Friday, 28 February 2014

In my world, all that glitters is gold - The Conclusion

An antelope does not blame the one who killed it, goes a Kalenjin proverb, but the one who stirred its rest. Stacy Chebet had obviously stirred my heart’s desires, and in the event that I was killed by my wife Cherono, she was evidently going to take the blame.

As a descendant of hunters and gatherers (read the stone age man), I don’t like being cornered. It made me feel helpless and powerless. Chebet with her intentions of tricking me into marrying her had essentially sealed my fate, or at least that is what she thought. Certainly unknown to her, I was probably too smart for my own good. And it was just a matter of time before she understood the Guinean proverb that says a child can play with its mother’s breasts, but not its father’s testicles. Or better still she was about to understand the Ghanaian proverb that says don’t swallow a mango seed if your anus is small.

I had two options of handling this crazy Chebet melodramatic affair. First, with the risk of having my mutilated body discovered buried in a shallow grave behind our house, I was considering coming clean with my wife Cherono. Secondly, I was contemplating secretly adopting Chebet as my official mistress. Either way, the decision I was to make was potentially going to change my life forever.

In the meantime, I was blissfully married to Cherono like characters in a romantic movie. I made love to her as if I my life depended on it. I occasionally surprised her with her favourite home-made cooked grilled chicken dipped in mushroom sauce and Indian curry and served with roasted potatoes and African indigenous vegetables accompanied with a chilled glass of dry white wine. Unsurprisingly, I was being all nice as a strategy of preparing her for the disappointing news of my cheating which I was sure soon or later she was going to know about it.

It was a sunny Saturday morning when we slept in late and had quality time together, if you know what I mean. It had been two weeks since I slept with Chebet, and I was getting drained carrying the secret of our affair. Mastering all the courage of a village circumciser, I had blurted about the affair, and what happened next was literally a pullout of a scene from the Old Testament.

Cherono had remained quiet for some time, momentarily gazing at the wall. In the meantime, within a spell of eleven seconds I had recited the Lord’s prayer seven times, confessed all my earthly sins to the Good Guy Upstairs repeatedly and I was almost about to pee on myself when she slapped me with a religious smile and said the most beautiful words: Baby, I’m glad for being honest with me, in fact I’m proud of you. At that moment, I swear with the three Venezuelan porn movies I have hidden in some old brown trunk in our garage, my heart was literally dancing in my testicles. Well, she wasn’t done.

I have been waiting for you to come clean with me coz I knew about the affair. She had said with finality while slapping me with that look teachers reserve for retarded students. Trust me when I say this, if it wasn’t for the fact that I was naked I swear I could have done a world marathon out of our bedroom. You cold hearted daughter of a b*@#, I wanted to shout out but then I remembered that she always had her weapons of self-defense (read paper spray, manicured nails and a prostitute mouth).

I knew you would get tempted by Chebet. She is a very classy, elegant and stylish woman, and God knows if I was a man I probably would have wanted her too. She had peacefully said, though I wasn’t sure what to make of this diplomatic, calm and collected reconciliatory approach. And she wasn’t done. From the way you two looked at each other and flirted innocently, I knew something was to give. So, when two weeks ago you told me you were spending the night at Abuya Abuya’s place I don’t know to avoid the police Alco blow checks on the road, I knew right away you were with her. Never mind, that I too have my sources of information about your escapades. She had said with a smiley face, though I knew deep down the devil of revenge in her was slithering.

An hour later, these were the consequences for my action. In her own words, since she is a woman of church she had already forgiven me however she continued, even the Good Book says that the wages of sin is death. I thought the Good Book says that we should love our neighbours and judge not others, I wanted to interject.

Anyway this was her judgment. I was to cut all contacts with Chebet, and by all she clarified that she meant there was going to be no Whatsapp, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Yahoo, Gmail, Mpesa, SMS, phone call, or any other form of earthly communication. We were to sleep in separate rooms to give her time, in her own words, to decide if she was to continue with our marriage. I was to see a sex therapist, I swear I almost broke into raucous laughter but my postgraduate mind advised me otherwise. Wait for this – I was to see a sex therapist because she needed to understand my sexual appetite, orientation and disposition, her words.

Long story short – I was back in our bedroom four days later oiling her cleavage as she shouted her grandmother’s middle Kalenjin name with equal virtuoso. As for Chebet, a pair of Gucci bag, a rocky orgasm in some fancy hotel in the outskirts of Nairobi and the iPhone 5s is all it took to secretly retain her mistress services. I’m sure you have guessed by now, yes, in my world, all that glitters is gold.

The END

Wednesday, 26 February 2014

In my world, all that glitters is gold - Part III

Chebet lived in some fancy apartment along Rhapta Road in Wetlands, Nairobi. Her house had an exclusively dignified ambience with a genuine African touch. The furniture were rustic but with a sense of modernity; the wall was colourful and littered with needy family photos.

I could tell from preliminary observation that her spiritual fulfilment came in the form of shoes. She had a huge collection of shoes enough to give every lady in my village. Her assortment featured classic pumps, ballet flats, riding boots, summer wedges and sandals, just to name a few.

We had chilled in the living room chit chatting about my wife, Cherono. A discussion that I must confess made me extremely uncomfortable. She wanted to know if I was happy in my marriage; if I loved Cherono and if I found her attractive blah blah blah. She had charted endlessly as my wicked mind was busy undressing her. Frankly speaking I was in no mood for idle talk, moreso about Cherono. My heart was yearning for her figurative sizzling sexually-charged body to the point that I was so sure if I was not going to have her at that moment my night stick would probably turn into a pillar of salt; and of course I didn't ever want that to happen, so obviously something had to give.

My father used to say that if you want to clean the cage, you have to distract the dogs with a piece of meat. Well, as Chebet was busy interrogating my marriage and love life, without warning I had stealthily moved closer to her and planted a soft and wet kiss on her juicy Kalenjin lips. She took exactly 179 seconds to catch her breath, and when she did I had slowly, yet gently kissed the little escarpment under her neck as my left hand began making it's way into her cleavage.  She had immediately slapped me with a look hookers reserve for well-paying clients, as if to say she was available, slutty and wet. Moments later as we made our way to the bedroom my heart was literally dancing in my tongue. 

Her bedroom was perfectly presented and looked pretty much a place I would have loved years later to be summoned to the afterlife, of course after squeezing a rocky orgasm out of her loins. As I was busy scanning her bedroom like a confused malnourished pastoralist, she looked at me with an unbearable longing as she slipped her black little sequinned dress right down her long, nice, flowery legs, exposing her sexy lingerie.

Suddenly, the daughter of a Kalenjin village elder from Uasin Gishu County had thrown herself into my arms, her slight weight crushing onto my chest. She had then zealously rained my face with needy kisses. Meticulously applying the skills I gathered over the years from watching uncensored backstreet adult movies, I tore her thong’s delicate lace, causing it to slither down her feet. And like a cocky Zebu bull from Kakamega County, I had unfastened her bra as I stared in reverence at her simply mouth-watering twin towers, which were by now threatening to literally consume me.

I made her lay on her back, as I slipped my body toward her torso, and into her Southern region where my tongue pleased her Miss Daisy with diabolic endowment. Between moans and groans, perhaps to register her approval, and as she tried to put her legs together to hide the flow of pleasure, I had immediately gone for the kill.

Chebet deliciously served her sex with unrivalled aggression. Moments later as she blessed and cursed the gods in equal measure amidst shouts of pleasure (they say sex is like an onion, you peel while crying), she had hit her pinnacle. It took her one minute and twenty eight seconds to regain consciousness, and when she did she showered me with multiple kisses as she absent-mindedly whispered that I needed to divorce my wife, Cherono and marry her.

Say what? I was startled to say the least. Unfortunately nothing could prepare me for what I heard next. Her sentences were short, her diction was clear, and her voice cut like razor blade as she recited the options before me. Option one was to divorce my wife and marry her. She had said something about us being soul mates, made for each other, she felt it in her being and all that crap men tell prostitutes at ungodly hours. Option two was to adopt her as my second wife if I didn't want to divorce Cherono. She had said something about recording our sexual escapade that night, and nothing would stop her showing it to my wife Cherono if I didn't cooperate. 

If I thought my life won’t get worse than it just did. Well, I had no idea what was awaiting me. Despite the beauty of the moon, sun and the stars, the sky also has a threatening thunder and striking lightening, goes an African proverb. 

To Be Continued...

Tuesday, 25 February 2014

In my world, all that glitters is gold - Part II

She was considerably taller, stunningly beautiful and curiously intelligent. She looked classy, elegant and stylish without trying too much. As a matter of fact, it naturally oozed out of her.  She spoke fluent English without the stammering of a foreign accent. She was sassy, edgy and appetizingly sexy. She had an exotic name to go with her beauty and royal elegance.  Her name for legal purposes was Stacy Chebet. 

Chebet was a childhood friend of my wife Cherono. She has been living and working outside the country until early in the year when she relocated back to Kenya. Perhaps to put it out there, I had all the intentions of sleeping with Chebet the moment I laid my eyes on her. To me, she was simply not just an object of admiration but desire as well.

For those who are familiar with my story will reckon that I married my wife, Cherono purely for her riches and not for love. Therefore as far as I was concerned my true love, love of my life, soul mate, my princess or whatever else they call it in romantic movies was out there roaming freely waiting for me to find her. And until I found her, I believe that I was justified in the meantime to sample every opportunity that the gods threw generously along my path. My uncle, the indefatigable Theophilus Shimuchira Makwakwa used to say that adultery is man’s invention to deal with boredom in marriage.

The way Chebet slapped me with those little pornographic smiles; I knew she longed for my tender touch. She used to look at me as if I had died a long time ago as a suicide bomber in one of those Middle East countries and she has never moved on.

It was a chilly Saturday evening. My friend Abuya Abuya, who used to say that his name was so sweet you have to say it twice, and I were as usual at Dinks irrigating our throats with some bitter and fiery Vodka brewed by a bearded old fellow somewhere in Southern Russia, when Chebet walked in.

She was wearing a black sexually-charged little sequinned dress with ruffle detail on the collar that gave her an appearance of a 24 year old Princess Diana. And since I was blessed with a fertile imagination, I could picture what she was wearing underneath. Sandwiched in the leafy Lavington suburb, Dinks was my local tavern as well as a favourite for the young and the restless middle class Nairobians.  These are the same middle class fellows whose fancy lifestyle of imported Japanese second-hand juggernauts was powered by high interest bank loans, expensive android phones and misplaced priorities of spending more than they earned.

The same bunch of middle class Nairoibians who drank at Dinks are the fellows who spoke as if they had a monopoly of knowledge. They spoke rudely and arrogantly; shouted at the top of their voices in the name of catching up and having fun; argued the whole night about the English Premier League, and undressed with their eyes women who patronized Dinks. 

For me in case you are wondering, I fancied Dinks for two reasons. First, alcohol tasted sweeter when served by those skimpily dressed waiters at Dinks who are very generous with their smiles and exposing their cleavages. Secondly, Dinks was known to be frequented by classy, elegant and stylish women whose socio-economic understanding of femininity and women empowerment involved sexual escapades with strangers.

Chebet loves her wine red and sweet. She loves her food Mexican steak accompanied by French fries and African indigenous vegetables. Evidently she was a lady with discriminating, all the while refined taste and preference. As she discreetly sipped the wine from her glass, while caressing the glass delicately to avoid spilling on her sexy dress, I swear with all the feeble hairs miserably growing on my chest, her beauty transcended all the seven hills and the dry valley in my village.

An hour later as I slipped my right hand under the table and into her oily thighs, her reluctance to push it away had only served to fuel my determination to oil her cleavage. Unfortunately what I didn't know at that time was the simple fact that Chebet had a game plan, and the plan basically involved breaking up my marriage so that she could be with me. When you pray for rain, you pray for mud too, goes a Malawian proverb.

To Be Continued...

Note: To my peeps, you are encouraged to post your comments on this blog. You are also encouraged to join this blog as followers so that you are able to freely access all the writings, information and details. To become a follower, simply go on the taskbar on right of this blog, under Followers, click on Join this site. You can then subscribe using either your gmail, yahoo or twitter account or you can choose other available options. 

Monday, 24 February 2014

In my world, all that glitters is gold - Part I

There is something about a classy, elegant and stylish lady that always makes my southern region coil in excitement. It always causes my heart to thump so fast as if a group of militia is marching in it, while my tongue becomes so slippery I swear I could easily speak Arabic with a Chinese accent.

And just for the record, with due respect I am not talking about the ladies who try too hard to be classy, elegant and stylish, and only end up looking cheap, slutty and fake. Sure enough, I am not talking about those ladies who would suddenly adopt an American accent just by passing near a forex bureau. The ones who apply rolls of make-up enough to cause global warming, and instead of looking pretty, they end up looking scary and like dolls. You know due to the heavy make-up on their faces, they laugh bitterly and smile painfully behind their plastic exhausted faces. I am not talking about the ladies whose sense of self-esteem is defined by their microwaved faces (read skin bleaching), weird weaves and a string of masculine or rich men.

I am talking about the classy, elegant and stylish lady who Les Wanyika describes in their song Afro as having tabia yako ni sawa na sura yako (your behaviour is the same as your beautiful face). Yes, I am talking about the ladies who know how to dress age-appropriately, and have lovingly embraced their womanliness with classiness, elegance and maturity. I am talking about the ladies who have not allowed men to define their self-esteem, and they carry themselves with decorum, integrity and standard.

The ladies who have their life in order; they have their finances in place; they have their education taken care of and they don’t depend on a man for sustenance or approval. Yes, I am talking about the ladies who will pay the bill during a date, and they won’t necessarily shout about it for the whole world to hear and know. The ladies who will stand by their men without any apology or approval from their girlfriends; the ladies who know what they want in life and they aren't afraid to go for it.

Unfortunately for our society, perhaps due to intimidation and fear of competition, such classy, elegant and stylish ladies are usually easily labelled in a derogatory way. Majority will be called sluts, gold diggers, materialistic, arrogant, control-freaks and such. Well, like I always say, if you have a problem with classy, elegant and stylish ladies – I will advise you go sing to the birds. For me, I love my woman classy, elegant and stylish. I love my woman independent, strong, mature, focus and principled. And hell yeah! I love my woman sexy, glamorous and financial stable.

She doesn't necessarily have to have the perfect body of a Victoria Secret’s supermodel (though, of course I won’t mind).  She doesn't have to swing her juicy orchestrated figure-hugging body like Beyonce in a music video (though, of course that will be an added advantage in matters adult content). And sure enough, she doesn't have to speak the Queen’s language with a sparkling of a foreign twang as if someone is choking her with a nail polish. In fact, I like my woman raw and strictly indigenous.

Fortunately or unfortunately for me, recently my taste and preference for classy, elegant and stylish women was absolutely put to a litmus test.  

Her English was neither fancy nor accented. In fact, she wasn't all that glamorous like those photo shopped pictures of daughters of Eve on a magazine cover.  She was plainly a beautiful African queen, carrying a decorated attitude and charming personality that was perfectly complimented by her generous smile, and lovely raved up globular boobs.

She was the amazingly beautiful Stacy Chebet, a childhood friend of my wife Cherono. Don’t admire a woman with beautiful breasts if you have no money, goes a Zulu proverb. Well, as for me I was just about to find out the logic behind that proverb.


To be Continued… 

Saturday, 22 February 2014

Confident, Horny, Strong, Witty & Randy: Welcome to My Super 30s – Part II

I will go straight into it. I am simply rocking in my super 30s, and the following are the last four points of why my 30s are absolutely amazing.

     4.    Choosing my friends wisely. One thing I immediately learned after hitting my 30s was to accurately figure out who were my true friends, convenient friends, and fake friends. The 30s have taken me through the school of hard knocks and I graduated with exemplary life skills, experience and knowledge that is making my life absolutely adorable. I no longer hang around friends who don’t add value to my life. The 30s have taught me to choose my friends wisely. The 30s have taught me to rather have one true friend than surround myself with a bunch of sycophants who will talk shit about me the moment I leave the room. Yes, the 30s have taught me that it’s not about the quantity of friends, but the quality of friends.  Hell yeah, Jesus had only 12 disciples, but ended up changing the world.

5.     Wise, wiser, wisest. They say wine tastes better with age. Thanks to my 30s; I am wiser, smarter, stronger and mature. The 30s have opened my eyes to the realities of life. I have learnt that life is not just a long series of drinking myself silly and leave the pub at 4 in the morning every weekend. The 30s have taught me to be principled and focused. The 30s have taught me to invest my little earned money into assets and not liabilities and short-lived pleasures. My language has evidently changed – I'm now investment-minded, and I spent my time researching where I will invest my money next. Of course, the realities of the 30s include my biological clock constantly reminding me that soon and very soon I will be getting married and eventually produce some little rascals who will want to be well-fed, highly educated and be accorded the good life.

6.     Without God I am nothing. Allow me to sound like a preacher for a moment. One of the greatest lessons about my 30s is that I finally realized the place of God in my life. I realized that it profits not a man to own the whole world but loose his soul. I realized that life is more than just the accumulation of wealth and worldly materials – I mean, by end of it all, we all go down six feet under with a fancy suit or a fancy dress in a fancy coffin – AND THAT IS IT. Yes, the 30s have taught me to live life at a time, enjoy the simple things in life, be nice to people, be humble, be supportive to my loved ones, be gentle to everyone and above all be faithful and obedient to the Good Guy Upstairs. The 30s have taught me to literally live by the words of the wisest man Solomon who admonishes us in Proverbs 3:5-7 to “trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight.” I totally love the seventh verse: “Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil.”

7.     You are not the chief executive director of the earth - that is God’s work. So, don’t try to be wise in your own eyes. Remember, nothing in life is worth fighting for. Your best clothes is someone's rag. Your bank account balance is someone's loose change. Your boyfriend/girlfriend, wife/husband or fiancĂ©' was someone's Ex. Every single prostitute you see in a hotel or on the street at night was at some point in time a virgin. So what is the squabble all about? Life is too small to feel big or better than anybody. We are all equal before God. We are all naked to death, says Steve Jobs. Nothing can save us from it. 

      I hate to see people who brag about wealth, beauty, intelligence, level of education, fame and material possessions. There's nothing you have achieved in life that no one else has never gotten. There's only one thing that is worth bragging which is LIFE IN GOD ALMIGHTY. So, bottom line: Be good to your fellow human being. Always remember that the people you trample upon on your way up a ladder will be the same you'll pass on your way down. Yes, my 30s rock because they have taught me to simply enjoy the simple things in life as I live my life to glorify the Big Guy Upstairs who holds the thread of the very air I breath.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Confident, Horny, Strong, Witty & Randy: Welcome to My Super 30s – Part I

Something happened to me when I hit 30. Suddenly things that used to matter in my 20s ceased to make sense. Things that used to make my life literally tick were unexpectedly relegated and forgotten. Swiftly, things like drinking myself silly every weekend, eating 20 bob mutura (read Kenyan sausage) for dinner in some dingy backstreet corridors in Nairobi West, or chasing after every pretty thing carrying a big heart (read boobs) and a hot rocking body squeezed in kids wear became insignificant and worthless. I lost friends I thought were till death do us part. 

The Daggiefresh who was the king of the Nairobi night-life, known by almost all the club bouncers and waiters in mainstream pubs around the City was no more. The indefatigable Daggiefresh was changing, and changing fast. Well, I will be turning 33 in a couple of few months, and suffice for me to say that I am really enjoying my super 30s. In case you are wondering, this is why the 30s rock:

1.        You don’t have time for bullshit. Little insignificant things like baby-sitting (read kissing ass) your friends, lover or colleagues is completely deleted in your vocabulary. Some call it arrogance; we in our 30s call it being confident and strong. You got to love the attitude of being in your super 30s. You wanna break up with me because I didn’t send you some bunch of flowers on Valentines, well, honey feel free to hit the highway. You wanna unfriend me because I made a scathing, albeit objective comment about the loose damsels you randomly fuck as if you didn’t get a memo about the prostitutes’ disease (read Hiv/AIDS); well, nigga be my guest. So, you didn’t invite me to your birthday bash or your garden wedding, you know what, I’m cool like a Sunday morning and in fact I won’t lose sleep over it. Clearly, you got to love the super 30s because suddenly life becomes simple, fulfilling and stress-free, for the obvious reason that you really don’t have time for bullshit.

2.       You become a master of your own body. It’s interesting how when you hit 30s, perhaps with a husband and few rascals down the drain, when it eventually dawns on you that you have to finally accept your body the way it is. Early signs of ageing (read flappy skin, wrinkled face and saggy boobs) are slowly checking in. The new attitude is – sweetheart, accept me the way I’m, or feel free to show yourself out of my life. When you hit 30s, the insecurities of your 20s; you know the self-consciousness about your height, tone of skin, size of your ass or boobs as well as that chunk of meat below your armpit or the huge ribbon of meat around your waist that has evidently refused to go away, no longer matters. You simply accept yourself the way you are as you indulge in life. The 30s kinda gives you a new sense of life, a new focus and a new purpose. So, next time you see a sister as huge as a baby elephant in the Mara sensually rocking high heels and a mini skirt that seductively exposes her fatty thighs that would make those with feeble hearts become vegetarians – curse no more – she’s simply mastering her own body. Or you see a brother with a pot belly as if he is pregnant with triplets – well, judge no more, nigga is comfortable in his own skin and he has no apologies for it.

3.       Sexual healing. Maxi Priest’s song Art of Seduction paints the picture well. She’s got sex appeal beyond imagination. And she knows how to use to get what she wants, Using her body and emotion, and she’s using it well. She makes me want to want her...” The he continues: pulling me in using the art of seduction, watching the way she moves, she gets me in the mood. Makes me feel hot inside, Baby, just let me ride, I like the things you do…” It’s amazing how when you are in your 20s, and so consumed in your own little self-centered life you genuinely regard yourself as the love guru. Sweetheart, wait till you hit your 30s. Sex becomes making love. Foreplay becomes your best friend, and romance becomes your middle name. Sex graduates from just a mere formality of pushing in and out, or pumping mechanically like you are in the gym. 

In your 30s, sex graduates from simply rocking her cherry pie till you release the watery Lolliondo herbs. Sex becomes more than just trying to impress her with how long you can take before you reach the holy hill. Sex takes various dimensions such as psychological sex, emotional sex as well as physical sex. In the 30s is when you explore all forms of making her hit her pinnacle. You know the buttons to press, the positions to adopt and the toys to use (yes, I said it). You know the toys to use to spank a sweet memorable pornographic orgasm out of her tender loins and groins. That’s why a man or woman in their 30s are randy, horny and confident in matters forbidden fruit, and if you don’t serve them right, they will definitely explore the sea.

Monday, 17 February 2014

The Devil Loves Weddings

She wore her skirt seven inches above her knees, so that it cropped up her thighs when she sat down. (My mama used to say that big-legged women were going to kill me). And here I was flirting with my new landlady, and not because she was single and rich, but because she was simply irresistibly and ravishingly hot. 
Do you normally flirt like these with older women, she had asked in a girly voice. Certainly not, except with a good cause. I had replied with an air of audacity that only a circumcised village elder could master. And with that, the die was cast, her boat burnt and my unprecedented fairy-tale date with my new landlady flagged off.
She must have been in her late thirties, scary smart and crazy beautiful. My first impression of her was those egocentric, control-freak, corporate career women who had no time for sex, children or men. She had this exclusively stately ambiance of sophistication, elegance and classiness. Her hair was pricey done and fell on her shoulders perfectly. She spoke hopeless Swahili but spoke ‘proper’ English with a twang and sparkling of Muthaiga-ness. She was of medium height though her short skirt gave her the impression of added weight. She had an exotic name, Cherono, to go along with.
A week later, she reserved a table for two in one of the Sarova Hotels in town, and as I pulled a seat for her, she generously gave me a blow-job smile. She was dressed in a flimsy skirt and a seductive lavender-coloured bra that seemed helpless to hold her boobs that were threatening to literally spill off, while exposing her juicy cleavage that were mercifully begging to be oiled. My attempts to understand the vastness of her business empire in real estate were met with dodgy, un-coordinated answers. Like a wise village rabbit, she was cautious in her conversation, flamboyant in her outlook and generous with her smile. I tell you, it’s easier to squeeze a loan out of Equity Bank, than to squeeze information out of this daughter of Eve.
By now as the expensive wine was flowing, unable to control my raging hormones anymore; I had stealthily slipped my right hand under the table right into her thighs. They say if opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door. Caught unaware, she had to take a moment to catch her breath. Capitalizing on her reluctance to push my hand away, I decided to extra-judiciously execute her nervousness by gently leaning forward and planting a large, wet passionate kiss on her succulent lips. As we made our way out of the Hotel, the guard outside had slapped me with that disgusted look teachers reserve for retarded students perhaps to register his disapproval. Not to be cowed, I had slapped him back with a sarcastic smile wives reserve for mother-in-laws.
Cherono lived in leafy Muthaiga. Her house had a solely stately ambience with an authentic African touch. After causal chit chats downstairs where I learned that as the only child she inherited her parent’s vast business empire after they were killed in a road accident, we had made our way upstairs. Minutes later, she was shouting my grandmother’s middle Idakho name as she reached her pinnacle. And as she shuddered in orgasm, while slapping me with little pornographic smiles, she struggled to put her legs together, evidently to hide the flow of pleasure.
Months later, Cherono and I visited my parents in the village.  Interestingly, my heaven-bound, Scripture-spitting, and devil-cursing mother wanted Cherono and I to spiritualized our ‘marriage’ with a Pentecostal church wedding – and as such she had prayerful began putting everything in motion.
We had woken up the following morning to a flurry of activities. Unknown to us Mtumishi wa Mungu Bishop Omurondo had been invited to facilitate the supposedly wedding plans. Bishop was an otherwise tall and skinny gentleman with a hoarse voice that was poorly complimented with angry scars on his cheeks that apparently were a permanent reminder of his days as a sinner. Also invited was my uncle Saimoni Shipukuchi who had shown up with his latest arrival, third wife, Sulumena.
Well, my 71 year old uncle philanthropically inherited the 26 year old Sulumena with her four big-headed ignorant rascals. Sulumena who specialized in dressing to de-sexualize herself, became a widow a year ago after her drunken husband fell into an unfinished pit latrine. Now, like a horny African hyena, my uncle was exclusively oiling Sulumena’s cleavage, albeit to the silent disapproval of the village. 
My grandma, carrying angry wrinkles on her face had intuitional shown up without an invitation. So was the 63 year old village elder, who has since declared interest to represent the youth and the marginalized group in the County Assembly. And just before the meeting kicked off, we were joined by seven more villagers who had equally shown up without an invitation. Among them was Shirochi, my former primary school teacher who has a very disturbed sense of humour. 
Cherono, being the official guest was given a chance to speak first. In her belabored English-Swahili accent, she surprised everyone when she pledged to finance the wedding with a cool half a million Kenya shillings. And still she wasn’t done. She had promised to dig a borehole for my father (since in her own words my father seems to have a problem walking his skinny cattle all the way to the river). She had also promised to do a sort of extreme make-over for my father’s cheaply and poorly roofed house. And when we thought she was done, she had also pledged to easy coach almost half of the village to Nairobi, where the wedding she insisted should take place. Predictably everyone had quickly nodded in agreement. Finally, Cherono had promised to boost my mother’s chama’s kitty (she had mumbled off some things about economic women empowerment, though frankly speaking no one seem to understand).
By the time she was done, my mother was already profusely speaking in tongues; while my father caught up in the celebratory mood had stealthily irrigated his throat with fiery spirits he likes hiding in an unhygienic bottle in his coat. While for everyone else, this was a chance to mercilessly devour the skinny miserable-looking mandazi’s. In the meantime, they kept peeping outside to confirm whether chickens in their numbers were being summoned to the afterlife.
Clearly cornered by the unfolding of events, I had played along with the wedding plans. I had no intentions of fighting the tide, especially now that my whole village was ready to do whatever it took to ensure that I didn’t die an octogenarian bachelor. You have to understand that my village was born out of the centuries-old-notion of the African spirit and culture, which itself is partly a creation of the early Greek philosophers and the Judeo-Christian-Islamic ideology of positivism.
In other words, you are born, baptized, you live your poor life doing good for the guy upstairs or sacrificing for Him, and you are rewarded by an invitation to Heaven. In Heaven, you while your time away dressed in white robes, being serenaded by an orchestra of Fally Ipupa-like angels and endless flow of fortified holy wine. Or depending on your version of Islam, you are rewarded by a bunch of 72 un-flowered damsels. This, therefore, explains why in essence everyone is usually poking their dirty noses into everyone’s business.
Two weeks ago I found myself co-habiting with a friend in a crammed one-bedroom in Umoja, after Cherono threw me out. Well, Cherono, who supposedly was travelling to South Africa on a business trip, had returned unceremoniously where she caught me oiling the cleavage of Nafula, my old flame. The Kikuyu say: 'Muthunya wa Ngima Uligukinya, Muti wothe ni Mutenderu' (When the day of the monkey reaches, every tree it tries to climb is slippery).

My Father Isn't the Greatest Dad on Earth

My father, Mr. Eliud Waudo
Father’s Day was recent and it was amazing reading dedications, particularly on social media of how majority of people glorified, adored and almost worshipped their fathers.
                                 
Dad you are the best father on earth,”some even boldly proclaimed to the world. Perhaps I was the only one who didn't tweet how my father is the greatest dad on earth. My silence was noticeably and undoubtedly loud. In fact, suffice for me to even confess that I didn't even call my dad, leave alone wish him a happy father’s day. And just for the record, my father is still alive and kicking. Well, before I fungua roho (open my heart) and talk about my father, let me give you a brief background of where I'm coming from.
                  
When I was five years old. I adored my father. To me, he was the best father. He always had answers to my stupid questions (read I was convinced he knew everything). He was patient with me and was very loving (read he ensured we eat meat once a week). When I turned 10, my father was the greatest. He was a smart farmer, a wise husband and a role model to me. When I hit 15, my perception of dad began to swiftly change. I slowly began to realize that he didn't know everything and wasn't after all the greatest dad.
                 
When I turned 18, full of adolescent raging hormones. I began to despise my father. Suddenly I considered him old fashion - an old man who didn't know much about the world. I began comparing him with other fathers, and every time I did I despised him more. He didn't own a car or a fancy house like other dads. He wasn’t rich like other dads. He didn't fluently speak English like other dads. Worse enough, he wasn't educated like other dads. I realized that he was just an old school boring village farmer.
                  
When I turned 25. I began to realize that I only had one dad on earth and whether I despise him or not he was still my father. I began to realize how he had denied himself the finest things in life to ensure that I went to the best school and got the best education. I realized that the best gift dad could ever have given me was to deny himself the pleasures of the world and material things to ensure that I got educated. I realized that he may not have been the richest dad, but he gave me the best gift - education. Steadily I began appreciating him in little ways, the greatest being working very hard in campus to make him proud.
                 
When I turned 30. I began to realize just how much my father loved and cared for his family. He may not have been the perfect dad. Of course he had and still has his weaknesses but he tried his best to raise his children the best way he could. Without exaggerating, my father has always been there for us. He may not have known how to express his love by splashing us with fancy gifts - but he unconditionally splashed us with love and care.
                 
Well, I will be turning 32 this week, and as I look back, I cannot help but thank God for my father. God knows - Am who am today because of my father. He ensured that my upbringing was rooted in moral uprightness, hard work, respect for others and the fear of God and that has been my foundation to success. He may not have owned or driven a car. But every time I travel home and carry him in my car (he likes sitting in the co-driver seat and put his elbow on the window) – the total self-satisfaction and smile on his old rugged face is – priceless.
                  
I won’t tweet and shout to the whole world how he’s the greatest dad on earth, because truth be told – he is not and he will never be. However, when I look in his eyes, I know my father loves his family. He may never have dreamt of taking his children abroad for holiday (the best he could do was take us to Kitale ASK show). But over and above, he did his very best to raise us. Undeniably, all you have to do is look at the likes of me to see the footprint and masterpiece of my father’s love and sacrifices.
              
For those who know my father, perhaps some may spend ages to detail how he has never amounted to anything. How he wasted his prime in alcoholism and so forth. Others may describe him as a reserved and shy person who perhaps lacks ambition and drive for life. Be it as it may, as his beloved son – I'm proud of my father. He had and still has his weakness (so do all dads) – but I'm glad he’s my father. Just before I wrote this Note, I called him up and told him I'm proud he’s my father, and I'm grateful for all the sacrifices he made to ensure that I get the best foundation for success in life. I could feel the smile on his face, the self-fulfilment in his voice and the joy in his soft reserved laughter. I immediately surprised him with a Father's Day Mpesa message, and when he called back to say thank you my son - to me that was more than anyone could ever ask of a father at his age. Personally I can't wait to be a father too, and just like my father give my family the best gift in life - love and care. 
               
As we celebrate Father’s Day, perhaps you may not have had the perfect father like me. Perhaps you are even ashamed of him for more of his failures in life than successes. Perhaps you compare him with other dads and feel like he amounts to nothing. Well, the thing is – he’s still your one and only father and you can never substitute him. Resolve today to appreciate your father. You are what you are today because of the love and sacrifices he made. Even if he never directly contributed to your present success, but he laid the foundation for it, because that’s what dads do.
             
Happy Father’s Day!

Friday, 14 February 2014

Welcome to my Blog

This has been a long way coming, and its finally here. Frankly speaking, I'm absolutely excited. I humbly welcome you to begin this great journey with me. My aim for starting this Blog is to share my world with you by putting a smile on your face through my writings. You are therefore encouraged to subscribe and become a member to this Blog so that you can always be easily notified on new postings. 

Warm regards,

douglas waudo.