A How-To Guide to Socialite Sorcery in Kenya

There have been numerous accounts by pro-tourism and wildlife service agencies that point to the fact that local tourism has largely been unsuccessful in Kenya. Our art and craft industry is testament to this little-opposed fact that the tourism industry thrives purely on outside influences. 

Which is why we jump out of our foreskins when these forces threaten to throttle the industry with negative travel advisories. However, local tourism is in fact very much alive in Kenya; these agencies have simply been looking in the wrong direction, at the wrong species of wild life.

This post attempts to illuminate the sexist socialism freaky business of being a Socialite; granted, the vulnerabilia of many a woman's fingers may be tempted to form a collective middle finger guard of honour for us today, but in the immortal words of Kermit the Frog, Ukweli Usemwe (truth be told).

We will, with my friend and Guest blogger for the day - who incidentally goes by the name B'Jay - tell you what it takes to work at the Kenya Nut Company... 

The job requirements for a place in said industry suck, among them being a degree from It-actually-doesn'-exist University. In fact, we're rather sure that the only place higher and degree come together in the art of sexual socialism being a Socialite, is under the cover of the charmed rich men who fuel this market.

They say one night in Bangkok is enough to make a hard man humble...erm, nuh. One night IN Socialite, however, is what it takes, as we explore below, to structure a JD for this bedding budding profession. A sprinkle of beds, couches, mostly back seats, some tubs, and kitchen sinks have also been known to make for an interesting past employment list! 

Disclaimer: the views about to be expressed, while fully endorsed by this blog, do not represent any notion that using sex to get ahead in life is a crime. No. If anything, the management of el blog is working very - erm - hard to make it into the Socialite client list. Like Eminem, we hope that soon enough we 'can be your Superman,' Socialistas.

Here comes the BJ!

Guest Post by B'Jay: Job Requirements for 'Being a Socialite'

When you did your KCPE, you had big dreams of being big things, right? At 14 years old, you had to choose a career title that did not make sense. Many wanted to be neurosurgeons and other hard words. 

Now don't you pretend you never wanted to be an "orthopediatrician!" 

See my point? Just the title gives it prestige. Lately though, I have seen the emergence of a more prestigious career. See, why struggle so hard to be an orthopediatrician when you can simply be a socialite? 

Qualifications

You should be a graduate from That-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named University. Any paper would do, BSC, CPA, IT, CCNA, TNA, ODM, LOL, SMH, SLAP (Sounds Like a Plan)... no one will care much.

You should have a backside. In the village where my folks came from, the backside had to be enough to cast a shadow in the entire hut when a female stood in the doorway. 

Back then, the backside was a measure of how well you can carry two pots from the river, one on your head and the other well balanced hands-free on your tushi (well, I am sure it wasn't called a tushi back then, but you get the point).  

In short, your tushi should cast a shadow, balance a pot and make you twice as tall while seated as you are while standing. Third qualification is you ought to be blonde. Being a Socialite is an equal-opportunity employer and blondes are not discriminated upon.

Experience

• A Socialite must have prior experience in tweefs. Tweefs are twitter beefs. A twitter beef is simple. 

• Step one; mention someone you dislike on your tweet. 

• Step two; politely say that if she were a gardening tool she would most likely be that one used for digging. 

• She will give you a mention and say you have been passed around more than a Sheesha hose. 

• You will then name five of her boyfriends and how they had massive irregularities in bed. 

• She will name six of yours and quantitatively compare some section of their anatomy to a matchstick. 

• It will go on and on, but job done. 

• Further experience in having nude photos on the web is not essential but is an added advantage. 

Perks and Benefits

Well, you become a role model to many. Sometimes even an actual model.

You get to have Twitter followers and Facebook friends and you grace the pages of Ghafla and Pulse. 

You get to drive big cars and own big phones that your average orthopediatrician does not own. 

You get to change your name. Forget it that you were born Truphosa Wepukhulu wa Gathua. You will now be popularly known as Truce W. Getty. 

You get to travel the world and see places with exotic names. Bangkok (ahem) will be your most traveled destination.

Hobbies may include nut-cracking, wet t-shirt contesting, bone collection, swallowing - erm - milk, milking heifers, listening to and living Nelly Furtado's Maneater and Promiscuous Girl...really, anything salacious.

Job Definition and Roles

Erm... No one knows what a"socialite" is or does but the pay is certainly much more than that of your average orthopediatrician.

Cupid is Dead! research carried out by MAVI News [part II]

cont'd from part I
3.0 THE VD™ LITERATURE REVIEW by Midega [midegablog]

The most apprehensive day in a man’s life is not when he’s getting a threesome...t’is this day. VD is a jinxed day; that’s why we had the VD massacre in 1929. It should have been symbolic; Al Capone murdered cupid and strangled romanticism. They say chivalry is dead – this, dear students, was its execution date.

Fellas. I think the only time a man – you, presumably – are allowed to wear red on February 14th is if it’s a Man U jersey you’s in.

It’s the ultimate fete of emasculation alongside the wedding, which if you bought the latest Ladies Thesaurus means ‘entrapment’. Everything about this now putative idea is more commercialized than the FIFA world cup. In men’s world it’s a social anathema, a financial tribulation from which they desperately need emancipation.

So much candy and sweet words go around VD you could get diabetes by just sniffing the air. But if you’re planning to give your lady a lousy gift you’d better make sure there’s no cheap candy or chocolate involved; your chutzpah and cheek won’t get you far, coz chics are curmudgeons at least twice as physical as they seem, quick to anger when on a sugar rush.

Today, pleasing a lady on VD is abstruse; like the female orgasm, it’s hard to understand, but you’ll just know when - and how - you’ve disappointed.

I love relationships though; I love that sublime sensation of emotional blindness when you find someone with whom you find your own language. The kind that only you two speak and understand; the kind that even with distances parting them, as one heart beats the other reverberates.

But VD is a social obligation that I’m not so social with. It’s that smidgen of dirt that taints the whole institute of courtship, that blithering taste in your mouth that refuses to leave; t’is to love what the Nixon Regime is to the United States presidency. The Watergate of relationships; the Anglo-leasing of marriages; and like the Kenyan referendum, it splits opinions right through the sexual divide.

Somewhere between acceptable VD celebrations and expectable romance, ladies lost their ethical compasses, and the line between rational and capricious expectations became impossible to trace.
VD is second to only Xxx-mas day as the day with the most sent cards. But technology is rendering Christmas cards obsolete, as it should VD. Today, it’s subsequently apt to just wall your lady “HVD, love” on Facebook. Most of the local media are what I consider infotainers – merging information with entertainers – but on VD they metamorphose to bullshitainers. Brutally milking the day for all its worth. They entertain by spreading disinformation about VD; anything to make a commercial kill son.

I wonder why ladies take VD advice from these mainstream disinfotainers; it’s like a six-year boy going to repent to a catholic priest that he likes older men.

The day is ridden with so much controversy you’d think you woke up at the Vatican City. It has such an arcane and esoteric history, murkier than swimming in the Nyando River.

The only special thing about February the 14th is...it’s just two days after Mary Lindo’s birthday.

So this year I’ll spend my VD in the morgue, the same way Valentinus of Rome and Valentinus of Terni actually did, years ago in the third and second centuries respectively. Plus I’m no catholic, don’t subscribe to their doctrines and practices so I see not why a lady should coerce me into actively observing anything that comes from a sodomy-ridden fat bellied society of religious bigots; sorry, I meant The Vatican.

The whole concept of VD is nefarious and defeating to humane logic. There’s actually been no documented authoritative evidence that backs up erroneous opinions that Valentine, the Saints, displayed any romanticism during their lifetimes let alone February 14th.

But if at all we insist on celebrating this day, I say let’s make it green. The whole universe is going green, signified by the construction of Masdar City in Abu Dhabi; the first all green city powered solely by renewable energy. VD causes anthropogenic environmental degradation. So why not put designated bins around the country where all flower recipients could smartly discard them and help in growing compost manure?

Similarly, VD could be extended over a three-day period so that those who get roses on the first could resell them on day two to other lovers and we’d have collectively made the planet a greener place.

Some quarters insist VD is a Christian culture. I differ; rather, it’s part of ancient roman culture. There’s nothing churchy about propping up intimacy on just one day of the year, especially for the unmarried. Wouldn’t the church call that premarital sex? But then again it’s not really premarital sex if you're not planning to get married. It’s more of a business culture.

There’s this great book I saw my mum reading this December, ‘214 Ways to Say I Love You’; ladies, it’s a great book and you’d really not want to miss it. It makes great fire for the jiko at night! VD is a pain in the neck, literally, in the sense that every time I see a lady in red I have to turn my head the other way in utter disgust.

So as the farce continues, enters a lady stage left, exits a man stage right. MAVI!

4.0 CHALLENGES OF THE VD™ FALLACY by B'Jay Ongeti

A friend recently observed that February 14th and April 1st are but the same day, just with different titles. One is a spade, the other a really large spoon. I don’t blame him. Indeed on both days, folly flourishes with astonishing abundance and speed, like a reckless miraa truck from North Imenti.

VD comes charging at us like a Spaniard bull, bells clinking and whistles resounding, but we men and all our glory in folly simply stand there, waving our RED towels. Daring it to charge. And smack! We get paraplegicly crushed. But we never learn, do we? If ever there is an event that should call for men to run, it is VD.

It matters not whether you have those Kipki-mimi arap Kipke-wewe genes or not. Just call yourself Hussein Nuts this once... and BOLT! Seriously, the mascot for this horrendous day is a fat portly obese chubby chunk of a dude with an arrow. An ARROW...for Berbatov’s sake?! That’s a bloody weapon! Ama Bruno Mars managed to convince jamaaz that the only weapons in the world of love are Grenades and Blades? That’s called rhyme; fools! Why not a fungabble mamacita with a bottle of Napoleon or something?? I for one would have less bile for Valz were that its talisman. Ahem, taliswoman!

By now you might think that I am averse to the whole love and romance wagon. Far from it. In fact, I am happily attached. (Wait. You can’t really be “happily attached” can you? That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it? Much like “fully empty” or “happily homosexual.” But that’s for another day.) I AM happily attached to a girl...we’ll call her Prudentia. I give her a pseudonym because should she read this article, I would effectively be under sanctions for an indefinite period; further, any attempts by me to obtain any ‘favours’ would be so royally Mubaraked!

Reasons why am against this day? One. Last year, VD fell on a Sunday. I remember because there was a league-defining Arsenal match, which I missed because I was out buying roses and swinging pinky-fingers with Prudentia in town. Yes; me, with all my gangstaliciousness, clutching a bunch of roses in all their redneckness, shimmying across town. Ok, maybe Gangstalicious isn’t the boondocky picture I want to paint. So instead picture a guy with gang-sign tattoos all over his arm, a scar across his left cheek, a Rastafarian armband and a smile that curves downwards. That is how gangster I am. But here I was carrying flowers.

Two. VD leaves a serious dent in we the men’s pockets. It is well known that romance and finance are synonyms. If not, they are Siamese twins connected by brain – again, how many survive surgical separation? Now, if cars are a measure of finance, this is how rich I am: I own a Toyota Feetz, a Legsus and a Feetsubishi. I acquired my driving licence from NFS Underground School of Driving. Sadly, Prudentia like many other Kenyan girls is allergic to an Ubandoh diet, so you can imagine the magnitude of the dent that was left in my pocket last year after a 5-star date. It brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “money has been poured”.

For these two reasons, I believe this day is manifest bullshit! nonsense. A calculated scheme by our opponents, aimed at bringing our gangsterhood to disrepute.

Which is why, dear students, I fully endorse MAVI. That, and MwaKs – Mpango wa Kayndows.

5.0 CONCLUSION by Yule Mbois Mndialala

So it’s Feb 14. Mechanic mass produced messages of love hanging in the damned mobile network, predetermined conversations clogging up the networks. “My wife [or whichever other mountable ass you are endowed with today] has me between a rock and a hard place.” “That’s her job...you should respect that” George Clooney, Intolerable Cruelty

What you should not respect, however, is the moronic view that today is a ‘day of love’. Like Waga Odongo, I prefer 365/6 days of real emotions. In fact make that 364/5 days. I choose to ignore Feb 14th completely! So MAVI on you men who are dressed or accentuated in red today, be that literally or figuratively. Unless of course the only top you could find to cover for your only clean trouser's mysteriously awol zipper is a dirty Kenya Airways T-shirt. Like me.

Niccuh you gay!

If you still insolently choose to believe that love sprouts like a seasonal weed today,  lemme say 3 things.

• Firstly, it is clear that the kind of help you need I am not equipped to deliver. It would involve a speculum and a heavy dose of Valium. I would however be open to abetting euthanasia for you; any good farmer knows that a weed must be nipped in the bud before it spreads root;

• Secondly,  look outside your window. Does your mourning morning look that lovely, Nairobi? 

• And thirdly, there is no thirdly. And don't second guess me.

Of course if you got me a gift, and my vitriolic bashment of the scupid crimson day somehow leaves you feeling disinclined to acquiesce to the load of bollocks that is 14th Feb, the idea behind this piece is that there's always another day. I may suggest 15th Feb, or someday soon, while your emotions are still on a high, convinced that it's somehow the season of love.

Have a Chippo Fungary, Wasabi and Soy Saucy VD.

Yours truly, Schupid;
the thing that shot Cupid dead.

Cupid is Dead! research carried out by MAVI News [part I]

by Yule, Waga Odongo, Theo Onyango, Frank Midega and B’Jay Ongeti. 

Ambience. Romance. Soul. Flowers. Candy. Wooing. Shoes. Dinner. Dresses. Serenade. Masquerade. Cash. Lots of it. Sex. Not so much of it. What do these things have in common? Nothing!

There’s only two people in the world you should lie to…the police, and your girlfriend.

Ok, wait. That’s not entirely true. They do share a connection. A series of dots tracing a farcical fallacy that joins them to a day. VD. Especially when you add wreaths and wraiths to that list. On behalf of all men, lemme take my head off and bang it on the wall for a bit; perhaps even tear my hair off, for maybe if I martyr it we may all come to our senses and spare ourselves the collective ‘ouch!’ that is frankly the only liaison that creates a rapport between the aforelisted instruction manual. That and the fact that it’s hardly a coincidence Venereal Disease and Valentine’s Day share an acronym. That, by the way, is the last time we blaspheme on this and other pieces of MAVI – as in, articles by the Men Against Valentine's Initiative. Henceforth, we will only refer to it as VD™.

The problem with this day is probably the same problem with these men: Theo Cheatskin, Waga, B’Jay (don ask) and Frank; not necessarily in that order of irrelevance. I will summarize that problem in one word. Extravagance. And since I have little space to express myself now as a result of these 4 opinionated bigots’ pencil-pushers’ exuberance with words, I’ll cue lecture 2. MAVI 102, introduced by Theo...

1.0  BACKGROUND HISTORY OF VD™ by Theo Onyango.

In the past, there existed a bevy of Desperate Housewives Kenya Inc™©®. They had gotten weary of tending to man’s endless perverse primary needs: walking around the house naked, gratifying his unquenchable sexual appetite, posing for nude photography (which after you break up is leaked on the net), being tied to a bed; and of course the other secondary wishes: to be fed and have the laundry done.

These women yearned for a time that they would be rescued from all these monotonous household tasks, to live the fairytale for just one day. And just like that, VD was born.

Valentine was the Emperor’s wife. It turns out she was the most oppressed of the housewives, and it was thus at her request that the Valentine bill was tabled before the house.

She said: “Men are dumb; so when they ask why the holiday, we should say that a long time ago, there existed a Martyr – Saint Valentine – who was persecuted for his religious conviction. It’s not like they’ll actually go and find out the details”.

Njeri: “And that he used to secretly wed couples that were in love, but turned out the Emperor din like that, since it deprived him of soldiers during times of war. Therefore, shiny gifts would come in handy, jewellery and such, since these are the kinds of things issued at weddings. Cash money is also acceptable as an offering.”

Awour: “Since the Emperor wanted to convert Saint Valentine to Paganism to save him from persecution but Valentine refused, this occasion is a cause for celebration and a grand gesture would be appreciated: valet parking, red carpet...all the glamour and glitz.”

Wafula: “Poor Saint Valentine died of hunger, so it’s only right that there be lots of food...chicken to be specific!”

That night, after the meeting, Valentine performed ‘anti-pedriatic’ theatrics for the Emperor in bed...next morning VD was passed as Law. Cause...effect.

Need proof that this is indeed women’s day? Theme colour: RED. This was to symbolize the ‘suffering’ they endure during that time of the month when crumps and mood swings get the best of them; and when it was all finally over on the last day, that marked a moment of liberation.

1.1  Saint Valentine’s (Lover’s Day) = (Lover’s Day) VASELINNE NAITTS [anagram of Saint Valentine’s!]

Fellas, come on, you all know what this means. Really, when you think about it, Vaseline Nights would save you plenty of unwarranted expenses and effort: dressing up in red; looking all dumb just so you could push the boat out on a day, yet you haven’t the slightest clue as to how it came into existence; buying a rose flower, for it to go bad the very next day; dinner expenses; transport et cetera.

With Vaseline, all you have to do is be there. And the best part is that you can regulate the pressure as you deem fit in order to achieve the desired results, which is not the case with the more expensive  Valentine’s competitor.

Women are so accustomed to double standards; they set rules to a game and play along, but the moment they start to go down, they amend the rules in their favour: The tiny bit of information that the ‘round table’ of women left out in the Valentine’s Bill was that back in 1400 AD, there was The High Courts of Love where cases of betrayal akin to love were tried and sentenced (in some cases to death). In the modern day, if you spend on her generously, it is only fair that at the end of the night she invites you into her hidden pathway (generously, I might add). Failure to this, it would be instructive that she be taken to The Hague of Love, yaani Haga la Mapenzi.

2.0  VD: Love ‘Made in China’ by Waga Odongo

So Fred (Brilliant writer and good friend) asks me for 500 words on VD. We’re doing a sort of agglomerated patch-up article for his blog with other writers who are good; like Frank, Tedd, B'Jay and himself, as part of M.A.V.I. (Men against Valentine’s Initiative)...very Scatological with the name.    At the time it seemed like a good idea - t’was two weeks ago - but now after penning 1267 words on the same matter for the Nation, I’m sort of exhausted.

But still a promise and a platform with an invitation to exercise my vast prejudices on a medium that contains minimal censorship – what is there not to like?

For starters let’s talk about love.  Love is a type of socially accepted madness with its accompanied sexual jealousy and protectiveness. It is obsessive, delusional, confusing...and an unruly emotion.  It isn’t a very important emotion to be honest. Love builds homes, hatred inspires empires. The greatest empires are built out of hate not love. Monuments to hate are more impressive and awe inspiring than monuments to love. (Think Taj Mahal and the Pyramids which were built on slave labour.)

IF HE WON’T MARRY YOU NOW, HE WON’T MARRY YOU LATER!

Men – I will be honest – have never married out of love. Just because he loves you doesn’t mean that he will marry you dear.  It’s simple really, it’s not rocket surgery. Dear it’s not about you. It’s him. It’s not because you are ugly, unshaggable and unmarriable.  For a woman a decision is a multi-layered meshwork of considerations; for a man it’s either A or B. Its either he will marry you or he won’t.

Now a woman who was dumped for another woman  after ten years of cohabiting with a man and finds out that the man is going to get married with that (Shit  devil  whore > tick one, some or all) he has known for  a month will be surprised; and mortified; and feel unloved – but truth is, it’s not her fault. It’s all about your frame of mind consistent. Once a man makes a decision, he must never be seen to change no matter what. So if he tells you from day one that he doesn’t believe in marriage, ten years from now chances are he won’t or at least he will say he doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t.

The reason he leaves you to marry someone else is because - he now wants to get married and can’t propose to you because it will seem like changing his official position. It doesn’t even mean that he loves that shit- devil- whore more or that she is better in Bed ( but come on let’s face it: she probably is - you should have brought your friend along when he asked you to).  Giving in to a woman is a sign of weakness, so no matter how hard you nag, you won’t make him change his mind. It is easier to dump you and marry someone else than get you to marry him. I will explain more about this next time Fred asks me to write about this situation.  (Hopefully he will pay me this time)

VD is a day celebrating artificial love, pushed by the almighty forces of capitalism and preying on a human emotion. It capitalizes on your credulity and desperation. The format it takes is
more predictable than the outcome of the Ugandan Presidential elections. Jewellery, chocolate and a night out; some red lingerie, wham, bam - and tomorrow he is back to the secretary and ignoring you until your birthday.

Above all, men do not care about it. I will tell you why: there only 4 reasons a man will put an effort on VD and all of them are a bit disingenuous.

1. For starters, new girlfriend - he seeks to impress her.

2. He has majorly fucked up in the recent past and this is an attempt to cover up past wrongs.

3. It is for his ego. This is the worst man, because he will get you a very showy no expense paid VD in full public view- e.g. fly a plane to your university like that poor sod a while back- not because he loves you but to show how Great a man he is and how much better he is than the bog-standard men around. In his mind it’s about him, because the applause will be for him and not you. This man will get tired of you very quickly because as soon as he runs out of expensive stunts to pull – you will be saying ‘Come-on love; last year you pulled out of a plane – so this year will it be the Challenger space ship for a trip to the moon? It would be easier for him to get another girl and start all over again with the showiness. He does it for his ego to be lauded, not cause of you dear.

4. He is trying to impress someone else. If he brings you chocolate to the office, and all manner of fripperies, perhaps it might be the fact that he actually is trying to prove his premium as a man to a co-worker whom he has been eyeing.

The intimate dinners and motions through VD are so overdone and faked that honestly I think they belong on The Sun's Headline page.  Instead of one day of hyper-frenetic over-emotion, I prefer 365/6 days of real emotions.

VD is all spin; you put out an annual message that all is well in your relationship, deceive yourself that he cares. Trust me there is more realism in some bourgeois Corporate Social Responsibility department than at a VD dinner.

VD is superficial, vain, consumerized, boring, mass produced and unoriginal. It is “love made in China.”  Love, above all, is special and private.

That Facebook group “I am my own Valentine; because I am always there when I need me” is the most depressing, forlorn bunch of Saddoes. They should all be on suicide watch, lest they decide to get in their Vitzes and connect a pipe from the exhaust to the car compartment and do us all a big favour.

Plus, after rubbishing VD like that, let me add that if you are a woman and you are single on VD, you are a waste product of the oestrogen.  A diminished, unwanted by-product of socio-cultural relations and you should also get in the Vitz and gas yourself.

Happy VD (HVD) ☺

Spit Drool Click here for part II

Memoirs of Kalekye [Excerpts from a Fresher's diary] by B'Jay

This Post is as appears on B'Jay Ongeti's FB "notes" page, arrrrchived Thursday, 19 August 2010 at 12:39 am.

Day 1: Moi University Main Campus! The University with a difference :D

Day 2: Dear diary. This place is cool!! It's far from my hometown though - Kathiani. And I miss my boyfie, Mutiso!! :(

Day 3: Finding it tough to choose what to put on with my orange skirt. Should I put on the green top or the blue sweater?? Arrghh! (Am running late for the CU -Christian Union- meeting! Later!!)

Day 7: There's this thing I've heard all over the place. Some "Fresha Pap" thing. And boy don't people have names for it! Ati 'Jikonect na Fresha'. Mara 'Fresha ni sasa, kama si sasa ni sasa hivi - or mara thatthat'. I also heard "90 freshaz in 90 days . Gosh! These Campus boys! Makes me miss my Mutiso.

Day 8: Mutiso, oh Mutiso. He didn't call me today. Could he have 'Promulgated a Fresha' in that new campus of his??? Nimpate! Atajua malenge ni mboga!

Week 2: My roomy says I should quit being shade. Ati am Shagz munduz. She says I should undergo Rural Electrification.Whatever that means. She's from Nairobi by the way. (I know Kiserian isn't exactly Nairobi, but I'll let it slide)

Week 3: Fresher's Nite tonite. I'll borrow my Roomie's hipsters. (Oh, I joined Facebook today. Don't see what the fuss is all about). Met this fourth year dude. He's a ka-hunk! If Mutiso doesn't call me leo. . .

Week 4 [9.00pm]: At the fourth year guy's room (what was his name again?). Just watching a movie. I'm a virgin.

Week 4 [9.16pm]: I'm not a virgin. Popped that cherry...pap! (Fourth Year playing I just had $@* ft. Akon in the background)

Week 4[9.27pm]: The hell! Mutiso can shove it. I got myself a fourth year!

Week 8: Dear Diary. I've been missing CU meetings. Going to the pub instead. Started with Black Ice now am on Naps. Nappy Boy, some call it. Others 'the Emperor'. Its cheaper. Besides, Black ice ni kama kupepeta jiko, Naps ni kamakuwasha moto ya gas. We' unge'prefer gani?

Week 10: I stopped eating at the Mess. Skuizi nakula mabatini. Menu ni CNN (Chapo Nne Ndondo). Ama Ugaliions (Ugali with plain soup). Damn Fourth Year doesn't talk to me anymore. Nilimfanyia nini?? Ama ni yeye alinifanyia?

Week 15: Fourth Year can shove it. Mutiso can shove it. All men can shove it!!!  No wait, there was this guy at CU... maybe I should go back?

Week 15.5: CU was cool. Hope the Naps in my breath wasn't evident. I was chewing PK Menthol though. See you next sem!!