It all began here. Good intentions spelt in creased faces, friendship bred in warmth of smiles and brotherhood submerged in wine glasses like ice pellets. Odhis jararobi was home. As the custom is, janarobi had to ‘untie youths’, so he got them together and kanyaseme they went. These days kanyaseme is the most popular of all the breweries. Other breweries had had their share of darkness and were ditched. Each brewery had its own way to collapse but kanyalego brewery’s collapse is the most memorable. It was said that she used bilo, charm to siphon customers from other brewers and all this came to light when Bonke discovered that Nyalego used a dead man’s arm to stir he brew instead of cooking stick. That discovery tainted the image of kanyalego breweries, consequentially customers ditched followed by investors who couldn’t invest in a crumbling pillar.
They sat down on benches at the feet of Nyaseme’s hut. After he got filled on what was happening in the village; who had died of AIDS, who had divorced, who had married and who was remarrying it was his turn to tell them how Nairobi was fairing.
“Nairobi is going how?” asked Omengo as he straightened his arm for the bottle.
“Nairobi is going well” the answer came before he filled his glass.
The conversation took a different twist when Alanyo interjected;
“I hear ohuru is really castrating you Nairobians, you pay for water, rent, light. He paused, and then with emphasis, is it true you pay to piss?”
“Yes, Bwana there life is hard. Everything is money. We pay to eat, we pay to piss and if the constitution is abolished then we shall have to pay to breath”. Odhis answered as the rest jerked in laughter.
“Where is Lucinda these days?” he asked
“Lucinda went to Uyoma, he got pregnant, I hear she sells fish at Aram Market”, Oduno answered between muffled giggles.
As the rest laughed, Odhis just spat on the ground and in a raspy voice, “suits her, I wanted her but she refused. She told me she was studying to go to the university. I didn’t know it was university of Lake Victoria”.
Omengo who had been quite spoke. He stuttered. If bits of his words were to be joined, he would have insisted that janarobi had to leave his timberland boots, his hat and his shirt for him. He was completely floored by the brew; he was now blabbering and dominating conversations. Soon all of them followed suit and their conversations turned to choruses and insults.
It was well past midnight when Nyaseme threw them out of the compound. Everyone staggered home, or where he thought home was. Odhis woke up at about 5:30 am in a ditch. He had no shoes on, his bones ached and a terrible migraine was shutting him down. And he leant that not everything distilled is water and chang’aa isn’t just any other distillate.
I am the last words of a slain poet
If Glamour lost its Luster would it still be glamorous?
It’s lunch time, I am having my plate of Ugali and beef, the soup is as thick as it can possibly be, marinated with coriander among other spices, the aroma can’t get any better. On the floor a paper is spread that captures my attention; it’s the cut-out of the daily nation that Wa Kioi had wrapped my beef in. I’ve got to read it but first it’s time to eat. After reading the article titled: Guys, get a wife if you desire to live longer Published on September 23 in the Daily Nation I am left asking myself; do we marry because we need cooks?
The writer begins with a story about a bachelor who seemingly skipped primary eight science lessons about acids and bases consequentially messing his mixed tea with lemon, as a matter of fact such people exist but it is quite unfair to put the blame on every bachelors shoulder, I mean when will we stop stereotyping? Some bachelors like me are very good cooks. It all depends on how you were brought up. I grew up in the village with my parents, my sisters were in boarding schools and so I did all house chores, today I am the best cook of my siblings, so if people only marry for cooks then I bet I shouldn’t marry.
Reading further, the writer mentions she has a house help and she’s married, meaning I can still marry but my meals be cooked by a house help. What difference does that make? As a bachelor I can still have a house help to cook. That aside, in most houses in the well-to-do families there are house helps who do everything and so even the girls are left as clueless about culinary arts as males. Gender has nothing to do with ability to cook.
As the tittle suggests marriage may help you live longer but it’s a matter of debate and the points the writer put across are hypothetical. She says that many fires are caused by bachelors trying to cook! I’m yet to hear of that in my neighborhood. Why not talk of the fires that break when wives and husbands spit venom at each other, that gas leak caused by irate wife burning the whole family after claims of infidelity?
Marriage is a good thing, holy matrimony and a gift from the creator that should not be gauged against basic metrics like ability to cook. I am 24 and I would like to marry someday but I can’t marry coz I need a cook. I cook my own food and I love my food, whenever I feel tired I eat out. I will marry because I need support in every sphere of my life. I need that shoulder I can lean on when life pounds my spine into pulp, and yes I need good and regular sex. Regular sex is good for health because it releases vital hormones like oxytocin that enables you to love and dopamine the smiley hormone among others. I will marry because I need these. I will employ a cook if I need one.
Beautiful People Good morning,
Its time to begin Sowing
Lest evening find you borrowing
And tomorrow find you mourning
Everything is wrong somehow
For No one loves you now
The secretary was summoned. She entered as I exited the boss’ office. She had a mini on and her juicy thighs were exposed to the ravaging eyes of the boss. Her lips moist with allure and her presence annotated with sweet scent of cologne. She swayed her hips in a manner that sent single men of my variety to a nostalgic frenzy tour of our past encounters with women half her charm. Her booty etched on her tight skirt, finer details of her underpants impeccably illustrated in tempting diagram. Every edge and strip sending wake-up call to morbid testosterone in sexually starved. The door closed!
I left. At exactly 8: 15 Pm I got a text. “May you please bring the key to your office, am changing locks”. And that job was gone. I knew she told him. It’s now five years since this happened. I am set to read this eulogy on Wednesday the 16th. Dear Boss we loved you but lust loved you more. RIP.
As soon as the sun set
Tina and Josh left
They wore black hoods
And disappeared into the woods
To unknown destination
With every forward step they departed from angels
Far into the deep and dark dens of rebels
And soon a shriek was heard
And there was blood
And there was a cry
This is how the curious die
I am the one whose presence is noted by perpetual absence of silence. should they call me siren?