THE CORPORATE BULL

Karani never thought for even a second that his behavior at the office was predatory. Looking across the open space where staff members of the department he led were seated, a satisfied smile occupied his face. Only recently had he been feted by the group CEO as being the manager who had excelled in executing SDG (Sustainable Development Goal) number 5 on gender equality. In the department he led of over 50 staff members, about 32 were ladies, something that had eluded most of the other departments. So illustrious and noticable was his achievement that the top level management took notice and gave him the coveted award during the company's annual dinner party.

Karani was very elaborate when recruiting. Besides the standard qualifications that most applicants possessed, he was on the lookout for outstanding feminine physical features. Whenever HR presented him a shortlist, he'd make sure to comb through to ensure that those who faced him in the interview process met his aesthetic needs. And that's how it ended that much of his team resembled the African version of the Playboy Mansion. 

The rest of the company knew which department had the most beautiful girls. It was not uncommon to see droves of young men crisscrossing the 4th floor, which is where the team sat, trying to catch the attention of the girls. A common joke doing rounds within the organization was that, it took the IT team 5 minutes to dispatch someone to 4th floor but 5 days to any other floor! 

Back to Karani. Not only did he have a roving eye for the fairer sex, he also had a perverted sense of power. His satisfaction lay in casting eyes across the floor in the knowledge that he had slept with about 20 of the 32 women that he had recruited. Of the remaining 12, 5 were his relatives while the rest had been working there before he joined. In his little cubicle he'd spend his time gazing at the girls, reminiscing on the great, the good, the average and the below average sexual encounters he'd had during recruitment. That gave him immense satisfaction. It's during moments like that that he would decide which of the girls in this harem he had built, would be summoned that evening or earn that trip to the workshop he was attending.

At the moment he was staring at Pamela, a thick well endowed broad from the lakeside. He recalled how shocked she had been at first when he'd began hinting about what needed to be done "in the face of stiff competition by other candidates".

She was a church girl, very qualified for the job and still innocent on the murky corporate world that Karani and others player in. Her view of Karani had been that of a paternal figure -wise, firm and deeply caring of his team members' welfare. She almost laughed when he asked her to meet him for some drinks, thinking it was a trap.

Slowly she'd come around. They'd had drinks and at one point invited she'd him to her house, where she lived with her twin daughters. They'd spent the afternoon in her living room and later bedroom - after the househelp had been given terse instructions to take the kids swimming, and "only come back when asked to". The househelp had given her a knowing look and quickly prepared the protesting girls, who had been absorbed in a movie.

Once out, Pamela had retreated to the bathroom and reappeared shortly after in a skimpy negligee, smiling at her future boss seductively. Mr. Karani, despite his lustful nature, was very conservative in his ways. At his insistence she had to close the bedroom curtains, keep the lights off and could not convince him to fully undress. He screwed her silently and only produced a little wimper towards the end. She'd started moaning but he'd held his hand on her mouth as a way to tell her to STFU. She lay there sad, looking at the ceiling thinking maybe she'd disappointed him and didn't pass the enterview. 

"Come for your letter on Monday", he'd quipped as he got into his car. She was relieved.

Shiko walked over to speak to Pamela and his thoughts were suddenly distracted. He recalled meeting Shiko's mother in their rural church. She had, like most parents with sons and daughters who are through with school, tried severally to seek his help in getting her some job or internship. He hadn't met Shiko by then but the mother was quite persistent. Trying to brush her off, he scrolled his phone number and email address and instructed her to send the daughter's CV. Elated, Mama Shiko instructed her daughter to send her CV and make follow up calls after some time, knowing that Karani was a busy man.

Shiko had done as instructed but instead of calling -as she was unsure of how to address a mdosi- decided to WhatsApp.

Karani was having a drink with another potential recruit when the WhatsApp message came in. The pretty and youthful profile picture caught his eye. Shiko was recruited in about a month. Three days of that month were spent holed in a hotel room in Karatina. He had developed a soft spot for Shiko, moreso because she was from his village and kept him abreast of what was going on among his surbodinates.

As Shiko catwalked back to her desk, conscious of his lustful look and smiling inwardly, she stopped over Peter's desk, ostensibly for a chitchat but also aware that the boss was surveying her nice behind.

Peter was a dependable worker. Karani had recruited him together with his fiancee, Mary. Well Mary got the job first but then convinced Karani to take in Peter. By then Karani did not know that the two were engaged. Mary was a beautiful girl who'd caught his eye during the interview process. He knew he wanted her and once he made sure she was in the shortlist, he began dangling the job to her as was his modus operandi. Mary was not prepared to cheat on her fiance and so a protracted battle of wills ensued. The last straw was when her fiance Peter was laid off, and it now looked like both of them would be jobless. She had confided to one of her girls on what was going on and the advice she got was "sio sabuni, haiishi!"

And so 3 months later she was begging Karani to take her in (pun intended). And here she was now, working alongside her fiance while having to accede to her boss's sexual demands occasionally. For Karani this was the perfect power game. Screwing another man's woman and watching her play innocent in his presence.

But he had heard some grapevine from Shiko that Peter was also seeing another girl in the office. Her name was Lemayan. She was a beautiful masai girl, with a dark smooth skin and perfect white teeth. He'd gone out with her once but ended up disliking her for becoming clingy. She was hotheaded and had started trying to own him. They'd jostled for a while, him contemplating sacking her, her contemplating spilling the beans of their brief affair to his family, whom she had tracked on social media. This stalemate was resolved by the appearance of Peter and his fiance. Peter was in her section, which was sales-oriented, and so they found themselves spending time together in the field. Their friendship blossomed and she was entertaining thoughts of taking Peter from Mary. Karani was relieved by the distraction and secretly cheered Peter on, while trying to poison his relationship with Mary by keeping her away from Peter through overseas travels which he came along.

"Morning Karani!" it was Chebet, the office administrator.

Chebet was one of the few married women in his team. She was married to his college roommate. He'd secured her the position as a favor to his friend. Their relationship was warm and friendly. She knew his wife and was aware of his indiscretions. She however chose to remain ambivalent.

 She silently watched as the ladies competed for his attention, favors and promotions. She'd seen a few edged out during appraisals for trying to reject his advances once they had secured the job. Her office best friend, Mwende, was also in Karani's web of subordinate lovers.

For Mwende, her current job was unbelievably above her punching weight, thanks to Karani. She'd met Karani while hawking men's boxers in a bar. They'd struck a conversation as he haggled and made lewd jokes on the sizes of the boxers. He'd paid her via Mpesa and sent her to drop the stuff in hid car, which was parked outside. She'd saved his number, contacted and actively flirted with him. Her credentials were not solid but she compensated with an amenable personality and an irresistible spider shaped figure. She was also an agressive go-getter. Karani found himself so enthralled that he helped her forge academic papers, just to have her around him. She got the job of an assistant administrator. When it came to Mwende, he could get quite jealous. As Wafula discovered during a team building. Several bottles down and with everyone having loosened up, Mwende and Wafula became the star dancers of the night. 

Ensconced in his powerful arms while gyrating to a Vybez Kartel track, he suddenly felt a powerful pull of the girl from his arms. While readying himself to fight, he looked to see his Head of Department, Karani, giving him the most hostile stare while dragging Mwende away. Karani led Mwende to a dark part of the party venue and, to Wafula's shock, gave her a hard slap on the face, before leaving the party.

A number of the party people witnessed the drama too.

Everything went quiet. Even the DJ stopped the music. Chebet rushed over to Mwende to console her. Wafula sensed his goose may have been overcooked!

"Hujuangi hio ni kitu ya mdosi?", whispered Ochie, his colleague, "itabidi umechorea huyo ngeus"

Chebet tried to restore the fun environment, coaxing everyone to join a mugithi train and blaming alcohol on the little scuffle. The party resumed though without the earlier mojo.

Mwende must have followed Karani to his room, for she was no longer in the party.

That particular event was a turning point in the delicate balance that Karani had maintained in the office among his girlfriends. The ladies that he'd had trysts, and who had harbored hopes of relationship with him, must have realised that his heart was with Mwende. And therefore the grumbling began. And it was carried over to 4th floor, spreading like a wildfire across the organization. The noose was tightening on the serial philanderer who was using his position to get laid.

Karani had grown up in abject poverty, at a village right on the slopes of Mt. Kenya. What he lacked materially and in the looks department was compensated by a sharp brain, which saw him get a good education, thanks to bursaries and scholarships. Karani had suffered rejection after rejection from girls like many other campus boys with meagre resources. His drive to succeed was partly powered by his desire to turn tables. His dream was to conquer any girl that came on his radar. Thanks to his tenacity, he rose quickly in the corporate world, finding himself at the crossroads of money and power. His youthful dream to conquer girls was still at the fore, despite having gotten himself a family.

And so the corporate was the playground on which he'd right the historical injustices of yore.

Three months after the infamous team building, a haggard looking Karani was in a room with his CEO, COO and HR Director, facing of a myriad of sexual harassment and misconduct accusation that snowballed from a single anonymous call to the company helpline, to almost 20 #MeToo revelations on email and even social media. A young intern had shared on her experience with Karani to her manager after witnessing the skirmish during the team building. Ironically, the manager too had had a thing with Karani. Seething at the obvious interplay, she'd advised the intern to make a complaint via the anonymous helpline.

As it became clear that this was an intricate web of sexually transmitted jobs and promotions, the manager began quietly encouraging her female colleagues to come out with their stories. All except Mwende and Shiko did share their ordeals.

The CEO was livid that he'd been misled to fete Karani only a few months earlier for his efforts with SDG goal number 5 on gender equality. One after another, testimonies by the aggrieved ladies were heard. Most memorable was Marjorie who, in a moment of fury, attacked Karani physically during the hearings. Her marriage had irretrievably broken down once her husband discovered that Karani was taking her with him for workshops, not for furtherance of skill and knowledge, but for penile bliss. Thanks to the efforts of a private investigator, who produced photographic and video evidence of the two frolicking in heated pool naked. She recounted how a protracted divorce case had left her wounded and broke, without spousal support. It was even revealed that Karani had been enjoined in the divorce suit.

Many broke down while testifying, recalling how much they had invested emotionally thinking they were the only side plates on Karani's table. On further prodding, and by their admission, none had been coerced - the transactional relationship was driven by the need to bag a job, internship or a promotion and sometimes romantic expectations. However this was still in contravention of company policy.

The story found it's way into the mainstream media, blogs and gutter press. Petrified shareholders and the public began to press for major action. While Karani got his matching orders, other departments in the organization began to open up, with similar accusations coming up. A lady executive was accused of aggressively hitting on her subordinates, and running her department like her personal turf. Young men trooped to the HR offices recounting tales of how some were forced to bang her on the office desk. One tearily recounted how he was forced to administer cunnilingus in unhygienic vaginal conditions as the aggressive middle-aged female executive urged him on. A pattern of deliberate use of sex as a tool of power in this organization was becoming clearer.

A company wide probe was called, that lasted several months and conducted by an independent firm. The report swept half of the top level executives including, surprisingly, the CEO. Screenshots of a conversation he had had with a voluptuous salesgirl begging for lewd videos was the nail in his coffin and made for sensational reporting, which caught the attention of a parliamentary committee and even attracted the outrage of the self-anointed moral policeman, bwana Ezekiel.

A new executive team was put in place and more stringent hiring policies enforced. Whistleblowing was also actively encouraged.

As for Karani, he took a one year sabbatical from the corporate world, before crossing borders to a neighboring country where he now leads a multinational's country operations. The multinational is either unaware or uninterested in his past, as long as he can deliver on the numbers.

THE DEFLOWERMENT

So last week we were reliving our childhood Christmas moments with my workmates on a teams call, as part of our celebration for the season, after which each of us would gift their secretly chosen Santa a gift. I found myself regaling the team with a story of how one young lass, name withheld, chose Christ's birthday to deflower me.

Well not an exact deflowerment, if you consider the many unsolicited sexual escapades with many a house manager that were prevalent and part of boys' induction into the blissful world of carnal experiences. But for me this was my first almost-adult and consensual sexual experience, where two pubescent beings went through the courtship motions, before getting encapsulated in that lustful embrace that sometimes results in new life.

I was around 14 years old and had spotted this lass in my village church, shyly holding her younger brother, painfully self-conscious of her curves and blooming breasts that were attracting suggestive looks as she passed - noticeable even in that loose conservative dress she was in. I immediately made my interest known to my wingman, a female cousin, who was utterly dependable in such matters. Had she been born in the first world, she'd probably be a founding owner of a dating site. Many a tongue-tied young men in the village used her to relay their interest and enduring love to the girls who had smitten them. Her contribution to love and lust is hereby inscribed and immortalized. But I digress.

She picked the task with gusto, hunted down the girl the way Hillary used to hunt Bill's sidechics, and brought her to me, making quick introductions, before any one of the nosy churchwomen could cast a disapproving scowl in our direction. One of the enduring memories I picked was the scent of her lotion. Up to this day I get a pang of reminiscence, followed by a boner whenever that scent wafts into my nose! I have no idea what the lotion was, but Pavlov was right!

Back to the girl. We had a few secret roadside meetings, much like those of opposition politicians and president Moi before announcing defections in the 90s. Only difference is we had limited time, lest we court the ire of our parents for breaking curfews. We exchanged several love letters, thanks to the selfless services of my cousin, who was an able courier. I have no recollection of the contents of these letters but they must have been romantic.

We were boiling with desire for each other, but opportunities were hard to come by. So we hatched a plan. Christmas day is when many celebrating adults let their guard down when it comes to their hawk-eyed supervision of their teens. Date chosen!

The venue was to be a dilapidated classroom, in a school that is next to the church. The plan was to make appearances in the church, partake in a few of the numerous Catholic recitals, give offerings then make a surreptitious escape when everyone was kneeling, deeply engrossed in confessing the sins of the previous week and begging Mary for intercession. She was to take a cue from my escape and join me at our agreed rendezvous. So I escaped.

To avoid prying eyes that would brew a scandal far worse than The Bull of Auckland, we had to avoid walking together. I made my reconnaissance tour to class 3M, which was the furthest classroom from the chapel. Thankfully it was deserted. I was armed with a single juala -again given to me by this industrious lass. Pinched from her uncle's box, she claimed. I remember waiting for what seemed to be eternity. The duration that would make a modern day lad to assume that fare has been 'eaten' spinning him to a day's depression and later a date with a bar of soap.

In my naivety I had already adorned the rubber in eager anticipation and carefully put back my pair of trousers! In those younger randy days, boners could come by liberally and spontaneously, even without a trigger in sight, just the imagination. And so I waited, nurturing my turgid member as I sat on one of the desks that I had selected because of its firmness, eagerly waiting.

She eventually came in, 30 minutes later. She'd been held up while trying lose some kids playing nearby, who posed the risk of walking in on us, in childish curiosity, as performed the infernal, sinful deed. She'd therefore taken a detour. A smart lass she was. And in a age with no mobile phones I had been quite patient. And the boner too.

Well she was here now, which only meant one thing. The Deed could officially commence, the way nature intended it. I enthusiastically lowered my pants, for the first time noticing that I had worn the rubber with the lubricated side inside out. This didn't by no means dampen our desire to proceed with The Deed.

As if on cue, she lifted her new Christmas dress, lowered her pink panties revealing a lush bush, wherein the gorge - the receiver of life lay, throbbing in anticipation.

I led her to the sturdy desk, ordinarily used for study, but this time serving a shadier cause. With her legs invitingly apart, I aimed my budding, undeveloped member, much akin the way a pilot aims for a runway while landing. It was a pinpoint precision. As I made my gentle entry I heard her gasp, just like it had been described in those raunchy novels I used to read from time to time.

I savoured hungrily devoid of tact and no wonder I quickly found myself hanging precariously on that dreaded cliff of no return.

And so brethren and sistren, after exactly 33 seconds, I noisy fired and emptied my cannon quickly running out of ammo. With nothing else to do, We remained awkwardly transfixed for almost another 30 seconds, me recovering my breathe, her probably wondering if this was it, or there was more greatness left in this lightweight object of her infatuation.It would take me several years to realize that this was a subpar performance by any human standards. But ignorance is bliss. Neither did she know (I hope) -or if she did it didn't show.

The final minutes of The Deed were spent with her trying to cleanse her dress of some stains, while I looked for a suitable place to dump my entrapped seed. 

I left first, as per the agreed protocol, and made my way into the church. At this point the priest was winding up, with the congregation on its feet. The Holy Man clasped his hand together, looked up with mystique adorning his kind face, made a sign of the cross and instructed the flock,

"The mass is ended, go yea in peace"

"Thanks be to God!", they shot back.

I turned and made my way to the exit - ebullient and contented. The day's festivities were only beginning!

#IWENTTOALLIANCE

Having gone to Bush attracts a great deal of frenemies. Those that expect you to be a millionaire by association, like the more famous old boys that found themselves part of the post-independence kleptocracy. Or those that are loaded, influencial or holding more senior positions because of their hard work and other factors.

They'll happily quote you as a reference point on how it's inconsequential to have gone to Alliance because they've 'made it', despite not attending the school, by whatever success rulebook (mostly money) they subscribe to. 

I was once mocked by a boss, who sardonically quipped..." Wapi ule mutu wa Alliance"? Not that I ever flaunted my alumnus (as has been commonly and sarcastically depicted of us) but because someone made it their business to investigate where I schooled, as I appeared to stand up for something. That standing up something is actually a hallmark of Busherians!

Going to Alliance is clearly another original sin - a blemish you carry by association. A two-edged sword that can attract benefits or disdain depending on where you find yourself in this capitalistic economy. 

May the spirit of Carey Francis descend in human form to save us, those who carry the brunt of the AHS.

On reaching heaven's gates, just like the tormented Arsenal fans, we may need to make a case of how we deserve a special consideration. For we've already suffered enough mockery and ostracism while on planet earth!

But one thing stands: #IWentToAlliance 😜

SPONSORS DAY

We should have a Sponsor National Appreciation Day to celebrate this category of faceless philanthropists, who continue to offer critical economic support to the young, and sometimes not-so-young, folks while maintaining a measure of anonymity in the modern highly digitized social space. 

A Sponsor will come through with the household expenses, school fees, garments, holidays, even support kids that are not theirs; some heavyweights will even support the sponsored person's siblings, parents and in rare cases boyfriends/girlfriends. 

I remember a very consensual but lopsided arrangement by a young couple known to me a while back. The Sponsor, a prominent businessman in a rural town would regularly come to pick the girl from her bedsitter abode that he has komboad for her. On some occasions he would chance in on her good-for-nothing live-in mogoka-chewing, kumikumi-addicted boyfriend, who depended on the girl for his upkeep. I'm not sure what she got from him in return. Maybe he was a good cook, but I digress. Back to the sponsor's visit...no blows or harsh words were ever exchanged. The young man had been introduced to him as a relative and was willing to keep up the appearances as such. They would all get into the big-bellied chap's plush ride and drive off to sample the town's nightlife. The young man, I suppose out of his own volition or as a result of severe economic emasculation, would be dropped outside a popular nightclub that he loved and would be handed a generous clubbing stipend, while the ageing alpha male would proceed to his preferred evening hangout with the girl for a night of viagra-fuelled carousal. 

Of course a scenario like the one above is an exception, though certainly very likely. For many others, it could lead to brutal crimes of passion and requires tracks to be well covered. That is why an uncomfortable and inquisitive boyfriend will be told that the new VW Golf was purchased through a bank loan, and the bank is holding on to the logbook as security. Or the jewelry was a gift at the workplace for exemplary performance. A girlfriend will be calmed by being told that the older woman who keeps calling is a spiritual mentor, whose calling is to mentor young men. At times, at the instigation of the Sponsor, a girl will engineer beef with her partner and refuse to be calmed down. She may then ask for 'time apart' that weekend 'to think things over'. The trusting boy will unknowingly hand his girl a visa to spend the weekend with her sponsor at the Great Rift Lodge. Being 'mad', she will of course ignore his calls and texts and will have cooled off by Sunday evening to 'talk things over' and accept his profuse apologies. 

Sponsors never make it to the Instagram posts, yet they unselfishly (well, not quite) provide the pecuniary facilitation. Sometimes it may be out of choice, since their sons and daughters ply the same digital space and delicate balances may get upset. Sometimes the sponsored entity may feel some discomfort consorting with their friends' mothers, fathers or relatives and feel the need to keep things under wraps. Sometimes it could be a lecturer or a boss which can lead to conflicts of interest, a cleric, politician or other public figures, giving the more reason why utmost discretion must be exercised. 

Whatever the reason you have for keeping Mr. or Ms. Sponsor under the radar, it's imperative that we all remain cognizant of the contribution they make to our fragile economy, where unemployment figures keep soaring, and honor them with a day or a week. 

The legal heads, who constitute a handsome portion of the sponsor fraternity, can guide us on how to lobby the lawmakers (who are on the top of the sponsoring food chain) to give this cog of Kenya's economy due recognition.

THE FLYING FAN

She walked across the room butt naked, casting suggestive glances in his direction, but he kept his eyes glued to his phone, trying to catch the dying minutes of the match. It was a fast-paced match, both teams in their element. The passes were delivered magically, with precision and the midfielders were dribbling confidently, supplying balls and seeking openings. The defenders were not relenting. It looked headed to a stalemate. 

But sometimes this doesn't hold for long. It's in games like this where footballing genius is displayed through sheer individual effort. Or footballing blunders. Both which can determine outcomes of such tight games. He wasn't about to miss this magic, not even to this horny spider-shaped nymph that was his girlfriend.

Undeterred, she continued with her Jezebellic sexual wiles, this time laying besides him, sighing loudly and pouting. He briefly looked at her, unseeing and unsympathetic to her sexual agony. Arsenal had hypnotized him. He was remotely aware of her presence, but all attention was on another powerful attacking build up by his beloved Arsenal. Mechanically, and by sheer force of habit, he ran one hand across her bare chest, his eyes still locked on his phone screen, consumed by the Emirates atmosphere. 

She mistook this as a cue and huddled herself closer to him, caressing his member tenderly. But the member too was a die-hard Arsenal fan. There was no sign of life there. She made for his zipper, eager to awaken the dead. That is also the moment when Arsenal scored! 

Evolutionary research has discarded any possibility that our species could have - milions of years ago -possessed the ability to fly. In most recorded mythologies that involve flying, like the Icarus one, the crafters were cognizant of this shortcoming and therefore ensured that some mechanical effort was employed to achieve this fete. Be it wings attached to the body, or a flying chariot, man has never nurtured the thought that their forbearers could fly unsupported. Even angels, who exist in the realm of spirituality, are not considered to be human.

But his girlfriend swears to this day that she saw the man flying in celebration. One moment she was on his zipper preparing to awaken the dead, the next his rotund frame was airbone, for about ten metres, landing heavily besides the kitchen. His phone with him. He landed safely but the phone did not, with pieces scattering all over. 

He could not watch the rest of the match on TV, as there was a power outage. He could not rush to the nearest sports bar, as there was only about six minutes left to the end of the game. So he called the game in Arsenal's favor prematurely, sad that he could not post his usual social media taunts to his friends as is the tradition. But thoroughly overjoyed.

And that is how his attention finally shifted to his pretty girlfriend. In his upbeat and celebratory mood, and despite the damage to his phone, he managed to pack a massive boner, unaided.

He quickly turned to her, ready for the three minute carnal odyssey that she had relentlessly pursued during such a critical match!

He was to post later that night on his social media page..."I told you we are Arsenal, we only win when we want!"

They had drawn 1:1, thanks to a defender's tackle in the final seconds of the game, that earned their opponents an equalizing penalty.

THE LANGUAGE FALLACY

Someone once quipped that English is not a measure of intelligence. In English.

This train of thought became quite popular -without a doubt representing what many may have probably wanted to say but lacked the words to frame the thoughts, or the confidence to defend them. I began to see it in social media posts and statuses and even, on a few occasions, as graffiti on toilet walls. 

Was it a way or expressing contempt at what is seeing as the language of the imperialist, I wondered? Or was it a general assertion that mastery of any language is in no way brainy, hence cannot be used to measure intelligence? I'll assume it's the latter.

A case scenario: we have a kid whose first language is English, stacked against a kid who is beginning to learn English in grade 1 of school (after 5 years of communicating in vernacular). It's clear at this point that there could be a general bias on who of the two is 'intelligent'. But by the time these two individuals are done with high school, their grasp would not be far apart, assuming they went to the same schools.

Suppose a group of young men and women fitting the above archetypes gave speeches or wrote treatises on a similar subject, chances are that there would be an outstanding one who would mesmerize you. Much like the analogy of rising cream.

Some aspects of their speech or writing would most likely employ tools that require creativity and a technical application. This is where an intelligent mind stands out.

I'm not a linguist but since I'm a human with communication capabilities through language I hereby pen my pedestrian observations of how above average intelligence is manifested in language.

A mastery in the choice of words, syntax, semantics, synonyms, antonyms and all the -nyms that exist. A rich thesaurus of words to apply in transforming thought into word. Correct use of scintillating expressions, idioms and application of current and historical examples. Use of irony, sarcasm, satire and wit in speech and the written word. Vivid descriptions of people, places and events. Use of rhymes, alliteration and other tools in poetry, music and general language application. Coining new words that end up becoming universally accepted, leading to the growth of the language.

This is the differentiator folks, doesn't matter the language.

 

Intelligent people will write books and articles that stir imagination, inspire people, forment revolutions, cause cultural changes and define generations. *Irregardless* of the language used. They thrill, they scare, they humor, they captivate, they incite, they disgust. They plant seeds of love, hate, rebellion in their listener's heads.

No wonder the pen is always mightier than the sword. A warrior's brute force is no match for a writer's imagination.

That's why Charles Dickens is revered as a master of description. That's why Shakespeare has consistently been honored as the number 1 Briton.

That's why political leaders with the gift of gab can lead a nation to doom or prosperity.

So next time you see graffiti suggesting that proficiency in a language is not a measure of intelligence, blame it on that intelligent person who planted that in the minds of willing followers but did not leave them with a critical defense for that argument. And write below it that: 

"It is! Give your arguments why it's not"

Or just screenshot my post and leave them to ruminate.

KARIS - A BAPTISM BY FIRE

Karis was many things. A respected youth leader in his church, a rising executive in a blue-chip logistics company, a doting father to his daughter and model husband.

He was affable and respectful to a fault. His soft tenor voice soothing, his words carefully chosen. He was very approachable too.  Everyone sought him for his counsel, including the church leadership. Karis was the kind of person who had time for everyone and could spare his time to make small talk with a stranger. The ladies found him charming. He left all feeling great.

Karis' Achilles heel was a powerful crush on a fellow congregant in church. He knew this had the potential to destroy the world he'd build around his family, career and community. But it was an overpowering feeling that swept all logic aside. This was not an ordinary crush, it was accompanied by unbridled lust. He knew it was a matter of time before it consumed him, laying him bare for the world to see. Still he fought it the best he could busying himself with his career, family and community service and avoiding encounters with his crush. He prayed about it, his favorite verse being the part where Jesus was asking for a cup to be lifted off his shoulders. This offered temporary respite for him, sometimes for days even weeks but it would still come to hit him.

Severally he'd woken up from vivid dreams, all flushed up and terrified - having dreamt that his fellow church members had walked in on him in a compromising position with his crush. The stern faced church members had proceeded to pillory him, while stark naked. He'd looked into the crowd locked eyes his wife's sad eyes looking askance. His daughter's blank stare, not understanding why daddy was being roughed up and mocked so publicly. 

He'd freed himself temporarily, trying to flee the humiliation. Surprised that no one bothered following him, just some maniacal laughter from the crowd  - but fully aware that his escape was futile. They would corner him once again. It's at that point that he'd wake up terrified, to find his wife tapping him anxiously, worried about his howling in sleep. 

Relieved, he would lie back in the dark contemplating what a mess this crush was going to bring into his life.

But the desire persisted. And grew exponentially.

He'd contemplated moving towns and had even hinted at his boss, a kind old man, who asked few questions. But he knew that the only way to get free from the shackles of his burning erotic desires was to eventually shoot his shot.

A couple of times he'd approached his crush, armed with a pick-up line, ready to bare it all but a huge lump would form in his throat turning him into a mumbling, incoherent fool. His crush would smile sympathetically, asking him if everything was ok.  He'd nod like a little boy, hating himself for the nervous display.

You see, his object of affection was a young man in the choir. A total scandal in the pervading conservative environment. This is the reason he was so apprehensive and why so much was at stake.

Karis had grown up sexually conflicted since his preteen years. He was a shy awkward and pretty boy who loved to spend time with his sisters while his agemates were busy falling off mango trees, fighting, playing football, decapitating lizards, stoning stray cats and dogs and swimming in dirty river water (which they silently peed in while gleefully watching their friends swim). 

He found solace sitting by his sisters as they made dolls and pampered them in mock parenting. Even when the boys joined the girls to play cha mama na baba, Karis was content to play a gender neutral or nonhuman role - like say a pet, wary of any patriarchal inclinations. 

He'd proceeded to attend a boys' only high school, initially finding it awkward to fit in. He was the self conscious boy who would close the bathroom door while bathing, when the other boys were happily prancing around parading their manhoods. So uncomfortable and shy around boys was he that they nicknamed him Kayeng, also in appreciation of his effeminate looks and disposition. For reasons known to him, but which became clear later, Karis never took offence for being called Kayeng. He embraced the name wholeheartedly and even signed off notes under the name. And so continued his awkward stay in a boys' school for a couple of months.

Until something momentous happened.

One day after a rigorous cross country run, which he was almost always last, Karis was taking a cold shower. Most of his colleagues had proceeded for dinner. He heard some commotion on his bathroom door and paused the shower to listen. He looked up and saw an unfamiliar face looking down on him from the top of the bathroom door. A little shaken he grabbed his towel to wrap around himself as he pondered on how to react to this intrusion.

"Hey Kayeng", the intruder whispered, "can i come shower with you? I think you're beautiful!"

Kayeng could not find the words to respond. Meanwhile the intuder had not waited for an answer. He hsd already scaled the bathroom door and joined him. Still shocked, he watched the intruder undress, open the shower,  grab the soap and start to Karis him up gently. He gestured to him to reciprocate. Karis obliged, still puzzled but feeling sensations that he could not explain. And so these two boys spent an hour in the bathroom lathering each other and doing other erotic things. This was Kayeng's coming out of the closet moment, albeit to himself and this unexpected intruder-turned-lover. And so began a secret same-sex relationship between these two students, Muita and Karis, that lasted for the next 2 years. In those two years Karis discovered his sexuality, and also came to learn of how much of a taboo this was and the risks posed if they were ever caught. They were never caught, though there were suspicious and curious -sometimes hostile - glances when they were hanging out together. For they were so happy around each other. Muita tall and dark football star already sporting a goatee and a loud booming voice. Karis, as effeminate as ever and happily under Muita's protective wing.

Until Muita sat for his O-levels.

Karis was an emotional mess as Muita's high school stint ended. He wept uncontrollably as they embraced under the cold shower for the last time. Muita promised to visit him frequently after school and stay in touch, a promise Muita never kept. It was the last time Karis ever saw Muita.

Karis did not fully recover from his heartbreak but the passage of time helped him to cope through the remaining 2 years of school. He thought and dreamt about Muita every day and the different world he'd enabled him discover. A world he had realised was unconventional and highly scorned upon. Although he still had same-sex crushes, he never mustered the courage to make any moves, staying celibate till the end of school. He never felt attracted to girls but made great company as he had as a kid, which they loved. 

He completed school, went to college and soon after got himself a nice job. His rise was fast, and the perks afforded him a comfortable life.

His family and friends, predictably, began to throw hints that it was time to get himself a family. Repugnant as the idea was to him, he took it as a rite of passage that he must go through to assuage society, and started looking around for a mate. A  friend in his church introduced him to his future wife, a choir girl who sang and danced so passionately every Sunday in a trademark short and red skirt, that gripped her hips scandalously and exposed her well oiled thighs. Many  young men in church were pursuing her but for some reason, she seemed to have a great liking for Karis. She got a mutual friend to introduce him. He went through the motions of acquaintance, dating, courtship and eventual marriage, grateful that the past was in the closet again, this time hopefully for good. He was so affectionate and caring towards his new wife, that for many it appeared like romantic love. He was however hardly interested in her sexually, she soon came to discover.  Somehow though, they managed to sire a baby girl. She realized she had made tradeoffs for marriage and the security it accorded her, while losing on conjugal pleasures, something she learnt to live with. She had no idea why he was so low energy and terrified of sex, suspecting it to be inexperience and hoping to work on him as they went along.

And so every Sunday the young model family would walk into the church, a little late for maximum impact, holding hands, smiling and make the purposeful walk to the front row, much to the envy of many. That was their routine. His wife had since abandoned the choir and dressed more conservatively.

All was going well until the all-too-familiar feeling hit him spotting a certain choirboy named Ouma. He knew that Cupid had flung a poisonous arrow to his life. He became restless, contemplated risking everything, like he had many years back in the school's bathrooms. Only this time he would be the hunter, pursuing a younger man.

After months of false starts and awkward chitchat, Karis decided mbaya mbaya. Having taken time to scheme, he was ready for the perfect opportunity. He noted that Ouma, the ever-cheerful choirboy, always stayed behind to move the musical equipment to a storage room, right behind the pew. He'd observed his movements a couple of times and memorized them.

And so on 23rd June 2013, Karis asked his wife and daughter to proceed home after the Sunday service, ostensibly because he had some business he needed to discuss with the pastor.

He sat back after the service, making small talk and watching as the congregants left one after the other. A few still continued to hang around the church compound talking, laughing and but eventually leaving.

Karis watched as Ouma picked the last of the instruments and went into the store, pushing the door behind him. 

"Now!", Karis said to himself.

Casually- so as to avoid being noticed- he walked towards the store, stood at the door, looking around in case anyone was watching. No one was, so he pushed the door and walked in closing the door behind him. He paused to look around the room and also give himself time to calm his nerves. After about 3 minutes he continued walking, barely holding back his excitement at everything was working according to plan.

There was no bathroom to intrude here but he still hoped to relive the events of 15 years ago with Muita. He pictured himself walking in on a startled Ouma.

"Ouma may i come in?", he'd whisper the way Muita whispered to him in that bathroom. Ouma would be dumpfounded, like Karis was back then. He'd proceed to touch him, seduce him, have him. Just like Muita did.

He crossed over some drums and percussion instruments laid on the floor, heading towards an inner room where he suspected Ouma was, probably taking an inventory of the equipment he'd just stored.

Then he heard some noise. He crept closer, puzzled, wondering if there was another person talking to Ouma or it was a radio. Then he saw them. 

His church pastor Reverend Musa Kiprop (the one who a few minutes earlier had threatened fire and brimstones as the just wage for tragressions) and Ouma were locked in a noisy coital embrace. They did not see him. The elder man still adorning his clerical garb.

He stood there watching, fascinated by the energy the 60+ year's old man of the cloth, the shepherd (and a father of 6 adults) exuded. It was a duet, Ouma hitting the high notes and Reverend Kiprop enriching the performance with a crackling off key baritone.

He felt the powerful crush he had on Ouma ebbing away slowly, like a deflating tire. He felt the feelings of guilt and unworthiness that he'd carried since he discovered he was 'different' dissipate. He felt free. Liberated.

Quietly and unobtrusively he found his way out, closed the door behind him and left for home.

FEARS OF A DYNASTY

The Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia headed by Pol Pot, and one of the most brutal regimes in history, pushed everyone to the countryside to do manual work. It didn't matter your station in life, your education or what you preferred. This was an extreme human experiment in Marxism that had a major impact on Cambodia's economy for many years, long after the regime had been overthrown. About 2m people died of pestilence, malnutrition, exhaustion or were executed during that nefarious experiment.

Watching how the Dynasty-Hustler narrative is morphing into a common mwananchi's strife here at home, my brain starts to concoct all sorts of scenarios. We've recently seen stories of Boda Boda guys burning people's vehicles and livestock while chanting "down with the dynasties!". Basically anyone who appears to have a little float, a small business, a farm, a kamjengo is now, in the eyes of the unwashed masses, a dynasty. You're being goaded to choose a side and be ready to die for picking it. If you don't pick, one will be picked for you after a superficial assessment of your fortunes.

I get apprehensive how this would play out if the poor uneducated hustler was unleashed on the equally struggling 'dynasty', who, as has been repeatedly harped, is one salary or one sickness away from destitution and extreme poverty.

 My (irrational?) fears show me that at some point -once the hustlers take charge- we shall be handed wheelbarrows and repatriated to the rural areas for backbreaking work. Will my dynasty friends with their well manicured feet, a skin care regimen and air-conditioned offices survive this hustler life? Even my health and fitness enthusiasts will not be amused pushing wheelbarrows full of stones endlessly, with little rest and a measly meal. All along under the watchful eye of a sadistic, nyahunyo-wielding former-BodaBoda-operator-turned-supervisor.

As Robert Nester Marley famously crooned,

Many more will have to suffer

Many more will have to die

Don't ask me why

 

That said, Boda Boda riders are a threat to this country's stability. Slay that beast ASAP!

 #musings

DEBT RECOVERY

How do you cope with the indignity of asking for your money from people who happily borrowed or used your services but have now gone Birdbox when the time to honor their pecuniary obligations comes? I've just watched someone raise an ugly scene. She worked in this pub but got laid off during the pandemic. They had her salary arrears which they promised to pay once things looked up.

Well things seem to be looking up. The pub is having a sizeable crowd of patrons but the owner has- like he has done so many other times in the last 5 months - told her that he cannot pay her arrears since things are not looking up. She lost it this time, got hysterical and told everyone who cared to listen how she's on the edge, her house locked up by the landlord and her kids unable to go to school.

She recounted the many trips She's made here, following up on her money and receiving endless promises that are never honoured.

As a final nail on the coffin, she's reminded the bar owner of the numerous times he used to mount her on a stack of beer crates after doing the stock take for the night.

To avoid further embarrassment, the proprietor fished out 5000 bob from his wallet, hurled at her, while promising to sue for defamation. And she was gone.

Some people only pay their debts after being dragged through the mud 😐

TRIBES OR INDIVIDUALS? 254

"We didn't elect a tribe. We elected an individual", declared a man of the cloth somberly, while receiving appreciative applause from his audience.

His reaction and many others came after UK threw down the gauntlet on the raging Dynasty-Hustler narrative and introduced the idea of a rotational presidency amongst Kenyan communities. Any self-respecting hustler sympathizer could not let this assault on a carefully crafted political narrative go unchallenged. With this statement, UK gave a clarion call to the dynasty side, which for months had been looking rudderless. Hustlers 1-2 Dynasty.

My opening line begs the question: why are tribes so much invested in election outcomes if one of their own is a candidate? My answer is: because we vote tribes. Our political contests are tribal-based. Our reward system after winning is tribal. The trauma of loss is felt by entire tribes.

The tribe for the early man was a bastion of security, an entity where trust and goodwill prevailed and where values were crafted and taught for the betterment of all. As societies became more complex and division of labor became necessary, tribal organization was one way to achieve structure in leadership, harmony and ensure generational succession.

The tribe was seen as that protective blanket against aggression and had men dedicated to protecting resources- be it grazing rights, water resources, farmlands and even fishing territories. 

Some tribes morphed into powerful kingdoms militarily, that conquered and dominated other weaker ones, assimilating them while destroying their culture and identity.

Colonial East Africa became one of the stages for the Anglo-Saxon tribe to pitch tent, pilfer resources and lord over existing tribes. Colonialism weakened existing tribal organizations especially where there was direct rule, the territory known as Kenya being one such place. The colonial masters introduced the idea of a territory, then later a nation named Kenya, and put in place their own administrative structures. For effective governance, it was in their interest to weaken the culture and values of the existing tribes, something they achieved through brute force, collaboration, missionary work and western education. 

By the time we attained independence, what was left of the precolonial tribes was basically language and a few vestiges of culture. The few elderly purveyors of the old order, who were considered animist and backward by the emerging educated generation, were shunned and disregarded. Western teachings and practices, with only a slight tinge of the traditional, became the accepted path for many.

And thus died the precolonial tribe.

We can argue that the imperialists, by design or as an aftermath of their colonial experiment, created a new tribe named Kenya, held together by western education, practices and institutions. Or so many thought.

It was expected that, post-independence, this identity would be the fabric that held together the people of Kenya irrespective of their backgrounds, as they undertook the work of building a self governing nation while fighting illiteracy, poverty and disease.

In the neighboring Tanzania the leadership quickly and deliberately harnessed the new identity of mTanzania. Nationality was intentionally placed way above ethnicity. This legacy of Mwalimu Nyerere has prevailed to this day. His adoption of socialism (ujamaa) may have been the reason why he was able to temper ethnic interests. It is a demonstration of how leadership can leave an enduring legacy.

The tribe named Kenya was however very shaky from inception. Tensions between the founding fathers, sectarian and political interests and rabid capitalism snowballed into a dysfunctional tribe. A tribe comprised of pockets of people who felt marginalized or unequally representated in the sharing of the national cake. A tribe where some suffered fewer opportunities in the economy because of their last name. Add to that toxic political rivalries, that exploited ethnic identities, fractured the bonds irretrievably. 

 Kenya hasn't fully succeeded in integrating the various ethnic outfits that constitute it. The few efforts made have been lackluster and eventually stillborn. It's not surprising how the numbers of public servants per community reflect the regime in power since independence.

A leader will be on one lectern preaching tribe Kenya and later in a political rally promoting ethnic bigotry.

President Obama's speech while visiting Kenya, and delivered on 26th July 2015 -an excerpt:

"As in America -- and so many countries around the globe -- economic growth has not always been broadly shared. Sometimes people at the top do very well, but ordinary people still struggle. Today, a young child in Nyanza Province is four times more likely to die than a child in Central Province -- even though they are equal in dignity and the eyes of God. That's a gap that has to be closed. (Applause.) A girl in Rift Valley is far less likely to attend secondary school than a girl in Nairobi. That's a gap that has to be closed. (Applause.) "

The aftermath of our fixation with ethnicity is that it becomes an advantage or a disadvantage in a Kenyan's life's journey. It's a tag you carry around from birth to death. It can determine if you'll be accorded or denied a job, a scholarship, a government tender or even a tenancy. During elections, it can even get you killed. 

It creates ethnic privilege and disenfranchisement. For example if jobs and tenders are given based on ethnicity, financial inflows to the beneficiary's home region will happen. The beneficiary will employ people from his region, set up businesses and this will make his home economy more robust.

My opinion? As it stands we indeed do elect subtribes of the Kenyan tribe.

Our generation, despite having more exposure than our forebearers, hasn't changed much. 

Maybe the next one will succeed. Maybe the intermarriages will help. Maybe our tribal tensions will simmer to a point of civil strife, after which we'll reengineer tribe Kenya, the way Rwanda did. On this last one I'd wish to be wrong.

A VISIT TO THE MEDICINE MAN

At the back of the rickety pick-up was me, my father, my 3 sisters and a goat that was held captive using sisal ropes. At the front sat the driver, my mother and our infant twin brothers on her lap. Next to her was another man I did not recognize. The journey was on a rough terrain and since we were seated at the back, it required us to constantly hold on to the edges to avoid tipping over. The driver and my mum were engaged in an animated chatter that we could hardly follow. My brothers slept peacefully on her lap, oblivious of the rough journey. Clouds of dust would hit our faces at the carrier, causing us to squint in discomfort. My sisters' lesos, the ones they were using to cover their heads, had already gathered enough dust to distort the color to brown. Looking at my dad's dusty hair and face I knew I was a replica in appearance.

The goat bleated at every toss and turn of the pick-up, frightened. I focused my attention to it, trying to escape the discomfort of the journey.

It was a purely white goat, healthy and still young, in goat years. I watched as it chewed cud while occasionally defecating small green mounds that were more fascinating than disgusting. Goat and cow shit, heck even chicken shit was ubiquitous in our dwelling. You stepped on it barefoot and moved on. When dry it served as manure for the farm. It could also be used as a repellent for mosquitoes. But I digress.

Before this journey I had surreptitiously overheard my parents discussing the mission at hand. We were visiting a traditional doctor who was highly rated in giving protective charms, amulets and making spiritual incantations that kept all the enemies and evil spirits at bay. The man had advised that we bring a white female goat that had not given birth as yet. We didn't have one but on the day before this trip, my dad had appeared home leading a a white goat and under his arm a red cockerel.

He was ready for his family to receive this divine cleansing.

I love goat meat. Partly the reason why I was excited by this journey, besides the curiosity of meeting a traditional healer. I could picture it slaughtered and expertly prepared for our dinner at the medicine man's place, which we were to spend a part of the night, as he invoked his superpowers to wage war against any haters lurking around our family. 

The oracle had also asked for us to carry five thousand shillings in cash, which would be his fee for the services. Again strict instructions had been given on the allowed denominations - strictly 50 bob notes only. Finally a red cockerel was to complete the list of requirements. The cockerel silently stayed put in a box, its feet bound deep in thought.

After about two hours of turbulent travel, mostly on a rough untarmacked road, we pulled up into a compound with a perimeter defined by densely spaced euphorbia plants. In the middle of the compound was an old red flag with no insignia, fluttering calmly. We were now on the oracle's territory.

As we disembarked from the pick-up I felt apprehensive, my young mind concocting all sorts of eerie scenarios that are likely to happen in a traditional healer's house. I looked around. There were three grass thatched huts, a kraal with a few livestock and a dilapidated pit latrine. An old dog that did not even attempt to bark lay outside one of the huts, from which an elderly and morbidly obese man, with a wrapper around his waist, appeared. He adorned numerous ornaments on his neck, arms and feet that jingled as he moved. He ambled slowly towards us, aided by a walking stick.

My father introduced himself, reminding him of their previous encounter and conversation. The old man seemed to recall and asked us, in his raspy voice, to display the requirements needed for the rituals. We obliged and he gave them a careful inspection as if looking for blemishes, which would render our visit futile.

Despite his advanced age and ungainly frame he counted the 50 bobs meticulously all the way to 5000 bob and nodded in satisfaction. Using his cane, he directed us to his hut, with strict instructions to remove our shoes. 

The two men that had accompanied us - the driver and the other passenger, stayed out as my family crammed itself into the poorly lit hut. An array of tools of trade lay scattered all over the hut -gourds, a deer skull, dried hooves, some cowrie shells, a whistle and many other paraphernalia that I could not immediately recognize. We sat there silently, our goat still chewing cud and shitting, our cockerel finally out of the box, rummaging around for grains.

 The medicine man came in with some effort, as the door was quite narrow for his frame, and sat in the middle of the room, still clinging to the wand of cash.

In his raspy voice and with a deliberate and authoritative timbre, he began question my parents.

"Where do you come from?"

"What are the issues you are facing? Are you having any toxic relationship in your extended family? Oh, your half brother?

Tell me more about that? Oh, you don't see eye to eye over land boundaries...uh huh...you even had a physical altercation last week? He promised to finish you, didn't he?"

He ruminated over the answers given, head held down solemnly. Picking some beads and a small gourd, he chanted some unintelligible words, his midsection trembling, perspiring from the little physical effort. Once finished, he rose slowly, his joints creaking, took the goat and instructed my dad to bind its feet. 

With the confused goat lying on the ground bleating, the medicine man sat on its neck, exerting over 120kg of weight, smothering the poor animal to a slow painful death. We watched, horrified as my infant twin brothers started to wail in shock and terror. 

The oracle called out a name and it was our first time to notice that the home had other inhabitants besides him. A young dirty man, with yellow teeth appeared and was instructed to go dismember and cook the carcass.

 The cockerel did not suffer a similar fate, two lives too many, the old oracle must have said to himself. 

Meanwhile the man's attention was now on us -using a small knife to make incisions on our faces, backs, feet while applying his mysterious concoctions of dried herbs on the cuts. A lot of spittle too, dished liberally and rubbed like vaseline on a baby's bum. A mix of awe, disgust and amusement in our young heads, but I could see deference and humility on my parents faces as they executed his raspy commands

.

Any doctor, conventional or traditional, who's worth his salt will give a prescription and future date for review. I believe both for altruistic and commercial reasons. No exception here. We were handed a small bottle with some thick liquid that we we to sprinkle all around our compound as well as on our bodies, each morning and evening.

We were also reassured that the evil uncle, who was actively seeking the services of witchdoctors to harm us, would fail spectacularly. The prognosis looked good and I could see relief on my parents' faces. They were asked to visit after 6 months to review progress.

Goat meat and ugali was served, though the portions were small and drowned in lots of soup. 

It was 10pm when we began our journey back in the same pick-up, confident of the future, all worries gone.

STAY SAFE OLD-TIMERS!

Retirees are defiantly going into sexual combat with 25 yr olds, knowing fully well the attendant risks. You'd think the stories of their fellow senior citizens dying during coitus- which have been amplified by the media -would deter their drug-induced lust. But wapi, it seems the mantra is 'I'm going in. If I die, I die!'

The fear of death never stopped many a gallant soldier from going into battle for a cause they believed in. It won't stop an ageing sexual tourist from venturing into the energy-sapping chambers of a nymphomaniac. And that's how natural attrition works. A percentage of the populace is always ambivalent to danger, thus accelerating their death. 

That's why you'll meet people who won't wear masks despite the prevailing risks. That's why a bodaboda guy will cut across a moving truck or train. That's why a pickpocket will take the risk knowing fully well that he could be lynched. That's why some chase that adrenaline rush in high risk activities.

Geriatrics won't stop carvoting with spring chicken. The only practical solution is to beseech their much younger mates to handle the wazee gently. Ensure to know if he has a medical condition, if he's taken his drugs and if the blue pill he's using was endorsed by his doctor. If possible carry a checklist and have him sign an indemnity that protects you from blame in case of any eventuality. But above all handle him with kid gloves. Pamper his ego, even if the strokes are weak and his member semi-turgid, to avoid him seeking performance enhancing substances that are potentially fatal.

Please learn some first aid techniques and ensure to keep some medical emergency numbers, that you can call kikiumana. Instead of fleeing the scene.

Happy humping!

OF POLITICAL DEBTS IN THE 254

One thing that BBI should have included is the issue of unpaid political debts and how to pay them, as we move the country to that coveted spot next to South Korea.

There has been a lot of noise and disquiet about the political deni the Hasla is 'owed' for having supported Kamwana. There's also another one - the infamous MoU- that Emilio reneged on with Tinga. 

A solution exists though, one which I should have presented to those ageing patriots who crisscrossed the country seeking fresh solutions to our murky politics. A solution that will pacify the current protagonists and put everything to rest for good. To pay the two outstanding debts in 2022 (and any other debts that may be accrued in future coalitions), just split that vote basket into two and give each their half ajisort. That way they can now focus on hunting for the rest across the republic.

No voting should take place. Just compile the number of total registered voters in the region, divide by two and tell Chebukati to transmit to that server in France.

Send the incumbent there to convince the peasantry to continue tending to their shambas and milking their cows on voting day, since he's undertaken to clear outstanding debts on their behalf. 

The two protagonists should thereafter sign a treaty, witnessed by the muthamaki, affirming that all political debts have been paid irrevocably, and pledging never to whine again about unrequited political endorsements #musings

VEXATIOUS BUFFOONS

What is a vexatious buffoon? It's a buffoon alright, but one who knows and relishes being one, to the irritation of those around them.

One who feels ordained to exercise their vexatious nature on the people around them. The more they vex the more they draw satisfaction of having a profound impact. It does not matter the subject or place -they'll run roughshod over others, outshout everyone, ignore advice and wield a massive bolus of negative energy. They are mostly crass, pompous and conceited.

Prominent ones in our society include a certain unsmiling professor to whom we've entrusted the future generation to - he loves issuing edicts that are not only poorly thought out, but also sound and feel like they're designed to cause extreme annoyance. 

Another is a mustached irritant who seems to have arrogated himself the role of a moral policeman and ombudsman to every song, film, advertisement or joke in this our land and nation. He actively courts controversy and any attacks on him only embolden him further. 

How could I forget the exiled and self-styled revolutionary general who bashes and dresses down even those sympathetic to his cause? Vexatious buffoon extraordinaire! 

Internationally, the crown would go to the former TV personality, casino magnate, property guru and golden shower enthusiast, who became a president, only to later leave the office acrimoniously.

Vexatious buffoons are ubiquitous in all cadres of the society -corporate offices, residential neighborhoods, schools, churches, temples, bars, public transportation, government offices, TV shows, WhatsApp groups na kadhalika. 

Easily discernible, they wear that know-it-all countenance, share their 'truths' condescendingly and enjoy destroying opinions shared by others. They revel in getting praises from their contemporaries and superiors. Puffed up and irascible, they require an advanced level of emotional intelligence to tolerate and interact with them.

Some, through concerted efforts by those around them or after finding themselves isolated, have unlearned their reprehensible traits. 

However majority still carry them stoically as a badge of honor, in the mistaken belief that they're martyrs who will get vindicated with the passage of time.

THE IMPENDING DIVORCE

She was cheating no doubt, he thought to himself. The signs were however not overt. It was a gut feeling - energy vibes if you may. The way she wore that innocent look, almost mockingly. How she was obsessively careful to be home in good time. How she evaded arguments and confrontations. She stopped enquiring on his whereabouts when he was out ‘with the boys’.

Most times he’d walk into the house about a minute after the official curfew time that the government had imposed, grinning drunkenly. She'd be seated on her favorite couch all warmly dressed, eyes glued on her phone acknowledging his presence with a slight nod, as the kids rushed to receive him. Besides the three minutes it took to serve him dinner, she'd stay glued on the couch till 11pm, still focused on her phone.

He noticed that she was avoiding coming early to bed, waiting till he was fast asleep. On the few occasions that she did, she would lie on the far end of their large bed facing the wall. His attempts to huddle closer or initiate sex would be countered with excuses of a bloated tummy, exhaustion or simply silent non-reciprocation. On the countable times that she gave in, it felt totally unlike the old times -tasteless, a silent mechanical act, lacking the lustre and the energy of the past. Something was amiss. He’d tried broaching the issue severally, but she brushed it off, accusing him of not understanding women and their moods. He let it pass.

And indeed, she was cheating, but very discreetly. She deliberately kept it within her working hours to minimize any suspicion. On the days agreed with her lover, she would drive to her workplace, park her car, check into the office and then leave shortly thereafter. Ostensibly for a myriad of reasons ranging from a medical appointment to her children’s school visit. Her job occasionally allowed her to meet clients, which accorded her even more opportunity to keep her illicit dalliance going.

Her lover was a monied Southern Sudanese ex-freedom fighter and politician -a very tall, slim middle-aged man with a dark, shiny complexion and visible tribal marks on his face and neck. He had large jutting teeth on the upper jaw and a couple missing on the lower one. His name was Malong Kirr. He would pick her a few meters from her office in different sleek cars and whisk her off to expensive hotels and exclusive clubs.

They would wine and dine in exclusive restaurants in Nairobi before retreating to a hotel room for more intimate engagements. Besides being endowed like a stallion, the ex-freedom fighter had the insatiability of a cocaine addict. He would pound her endlessly and in different positions, his curved member massaging areas of her reproductive anatomy that had never been touched before, driving her to pulsating orgasms. It was with him that she first experienced squirting, something that she had only seen in adult movies. Her new sexual discoveries made her averse to the three-minute silent sex that she was accustomed to from her obese and perpetually drunk husband.

She loved watching Malong’s grotesque expression as he came, his teeth bared like a dangerous carnivorous animal, howling in his native tongue while squeezing her tightly, almost as if in a trance. They would then lay back, recuperating for about 15 minutes before he would be on her all over again.

By late afternoon, he would drop her back to her workplace, exhausted and slightly tipsy -where she would complete her shift, sober up before heading home by 6pm. She would feed the kids and then take her favorite position on the couch to chat her lover.

Her increased indifference to him in the last couple of months worried and raised his suspicion levels. But there was no evidence that he could use against her. Just the vibes and circumstantial events.

Like that one Saturday afternoon. While seated in the open area of a bar, he had noticed a brand-new Toyota Land Cruiser passing on a road nearby. A dark bespectacled man was behind the wheel and next to him, was a woman that looked like his wife- but in a mask. They locked eyes briefly before she looked away. He was a little shaken -but by the time he recovered enough to contemplate the next step, the car was gone. He thought maybe his paranoia was alcohol-induced. He sat there brooding, wondering what he would do if indeed it was his wife. It could also be a case of mistaken identity, he consoled himself. He called her number, but it went unanswered. She would later tell him that her phone had been charging.

He drank more than usual that day, all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts running through his head. The idea of his wife preferring another man to him pained him. Thoughts of denial though prevailed since he still had no evidence. He headed home a little earlier and found his wife seated on her usual couch - dressed all warm and engrossed on her phone. He rushed to the laundry basket looking for a black dress or top- for the lady he'd seen in that car had been wearing one- but found none. He went into the shower and noticed that she had taken a shower a few minutes earlier, which was part of her routine and which meant she had just gotten home. Resigned and in emotional anguish, with nothing to anchor his suspicions on, he retired to sleep.

While lying in bed, he contemplated on what he should do to put his suspicions to rest. Maybe mystery call her workplace to enquire about her reporting and departure times for the day? He ruled against it. She may be alerted and raise her guard. He contemplated contacting a friend of his, who worked for a mobile phone operator, to get her call records and financial statements. It sounded like a good idea, but what if he was wrong about her? His friend would no doubt share the juicy gossip with his wife, who would then share the same within their circle of friends, until it reached his wife. He wasn't ready to carry the tag of an insecure, snooping husband. But he still needed to put the matter to rest.

He had heard and read about private detectives, who had the means and time to investigate cases like his. He recalled watching numerous episodes of the 'Cheaters' show, where the investigators tailed suspected cheats and made sure that they were caught in the most compromising situation. In the wake of incontrovertible evidence, the suspect would have no option but to admit. Fist fights and public spats would follow. Sometimes reconciliations, sometimes nasty breakups. The investigators did not come cheap though, he noticed after going through a few rate cards.

He'd also seen several digital adverts promoting a novel snooping software that one could install on their spouse's phone and get copies of both texts and audio conversations. It could be bought online. However, it required installation of the software on the suspect’s device. The challenge was to access her password protected phone.

Then the idea of gifting her a new phone and preloading it with the software hit him. 

Yes! That was it!

Bingo! Or so he thought.

With the software installed, he could carry out his own investigation and avoid awkward conversations with third parties, he reasoned. He would also save a lot of money that could have gone to a private investigator. If it turned to be a false alarm, he would just carry all these events to his grave. This was his best shot.

His wife was currently using a Huawei P30 Lite. He logged onto an online shop and browsed for a befitting upgrade. He spotted a Huawei P30 Pro, a logical and affordable upgrade to what she was having. With a satisfied smirk, he purchased it. The phone was delivered within two days. He went back to the internet, shopping for the snooping software. There were many available, some looking questionable. Painstakingly he read through the reviews and narrowed down to two - a Chinese version named Mousetrap and a Russian one named, ironically, Grab 'Em! There were trial versions that lasted a week, a basic version that missed some salient features he would need and lastly a pro version that would do the job, but at a slightly higher fee. Using his credit card, he purchased for 15 dollars the pro version of Grab 'Em!, since it also promised total stealth against anti-snooping tools. He installed, as instructed on the user manual, on both the new phone and his, performed a couple of tests successfully.

For a job well done he passed by his local pub for some beers, drinking about fourteen before the curfew time.

At 9pm, he staggered home brandishing the brand-new phone, wrapped nicely as a gift for his wife. She was there slouched on her favorite couch, eyes on her phone. Just as he was about to hand it to her, he noticed she was using a brand-new iPhone 12 Pro! Unknowingly she'd beaten his scheme! How did she even afford it? Why was the cosmos conspiring to deny him the information that he had a right to? He cursed under his breath.

Disappointed, and as he made his way to the bedroom, she looked up and noticed the package and enquired, "honey did you buy me a gift? Awww!"

Forcing a smile, he responded, "no honey, this is a farewell gift we are buying a colleague at work. But I can see you don't need gifts from me, you now even have the latest iPhone.."

She ignored his sarcasm and replied, "you know I always treasure your gifts the most. This iPhone was sold to me at half the price by a friend who works at the Apple store near our office. I couldn't resist the offer! What did you guys buy your colleague…A Huawei P30 Pro! Wow! I had been meaning to upgrade to the exact same phone, until this deal came through. It really is a great phone. Your colleague will be excited". She retreated to her new phone.

He walked dejectedly to the bedroom, tossing the phone aside and disappointed that his scheme had hit a snag. He didn't buy the story his wife gave him about the deal. His suspicious were now at a morbidly elevated level. He also knew there was no current upgrade to the phone she now had in her possession - not in the next few months anyway. And had there been one, he still wouldn't afford it. His Trojan horse had been repulsed.

He went to sleep but found himself insomniac around 2am. He watched his wife's silhouette, sleeping peacefully, breathing quietly. He thought of what his reaction would have been, had he gotten the proof that she was cheating. Would he asphyxiate her in her sleep? Would he hit her with a blunt object? Or would he just walk away, wounded but determined to rebuild himself? He had no idea what his reaction would have been.

Everything appeared so grim. His peace of mind was compromised. His scheme of digging the truth had hit a dead end. 

What options did he have? He thought of his 22-year-old girlfriend, a 3rd year at the University of Nairobi. It was really a transactional relationship where he provided partly for her financial needs while getting sexual favors and drinking company. He didn't even know if she was exclusive to him or had other lovers. Maybe he needed to get another young girl. And despite his own cheating, he still couldn't fathom his wife receiving strokes from another man. He thought of his 3 children, who he loved more than anything in this world. Giving them a peaceful environment for growth was what he purposed to offer them. It would be a challenge though with all these insecurities eating him.

The demons in his head held a conference that very night, as the rest of his household slept, and agreed the best option was to not disrupt the status quo. He'd abandon his investigation. He rationalized about the financial inflows he suspected were coming in, seeing it as an opportunity to help them achieve their financial goals. For she lately appeared to be quite liquid financially. The fact that she was acting discreetly, he reasoned, showed that she still wanted the marriage to work. He had his 22-year-old university lass, and potentially several others that would take care of his emotional and physical needs. After all his wife appeared totally uninterested in any form of intimacy. He would let her be.

 He tossed around, counted a few sheep and then went into a peaceful slumber.

A few minutes later his wife woke to obey the call of nature. Sleep evaded her for a while, and she lay there listening to her husband's snoring. She thought of Malong, the only man to have seduced her since her marriage.

 She has met him in the basement parking of her workplace as she was struggling to get her car from a rather narrow parking, when he offered to help. She had thanked him profusely, and he had taken the opportunity to introduce himself to her, while handing her his business card which read:

 

Malong Kirr

Deputy Governor,

Blue Nile State

Republic of South Sudan

+21104565635

Shortly afterwards he'd gotten into a massive Land Cruiser and left. She was fascinated by his title and inherent political power but didn't really give it much thought.

It was during one of their domestic run-ins with her husband that, while seated on her usual couch, that she had contacted Malong. She had, on the previous night, found a love message in her husband's phone from a young girl - which had led to a protracted confrontation. This had left her angry and vengeful. And that is when she had remembered Malong, his act of kindness and allure of power, and decided to WhatsApp him, 'just to say hi and to thank him for being such a gentleman'

Malong had responded almost immediately birthing a ping-pong of WhatsApp conversations that went late into every night thereafter. One night, despite her weak protests, he sent her 100k shillings into her account 'as a Christmas gift'. By the time he was asking her out for coffee, she was smitten, both by his attention and financial generosity. In her account sat 900k shillings that he'd been sending her on frivolous grounds like "buy yourself some nice outfits and send me a picture" to "have lunch with your friends", from him. She'd never handled such money and found herself understandably excited.

In a moment of excitement and indiscretion she had found herself suggesting to her husband that they move to a bigger house. “Do you have the money? “He’d enquired sarcastically. Coming back to her senses she’d retracted and instead suggested that it was possible if he became more frugal in his spending – “like you could reduce your alcohol intake or” continued caustically, “cut down on the stipend you keep sending to that bitch of yours”. The conversation ended there. She was sure he had become suspicious after this conversation.

 Besides the money, she had expensive jewelry tucked in her office desk to avoid further suspicion. Malong had surprised her with the iPhone 12 Pro and she’d had to cook a story to her unbelieving husband. Things were getting risky. Everything was hurtling fast to an inevitable moment of truth. She would either get caught if she did not act fast

She recalled that day when Malong had picked her at work and they were driving towards their love nest, while passing through an area populated by open air pubs. She'd involuntarily exchanged eye contact with her husband who was seated outside one of drinking shacks facing the road. What saved her was the mask she was wearing which introduced some reasonable doubt. That was a close shave! She’d seen his call immediately thereafter and ignored it, while begging Malong to take her back to her workplace in case her husband showed up. She knew he was getting more and more suspicious and wondered what he could be plotting. Her fear was that he might act viciously and irrationally, which scared her.

 The affair and the attempts to keep appearances were taking a toll on her and she'd decided to broach the subject with Malong, apprehensive of what the endgame would be.

Malong had assured her that he intended to make her his 3rd wife and that she needed to start seeking a divorce. He taken her to meet one of his lawyers, who had given her guidance on how to initiate the divorce, and the grounds she could cite in court. 

She had so far had not gathered the courage to discuss the subject with her husband. She needed to think through what it all implied. Besides the money and their lustful romance, Malong was married to two other women - one living in Juba, another in Nairobi. She weighed her prospects in a polygamous relationship with a rich man, against her current lower-middle income earning monogamous marriage, with a few sidechics. The former freedom fighter was willing to take care of her and the kids. However, she'd be fighting for his attention with two other women, and probably several other single women that he could be dating.

Eventually, the allure of wealth took the day and she started plotting for her divorce.

Her plan was to catch her husband in one of his many trysts, after which she would ask for a divorce. Once the divorce was finalized, she would marry Malong Kirr as his third wife. She went back to sleep, with everything much clearer in her mind.

In the morning, while her husband was showering, she quickly took his phone, like she used to do before, hoping to retrieve some further incriminating texts and nudes from his girlfriends. To her surprise, it was password protected, something her husband has never been keen to do previously. Disappointed, she began to consider either hiring a private investigator to dig dirt on him that would strengthen her impending divorce case or gifting him new phone but installed with one of those snooping apps she kept seeing on online advertisements.

Smiling, she made a mental note to buy and gift him an upgrade of his current Oppo smartphone, while using the opportunity to install the snooping software.

Bingo. Or so she thought.

On the same night, Malong was also deep in his happy thoughts. Lying next to him was his new 22-year-old girlfriend in a deep drunken slumber. They’d been out on their first date and ended in one of his tastefully furnished apartments that he had dubbed ‘The Love Nest’. They had met as she was working, promoting drinks in a high-end bar that he patronized. She was young and pretty, a third-year student at the University of Nairobi. She approached his table trying to get him to buy a newly-launched drink and he took the opportunity to buy drinks and extract her mobile number in the process. A couple of WhatsApp conversations and money transfers later - as was his modus operandi- he had managed to convince her to go out with him on a date. And this was the culmination of that night of carousal, at his apartment.

He marveled at how Nairobi girls were seemingly so easily available especially if one had the resources - unlike in his homeland where the society was deeply conservative. He had had uncountable conquests in the 3 years since he made his move here, ostensibly as a political refugee, but in reality, a connected man of means looking to invest petroleum money with few questions asked. The political elite in his country, which he was part of, were having it easy as long as the right palms were greased. Nairobi also offered unfettered access to many privileges -including beautiful girls, police protection, exclusive clubs and deep connections which made everything feel like a fantasy world for this liberation veteran, when compared to his home country. A far cry from his rough days in the bush during the liberation struggle, under the venerable General Demabior.

Unbeknown to him though, they shared a lot more in common with the young, naked girl with whom he was locked in post-coital embrace.

She also happened to be the 22-year old university student mentioned earlier. And thus the paths of the three in the love triangle were crossing in more ways than one.