attempted humour



By Locococomoco

I have a rule, it’s quite simple, no sex on a Sunday. A lot of people think I’m joking when I say this, but a review the immaculate logic behind this rule may change your mind.
The thought process starts with The Big Man Upstairs. According to my Sunday School teacher He is omnipotent, transient and all sorts of other omnis (Of course omnibus excluded I’d expect)

As things go, I’d imagine there’s usually quite a bit for Him to do on a daily basis, you know, given that humans are quite the fucked up species, so weekdays are probably one big blur of drowning His sorrows at the outcome of His creation.

Sunday’s are however, quite special. You see, there is usually an unparalleled peak in name calling activity on Sundays. The name in question being His. Every Tom, Dick and Henrietta who has been involved in various forms of debauchery during the week usually feels the need to cry unto Him for one reason or another (In prayer and whatnot). As thus, I’d imagine that He is forced to peer suspiciously towards earth on Sundays as the clamour must be quite distracting.

So how does this affect matters carnal you ask? Well, in lieu of the facts outlined above, why the hell would you want to have hot, torrid, pay-per-view sex on a Sunday when there is a high probability that God is watching?!

Sure there is nothing wrong with sex but I’m pretty sure accidental voyeurism of your sorry ass will not score you points with Him (yeah, you’re not that good at it!). I mean, if you’re screaming “OMG! OMG!” on a Sunday and He looks your way and finds that it wasn’t said while kneeling at a pew in supplication, He might be a wee bit miffed, which is never a good thing.

Therefore, to avoid being struck by lightning or losing girl-scout points with The Big Man Upstairs, I suggest we all obey the no sex on a Sunday rule. (Yes boys and girls, this includes self service too. It’d be worse if you were seen doing that, He’d chalk you off as a loser and laugh at you which would make for a very embarrassing entrance to the pearly gates someday.)

A.O.B.

If you see me around, buy me a couple of drinks and I might just let you in on my theory about the origin of mankind ;)

By Buggz79

 

Game Over

Game Over

This is a post about the boys.

What happens when your comrades, your men at arms, your amigos go off and, in an act unrelated to domestic hygiene, sweep some damsel off her feet?

Chances are that they will be handing said damsel the broom quite shortly.

But this is not the aspect that I’m looking at.

Lads have always rolled with the “bro code”. You know, bros before…er..(PC Alert) Ladies of negotiable affection aka digging implements. So we’ll embark on various dubious escapades, fuelled by alcohol and other questionable substances and set about conquering femaledom with gusto. In our wake, there will be a few broken hearts, seething emotions from spurned lasses and the occasional sore body part from defending one of the lads honor.

And then it happens.

You are at a random ‘meating’ location dazzling each other with tales of your exploits and rubbishing each others football teams. Then the lad who’s chic you all know drops a random line into the convo.

“What do you guys think about <insert name of current love interest>?”

Depending on the bond between the lads, this will either spark reactions between the  cautious “She’s ok I guess” and the more likely “Dude, if you leave me alone with her in a semi lit room for 5 minutes…wacha nisiseme”

And after a few minutes of this, the dude finally comes out with it and says. “We have this nini…me and her…I’m thinking of quitting the players club man..”

If this is the first lad of the group headed for slaughter aisle bound, then the news elicits a moment of silence as the boys collectively mourn his loss of ‘freedom’

And they instantly focus on the next major aspect of this life changing decision. Yep. The stag night.

Much like the fight club, the first rule about stag parties is that you don’t talk about stag parties. Trust me ladies, the less you know about that, the better.

But the real change to the brotherhood comes after the marriage has been solemnized. The lad is now part of a unit. Back then when the lad was merely dating, the damsel went out of her way to score favour points with the boys. Now she has a license (to drive the dude nuts?) and the first course of action is change the crowd around the man. He needs to hang with like minded dudes. After all, the other lads are still chasing tail, embarking on random road trips and generally not engaging in activities likely to result in marital bliss.

This is a generally rough phase for the newly married lad. Sure you can choose to hang out with wifey and the boys. This hardly ever works out well though. Their interests have no common focus. Heck, odds are that the new wife will either cock block the boys or (possibly worse) hook em up in hopes that they will discover marital bliss..

I have no solutions for the hapless young man…maybe you do?

What’s on my Playlist?

Mos Def – Lifetime

cock block. Get it?

According to this article,  cock blocking is quite accurately defined as the “foul act in which someone interferes with another’s attempt at finding happiness inside someone’s pants.” I’m pretty sure that a lot of guys have at one (or more) point in life been a victim of this very criminal, sadistic act.

However, cock blocking is indeed a very important part of the mating game, a very important tactic that if mastered skillfully can work very well in your advantage. And there are cases where it is necessary to cockblock. Let’s look at some of them.

Freeloading cockblockers (madharau ya bure)

This is a very common occurrence. You meet a chic at the club. You throw her a few raoz. You flirt suggestively and get her into your frame of lateral thinking. At the end of the night, you decide to push the lateral agenda further by suggesting that you go back to your place. Then she says

“Sorry, I can’t. Aunty Flo is in town”

(Either that or she pulls a  bitch-ass “my boyfriend is here” move)

Some unfortunate guys have had the misfortune of taking her home, then after successfully getting 90% of the clothes off and reaching into the bedside drawer to get some rubber, she tells you that she can’t coz she’s on her period.

Sitoi!!

WTF???

Seriously! When you got into his car and ended up at his house, in his bed, just what on earth did you think was going to happen? You’re both gonna hold hands and sing the anthem? Unity is a good thing, but I’m pretty sure that the dude was looking for unity of another nature. The “Two become one” type! As the TV ads said, “Wacha ushenzi!”

If this happens to you, you are well within your rights to evict her from your residence as swiftly as humanly possible.

Girls in groups

Whenever you come across girls in a group of more than 3, and you have your eye on one of them, that right there is a close to impossible situation. These girls will sit there and scrutinize everything about a guy and chomoa you marks. Or they’ll be too engrossed in their vibe. If you’re lucky enough to isolate said damsel, yaani divide and conquer, then you’re in luck. Coz as long as she’s with her pals, you don’t stand a chance.

So let’s say that you finally manage to get some alone time with her and you unleash your two bob vibes, drinks and all that you possibly can to get her interested in engaging in coitus with you, rest assured there’s no way you’re going home with her coz right at that moment, her pals will swiftly close ranks and cockblock that agenda.

Come on ladies, just coz you ain’t getting none tonight doesn’t mean that you should prevent your friend from having some pretty good sex! It’s all about free will. If she’s feeling his vibe, she’s got a perfectly good head on her shoulders (hopefully) so let her decide for herself. Get yourself a man too, or bugger off!

Compe ni compe roho safi

…Kila mtu ajitetee roho safi.

This right here refers to straight up game chafu competitive cockblocking. Nothing is fair in [sex] love and war. Imagine a scenario where two guy pals both fancy one chic, and neither of them wants to step aside and let the other conquer. So they both decide to press on and see whoever’s game is better. In such situations, there is no need to compete coz what happens if your pal is a well versed cunning linguist? And I do mean that in the most transparent of terms. He can talk his way into a girl’s pants in ten minutes flat *cough* Milo *cough* and you know for sure that you can’t compete with him on that level, then it’s only natural to fyeka him kabisa.

Two guys vibing one chic is quite an interesting scenario and provides an opportunity to employ several different cock-blocking tactics.

Guy 1: …so this time we had a bash at my pal’s house and it was crazy!

Guy 2: Dude, si that’s the time you got so boozed that you blacked out and crapped on yourself? You always do that when you’re high!!

Consider yourself cock-blocked.

Guy 1: “Wsup Mato! I see you’ve met Trish.”

Guy 2: “Yeah, we’ve met.”

Guy 1: “So Mato tell me, how’s the herpes? Ulipona?”

Trish: Wuuuuuiiiiiii! *scatters*

There’s no recovery from this one. Quietly exit stage left.

Guy 1: Dude, is your phone off? Your chic is calling me on my phone looking for you.

Guy 2: *embarrassed* “Gimme a sec.

Chic: You mean he has a chic?

Guy 1: He didn’t tell you?

Chic: Imagine nooooo!

Guy 1: Yeah, they’ve been together almost 3 years now. Kwanza he’s taking her to coasto this weekend to propose. We just picked out the ring last week!

By the time you realize that that wasn’t your chic on the phone, it’s too late. Consider yourself cock-blocked.

In such cases, don’t hate the playa, hate the game. You’ve been sliced clean. No need throwing a bitch-fit when it finally dawns on you that your boy has cock blocked you. Keep your chin up and keep walking.

VDS*

If there’s this one girl whose pants you’ve been trying to get into for quite some time. However, she always has this pal who always shows up and becomes a third wheel in your vibe. Most times said pal has chapad kabisa so taking her home with you is not a plan. Besides, threesomes are cumbersome. Such perpetual and seasoned blockers of cock are hereby referred to as Van der Sar coz there’s no way in hell that she’s letting you score!

Edwin Van der Sar

Case in point, there’s a chic who I’ve been trying to slay. But whenever I think up a plan of let’s go hang out somewhere & have drinks then see where the day/night takes us, we agree to meet up somewhere, then when I arrive and suggest

“Si we go?”

The response is always

“Actually I’m just waiting for *insert pal’s name* to come. I hope you don’t mind.”

Aaaaargh! What the bloody fuck? Third wheel syndrome. And twice I’ve had to call up two of my boys who were hoovering somewhere in the vicinity to come and neutralize the equation. But whenever they show up, said third wheel is always more interested in catching up with said target, or butting into our conversations. There’s just no escaping the long arms of Van der Sar!

Where cock blocking is absolutely necessary.

Guys, how many times has your boy come close to chipsing a chic who is well known to have more mileage than a Bayusuf & Sons 18 wheeler? Or a chic who you know that you absolutely wouldn’t touch with a five foot pole, and gloves to boot? IT IS YOUR DUTY to cock block him on humanitarian grounds by any means necessary. Yes it is! It may be ugly, but you’ll soon be forgiven.

One fine Friday night a few years ago in South Africa, it was the end of exam week, so all students hit the pub for an evening of serious #beershara. And we all know what goes down when you have hundreds of university students in a pub on Friday. If you don’t get laid, then game yako iko down kama basement!

I was seated at a table with a bunch of Kenyans, checking out the local scenery before zeroing in on possible targets. Enter my pal with a coloured chic, fine as fuck. When I say fine, best believe this woman was FWYNE!! Dangerously fine. Pretty yellow yellow, clad in a tiny top revealing her sumptuous cleavage and black leather hipsters outlining her thunder thighs that can easily give even Archbishop Ndingi mwana a’ Nzeki something devilish to think about.

That’s where the problem came in. See, said pal was one of the senior and most respected Kenyans in the university. And this chic had quite a chequered history, which included rumours of an STD after a guy that we know came and confessed his rather painful dilemma after his encounter with her. Yes, he got gonorrhea.

My pal was so all over her vibe. Drinks flowing, dirty dancing all over the place and basically performing fingerskating aka yellow pages. We all knew what was about to go down, but how on earth were we supposed to tell him that she was bad news? Two guys tried to hola at him kando but to no avail.

At the end of the night, just as we noticed that he was about to leave with said chic, desperate measures had to be taken. At that exact moment, this song was playing on the club speakers. We all got atop our seats and crossed our arms to form an X, and improvised the lyrics. Sing along now, won’t you?

Gonooooooorhea! She has! She has! Go go go Gonooooooooorhea!


Let’s just say he wasn’t the least bit amused, (neither was she) but it was absolutely necessary lest he came crying to us later with more than just an itch in his sehemu nyetis. We don’t know what went down after they left the club. He didn’t tell us.

Another situation. What if your boy, who has a girlfriend/wife is acting a fool, and is about to chips a chic, in a crowded place where there are enough eyewitnesses to guarantee that he will be sold out to his significant other even before he gets home? It is imperative upon you to make sure that he doesn’t get caught cheating. Real friends don’t let their friends walk into a trap.

If you see a female friend or your boy’s little sister about to be chipsed by a dude you know is bad news, then it’s also your duty to cock block that agenda on humanitarian grounds.

Anyway, there are rules to cock blocking.

1.       Never cockblock a dude unless you had intentions on said target. That’s just malicious and is punishable by death.

2.       If you’re the victim of a cock block, take it like a man. Accept it, it’s part of the game. You live to fight another day.

3.       Whatever you do, be careful not to cockblock yourself. That’s sexual suicide.

What’s on my playlist?

I Just Had Sex – Lonely Island feat. Akon

Follow me on Twitter: @ArcherMishale

Find me on Facebook: Archer Mishale

crazy girl

crazy girl

 

Last Wednesday evening about 6:30pm, a pal of mine (Phil) calls me up and says he’s in my vicinity. I was in an extremely boring lecture at the time, so a distraction was something to look forward to. It ended at 7pm and I headed off to the pub to meet up with him. We got our own table, na Tusker mbili mbili zikaletwa. We chatted for a few minutes, then another pal, Jim, came over to join us. Jim is a talkative, eccentric guy with a habit of mixing up strange cocktails. On this night in particular, he had a double vodka, topped up with freshly diced pineapples and Sprite.

Shortly afterwards, a random chic walked up to our table and planted her Guinness Kubwa (and I mean the BIG one). “It’s so lonely drinking alone, can I join you guys?” Phil and I exchange looks, subconsciously communicating “why the hell not? Enyewe she’s kinda fly!” So we ushered her to sit. She excused herself to go to the little girls room.

Me: Jim, who’s this chic?

Jim: She’s just some chic. Her name’s Jane. She’s hot but she’s not very bright. One of the dumbest girls I’ve ever met. Just be careful with her.

Not much of a description, no? What exactly does “just be careful with her” mean? Phil and I thought perhaps we should just keep the conversation simple to avoid overworking her one and a half brain cells. The moment Jane returned from the little girls’ room, we were fully exposed to her daft-itis. She’s very pretty but doesn’t look Kenyan, prompting me to ask her where she’s from.

Jane: I’m just from over there, behind the counter.

Phil: No, dumbass, where do you come from. Yaani ocha kwenu iko wapi? Ama mnaishi wapi?

Jane: Ocha?

Me: Yaani, are you Kenyan?

Jane: Yes, but I grew up in eastern United States. That’s why I have such light skin, coz the sun doesn’t shine much over there.

Right.

We enjoyed our drinks, with Jane explaining her choice of drink. We had a really hard time keeping the conversation simple coz each time she lowered the bar. A tweep called even suggested that I ask her whether she knows that Kenya Airways has Concordes.

Jane: The one shaped like a pencil with erectile dysfunction? Yeah, I’ve seen those. I think I flew one to Mombasa.

Right.

Later on we spotted a couple of pretty chics on the next table (who we came to realize are Rwandese. Damn that country has beautiful women!) and we asked them to join us. Drinks flowed, good humour and banter and as the rain began to pour, we were guaranteed to have the pleasure of their company for another coupla hours at best.

As it got to about 11pm, the barman informed us that he would be closing the pub in the next 20 minutes so we had to finish up our drinks and scatter. Which was a good idea coz I was out of cash by then, and having a hangover at work is not a good idea. What happens if I’m summoned for an impromptu meeting with the boss the next morning?

Jim went his own way, the Rwandese girls went the other way, leaving Phil to drop me off at my place then he’d proceed on his way home. As we walked to Phil’s car, Jane appeared.

Jane: Where are you guys going? I want more alcohol!

Me: Chic, can’t you see the bar is closed? I’m going home to sleep coz I’ve got a long day tomorrow.

Then I spotted one of my lecturer’s stranded a few metres away at the entrance to the university. I approached him and asked if he needed a lift to the main road, and he said that he could do with one. So I opened the back door and ushered him in. Jane appeared from nowhere still insisting that the night was young and she wanted to party.

Me: Look Jane, I’ve told you I’m going home!

Jane: Then let’s go to your house.

Me: To do what? Mi naenda kulala.

Jane: I’m sure we can find something to do at your house.

She said, making use of her luscious eyelashes and rubbing my chest seductively. Instant standing ovation in my trousers.

Yaani chips kajileta kwenye sahani! Maajabu ya Musa!

 

chipo pap!

chipo pap!

I won’t lie, at that precise moment in time, I did contemplate the idea. Ka fwyne chic begging to be chipod mara pap! This would be serious wood throwing if I didn’t agree to the idea. Before the blood could flow back into my brain from head #2, chic had already jumped into the back right of Phil’s car. With my lecturer.

Now, my lecturer is someone who I always try to be on good terms with coz I’ll need recommendations once I graduate. So I can’t afford to be acting a fool in his presence. Besides, apart from being part of the senior members of the faculty, he’s also in charge of the university’s AIDS prevention unit. You know, safe sex, demonstrations of how to use condoms properly, the hazards of unsafe sex, kubeba chips ovyo ovyo, VCT (Vaa Condom Twende) and all that. Now he’s seated in the back with this airhead who has insisted on being bebwad chips. How much more embarrassing can this get?

I just prayed that she would keep her mouth shut for a few minutes, but she had other ideas.

Jane: So what do you do, I’ve never seen you on campus before.

Lecturer: We must be in different faculties. But we must have had a session on sex education when you joined the university. Did you attend my talk?

Jane: Naaah, I skived that shit. I don’t need to be told how to use a condom. I know that shit already. Archer, do you have condoms at your house?

*Facepalm*

(Speaking of rubber, I was completely out of stock, so that was another reason not to take her crazy ass home with me)

Luckily the drive was short and within the longest four minutes of my life, we had arrived at the main road, where the lecturer was about to take a cab to his house. I got out and opened the door for him.

“Mishale, be careful with that one. She doesn’t look okay in the head.” Said the lecturer as he walked away, wagging his finger.

“You don’t say!” I thought as I got back in the car.

Me: Gee, thanks Jane. You just ruined my rep. So where can we drop you off?

Jane: I thought we’re going to your house?

Me: Look, I really need to sleep. Just tell us where we can drop you off, ok?

That’s when she threw the mother of all bitch-fits.

“I WANNA DRINK! LET’S GO TO A BAR! I WANNA GO TO YOUR HOUSE! I WANNA F***!!!”

Phil: Boss, you’re in serious problems!

Me: I’m not going anywhere with your crazy ass! And that’s final!

Jane let out an ear piercing scream that left Phil and I pressing our palms hard over our ears, while Phil’s right foot applied max’mum pressure on the brakes. Chic jumped out of the car while it was still moving!

Phil: wachana na huyo chizi. Ata jisort.

Me: boss, it’s midnight. This road isn’t safe. If anything happens to her, I’ll be in shit coz I was the last one to be seen with her. Sitaki case kesho.

Phil: fine then, run after your bitch.

So I jumped out the car and ran after her. Those who know me also know that “fit” is not an adjective that can be used in the same sentence as my name. I was soon out of breath and panting like a German Shepherd on a hot day. Jane outpaced me fair and square. That gave new meaning to playing hard to get.

Eventually I caught up with her and convinced her to get into the car and allow us to take her to her place. I told her it wasn’t safe to be out on this road at midnight and she finally saw my logic and decided to come back with us. Just as we got to the car, she asked again:

Jane: Can we still go to your house?

Me: Kuwa serious wewe!

Chic hurled a whole series of expletives and sprinted away…right into a nearby maize plantation.

Oh fuck. Not again!

Think about it, a girl screaming while running into a maize plantation in the dead of night with a dude in hot pursuit, with a car waiting by the side of the road. I’d look like a rapist, right? Or a kidnapper at best. I gave up right there and got into the car and told Phil to drive off. I looked back to see her yelling like a mad woman, covered in mud up to her shins.

 

Aftermath

I was quite relieved to find out the next day that she made it home in one piece. I called Jim and filled him in on the drama.

“Dude, that chic’s lunacy is legendary! Why d’you think she was drinking alone in the bar? Everyone knows that bitch is crazy. But I hear she’s a very good shag.”

NOW you tell me that she’s crazy? Why didn’t he just warn me properly the previous night and save me the whole escapade? (That’s the problem with boys, they wait for you to walk right into a hole, so they can have something to laugh about later.) She may be a good lay as he says, but the fact that her sexual rep is out there means that she must be more than generous with the goods and I don’t want to be just another statistic. (I later found out that I know 11 guys who’ve been with her, out of a total 17 known “victims”) Dangerous stuff. Besides, I’ve dated a couple of nymphomaniacs and other sexual sadists (and I do mean SADISTS) in the past, so I don’t need that any of that crazy shit. I prefer to keep things very, very sane these days.

I think I need to change pubs. Again.

 

What’s on my Playlist?

Basement Jaxx – Crazy Girl

“When I met you/

you were sexy/

you were freaky/

I thought my luck was in/

then I noticed/you were CRAZY!

Did not know what to do…/

Crazy girl….crazy girl…”

Back in South Africa, my housemates and I had what we called the Honour Board, which was a foolscap stuck onto the fridge, and we’d write down shrubs, oxymorons, dumb ass quotes and any other nonsense that came out of anyone’s mouth while in the confines of our flat. We had some very interesting conversations. A few months ago, I started another Honour Board on my kitchen wall, complete with a G.P.A-like grading system otherwise known as the U.P.A. (Ujinga Point Average) where individuals who attain a U.P.A. of 5.0 receive a lifetime pass.

Seeing as I’ve got nothing to post today I’ve decided to share the contents of this Honour Board. I shall not incriminate myself though, but I do feature somewhere in here. Some of these shrubs are too classic!

  1. I blindfolded my eyes! (as opposed to what, your ears?)
  2. **Angry at a man pissing on the side of the road** Look! He’s littering with himself!
  3. M3P Player   (MP3 player)
  4. Samba Mboy   (Shamba boy)
  5. Appi hending   (happy ending)
  6. How much is the spinach for 20 bob?
  7. Is 21 hours 9 o’clock?
  8. Why did the chicken cross the road? It wasn’t EGG-zactly sure!
  9. You’ll be videocameraring
  10. I’ve gone to buy some kaundey (kunde)
  11. If Karoocy was my wife, haki I’d chain her to a tree!
  12. Flying Skulod (Flying Squad)
  13. Pris bling the drinks!
  14. You’re just rarring there (???)
  15. Do you know who’s in my class with me? (as opposed to?)
  16. KRA ya UG (Uganda Revenue Authority?)
  17. Ketchup makes gold sssssssine! (shine)
  18. You don’t have a foice! (voice)
  19. Dairy Flesh (Dairy Fresh)
  20. The same jicks (chics)
  21. I expreksed it! (Expressed)
  22. Come I show you my secret prace! (secret place)
  23. Perverted perverts (OK I admit, I said this)
  24. Haerashes (eye lashes)
  25. Even kraibing (climbing)
  26. Massachuchets (Massachussetts)
  27. Parrarrero (Parallel)
  28. Falamingos (Flamingos)
  29. Stop taking my context out of concept!
  30. I pikad safely (fikad)
  31. You are a stoler who is thiefing things! (thief who is stealing things?)
  32. What is that, cererac? (Cerelac)
  33. I don’t like reaving him arone in my house
  34. Why were you not piliking my calls jana?
  35. Cockroshes (cockroaches)

And some dumb ass conversations…

J: When you chew handas, you don’t feel like a goat?

M: kwani when you drink, you feel like a fish?

J: I don’t drink

M: Ok, when you smoke, do you feel like a train?

——————————————————————————-

Q: Tell me a chic who has chapad like that?

A: a CHAPA-nese!

——————————————————————————–

**staring at a chic walking by just outside our flat**

Y: Now that’s what I call a nice ass. It’s very 3D

R: It’s 3D in a 2D kind of way. (how now?)

———————————————————————————

…and my personal favourite

J: Weeeeeh! Unanifanya nijipanue!

A: Kwani what do you have that I’ve never seen before?

M: Panty mpya!

Some people are special. Really.

What’s on my Playlist?

Playing Possum – Maxwell

I may have mentioned before that I’m a pretty easygoing chap, I get along with people from all walks of life quite effortlessly. (Well, except feminists. They’re just stupid) And some of those people include those who most people tend to either ignore or not pay much attention to. Watchies and househelps. The people who we pay peanuts and expect to sacrifice their lives to keep our homes and property safe, guard family secrets, and do all sorts of things that fall out of their (unspecified) job descriptions.

It pays that most watchies tend to be from where I’m from, so getting along with them is rather easy. They never ask for much, just that once in a while you slip them a small note for them to enjoy a mug of their favourite brew over the weekend.

Purchased loyalty, I call it. Once you’ve bought someone’s loyalty, it becomes very easy to get them to do favours for you. They know which side their bread is buttered. And trust me, every once in a while, you’ll need favours that only a watchie or a mboch can provide (get your minds out of the gutter pris!)

In high school, I was friends with most of the cooks, and they used to swing me extra slices for breakfast, or a serving of the “special diet” that was given to students who had special dietary requirements. After high school, I was friends with the watchie who would help me skive the parents car without uttering a word. At most of my pals digz, I made friends with the watchies/mboch so they would cover for us whenever we’d get into mischief.

Just after high school, I’d skive the car on weekends to hanye, and naturally I’d have to pick up a few friends. Bribing the watchie was essential to the escape plan. I remember helping my pal skive digz several times. I’d drive to her digz and text her when I was entering the estate. She’d tiptoe out of the digz in her pyjamas so that no one would suspect a thing if she was spotted going outside. Then I’d bribe the watchie and he’d quietly open the gate and let her out, on condition that I dropped her back before his shift ended. She’d then take off the robe and reveal a stunning outfit in readiness for the night’s mwenjoyos! Before 6am the next morning, I’d drop her drunk ass home, where she’d change into her pyjamas once more and deposit her outfit with the watchie who would make sure it finds its way to the laundry, then she’d sneak into the house.

Househelps on the other hand, unless you get one of those brainless ones from the village, are very easy to get along with. And they were important back then coz if I had a girl over at my place, or if I was at a girl’s house, the househelp would have to alert us in good time if the parents were to check in unexpectedly so that I could make my escape. The number of close shaves I had, thanks to the househelp…!

About three years ago, my girlfriend and I were caught in a compromising position in the back seat of my car, in a very dark area. Well, we were in the back seat, all dressed up, having a post-shag cigarette, But one doesn’t need to have a degree in molecular biology to figure out why we were there in the first place. The cops harassed us for a while, threatening to arrest us and have us arraigned in court first thing on Monday morning for public indecency. Unfortunately I didn’t have any money left to shut them up, and neither did she. One of them confiscated my car keys and my drivers licence. Upon opening it, he burst into laughter. “Wewe ndio brother wa Mishale?

“Eh…”

(not knowing whether it’d be a good thing or a bad thing coz my older bro is quite the crook)

“…ndio.”

“Si ungesema pwana! Huyo ni beste yangu tena sana! Huwa tunakunywa na yeye hapo police canteen! Kiplagat, wachana na huyu, ni friend yetu pwana! Sasa wewe Mishale mdogo fanya hivi, leo tutakuachilia lakini kesho tuko off duty kuanzia 5pm. Make sure upitie hapo canteen utununulie moja mbili alafu tutasahau hio story, sawa?”

I’ve never been so relieved in my life. See, girlfriend’s old man is…a beast! He’d have had my liver for lunch had that story gotten to him. So you can bet your ass I was at the police canteen at 5pm sharp the next day, armed with adequate cash in 200 bob notes and bought rounds for them cops, and we had a good laugh recounting the events of the previous night. We’ve remained good friends till today, our friendship cemented by occasional drinks at the usual watering hole. You need to have a few cops in your phone book, you never know when you’ll need them to come sort you out, and those two have, severally.

Normally I don’t bother with bouncers at clubs coz most of them tend to be quite daft to be honest. But some are really great guys. Take Izzo or Bena at Crooked Qs. The number of times they’ve saved my diabs from a fight or three, or organized for someone to look after my car, or allowed me to get in a pal who didn’t have the required age on their ID card.

The advantage of purchased loyalty is that as long as you keep your end of the deal (financial incentive) then they’ll keep theirs. And they tend to be extremely loyal.

The problem with purchased loyalty is that sometimes the receiving party tends to fleece you. Many are the times that watchies have asked me to contribute towards hospital/funeral expenses for their relatives. They produce well-worn A4 sized contribution forms and proceed to plead with you to contribute handsomely towards meeting the expenses. Currently, my bodaboda guy is on my diabz coz I “promised” him 500 bob last week towards his wife’s cousin’s hospital expenses. I’m a broke ass college student bana!

Failure to be nice to your watchie can result in the following scenario that I heard about a few years ago.

This guy (let’s call him Alphonce) was fond of sneaking out in his father’s car on weekends. The escape plan involved sneaking his two pals into the compound late at night, where they’d push his father’s car out of the garage, out of the compound and they’d only start it when they were a considerable distance away from the house. Obviously the watchie would have to be part of the plan, otherwise it’d never work.

But Alphonce was always rude to the watchie and never gave him kitu kidogo for his cooperation, yet he (the watchie) put his job on the line to help Alphonce skive the moti. So this one time, his pals came over, the watchie opened the gate as usual. They pushed the car out of the garage and turned it onto the driveway and pushed it towards the gate like they usually did. When they got there, they whispered an order to the watchie to open the gate, but he stood there, arms crossed, and didn’t budge. Dude comes out of the car, pulls out a couple of 50 bob notes and flings them at the watchie and again orders him to open the gate, and again he refuses. The two became very pissed off, and they began to negotiate with the still-silent watchie.

After a very frustrating few minutes where the boys were reduced to begging, the watchie removed his head scarf and cap to reveal…BABA ALPHONCE!!

The three boys quietly pushed the car back into the garage, the two accomplices left and Alphonce received a proper hiding from his old man.

Be good to your watchie/househelp/shamba boy/tea girl/receptionist this week.

Photo of the day

stairsfail

If I said that you’re fucked, that’s actually be a compliment, coz this is waaaaay beyond fucked!!

What’s on my Playlist?

Can I come for tea – Aaron Rimbui

So there you have it, “Cousin Barack” (yes, he’s my kassin, but do I sssaut?) clinched the US Presidency last Wednesday. And since then, it’s been nothing but Obama this, Obama that. Obama ukiamka mpaka Obama ukilala. Obama all over. Kogelo village got international recognition. Babies all over Nyanza were named Barack, Hussein, Michelle, Democratic Candidate Obama, Yes We Can Odhiambo, Audacity of Hope Akinyi etc etc. Nyanza was declared the 52nd State of the US, alternatively the US was declared the 9th Province of Kenya. We had a national holiday in his honour. (I hear Nigeria declared 5 days holiday after his victory) EABL even renamed Senator beer “PRESIDENT”!!!!!!!

Well, all that news coverage is not entirely a bad thing, and I’m definitely not complaining. It’s far better to watch the same old recycled CNN bulletins and seeing every other media house trying to out-do their rivals in getting the “inside scoop” on Obama than to watch our local politics. I think by now I can quote his entire life story and name each and every single character that played a role in shaping him into the man that he has become, including the bullies in his 6th grade class.

Something that I found interesting is that Mama Sarah Obama, Cousin Barack’s 86 year old grandmother, has been appointed a goodwill ambassador for the war against malnutrition.

***shakes head***

Please leave the old woman alone for crying out loud!

Now, as we get back to normal programming (in terms of news) have you watched the news lately? It’s so depressing trying to compare our two bob politics with the US election. Politician A said this about the Waki Report. Politician B said that about the dramatics within PNU/ODM. Bifwoli Wakoli (he of the “Awori is a ‘Tikiteta’ fame) declared for the umpteenth time his intention to run for President in 2012. (Is that a sick joke or what??)

That brings me to a comment that 3TOC made in my last post about good looking people (e.g. Obama & Lewis Hamilton) deserving to be winners coz they’re easier on the eyes and people are more willing to listen to them. Do you think this is true? Supposing Cousin Barack looked like Bifwoli Wakoli, but retained his own wit, charisma and charm, do you think he’d have stood a chance of becoming US President? I highly doubt it.

Where was I going with this post? Oh…right. Found my bearings. Don’t you think it’s interesting how some stories make news for a while, the media create a huge hullabaloo about them, then they just fizzle out and evaporate? Think about it for a minute.

a) Fazul Abdullah: a few months ago it was Fazul Fazul Fazul mchana hadi usiku. Look under your mattress and call the cops if you spot Fazul! Report Fazul and win $5million! Fazul evades police ambush…twice! Then, that story just died. Where the hell is Fazul? Is he still within Kenyan territory constructing bombs for future terrorist attacks? Surely, how hard can it be to track down one man with faulty kidneys when the only dialysis machine that exists at the coast is in one hospital?

b) Felicien Kabuga: so, one of the most wanted suspects in relation to the 1994 Rwandan genocide is in Kenya. It is no secret that he has been here for a while and that he’s being protected by some very powerful individuals. Some months ago, the cops were pursuing some leads that made us believe that Kabuga’s capture was imminent. They froze a couple of his bank accounts and some of his commercial real estate properties. (why didn’t they do that before?) Just when we thought the cops were getting serious, that story died right there. So where exactly is Kabuga? Do the authorities only tisha him when he defaults on his protection payments?

c) Ferries: according to yesterday’s Daily Nation, over 180,000 passengers board the ferries daily to cross the Likoni Channel. How many incidents have we had recently? Those things have stalled mid stream er…how many times? And what is being done about that? Which kubaff Minister is responsible and what is he doing about it? Oh wait, it’s Mwakwere. Right, that explains a lot.

d) Somali hijacking: Just a day after the Somali pirates hijacked a Ukrainian ship ferrying military equipment to Southern Sudan (via Mombasa) I was having a sip at a local pub, y’know, the ones where all the brilliant people with all the answers hang out. So this guy goes like

“Hao Waariah wamechizi! Haki! Hawajui wanacheza na nani! Unajua Navy yetu si ya mchezo!”

He went on to tell us that apparently, the annual GDP of our beloved republic is usually understated by up to Ksh 100 billion, the surplus which then goes towards purchasing state of the art military equipment. Apparently, the ageing jet fighters that we see flying over our skies on national holidays are just for show, to fool our enemies and that the Kenya Air Force actually owns a fleet of F16 fighter jets! Huwaat? (Modoathii, 2008)

Another idiot who claims that his father is a former head of NSIS (National Something Intelligence Something) claims that the Kenyan Navy actually owns a fleet of submarines. You know, those big black things full of seamen? (not THOSE ones!) like the ones that keep sinking in Russia. (Yes, THOSE ones!) Submarines?? Kenya?? Are you sure it’s not a big green boat emblazoned with “SUBMARINE” on the side? I’ll only believe it when I see one. Anyway, he said,

“Those Somalis!”

pausing to create suspense as he sipped on his Guinness

“nawapatia 48 hours! Watashangiliwa mbaya! Ndio utajua military yetu sio ya mchezo!”

Several weeks later, we are still waiting. Russian, American and French naval ships surrounded the hijacked MV Faina, the hijackers kept revising their ransom demands downwards and eventually threatened to blow up the ship if their demands were not met. The deadline came and went. Kenyan government officials kept issuing statements to the effect that the military cargo was indeed the property of the Kenyan military, despite evidence showing that they were headed to Southern Sudan. What exactly is going on with that ship? For how long will this crisis continue? Or did it end and I’m yet to know about it?

e) The Waki Report: that secret envelope has got a handful of Kenyans panicking and several others speculating. Now every unmarked envelope in Kenya is viewed as suspicious. No one knows exactly whose names are in that envelope, but have you watched them politicians run to their defence, calling the report “massively flawed” and defending themselves? Massively flawed in what aspect? Weren’t you the same idiots who gave the Waki Commission the mandate to investigate the cause of the post-election violence, which obviously includes finding out just who was responsible? So now that the report is out, they’re trying all that they can do to make sure that it never sees the light of day. Without consulting us, the electorate. If I had my way, all the suspects would be transferred to Guantanamo Bay and have high voltage electrodes teasing their essential bits before being presented at the Hague where they will undoubtedly sing like birds.

f) Nakumatt: (I had to go there) some say that the demolition of buildings and other structures along Thika Road, including my beloved supermarket, was merely a ploy by the government to divert attention from the Waki Report. If that didn’t work effectively, along came Cousin Barack to divert attention even more. What do you think? Apparently they want to expand Thika Road into a 10 lane highway. Only time will tell (if they get started in the first place)

In other news…

NTV’s The Weekly Show began with so much hype but rapidly went downhill shortly afterwards. The humour is so stale, Jasmine Mistri’s accent is immensely irritating (and she makes fun of Robert Nagila’s???) and the other sub-characters Kimeendero (Charles Kiarie) Jaswinder (Jasmine) and Jeri etc suck big time. It was moved from Monday 7:35pm to Saturday 9:30pm and now I see it on Mondays at midnight. (or is that the repeat?) Um…why don’t NTV just get rid of the show altogether? I mean, it’s the biggest pile of bullshit that graces our screens. (Cobra Squad comes close though)

Another question:

Why is the show called “Churchill Live” if it is recorded two days earlier?

Fokojembe of the day!

Take a look at this hindiot.

What’s on my Playlist?

Benny Benassi – California Dreams

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