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.)


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 😉


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.



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.


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

By Ndimi Tamu

I do not remember one day getting up gleefully and proudly naming myself a woman’s man. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my fair share of joy dealing with genderius tenderit. I’ve also had my fair share of drama. And the training that I received from it. When I was a little boy my father taught me that amusing people would almost always get you what you wanted. And I saw him do it with my mother.

When I joined high school, I, being a poor and confused rabble, was forced to walk over and talk to a girl. Goes the conversation –

Me: Hi, I’m Ndimi.

She: I’m Happy.

Me: So am I.

Apparently her name really was Happy. She never spoke to me again. Yet, I was relentless. I had to learn from my mistakes. And learn I did. So, when I was in fourth form I met this finest of lasses and locked my missiles on her. She famously came to be known as my high school sweetheart. Not until I tried to engage her post-school and took her to City Park for a date. She dumped me like a bad habit. For some bloke less broke than I was. Between you and I, late last year I met her at a wedding of a friend of me. She recognized me. She was with her fiancé. I asked her to accompany me to some place to get some stuff. And while at the place, I got my stuff sweet sweet revenge. She can now get married in peace.

Back to historical facts. I’ve just started working. At a mere age of 20. My boy throws a party and my love for free fun couldn’t hold my horse pipe. So I meet this lass. Fine as mahogany. Got me high on adrenalin. She looked (was) 28. Cougar alert. She was boss at one of the suburban shopping malls in Nairobi. My shy self did not have the cojones to steal glances, let alone approach her. But a couple days later I had her number, thanks to my boy, and called. From that moment on, she role played. My work was just to act Mr Yes Man and she would rain on me like a naughty hawk. Until one day she unleashed news that she wanted offspring from my divine well of life. I ran like a rain deer. She did find a live donor, as I later came to know. And 5 years later, I meet her and her son, and she goes, My son could really do with a daddy. What you doing with yourself again?

I’m not one for relationships at the work place. Out of experience. Miriam was a colleague. A true definite of a modern high flier. She was so graceful we would all get distracted as she passed by, 20 metres away. Even my married boss would stammer. So one day as I was attending to her professionally, I decided to get cosy. She got rosy. Needless to say, a four month fling ensued. We were all getting our fair share of the deal until the day she introduced me to her dad on Valentines day as a potential hooks. She wanted to get married. I ran. She was outraged. Then threatened to kill me. In the workplace. A few months later my friend, genuinely interested, proposed to her. She refused. She did not want to get married. Ever.

I was starting to get tired of flings and mipangos. I decided that it was in everyone’s best interest that I date seriously. Found me the best possible girl. Gorgeous. Charming. Clever. Focused. Religious. I had started getting close to Jesus and I needed this kind of woman next to me. She was only going to lose her virginity to her husband, she’d warned me. Fast forward 3 months, when I had gotten accustomed to the idea of abstinence (it works!) and even starting to like it. We went on a picnic. Then she grabs me. It was time, and she did not want to wait no more. A cherry had to vanish from top of the cake. Believe it or not, we separated because of that. I wanted to keep my word at least on one thing. This time to Jesus. (Well, a year later we met. And well, you know…humanity is weak…)

I met this fierce broad called Karimi. Vicious. I like vicious. I asked her whether she minded some real KARI-ing on MI-lap. She took one swipe at me and retorted,

‘I know your type, the kind that thinks you can get any woman you want. I won’t let you. Sod off.’

She said this viciously. My ego was a little bruised. I was not sure I wanted to confront her ever again. A few months later on a busy afternoon she finds me somewhere in a server room, busy building the nation. She asked for my lap of honour. I gave her a standing ovation. Viciously (did I mention I like vicious?) But the change of mind I did not understand one bit.

I took another attempt at serious dating. This time around I decided to get me a rebound ball, having not liked the idea of finding myself in the lights *mataa* when shit got with the last attempt as seriousness. The rebound was happy with her role. Then she was not. She wanted all or none. Heck, I was having a great time with my mikai (essentially) and was not about to lose her over my bounce ball. She offered to leave and I let her. After all, I was happy. Today she found me online, 2 years later. She tells me she has some serious 2011 resolutions. She’s gonna fight. For me. And she has to, must make me her own. Forget the Missus. She’s no match for her, she alleged.

Women, what really do you want?

What’s on my Playlist?

Jamiroquai – She’s a fast persuader

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.


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.


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?


(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.


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.



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…”



It all started with a less than innocent cursory glance in her direction. Unfortunately the glance was intercepted by the one person you don’t want busting you staring ovyo ovyo at other asses – the main S.O. Who in this case was this kubaff. The ass owner in question was her room-mate in campo.

Gentlemen, ladies are smarter than you think. They observe your habits. Your girl can tell when you’re visually digesting another girl’s goodies (or supporting accessories), whether it just happened to be the ass in front of you and you couldn’t help but look, or if you want to chwado something. If your woman knows you well enough, she also knows your taste in women, so she knows if and when her position as your number one is under threat.

So ladies, let your man look. Coz you know he will. We’re wired that way. Coz (I regret the repercussions of what I’m about to say) women are like cars. You may have what you think is the best car on the road until a better one passes by. A dude may have a BMW M3, but will get whiplash when a Ferrari passes by. But he’s better off with the BMW M3 coz it’s more practical, it’s better value for money and perhaps offers a better all round driving experience than the Ferrari.

Anyway, that glance at the ex’s room-mate began a conversation.

Ex: You want to hit it, don’t you?

Me: Who, me? I wasn’t even looking! I swear! *sheepish smile*

Ex: *frowns* yeah right. Don’t be fresh with me, Arch. I know that look.

Me: *sips on beer*

Ex: She has a nice ass, ama?

Me: Understatement of the year. She has a great ass.

Ex: Better than mine?

Me: You know yours will always be my favourite ass.

I’d been away in SA for close to a year, and I knew that things had been rather dry on both ends. So I asked her jokingly whether she’d ever harboured intentions of making out with her room-mate.

Ex: Promise me you won’t be mad?

Me: I won’t be mad, babes. So tell me.

Ex: Of course I have. We make out all the time!

My eyes almost popped out, more out of salivating over the thought of the two of them making out frantically, tongues everywhere, nini nini… In the course of the conversation, I asked whether she’d be cool with me watching them have a make-out session. I mean, it was the least she could do after openly confessing to infidelity! She thought about it for a while, and seeing that I was clearly excited at the idea, she agreed and promised to talk to her pal about it. By the end of the night, the room-mate had agreed. A date was set, venue arranged and all that. Well in!

The ex and the room-mate (let’s call her Candy) came over to my place on Tuesday afternoon the following week. We hang out for a while and chatted over some red wine, setting the mood with the baby making music playlist gently playing in the background, before hints were dropped that we should get this show on the road. The girls got onto the bed and ordered me to sit in the corner and keep my hands to myself. At first they were shy, caressing each other and kissing gently. Slowly they got comfortable and really got into it. Clothes slowly came off, hands started doing the yellow pages, all the while throwing glances at yours truly, who was doing what one Milo calls “nursing a massive boner”.

After about half an hour of torture, they decided to relieve me of my suffering and beckoned for me to join in the fun.

I shall spare you the rest of the details, yes?

That’s where the politics of the lungula began. In my overexcitement to devour Candy, I kinda neglected the ex and she obviously wasn’t very amused about that. That’s when she began to formulate rules on the spot.

No snogging! No going down on her! No doing her in my favourite position! That’s reserved for me!

Ai yawa! Tera moss nyako.

I hadn’t realized threesomes actually have rules. A threesome is usually just a two-some plus one. Someone’s bound to lose out on the attention, and in this case it was the ex who had been relegated to playing the role of supporting actress. See, Candy’s was new ass, I see the ex’s every other day so there was that excitement and curiosity about new unexplored territory.

That threesome was the beginning of the end of that relationship. Insecurity crept in on the part of the ex. She barred Candy and I from exchanging cell numbers. She became increasingly paranoid and that also drove a wedge between her and Candy. It doesn’t help that Candy and I had a return match after the break-up.

The bottom line is that threesomes are overrated! They’re one of those things that men (and women) fantasize about all the time, but once it’s done, you’re left to wonder whether the drama that ensues afterwards is worth it. Pleasing one woman is hard enough, try two! It’s an exhausting experience, Red Bull or no Red Bull. You’ll be sore for a week!

Would I ever have another threesome? Probably not. But that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t.

So here are the rules of a threesome:

1. Never have a threesome with the S.O and her pal. It’s best to have it with two chics who have no connection whatsoever.

2. If you are foolish enough to have a threesome with the S.O. and a third party, always cater fully to number one. Make sure she’s fully satisfied and don’t let her feel left out, neglected or that you enjoyed tapping the plus one’s ass more than hers.

3. SAFETY! Have rubber. Plenty of rubber. And wet wipes. You have to be careful in this age of STDs. Don’t become a statistic coz the fun isn’t worth the repercussions.

*(Image borrowed from

What’s on my Playlist?

Mariah Carey – Just be good to me (SOS Band remix)


I don’t usually write about this stuff. These stories of infatuation I see all over the place remind me of the time I spent in college chasing girls. The older a man gets, the more rational his thought process becomes.

Or so I thought.

Now, there’s this new chic at the office.

I don’t do office romances, there’s too much drama involved.

Relationships are defined by what isn’t said. If you’re shagging nani in accounting, chances are you won’t speak to each other at work, but she WILL notice you checking out Legal’s ass and your comment on Sales’ Facebook wall.

Instant drama, just add water cooler.

Now, back to my current predicament, the hot mama. Now this mama isn’t hot in the nice way. Her beauty is not the kind that inspires artists to paint or sculpt museum pieces, no no no.

This chick is straight freaky.

This is the kind of mama you meet on the rave and start thinking logistics.

-How much cash do I have?

-How many drinks should I buy?

-Do I have condoms in the house? etc etc.

Make no mistake, this does not mean that the chick is easy, in fact it’s quite the contrary. A lot of work is required to get into her pants.

The thing is there are beautiful women in this world, the type you see and want to smile, the secret weapon of every successful sales force, (refer to museum bit above) and then there are women who look like sex.

Now the main problem is, to a newbie, the successful completion of an item of work is a feat indistinguishable from magic.

You’re fresh out of college, good grades, you passed the interview. You sincerely believe you are the best thing since sliced bread.

That’s of course until you’re assigned a task other than fetching coffee, that’s when things get thick (literally)

So naturally newbies will ask for your help, and naturally you’ll sort the thing out in a few minutes.  I mean, you can’t afford to look bad at your next appraisal. Pulling such stunts displays leadership!! Initiative even!

That’s where it starts.

Until then you were just some guy at the office, but now, you’re a bona fide knight-in-shiny-suit (on a related note, Fuck you White Rose Drycleaners, that was my best suit! #FAIL)

Phase one is Facebook. For some silly reason I insist on using my actual name on Facebook. This is not how its done nowadays. You’re supposed to change your “name” to match the wiggly security word that pops up when you access your settings. This lapse in judgment means that I’m pretty easy to find on Facebook. So now, we’re friends.

Then it starts. Back in the day it was easy for a dude to say that a chick liked everything he said, now, there’s actual proof on Facebook. Likes and comments then private messages (or whatever they call DMs on FB). But here’s the thing, the mama isn’t actually saying anything. Just wow, that’s an interesting link, or “haha”

What happened is now, the rest of the office has noticed, so Legal has stopped pointing her ass in my direction and Sales has started getting frosty. Then all of a sudden an opportunity to go out of town on business has presented itself and I’ve to choose an assistant to go with. Its between sexy thang-thang and some two dudes.

It’s a week-long assignment and it’s intense. What should I do?

What’s on my Playlist?

Monifah – Do you really wanna touch it?

Seeing as writer’s block has hit hard over the past several months, I’ve had to dig deep to find something blogworthy. I blame this on living a rather quiet life these days, lack of inspiration from other blogs, Twitter too. Yes, Twitter is a major culprit! See, ideas for posts somehow end up as discussion topics on Twitter and therefore become exhausted by the time I think of typing them out. I still love Twitter regardless, me thinks it’s the coolest thing since 3G internet. If you’re not on Twitter, I have no words to describe just how much of a shagz-mundu you are.

For some reason, I tend to get hit on by gay guys. I’m not joking! I have absolutely no idea why this happens, coz I don’t understand what makes me a target! I have absolutely no gay inclinations whatsoever. I’m a perfectly average shave-when-I-remember-to, iron-shirt-when-time-allows, beer guzzling, football-loving, female-posterior-appreciating-run of the mill type of guy.

The first time this happened was 5 years ago in South Africa. I left Kenya as a naïve young chap, with eyes wide open, eager to travel the world, experience new cultures and all that. During that time, there weren’t many openly gay men around Nairobi so I don’t recall ever meeting any, or knowing any that were in the closet. So it’s safe to say that I had never experienced encountered any gay men.

There was this Namibian girl I was hitting on at the time. She wasn’t very pretty to be honest, but she had a body of a goddess! And I’m not talking about Hermaphrodites, the goddess of sprinters. Perfectly sculptured, tall, silky smooth “yellow yellow” skin, medium breasts, little waist, bewitching ass like Michelle Miller’s in Fashion House (if you’ve seen that ass swing from side to side, then you’ll understand why I watch the show sometimes…on mute) and legs as long as… Pity she was blowing hot and cold. Mara she was interested, mara she wasn’t. And I was getting really bored with that vibe. I don’t like mind games.

One Friday night, some friends and I headed out to our regular joint, a pool bar in an upmarket area a short distance from our university. I’d just sat down to my first beer at the counter as my pals waited to make a challenge on the pool tables. Then the girl, let’s call her Zoe, approached from the other side of the bar.

“I knew you’ be here tonight”

“Hmm…look what the cat dragged in.”

“Oh c’mon Arch, that’s no way to talk to a lady. I thought you’d be happy to see me?”

“Should I be?”

“Perhaps. Who knows what the night has in store for us”, she added, as she smiled coyly, a glint of mischief in her eye.

That was my cue to get her a bar stool and order a coupla panty droppers from the barman, a good pal of mine who could tell that I was definitely on the prowl that night. Zoe and I sat and chatted for a while, flirted and stuff. In reality, I was trying to pick her mind to see what her game was, coz I knew for sure that if we were to meet a couple of days later, she’d be completely disinterested in my vibe, so what makes her so jumpy tonight?

About an hour later, Zoe excused herself as she went to the little girls’ room. I ordered a third panty dropper for her as the barman winked at me knowingly. Chemical warfare ni lazima boss.

As I sat there fidgeting with my phone, some random guy walked over and leaned against Zoe’s stool.

“Is this seat taken?”

Without looking up at him, I simply pointed to the drinks on the counter and told him to fill in the blanks.

“Fine then, do you mind if I sit down for a few minutes?”

“Yeah whatever, as long as you leave when the girl gets back.”

I continued fidgeting on my phone, perhaps texting other pals to find out what they were up to. Then the kubaff tapped me on the shoulder.

“So what’s your name?”

That’s when I looked up at him for the first time, wondering what his problem was. He had a smile on his face so I figured that perhaps he was simply being friendly and trying to strike up some 5 bob conversation.


He reached out his hand to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you Julius. My name’s Jake. I’m new in town…and I want to meet some new people. Would you like to be my friend, Julius?”

What the?? Is this dude hitting on me? Wassup with that cheeky smile on his face? And why the hell wasn’t he letting go of my hand? Dude had squeezed it a bit tightly and I couldn’t get mine out of his grip without involving some violent motion.


My mind was confused. Especially as he started stroking my forearm with his other hand. What the bloody fcuk?? I think I was rooted in confusion, not knowing what to do or how to react. Logic should have told me to yank my hand out, fold it into a fist and acquaint his face with it. But noo, I just sat there like an idiot wondering if this was really happening, hoping and praying not to get a hard on coz either way, touch is touch, regardless of the gender of the toucher, and if applied in the correct way, embarrassing things can happen!

Of all the seats available in the pub, he chose this one? Wsup with a black man named Jake? Many questions ran through my mind.

“Let me buy you a drink, Julius. Would you like that?”

Suddenly, my mental faculties resumed normal operations, just in time for me to firmly pull my hand away from his.

“Er…tell you what Jake, you’re the guest in town. Why don’t I buy you a drink instead?”

“That’d be lovely!”

Lovely?? That confirmed my suspicions, I WAS being hit on by a dude!

“Right then, lemme dash to the ATM, I’ll be back shortly. Please watch over these drinks, and if my girl comes back before I do, please tell her I’ll be right back.”

I walked briskly out of the pub…then fled like a bat out of hell! I never turned back. I didn’t even care about Zoe at that moment. I didn’t have her number, but so what, kesho pia ni siku! My boys later found me in another pub downstairs, still looking shocked.

Incident 2

Within two years of the first incident, I’d come across a large number of gay guys, lesbians and those confused about which side of the fence they should be on. After all, it’s South Africa, it’s not called the rainbow nation for nothing!

Foreigners like myself used to hang out at joints that had a large number of other foreign students, especially East Africans since it always provided that sense of security, familiarity and comfort. We did hang out with black South Africans too, but that was only if they were with us, as opposed to us being with them.

See, black South Africans are not very friendly, welcoming people. They’re extremely suspicious of foreigners, and even those that are not openly xenophobic tend to make one feel rather uncomfortable by switching to their native languages when you’re in their company, thus leaving you wondering what you were doing there in the first place. (And I don’t need to mention the Afrikaners, you know how I feel about that lot) So you wouldn’t find many Kenyans hanging out in Central, which means the clubs in the city downtown.

One Saturday night, a friend of mine suggested that we head over to Central to check out the competition at the pool bars. I wasn’t up for the idea initially, but the change of scenery and the lure of cheap liquor and cheaper women was a welcome suggestion. So we both dressed down, which meant swapping baggy t-shirts/jeans/fancy sneakers/timberland boots/studs/watches/fancy phones/bracelets etc for checked sweaters, fitting jeans, preferably those of the don’t-you-dare-touch-my-ankles variety (I borrowed my housemate’s jeans, he’s a couple of sizes smaller than I am) Nokia 3310s and Converse sneakers. We completed the look with tweed caps, kinda like the ones our semantically proficient brothers from the lakeside adore. Seeing as our new dress code made us less conspicuous as foreigners, we headed out to Central.

My pal, let’s call him Albert, hang out around these parts quite often, so he was well known in the pool bar that we first set foot in. The pub was in the seedier parts of town, comparable to Luthuli or Accra Roads in Nairobi. Kwaito music pumping, smoke filling the air and some tough looking fellas seated all round.

“See that guy over there? He’s a drug dealer. Those are his peeps, so be careful not to fcuk around. But he’s my pal, so you’ll be ok”

Alfred had also told me that said drug dealer was a good pool player, and I could see that there was some pretty good competition at his table, which is where Alfred decided to place his challenge. I preferred to sit at the counter with my beer while I acclimatized myself with the surroundings. Big assed girls shaking booty all over the place…if you’ve ever seen a Kwaito music video on TV then you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s said that dancing is the vertical expression of horizontal intentions. With kwaito dances though, there’s really nothing much left to the imagination. The girls don’t merely suggest it, they’ve already arrived at the point!

A while later, Alfred placed a challenge on my behalf, and when it was my turn to play, it would be against one of drug dealer’s pals. He wasn’t that good a player, so I thrashed him quickly and called upon the next challenger, who I dispatched to his seat in similar fashion. (I used to be good back in the day) Then drug dealer came up to the table. Alfred pulled me aside and whispered in my ear,

wacha kuwa mjuaji wewe! This guy walks around with a piece, so it would be a good idea to let him win a few games. Coz now that he’s got booze in his system…hatutaki shida, sawa?”

So that’s how I got beaten, and ended up back at my bar stool. The good thing is that during the games, Alfred and I had managed to strike a friendly rapport with the guys, drinks were bought to and fro, and we played some good pool. I even gained the courage to beat drug dealer a few times. But I let him win more games.

Several beers later, I had to relieve myself so I headed down the long, dimly lit corridor to the gents. The urinals were congested so I waited to use one of the closed toilets. Guys don’t normally shut the door when taking a leak, so I simply unzipped and did the needful.

Suddenly I felt some warm breath at the back of my neck, followed by someone gently rubbing his unmentionables against my hindquarters. WTF?! At that moment I experienced what I call A.S.S. (Automatic Sphincter Shutdown) coz my diabz clenched so tightly that even my pee stopped flowing. I elbowed the culprit hard, then turned around and kicked him as hard as I could, in the family jewels. He fell back clutching said jewels and writhing in agony. That’s when I noticed that it was one of the drug dealer’s men who I’d played against earlier.

FUCK!!!!!!! Ni kama kurusha mawe kwa police station!

I zipped up as I ran down the corridor back into the pool arcade, grabbed Alfred by the arm and sped out of the bar. Luckily there was a cab just outside, so we hopped in and I ordered the driver to step on it, all the while looking back to see if anyone was in hot pursuit.

“What the fcuk is going on?” asked Alfred. I summarized the events that went down in the gents.

“What?! Haahahahahaha! Are you serious? Ok, it’s my fault, I should have told you that he’s gay. I thought you’d noticed!”

How now? I was busy shooting pool and checking out girls asses!

The Aftermath

That wasn’t the last time I’ve been hit on (ok, at least by force!) by gay dudes. It has happened a few times since I returned to Nairobi. I was once at this club in Westi that’s frequented by gay guys, and one mzungu felt it appropriate to flatter me by flashing his artillery in the gents. Aiiiii ssssssually?? I’ve got my own!

Don’t get me wrong here, I have nothing against gay men. Really. The few that I’ve hang out with in Nairobi (I didn’t know that beforehand) were quite lively, they have very interesting perspectives on life. They tend to be very creative too for some reason. While I was homeless in SA during my last couple of weeks there, I used to hang out with my host and her lesbian friends who were very interesting characters. Right now I have several gay and lesbian friends, and one or two confused ones.

The gay fellows I can’t tolerate are the really flamboyant ones, those who wear their sexuality on their sleeves and let it dictate every facet of their lives. One’s sexuality is only one part of one’s personality, just as heterosexuals don’t wear their sexuality on their sleeves. I get very irritated by those types. There’s one in my uni who pisses me off so much! Sometimes he wears make up, paints his toes and walks around in high heels and miniskirts (I know this coz he was my brother’s housemate for a very brief period). Another reason why I avoid this type is because Kenyans are still very homophobic and interestingly, one is always bound to be found guilty by association.

But please guys, quit hitting on me. I’m straight dammit! Women rock! (Dramatics and all)

What’s on my Playlist?

Space Cowboy – Jamiroquai

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