Thursday, April 26, 2007


What is Pain?
That was a rhetorical question you A-Types, scanning your terra-sized data
banks/brains for an answer.

Pain is getting hit on by an obviously deranged woman. Deranged because she
can't seem to sit still. Cause she screams every time the Dj changes the
song (you can't love ALL songs). Deranged cause she keeps jumping up and
down in front of you so that you notice her. Deranged cause she keeps asking
you mundane, brain numbing, will-shoot-myself-if-you-talk-to-me-again
questions "Why did the Dj play that song?". All you can see on the face of
the guy who is supposed to answer the said question is pure anguish. He has
a question of his own - "Why in tarnations did I sit here?!!" But he keeps
it to himself.

Pain is trying to watch soccer in a pub where there are two sets of people
determined to block your view.
One set is a group of three crazy women of whom TheDerangedOne is a member
of. Like and like. They came to the pub with a set of compasses and a plan:
Map Kamikaze's line of vision to TV-A and then block said line by constantly
dancing. Even if the song sucks. Keep dancing. In a group, tight formation,
this guy won't even sneak a peek at a football boot. Take turns to sit/take
a sip of your drink/go to the ladies. There must be at least two people here
to make sure the mission does not fail.
The other set is a single entity - a very wide guy who just had to seat near
the Tellie, in your direct line of vision to TV-B.

Want more pain?

Pain is being stalked over the phone. For at least a year. Gentle persuasion
has failed with the lady. Brash answers have gone begging. Neglecting to
answer any messages/phone calls/emails doesn't work with this person. Pure
unbridled anger simply makes you more appealing to this lady. She even gets
to stalk your buddy so as to try and get to you. Pain is her constantly
calling your phone while you are trying to watch soccer/drink beer/find
another potential stalker. Pain is having to resort to asking your buddy's
friend to answer the phone and pretend to be your girlfriend. Pain is
knowing that even this might not be enough, like trying to body-check
Agwambo's Hummer as it heads towards Kisumu. Pain is realising too late that
whatever you do, she will stalk you till the end of time.

Pain is having another member of your group of stalkers show up at the pub
while you are enjoying yourself watching women shake their behinds with a
glass of that pure gold in front of you at almost sub-zero temperature. Pain
is having to start acting like you are very high so that she will leave you
alone. Pain is not being able to kick her in the teeth as she assaults you,
rubbing herself on you, sticking her tongue in your mouth which is firmly
glued together. Pain is taking a swig of your beer to "try and hide the
smell of cigarette smoke cause my girlfriend doesn't know I smoke". Pain is
her taking another swig. Pain is finally realising that resistance is
futile. All that is left is to head for the hills. Pain is leaving the pub
before you had to because its either that or a jail sentence.

There is so much pain. But there is always Friday.

Season Two

Welcome to the Season premier. You remember Cute 2 of earlier?
Navigation guide:
### - presence of this symbol anywhere in the text is a replacement for my name
$$$ - a replacement for Kamikaze's name.

Otherwise the rest of the text remains unchanged.


### for now i have to forget abt your existance en you too, coz uve stressed me to the max en theres no way av bn able to overcome this. we'd rather stay like rivals coz not at any given time i will see you en say hi having in mind wat av gone thru coz of you. i promise you wont see ma msgs or calls hata kama niko gauge aje, i will do all i can to ctrl this. ### i dont really understand y i just think of you wen i get drunk bt this time round i will avoid it en i promise you this.

though i'm missing u i wl have to forget abt all this misses en live a better life. uve really taught me a lesson and a half, never to love any other man, wil be single en happier. uve even made me hate guys ten times coz they'l be giveing a testimony of the blasts theyv gotn from me.

calling $$$'s office is no big deal, a cousin of ours wks thea. ### ur smart upstairs so think smartly, coz theres no way i cd be having other men en am on ur back this much.
the last thing i was expecting from u is wat i got yesterday! thats why av decided to give up on you kabisa, i know it wil take time bt it will heal at one given time.

best regards

(mariah Carey - Love takes time)

A brilliant, mood lifting end to the week.

So you are wondering what she got yesterday?
Milk, roasted yams and fried chicken ...

Ok..Kamikaze's girlfriend answered her phone call on my behalf.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

2 laws .....

One of them I recited to my mum every time she complained about the state of my room and it reads..
"All things tend towards a maximum state of dis-order"
Of course I forgot to mention the second part. When complete, it reads:
"All things tend towards a maximum state of dis-order, unless work is done on them".
The second one I recite to colleagues and people who seems to have an issue with my rough, mean look:
"Image is nothing. Thirst is everything"

Monday, April 23, 2007


Its morning. you are awake look at the mirror and see a lion staring right back at you ala the Pilsner advert. You look at the bed and there is the evidence. Josefina. She is lying there, sedate and sated. You look down. Sly devilish smile forms around your lips. Salute, Colonel. That was an excellent military campaign. Agents were dropped deep inside enemy territory. Immediately neutered the uprising there....

If one mission has succeeded there is no harm in starting another. This time it is Angelina. Skirt hemlines are at the waist, trouser waists are at the ankles. Yet locomotion is achieved, eyes half closed in ruptures of passion, defying known and unknown laws of gravity, navigation and inertia. In the bedroom and she stiffs up, perks up her nose. You are imagining its your magic, releasing too much electricity in her system. You are in the mechanics of removing your trousers when suddenly:


She is holding high in the air what seems to look like a woman's underwear. You do not answer "Honey, thats just underwear" because
1) you are not stupid
2) the look on her eyes can drill a well in the ground.
It is not one of hers of course. Your mind seems to register that Josefina of last week was wearing something quite like that... to get out of this one? What business does a piece of woman's underwear have in your bedroom? Yeah right! You remember how it came there. Certainly not by the enraged woman standing in front of you.
It is a murderous setup. Brilliantly disguised as an affectionate omission. Meanwhile, it earns your jaw a stinging slap. The colonel will not be getting any because intel and operational security really suck.

After she storms out, without even bothering to smooth her hair (that really convinces you diplomacy is not going to work), all one can do is ask himself some rather amusing questions. For instance how Josefina managed to walk back home in a skirt without underwear? Truth is she didn't. Those handbags carry quite a handful.....

The man who has been slapped, and left high and dry knows how and where to look. In your messy pile of novels, newspapers and DVDs will be earrings, earring stoppers, pendants, nail polish, lip gloss, lipstick...the list is endless. There might be a surprise in your closet or in the ruffled bedsheets, like a bra or underwear. You should know that she knows that last Wednesday, there were 17 condoms in your drawer. You used only 1 (you lousy, useless bast*d) and even then there was much utility left in the rubber merchandise. Leaving 16 then. Her perfume hangs in their air for decades to come.

Josefina and Angelina (and any other you might have, unless they are of the fun-costs-money persuasion) look for these tell-tales. Every time. Has another woman been here? Stock taking time! Its done quickly, discreetly and very expertly while you are in the loo. If the cds do not add up to sixteen (either more or less - screwed either way) there will be problems .....Its either advanced Agatha Christie type of investigations or pure marking of territory.

Friday, April 20, 2007


I am generally an easy going guy (that's what I think so don't no one air
their sentiments about that). Level headed (most of the times). My fuse
should be about the size of my pinkie finger (short or long? Your guess.). I
let people do their thing if they let me do mine. Always take things with a
grain of salt and all that nonsense.

Anyways, right now, I want to Murder someone.

It has nothing to do with the fact that it's a Friday and I am flat broke
(flat like white women's behinds).
It has nothing to do with the fact that my boss (#1) acts like a b1tch. She
thinks this is a high school of sorts and she is the headmistress. "Hey,
Form 1, fix my printer, Take this there. Call for me Mrs. X from Form 3.
Make me 3 copies of this unbelievably huge booklet. Oh yeah, and where is
your report?". Nuts!!!

It is simply because there is this guy who sits next to me and has insisted
on competing for airtime with me. Before this guy checked in, I was the
master of the airwaves. Everyone respected that. I would play a variety of
music on the computer, changing daily. I have a collection. From slow stuff
on Monday, picking up the tempo, some hip hop on Wednesday, a lot of rap on
Thursday, climaxing with Rhumba on Friday, get everyone in a weekend like
mood. Nothing like that Congolese music.

This dude didn't even have a computer to play anything on. Then in my
infinite kindness, I organised for him to get one about a month ago. Things
went well. There was no competition. He didn't even have any music. I went
on leave and came back to find a lunatic in his place. With a collection as
limited as my salary.

Don't mistake me. I'd be fine if he played generally acceptable music.
Acceptable to me that is. But what does he do? He plays Reggae. On a
Monday!! Plays that boy band nonsense (backstreet? blue?). I tried turning
my music up a couple of times this last week. Muted his out good, he quit
joking around. Or so I thought. Then today. Today I'm incensed. Today I'm
thinking, screw the volume, break his neck! Know what the guy is playing? I
don't even know what it is called. Its that Kenyan music, no not the Genge
or Kapuka. That choir stuff. All dressed in blue, or some Khanga stuff. With
guys who force a really deep baritone (that's not bass, bass is that guy
from Boys to Men), and ladies with that balls-shrinking soprano. Ok, its not
a soprano, its just annoying. And intermittently, someone lets out, what do
you call them, vigelegele. Now this stuff you can't mute with a cranked up
computer playing Rhumba. They just stand out like a white guy in Ziwani.

Or maybe just sabotage his computer.
I need to plan well...for any of my choices.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Takeaway bliss.

You have company and she is sizzling hot. She is sizzling hot because of some or all the reasons below:
1. She was actually beautiful, in a distant past
2. There is little or no light in the pub
3. Your vision is f*d (you have been drinking)
4. Your brain has migrated to the neighborhood of your crotch.

Migration is a very good thing. It is time to migrate the party to your home. Bills are paid in a hurry, cabs are hailed.

There is a full war alert down in Australia.

The man at the wheel can't seem to find his way in the intricate sub-streets in the estate. Finally you are there. The cantankerous gate watchman is already asleep and your loud banging/honking/yelling is not helping matters....

After an eternal five minutes, you throw the light switch in your living room and look appreciatively at the lady.
Time to feed the demon.
The main encumbrances, the blouse/top and skirt/jeans are speedily gotten out of the way and the time to deal with more delicate items is nigh.......

Women's breasts are magnets for men's hands (physics, form 2). The hands lock to the target and lash out. Hmmmmm...Solid. Hmmmmm. Not supple. There is a hard, metal-like substance below the lining or lace. You round to the back and try to prise free the annoying hook-like things at the back; Arghhhhh!

The bra comes free.

You almost hear a whoosh as b*bs dash for the waistline. You have been conned. Bra fortified with metal. It is an elaborate ruse. The mind blowing cleavage has disappeared like a fart in a hailstorm. Mr President decides there is hardly any point in standing and takes to bending and folding like someone who has just had his liver removed without anesthesia. Two things are needed here; A miracle, or furious leg pumping action, a vial of adrenaline and a tank of pure oxygen.

A cursory eye check reveals other things that are not as flattering as they were 10 minutes ago. A bit of plastering and plumbing around the midriff, the make-up looks a bit ghastly under the clear, ordinary fluorescent lamp. Those who have hung wall posters of Ciara or Shakira turn and look at them sardonically. The light switch is flipped off while the Ciara image is still at the top of the memory stack.

Some semblance of action can then begin.....

Sunday, April 08, 2007

sitting it out

I have never been on leave this long (the sick leave I took some years back does not count). I have not been in the office since 9 Mar and dont expect to be back there before 19 Mar. Granted the leave has been forced by unavoidable circumstances, but it is still leave in the sense that I do not have to wake up in the morning, go anywhere, do anything or even do nothing. I am totally free. I have not been feeling useless, bored or looking forward to going back to work. Actually, I am not even not looking forward to going back to work, I am more or less indifferent to the whole work thing, I am neither scared of all the stuff that has been accumulating during my absence or looking forward to the sense of purpose that comes with a job. I guess all this comes from the fact that I have been working in the same place for nearly four years now. Four years is a long time, it is the same amount of time I spent in campo and high school and half the amount of time I spent in primo. If I compare four years in high school and campo to four years with my current employer I find the latter four years to be less significant and a jamaa really needs to think about if this contractual relationship ought to be terminated, should be maintained as is or a jamaa should change the way he does things to get more out of the relationship. Perhaps, a jamaa should get a mortgage and/or get married or have a baby and then his priorities will change and having some cash at the end of the month will mean something totally different.

Anyway back to the lounging that I have been doing. I now know how it feels to be a kept man, to wake up in the morning (more like afte) and depending on the weather either watch some telly and listen to radio or take a bus ride to nowhere in particular (basically walk to bus stop and wait for a bus with the most exotic sounding destination and just take a ride), have lunch/dinner that someone else has cooked. In the past I have toyed around with the idea of slowing down in the next 5-10 years. Take up a teaching job somewhere, where I will only take 1 or 2 classes a sem so that I only have to work 2 or 3 days a week and spend the rest of my time doing nothing. I would always be broke but in return I would never get stressed, have to wake up befor sunrise, or work hard (other than marking of course). Now that would be the life. Why does a jamaa have to fight with his lazy nature he should instead embrace it and adapt his way of life around it.