Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick ||

Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?” 


It was moderated by the consummate prick that is Oyunga Pala, supposedly in conversation with his little big dickmate Biko Zulu, but eventually groped by the now infamous Tony Mochama.We both know you came to drool at Biko, little girl. So sad you were that he did not show, you pulled off your panties and put the roof on fire. But did not squirt it off at the end, when it really was the least you coulda done.


I will not sit here and talk about what has been extensively cataloged by every feminist blog between here and kingdom chick-bean-flicking cum. As an audience member, I did that. Internal monologues between me and myself, and later with one puny cocked weasel Yule Mbois Mndialala who thinks himself some sort of autonomous wankster god on Facebook.


The session turned out quite as I had expected. In these Kenyan *spaces,* the right to doublethink has categorically been displayed as a privilege the *mens* should – make that capital, underlined, bold *Must* – check. It is whipped out in such fancy colours that you, the menses, actually do. You do check these privileges your dick gave you over her pussy.


Women have been silent for so long in Kenya, the second they grow a pair of brain cells, they feel they own the privileged right to whip it out and shut you up with it.


Who said that victims cannot be graceful victors? All I see in these streets are victims walking around either moaning about their victimized little minds, or masquerading as victors to manifest their victim mentality in every puny argument their weak ideas present:

‘manslamming’this, 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

[Caution: spoken with a loud curling Kilimani twang, or else...] 

What is it with you little bitches and your manventions? Ok, I get that you need to vent your manly frustrations, but really? You gave yourselves a label, so we need one too? Don’t we already have enough in our liquor cabinets?


Don’t you see that these one-size-fits-alls will be your undoing?


Tell me, dear little femininely shamed slut of a feminist, how when a man drinks himself silly and has his way with your tired but equally drunk hung-out-together-all-night ass, it is rape. It becomes rape when you wake up, remember your inhibitions were more than slightly off their ticking rockers, and so you could not have been in any position to give his drunken ass consent.


I will wait for you to swallow that.


As a matter of fact, I will rephrase it for your weak little bitch-fitting brain-denying cunt: he was high, his cognition holds up; you were high, yours does not. How can you turn around and look me in the eye, away from your place of invisibility, as you sing that doublethink back into my ear?


Do you even realize how vile that parseltongue is to me?

At the Future of Men rolling in the Hay session, you and your ilk stormed the house.


Check.


You were pricked by Tony and the like.


Check.


You stormed out.


Double twice check.


So you proceeded to whip your imagined dicks off onto the mic, and refused to back down when it was your turn to. Order, dear little vadge-badge, applies to you too.


If you grab the mic off my hands because your fragile little angina tells your vagina that it needs to bring its monologue out into the public, and so fuck me as I wait for my turn to speak:

*you are that little mansplaining, manspreading, manslamming prick you so love to detest.*

Start acting aware of your surroundings. Get away from your phone’s little screen and tembea fucking Kenya. Otherwise you will get plowed down by people who are also unaware of their surroundings. And for the life of your (un)born sons and daughters, little bitch, get a life and live it.


Screaming bloody murder and oh “not all men” means all men, but “no means no”?


Will you stop and get a hold of your export brains before they fall completely out off your imported bra?


In closing, here are the immortal words of T.O.K., the same ones you danced your skinny ass off to before it grew fatty cellulite and made you a fat angry bitch:

No way, Jose, we nuh go ever stay, a gurl fi know she haffi give it up

before we pay…

Coz if she don’t play, then we don’t pay!

Think about that too, every time we pay your way for a lay. Because if I have to hear you claim to have more sensible investments than we do, coz you got land and shit? You and your funny nanny of a fanny will see how gaskets truly blow.


Yelling how there's a mansis up in every nigga-fucking large hall that lets you pander your Bull. How there are no men left up in this bitch.

Bring it! What? We right here, We're not going anywhere.We right here, This is ours and we don't share... We right here, Bring your crew coz we don't care...

- DMX, We Right Here

If you can't find a good one, so you wanna whip up your own little mangina to Lorde over, get the fuck outta my way. I am human. You can take that broken groupthinking gender kaleidoscope and shove it where my sunny little dick will never shine.


And now, in true closing, I will quote my friend Smitta Smitten, the one y’all tried to smite – all hail, ye mighty smiters –

“oh dear, better legal gold than legal lead…n both are better than legally dead!”

Now go manfist your Audre-manifesting self or some shit. I'm out.

Signed,

Marquis de Sadness 

Member of the World Fuck You Media. 

Occupy HELB, says the Fiddler on my Non-existent Roof

Tom, as Rabbi

“Rabbi! Rabbi! Is there a prayer we can say for the Tsar?”

“Yes! May God bless the Tsar…and keep him far far away from us!”

-          Scene III of Fiddler on the Roof (1971)

Dear HELB*, 

(*Higher Education Loans Board)

90%Sold Out, you say?

Where have I heard that sold out threat before? Oh, yeah, that’s right. Every new skyscraper that litters the lines in Nairobi’s horizon has that pitchfork aimed at our sights, long before it’s actually complete.

Every event organizer threatens that advance (cheaper) tickets are about to sell out, despite tickets also being ‘available at the gate’. Every other radio show host will promise you juicy call-in sessions that are (I swear!) unscripted. Safaricom threatened to trap all unregistered trappers in the whole of Kenya oga oh. Digital TV threatened to go ham on Analog TV late last year. 

We’ve become a society that feeds on – nay; gobbles up and hobbles off with, to use pigliamentary language – Public Relations exercises and marketing gimmicks. I have no doubt that this SMS I received from you during the course of this week was inspired by State House’s hyperbolic antics.

Your loan balance is Kes. 888,888 for Idno. 2xyz2abc. Repay your full University Loan by 6^th June 2013 and get a full penalty amnesty; contact HELB - 0711052000

Sender: (no name) HELB 

Received: 18:43:27 0y.05.2013

So allow me to respond in kind, dear no name.

I will not contact you.

As we have already established, I have no money. See text you sent me above. In case you need advance settings on that simple message, I will be willing to assist. Bank statements from my 2 money changers should bring you to tears. I can assure you that they will be no joy drops, either, as the Revenue Authority may well choose to alert you. Simply put, even my Mpesa statement - nay, Okoa Jahazi Account! -  is by and large a casting call for phantasmagoria. *Google is your friend, dear no name*

‘History records that money changers have used every form of abuse, intrigue, deceit, and violent means possible to maintain their control over governments by controlling money and its issuance. ’

         -          President James Madison

I am willing to pay.

If I could eat will, I would be one helluva fat man. Complete with the willing wrist and neck chains, glistening with will as I stand on a podium of will, next to the president of will, and chant willingly about the will of the Kenyan workers' ill will against the House of Common thieves. I am sure, however, that you understand that will is not yet a currency. As soon as it is, however, I will more than likely pay you.

‘You can be killed just as dead in an unjustified war as you can in one protecting your own home’

       -          Will Rogers

I have not refused to work.

This is not a statement of my lack of intent to pay. I know you bureaucratic types have a way of selecting what you listen to, and even then you've already filtered out what you hear. 

This is a statement of my lack of ability to pay. 

Show me the money, and I will quickly give it to you. So in the spirit of giving back, and all, how about you give me back my dignity before you attempt to take away my liberty?

‘We don’t have to worry about anything. No nation in the history of the world was ever sitting as pretty. If we want anything, all we have to do is go and buy it on credit.’

          -          Will Rogers

Of course, to quote Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof (the movie), "we don't eat like kings, but we don't starve either."

I will not be threatened.

You said there’s a penalty amnesty? I wish, oh how I do, that I had 2 weeks of my area MP’s salary. The current one, not the one he wants. 

Then I would, in order of priority, buy a quarter acre of land in some Savannah of the un-silicon kind, buy a trailer container, use it to ‘develop’ said kaquarter, buy a mattress and fit it midway into the container, then – and only then – I would send you the change.

In the meantime, take a chill pill as my MP and I negotiate. 

Unfortunately, he is not a cougar (that’s an older woman into younger boys, no name) – and I don’t roll that way, neither does he; I haven’t heard it on Ghafla! anyway. If he was a she, an actual she, not a he-she, I would consider giving him some.

‘A man only learns by two things; one is reading, and the other is association with smarter people.’

              -          Will Rogers

Find yourselves a book. Or else look for smarter people. You’re reading one right now, by the way, no name. Thanks to your Loan, Varsity was a blast. The reading part, the partying part and the women part; we even learnt to do all three at once. Don’t believe me? Google the World’s Loudest Library (@pmbclibrary)

Are you so out of touch with reality, in your penthouse offices and leafy suburban bliss, that you forget why you gave me the loan to begin with? Because I could not pay my way through Varsity on my own; now you’re going to sit there paying for this bulk SMS system, advertising rigorously that I pay ‘or else’?

You are called the Higher Education Loans Board – higher education is pointless if I will not be working anywhere without being either underemployed, or overworked and underpaid. Then you expect me to simply watch as you deep your claws into that piggy bank I call an existence? Whatever happened to a saving culture?

‘We will never have true civilization until we have learned to recognize the rights of others.’

                 -          Will Rogers

I have a right to peace of mind, and a piece of meat in my daily meal. Not the 3-course you’re on as you demand your money back! And you have the right to a piece of my mind. I’ll try serving you to your fill.

                     

If I were a rich man ... there would be no questions. When you're rich they really think you know

I will put up my own house.

This particular one is a message from my ol’ man. He may be my guarantor, but there is absolutely no way he is paying that loan. He says, by the way, that you can find him on Twitter, and he'll gladly reiterate that sentiment. 

I wouldn’t have it any other way. He builds his own houses, and I will build mine. If that means the penalty (Kes. 5,000 a month is it?) will continue to dig a hole through my as torn pocket, then so be it.

I have after all been out of Campus for two years, and by my estimation of my own worth, I should be paying the Revenue Authority at least Kes. 15,000 a month. That, over a duration of 24+ months means I owe the Government of Kenya at least Kes. 360,000. By my reckoning, I have at least 2 more years before my loan, plus the monthly penalties, gets that far. I can live with that…scratch that; I can SURVIVE with that.

‘Ten men in the country could buy the world and ten million can’t buy enough to eat.’

                    -          Will Rogers

Just as I will pay my own bride-price should it come to that, I do not expect to be emasculated any further by having the man who foots my bills when times are thick (whale-skin thickness, not your regular hide) and has fed me regularly over the past 24 months, also have to pay my dues at no name.

***

Incidentally, what is the world coming to when a man has to take out a loan to pay back a loan he was granted as a student loan? Forget interest-free loans, President Uhuru…we want a rebate!

So as we plan to #OccupyParliament in less than 48 hours, I challenge every defaulter who has defaulted not by choice but by lack thereof it, to join me in asking President Uhuru to budget for a government bail-out of we the meek.

I do not seek to ask for a handout. I seek to receive a scrapping on the BS penalty that ignores the fact that I need to earn to pay back my dues. So before any Salaries and Remunerations are upgraded for 400 odd able-bellied men, how about the richest man in Kenya by Forbes’ account help us #OccupyHELB?

Think of it as indemnity for the youth, Mr. President, and your soon-to-be parliament.

"He's right and he's right? They can't BOTH be right!"

"You know; you are also right."

                                       - Fiddler on the Roof 

If we deserve to ‘accept’ your nomination of political devil incarnates who have ‘moved on’ and reincarnated as technocrats, don’t we deserve to also give the youth a second chance to pay back their student loans interest- and penalty-free?

As a man who appreciates more flair and panache in a speech than Kibaki, I’m sure you can relate with this one.

‘There is one thing in common with all revolutions (in fact they are pretty near like wars in that respect) nobody ever knows what they are fighting about!’

                                                  -          Will Rogers

Dear Bonnie: Double Standards Beget Double Standards #OccupyParliament

Hello @bonifacemwangi. I’m a fan of your revolutionary spirit. I believe that if more Kenyans had the guts to stand up for their rights in much the same way you have in the past stood, fallen, been stoned and handcuffed for theirs, we would be talking of a Vision 2014. The next 16 years would be spent, instead, working towards hitting the elusive first class of world societies and economies alike. Notice how I put society before economy there, something Vision 2030 seems to have forgotten.

"There is no person so severely punished, as those who subject themselves to the whip of their own remorse. ~ Seneca"

I come from a long line of activists. There’s my paternal grandfather, an 85 year old man now, who was imprisoned and gulag’d by the Imperial Guard during the State of Mau Mau obliteration. He still, amazingly so, given his age, spends up to 4 hours nonstop on his feet grazing his goats. Even with his flailing eardrums and failing eyesight. Did I mention my paternal grandmother, who defied the Brits and fed the Mau Mau, much to her own chagrin when the guards caught up with her? An iron lady, my grandma. My maternal uncles, who seem to have the gift of both gab and quill, two having written for the Daily Nation, one having worked a long career in the legal scenes and the other currently running a Diaspora News agency based in Washington DC, for and about Kenya.

In the interests of trapping some more of your attention, I will allow myself one name drop. Al-Amin Kimathi, my mother’s brother, and one of the four brothers above. One of the two still left alive, illogically and unbelievably so. He should be dead. Like Dedan before him, Kimathi is a terrorist. A man who orchestrated the bombing of innocent football fans during the screening of a soccer match in 2010, over the World Cup. A man who had set up a sham operation in Westlands, claiming to be a Muslim Human Rights’ defender, but working his own Jihad against Kenya and the West in said disguise. A man who, after years as a Daily Nation writer, simply got fed up with reason, dropped his quill and decided to pick up the religion that nurtures and natures indiscriminate violence.

That’s if you’ll believe the three Musketeers of poor justice masquerading as pure – the American, Kenyan and Ugandan governments, in descending order of importance and soft power of justice.

Why else was a man on a mission to Uganda in defense of Kenyan Muslims extradited extrajudicially, himself extrajudicially bound and gagged for over a year in a Ugandan prison? Luzira – East Africa’s very own Château d’If. A Kenyan. His only fault being that he was a thorn in the Kenya government’s ribs, and since he wears a kanzu and has a bushy beard, he is without doubt Osama bin Laden’s cousin by camel exchange. A Kenyan. One who is yet to be compensated in whatsoever form for his wrongful mental and physical torture? Very nearly a wrongful death, I must add.

Renewed faith or peace, @imanmpya, he calls himself on Twitter, now that he’s finally seen the light of Kenyan suns for over a year since his return. Or perhaps it’s a short form of his surname, Imanene? A new Imanene? Yet, sadly, one who has become, in some eyes, the laughing stock of our society, or worse still, the terrorist that got away.

Would it, I wonder, have been better for the Kenyan activist scene if he had been martyred?

If I do not have your attention now, Boniface Mwangi, then perhaps you may be a lost cause tracing the wrong course already. If I do, however, then please wipe the discontent that little no so quippy quip above may have inspired, and for once, brother – listen!

"The masses are ignorant... They lost their voice and we want to help them discover that voice,"

                  - Boniface Mwangi.

I fear that you’re on a path of destruction, comrade in alms. Your own, and by extension, Kenya’s. You and your brethren have failed in some of the most fundamental aspects of any idea worth having, and in the long run, keeping. Here’s how.

Borrowed from the Kenya ni Kwetu (Kenya is our home) Facebook page

Having been a supporter of your work – madd love on the graffiti by the way – I quickly came to Pawa254, the creativity and artistry hub we were endowed for your effort as an activist. It remains, and always will be, my most at ease venue for anything. A testament to your own genius. I hope you will still allow me in tomorrow, after all’s said and done.

Genius and madness have been said to be like black and white, yet there exists a fine blurry grey line that symbolizes the tripwire you are currently treading on. For if crashing May Day celebrations, a function ‘chaired’ by a president indicted for crimes against humanity, so as to chide and deride a small – yet fat – man over a mundane yet bloody important issue is not madness, then we will never see madness. Kibaki at Madaraka was one thing, but Atwoli at Labour Day?

I attended the Love Protest last year, and I’ll be quick to say I marveled at the organization of the ‘event’.

There were the banners, the placards, the T-shirts, the coffins; all, as one might expect of a man who runs a creative hub, so tastefully done. The ideas expressed by this artistry in motion were pretty darn good.

The ideas expressed by the mob you and your brethren managed to bring together, however, leave a whole fucking lot to be desired. I considered writing a rebuttal to your protest right after it was over, and aired my discontent with some of it right at the preparations to the Love march at Freedom Corner. A lady who was part of the gathered few, listened, and when I said I was not going to blog about my reservations, she was quick to ask me to desist from self-censorship. A year later, I heed her call, having thought better of my pussyfooting around the way you do things simply because you are Boniface Mwangi.

To an Associated Press reporter in the crowd with him, he said: "There is fire in my belly, but my feet are trembling."

While I have kept away from all street protest initiatives you, the Unga Revolution and Wanjiku Revolution have organized, I intend to come for the Occupation of Parliament. Makes it sound like the August House is a job, doesn’t it, despite the fact that we all know how truly it is not?

Anyway, since I am coming, and you – like it or not – have the capacity to chart a course for Kenya, answering the ‘where to?’ that emerges with our ‘accept and move on’ situation, I feel duty-bound to nitpick on the Love Protest.

I left before the protestors left Freedom Corner, and here is why:

a)      Simply banking on numbers is a mistake. Rather, it's the quality of the protestors that should matter i.e. ‘do they understand and believe in the cause?’ As a Social Media strategist, I can attest to the fact that for Social Media to have a Return on Investment, focus on how many followers or Facebook friends we have should not be what Corporate Social Media eyes, but rather the relationships and shared values created. Which is where your flawed presumption, expressed last year at the Poets and Writers’ Online (POWO)in June, springs from. Just because you have them thousands of followers does not imply that when you tweet about your being arrested will spring a riot. 

Expecting the reenactment of a scene from The Illusionist where Edward Norton’s Eisenheim is arrested and the Viennese Wanjiku come to his rescue, dear brother, requires a better Kenya first and better idea from you. @itsBuddhaBlaze, for instance, came because he believs in your cause, and is your friend. How, perhaps you should be thinking, can you make more Buddha fires of ordinary wananchi?

Lotsa idlers at Freedom Corner joined the protest last year, mainly for the free merchandise, and it's no wonder violence ensued at Parliament. The irony in that photo of you reeling in the dogs that your ill-considered mass action unleashed was not lost on me either. 

b)      The focus on merchandise, I felt, was also appalling, particularly given the distribution. People queued for T-shirts, and like Omtatah once said, if people queue, they do so only because they believe there'll be something at the end of that queue, otherwise chaos ensues. Ironically, you were seated right next to him while he said these words, at the same POWO meeting I referenced earlier. Last year June at the love protest, T-shirts ishad. 

Boniface Mwangi and Ndanu

Panelists (L to R): Room Thinker, Okoiti Omtata, Maddo and Muki Garang.

c)       Let's also not be the architects of the very same crap status quo dishes out. I remember watching as my dear brother Boni came to the front of the line, picking T-shirts for his friends, who couldn't be bothered to queue, while protesters who'd arrived earlier queued. Double standards reap double standards. I understand, as was pointed out to me by one of the organizers when I asked how much you were selling the T-shirts upon my arrival, that ‘you do not need my money’. 

Because of course this was your money, your funds raised, spent to buy this merchandise. But when you put on such a show, then bitch loudly – as do I – when the parliamentarians go easy on their cronies, it belies belief in your sincerity as a change agent, and beggars questions about your own integrity. That is not the way, dear brother, we are going to take down Crown Prince Leopold. I know it’s hard to ignore our friends, but we cannot eat our integrity and still have it.

I do hope, sincerely so, that you or some of your inner circle of friends gets to read this, and pass the message on to you. I fear that the photo-activist empery walks naked amongst us mere mortals, and his court remains silent; or is else totally ignored and overruled whence it raises objections to his Uchi Revolution!

I so hope that my tyranny of words will suppress your tyranny of the wrong numbers. I honestly believe you capable of so much better. Not more. Just better; so as you change Kenya, I hope to change you.

The dude in between Lorna and the other lady? With the head turned away? That's me. I turned away on purpose, not to be associated with this protest. Yule Mbois Mndialala of Facebook, and @French_Freddy on Twitter

Update:

All credit to Bonnie, and in the true fashion of one so used to courting controversy in pursuit for his cause, he responded to this post immediately after I put it up. Here's what he had to say:

Further, on 18th May at Pawa254, he went on to explain in person that when I saw him getting a T-shirt, it was one he had promised to keep for Lorna Irungu, as she had contributed money for the printing of T-shirts. While this response drew a 'you should really have kept it aside from the pile for her' shrug from me, it's an acceptable rebuttal to this piece, given it was premised primarily on the one assumption that Bonnie went hypocrite on the cause. 

My apologies for the misrepresentation of a not too tactful picture I misread for more than it was. Meanwhile, see my new post on the explosive Occupy Parliament 'revolution' here. I was one of the thousand or so strong protestors on the day (14th May, 2013). 

Here's a sneak preview to how it ended...

Relationship 101s [Part II]: Taking Pussy Blogging Offline

I’ll admit that there was a time when Mika’s track Toy Boy was a favourite on my playlist. I'd sing along as he told of being ‘a windup toy in an up down world,’ wallow in self-deprecation as he cried ‘toys are not sentimental,’ asking ‘how could I be for rental,’ before going full-on mental bawling how ‘she’s the meanest hag that has ever been, pulled out my insides with an old safety pin.’

Now, however, I take my formative years in pussy woose manhood, as far as relationships are concerned, as a purple heart - though black and blue could be a more appropriate colour - from the Iraqi insurgent minefield that is the dating world.  

Allow me to paraphrase a conversation I had on Facebook recently regarding being the nice guy to women.

First woman: I want to have a nice close male friend without him having to feel that I am using him just because I am not sleeping with him. Do men have to be so sex-centered as to complain about genuine platonic friendship just because they are not getting sex out of it? Nice guy, my foot!

Second woman: I disagree with the spirit in which this article is written; I can't derive enough from it except the usual jibber jabber. If someone is going to be a friend, BE a friend. Don't expect any medals and trophies because you are a 'friendly guy.' Be human first and foremost. A lot of friendships are not always beneficial to our needs and to our 'peace of mind' , so we cut them off and look for other friendships, not stick around hoping to be given an applause for sticking in the wrong friendship for waaay longer than you should have.

Present me: Speaking as a 'former nice guy,' I'll throw a small spanner into the works. First off, I agree with both of you; now to my addendum. For heterosexuals, a male-female friendship differs greatly from a [fe]male-[fe]male one. The key difference, I suppose, is that the guy's shoulder to lean on (or chic's, if the roles reverse) has the tendency to be misused. This is especially true in cases where the guy/chic hits on the chic/guy, takes her/his rejection on the chin like a boss and cultivates a friendship because he/she was brave enough to take the bold step asking, and is mature enough to look past rejection and see the worth, the value, in the other person. Or is simply deluded/ lame enough to take the rejection as a 'maybe later...'

Now, if, or when, the guy/chic watches as the chic/guy goes through one bad boy/girl after another, after the next, ad nauseum ad infinitum, is the natural feeling not to feel resentment of her/his annoying lack of better judgement? Is it not fair, for them, to compare their sticking by this friend through it all, through all of the friend's flings, and find himself/herself a more worthy object of her/his affection?

And more so when she/he turns around, and, to his/her face says, 'Haki nyinyi wanaume/ wanawake... I'm done with you all.' Would such a reaction be justifiable then?

Second woman: You know what? I agree with you absolutely! I have come across such people as well and as much as we were unwilling participants in their stupidity we experienced it. Mine was just to point out that getting disappointed and feeling resentment as a result of being rejected is a normal human experience. Everyone goes through them; singling oneself out as the 'good guy' because you think you experience it more than usual is shallow to say the least. Case in point, the rant in that article.

 *Ps: the ranting guy comes off more misogynistic than your 'usual guy'...

Present me: So your 'usual guy' isn't free of misogyny, just less of a chauvinist, aye Second woman?  And here I thought I could prance along feeling bigger than the next guy because I care about women in general. On the real, though, I get where you're both coming from with the responses. I read the piece and it connected with good ol' guy Freddy, so I'm not gonna sit here and pretend that I did not enjoy it. Rereading it through your eyes, though, I'll be the first to admit that kaleidoscopes count for a lot. I viewed it through the prisms of past 'friend-zones' gone corrupt, you viewed it through those of male chauvinism meets hypocrisy. Lesson well-learned. And one that I cannot, still, promise not to unlearn. O, what numbers you women have done to this wretched soul!

First woman: Actually, I think the nice guy is a pussy. He doesn't have enough balls to ask her out, so he hangs around for years, whining to everyone but her, that she won’t give him a chance. I mean, if she is really misusing him and taking advantage of him and he seems to be that convinced of this, why doesn't he walk away? I'm sorry... But he is a dumb pussy at that!

Present me: Speaking as a former - I hope – pussy, I'll say this much. At first you say nothing because you're afraid you'll lose the friendship. Which is precisely why a pussy does not walk away (that, and coz unlike a dick, it has no legs either.) So it sits and watches as the candle that is its 'love' try to cook the food that is her affections for it.

However, when it later learns to quit being - for lack of a better expression - such a big pussy, it starts actually saying something when it likes a woman, and becomes only a small pussy when, after the rejection, it still hangs around and hopes for better luck later. Then finally it becomes a small dick, trying to copy the dudes with the big cajones (that bit is very true we do copy you insensitive pricks out there.)  Eventually it becomes a bit of a she-male; a macho man with a big dick prone to moments of (pussiness?)  

Because when it finds the one that matters, it still can't walk away; no matter how hard it wants to shove her away.

Second woman: J J She-male!

First woman: Btw, just so you know, I did like the article. You posted two so I am not even sure I am commenting on the right one. Lol… I am sorry for you and what you've had to go through. To be honest, I am not that sorry, but I empathize with the nice guy. So, I will avoid making it personally about you.

Is it that the nice guy has such a low sense of self worth or is it that nothing else (and by nothing, I mean NOTHING) is going on in his life? "Because when it finds the one
that matters, it still can't walk away…"

What do you do when the person you love won't and will never love you back? Is it worth staying? Is it worth committing to failing endeavours? Or is this just another case of deliberate self harm?

Present me: Part of the brilliance that comes with a pussy's past, in perspective, is a thick hide. There, no catching a feeling in my role as ex-pussy, because as one might imagine, a feeling was thrown at my 'past projects' and like a boomerang, sucker-punched me in the nose. Still haven't learnt to catch a feeling thrown or so perceived yet, so feel free to dig into me. Empathizing with a pussy...let me stop that analogy while it's still politically correct.

On my favourite subject of wrist-cutting masquerading as unconditional love, I'll say this much. Yes, the guy's self-esteem is for shit. It's blind, assumes that to really be seen, it cannot be seen through the guy's eyes, but through hers. Something usually is going on in this pussy's life, it just chooses to prioritize being poked by her over the 99 other problems it has to swallow (ok, those two I couldn't avoid.) And when the pussy learns, I mean truly realises, that its pursuit for 'the one that matters' is futile, she becomes the one that got away, and, at least in this she-male's case, remains truly good friends with her. Again, in true pussy fashion, only if she so chooses!

CONCLUSION

Here's what I think about the idea that guys who "catch feelings" are any less manly than the other guy:

• First off, who came up with this expression 'to catch feelings?' What were they thinking? How exactly are said feelings thrown for them to be caught? Do they boomerang when not caught and "return to sender?" Is there some sorta Major League Feelings out there, and if so, do said feelings get thrown as a curveball or just straight up sucker punch you in the gut?

• While it may seem woosy to 'take things too seriously' or, heaven's forbid, overreact to a situation, a lesson in History will remind us that perhaps we're looking at it the wrong way. The Trojan War, from whence the brilliant idea to infect your computer with seemingly friendly gifts that explode on impact [Trojan Horses] came, began due to an overreaction. Men perished in droves because two men caught feelings over Hellen of Troy. And on the matter of holding grudges, it was once considered rather bold to hold a grudge... see Mau Mau war and Spartacus. So technically, dear wooses, you're in good company.

Grudges, however, are rather mundane and juvenile. To quote William Blake:

"I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I  told it not, my wrath did grow."

THE END.

Relationship 101s [Part I]: Taking Pussy Blogging Offline

There’s a lot to not understand about me. I put a lot of myself out in the open; sometimes inadvisably so, I’ve been told. Hell, half the time I don’t even know why I do what I do. Why I still write posts titulated such as this, despite knowledge of the fact that potential wads of cash – employers, not Nairobi senator Mike Sonko – lurk in mine online shadows.

Why I don’t think I’ll melt if I say pussy, or cock and such; or that I may be smote by more than just an overzealous friend or two for saying that religion oughta be banned for inculcating the very principles that sustain tribalism in Kenya. 

*insert chirping cricket*

I can see you exiting stage-left already, O mighty smiters of the lost souls.

So for the handful of you still reading, this professed atheist (I know, it’s getting old, innit?) and elaborate plagiarist continues to attempt itemizing his self. So polish your plumes to a dandy sheen, as a good friend says, and dig in.

1.      I am a man, contrary to misgivings of the inbox kind. I’m talking gender here, not debates on how uber-agressively inconsiderate manly men should behave. For that argument, scroll down further. To those strange men who do not realize that my Facebook pseudonym refers, quite literally, to “That Troublemaker Guy,” I’m talking to you. So don't call me hun or sweety again.

2.      I have been in love with that girl, coz she told me she was in love with me. The less said about that fallacy, the better. For Pete’s (and my) sake.

3.      I don’t much care for Big-wiggery, translated as the number of followers one has. Follow me if you like, but that’s about it. No expectations from me, none from you either. I do, however, give a lotta damns and dimes about the quality of followers and followings. The real relationships, those tweeps who’d bail you outta real jail at a moment’s tweet if it came down to it. Lessons well learnt by, among others, Martha Karua and Peter Kenneth recently. Oh, and yeah, I do call Twitter Twirra or Twirraville. One of my newfound friends thinks first meetings on Twitter are called Tweetroductions, while the other calls herself a Tweetsation. Accept and move on.^a

4.      I was once the quintessential nice (extended belch) guy. I still relate with and understand that rare abused species. Not rarely abused; rare and abused. I may have evolved into something else, as yet un-labelled or -defined, but the kind that still thinks it ok for a guy to embrace smiley faces on Social Media, as opposed to stupid abbrevs like Lol, and pseudo-onomatopoeias like ‘buhahaha!’ or worse even, ‘tihihi!’

And while I will for the most time walk away from a war of words on the status of my manhood [not that one, the general one] the same way I prefer to evade religious discourse, I do indulge myself in defending my roots. The so called United Woosedom, henceforth fondly referred to as the big girl's blouse closet, that has become of 'our men'.

5.      I do Karaoke/ Open Mic, and scream like a little girl when I’m impressed with a performance, complete with hands down and hinds up. Ok, more like a loud obnoxious prick; but, still. When unimpressed, I whip out my phone and tweet nonsense (when drunk and hardly bothered,) groupie hugs (when drunk and not listening to those on stage,) and pure unadulterated bile at event organizers (when not drunk.)

6.      Safaricom is my operator of choice as much as an ICC suspect is my president of choice. More than occasionally, however, the cockscrew on that patient theory has been tested when the network decides to go hard on this here client, totally ignoring the lube. On those annoying occasions, like many a client, I cheat on Safcom with my less vigorous and somewhat inefficient Zain line.

7.      I am friends with practically ALL my exes. See bullet 4 above. Especially the exes that 'mattered', who incidentally riddled 'past me' with bullet-holes; the so-called ones that got away.

You might think ‘friends’ is an overstatement. Good for you. But here’s what I mean…during my nice guy phase, I have been inspired to write publicly about 3 particular women I was ‘dating’. I use the term loosely, because in one of the 3 cases, it was more of an over-glorified summer romance that lasted all of 17 days. Mainly because she was only in Kenya on holiday, and I bumped into her – erm, no puns – in the tail end [stop that, no giggling either!] of her stay here before she had to go back Down Under [OK I give up].

Perhaps, maybe, that she was 6 years older than me also mattered. OK, and she had a boyfriend, who was visibly not me. Woooosah… Moving on swiftly, I am still friends with her. Sort of; her husband doesn't much like it. She got married pretty recently; and yes, to that boyfriend.

None of the other two lasted longer than 3 months either.

The one, is what beings not quite as linguistically refined as me might call a first love. I call her my introduction to the utter mind and soul fuckeries of human worship. She featured distinctly in the relic that is my first year on Campus, before stamping on what Ihad mistakenly thought to be my icebox, then proceeding to leave the country altogether. You’re allowed one bottie of jokes on past me’s account. And if I see “he has that effect on women” anywhere in that bottle, I’m not picking up the tab on past me’s behalf either.

Incidentally, OOMF [one of my followers] on Twitter and in real life also dated her. And we’re all one big happy family of Friends. Like the show. She’s also planning her wedding. Inn’ life grand?

And to top the list off is the other; my last ex. I wrote about our meeting about a month into the opening of this blog. I was dating her at the time. Fast-forward to the present, and she is happily married, expecting a bundle of joy. She married a good friend of mine; who was a good friend of mine while I dated her. And is an even better friend of mine today, not to mention their both being my business associates. I might even be godfather if I play my cards right!

8.     I also have friends of the female species, who are simply, friends. Not the woman you can’t date because you wouldn't bear to be seen with her so she becomes your friend, more in consideration of her feelings than your reservations about being seen with her. I mean smart, beautiful, women. Not the kind you wanna date but due to poor timing on your end you’re conscripted to the friend zone. Nope. The kind who become ‘your boys’ without you ever forgetting just how woman they really are. The kind your girlfriend’s insecurities might understandably peak around. And the kinds, as in one particularly sad tale, whose boyfriends like forbid to ever speak to you again like ever.

So am I the only lonely man? And have I noticed that 2 of the 3 women I talked about earlier married the guy they dated after (or during) me? No I’m not, and yeah I did. But that’s a story for a whole other day.

See part II

a.       The expression to Accept and Move on, is a phrase that has been added to an expansive array of phrases in Kenyan humour since the recent elections, during which the losing candidate, despite there being concerns that there may have been foul-play involved in President UK’s win, was asked to concede, accept and move on. The expression, in Urban Kenyan Lingo, is now used to mock sore losers.