Road Trip: The journey


Six feet two, black hair slowly fading to white, dark glasses to hide his tiny eyes and the large nose beneath it, he stands proudly against the white washed walls of the late night store. Next to him is a girl, a real girl with bigger boobs than we all expected. Well we didn’t expect a girl, probably a fat Indian cat or a goat. Yeah a big he-goat with a goatee long and bushy enough to make Anyang Nyong’o rethink what dumb looks like. Truth be told his massiveness has a way with the ladies, I suppose he stands close enough to them, then leans over to their ears and lets out his hoarse voice spiced with foul smell. Basically, he’s the kind of man who’d chew pk and still smell like he just made out with Arnold Schwarzenegger. I suppose it’s better if I explain that the first time I met him, the quote “look like a pig” probably would define Rihanna. Looks aside, he’s a man of many talents, many of which are secrets even to him. Ooh before I get lost talking about him, let’s call him Rory.

Looking at him right now reminds me of the past two days when like normal campus students we had stolen our parents cars and a tiny bit of money, well not too much to make them bankrupt. We then took a drive to some place in Kambaland, a place you get to by driving through 10 roadblocks every hour. The buses on this road are driven in rally mode cos for an old yellow bus to easily zoom past to a 2 litre KBN is just not possible, unless the dumba stories are true.

Remember the guy who said Kaos suck at giving estimations of distance. Well our host kept telling us to look for a water kiosk painted in blue. It sounds easy when you hear that and remember everything pat Machakos is painted yellow, not so interesting when u speed race with an even a more powerful car probably a 2.3 litre on the sign-less roads of Garissa. The car eats tarmac for lunch and not so pocket friendly for an impromptu trip. So after 5 turn arounds we get to meet our host who is clad in full army gear complete with a 3 litre jerrican imprinted Fresh fry, I suppose for a water bottle. How would I know, I come from a place where water is not new, we pee whenever and wherever we want and that’s probably why we grow to normal height. The guy who meets us, let’s call him Kababa- that’s his real ocha name after all, is shorter than a metre rule. Looking at him makes you do weird things like trying to find the place where his waist is located only for him to bend to tie his shoes and you realise that was his neck. On his feet is a pair of brand new Akala sandals which I can bet he made himself from the used car tyre he stole from Matuu. Truth be told I’ve never seen more yellow in a single place in all my life. In this place yellow is swag and everybody has yellow plastic shoes, free yellow wiper caps or just a yellow sock, the other side missing or not.

Kababa graduated from Juja and the entire village are gathered at his dad’s to celebrate, a vast compound that is gated from 1km away. Past the gate is the dry Ngumalo river, one I understand is where his entire household takes a shower, past their ‘bathroom’ is a huge bump, huge even by Kamba standards. This homestead is awash with foodstuff from muthokoi, ‘maanya’ to weird looking Kamba delicacies that surprisingly taste better than they look.

The moment we get into the compound we are served with water, I wouldn’t know if it’s cold after all this is a place beyond Matuu or was it Mutuuu. Then comes very hot chapattis, so hot u can literally see smoke rising above the tray they lie, with it comes matumbo ya kuku and something else we couldn’t get its name right. But before we fight our hunger away we have to salimia 20 something relatives who dorn huge smile and shout ‘wacha’ into our faces. You gotta earn the meal, well if this is earning our daily meal, it better be good and good it was.

In our rounds shaking hands, some tender others as hard as hard comes yet with a tight squeeze in their shakes, we realise a goat has met its death; a chicken breathed its last and a squirrel’s mbio za kiwanjani fikad ukambani.

The gang consists of Rory, Duch, Mutiso and me plus whatever girl we happened to have dragged along. Ooh Duch is the unlucky one who get’s rejected now and again. The guy has probably known singlehood longer than Raila has known Kibaki doesn’t like him that much. On this fated trip, he dragged Patricia, pronounced Pathrishia who speaks English, a few English words and a tonne of mumbi language. She’s the kind of grl who will use “fucking” and “forever” in the same sentence and lower your libido while at it. The gang thinks by Duch hooking up with her he’s taken onto punishing himself which i won’t lie will be great news to us. In this car he chauffeurs he keep on saying “funga window” yet he happens to have the controls that could do all that. That however is just part of the drama in this car as Pathrishia went on and on telling us how so little she knows of Kamba, well she has as much knowledge as lawyer has honesty. On her bare back is a tattoo of a goat eating grass. Well that’s a story for another day. I switch on the car lights to look for a smokie or anything to chew to sleep but Pathrishia barks, “Wacha kuwacha taa.”. To which Duch whispers to me, ‘isn’t she funny?’


Daddy Issues


adapted from

Let me tell you a story, I’ve never been able to forget since the first time I heard it.

“Two children are on vacation with their father at a holiday inn on the shores of the Indian ocean. He takes them sightseeing and even hires a boat so as to give them a memorable tour of one of the world’s largest water body. Being a man of his own words he takes them to a solitary place beyond the rocks to fish. After a number of fruitful moments he gives his line to Mark, his eldest son, to hold onto while he goes below the decks to make them something to eat. But first, he gives them a warning or an instruction you may say. Love in his eyes and anxiety on his trembling lips he says, “Mark and Doug whatever happens don’t jump in the water.” then he scurries off below the decks. While down there, Mark tags on his father’s line which somehow has caught a big fish. At first he keeps this to himself because he wants to take credit for it but changes his mind when his catch suddenly seems to have more power than he expected. “Doug!” he calls, “I think Dad’s line has caught something here!” Doug looks at him then shouts back, “Well lets see!” then he walks towards him. Before he gets there the line gets a sudden tag and before he can say Help Mark is being furiously dragged on the water. Doug, thinking first shouts at his dad for help. His dad runs the flight of stairs to the top of the deck and seeing his son helpless in the middle of the ocean he’s lost on what to do. He shouts at Mark to let go of the line who does so not because he heard his dad rather because he’s too tired to keep holding on. His dad revs the engine and turns around to go save his son from drowning. From a far he can see shadows circling his son and from his random readings his fear is confirmed, sharks! He’s now close enough to his son and asks Doug to help him pull Mark aboard and just as he’s reaching for Mark’s hand he sees the shadows now so close enough that he might not be able to pull Mark to safety. So he pulls out his pocket knife and rips the skin on his left hand and plunges into the water just as Doug holds onto Mark.”

A few writers have succeeded in painting dad as a figure who could change one’s life but am certain this story takes the thumbs up. Many would reckon I did this piece because of the looming father’s day, well I did but something else strikes me. Almost every book I read have painted “daddy issues” as the reason for dysfunctional kids while “great mums” are the reason for unexplainable success. Well, I agree and Yes, I don’t agree as well. I agree because many people can’t be so wrong at the same time unless this is a universal controversy to paint all fathers as absent, abusive, alcoholic and irresponsible. To add my voice to it all, well mum’s too could be provide a better mark for such description yet in it all they have been showered by all the hullabaloo of how they make the world go round and how when the clock stroke midnight they ensured Cinderella had one shoe on.

I’m not intent on painting Mums as bad people so as to make Dads gain some points, well maybe a little. I wanna paint dad’s as the people they really are, passionate enough to make a fool of themselves sometime even so that mum’s take all the credit. And that has been their undoing, while mums drag all their children and relatives to battle it out, dad’s have stood a safe distance not because they are cowards but because they are brave enough not to let their personal battles to bring their offspring to harm. In case you have been questioning how aloof your dad has been during turmoil, I bet today you get your answer. Just before I forget I once heard,

Women fight like politicians, they bring all they can hold onto including chairs, name calling and threats of allegience to mount Kenya, men fight like sheep they hit their heads together even after it pains them to death.

I’ve stayed with my dad a lot so when I vouch for him, I know how much he means to me. My mum too has played a superb role and sometimes forced me and my dad into weird escapedes like man hugging and asking my dad to flog me out in the open infront of my friends, who I had happened to tell that am a grown ass man who gets flogged no more. So much for her undoing, she has cooked me chapatis, ugali and an extract of milk the luo call moo alenya and ngiende. She has thrown all caution to the wind and told my average looking girlfriends in the face that they are not as hot as they think they are. But in all her brevity today I choose to honour my dad, a man I believe there are few like and if at all they are he’s beaten pants down at being the best dad I know of. This is not because when my mum caught me and Anita, the girl next door, “reading” and mum had insisted I get punished he had said somethings are not what they look like. Or it’s not because the day he got me teasing my distant cousin that she’s so ugly that her tits had shrunk back like those of an ostrich he had walked by like he heard none of it. It is also not because when he made me go to church every Saturday when all I wanted to do was hide below my once-white-now-something-else duvet. Maybe it’s because he never took away my 42 inch pictures of J-lo that hung on the ceiling directly above my bed.

I remember once when worms were having a ceaseless party in my stomach and we had taken a matatu into Kisii lands when the turn boy commented that I was fat ass pig whose every dose of deworming drugs had been shared by the worms who also happened to have worms inside them. The matatu had roared into laughter and dad had sat quietly next to me and pretended like he never understood that dialect. When we got to our stop he got off the matatu and pulled the turn boy aside and shot him a blow into his belly that got him flying and landing into the bush. Maybe a kick had followed I don’t remember because fat as I was my eyes were sealed shut from the laughter that ensued. I ended up laughing all year long that soon I had lost weight and looked like a normal kid. My dad still jokes that the worms had gotten killed from the body vibrations that came with laughter. Maybe i’ve exaggerated a little, who cares cos after all you’ll need to have a better story to convince me that your dad is more bad ass.

To celebrate all dad’s who have suffered media demolition and literary torture, please share your stories of how heroic your dad is and show him some love all week long until 16th June.

Oooh and one more thing, Mark survived so lets make dad’s trend this week. Tweet with me on twitter @Jahnekoh and let’s celebrate the men who us happen.


Here’s my favourite joke for father’s day

Dear Dad,

$chool i$ great. I’m making lot$ of Friend$ and $tudying hard. I $imply can’t think of anything I need. $o just $end me a card, a$ I would love to hear from you.

Love, your $on.

Dear Son,

I kNOw astroNOmy, ecoNOmics and oceaNOgraphy are eNOugh to keep even an hoNOur student busy. Do NOt forget that the pursuit for kNOwledge is a NOble task,and you can never study eNOugh.

Love, Dad

adapted from

Lost in a bottle

Sometimes life lets us cross paths with people who have had better experience with the ugly. I know we all like to brag among ourselves on who is more bad ass and take credit as the one who has seen it all, sadly enough this isn’t true. I have had my share of experiences with diverse people but had I to write a memoir about the ones who strike me, I would probably state that she makes the list. To the eye that sees she’s just another regular chick: fly, cute smile and a figure to kill for but to the eye that perceives her eyes speak volumes about what she knows that she wishes she could tell and hasn’t found a chance yet. She probably doesn’t know as much cos she’s had first hand experience but perhaps cos she knows someone who has. I guess we’ll never know lest she tells it all to us. Ladies and gentlemen I present to you the lady who you will only know of cos of this piece but no name to boot. *whispers* I suspect she is CIA and you know the drill, if she tells you who she is she would have to kill you.

Here she goes….

Everyone has that harmless habit that they indulge in. It’s always harmless and perhaps tricky because you quite never know when you are going overboard. Even when overboard no one freely admits because admitting deems us weak and no one really wants to be seen as weakling by our peers, the people who we admire and possibly seek their approval even when the approval is as useless. I should know these, I struggled to be acceptable for a while, to be able to fit in and eventually when I could fit it no more I drowned my imaginary insecurities in alcohol. I have absolutely no excuses for the things I have put myself through because all I simply had to say was no to another round of drinks my friends offered or simply reject the callers in my phone book whom I had long certified belonged to the drinking buddies category. Those people whom as the name suggests only look for me when it’s time to hit the pubs which was usually between Friday through to Sunday and long before that days rolled into each other and hitting the pub on a Monday did not look so bad anymore I mean I will just hang around here and just wait for the traffic to ease up…. see it was that harmless really.

The road to soberness is such a hard task more so when our form of relaxation involves binge drinking staggering from one weekend to the next one and a party is remarkably fun when there is alcohol and scantily dressed campus chics nursing their drinks and failing miserably at their attempt to smile and act hot even when the weather is clearly freezing . I always partied hard ,woken up to strange women in my bed and once or twice found myself in even stranger beds but at that particular point I always thought to myself why fix what is certainly not broken, you are probably thinking I was in denial and you are right as well. Mondays found me passing by those seedy joints for a shot of this or that and maybe that’s the point I should have paused and thought hard because from there it all went downhill quickly. Everything spiraled out of control. had huge debts including servicing a car loan for a car I was not even using to discussions with my boss bordering on all my missed deadlines and increased absenteeism. My boss a very nice chap covered for me and even made excuses to cover my drunk ass in the attempt to man up and start cleaning up my mess.

Eventually it became an open secret that I am the chap who cannot handle his drink. I still hanged out with my friends who never made an attempt to help me get help. Not that I expected them to do so. I suppose they used me as a yardstick to measure themselves. Probably gave them a sense of false security to know that they had not yet hit rock bottom or maybe provided some twisted and messed up inspiration for them to drink with reckless abandon in an attempt to forget that they were headed in the boat I was currently rocking. My boss is the one who came to my rescue. I hear you silently asking where was your family well they were long gone. No one really wants to hang around the brother who borrows your laptop ad never brings it back and attempts to get it bore no fruit because the laptop was long sold to repay some mysterious debt. I do not blame them they really did try to hang around and when they got tired of walking in egg shells they eventually began whispering behind my back not that I was least bothered by this behavior the only person who I felt I had let down was my mom I could see the hurt in her eyes and I stopped dropping by to see her altogether.

My boss called me into his office one morning. Before going to his office I passed by the gents to splash cold water on my face in order to appear more alert. When I go to his office he did said nothing but handed me a brochure and asked me to read it and get back to him. When I turned to leave he told that was the only way he could help me because it was no use talking about job at that point in time. I did not need anyone to the tell me that was my last chance to try and make something out of my messed up life. Friday 13th June 2008 my boss drove me all the way to a place known as Asumbi Treatment Centre in Homabay. Asumbi treatment centre was my home for three months. Before I was admitted he had to sign in writing that he was a family member and he had agreed to support my treatment, nice guy God bless his soul. In between the administrative procedures no word was exchanged maybe as there was nothing left to say and I suppose it was his way of saying coming here does not make me less of a man.

The 1st month was the hardest and loneliest period in my life. We were not allowed any contact from the outer world not that anyone was about to surprise me with a visit but it would have made me sleep better knowing I still had minimal contact from the world I left behind. The second month was relatively easier I made few friends and even though we looked fairly normal at a glance there was no doubt as to what led us to that particular place.

Butterflies are God’s evidence of second chances, that remains the most important lesson I got from Asumbi Treatment Centre. I had new dreams and aspirations and most importantly I was a changed man. Starting over was not so hard mostly because I had my former boss watching my back he got me a different job from what I had and which did not require much vetting mostly because he had whispered to his contacts who I was .I changed my number changed my friends and changed houses everything that comes with trying to acquire a new identity. Somehow nothing stays a secret for long in this town, soon old friends began calling asking If we could meet and catch up. I never honoured any of those place meetings because rehab was not a place I was in a hurry to go back to. But I never turned anyone away who was on the path to self destruction I made it my business to try and get them to get help because admitting you need help does not make you weak it makes you a stronger man for speaking out. I guess we all would do well to remember the famous pig song whose first stanza goes:

’twas an evening in october,

i’ll confess I wasn’t sober,

I was carting home a load with manly pride,

when my feet began to stutter and I fell into the gutter,

and a pig came up and lay down by my side.

Then I lay there in the gutter and my heart was all a-flutter,

Till a lady, passing by, did chance to say;

”You can tell a man that boozes by the company he chooses,”

Then the pig got up and walked away.

Breaking Up for Dummies

Wassup family, I bet you had a great week especially the Chelsea fans ( I hate those especially the ones who double as Man city fans). Stalker diaries however doesn’t get feedback from you in terms of comments and thus I would like to ask you to remember to tell me what you think. As much as we have good traffic we fail to show it in terms of comments. Go ahead shout at me, abuse me, say I suck, buy me a drink but don’t forget to leave a comment. Before I forget I got to watch Shuga: Love sex and money and you know what, IT SUCKS. Here goes this weeks post.



The other day we met as a pack, me and my friends of cos. Fact is, we do meet frequently but not every member of the clique comes. The ladies particularly have a way of coming up with well thought of “pressing matters” that have to be dealt with over the weekend. We don’t mind having them but we seem to have more fun when we are alone, that applies when we don’t need to cook and stare at boobs. There’s a girl we particularly invited into the crew because she has this voluptuous bust and this ensures we find a place to stare at. It’s a proven fact that men like staring and I reckon women who intentionally leave their cleavage exposed love it when we men ogle at them. Tina (not her real name) loves it when every man in the room can’t look into her face, cos their eyes can’t just seem to notice she has a face more pretty than the valley between her properly curved breasts. Peter (I have no friend called so after all) says that everything Karma wanted Tina to have He accidentally placed on her bust.

So this day Tina decides to tag along all the ladies to this important meeting and she intentionally mentions that there would be home cooked meal, that got all men punctual. We learn that her big nosed, thick-lipped skinny jeans wearing boyfriend ditched her which to be sincere came as no surprise cos Tina makes all men insecure. She is not, has never been and will never be a girlfriend material. She is superbly beautiful with all the curves at the right place and in the proper proportion. She has a smile that got the sentence “A smile to die for” invented. She has a voice that would literally toa nyoka pangoni only for the nyoka to bite her when it listens to her words. Translation: her voice is sweet as long as you are not listening to her words. She has never learnt that the truth is painful and thus she serves hers with a straight face and cold, men hate that. She is one of those chicks you would have make up sex with not cos you want to get laid but because even when mad she looks so pretty. Now the epitome of ugly did himself a favour cos fact is I bet am not the only man in the crew who has tasted that cos when I did I never required any effort at all. She is what men call mtaro, as in the cow that you graze and have any person milk whenever they want. If ever there’s a man who hasn’t believed that “Mwanamke ni tabia” all you have to do is hook him up with Tina. She however didn’t come to whine to us about the break up, the relationship was way over (her words). However, She was appalled at the line this ‘excuse of a boyfriend’ used on her. All men have classic one liners that could be used to ditch that clingy girlfriend or just anyone you want to break away from. And just so you know below are my favourite break up lines:


“it’s not about you, it’s me. I have realised that you deserve somebody far better than me and i’m afraid I can’t stand in your way”

“Baby you’re everything a man would need for a wife. Too bad am not looking for a wife”

“East or west home is best and baby you need to go back home”

“Baby I would give you everything you want, except my love”

“Baby, you know how you keep asking me to be more like Anto, I took sometime to think about it and i’ve decided to let you try it out with him”

“Beyonce said “if you like it, put a ring on it” fact is I like it, NO MORE”

“Baby I have got what I wanted in you, severally”

I just don’t feel that there is enough room in your life for me and your shoes and soap opera”.



some guys use well though out lines to help their hitherto girlfriends go through the break up smoothly, other guys don’t care how they feel about it and simply drops the bomb. There are as well guys like me who will use lines that would be fun to think of later. Many girls have unsuccesfully tried to explain to me how important it is to treat the break up carefully.

If you ever find yourself blank for a break up line just use some like:

I hate your mother”

“Stop nagging me”

“That dress makes you look like a whore”

“You are fat”

My parents hate you”

“I wanna screw your friend Elsie”

and have a straight and serious face while saying so and if you work the argument that ensues properly she might just say “It’s over” and take her seriously and voila! You are a free man. This will only hold if she’s proud enough never to apologise as long as you don’t beat her to it.


and now that I know you wish to know the line used on Tina, the SOB simply said

Jessica is pregnant and am afraid I can’t be with you and her”

What’s your favourite break up line. Hit me up.

The whining passenger: Matatu sequel

Hey friends as i promised last week, here’s a sequel for the matatu post. I hope this stands and overturns the standards set thus far. This week i heard that “butterflies are God’s evidence for second chances”. help me remember that and now to the business at hand:

Am an advocate for the removal of 14 seater matatus from the road, at least I was till I took a trip recently. Being the advocate I let my stubborn ass rule in my choice of commuter car to use. This however didn’t bear fruit as midway on my already boring journey I gave up and walked back home. You would walk especially after reading the disclaimer at the back of heinously designed ticket of mbotokoto matatu sacco (not its real name of cos). But that is not how this story ends, I decided to give it another go only this time I let my friend who was lucky enough to travel with the despicable SOB (yeah! That’s me). I asked him kindly, or I wish I did, to book us into a proper matatu to take the painful road to Nyeri. I am tempted to speak about the horrendous state of the road but am gonna pass.

This time I didn’t get to town, in fact I thought  I should wait for the matatu to pick me up at Roysambu. Those who have been at Roysambu have rosy stories to tell of this suburban, am sorry am not one of them. For one I find the town quite random in planning and the number of students who live there don’t make it any better as hostels crop up at every junction and space. Don’t get me wrong I don’t hate students I just can’t stand the male ones. Why can’t they leave the women alone, maybe then average looking chaps like me and maybe Musalia Mudavadi would stand a chance, seriously. This is one town that’s struggling to announce its existence betwixt the suburbs of Githuirai and that hill top sham on the flyover just before Allsorps (did I get the spelling right?). This place have pricks who charge fares of up to Kshs 100 to town a distance that in my humble gichagi would cost KSHs 10. This town however is in luck to have commuter services like Zam Zam and my favourite Paradiso, buses that have literally stretched the limit of loud music in public places.

Back to reality my friend had booked us into a matatu that looked alright from the outside but that was until you got inside the car to the glaring reality of poor music system, high fares and plenty of brown teeth. Did I mention the potential the ladies had in the art of husband battering? Before you curse me, my ex was a Kikuyu and please don’t ask me why I broke it off? Blame the news if you can. Out of all the seats, next to beautiful ladies of cos, he thought I would be more comfortable seated with him. Besides that it was the backmost middle seat without any window clearance. Before you think you understand my situation let me say the matatu was so slow that my grandma could cook diamond into soup on her jiko before I got to travel 20km. And were I headed to a funeral I probably would get there on the 2nd or 3rd anniversary. And if I was going to see a new born child in the hospital I would get there on one of his/her birthday or maybe miss them as well. A friend of mine thinks this was the matatu Jesus used in order to get to Lazarus funeral 4 days late.

The music wasn’t bad at all. It was bearable because the engine noise was louder than it and when you got to hear it, it reminded you of the nazi revolution and post election violence. One would probably kill themselves listening to such kind of music than when pledging allegiance to mount Kenya. Did I say the entire time the matatu was tuned into kikuyu fm stations including the time when I complained and the driver apologized and dutifully tuned into another Kikuyu fm station. I don’t remember quite well about the stickers but I bet were I able to read them they probably would have read, “who cares if you don’t understand, just pay the fare” or maybe “Uhuru. Tuko pamoja”

This would be a painful post as Manchester city are destined to win the league unless we get to have a sunderland goalkeeper who has experience as the full back of the Kenya national sevens team.  Vampire diaries suck I wish the soddy series doesn’t get renewed for a new season. And guys one more thing, Napoleon the great once said “If rape is imminent, relax and enjoy it”


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”

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.