Of Poets, Weed, and Balls

Yesterday mi had a lengthy conversation with a poet I respect. We’ve walked the streets of Nairobi with him. We’ve eaten snacks from roadside vendors together, and we’ve also eaten at prestigious hotels where he mostly waited for me to serve so that he could have not only the same dishes but also the same quantity.

He’s a brother I hold close to my liver, you know, he’s one of those few wise men you want to consult when you’re stuck.

One time in 2015 I had Sh.200 only, and he had an event somewhere in Westlands so I asked him what he’d do if he were in my situation, he told me to buy food. He reasoned that events come and go, but hunger doesn’t understand the human language of negotiation.

He’s that real!

So, yesterday, he called, and we talked for about 45 minutes. Guess what we were talking about?

Balls!

He was concerned that all I do is talk about the balls and weed, and not writing poetry as I used to. He told me so many veteran poets have reached out to him, and at one point they had this ka-meeting discussing how to ‘help Agak get back on his feet because he’s fallen from grace’.

Lord, people care. And it’s assuring. I don’t take it lightly that poets of repute held a meeting to bring me back to the Agak they knew. Yo, that’s not concern, that’s love. And you gotta be grateful for such people.

But me, I haven’t fallen from grace yo. I might write about balls and weed and girls and everything withing the dark side of morality, but damn, my head works fine.

It’s just phases. One time you’re the poet, other times, you just want to sit yo ass down, light a spliff, and get wasted. Now it’s the phase for balls and weed, and I can’t know what I’d be doing tomorrow, but if my balls and weed posts worry you, I assure you, I am fine.

The balls are fine.
The weed is good.
And when these two are alright, then life must be good.
You, may you have people who genuinely care.
#Rollanother!

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Morning, we have big plans today, but the balls insist we have to begin with another hour of sleep. These ‘pair of tongs’ will lull me to destitution.

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Morning, it’s a good day to make money, but the balls won’t get out of bed.

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I woke up with thoughts of loss, but my balls are gaining weight. Yin must Yang.

How Mandela Taught me about women

When Nelson Mandéla told me he was more scared of mosquito bites than Akoth’s parents, I knew I’d sweat that night. It was 9 in the night, and I thought it was too early to fish the girl out without being hit by a bible.

Damn!

I was scared of that shit. It spelled death. Nobody we knew had endured the wrath of 66 books and lived. I was scared.

Rumors had it that the guy who had tried to fish Akoth’s elder sister had been struck by lightning just a few days after the Pastor hit him with the bible. It was a suicide attempt getting those girls.

I was scared but we had Mandela, the antidote to every huddle we had getting ’em girls. Mandela had curious genitals, so he began sexing ’em girls while still in lower primary. By class 7 he was sexing the teachers. A bad bad guy that one.

With Mandela on your side, you were sure to get laid. You had to be ready. If you could meet Mandela, then you’d know how sincere men are when they tell you they tripped and fell in a vagina. Mandela had the charm that swept girls off their feet, swirling them in the air and gently resting them on your genitals.

It was magic.

You never saw it coming. So we’re on our way to get this girl when out of nowhere somebody passing by on a motorbike calls him.

The guy is giving him details on how Belinda and her sister have come back the very evening. I didn’t even know Belinda, nor her sister, but I could hear the yearning in his voice when he interviewed the dude.

So when he said we head to Belinda’s place, I knew things were getting thicker. Maan, it’s only with Mandela’s connection that you can introduce yourself to a chic you’ve never known and 20 minutes later you’re banging pon the sofa. Nelson Mandéla, may God bless you.

And Yo, I’m the first person who evaded the bible and lived to tell the tale.

Be Random

Don’t try so hard to be genuine. Be random.

Be as random as this plant randomly smoking trees.

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If corona takes another month,
many employees shall be their own bosses.
That’s growth.

 

Have you found a new skill that might help you abolish your 8-5 job?

Please share!

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Morning, it’s soggy and freezing here, but the balls are warm and jovial.

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Whenever I read my posts I find out how fucked up my life is. That’s basic. Sometimes I get superb revelations. Today, I’ve realized that I write everything in Dholuo. It might dress and walk and talk like English, but it is Dholuo.

Of balls and a Nairobi woman

It’s sometimes a huge burden to have these balls. I try to love them, and most times, I do. But these marbles can cause stinging pain and misery.

It gets worse when they’re starved. Yesternight, this left one began howling like a lost hyena in the middle of the night. Then the right one joined. The cause of all this mayhem?

A Nairobi woman.

There’s this girl that’s been my friend for a long time. That’s all I wanted from her–friendship. I’ve confided in her so many truths. She knows a ton of stuff about me than none of the ghels I’ve served juice knows.

Damn! This girl has called me in the middle of the night asking if I had taken my midnight snack when she knows I’m the type that eats the meal, the snack, the pudding, and the nyokonyoko yote in one full swoop.

This girl is extremely attractive, but never had I noticed she has a sexual appeal until ’em balls began haranguing me over my blindness tor her beauty.

Now the balls want me to betray our friendship an ask for the osweges. That isn’t the hard part.

The problem is, the balls have now corrupted my thoughts. Everything she does now seems suggestive. Now I don’t only see the friend, I see the woman; nubile and appetizing. I’ve tried to restore my sight to friendship settings, but I see all the things I shouldn’t be seeing.

Walimwes, should I retain the friendship or do as the balls say and ask for her juice?