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. 

How to Train an Assmatic Dragon: The Sabina Joy Chronicles

by @french_freddy, ft. @chrisorwa & @iammugendi.

|A MAVI Initiative|

Once upon a time, in a little town called Downtown-kinda-meets-Uptown, there lived three boys. They were not made up, they were not a figment of thigh active imaginations; they even had four squares and twitting bluebirds to back up their accusations.

So @french_freddy decides to pull anotherrandom SJ reconnaissance, all in the name of Science: call it the Anatomy of Chemistry. Unwittingly, @chrisorwa and @iammugendi tag along for Furahi Day at Sen-traal; which of course made absolutely no sense when they headed away from Nakumatt Lifestyle, trekked all the way down Hilton Lane and checked into Eureka-I-Found-It-Land, henceforth referred to only as Joy-ride, opposite Kencom House.

Past the red-eyed beast guarding the entrance, the three musketeers – their muskets at full mast – wind up the stairs into the sensual lionesses’ lair. Sabina does have her joys. On the one hand is Chris, his schoolboy eyeballs cocked and ready to blow; on the other is the wiser Mugendi, braincogs geared on overdrive; then we had yours truly, the purveyor of all joy-ridden things…frankly heading PURELY for the Joy-riders' urinal.

A careless grope, hushed smoke and rushed drink later, and a blogpost emerges: three different perspectives, three different sets of eyes, three bloggers drumming up one post. Subject? The screw-driven power sockets in Nairobi’s oldest brothel.

**

The Art of the Bargain; by Yule Mbois Mndialala aka @french_freddy

So we do a quick round in the corridors; window-shopping if you like. Technically it’s more like an inventory of the available massandise. From the wide array of bad weaves, to the black negligees with lush, supple nipples, bottle-green grass sorta brassieres peeking. Only brassieres, unfortunately.

Seats, brandy, 3 glasses et voilà…Mugendi’s already being propositioned! As far as let’s-weigh-our-balls goes, nucca’s already filled his quota. Not one to fall into the blueballs quota, I grab the first Mamma I see. Zilch…nada…bilaz! She leaves a trail of dust, and Mugendi’s smug mug of a grin in my face, clearly thinking “Three dudes?” At least I kinda hit the tri-factor try-f#&ked-her.

The next lass wasn't as lucky. In a drunken bid to outwit me mateys, I pulled out all the stops. Not that it mattered, coz I had her at 'Twende room?'

2 fayfteh shot na nitakupatia hata bj, kira kitu...

Damn! Must be my good cologne...the suit and tie probably helped.

So I get her name - incidentally, not as fancy as a stripper name, but isn't Mary like the official hookers' anthem name? - and number just in case "one of these days I wanna call you up when you're off duty for a siesta fiesta..." The second she heard 2000 bob and a mention of the free cold beer I was gonna buy her, she was sold. Check into the bar, grab two drinks and pull up a stick. The choke-my-lungs kinda stick, not the stick that sticks between...you get the picture.

Then she goes, "so reo hatumagani?" I'm not so much into strange beds, or fancy Kyabu accents, comes the excuse, and after a rushed "haki nisaidie at least fare?", I gracefully excuse her from the table to go market her FMCGs (Fast Moving Consumer Goods).

***

Down the Rabbit Hole by @iammugendi

Now I know what Alice must have felt going down the rabbit hole, only this time it was up a bunch of stairs... Into a world where your value was determined by how much you exercised your haggling skills...

So on a random Friday night, 3 men wander into an establishment that may have well been The Land of the Lotus Eaters, where women declared their interest by a tap on the elbow... Cue some Dutch courage and a pact to draw the most interesting stories out of the bangable - by profession - ladies of Sabina Joy...

First things first; find someone of interest. Granted, the place

had quite a number of interesting characters; the woman with the visible bra from across the room, the other who seemed rather interested in out-shouting the music... But I digress.

Like the Linda Nchi defense forces, we had to find a base from whence to launch our offensive. The area outside the bathrooms seemed rather promising, and soon I had my first

conversation going.

Cate - which I know is not the name Her mamma gave her - taps my elbow, and I, feigning drunkenness, ask her what the going rate is. She starts at 500, which I thought was rather low - editor's note: clearly you don't read Nairobi Nights - so I ask her why it's so low...

Apparently, despite my shirt-and-sweater getup, I still look like a broke-ass opportunist. It hurt, and I told her it did. She offers to up the rate, but I walk away, making a lap through the crowded bar area. It takes a while to get elbow-tapped again. Perhaps Cate had spread the word - editor's note: you think? -, or maybe my lurking was raising suspicions... I had to move.

Another lap, and this time I get lucky again. Now I had to make it interesting. After asking how much it would be, I proceed to ask for a discount, claiming my junk was on the smaller side... Bingo! The woman was so bloody intrigued. Apparently she'd never heard a man claim to be small; only as unfathomably large as their egos. That said, she had some advice for

'enlargement' that she would share at a fee...

Interested as I was, I had to duck. My 15 minutes were almost up. One more lap. This time, I had to politely shake my head and decline the elbow taps - editor's note: I thought usually it's the dude that gets to tap that? It's a brave new world :)

One particularly daring girl grabs me by the junk, giving me what I can only assume was a come-hither look (I may have been a tad tipsy), and I was left speechless for a bit... That was my cue to leave. Any longer and the women would have had my head; the one above my shoulders, that is.

And so, with blood rushing through my veins and two heads full of rushing blood, I join my boys and we head out into the night, when the coast was clear, with stories to pen...

                                    The Social Experiment by @chrisorwa

If cars are pussy magnets then alcohol must be a pussy repellant - editor's note: no, nucca, just you. After several shots of Richot brandy, all the “ladies” seemed disinterested. Or maybe just didn't realize what I thought shoulda happened. The crazy part's that 10 minutes before this escapade, we was all homeward bound from a Rotaract meeting, till @french_freddy went like... “Gotta take a pee."

                     The rest was history.

I strolled through the dingy alley filled with cigarette smoke and ammonia, a combination that gave off a distinct aura of cheapness. Someone once said that the pee headquarters of Nairobi are at SJ. The feeling of relieving oneself while "ladies” lurk in hover-crafts behind you IS indeed somewhat magical; all of them waiting to relieve a relieved man. I trolled on the dungeon path but surprisingly garnered no attention - editor's note: Surprisingly? Have you met you?

*Double checks* did I pee on myself or something? Done with the alley, I was headed for the bar when a hand touched my shoulder, “Sasa Blackie, si twende” - editor's note: and it was thus that @chrisorwa's Twitter handle changed to @blackorwa.

My thinking cap was clearly off as I came back with a, “Twende wapi?...then quickly caught myself:

Me: Ni pesa ngapi?

Her: Mia nne.

Me: Mimi nina soh moja.

Her: Uko na ya Room?

Me: Iko.

Her: Twende.

Me: Ngojea nitafute change.

Her: Leta nikutafutie.

Me: Hapana, mimi sitrust watu ka nyinyi na pesa zangu.

That’s how I pulled an MIA to rendezvous with my “partners in crime”. Walk through the bar and none of them's in sight. I’ve just been punk’d!

Look right, look left, and look right again, if it’s clear start the process all-over.

That train of "looks", however, collided with Essy, a beauty bound to no soul.  She noticed me noticing her and yanked her 40 inch plus body on me face. This was not part of the script. Without giving it a thought I backed her into the wall, her characteristic sexy voice pushing my mind straight to auto-pilot mode, “Sasa Essy vile wewe mzuri hivi unafanya nini hapa?” - editor's note: left to your own devices you could c*ck-block yourself, dude!

Three seconds later she was ten meters away, her voluminous gadgets running after her. Luckily I spot @iammugendi at the far end of the bar staring at something that didn't quite seem human.

It was time to compile the findings, but @french_freddy seemed determinedly if undecidedly at large. A thought raced through my mind to check him in the rooms but before the thought could mature I spotted him “gathering data”. The alcohol was beginning to wear off and as we went through the first exit, I spotted Essy. I could feel my mind updating to settle-a-score status, so I excused myself, rushed to her and straight to her face, asked “Do you do anal?”. "Yes. At 1,000 bob."

That’s my transport expenditure for a whole two weeks! Sayonara!!

***

For a female perspective , see @savvykenya's Sojourn to Sabina Joy

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.

The Tragic Sense of Love - a M.A.V.I.! production

I speak to you today as the self-proclaimed, and - in my head - literally acclaimed junior lecturer of MAVI, the Men Against Valentine's Initiative. So all y'all Swahili speakers can try forget what the acronym sounds like, if indeed you dare. As MAVI 101 unfolds, you may realize that it is based purely on experience...little empirical research has been put into it, save for a generalized if simplistic assumption that no one is anathema to some sort of affection, a fact derived from the premise that no one man is an island.

M.A.V.I.!

They call it the Greatest 3-word Message. To some extent, the hypothesis behind such reasoning can hardly be argued with. For why else would one sit and hope that once said, these three little words will be reciprocated, and not reimbursed? Why else would another run, and beg their God that the other party in their nifty equation of comfort dare not say these three little words?


The human heart, is simply a work of art; a masterpiece of design, construction and brilliant packaging; divine to its last detail, and a tribute to Providence, whosoever that be to you. Befitting then, that these three words relate to this very core of human life. Like any other great work of art, the heart needs these words; like a professional conservator, they revive it, giving it life, and the fortitude to readapt time. Being a passive pacifist myself, these three little words bear significant meaning to life in my vista, and many a times I find my head hermetically wide shut, heart tightly open to the possibilities of the painter's brush.

I. Love. You.

Three simple words. Three very difficult words to utter. Words, however, that flash in our minds every time we think we are in danger...think we may not make it. Perhaps not entirely in that format, but certainly in one format or the other.

They also say our lives flash before our eyes when on the verge of sure death. I say our loved ones do, and you have but to listen to archived phone calls from the victims of 9/11 in their final minute to concur with me:

[I just wanted to tell you that] I love you...that is what they were all saying down their phones, from the hijacked planes and burning towers...love was all they had to set against the hatred their murderers [set on them]    - Ian McEwan.

Octavio Paz put it best in saying that 'love is one of the answers humankind invented to stare death in the face: time ceases to be a measure, and briefly, we know paradise'. Yet for some reason, to us it is 'but a universal migraine, a bright stain in the vision that blots out reason' (Robert Graves); indeed, love is a whole climate of inexhaustible resources in the way of opinion.

Only in death does it truly manifest itself. The biggest of cowards will brave their final moments, strong, thinking, focused on a disillusioned past of relationships that consisted in discussing if they really existed. For 'in that moment, there is only love, and then oblivion' (Ian McEwan).

But why only from a distance? Why only this week? Why in that final moment? Why not tell her, tell him, this very spontaneously combustible moment, what you truly feel? You are here. They are here. We. Are. Here. Must we really invite this moment of brilliant inspiration to the exigencies of life?

She had  finally asked me out...and I didn't even get to tell her how I felt...

Love does not mean never having to say we're sorry. It does not mean never having problems. It doesn't even mean a special day every damn second month of the year when funds are at a decided low, and donors far far away. What love means, is meaning our words; meaning our actions; meaning to work through problems. At least insofar as relationships are concerned. It's hard, sure enough, sometimes inhumanely so; for while love at times feels like a tonic to the toxic twists in life, I have in a paltry odd 20-whatnot years come to learn that it can be an addictive poison, a stealthy hallucinogen with a view to bombard your existence to naught. But as Louis de Barnieres once put it, the human heart does like a little disorder in its geometry.

That little disorder...that is love.

'Birds do it, bees do it,

Even educated fleas do it,

Let's do it, let's fall in love...'

                                        -Alanis Morisette or Ella Fitzgerald (depending on the version u heard)


In concluding this lecture, I'll leave you with a series of quotes - aka Course Reference List - about love; you may pick whichever one suits your life this here season. I would prefer that you be conversant with these quotes by Monday, when I and my fellow associates at M.A.V.I. introduce MAVI 102: Cupid is dead.

• Love is at once the brother, son, and father of death, which is its sister, mother and daughter. - Miguel de Unamuno, The Tragic Sense of Life.  

• Love is a fog that burns with the first daylight of reality. -Bukowski.

•  I think about the day I got wrapped around your finger - KEM

• Only Eros makes sense; knowledge is empty infinity - Cioran

• Love itself is dead...everybody's just together for convenience - Drew Fraser, Bad Boys of Comedy Sn 2

• One minute it's love, then suddenly it's like a battlefield - Jorin Sparks

• I might fall in love with you in a few minutes - Chris Echols #Chips Funga

• Love is always over in the morning - Andrew Eldritch; Temple of Love

• At least act like you love me if you don't...am used to people faking it with me - Damn Fool, Bad Boys of Comedy Sn 2  

• Love is the eyes of god, hate is his asshole - Perry Farrell

• Love is not a victory march / It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen

• Love is the shit that makes life bloom, and you never know when you might step on it [and I add, 'for otherwise you would work like hell to avoid it'] - Michael Front

• Love is the gun that I fire inside of you - Mary Beats Jane 

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