Blank Pages


I like living, probably because I have never been dead. This is all I know, but I love it with every fiber of my being. I love waking up to a headache from a night of partying. I enjoy sipping my tea in a dingy restaurant with blue collar men doused in their football banter. I savour the time spent in grossly overpriced restaurants that put raisins in their salads. Places where ladies with bottomless underwear compare the size of their engagement rings over double lattes and no-cream muffins. I love my dad and his sarcastic jokes and my mother with her absent sense of humour. I love my duo core Lenovo that I christened ‘Florentina’, she is a sturdy and reliable partner from where these words are weaved. Yes, I like living because even though I have never experienced anything else. Living is sensational.

My mother, as all good mothers are, worries about me. I bet my dad does too but he does a better job at hiding it. In this regard, she loves to repeat one piece of advice that I bet will serve me for the rest of my life.

“Do what you have to do,” she always says each time we part ways

My mother is a radical realist. She is the kind of person who absorbs the reality of any situation with an impartial eye. She is all brain, with some heart. It begs the notion that that is where this philosophy was coined. I like to think that my mother appreciates the fact that I am a man. That in more occasions than one I may be required to do something that sits outside my comfort zone in order to champion my interests.

These words have been the ethos I have live by for most of my adult life. They have been the beacon of light in the dreary and dark trenches that encapsulate petty wars. This has inadvertently become my philosophy as well; I do what I have to do. That varies from severing unproductive relationships to toxic hobbies or improving my posture. I always ask myself the important question of whether I have to do whatever it is that I am doing. The magic in these words is that they teach you to impose your will upon life which in turn makes it more productive. The scorecard always shows you as a winner and even when life manages to throw you a low blow, you manage to walk with your nose in the air.

The knowledge to accept that which you cannot change becomes more profound because you accurately established it as a fact. My actions are deliberate and less tainted by the pussy-foot brought about by having multiple mind-sets. I cannot help but think myself lucky, because of having had such great advice to live by. I have learned to walk the tight rope, with a bulletproof mind and a smile on my face. My life is going to be spent jumping off cliffs and learning to fly on the way down…



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…


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…


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.

She Knows…


Every so often, mostly after weeks of low inspiration, as a last result, I like to engage in what would often be described as stimulating conversations with close female friends. These conversations allow me a sneak preview into the world of estrogen, tears, rainbows and butterflies. For my male reader please pay attention, I am handing you pearls here. I have made a list of 10 of the most interesting things that women have told me in the last few conversations; initials have been used to protect the identities of my sources.

1.“I love it because all week long I will be feeling that something is not quite normal, down there…” -A.N.

This was a discussion about why the lady in question was adamant that she needs a man with a large member.

2. “Women only cry after proposals because of being overwhelmed by emotion and the inability to vent these feelings…thus it is best if a proposal is made in a bedroom setting…” -M.G.

This was the most sincere explanation I ever got to justify the waterworks that precede and sum up the modern day marriage proposal.

3. ” A doting boyfriend who spends his money lavishly on his significant other is only comparable to a man with two d*cks..” -C.K.

Ms. C.K. here was describing a weekend birthday party that she attended for one of her girl friends where there was an open bar and a buffet table.

4. “Second chances are not the same as forgiveness…” -J.N.

J.N. was trying to describe why she and her boyfriend had got back together after a break up that was generously documented on social media

5. “Ice cream was invented to console those women who are broken by life” -C.T.

In all fairness, my friend C.T. loves food, but she definitely worships ice cream. If any of her aspiring boyfriends bought me a drink, I’d give them valid pointers.

6. “I would never fight a woman over a man. If children were fighting over a toy, I would get rid of the toy. So I’d annihilate the man not the competition.” -M.G.

There is a certain people in Kenya known for their overloaded  pickup driving skills, lack of a sense of humour and combat knife skills. M.G. hails from that region thus it would behoove me to believe she was dead serious.

7.” There’s no such thing as a whore. Women are made for men and vice versa. Its just that some women are compatible with more than just one man…” -J.N.

J.N. has had a lot of dudes in her life, she doesn’t regret it because she is a feminist who believes that men’s only privilege is their ability to pee while standing.  She is undoubtedly my favourite argument partner because it often gets low down and dirty…

8.” There’s a long queue of men waiting to disappoint you, provided you expect absolute financial support and orgasms.” -H.M.

You see everybody has a H.M. in their lives. They are gorgeous looking, social climbing bimbos, riddled with daddy issues who would do anything and/or anyone for money except a fat, rich bloke twice her age.

9.”In the same fashion a victim of brain cancer does not cut his head off so should a woman never give up on love.” -V.K.

V.K. could very well be my mother’s age. She is funny, witty and sharp. She embodies that title adorned on women who pay their own bills in today’s society. She has never been married and I think she pretty much knows what she means by that.

10. “A single woman needs a big car, preferably a large four by four. A Range Rover or a Landcruiser Prado to accommodate herself and all her feelings.” -M.G.

As sexist as the above quote may sound, my friend G.M. made my week and 40 subsequent ones. I now engage in the activity of trying to identify single women in SUVs from the bus with their truckloads of “feelings”




The Fall of 98′


In the August of 1998, my mother, then in her late thirties was fighting for her life in the ICU. Diagnosed with a rare condition where her red blood cells were being massacred by her white blood cells, the doctors on the case were waging war on what was known to them as thrombocystopinea, so rare in fact that the odds of one contracting the disease are one in a million. We watched with my sisters as my mother gradually lost her energy to a strange disease and the bubbly playmate we once knew was quickly replaced with a shadow of her former self. It was a scary thing for a ten year old boy to imagine his mother being unable to play let alone dying.

For two months my mother spent her life bedridden, in and out of the ICU. Back then as hospital policy had it, children younger than 12 years of age were not allowed access to wards and ICUs.  In retrospect, that was a good thing because the last thing I would have wanted would to see my mother in that sorry state.

My mother’s condition required for frequent transfusions which meant that she needed about two pints of blood per week. That was no child’s play considering the amount of screening that the blood had to go through. My father was faced with the task of sourcing blood donors as well as ferrying them to the city over 100 kilometers away from our hometown. Occasionally, the kindness of strangers, which is very often overlooked, came in handy and the blood quota was met. Meanwhile at home,  my mother’s prayer warriors from the Chamas she belonged visited regularly and gave warm hugs and lengthy earnest prayers. Some helped with our homework while others brought with them sweets. They all meant well but the hugs were what did it for me; yet ironically the best they did was leave me craving for more; specifically from my now ailing mother.

For some reason, four weeks into her treatment, tables began to turn and her body responded. Soon she was out of the ICU. The doctors could not make a plausible explanation as to how or why her condition was improving, in fact I think it served to rekindle their Sunday school faith in a higher power as well. I remember our reunion vividly after months of being apart. My mother sat in the garden of Nairobi hospital, on a cloudy but warm Saturday morning, moon-faced from all the steroids she had been on. She was healthy albeit on a wheelchair, and there has never been a feeling comparable to the hug she gave my sisters and I. We silently irrigated her hospital gown in tears of joy oblivious of the relatives present…

I took two valuable life lessons from this experience given that there was a great many endings to this story that were thwarted by the kindness of strangers and the hand of God that performed a healing miracle. The first lesson is that God undoubtedly exists, whether you believe it or not, He does exist. And if He rid my mother’s body of a strange condition, then surely He can solve anything including your mangled love-life. The second pearl of wisdom that I inadvertently fell upon was to value adversity because it is only then that you can tell the quality of your friends…Happy women’s day!



To Pee or not to Pee


There is a hibiscus bush that had been slowly colonizing the front of my mother’s boma. A stoic little plant that marks the epitome of a doting gardener’s efforts to control nature. If this plant was a human being, it’d probably be the type that had a priviledged childhood. The kind that attended private schools and had a father that read them Uncle Arthur’s bedtime stories every night. I would hardly notice its presence in my mother’s compound had it not been for the intimate relationship that I have developed with it through out the seasons of its growth.

Me thinks that the best gift God gave human males was the ability to successfully pee while standing. As western sanitation would have it, peeing outdoors has become a habit that is to be frowned upon. Yet this remains as one of the few unadulterated pleasures of life as a man. Nothing beats hanging a wire and irrigating a plant with the ammonia rich contents to a waiting hibiscus bush that is only too willing in the dead of night as the cool night air caresses your member.

Most friday nights when I am at home, I stay up late on the xbox waging make-believe warfare on Call of Duty. It is the most logical thing to do within my freelancer’s budget and it manages my midnight coffee high. The most beautiful thing about being a video gamer is that it allows your mind to be at a place where your body is not. Maybe like cocaine does but without converting you into the zombies that drug addicts are. You could be dead broke and own a Lamborghini in Forza Motorsport 4 and still have enough money left for a pricy weave for your gold-digging crack-whore on Grand Theft Auto.

In the dead of night at about 0300hrs I usually wake from my adrenaline stupor only to realize that my bladder is about to explode. The logical thing to do  would be walking to the lavatory that is barely 20 feet from the TV. Instead, I usually make my way outside and there, upon the starlit central Kenya sky; I irrigate my mother’s prized plant. I stand there, legs astride and let gravity do its job in emptying my bladder. For about eight seconds gravity serves a purpose that brings pleasure that is comparable to none.

In those eight seconds I am fully aware of the fact that the best things in life are free. I look up at the sky and try to figure out why I am so fortunate. I could be a girl somewhere lying in bed felling hollow because I missed a period. Or a desperate housewife somewhere in Kilimani wondering where my husband could be; and worse yet, with whom…The last two seconds of my pee break are spent engaging my sphincter muscles to empty the final contents of my bladder.

The walk back to the house is usually that of a man that has seen it all, a wiser man. Infact it is not a walk at all, it is a flight. I float effortlessly into the house in the same way that a ghost would, a wiser smarter version of myself only to fry the contets of my brain further in the make-believe world of video games till dawn.