The Magic in You


I have always wanted a typewriter, in the same fashion that most little boys want bicycles. Some of course want teddy bears and mascara and that is fine by me since my experience here. I am at a beautiful place in my life where most of my real problems can be solved by a wad of cash. And I do not mean temporary solutions, I mean permanent life-long solutions.

In the wake of the millennium I was a little over nine years old and my childhood fantasy then was to own a PlayStation. It was an all-consuming obsession that drove me to do depraved things that in retrospect I would never have engaged in just for a few hours of game play. My love affair with video games did in some ways override my natural instincts because in my teens I used to get more turned on by the thought of a game-pad controller in my hands more than I would be by a bare breasted bimbo.

It took my adulthood, several dead-end jobs and years of saving to attain a gaming console. I did not even buy a PlayStation this time, I bought an Xbox which was infinitely better and more prestigious to own in my opinion. My only problem with this is that it took me about thirteen years to attain this! What fascinates me is the fact that my motivation was in no way fractured during this time.

One of my favourite feelings in this life is buying something that I have always wanted and halfway through enjoying it realizing how much I enjoy the thing and its existence. I realized that there is a lot of power in not letting the toxic mixture of fear and laziness fuck with your goals, ambitions and productivity. Some many years of education are wasted on us yet nobody teaches us how to love ourselves or why this is an important life skill.

It matters not what you want, truth is you are never going to be 100% ready. Neither is it ever going to be the right time, and that is the point. Every moment is the right moment, so if you want it, you just have to do it. It matters not how many times you fail because ultimately nobody is keeping count and the beauty of life is that you can start over each morning.

Bloom yourself. I know this sounds corny and fruity in a way but self-love is like a feeling you have to carry around with you the rest of your life. Like your beating heart- it should never stop. I also think this school of through will ensure that the churches remain as open and accessible as the bar is. I know for certain that the greatest heartbreak I may have to endure is waking up at 75 and realizing that I never got my novel published or never took up that challenge to conquer The Kilimanjaro. Worse still; having my children crying themselves alone to sleep every night and I not knowing about it. All because I was to strung out on perfection and society-pleasing to live my life.




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.