to the crazy ones...

i've found something that drives me...

it stares at me everyday. and i stare back every other day.

dear couch, this poem defines who i am...a bit.

it's an ‘apple’ ad.

TO THE CRAZY ONES!

Here's to the crazy ones
The misfits
The rebels
The troublemakers
The round pegs in the square holes
The ones who see things differently

They're not fond of rules
And they have no respect for the status quo

You can praise them, disagree with them, quote them,
disbelieve them, glorify them or vilify them.
About the only thing you can't do is ignore them.

Because they change things.
They invent. They imagine. They heal.
They explore. They create. They inspire.
They push the human race forward.

Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you stare at an empty canvass and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written?
Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?
(Or stare at a screen and see a blog?)

We make tools for this kinds of people.
Because while some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius.

And it’s the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, who actually do

THINK DIFFERENT!

The day I came…

I have no sense of time.

I have no idea what time is anyway.

All I know is I’ve been here for quite a long time. It’s about time I get out. So I kick as hard as I can.

A God-like voice, that has been there for as long as I can remember, breaks the muffled noise and commotion going on outside.

“It kicked. It wants to get out.”

A long silence follows on the outside as they wait for another sign. I’m also waiting for a sign from them. Nothing from me. Nothing from them.

Then everything goes back to the way it was. As though nothing happened. I get pissed and this time I raise hell from inside. I cause so much trouble that I notice a leak from where I am.

I have burst something.

Someone outside speaks, again in that language I can’t understand.

“Her water broke.”

Then there’s pandemonium. Tables. Bottles. Chairs. Basically, all hell is breaking loose out there. In here, though I am curious about what is going on, I’m trying my best to plug the leak.

At some point, before I fall asleep dead-tired from my efforts, I hear another alien…

“Keep the party going. And don’t finish the weed dudes. I’ll be back.”

Who are these and what are they saying?

I wake up to silence. Except for the constant bleeping of some machine outside.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I hear twelve chimes and yet another ‘alien’ speaks,

“20th. Now that’s a special day.”

How many of them are out there.

Later I hear one chime.

Okay. This is boring.

I want out. And I want out NOW!

“IT’S TIME! IT’S COMING! MAN YOUR STATIONS!

What did they say? Whatever. I’m coming out. By now I get a feeling that my quiet escape won’t be so quiet after all. It sounds like many are waiting for me outside.

DAMN!

I see it.

A light.

Someone screams.

Others are shouting. I’m still not understanding why my escape seems to be causing such excitement.

I head for the light feet-first. I want to hit the ground running. But some idiot has different ideas. He shoves hands inside.

HEY! Don’t push me back. I want out.

The hands turn me around.

Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be?

Head-first? Fine.

Here I come.

It’s bright. And cold. And not in the least bit wet.

Suddenly I don’t want out.

Let me stay.

Someone shouts.

PUSH! PUSH!

Whatever ‘push’ means I’m not coming out.

The same hands that turned me round are now pulling at my head. Behind me some unseen force is pushing my sorry arse out. These guys really want me out.

In the ‘alien’ language I hear,

“This one will be trouble. Push one more time. PUSH!

A scream.

POP!

I’m out.

It’s freezing out here. And too damn bright. I don’t even want to open my eyes.

I hear two chimes.

“2 o’clock.”

I hear relief and more alien lingo.

“Congratulations! It’s a boy.”

Shouts of joy.

What’s every one excited about?

I’m slowly adjusting to my new-found ‘freedom’, when I’m whacked on the back.

WHAT THE F***! (The only alien word I picked up after overhearing some muffled conversation while still inside)

‘He’s crying. He’s healthy.”

Joy all around.

I’m still not opening my eyes.

A few seconds later, I’m wrapped in some warm stuff and placed next to another even warmer ‘thing’ that wraps its arms around me.

CLICK!

There’s a connection with this ‘thing’. I smile.

“Oooh, he smiled!”

It’s that sweet God-like voice again, now quite clear. I’m beginning to feel very comfortable with this ‘alien’.

Right about this time I become hungry. I have my first feast at the one and only ‘fast-food’ joint I know. Boy, do I feast.

I then fall asleep at the ‘table’.

I wake up still in the arms of my ‘alien’. It feels nice.

“Want to hold him?”

My ‘alien’ asks another.

“Yes. But…”

“Go on. He’s your son. Don’t worry.”

I’m now in another alien’s hands. Hmm. This one is a bit clumsy.

Come on dude hold me properly.

“OOPS!”

I’m floating. Nothing is holding me. It’s a great sensation until my head connects with something hard. A sharp pain bolts from my head to the rest of the body.

“You dropped him!”

I’m beginning to learn that this is one painful place.

I can’t take it any more. I open my eyes to see what the hell is going on.

My ‘alien’, with the most beautiful face I’ll ever see, picks me up.

“Oh, he’s opened his eyes.”

I’m still mesmerized by my ‘alien’ when she gestures to herself.

“I’m mummy,”

She points away.

‘That (who dropped you) is daddy.”

I turn and my heart skips a beat.

Dude, this guy has hair all over. But he’s kinda handsome. If you look hard enough. Which is what I’m doing.

“Why is he looking at me that way?”

“Maybe if you had just shaved first.”

“Aw, come on. I didn’t have time. We were in the middle of a (hippie) party remember?”

I have no idea what they are saying.

He looks at me intently too. He then screws his face and reaches this huge finger towards my mid section. Then in an even stranger language he speaks to me.

“Coochy coo! Booga boo! Ptrrr!”

WHAT THE HELL! GET AWAY FROM ME!

At this time I’m waving my hands around in some serious karate move I’d been practicing while in solitary. And I give the famous karate sounds.

“He’s crying,” says my ‘alien’ mum, in a soothing voice. “Don’t worry, he’ll get used to you.”

I gotta learn this language.

I return to the warmth of ‘mummy’ and I fall asleep.

The next time I wake up we are moving out of this cold place and heading to what ‘mummy and daddy’ are calling…

“Okay, modoathii, we are here. Home.”

It’s excitement all around as four other little aliens rush to meet us. They all speak the alien language. Except one who seems to also know my language. Finally.

He’s just a little bigger than me and has trouble operating on the two protrusions I notice we all have.

He staggers towards me.

He looks at me strangely.

“Wassap dude.” I ask.

He continues to stare at me and reaches a smaller finger (compared to ‘daddy’s”) to my cheek. I’m smiling, then he pinches me.

OUCH! (in baby language between me and him). What are you doing?

“Listen n****, for quite some time I was the last born around here. Everything revolved around me. And now you are here to mess it all up.”

Hey, I had nothing to do with anything. I was a happy little sperm minding my own…

“Don’t give me that.”

Whatever.

“Listen hot shot,” he continues. “You’ve got shit-loads to learn,”

He sniffs the air.

“Speaking of shit…(in alien language) MUMMY! POO POO!”

What’s, p…p…poo…poopoo?

“Aw, modoathii, you’ve messed up” she says lovingly.

Oh! So that’s POO POO!

It stinks!

Indeed, I did have lots to learn. And I have.

So today (20th October) unlike many others where the celebration has always been the same, (at 2 am, I pour my favorite refreshment, ice-cubes dipped in vodka and coke and toast to a great life) I’m sitting here alone and thinking about my life. Past, present and future.

I pay mad respect to my mum (God rest her soul) who for 19 years struggled to lainisha my centre bolt of life.

After 3 decades I think I’ve done it all. (except what they tried to teach me)

It’s now time to chill…a bit…and do what I grasped from their teachings.

Step one…bibi.

Someone get me Joseph (with or without his technicolor dreamcoat), my dream had sub-titles

I’ve known dreams to be weird but this one woke me and had me sitting up thinking. The things Joseph had to contend with when ‘tafsiri-ing’ the pharaoh’s dreams.

I’ve only been sleeping a few minutes when I hear a banging sound. I wake up startled.

There it is again.

It’s my neighbour banging on the wall. I bang back. He bangs back again. I’m thinking, perhaps he’s in trouble.

I’m about to bang back and ask out loud if all is okay when he bangs again. And again. And again.

It then hits me. He’s not banging the wall.

He’s banging his wife.

And on a rickety bed that always, always, let’s me know when he’s getting his groove on.

Thankfully, he’s a one-minute man and after counting only two sheared sheep I’m on my way into dreamland…

I’m walking towards a little wooden shed in the middle of a grassy patch of land. I knock and the wooden door opens.

I step in into this huge workstation. If someone were watching me dream, they would have noticed my frowned brow. How did this small shed become a warehouse? But yet again, this is a dream.

Inside people are busy working on machines and to be honest I don’t know what they are making. I can’t make out any product anywhere. I also notice that these are prisoners in a kind-of and similar to the “Escape from Sobibor” workshops.

When I walked in I wasn’t a prisoner but now I am.

Before too long we are all plotting an escape. It’s simple, we’ll walk out the back door and run the short distance to the gate, which isn’t guarded but has a huge padlock.

One of the prisoners has fashioned a quick-n-dirty padlock-cutter and that night we break out. We run to the gate, cut the padlock and in no time we are running free in town.

How that shed in the middle of a grassy patch of land found itself in tao is for Joseph to tell me.

Lakini, the dream doesn’t end there. Kwanza it goes blank. You know how between scenes there’s a blank part? Hivyo. That’s what I saw in my dream.

When the next scene opens, I am walking between people assembled in parallel lines.

I am collecting clothes. I have no idea what for.

The people gathered there are friends and enemies alike (if I spot Marto, I’m waking up from this dream…nightmare chap chap, but I don’t).

I am being assisted by some guy. We are tight and are bonding like long-time pals. But this friend of mine is a total stranger. I’ve never met him in my short pathetic life. In fact, it’s someone I saw in tao one day. Tulipitana tu. No ‘Hi’. No ‘Excuse me’. No contact whatsoever.

Joseph, can you explain?

Anyway, we collect our clothes and head off to the shed. Yes, the shed we escaped from in the previous scene (“Previously on Modoathii’s dream…”)

Thankfully, the shed is as it was with the same prisoners doing the same thing making the same things. Nothing.

As we walk in we are greeted enthusiastically but everyone is quickly hushed into silence. We don’t want people discovering our escape plan.

WAIT A MINUTE!

Is there de javu in a dream?

JOSEPH!?!

It’s as though what we had done earlier was a rehearsal. (I’ll worry about it when I wake up…and I am)

We start handing the clothes around, which I should mention at this time have changed into foodstuffs. Food rations for when we escape.

Escape plan is still the same. Out the back door, run the short distance to the gate past the guys in the field and into freedom.

Hold it. Now there are people in the field?

Yes.

And they are prisoners like us raking the grass. (Who cut it?) These prisoners are also watching to make sure we don’t escape. Set a thief…(that one at least I can tafsiri)

When I look out the glass portal (sic) in the back door, a scary-looking prisoner stares right back at me. If I were the easy-to-scare types this would be the part I’d wake up screaming.

But I’m an ‘otero’. All I do is duck.

We are now stuck. How do we distract these fellows?

Just beyond the gate to freedom is a highway (Uhuru highway?) and as we are pondering on what to do next, Shuru, my buddy in real life, who once owned a monster motorbike, cruises past noisily.

The prisoners all get excited and look that way. Shortly, just like the sheep I was counting before I slept, they all follow the bike and jump over the picket fence (picket fence?) in hot pursuit.

Here’s our chance.

We all race out the door and make it past the gate. There’s no padlock.

Again, we find ourselves in town. No highway.

This time, however, we are on River Road, that side of Grogon.

I’m running uphill in slow motion. (I never knew how tiring it was to run slow-motion in a dream)

It’s at this time that I look across at one of my fellow escapees and I see it…

“After his escape he went straight for the border of Ethiopia. He now lives with his wife and three kids in Manhattan.”

A bloody subtitle.

I look back just in time to hear a bang and I see an escapee fall down. He freezes and there it is again.

“Mister Paul. Shot as he fled.”

Another subtitle.

I hear the second bang and this time I wake up sweating.

BANG!

Damn! My neighbour is going for seconds.

Haiya people, couch, have you found Jose?

He needs to tell me what this is all about. I don’t care too much for plot of the dream, it’s the freaking subtitles that are worrying me.

The shortest stag(gering) night!

Marto’s brother was getting married and Marto (dear Lord) was put in charge of organizing it.

First, as much as I tried avoiding Marto I couldn’t. The devil is every which where.

He was (of course) in his brother’s wedding committee. And so was I (I have a life membership for attending people’s wedding committees), During the committee some guy, who was trying to get into the bride-to-be’s sister’s pants, was trying too hard to impress, when he suggested Marto be in charge of the stag night.

Everyone protested. (I thought I was the only one who had issues with Marto)

There was this one guy who I didn’t know, but whose face looked familiar, (One of those faces you only recognize under the influence) who actually produced documented evidence why Marto shouldn’t be the organizer.

The bride-to-be looked at her husband-to-be and gave him a long it-was-nice-to-have-loved-you hug.

Othis, Wamugunda and I stood up immediately. We, in unison, pledged to forfeit the stag night.

His own mum did the sign of the cross.

Everyone, everyone, even his brother (only after the hug did he realize Marto was dangerous) tried to suggest we pick someone else.

But you can’t keep a good devil down.

Marto stood up. And everyone fell silent.

The next five minutes Marto unleashed a speech that even made me pause and think perhaps he really had changed. He talked about how he respected his brother and wouldn’t dare do anything to jeopardize (plus other big words) the wedding plans, how after seeing his brother’s intentions had also planned to get married (everyone choked on their drinks but his strong speech drowned out the laughter), how after nearly killing his pals with drink (other pals at another drinking sprint) had seen the light. Bottom line, my pal convinced everyone, even me, he had changed.

I’ve never seen a standing ovation like the one Marto got. I found myself clapping. Some poor soul with too many tears to spare shed.

So it was settled. Marto was to organize the stag night.

No one noticed Marto’s sly smile and wink towards his ‘girlfriend’. (I was to see her two days later doing her rounds on the-letter-after-J street)

No one even suspected anything when he insisted he’d take care of the expenses. All expenses.

So here we are at this nice club at a very strange address. It’s in Inda.

I had never seen or heard of this pub before. Marto quickly assures us it’s new and it’s the hottest thing in Nai. He explains it’s so new that even the owner didn’t have time to put the name up. I’m impressed. For a moment, I was expecting some dingy Marto-kind bar.

We walk into this strangely huge space. Man, this place is big. I, in jest, tell Marto it looks like a go-down. He laughs. Nervously but I don’t notice because I’m busy looking around trying to spot even one waiter.

Hmm. Interesting, but I think, it’s a stag night and maybe Marto has hired it out and has a surprise, maybe topless waiters, in store for us. The SMS said it all.

B****HES, LAP DANCES, STRIPPERS AND HEWA MPAKA CHE. POMBE MPAKA MUANGUKE. WELCOME DRINK FOR EVERYONE AT THE DOOR.

I’m politely worried when I see Muthemba serving the welcome drink. (Muthemba is the waiter at Magegania bar…read previous x5 post)

It’s a punch that’s frighteningly sweet. It tastes like passion juice with a hint of all the spirits plus other ingredients like fruits. There is however one ingredient I swear I tasted that reminds me of something. I can’t quite pinpoint what it is. Though it bugs me, I’m not going to let it disturb me.

I looked Othis’s way. He is shouting something that I can’t hear above the music. I’m about to give him the thumbs up sign when someone behind him drops to the floor.

I try to alert Othis, but himself he drops.

It’s then that I remember the ingredient.

Of course. The Magegania Bridge Rac…

I black out.

I woke in a very uncomfortable position.

Bodies all around me.

My head slowly makes out that I’m not at the mortuary.

PHEW!

BUT…

I sit up straight when I realize I’m actually in cell.

I shoot up with my hands automatically guarding my arse.

I haven’t been butt-ered.

“Don’t worry. Nothing happened to you or anyone.” A voice reassures me.

I look at where the voice is coming from. I see Marto sitting at one end of the cell smiling.

What the F?

I’m in the process of asking, “what is” when I trip over Marto’s brother.

MARTO’S BROTHER?!!!

Marto’s brother is also here? Dear…

I look around and spot members of his brother’s wedding committee scattered haphazardly between convicts. They are slowly coming to to the same realization.

By this time, Marto’s face is very close to mine. I’m looking straight into his bulging eyes seeking answers. He tries to answer but is at a loss of words. Someone quickly reminds me that the hands I have round his neck are the reason why he’s struggling for air and words.

Gasp “If it wasn’t….(gasp) for me (gasp) you guys wouldn’t (gasp) be waking up here safe (gasp x5)”

How true. If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be here. Period. Safe or not.

Someone groggily and timidly asks, How did we get here?

How indeed?

GASP!

Marto is still fighting for air between my slowly tightening grip when this huge cop opens the door and points at Marto. He notices Marto’s predicament and shouts…

“WEWE!”

I drop Marto faster than a hot potato.

“NI NINI MBAYA?”

He was fainting, I quickly answer. I was just helping him.

I see my tombstone in his eyes.

“TOKENI! MTU WENYU AMEKUJA.”

We all step outside.

Ten shabby-looking guys wearing only left shoes step into the police ‘reception’ area to see who our ‘mtu’ is.

Marto’s brother’s wife-to-be, who was called by the cops after Marto asked them to call her, unleashes 3 emotions in one swift motion.

As she comes over to her hubby-to-be, she unleashes a left hook at Marto, almost knocking him out, hugs and kisses her hubby.

Hate. Relief. Love.

Later, we were all to learn that Marto never had money to throw a stag night. Therefore, he linked up with a buddy who let him ‘borrow’ the godown (Marto told him he had cargo to keep). He then went to see Muthemba, who recommended the same quick and dirty designer who designed Magegania bar. And since he didn’t have money to buy crates of beer, he asked for Muthemba’s help and together they mixed up a punch that would make guys forget about asking for pints. A punch that contained the Magegania Bridge Racer.

With this he didn’t need to buy pints, he didn’t need to hire waiters and strippers. Plus he had borrowed the music system for only half an hour. He claims he got a good deal.

No one lasted 15 minutes. The only guy who had the pleasure of enjoying the stag night the longest was some guy who was as hard as Marto. He lasted 14 minutes.

Then this is the part, where we had to forget our plight and clap for Marto for his ingenuity.

Marto reasoned that, since he can’t carry all this guys on his shoulder, the cops would do it.

He called the cops and reported that some drunkards were causing chaos at some go-down in inda. The cops came in a Land Rover but after seeing the number of ‘bodies’ had to call for the lorry. We were all packed into the lorry and shipped direct to Inda police station to sober up. Some unfortunate ones who blacked out stone cold were being ferried to the mortuary, when one woke up in a drunken sleep walk. So they redirected the lorry to Kilimani.

Marto, showing a little bit of concern, got himself arrested so he could ‘baby-sit’ us in cell. A cell that was full of cell-mates who knew him and treated him like royalty.

(Marto’s bro did get married, but he almost had his license revoked coz he had a rap sheet. Marto never got to go for the wedding. The bride took out a restraining order, which was seconded, thirded…up to 50-ed, by everyone. I’ve deleted Marto’s number from my phone)

From the archive: Valentino Rossi wins on a Kenya Power ‘honda’.

(Here’s one from back in the days when I was a little brat. A brat whom my mum had no easy time controlling. I also realize now that I had a knack of making positives from everything. Like I said, I love detours)

It’s a cool sato afternoon and we’ve just finished a game of football in the estate. Who won? Our team scored three goals and broke a window (bonus points). And the other team got seven goals. The broken window ended the game because the ball was confiscated.

So what do we do next? We decide to have a bike race. Since, we are from just below that ka-line economists cal poverty line, I don’t have a bike to race with. But I’m determined to race like crazy.

One of my pals who’s way above the poverty line apparently has two bikes. But this other bike is the one he rode when he was in standard three. He’s in six now and has a bigger badder bike.

So it’s my pal who’s name is Moses in his bad bike, Mwangi with his new Foxbat BMX (a BMX that stunned us all), Harold on his miniature blackee, Pato, the Zambian kid, on a monster of a bike (up to today, I don’t know what make it was. It could do zero to hundred metres in 6 seconds) and me, with the borrowed hand-me-down bike.

I need to tell you this bike is small. A bike that is reaching a kid in standard six at the knees is not a very big bike. And the compe here is made up of experienced riders (these mongos…guys, have been riding since they were littler)

The route is simple. Round the block once.

We are all on the starting line. Harold has poised himself in a streamlined fashion. Pato is cool. And he should be. Mwangi is into flossing his bike (it still smells of Cycle Mart). I’m in for the ride. I know, I’ll never win. Only Moses is worried. He likes to compete plus he’s not sure if the bike I’m using can handle my weight.

Back in those days we were anti-girls like a problem, so there’s no ‘Fast n Furious. Ngummo edition’ moment of a chick with a hankie flagging us off. Some kid going for his four o’clock tea (remember those) shouts “GO” and we’re off.

Last off the blocks is me, evidently. For the first hundred metres my view is a clean set of bike tires and Mwangi’s wrinkled butt. (that boy’s pants sagged even before they were a fashion.

I’m enjoying the ride when just before we hit the first corner I hear a screech. This is a blind corner and some car happened to be coming. There was pande (pandemonium for those negroes who don't gitch).

Harold who is nearly hit by the car swerves hard right almost forcing Pato into their own fence (Christmas tree fence…). Mwangi does an involuntary scramboo. Moses masterly weaves around the car. I on the other hand, has all the time in the world to check out the scene. My bike is so slow, even braking hard wouldn’t make as much as a squeak.

We are past hurdle one. Harold isn’t. he’s so shocked he can’t continue with the race. I leave him behind saying his prayers (his dad’s a pastor).

One down. Three way ahead and one still slowly ambling along.

As I approach the third bend, I see Pato and Mwangi coming back. The route is round the block, kwani…

They zoom past me and my bike shakes under me. But I hang on. I hear Pato shouting ‘chokoras’.

I then understand their sprint back. These guys have cool bikes and they don’t want them stolen.

Two more down.

Where’s Moses?

Si I told you Mose is competitive. He ain’t letting some shabby looking boys from the ghetto (I grew up in Ngummo, Kibera is just around the corner) stop him winning this one.

Needless to say, Mose did get by them. He was in the lead and he took them by surprise.

By the time me and my 2cc bike hit corner three, the chokoras are long gone. And anyway, I know they can’t take such a teeny weeny little bike. And I’m just in time to see Mose go the wrong route.

Surely how hard were the instructions? Round the block. ROUND THE BLOCK! ROUND? Mose is going straight.

So now it’s just me in the race.

Me. Valentino Rossi (you should have heard the vroom vrooms I was unleashing…Subaru kando) on my Kenya Power motorcycle wins the 500cc grand prix.

When, however, I finally reach the finish line, everyone else has gone. It’s just Mose left and he’s fuming. ‘Coz he lost his way and the race? No, ‘coz, I’m making him late for his four o’clock tea.

Just another of my many unnoticed moments of fame.

random dotting...

The nyumba ya yahweh dudes are stowed away underground awaiting a nuclear holocaust, yet North Korea are busy testing nukes underground.

Hmmmmmmmmmm...........

Nakuru, sikuendi tena...

(dear couch, i need to stop alcohol)

YAAAAAAWN!

Ah, good morning___jeez, the bed’s small. I would have sworn when I slumped into it yesterday it was the size of two football fields.

HAHAHAHA!

That was funny. Sometimes I crack myself up. Yesterday, anything would have been as big as a football field. I was stone drunk when I finally managed to walk into my room.

Strange. The wall’s warm. I turn my head around slowly to see the reason of the wall’s warmth. I would have done it faster but…the hangee!

WHAT THE…!

AAAAARGH! AAAAARGH!

There IS something the size of two football fields in my bed. I stumble backwards fast. Too fast for the hangee to realize what’s cutting. So the headache that should have followed is delayed.

It turns. Slowly. Creating a suspense like from a thriller. I pinch myself quickly before it’s done turning. I want to wake up from this nightmare before I can meet this creature.

OUCH!

I pinch again. Ouch! Damn, I’m not dreaming.

Maybe, I can sneak out before it turns and I’d never know what it was. Curiosity ain’t killing this cat. So I head for the door.

Either, the hangee has made me slow, ama this THING moves like lightning.

Before I can reach the door, a behemoth of wobbling fat is blocking the door.

I ponder, where did this thing come from? Surely, I would have seen, heard, smelt or felt it come in. It can’t sneak past a deaf blind man lying in hospital in a coma.

“Thanks for last night.”

I’m still trying to get over the first shock of it moving fast, when it surprises me again. It talks. The few remaining nuts in my head slowly and painfully turn to finally fathom what it just said.

LAST NIGHT?

Last night.

It’s 6.30 in the evening and I’m out of town.

Earlier in the day I was sipping vodka and receiving generous doses of dust while watching rally cars in Elementaita. My adventure-crazy head told me to head for Nakuru for the rally and later to party.

Did I mention I’m alone?

Othis has domez with his chick. Wamugunda, as his name suggests, is in shaggz. I’m still not talking to Marto. (but maybe I should, coz after this…he’s a polite)

I land in Naks and immediately start looking for the clubs. (The names and clubs in this narrative have been purposely omitted to avoid any patron at the unsaid club recognizing yours truly) It isn’t hard to locate the clubs, since the clubs outside Nai operate like mathrees. Other than blasting loud music like River Road, they have lights all around. And colourful lights at that. Blinking invitingly.

Having located the club that will be lucky enough to take my money from me, I go looking for a hotel to lay my soon-to-be drunken head later. Unlike searching for clubs, the search for a hotel (I was looking for a lodging actually) isn’t so easy. Plus, I’m looking for a lodging that’s near the club I plan to waste myself. I locate one within staggering distance.

I check in and discover the rooms aren’t exactly your Grand Regency. But there’s a bed. A huge bed. Yep, two-football-fields huge.

At the foot of the bed, is a rickety table that’s struggling to hold a strange-looking telly. It’s a model I can’t make out but clearly Sony isn’t big here. On the bed is an even stranger-looking gadget, which I later discover to be a remote. The F thing has a hole I later learn is a security detail.

I am not about to bother myself understanding it.

The bathroom? Well, there’s a bath and it’s in a room. The loo? Let me put it this way, if you ain’t showering you’s shitting. And vice versa.

7.30 pm.

I check into the targeted club and sit at the bar (as Kenyans love calling it, the counter). I literally climb up the high stool and perch myself precariously on top.

If you’re new in any town, the counter is the best place to sit. No one notices you are alone and you get to see everyone and most importantly, every pint.

I order my poison.

I love ice cubes dipped in Vodka and coke.

Quarter vodka and coke land in front of me. With ice cubes. Ice-cold ice cubes. Bliss. I give the vodka bottle the elbow ritual and I start drinking. (NOTE, every vodka mentioned here and after is strictly Smirnoff)

The club is still fairly empty. In Kenyan standards, this means that only one or two tables remain unoccupied.

I’m amazed. This is such a diverse crowd. Guys and chicks in all shapes and sizes.

There’s fly, flyness, flyest and flyless. Tonight, I’m looking for just plain fly. Flyness and flyest babes are usually accompanied by secret admirers and (your) potential fight opponents. Told you, now see that guy getting bashed for no reason.

Oh, my dear vodka-drenched fast melting ice cube, the only harsh blow you hit me is the one that blacks me out. No black eye.

As for the guys, there are wannabes every which way I look. With my Dettol Juniors t-shirt I’m the only plainly dressed guy in here. (I wasn’t about to dress up for Nakuru guys. Nobody knows me and I know nobody)

The night is quickly moving on and no fly babe has been espied yet.

After my quarter, I walk towards the dancing area.

The dancing area is not in the same area as the bar. It’s across the hallway. Outside the doors I find mean-looking burly fellows who’s Vaseline budget must be astronomical and their dress budget minimal. These shining guys in ill-fitting black suits demand 100 bob from me. I’m not about to argue with them. I get in.

BOOM! TWAF! KACHAAA!

I stagger backwards. The music hits me with way much more ferocity than Conje can master.

I battle my way through heavy music beats and masses of sweaty humanity hurling “assets” all over the place. What happened to dancing? But yet again, this is out of town.

After furiously chasing down another quarter with a couple (six) malts, I become a part of this humanity.

After a few seconds of what me dancing like Usher (or so I think), I settle down and order ana’a malt.

At this moment in time I’m not exactly sober. I’m well over the hill called tipsy. And while sitting there trying to catch the few molecules of clean air I can, I notice a bird (I’m drank anything in a skirt is a bird) looking my way.

Now I’m not exactly Denzel. In fact, when it came to the looks department, I missed that train. I was on the track for less brains.

So I look behind me slyly (who am I kidding, in my state I might as well have hung a billboard) Of course, there’s no one behind me coz my drunken arse is smack on the wall.

She winks.

Hey! Why did she wink? I didn’t. I was just blinking furiously trying to focus my left-looking right eye and right-looking left eye.

Before I can even adjust my alcohol-laden body (I’d make a nice human cocktail for mosquitoes) she’s seated right there with me. Damn, she moves fast.

For a mlevi, moving with that kind of speed isn’t welcome. And it can be totally mortifying if it’s someone that size moving. I forgot to tell you? She’s huge! Let me be polite. She is taller wideways. An imperfect figure 0.

What happens next is vaguely (if at all) remembered, but I attribute it to the secret formula No. 21 in Smirnoff. That formula when mixed with ladies perfume inside the head of the imbiber (imbibee) makes him weak in the knees and will urge him to throw unfresh, alcohol-inspired lyrics at anything in a skirt. (I ain’t going drinking in Scotland)

I buy her a pint. At this point it’s not me doing the talking. I’m Pietr Smirnoff complete with the accent. She’s giggling at every half statement I slur across. If I were in a better state I would have known things were fishy when she burst out laughing at my yawn. Since I’m not, I laugh back. Evidently the louder of the two. Or anyone else.

The night wears on. The more I sip my pints the more her status is upgraded. From code flyless to code fly. Her rapid progress urges me to gulp down pints even faster. Need I mention, in a few minutes she has attained code flyness. I’m going for the grand prize – flyest – when my loud burp jerks my head backwards.

It’s then that I notice the stares. In my state, I think guys are pissed that this guy from Nai (evidently) has come and violated a territory they have worked hard demarcating with noisome urine.

I jealousy guard my prize and I give them what I think is a death stare (I practice every morning in front of a mirror).

I stand up, hold her huge hand (she holds me actually) and struggle to tow her out of the place. The mess cum destruction we leave in our wake as she tries to navigate her mass, which at this time I still think is like that of a Spanish model, is devastating.

This act of Obelix and Asterix isn’t good enough to be classified as a sight for sore eyes.

There’s no taxi around. Not that we need one anyway. But I still find it strange there isn’t a single taxi. I was to learn much later that the taxi people saw us coming and scattered. Big Bertha (her name for the night), apparently, is a nightmare for many a car’s shocks.

We get to the door of my hotel…lodge without any drama. But getting up the stairs to my room becomes a very painful experience. I unfortunately find myself in between her and the wall. So every time she sways she squashes me. Now I know how it feels to be between a rock and a hard place.

By the time we finally drop into bed, the alcohol has taken its toll and I can’t make heads or tails of anything. (which is a good thing…ningeingia hii kitu wapi? Aje?)

Then I wake this morning with this terrible hangee and a terrible sight before me praying and hoping nothing happened.

“Nothing happened” she reassures me. “I don’t give to anyone.” I hold back laughter. “You’re a nice guy, but I’m a girl with her head screwed on straight” I can’t take it no more. I quickly squeeze her through the door. And drop to my knees.

THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

“See you next time” she shouts.

Next time? I’m in the process of deleting Nakuru from the list of destinations to visit. Not with Big Bertha everywhere. Literally.

Don't cry for me...

(We get what we wish for. or something like that. Just the other week I told a blogger how crazy it was that he was mugged…well, i should have known better. Here’s my story)

It’s close to midnight, or the other side of it. I’m at my potential chick’s place when I do something terribly stupid (details hidden). She causes (Kenyan-speak for “she gets upset”) and kicks me out. Since her house isn’t that far from my digs and me being in my moment of inglorious anger and madness, I decide to “foot the bill” and walk home.

Only problem is, to get to my place I have to pass a dangerous bridge with a railway line below. There have been stories of bodies found on the railway line after brief encounters with thugs on the bridge above.

But before getting to the bridge, I have to pass a junction, which considering the hour isn’t that safe either.

Which is where I am when my “girlfriend”, fearing for my safety, calls me to tell me to stop being silly and get my sorry arse back to her place before i get mugged.

I listen to her and turn to head back when I meet them. Blocking the road to her place are these two guys who are coming towards me their intentions not yet clear to me. For some strange reason, I’m not terrified. And considering i ain't exactly the hugest tool in the shed i should be running like hell. It’s becomes even stranger why i don't run when i notice one of them is holding up what he so badly wants me to believe is a gun.

You should know that rught now I’m operating on automatic. And the few traces of alcohol in my head can be noticed clogging the cells charged with triggering the panic and run buttons.

I sidestep to get by them but they block my path. At this point it’s still not hitting me that I’m about to get robbed coz all i'm seeing is getting to the chick's house. Just like that learner who still hasn’t grasped the skills of driving a car I successfully manage to ram into them.

I walk straight into their waiting arms.

One thug’s job is to make sure I don’t get away by any means necessary and he’s doing his job well. We roll, frolic, kick, trip and make no headway. At this time it slowly sinks in that i'm being mugged but I still don't panic.

The other thug’s job was presumably easy. He's to grab the phone (they are calling it 'tenje', because of the melodiously funky polyphonic ringtone) from my hand and anything else and run. But I have his work cut out for him. I’m not letting go. He bites. He curses. He receives a blow. He stamps. He misses. He receives another blow. He still isn’t getting the phone. And anyway, he punches like a girl. I smile to myself. (I have a weird sense of humour, if i can call it that. This is the second time I’m smiling while encountering thugs. That’s another story)

We ‘rock and roll’ three times before I realize I’m not going anywhere. We could have done this all night because this guy whose job is to stop me though is good and deserves a raise, couldn't get me to stay down. I get tired of all this and throw in the towel. And anyway, y’all know, the fat lady’s got to sing sometime. But i'm not about to hand them the phone on a silver platter (while asking if they'd ike fries with that). I throw the phone some centimetres away hoping it will get smashed. no such luck.

The lady sings. The ‘rock n roll’ ends.

They make a mad dash for the phone as I on the other hand, walk away from the ‘dance floor’. It is then I notice an audience. And I hear, but don’t look, as they ‘applaud’ and say ‘sorry for losing a well-choreographed dance’.

Kenyans.

I walk on to my ‘chick’s place’ breathing fast and furiously like the Spanish bulls and feeling nothing. Not even anger. There is comfort in the heavy breathing. (Though I successfully managed to get chest problems)

I reach her place and inform her that the possible has happened. She’s sorry, but that little stunt isn’t about to over-shadow what we were fighting over.

I lick my battle wounds with salty water and crash on the edge of her bed. The very edge.

After a fitful night’s sleep, with one dream, I rise with the cocks, limp out of her house in a bloody trouser and an almost button-less shirt and head for home. Feeling thirsty. Feeling nothing for the phone I surrendered (i care less for cell phones).

What hurts me the most isn’t the idea of losing a not-so-cheap phone, or receiving bruises all over, it is the idea that I am gonna lose this girl who I have worked so hard to get. Because of my own stupidity.

And for the first time in a long while, I cry.