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

“Women always talking ‘bout what men, do, we don’t ever talk about what

women do…at least till now.”

- Ying Yang Twins, NAGGING.

Yuh heard? 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you said?


Give. me. a fucking break. I will now pretend you felt the sense to see that as the exclamation - from within your own little hell’s kitchen - which it truly is.


I have been watching you, skunk. Regarding your every move with suspicion, as you waltz from convention to the next, heels held at the ready to poke out the next mansplaining eye you meet.


And you meet them.


Everywhere you look, you see them. You actively seek them out, your funky 3-week soggy sock attitude stinking up every space you crawl into, every hole you skunk through. It’s lonely on your side of the bed, and you take it out on every little wanker with his dick out between his hands.


Because he is OBVIOUSLY creaming for your loins. How could he not be? Look at you and all that you 'guts going on'. Look at him as he sits and gropes and gapes at your *big brain*.


Who the fuck told Kenyan "feminists" that they could sit around and mutually masturbate, in their little regurgitating rooms, fixing their makeup just right, and proclaim a ‘crisis for the mens’ every two bloody cycles menstrual flows seconds?

"I know you're lying coz your lips are moving..."

- Meghan Trainor, Lips Are Movin'

Who, dear little winner with the silenced little weiner, whack-slapped your little brain so far up her ass that you lap up and spit out everything she says up like the little mongrel she has made you?


Who the fuck made cuckolding mainstream?



I went for the Storymoja Hay Festival last year. A mensed up bloody mess of a thing it has become lately, yet perfectly so. It is a representation of a little cosmetic cosmos we like to call a second or third cumming of the liberal Kenya. It lives in small dark "enlightened" crevices it calls *spaces* in Nairobi, arrogantly proclaiming its ignorance whenever a chance presents itself.


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?”

Continues here: click at your own fucking peril

Omnia - A poem by The Sun's Roof

One of my brothers from another father, possibly mother too, has been beaten by about as many bugs as have infested the blog owner, yours truly Yule.

I recently read a piece that talks about how an artist - which to me is a way of thinking, of living, of doing - invests his best writing in his/ her truths

 

Because at the end of it all, if as an artist you cannot make them feel, think or do -

not as you felt, thought or did - but as they themselves felt, thought and did in similar situations, then you fail before you take off.

Today, my brother, has failed not one bit.Here's an email I received from him early yesterday morning, about what one can only assume is the art of experience. Or is it the experience of art, drawn from experience?

 

And now, my brother Roof-sun. A poet, a writer, an artist. He also works as an engineer.

                                                                            ****

Her fragrance was Omnia. 

inThync Kenya

For an instance in time she engulfed me in its essence, her essence. 
And I, like many men before me, faltered...but only just so.
Days of hope and heartbreak culminated in one moment of resistance, 

the ultimate stand,
that I be the seducer and she the tempted one.  

At the edge, we danced, of fate, of life, of bliss and torture.
She side-stepped, I pirouetted, dizzy with the fantasies of youth and adulthood but caressed lightly.  

The night wore on, and so did we, languidly teasing each other, a sparring of hearts and wits.
Was it fear, or favour or what lesser men call common sense, that she whispered herself away into the cold night, 
leaving me with memories of longing and ponderings of time: past, present and future? 

Alas, as 'tis said, 'twas not but to be, that this perfect stranger, rakish and unsated, took flight on wings of sobriety, 
forgetting me in the twilight of our shared sins.
My heart now belts a steady nocturne, soulful and sombre, yet exhilirated at the taste of heaven seduced, 
the taste of hell's pleasures on my tongue.

She smelled beautiful.

She smelled like the promise of sex: feral and desperate,
yet barely contained.
A promise that was never made and somehow still broken.

Surrounded by a halo of electricity,
we were attracted to her danger: suicidal moths.
I spent an eternity with her in one night,
the one chosen from many...... Or was I?
Her kisses were dry and her skin cold.
Her smiles seemed empty, practiced and plastic.
Warmth I only found in whole women.
She was a trophy.

My pride was short-lived, a reflection of our shared insanity.
Yet, was she less because I could not claim her, conquer her?
Was she no more a woman, a lover, a friend,
because my pride was thwarted?

Much like the annoying moth?

In my weak moments, I wonder, what could have been?
What would have come out of our sinful union?
Green eyes watched us, as we danced and laughed
and made a mockery of friendship.
I lit that green fire and basked in its glow,
its radiance massaging this fragile heart.

Her fragrance was Omnia.

And, in a twist of longing and fate,
I seduced the green fire and turned it red.

Is this what it is to be a man,
to hold and to hurt and to promise to hold again yet only hurt again?
In the cold of early morning, my demons took flight,
Leaving me scarred and scared.

I saw my self for what I was: crooked and conceited.

This lust is a tantrum,

A mortal's obsession with the one considered angelic.
And angels are but demons and demons angels.

The dust cleanses with its settling and reality burns away the fantasies.
Yet, here I remain, watching, waiting for her return.

****

R.E.S. Pia C. Tunataka

Fred Wambugu Maina ©. All rights reserved

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I begin with somewhat of a semantic incongruity; no one woman is a b*tch. It is a loathsome word that is in most ways really unbecoming, a little like the stereotypical tenure that all men are dogs. In that respect, no woman should be called as such, much less so treated.

Of course, when it comes to men, at some point in this argument we have to wake up to the reality that not everyone around us is crazy. Just maybe, we could be the wacky ones. Sure some of the subscribers to the popular men-are-dogs complex belong in some special facility the likes of which has yet to be conceptualized, but if everyone around you thinks you’re a dog, you may quite well have missed the ape train, evolving from any one of an assortment of animalia families à la dental structure: 42. Prognosis – time you consulted your dentist.

In the same frame of mind, women do have the propensity to make friends – more oft than we might prefer – with that little b*tch called Drama. Certainly not all the time, and undoubtedly, some women are more acquainted with her than others. But do trust that this is one imaginary friend every clutch purse comes with as an accessory. For the most part it’s just a protozoan endoparasite, a fixed medium of harm cooped up harmlessly under her skin. Much like pepper spray, this bloodsucker’s call-to-action has its situational applications, and every ego-blooded male that has crawled under any lady’s skin has come head-to-ugly-head with her; and in the words of Terminator Schwarzenegger, she is one ugly m@*herf!ck$r.

Am sure we’ve all had a run-in with her...Dramaticus Queenopithecus or simply DQ by scientific nomenclature; that innate little Miss Boss-lady who coerces a woman’s hand to snap in a circle three times, or in any one of its multiples she deems fit for the brute in sight. The said brute in this case being under indictment over one of the many trumped-up charges she has constrained in her annals: from his simple negligence of the fact that she sat hours on end trying to hack a layered French pleat or some other new hairdo, to his asking an indelicate question, or worse still, his breaking her mirror.

The disconsolate look on one particular lady’s face – we’ll call her Sasha Vicious – when her then boyfriend unwittingly dropped her little ^∂∂mirror mirror on the wall^∂∂ would have led any competent consultant to come up with the conclusion that her image had forever been lost! Needless to say, her visible dejection was like moonlight, metamorphosing her into a she-wolverine in mere moments. Am sure you could do with a few more details on that one but am afraid it’d be a pointless endeavour; my stress on ‘then’ should suffice – her then boyfriend.

It's All About Me...Me, Me, Me!!

Mama-dramas have been a constant pain to the burdens of many a man’s minds, and to put it in greater context, consider the number of break-ups just before the ‘festive’ lovers' season.Valentine's Sorry Excuse of a Day. Of course the festivities all occur behind hermetically closed doors; whether the kitchen, bathroom, or more conventionally, zee boudoir. Audacious campus orgies may even transcend closed doors and end up in corridoors. But getting back to my point, lucid research results presented by my local bartender point to a time-honoured percentage increase in fatal relationship crashes this past month, and, he posits, they are projected to hit high point this coming not-so-Sunny day.

What’s wrong with this picture? Am sure the loud preceding words may incline many to feel a slight slant against the fairer sex. However, respect is two-way traffic. While women have their fair share of soap opera mini-productions – and many may be the reason their gentlemen are taking drives and flights away from them – we have to distinguish between cause and effect. And here I turn to the boys: fight a man over spilt beer if you must; discipline the unusually stupid bloke who slights your Missus – that is your prerogative; but clench your fists if you have to, to stop yourself from raising them in her direction as you tremor in fury. That, am sorry, is no prerogative of any man.

When a woman begins to feel like she’s safe behind a mosquito net, yet trapped with a single vampire hanger-on that may swoop at any moment of madness, then no one can fault her for exiting the system. Unfortunately, few actually do leave, and many will rationalize cases of such assault and battery with their mates’ intoxication, mitigating it with their calm nature in sobriety. Call me cynical, but romantic gests handed in as exhibits after a battering only materialize with plea bargain a forethought.

Seated at the local last night, I gave four different women the same scenario: that only two kinds of men existed in the world post-I Am Legend, the assumption being that they had to choose one. On the one hand, Don Quixote is the fairy tale romantic, treating his woman like a princess and making her feel wanted; but he has an alter ego, and thus his Don Juan tendencies, dogging on her behind the scenes. On the other we have Mono, Mr. One-Woman. By default he has no cheating bone in his body, but what he lacks in that bone he makes up for in bruising his one and only.

All four chose |Don Qui/Juan.

Disclaimer | This is neither my opinion nor is it my Editor's, that cheating should fly under the radar of vice; just the simple findings to a simplistic hypothesis weighing two evils to stumble upon the lesser one, and possibly the preferred one.

So this should be every serious commitment’s creed. R.E.S. Pia C. Tunataka. No man should have to live with earmuffs or plugs just to drown the drone of his mate’s racket; and no woman should have to cry or buy a crash-helmet to evade the swellings of a relationship. Same Sh*t Different Day? How’s about we just try No Sh*t Any Day?