Matatu man-Ace

Before this week’s post I have to make the following clarification, the quotes of the week are what some of us call wisdom by the people. In that case it would be rare to find quotes from prominent personalities and philosophers unless no other quote stands out like theirs do. Lets get on with this post:


Many of us will sometimes start asking themselves this question, did I get into the right matatu? Many times this question will linger on your mind cos you jumped onto the nearest matatu to run away from the pregnant lady in front of you. This could be cos she looks familiar and your last encounter was all leather, no rubber in between. This could also be to avoid meeting someone you are indebted to and paying up is not in your long term plans. Other times it could be to avoid a face to face encounter with your mother-in-law, ex or just simply John who has ceaselessly shown his interest in you, beware you are a man as well. That’s nasty even if John simply believes you are playing hard to get. Maybe you ran into that matatu to avoid hiked fares when it rains especially if the matatu crew is plain stupid( I mean why pick passengers if it’s about to rain, can’t you wait for the first drops and charge double, douchebag!) Maybe it’s the middle of the night and tusker is awash with matatus of all shades all playing obscene music and touts shouting words like “mbao mbao mbao” or “umoja mmoja” or my favourite “Wanne twende” yet the only seated person in the matatu is the driver. What of the times when you have been drinking the past 5 hours and it just dawned on you that the woman at home is the crazy type. Whether it your mum, sister, auntie, uncle(some men behave like women, they got issues with you hanging out)  or worse your wife or maybe its that woman you took home some night 4 months ago and it has never occurred to her she should go back. She has literally changed your life and you have tried everything to get her to go away including buying a calendar or a plaque written “East or west home is best” or the one that goes on and on about how men are vultures and should never be trusted all but to no avail.

You are in this mat and you look around to see a sense of familiarity but you aren’t sure you have taken such a ride home before. So you ask the passenger next to you who gives you a look like you just got to heaven and asked Jesus where you can find Hitler. By the way this passenger next to you is some girl of the purple generation the one who wear nets as trousers, nets that make their ass hang out in an X-rated manner. Her hair consists of strands of blue, yellow, green,orange and pink and you are awed at the skill involved to mix those colors cos all these is at the centre of the head, some people would think it was supposed to be a mahawk but even a hawk would rather die that have this heinousness on its head. By the way this girl is chewing pk like she happened to read a manual, yaani her mouth produces sound effects that seem to blend in with the loud music in the mat. So you decide to look around cos after all this is Nairobi and it’s a one man army affair, Rambo style. So here are the tips that would let you know which matatu you took.

It is a 14 seater matatu and the music is super loud with a woofer system and kinda reminds you that your relatives have died of heart failure before. This music, you think, would help pump your blood when your hear fails. On the roof is pictures of some movie stars and music stars who all got one thing in common, they are not afraid to be naked and they are drug addicts. On the windows are “zusha” stickers that remind you that its your right to be driven properly yet the past five minutes the mat has been on a pavement, through an petrol station and gone onto the other carriage way. Next to that sticker is one written “SMS only” and another that says “funga dirisha ungekuwa unataka upepo ungepanda bodaboda”. The seats in this matatu are leather or velvet and the tout has studs plus some shiny thing in their teeth besides he’s holding a bottle of viceroy. He taps passengers on their shoulders and stays with your change until you claim, if you remember to do so and when you do he pretends he doesn’t remember you produced a thousand shillings note and prods you before he finally gives your proper change. Maybe when you first asked for your change he gave 50 and waited for you to protest before he gave you the proper change. He sticks his head outside the window and insults deserved insults on those who drive probox, vits and any heinous Toyota cars. Back at the stage he didn’t mention the fare but on the way he charges double and the matatu takes routes that makes you ask yourself the question, “Did I get into the right matatu?”If this is your predicament sit safe because your headed to the legendary Umoja estate.

The matatu series continues next week and now to the quote of the week,

“never accept responsibility of a pregnancy of a one night stand lest you be the father of all generations”


The art of Shitting

So guys am introducing a new thing, every post will come with a quote of the week and because next Monday will be Labour day in Kenya, I decided to do the post early. So here goes::



She’s breathing heavily and sweating through every pore in her body. Her eyes roll uneasily from side to side as if trying to figure out how she got in this situation she keeps adjusting her immense figure to find a better sitting position and each time she does that someone tags at her and begs her to be considerate. In her sweaty palms she desperately clutches her idiotic phone. She tries to reach her bag to reach into the smaller bag inside it and then into the smaller bag inside the smaller bag but her position provides resistance. She looks helplessly to her left and is met with a look that seems to say “who tells you am any comfortable.”  Just when she thinks it couldn’t get any worse a foul mouth and stinking tout snaps his filthy fingers in front of her face. She feels like shouting but is held back at being seen a weirdo because in this noble city in Sahara people have learnt to live with such. They find overlapping fun, no music boring and loud music is the new barometer for hippiness. Graffiti stain every car in the street and in  fact the public have not been left behind, no wonder you see cars with mud spray on them even in the driest Nairobi weather. Somebody told me that there’s a new skunk works place where you get your car sprayed with mud for KSHs. 50, wow who can take me there cos my conscience needs more mad and less alcohol.

I’d  love to say that I can rectify this situation on our roads. I would love to say that I got a way of raising Michuki from the dead, reinstating him in his environment ministry then giving him a transfer into the transport docket. I would even love to say that I know a guy who makes Michuki’s brevity and deptness sound like shitting in the bush. Crap! Wipe that because for those of us who have shit in the bush nothing is more fun. You know God created things to go together: sleeping and waking, talking and STFU, bitches and angels, Avril and Kalkye. I hope you see my drift because shitting and eating are that together in fact more than chanda na pete. These two need each other because without having something to eat you can’t shit, if of cos you ignore all politicians, matatu touts and Kanjo who do shit from their mouth that will make an Omundu Mulosi taking a plate of ugali with Engokho rethink the real use of the mouth. Eating is fun, a tale shitting has never shared before. Many people always take shitting for granted because they don’t see the underlying significance of it but were they to learn the importance of releasing all the toxics from all those “sweet on the lips thick on the hips” kinda food we consume then they will understand its significance. Am afraid I can’t teach about the significance of shitting but I can about the proper ways to do so.

Shitting should be a fun activity and it shouldn’t involve you wailing in the toilet waiting for a pollen grain to drop from your mighty butt hole before you sigh heavily with some sense of relief. No shitting shouldn’t be that. It shouldn’t even be those moments when you rush into a public toilet and squeeze your butt in order that nobody hear you endesha only to finish and realize that yu didn’t pick the toilet paper on your way in. shitting shouldn’t be the days when you have your eyes closed squeezing tonne after tonne out. It shouldn’t be those moment when you leave a toilet and see people holding their nose while pointing at you, not at all. In fact shitting should be more fun. It is the only activity where you can raise your hands in the sky and your pants on the floor and close your eyes at the same time. I believe it is the only naked activity that is as much fun as sex but without the weird moments after your done. Here there are no strings attached unless of cos you let a piece stick on the toilet seat. It is thus not surprising that after our ancestors saw the rhetoric in squatting they invented the toilet seat.

Ok ok i know this post was supposed to be about matatus and not taking a piss but I couldn’t resist the charm of creating a scene.  And by the way the post of matatus is coming your way mid next week.

And friends one more thing,

“If You can’t afford to laugh at least once each day then my friend you are poor indeed”

who said that? help me find out



The pain in the Hope

He stares below at the multitude before him and silently smiles. This group had grown exponentially over the past ten years. Ten years ago he was struggling through life barely able to afford a meal a day. Ten years ago his friend had grown tired of his endless pleas for money and give-aways. Ten years ago he had tried everything from herdsboy, house boy and any type of boy that ensured he would keep something in his stomach. He had made contacts with the high and mighty. The women who walked on high heels and wore tight and short skirts to the ones who walked in panties he had heard they were called bikinis. Some of these women were very beautiful while others had beautiful purses. He had slept with most of them at their hour of need and he’d hoped from one mistress to another in pursuit for the ultimate boss. The lady who pays well and when he found her he decided to change the rules of the game. He decided to be the boss and call the shots. That was his undoing because in the world of women who drove big cars, worked big jobs, swayed their bony behinds and carried goatskins in under arms no man was irreplaceable. They could afford it all and all they needed was not some MR. I own your ass.  His downfall was a sprint because soon he found himself at rock bottom.

He devised a plan to get back up. And the plan involved being a salesman. He would sell one of the most sought after commodities the world over, hope. And that is how this multitude began, with 10 people at first then 50 and now he’d lost count. Even as a young boy he’s never imagined leading such a big group. In those days his treasured times involved sitting at his grandma’s feet and his hair being cleaned out. Sometimes with a piece of old knife, other times with a scissor and his favourite was the times she used a razor blade. The blade made some soothing sound when it journeyed across his ugly shaped head. This sound was the only music in those days. The only radio in the home belonged to his father and he carried it everywhere he went, even to church. After church all the few learned men in the village would hurdle around this piece f technology and listen keenly to the words that came out of it. Any child who strayed near them would have a hearty ass whooping. Those were the days when the child belonged to the society and any old member was empowered to whop your ass. Woe unto you if you went home crying or reported this to your parents because then they would punish you for not being responsible enough to learn your lesson and move on. These were the days he would wrap an old clothe around a tiny stick to clean his grandma’s ear, this he did every time she was convinced she had grown deaf, and each time she praised his dexterity and magic. He reminisced of Zibamba, the randy girl from the neighbourhood village who had stolen his innocence. He had gone grazing and she had gone to fetch firewood. He vaguely remembers the details of how it all started save for she was holding his pee pee and it felt good. He also remembered the sensational feeling when he peed inside her, the best feeling he’d ever experienced. Now he was a grown man, he had broken 20 hearts, nay 30 hearts, ok ok maybe they are more. He had had fun. Behind he had left a trail of bastards, law suits, arrest warrants and certain petty offenses. But that was his past, now he bragged of being a changed man.

He looks into the audience and recognizes the boy who was at his house last night. He had asked him to do it with him so that he would pay his fees. He wasn’t sure if he would hold his end of the bargain. He was surprised how members of this audience kept coming to him seeking favours. Why him? Can’t they as well seek their own like he did without being sore sights at his door every single second. Two rows behind is the hitherto young girl who now clutched onto the life form in her arms, maybe his or not. How would he know after all they had done it just once, she must think he’s stupid? He denied her an audience and gave her a thousand shilling to disappear then called on his lawyer and asked for a restrainment order. Money could do a lot of things, he had come to learn and lack of money is the most desperate situation one could find themselves. Since he got himself in his new found well being he’d bought a new Jaguar XFR and customized the interior. He had bought a house in Muthaiga, another in Runda and now he had 200 acres in Limuru. His new Range rover would be arriving in a months time. The city had received him well, they had given him a VIP status which meant he could park any of his cars anywhere. He would occasionally appear in the press most times being lavished with praise for the positive impact he had on the citizenry. Politicians had come to notice him and some came asking for advice, others seeking his blessing and support.

He looks up at the multitude before him and picks the book he’s been flipping its pages all this time and join the crowd in saying, “This is my bible, I am what it says I am. I have what it says I have. I can do what it says I can do…” soon this sermon will be over and he will call his favourite girls for a party into the Monday morning.

Dear Right Hand

Am not one of those people who let women sit on me so I tend to be ahead in my game. I prepare answers for every conceivable question I know might ruin the perfect arrangement I have with any lady. This includes the awestruck moments when out of nowhere she asks, So what do you call what we have? Come ‘ on I have had a perfect relationship with my right hand but I’m yet to answer that question. It has seen me through lonely nights, silently watched while I fantasize over Jessica Alba before I ultimately turn to it. It has been there for me through the good and the bad but one thing it has done so well that I wish it had better tits, smoother skin and sexy lips is that it has been there for me. All this time it has never nagged me, asked me where I was, with whom and why I seem to take it for granted.

Now if any man would find a more loyal friend than his right hand then he would gladly set the target(nay vow) “till death do us part.” Most men will ferociously deny any claim that they have turned to the hand when the nights were long, and women drifting apart but none will deny that one time or the other they have toyed with the idea to let the hand do the work. After all the right hand requires no promises spoken in haste and in expectation of sweaty ordeal , the case that it transfers no STD or asks for cover when used notwithstanding.

Now one wise lonely man once said something to do with great things, acts or people should be emulated or some clap trap whose meaning is close to that. I can bet a million barrels of Turkana oil that he was talking about his right hand (even if you take my bet I have never paid a bet and am not about to start). Men, it seems have learnt to adapt and stories are told of the days when the ingwe brothers found comfort in the den of their poultry or the Mijikenda men who when they had had enough of a tight-assed woman sitting on their back they let the ball roll from their courts, literally. By the way how come Maendeleo ya Wanaume has never given this Mijikenda men a lifetime award on behalf of all men. Trust me, men adapt and Nyeri men will soon surprise the world with their ingenuity. I propose they look into the anatomy of our pig brother who gives their women 30 minutes of orgasm, Woo Hooh! Call me a pig any day and I will buy you a drink, maybe more depending on the time of the month.

Back to the right hand, few men have stood to thank this close friend for the services HE has offered and a number are still in denial for the legendary contribution our common friend has accorded. In a night when a hyena howls in the distance and the crickets shrill their prayers for morning dew, man has always had a companion in bed, whether the women like it or not. A kange on a mat once told me “you can take away sex from the life of a man but you can never successful eliminate his orgasms” and I can’t agree more.

Sometimes I have had to let this friend of man play the second fiddle, and am sorry this is one of those times and for that I apologize. I apologize because I know that when my nights are restored to default I would have no friend to turn to but RH. I seek its permission because the times I have called on it before I have raped it. I have ravished the living hell out of its naiveté. I have defiled its innocence by my superior muscular ability and it has not taken me to no court, but has watched silently from the days I lose my sanity to the ones I realize that it’s obscene to use my sacred friend for such unmentionable acts.

Till next time my dear friend, I will let you in on a little secret. This princess am using as your replacement is not going to last. Here’s a punch line: Men are like spiderman, they have sticky hands every morning.

High School- the untold stories

High school has some of my favorite experiences in life. Too bad this is not synonymous with all of us. In my post high school years I have met people who will give anything to forget high school, others will give everything just to have another go, and others still use despicable words to describe their classmates, schoolmates, teachers and even supporting staff. Luckily am not one of those people.

In high school I was king. I made people squeal, teachers tremble and prefects whisper. I decided when it was right to report noise makers and when it they were allowed to talk. I decided who eats, whose sister was hot and whose was not. When I walked in a hall, a hush fell into the room such that the only things audible was the heels of my suede shoes. While other regular students put on bata toughees I made do with top of the range suede Gucci shoes. This is all a lie. I was never anything mentioned above, I was just another John Doe. Let me indulge you.

When I was in high school, schools were run by powerful cops who would give one heinous punishment. The fact that they were in form 1 and you a form 4 never mattered. There the law was anything a tiny form 1 class prefect thought was humiliating enough for the hugely built form 4. Bullying had long been banned and thus the elderly members of the society never enjoyed the once enviable level of respect our fore fathers fondly talks about. A cop could make you lie in the assembly ground the whole day, the scorching sun notwithstanding. Thinking about threatening a cop was an offence whether within the school compound or outside it. The schools jurisdiction extended the entire four years from the moment you got the admission letter to the moment you cleared from school. Everything was punishable based on the emotional scale. You could spank the apple bottom of a randy Teacher on Practice and get away with it except for a few laughter and crazy questions from the teachers in the lower staffroom.  Other times you could have forgotten to spread your bed and get a mandatory 2 week vacation at home and if your lucky they could spice it up with punishments that involves you soaking the football pitch. The water used in this effort was always from the borehole and the supervising teacher could be a sly one who would wait an entire hour so that when he comes the pitch is completely dry. That was the life that as the principal used to say, the school admits a boy and produces a gentleman at the end of high school.

Stringent rules have a way of breeding outlaws and my high school had its share of outlaws. Unlike the guys in the movies who fear no one and run lights, curse before judges and have huge tattoos of their asses on their faces ours were known only to the select few.  They operated in a way that would make guerilla warfare a big joke. As much as they hid in the comfort of darkness and anonymity their actions were well known to the cops and cop lovers. These are the guys whose most active sessions in school was when the lights went out, in dark coners and in the hostels. They did despicable things to cops from sitting on their faces and slowly fart their contempt into their mouth to throwing a flying toilet into your white shirt during a funky. When the lights went out our generator which had to be turned manually on provided them the much needed moments to avenge the inhumanity bestowed on them. They would noiselessly walk to a cops position and lash out the loudest slap ever known to darkness. By the time the lights came on everybody will be seated at their position laughing themselves to death and the cop would unleash the black book. Generally the black book was a book where noisemakers and any other silly offenders were recorded for the dreariest of punishments. The general policy was that  by giving such punishments to these silly offenders they won’t breed into huge offenders. Who knows maybe it works.

Once your name was written into the black book the damage was done and we adapted in ways that included standing on top of the cops locker and telling stories to the amusement of the rest of the class. Other times we could start mchongoano with fellow offenders who would be seated in the farthest corner of the class. Other times we read out stolen love letters to the dismay of their recipients who might not have realized they were gone. This went as far as marking the spelling and grammar mistakes and underlining the juiciest part of the entire love letter. If by mistake that letter belonged to a cop then we copied into several papers and distributed to the class as an assignment. Woe to their girlfriends who were unlucky enough to travel with the outlaws home (everybody who went to school upcountry knows the beauty of the night bus).

During funkies everybody put on their best. Even the loudmouths whose only clean thing was their prayer found their way into tight fitting clothes borrowed (nay Stolen) from form ones.  Rosy words mingled easily with a luoish pronunciation of English words as easy as the naivete of a luhya was robbed by the sexy brown teethed girl from the sister school. The Kamba spoke in words that required the patience of a saint and the deaf ears of pig. The kikuyu thrived in the business of selling things that were hitherto illegal within the school compound d and very few people could explain their entry point into the tightly secured school. The kalenjin brushed their shoes clean and their teeth smelled of utter alienation. The kisii spoke in the musical tongue that always ended in high notes. But above all else these funkies made friends where enemies once existed and relatives where strangers once were. The height of honesty is still hard to come by as then we said it in your face on our assessment of your girlfriend. They were either hot or not and the nots seemed to rule in numbers. We got to learn who had a sexy sister and whose sister had a man face, hands or even legs.

When the night drew nigh a number still had no dates we went into turbo mode. One that involved a group of boys talking their way into one girls heart simultaneously. The confusion that arose within the girls who ever found themselves in this position explains the caresses and torn clothes they went back to their school in. To explain the group work just a tiny bit it involve one guy removing another’s had from the girls tits only to find another hand already in place and the process continued over and over. For the lucky ones who got laid in the field, in the farm lands and in the hidden corners I know

In a nutshell had I gone back to high school I would be different I wouldn’t be the coward I was I would stand up and reclaim the lost dignity. Yeah Yeah am just talking, cowards live longer and that explains why even though I pretend otherwise I would still be the coward or worse a douche bag.

How to get a man to marry you

Ladies today I give free advice. I tell you when you know if the prince you have waited for patiently will be lame enough to bend one knee( assuming it is intentional) and produce a very expensive(cheap is expensive as well) piece of mineral to ask you the words all men dread, Will you marry me? First of all the whole ordeal is scary and as much as men are thought of as the lion slayers, (read goliath if your man is called David) they are all a bunch of sissies. If you don’t believe me, see how he reacts when you ask him to meet your parents, or worse your hot friends (if he has slept with any of them ).


Ok let me get down to business but before I do here are a few confessions I have to make. Jessica Alba is hot, so hot that it hurts to see her looking so adorable.

So if you want your man to get on his knees and ask you that stupid question do the following. Mind you this list is not in order of significance.

  1. 1.       Play play station  with him

If a man pauses his PS even once to listen to you, then I bet the writing is on the wall. He is either dumb enough to think the pause will change his losing streak or he is trying to ask you to get the hell out of his life. If he does this everyday, then he thinks you are his mother. That is not good especially if you will want to sleep with him.

If you are really serious enough about him then you need to learnt to play the freaking games and be warned never beat a man at PS because then he’ll start treating you like one of the boys (that’s bad as long as he never sleeps with the boys).

  1. 2.       Make sure his beer never runs out

Beer is all any man needs to have fun, he doesn’t need you but he needs a constant supply of beer, that’s where you come in. Don’t tell him he drinks too much because he will know he has had too much if he wakes up in the morning and doesn’t remember he promised to take you to a picnic, or a walk.

  1. 3.       Cook his favourite food, frequently

All mums tell their daughter’s that the way to a man’s heart is through the stomach so trust your mum if she managed to get your day and keep him all that time. This holds as long as your dad is not holding onto the marriage because no hot girl finds him attractive, he can’t wash his clothes or he’s just a coward who won’t take any risks.

  1. 4.       Don’t grill him where he was

If a child hates when you ask them where they were, my bet is that a man loathes the person who asks them this question. You know men are like animals, they want to roam like a dog, have long orgasms like the pig and have threesomes like a female dog. So if you ask them where they were you remind them that they are not animals yet and that hurts.

  1. 5.       Don’t nag

The reason why he bought a music system, a television and an ipod is to listen to them and not you. So take your place and let the electronics do their work. Believe it or not, he knows you are always right, have more than enough shoes, always look beautiful and your mama is a bitch so don’t make him tell this to you over and over again.

Who wants to apologize for nothing and everything anyway?

  1. 6.       Keep the toilet seat up

There’s a reason its called a toilet seat so if nobody is sitting on it, for heaven’s sake keep it up!! Otherwise he might walk in with his eyes close and piss on it (pun intended) accidentally.

  1. 7.       Don’t throw away his pornography

How do I even explain this so that you understand? Yeah! I get it that’s the way it is, no question s asked.

  1. 8.       Ask him to write down all the things he would love you to do and do them diligently

This I bet is the king of all points aforementioned. If you do this today, tomorrow you will be engaged, believe me. I lie a lot anyway.


  1. 9.       Don’t compare him with the neighbor’s husband

If you like the neighbor’s husband, walk over to the neighbor and tell her but don’t start saying who drives a bigger car, owns a better job, lives in a better furnished house, exercises, doesn’t lie all day doing nothing lest you want your man to tell you that the neighbor’s wife is hotter than you.

Keep telling him he’s the best man in the world even though he’s not, will never be and has never been. Sometimes don’t start fishing unless you are ready to face the shark.


  1. 10.   Look beautiful and sexy

This is means a lot to any man to walk the streets and keep looking to his left at the most beautiful woman around. Every man feels good if other men keep admiring what he has especially if it is a woman. Be warned though that this will never stop him from looking at other things on offer. Remember Robert Knepper said, “Just cos am checking the menu doesn’t mean I’ll have dessert.”

I hope that helps y’all.