Ripped Manners. 

It is ridiculously amazing how everytime I walk into that shower, or when I am doing some damn laundry or worst of all, when I am doing some stupid dishes, (this is the point where you curse yourself for being that African dish washing machine, that automatically gets controlled by only one yell coming from your mother who is probably resting her feet on that overstaffed ottoman stool in the living room) I get these incredibly brilliant ideas about what to write about.

“Should I write about that smokie pasua I recently had in Mada?”

“Wait a minute, that fashion cop with her long and baggy skirt, can’t she make a perfect blog?”

“What about that old man who sat next to me in that matatu thinking that maybe by being near the driver, he would probably arrive in town before those restless high schoolers at the back, can’t he feature in any of my articles so that he can consider himself a celeb for even a day?”

All these ideas dissipate when I turn off the shower, they magically grow wings when I have hung those countless clothes, they usually vanish when the dishwasher has been been turned off. 

That is the time when I get back to my ripped manners. Where writing is only essential when you are penning down notes from that nondescript lecturer, where reading is only prudent if you have a CAT or a RAT soon, where answering  questions regarding Cashflows earns you the title, ‘accountant of the week’, where your statements balancing is something to be so proud of to the extent of feeling that KPMG should consider your application as their Chief Auditor.

Well, these behaviors form such a significant part of our lives, they make us believe that life has some certain unit in which it is calibrated with. Speaking of calibration, did Lucy Gichuhi, Australian Senator representing the state of South Australia for the Family First Party, follow these standards? What about Sarah Ikumu, the 15-year old aspiring singer from Milton Keynes who is in year 11 and currently studying for her GCSEs, was she bound by those ‘principles of life’ that dictate our living?

Tough questions, Huh? 

I wouldn’t need much inspiration, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, in herself, is a powerhouse of motivation. These are the people who miraculously open our eyes and make us believe that life owes us no shit! Yes, I’ve just typed shit in case you are wondering if what you are reading is an error in my typing, No it isn’t! 

Like rugged jeans, we will probably be new at something at some point. We will have to harness some skill in that yoga class we often skive, that course unit that you attended the first lesson only and thought that you should not read too much because people might think you are overreacting, that WordPress blog that has more drafts than published posts, that crush of yours, who after a struggle of sitting next to, you updated your statuses on all your social media accounts, ‘finally, I sat next to him or her…’ Heck! If we do not take up the challenge, we slowly fade, our fabric becomes a better rug than a cloth and ultimately, we become those second-hand ripped jeans or jackets that give crap a run for its money. 

You did not wake up today to be mediocre, over to you darling…

A beautiful spirit that we should adopt.

It’s exactly one month since I last wrote an article and my readers have been asking me:

“Ulienda wapi?” Which loosely translates to, “where did you go to?” In Swahili. 

I always laugh at this question because it’s not only hilarious but also senseless! I have been reading, seriously reading! I have also spent that same number of days knowing college and understanding this coveted ‘campus life’ which many people who have gone before me, arguably praise and exalt. I am a late bloomer.

College is incredibly great, but what I like most about the campus I’m in, is not the food, not the buildings, not even the good people we have around, but the beautiful trees that stand both within and without the school. I just love them irrevocably. Everyday when I draw my curtains in the morning, I look at how gracefully they stand out in the chilly mornings of Lower Kabete and they remind me of the late Professor Wangari Maathai. The most loving mother of the environment we ever had. God rest her soul in peace! 


In my bus rides to college and back, I always find a spot near the window, ensure I have the bus fare in coins, lest the taut breaches the contract we had earlier on made when boarding the bus, and once everything is safe,(here I’m talking about my phone and backpack) I’m carried away by the trees besides the road. Besides the beautiful jacaranda trees that stain the road with their purple flowers, the palm trees that are evergreen and the other species of trees that I never learnt about in school, your sight won’t miss the countless works of architecture brought to life by the most skilled masons, architects and doubtlessly highprofile engineers. 

These mansions and villas spell on thing; wealth. They belong to stinking rich people. They belong to those people who flourish in secured homes. They belong to those people who everyday take the back left seat of their cars and get driven by meticulous chauffeurs to work. They belong to people who probably spend their weekends in some golf course, a certain high end hotel that serves food made using foreign recipes and when they are running late after work and their chauffeurs claim that they went to pick their kids from that International school you are probably thinking of, they are quick to call a cab. Not just a cab, mind you, Uber works well for them. They can even pay double the amount so long as their safety is guaranteed.  

Albeit I admire these people’s way of life, my heart has a soft spot for trees. I always think of all those buildings and others that are in their early stages of construction and I think of Prof. Wangari Maathai; Kenya’s Internationally recognized change agent when matters environment are at hand. Did you really read that carefully? Internationally recognized! 

When they wanted to do away with Uhuru Park and have constructions there, more specifically a massive statue of the then head of state; Retired President Daniel arap Moi, she condemned them and they did throw all sorts of nasty names at her but she gannered support from other few people and had a freedom corner there, where they planted trees. She was selfless, a character that is really lacking in us in recent times. She spoke the language of nature. Maathai punctuated all her sentences with the word ‘environment’, she seldom spoke without mentioning how sustaining the environment would do us more good than we could imagine. 

Everytime I use Professor Wangari Maathai Road, I wonder whether I’ll keep her spirit alive in myself. I usually wonder whether I’ll ever drive sense into people’s brains and make them understand that our environment will sustain us if we sustain it.  

I read this quote from the internet recently and it moved me. It read:

“Learn character from trees, values from roots and change from leaves”~ Tasneem Hameed

This is a powerful quote that not only uses the example of a tree figuratively but also speaks about our lives. 

Planting trees is a culture we should cultivate. You get the pun? You do not need to be a professor for you to plant trees. Wangari Maathai said:

Education, if it means anything, should not take people away from land, but instill in them even more respect for it, because educated people are in a position to understand what is being lost. The future of the planet concerns all of us, and we should do what we can to protect it. As I told the foresters, and the women, you don’t need a diploma to plant a tree.

Now that January is over and it has been ushered in by rains, don’t wait for another time, plant trees. Let her spirit live in us. Let us appreciate her efforts and our country, won’t be how it threatens to be. Our children, the ones we nurture in our rising continent will also appreciate our efforts but would be reminded that they have another great granny who used to love trees and that she advocated for the conservation of the environment. 

Now that we are in the month of love because of its fourteenth day, let us show love to trees and most importantly, our environment.

Enjoy your February and know that, ‘Nimerudi sasa!’ to mean, ‘I’m back!’

A photo of the late Professor Wangari Maathai, founder of the Green Belt Movement and 2004 Nobel Peace Prize Winner.

You’ll soon join the dots. 

Early this year, I attended an interview that was being held at Parklands sports club. I actually received a call from Githinji Mwaura, one of the volunteers who sat in the United World Colleges (UWC) Kenya, national committee. I had to travel all the way from Eldoret; my current town, to Nairobi; my birthplace. I had feelings of both excitement and uncertainty ulternating ruthlessly in my mind. This was actually the first, real interview I was attending. The other ones, the mediocre ones I had attended at school when I was vying for Deputy president, did not appear to be those that had you worked up, stressed out and utterly exhausted.

I boarded the 10 pm bus. I had never travelled late in the night before, so I had to be watchful, owing to the fact that I had heard that some bizarre things usually happen during these travels. My phone was tightly tucked in my jeans’ pocket while my earphones snaked up my shirt to my ears, and as always, I was listening to Kari Jobe. We had earlier on been warned about cocking our heads out of the windows. I mean, that was so obvious! Why would a self respecting person dare to do that whilst it was cold and very late? I even doubted whether that driver was aware of what he was saying. Well I sat there, my arms folded across my not-so-broad chest and enjoyed the sweet, soft voice of Kari Jobe.

Hours later I was in the heart of the CBD. Lights, vehicles and many people stained the city. When people talk about ‘working around the clock’, I totally understand because that’s exactly what I saw. I quickly plopped into the taxi that was nearby and was on my way to Eastleigh. I arrived minutes later and quickly unpacked every luggage I had so that I could at least catch some sleep and head to the interview hours later, needless to mention that it was already Saturday.

“Wake up!” Screamed my stupid alarm. I could not dare snooze it lest I’d be late for the interview and also the traffic, there is no need to talk about that, right?  I wore a pair of simple pants and a decent shirt. My document wallet (seriously, how many documents does a form four leaver own?) was clutched tightly under my arm. That day I had sworn that I’d carry myself nonchalantly because it would have  done me no good to be tense.

I briskly walked into that boardroom where other intellects had already settled. I mean, any random person would tell that these interviewees were certainly smart courtesy of how they behaved and were dressed. Everyone shot a glance at me as I mad my way past the door. I ignored it and found a vacant seat where I plopped myself onto. I found myself spontaneously talking to the lad besides me, who told me that he was called Collins and that he had finished Form Four from The Maseno School.

“Good morning everyone! We’re about to start but first, I want us to introduce ourselves, that is: Tell us your name, the school your were in or currently are in, and just tell us something interesting about yourself.” Said one of the panelist, whose name I had not gotten right because when she asked us whether we still remembered her name, my colleagues twanged her name, and that really baffled and irritated me. Who did they think they were? I know, a bunch of insensitive intellectuals that had no sense of respect for their naive counterparts.

Most interviewees took less than a minute to introduce themselves, I personally remember stuttering all those details in a matter of seconds. I even wondered if I’d still hold on to that oath I whispered to myself earlier on about carrying myself nonchalantly.

Once the introduction was over, I remember letting out a sigh of relief and ‘thanking God’ under my breath. We continued with the other group interviews which were done outdoors. I had to admit that I’d never played charades before. I found it interesting and educative too. The other activities that succeeded charades had us sitting on the clean marble floor, cross legged, Indian style as we discussed the pros and cons of Devolution, a system of governance that had recently set its roots in every county in Kenya. I was baffled by how articulate my colleagues spoke, they actually inspired me, to say it modestly.

The interviews were finally over. It was Saturday by the way and as if that was not enough, it was Valentine’s. I totally had nothing better to do. Wait, I had my smartphone and free Wi-Fi was available. In retrospect, I had a lot to do that day as I waited for the phone call I had been promised.

A month later, I received that call that I’d really anticipated. The lady’s voice on the other end was calm and casual. I had to muster enough courage and confidence whilst I spoke to her. Well, the news that hit my ears was not good. To put it plainly, I had not been accepted!

I lay in my bed and had these melancholic thoughts erupting in my mind. I had failed. I was nothing but a big failure. In Steve Jobs words, I’d say that,“…that was bitter tasting medicine, but I(the patient) had to take it…” I had to accept the truth and live with it. I later found out that Collins would soon join UWC Singapore and I felt proud of him.

In March, that was some weeks after I had gotten over the whole thing and I remember swearing that I would live life forward and later come to connect the dots backwards. I got Noah’s number from his brother. He was my longtime friend that I had been separated from for half a decade since we moved to Eldoret. We had a lot to talk about but I never told him my aweful story. Then he spontaneously broached the subject about PACE, an acronym that stood for Promoting Access to Community Education. I had no idea what that was and I had to go offline while I ran a quick Google search and found out what it was about. When I came back online, he asked me whether I would be interested in joining the organization, the response I gave was quite obvious. 

“Yes, I’d love to!”

I soon became a PACE fellow in May. After a successful interview that I’d gone through. For once, I believe in my capabilities. I accepted the fact that sometimes it did help to fail. I came to see this blessing in disguise objectively. I sort of felt like this was my intuition and I had to follow it.

I remember meeting new people who’d later turn out to be incredible people. I remember the countless trainings that I attended and even played charades, but this time, with some bit of idea of what the game was all about, I would make up all the signs until people wondered how I knew that. I would tell them that I had learned it from UWC, but I would not dare mention that I failed in that interview because it was not worth living in the past while you could confidently enjoy the present.

A year was enough for me to clearly understand my niche. However, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t failed. I wouldn’t have found my intuition if I hadn’t stumbled in my pursuit for achievement. I dare you not to fear failure. I mean, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and a little bit taller.

Sooner or later you’ll come to join the dots. I wouldn’t be surprised to see you grin while you look back at some of your mistakes that turned out to make you who you are today. In fact, I’ll be delighted to share in your reflection and perhaps pat you and encourage you to move forward never minding if you’ll make mistakes or not.

P.S. What a great way to end the year. It has been a crazy year! Now I can’t wait to go to school, seriously!

Be kind Nature, as we are being Nutured in Africa. 

For me, it is far much easier to hold a cooking stick than grasp a machete. I can conveniently operate a blender, a cooker, and any other kitchen appliance as opposed to running a mill or a generator. Keep in mind that I have testosterone running through my veins. To say it modestly, I’m 100% male, and an African male at that. But what explains all this? What is the reason behind it? Is it nature or nurture? Yes. If you guessed the latter, I’m glad to tell you that you are correct. 

I have spent close to half of my nineteen years on earth with my mother. That is the reason why I can confidently cook, do the laundry properly, do the dishes with much ease and clean the house (turns out to be my favorite) thoroughly. I do owe it all to her, but a larger percent of credit goes to this seven-letter noun here; nurture

I’m sufficiently made to believe that if I had stayed with my father for the same period I had with mother, then, dishes wouldn’t be in my list of vocabulary, I would hate cleaning the house with immeasurable passion and what about cooking? Heck, I’m a full-blooded African male, remember? Instead, I would delight in repairing stuff, I would dutifully offer myself to repair a punctured wheel soon as I notice one and of course listen carefully to what the mechanics say in the garage as if I were to take an examination on that matter discussed, the following day.

Nature, on the flip side, does play a pivotal role in the moulding of a person. This takes me ten years back when my Standard One teacher asked us what we would like to be in future. Actually, it was “…when we grow up.” I cannot clearly remember what I said, but I guess I did say something like ‘Doctor’, ‘Teacher’ or ‘A soldier’, these were the only popular careers we knew at our age. However, I bet a good amount of money if I had heard any of my classmates say they want to be ‘Politicians’.

Four years ago, when I was in high school actually, the same question that I had been asked a decade ago, was being asked to me once again. This time, with much awareness, I said that I wanted to be a Journalist. Yes. I said that without any shame, I did not feel intimidated that other friends of mine said they wanted to be Nurses, Engineers, Doctors, Pilots, Actuarial scientists, just to mention a few. But still, no one said they wanted to be ‘Politicians’.

You see, in Kenya, most people like to refer to our leaders as politicians. Actually, they confuse ‘leaders’ with ‘politicians’ .You’ll always hear Maina, Nyongesa, Adhiambo, Mueni and Kipchoge argue that, “Hawa wanasiasa wanatunyanyasa!” (These politicians are harassing us!) There is a big difference between leaders and politicians. Here’s the difference, a leader, is anyone who has authority to direct people in a certain way, while a politician is anyone appointed or elected into the government and engages in politics.

“Great leaders are nurtured.”

How many times have you heard that phrase? Countless times, right? To me it’s almost becoming a cliché. Africa, unlike other continents has great leaders. African leaders are utterly unique in their own way. They stay in power until they cannot move a muscle, let alone make sound decisions. Need I say that they rule with an iron fist?

Let us keep in mind that while “Great leaders are nurtured,” Nature also plays a role. Mostly seated at the back, watching carefully and waiting to take centre stage once it is called out. But how were we brought up? Let me help jog your mind, we were always lectured to about the ills of the government, we were always told of how most ‘leaders’ anticipated slots in the government only for them to add layers of fat in their initially skinny beings. Needless to mention how our History teacher emphasized the fact that some of these leaders lived lavishly in  high-end residential areas like Runda, Kileleshwa, Lavington, Karen and the likes only for his or her  people to languish in runaway poverty in that place I cannot mention. 

Ellen Johnson Sireleaf, the Great president of Liberia (if you think of calling me a feminist, there you go, choice is all yours), said that :

Africa is not poor, it is poorly managed. 

There you go, we are not poor, and speaking of management, who leads us? Our good leaders. Nature, our African nature, has taught us to be selfish, egocentric and insensitive about what we do. Therefore, if we will be nutured to be be mindful and responsible citizens (I bet this phrase features in most high schools’ vision statements) and yet nature fails to uphold those virtues in us, then it will all be pointless. 

As Africans, let us be watchful about what we say and do because there is where our children learn and pick up some habits. Let us trust that our nature will make us and our offspring thrive as we nuture them in the best way possible. 

The size of your dreams must always exceed your current capacity to achieve them. If your dreams do not scare you, they are not big enough. -Ellen Johnson Sireleaf. 

Let us always get nervous when we think of that wonderful Africa we all desire to have. I strongly believe that it is surely possible. 

After graduating, I hope to visit some schools and I’ll ask the kids I meet there what they would want to be when they grow up. I hope to get responses like,”I want to be the next leader of a Kenya, Uganda, Algeria, Tunisia, Mali, Egypt, Ghana, Swaziland…” You name all those African countries you know. 

With that, I’ll be certain that indeed our nature will be able to nuture people of substance. 


Support Their Dreams. 

I casually scroll down my Facebook feed and I see this post by my all-time favorite writer, Jackson Biko, though he likes this other,more native name: Bikozulu. 

This post is basically about the naughty Devil that often sticks out his nasty hand to grab innocent, ambitious, lovely young ladies, mostly from marginalized communities, their self-esteem, their big dreams and their whole life in general. This outrageous demon that I’m talking about, has its definition simplified in an aweful three letter acronym (which I strongly believe that it should be written in small letters): FGM. 

Well, to those who find this word sort of new, it shamelessly stands for Female Genital Mutilation.

I understood the meaning and all that happens in those cracked, smoky small huts (those rooms are regarded sacred by those practising the act though) better when I first read, No, I actually travelled with H. R. Ole Kulet  in his book; Blossoms Of The Savannah. By the way, I recommend this book to anyone who loves meeting young and of course beautiful girls and get to share in their amazing stories of splendor and bravery. Ole Kulet,who to me seems more like a feminist though he is male, ceases not to amaze me by how he makes sure that by the time you flip over the last page, you feel like putting aside that book, get on your feet and shout your lungs out, saying:

Will you support me in stopping this vice that has its shameless cloud dangling above us! “

At that time you get this extraordinary will power of making people aware of the harmful effects that these young ladies are exposed to once they get the ‘cut’.

Besides that, we have not mentioned anything about the state of hygiene that pervades that ‘surgical room’ where girls’ dreams are shuttered. The ‘surgeon’ herself, (they are mostly old ladies) does not clearly remember when she last washed her filthy hands. She cares less about sterilizing that blade as she goes on to the second and third girl. 

What about the health risk behind FGM? 

“FGM can and it does kill! ” Read a post on Guardian Australia.

It simply has no health benefit to the one subjected to it. 

Well, when all that is said, I know very well that you are probably thinking:

What can I do then?”

You already have the answer. You can support all those organizations that seek to stop this act which in recent times, ultimately qualify as an odius activity.

By ‘supporting‘, it doesn’t necessarily mean denting your wallet, No, you can as well speak against this torturous act. But first, do not just read this article and move on to other activities, which I presume are equally important, share it widely in support of these ambitious, young girls with big dreams. 

Simply support Their Dreams.

Picture courtesy of sad girl silhouette.

My Moment of Shame. 

I comfortably sit on this minibus, note the sarcasm. It has free Wi-Fi though, that is why I am able to write this article easily. The strong perfumes worn by our brothers and sisters in their unique, respected hijabs and kanzus insults my naive nostrils. Anyway, what can I do about it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I sit in silence but I awkwardly get these psychic feelings. Please note, I apparently do not posses any psychic abilities. I just get some sort of sensations which are indescribable.  I get a feeling that something terribly bad will happen. I wholly trust my guts. 

I wonder if this feeling is courtesy of the book that I have been reading lately. Ghost Files by Apryl Baker. I know what you are thinking right now, that I am a geek! I know right! 

I choose to keep my thoughts to myself while the minibus navigates our congested roads. 

As I approach Starehe School and Centre, which is a few metres away from my home, something totally bizarre happens in the matatu I am in. There, at the back, two seats behind me, a fair young lady with sandy blond hair (which I strongly believe it’s not her natural hair) struggles. 

I steal a glance at her and what catches my eyes are tears, real tears, making wet tracks down her face. What is happening there? Or maybe this is the feeling I earlier on had, it must be, because the atmosphere here is not anything that can impresses anyone. 

The helpless lady is surrounded by four men. Are you thinking what I am thinking? That cannot possibly happen in a public service vehicle. It must not happen in any case! The few metres I had talked about earlier on now seems like a thousand miles! 

The same men are now trying to access her soft flesh underneath. This is absurd! I’m I having a Deja Vu? I believe not. Mind you I am supposed to alight that matatu.

What must I do? Should I scream or cry? Wait a minute, I cannot possibly cry, I am a tough lad and crying appears not to be in my genetic makeup. 

Unfortunately, I alight that matatu and it drives away quickly. I feel frustrated as I walk towards our estate. I should have done something at least! I curse myself for being so stupid and insensitive. What if it were my sister, mother (God forbid!) or my girlfriend?

As I walk up the stairway, I swear that nobody will know what I encountered today. It is shameful to narrate to someone what actually happened only for them to toss this other question to you; 

“What did they do then, to rescue her? ”

That is the moment you feel that shame mount on you with its  full force, not bothering whether it makes you uncomfortable or not because you fairly deserve it!I call that moment, the moment of shame. 

Courtesy of Nairobi Matatu culture.

Being a Nerd 

You briskly walk to Parklands Baptist Church on a Saturday morning, it’s chilly but you psych yourself up that it will be a great day after all, to have another riveting, insightful and enjoyable session with the ever enthusiastic PACE coordinators who you often find at the entrance, with a smile and delighted to usher you in and dutifully direct you to the room where the training would take place. 

After a minute of tracing your name on that check in sheet of paper that sometimes lacks some people’s names, you now find a suitable spot where you will be for the rest of the day, I mean until you hear Doris announce the final remaks she has before calling out for the team leaders to pick the contents of the brown envelopes that hitherto lie on that table at the back of the room. 

Because you are a geek, and you willingly left your glasses at home because it doesn’t seem to match with your awkward outfit, you sit at the front row. To absorb every information firsthand. To recognize what cologne Jacob is wearing so that you check it out in the stores. To be picked by Madam Peggy for the various activities that call for volunteers. 

About half an hour later, you get a break and possibly an icebreaker is anticipating your return for the next session, which according to your schedule, it’ll be taken through by Mrs. Ochola. 

After the exciting energizer, which always leaves people with radiant smiles on their faces, you now lend her your ears. She casually begins by asking us how our previous week had been, what level we’ve reached in regards to our various projects and to just turn to the people next to us and utter a word, phrase or sentence that will form the basis of the discussion for that day. She neatly writes the heading of what she’ll talk about, on the white sheets of paper that I’d hang on the blackboard earlier on. 

Madam Peggy is articulate, it’s a fact though, she always seems to punctuate every sentence with the word ‘lovely ‘ after you’ve provided a response to any of the questions that she randomly asks in her speech. She displays slides and expects us to make short notes as she continues. Her choice of words always amazes me because as a propeller head, I always get to learn how a word, that I’d recently read in a book, is used in spoken language. She picks a variety of words that are frequently used in the SAT reading tests, which to many people sound like she has turned the training into a rocket science lecture. 

After she has wrapped up her talk, she kindly asks Doris, Gathua, Fiona and Charity whether they have anything to add before she adjourns the meeting. Meanwhile, Fiona passes over feedback sheets which I dutifully fill, while I think of the way I’ll structure my sentences in order to make sense, I steal a glance and notice that Fiona Nyaanga has already finished hers and she hands it back while Noah Kyalo whose beside me, struggles to also finish his too. I quickly give a rating of five out of five and scribble the reason for that rating and walk out of that room to go and have my burger at the outdoor cafeteria within PBC. 

As I walk towards the queue, on my left, are a bunch of girls taking selfies, I find no reason to bomb that photo because maybe that’s a snapchat story, an instagram post, who knows? 

On the benches I notice Regina Gachomba, adjusting her glasses and possibly asking Noah about the latest SAT books in stock. She’s terribly nervous about getting those books so that she can prepare properly! 

Laurence Bugasu’s nose is buried under his white smartphone and doesn’t seem to bother about anything, let alone anyone. 

Clem borrows my phone and it is obvious that she sees these ‘awkward’ apps that I have. I have Ted Talks, Khan Academy, WordPress and even a dictionary. To her, it is absurd. I do not have Snapchat, the last time I logged in to Instagram, was a month ago, my Facebook has not been updated, the music on my phone is not worth playing in public, because honestly, who can dance to Kari Jobe’s song? I honestly can’t! 

I scroll across the books that I have on my e-book reader app, oh I forgot to mention this app, I also have it! As I dig my jaws on that small burger (why didn’t Charity give me two pieces?) and once I’m done, I bid everyone, No, Tracy is the one who makes sure that she has said bye to everyone. 

I leave PBC wondering if I’ll still be a dork for the rest of my life.

(All the characters are real people who I once worked with at PACE) 

October 20th part 2

Mrs. Andrews received a flurry of slaps that left horrible scars on her beautiful face. 

I felt like crying, storming out that living room and head home but it was late and normally, at home, door knocks at such hours often go unanswered. I was utterly confused about what action I was supposed to take. 

I stood there, watching Kevin’s mother crying, her lesso that often  flowed flawlessly exposing only her peeping, well manicured toenails hitherto remained scattered on the cold tiled floor. 

I empathized with her. 

I tried to imagine if she were my mother. Would I still stand there? Would I commit a taboo by confronting my father? 

At that time, Mr. Andrew was breathing faster courtesy of the exhaustion brought by his henious acts. 

Mrs. Andrew went to fetch a duvet and made her way to their leather couch to catch sleep. 

She asked us to go and sleep. We obliged, without any word. 

The following day I rose early, ready to leave that house. I packed up my pajamas and quickly made it to the door before anyone stopped me.

 However, Kevin’s mother was already in the kitchen and had made breakfast. She asked me to have breakfast with them before I left. 

The previous night’s scenes alternated in my mind stressfully. I possibly couldn’t snap out of it! I didn’t want to seem rude and so I obeyed, without a word. 

A couple of seconds later, the previous night’s beast walked into the dining room. He had guilt written clearly on his slopy forehead. He slowly sipped his tea and ate his bacon paying  close attention to table manners (at least he had some manners though!) 

The silence on that table became awkward. I quickly finished all of my plate’s content and thanked the Andrews.

 I left hurriedly lest I get myself in trouble or better still get grounded by my parents for failing to fulfill my promise of being at home before noon. 

Well, along the way, those awful scenes of the night before kept flashing in my mind. 

I was not sure whether to narrate everything to my parents.

First of all, would they believe me? How would  they think of the Andrews? 

I decided to keep my thoughts to myself. 

Nevertheless, I had witnessed domestic violence. I write this article to everyone out there, this is a big issue that affects our society. Women, more often than not, become victims of this abuse. 

This is such an awful behaviour that ought to be condemned in the strongest words possible. 

Speak out! Don’t allow yourself to see someone else  languish in pain while you can do something about it. 

Save a soul. Save the future. 

October 20th Part 1

On that day, I was invited by my good neighbour for a sleepover. Mr Andrew’s son is one of those few people I have remaining, that I can call a friend. 

We devoured on the delicious meal that was meticulously served by Kevin’s mother. At that time, his father had not checked in yet. I could actually sense the sensation of concern that pervaded that dining room that had pictures of this beautiful family hanging in African-themed frames. 

“Thanks for the meal Mrs Andrew! It was sumptuous! ”

“There’s no problem John, you know that you’re always welcomed to this family. You’re like one of us. ”

“I’ll wait for Kevin’s father, let Kevin lead you to his room. And good night! ”

I quickly replied back and walked upstairs with this good ally of mine. 

Scarcely had two hours elapsed when we heard the final roars of an engine that was almost getting stopped.It was Mr. Andrew. I quickly woke Kevin who was fast asleep and snoring in a way that surely pissed me off  to inform him that his father had arrived. 

“OK, it is fine! I’ll meet him tomorrow!”He said in mid-sleep .

That was a rare gesture! I thought. Why can’t he even go to say hi to his father? Who knows, maybe he might have brought him something that will evoke in him some positive interest if not enthusiasm? 

I rolled back the fragrance-laden duvets and tried to catch sleep. 

Suddenly, my heart was somewhat filled with trepidation. I knew something was not right! (I usually trust my guts. Trust me!) 

I heard an air-piercing yell from downstairs. It sounded like Mrs. Andrews. 

“Kelvin! Come here! ”

Was I having a Deja Vu at night? This was ridiculous! 

Kevin was alarmed and stormed out of bed to behold whatever that was transpiring downstairs. 

I was caught between two stools. Should I go or let them sought themselves out? 

I could actually not arrive at a decision. 

The screaming became persistent even after I assumed that Kevin was already there. 

I was worried! Why did I come for this stupid sleepover? I sobbed. 

“John! ” Yelled a voice familiar to Kevin’s. 

Even as I write this article, I still remember the awful scenes that I saw. 

Mr. Andrew, a man I had respected, thought of as a role model, was drunk, his pants were loosely hanging mid-thigh, and he was strangling his wife! 

This was insane! Mrs. Andrews however, held the phone that I occasionally saw her husband with. On closer examination, I realized that it was her husband’s smartphone. I was shocked if not flabbergasted! 

What demon was in this man whose teeth were set on edge? 

I paused. 

…to be continued 

Of Kenyan Comedy and their hidden meaning. 

It is evident that I have recently started to get used to our local TV programs that are aired on an almost daily basis.

They are utterly exhilarating! They are honestly good if you can give them your precious time. 

Moreover, we often do not think beyond our noses as far as these programs are concerned. We will just laugh, think about what Njoroge said and totally forget what happened once you’ve pressed that remote control to catch up with your favorite reality show, the news or your all-time soap (the females are sufficiently represented)! 

Well, do you know why ‘Awiti‘ uses that deep Luopean accent? *

Kalekye‘ often speaks like her neighbour back in Ukambani. 

While ‘Njambi‘ communicates like her authentic grandmother back in Nyeri. 
But why do they do this while they can actually speak normally if not express themselves eloquently? 

Here is the reason. They have first of all accepted the fact that they are proudly African and most importantly, Kenyan. 

They fake (actually do it intentionally) in order to represent that indeginous person upcountry so that they get represent in such a celebrated show. In other words, they want to promote National unity in a way that is hilarious. Which is actually BRILLIANT! 

So, the next time you sit to catch this rib-cracking KENYAN program, think critically and remember that these people mean good for our country. 

*corrupted word for how Luo people of Kenya pronounce their words, especially English words.