In pursuit of Opprotunity

Campus has been good to me. I mean I thought campus will be a place where I try out all those crazy things I watched in movies. Things like telling the lifeless professor to shut up and get a life. Everybody who has watched 3 idiots sure wish they were the ones who were asked to explain how an induction motor starts. Or that they wrote the speech that ‘silencer’ dutifully read. I don’t know about you all, but I thought about all that crazy stuff. Like being the idiot who came up with stupid and hilarious answers to being the smart ass that astounded the whole world. In other words, I wanted to be the jack of all trades. A friend of mine once confided in me that when he came to campus he believed he would be the smartest guy to step foot in a Kenyan institution. He thought the lecturers will make statements like, “Why can’t you be like John? he gets the highest marks, he respects me and sometimes he even teaches me new concepts. I have taught for so many years but I have never met an outstanding student like him.” So I guess am not the only one who wanted to be a smart ass or the idiot for during my time in school I’ve heard questions like, “who collects taxes?” “Who hikes the price of Unga” “Is Mwalimu Kingangi really a mwalimu” But suppose I were to highlight my time in campus I would talk of the time Kish smoked his first puff of weed and became a prophet and went on and on saying, “I can hear the Lord speaking to me. He is saying….” Or the times he simply had too much to drink and revealed all those secrets I confided in him. But nothing simply beats the day when we woke up to find two guys embracing in sleep, buck naked. I know I said CU wasn’t my thing but that weekend I sure went for confession.

Before I lose myself trying to tell stories of the past, am going to talk about my feelings. You guy, yes you stop moving to the next tab. It’s not like am going to cry or say that Jessica’s baby is Asian. Well I could talk about that but today I choose to voice the pains of looking for a job. In a perfect world we all know people who know people who know other people. This people ensure that at the point we get out of campus we secure a well-paying job complete with a company car and a nice big mansion in Muthaiga. But that’s just for the unlucky few who lack start-ups with big potential like that guy who sells mandazi from office to office. Or him who doesn’t know people in the drug world who can hook them up with the victoria Backahm designed Range Rover evoque. While some people I’ve known have chanced on big ideas that could make internet business a joke and facebook the punchline, it floods my eyes to see their lack of motivation or skills to make such dreams a reality. I suppose all is not lost to such people because I believe like Wozniac found his Steve Jobs these people will find their own Mark Zuckerberg.


While I believe am gifted with a mind like few others, I lack the drive to bring such ideas to fruition. I mean I thought about windows 8 before they released windows 7. M-pesa was how I moved money while in high school. I mean you transfer credit from one phone to another until finally you get a tonne of credit on your chosen sim card. Genius huh! Well unlike Safaricom’s rip-off, mine lacked transaction fees so I bet had I licensed the idea I would be that arrogant guy who drives around 560hp. That’s car language for 2013 BMW m5 which surprise! Surprise! got whooped by a 406hp Tesla model s which happens to be an all electric car. Still on my insanely unique and profitable ideas, upgrading Thika road was an idea I put into the suggestion box at parliament. And there’s more I deas from where that came. All the Mwangis reading this post are prepared to steal my next idea and just to show how much I appreciate you coming by I’m gonna say it somewhere in my next words.

In the meantime am gonna finish writing my job application letter and send to those companies that have no idea what an asset I can be to them. i believe am not alone when I say writing job application letters is a tonne harder than writing love letters. I mean in love letters you could quote lines from songs in your vernacular and the lady will never find out or you could copy the letter written by your deskmate word for word and it will still pass. My first draft for a job application went something like this:

Hey guys, I want to apply for a position in your finance department. I totally understand that while right now you might not have a vacancy available, sooner or later Mutiso will die, Onyango might resign or it will be discovered that Njuguna stole from the company. It is at such times that I beseech you to find it within your HR’s grace to give me the job. We both know that as much as you would muse about how I should have five years’ experience, you would conduct training on the job soon as I get the position. I have worked for my mum for several years cleaning utensils, cooking or even running small errands like going to Mama Kathenge’s house to see what new furniture they have so my dad could buy a better one. This is a job that uses the highest level of skill and dexterity and I have been able to deliver with unbelievable success. But that should not be taken to mean am perfect, well I am but Mama Kathenge’s dog once bit me so I have some unresolved fear peeping inside me.

Even in times when the company decides to host a get together I can deliver such rarities like good weed: from weed cake to veve all those things that I understand your social standards have made it hard to acquire. I can be useful in errands such as going to facebook and saying scandalous things about the competing company or #TwitterBigStick them. let it not be lost on you that suppose you pass me by on the upcoming opportunity I will join the competition and soon you will regret your actions.

Am not a guy fond of goodbyes but just so you know, goodbye and don’t forget to tell your very sexy secretary to call me, using her line.



Oooh the bright idea is buying the blocked China phones then selling them after unblocking them. See! I Keep my promises.


Friday Night, The morning After


I’ve been in the house for quite a while. I haven’t checked out the time but from the amount of light that go past the curtain into my room I reckon it’s a little past 11, 2 if am still drunk. The events of last night are just a memory but proof of a half-naked lady hurdle to cusp her hands on my man boobs. I turn to look at her face but she buries it into my long unkempt hair. I don.t remember her name or even why I decided to bring her home last night. Probably I do but am too hangovered to admit that I was trying to find out if I could still shuffle, get down and most important of all still out there in the dating scene. She has a subtle scent of  expensive perfume so I presume she’s got some class. Her palms are soft and her breath warm.

I open my eyes slowly while keep my breath in rhythm with hers while I struggle to replay how last night went down. This is a trick I learnt since the dreadful day at Njoki’s when I tried to slip away and got busted because my breath was uneven. Nkt weirdo! But anyway thanks to her, slipping away has become more of a talent and as such I don’t have to remember anybody’s name or promise to call when it is pretty clear that when I pretended to save their numbers I actually replied to my whatsapp messages. Carefully and noiselessly, I slip out of her embrace and drop onto the floor. I turn back to see her face but the horse tail hair has got it covered, literally. The fake hair looks new, which is a good sign since I won’t have to disinfect my bed. Her skin is chocolate with a dark birth mark on the nape of her long neck. Without getting to see her face I deduce she’s a 8 or 7 depending on how easy she made it for me last night. Something I guess I’ll never know since my computer is off so no video evidence. I’m naked and I can’t be able to find my clothes. Well, I see all my clothes but they are all over the floor and I can’t rem which set I put on. My shoes don’t help either: three pairs are dirty and as such they won’t help me pick out the trouser I had on. While still struggling to patch up what happened the previous day, an idea strikes me that by finding my wallet, I would find out what I wore the previous day. As I grope through the pile of filth the washing lady has used to squeeze kshs 600 from me every week, she moans something to do with Freddy. I smile at the thought that it’s probably her boyfriend’s name. After quite awhile groping about am certain my wallet is either lost or misplaced. Whichever way, I’ll never figure out what went down because my phone too is nowhere to be found either.

I walk to the front door and pop it open. A few girls scream and their mothers curse just as I realise am still buck-naked. Full of shame I close the door as the conversation outside shifts to women saying they would talk to the landlord to have me evicted. As I disappear into my bedroom I hear something to do with man whore and bad example. I wish that helped me figure out what went down the previous night but all I got is a proper reason to start scouting for another house or just move in with Mary, the crazy girl who believes am a neurosurgeon. I slip back into bed as the lady brushes off the hair from her face. Without my glasses on she looks quite beautiful so I do a little dance of victory for having added double points on my street credit. As I lean to kiss her on the forehead and try for a round two it dawns on me. My name really is Freddy! And she looks a hell lot familiar. Maybe that’s because I must have been with her most of last night but something seems totally wrong. She doesn’t seem like the kind who’ll go home with an asshole like me or maybe she was just off her game the previous night. Who am I to judge? Everybody falls down sometimes only that this overly familiar beauty fell at the wrong feet.

Somebody knocks then opens the front door so I cuddle back to sleep in her embrace. It’s probably my roommate back from his Jehova Witnesses duties. Which means he’s converted a few souls, drank lots of tea and walked a marathon. But the person who’s in the house hasn’t ,locked the main door so am pretty sure it isn’t my room mate. I shut my eyes and pray they don’t budge into my room without knocking unless it’s Kim Kadarshian and Janet Mbugua. I guess am too late with the prayer because before I say an amen the door is swung open.

“omera bado unalala” I hear the all too familiar sound of Lando my favourite Jaluo.

I heave to face him and wink at him to get off but the joke is already on me. He dragged along the entire Gor mahia crew who are already taking pictures. My phone rings and Lando tosses it to me. It’s Sande so I guess I’ll get to know exactly what happened.

“Hi Sande, fill me in on what happened last night”

He laughs teasingly and says, “You guy deserves a medal or something cos last night you were unbelievable”

“haha I get it, ….so what did I do?”

“You sure you don’t remember?”

“yeah sure I don’t”

“Who am I to spoil your fun? Let’s make it one of those lost seconds you’ll never recover but trust me bro, you were a-m-a-z-i-n-g.”

He’s definitely happy I can’t remember so I lie back staring at the ceiling making up things that I suppose could have happened.


photo adapted from