Sex? Just Like Obama, Yes We Can.

O...Bummer! *Runs away from the N(A)SA*

“You have 18 kids? Do you pay child support?”

“I can’t pay no child support! They [the women] know…” he can’t afford it, says the very 'ign'ant' black American-sounding young man.

“What about contraception? Is that not an option for you?” responds the bemused inquisitor, to the amusement of a live crowd, from the cued laughing sounds of it.

“I was young…and ambitious.”

This was an audio recording played yesterday morning on my trustee @105.5XFM, the everyday all-day Kenyan rock-head’s station. Of course I don’t know that the perp was black, nor do I know that the inquisitor was white. But: suspicions a-sneaky, my mind a-freaky.

Now think about it. Is this kinda brouha (because the last ha was deemed inadmissible to sense) not the very crap we allow in our society when we consciously ignore any and all talk about sex? Forget that he has a whole football team, nay, an entire changing room, of children. They could probably play a game of 11-aside, with the women part of the teams, and still have enough bodies leftover to play linesmen and part of the fan support. As the man plays referee, since any self-respecting football fan will tell you that the ref is the biggest fool on the pitch.

I’ll admit to being sorry, however, for being so overly presumptuous as to figure the man could actually afford all the equipment required to facilitate this kinda game, let alone a Sunday dinner complete with cornbread and some Kool Aid. Because drinking Kool Aid makes you Kool, nigga!

See what we do to ourselves, black people? Of course there are crazy white people out there, as there are reds and yellows; the KKK and general redneck fuckerries of yore, the red Communist brouha, the red vein-juice regularly flowing in the Middle East and India. But this? This could be avoided with a simple culture of honest open talk!

“Son. This is your penis. If you put it in this…” father proceeds to show Google image of a vagina to Young Turk, “…without this…” another Google image of a condom “…being wrapped around your penis…”

How hard was that? Are your sensitivities now pricked anywhere near hard enough?

No harder than this poor sod’s prick was when he went on a fucking rampage, I might imagine. I sincerely hope you won’t prefer thinking that your daughter is not going to be affected. How do you know? How can you say, for certain, that this, or worse, is not what awaits her in the jungle we cultivate for our future by not talking about sex and the precious gift that is womanhood? Or as one particular wench I’d like to biblically ‘know’ says, her ‘laughter and the sweet scented sanctity between [her] legs’?

Story #2 for Storymoja Africa

Imagine a world in which sex was discussed freely. I’m talking about Vagina Monologues held in the chief’s baraza out in the middle of Jangwa County, in the desert, not in Capital Cities and City Halls. Waza Dunia. Imagine. Your. World.

Is what we have here enough? Can we prevent the proliferation of single-seed families all over our world without engaging our children in better preparation for their futures? And believe you me, sex runs this world, so the kids had better get used to the idea. As should you, dear reader.

Any time I hear or sniff out even the sneakiest scent of sex, I just as quickly wanna sign up for a piece of that action. Take Sunday, for instance. I promise it was after the duly allowed church-going hours, so you can set those anti-XFreddy placards and Red-Armed pitch-forks down. The effigy looks good, though; methinks me likey!  

*wink wink-back at The 150 Shades, me love you long time*

Back to Sunday, and Back to The Future. At least mine, that’s for sure. There I was, seated by my trusty lappy… We’ll call her Lap-Dance™. So there she is dancing on my lap, sailing through the Twitter sphere of life, and voilà: a new follower! A female follower at that, mused my mind. Something about the profile picture and name just oozed femininity.

Now, normally, I don’t bother myself too much with who follows or doesn’t, until, at least, I use a Social Media tool or other after a while and bulk-unfollow any baggage I don’t need on my timeline. 

But something about her Twitter love handle just got me curious. So I shift Lap-Dance™ on my place-that-we-will-not-mention-coz-society-says-so, and click on the profile.

The following is a word for word transcript of what my mind told me, and what I said back to it, in the next 15 minutes:

Mind:            

Dude! This has got to be the Social Experiment of the Hour!

Me:                

Nay, nay, nay, nigger! This one will serve for the decade!

Mind:           

It was just an interesting Twitter handle, with an interesting regal looking feather of a profile pic that followed me.

Me:                                

        Curious, you read her bio.

“Davina Owombre, a Nigerian short story writer. A published author of a
sexy title known simply as ‘Sarah’, in a collection titled ‘See You Next
Tuesday: The Second Coming.’”

Mind:            

The bio said coming. Twice! Further, it said that she would, would ‘Sarah’, see you next Tuesday!

 Me:               

And so you engaged her. Asked her if you were really gonna see her next Tuesday.

Mind:            

Then you immediately sent a link to her, a review I had just finished reading, about her story. Sometimes you can be such a nitwit, Me.

Me:                

Yeah, right. I didn’t hear you complaining as we sparred on, did Davina and I, segued in jest...

Mind:            

But whose idea was it to request a trade? One of my stories, for her 'Sarah', remember that, nitwit?

Me:                                

One of ‘your stories’? Are you kidding me right now? Who types them out? Do you fool? And will you stop calling me nitwit, nitwit?

Oh well…let the two of them keep on arguing. You and I, dear reader, can be happy to know that, as it turns out, Davina said yes. She sent me a copy of ‘Sarah’, which began thus:

“A sweaty cowboy staggered up, grabbing a chair. The cowboy still on the floor crawled toward the bar. Other cowboys in the room went wild booing and cheering. The chair-grabber raised the chair and broke it on his opponent’s back.”

The ending, however, was less Coward of the County, and more Hero of the village:

“Sarah smiled her new special smile. And she parted her legs ever so slightly to reveal white underwear only he could see. Ani settled down to read.”

The short story was effortless, Davina’s scenes so flawlessly curved out that they formed a mental picture as they oozed out of the page straight to my eyes. She is now in my box :) 

The gmail kind, just so we're clear. Not the vagina synonym. Or the Kenyan version of it, Just plain little old inbox. And the ‘she’ in this case is 'Sarah'...not Davina.

OK, I lie. The last email I sent Davina, after a series of them between us,  ended thus:

You naughty gal you. Wink accepted. Wink countered, seen and raised with a 

tip of the little Johnny. Or is it the little Akpor?

__________________________________________________________________________

Davina Owombre is a pseudonym that the author of ‘Sarah’ keeps as private as possible (hence no picture) because she had to sort of go 'underground' after receiving a barrage of criticisms and threats in Nigeria for daring to publish a same-sex short story involving Africans long before it was fashionable to do so (we're talking about a decade ago).

She will feature in Freddy’s second piece of the month for Storymoja, every month, between now and October 1st. So tune in, every second Tuesday of the month, for more of Sarah’s wiles ;)

First Published on June 11th 2013, for Storymoja Hay Festival.

The Diss Missive: A Rebuke of Dance Masquerades in #Kenya

 ~ by Anon E., Mass of Wandrous Wonder.


My immediate reaction, upon receiving a response from my good friend Anon E., to my publishing her thoughts recently, were:

"Chicca has a brilliant mind; but does she know that?"

When I told her this, she responded ever so, erm, shall we call it subtly proud? 

"Brilliant mind - so I've been told. I choose to NEVER compliment myself. Especially after too many people have been telling me about my big dendai."

Then she proceeded to make my morning. As I hope she may yours:

The Diss Missive

Hey Freddy,

This is one of those moments where I'm sending an e-mail using my
phone, crossing my fingers, hoping it'll go through.

Random thought this evening - it's been ages since I danced. 

In
public, with other people, up there, on a dance floor.

Only problem is, I DON'T miss that type of dancing that takes place on
Kenyan floors. 

You know, coitus erectus - damn; that pun.

I miss the 'innocent' dance moves where little touch was required;

 like the dance-offs, amongst Michael Jackson aficionados. 

Plus the
tension accompanied by the transition from upbeat to mellow; 

the
summons to the slow dance.

Now it's all bump-and-grind; come-hither then cum at your-place-or-mine.

Art by l'Artista Kenita

As a
courtship ritual it's too easy; just as are the subsequent hook-ups. 

And...
too plain... too;

 boring.

I miss the intricacies of the dance, the kind that starts first;

fast

 with a
meeting of the eyes. 

Then a mutual appreciation of a beat, leading to
a set of gyrations 

whose dialectics portray the individuality of the
persons involved. 

Unlike now where the dance floor is nothing more
than a place for the id to let loose.

...okay I can't seem to find an appropriate ending to this set of
words. Probably because it's past 10 pm, and my body is wired to shut
down after this hour.

Over and out!

Anon E. Mass of Wandrous Wonder.

Sabina's Joy: Experiencing a Hooker's mind...and Bed

In the marriage that wed me to my humanity, my brain usually accepts the typical Kenyan stay at home single mum type of role. Broke, bitter, easy to agitate and open to anything my humanity has to offer. I have to say it's a role it has learned to play with such natural ease, so as you might imagine, impulsiveness comes very naturally to me. I don't think about it. In the words of Prince Nike II, son of His Majesty King Adidas the first, I 'just do it'.

However, as I walk behind Mystique, watching her sultry curves wave to her every step, I suddenly can't help that deer-in-the-headlights gut reaction you get the second before a mugging; when you realize that someone's walking right behind you (an analogy I draw from bitter experience). I muse at the complex simplicity of emotions the past 15 minutes had taken me through. Fear of mistaken identity (and the mob justice that would follow in the way of taunts from my pals on my SJ going ways); relief once I was in; anticipation of what lay ahead; repulsion for the girl who lay legs parted ahead; bemusement at the price of beer; lust, surprisingly, for Mystique...well actually now that I consider it, it shouldn't have been that surprising to discover a well-marketed sales pitch in a brothel. Fast forward through the thrill of actually paying for a room with a  --whore, poko, langa, harlot, kuro, malaya, streetwalker - check whichever name tickles your arrogance-- and we get to the door.


Truth be told, before I got to Sabina Joy, my mind had edited an entire script on Kenyan brothels, set in a dingy neighbourhood with crammy little rooms. I saw layers of used CDs piled  at one corner, strongly pervaded with the kinda putrefaction it takes a compost heap to order Kenyan highlands into fertile submission. I saw women trampse around dressed in next to nothing, cornering every potential client like street hawkers; "Bei ni saw moja customer..."

Nothing had, or perhaps ever could have, prepared me for the impact of the next one hour of experience on a bed with a prostitute. It was a bit like stepping off a state-of-the-art spaceship, and onto the blackened piece of pandora swimming dead in the middle of her eyes.

I have agonized on a way to describe what happened next that would depict the very essence of what it felt like, yet it still feels like I am somehow trapped by that look. The look she gave me as she stood in the middle of the room the very moment I walked in and spoke to her. It was really out of surprise that I uttered those words. Surprise at how quickly she had stripped down to her underfashions, styled in the frugal ways of our very own Ngara's Secrets.


As I studied her solitary figure, crouched in the middle of the room taking her shoes off while her jeans sat on the bed neglected, it occurred to me that I had not even paid her, yet here she was already kicking into gear, her servant body and nonchalant appearance set to their workplace default. What would stop me from paying her once I'd had the conventional shot? That was the precise question I asked. Ok. Maybe not in that wording.


It seemed, for a moment, like the lights went off in her eyes, short-circuited - as she would later reveal - by memories of deals gone sour. She reached for her trousers, and only then did I realize what that thoughtless statement might have sounded like to her. I quickly pulled out a two hundred shillings note and watched the sun come out from behind the clouds that had momentarily clouded her eyes, a curious sparkle replacing the glaze in their brown.


She was now seated on the bed, unwrapping the condom in what I can only imagine was her norm, waiting for me to relieve myself of the abundance of my clothes. So I seat right next to her and ask, "Na hiyo saw mbili ni ya nini?" Mystique explains the rules of the shot to me. It's plain and very simple. Two hundred shillings buys you one position - missionary, I gather - and should you choose any more extravagant positions (say doggy, for instance) you pay an extra two hundred bob. Think of it as a car hire service...the 200 bob would be to rent the car, the extra 200 bob would be kinda like fueling the car. The farther you wanna go, the more rwabays you'd have to spend.

Yet that was not the whole story. If you chose to drive the rental, there was a time limit to it, kinda like a charge per day. Ideally, that two sock buys you around ten minutes, or whatever time it would take you to...well...you get the point.

By this time I had pulled out a cigarette, a bit taken aback at how clean the room actually was. Save for a few daddy long legs and roaches popping in and out of the darker crevices in the room's floor, it was actually rather decent, and far from anything I had pictured on my way in. Pulling a hefty draught from the stick, I mused at the irony of it all, triggered by a conversation I'd recently had with a friend who refers to the brand of cigarettes I smoke as Sigara ya Malaya (SM). 




Having agreed that I would pay her the equivalent of two shots for a drive through her mind, she sits back, still in her drawers, and tells me how she often gets in to trouble with drunks who take their sweet time with the shot, then an hour later decide not to foot the bill. Guys who complain that they came too quickly, so they should be allowed a free encore. Funny thing that. Guys have a thing with directions. We take great care not to ask for them, and Mystique claims that if any of her clients actually did, she could easily guide them through the ten minutes to their fruition.


Campus guys, apparently, had given her a fair deal of trouble. This one time she was desperate to make some cash. It was kinda like a 'last call', the hour when many Kenyan hookers will sleep with any man anywhere and cut their losses after a bad run of business. She'd been drinking with a couple of UoN guys at the SJ pub, and they wanted to leave without taking the shot. So she asks where they're staying, having figured out that they did not want to pay for a room there, and offers to go with them if they pay her 500 bob each.

When they get to Hall 6 (fiction alert), however, and the services are rendered as promised, the guys - now playing on Home ground - decide not to pay her. Cue the conversion of the guy's room into a minibrothel, with Mystique having come up with a plan to make up for lost cash. It was just before Campus exams at UoN began, and it would seem that many of the guys there were on some sort of msusio wa ngono, for as soon as they heard that there was a gal in Hall 6 offering free shots at a hundred bob each, the entire queue for lunch shifted to Kenny's room.


Curious as I was to hear more, however, I tried to remain on course and asked her about @Suenairobi. As I'd pretty much expected, she knew nothing about Nairobi Nights, save for her very own rather interesting version of it. She did however open up about her friends who stole from clients, justifying the fact that they drug customers and rob them clean to make up for days when they themselves got the wrong end of the stick, costing them the serious side of  a thousand bob or two for services rendered. It's all simple logic, really; kinda like Kobil hiking petrol prices when the government raises the fuel levy, and holding them when the levy goes down. Or matatu drivers charging 500% the usual fare when it rains...

As we walked out of the room an hour later, I caught a few glimpses from some of her workmates; they had this "he's a 60-minute man" thing going on in their eyes. I smiled, beat a hasty exit and disappeared into the Nairobi crowds. And loath as I am to admit it lest you think this mug smug, I had chosen to go out of my way to make a prostitute's day. I did. And I will do it again soon...

BEER & CHARACTER - Just another email forward

 I received this email forward and it made my day in more ways than one...My bet is it'll do the same with yours. Few edits hapa kule kama kawaida. Ps: I drink the Arthur...



Did you ever know that the beer you take defines your character?...Well...my brief research has confirmed so and here we go....

This is for the mlevi mwenyewe, the guy that doesn't get drunk. If you see a guy taking Guinness Kubwa kwa club, huyo ni msee wa kunywa vitu zingine za ajaabu akiwa mtaani, the sort of Napoleon, Kane Extra na King King. The guy has landed on Guinness kwa bar coz its the most lethal drink there. It is also claimed it has hidden libido powers; guys are advised to take three Guinnessess before heading home for their conjugal rights. So if you see a guy alone drinking Guinness, just know hes getting lucky tonight.  
   

If it's a chick taking a Guinness, achana na yeye. Those are the types we call wrong  numbers. Those that go to Monte Carlo and Club Chemil for reggae sessions...na anaeza kupiga ngumi if you touch her inappropriately.
  
  

Ahhh, Tusker, easily the most consumed brand in Kenya. Guyz who take tusker enjoy their time, enjoy their beer, and usually down it with nyam chom. They are the sort of people you hear entered a bar and left 36hrs  later walking straight. Are easily identifiable with their huge vitambis / dumboz.


AND there is the other Tusker consumer who doesn't belong there. Will usually order a Tusker when in nice hang out joints to portray the image of being a gentleman. These are the type of  people who frequent backstreet pubs huko Riverroad for their dosage of Keg and some funny poisons before proceeding to the nice joint. Are the sort of guys who get really wasted and start puking after four Tuskers coz that mixture is like oil and water, it's never going to happen.

A chile taking Tusker is just confused, most probably ni chips funga.
  
 

White Cap Lager, Light

Not every Tom, Dick and Harry's beer; it's got class with its name. So don't be surprised if your local doesn't stock it. And if it stocks it, that crate might stay there for months and will be consumed only when other beers are out of stock, and it's 12 midnight when guys are higher than kites. Belongs to the category called reserve beer.


Consumers of this brand want to establish themselves as people who have made it; in most cases, they've actually made it in life. So if you are a struggling mlevi who drinks on credit, this beer is not for you. You may, however, go for the smaller deadlier and cheaper brother, Allsopps.
  
 

The drink that is associated with 'class and sophistication'. Loads of nonsense I must say; people who drink this beer just want to stand out of a crowd, and Sierra beer also falls in this class. These are typically the people who run to every other new offer that hits the market, like the new zain 3 bob calls. If a Steam engine was packed in a trendy green bottle, Tusker malt guyz would have switched alliances faster than you can say 'mayai mboilo'.


So next time you go out, be wary of that chick you're tuning whos drinking Tusker Malt, she's more likely to be sliced. Most guyz drink this stuff to create the impression of a cool guy, but once he hits the usual backstreet bars, utashangaa vile Ka-half ya KC huisha na sip tatu.

  
Yeah, the typical jamaaz beer, and most probably always high all the time. These are dudes and duddetes who lived the mad session jams, were in boarding school bla bla bla, etc etc etc. To sum it up, all confused teenagers and campus students take this beer. And be wary of Pilsner takers...these are the people who are all over the floor dancing some styles whose origins only God Knows; they are the dudes who think they can slice your fiancee with their dance moves, the guys who puke all over the toilets...yeah you get the point.
Only silly and immature people take Pilsner. And the leading distributor of this brand has to be Tacos, a silly and immature nightclub.

For the ladies ambao wako na nyege, who need to get laid that night and soonest as possible, hata kama ni kwa gari, bora hiyo shuma iingie. Guys who take this stuff are on high grade weed or something; research hasn't come up with a logical explanation for  this. New records have been set with this brand by broke ladies who are out to be bought drinks. Sample these statistics.

• Longest duration to consume one bottle. Wait for it.... 8 hours!

• Highest number of girls sharing one bottle: 5 ladies (from Buruburu, he he...Mutulu!)

• Survival tactics: dancing all night, preferably next to loaded jammaz.

                                    drinking with straws, refilling with water, swapping half empty bottles with full ones.        

• Most horrific moments: The waiter taking your bottle while still a quarter way full.

• Merriest statement: Waletee hawa wasichana mbili mbili, ama u want how many?

        

For reserved ladies who'll get wasted slower than their Black Ice counterparts, but will still get laid anyway. Has a survival tactic, though rarely used. And that's refilling it with Ice Berg, you wouldn't notice the difference in those dark pubs you frequent.
  
Finally, if you partake any of the undermentioned concoctions, then you are definitely a kamlevi in the making. Scratch that. A Major Mlevi in the Made!

Napoleon aka naps, napizo, Emperor, Nappy Boy
Kenya King aka king king,
Visa aka ndauo aka maathai
Keg aka cupling
Kane Extra
Ice Berg
Black and White aka greatwall  etc
  
You are the type that goes to clubs only when wasted enough to see double; the type that goes to bars to dance whole night till morning light; the type that gets wasted at backstreets before venturing for lap mwenda in clubs; sportsman is definitely your preferred cancer stick; and often the word "half life" (half a cigarette saved for later) is equated into that cancer stick; you probably know the pickpockets in clubs if you are not one; you probably drink two beers mpaka asubuhi; the type that harasses women on dance floors, the type that pick up fights in bars etc etc. The list goes on and on till Uhuru and Ruto confess. Yes, I'll wait. In short, you are the type that make people not to enjoy their drinks and nights out.
  
So whatever your choice, go on, get wasted, I'll definitely be judging you by the pint you drink.
 

RULEBOOK OF A PLAYER

by Theo McCheatskin 

I am a man of easy ‘virtue’. I am the kind of man that wants to literally bed any girl he sees walking in the street. I am that man who gives Men a bad name. Though calling me a slut in this overly sensitive world would be derogatory. How about we settle for part-time-lover… That’s just about subtle enough. 

Hi. I am Thedd. And I am a man-whore. Sorry, I meant to say ‘part-time lover.’

Urban Dictionary defines me as "a male that has several key attributes. A typically young (18-25) male who dresses in designer clothing, carries multiple cellphones, has become a master of manipulating women, and makes it his personal mission to sleep with as many different women as possible qualifies as a manwhore. He also has virtually no emotional attachment to any of his victims. The reputation of manwhore makes gaining new potential victims somewhat difficult, so most manwhores are forced to switch territories and stomping grounds frequently. However, even in familiar environments, many manwhores can continue to get laid by playing the "I'm misunderstood, or "I'm just pissed and acting out over a bad breakup" card. A true master in both deception and cunning, a manwhore is any "good girl's" worst nightmare come true."

The reason we are here today is to sow our wild oats. If you are thinking commitment, think of her ten years from now: Yes, even Wambui Otieno would look better. When the make-up can’t even salvage the accident of a face she has. And you ask yourself: How did it come to this?

Reminder:

1. You were tipsy, she was horny. 
2. You sealed the deal, like you were supposed to. 
3. Then you made a mistake, called the next day. That, you were not supposed to do. 

Years later you are walking down the aisle. You are trying to convince yourself that maybe, you will get used to how she looks like in the morning. After all, that is all marriage is about - Tolerance. I care a great deal, and that’s why I wouldn’t want you to end up caged for life in a sex-free union. Marriage leads to the death of your libido and the birth of immeasurable responsibilities. Whoever said settling down was a signature of maturity must have been one unintelligent bastard that couldn’t charisma his way up a girl’s skirt…

So just in case you wanna avoid that inevitable retrogression into the futility of your fruit, I suggest you open up your little black book and take note:

1. Never take her to your crib.

Should the worst come to the worst, she will not know anywhere else to go but back to her place. And by worst case scenarios I’m talking pregnancy and an STI that you may have contracted from Ciku (many whores I know usually go by that name, so no disrespect meant to all namesakes) and spread it to X in the heat of the moment when the rubber bursts.

2. Never introduce X to your friends.

This makes the dumping and playing easy. When you have mutual friends and you are spotted with another girl, word will get back to her. And try make up as many excuses when she’s eager to introduce you to her friends. Girls are controlled by their moods, so get her out of that mood. I don’t know, make her cranky...do something. But whatever you do, please don’t do her friends (And I don't mean this in a sexual context)!!

3. Act dumb.

This always works. When she says something intimate like

WHERE ARE WE HEADED?

Say:

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

You know what she means alright but make her repeat herself and she will get bored at some point and switch the topic. If she keeps repeating, then ask her back:

WHERE ARE WE, TO BEGIN WITH?

Say you wouldn’t want to jump into conclusions.... Stupid will always sail you through to the next day.

4. Never perjure yourself.

Wait for the verdict. Like if you were with another girl then next day X asks suspiciously: What were you doing last night?? Don’t rush to answer, ask her the same question back and see how it goes. But never admit to anything or act like you are guilty; women are like private investigators, they usually pick up on the slightest of clues. So until she pronounces her decree, please, act cool.

5. Never explain yourself. 

Be brief. When narrating a happening, try and limit yourself to minute details. Women are beautiful liars: they can really be economical with the truth in a million ways: faking an orgasm during sex; telling you she’s only slept with six men in her life (when in actual sense she’s swiped so many ‘cards’ that even an Equity Bank ATM machine has nothing on her); the yellow kid who’s a midget is yours (when you are darker than night and taller than a Sud)...

Men on the other hand forget the lie as soon as it leaves the mouth; tripping over your fibs is only too easy. Therefore it is important that you give minimal tit tidbits that you can easily track back to.

6. Don’t do sleepovers.

Girls get quite comfortable once you let her spend at your place. Once you’ve let her sleep in on the first night, she won’t be sure how to act. Second time: maybe it was a rebound. Third time: oh boy, you just gave her the keys to your place. I forgot my bra; I forgot my panties; oh, my toothbrush etc…

Fact: Women never forget. In reality, the same manner a dog pisses around to mark its territory; X is strategically laying down her tracks and sinking her claws deeper into you.

7. Wear rubbers all the time.

X says she’s allergic to rubber, I say I’m allergic to babies. No matter how much she claims to be faithful or into you thou shall not proceed into her in-zone with night goggles off. It’s a jungle in there, with militant commandos such as Syphilis and Gonorrhea looming in the shadows camouflaged and all. And there are some psycho chics (Yes, I presume you thought the era of the baby-trap was long gone) Reality check: It’s not, some crazy mannerless senseless hopeless women still pop out these creatures to lay claim to your future earnings (Women have a knack for telling who’ll make it to a somebody in the future, like they are fortune-tellers of some sorts)

8. Jealousy is a vice.

Pay no mind to whatever she does in a bid to make you lay claim to her. I don’t know what it is with women and wanting to be treated like @$$-ets. She’s getting cozy with some guy at the bar, or on the dance floor and keeps glancing in your direction, hoping, waiting. DO NOT make a move or cast a glance in her direction. If nothing happens...she’ll subconsciously write you off in her mind as a lost cause, or a bad debt in case you tapped that. Women don’t like undecided 50/50 men. They like their men decisive on what they want; by not being decisive about wanting her to just yourself, she’ll figure that you just aren’t that into her and her “settling” antennae will be switched off to your waves.

9. Shallow. 

Never engage in intellectual conversation or show any signs of being a big thinker. Be the average blonde bloke who talks about the most inconsequential of things e.g. the clubs, matatus...anything nonsensical. (Note: This is after you’ve had her and not before. On the first instance acting this way could repulse her.) The only depth you are allowed to delve into deeply, is hers.


10. Bang her as soon as you can. 

Dragging a one-nighter could be detrimental and catchy-feely, on her part that is. The first night is the only ideal. If it doesn’t work out on the first, try lock it down on date number two. If this goes beyond a week, count your losses and move on to the next one.

+254: Breaking The Code.

Random Usings by Attilla the Hand

They say that music soothes the mind and placates the soul. I here that it's also the balm that relaxes those of you who cannot result to alcohol at the end of a long day. The rhythm of the beats, the crooning voices within the melodies, and the bold text massage contained in the lyrics...instant bliss intertwined with a few crotchety minims. For this reason, however, I have a bone to pick with the brand of music played today in our radio stations. That, though, is for another day.

Sometimes, however, other than stimulate the dopamine-secreting parts of our brains, music will leave us questioning some of the things we go through. While writing this piece, I'd been listening to an old Eve song, and I realized that we currently have a shortage for the 'ride or die' kinda woman. Curse me in outrage if you must, ladies, but let us do something Kenyans are not known for...let us think logically. Emotions aside, think for a minute; when was the last time you heard of a woman who stuck by her man no matter what?

She sees the peel, and somehow still steps on it   Inset: How come I fell?

By ride or die chick, I do not refer to the type that sticks through abuse, physical or otherwise. Sticking with a man hell-bent on killing you, maiming  you or worse for the sake of “love” is quite frankly on a whole other level of blonde. Ride or die women are the kind that hold you down through the hard times; the type of woman who will stay with you through the air buggers at Jeevanjee, through the CMBs (Chapo Mbili Beans) at the ubandow, through the tarmacking period, through that part of your life where lady luck just decided, 'fuck it...let this dude hang for a while'. Miss Ride-or-die will have sembe skuma for a wiki, and understand when you cannot afford to legally acquire that clutch bag they wanted for one reason or another. 

Am a movement by myself, but am a force when we are together. Get yourself a ride or die woman and suddenly those words will not sound like gibberish. Ride or die women make those words sound philosophical. Ride or die women are who Cecile is talking about in her song Anything. They cook, they wash, make up your bed and clean the house for you. They press your clothes for you, spend their money on you and accept you warts and all.  Ride or die women will stick with you through the rough patches in life. They are the kind who will accept the temptation that a man goes through everyday, and instead of taking it out on us, they will layeth the smack down on the temptation. They keep us from our own suicidal tendencies. 

Ride or die women would never air personal business in public, calling radio stations in indigination. They handle their business indoors, between them and their man.

Ride or die women are the type who undestand that Saturday afternoon is time for us to spend with our other loves. They understand the depth of emotion that is evoked by these other loves and will not keep us from them. These loves differ from one man to the next, and even when talking about them, ride or die women know that they cannot afford to mistakenly or otherwise refer to them by the wrong name. They vary from Man United, to Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Formular 1, Rugby, Gor Mahia and AFC type loves; heck, even hard Tiger's wood and all the hole-in-ones for some people. They understand the depth of passion that flows through us when we are with these other loves, and accept that they cannot compete with them. They accept them and even attempt to get to know them better. Ride or die women will give up a day from their favourite soap opera just because Top Gear is on, and they know the passion that their better halves have for it. 

I could go on and on about the descripiton of ride or die women, but instead, I'll outline the signs to look out for if you're that dude that hasn't quite figured out what to look for:

• If you have ever spent serious money on your woman, money that you did not necessarily have, and yet at the end of that spending spree, you still felt like it was worth every bit, then you most likely have one of those women. 
• If your woman appreciates the effort you go to in order to do some of those things that other women take for granted, like actually hang out with her in public, then you may have a ride or die woman. 
• If you ever sat with your boys and listened to them lament about the things their women make them go through, and the first thing that came to your mind was “what the hell are they talking about”, then you most probably have a ride or die woman. 
• If you have ever listened to Bust it baby Part 2 by Plies and it made you smile, because the first thing you thought about as the lyrics to that song floated around in your head was your woman, then you most definitely have yourself a ride or die woman.

RIDE?

 

OR DIE?

RULEBOOK OF A PLAYER II by Theo McCheatskin

by Theodore Onyango on Thursday, 18 November 2010 at 21:14

The word man will only be typed once in this piece. There goes. Viewer discretion is advised. Yes. You are viewing the mind of a special Kenyan. 

****

Many a times, I have heard scores of m*% pronounce unsavoury statements relating to the female species. Say for instance: ^{∂ ∂} girls don’t love boys, girls love cars and money ^{∂ ∂}; that behind every fine rich booty lingers a child-support lawsuit, or better yet a divorce settlement. That hidden in the closet of every accomplished old hag is a broke but ambitious boy toy. That woMAN can’t do without m*%. That woMAN needs m*% in order to survive. I beg to differ.


If you’ll indulge me, woMEN are ‘independent’ and make the world go round. As such, woMEN are an obligatory factor necessary for the continued existence of humankind. I, Thedd Onyango approve of this message. And it is with paramount reverence that I present you the continuation of the do's and don’ts when dealing with our esteemed members of the opposite sex:

11. Talk less. 

A wise m*% once told me that girls know within seconds of meeting you whether or not they are going to let you have a bite of the cookie. Anything you say in-between the meet and the sleep is just a bonus and as such you have to know when to shut up; e.g. when she bitches about her guy, never try defending the f%@ker, just nod your head and agree with every single thing she says in spite of how juvenile, dim-witted or ridiculously vexing her utterances may be. Let it linger at the back of your mind: There is a lay at bay.

12. Practice. 

While she is still contemplating on whether or not to un-clutter her legs and let you swipe your visa card, you should by all means be sowing your wild oats. I mean, you wouldn’t want to hound her a$$ for months like a Texas sheriff tracking down a Mexican who just sneaked across the border only to be a fast-arriver when she finally lets her pants fall down to the floor. Act like a swine, rummage through all the skirts you could possibly sniff through so that by the time you get to her, the tricks up your sleeve would so tickle her cat to the point of no return.

13. Never show her you have money. 

Chics can tell whether or not you are baked. New money is fond of showing itself off to be noticed. From your taste and preferences, she will be able to gauge where you lie. Don’t lead her there, let her lead herself. Something to note, if on the first hook-up you take her out to Java/Savannah, you just set the bar too high mate because the moment you take her to Kenchic she will tell her girls, quite simply: he’s lost interest. 

Plus there are those professional sluts who are strictly out for the cash (okay, we all know for a fact that all girls are after money, but that's a story for another day) who once they discern that you are swimming in paper, they will do everything in their power to let you pat on the cat from a safe distance ensuring you don’t get close enough to contract a scratch for the simple rationale that they know once you play with her cat, she won’t get any more spoils and as such she won’t have any leverage. She knows that once she let's you have that, you will have to go out to the animal orphanage in search of another ‘pet’.

14. Win over her friends. 

Being a smooth talker always works to your advantage. If she is playing hard to get, make sure her friends are eating from the palm of your hand. You have to be a pig at that, because some girls are just out to massage their ego by being admired, more like a store puts on display it’s most attractive items of stock. She wants you to hang on her every word then she will move on to the next or she may hold onto you until that someone she really wants comes along. That's what they call the Monkey-bar, story for another day, though. 

This is where my plan comes into play: Do at least two of her friends and an enemy to even the scores. That way, the time and work you put in don’t go to waste, but instead you have fun while you avenge your bruised self-esteem.

15. Don’t try too hard. 

Girls to some extent like being treated like trash. If you jump at her every whistle and dance whenever she snaps her fingers, you are so not getting some. Women like being made to feel like they are the shit, just be careful not to make yourself feel like shit, in the process…

16. Always be cool. 

A girl likes being the centre of focus, when you on the other hand outdo her at literally all levels from the dance-floor to charming her friends and getting more airtime than she does, dressing better etc. etc. You are painting yourself as a Homo (No disrespect to the homos, if anything I love gays for the fact that they translate to a more cozy ratio of men to women in the mating pool.)  And you may just not get to the peak of the mountain... Be easy, make her feel like she’s the one setting the mood and all the sh*t that comes with it. 

17. All girls are sluts. 

Yes, this is the mind frame you need to foster at whatever time you are about to make your go. Some persons may find themselves in a ‘stiff’ state of affairs with a superhot babe but end up not making progress as a consequence of their conscience whispering in their ear: she’s out of your league.  Come on, someone somewhere is tired of banging that fine piece of a$$ (tell yourself that). See what happened to Halle Berry and Eva Longoria, yeah, I bet that makes you feel better already. Go ahead and do your thing, always remember: You are the one who has the pants on.

18. Girls are dumb. 

They know when, where and how you are lying, but still choose to make themselves believe your every word, so you need not self-reproach and acquire the compulsion to make a clean breast of affairs. Women are certified detectives. Sniffer dogs ain’t got sh*t on them! Let her cipher the fact from fiction and believe what she wants. Women love to hypothesize with their girlfriends, deliberate on and on for hours trying to figure out something that isn’t even there. 

Confess at your own peril!

19. Be touchy. 

Make sure you rub that chic senseless every single second you get. One thing to observe - girls would never let a m*% touch them, if they haven’t contemplated [blank]ing him. So when you talk don’t get all wrapped up in speech, think of it as a play; with appropriate yet essential body contact, get your message across. Like what you are saying has everything to do with her. Though be keen to act like you don’t even notice when you touch her, that way she won’t unravel so soon your hidden agenda and by the time she does, it will be a little too late.

20. Show her you got options. 

Yeah, always flaunt to this girl just how many girls want you, not in a so cocky a manner but in a subtle like it-isn’t-that-much-of-a-big-deal manner. Though be smart to point out unmistakably that she is the subject of the essay, or rather the key witness in your case of courtship. That way she gets to know that she’s merely part of a list and if she does trip even a single step, her position on the list may change.