DREAM ON, GIRL

GIRL: I want a man who can forgi;

vex not, hold me tigh;
trigger a satisfying orgas;
meet all household need;
sooth me to drea;
make love like a Troj;
answer me even when I don’t make sen;
see no flaw in his wom;
and haul the shopping insi;
develop a concrete plan for our li;

feel me when I don’t feel h;
impart skills to our chidr;
entrust me with his mon;
eye no other skir;
take me to his moth;
erudite, dreamboat, sweeter than co;
laugh at my jo;
key me up when I’m l;
own at least a viney;
ardent, excellent coo;
knight who treats me like a queen.

DUDE: Which year are we?
GIRL: 2016, almost 2017, why?
DUDE: Because such creatures no longer exist.
GIRL: But I thought you were he?
DUDE: Uh…

A CORRUPTED CONSCIENCE

            Writing. Writers. Literature. I have been saying so much about these lately. I notice. But for a good reason.

           

I ponder about literature all the time. All the f… (How it aches to not use the word) time. You reckon that once this seizure swoops down on you, you can’t help but oblige. It’s like flu. You know what flu does to you?

You bolt. It catches up with you. You pull away, it yanks you back. You pretend to mind other things. It wrests you from their grip. It’s hopeless tryna resist. The more you do, the more you excite the wasps of literature.

If you grew up where I did, you probably know a wasp sting is helluva an experience.

Finally you throw in the towel. Here you look like you’ve come from the wringer. Pounding. Bashing. All that shit.

            I’m a captive. A sorry prisoner? A proud slave? Do I know? Lemme see. Actually, I dunno my state. That’s another trashy feeling. Terrible. Not knowing my state. Tell me, is there worse?

            Today I’ll share how writing has changed me. It has. A great deal. I feel violated against. Like a victim of rape. Because what writing does to you is worse than rape is capable of doing.

            

             Before I began writing, now four years ago –fancy four years of servitude –I was this courtly bloke in whose mouth butter could not melt. A Mr. Goodie-two-shoes.

About if I have dementia I don’t know, but of whether my thinking and behaviour have gone off the tangent, I could never be in doubt.

The fit makes impromptu attacks. Not with stealth. With a boom. Right when your arse is as empty as a spent cartridge. You try to sit but all your derrière does is swing in the chair, like someone with stormy bowels.

The other day I took a bus home. I thought a ride would ease the weight in my cranium. Buses where the touts are so loutish and music so blaring you think passengers had signed up for an eardrum torturing session. Those.

So I was seated next to these two middle-aged mamas. Is mamas courteous to say? The duet were conversing in the highest decibels as though in contention with the raucous music. But how sanely else would they when the environment that was so damn like Hades?

That’s not what was striking about them. Rather their language. Whatever tongue it is that they were using, because I won’t lie that I could comprehend a darn thing. Snoopy. Me snoopy.

You must have heard of the bullshit of a writer’s block? No? You shoulda. I’m not gonna talk about this. Or should I? Fine.

The search for creative triggers compels one to do absolutely crass things. Sometimes I choose to eat out at joints popular with young people. Those joints that are so full of patrons clad in all manner of outrageous outfits and behave like five-year olds.

As a man approaching forty, you realise you’re in strange territory when you hear everyone sing along to Shawn Mendes’ song. You Google it later. Treat you Better is the title.

Writing makes you a pervert. Your imaginative mind becomes a troll that is so hard to tether once you immerse yourself into the pool that is pen and paper. What would you say when someone sees everything in life from a purely debauched POV?

Knitting erotic scenes particularly whittles down your moral fibre. If you own that.

Picture this. You’re talking to your supervisor, or any other person you hold in high regard. But your creative mind wanders away, undresses her, starts stroking her nipple, asks her to bend over, dress raised.

Your mind then then starts to tease her cast-iron nude butt, and tugging at her…apple.

Am I saying too much? That’s far from worse.

As a writer, you become reckless. By design. Financial ruin doesn’t trouble you in the least. Profanity becomes a companion. Ill thoughts a staple. You stop caring a rap about decency.

And indulgence. Most a writers lead larger-than-life kinda lifestyles. Like a prince royal. Sapping at all the gorgeous splendours that life has to offer. On credit. Or anything. What you call champagne on a beer budget.

You find carnage flattering. Any carnage. Blood, distress and wretchedness electrifies your cursed mind.

See? Writing is not the kind of risk to plunge into. If you already have, chin up bruh, hun. It’s a brutal intercourse for which you dropped your undies. It’s more than taking a bullet for someone you don’t like. Let alone one you don’t love. 

Or cooling off your hot balls on the nose of an angry Rottweiler. Would you do that, folks? I bet not.

There is money in writing. Lots. But of what use is money with so much heartache?

There is talk of how ugly enslavement is. But no servitude could get uglier than that of the mind. And you don’t earn your freedom back. Even when you’re old and frail that holding a pen is like trying to fart while holding your goddamned breath.

But we grin and move on.

Imma drop my pen now.

           

           

            

DIANE

I was sitting in a hotel having my lunch on Wednesday. Late lunch. It was at the organisation’s cafeteria, where the food is incredibly subsided and staff very cordial. Dining at 3pm, which has lately become the norm, had not stolen my appetite. 

That the meal was so tasty, and the environment pleasantly quiet –with the company noisemakers gone back to the office –stoked my enthusiasm. Eating at this hour, I had also the rare pleasure of being attended to by the lead maître d’hôtel, Andy. Really charming chap. 

I was eating slowly, listening to my thoughts and watching other patrons. Jill had asked me to buy her chocolate ice cream. With the wintry weather that has rocked Nairobi this week, I knew I would not. Anything else, yes. 

Her brother Joe, 4, had asked for fish. Truly, I can't quite comprehend where this lad’s love for fish came from. He’s actually maniac about Pisces. This has forced us to have fish on our weekly menu for six months now. 

Or does the little thing have some genes I suspect? Gee, is that even worth think about? 

With the schools closed, our help, Maria –the kids call her aunt Mary, and fondly like her –has started to complain of tall days. I don’t know precisely what a tall day looks like, but with Jee and Joe around, it's easy to guess. This time, dear folks, the holiday is lasting two months! It might be apocalyptic before schools resume. Heaven have mercy on us, your poor subjects.

This reminded me something. On Sunday evening, Terry had asked me if we could take the kids to the country to stay with mother. I’m still rolling that suggestion in my head.

Back to the hotel. I had just stabbed a cucumber and the fork was on its way to the mouth when my hand stopped in its tracks. A middle-age lady was aiming at my sitting place. I frowned but concealed my unease. 

A swift scan on her determined several aspects. One, she wore more makeup than would tarmac an entire 100 yards footpath. Secondly, the napkin on my plate was twice as large as her black spandex skirt. Her heels, you know the heels they wear these days, seven inch, olive and shiny? Those ones.

Hell, if she dropped something and bent to pick it up, fellows, you’d be treated to free porn. And I mean raw porn. I hear peeps talk of being cozy in one’s skin. But this, this damsel was actually audacious in hers.

Linda is our new sub. She sits next to me, where she amuses me with endless tales of her bibber girls and their wild parties, exploits in the city. Some people own this capital than the rest of us do. 

‘Your line has been incessantly called,’ said she handing me my cellphone which I had deliberately left on my desk.

‘Oh, thanks you,’ I said taking the phone.

Presently, a friend called. I was to interview him for a story.

Linda stood beside me while I spoke on the phone, something that riled me. Only a little. After apologising to him, which he duly accepted, we agreed to meet inside an hour at his work place along the Northern Bypass. 

Shortly we left the hotel. Strutting across the street to the office with Linda was disconcerting. I’m not a misogynistic fellow, but isn’t it absurd that a woman dressed so skimpily is someone’s prize horse? Thankfully, we got to the office, a few yards away. Without an incident is what I mean.

I took my laptop, notebook and the car keys. Thus I left to meet my guy.

Absalom is a mortuary attendant. I find Absalom a cool name, don’t you? I call him Axel, the German version of the name, something he thoroughly enjoys. He was waiting for me when I pulled off at the facility. Some men are more men than others. And my guy Axel is in that class of alpha men. This knight's life is, simply put, a fascination. He’s what you might call a charmer. A wooer. You’d sit and listen to him for two hours, and fail to notice the passage of time. 

He offered to show me around, which I politely declined. In the interest of time. So we walked to the institution's food court, where he ordered for cocktails. Both on his bill. I took daiquiri while he settled for mojito. The way of gentlemen. The drink was divine. After jabbering about the US election shocker, the Jubilee regime’s scandals and, of course, women, we got down to the brass tacks. 

It was smooth, and my crony made things even easier. I realised I had hardly used the questions I'd drafted for the interview. Surprisingly, he answered them all as I sat still, listening, watching and frowning as his lips moved in rhythm, eyes batted and brow arched as he narrated his journey of life. 
If some people are eloquent, Axel is a splendid orator.

Twice I asked him how he had ended up as a mortuary attendant, and on both occasions, he heartily answered, passion.

Just when we were winding up, a lady of about 30, with two playful kids, twin girls, approached us. The trio wore each a beautiful kitenge dress and matching blue flat shoes. They looked very striking. In our five year marriage, no kitenge piece of clothing has ever sat in Terry's wardrobe.

She greeted us, then announced, ‘I’m here to see my sister.’ I assumed her sister worked here. But Axel understood better.

So my friend took her documents, confirmed a number, excused himself and left. Moments later, Axel came back, with another man, a colleague of his, in his work gear. It’s then that it occurred to me that her sister had passed on and her body was lying in this parlour.

The lady looked at me and out came a smile. To my utter surprise, she closed the gap between us. When she extended her hand for a shake, a hundred questions were already oscillating in my head. 

When Absalom’s teammate motioned her to follow him, she tugged my hand and what happened next, I was following her to the viewing room. Axel also came along.

The procedure was brief and overwrought. When we left the storage room shortly afterwards, nothing on her countenance had changed one whit. The strength, the composure and firmness of character all really startled me. The kids though were utterly woebegone. They cried holding on to their mother’s dress. You see, explaining death to a minor is a horrific test, a nightmare.

Death is destructive. Devastating. It tears down and tramples on souls. I have lost family and friends, and the anguish is defies any lexical demonstration. Therefore I won’t pretend to comprehend how accurately to define the horrors departure of a loved one leaves in its wake. 

This old monster steals from individuals, families and nations. It’s  a thief. In fact worse than a thief. A thief will usually strike when least expected. Death will descend even when you’re fully awake. You’ll do nothing to stop it. 

I hugged, and allowed her to shed some tears on my shoulder. It was odd, for I didn’t even know her name yet. She stayed there for a while, muttering things, difficult things that were no doubt an expression of her loss.

When she was finally collected, after what seemed like eons, she wiped her face, and smiled at me.

‘Thank you, sir.’ she said. 

‘It’s fine,’ I responded still reeling in an extreme mental upheaval. A stranger had found solace, strangely, in another stranger’s arms.

She introduced herself as Diane. Her beauties were Beryl and Daisy. She explained that Debby had died in an accident. I tried to be as consolatory as I could. After exchanging our cards, of course for future acquaintance, which I look forward to, I bid my friend bye.

We will hang out soon, my inside kept saying on my way back to the office. I might even ask Mama Jill if we could invite Diane and her girls over someday.

As I picked fish and other household items at the store later that evening, the tape replayed in my head. I wanted to forget the episode, but the more I tried to pull away, the more it engulfed my mind. 

Through the drive home, the events of the afternoon rolled in my head with no end that I could virtually not detect the languid movement of traffic.

After I had ruled in the usual verbal battles between Jill and Joe, we had dinner. I then helped tuck the children into bed. 

      When everyone had gone to bed and the house was still, I fired up my computer, and scribbled this piece.

Has a stranger ever asked for your help? How did you react?

THE TALE OF A SAUCY GIRLFRIEND

Last Monday, I had just wound up my day’s work. I'm not your regular wonk. Uh-uh. I was just whiling time having a dry babble with fellows in the office. I had a certain reluctance to leave for home or anywhere.

Then a friend called. An old girlfriend. Tabitha. It was a surprise. And a delight.

I won’t delve into the details of our phone conversation, apart from the fact that it was full of cheer, and jokes of peeps who haven’t been in touch.

She wanted us to meet in town.

You see, it was a huge coincidence, because we had not heard from each other for, what, six months. Okay, that’s not the coincidence. I didn’t have any plan for the evening, with bae out of town for the weekend.

Even more pleasantly, being the end of the month, the HR department had earlier that day looked into our affairs.

So with an over-flowing bank account, an absentee girlfriend and a sudden plan, I consented. We would meet inside one hour. It’s really remarkable how manna fall to those starving, don't wanna agree?

But you must know one or two things about Tabby.

Tabby and I happened to attend the same university. That was three years ago. In a nutshell, we had hang out together several evenings, and visited each other on numerous occasions. The way college guys do, you know.

She was not my girlfriend per se, but we were even closer than a couple should get. I bet you get my gist? I fancy I have said before that I have a particular pull for women. Not exactly for the object of what must be going through your head. Hell, nuh. But for reasons around which I can’t wrap my head.

Tabby is, well, a stunning creature. The type that any knight worth his salt –I’m sure I’m worth my salt –would be willing to pay anything to go on a date with. She is of pleasant conduct. Mature, shall we say. All writers are. But to thrill her, gosh, you must be Eros himself.

So in short, refusing this treat was the last thing I wanted to do.

Suddenly engrossed, I ended my twaddle with friends and shot out to the garage. As I drove through the light traffic along Waiyaki Way towards the CBD, I was grinning from ear to ear, eager for the date.

Should I say everything was working for me on this night? I got to our rendezvous in a record 20 minutes, unusual for a Monday evening when everyone in this city seems suddenly to have the urge to rush somewhere.

I’ve discovered that I’m taking so long to unleash the juicy part of this chronicle. Sorry. Now I’ll address only what is relevant. Are we cool, cronies? Nice. That’s why I like you. Patience. Patience with me.

Are deets about where I picked up my date important, folks? Remember we agreed that I'd go straight to the matter itself, didn’t we? Fine. My date was waiting for me along 17^th Independence Street.

The instant I saw her, the va-va-voom factor in me died in its tracks.

Good people, how would you react when your date emerged dressed like she were in Disneyland? What would you do if she came sporting an incredible Cinderella-like horsetail hair? And matching red woolen shoes? What if she comes in an 1800s mackintosh coat? What if that coat were yellow?

Would you pretend that you don’t find it utterly absurd and mind your business? And perhaps perform Drake's Hotline Bling dance? Or would you drag her into the next boutique in the street and teach her to dress like a grown woman? Dude, would you run? Actually, I was seized by an overwhelming urge to do the latter.

Guys, you have no idea what wardrobe malfunction is. What stood before me was a classic example of this tomfoolery of the 21^st century.

I didn’t. But I must be honest with you. Getting out of the vehicle was tingly for me. Have you ever regretted agreeing to something, a date perhaps? I suppose you have. Now that is what I  felt.

Finally, I made up my mind and went for her. Maybe, just maybe, an evening of embarrassment would not kill my huge ego.

As though her manner of dressing was not off-putting enough, she staged another despicable show: literally screamed upon spotting me. She came running, shouting like a crazed person and jumped me, grinding the rush-hour street-activity into a momentary standstill.

I felt like poor old Donald Trump after telling a bad joke to an appalled audience. Or worse.

Roasting in humiliation, I scooped her from the street and drove away to a joint where we might not be subjected to awkward attention. I don’t recollect what passed between us in the car, if anything at all passed between us.

All too soon, we were at Prestige. How I had picked Ngong Road direction is beyond my ken. However, with so much egg on the face, I didn’t have a straight head with which to think things out.

So I  randomly picked an eatery and after parking the car, we proceeded inside. The place was a quiet one and decent from the outside. Besides, it was not as crowded as pubs in the the town centre usually are. As we walked inside though, I could feel on my skin some daggers of looks thrust in our direction. 

           The guards, understandably, asked us to produce our IDs. Tabby wanted to protest, but I held her down.

From the moment we walked through the entrance into the establishment, all the attention was on us. People seemed to wonder who this fabulous dresser was. And even more who her male companion was. Nothing troubled me than to think that they perhaps assumed I had lured a teen to this place . It was the kind of shit that puts you on knife-edge that I was dealing with.

Venice is the sort of inn where you queue to be served at the counter before carrying your food to your table. With more than a 100 patrons at any given time, they have a sharp deficiency of staff at only seven. I guess it is part of what they call cost-cutting initiative these days.

As we waited to be attended to, there was this plus-size couple that was gawking at us as though we were zombies in the wrong place. I mean, who was in the wrong place here? I don't get the humour whenever I have to line up for cholesterol with plump shots in a cafe. The duo was determined to cause us discomfort until Tabby held on to my arm when she could no longer withstand the edginess.

I took chips, mutton and a beer. Tabby settled for fish, rice and ice-cream. Never mind the sick combination. 

So we sat with our food and nerves, trying but failing to duck quizzical stares thrown at us with abandon from virtually everyone in the room. Clearly, this was a match I had not signed up for. If I could pull a Spider Man manouvre, I could have happily done so.

While the food was heavenly, the chatter was bland. My partner did most of the speaking, while I contented myself with listening. In fact, it wasn’t actual listening I was doing, because half the time I was ruing my decision of coming here, and the other half my mind was straying hundreds of miles away thinking about Terry.

After drinking and more banter, I left for the Gents to take a leak.

Upon return, Tabitha had slithered away. Had she decided to end this madness and left to collide headlong with darkness on her way home? Unlikely. 

            Anyway, wouldn’t it be a relief? I sat, waiting for her to return, and hoping she did not. 

            Moments later, a finger rested on my shoulder. Turning, I sprang from my chair, and spilled to the floor. Tabitha had  a mask on,  and looked like the devil himself. She had scared the hell out of me.

Amid laughter, she helped me up. It was then that I remembered today was the Halloween!

Hell, I cursed. How could I have forgotten!

           We sat whereupon she set everything straight: from her fairy-tale dressing to her jumpy manner tonight. I watched stupefied and interested. 

When the fog of the circus cleared from my head, Tabby cleverly indicated her intent: she wished to be taken home for the night, and the weekend.

What an incredible evening, I thought as I drove home with Tabitha resting in my lap.

                            Poor soul, I'm tryna reignite my writing edge which seems to have grown some rust.

Fancies of a scribe

I began penning this article a long while ago. I had my thoughts put together, ideas flowing and the structure in place. Except I had not humiliated the keyboard by tapping at it yet.

Finally, I have managed to lay hands on a pen and, most crucially, a grip on the eternally elusive time, and here we are.

Shall we say, Bingo!

You see, the alpha man is not an idler blogger as most wannabe writers are. Any feathers ruffled? Many, I bet.

Sir Nkurunziza has his professional duties and a million other enthusiasms, all competing for his hard-to-come-by attention, as to afford to have surplus time to attend to scribal compulsions all the time.

Damnit! What the deuce am I saying? Anyhow. Take me wrongly at your own peril.

So, here is the chronicle. A chronicle you must hear.

Wait, it’s not a chronicle, really.

FYI, I don’t lay any solid claim to being a chronicler worthy of any note, shout no. Chronicling is a pretext we idlers fancy using whenever we want to put our inherently cheap thoughts across, to whoever may care to listen.

Rather it’s an analysis and a vision. An objective, perhaps.

What type of spouse do you envisage? What kind of man would you want to father your children? What species of woman would you want to carry your children? What breed of human would you wish to grow gray hair with?

The pedigree type, most will shout. Yet how do you arrive at that special mate? Good question, folks. I will tell you how. In just a moment.

Lately, the alpha man has been thinking real hard about this oft-ignored subject that is otherwise of massive substance, and hefty repercussions.

Following is what I came up with: the threshold that my partner must meet. Fancies though these may seem, yet it is what I want.

Even before I begin, please note that ours will be pretty much a contract.

Conduct

This is the central pillar. Mannerisms of an invalid are unwelcome. Behaviour should be impeccable. Someone who can answer me when I ask what programme is showing on TV even when I can see it’s the horribly-cast Muchacha Italiana.

Beauty

We all go for this. But my lady must be Natalie Portman-smoking hot. And when I say Nat, I mean just that.

Yet here is where I get so utterly subjective. Plump has never been my thing, never will. Curves though I may, repeat may, allow, but not so much flesh as to fall free in the shape of flab. Hapana!

I fancy ‘em petite, much as a fellow scribe insists that ‘these little devils can really raise hell outta nothing.’ A 5’1 like Lady Gaga’s is just fine.

Dressing

There are no rules for this. She will dress as she pleases, but sexy and appealingly. I would fancy it more if she can put on a pair of onesies, shorts, loafers and dresses, and look strikingly the part.

Have I mentioned before that a lady in sexy flats and socks makes me squirm with need?

Smile

It has to be evermore winsome. The variety that melts an icy heart –sometimes I can allow myself to get really cold. She can help exorcise my gloom. The Rooney Mara type of beam.

Exercise

A gym-animal would be most suitable, for fitness is a big plus in the matters that I should not mention here. She should however not have muscles of a career weightlifter.

Complexion

The tone has to be bright. Skin that sparkles is what I mean. The kind you see on sassy models on Nivea billboards. She must not have a freckle. Hell, no!

If she is not of light skin complexion, I may take her in on the condition that this gene runs in her lineage.

 Language

English and French are a must. English –and this has to be flawless –because it is the favourite tongue of the alpha man. 
Dear Lord, I loathe girls who speak with outrageous accents, saying nothing really. Miserable souls, the god of language will have no mercy on you.

Some French will do because the boy studied (some!) French in college. Never mind he benefitted very insignificantly from the syllabus. Thus she will have the honour of learning me. And learn I must.

Intelligence

This value is so sweet to not possess. Sometimes the alpha man allows himself to wallow in thoughtlessness, and in such instances, she will be there to temper my idiocy. I can’t claim to understand what I meant by this line. Not without telling a fib.

But that she must be brainy is the base line.

Reasoning

My missus must possess an analytical mind. She must possess deductive genius of jaw dropping status. Having read Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s detective exploits, I must say I fell in love with people who boast this venerable quality.
Dude, seriously? Dude. I'm not sorry, it's what I want, and what I must have.

Mediocrity will not be permissible in our union. I will bust her without a second thought, poor soul.

Relations

I will love my duchess' family. And she will have no choice but reciprocate. But one thing I must forbid is her relations to dictate what we must do.
Toughee
I want someone who can do a five-kilometre jog in the morning and prepare breakfast without whining. Someone who can go watching the Rhino Charge on a rainy May morning, or go mountaineering when Mt. Kenya forest is at its gloomiest. A lady who can punch back when threatened.

Really not the mushy type that would call dial 999 and my workplace in an emergency for "Darling there is big mende inside the kitchen cabinet."

Enthusiasms

She may love literature: reading or writing. Having both would be an added advantage.

I am a film maniac, thus she should be a friend of the screen. Strictly, I cannot even start to date someone to whom Inferno, Deadpool, The Jungle Book and Apocalypse sound like, at best Double Dutch, at worst, Gypsy language.

She must have the capacity to draw amusement from many a faculties. In other words, we should have similar hobbies and interests. Not all. At least several.

Independent entities

Between us there will be autonomy. I do not wish to place any stringent measures on how she should conduct her life, especially when her actions do not impact on my life in any way.

She will have her financial latitude, freedom and all she may desire. This I won’t tamper with.

Duties

It has never been my habit to rely upon someone to run my errands. No one should babysit me. I like performing my own chores.

I can grill my sandwich, brew coffee for myself, and clip my nails, can't I?

I will not enslave her in any way whatsoever.

 Friends

She may have chums of her choice, it’s entirely upon her. But I would take displeasure to the ilk with hideous tendencies of hovering around long after dinner has been served and late night news anchors gone to sleep.

I must confess my abhorrence for the type that is naturally privy to and discuss everything from what the Kardashians are up to, to what peek-a-boo bras and panties are new in the lingerie market, and their knights in bed.

Drinking

You cannot deny pleasures to a woman who can tell the difference between genuine Chablis and counterfeit Chateau Montelena, can you? Your answer is as good as my guess.

She can take as much wine as her palate will accommodate, except she should not drink outside the confines of our home. I must forbid her subscription to cheap liquor as is sold in piteous joints that are so common in Nairobi. Sparkling wine from worthy joints will be allowed any time.

Children

We will sire just one kid: my goddess Monique. This proviso is not debatable.

Terminating the contract

My missy will have absolute liberty to walk away whenever she so pleases. I will not hold her back, except there won’t be an opening for her return.

If you strongly feel you encompass these qualities, tada!

Apply now.

Canvassing will lead to automatic disqualification. 
Attention: This is not a request.