Why You Need an Insecure Woman in Your Bed

Because pussy. 

Plain good old Hawaiian punani, coochie, cunt, whatever the fuck you wanna call it. And lots of it. 

In fact, I was gonna tell you why you should date insecure women, but then...date? Why the fuck would you wanna do that to yourself? You cannot possibly think, my nigga, that you have what it takes, should have what it takes, to deal with her demented assortment of fractured battered esteem issues.


If you do, even think you do, shurrup! and take a seat. This first lesson is free, save for that glass of whisky you need to walk out and acquire - go all G4S a bank if you must - to properly digest this here wisdom a brother's laying on you.


Right now. Go.


Seriously. Go fill it up. I'll wait. 

______________________

Now that we have your inebriating attention, why insecure women? 


Well for one, she doesn't have an opinion. Even when she develops a brain and grows a voice, she keeps both to herself. The ideal woman. On occasion she shares them with her friends Udaku and Lil Yule Spreader. But not you. 


Idyllic? Of course. She will never once say no, for one. When you want it, she knows to want it too. Like a scene from your favourite porn flick, she will do whatever you want, her face revealing absolutely nothing on just how much she doesn't wanna be there.


Why? Because she has a pathological need to be needed, that's why. 


However, for those rare moments where the parallax error her height disadvantage on you allows her to think herself your equal, to look you in the eye - doh! - a few items for your arsenal will hereby be enumerated...


1. A devil of a tongue. 

This asset will, like an assegai, allow you to take a stab at her bag full of inadequacies - which she conveniently reveals as you court her. 

Like an assegai, it will allow you to be close enough to pick up her pieces and piledrive her to bed in a flash. Instances where this is effective include, but are not restricted to:

"It's easy to see why he left/ beat/ cheated on you."

"I gave up on so many other options to be with you."

And a personal favourite:

"Don't start your usual pouting. I can't stand that cry-baby shit."

2. A fist. 

This one is not as important as the latter. For one, this one can land you in a cell. Losing you her pussy in the progress. 


But who are we kidding; men get away with rape, stripping and defiling young slits before dumping them in latrines like the poop they are. So save the fist for a rainy day, when you need a sparring partner who returns no punches (coz What Would Jesus Do?) 


Jail cells are for murder here, occasionally, and chicken thieves. Not violators in the sacrosanctness of blissful houses. 


However, this little bit of ammo is not entirely as ironclad as the tongue. Women have been taught that physical violence is a no-no, so her latent brain may at some point pick up on that bit of annoying man-hating feminist noise. 


And? You lose her pussy.


3. An apology. 

I can hear you scoff, nigga. Take a sippy, lad because when it comes to apologies, you will want to be as choice and rare as her force of will is. 


In the immortal words of Usher - a god of pussy ways himself - she came to give it to you. It ain't what you do, it's what you do it like. 


This one can only be best illustrated with a case scenario. 


Say she comes to a party with just a male friend. You need to assert your authority over that piece of ass you call yours. Property rights and that jazz. You need to, in no uncertain terms, use that snake of a tongue to backlash her into submission about it.


Now - and this is the important bit so put that glass down - when the tables turn, cue the apology. 


Say she complains when you:

a) make her walk/ drive you all the way to a club, 

b) leave her at the entrance and tell her to make her way home, 

c) and proceed to waltz into the club to catch pints with two female workmates,

d) thereby making her cry all the way home;

say that you are sorry. 


When she points out how you acted when it was her with just-a-friendly guy, tell her that you understand, and that you are sorry she felt the need to cry about it.


It ain't what you say. It's what you say it like.

After all, she needs your affirmation like a fat kid loves cake. She ain't going nowhere. Remember how I said you would get lots of pussy? Well, apply these steps and you need no more resolutions in 2015. 


Because you will have a lot of her pussy this way, those two work colleagues', and at the end of it all, whatever she says you can throw back at her. You don't even need to hide your passwords and phone and shit. 


Show her what you are doing and she will still cling on to you for dear breath. Fuck her best friend, hell, the one chick whose sight she cannot stand even - she will stay right there, loyal. Fuck what Chris Brown says about it. Fuck her after a particularly lovely date with a chick who did not put out, because blueballs sting...and she is always available.


At this point, grasshopper, you will be thinking about karma. Nope. She is not real, ergo no bitch.


Your life is what you make of it. 


I would rather be ScarJo watching Timberlake whine like a little bitch about what goes around coming back around. Coz YOLO. Who cares if the car crashes at the end of the scene and you, ScarJo, die? Who says that shit has anything to do with anything?

Wouldn't you wanna be her too?

What women want: a man who is rugged,

likes the outdoors, likes meeting new

people, is determined, always takes

control and is not afraid to take risks.

So there; the perfect man, according to

women, is a Serial killer.

|

Waga Odongo

Verdict: If you get her to love you, it doesn't matter what you do; she will learn to like it all.

Post-Election Insolence: Same Script, Same Cast, Different Lanes (Part I)

April 26th, 2013: 

Under the influence of an inspired State House PR team, and a brilliant presidential speech-writer, I find myself in the unfamiliar position of becoming President Kenyatta’s unofficial fan-boy. And going by my Social Media timelines, it would seem that I’m not the only Kenyan above the ignorance of tripping over myself at what must be this president’s burliest mascot – his smoke, pun unintended, and mirrors.

There was the YouTube video of bloopers from the campaign trail, aired live on Citizen TV – among other nationwide visual couriers of new agendas. What self-respecting PRO could in their right mind have passed up on that kind of marketing? A nice touch you’ll find available for download at Image-improvementfordummies.co.ke and cleanasababysbottom.com. 

Characteristically much later came the Cabinet Secretary announcements, anticlimactically revealing only four of a possible eighteen nominees. The images depicting UhuRuto with their sleeves rolled up with the red, blue or matching ties could not have been lost on us either, a leaf copy-pasted straight off President Obama’s playbook; as was the setup of the presidential platform at the foot of the pillars of State House, and the “brotherly love” approach to handling the media.

The immediate hullabaloo over this delay in cooking up a cabinet was counterbalanced by equally loud calls for patience, since the process of selection would only do Kenya good, hence requiring diligent input by the two Jubilee leaders. Opinionistas were quick to delve into the matter, adding the fact that it allowed Parliament to begin the vetting process on the four, notably the nominee to the National Treasury. A road sign was quickly erected, reminding us of the immediacy of the budget reading, and pointing directly at President Uhuru’s ingenuity in prioritizing that appointment. Even more pedestrian crossings allowed us to cross the reality that department of state appointments in democracies such as the motherload United States are also conducted in similar fashion. Hail the dapper UhuRuto for style, they said.

After ascertaining that we’d had enough time to mull over this perceived letdown, yesterday happened. The now sixteen member council of nominees’ credentials have since been turned into fodder on massive multi-page spreads in the National Press: a young and virile team of technocrats with the résumés, frequent flier miles and Varsity qualifications – read Diaspora education – to back them. It would be difficult to dig into a good majority of these consummate professionals before they’ve had the onus of a Cabinet track record to look back on; and so for the most part, Kenyans chose to eyeball the two final nominees, who had the ignominy of a hangman’s noose in the form of their past performances hanging over their heads.

It was indeed a masterstroke distinctive of this new regime’s style when the two final nominations came. The execution was flawless…introduce the less-maligning Balala first and fast as Mining Secretary, and what with Kenyan women’s obvious goo goo gaga reactions to both Andrew Kenneth and then-President Elect Uhuru’s son, it was hard to disagree with that logic. Much especially so when one of the bigger stains in Kenya’s conscience – if she had one – was announced next as Lands, Housing and Urban Development Secretary. A fellow blogger went as far as inaugurating the indelible ink used by the IEBC to mark voters’ pinkies as ‘the Ngilu’, aptly summarizing her hard-to-be-rid-of hard-as-nails Die Hardness. 

  

In the interests of being fundamentally unKenyan, however, let’s spot and point out the obvious flaws in this action by the president, and the equal and expectedly opposite overreaction by the public. First off, if the past 7-odd years of Mr. Kibaki’s governance have shown us anything, it’s that we the duly submissive wananchi have an impressively sturdy level of BSc, aka Bullshit compliance. After an initially quasi-smooth beginning to his term, Señor Kibaki’s government began experiencing hit after hit of graft allegations on a grand scale. Cabinet Ministers who would go on to survive both terms in cabinet were at the heart of these scandals, and no less than the Prime Minister, at the time, as well as the current President and his Deputy have since had their fair share of the corruption allegation cake.

Our national ego however quickly massaged our national conscience into submission, cushioned by echoes of a booming economy that peaked at 7 percent+ growth in 2007. Secondly, even after the election violence slammed the brakes on this impressive trajectory in the eve of that year, our precocious National Accord did precious little to bring to account all the evils of the 3-odd month chaos that rocked the country, preferring instead to lock them up in a cabinet of faux peaceful oblivion. I will hereby declare my silence on the awkward little topic of how far up that cabinet’s annals the matter of the two Suspects-in-Chief’s involvement is filed. 

Fast forward through Mr. Kibaki’s second term, right past the fact that the economy has never quite recovered to its pre-07 election pregnancy glow, police brutality caught live on tape, Ngilu’s ‘Kusema-na-Kutender’ government contract policy for her family, and arrive at the fact that these four politicians that will possibly make up Cabinet are a precipitate remnant of the systemic cancer that permeates Kenyan politics. The fact that we’re reacting so strongly to two cabinet ministerial appointments belays the beleaguered truth that the President and his Deputy are not saints either. Their power is so much more potentially weary for Kenya’s economy than a couple of Secretaries could ever be. 

Moreover, there is also the little matter of the illusion of transparency – a cousin to the delusion of maturity that was peddled regarding our peaceful elections. Mock transparency concerts have become a favorite national pastime for us. Initially given to the impression of them simply being a little passing crush, I am wont to keep that false hope up given the vetting committee that awaits this panel of preeminent secretaries. A committee that itself wrought down the Integrity bill to its bare bone to escape vetting. Yet the same institutions that have been vetted include the IEBC (Independent Electoral & Boundaries Commission), the SCoK (Supreme Court of Kenya) and the SRC (Salaries and Regulations Committee) among myriad others. And look how far ahead of the imaginary pack that has taken us! 

Vetting is a superficially pointless attempt at presenting us sanctimonious facades, behind which still sit the deep-seated structural flaws we are yet to take off our collective feet.

So as you and I continue to exercise in our national training grounds for BSc, it would behoove us to continue upgrading our UXp (User Exercise in patience) coz it’s gonna be a long ride. If UhuRuto really wish to preside over a nation devoted to balancing the historically set up equation of inequity, they might want to start by cutting their flair for the dramatic and convincingly turn their images on their heads, and with that, all the attendant melancholy their half-baked policies could inflict on Kenya.

How much BS is too much BS? Kenya is the perfect case study establishing that there is simply no answer to that question. Hopefully in Part II remember to bash the insidious Cord leadership, but for now, this seems sufficient.

    On a sidenote: 

      Of course I too thought the appointments yesterday represented one region, and part of one region alone. Runda, Nairobi. Or Muthaiga et al. The nominees have a lot in common with President UK, not least in their overwhelming affinity for the Queen's language, and an inescapable half Kikuyu + Kalenjin composition. And before you jump on my throat, I am a Kikuyu, so by stereotypical thought I readily admit to being a thief and first cousin to the president. 

That being outta the way, what I'd like to add is the fact that we need a rollerskating kinda cabinet, not a credentialist/ tribalist kind. Credentials follow the set norm. As does tribalism. Rollerskating needs you to practice being on the board - and granted, fall off it as many times as Edison's light bulb moments anti-orgasmed - till you find a way to stay on top of the board. And begin to muster it.

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. 

Plagiarist Beginnings: In League with Clay's Court, and Other Extraordinary Gentlemen

~

These are the Confessions of a literary 'one hit' wonder man.

Originally uploaded at Memorial Univerity 

~ 

On July 7, 2007, I was fortunate enough to be bored with proceedings at the Carnivore Grounds, sometime between 1 and 2 am. Come to think of it, it was actually 8^th July. I have a thing for dates, and the general correlation of numbers to situations.

Why I remember the date, perhaps? Because it was Saba Saba (7-7), a date immortalized by the number of times it inspired dread in my childhood owing to the magnanimous fimbo ya nyayo that clamped down on dissent annually on the date due to its significance in Multi-party politics? I can recall the many times I scaled walls as a kid to escape the onslaught of General Service Unit (GSU) policemen unleashed by Moi's hounds. Ok, that one's a lie. I wasn't scaling walls to escape them, but rather to watch them manhandle women and children - and a few potato sacks - from within the confines of my gated community, aka the ¼ acre plot we shared with 15 other tenants under Lord Landlady's eagle eyes.

But that ain't it. That's not why I recall 7^th July 2007 so vividly. It's a less nationalistic reason, that being that my birthday falls on 8th August, aka Nane Nane (8-8) – not really – and the chicita I was wooing then was celebrating her birthday on that day. 7^th July. It made for a quite interesting – in my mind – opener to the said woo conversation.

“Your birthday's 7^th July? Mine's 8^th August! We're meant to be together! [sick]”

Anyway, as I said earlier, I was fortunately – in retrospect – sufficiently bored sometime between 1 and 2am at Carni. Which is how I found myself gravitating away from the chicita, who'd been filling my eardrums to percussive inefficiency with the drole humdrum drones of how her soon-to-be ex was such a pig. Somewhat fortuitously, I escaped to the Dormans stall for a mug of coffee, and happened to end up engaging with one of the few chaps I found grabbing a caffeine fix himself. While the details of how or why this conversation began escape me - despite my being a teetotaler then - it would end up serving as quite the encounter.

We got a-talking about the legal profession with my new-found curious amigo amicus curiae, given he was venturing towards legal study, as was I at the time. After quite the exchange of ideas, banter and whatnots, he would then go on to ask me if I read blogs, and suggest a particular one. Being as I was the archetypal young man then, prone never to ask for directions, I omitted the fact that I had no clue what a blog was, content in the knowledge that my amicus omniscientae Google knew what it was. [Ok, that's the end of the terrible amicus inventions.]

The blog he recommended that I read, was thinkersroom, when he was still on Blogger.com. The blogger whose literary fodder was so good (still is, only less frequent) for so long that he was cited severally by International News outlets long before blogging became every [wo]man's accessory. And ignominiously, the same man whose works were subjected to a poor 'publicity stunt' by none other than Clay Muganda, who reprinted his work on his column in the Daily Nation's pages, citing it merely as 'available on the Internet.'

I was reminded of plagiary, and my own not-so-humble beginnings as I read Nyanchwani's blogpost last week, about how men should never be the good guy to women; one MMK (Media Madness Kenya, perchance?) chided and derided him publicly in the comments section about using two pieces of writing without citing them; I stopped myself in my own tracks before I could even consider rising up to judge him. I think it's only fair that I not be so quick to cast stones, given my own glass house being built on its own small foundation of plagiarism.

I. Plagiarised. @Roomthinker. No point justifying it. An explanation, nay – an elaboration of how it happened – I will, however allow myself.

It began when I started, in the second week of July 2007, reading Roomthinker's posts. Boy were they good. I enjoyed them a whole lot. So much so that I started pulling down some of his posts and saving them on my laptop, just in case, for some reason, his blog were to ever go down. As a purveyor of all things literal, that possibility could not be allowed to ever mutate to reality. I was soon in my first year of campus. 2007-2008's PEV happened,and  as I proceeded to my second semester in Varsity, I had a brace of pals – making up the trio of witty, literary musketeers we were – with whom I discoursed everything, from what women know or do not know they want, to what the implications of religion and God's existence – and the lack thereof 'Him' I proposed – meant to life. It was only logical, then, that we would discuss the posts I had saved as copy-pasted word documents on me trusty lappy as well.

A rather unexpected development, however, followed said logic. The posts I had saved on my machine were the only resource I had to share with them of Thinker's work (the Internet, in Moi University Main Campus Eldoret, was a major luxury then, compared to a need for sustenance in the way of supper.) They read the pieces in silence, then congratulated ME for such an affluent degree of sense, reason and wit in equal measure.

I had an option right there. Fess up – technically I hadn't lied yet – to the fact that it was Thinker's work.  Or take the credit for Roomthinker's writings and musings.

Copied from Class Guides

Since we're here discussing plagiary, we can all guess how that option went down.

It doesn't end there though; oh, how I wish.

In 2008, my old lady went to 'rest with the angels' (ironic, that, coming from a professed atheist, no? I tend towards the view that because she believed that's where she'd go, that's where – to her – she is.) My first ever Facebook note was my own lamentation of her passing, and soon I was publishing regularly on Facebook.

I proceeded to post this article lifted off Thinker's blog to my notes, without expressly stipulating that it was 'written by Roomthinker,' or, since I wouldn't actually have known to call him that then, 'initially posted on roomthinker.com by owner.' Immediately, I get a host of comments, especially from womenfolk who liked my writing, telling me how “THIS IS AWESOME!” and I was the “Greatest writer I know!”

Sema conundrum! Especially since the chap who 'introduced me to Thinker,' so to speak, was perhaps the second Facebook friend I added back in 07. Meaning he could read my notes. Cue the cover-up. Edit note settings; exclude @Archermishale from viewing this note!

It was all downhill from there. I did not once say that I wrote the piece, but I did not once correct those who very eloquently thought I had either. At the time, I was writing a lot of Facebook notes, and soon we had moved on to the next good (not “Greatest that ever lived!”) post I actually wrote.

I was also one of a clique of writers, one that has so far produced such success stories as @wagaodongo, @midegaodero and @yenyewe, that was known as Plus254. We had (and still have, somewhat) Facebook groups and pages, campus magazines and at one point even a website, that worked towards building our literary skills collectively. The same piece would go on to be published on our website under one of my past aliases; again, not one word. Having come this far, I figured I might as well be outed by anyone else. I certainly wasn't ready to do it myself.

But unlike Nyanchwani's blogpost, my indiscretions went unnoticed, or at the very least those who noticed weren't as savvy or brazen as the guy who blasted Nyanchwani. Or maybe it was too early in Blogger's days for there to have been an audience big enough to notice, a luxury Clay Muganda's post was not afforded. Neither was Barrack Obama, nor his Deputy Joe Biden, 20 years before him. I like to think that having battled such bigwigs (detest, absolutely, this word and how it's used on Twitter) Thinker had no time to slug it out with juvies.

Today I do not copy anyone's work, and when I base mine extensively on any piece, I am quick to link back to their original work. Thinker included :)

By the time I started out blogging, I'd done academic writing, learnt how to cite works read in writing my journal articles, and basically, matured. I did, however, put up @itsnowrc's post about Nairobi's ChipsFungaz on my blog, a popular post – judging from the close to 7000 hits it's had since. It was well credited, linking back to his site, and I made a point of contacting him randomly on Facebook, informing him that I'd used his piece on my blog. Had he had any reservations, it woulda been pulled down instantly, but as it turns out, he was easy, and I made a new friend to boot.

Why the big effort at elaborating my plagiarism? Well, for a moment as I was writing the piece I did on Mutula's life and death recently, I paralleled the if-by-Mutula fallacy to my own fault start as a writer. Questioned the questionable beginnings based on plagiarism, linking them to Mutula's dark ages, and the rather self-styled writer I now am to his proposed post-Moi renaissance. 

That thought disappeared as fast as it had shown up; after all, my plagiarist foundations did not defend a despot and legally jargonize the rigging of an election, making billions while at it. It only made me seem better than I was at the time; and I got not one cent out of it! At least Clay Muganda got a couple geez outta Thinker's work, though he did go on to lose his column for a while. The Daily Nation's management, including Charles Onyango-Obbo, handled the matter rather diligently, I might add.

So, to the beginners out there. It's easy to fall into the trap of using other people's ideas and claiming them to be your own. In fact, many creatives out there are afraid to let their work be seen, on the off chance that someone will like and copy it. To the first, I say do the easier and ethical thing, and simply credit your sources. Ignoring the misplaced energies spent trying to cover up your theft, it could save you a cereal bowl full of blushes at best; at worst, you could find yourself in a legal conundrum, what with copyright, trademark and patent laws slowly strengthening in Kenya thanks to institutions such as KECOBO, the Kenya Copyright Board, and KIPI, the Kenya Industrial Property Institute.

Borrowed from Pla(y)giarism vs Plagiraism

To the second, I say learn to put yourself out there as an artist. Sure your work may get copied, stolen, reprinted and whatnots. But you know what I do? I take copycats as a compliment. Copycat killers often are big fans of the original killers' work. It's the same here, only that amidst all the copying, stealing and reprinting, someone out there takes notice of what you're doing. 

And you get the call. 

Meanwhile, the copycat has no idea worth selling, and gets tangled up in his own web of lies eventually.