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Grand Theft Tree! January 7, 2010

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

(Not another save the Mau plea. Though it does bug me.)

Mtoto akililia wembe mpe.

So said the wise guys who were chilling by the beach as they watched a stubborn 5-year old almost butcher himself with a razor blade. The mother wasn’t too amused by that wise crack.

Moving on.

We prayed. We sacrificed. Actually we didn’t but if it were the times of Moze we would have. We were desperate. We were not going to be picky. We’d take anything. So evidently the big guy up top, either coz he was fed up of us heathens manically crying for rains, he unleashed some nasty storm upon us.

It was the el-nino that the weatherman had predicted (for once), the very one we had chosen to settle for seeing that the rains, well, let’s just say they wouldn’t shed a drop for us.

Building roofs were blown off. Mabatis everywhere. Cars were washed away. Some humans too. Billboards bore a message of mass destruction. Trees too, just like their cousins in Mau, were going.

Water water everywhere except in that damn dam, which quenches and sheds light on us thirsty in-the-dark Nairobians.

I must say devastation was everywhere. But for some guys, give them a lemon, they gon’ make lemonade.

Marto is one of these guys.

Now Marto was huko cruising in the mtaani dodging trees and flying cars, when this monstrosity of a tree fell where many could hear. And yep he got to hear of it too.

Come the next day, as guys were taking stock of the damage, and kanjo was huko wekaring kando trees that were not chonjo, Marto got his power saw, jumped into his Canter (that’s what we call all ‘pickups’ that are not as small as kawa pickups and not as big as trucks) and zoomed off in the direction of the fallen tree aforementioned.

He’s a chapchap dude. He calculated that before kanjo could mobilize guys from arresting Nairobians for sneezing, he’d be done with that tree. He arrived fast, much to the delight of the neighbourhood. Funny, each resident thought a kind neighbour had okoad jahazi and placed a call to kanjo concerning the fallen tree.

We will never know.

Cutting a short story even shorter, Marto proceeded to cut up the tree, with the highly appreciated assistance from the residents, into manageable pieces. He then loaded them onto his ‘canter’. He thanked them plus for good measure threw in a good word for kanjo.

“Tuko hapa kuwasaidia. Kumbukeni kanjo iko chonjo”

The people cheered.

And with those few words Marto drove off with a stolen tree.


Deck the halls. October 29, 2009

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

This carol sounds just right.

Interesting ever since I could talk the carols have been with me. My mum, even before I was an idea, was filled with carols. My twin, feeling the joy in the air has a special carol for us. I too feeling touched had one. But I never found the right words for that carol. And now, as thee time approaches carols are everywhere.

At the work place.

At the feeding place.

Even as I enjoy my fruits, not of labour, I can’t help notice the carols.

Was it a sign?

‘coz now as the glorious journey gets to its midway point, I have a carol to sing till the sun sets.

Do you have a carol?

K.I.S.S. B-wise October 26, 2009

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

Keeping It Simple Stupid – Blogwise

One story in as few words as possible. And not 299.

I’ve always been the quiet type, so why am i saying much.

Jesus Wept. Time for, “modo to sweat”

It’s my new challenge,  just want to see if i can bring back my blogging psych. If i can’t hack it, you’ll see the shortest post ever…


Wish me luck! Updates as soon as suddenly.

Curtains June 25, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

This is a collection of short stories.



So, who’s with me?

Who agrees with me that women should walk around with mood billboards the size of egos, and have a PR guy follow them around, warning the world of their shifty moods? The PR guy is to make sure you don’t get the mood wrong.

JEEZ! Clearly I’m not good at reading ‘signs’.

Mazee, today, I went to ask some chick who’s in charge of some project if I could skive her project presentation so I could for the Safcom marathon at Lewa. BOSSSSSS!

“Good morning?” I asked pleasantly to warm her.

“Hallo” She replied coldly to warn me.

Brrrrr! “So I, er, understand there’s a presentation tomorrow…Friday? Er, am I in it?”


C-c-c-c-cold. Man what’s with her. At this point. I walk away coz the big sign, which I’m about to ignore, says “DON’T TALK TO ME.”

I pause at her door thinking heck, let me try and break the ice with a joke.

Guys, word of advice, never try breaking ice with a joke. Use an ice pick. Or in this case just leave it be. I tried…

“Aaaa, so unaelewa kuna vile tunaenda kulewa kule Lewa na____”*


What happened next was a blur. All I remember is that it felt as if I had stuck my head out the window of a fast moving car. My face was flushed and my dreads were, you know, winded. 

So no LEWAring for me at LEWA, mnaeLEWA? Juu mi sielewi vile kusoma signs.**



*Aaaa, so do you know guys are going drinking in Lewa.

**So no drinking for me at Lewa, understand? Coz I don’t know how to read signs. Best said in swa.



Fifty bob! Hamsini! Hamsini! Fifty bob!

Okay in this case the stock is cheaper, 25 or 30 bob depending on the markets.

But this isn’t the stock market people…this is the snack market.

Yep. Due to some…actually I don’t know how I got myself into this fix.

Here is a brief history.

While with Ann Yolanda I had a healthy appetite and a wallet to match. As others were consuming snacks worth a measly 7 sok, at most a G, per month, I checked in with a whooping 3.5K bill.

I moved up to celebrity status. The snack’s lady had found a gold mine. She could now dream of moving her kids from Free-8-then-fo-fo-fo system to ile ya wazungu (GCE). She was making it big time. Profit margins were in a percentage only Safcom understand (note I said percentage) Rumor had it because business was sooooo good she had also planned an IPO. And being a JJ she had pictured a hummer. But she don’t say.

But Jane Waithera called and, well, it was a sad history. Business went down, she had to fire someone, 8-4-4 ya wazungu was out and IPO, haipo. As for hummer….eish, unless nihame tena.

Since she was good to me, like 20kg good, I said I’d scout for her business wherever I was going.

Now here I am. Selling snacks. In the office huku Racecourse Karen. Competing successfully against ana’a lady who was there before but customers complained that her product was baaaaad! Now for her business is slow. She still doesn’t know I’m the one who’s doing her in.

The day I disappear for long and you find me in a ditch with a samosa up my throat (I’m praying she won’t put it in my arse) just know she knows.

Gats to go, customers are calling. Samosas anyone?



This is the (short) story of the chick who found us generously downing vodoski at Marto’s place.

After watching us teremshaing with glee she asked for some too. Now Marto wasn’t feeling this chick. He never has. And he wasn’t about to lose precious vodo to this chick.

But he had no choice. Maboys told him to wekea her some dose.

Reluctantly he grabbed a glass and wekad a healthy amount. The chick said she’ll chapa (drink) it with coke. Marto smiled.

The chick took a sip and winced. “It’s strong, but sawa tu.”

Marto’s smile got ‘louder’.

The aftee wore on and the wench after a few many tots started saying she’s feeling tipsy.

Marto SOLed. (What? Oh, he Smiled out Loud)

Night checked in with all the passwords, and our heroine had had too much too drink, she claimed she was now high.

Marto ROFS (Come on, you guys are bloggers, you know this one)

She stood up swaying and staggered out of Marto’s crib. The next day she called us and she complained of a massive hangover.

Marto could take it no more. He ROFSHAO.

All this time we were looking at Marto wondering why the loud smiles. Kumbe, Marto instead of mixing for her vodo and coke…

…was putting WATER AND COKE!




Why doesn’t it happen to me? Why? Why? Why?

You know those stalkers who usually call and they just breathe into the phone? The ones who even though you put them near a booming tenje they just ‘listen’? Well my pal has one. And I don’t.

Okay, listen, I know it’s some scary shit and all. Especially, if it’s a dude. But it’s a chick and I’m thinking, week one I’ll want to know who be you, then when I know your game, I’m gon’ play with you…and you don’t want to play with us creative types. I mean think about it, everyday will be a challenge for me to be more creative to piss them off.

How cool is that? And imagine the endless blog stories.

And at this point I’m dragged back to my padded cell.



I have some sad news.

I am taking a hiatus…a longer one, this time. And…unfortunately I may not return.

The couch has served its purpose, it’s now time to step aside and you know, wachia wengine. I started it as a challenge and I have achieved what I set out to achieve.

I’ve met a few bloggers, become friends, loved some, had tiffs with others…actually I haven’t, but the whole journey has been great. I now have to take my bow, and take my leave. I leave you in the able hands of other worthy bloggers. Y’all know them.

I have a serious dent in mojo, helped massively, actually, helped exclusively by time constraints. I have no time to even read your posts. But I’ll be around reading and enjoying them great blogs out there. So mkiona modo something or other, msalimie…

Be easy.

Keep blogging (from someone who isn’t..heheheh)

Modo taking leave!

Exit stage left!

I’m still thinking of the other girl! May 21, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

Six years ago I got into a relationship with…let’s call her Jane, Jane Waithera Thairu. My relationship with Jane was great. And really fulfilling. But after five years, I decided to end it.

I needed out. I needed to, be with other people and see how it was.

Of course, she wasn’t pleased. She tried everything. She cried. She cajoled. She even tried to throw money at me.

She had more money than me. Okay I confess I was living off her. Who wouldn’t.

But, this new chick, Ann Yolanda, Now Anne Yolanda ‘Naitore’ Riungu, had more cash. More cash to throw around. Plus she gave me opportunity to grow. With her I was my own boss. Well, a little. But I could do what i wanted.

I never told Jane my reason for leaving. She suspected I was after the money.

She wasn’t totally wrong.

Okay, Okay. I admit, I’m a gold-digga. I dare you to say you ain’t. Finish the story and you’ll see why I say this. (By the way, this story has already gotten me in trouble thus far…but I beg, finish and you’ll understand)

So anyway, my relationship with Ann Yolanda was great. Of course, initially it wasn’t all smooth, but after an year it was all right. Then…

Jane called.

Memories flooded back.

My heart warmed.

She was crying. (okay, she was forceful)

She threw money at me.

You guessed it, I warmed more.

You see, for me, getting monetary satisfaction from these kind of people is my motivation. They have dosh to throw around…so why not screw with it. And hey, if it helps me grow to be a better person, why not?

Back to the story.

The only problem was, Jane wanted me back ASAP. Apparently, she had found a replacement who wasn’t satisfying her, you know, properly. She was desperate. Just as I like ’em.

She needed me. WOW!

Now how to tell Ann Yolanda.


and caused.

Sad, it had to be. I was going back to my previous love. Jane was kinda good to me. Ann Yolanda wasn’t.

Now I’m back with Jane Waithera Thairu. BUT….

I can’t stop thinking about Ann Yolanda ‘Naitore’ Riungu. Let it be a lesson to y’all, Never get into a relationship immediately you leave one.

With that lesson, can someone please explain this to my new boss at JWT. He totally refused to give me a ‘dumping’ period. Even a week. He wanted me to start work for him immediately, at a better pay of course, but I needed a period to get over the place I used to be.

Now, I keep thinking about AY ‘n’ R.


10,000 BC… May 7, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

Hairy man, dressed in one-month old mammoth skin, sitting on most comfortable rock spots equally hairy woman dressed in the latest sabre-tooth skin dress walking by. He get nice feeling and beneath the hairy mammoth skin, hairy snake rises.

“Ooooga moooga?” He asks his fellow hairy man.

“Mooga oo oo ooooo!!” His pal replies and smacks his lips.

Hairy man, lifts his crude weapon. (The Swahili and every Kenyan in general calls it a rungu) They still had not discovered smooth…well…ehee…

He approaches the so-to-speak sexy woman from an angle.

Woman blushes red.

He whacks her on the head.

Woman gushes red.

Mr. Man (they didn’t know how to speak so clearly they couldn’t give names) grabs ‘sexy’ mama by the hair. Luckily for our Mr. Man, the women were yet to discover salons ama kuna vile huyo msee would never have been able to grab any normal blooded woman’s hair like that. Anyway, he grabs her, by the hair, and drags the love-struck and club-struck woman to his cave and declares…



1800 AD

My great great great great great great great great (etc) grandfather (one ‘great’ is coz he was indeed a great fellow) is chilling with his boys, on a comfortable rock, dressed in fresh goat-skin taking care of the herd. (Sample the dogs that always follow him around). He’s a ka-young fellow and clearly they are the village handies (runs in the family).

Shortly they hear sweet angelic voices as the village damsels waltz their way to the river giggling and laughing.

“Great-to-the-power-of-ten” grand zakes and his boys look through the bushes and spy the most beautiful chicks ever. They get inspired and aroused (I would too if I espied a topless girl), but “great-power-ten” grand zakes reacts quickest. While the others are deciding on who to grab for who, my rela has huko rukad mapema mapema and gone and grabbed the most beautiful one of them all.

He carries her on his shoulders and quickly runs home. He bursts into his fathe’s house and declares…



2008 – the year of the Lord and the year of smarter, more tactful fellows, except…

…except this buffoon who is sitting on his comfortable stool, not rock, at a bar sipping on his tanye (ehem, Tusker) and talking to his boys. In walks this fly arse mama (in our company). Him and his boys are er…excited. So instead of this jamaa swinging and sambaza-ing his lyrics like every modern man, he opts for the “traditional” approach.

This is his plan…

There’s a road trip out of town which we (including fly-arse) have pangad. Then apparently buffoon, who is a friend of our friend, decides he’s also coming. Over a few pints our idiot pal and fly-arse get conversing…but jamaa bado hasn’t angushad lines.

Anyway, come weekend and safari goes without a hitch and we reach destination town where we link up with…our pal and buffoon. It gets dark and buffoon, okay, I’ll call him Jack…but I hope you will appreciate the tact of not calling him JERK!….so Jack runs off and starts booking rooms for us. He doesn’t know our sleeping arrangement (since anyway we did comewith fly-arse in the same ride)….but he’s decided he’s smarter.

Since he can’t katia (lyric assault) this mama, he decides to force her to sleep in his room. How? He books one room less hoping since the mama will have nowhere to sleep she will ‘join’ him.

I know it’s 2008. I was surprised too.

What Jack forgot was that, this chick was in her home area. Anajuana na kila mtu mpaka bar-maid, hawezi kosa place ya kulala. (argh, she knows everyone in that town including the barmaid, so she can’t miss a place to sleep) So Jack as we all know slept solo and his pals all declared in unison…


But really, I thought this style of getting a chiley to sleep with you went out of fashion.

Aw well, barbarians never die.


*kabang – means in a nutshell, he never got any.

A European, a China man, an Indian, a Somali and a Kenyan walk into a bar… April 9, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

…find music playing and a-dancing they would go. Or so they thought.

European: Just 10 seconds is all I ask. 10 seconds so I can enter into this junguz head (not the one at kachoi or the one at buffet park) to see, or hear, what the HELL he was dancing to. It wasn’t the drum beat, or the bass guitar. It sure as hell wasn’t the lyrics, or at least, the cacophony.

China man: Tell me Mr Shaolin (ex shaolin at that) what were you doing? This guy was dancing slow-motion (to a fast track). His hands were apart and he was swaying aka floating, plus pulling the matrix moves of dodging bullets but he wain’t dodging jack. He was crouching like a tiger, at times holding his hidden dragon.

Indian: Haiya, now this guy was a classic. Vot vas he thinking yeah? He voz dancing like he voz boxing in some rat ready to kill it only. In this case the rat was his ‘chick’. He was moving his ‘kushoto na kulia’ hands ‘mbele na nyuma’ not letting the chick move left or right. Then of course he began sweating. Aaaand what does this MF decide to do? Remove his F shirt. LORD! Even the bouncer had to prod him with a long stick coz of the STINK! Dandora garbage site has nothing on him. He was a weapon of mass stink.

Somali: Dancing in the shower is allowed but please, please, PLEASE no ‘showering’ on the dance floor. The chick should have told him to leave the self-exploration, self-cleaning to when in shower. But he was dancing alone. No points for guessing why.

Kenyan: Now the Kenyan, dear ol’ Kenyan male. Now honestly, I agree with ladies, Kenyan men are the worst dancers especially when drunk. Picture this, there was his chick who had nice, er, ‘goods’ and she was dancing like she’s straight off a Lil John video (YEEEEAAAAH!) Man, she was shaking it like a salt shaker, but our Kenyan guy (like many I know…don’t usually know myself when drunk so I’m not here) kept pulling her behind to his crotch area and simulating a ‘doggy-style’, hence messing with her un-choreographed moves. And spoiling entertainment for use ‘alone’ dudes. “Dude, she can dance, you can’t.” Yo, move get out tha’ way…

What a night! And…

I’m not talking about the ladies. Well they didn’t disappoint. I was feasting my eyes on dress codes out of Paris and Milan catwalks, some from lunar and looney catwalks. Even saw one dressed as a mboch.


I’m not even talking about the dude who looked like he’d call on ‘mwaura‘ any time. And he did. Or the 60-somthing sikh “seeking a companion to rock his ‘archaic’ world.” Or his son (they looked like it) who were tempted to touch, but only started touching when ol’ man sikh was overcome by temptation and ‘touched’ the mboch.

Or the ‘loose’ nut desperate for a ‘driver’ to screw her ‘tight’ who believed we were from America (jeez ever heard a shrabber wenging), who wasn’t “on the dance froo mbicoz I haven’t risten to a song I ryk” and wanted us to “mbuy me a brack ice”. It was hard to keep a straight face pretending not to understand which drink this is that was ‘brack’.

I had a great night. If you’re ever bored and need to jazz up your evening, go to Mad House, F1. Alone or with buddies. Never with your chick!


Glossary (this is for you, yes you Sybella)

mboch – house girl

mwaura – puke/vomit

shrabber – someone who ‘L’ is ‘R’ and ‘R’ is ‘L’. (ara-ero)

wenging – tweng

Their peace will be held down for them… April 3, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.


“If anyone has any objection as to why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, please speak now or forever hold your peace.”


A nervous Marto doesn’t even bother to look behind. He’s expecting objections.


An amused pastor cranes his neck over Marto’s shoulder. He’s expecting objections too.


An excited congregation looks around. They too are expecting objections.


Thankfully, sadly, and disappointedly (sic), respectively, there are none.




Marto, the pastor, and the congregation had spotted many of his old flames very much alight, glowing with eagerness to mess things up. What they didn’t know was that Marto had friends he could count on to hold things down when the storm blew in. And I mean ‘hold things down’.


(the rewind sound effect, screech or anything that depicts a ‘say what’ moment.)


Erm, I know, owing to the people who I know are going “HUH! MARTO MARRIED?” I need to clarify something.




The reason, he has too many dames. Not dames he is chatting up, dames he has never really, never REALLY told it’s over. Marto explains….


“How can I tell them it’s over if it never really began? We are just friends.”


But they don’t think so…


“Shauri yao”


So if Marto ever decides to meet that Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, Princess with or without the pea, Snow White, the beautiful Nyakeo or whoever else he thinks they can live happily ever after with, the church would have more drama than when (insert hunky Mexican dude’s name) catches (insert name of sexy Mexican babe, who the soap is named) in bed with (insert name of the hunkier but bitter rival of first hunky dude). Ladies, please do the honours.


That will be unless his boys hold down the forte. And I mean ‘hold down’.


You see, we are sure that all and I mean, all his flames, the distinguished and the extinguished, will be there. And where will we be? Right next to them. Marto that day won’t have a line-up.


The Best Man will be seated on aisle 3 next to Shiro. The grooms men will be in Aisle 5, 8, the back bench next to Eileen*, Mariam* and Shiro Nakamura. And Linda* will be in the ladies, er, washroom, locked in. Others will be discovering a little too late that they are in the wrong church at the wrong wedding. Others will still be waiting for the wedding day.


Marto has confused many.


(Back to “…speak now or forever hold your peace/piece.”)


When the pastor looks over Marto’s shaking shoulder, and if he pays close attention, he will notice, three or four ladies in the congregation fidgeting and looking nervously at the guy sitting next to each. The guys on the other hand will be stone-faced and unlike the congregation, will be the only ones not looking around.


This is how it will work…


The guy seating next to the potential wedding wrecker will, at the moment the pastor says “…hold your peace”, with all his might and all means necessarily as coolly, calmly and discreetly hold down the chick. She will think she’s been superglued to the seat (that’s my strategy), then the guy will issue a chilling threat in his most scary voice ever.


“Jaribu uone!”




“I know where your cat lives!”


This takes care of any verbal protests she may decide to employ. I will gag mine, or better yet, plant a nice one on the lips. Hey any means necessary.


And the pastor will insist…




Not a soul. Stir they will but raise they will not.


“Going once, going twice…”


Not a voice. Just squeaks from the benches with the ladies.


“(Disappointed) I now pronounce you, Mr and Mrs Marto.”


And we shall all rise, clap, ululate, throw rice (and nasty glances from the chicks), happily. Suddenly, Marto’s line-up would reappear. Though some of the groomsmen will need some re-grooming.




…if you decide to get married, we’ll hold down the forte. And I mean ‘hold down’.


*names have been changed for security purposes, Marto’s. And sitting arrangements and where who will be, who will be locked in or who will be at the wrong venue may change on the actual day, but Best Man will get Shiro, she’s a handful and he has big hands.

After the break! March 20, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

The slow ones like me were in the cafeteria feasting on ‘nuts’, the fast ones were on the track burning each other out and the fit ones were in the gym out-lifting each other when it becomes ‘hot’. Chaos is the middle name that describes the moment. Excitement is the other.


“MEN!” shouted the commander above the excitement. “The moment of truth is here. It’s been a while, many months actually before we saw some action. The last batch that went out before you tried to do this battalion proud, but they didn’t get far. At least not as far as they had hoped. Today men, it’s your turn I’m not promising you much either. You may or may not make it, but if you do___”


The crowd was alive and surged forth.


“HEY! Aaaargh! Crap. Have to cut this speech short. AGAIN! Damn, this always happens. My speeches never last more than a minute.”


The guys at the back are in a hurry. The guys at the front have already gone. In a few excited seconds we are all in the escape shaft swimming for the exit. Whatever is out there won’t know what is coming. Or will it?


The guys in front collide with something. And we all come crashing on top of them. The shaft is closed. But by what? We can see outside but we can’t get there. So here we are, a million-plus of us. Stranded. Trapped. Locked in yet outside.


“Well men,” says the commander. “same as usual. Dead end.”


Everyone is understandably upset. We can’t go forth. And we can’t go back. We can never go back. We knew once you left the duplex apartment, that was it, there was no turning back. Like kamikaze pilots.




Something doesn’t smell right. Smells fishy actually.


Hey. We are moving again. Pouring one after the other into some velvety openness. We are free!


“Men, it’s a miracle. But I warn you, they won’t be happy. Do your thing. First one there is…”


No one is listening to him but we all know the drill. It is first come, first service.


We are now in this great vastness. Somehow I can’t help but feel I’m in heaven. Some kind of Valhalla. It is warm. And thanks to my amazement with the current surroundings everyone passes me on their way to the prize.


I awake from my daydream. I swim as fast as I can to to try and catch up with the guys. I manage to catch and pass a few guys. Then it’s over. Just like that. No more swimming.


Of course I wasn’t first, didn’t expect to be, but this whole situation, which I now understand, has me smiling. Has me laughing. I am still laughing when I see many dejected fast and fit guys walk past with their heads held low in shame.


“I should have won”, “It was mine.”, “I actually saw it.”, “I almost touched it.” and so on, is all they can mumble. Someone has beaten them to the prize. Someone was faster. Someone was fitter. I didn’t really care to know who it was. All I know, one of us has done it. Reached his, and everyone else’s, goal.


I am happy.


Happy to explore this new environment.


Happy to know I won’t stay here for long. It smelt of fish.


Happy because we had broken through.


Happy that in 9 months everyone would know, for sure, we broke through.




Soooooo, question, what happens when the condom breaks.

Note: This is not my story.

I’m a 2-year old… March 7, 2008

Posted by modoathii in Uncategorized.

It’s been a while since I sat on the couch and released…It’s not a rant, let’s call it my moment of randomness, or better yet just curiosity about stuff. So please explain to me like I’m a two year old…


• How does Chelsea lose it’s first match in sijui gazillion matches, then they start asking the coach if he can really make use of the expensive talent he has? Just one match? Inquiries, commissions are being called in left right and centre. Soon they may even investigate that soft helmet Peter Cech wears on his head. So what about kina Liverpool who even the coach only talks big after the match? Archer? Note: Sipendi Chelsea.


• Kenyans are the most courteous fellows I know. Excusing themselves here and there, asking politely, saying thank you, very welcoming, but what happens when they get behind the steering wheel? And these days do cars come with a dictionary of colourful cuss words and rude remarks as standard feature?


• How does the ATM at a bank not work, and it’s banking hours, yet the one hukooooooooo in the forest is fully operational? And why only at the end of the month?


• Why is it that if things go wrong, it’s you; but if they go right, it’s not you?


• When did the creative department in an agency become the least important? Why are shoved huko in the darkest corner (oh maybe coz we are the brightest yet without it they are just a bunch of tea-drinking fellows with no creative way to outdo the competition?


• Why do people go through people’s stuff without their permission? What do they hope to achieve? And what happens when they find something? How will that bhangi you found rolled up in my bag help you yet you won’t smoke it?


• On the same note, why the crap do guys go through people’s phones and chokora stuff that is none of their business? You start chatting and abusing people’s friends? Do you get extra bonga points if you do?


• Why oh why do people take those paos I have so stressfully saved in that make shift piggy bank for future use? Si they just ask and they will be given?


(okay, i was boiling a little there…sip of Vodo and i’m easy)


• Explain to me, why is it easier to believe a lie? I mean the lie sounds so so amazingly ridiculous, but yet we choose to believe it (i’m guilty here) yet the truth is the hardest to drive home. Classic example, the Bible.


• Why do matatu touts ask the darnest (sic) questions? He would be at the door loudly and proudly shouting above the cacophony that is the music within that fare to a certain destination is 30 bob, so you enter, you give him 50 bob and what does he ask, “wawili?” Or you are alighting there, yes there, then he asks “hapa?”


• Explain salvation to me. Not to bash on to the saved ones, but why are the old school ‘savers’ so harsh, yaani mpaka you feel you don’t want salvation? Then, doesn’t “thou shalt not steal” apply to others? Yet, they claim to be saved. What happened to WWJD (what would Jesus do)?




• Why do people feel wajuaji when they come to the office and ask for me using the wrong name, yet iI told them what name to use? Then they get surprised (and upset) when they are told hatujui kitu kama hiyo?


And an anti-rant…


I did a survey (Steadman, ain’t got s**t on me) and I found something not quite disturbing. It is expected. Of the many that were polled, many (read all) said if they were given a chance to beat me, they would. Kidogo tu. Raila can I borrow your clumsy security?