Footprints in the sand


I lost my virginity in a strawberry scented room with a Barak Obama poster on the wall to the sweet mellow night time music of KBC English Service. It was cold and the blankets seemed to weigh down heavily on my skinny frame as I wrestled with my then girlfriend; an equally scrawny bird with a great big ass (or so I thought then came Nicki Minaj). I was confused to say the least and I desperately nursed a semi seeing as how The Backstreet Boys were playing their hit song ‘Drowning’. I remember the anti-climax of never quite managing what we had set out to achieve that night and sitting there dick in hand (literally) wondering what the fuss around sex was all about. Many years have passed since that night but unfortunately that memory remains as vivid as they come. I shelve these things in different parts of my brain in the hope that I never have to revisit them yet the slightest provocation triggers them. People seem to have one-night-stands ever so often or entire relationships and forget them entirely. I am physically incapable of doing this.

I kept a journal in my teen years and sometime into my early twenties. I read it today as I cleaned out my room and ended up taking a two hour plunge into my pubescent mind. It was awesome, my outlook of the world and the way I believed in absolutes. In a way, I’m still idyllic in some ways but the core of my being never quite changed. I retained my cynicism and an untainted love affair with words since clearly this is how best I express myself. I also avoid getting too involved with people because the end of any relationship however trivial leaves me feeling like I did that night I lost my virginity.  This took me to some shit I have been dealing with lately.

I lost a cousin in the recent past; he was as close as they come. His death was untimely, the details to which I shall choose not to share out of respect for him if no one else. I have memories about him taking me to the mechanic’s to fix my bike on a hot Saturday. He had on those half-coats and a tucked shirt, black leather boots with the laces undid and round rimmed shades to match. I remember him showing me how to sharpen a knife and how to do a proper push-up. He loved reggae music and was himself an artist to some degree before his demise. Last night I found myself thinking of him as I played my reggae playlist. It is surreal to think that he is no more let alone sad. The problem with people is that God produces one of each despite there being seven billion of us.

There is all this residue information about him in my mind. Like the way he used to smile when he blushed, the Scooby Doo branded tie that he gave me in 2011. I remember his flawless round chapatis, his graceful ways and open mind. The tragedy is I cannot recreate his presence even with all this information floating in my mind, and that’s what gets us all in the end…




There are only two ways to find unconditional love in this world. The first is to charm the masses in an intimate way. To command emotion from the human beings at a primal level, like Fidel Castro or Nelson Mandela. This would call for tons of character and charisma that boarder that of the Biblical Moses. In any case, this calls for a lot of personal input in the way of time and/or personal sacrifice. If you happen to be a regular slob like me and like things easy and quick please pay me undue attention for the next 300 words for I shall be handing you pearls here.

Get a Dog.

Have you seen that movie ‘Marley’ starring Jennifer Aniston and Owen Wilson? No? Well, that movie is the inspiration behind Bobby. I named him Bobby after Bob Marley the Reggae icon; it was a no-brainer because I couldn’t call him Marley as that would have been too cliché. Bob was purchased from my friend John of Shujaa Dog Breeders and Trainers for KES 19,000 which is roughly the equivalent of USD190. I felt it was a steep price for a five month old puppy whose only promise for a bright future was the fact that he was the healthiest at birth relative to his four siblings.

I took him home to my parents who live in Murang’a which is in Central Kenya. My parents are middle-aged folks with a nurturing spirit that is only rivalled by that of Florence Nightingale. I knew Bobby would be in the right hands. The only problem with my parents is that they have a way to spoil anything they nurture with too much love. Yes, there is such a thing as too much love. For instance, Bobby was raised on Dog food for most of his puppy years, thereafter; he was introduced to beef which is only served boiled and cold. Occasionally when the beef is not present he is served with Ugali made from maize flour that is fortified with blended fish. That may not mean much in first world countries but it is definitely champagne life for a dog in Kenya where a dog’s main diet is left-overs from the master’s table. Thus Bobby is spoilt in that way.

In many ways Bobby is similar to Marley from the movie. He occasionally chews on shoes and he has destroyed at least one pair of my favourite moccasins. There was a phase where he would pull on all the clothes from the clothes line and my parents had to re-do their laundry. Then came the dip-in-the-mud phase where he would find the nearest puddle and douse himself in some red mud all over his fur. However, do not mistake Bobby for the cuddly canine I describe him as. He may be clumsy and may sometimes venture outside the line but on the right command he can easily maul your heart out.

We live in a beautiful time of jealousy envy and greed. My parents live in the snobbiest part of the town where almost all households own a car and nobody uses the pavement. Seeing as how I have no car, it is in that light that I keep a regular schedule walking Bobby whenever I am at home. Nothing says I am better than you to a fellow social climber than a healthy looking, well-groomed canine pulling on a leash. I am addicted to the marvel of security guards and the motorists who lower the tinted windows on their Camrys and Lexus RX300s at the speed bumps to have a glimpse of my canine companion. The ogles drive me crazy and I feel like Franklin from Grand Theft Auto V complete with the cargo pants and wife-beater to match. I couldn’t think of a cheaper way to harness the rock star experience…

You’re Beautiful…


I don’t date fat women. As crass as that may sound, it is the truth. I can be friends with them though because unlike skinny women, they are very warm individuals in most cases. I also do not care much for short women because most of them are short tempered and ruthless in their dealings. Indeed short and fat are relative terms, so to put that into perspective; in my world any woman less than 5’ 7” is short and those weighing a gram more than 65 kilograms are fat. Citing my dating history, my sample size may not be large enough to satisfy a panel of snobbish college professors, but my personal prejudices are dearer to me than my own genitals. Thus I shall stand by those controversial sentiments.

That notwithstanding, I had a girlfriend in my starter years that I could not go beyond second base with. As usual as it is with these things, I could not tell why despite the fact that her frustration was mounting exponentially. Many a time I found myself mulling over the issue wondering whatever it is was the matter. I even questioned my own sexual orientation and began toying with the thought that I could have been gay. I imagined how disappointed my father would be, and the way it would worry my mother (her husband’s depression that is, not my men love). I combed the internet ceaselessly for answers, Reddit, yahoo and some creepy Google groups that I am ashamed to mention. Than romance fizzled out primarily due to the fact it was not consummated. The mounting frustration was slowly growing into resentment and thus I kicked in and severed that union. I was a gentleman about it and never quite disclosed what really the matter was. I did manage though to do what a typical teenager would do; I projected my inadequacies into my relationship and made her feel like it was all her fault.

In truth, most the women I had seen naked in my teens were centerfolds on playboy magazine and pop stars like Beyoncé. I was conditioned to expecting that the female human body was for the most part hairless. I also thought pot bellies were a reserve for new mothers. They say that hindsight is 20/20 and that could not be more true than in this case. When I come to power in the year 2030, I shall make pornography legal to match with the moral decay of the time. However, not all types of porn will be allowed. The only type that shall be in circulation will be the unedited versions of homemade couples with pot bellies and hairy pits and pubes. The same standard will be mandatory operational policy across the board for the advertisement industry. The crew for National carriers both rail and air will be under strict instructions to show preference for qualified women with acne and other physical blemishes that are otherwise frowned upon by the plastic society of present day. Last and most important, body shaming will be an offense punishable by death and/or life imprisonment. I am the future embodied; Vote Masharia Kanyari for president 2030!

On a Saturday afternoon…


Saturday 1400hrs

It is a Saturday afternoon; the air is pregnant with humidity. I sit outside my father’s house on a plastic chair enjoying the company of Bobby the family dog. He is a bit out of breath and he keeps panting harder each time I throw the stick for him to fetch. I envy his energy, with that type of zest, I could actually change the world instead of bask. I engage the beefy yet agile German shepherd in this mundane game that he seems to enjoy so much. I could care less about nature but the power is out so I cannot waste away this afternoon on my Xbox. It is 17 degrees Celsius and I cannot help think that this is what they call summer in Europe. We really do have fine weather in Kenya, explains the British exodus that marked the last century. Poor Brits were ousted by the people of central Kenya through merciless guerrilla warfare. Had we known better we’d have had you stay, maybe Pierce Morgan would have been a half black.

Saturday 1500hrs

The sun is now weak at best, thicker clouds cover the sky. Temperatures have probably decreased by a degree or two. The power is still out and the boredom is slowly killing my will to live. I remember a contact; the guy; who supplies me with my recreational prescription meds. I call the guy.

Saturday 1547hrs

I have a vial of Pethidine in hand, a sterile needle and syringe. Just we are clear. I had never used this drug before. I have always steered clear of anything that has a he potential to conjure an addiction. I took an educated opinion from my dealer that it would send me to the other worldly experience, something like what Steve Jobs did with LSD. True to his word it did

First you feel the prick of the needle, and then the drug slowly eases into your veins. At this point I felt my whole body go cold, like being hugged by a reptile. I seemed to black out from what I can only compare to a thousand orgasms. I have no idea how long I was out but when I came to my boxers were wet at the front, I was nursing a semi and I had snort all over my T shirt. In hindsight, I was in a very pitiable state, but Bobby did not care, he was there dutifully staying guard in case someone decided to harvest my organs. Given that my motor skills seemed to be somewhat restored I made a beeline for my notepad and this is what I jotted down, word for word.

“This is life. I have been screwed over by people in more ways than a prostitute from Amsterdam. I have had passionate fights with my family over trivialities. I have witnessed shit that has changed me forever. I have blamed my current lover for things old lovers did. I have lost family members I never thought I could do without. I have quietly and intentionally orchestrated the death of some of my friendships. I have had my fair share of laughs, a few cries and embarrassments. Yet today, under the help of prescription meds, with semen in my boxers, snort on my collar, none of these matter.

In this moment, I profoundly understand that everybody has a past and I can finally sit back and acknowledge that shit happens to the people who can handle it. This is who I am, and nobody has the right to change that, including myself.”

PS: Any drugs that the author of this post may have used were purely for research purposes. Masharia Kanayri is not a habitual drug abuser neither does he condone the recreational use of prescription drugs. 



Three Kings


First of all, I want to admit that none of this is cold hard fact. No scientific methods of research were employed in the compilation of these findings; better yet you are not obligated to like contents of this here post. Capiche?

Now that we have ousted the elephant in the room, let us take a jab at the issue. There are only three men in any woman’s life. This as I have come to establish is not subject to the place this woman comes from. It stands unaffected by her race, hair colour, number of sexual partners or the colour of her eyes when she has too much to drink. These men are namely, Father, Husband and The One that got away. Let us look at each one.


In every woman’s life there is a father. It matters not whether she knew him or not. Either way this man sets the tempo upon which all men in the said woman’s life are expected to dance. Most women have a father they adore or utterly despise and/or hate. There is no middle ground with the poor men that have been placed on this podium. The father figure cannot alleviate his image if he is despised and little can be done to lower the lofty position that fathers who are adored enjoy. In truth, every woman has such a man in their life. Some visit theirs occasionally, some hardly ever think of theirs and some marry the man (read Celine Dion). The beauty about having this title is that you are enough- absolute in every way.

The One That Got away

There is the guy that every woman thinks about when you talk about heartbreak. He was your whole galaxy but to him you were just a single star. You occasionally have erotic dreams about the two of  you together and you regret even having liked, heck, loved this man. The guy she thinks about during roof top dances, forehead kisses and beach bonfires at the movies. This is the guy that inadvertently taught the woman the difference between somebody who loves them and somebody who would do anything to keep them. She learnt that she could miss someone with every fibre of her being but not want them back. Any woman reading this has someone in mind…and I did not even have to say his name!


A woman’s heart is a chamber of secrets, throw Harry Porter and his magic wand. One of these secrets is the fact that she is hung up on someone. However, we all are and thus this evens out at some point. The husband’s sole purpose is to fill in the time; the stuff that life is made of; between Mr wrong and the present. This is of course because women never really forget The One that Got Away but they certainly release him. They stop allowing their history to have any meaning for them in the present.

The main perk of being husband is that the bar is set incredibly low by the asshole that preceded you. You are allowed to grow fat and unattractive; you even get the right to bore the woman in question. All you need to be is reliable. Mr Husband should be available for family outings, fund baby showers for friends who she admits are not really friends and many of the trite activities that married life consists of.

All in all, the wisest woman of all agrees that men are just whom they are and this is life. You are best taking them as they are and better yet accepting them for the form in which they exist



As far back as I can remember I have always loved boobies. Breasts and I go way back to the pre-pubescent years. I must have been a little over seven years old because that was the only time I could have agreed to something as mundane as being a page boy. It was my father’s cousin’s wedding and his wife to be had asked me to be play the role after complimenting my mother on what a cute boy I was. In retrospect, she was not too bad herself albeit that is in my eight year old mind. I stood no chance in that way, to echo a famous Kenyan politician’s words;

“What she was doing to me was like raping a woman who was already too willing…” (Kiraitu Murungi, Justice Minister 2005)

Anyway, that distasteful remark notwithstanding, I attended the wedding as a page boy. I recall vividly that morning dressing up for the day under the doting eye of my mother. Seeing as how I was the only page boy, I dressed up in the same room as the brides maids. I was embarrassed at first, but it wane upon realising that they paid me no mind.  If memory serves, that was the point in my life where everything made sense. I realised why I never fancied girls my age. They never had boobies.

The bridesmaids, then in their late teens and early twenties were all clad in matching turquoise petticoats; the kind that had a contrasting embroidered seam at the bottom. A few of them, the prude ones I suppose had bras on, but the majority had none. I remember marvelling at the magnificence of these organs that seemed to defy gravity with such nonchalance that Isaac Newton would have wept at the spectacle. I was a fly on the wall, backstage in the girls’ dressing room before a big event. Ladies, ask any straight man- that is nirvana.

My mother, after admiring her handiwork for what seemed like ages, then put me in the care of one busty bridesmaid whose name eludes me, but for the sake of conversation let us call her Lucy. Lucy was sweet, she thought I was cute too and she went on further to promise my mother that I was in good hands. Indeed I was, she had what I now know are 40 D-cups, folks…I was safe from whatever adversity the world may have brought on even a full blown nuclear holocaust.

Allow me if you may, fast forward this story to 2002 when I first watched Swordfish. The movie was a financial success despite that fact that John Travolta won a Razzie Award for worst actor. In my opinion, John Travolta, Hugh Jackman and Vinnie Jones stood no chance co-starring with Halle Berry. The last nail on the coffin was hammered by a scene in the movie that I think is inarguably the best nude scene in history. Ginger played by Halle Berry is caught by the character of Hugh Jackman sunbathing topless. Thus this became the SI unit for boobies in my life, boobies were awarded in regard to how close or far they came to looking like those.

I have seen a fair share of boobies in my life, in person or otherwise. The lesson I have taken away is we can either be shiny and admired or we can be real and loved. I sincerely think that boobies are living proof that heaven is place on earth. Nothing is like a boobie in this world, and that ladies and gentlemen, is power.




In high school, I was a day dreamer. I used to fantasize about many a thing; breasts and cars were my primary objects of fascination. I had some self-esteem issues because I was a late bloomer. I was a head shorter than most people my age and in an all-boys school size does matter. These were private struggles that in retrospect were petty given that some of my peers were dealing with real issues like acne or their parents’ divorce. In my case I had little emotional or physical scars to show for my turbulent teen years. I remember I hated chemistry; so much so that I finished Mario Puzo’s book The Godfather during an organic chemistry class. In the end, one thing that stayed with me was the PH scale that was useful in the determination of the acidity or basicity of a substance. The knowledge was however, never was useful except in a chemistry class anyway.

At 19 came college, and girls and the so very coveted boobs. I fell in love and realised that every woman had something of beauty about them. Loving made me look, and inhale, and look again. You notice the texture of a hand, the turn of a head, the way of a walk. When you first love, you love blindly and you see the woman all as the glorious, beloved whole, or a beautiful sum of beautiful parts. But when you see the one you love as pieces, as why dos and why nots, you learn to love those parts too, and it’s a love at once more complicated than complete. This where I noticed a great big injustice women subject themselves.

Girls hardly know what they are packing in the looks department. Most of them base their acidity or basicity on the opinion of a boy they fancy. They sit back and adopt trends that may not even favour them in the hope to draw attention. I suffered a similar predicament, but I dealt with mine by asking a female friend. She was very objective and since then I never sought anyone for a different opinion. Each morning before I left the hostel, I would look at my face in the mirror and repeat these words to myself “I am a smart, good-looking, sonovabitch…”

Women need to stand in front of a mirror every once in a while. Naked as the day you were born preferably after a shower. In the morning of course, before the lover boys taint your mind with patronizing compliments. Identify your strong points, your flaws and ways to accentuate your body. The goal here is to be objective, really look at yourself and arrive at a solid number that is authentic and you believe in. That way there is not going to be a man that can successfully build you up or tear you down. Be a stable element, an acid or a base. Being a woman is powerful business but only when done correctly. Yes, I know I give good advice, you can thank me later.