The Lover || by @MarunduMuturi

Every whisper is heart-breaking beauty,

Each tear a waterfall of raging emotion.




No wrong can she do,


No imperfection in his eyes.




She is the angel that makes gods green,


The maiden men only see yet cannot fathom.




Her sway is the very pulse of the universe,


Her voice is god's own song.




She births dreams in her bosom





And in her breast they are brought to life.

She is the saint and the savior.

And in his enrapturement he is trapped.




Enslaved in his incomprehension,


He basks in his fulfillment of her caprices.




The lover...


Image from Kiss Kulture

The Smoker || by @MarunduMuturi

She brought the cigarette to her lips,

Boldly, delicately,

Like a first kiss promised and ready for delivery.

The grey turned to red,

Her cheeks drawn in in anticipation,

Slowly squeezing life out of the dead stark stick.

Image from DreamsTime

Her hand moved contemplatively to the ash tray

And her finger tips tap-tap-tap-danced for a fleeting.

A fervent romance.

Shaking off the past,

And out of her orifice of riches

Smoke ephemeral, ethereal.

I sat transfixed,

Doubting that the innocuous deviltry before me

Could turn me into a child.

Beautiful in her arrogance,

Smug, assured,

She turned away slightly in half-smile sardonic.

Poised in thought

For a moment she remained,

Soon the fire was back to her lips.

Dark, intense,

Mysterious, alluring,

She looks at nothing and sees everything.

Aloof.

She seeks herself out in darkness,

With red-tipped pen between her fingers,

Her secrets written in smoke.

Nothing said, all said.

I dare not approach her.

The light we shared has ebbed out,

Her cigarette a bitter metaphor.

Apt.

She glances,

Amused and mocking.

Before her sits liquid fire.

To cauterize the wounds within?

I am still drawn to her,

The ashes in my heart potent,

Their smokes bliding me.

I stumble in her wake.

She is smoke,

The present winds cannot her stand.

Is she real?

I don't dream of her, I don't hold her.

The smoker has become

What she sought in refuge, in coolness.

Another passing, fickle.

Beautiful tragedy.

Finished, the butt's tossed aside.

She tosses things aside.

Unself-consciously,

Used to tosssing things aside.

I take one more look.

I walk away.

Noni || by @MarunduMuturi

Wallflower by night,
Temptress, woman by day.

In the quiet of the noise
And in the darkness of the light,

I saw her.
Poised regally.

 
Image from CGhub

 Powerul in her stillness, her silence,
Nary seduced by her wine

Which stood subdued red
And cowardly before her.

The tendrils of her unspoken unwitting seduction
Caressed my inebriated soul.

I was drawn to her.
Inexplicably, inexorably.

Right there
I needed to touch her,

To take her in my embrace
And drown in her intoxicating essence.

I wanted her pain to become mine,
Us to ravish each other with abandon.

I could trace these words on her golden skin,
Make her sweat my ink.

Instead,
I drowned in dreams and drink.

Image from CGhub

 Imaginings of what could have been
Blinding me to the moment.

In the end,
When the silence had killed the noise

The earth stood still.
Yet, I still throbbed, as she still tugged.

Summer Love: Accidentally Tragic

Fred Wambugu Maina ©. All rights reserved

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--'`¬¬

The Awakening

Sunrise at the beach, peace seeks war

Battlefront, ravaging calm; wave in, out

All the drama, all the pain; stolen

Bottled and corked; high tide washes away

Sands crushed, spreadeagled; defeated by high seas

Distant lights, into the warm azures fading

Her soul sounds, boat and craft bobbin merrily past

In her heart mo' meets 'jo, Oh! what a noise

Lil' birds call Mr. Morn'; he turns, stretches

Yawns and wipes the stars away; meanwhile McAngelo

Flushes colour anew, 'cross the somber heavens

Impinging the skies, takes liberties with his brush

Chinese junks cross the Dutchman's airway; white, woolen

Setting sail with the water's blues; crunch, splash

Geometry in clockwork; the sun peeps in...land ahoy!

Beach dumped by Ocean; runners rush in for the rebound

Cliffs like monster sea cruises, jutting off the beach

Casting shadows o'er the dark of memories past

They stand hand in hand, wide-eyed, to watch the great beast

His scaffold unfolds, scalar beauty in creation

--'`¬¬

Shipshape

He watches from a distance, a peeping Tan

Smiling to himself, such perfect awe, uncontained

Kodak in hand, waiting for that frozen moment

Quite a feeling, as they smile gracefully at him

They look back, unwitting to his stare,

Assume that they're alone, lost in their world

A single moment, magnified into thousands

He grins an inch wider, they cover their eyes

The sulphur, he thinks; am burning too bright

Damn! his smile fades, cooling their systems

They gaze into each others' minds, he leans forth

Remembers the fumes of heat, indisposed to care

For this is the moment, her face lit up exquisite

Indissolubly linked, really seeing each other

Lights, camera...and time changes; still, robbed

They can persevere, the sun tells himself; click!

--'`¬¬

The Exorcism

He leans in, she locks her eyes

Their lips lock,he reaches behind

Feels her lips curl into a smile

Unwitting; he's taking his ring off!

Exceptional yes, mind-blowing ain't

Oh, what husks the heart doesn't see

His lazy eyelids meet, lashes brush up

O'er her eyes the flesh-patch flutters

Flawless bliss; colourfast, she thinks

Her face flavours, his mind counters:

Fatally flawed, tongue-in-cheek fling

This ain't about emotions: his hand adds

Flood tides engulf her, enhanced

Flames flare up; engrossing, mutual

Yet for different reasons, granted, he's a dick

Thoughts so varied, enigmatic

Dilemma, her heartbreak impending; reality

His guilt unabashed, all for a serpent's kiss

And a series of actions, of decisions made

Of sacrifice, hers; tears meant for him

Vibrantly glorifies him, blindly appreciates her

Mind choking in a dead halo's vice; overrated

Intricate connection; clueless, stuck in the middle

Little moral basis, less legal foundation; depraved

--'`¬¬

The 'Depart'ation

Youthful indiscretions, indeterminate rage; shipwreck

Ingratiating side-glances,indignant retorts; anyone home?

Indiscernible looks, in-grained cliches, paperback love

Wars of attrition, tears of frustration; time of death:...

Tears caught dead in the spotlight; roadkilled,corrupted

Weeping auld lang syne all alone; irony, under the mistletoe

She gave it to him; he, only too happy to break it, crushed

Slipped it back under her door while she wasn't looking

Veritable necrosis of love, tissue; discomfiture

Feelings ground, senses a pulp, lost in a blender

She doubles up, her heart can't take this cover up

An inglorious chapter in her making, ends. Chop-chop

To hold through when it hurts, she coos

To end it before it's too late, he boos

Her heart his hands' guest; if only so unwelcome

Away, ever so; a single gest, to ne'er look back

Cursory heart-rest breached, panic button wrecked

Love tangelo drained; no more magic, not even a wand

Twas merely an extended body search; no room for affect

Clouding bubble bursts, no rainbows; not in her universe

Say goodbye, to the world you thought you lived in

Deftly carved out, chopped up, served to the lycans

Make it go away; tired of living, a peculiar sorrow

The knife whispers softly in her ear; parseltongue

I can, I will...'Let me'...Won't leave you alone

Desperate, she yields; parselmouth smiles, finally

Licensed to dig in; he illustrates, silver sliver

Drip drip, drip drip...and into blissful oblivion

--'`¬¬

Advisory

Don't you get you in her paws, expecting departure unscathed; nay

She leaves, she always does; the bereaved torn up as she does

She is no fillet; chew her up slow, lest she stick to your throat

Love; gotta love her irony, such a mediocre lover she will be

An inscription I once read:

Ways I will have my Heart broken Destroyed!Crushed Shattered like a light bulb under the feet of mischievous children
Carved up to be dipped into a pool of wasabi and soy sauce
Wrung out of every last drop like a dump cloth
Grated like cheese, heart cheese

Chips Funga v. Friends: With or Without Benefits?

Much as 'clande' and 'chips funga' have taken over as the preferred Kenyan promiscuity jargon in the recent past, it is hard to deny that sleeping with friends is still as popular now as it was when it emerged; if not in concept, then certainly in practice. Casual sex has become the norm, and who better to help you out than someone you already know and have a harmonious relation with?




I realize that marrying theory to reality on the issue of cross-gender friendships is a feat I should not claim to have any authority or vested capacity to plausibly produce.Especially since I've had my sizeable share of Mwax myself - yaani Mpango Wa Kayndow'z. Anywho. Supposés have never stopped me ranting before, so no reason why they should start now. Let me state that I do not subscribe to the academy of thought that considers boys and girls being bffs as loving for free. 




Nonetheless, allow me to posit that at least to my underdeveloped intuitive panorama, while it is not impossible as an actuality for such pure relations to exist and indeed succeed, it is tantamount to treading across a croc-infested river on dental-floss - of course some Guinness World Record-bent daredevil may have tried it, but woe unto him WHEN the floss decides to flaunt its weaknesses.




Such a statement is bound to discommode a few of my fellow Wajivuniao [1], whose theory it is that man and woman can be buddies and roll together like boys - or whatever other popular youth colloquialism befits such dreams. Pause and ask yourself, you who are at odds with my presumptive assertion, why it is that the affair of certain installments of benefits exist on the cross-gender hand of friendship while not at all featuring on the other. Unless of course you tip to the bisexual scale of relations, in which case your participation in this monologue defeats the premises of my purpose. You, my friend, can stop reading right about here.

Assuming we are now within the limits of male-female relations, I will further put it to you that we all have some experience or other - however inconsequential - of the other man or woman. One cannot take exception to cold hard fact, and in point of fact, the notion of friendship with benefits has become one of the 21st century's neologisms in the great dynamics that entail this relatively new rapport with the opposite sex.




Even whence effort has been invested to dot the i's and cross the t's on a friendship between Kimberly and Kimani, the triumph of such an arrangement is not at any rate exclusively dependent on the two parties. You see, had they a nuptial kind of agreement to declare theirs a 'strictly friendly' association, then, dare I say it might work. Might, and even then, only on the bedrock of a rather shaky premise, and the unreasonable fact that noone decided to spoil the party when the Rev unleashed the "speak now or forever hold your peace" clause. Like that will deter any go-getting mamacita from later on holding your man's 'piece'. Story for another day that.




Of course Kimani will have an environment with some sort of put-in on the progress of the liaison, aka my boys. And the boys will always have a world of influence on said liaison's success. Nothing breaks the mirror of lies a guy looks at a woman through than a mate going, "Waah, si ako down!?" Kimberly also has her own resident advisors, as part of whom she makes up the so-called 3 musketeers, aka the 300, for these women always come in 3s. It is amusing - indeed infuriatingly so - just how demanding it is to bank on these other mamaz to ignore the alluring urge to tag on the guy's balls interfere all the time. They will be sceptical, always trying to steer the rally car, even when their navigations clearly head straight into a sea of murk.

This is especially so when Kimberly and Kimani have recently relegated their Facebook relationship status from the throes of 'deeply in love' or whatever, yet decided to retain some level of cordiality. No offense, but exes trying to be friends is a painful and abject thing to witness; one I do not really know how to describe other than to say that it very much reminds me of this brain-damaged puppy I saw on YouTube trying to pick up a bone in its barely functioning mouth. Eventually he got it, but it was a troublingly sad sight.




In such a scenario, only fiction can conspire to assure your otherwise very alert acumen that both the involved parties are complementary in assessing their break-up and any prospects of a future together, albeit without being really together, if you catch my drift. I do not claim to be any sort of specialist on Psychology, but it is so mind-numbingly difficult to expect any two people to draw an exact same conclusive perspective on any situation, given that the set of experiences the dumper and the dumpee draw from are different. While Mohammed the Prophet and bin Laden the Bad Boy of Islam drew from the same Qu'ran, which in basic principle and virtue is a meticulous guide to proper living, that is as far as any comparison of their essentials can constructively go.   




Does there exist any kind of contingency in such a bond? Because mattter-of-factly, situations are bound to change, and survival thus depends on a certain degree of readiness, an open affinity to adaptability that most of us are either unwilling to or incapable of developing. Soon Kimani has a Missus, Makini, and she will have her insecurities. Couple this with Kim's boyfriend - we shall call him Roy - exhibiting distrustful resentment of the chemistry shared by the Kims, and you have an eternal clouding ingredient of this boy-girlness shared by them, louring the horizons with not a soupçon of archetypal silver linigns in range. Like it or not, that is one reality check I am not simply dictating, but if you let me, would prefer to impose upon you.



Conclusion? Well there is no obligation for one dogmatically true and explicitly solid grand finale on this phenomenon. As previously stated, it is not only too dynamic but also intensely situational, and to have one general truth in forceful summary of the idea would be a relegation of personal principle and mutual commitment the likes of which amounts to no more than folly. One easy deduction does however bob into mind: it takes a lot of work to coin a relationship of sustainable development between any Kim and Kimani, without falling back onto the excesses of affectionate intimacy.

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Disclaimers ‽ ‽


1. While it may seem like I am pro completely ignoring friends' advice on 'matters relationship', soon enough you will realize that every rally car driver needs a trustee mate riding shotgun, occasionally yapping 'left!'...'right!' and so on. Absolute ignorance of friends' perspectives amounts to driving with your mind resolute on not steering left. The straight stretch of road clears within a pre-determined amount of time, and you find yourself stuck in a ditch, or caught up in a realm between hell and Shangri-la. 


And trust me, by the time this eventuality comes to pass, there'll be no matey riding shotgun. Like Iyaz - how the hell do you pronounce this guy's name? - you'll find yoself solo in purgatory; that's a euphemism for death [for a certain Miss Bree's comprehension purposes :)] The sage way forward dictates that you listen and sift; garbage-in garbage-out leaves your system with some experience worth holding on to.


2. My significant other has no clue that I run this blog. It would be detrimental to my health if she were to stumble upon some of the 'aforestated' views, especially - as you might imagine - as concerns my mwax; your sustained lipsealerie would therefore be highly adviseable, if not possibly appreciated.

---

[1]

Wajivuniao kuwa Wakenya. Adapted from a popular Kenyan slogan "Najivunia kuwa Mkenya" i.e. "Proud to be Kenyan".

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.
 

A Road Trip with Nini

First Published on www.qampusblog.com ©. Same writer. All rights reserved

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Hills on the horizon
Their background the Elgon
Tin houses rise to the fore
One, particularly, haloed with a cross
Tens gathered in colour and song
The music struggles
To drown the van’s rev

As he too struggles
To drown images from past dark

Lance-a-lot jousting
With nightly grace
Wait, he digresses
Was her name Grace?

His eyes stray from pen to plant life
Sparing some time to the road
Negotiations enter, bringing them
To a mutual compromise
Resting his eyes on her plum physique

Warm, that fuzzy feeling down below
Goofy, that knowing look in his gaze
Malice, that intent written all o’er her face
Reason, that which they choose to ignore.

As she leans over, leans in, lips torn asunder
A beam spread ‘cross her thriving brow
She bottles his immediate need with a smack
Reveling in his look, wild bliss plastered over

Hormonal thermostat approaching unbearable status
Beads of perspiration, thumps of palpitation,
Neither from the blaring heat,
No sign points to precipitation

The Beauty of the Grande Finale

Ah, Nini’s Jetco rest, a quickie face wash
And then some…more hyperventilation
Drags of puff, he breathes in
Hmmph; the mothership shifts on her seat
Microscorpions relocate hastily ‘pon the desolate tract

Tiny tingles trace up his belly

With each mini step, buckets of sweat spring forth
Quiet times, serene vanity, and occasional grunts
Grey matter sounds the carry-on call

Settings changed, curtains close, and clothes drop
Hmmphs replaced with a barrage of oomphs
Road trip forgotten, engine shut, and restroom open
Not to mention the aahs! Careful not to advertise their activities
Well, least not too loudly

All Calm on the Travelling Front

Both running in parallel, their units converging
Near the deserted ferry landing
Burdens of intellect fleetingly disregarded
The motel beckons, and awareness tips his hat to them.

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.