Footprints in the sand

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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…

Bobby

 

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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…

On a Saturday afternoon…

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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. 

 

 

Pechos

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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.

 

College

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Going to college in many countries guarantees you a decent job or at least a decent shot at a good job. In my country, going to college is not a straight shot at anything. In my experience all you take away is bragging rights that you enjoyed the confines of a lecture hall and last I checked this does not pay the bills. It goes a long way to improving ones language skills and introduces you to English words like paradigm that you can flaunt at job interviews if you are lucky enough to be short-listed for any. It is no secret that light skin, fair features and good English are mistaken for intelligence in the Kenyan job market. Having a senior civil servant like a parastatal board member or a corporate monster in a reputable business firm as a godfather is even better. That means that getting a job that pays you at least 400USD per month makes you someone worth envying. Yet a third of said earnings are lost to taxation.

That means it is not unusual to board an Uber taxi cab that is being driven by Master Degree holder. A chauffeur who successfully uses words like prerogative in everyday speech, effortlessly maps out the shortest routes and weaves through Nairobi’s hellish traffic with impeccable ease. I think I was a tad bit describing myself in that last statement. It is especially demeaning when the fleet manager shouts at you over the radio in the presence of a customer. Once I had this sweet lady probably in her early fifties who witnessed one such act and went on to tip me heavily.

“Trust yourself she said, you seem to have survived a lot and you’ll survive whatever is coming…”

I have been chewing over those words in my brain every morning as I punch in to work. My supervisor, a stout Indian man in his early thirties is barely five feet tall. He hardly commands a lot of respect given that nature saw it fit to equip him with a high pitched voice that is spectacularly annoying over the radio. However, I put up with this because I am highly passionate about having a fridge full of groceries and some electricity to run it.

I have had bosses who paid me less than their dry cleaning bills and yet they are the ones who demanded the most output. Every so often I have been faced with the question as to what was more important between a fridge load of groceries and my personal dignity. I keep asking myself is this how I want to spend my life? Apologizing? Moonlighting as a blogger to lick my wounds from a job I hardly cherish? Questioning? Hating on my rich peers? I think I need to be ballsy. I need to take risks. Do that which makes me feel good because I only really have this one life. I need to make myself proud!

Alright, I Died…

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In the wake of what was quite possibly the best and the worst six months of my life, I decided to commit suicide. I decided that there was a world that I had created that I needed to disappear. A radical decision of this nature was warranted by the folly of my early twenties. You see back then, I was championing a misguided cause to air my dogma. I flooded my social media platforms with what I would only describe as bullshit. It was awesome, the feedback I got that is, and in a way I enjoyed that glory while it lasted. I literally used to quiver at the keyboard whenever my Facebook homepage loaded and found myself looking at the prompt that reads “What is on your mind?”

I had to commit suicide, and thus I died. I murdered Facebook in the worst way possible; I decapitated my twitter and maimed my Instagram. I have been dead for almost a week now, yet this is not nearly as drastic as I thought it would be. If anything, I am enjoying this quite a bit. For instance, I have more constructive things to Google once I am on the toilet seat. Like Norway, and the fact that it is actually a monarchy, much like what we call democracy in Africa only the elite there have the decency to call it as it is. Norway is mighty cold I gather, they are a spit ball away from the North Pole. I doubt the Norwegians care because their country Norway is the world’s largest producer of oil and natural gas outside the Middle East. That means they are cool and they get to remain hot at the same time. Shout out to my Norwegian reader!

Where were we? Oh, suicide. The beauty about death is that as much as you cease to exist, the world moves on. Mothers still update pictures of their children fishing for compliments on Facebook. Single mothers still post on Instagram outings with their children for Mr. Deadbeat to see them thrive in his absence. I am a little embarrassed to say that I think I might miss it all. The dysfunctional existence of my peers trying to own up to the roles that society hoists upon them.  I will miss the make-believe models, the aspiring politicians, the sentimental fools planning high school re-unions. The groupies discussing celebrities choice of underwear and the restaurant whores geo-tagging places they feel privileged to be dining at. However, I am a firm believer in the absolute nature of death as well. Thus since I committed suicide I might as well commit to the cause (Pun not intended). I am at a better place now as they say. Better than chilly Norway or warm ass Kenya. I left my remains to decompose peacefully in the cyber graveyard of social media. I mean to keep blogging though, here because even ghosts have the right to be heard.

 

Happiness is like…

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I was born in the year that communism died; on the same day that MC Hammer turned 27.Thus I think the stars had inadvertently aligned perfectly on that Wednesday night to create the perfect little boy. I like t think that communism paved way for my birth (ha ha). In that year Poland became free and its citizens were then free again to walk the streets at night, make love and eat chocolates along with other privileges that come with freedom. Every year as I turn older I am plagued with the feeling of inadequacy, primarily because I have everything I would need, yet none of the things I want.

Let me explain, I have an Xbox console that I should be steady putting mileage on, but nobody to play it with. Thus it sits in its box as it was when I bought it as I mull over who should have the second controller. I am dating the woman of my dreams, and she is exactly as I had fantasized she would be, but I cannot afford to buy her Mink or the proper diamond jewellery I think she rightly deserves.

Each day for the past decade I look at the mirror in the morning and feel that I look the best that I probably ever will. As morbid a thought as that may be, truth is most people are best looking in their twenties, and I like to think I am not an exception. As birthdays hold less significance the older I grow, and I wonder whether I am becoming a spoilt and entitled prick or it’s a factor of aging. This is because barely two months ago I met twin brothers who had three legs, fifteen toes,  three hands and 12 fingers between them. These kids were in such great spirits seemingly oblivious to the injustice that had robbed them of their limbs in the armed conflict that plagues DRC Congo. The only thing that did not sit right with me was that they lost their limbs on my birthday 2016; around that time I was high on Russian vodka moping about not having a car…

I am a vain man, so vain in fact that the only abilities I inherently possess is the mind for money and a body for sin. I am however, grateful for a lot of things especially that reader who visits this blog regularly from Norway. I have no idea who you are but in the event you are a woman, may The Creator send you truckloads of love. If you are a man and a cynic such as myself, may God send you people who understand to neither fuck with your money nor your time. It has been a good two years now since I began undressing my mind on this platform and thus far the feedback has been overwhelming. It is a far cry from the expectations I had when I began this. No Russian Vodka for me this year, because I cashed in my liver for an extra heart, now I’ll drink less and care more.