If you hear me talking about balls and weed, just know I’ve lived past my time yo. If you’re still entitled to your days you will never relate. Me being alive is one big miracle. I was too experimental with this life yo. I’ve played with my life so many times that it amazes me how far I have kept it.
You know, there are near-death experiences that find you, but others you know deep inside that you dared ’em. When young and restless–when you rely on your balls for intelligence, you never notice. But when you’re old enuff and have enough time to sit down with a good joint, you see ’em.
I once tried to kill a snake by kicking it. ‘Twas around 7pm, we were coming from the market when this lady stood abruptly in front of me. What I didn’t know is that she’d startled a black mamba that was already in a striking pose. I had nothing to combat this bitch, so when it moved to attack, I kicked under its hood. The impact threw it a few metres away and I passed, running.
I was barefoot. It didn’t bite.
I’ve got drunk on paraffin. It should have been weed, but I was a curious class oner with no access to weed. I drank paraffin because a girl dared me. I wasn’t prepared for the effect. Few minutes after imbibing lamp fuel, I was in the kitchen holding koroboi for my grandmother as she cooked ugali, everything was in motion, even the house. And I was feeling really bad that I fell, luckily on my grand. I was shaking, my body was burning. I couldn’t even eat that night. This wasn’t near-death yo, but who drinks kerosine to prove a point?
Around the same time, as if this lesson wasn’t enough, I woke up one day and asked myself so many questions about death and such, I sat right in front of my grandmother’s house facing my uncle’s house. This uncle was a religious one and had the cross sign tattooed pon his door.
Something about that sign and tales of heaven had stirred an overwhelming curiosity about where we go after we die. It was so intense that I wanted to experience it for myself. I had heard rumours that licking battery juice can kill. So I went to the backyard and got some used, leaking batteries.
Before licking ’em, I thought deeply about what I was doing, then remembered that I had spoilt my grandfather’s radio that day and I didn’t want to see him angry because of it. That old man loved us so much, I didn’t want to disappoint him. That, my friends, gave me the motivation to lick ’em batteries, I licked all the juice, then went to sleep waiting for death. I slept, and death never came.
I once sat on a snake and it bled white stuff, looked like chaa mama. This day mama had just bought fresh omena and wiu. She had put them in the sun to dry kidogo before frying them. My job was to keep away chicken, so mi sat on a plank of wood on the veranda, little did I know that there was a snake between the wall and the plank–it wasn’t under the plank. So when I sat pon the blank it moved in and pressed the snake against the wall. I kept hearing weird sounds, kumbe it was the snake struggling to break free, that slithery devil was this close to biting me in the ass when I stood. It was so hurt that it couldn’t move, it’s vertebrae was broken. Damn! that thing could’ve killed me before I knew these balls yo! You know, we all have such experiences. So why don’t we celebrate these nothings yo?
Never joke with the power of imagination yo. I knew the mind works magic after I broke up with a Kamba girl. No, it has nothing to do with kamuti. I think karma was just fucking with me yo.
The Kamba lass was beautiful, probably the most beautiful girl I’ve sexed with consistently, but I was young and stupid.
To date, that’s the lady that I have mistreated most, even as a kabu kabu. I’ve never been violent, but I was indifferent and blind to her emotions. I wasn’t available emotionally, neither was I physically outside the house. twas just sex. I dropped her the keys from the balcony, and never walked her out. She found me in my house and she left me there when we were done shagging. She’d hustle, make some money and call me with plans for outings, but I crushed them yo.
When we part ways, I took 8 months without flicking a bean yo. It was devastating. I’d make arrangements, talk to ’em girls wakubali, hadi wapande mat, but they never arrived😂. Mara ooh, nilifika but simu ilizima, oh gari imenipitisha and it was late so I came back home.
That happened for eight full months–a long time since the Kamba girl had got me used to hitting the thing almost daily. So erections became my nightmare, and the boner would find me in the most inappropriate situations; kwa gari, kwa njia, in church, and even while on stage performing. Twas becoming a serious ailment that I had to find a cure for and that’s when the imagination tricks began.
Mostadem didn’t work, but one worked, and if you’re waiting for it I warn you it is nasty. But it worked. When cornered by boners and desires I couldn’t quell, I’d imagine worms crawling outta pussy😢. I have never seen anything like that, so the image was hard to hold still for long.
Luckily, I didn’t have to meditate pon it for hours like monks. It worked almost instantly. It deflated the erection within seconds. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done with my mind, but it survived me. It took an X I hadn’t spoken with for years to end that spell. These days, I just talk to it nicely; calm down please, calm down yo, and listens.
Still, this post must be shitty because I’m here shitting with my comp pon my lap. And my head isn’t stable cause I haven’t spliffed for 18 hours. What’s the worst imagination trick you’ve done to calm a boner?
Enjoy things while they last, because everything ends. Death and the nature of humans promise just that, endings. My grandfather lost my grandmother at old age, he had three wives, but he wept for losing one.
Still, that was a beautiful ending. I love beautiful endings. Pray for a beautiful ending, not eternity, because that doesn’t exist.
You men, who think it’s wise to make gossip a career should respect balls. If you can’t respect your own, don’t rubbish other men’s. There’s just so much to talk about that it baffles me why someone would find fulfillment in eavesdropping on people’s sexual lives.
When the dust settles, you ask yourself what Edgar has solved with that Jalas and the boys’ story. Just another clout chaser. It was bad, it was happening, but having exposed it, how has it helped the victims?
Now the women in those convos are in worse mental state, possibly could be depressed even, so the man who so many people think of as the hero of the mayhem has actually done more harm to them. Look, the photos, the videos, and the chats were in a private group, safe from the public eye until Edgar happened. Now the girls are everywhere, naked, and I hear mofos asking for videos, what makes you any better?
But you also forget that sex is also transactional. Abled buyer, willing seller. And terms of the transactions is only binding to the two parties.
Say what you wanna say, but Edgar, a man who finds pleasure in bringing down people is no fucking hero. Sex happens in all its illicit hues; married man fucked who in the parking lot, she’s fucking with the shamba boy, look at this intern riding her married boss, now Clinton is fucking with Lewinsky…it happens every time.
But riddle me this, would married men cheat if there were no women willing to be cheated with?
Yo, unless it’s rape, violence, pedophilia, or undue influence, let people live their lives, however sexually weird they might be.
Though I find what these boys did juvenile and wrong, It’s appalling that nobody cares about the women in those chats, or maybe, just another collateral damage. Now go back to your tired life. You’re dismissed, mongoose.
It’s humbling the shit I’ve put these balls through, yet they still cheer me up with their good mornings. Look at them, how calm, how composed. A man can be so broken, but as long as the balls hold up, life continues in all its beautiful shades. Good morning people, kind regards from me and my marbles.
Folks, it’s been devastating these past days. Juzi, I left the balls hanging on the cloth line. I had washed them, and they were pretty happy about it. When I came back past curfew, the balls were gone.
So yesterday I reported the matter at the Dagoretti Police Station. They gave me an OB, but they’ve done nothing to help me get ’em balls back. I suspect my neighbors. And I don’t trust the Babylon boys with ’em pair of tongs.
I hereby send a solemn plea, can I get just 3 people to join the search party for ’em marbles?