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Episode 2 November 30, 2007

Posted by modoathii in 299, heroes, series.

Previously on Shiros.

Marto woke up to a beautiful sight. A chick. The chick herself woke up wondering how she got to Eldoret in the first place. And with a stranger. And the question on her mind was “what REALLY happened…and how?”


Chapter 2: How they got to Eldoret

Nothing and everything happened. Marto had met Shiro ‘hawking’ wares at the supermarket. For pocket-money Shiro did a part-time ‘sales’ job. This Saturday, she was pleading with patrons…Excuse me, we have a promo___(ignored) Hi ma’am, would you like to____(never) Sir we____(don’t even try) You could win_____(pshh, the hand) It’s tough being a promo gal, so when Marto came along, she responded only because she wanted to finally make a sale. Marto thought it was his charms. Well his charms did win him something. He ‘won’ the funky mug that came with every purchase of two 500g packs of a product Marto never uses and didn’t even buy. Weetabix. How unbeatabix (notice product placement like Cobra Squad…tushnyao!). He also got her number and somehow convinced her to come with him to a party. A party in Eldoret. Marto got her some time off by narrating to her boss a quickly-crafted onion-assisted vodka-inspired sob story of Shiro’s dying (twice-killed) uncle. The huge smile on Marto’s face despite the teary (now stinging) eyes almost blew everything. At around 4 they were on an Eldoret Express. Vodka in Marto’s hand and head. Crisps in Shiro’s. In Eldi they boarded a packed 7-a-side matatu arse-up. You can’t actually stand in these things. Mnachora saba. Marto had his tipsy face in someone’s butt as his was likewise bothering Shiro. After a few many bumpy minutes of ‘brown-nosing’ they reached their stage…pretty dark and scary it was. For once Shiro regretted not telling anyone where she went. Though her family knew it, today she really felt irresponsible. They heard booming music in the distance and with a whoop Marto was bounding into the bush. Shiro initially startled was on Marto’s butt like Elton John on (er, scratch that)…into the bush they went…


A brand new series… November 23, 2007

Posted by modoathii in heroes, la mujer, series, tv.

No one knows where they came from. They only had one special power. A power they all shared. The power over Marto. (not really but close enough)

But this series isn’t about their power, it’s about their stories and the roles they played in his life.

This is the all new episode of Shiros. The so called “Wanjirus” in Marto’s life.


This is the story of several Wanjirus who thought they were like everyone else..until they realised (in the end) they have a incredible link. Marto. These people did not realise they had a role in his interesting life. Too bad that role couldn’t have come earlier to help prevent the catastrophe that is Marto. No one can save him now.

The whole unfortunate thing is they all (except one who thought he’d turn out better) thought, that Marto was their dream man (pause as I laugh my head off)


(still laughing)

(catching my breath)

(holding my side)

(ouch! as I’m slapped to get back to the story)



Wanjiru wa mama: This was my mum. She will make technical appearances as flashbacks where her power of wisdom is unleashed on an unsuspecting Marto who happened to be with Modo as they misbehaved. er..scratch that.

Wanjiru the student: This is the lovely college girl who Marto never actually openly confessed he really liked, and neither did she. It was a friendship of ‘kuchokozana’. What’s the word, ‘of mutual friendship’.

Wanjiru the workmate: Sweet and quiet but very wise..okay, smart. Into Marto in her own special way.

Wanjiru the devious one: Come on there had to be a bad one surely. She’s Marto’s er..bad, neighbour. The one you never go borrow salt from…the one who managed to outsmart and successfully get to Marto’s nerves on several occasions.

Wanjiru the cousins: Having been born in a tribe who’s tois’ names come from grandparents, there was a whole football team of them. They’ll be making Kamikaze appearances here and there.

Wanjiru the trainer: Marto never really had any serious running in with this one, but when he did….(look out Diwali)

Wanjiru the pastor’s daughter: This was the closest Marto came to salvation. And that it almost (he insists) happened in the vestry was too close for comfort.

Wanjiru in China: Shiro Nakamura. She’s not really called “nakamura”, it’s just that she went all the way to China…and China, Japan..eeeeh, close enough.

These episodes are written in some style I got from some talented guy…it’s written in 299 words, no more, no less. enjoy.

The all new episode of….


Episode 1

She stands there staring into the mirror, into her own eyes. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. But all she can see right now is blankness. She knows you cannot look into your own soul. Something stirs behind her. She turns quickly. She notices the sleeping bundle. She stares, at the blanket gently rising and falling. She looks back in the mirror. This time she sees horror on her pretty morning face. Who is that? She wonders. Then remembers. She had noticed his handsome face at Nakumatt Prestige. He was fashionably dressed but had this cheeky look on his face. People who knew him, knew when he gets this look he is to be avoided. She didn’t know him. So she doesn’t. He made the first move. “Good morning”, he had said. And too eagerly she acknowledged. There was the mistake. When Marto said “Hi” to you, especially if you are a beautiful chick, just walk on. He’s testing the waters. And acknowledging is not only allowing Marto a foot in the door, it means he is IN. And here they were. Miles away from home. And here she was, staring at the mirror. How was she convinced to come all the way to Eldoret. Her college mates knows she’s the hardest chick to break. Was she drugged? Highly unlikely considering she doesn’t drink. But here she is. And there he is. Awake. He looks at her, and with a conquering smile asks, “Good morning Shiro.” She racks her brain as to what may have happened. She looks at Marto hoping for an answer. She gets it. His dress code says it all. He’s dressed in all his clothes including his boots. Thank God. The whiff would have cured any hangover. So what really happened…

Short ‘first’ stories! (3-in-1) November 12, 2007

Posted by modoathii in anniversary, firsts, the good times.


The blog thirsty dogs raced through the blogosphere in search. They were searching for someone. Someone who had been lost for a few weeks.

They found him sitting under a huge Mugumo tree.

Modo-inspired was seated there, putting his next post together. A post that was inspired by the sapling that was sprouting right next to him. A post delayed by circumstances he couldn’t control.

Indeed both the sapling and the delay, fell victim to the pleasant laws of Mother Nature.

(This was written way back…like waaaaaaay, back before something pleasant happened so please forgive the ‘history’.)

As I fast approach the anniversary of my very first ‘first’ my mind wonders to the many firsts I have had in this notably interesting life. Whoever said life is boring is dead wrong. There have been many interesting firsts and today I highlight a few that made a difference.

I’d already posted about the very first first…so now here are other firsts (among many) that shaped who I be, and likewise, said who I be.

First day in Kindergarten!


My dad looked up from the paper he was so diligently reading and looked at my mum.

“Enough what?”

“Modo is old enough. Next week we are taking him to kindergarten.”

“Why the sudden rush?”

“I can’t stand that kid around the house anymore”

As she says this, the door bursts opens and in runs this hip-high ‘bubble’. It’s a cute little boy with chubby chicks. A very well-fed cute chubby boy with a cute tummy (my older siblings told me I had Kwashiakor, I would have cried if I knew what that was).

When you’re a child everything about you is cute.

But not the dirt/mud that you now have all over the new Six Million Dollar Man tee-shirt which mummy bought you that you cried your lungs out to wear not more than ten minutes ago. And after five years of this, ‘cute’ wasn’t a word mum wanted to hear with regard to this…this…THIS ‘cute’ dirty filthy chubby boy.

Oh that cute dirty filthy chubby boy was me. And I had a present for mummy. I knew this present would wipe the face of disgust off her face. Dad just looked at me quietly. Something nagged him.

“Mummy, I have a present.”

I shuffled across mum’s clean floor with sludge. She wasn’t amused. But I didn’t notice.

I opened my hands to reveal her present.




I can’t remember the exact order but, as I had predicted, the disgust was off her face but never expected the horror that replaced it.

“Aw mum, you scared the frog.” as I chased after the ‘cute’ hopper.

“COME HERE!” as SHE angrily chased after her ‘cute’ son.


My dad just smiled. “Attaboy” he thought.

“That’s why he has to go to school. Tomorrow if need be, (in mother tongue) He’s going. Period.”

Fathe just shrugged his shoulders and continued reading the funnies, especially Bogi Benda. Hmmm, funny how my dad resembled Bodi Benda. Funny not, how I was pinched when i mentioned it.

And with that the coming week I found myself going to school (kindergarten) for the first time. Aw it sucked!

Waking up in the cold cold morning wasn’t my cup of tea. And the one I had with jammed and BlueBanded toasted didn’t taste great that early in the morning either.

So there I was dragging my feet to this here kindergarten. I walked in and I was like, oh great, a sand pit.

Mum wasn’t too amused. She could see many ‘bonding with OMO’ days.

I saw slides. Mum saw ‘bonding with needles’ days to patch up the torn shorts.

I saw beds. Mum saw ‘peaceful afte’. That was the first time I saw her smile that day.

She smiled again.

“Oh look, Modo.”

Oh hell NO! HELL NO!

“It’s Cecilia.”

Oh I know who she is. And there’s no way I’m going to the same school with her. I don’t like her.


I tried fighting my mum, but jeez if you’ve been carried for nine months and stressed her out for five others, there was no way you’d have won this battle.

I was swept off my tiny little ‘cute’ feet and shoved into the equally muscular teacher’s arms. Not cute.


I just never liked that girl. Period. Throw me in a pond with all creepy crawlies. Deny me candy. Heck even swing me 50 nightmares on BOGOF, but don’t make me sit next to her.

Well, it was a nightmare day.

I did get to sit with her.


(I know she’s a spleng right now wherever she is)

My first day in colle!

It’s drizzling and I’m half-soaked.

The reason I’m only half-soaked is because I’m wearing this trench coat. It’s white and quite long. When you walk in the wind you get to feel like Superman. On my head is this home-made hand-stitched top hat. Emblazoned on it is the intimidating X-TRA MADNESS! The missing tooth drives the point home.

The hat is pulled down low and it’s half covering my eyes. I’m bouncing across town (looking for the windy spots) like I own it. Heck, I was born in Nairobi. This is my town. The walk from Old Nation to colle on the other side of town takes 30 minutes, instead of the usual 20 minutes. I waste ten ‘coz I’m walking slowly and like those cowboy oteros who’ve just ridden into town. Too bad I had to park my ‘horse’ across town.

I walk into the paint-shy gate of colle. Above it is the equally paint-shy name of the college. KENYA POLYTECHNIC!

This is my first day, and I am not going to ask for directions. First I’m a man, directions are for suckers (and that’s not why I’m terrible in them) and, two, oteros don’t ask for directions.

Let me make wambui proud with this diversion…clarification rather. ‘Otero” is sheng for “starring”. In an english sentence, “the starring’in the movie is Rambo”…In a sheng sentence “Otero wa movie ni Rambo”….

Well, I did know where I was going. To pull this “Clint Eastwood” walk I had done a recon the week before.

I sauntered into the compound.

I could see them staring. I could feel them too. I also heard them.

Thinking back…BOY I LOOKED LIKE A DOOFUS! and they said it.

But hey it was me, Modo, I made my own fashion. Giorgio Armani and the rest weren’t worried.

Our class was on the 3rd floor.

Oteros don’t walk on stairs. I zip to that floor and pause to catch my breath. Oteros don’t pant.

I walk into class.

Ooops, I am late. Guys are already in the middle of the lesson. Eish. and the teacher looks harsh. At the back are these mean-looking guys. They look seasoned. Boy, this is going to be a hard year I thought.

Otero-ism disappears!

Ehm, meekly I ask,

“Excuse me, I’m a first year.”

“Across the corridor” the lecturer (in colle they are called lecturers not teachers) replies.


I mwagika out of that class gladly and walk towards the other class.

I walk in. Lecturer is ALSO in. Kwani, the guys sleep here.

And, what time was I meant to be here really.

The lecture stops. The murmuring stops. Everything freezes. All eyes are on me.

Remember, I’m still in my white trench coat and my ridiculous (oh now it’s ridiculous? That’s how it is)…ehm, my er…’amazing’ top hat.

I walk towards the lecturer who swallows hard. If I had heightened senses, i would have smelt the second of fear.

“Excuse me, I’m a first year”

The teacher moves back. Looks at me head to toe.

He takes in the ‘top hat’. He takes in the mysterious face. He takes in the ankle-long trench coat. He takes in the muddy shoes. (It was raining and I’m from Limuru…WHAT?)

He asks me a question I will never forget,

“Are you sure?”

Class bursts out laughing. Nervously though, because they stop when I look at them.

Wassap with everyone?

“Hey, i dhot you were a dhad year. hokay, sit ndown but unjue umesherewa saaana, Watu wanakujaga eight thartey.” (good ol’ Mr njeru)

It was 9.20 in the a.m.

I turn and look for an empty seat. I see a few guys placing their bags on the chairs. I don’t need to be David Caruso to know they don’t want me to sit there.

I locate an empty seat next to this wimp of a looking guy. He cowers to the corner. I remove my hat and place it on the table. Then I sit down.

I say hi to my ‘deskmate’.

“Niaje! Mi ni Modo, we ni?”

No reply.

“Vipi! Naitwa Modo. Jina lako ni?”

Still no reply. Jeez, What the F*?

I change tact…

“Hi, how are you? I’m Modo. And you are?”

“Hi. I’m fine. My name is (bleep)”


(up to today one guy still believes I had a dagger under my trench coat)

My first interview!

People know that you have to dress up for an interview. Some hogwash of how the first ten seconds can make or break you.

I never subscribe to this, but this day I must admit, I subscribed. But we had to compromise.

I’d never worn a suit before, well, except during mathe’s funeral. And for that to happen, I was given the longest speech ever. But there was no way this day I was wearing a suit. I’m an artist for crying out LOUD!

Compromise. Real shirt. Real trouser. Polished shoes AND socks. Note. I only had one real shirt. One real trouser. One shoe I could polish. I had like 10 pairs of jeans, countless teeshirts, many checked shirts. But only one of everything ‘real’.

So this day I was looking the sharpest. Though no one noticed. Why?

I knew why.

I was sharp indeed, only in my book. I mean, if you constantly wear torn jeans and rugged tees and equally rugged sneakers, a shirt, a trao and polished shoes is VERY sharp. But to the outside world…KAWAIDA kama Tusker mbili baridi.

So a ‘sharp’ looking Modo walked into Adapt carrying his portfolio of the best works he had done. I was out to impress.

I walked to the receptionist who was wondering who this sharp (smile), hot (smiler), amazing (smilest) looking accountant (frown) was.


“I’m here for the graphics design position”.

Oh! Please have a seat.

I sat there at the reception and waited…and waited….and waited…and waited. Some fly fly chick finally came and announced shocking news.

“I’m sorry, the Creative Director can’t see you today coz he’s in an important meeting. Please come back tomorrow same time.”




Does this chick know I only have, (let’s count) ONE real shirt. ONE real trouser. ONE shoe I can polish. Okay socks I had many pairs, but WOOLLY ones! You’d look silly in Limuru with silk socks, anyway.

So what did I wear the next day…

The only clean clothes I had.

One size 36 jean trouser (I was a size 32 then) which I held up with suspenders (no jean has buttons for suspenders so at this point we should note that I had sewn on the buttons)

Please note too that I usually wore this…THIS trouser (with it’s suspenders on the inside) to coverup the bad work I had done with the buttons.

But this was an important day, so I had to f**k…sorry, tuck in the oversize shirt.

So there I was the next day waltzing again towards the receptionist (in a suspended jean trouser that made me look like a clown, with a checked wooly shirt, and cleaner kicks) who was today wondering who is THIS (frown) funny-looking (frowner) chokora (frownest).


“I’m hear for the…”

“I know. Just what happened between yesterday and today?” (dear lil Mary, JK remember her?)

Well, I did see the CD (unfortunately) looking like a clown. But this is why I like advertising.

It’s not about how I look, it’s what I can do (just know there’s no way in hell, they’ll let you meet the clients)

So I got the job!

My first job!

And that was the beginning of the end.