she is well…wife material as all her posts are decent and inspirational.
She is smitten by his charm. And little cute gifts like chains, rings and trinkets. And plus he always Mpesas her when she want to do Pizza with the girls.
His woman is getting suspicious. And one day after blacking out she goes through his phone and gets those messages to this little campus girl. She calls it quits and anikas him on Facebook for being a good for nothing cheat. But he doesn’t care. That lonely wife, he is banging her good. And the cheques keep coming in. The business has expanded, he buys his new campus girl shoes, clothes and a new phone. Now she is all glammed up. And an Instagram model. The kind that is always looking at the ground during photos with a ‘Hey. Look. The ground’ pose. And she is getting lots of fisis hitting on her. Her man is never around. The shop is always busy nowadays. And he is never home. And when he is, he is always tired or dead drunk. So a coffee date here, a lunch date there gives her comfort. And another New money Lawyer/C.E.O spots her. Very soon weekends in Zanzibar will be her thing. Her skin will be lighter, her dressing flashier. And she will get a guy to treat. Because she has money to spare. And the boutique guy can’t tell her shit now. She’s made it and the cycle will start all over again. Different characters, different places, same old same old story line.
The unbreakable vicious cycle of new money, young guys and sponsorships.


So, I’ve been seeing a lot of posts nowadays regarding the new scams in town. And I must say that I die a little bit inside because on every post, there is a self righteous person who will always pull the ‘You were greedy card. That’s why’, or ‘don’t talk to strangers’ card.
Unknown to them, sometimes you do things in good faith, sometimes you are greedy, some times, you are just young and gullible.

When I was in high school, my mum would send me to pay utility bills (Elec&water bills) after holiday tuition classes mostly or if I was going to town. So this one time I’m at stima house Mombasa and the queue is maddening. I decide to step out and pass time outside. As I’m standing outside the building, some guy in a Kenya power sweater approaches me and says hi. He asks what I’m doing, I give him an honest answer then the convo goes as follows.
Him: Kijana huwa una soma gazeti?
Me: Eeeh…kwa nini?
Him: Ulisoma ya Jana?
Now I grew up in a family where dailies were always brought home by mzee. Unluckily, i hadn’t read the previous days.
Me: Hapana. Kwa nini?
Him: Unajua, we Kenya power made an announcement yesterday that kids below the age of 18 should not come to pay bills on their own unless accompanied with a note from the Guardian since watoto wengi wanalipa tu the wrong accounts and then parents come to complain.
Me: Sikuona.
Him: Hukuona sababu hukusoma.
He makes small talk then he tells me.
Him: Anyway, I’m George, I work for KPLC na hapa, after yesterdays announcement, hauta ruhusiwa kulipa. Unless uko na barua ya mzazi. Bill yenu ni ya pesa ngapi?
Me: *removes bill and confirms amount before blurting out*
Him: Sasa Fanya hivi, naeza kukusaidia nikulipie ama uende tu urudi ulipe kesho.
I think for a minute and ask, ‘unaeza nili pia?’
He answers in the affirmative. Then he tells me to give him the bill and follow him to the administrative side of KPLC offices which he claims are based at NSSF building.
*Second red flag that I ignore*
I follow him up to the building entrance. To this point, he has not asked for money. We get to the lift, he asks me to wait for him akanilipie. He gets on the lift *at this point I am sold*
He reappears 5 minutes later and jokingly reminds me that I had not given him the cash. I hand it over to him and he gets on the lift.
Then came the wait.
5 minutes, 10, 15, 20, 25. I move to that board that indicates what offices are in the building.
I’m dizzy, my heart races, mouth dry, sweaty palms.
I approach a female guard and ask her where KPLC offices are located.
‘Hapa hakuna ofisi za KPLC. Hizo ziko ule upande mwingine wa Barabara.’
She has just confirmed my fear. I have been conned. I turn and walk away. Then I see the stairway. It leads to the underground parking. Bloody bastard must have used that.
I get to the house and jump straight to bed. I need to be asleep before mum comes back and asks for the paid bill.
Well…long story short, I was woken up at 8pm with a ‘bill ya stima iko wapi?’
It was gone. Together with the money. But she understood. At least. I have never hated a person that much. I just could not forget his face. Which helped me a lot. Because two years later when I was in form 3.
We met again!!!


Last year, I crafted an incinerator and installed it in my house. And unto the paramount question of just why anyone would do that, a single answer suffices: lingerie. Lots of them. Left strategically by those stray vixens I tend to attract to my premises. Some leave them in the bathroom. Others prefer to hide them amongst my clothes in the wardrobes.

One decided to leave a bra hidden between the cushions of one of the sofa sets in the sitting room. Two days later, a Jehovah Witness forced his way into my house, and sat on that exact sofa. Midway through his preaching, he somehow managed to discover the bra. He cut his sermon short, and practically scampered away. Must have thought that I was a sort of cross-dressing, gay freak. Oh well. Good riddance. It actually gave me ideas. Next time a Mormon comes by, I’ll wear a bra on my bare, hairy chest. And a headscarf.
But I digress.

I do understand why the vixens leave some of their garments behind. It’s a way of marking territory: a way of telling any other stray vixens to keep off – this man is taken.

Except that I don’t believe that I’m taken.

I’m a free spirit – an eagle – and I plan to roam this world, untethered, for as long as possible. Walk and hunt the depths and breadths of this world until the day some Amazon giantess will club me over the head, and drag my limp body to the nearest alter for some hasty “I do’s”. Till then, no perching on any twig for longer than necessary.

The vixens obviously don’t agree with this. They believe that they should own me. That it is about time they took me off the market. And one way of accomplishing this is by marking their territory in MY OWN house. By leaving their paraphernalia all over the place. It’s maddening, because it obliges me to go over my entire house with a fine comb every time a certain vixen leaves – and before the next comes around. Get rid of any sign that the previous vixen was around. Otherwise, I have a major fight in my hands from the next vixen.

One of them discovered a pair of strange earrings that I hadn’t spotted, and she went ballistic. I slept on the couch that day – in MY OWN house.
Another one came across some lace panties that yet another vixen had left behind. She went nuclear. I slept OUTSIDE MY OWN house that night, and had to come back the following day with lots of roses. I also sang her one or two Brian McKnight lines, to cool her down.

So, tired of all this drama, I crafted the incinerator. A nifty little contraption. Burns at over 800 degrees centigrade. Nothing can survive that temperature. Not even those fake emerald brooches and bangles that some of these strays are so fond of. They swiftly turn into mere ash. Same thing with the panties, thongs, pantyhose, garter belts, bras, lipstick, nail polish, and any other object that a misguided vixen might decide to “forget” behind. The bigger things present a moral dilemma, though: is it justifiable to incinerate a perfectly sound, cashmere fur coat? But such dilemmas last mere seconds, before the logical equation comes echoing back:

“Ceteris paribus, Female Items Spotted in my House = Blazing Fire in the Incinerator.”


I can’t overstate the brilliance of the idea. In retrospect, I should have installed the incinerator ages ago. Nowadays, the dramas over these “territorial markings” have virtually disappeared. And when the owner of such items later “remembers” her items, and comes to collect, I unfailingly suffer a major memory loss about the items. She goes like: “Have you seen my nail polish anywhere here, dear? I think I left it here last time.” And I go like: “I’ve seen no such thing. But you can look around.” He he. So she looks around. And the smugness in my face remains. For I know exactly where the nail polish is: partly in the atmosphere, as carbon dioxide and organic esters, and partly in my dust bin, as pearly white ash.

I nowadays live by a simple maxim: An incinerated G-String is a fight evaded.
Guest post by @ Joseph Wahome, 2014.


It’s hard to let go of someone you love. Especially when it turns out to you that she loves someone else more than she does you.

Lots of thoughts creep into you. She tells you she loves you but……..and leaves it at that. And she may add the phrase ‘Its not about you’.

You go back in time and ask yourself where you went wrong, what ingredient you forgot to add, what step you missed, in the guidebook for dummies. But there’s none. In fact you outdid yourself.

Every time you call her you hear the other man laugh in the background…….and you feel the lump rise in your throat. You know how she talks on phone…..when she talks to fill in the spaces, when shes multitasking, when shes doing the ad-lib…..adding things that are nonexistent in the conversation to fill in………

And it hurts. Gnaws at you every time you scroll down your gadget and come across her name. She rarely calls. And when she does its a 1 min Hi-you-good?-Bye.

There is a point every man reaches and lifts his hands and says ‘I cant.’ The pain between fighting thoughts and giving up is greater than any war…..but when eventually the white flag is flown….there is where you find a man broken and desolate.

At that point. Nothing not even his dreams matters. Nothing means anything. Not even a football score.

Every man comes through this at one point and its hard letting go. The memories are always painful incessant gnats that keep cropping and buzzing about your head

Time is no longer important. A week is a month and a half of hot lazy Sundays. An email from her that you come across as you clear your inbox is read and re read….saved and kept for future reading for the seventeenth time.

You ask yourself what he does better than you. Does he know how she likes her food done?? Colorful and tasty?? Or will she figure it out for him? Does he know how she feels when the lights flicker and eventually go off and there’s a cake in the oven???? How she tastes the salt as she cooks ??? How she enjoys a good rub on her feet after a day of heels???
Or does he zone out on the screen while she does all the above?

Only a triple distilled Russian recipe of some beverage seems to help u answer these questions.

A period of sheer despair follows after the binge. But then 2 years of getting your heart and self into shape, after your eyes body and mind are ready to accept another person you get the rumors…….she is single again. She has lost weight.

You discreetly do some reconnaissance and you bump into her by ‘sheer chance’. And there you see them. The bags under the eyes. The dark scars under the neck. The lines of strain on her once fair flawless face. She tries to keep smiling you try hard not to look. Its a struggle to try not to look and try not to think how this happened. Your heart melts, sinks and wants to weep. She cant keep eye contact…..and when she looks away you notice the hair.

Once immaculate, now with about 3-4 weeks before it last saw some love.

Her neck pulsates faster than normal, and is it you or has her neck grown thinner?? Those nails are a little bit too chipped and edges aren’t done properly.

She declines your offer for coffee or dinner…….looks away – you rem the look. The small girl in her is trying not to lie to you, and she doesn’t want to decline your offer but still she cant say yes.

She doesn’t know what to say and you don’t know what to feel. Remorse? Anger? Pain? Pity? What? What do you feel??

Then as you bid farewell and do the let-me-know-how-your-next-week-is,  you notice something. Her gait is off. A few degrees off. Perhaps its the frock?

No. Not the frock. Frocks accentuate her. This one isnt. This one has drab colors. You didn’t even look at it twice.

Then as you’re stuck in traffic, flipping channels and thinking about the chicken and cheese burger you will wolf down and sleep, it hits you – that frock, those colors, you wouldn’t take your eyes off her when she did a frock…….the colors and curves would leave you riveted.

Today you weren’t riveted……..why?

‘Why not?’ you muse with yourself.

‘Its been two years and 6 months…..so why should i be swooning?’

The silent banter continues till the bolt strikes home. Its the frock!!!!!!!!!

She only does frocks in bright flowery colors!!!!! You cant take your eyes off her when shes in one.

You didn’t look at the frock twice today!!!! And was that a bulge you saw?? A small bump??


You pull over the hard shoulder to put your thoughts together in sequence. Thinking and driving don’t go together.
You whip out your leather cased gadget go through 3 year old photos of you and her, stare at your portrait of both of you with her clinging to your neck longer than neccesary and the symmetry doesnt make sense.

You look at a two yr old photo of her just-woke-up face when she had come over at your place…….flawless face, no blemishes, no lines, just dimples. Hair all over the place. Thick healthy hair.

You move on to the next photo of her in a frock a year ago……….that waistline……. and then you compare with a mental image of today: there were marks and scars, there were lines, the hair needed attention and there was a bump.

Then it all comes back…..you remember how u joked of what to name your first child……and how you promised you would drive her everywhere, joked how humongous she would be and how you dream’t of seeing a baby kick, ……..and now none of that is gonna happen…….

Her words 2 years ago were ‘Its not about you. I love you but………’

You switch off the idling engine and recline the seat……..suddenly the chicken and cheese burger isn’t so enticing.

You’re oblivious of the traffic mayhem around you……..the lump in your throat has been replaced by bile……bile against a man who promised less than he delivered……bile that you want to spit.

And then you remember a line in an english lesson classroom in your younger days that says ‘ Faint heart never won a fair lady’

Guest post by
Eric Elisha Kiambati
Lead Creative
Kilele Events & Photography

+254 725 44 25 98

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