Money, Love & Every Mess in Between – A Nairobi’s Single Man’s Perspective — Gumzki

By Dominion Silas First comes love then comes awkward mind games and hint dropping, then comes dates, then comes ruracio then comes…heartfelt earnest conversations on money? I daresay that would be a tad too late my friend. Cash and its flow has been one of the most persistent and pressing concerns of the human existence. […]

Money, Love & Every Mess in Between – A Nairobi’s Single Man’s Perspective — Gumzki

Say It Now

 I watched people I loved turn into rust
Wearing nothing, they go out after dusk
As if to be accepted, you need to sell your soul
They need to learn there's much more to this world
~Gabrielle Aplin, Reverse.

Five years ago this day I watched a plane streak into the pitch black sky. I was freezing cold and the tears that rolled down my cheeks brought me no warmth in that near empty JKIA terminal. It was just after midnight and I knew that Cinderella would never be back.

“So will you be having some solid water with that liquid water?” A thick Scottish accent interrupts  my thoughts. The year is 2014 and I found myself gazing into the colourful Nairobi night skyline. I can’t quite remember the name of the establishment but it was in the busy Westlands strip that was all the rave in the club scene then. I have never been a club person myself but it was a friend’s birthday and she needed company. Or so I thought. It turned out she needed a bouncer, ride back home and ATM. I quickly realized my disposition when I found myself surrounded by a bevy of beautiful strangers and under-age looking gents nervously looking over their shoulders. This was my friend’s posse and “would I be a lamb and get us the first round?” Here I was thinking I would be enjoying good food, maybe some cake as I try cheer up a friend but no, the single perk of being used is blissful ignorance. When it dawns on you though, it dawns hard. Like the Sun over New Zealand.

Mama raised no fool so I promptly sought out an empty table in the balcony away from the loud DJ and the stuffy exuberance of youth drowning in cheap perfumes and even cheaper liquor. I was about to finish University and had no clue what life offered next but just then my single most troubling issue was why on Earth I just couldn’t say no. We all have that one friend. You know they’re nothing but trouble, no good, no bueno. And yet we tolerate them, entertain them even. Maybe because we hope for better; a genuine relationship, intimacy or to fill some need we have, conscious or subconscious. I have a friend I keep simply because she reminds me of my mom, nothing more. Well on this night I figured Stacy’s mouth had written a cheque her rude, selfish behind couldn’t cash. I was done. I deserved better and better was the wet (it was drizzling), dingy table in the balcony every waiter was ignoring. Funville, population: 1.

As I was pondering just how people are supposed to survive life in the era after HELB and how an entire plane with 239 souls could just disappear without a trace, a voice snapped me out of my reverie. I turned with my default puppy eyes face expecting to find an angry waiter demanding to know why I was keeping their ugly benches dry and taking in the beautiful, grey view without ordering anything. Instead my eyes beheld the deepest greenest eyes I’ve ever seen on a lanky, pale-skinned, ginger-haired angel. She asked again in a thick Scottish accent, “so will you be having some solid water with that liquid water?” I saw a glint in her eyes that betrayed the type of clown I gravitate to and laughed. She joined me and let out a bellow that belonged on a pirate ship as she lit a cigarette. I told her “welcome to my table, my company is running late but you can hold fort until they arrive.” I also asked if she didn’t mind smoking elsewhere please?

She called bluff. “The onleee kompany you’s expektin is closed and I’m not hiring either love.”She also told me she doesn’t smoke, she lit cigarettes to remind herself that cancer might have taken her dad but not his memory. I’ve always loved British accents and Scottish was sounding rather good that night. What kind of a gentleman hogs a drenched table in an empty club balcony on a rainy night? My predicament was a result of circumstance, her was by choice. She had fallen into the ‘Nigerian Prince’ trap and was a few hours away from being scammed out of a thousand dollars when her intuition came to the rescue. She was going to drown her sorrows and then head home allergic to African men forever. Now you know I couldn’t let us all sink on the basis of one fool, I was determined to show her that some African men are actually good chaps. After all man was never meant to be an island, she needed to interact with us locals during her stay in Nairobi. “Correction there laddie, I’m woman and my name is Isla.” Touché. We both perked our ears when Iris came on and shouted, “…when everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive” and I knew there and then, I had met a kindred soul.

If you were my classmate in Chiromo you probably know I missed a lot, and I mean a LOT of classes in my fourth year. My mind just wasn’t in school any more to be honest. I was convinced my path lay elsewhere and test tubes and polymer structures interested me as much as dry grass. A lot of those days I wasted away playing tour guide to Isla. We went to every nook and cranny of Nairobi that offered art, coffee and a whiff of fun. For five months we sang a thousand miles off key at karaoke, ate cake at stranger’s weddings, tried recipes from everywhere, went to the cinemas, danced awkwardly at Salsa classes, painted home made art no one would buy and bought matching bracelets. Basically we were madly in love. Or so we thought. She shared my love for avocado, the Fray, Coldplay, Handel and Arsenal, what more do you need as a couple right? A lot actually, a lot more.

Isla had to go back to Glasgow in August. She was done with her project and was going to take up residency in a hospital. One day as I was walking her home she stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me with those intense green oceans of eyes and asked if I would come with her? She had a job and we’d find something for me eventually, we could make it work. I could take a master’s course in Glasgow or take film school, the future was full of promises. We’d get married in her home church that had quaint, ancient pews and pretty stained glass windows that made the lectern look like a disco globe. She laid it all out to me and it made perfect sense. Or so I thought.

This bombshell shattered the landscape of my non-plans. I didn’t know what I wanted to do after Uni, I only knew what I didn’t want to do; spend hours in a laboratory mixing chemicals and writing reports. I had two weeks to tell my brother that he’d be having half white nephews and nieces via a woman he’d never met. Two weeks to get a passport, to pay for a flight she had offered to pay for, to pay rent for a house she owned, to pay bills she had offered to foot. Two weeks to chicken out basically. And boy Wycleff Jean would be proud of how I said: I do, I do, I do cluck cluck.

Did I really not want to graduate? Did I really want to leave my home town? Did I want to start a new life in a strange country? Was I ready to be a man, a husband and maybe father? At the age of 24? Isla was sending little sweet messages and dedicating Mary J. Blige on the radio and all I could think of was, what in the world am I doing? My biggest regret is that I never told her all this. I had conversations in my head, I raised all my fears and concerns in my head. Not once did I let her know what I thought and felt. The morning of her departure as I went for some CATs in class my heart was a mess and my mind a blank abyss. I ignored every call and text asking me where I was, where were we meeting, why wasn’t I picking up the phone, what’s going on, please talk to me. I took a matatu to the airport and watched Isla check in, I walked up to her and the look in her eyes broke my heart into a thousand pieces. The disappointment was so palpable that I cried, choking on my own guilt I said I was sorry. That’s all I could muster. She asked me why, why couldn’t I just tell her what was going on, why I didn’t trust her to understand, why I didn’t give us a chance. Her tears fell from her eyes and daggered into my soul. I’ve never felt like the scum of the Earth like that night.

It was a silent, awkward walk to her boarding gate. We said nothing to each other. Just tears. I wanted to take it all away; the pain and hurt I’d caused. All the times a singer said they wished they could turn back the hands of time finally made sense to me. Isla squeezed the longest hug out of me, kissed me goodbye and walked away. No slaps, dramatic shouting, cussing out, pouring of water on me, just a long despondent look that let me know I had screwed up, big time. I never want to see that look again, it was like when your parent says you’ve let them down. I watched that plane disappear into the sky and wandered around the airport in an aimless daze.

What’s the moral of this story you ask? Well for one, say what you mean and mean what you say. Life is short and opportunity is shorter still; if you can then do. And by all that is good in this world, appreciate the good that is in your life here and now. In a cold, ugly world shrouded in darkness don’t chase away the little light that shines on you. Be genuine, be true, be you and recognize that however out of control you may be in this life, you will always be at the crossroads. Choose wisely; regrets like hindsight, linger long after. You’d rather correct the present than wonder what future could have been had you chosen a different past. Or so I think.

Isla is pure class. She found my blog and sent me an email yesterday. A dedication of Gabrielle Aplin’s Reverse and a long letter. She had been writing a journal all this time, plenty of nights singing along to the Script’s For the first time and eating melted ice cream (something we both love). She got married this past Saturday and wanted me to know she had moved on, she had forgiven me and wished me all the best in life. Their wedding cake was avocado shaped and they danced to lots of late nineties and early 2000’s hits. Ok, challenge accepted. That is definitely one that got away. I can’t rewrite the stars but I can definitely be honest in the here and now; to God, to myself and to others. It’s the least we all can do. And fam, say it now.


1. Delightful Sound: The Afters-Say it Now. Out of a Starbucks in Texas came this band that has delivered soulful truths like: life is sweeter, light up the sky, never going back to ok, life is beautiful and countless other gems. I chanced upon them after You tubing The All-American Rejects’ Move Along and have been a fan ever since. In say it now they tell us to keep that door open and find a way to work things out, something lacking in this fast generation that doesn’t like confrontation or putting in the effort.

2. Must Watch: The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. This adventure follows the valiant efforts of a negative assets  manager at Life magazine to find the picture to grace the front cover of the magazine’s final issue. All along this journey, Walter encounters unexpected events that teach him vital lessons, answering the biggest question of them all, who is he?

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3. Worthy Read: Vital messages for Christian Living by J.C. Ryle. Any earnest enquirer searching for answers about life’s pertinent questions would be greatly aided by reading this masterpiece by the Vicar of Stradbroke. A practical guide to what a living faith looks like the author warns against the great danger that is a ‘form of religion.’


I subscribe to the obvious rule of thumb that you always let pregnant women skip to the head of the line. So I do this at Kijabe AIC Hospital (best in Kenya imho) today amidst murmurs of disapproval behind me. Democracy is over rated peeps, the masses are rarely right.
So anyway as I wait for a matatu home, same said Mama Bear waves me over, she happens to be driving back to Nairobi, oh joy! With her is a moody teen ninja hiding under a mess of dyed hair (schools have clearly closed) and a tween young man who gives me the look that lets me know Dad would be hearing of this adventure. Needless to say, I take her up on the offer and sit up front since teenagers are allergic to parents it would seem. Moody Ninja was the DJ previously as the last throes of Lil something rang out. They then made the mistake of offering me the aux cord.
Makosa I tell you. Initially I was in a choir of one, not that that has ever stopped me from croaking my lungs out before, but best believe by Limuru we were all telling Fatou and Zena, ‘Shauri yaaaaako”, kidogo kidogo, “Stella alishuka amebeba…” pale Super Mazembe tena “Kasongo” and of course because #PlayKEMusic ilibidi Les Wanyika katambe, “Sina makosa”
The TBT that no-longer-moody Ninja took has never been truer 😂🎼
My work here is done 😎



Oh, to grace how great a debtor

Daily I’m constrained to be

Let Thy goodness like a fetter

Bind my wandering heart to Thee

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it

Prone to leave the God I love

Here’s my heart, oh, take and seal it

Seal it for Thy courts above


There were always two types of kids in Sunday school; the Family FM crew wenging to save our lives and the locals hooked on Hope FM. The former had playlists rich in Plus One, Deas Vail, Skillet and Switchfoot, the latter stuck to Mercy Me, Don Moen, Casting Crowns and Emachichi. By and large. I would hear the sisters Barlows’ Never Alone belt out on Hope FM and Reuben Kigame on Family FM so the lines were rather blurred and mostly non-existent to be honest. We all loved the radio and good music, that was clear.

Until my dear brother Stan went to Annex and came back a ‘radical’. Man was high on Fish FM, Kubamba, Concert Family and all manner of things my cultured self didn’t understand. There I was chilling on some good ‘old Hillsong and boom Kanji, A-star and Juliani just disrupt the airwaves. I ended up falling in love with the stuff eventually, shout out local music champions like Chippo. The same cannot be said of my dosage of The Fuse on Capital FM, Stan was convinced I was allowing demons into the house. And I don’t mean Metallica, think Coldplay and Avril Lavigne. So much chaos the radio caused. All for the transmission of innocent airwaves.

It was because of this little black box that an intense conversation began awhile back with my cousin and her teenage friends. In this era of streaming and all manner of gadgets to consume music we were stuck in a house with no electricity, and thus no WIFI or charge on expensive phones. Our only source of entertainment was my reliable, old school radio. A good lick and bump of the batteries, some minutes in the sun to recharge and we were ready for a good time. Ah plans, what are those.

I instinctively dial to my old stomping grounds now going by the name Radio 3:16 only to be asked just what I thought I was doing. “No like for real you guy, what’s the plan? What’s cutting?” I thought I was playing us some good music I say. Uhm no, that’s some boring Church stuff, like who listens to that? I assure youngblood that I very much still do. The floor opens to an intense session of lobbying, insulting, trying to run away with the radio, knocking the batteries out, threats of a fist fight (but seriously why are the smallest people in the quickest rush to throw those puny hands? Sit down son), all manner of swearing, plain apathy and even a declaration of secession. Basically, democracy at its finest.

Eons later and some semblance of sanity had been restored after I helped youngblood to an impromptu swim to cool down. Apparently, LV and Gucci are not water proof but respect maintained, we agreed heshima idumu. I ask what exactly was the issue? The arrows came quick and lethal. How can a sane, intelligent being in 2018 Nairobi still believe in a mythical overload waiting to throw 90% of us into hell? Do you not see how idiotic you look emptying empty pockets to buy papas expensive planes and cars? ‘Men of God’ fleecing dumb flock, preaching water and drinking expensive wine, getting away with murder, judging everyone in the light for what they themselves do in the dark?

One girl who had been silent this whole time looked me dead in the eye and said, “men are all pigs, I cannot wait to go study abroad and be a happy lesbian and never come back to this @#%!hole of a country. How can I believe in a god who doesn’t even accept who I am?” By this time youngblood’s clothes were dry-ish and he meekly wonders what my stance on abortion is? What would I do if at 15 I impregnated my girlfriend? And my MP of a father was a bastion of the wholesome family in the county. A family he long abandoned and was keener to keep the company of Miss Tourism county than my mother. Wouldn’t I also want to light a blunt just to keep sane? To pop some pills like the neighbor’s girl who they buried last week. Mom drinks like a fish to cope, why shouldn’t I?

The temperature was a cool 20 degrees or less but I have never sweated as much as at that moment. And boy do I sweat, Dr. Chris Murungaru has nothing on me, if sweat was a river, I would be the Nile. To say I was in great discomfort was putting it mildly. By nature, I hate confrontation; I like simple, get along with everyone and have a jolly good time. That was not going to happen here. These kids had questions I didn’t have answers for. Questions I myself continue to wrestle over. What was I doing at 15? Clearly, times have changed. The oldest, a 17-year-old, lanky Rasta man pierced the uncomfortable silence with the question that seemed to be on everyone’s mind. “Dom, what do you believe?” I have been on some well-lit stages in my acting career but this was the harshest spotlight I have ever wilted under.

It strikes me that most people are not Christians not because they haven’t heard a sermon preached or interacted with church but rather precisely because they have and it was exactly what they never wanted to be. You probably know one or two amazing people who would belong in the same WhatsApp group as Mother Theresa. But most, myself chief among them, are messy, sin-plagued lumps of clay that will just disappoint. If there is anyone you have raised on a pedestal, no matter how good their intentions, you best be ready for disappointment, dismay and utter shock at the vast capacity for evil they are capable of. 1 in 1 will fail you. It is inevitably human.

In this modern body of Christ exist too many brains. Top heavy intelligent folks who have lost themselves in the pursuit of dogma and doctrine. Too lost in the do’s and don’ts to see the who’s and have nots. As deep as your roots go should your branches also span. Do you provide welcome shade in this harsh reality we call life? Do your fruits draw people to the Vine? I ask myself this and find the answer is often a resounding no. The church is an active stoning ground and an under-staffed and ill-equipped hospital. The lighthouse has gone dark and ships trapped in stormy seas crash every day. What am I doing about it? What are you, if you claim to be a follower of Christ?

There is only One who will exceed expectations. Only One who was raised up on Calvary for the salvation of all. ALL. Whatever your identity, state, belief and posture; Jesus died and rose again for you. If I have never told you this, I have been remiss and beg your forgiveness. It is the only conversation we will have that will matter. The question everyone will account for is this, “Who and What is Jesus Christ to you?” You might avoid it, postpone it, dismiss it but it is the very question of the ages. It cannot be ignored, try as you may. A song I hear sang at altar calls in John Hagee’s church rings, “There’s room at the cross for you
There’s room at the cross for you
Though millions have come
There’s still room for one
Yes, there’s room at the cross for you.”

So, what do I believe? I have been in several denominations of churches, tried other religions and spiritual experiences; and come to a conclusion. Everyone must; it is our default setting to arrive at some sort of spiritual foundation. “What if I don’t believe there’s a god?” My cousin asks. I think of the whooping I would’ve received back in the day for merely thinking the thought and chuckle. “Well then that’s a choice you would have made yes?” Before you decide however, it’s only right to examine all the evidence before you. Followers of Jesus have for millennia spoken of faith. Unreasonable, unexplainable, unshakable and unquestionable. You just believe. You haven’t seen Him but you believe even still. Absurd? Not really. I believe in electricity and wind as much as I do a mother’s instinct, though I cannot claim to understand the science of all. I don’t know why the sun is where it is and we are exactly on Earth where we are, I would love to understand how the body cells specialize on demand. Nature and wildlife are full of mysteries, were I to solve them all would it give me contentment? I doubt. The question has never been asked to understand but rather to believe. We could know everything there is to know but the question would still remain, “do I want to believe that Jesus died for me?” His birthplace, parables, burial place and all other ‘controversies’ don’t serve to deny His existence but rather to evade His undeniability. If you really want to, you can logically trace the legitimacy and historical accuracy of His story. And without faith.

Reason will lead you to Josephus, Tacitus, Pliny the younger, Lucian and other secular historians who independently scream for the fact of Jesus. In fact, the first thing your web browser will auto finish for you when you type secular historians is Jesus. Try it. But faith is what takes you beyond acknowledgement and into the realm of belief. What would drive a small, low-budget crew of misfits to proclaim that Jesus of Nazareth was who He claimed to be? These men and women died for this crazy claim! Horrendous and gruesome deaths. Sycophancy can only get you so far. How many people in your life are you willing to die for? There was no material gain for the early believers. No seeds to reap and special offerings for private jets. They were either mad or totally convinced. I would suggest before deciding the fate of your soul to consider a similar dedication in your search for the truth. The stakes are priceless, and the consequences eternal.

I believe in a few facts I have come to hold dear. Borrowing from singer Jamie Grace:

  1. I know Jesus loves me
  2. I know I love Him back
  3. I know He loves you
  4. I want you to love Him too
  5. And yet even if you choose not to, by His grace I will love you as He does.


He is the only entity I have found to stand the test of integrity and character. Reuben said it thus, “I have tasted of the Lord and I know that Jesus You are good.” Whether there was a big bang when God said “Let there be light” is a discussion to be had. Where did all the dinosaurs go? I wonder too. I admit to being just as stumped as everyone else on life. What would I do if my wife was a victim of rape and wanted nothing to do with that child? I can only walk my shoes and you walk yours. But even as we plod along this existence the one thing you can never doubt is the agape love of Jesus. It is a realization so mind-blowing that we cannot take it all. If you approach Him you will not leave that encounter ignored. There is a definite turning point in time, before Jesus and after Him. Not just the calendar but in my own life. I have been at those feet, in those hands; and known what Isaiah told: “But he was pierced for our transgressions;
he was crushed for our iniquities;
upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,
and with his wounds we are healed.” Now no despair, grief, loss, confusion, hurt, pain or even death can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus. The Roman persecutor turned missionary says he was convinced; a conviction cannot be based off a hunch. Paul knew. Do you know? You are never too far gone from the saving arms of Jesus. Life is both complicated and hard, love is complicated but when you think about it, not that hard. Love Himself is neither complicated nor hard. And behold He stands at the door and knocks. What will you do about it?


As for the household of faith, what is your life’s radio transmitting? Are you tuned to the frequencies all around you? There is always a cry for help in need of assistance if only you were willing. That is the gospel in a nutshell; that God came to redeem and reconcile a fallen humanity. ALL have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. From Pope to pimp, Reverend to rock legend, there is not a one who of their own doing can satisfy God’s standard of holiness. What a joy it must be to know as Tenth Avenue North sing on you are more; ‘this is not about what you’ve done,
But what’s been done for you.
This is not about where you’ve been,
But where your brokenness brings you to.’ If you say you are a Christ follower, what song is playing on your radio?


Going Green.

Grass aint greener

Green. Such a gentle colour. Peaceful. Calm. Beautiful. Usually conjures up imagery of rainforests and lush gardens. It’s the banner we environmentalists and wildlife lovers fly so proudly. Then there is that oh mighty dollar and more recently those legalized weeds folks in Cali love. Sadly it is also the colour associated with envy and jealousy, you know that green-eyed monster? Usually seen in the people standing beside me in church when I start singing. Keep calm folks, Heaven’s choir has no qualification except presence.
I was admiring the spectrum of colour found in a rainbow one lovely afternoon at that Java at the Junction when I hear my name being called out in a rather pleasant voice, somewhere between Toni Braxton and Kelly Rowland. I turn to see a pretty, young lady approach me waving her arms quite animatedly. I quickly go through my database of tall brunettes and end up short. Memory, always need more. I try my best to match the lovely damsel’s joy as she invites herself to join my company. After pleasantries, I figure it would be rude to continue talking to a stranger but remember blunt honesty hasn’t served me well in the past so I nod my head and smile like I had just met my long-lost sister. She catches my drift rather quickly and says, “you have no idea who I am do you?” I half smile and half choke as if English had suddenly escaped me.
After confessing my sins and awkwardly giving all my best excuses, the lady introduces herself as Sophie*, an old neighbor of mine from Nyali, Mombasa. It all comes back to me; Portuguese, sister to Andrew*, a rabble-rouser and frequent partner in football. She says I haven’t changed a bit and I try my best not to lie. It’s her birthday she says, big ‘ol 22, would I mind joining her friends for a movie? Who ever said no to a freebie? So I join her crew of equally long-legged, summer-clad friends for the film. Two hours, one large cake and several glasses of things I can’t pronounce later one girl offers me a ‘special’ cupcake. The glint in her eye tells me to decline without hesitation. They laugh and make fun of me in Portuguese, I respond in Spanish and suddenly no one is laughing. I think to myself that maybe my language skills have rusted but instead realize a senior gentleman is standing behind me with a rather disapproving look. If I found my daughter and her friends with some random chap who was gobbling up all the cake, I’d be none too pleased either. I take one last slice of cake, a rather large one, say my goodbyes and return to Java. They don’t pay me to say that btw, they are just that good.
As I wonder what led to the invention of the delicacy that is cake, the gentleman, who turns out to be Sophie’s dad joins me. What is it with the Portuguese and manners? Anyway, he orders a strong coffee for both of us and loosens his tie. He looks at me and sighs deeply. “What plans do you have for my daughter” he asks menacingly. Right then I want to say the only plans I know of are the ones the Lord has, good plans for her future but I see the timing might be wrong for saved jokes. I assure him that besides his daughter possessing the looks of a supermodel and the class of an aristocrat, my peasant self had only just met her. He weighs me up and seems to agree with my evaluation of my nil chances and sips his coffee. I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.
Mr. Gonzalez*, as I later learn is his name then produces a handkerchief from his bespoke suit’s pocket and wipes a small tear from his eye. I freeze mid-cake and wonder what I am about to go through. A grown man crying rarely, if ever, ends well. In between stolen glances at his daughter’s party he tells me a tale I found very difficult to swallow. And I am known to swallow ugali, boiled egg and a banana with ease.
Sophie’s dad had been married for 37 years. Happily at first, then reluctantly and finally nonchalantly. But the gig was up. He had been in several affairs over the years and he’d finally been caught. The wife would hear none of it, she was moving back to Lisbon. The proverbial poop had hit the fan and boy did it stink. Before me was a broken man. Tasked to him was the duty of telling his children why their mother was leaving, why family dinners would be no more, why Christmas would be cold in the Malindi heat, why Sophie’s wedding seating arrangement would be a battle, why lawyers would be circling like hungry sharks, why…just why? He didn’t even need a response from me; neither did he wait for one. Here was a man who had accepted his fate and would let the chips fall where they would. There was a hollowness in his eyes that betrayed the gaping wound in his soul. Crushed, realization had sunk in him. The dance with the devil was over and there was no shoe left behind when the clock struck midnight in this story.
“You look like a good, young man” he said. I thought of asking him to repeat that into my phone recording for future conversations with Sophie and her friends but again, wrong crowd. “Don’t be an old fool like me”, of all his regret and guilt what really pained him was a rather simple truth. “You know, to be honest, it’s never worth it.” It’s never worth it. Sophie came over and pecked him on the cheek. “Papa, Dom is just a friend, don’t kill him okay?” He nodded and she left as I chalked up yet another member of the sisterhood. The convent grows I thought to myself, oh well. He snaps me back into the gravity of the present with a question, “have you ever been in love?” I swallow hard and stare at the rainbow silently. Mercifully, he continues, “when you lose true love my boy, what are you left with?” “It’s not hate; you’re left with nothing, just nothing. No one and nothing.”
As quickly as he came, he suddenly rises up and leaves. I want to raise the small matter of the bill but figure the chap has more pressing matters to deal with. Besides, I ate more cake than the birthday girl, evens out. The rainbow begins to dissipate as the sun begins its advance against the beautiful, grey, cold weather I love. It has been a long, hard week. Drained as I was, I look at Sophie and can’t help but feel the pain that would surely be coming her way. I am no Sensei (in the Kung Fu Panda series I take more after Po than Shifu) but a word to the wise, it’s not worth it. It really isn’t. In the bigger picture, no fleeting moment of stolen passion and illicit lust can replace genuine love. You’d rather stay alone than hurt together. The grass is always greener on the side being watered.


My cousin recently acquired a green card and is moving to the US. Mostly for medical reasons but also to work and live the American dream. Where if you work hard and pay your dues, there are equal opportunities for everyone to make it. At least that’s what it used to be. Now Trump’s nightmare is the stuff of legend; everyday news delivered in tweet. The home of the brave and free has lost its lustre. America feels neither brave nor free. If the pseudo war in Syria or N.Korea explodes, we are all in for a right, fine mess. Asked if I would consider relocating to the US, I flat-out said no. Not in 2018 onwards. And the pick of the cherry is that Donald does not believe in global warming. Going green? His green is an imploding economy surrounded by a wall of fear.


My ex asked me to her house. Sounds like the beginning of a bad idea right? Well after pursuing her Masters in London she was building her online start-up and needed my help creating an ad. Money has no emotions is my motto, so I head over to the sprawling family estate and build a product we are both excited about. I wish her the best in her endeavours and start to leave. Her mother, bless her soul, says it would be rude to go without lunch so would I please join them? Mothers and I get along. Indian food always makes me happy, chapatti makes me happy beyond level Pharrell so I head out a very jolly chap. I am accosted by Ashok*, the eldest son of the house, he has a couple of green sweets and hands me one. “Tell me vuot you tink eh?” I swallow one little fella and savour what I think is mint, chamomile and vanilla? Close, he says. The magic ingredient is actually miraa. “If I can have this approved by the government, I will have the first khat sweet!” Ashok looks like he just discovered the cure for slow WIFI, I look like Pep Guardiola after Pogbacked. Ashok reminds me of a bad episode of Rick & Morty, I dodged a bullet there certainly. I head home thankful for the presence of honest friends in my life. If I mail you with ideas on how to turn those strands of fibre on maize cobs into a successful hair line business, blame it on the khat.


1. Delightful Sound: Maître Gims – Brisé. One of my favourite French songs, Monsieur M delivers a passionate accusation to a cheating boyfriend from his scorned girlfriend. You need not be a fluent French speaker to understand this creatively shot video. The Congolese roots are not lost on you either, with beautiful riffs and a haunting harmony throughout the song; this is a track that will stick in your mind.

2. Must Watch: The Last Kiss. What happens when a young couple is rocked by the misdeeds of one? Boy meets girl, boy loves girl. They live happily ever after. Kapish right? Well boy meets another girl and paradise is distorted. This is a tale of just what happens when your sins come back to convict you. Follow the stories of Michael, Jenna and their friends as they face the realities of aging and decision-making. Zach Braff plays the lead in this to perfection.

last kiss

3. Worthy Read: Ernest Wamboye’s The Human Temple is a book I am itching to get my hands on, the reviews sing high praise. And based off a book of his I HAVE read, it is bound to be great. But if you haven’t, do get yourself a copy of his book, Lust and the City; a guide on sexual purity. In the day we live in, sex is a big deal. In this book, he draws from a rich well of Biblical wealth to address the question of sexuality in a world saturated with opinions on the matter. Masturbation, pornography, the Spiritual significance of sex and more are addressed with honest revelations from his own life that shed light on a subject most of us shroud in a cloud of darkness.


* not real names.

Be Nice.

Google recently changed its motto from the simple, “don’t be evil” to “do the right thing.” A subtle but profound statement on the expectations of the code of conduct in a corporate world.  One of the most baffling attributes of the human species is their rather shocking capacity to be mean and plain bad to each other. What is it that drives us to be deliberately unkind and blatantly rude? It’s like we’re trying to outdo each other for jerk of the century award.

I find myself at the new Carrefour at the Junction often on my way home and twice now I have had to wear my Batman cape. You see that chap in the movies sweating over which wire to cut in a bomb about to detonate and take out the entire city? Yep. Me. All day. Everyday.

Carrefour, bless them, happen to be a pretty decent supermarket. Good prices, enough stock and tellers with actual change. In the eternal words of that great American poet, Charlie Sheen, ‘winning!’ So one day I arrive with my cousin who has managed to work herself into a frenzied panic about some last-minute shopping. We get there just before they’re about to close and I excuse myself to go get Obama’s autograph. Oh you didn’t know he paid us a surprise visit last week? Well he didn’t; surprise.

I finish my business and head out expecting to find my cousin almost done with her shopping right? Wrong. Very much so. I instead walk into the eye of a Category 5 hurricane. Apparently the watchman had ‘frozen’ dear cousin out. The supermarket, he so eloquently puts it, was about to close. With a smirk, imagined or real depends on anger levels, he adds that maybe we could try tomorrow morning? Ah boy.

That set off my cousin. Not tik tok small time venting, think big; like boom bang exploding. She threatens hell fire, hurls curses only a true Kisii witch would know and promises that the matter would reach the President. I sensed it might have been the wrong time to throw in a couple of presidential jokes so I instead shepherd her to the parking lot and told her to give me five minutes. Essentially she was in time out.

I get her shopping list and go back into the dragon’s den. I find the watchman still steaming as you would expect and apply the thickest coat of sweet talk I can find. I ask if it’s been a particularly rough day? (If I was him I’d ask quite sarcastically what gives that impression.) Luckily he doesn’t share my penchant for puns and says indeed it had been a rough day. I apologize and proceed to plead my case. I inform him that a young boy’s fate lies in the balance. Would he live with himself knowing little man had gone to school without mayo in his sandwich? Who would want that on their conscience? I explain the situation at hand and why it was paramount that I shop tonight. Would he please help a brother out?

He sizes me up and peeps over my shoulder for any sight of Wonder Woman. I assure him that my cousin had gone back to Themyscira and won’t be returning anytime soon, bad day at the office I assure him. She’s usually so much nicer. Lies of course but family sticks together through thick, thin and every other pizza size in between. In truth, said cousin can be a handful, the poster girl for RBF; the only nice thing on her is usually Nice & Lovely. And that on a good day.

He lightens up a bit and lets me inside the supermarket. He even tells me who the supervisor is in case I need help. Well what do you know. I buy an assortment of unnecessary necessities that any boogie youngster would need on their birthday in school. Card, balloons, confetti…yada yada. Kids these days. Whatever happened to bringing in the herd after a long day in the field? Or felling that pesky millenium-old tree for mama’s fireplace before single-handedly killing a mammoth. That there was a celebration folks. Anyhoo, I pay the cashier a compliment on her lovely dreadlocks, pay up and hand my new BFF some yoghurt on my way out. He asks if he’s seen me somewhere on TV to which I laugh and humbly shoo his wild imagination away. I also inform him when exactly my show airs and also the reruns. I bid him farewell and return to an overjoyed and thankfully calm cousin.

Second time I was getting myself some food for a barbecue and at the till I encounter the makings of a revolution. Apparently the system had failed and the poor teller was being harassed by a horde of angry Nairobians high on their self-importance. You would think half the Cabinet was stuck here in the midst of  a national crisis. They get redirected to another till where they sulk and throw the dirtiest looks to the young woman manning or is it womanning, the till.

I assume the lady is new on the job because she looks awfully young. I approach her and she immediately waves me away saying her till is closed. I tell her that I was just saying hi. Looks like you guys need an IT guy and I’m IT. She gets the joke luckily and we strike up a conversation. She is new on the job as I thought and was supposed to be on lunch break. Hungry, tired, inexperienced and out of luck…throw a bunch of cranky overgrown babies speaking over you at the same time and you have a concoction that can break down Bruce Wayne himself.

Ten minutes later and many, perhaps too many IT jokes later I swiftly closed that tab and took the Windows of opportunity to wish her all the best in her new Office. She said Word and I knew she’d Excel, girl had that right Outlook. I joined the new queue where the last lemon face was still being served. After all that huffing and puffing Miss Grumpy had managed to be all of one second ahead of me. Sips lemonade.

My final reading comes from the book of Jacmil, chapter bakery and verse chapati. Now if you don’t know better ask somebody who has lived in Kinoo; therein are the sweetest brown chapatis ever made. I find a small, elvish looking rastaman quarreling with the lady at the counter. Apparently she’s making pancakes too slowly. A tall, ebony princess flicks her hair and chimes in, “unatueka sana aki! Hatujakuja apa kukuanglia, ama hujui kupika?” As a huge fan of tall, dark chocolate, I wonder how one can be so pretty and yet so mean. Come to think of it, isn’t the whole Rasta movement about peace, love and puff puff pass? I and I affi very disappointed you knuo say?

Rastaman takes his pancakes and leaves in a huff. Melanin poppin looks at the display and says, “nifungie ii chapo imebaki…na ata inakaa ngumu.” She clicks most dramatically and leaves. The bakery lady takes a deep breath and looks at me expecting more vitriol. I know the look. It says, “do it son, nijaribu tu, I need just one more bleep bleep to try me and iss going down, try me!”

Try her I don’t. I ask how she’s doing and she says fine curtly. Ok. Someone’s feisty methinks. I ask her how she can be so sour surrounded by such sweet stuff? I peek a small smile. Almost there methinks again. So I ask her nani amemkosea akaliwe chapati kama iyo mawe slayqueen amebeba? She laughs and asks if I actually want something or I’m wasting her time. I tell her if the customer is always right…I might be her Mr. Right, no? Bingo, we have a winner. We both burst out laughing and she leans over the counter and asks playfully where my wife is. I sense that my flirt meter is in red and pump the brakes before I end up in an oven of trouble. I enquire if at all there might be any more of those world-famous brown chapatis left. And what do you know, she produces a couple and swears me to secrecy. Officially, that day’s batch is over but who’s counting. I say thank you and leave feeling like the Gingerbread man. Such a confectionary criminal I am. The cake life chose me folks. That’s why my friends call me icing.

So what am I getting at here? You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar but you can also fly with more honeys than vine ja? My point is being nice not only increases your quality of life but it makes your relationships a whole lot better. No one wants to be around a grouch. Being intelligent is not the same as being a smartypants nor is being blunt an excuse to be brutal. If I have a pentagon shaped head don’t be making fivehead jokes all the time. I know. So your sister looks like a gas cylinder in that dress, there’s a nicer way of saying don’t wear that. Even those perpetually late friends deserve some courtesy when pointing out this irritating flaw. Making late jokes the whole time is a no.

Now I’m not saying you become a doormat. There is such a thing as too nice. But temper honesty with compassion and truth with grace. This world could be a whole lot better if we were all nice. It’s nice to pay your debts, use the dustbin, respond to texts, give way in traffic, return that excess change, keep your paws off her well done hair, not catcall and weird out that poor girl trying to go home in peace, actually mean what you say, say sorry and thank you. Try it. Be Nice. Unless you’re actually called Nice…then be nicer.

1. Delightful Sound:

Barbara Wangui- Be more barrio (Sheppard cover). The Barbz has been churning out amazing covers for a while now and with that soulful big voice and infectious smile she encourages you to be more friendly. It’s not often that someone does a cover better than Boyce Avenue so enjoy this one:

2.  Must Watch:

Long before Black Panther we were celebrating Black pride on the TV series, Blackish. A rib cracker that does a humorous take on racial tensions in America. This crazy family will have you in stitches, so it’s a good thing the amazing Tracee Ellis Ross plays a doctor hehe.

3. Worthy Read:

Safely Home by Randy Alcorn. Following two former Harvard room mates after they graduate, this is the story of the clash of culture, class and Christ Himself as an American and a Chinese man navigate a friendship put through the toughest test ever. In the end, “real gold fears no fire.” A gripping page turner with an emotional rollercoaster of a story. Pure bliss. Enjoy!

All I Want.

Odd thing death. Even more odd however is life. For the living, dying seems like an inevitable curse. Delay it as much as you can, ignore it, dread it, give it no recognition until you stare that cruel fate in the face. For the dying, life becomes a precious journey, a gift. Treasured, loved, relishing every second and recognizing that one final breath here is one first there. Home becomes a reality; an unshakeable state of being, not just a place. Not a thing, not a feeling. “You are home”, she once said to me. When you die, you are home. I thought she meant you have arrived home. But she said it again, “no silly, you ARE home, you’ll see.” She repeated those words to me in 2001 and again in 2010. And one last time on Saturday. Why would a beautiful, dying girl say that to those she’s leaving behind? I want to say I finally understand it but I don’t. Not fully anyway. Probably never will. But I will keep my part of the deal; to the living, here are the words of Holly Butcher. Words that gave hope and comfort to my amiga on this other side of the world. She wouldn’t let me say her name nor would I, for her family’s sake, but she did insist I share this letter from this Australian gem.

I thought I had shed my last tear ages ago but you had to break out the big guns huh? Onionfest reunion will be on me, best believe. You better save me the best seat in the house aye? I don’t know the arrangement in Heaven’s dining hall but you better have avocadoes in hand when I see you again. To songs no one else listens to, jokes no one else laughs at, films no one else watches and books no one deems worthy of reading. To sunrises you loved because they were new beginnings you said. To listening to God laugh while getting soaked in the rain. I hate funerals and goodbyes, so you know not to be upset when you don’t see me at yours. All I want is to be home. Not when I eventually exit stage left. Not when I learn to stop being naive…or daft as you called it, not when I make it, not when I succeed, not when I have all I’ve ever desired. I finally realized all I want aren’t things or people. All I want and all I need is to be home; here, now, today, tomorrow, forever. You fought well champ, rest easy now. See you soon.


A bit of life advice from Hol:

It’s a strange thing to realise and accept your mortality at 26 years young. It’s just one of those things you ignore. The days tick by and you just expect they will keep on coming; Until the unexpected happens. I always imagined myself growing old, wrinkled and grey- most likely caused by the beautiful family (lots of kiddies) I planned on building with the love of my life. I want that so bad it hurts.

That’s the thing about life; It is fragile, precious and unpredictable and each day is a gift, not a given right.

I’m 27 now. I don’t want to go. I love my life. I am happy.. I owe that to my loved ones. But the control is out of my hands.

I haven’t started this ‘note before I die’ so that death is feared – I like the fact that we are mostly ignorant to it’s inevitability.. Except when I want to talk about it and it is treated like a ‘taboo’ topic that will never happen to any of us.. That’s been a bit tough. I just want people to stop worrying so much about the small, meaningless stresses in life and try to remember that we all have the same fate after it all so do what you can to make your time feel worthy and great, minus the bullshit.

I have dropped lots of my thoughts below as I have had a lot of time to ponder life these last few months. Of course it’s the middle of the night when these random things pop in my head most!

Those times you are whinging about ridiculous things (something I have noticed so much these past few months), just think about someone who is really facing a problem. Be grateful for your minor issue and get over it. It’s okay to acknowledge that something is annoying but try not to carry on about it and negatively effect other people’s days.

Once you do that, get out there and take a freaking big breath of that fresh Aussie air deep in your lungs, look at how blue the sky is and how green the trees are; It is so beautiful. Think how lucky you are to be able to do just that – breathe.

You might have got caught in bad traffic today, or had a bad sleep because your beautiful babies kept you awake, or your hairdresser cut your hair too short. Your new fake nails might have got a chip, your boobs are too small, or you have cellulite on your arse and your belly is wobbling.

Let all that shit go.. I swear you will not be thinking of those things when it is your turn to go. It is all SO insignificant when you look at life as a whole. I’m watching my body waste away right before my eyes with nothing I can do about it and all I wish for now is that I could have just one more Birthday or Christmas with my family, or just one more day with my partner and dog. Just one more.

I hear people complaining about how terrible work is or about how hard it is to exercise – Be grateful you are physically able to. Work and exercise may seem like such trivial things … until your body doesn’t allow you to do either of them.

I tried to live a healthy life, in fact, that was probably my major passion. Appreciate your good health and functioning body- even if it isn’t your ideal size. Look after it and embrace how amazing it is. Move it and nourish it with fresh food. Don’t obsess over it.

Remember there are more aspects to good health than the physical body.. work just as hard on finding your mental, emotional and spiritual happiness too. That way you might realise just how insignificant and unimportant having this stupidly portrayed perfect social media body really is.. While on this topic, delete any account that pops up on your news feeds that gives you any sense of feeling shit about yourself. Friend or not.. Be ruthless for your own well-being.

Be grateful for each day you don’t have pain and even the days where you are unwell with man flu, a sore back or a sprained ankle, accept it is shit but be thankful it isn’t life threatening and will go away.

Whinge less, people! .. And help each other more.

Give, give, give. It is true that you gain more happiness doing things for others than doing them for yourself. I wish I did this more. Since I have been sick, I have met the most incredibly giving and kind people and been the receiver of the most thoughtful and loving words and support from my family, friends and strangers; More than I could I ever give in return. I will never forget this and will be forever grateful to all of these people.

It is a weird thing having money to spend at the end.. when you’re dying. It’s not a time you go out and buy material things that you usually would, like a new dress. It makes you think how silly it is that we think it is worth spending so much money on new clothes and ‘things’ in our lives.

Buy your friend something kind instead of another dress, beauty product or jewellery for that next wedding. 1. No-one cares if you wear the same thing twice 2. It feels good. Take them out for a meal, or better yet, cook them a meal. Shout their coffee. Give/ buy them a plant, a massage or a candle and tell them you love them when you give it to them.

Value other people’s time. Don’t keep them waiting because you are shit at being on time. Get ready earlier if you are one of those people and appreciate that your friends want to share their time with you, not sit by themselves, waiting on a mate. You will gain respect too! Amen sister.

This year, our family agreed to do no presents and despite the tree looking rather sad and empty (I nearly cracked Christmas Eve!), it was so nice because people didn’t have the pressure of shopping and the effort went into writing a nice card for each other. Plus imagine my family trying to buy me a present knowing they would probably end up with it themselves.. strange! It might seem lame but those cards mean more to me than any impulse purchase could. Mind you, it was also easier to do in our house because we had no little kiddies there. Anyway, moral of the story- presents are not needed for a meaningful Christmas. Moving on.

Use your money on experiences.. Or at least don’t miss out on experiences because you spent all your money on material shit.

Put in the effort to do that day trip to the beach you keep putting off. Dip your feet in the water and dig your toes in the sand. Wet your face with salt water.

Get amongst nature.

Try just enjoying and being in moments rather than capturing them through the screen of your phone. Life isn’t meant to be lived through a screen nor is it about getting the perfect photo.. enjoy the bloody moment, people! Stop trying to capture it for everyone else.

Random rhetorical question. Are those several hours you spend doing your hair and make up each day or to go out for one night really worth it? I’ve never understood this about females 🤔.

Get up early sometimes and listen to the birds while you watch the beautiful colours the sun makes as it rises.

Listen to music.. really listen. Music is therapy. Old is best.

Cuddle your dog. Far out, I will miss that.

Talk to your friends. Put down your phone. Are they doing okay?

Travel if it’s your desire, don’t if it’s not.

Work to live, don’t live to work.

Seriously, do what makes your heart feel happy.

Eat the cake. Zero guilt.

Say no to things you really don’t want to do.

Don’t feel pressured to do what other people might think is a fulfilling life.. you might want a mediocre life and that is so okay.

Tell your loved ones you love them every time you get the chance and love them with everything you have.

Also, remember if something is making you miserable, you do have the power to change it – in work or love or whatever it may be. Have the guts to change. You don’t know how much time you’ve got on this earth so don’t waste it being miserable. I know that is said all the time but it couldn’t be more true.

Anyway, that’s just this one young gals life advice. Take it or leave it, I don’t mind!

Oh and one last thing, if you can, do a good deed for humanity (and myself) and start regularly donating blood. It will make you feel good with the added bonus of saving lives. I feel like it is something that is so overlooked considering every donation can save 3 lives! That is a massive impact each person can have and the process really is so simple.

Blood donation (more bags than I could keep up with counting) helped keep me alive for an extra year – a year I will be forever grateful that I got to spend it here on Earth with my family, friends and dog. A year I had some of the greatest times of my life.

..’Til we meet again.



-From Holly Butcher,

Hafter Herekshons

The only thing we Kenyans love more than a good fad is evading responsibility. If ever there was a lot prone to washing their dirty hands clean of their dirty deeds, they reside right here in the 254. And now ‘after elections’ is the new catchphrase.


Why is the loo not flushed? Tuongee baada ya kura. Mbona hujafanya homework? Tuongee baada ya kura. You guy is how that 2k? Tuongee after 8th. Babe I’m late; tuongee after 2022. Why are you throwing litter out the bus window? Kidero haokoti anyway; tuone after elections. That raise you promised Madam? Uhm we’ll talk after elections. FYI she ng’oad this very badly due to her heavy tongue and I wanted to laugh but I was too angry to point out that legal would advise strongly against any chatter that would lead to a sexual harassment suit.

My landlord tried that on me, ati he’ll fix the security lights after elections; I told him pia rent ntalipa after elections. Tonight I bathe in a halo so bright from new security lights, I look like a Beyoncè poster gone wrong. Your boy don’t play.

All In a Day’s Diversion

I happen to have the fortune of not needing to get into town often since my journey, like Gulliver takes me round the world, well mostly from Kinoo to Hurlingham anyway. I get a matatu through Kawangware and another through Yaya. If I’m feeling like some exercise besides chewing, I’ll walk to ILRI and get a matatu from there instead. My people were long distance traders FYI so yeah yours truly can walk that walk.

This day the clouds are a bulgy puff of black, threatening to let loose great drops of rain at any time. The winds were ever so gusty, like they were late for the skytrain to Colorado to cause a tornado. My kind of beautiful weather this. Anyhoo I get to Kawangware and notice PB Riruta girls are out and about doing community cleaning. Let me just say for the record, PB alumni are the bomb dot com.



I walk to my usual sweet banana vendor and eat a couple of bunches, grab a free watermelon and walk towards the stage. Wait, watermelon slice, it’s important to specify it was just a slice people, jeez; what are we, savages? Past the annoyingly loud Kibera javs are the ominously huge and pleasantly silent buses of route 46, well usually. This day however I spot not one bus, zilch. Sheesh, tough luck; so I peruse through primary school books like I’m immensely interested in better Insha writing and Social Studies past papers are my jam. After awkward minutes of passing time, a bus appears and I’m so relieved I’d have offered to take the next squad washing the old rickety thing.

Nimble as a cat, I hop on. And bump straight into a hefty, not so nimble woman carrying enough terere to feed Bungoma and Kakamega counties, trying to alight. I say trying because her sacks of vegetables were splitting open and she was recovering every single precious leaf before they hit the ground. I tried to help, futile really; I say tried because she kept snatching the leaves I was collecting for her rather than focusing on her own salvaging operation. Where is the trust yo? Cue BEP’s Where is the Love…

Minutes later, I smell like a fresh farm produce pickup from Kirinyaga and my new t-shirt resembles those green Safcom promotional tees. It was originally grey in case you were wondering. Before I can hop back into the bus a small, corn-rowed dude nudges his way past me rudely and gets on. I ignore this slight by a slight man I could easily sit on and turn into a permanent part of the bus steps; only that dude chooses this opportune moment to connect his cheap earphones to his cheap excuse of a phone and plug those to his cheap, dirty ears. Ok I can’t confirm if his ears were dirty, I was just hating on Dirty Diana, with his corny corn rows. Nkt.

I have been at the door of this bus slowly moving through the traffic at Kawangware stage for the better part of 3 minutes when I spy behind the bus, a city council marshal marshalling a black, plastic pipe. I think it’s supposed to be a rungu but for lack of a better description we’ll call it a pipe. He points at me in a manner likely to suggest he wasn’t greeting me in the fashion of Shikuku, Moi or Jomo with their various hand toys. It occurs to me I neither give off the aura of a conductor nor a rascal, so pray tell, what am I doing hanging out of a bus? I assume this was the thought of said Marshal now galloping at me, pipe in hand, like a rhino charging down the Mara plains. Oh sweet mothertree of all avocadoes, this is about to get dicey.


 To be continued…

Coulda Bean Us

On my way home on Friday, I see the most incredible sight, an overturned cereals trailer. Now keep calm y’alls, nobody was hurt (I’m not a sadist…unless we’re playing Monopoly). Thing is it was a freight truck carrying sacks of beans. Beautiful beans! Nyayo, Sura Mbaya, Yellow, Indian, White, Chickpeas, Kidney beans, Navy beans, Pinto…all types of beans of all shapes and sizes. I was in bean heaven I tell you, for those of you in the dark, I am a serial cereal killer. The only reason I didn’t get off the matatu was because I didn’t have a bag and also I doubt the good Lord would want me rejoicing in another’s misfortune. Mostly though it’s the bag; you already know I’d be repenting over a plate of mbosho garnished with avocado.


That morning I get invited to a wedding by my cousin. It’s he’s fiancee’s best friend’s big day and of course he must support. Quid pro quo kind of thing since their own wedding is in December. So anyway, I’m busy samboling (like my teacher used to say) various Ugandan beans when his girl says, “this couldv’e been us but you were so slow sebo…mschteuw.” Now there is a way a woman speaks and you can tell it’s a joke, all is well. Then there is another way and what you need to do is take cover, for Winter is here. I perceive very quickly that this scenario is the latter and make my way to the gents posthaste. My cousin has a habit of leaving me his messes to clean up, call me Mr. Kaplan; but I wasn’t taking this one for the team. If you were somewhere in Karen this past Friday and saw a long queue of regally dressed Ugandan men outside a portable loo complaining loudly, that was yours truly. Now I know my future wife is reading this thinking, “how embarassing”; remember, this could’ve been us but…


1. Delightful Sound: There are singers and then there are sangers. People who take you on a journey aboard riffs, hooks, melodies and rhythm. The King of R & B is one such sanger. For all his drama, demons and controversy the man who puts the R in and R n B knows how to get you there. The Gospel industry might have shut the door on him for good but I still pray for the tortured soul that is Robert Kelly. I believe I can fly, When a Woman Loves, Fiesta, Ignition, Bump n Grind, Storm is Over, Trapped in the Closet, You Saved Me, Happy People, Same Girl, I’mma Flirt…the list goes on. The man has churned hit after hit from the chocolate factory. My personal R.Kelly favourite? With a subtle ciello intro and sweet acoustic progression throughout the song, the ode to all the homies lost in Chiraq stands out; I wish.

2. Must Watch: Steve Carell has been cracking ribs ever since he could speak, I suspect he cracked his mama’s rib on the way out. Nowhere is his genius on better display than in The Office; adapted for US audiences from the British sitcom of the same name, this is the home of all bad jokes and puns. This is ground zero.

3. Worthy Read: There is hardly a better weaver of words than one Eoin Colfer, a genius who created the mystical wonderland of Artemis Fowl. Delve into the world of fairies, goblins and a humanity unaware of what lies under the surface as the teenage prodigy finds himself at the crossroads of good and evil.