Month: October 2015

Almost(Sn 1 Ep 1)

corazon

I am ALMOST wishing

I was a woman.

Not because I have an ass so big

Its ripple keeps the global warming at bay.

Not because I have a skin so smooth

A fly could glide over it.

Not because I have legs so fine

It keeps the world standing.

Not because I take so many selfies

I could use all the negatives in the world.

Not because I have a craving so dire

I would do with a one foot boner.

No, Not that which you suggest either.

But because women have it so smooth

Their make-up laden baby skins feel jealous.

Because my fellow men have been so blinded

Each time they shut their eyes they behold a round ass.

Because despite all the thickness

They go through the slimmest of crevices.

I almost wish….

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Hit By a Bottle of Coke

coke

Katie looked outside the window at racing trees. At the edge of her sight she could only see a green pigment. Everything else was too blurry but for the far away images in her head. She leaned on the glass, perhaps seeking support. The shuttle moved fast leaving behind her bleak past but taking her real fast into a gloomy future.

Suddenly, the shuttle braked and Katie sunk her teeth into her lower lip after the force of inertia drove her into hitting the seat in front. Blood gushed out but she swallowed it. If her dad knew what had happened to her, he would scold and even hit her. so she licked the wound as she savored the familiar taste of warm blood, her eyes glittered and she couldn’t even see the green pigment for a while.

Once the film of tears dissipated, she stole a glimpse at the man sitting cold and harsh beside her. He could not drift into slumber so she could scrutinize his face. Katie wished she could spot the hatred in his heart or his face and wipe it away. She wished he could be like the big man in the next seat chatting heartily with his girl. Envy germinated in her heart. Tears welled in her eyes. And she shook her head away from matters that made her quite emotional.

The girl being smothered drunk from a bottle of Afya juice. Katie swallowed hard. It reminded her of the thirst burning her throat. It awoke the hunger she had worked so hard to lull into inactivity. She threw and forgot her gaze on the thick yellow juice until a piercing pain consumed the top of her head. Her dad had got her staring at other people’s things.

Katie felt like touching the itching pain but she knew better. .

As the trees moved fast towards her mum, her thoughts jumped on the ride too. She missed her already. Her warm smile, tight embrace. Mum did not hit her except when it was necessary. Mum did not scold her all the time.

She hated the thought of having to start new life in a strange world. Going to school in a new school. Making knew friends. She wasn’t even sure if she would make one. Meeting new teachers and going home to a wild father. Katie loathed these thoughts. They created a bitter sensation in her throat and blew strong wind at her flickering candle of hope.

The shuttle rumbled on.Katie’s head mumbled on. And the wind outside whispered by.

Then the boisterous city lights appeared scaling the heights into the skies. Blue, Red, Yellow and white. Cars raced by and matatus hooted as if the city’s life depended on the whirring noise. At some instances they moved so close to the shuttle in traffic that Katie got worried.

The sight of tall concrete walls terrified her. She was used to seeing as far as her sight could reach. Back at home she could not feel as trapped as she now felt. It was as if the walls were talking to her, mocking her and making faces at her.

Outside people hurried by as if running away from a malady. Some were in suits and ties, some were in branded T-shirts and others in skimp clothing exposing a lot of skin. The streets were crowded, the air was tight with smoke, hoots and shouts. Suddenly, someone opened the window of the shuttle snatched a mobile phone from a woman and disappeared into an alley. the woman screamed for help from  a dumb audience. She cut off the shouting but rattled on. Narrating bitterly how she had lost so much in the streets of the city.

At last, Katie and her father alighted at a bus stage. The air outside smelled of rotting fruits and burning rubber. Street children walked by in groups. Touts shouted at the top of their voices at passengers stating their destination and price.

Katie’s dad walked into a shop with tall clear bottles and bought a small bottle and a coke. He then gulped down half of the soda and filled up the bottle with the clear liquid. He then grabbed Katie’s small fist and walked fast stooping from the burden of the big backpack strapped to his back.

Katie half walked and half jogged to catch up with the pace of her father. Her white dress with red flowers wobbled around her ankles helplessly as if asking Katie to be graceful. The swirl of the Coke in the bottled almost killed Katie. She was thirsty. She was hungry.

They crossed roads and missed being swept off the road by speeding and hooting matatus. Her father scolded her for walking leisurely. He pulled her small hand and Katie heard something snap before thrusting her forth like a hummer. Katie trotted as she tried to regain her stability.

She hurried on helplessly. Her father drunk from the coke bottle and placed back the cap. The stride she made became nothing to her father who soon caught up with her. He pushed her back. She run a little and walked on. Then the man who had been on her hit her hard with butt of the bottle at the top of the head.

The pain gnawed from the head to toe.Katie scratched the source of pain but still it could not convince it to abate. Tears gushed down her cheeks and she wailed. She had swallowed too much to bear. Her dad pushed her away telling her to stop or he would leave her in town.

Katie through a film of tears looked at this man whom she barely knew. He was her dad only because her mum said so. She looked at the racing cars and some people singing in the street while wailing loudly. She looked at a beggar sitting at a corner with a deformed face and awkwardly curved legs swinging her hands incessantly at unperturbed passersby. She looked at a crowd shouting while hitting a man who had snatched a fruit from a stall.

Without agony, Katie looked at a matatu with all kinds of graffiti on its board. At a distance she could hear the voice of her father calling angrily. Then it dissolved into a myriad of other voices until it merged with the buzz of the crowded city. She could even hear her heart shutter as she jumped into the road right in time for the speeding matatu.

The Story

THE PAW OF THE C.A.T

University-students-writing-examination (1)

I am seated in this classroom on a bubble of anxiety. All around are throngs of worried persons. They are humming and discussing their misty fate in low tones. Whenever a person enters abruptly, panting and sweating profusely, all goes silent. Terrified. Worry has engulfed my entire being detaching me from everyone else.

A swift look around earns me the sight of cold dark metallic conjoined desks. They are horrendous. I feel like a figure is lurking within its pitch blackness; somewhere beyond the gleaming surfaces. A figure meant to make me forget all that I have revised hurriedly before I left my room. The grim cream walls seem to be mocking. Its nakedness is stripping my brain of the miniature grasp of the unit.

From my carefully picked sitting place, I can clearly behold a guy in a white shirt on the front row. He never shifts his sitting position. Even when people are trying to figure out a perfect spot to hide their hideous acts in the exam room. He seems confident and ready to pour the answers onto paper. I can easily tell that he is the kind to ask for a graph paper in a mathematics paper when the rest of the candidates can’t see its use in the same exam.

I stare at the screen of my Huawei Ascend phone for long. Several clicks and a text message appear on the notification panel of the phone. You have successfully bought 30mb data bundles. I smile hesitantly and throw a quick gaze at the top of the white board. Rumor has it that there is a CCTV camera implanted somewhere around it to monitor students during exams. Destruction of evidence by students caught in the act forced the step, so the word goes.

How do they? They quickly shove their mwakenya’s in their mouth and swallow hard.

A deep sigh. It is so deep that I can notice my chest rise steadily and fall with hesitation. I catch a strong smell of sweat. Still, I can’t feel any better. My palms are sweaty. I wipe them against my shirt.

Suddenly Dr. Katam enters and the routine silence of anguish befalls the room. We all gasp unanimously like an audience of a football match over a narrowly missed goal. I gasp my hopes away. A wish I have been holding on dearly, even crossed my fingers for, flies away. The CAT could not be pushed to a further date. Obviously not Dr. Katam’s way of doing things. I defiantly uncross my fingers.

I quickly put my phone on standby by placing the screen on Google page. Ready to punch in a few key words and click ‘search’.

Notebooks are taken away swiftly. Bare desks with blank foolscaps and pens confront an exasperated lot. Little drops of sweat form on my brow. I wipe it with the back of my palm. My heart is throbbing. My head is thumbing. My vision is getting hazy. I can’t see the lecture clearly. His voice however is clearer. It is deep and equally grotesque.

The knock of the heels of his shoes on the solid ground is steady as he walks around the room with his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier in a slow match. He stops occasionally to look intently at a face before moving on. Now he is behind me and he has just stopped. I let out a heavy sigh and he walks on as if he has been waiting for a signal and I have just offered one.

Dr. Katam is known for his ultra-strictness in CATs and exams alike. He never has room for the cheaters. He holds a legacy for busting the most students in the history of the campus. The lecturer knows perfectly how to creep on students and catches them right in the middle of the act. He prides in that thus his casualties never get away with it. Dr. Katam never rests until you pay for it.

Finally, he stands behind the podium and issues exam rules not minding the fact that this is a mere CAT. He also pours out a string of warnings which are more of sadistic threats. As he speaks, prominent veins pop up from his left temple and neck.

Then he reads out the questions with an air of jeer. Heads bow down in unison. I stare back at the lecturer appealingly with the hope of getting excluded from the ordeal. He ignores me.

The question is not making it into my zone. It converts into a coded inscription I can’t comprehend. I stare at the doctor’s lips. They are moving like two strange figures. They are dark like the words that he is spelling out carefully. He walks around and my eyes remain fixated in the whiteboard. Lost in the blurred reflection of the entire classroom.

The score of my fellow victims are now writing vigorously. I look around and all I see are pens conversing affectionately with papers. I can however spot a few disoriented people looking away into the roof as if seeing a vision of the answers. Haunting sounds of foolscaps turning plunge me into blankness. I cannot even think of anything apart from my phone lying in wait.

Thirty minutes later, something horrifying happens. The guy in the white shirt rises, ogles his wrist watch and walks towards Dr. Katam. He hands out his finished work and before he strolls out, he scans the room and shakes his head. My blood boils. I want to rise and rush after him. Malevolence is descending on my heart.

Then another student follows and another until I lose count.

I look over my shoulder and my eyes meet the lecture’s. I withdraw the look quickly and turn to look at the white board while in pretense of deep thought. Dr. Katam walks to me in slow silent paces. My hands tremble. I hold on to the hope that my phone is well tucked in my pant’s pocket. He stares at my paper and I can almost feel his eyes, although behind clear glasses, on me.

Relief at last as he walks away coughing. The room is fast running empty. I look at the top of the white board momentarily making sure I am not noticed if at all that camera exists. My head is as empty as the promises made by the politicians during general election campaigns. I eye the lecturer again from under my arms and he is looking at me. A sharp shrill of frustration almost escapes me. The person sitting on my side stands and walks away. Tears almost walk out of my moist eyes.

Suddenly, Dr. Katam announces the end of time. I get frantic and quickly skim through the room only to behold a handful people trying to write one more point. I gaze down at my foolscap and it is blank. As blank as a check carried around by the filthy rich who give to peasants so they can take over ownership of their lands in big towns. As blank as the stare in the eyes of a kid from Turkana I once saw on television during the Kenyans for Kenya campaigns. As blank as the current state of the space in between my ears.

With alarm, I realize that I do not even have the questions. I want to wail loudly until the vice chancellor orders the strict lecturer to give me the marks. Or fake a seizure I know nothing about. Or hoax the lecturer that I did not revise because I just returned from burying a close relative. I am confused.

I hurriedly write my name and in the whirl, I write my high school registration number. As I submit my work, the lecturer stares at me as if I am a runaway convict. I walk out of the room feeling bruises all over me.

Panda Mbegu

write-pen-book-ink

In my short quest for knowledge i have read few writers. Men and women of substance who have never ceased to oil my reading skin. People who write with plausible wit, precision and proficiency. Writers who drive you on a journey so unanticipated, so wild, so snappy you can easily break on the verge of their narration.

Stories are just that; stories. But when an adroit writer spews his ink on it and invokes the spirits of his writing godfathers, it becomes a facile exploration into a world full of pleasing twists and turns. A transformation will work miracles on its face that the promises by Nairobi rogue pastors will never have the gut to ask believers to panda mbegu for. It does receive a papal pat of blessing on the forehead.

These are writers who have shown me something in someway that i never imagined in my wildest of imaginations. Their sentences have left me groaning like a man who have been hit in the balls by a woman. Through them i have seen persons with a vast vocabulary grasp that subdues that sight of an hungry lion scanning the Savanna. In their work i read impeccable scenes, enchanting intros and totally unexpected, ingenious endings that leave me with an ache for more.

Praise is one thing, sincerity is another. Here, I am about sincerity and a little bit of praise. How would I not accord a pinch of praise to a human being who does things in an interestingly extraordinary manner? How would I justify myself if I made a mistake of speaking little of evidently big men of my world?

I know of novelists who are so brutal in their narrations Recce squad could be assigned on their case. I know of bloggers whose blog posts are awaiting Nobel prizes, grand entrance into Guinness book of records and what not. I know of columnists whose pieces have a voice of their own. And I know of essayists and Poets who write with zeal.

Exploration is ongoing, the quest still rife and more intriguing discoveries are yet to be stumbled upon.

I stash my ovation to these geniuses who live each day interacting with words and their bizarre patterns. All those who have respect for any blank space and thus they ever have the itch to fill it. Those who never rest until they scratch the itch. I respect the astute minds that reserve their ink for that one more story humming in their head.

Most times I have wishes; progressive and ambitious wishes. I wish could identify with these masterminds, I wish I could display their maturity of this fanciful game of words and I wish I could transcribe this buzz in my head.

A prolific piece wrings tears from your stone dry eyes. It shines light in the darkness of your world. It fixes laughter (not Ruto) in the gloom of your days. It highlights a voice of reason amidst voices of turbulence. A good piece brings peace in the tease of bitter exchanges.

I will be failing in my pursuit if i don’t drop names. Likewise, I will be shortening my tentacles if I drop even a million of them. You know what you fancy right the moment you see it. So, hold on to it, clink to it like our renowned political sycophants who defend their political gods even when the wrong doing is a matter of sight. Lick it until it becomes tasteless and then move on.

Confindants

confidante
It is Monday and here I am drinking alone. Lost in solitude and making an eye contact with space.The caress my drink is getting is easily in the neighborhoods of a wish for my girl to be. This is intimate conversation between confidants. The kind that senior counsel has with his corrupt client. It is a muted companionship; a symbiotic existence. I am a legume and my drink is Rhizobia.
The bar is deserted. It is as sparsely populated as the marginalized North Eastern regions of Kenya. At a corner are a couple musing over a packet of Delmonte juice. To my far left is the DJ interacting with his paraphernalia. Next to him is a lone soul. He is submerged in his own world. Sipping from his glass while hunched over to stare at his phone.
Once in a while he looks towards me. Our eyes just met for the third time. I swear I wasn’t looking his way. The music is smooth like the thick Amarula cream liqueur he is drinking. It’s making me feel as if I am a ruler. The feeling is the reason for this peace and thus piece.
I am at the counter. I love the tall stools. But I hate locking eyes with the waiter. she keeps looking at me with that inquisitive look; a look that is seeks to make you have side drinks. The round face is acne infested. Her ass is inviting though. And the bow tie. Beyond her, the bottles arranged appealingly are tempting. I want to have a tot of everything. Jack Daniels, Jameson, Johnnie walker, Richot are all calling with the voice of a woman in need. But I am faithful to my beer.
A sensation created when a dry tongue meets an ice cold drink is nothing but pure relieve. The kind that teachers are supposed to contract when finally the court of appeal dismisses the triplet appeals filed against them by their haters. A sensation that is identical to one that you feel after the game hits minute 90 before Manchester makes a come back on Arsenal.
The ample fuse of the music and lighting and silence is priceless. When nonchalant music plays and no one thrusts their guttural voice in between, I call that silence. When no music is playing and no one is speaking, I call that relaxed ambiance. I choose silence every time.   I want this moment to last for ever. So I can replenish my withering soul. So I can reset my heart. So I can clear my head of the worries of this world. So I can write.
I don’t want this sweet moment to be a memory. I don’t want it to pass like any other. I don’t want to lose the gaze from that woman I don’t want.
If I am allowed to create my own heaven then dear Lord I am done. I am ready to spend my eternity. Yeah Lord, I have thought this over and won’t regret. Make my wish come true before I get drunk.

The Humming Bird

blog photo

The evening starts young. Tight traffic snarl up is slowly easing up putting a grin on the faces of tired city dwellers. Folks walk past each other swiftly as if rushing to a MP who is giving out a handout. Men in checked shirts. Women with hefty handbags strapped under their armpits. Street urchins with bottles of glue hanging from the tip of their noses. Matatus hooting softly and women driving about in both small and big cars.

Yellow light of the setting sun hit the tips of the skyscrapers. The advertisement light at the neck of KICC arouses to the rhythm of the city at night. Clubs lining the city streets like rare shrubs in a forest come to life; booming music, neon lights blinking.

Your Friday is fulfilled at a poorly lit club. You can hardly tell white from red. Perhaps it is all the blue and red and green lights. Perhaps it is the ear splitting hip hop music. Perhaps it is Dej Loaf’s smooth voice and equally hoarse voice of Young Thug. The waiter, like an heavenly princess, walks up to you even before you settle and you pretend not to fancy her yellow thick thighs. She arouses lust in you. You look away at a guy caressing his woman at a corner.You all order a cold tusker each.

The plans are brewed within the span of the bottle of the golden drink. Your evening is put in order under the blast of the 6 foot 7 foot Lil Wayne hit amidst all the glamorous ladies sipping tentatively from tall glasses with necks. Immediately, you can read the unspoken cues. You take a prolonged sip and struggle to hide the squirm forming on your face.

Hardly an hour later, you all find yourselves almost a mile away from the CBD. You are all, the four of you, walking earnestly besides a racing traffic. Your voices are on top with everyone trying to thrust a point forth. You are recalling a moment in the past when you went out on a drinking spree; those sweet moments that exclusively exist in the past. And live there for ever.

The manila tented lobby welcomes you warmly with blinking blue lights and crazy Kenyan music. The music that is all about women and sex and death and money and anything in between. The humongous screens are displaying a stale football match and a referee just got stoned by a furious fan in a green jersey. Some more others are a home of the jungle stories.

As you enter, the aroma of roast meat and beer and sweat is apparent. It is a mixture that do not actually mix. The place is packed and abuzz. Women are chuckling, men are squirming over short glasses of vodka in their grab, waiters are rushing up and down with trays of junks of roast beef and ugali. A handful drunk fellows are wobbling to the Mapepo song.

You enter looking confused and out of place. A waiter approaches you and before she shows you to your table you order a kilo of fried beef. Yeah, for the four of you. A very tall bottle of The Famous Grouse scotch is placed before you. It is taller than the night before you. It is even taller than Sossion whose voice is clearer than the thud of the judges hummer.

The night is about to get thick.

You struggle to pour the drink into your glass and it comes out reluctantly as if it is threatened by your thirst. The golden glow of the surface of the liquid as it flows grows a deep yearning in you. You gulp down the little that is in the glass and look around as if you just entered the place. For the first time you realize that there are thick women in almost all the tables. Women oppressed by layers of make up and bushy weaves or is it wicks? (Those two never get to you).

A woman thicker than everyone in the lobby comes towards your table. The high heeled stilettos make her walk painfully and with caution. She is the kind of woman you have always dreamt of. Her thighs are luring and exciting. Your heart enters a quick beating phase. The drink knots up your stomach and you take a quick gulp.

In a magical voice, she asks you if she can settle at your table and before she finishes, the tone of her sultry voice hits your member to a start. A Humming bird whistles in your head. You tell her it is okay. In fact, she needed not ask. The guys give you that look that says you are the shit. You look away at one of the screens where Hyenas are fighting over a carcass to hide the grin on your face.

You take a sip. Your body is on fire yet the ice cold drink is not working. Instead it catalyzes the heat and the hum of the bird you always loved. The bare thighs are staring straight at your member through your watery eyes. You steal quick glances at the juicy legs and grunt. You ask God to save you from the looming temptation. That you may not fall but triumph. That you may trudge on in this world full of evil. But then again the woman is letting you have the look. You make an assumption that she might as well let you have the healing touch.

The thick thighs quiver as the woman snaps and orders a cold Snap. You sit beside her as if unaware of her presence. As if you could assume her strong waft of cologne or the bushy reddish hair or busty hips. Or even the short skirt that is overly revealing. You sit tight in your stool while you struggle not to look directly her way even let the drink force you to tell her that you like the yellow thighs. You sit in contemplation on how to navigate the situation.

Then without knowing you say hi. She throws you that bewitching smile and sure as Friday follows Saturday you get bewitched. You buy her a drink . You ask her why she is drinking all alone. She says she likes it that way. You tell her you are single. She chuckles like a bitch. You chuckle.

In your head the bird hums on.

The guys excuse themselves and slip away one after the other until you are alone with the witch. As she speaks in a polite soft voice that tenderizes your heart, you fight with the imaginations that keeps showing you how it would be if you took her home with you. How the chuckle would tear your clothes off. She tells you she likes hip hop, particularly Meek Mill. You smile and tell her you like hip hop too, particularly Nicki Minaj. You both laugh like two silly kids.

The talk goes on. You take charge trying as much as possible to drive it towards the fulfillment of your lust. She flows along submissively as if she is water and you are the slope. You lose yourself to her shallow conversation. The music blasts on in support.

You wonder how many drinks is going to make her say the magical words. You wonder what she is wondering about concerning you. Drinks keep coming. The conversation keeps going. The night keeps getting thick. The Humming birds keep singing.

Then you move closer. She doesn’t recede. You grab her waist and ask her to dance with you. You like her body anyway. She budges and you walk hand in hand like a couple. You hold her tight against your body as you dance slowly. She dances so smoothly. You feel her fresh breath close to you and the mint in it grips you. perhaps it is the lure from the whiskey in your breath.

Suddenly she shakes you vigorously. You look at her inquisitively. She shouts something over the music but you don’t hear. She points behind you and as you turn, you meet a hard blow that throws you sprawling. Successive blows follow before you regain your stability.

Your guys deliver you from the beating and the guy is thrown out by a bouncer. The damages are visible. Your nose is bleeding. The thick woman is nowhere to be seen. Your wallet and phone have gone away. You cuss. You mourn. You drink. You mutter. You stutter out hoping the Humming birds would offer you solace.