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