I am not a big fun of political discussions. More often than not these discussions rub people the wrong way and things tend to get too intense. But today I am compelled to deviate. I feel like there’s a thorn that is lodged in my foot and the only way to pull it out is to share what’s going through my mind. If I don’t communicate these thoughts I will not only have failed myself but also my state, the human race and every other organism on this planet.
Today morning I was at my bro’s place admiring their adorable new born son (and resisting the urge to bite his tiny fingers) when I received the distressing news that Ferdinand Waititu had won the TNA nominations after beating Jimnah Mbaru. Now this not the kind of news you want to hear on a blessed Saturday morning. It is especially not the kind of news you want a promising child to hear in the first week of its existence. You don’t know what it might do to the child’s perspective toward the universe. You don’t want a child’s first words to be, “I swear this world sucks!” We were all distraught when we received the news. The little guy didn’t exactly articulate this but I could see it in his eyes.
It could be worse though. Much worse. Just take a minute and imagine seeing this headline on the dailies sometime in March…
Ferdinand Waititu Becomes The First Governor Of Kenya’s Capital, Nairobi.
Now that right there is the kind of headline that would turn me into a psychotic serial killer. It’s the kind of headline that would make a Bishop start serving Vodka to his congregation – and they wouldn’t mind. It’s that kind of headline that makes women start growing moustaches. Earthquakes and Tsunamis have been known to be triggered by such headlines. Heck the devil himself would probably throw in the towel and go like “To hell with this shit!” Then proceed to shoot himself in the head.
It’s just not right.
I simply can’t picture a world where Waititu is my Governor. Not even in the stone-age when he could have achieved his full potential. It doesn’t even sound right. Waititu should not be the Governor of Nairobi. I mean this is the kind of guy that leaves his office, perches at the back left of his car and instructs his chauffeur to drive him to the nearest obstreperous protest. His intention at this point is not to get there and apply a little diplomacy in an effort quell the riots like a true leader should. Nah. Waititu sits there stretching his triceps as he anticipates the opportunity of his lifetime… The chance to throw stones and hurl insults like an uneducated buffoon.
When a serious MP was contemplating how he would deal with insecurity in his constituency; or how he could create employment opportunities, Waititu was sitting in his office calculating how he was going to burst someone’s head open with a stone. In his desk he probably had a few stones which he would throw against the wall, you know, just to keep in shape.
Now picture this, as the Governor of Nairobi, Waititu would be expected to attend high profile conferences. He would meet with all the dignitaries that visit Nairobi on official duty. Can you picture Waititu sitting opposite Queen Elizabeth? What would in the world he say to her? How would he even say it? The queen doesn’t speak Kikuyu does she?
That’s the guy that stands the chance of being my Governor? If there’s a God in heaven…
Nairobi is not Mogadishu. This is one of Africa’s financial hubs. We need an intelligent representative. We can’t leave our treasured city in the hands of a frivolous hooligan. Nairobi would never forgive us. Our children and our generation don’t deserve the retribution. No one deserves it. Even the wild animals in Nairobi National Park know they deserve better.
I am consoling myself with the fact that it’s mainly idlers who showed up and voted for Waititu during these nominations. Most of us were either working or in lecture rooms. We have no excuse come March 4th. It doesn’t matter if it’ll be raining hailstones or the sun will be shining like it’s on a mission. Even if you’re unwell, unless you’re really dying, please come out and vote. Even if you’re suffering from diarrhea please leave your house and run to the beginning of the queue and explain yourself. Of course it will be easier for you if you carry a sample.
Let’s not leave the future of Nairobi to chance. For the sake of all that’s holy let us all come out and vote on the Election Day. At least let us do one right thing on that ballot paper. Regardless of your political party affiliations, let us be reasonable when it comes to the Nairobi’s gubernatorial seat.
I believe the much better option would be Dr. Evans Kidero. He looks like a pretty decent guy. He is intelligent and has a relatively good track record. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy that would carry stones in his briefcase. Or pockets. I am sure he will have the correct response when a dignitary turns to him and says, “How do you do Sir?” He won’t mumble something inaudible while looking away. He most certainly won’t say, “Mi sina wauwau.” I swear Waititu looks like the kind guy that would look at Obama and go like, “Eh kutweng nayo.”
Guys I can’t stress this enough; the future of this great city lies in our hands. Let us take responsibility.
I was sitting at home yesterday afternoon reading a book when I thought I heard a feint knock on my front door. I walked up to the window and saw a small boy of about 2 years fiddling with the latch of the door. I ignored him and went back to the couch and picked up from where I’d left off. The little boy would however not leave my door alone. Apparently his tricycle and fancy toys were not fun enough for him. He was probably standing there wondering why his dad had never bought him a latch.
I couldn’t take it anymore. From experience, I know talking sense to kids never works. They have a habit of turning it into a game in which the madder you get the more exciting the game gets. With this in mind, I decided to give the kid a little scare. I slowly walked to the door, put my hand through that space that allows you to close the door from outside, and grabbed his tiny hand.
The outcome was a tad more dramatic than I had anticipated. As soon as I grabbed the kid’s hand he let out a cry so loud my eardrums rattled. A cry so loud I shuddered. I let go of the tiny hand instantly and took a step back. I could hear neighbors’ doors opening. You should have seen me on the other side of the door startled out of my wits.
The house help ran to the rescue. She was joined by two others. I realized that if I didn’t open the door they would know I was the culprit. I am barely a week old in this hood and the last thing I want is to be branded ‘the creepy neighbor’. I got an epiphany. I opened the door while rubbing my eyes like I had just been rudely awakened from slumber. I had this perplexed look as I asked them what was going on. They were then examining the child to see if he’d cut or broken something… like his entire arm. They explained that they had just heard the kid scream. I asked if he was okay. They said he seemed okay.
I turned to the kid looking all concerned and asked him if he was all right. The look he gave me almost made me confess my sins. It’s the same look you would have on if you met a Kenyan MP. It was a look of disgust. He didn’t utter a single word but I’m sure deep down he wished he had the strength to knock me unconscious. As the house help led him away, he once again turned to get one last look at me. Only the two of us knew what had transpired. If only I could let him know that my intention was not to scare the living crap out of him. Have scientists come up with a word for the phobia of door latches yet?
I am not even sure why I shared this story. It has nothing much to do with the rest of this blog. It could be because I wanted you guys to know that I have started reading again. You probably don’t give a damn but if you enjoy reading my stories then this is good news. Really good news.
I am on my 3rd book this week. I started with Stephen King’s “On Writing”. An awe-inspiring book that is a must read for any aspiring writer. King emphasizes on the importance of reading as a writer. He says that ‘reading is the creative center of a writer’s life’. He further states that ‘the real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing’.
I used to be quite the reader in Primary School. I went through as many Nancy Drews and Hardy Boys as I could get my hands on. In high school the habit (together with numerous other beneficial habits) dwindled. I picked up the habit after campus – the upside of a snobbish job market I guess. As soon as I started working and got access to high speed internet, TV took over. Right about last year when I tried out writing I had intentions of reviving the culture but then I discovered just how exciting twitter was. If I’d spent the hours I wasted reading people’s tweets actually reading books I’d probably have gotten the inspiration to work on my own. I’d probably be looking for a publisher right about now.
I am spending less time on the social media now. I am not trying to watch every tv series and movie ever produced. I am reading much more. I am also taking baby steps toward getting my writing back on. I have a new, exciting job that is less demanding. I will have much more time on my hands. I do not have an excuse. If need be, I will get a shrink to deal with my writing insecurities.
In short, Joey is back from the long hiatus. I will not promise to publish a post every other week. There are also other projects I will be working on. Plus I want to write interesting stories because I actually have something interesting to say and avoid posting mediocre stories for the sake of posting something. However on a good week I will post twice if I can. The plan is simply not to constrain myself.
In other news, the holiday’s over folks. Just like that. I am hoping y’all got the best out of it. I for one went all out. I bet that’s why January is being exceedingly mean to me with illnesses and shit. I totally owned December. I bet even the next one is scared. I thank God for the tough month of January though. Think about it, some of us would ‘get lost’ in the world were it not for this month. At the rate I see some of you partying, an extra month like December would render you retards. Like this guy I overheard asking if he could be allowed to camp on the beach. January didn’t come soon enough for him.
This is the month we also get to think long and hard about our lives. Especially when you’ve cleaned out your account and you’re home alone, unwell and KPLC is playing a sick pranks on you… Okay let me not personalize things here. I’m just saying you shouldn’t be afraid of reflecting a little. There’s always that habit that can be dropped, that one good practice that can be adopted, that job/relationship that can be chased. There is always that one thing that can be changed to better your life.
PS: It’s nice having y’all back on here.
It’s Friday night and I am seated at home browsing through Tweeter like some loner when I come across this tweet by @dailynation:
Prostitutes swarm #Narok in search of wheat boom
Now that tweet right there cracked me up. I mean how slick are these chicks? How do you just sit and think, “Hmm I gather niggaz in Narok are balling like crazy after the wheat harvest; My hoo haa ought to get me some of that cheddah!” Then you pack your luggage and just leave. I understand that all they need to carry is briefs and make-up and their entire luggage consists of a handbag but still…
I imagine Narok right now looks like the Red-light District. Them Maasai Morans must be having a ball! Lil Wayne’s Make it rain is the theme song down there.
And you know the women there cover themselves in shukas so the sight of a chick in a short dress is bound to make a nigga jizz. I imagine this is how they pick up girls in that part of town?
“Hey see this scar over here,” He begins, “it ain’t BCG vaccination. I got it when I was 15 as I fought off a lion.”
“What! You must be very lucky to have survived.” The baffled chick retorts.
“Me? Naaah… It’s my goats that were lucky I showed up in time. I ‘owned’ the damn beast.”
I would advise the prostitutes to exercise caution while going about their business. You don’t want to piss off a Maasai Moran. You know those folks never part with their rungus (clubs) and machetes so if you happen to be chatting him up and you’re tongue slips and you say something silly… something like, “Hey don’t they sell colognes around here?” The nigga will unleash a weapon and mess up your mascara. Same applies if you disrespect his livestock.
K-street on the other hand looks like the Sahara. The forsaken street is devoid of life. Only street lamps stand majestically on the pavements. Or who knows maybe the hustlers from down town (River Road) have moved there to hold the fort. If that’s the case then those folks that drive down there in their high-end cars are in for a rude shock. They’re probably used to driving by high-heel wearing, smooth-talking hotties so I can picture the shock on a dudes face when he’s approached by a miraa-chewing chick in faded jeans and trainers (or even worse, safari boots) saying, “itakuwaje mtu nguyaz, unadai shot jamo?”
Which reminds me; sometime back twilight girls marched on the streets demanding that prostitution be legalized. When it was broadcasted on the news, most of them had concealed their faces lest some bigshot realizes that the secretary he’s been banging is actually a full on langa. Some courageous ones did not give a hoot whether they got found out or not. For them it’s just business. And we all know how niggaz in town love their chipos.
So if the bill for legalizing hoo haa trading would have gone through, the proposal was that the government establishes designated hotspots where business would be conducted. As in it would have been just like your usual open market but instead of selling tomatoes, horny niggaz would check in and after careful selection, they walk into the sunset with their damsel. Or maybe the girls would also be allowed to hawk themselves. So you could be stuck in traffic at Nyayo Stadium and a chick walks up to you and goes like, “Hey handsome, nice tint. Care for a quick treat before the jam clears up?”
I wonder if in the designated hotspots, the prostitutes would be arranged in groups like vendors arrange vegetables in market place. So if momos make your cup of tea, you do not have to wander about and waste time as you look for one. They would be assorted in categories so you have tags reading momos, skinnies, dark-skinned, light-skinned, masquerading-as-chicks, trannys… and so forth.
And they would probably have a union. The KNUP. You know, just like the teachers have their Kenya National Union of Teachers that fights for their rights. That way a few policies would be put in place. For starters, I’m thinking the charges for their services would be standardized because the ones that are based downtown would cry of foul play. And if they felt oppressed, they would go on strike and demand the government to take action. The KNUP would call a press conference and voice their demands.
So anyway prostitutes in Nairobi were tired of engaging in running battles with the City Council and they wanted to run legit business. They were even willing to pay taxes! I imagine filing taxes would have been quite an embarrassing experience for the shy ones and quite morale-boosting for the bold ones. I can picture a scenario where a prosperous pro peeks at the papers of a fellow langa and sees that her returns double that of her counterpart. She probably won’t be able to contain herself and she would go like:
“Care for some pro bono business tips?”
The underachieving one ignores her with a sneer on her face.
“First you’ve got to ditch the eye-pencil. What you think we’re still in the 90s?”
“Secondly, you’ve got to shave those legs. Jeeez, you trying to attract monkeys or what?”
And bam! Cat fight.
I used to read a certain blog written by a self-proclaimed K-street prostitute. She was obviously well educated and she told some chilling, well-written stories of her night life experiences. At times I would even find myself drawn to the extent of sympathizing with her – Like when she talked about how some clients mistreated her. On other occasions, when she bragged about stealing from her clients, I despised her. She obviously wasn’t in this business because of destitution. She never claimed to have been pushed by circumstances. It’s hard to understand why some people do what they do.
I am not a fanatic when it comes to matters politics. Political talk does not tickle my fancy. You would never catch me shouting my larynx hoarse at a political rally. As a matter of fact, unless they’re giving out BMWs, I would never show my face at a political rally. Local politics barely appeal to me let alone international affairs. But when Michelle Obama became the talk of town after her DNC speech, I got curious and got the clip. If you’ve watched it, you will agree with me when I say that Michelle’s speech was nothing short of potent.
I have a feeling that the favorite pastime of the Obamas is practicing public speaking in front of mirrors. Heck these two probably do it during foreplay. While we all knew that Barrack is a captivating speaker, few of us knew that Michelle also had it in her. Well that was until she took to the podium sometime last week and delivered a speech that would reverberate around the globe.
We know Michelle as this elegant public figure who prefers taking the back seat when it comes to politics. She has not been as vocal when it comes to such matters. But last week she came out with all guns blazing. And as much as her speech was composed of personal accounts, any dimwit could see the disparaging contrasts she was drawing between her modest husband and his affluent archrival Mitt Romney. You’ve got to admire her tact and wit.
All in all, Michelle’s speech was vast with insight and I will share with you the 10 vital lessons that I took home:
1) Michelle reveals that in their earlier years, Obama was a common man with a dilapidated car, a coffee table he picked from a dumpster, and that the only pair of decent shoes he owned was half a size too small. She also talks of a time when they were “so in love and so in debt.”
To all the hustlers out there, don’t despair – We have hope! Through this revelation, we see that life is process and patience is a key virtue in success. Things do not work out overnight. So if you own a Probox, be proud of it.
2) Michelle reveals that her parents were determined to give her and her brother the kind of education they (the parents) could only dream of. She reveals that Barack’s grandmother often told his grandson that as long as that as long as him and his siblings did well, that was all that really mattered.
We should acknowledge and appreciate the sacrifices our parents made during our upbringing. I remember reading a disturbing article in the papers some time back regarding folks that abandon their parents and let languish in poverty back in the villages while they live like kings in the suburbs. Parents that toiled they hands off to give them a decent education. Such a shame!
3) Michelle talks about the importance of dignity and decency. She says that helping others means more than just getting ahead yourself. That success isn’t about how much money you make; it is about the difference you make in people’s lives.
A hard pill to swallow, but a prudent one all the same. Money should not come before everything/everyone else.
4) Michelle says that “success doesn’t count unless you earn it fair and square”.
Joey do not get tempted to steal someone else’s Range Rover. Do not start cooking crystal meth no matter how lucrative it seems. Do not look for shortcuts. Earn it.
5) Michelle says that they learned about gratitude and humility. That so many people had a hand in their success – from the teachers who inspired them to the janitors who kept their school clean.”
It takes a very humble person to acknowledge those people who make even the simplest of differences in his/her life. Gratitude and humility Joey.
6) Michelle says that when you work hard and do well and you walk through that doorway of opportunity, you do not slam it shut behind you.
Whenever you have a chance to lend someone a hand, do not turn your back towards them. Do not be selfish. Someone gave you an opportunity and the least you can do is to do the same to someone else.
7) Michelle says that being president does not change who you are, it reveals who you are.
Some of us will never even be presidents and we already have such big heads. Do not let big positions and power erode the goodness inside you.
8) Michelle reveals that she loves her husband even more than she did four years ago. Even more than she did 23 years ago when they first met. Reason; “I love that he has never forgotten how he started.”
Another perfect example of humility.
9) Michelle says that she loves that even in the toughest moments, when they’re all sweatin’ it — when they’re worried that the bill won’t pass, and it seems like all is lost, Barack never lets himself get distracted by the chatter and noise.
I love that last statement. People will never stop running their mouths. Do not lose sight of your goal because of a few disapproving tongues.
10) As an observation, Michelle is the perfect embodiment of a woman of character. She is definitely not one of those vain, materialistic and short-sighted women. She is a woman that commands respect. Those disillusioned girls behind the group CampusDivasForRichMen ought to borrow a leaf from Michelle.
In the poll, conducted before the Republican convention began, 64 percent of Americans said they had a favorable view of Mrs. Obama. President Obama came in at 53 percent favorable. While pledging his allegiance to President Obama, former President Bill Clinton said that he wants to vote for the man who had the good sense to marry Michelle. If you are female you better take notes from this remarkable lady.
Does the below excerpt ring any bells:
“…Fabby hails from Eldoret but the last time I spoke to him he was in Malindi. I asked him what he was doing there and he his answer; “I woke up and decided to relocate. I took a map and pikey pikey ponkied the damn thing and ended up in Malindi. Got into the bus without even packing a damn thing…””
In the post titled ‘My Special Friends’ I featured a good friend of mine called Fabian (Fabby). Fabby is the unrestrained, uncontrollable version of me. In addition, he is witty, charming, funny and quite the ladies man.
I once asked him if he could write a guest post here and he told me that he had no idea where he would begin. I found his response to be quite ironic because Fabby is the kind of guy that has opinions on anything and everything; from the causes and effects of the global financial crisis, to the perfect size of a chick’s booty.
I thought a good start would be an introduction. An attempt at demystifying the enigma that he is. Ladies, gentlemen (and sissies)….. Fabian!
I have done a lot of things, some of which have led me to different parts of the country, different corners of towns, into alleys and at times into wardrobes (nothing like R. Kelly’s closet). Some of my friends find me interesting, some find me retarded, some find me too serious but those who know me understand that I am searching. I know not what I am searching for so finding myself submitting assignments to Joeytales is not exactly a detour from my journey through life. I am not a writer, I am not a composer of sorts, I am a storyteller, not a refined one but not a crude one either.
I met Joel of the famous Joeytales (or so I hear) in campus. It was the first day of school, and despite his really dark complexion we were totally the same. People even called us the Cramp Twins, and yes I was the light skinned one with the glasses. I loved the girls. Chatting them up always gave me the thrill. When in action I felt like Captain Jack Sparrow on the Black Pearl. I was weird then. Regardless, my life was quite interesting and I tried to make everyone around me have fun. The funny thing about that day we met is that I had been talking with Joel the entire evening but only came to know his name after some random guy joined us and introduced himself forcing us to do the same.
I have no clue what we talked about that day, but I remember listening to his collection of ragga songs on one of those China players that had a VCD player, a radio, and even an internal speaker. At the time TOK was the in thing, and matatus were playing cds with funny names like Missiles by a guy named Simple Simon advertising a certain Nyanza House which supposedly held jam sessions on a Sunday. The thing about these Missiles was they had numbers and for a guy who went to high school with a name can be pronounced but not named. I was very dumbfounded.
I know I have the most complex life (I’m not trying to impress the ladies), and to help you join the group of the very few who understand me I will have to describe the who, the what, the where, the why and the how.
So here goes:
I look like Bill Gates without the money, I have been a DJ, I have a mulika mwizi that I flaunt but only because it gets people’s attention, I am the guy you least expect to hit a conversation with but after an encounter you get shocked. I am the smart guy who can’t convert the genius to good grades, the guy who can do a presentation without preparing for it, the hardworking guy who can’t stand bosses and the guy who gets laid a lot (sometimes under weird circumstances). I do not know what will happen next in my life, most of the times my life outside work shocks everyone including myself.
I have no girlfriend, but I am not single, Facebook calls it complicated but after the full story you realize that complicated doesn’t do my relationship status justice. I have only one item remaining on my bucket list which is getting laid by a South Sudanese chick, something that has evaded me for a year now. My name precedes me and my knowledge of this makes me avoid chicks who have heard my name. They think too much of me and always get disappointed.
I don’t drink, yet my favorite drink is tequila but only because of the magic it does to women (God bless the Mexican who thought of extracting juice from a blue cactus), I fit well in a boutique hotel, and even better in a road side kiosk. I am at times as open as a kindergarten’s children’s book and at times as mysterious as a dusty Atomic Physics book rotting away in a university library (we all know nowadays everyone googles). I have written amazing papers in campus, and written even shittier papers in the same institution. I am going to start my Masters degree, a factor even my own parents have found bewildering.
I love classical music and jazz, yet I can sing word for word on most Rihanna songs. I have worn blings (fake lil wayne wannabe blings), but never worn a suit and a tie (though I own three suits). I have attended one wedding only because I was forced to as it was a business thing. I have attended three funerals; two of which were in the same week and were work related. I like hanging out with people and I talk a lot about life, but I am actually a closed quiet person who would prefer to be alone reading a book.
I play the piano, I play chess, I play soccer, I play pool (billiards), I can swim but I resent it, I play table tennis (I suck at it), I play hockey, I play volleyball, I hit the gym but my body shies away from revealing this deep dark secret. I am the guy who bought an ipad just so I could get laid, and yes am also the guy whose been laid coz of an ipad. I am the guy with a deep understanding of things, who is very funny when funny, and bloody boring when boring (the British amaze me by their choice of words).
I am the guy with a collection of three hundred books you should not die without reading, a roots cd, an original Lionell Richie can’t slow down album, a packet of cigarettes with no lighter, condoms that have expired, three brands of shower gel, imperial leather soap (because my mother made us use it when we were kids), an oversize ring that I don’t wear and two pieces of furniture I made myself.
I am the guy who also has had boring evenings filled with deep empty boredom. The stories that follow will be in no order whatsoever as I have no clue where to start.
I hate having to work on a Saturday. I hate it more than I hate Jimmy Gait’s fashion sense. It doesn’t help that it is only once a month that I am expected to report to work on a weekend. This is because the Friday nights before such Saturdays my friends always come up with such enticing, irresistible plans. This makes being at work the following day a dreadful experience. More dreadful than being tied to a chair and forced to watch KBC for four few hours.
It is Saturday morning as I write this. I am seated on my desk and my head feels so heavy I am considering going for a CT scan. I am wishing I could detach my head from my body and place it on the table so it can leave me in peace. I had to be punctual today because I suspect my boss has me on close watch. Last month while I was meant to be working I happened to be 130kms away making merry in Embu. My boss found out that I was AWOL so if it happened again I will be kicked me out of this company.
Luckily there’s not much to do today and I hope it stays that way because my mind is not with me. I am actually on autopilot. At least I get to keep myself busy by typing away. That way if my boss had set up a spy camera in the office, I will still appear to be an industrious, committed employee.
Having been out for the better part of the night, I had been operating on energy saving mode since I woke up this morning. Even as I headed to work the only thing that would have attracted my attention was if someone set me on fire, or if I came across a freaking Range Rover limousine. Yep, this morning while coming to work I saw this gorgeous, out of this world Range Rover limousine!
This car (or should I say automobile) was sparkling white and spotless. It looked like it had spent the better part of the morning in a sauna. The way it was gleaming I suspect it had been massaged with Nivea body lotion. The windows were tinted to provide the occupants with their well deserved privacy. That’s a smart move because if I were to see an acquaintance being driven in a Range Rover limousine I would catch up with the ride in traffic, go over and knock on the window and beg him/her to let me in.
Okay maybe that wouldn’t have turned out too well since there was police escort just in case a crazy man tried to cause disturbance.
I saw the ride and I was like bloody hell am I seeing right… did someone spike my tea… did CMC start making Range Rover buses… oh wait is that a Range Rover limousine! Are the Cash Money Brothers in Kenya… In short, Joey was transfixed. The sight of its sheer beauty wiped all traces of sleep from my head. I am sure this is how I looked as it passed.
Some random guy took a photo of the ride at NPC Karen and posted it on twitter. This ride is so awesome I wouldn’t be surprised if the newlyweds will be having their after party and honeymoon inside it. If I happened to set foot in that car they would have to tow me out.
The Range apparently it costs 50K an hour to hire! In the future, whenever the couple fights and things get ugly, it’s not the vows that will keep them together but the memories of the ride they took in that limousine, and the money they spent on it. One of them will go like, “mama/baba nani, before you pack your bags, do you remember how much it cost us to hire that limo on our wedding day? Unless they can refund our money there’s no way we’re getting a divorce.”
If I owned that car I would live in it. Then instead of spending so much on rent I would only be paying parking fees. Heck I wouldn’t even need an office. I would report to work but perform my duties from the car. If anyone needed me, my office would be conveniently situated in the basement parking.
That car can probably drive itself and I have a feeling it can even engage you in a conversation. I imagine when you’re bored it tries to cheer you up and says something like:
“Sir you look gloomy today, would you like to hear an interesting story?”
“Sure go ahead.”
“You won’t believe the cat fight I witnessed last night on the streets. Boy didn’t those chicks tear each other apart. One had her weave ripped right out of her head.”
“C’mon man why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I tried sir but you were passed out.”
“At least tell me you recorded a video.”
“Oh crap I should have thought of that, shouldn’t I?”
“At times you’re so dumb it hurts.”
“That’s a mean thing to say sir.”
“Just shut up and take me home, will you?”
“You mean your parking space right?”
Okay guys I will head on home now before I infect you with my psychiatric disorder. It is half past noon and I am starting to hallucinate. I can see my bed giving me suggestive looks. Thank God I have the week’s post because if I get into that bed this afternoon I might just wake up on Monday morning. This boy is heading home to sleep.
Whenever I’m visiting my parents I brace myself for two things: The first is overfeeding – I get to test the elastic limit of my stomach every time I go home. The second is dealing with that biting cold. It gets so cold there if you stay in one position for too long you risk turning to ice.
If my mom gets wind that I will be visiting, she excuses the house help and takes over the kitchen. She prepares the food herself. And she knows that I am a bit challenged when it comes to matters cooking so she makes enough for me to take home. Today I came home with so many chapatis and enough pilau to last me a couple of days. My fridge even sounds different today. It sort of grunts when I only have tomatoes in it. Today it’s humming.
My folks reside in Ngong. It gets spitefully cold in my neck of the woods. If geologists were to dig a little bit deeper, they would ascertain that Ngong is in the polar regions. You can cover yourself with three blankets and still search for a sweater. In fact, getting into bed is like stepping into a cold shower. You prep yourself mentally before getting in between those sheets. At night, the beddings are as cold as frozen chapati.
Ngong is a great place though. The air is fresh and the environment is serene. When we moved there it was not half as developed as it is today. Our nearest neighbor was like three football pitches away. I remember asking my big bro if there could be cheetahs roaming that area. I thought we’d moved to the wilderness. It would be the last time I would ever see things like roller skates again. For the first time I saw kids playing with those homemade paper balls. Some of the natives looked at us like we were E.T. But we soon got neighbors from the estates. And I could see the culture shock on the kids’ faces when they realized Ngong was no estate.
I got many neighbors that were about the same age as I was. Soon we were a clique. For the boys, as we grew older our favorite past time changed from climbing trees to chasing girls. Back then I didn’t fare too well when it came to charming the cuties. I was tiny, shy and I always seemed to say the wrong things. I didn’t know that girls like to be flattered and I would come up with all sorts of awkward lines like, “Look, you’re shoes look like mine!” or “Those matutas on your head make you look like Medusa.”
We’re all grown up now. We’re all caught up in varied livelihoods, each one of us chasing our own dreams and ambitions. We do not get to see each other as often. Some have stepped up and started families. Occupation has also proven to be a mean wedge. Our ‘base’ is no more. Base was the place the boys met up and shared stories.
At times I go for long without visiting my hood. There’s even a time I went home and the watchman refused to let me in! As I was trying to open the gate from outside an intimidating voice from the other side demanded to know who I was. I gave him my name and he was like, “Unataka nini?” I told him that I lived there and he was like how come I’ve never seen you before. I realized it was not a drill so I stepped back lest he chops my hand off as I insist on opening the gate.
At some point I gave up trying to negotiate with him and I took out my phone to call my dad and that’s when he let me in, probably fearing that I would put him in trouble. But even after opening the gate he escorted me to the door and he did not turn back until he heard my mom shouting with excitement. Luckily it was not the house help that opened the door. Any sign of hesitation would have seen the watchman drive an arrow through my temple. I wonder if it’s the same guy that was on duty when thugs attacked my folks and made away with my mom’s laptop in the middle of the night. He was probably all braggadocio because I am small and I don’t look like I can slaughter a chicken.
Anyway, I am a different person when I get into my parents’ house. I compose myself and I act like the person I was meant to be when I grew up. I do this out of reverence toward my parents. I do not leave anything to chance. I never take my calls in the living room. I excuse myself and walk to my bedroom when my phone rings. Once I picked a friend’s call while seated next to my dad and the bugger on the other side was in a noisy club shouting, “Dude hebu bring your black ass to town asap these drinks are not going to drink themselves!” Of course I acted puzzled and hung up claiming that it was a wrong number.
My dad engages me in intelligent discussions. I sure hope I come off as intelligent after all the money he spent on my fees. My mom is always marveling at her newest gadget. This weekend it was her newly acquired smartphone that runs ICS OS! Mind you she is like 55 years old. You should see how excited she was about her new acquisition. The features puzzled her and she had like a thousand questions which I patiently answered. Some I answered twice… or thrice. I wouldn’t be surprised if I go home in the future and I find her DJ-ing on the decks with Beats by Dre headphones hanging over her head.
In other matters, why is it that only two religions have celebrations that are marked internationally as holidays? Our brothers and sisters who are into Buddhism, Judaism and any other -ism out there out to campaign to have their religious festivals celebrated globally. We need more of these holidays.
Eid Mubarak to all our Muslim brothers and sisters!