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Love and Life – Whiskey Lullaby

Am sitting out here. Somewhere in one of these gardens Wangari Maathai fought hard for. She must have experienced love. Right what am going through to have so much energy and zeal to fight. Because where would I have gone this instance to calm the heart. What better place is there to get peace? Isn’t it just why so many people are throwing themselves from rooftops of 30 storied buildings? No gardens to find calm. Peace.

So You go up there trying to reach God and ask him why. You get to the top and look at the world down there, everyone in their own business not minding how hurt you are, how one person could be so cruel to another. You realize the peace you needed can actually not be found here either. God is nowhere around to answer your questions, you can’t go back down there to so much pain and torment. So you decide to fly. Go further up away from the world. Away from pain and the people and closer to God. You are up on prime time news.

The paper headlines tomorrow
“27 year old jumps from 32 storied building over failed relationship.” “Man takes life over cheating girlfriend”
Tuko and Ghafla make money with you:
17 things you didn’t know about Gusto’s girlfriend. Number 9 will shock you.”

You watch from where you are and smile. Atleast you made some writer somewhere meet his target today. You are in the papers for the next one week. The conversation about love, and young people, and suicide bla bla bla. Everyone giving input of what you should have done instead. Because life is much more important than some woman. If only they knew she was actually that life to you. So many opinions. If only they were in your shoes. Maybe they could understand how life was pointless without her. How you tried so much to get another option. But love is not for the weak. You agreed with yourself. You are weak. Vulnerable. You were not made for love. Whatever people will call you. And all you want right now is peace. What more peace than somewhere asleep in a grave. Right? And off you flew.

You watch from the grave. You hoped the best for her. She gets the news first. On the site where you fell on a blunt object, she comes there every lunch time. You can see torment in her eyes. Pain. She knows she could have stopped this if she wanted. But she didn’t. Too carried away. Tears form on her left eye. She wipes it away fast before it drops. She stands on the cracked ground where you fell. She looks up to see the height. It must have been painful. She thinks. She realises how much she loved you. She loves you. But its too late. Or is it sympathy? You think. But it couldn’t be. She no longer talks to him.

Its not what you had envisioned. You had hoped to give them space. You had hoped she’d be happy. She wouldn’t need to text him and delete the messages. She wouldn’t need to plan meeting him when you are at work. They would have all the freedom to love and fall in love without you coming in the way. You had hoped her the best. Love and laughter. Long life.

She comes with your two kids once in a while. They play around oblivious of her aching heart. Oblivious of the ground you took your life with. She wants answers. They don’t seem to come. She needs closure. Nothing makes sense. She blames herself. No. The guy. She blames the devil. She doesn’t know who to blame. But she knows she lost gold at the sight of shiny silver. Now her world has fallen apart. And she can’t tell what to do.

One day she dumps the kids at their grannies. Today she must find closure. She must get answers. Even if its from you. She arrives the same time she always does. 1.37Pm. The same time you fell from the sky. Only today, she doesn’t stop at the spot. She walks on. Climbs up the 32 floors in a fraction of a minute. She thinks she’ll find answers up there. Peace. She thinks she’ll find God. Or you. And you two will answer her. She takes 2 hours at the rooftop. Crying. She finally finds it. Peace. More than just peace. She walks to the edge. Right where you jumped from. How much she has longed for this feeling. Deep calls unto deep. You don’t know what to do. Its not what you wanted. What will be the reason for you leaving if she cant find that freedom and peace. She should stay. Atleast for you. Atleast for your kids. She has a better option. But you of all people know better. You have been there. You don’t even know what to feel. Happy that she’s coming, or sad she didn’t find the freedom you thought you were giving her.
The media again.
“developing story:Woman takes life 2 weeks after boyfriend.”

It has been 5 days. The guy who brought you here walks to the same spot everyday at 3.37PM. The same hour she took her life. He loved her. And he doesn’t understand why she’d do such a thing when their love was at peak. She had called him 2 hours before she took her life. Told him he caused her do the thing she was about to do. He is the reason she’s miserable. Then she hung up. He needs answers. Closure. Its been two hours since he stopped to check out this place. Today he has overstayed. He looks up at the height of the building, down at the cracked ground where she fell. He thinks long and hard. And then he finds it. Peace. Closure. He knows where the answers are. He takes the stairs.

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Matatu Musings: Day Of Noogle Death

Continue reading Matatu Musings: Day Of Noogle Death

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Love – When a good girl gon bad

Matchstick Fire. Love. Gustochronicles

He sat on the matatu earphones plugged in. He could hear love. The song playing over and over.

🎵🎵When a good girl gone bad… 🎵🎵 Sauti Sol.

No song played on his phone though. The music was in his head. Voices. Confusion. Fear. Depression. All together in unison tormenting his once peaceful mind. He could not fathom how the world could be so cruel. How people could be so heartless. The more he wanted the thoughts away, the more they hit his head even harder.

He had been her solace in time of need. Her joy in times of sorrow. It was his shoulders she leaned on when she needed one. He could let her lean on it even when his burdens weighed on him. He would forget his for the time until she’d stood on her feet. And then he’d go back to where he left his. When she needed money, he had in most instances denied himself and lend it to her. Knowing too well she would never pay back. Love has a way of making you forget fast. Its why he never went back to claim for it. He forgot. It was love. He thought. When she couldn’t find a job, it was him who took her in. It was his money she used for application letters. His laptop and printers. His internet.

She stayed with him. She cooked the food he brought home. Slept in his bed. Lay on his chest all night long. Like a baby in its mother’s hands. Peaceful. Protected. With her there, he had the world in his hands. He had conquered it all. And when he made love to her, it was love all the way… He gave his all… She had to know she was queen and he the King.

So with the passion of a king for his kingdom and energy of a master on his slave, he made love to her. Nights on end. And each day, his love for her grew. With each thrust. Each heave. Every moan and scream. His love for her grew stronger.  deeper. And he wanted her to himself. Him for her. Her for him. With her, nothing else mattered. He wanted to live with her. Here. Now. Forever. He wanted to officially make her his wife the soonest he could just so this kingdom could be sealed.

She loved him too… The way a toddler loves its mother. Like water to a fish, so was he to her. He was her air. Her life. She could not live without him. It’s him she missed every second he was out fending for her. She wanted to be with him. Linger around him. Play with his hair. His Masculinity all over her. His scent around made more sense than the food he brought in the evening. Feeling his presence was enough. Better than the money he gave for supper. She missed everything about him. Every bit. Every second that passed without him seemed like hours. Days even.

At such times, she found solace in reading his articles. When she was not reading, she was busy cooking for him. Her king. Ironing his clothes or washing them. She washed with such devotion you would think she was bathing him. She loved every bit of it. And when he came home, it was all merry. Joy filled her air. The happiness she could never describe. It was bliss for the both of them. And they wanted to sit together. Dine, dance. Laugh. Watch movies. Cuddle. Make love. Sleep. As long as they were together, Even silence was fun. He’d occasionally gift her chocolate. For loving him this much.

At times, they’d take a walk in the dark. Holding hands, playing with each other’s hair, tease each other. He loved the walks. They’d see people bring up mansions. He would open up about his dreams and ambitions. Of owning several such apartments and more. Land too. How he had a future. A bright one. It was only now he was struggling with finding a good job. He also had a thing for good vehicles. Subarus especially. BMWs and Mercedes-Benz too… He dreamt of ferrying his children to school in one of those.

Then one day, she found a job. How happy for her he was. This was God-sent. After ages of searching, the light had finally shone on her. And they thanked God. Unfortunately, it was far away from him. This was no problem though. She promised to visit every once in a while. Stay in touch. He knew she was going to keep her promise. He trusted her. The goodbye was a sad one. He carried her bag to the bus station. At the bus station, he waited until the Matatu filled up with passengers. They hugged. Kissed. The Matatu left minutes later. He now had his phone and her memories to keep them together. She had her phone too… And fond memories of their love.

His thoughts were cut by the tout who was standing next to him asking for his bus fare. He smiled curtly and gave him a hundred shillings note. As he waited for his 30 bob change, he noticed the couple seated in the seat just next to him. They were in their own world. Laughing. Loving. Cuddling and exchanging sweet nothings. He felt the taste of bile in his mouth at the memories. Bitter at what their love had become. Regret. Just a month and two weeks away from the day she left for work. The song rung on:

“…She’s a heart-breaker…”

He remembered how things had changed three weeks into her new job. She had told him that her job was demanding too much from her. That she could no longer text him as much as she used to. That she slept early due to fatigue following a long day’s work. He was sad. But he understood her. She was working in one of the biggest media firms in East and Central Africa. It must have been so demanding. He tried to survive along. Tried to communicate only when she was available. That was not okay with him. What could he do though?! Love is what that matters. The heart. He encouraged himself.

But love is a different kind of feeling. You can feel when it flies out of the window. You can feel the vacuum fill the room. The emptiness. The cold heart. The warmth in your conversation takes off and words freeze even before they are out of the mouth.

So the conversations became shorter with each passing day. His chats were answered in one-word texts. She never visited either. He remembered her stories during her first weeks of how her bosses were hitting on her. Could she have fallen for their vibe? He remembered how her tone had drastically changed in their conversation. She was no longer the sweet humble girl he once loved. She was a lioness… Words fierce than the barking of a headteacher to a pupil. Hotter than a furnace. She no longer chose her words carefully when speaking to him. She didn’t care no more. Her words sometimes felt like venom. Like a dragon spitting fire right onto his already bleeding heart. He ached from within. Yet, he couldn’t do a thing.

So he sat in that Matatu. He remembered the words he had once read by Philip the sheriff. He had once said something about good girls:

“A good girl isn’t found in a church, an isolated village or in places where you think people have good morals reside.

There are two kinds of “good” in a girl. The first is situational, where she appears good only because the devil has yet to tempt her. The second is tested, where he made his offering but she resisted. Sometimes when a man identifies a girl who has upstanding character or morals, what he actually found is a girl who has yet to be tossed into a world of sex, partying, money, or attention. Once that temptation occurs, or she is removed from a bubble that has kept her good, it’s nearly certain that she will dive head-first into the ocean of human depravity.
In that case, a truly good girl is one who has conquered all kinds of temptations thrown at her and remained sensible. She has been around people who are super spoiled but she is not super spoiled. She has been in environments and circumstances that could have influenced her badly but she remained focussed.

That’s a good girl.”

The truth of these words dawned hard on him. He knew what category his girl was especially with all the bosses and fellow badass employees she had told him about during her first weeks of work.

So in that Matatu he closed his eyes. In agony. Praying. Not for himself but for the couple across. For all the other beautiful relationships as such. His had died out. The embers had long gone out. Just hot ashes and smoke left. A sign for those coming behind. There used to be a burning flame here. A fire. A furnace even. Hotter than coal, sulphur and brimstone combined.

But one day, It died out. Killed by God knows what. He didn’t even get the chance to know what part he played in killing it. At least he thought the person he’d trusted the most with the flame had put it out. He hoped to keep the ashes hot. And the smoke too. To serve as a sign. A sign for his son and generations to come. That Love is a beautiful thing. Until one day the flame goes off.

Photo Credit: Devin Avery

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Guerilla Gusto – My Contribution to the Maumau uprising

In one of my many statuses on WhatsApp (you know those people who post statuses as if they have Shares onWhatsApp?) I’m not one of them.  Am of the Maumau era.  In one of my many statuses though, I shared a Greek proverb.  Ngim comes from Mut. I went ahead to show you the Mut (Unga) I came from and wished my mum a Happy Birthday. 😊😊 I feel proud of myself already. Am not sure why though.

Whether my mum saw those thousand statuses or not is none of my/your business.  At least the world saw it. And while still at it, who knows? My potential future bae vis a vii (sijui ata kama inaandikagwa hivyo) wife, saw I am good at keeping track of important dates.  Right? Yes right.  Thank you.

Now that’s not the story today.  Ngim comes from what?  Mut. This is a saying in Greek lingua that has no maana ya juu and maana fiche.  It only has maana. This proverbs translates to Ugali comes from Unga. Good. Let’s get to the unga part because am the Ngim here.

Flashback. 1958. Kwa Wanjiku Centre.  My age is 10 or so. My Mother WaWanjiru. (by this time, she had not earned the title waCynthia)  not that Cynthia had not been born but no one in our village would associate themselves with the Muthungu names with all the pain they had caused us. So we just called her Wanjiru wa Kiwiri. And we loved it that way.

My brother Kimani wa Kiwiri and I had just come from the forest. Wawanjiru had sent us with food and information to take to Wanjiku caves. Here my dad and other men were camping strategizing on which muthungu to take out next. Strapped well in a bundle of firewood were food,  a gun and a letter.  These,  we were given instructions to ensure we personally got them to my father by ourselves and not any other fighter.

My father went by the name general Kiwiri by then.  He led the troop of guerillas.  He was the most feared of all the warriors in this area.  Word around was that he could communicate with wild animals.  In such instances,  the animals would attack the muthungu and the collaborators and leave out the Maumau men. People also said that he actually could communicate with the wind.

On a certain day, a strong wind had come up over the village from the direction of the forest and had swept out the roof to a white man’s house. Word is,  he had sent it. People say he was in that wind because thereafter, guns and ammunition went missing in the white man’s house. The previous year when our village was struck by drought,  he single-handedly attacked a neighbouring white man’s camp and drove off with a lorry full of foodstuff and brought it to our village.

Let me pause here.  The Ngim and the Mut thing. Haven’t I in so many instances brought you guys, sweets? Eh? Who hasn’t seen me talk to the wind? Am not sure it listens,  but at least I try.  And the Maumau thing, have you seen my hair? Leadership nayo you think being a Whatsapp group admin ni mchezo? It takes courage,  confidence,  determination and experience my friends.

Okay…  Where was I? We got to the forest,  and back.  Safely. Then we were sent a second round. The men in the forest were too many to be fed in one round without carrying a bundle that wouldn’t raise suspicion. We were used to taking up to 7 rounds a day.  At some point, we thought their work was just eat and sleep.

It was at this second round that all hell broke loose.  Some informer had told the muthungu of our many trips to the forest and back. He had trailed behind us on the first round and back watching us from a distance.  On the second trip,  he had waylaid us at the front.  Safe distance from both the caves and the village.

“Good Morning boys” a voice stopped us from behind.  We could here it sounded as if the owner of the voice had his nostrils half closed half open.
As had been instructed,  we were to pretend we don’t understand the white man’s language and if he had a translator,  we were to tell them we are collecting firewood for my mother who works in the white man’s farm. Lakini Kimani ni nani.

“We don’t understand that language, ” he said confidently.

“And what are you doing here?”

“Here in the forest? ” Kimani asked.

“Yes here. “

“We don’t understand that question sir” he replied. The white man made faces that showed we had started annoying him.  As the big brother I am and ought to be, I took charge of the situation.

“Sir, you have a problem? Aren’t you in the same forest as we? Have we asked you what you are doing?  Have we any business with you? Are we you? Are you we? Look me well in the eye and shoot me if you like!! I will die for my country but not kneel down for man.  I cant huh mwak and huh Mundu!! Never! ” (My people,  this is the ngim and mut thing am talking about)

My people,  composed like never before but face redder than pepper, the Whiteman pulled his pistol from its place, pointed right on my forehead. By now,  you already know my trousers were wet.  I think its the rain or something.  Body shaking like a tambourine (Sauti sol)  Then he pulled the trigger.

“click click! ”
“Click click!! ”
Nothing again.
Like seriously?! What did he expect? Am the son of the man who speaks to the wind and it listens.  Dah!  I started bragging about my father’s deeds and might. Dancing around a shaken mzungu. Telling him that just by pointing that gun towards me,  he had written his death wish,  signed it off and sent it to the Maumau fighters the way we had been sent.
“So you guys have been sent to them? “

“Yes.  Do you want to take your death application letter yourself or send us? “

And then it hit him.  His gun’s magazine was empty. Laughing hysterically, the man took out two bullets from his blazer, loaded his gun, pointed it at my forehead again. My leg shaking game continued. Sweating profusely.
“Say your last prayers boy!?”


Watu wangu kama hauna nguvu ya vitu zingine usijaribu kuota ndoto zingine.  Such dreams are for the strong. Not us.  Nimeamshwa na hio boom!?! I think ni neighbour amebang mlango.  Acha nikojoe nikalale. Goodnight people.

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Do mosquitos have like a celebratory buzz or noise or something when they are happy? Say like its sucked all the blood out of you and need to celebrate its victory. Ama it wants to call the others to a feast in celebration say to the birth of another mosquito.

Ama the way they disturb your peace all night long, do they celebrate? When they hear you tell your friend how they are not giving you peace, do they look at each other and smile? Hi-5 each other and say mission accomplished and burst out in a song of jubilation?
Ama, when it goes to suck blood say from a, slay queen and cant seem to get to the skin, the body today seems to have grease and bicycle oil thanks to layers and layers of make up. Does it click and walk away depressed. And some peoples blood: especially these tall guys eddu, gach, et al, does a mosquito spit such immeadiately after spitting. Blood became stale on its way from the heart before it gets to the toes. Ama they call the others who like damu mala and they drink their hearts out?

Have you ever seen a man drunk that they cannot see their own nose and wonder what the hell ails them? How one could just waste all his income on such in the name of fun? What folly!! (Story for another day) now when a mosquito sips blood from such, does it fly away in a straight line or zigzag?

I recently saw one and I knew it had sipped some blood from my brother jackson ama dan. Their behaviour tells me weed is their cup of tea. The mosquito had hugged a kiKPLC pole tight and somehow I could read it was trying to sip out something from it. From there, it perched on a nduthi guy’s helmet. Me let me tell you!!

Ama when you kill one mosquito, do they hold requim masses for them? Observe a minute of silence or two for the fallen soldiers?

“Mutigaire Kinuthia arakuire thutha wa kuguthana head on collision na ikofi ria gusto! Aromama kwega…. ”



Then all of them will wage a revenge war against gusto. To them, I am the ‘muthungu’ killing them ruthlessly for their own soil – ah! Sorry blood. And they buzz around my ear all night long. Since I took away the life of one of their own, they will take away my peace.
Just thinking out loud. Because I want to sign a peace treaty with them. Jack Ma could u probably know?


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The Interview

I remember you. From Campus. Though blurred, at least I’ve met your face somewhere.  In one of those corridors of knowledge maybe. Halls of wisdom.

From that night. Yes. Those locks. How could I forget them. You kept fiddling and rolling them all through. I said I liked them. Short as they were. I loved them. I told you I did. Genuinely. You shrugged, laughed away the joke. Sarcastically. Then you looked away. You didn’t even respond. As if you knew I didn’t want a reply.

Why could you respond though? You had it all going. The aura of importance all around you. You were the talk of the party. The reason all the ladies were twerking their asses off. Displaying more flesh than their Mothers advised.

I hated it. Like you were some god. And the twerking was all sacrifice the ladies could offer to appease you. Burnt offerings. And you blessed those that found favour in your eyes with spanks. They giggled and twerked even harder. I couldn’t get it.

I was just two weeks old at Chuka University when my roommate daisy tagged me along to this party. Fresh. Green and pure. Mother Teresa. All this was new to me. Sin. Abomination. My mother’s instructions lingered in my mind every 3 seconds,

“úmenye Kambí wathií guthoma. Don’t let these boys use you. Your man is waiting for you outside there after campus”

Every one of these reminders brought a fresh surge of anger. At you. At the way you used the ladies here only to pay them with hard spanks. Slaps on their bare asses hard enough to calm a bull on heat. I actually got angry that you did not respond to my compliment. Angry at Daisy for bringing me here in the first place. Angry at God for this lost society.

Then I met you in school. Monday. In your usual arrogance and air of importance. Your cigar in one hand and liquor bottle on the other. Who takes beer at the beginning of the week? Who was I to question you though? Mere fresher who’s not yet even discovered the shortest route to lecture theatre SGT1? so I stayed silent. Saved it for another day.

In the class, the lecturer knew you. And all through the lecture, you gave me no peace. Noise from start to finish. I couldn’t take it. So I politely asked you to tone it down or get out. How could I forget you? You had something better for me.

“Or what? Ama utanifunika na hio dress yako ya mafiriri?” You asked.

The laughter that followed. You will never know the embarrassment I felt. Like a bullet shot right through my soft heart. Pain with every giggle. Heart-wrenching. I wish you knew what that dress meant to me. How I had used up all my savings to purchase it. And days later, I cried my eyes out because I couldn’t wear my favourite dress any longer.

Its been five years since then. Every time I see girls whining and grinding in music videos, I see you. Every time I see a lady in a mafiriri dress, the pain comes all over again. Am working on it. Day and night. Counselling sessions sometimes. Just for you.

Here we meet again sir. You look different. No locks, clean-shaven head, No jeans, blue suit. I can tell you remember me. The way you keep avoiding my eyes.

“Would you like us to move the interview to the afternoon or shall I have your papers now sir? ”

Thank you for the shares guys.

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They Found Wacu In the Farm

True story before I get to Wacu. Cases of car theft are in the rise around Thika and its environs. Why would this bother me though, I have no car except for my sons toy police car? Right? Well, not any more. A friend of mine woke up to an empty garage space where he had parked his vehicle the previous night. For those of us who own cars (tihihihi hebrews 11, now faith is the assurance of things not yet seen) you will agree that this feeling is not the best. Especially if you produced to your last dime to get that car. You know he searched hadi kwa wallet yake. True story. He went back kushower just to see if he’ll wake up. May God help those guys. Pole sana. Bro.

Then last night happened and I knew I should worry about cars being stolen. Those of you who have been to my place will attest to the fact that we have one of the biggest parking spaces around. Open space all the way from the tarmac to the house. You can park anywhere… there is no limitation – in terms of fencing I mean. And until last night, this parking space was used to the maximum. Last night. I was chatting with one of those crazy friends. The one who actually inspired this story. Lets call her Nazareth today. Where Jesus lived haha.

Somewhere around midnight, akasema goodnight nkaachwa hapo na Thor RagNarok (Its a movie. Has nothing to do with Narok btw.) It ended at around 1.30 hivi when I went to bed and until kindu 2pm, I was going through the day, the chats, how the hell they shot Thor, where sugarcane gets its sweetness from and every other stupid stuff on the planet. Then noise. At first I thought it was the usual walevi who come in saa nane but this one was sober noise. The caretaker waking us up.

Apparently, some guys had decided that our parking lot was next to be deprived of its own. Cars. Si mimi warrior wa kijiji nikaitikia mwito nikatoka mbio. Just chukuwaad my kaphone and a kibat I usually keep at the door for instances as this. Out all the way from my karoom in 2nd floor. Down to the parking lot. Having heard alarm raised and the difficulties they had with the vehicles, the thieves took to their heels and left one engine raving and another car door broken.

I was among the first few people to get to the parking space determined to break someone’s neck especially with fresh memories of my friends car. By now though, neighbours had trickled out in numbers to find out what it was all about. And then it hit me. I had run out as I had been in bed. Pair of boxers. Full stop.

The journey back to my room was one long embarrassing one. Me my boxers and my bat. Fast as my steps could take me, I moved. I met ladies on those corridors. The men were already out. As I passed them, I could notice the giggles… sly especially…well, for those of you who say am not blessed, ask those ladies I met on those corridors why they were giggling. Btw I still cant get it, I was embarrassed and they were also dressed half naked, they actually come out to anika their wares on the hanging lines with shorter booty shorts.

Anywho, I got to my house, nkavaa trouser na kitshirt kingine hapo nikarudi. From the corners of my eyes, I could see them looking at me. Smiling, whispering to each other n stuff. Who cares man. Am just a warrior who wnted to save the day when their boyfriends were still sleeping.

Then the policemen came. 3 of them. Assessed the situation, asked questions and picked up some stuff the thieves had left behind. I hope they do something about it. We went back to sleep. 6.30.AM. Knock on my door. Maaaan! I just slept some minutes ago. Who knocks on your door this early. I lazily wake up and get the door. Still sleepy.


Sleep evades me completely as soon as I see who it is. Its my neighbour from across the corridor. Beautiful is understatement and I have been eyeing her since I came to this place. This morning, she just picked up her towel wrapped it up around her and knocked on my door. I think there must be a mistake. I cant help but notice all that smooth skin left bare and the way her towel is miles away from the ground. The slender legs all the way up. Her towel seems shorter than it should be thanks to the big future behind her raising it to newer heights hehe…

“Sasa Gusto, therez no wora at ma place. Could you please allow me to fetch one bucket from yuo haas ya kushawa tu?!” (The way she talks, I think she thinks she’z made it in life.) She asks with a voice you cant say no to. So I agree to her request and she tells me to give her a minute “nichukue bako nikam.”

Am staring at her as she swings her hips walking towards her place. She stops midway, turns to find my eyes fixated on that breathtaking view behind her. Splendor. haha. Blessing galore. She smiles that smiles that says more than words could.

“Btw jana I saw you. That was brave of you gusto kutoka hivo ustopishe wezi. Couldn’t help noticing though…. O.M.G aki si umebarik… ah wacha tu lemmi come..” I smile back.

“Hehee… sawa. N thank you. It was nothing. Anyone who cares would have done the same” I answer. Ofcourse tunajua hapa ni marks tunatafuta hahahaa

“Amaaa… si I can just come and shower at your place, lazima nibebane na maji all the way na kwanza yako ni hot shower? Ata kama ni baridi I think you hot enough” slyly smiling…


MY PEOPLE!! Mans Hot!! And she started walking back. This is what we call goal goal. I want to leave it at this because I have a task ahead. I want to tell a tale. Tale of how it all went down. Tale Of thunder n lightning. Fire n brimstone. Of Water n sulphur. Ndugu zangu I would have said i’ll be back shortly but shortly…. apana. Tricky sana. track record tells a different story. I’ll be back friends.

* locks the door behind him*

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Forester Gustochronicles

The voice that wakes you up in the morning. That feeling that makes you jump out of bed however much sleep is sweet. That excitement you have about waking up the next morning before you even go to bed. The energy that jolts your whack ass up for work lest you and your son have marbles for supper, yawns for lunch and at least water for breakfast. Lest you start living on trees because your landlord couldn’t let you stay another month. He says he has children to feed too. And a woman to buy nice clothes.

The roar of a Subaru inside my head zooming past me on Thika super highway wakes me up every morning. Its loud voice reverberating in my stomach way before it zooms past us. I have not seen it yet but yes I know that’s a Subaru legacy coming. How wouldn’t I when my love for Subarus and that for my girlfriend are next door neighbours? So the Subaru overtakes the kiKenya mpya bus am plying the Thika superhighway in and I can still feel its movement an hour later. The feeling when that B.M.W X6, X8 overtakes your noisy Chania Sacco matatu and you want yours too. You want to wake up tomorrow and work harder.

See when you are in that Kenya mpya bus and a Mitsubishi Outlander vrooms past you. This time it’s being driven by a woman. And you begin fantasizing. Fantasies about your girlfriend still sitting her cats with campus boys on her trail after class, after church, in the hostel, in the market wasting their 30 bobs on smokies for her instead of saving them up to buy a Subaru!! And you visualize her behind that wheel. Driving on that highway. Nodding to her favourite jazz music or some Israel Houghton jam. She dropped akina guruneti n kana funny when she met you. Akina sijui gafage gacathi wa thuo haha… I know she still listens to them sometimes when am not there haha… Muthoni lemme not continue. Where was I? (I love those jams btw)

Si u have ever peeped from on top of that your kabus into a land cruiser V8 n there’s a woman behind the wheel. That kafeeling. Envy, ecstasy, you can’t tell. But it’s not even the woman behind the wheel that makes me craziest. There is a way women sit in those driver seats cjui it’s the accelerator pedal that’s high ama? Her dress or skirt or whatever she is wearing is way above her knees revealing acres n acres of flesh. Thighs my people. Thighs. Just when you are about to begin fantasizing, the holy spirit slaps you back to reality and you can hear him say “TABIA MBAYA Gusto!! That’s probably someone’s wife in the first place. (For those who can’t hear him, he sends another Subaru N12  just next to the woman’s V8. And you are no longer interested in the many hectares of skin you were engrossed with) And you want your own wife to drive n have her dress reveal skin when you are in the passenger’s seat. Because you know that makes you go crazy and when you get home…!!!

You also want those baby on board stickers at the rear mirror of your car. Who doesn’t??!! You can’t think of your children going through the same problems you went through with P.S.V matatus. They never used to stop for school going kids. Ati because we were paying 10 bob instead of 20. And we’d stay late on the bus stop until another kacanter lorry would come to our rescue (Bless you canter owner. bless u). And even when our parents started giving us the full 20 bob, they still despised us. As if our 20 bobs were made of clay. Different from that of the ‘big’ people. Nkt! So you want to ferry your kids to and from school daily. Pick them like your affluent neighbours used to be picked sijui from Lions schools na wewe mlikua mnasomea Kafarage day C.D.F Primary.

It’s these voices that wake me up. I need no alarm clock. The noises from my boss who pays me peanuts saying am late for work. AGAIN!! The heart-wrenching abuses she hurls at you all day long just because you are 10 mins late. If only she knew the time you woke up. If only she knew you waited for a whopping 1 hour before a Manchester matatu came to your rescue. And you had to part with 150 bob. 50 shillings more than the normal amount you pay on a normal day. And today you have to make do without lunch. If only she knew.You cant tell why you wake up with blurry eyes and your pillow soaked. Drenched. You are sure that’s not saliva. But you know you loathe the boss’s noise. Makes you feel like crying all the time. You cant accept, though, that they are tears. You are a man. Men don’t cry.

So you wake up determined. How you’ll work hard today. Because your tomorrow is made today. And if you had worked harder yesterday, you probably would be in a better place now. You wouldn’t be here today. You would probably be waking up at 11 am to catch a flight later in the day. Kids probably homeschooling (hio aiwezihappen kwangu. Waende wapigane mateke na watoto wengine shule wakauke kama baba yao. Wacheze chobo ua wajue maisha ni kujiredeem) aaahh uuuhmmm sorry. Where was I? You’d pro’lly be sipping coffee at a meeting in Kempinski with some int’l delegates to discuss issues that could be handled by interns but u know u gotta show u working even if you are not really.


So today you woke up. Early. The vehicles u see overtaking your Kenya mpya bus, no longer make you envious. Before they got there, they used to be where you are. Everyone is on their timeline. Your Subaru is coming. The good life you’ve always wanted. The family. You are just being hardened for the future. So that when you get there, you will respect the ladder that brought u up. You will respect those in the place you are right now. You’ll will inspire and mentor others climbing up behind you. You will pull them up. You will be thankful to God for the far. And even when your pay gets to six digits figures, you will not fail to tithe and give offering.
But for now, you gotta grind. Grind like your life depends on it.

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seductive face. gustochronicles

“Ke.. Ici Nicio Cafi cia gwakwa. ( Take, these are the keys to my house)” He said as he stretched out his hands waving a bunch of keys towards her.
“This one opens the main entrance, This one opens the kitchen door, Ino ni ya store, Ino ingi ni ya kwa nguku. Nayo ino niyo most important. Ni ya Master bedroom. Kuria urikomaga. (This one is the most important. It opens the door to the master bedroom, where you will be sleeping) Ici igiri ni cia bedroom icio ingi(These two open the other two bedrooms) na cio ici ni cia kurituhia cafi incase cingigua ninguigua” (The rest are on the bunch to add weight just in case the keys fall, you’ll hear the sound) He added in finality as he waited the slay queen to pick up the keys.

“What kind of man is this? We just met. Does he even know my second name to even start telling me about where I’ll be sleeping? Mschheeew!! Nkt!! and Four other expressions meaning the same thing.” Shie wondered to herself as she looked at the poor thing with dark sullen eyes, pupils dilated lust showing all over his face. She wondered why he had picked her out from the pack of ladies she normally walks in. Again, this kaman though, should she even give him this much airtime?

Men of class are following her left right and centre. Seeking her number like it’s their leeway to heaven. Her pack is best known for the socialites and slay queens around campus. Their mere presence in your bash is the licence to stardom. People seek them out as arsenal seeks a trophy. And now here he is. Trying to Katia the best of them all. The paradigm of beauty. She slays the slay queens themselves. Her hair is the talk of town. Her shape almost got a sophomore dead as he was overrun by a bodaboda guy as his eyes strolled after her. He was only saved because the bodaboda guy had also slowed down to have a glimpse of her behind. Her ass speaks volumes, It speaks for itself.

“Mzee, Kwanza, your coat is oversize. Secondly, I don’t know you, we just met. On a sidewalk. Do you even know what that is? Ni apa penye tumesimama. Mscheew!! Go find a kimama downtown. Kule kwa those changaa dens labda unawezapata mtu wa class yako. Look and look at me well. My class is way up here.” She stretched her hand up to the furthest it could reach.

“Yours is somewhere below those boots of yours that speak of days without water and polish. So if you excuse me, I have an appointment with the dean of faculty” She started walking away then stopped.

“Oh, and take this number. 0700845…. It’s my boyfriends. He owns that jeep over there. The one and only around here. He could give you better pick up lines….. Tukatiane 101.”

Then she walked away swaying her hips you’d think they were running on K.P.L.C generated energy. The man was already too ashamed to say a thing. Especially by the kamammoth crowd that had started forming around thanks to Shie’s loud voice. He walked fast away from the crowd towards the same direction as shie. Zoomed past her the way speed bikes overtake your matatu on Thika road. You’d think your mat is not moving. He could hear the ladies laugh sarcastically behind him.

Deans Office

30 mins later.
Knock Knock.
Knock Knock.
“Please come in” A voice called from inside.

Shie took her time as she always does, unbuttoned her top to reveal… well… The two hills even with all the buttons intact normally had men salivating. How about now? Then she walked in. Swaying her hips slowly and gracefully towards the dean’s desk. Her steps well articulated as though calculated. Then she stopped midway.
“Whaaat!!” She exclaimed.
There seated behind that desk was the Kaman. TF is happening? Changed into decent attire and a tie. Slyly smiling at her. That smile that says, “It’s my turn now” She felt like leaving the room. He was still seated. Composure all over him and a sense of pride lingering over his face.
“Hi beautiful, what took you so long?”

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Sinners Minus Opportunity

sinners minus opportunity

She sits on his right hand. From there she comes to judge the living. The dead have God to judge them. But here, she is the judge. Prosecutor too. Sometimes she adds up as a witness as well. Gasheri.
She sits at the right-hand side of the pulpit. Where Muhunjia Thamweli spends the best part of his Sunday. He is our man of God. A staunch follower of Christ. A perfectionist. He says we should be sinless. Perfect Beings. Offenders of the law of God face his wrath. He is the senior judge prosecutor and witness. Any matter as pertaining misconduct and non-conformity to the word is brought to him. He is ruthless in his judgement. Strictly in accordance to the word.

In some instance, he even wanted one member caught in adultery stoned. People say he is a direct descendant of the lineage of the Pharisees. He is fire and brimstone at the pulpit. Speaking vehemently especially against impurity and sexual sin. He gives direct examples of church members he has punished.Gives direct warnings to members who have questionable traits. He preaches zealously. With a vigour and gusto that can never be matched. He preaches to the point of foaming at his mouth. He sometimes loses his voice in his preachings. Enter Gasheri. She serves him water. Lemon water.

She equates herself to Mary Magdalene of the Bible. Si you know the women who served Jesus during His ministry on earth? The two have presided over many fornication cases. In all, the accused were found to have sinned. Guilty as charged. Pastor Thamweli ordered they wear sack clothes and repent outside his church office. Its the room adjacent to the church of holy waters, fire and spirit Ministry INTL. That’s our church. They were to pray kneeling after every 30 mins and standing after every 20. Two days without stopping. Those who couldn’t be ordered out of his church. Outcasts. Never to be seen anywhere close. You cannot disobey the word of the Lord.

Thamweli’s words are final. Anything he says comes from God and no one should resist or oppose it. Not even the church elders. They perfectly know this. He says that ‘sinners say he has sat on them. He doesn’t care though… The kingdom of God continues to suffer violence. He shall charge on in view of the ultimate prize. The New Jerusalem. He is determined. He says he is celibate. The man of God used to have a wife. In his previous life. Then he met Jesus. He says he left his past life behind him. And everything around it. His wife forms part of that life. He is now devoted to serving Christ. The old is gone.

Gasheri strives to be perfect. Like father like daughter. She calls him papa. Daddy. She says he is her role model. She wants to be perfect. Just as he is perfect. Just as Jesus is perfect. She ‘follows him as he follows Christ.’
She is a humble lady. Meek is an understatement. Obedient to his every word. She serves the Lord. Service to the man of God is service to God himself. Her reward is in the afterlife.
That a man of God should be unable to serve God fully due to household chores, Unacceptable. So Gasheri has set it into serving the man of God as best as she can. She gave herself up to his ministry. As Muhunjia Thamweli is out there tending to the Lord’s sheep, Gasheri is in his home. She has a personal key.

She tidies the place up, washes the dishes, his clothes and house. Then she cooks supper for him, irons the clothes and leaves before dusk. It is a sin for young women to walk at night. Thamweli has insisted time and time again. She cooks food so that the man of God just comes home and serves himself before he is off to sleep. She will come wash the dishes tomorrow. Men of God need the energy to partake their tasks. And who would want her papa unable to take care of his duties due to a burn he got when trying to turn ugali as he cooked?

Last Thursday, Ushirika was at Pastor’s house. Being the celibate man he is, Gasheri knew her area of ministry and headed to the pastor’s place early enough. Tea and snacks were ready hours before shirika la wateule members started trickling into the man of God’s house. And Pastor Thamweli took the time to advise Gasheri about purity. Chastity and Sinlessness. Then the Shirika people came. Song, dance, The word, Tea and then they left at their own pleasure. Gasheri had the busiest of days. She was left to clean up after the washirika. Alone. The pastor saw the guests off one by one. Until the last one left. At this point, he just wanted to go slump his now fatigued body on his bed and sleep. He opted, however, to check on Gasheri first.

Right there in his kitchen, Pastor’s eyes were opened. How comes he had never seen this beauty, Gasheri had curves and edges. Her waist thin as grass strands (sijui ka zinakuwaga thin am just trying kuwa poetic haha) Her backside was humongous. She reminded him of his previous life. Nevertheless, It didn’t matter at the moment. The view was breathtaking. Her hips,

“Oh My God Shikantalalaa….”

Thamweli could not hold his tongue. Gasheri looked back just in time to see the pastor gazing at her behind as an African kid gazes at a mzungu.

“Gasheri tigana na indo icio. Man of God needs Message.” That’s what they call massage in our village. 6.30PM.

It’s 9.00AM Friday Morning. Pastor Thamweli is not yet up. Neighbours say they did not sleep well last night. Noises from the pastor’s house were disturbing. They think he was praying. For the country, elections, NASA and Jubilee.

Mama Gasheri is knocking at the pastor’s door. With her are the Assistant Pastor, Area Chief and two policemen. They want to find out if the pastor has knowledge of where Gasheri went after leaving the pastors house last night. They have been standing there for the last 1 or so hours. However, No one seems to be opening the door any soon. The pastor must have been too tired from last evenings Ushirika. Wagasheri is not planning to leave any soon. She needs to know where to start searching for her daughter. I hear they want to break into the pastor’s house. He might be ill or something.


I am seated on the other end of the road facing pastor Thamwelis house. A pen and book scribbling down the occurrences as they happen. From this end, I can see the curtains to Pastor’s house moving in small bits. As if someone from the inside is trying to check what is happening outside. The officers are searching for something to use to break the door open.

Nitazidi kukujulisha matukio kadri yanavyotujia mahali hapa. Kwako studio.