Morning, no fighting spirit left, but the balls are bubbly like a puppy.
I’ve woken up lightheaded and exhausted, but the balls are happier than yours.
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?
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.
Morning, we slept well. The balls are playing hide and seek now. It’s a funny game in a limited field. Here’s how they do it. One ball moves up the mound of flesh up the pubis, and the other has to leave the sac to find it. 😂
You should hear the giggles they make when they collide with each other.
If children came with a return policy, most of you couldn’t have lived long enough to spell your names. Parents could have been too empowered to raise any wayward, ill-mannered kid.
You break a glass, return.
You hurt another kid, return.
You steal sugar, return!
I’m doubting if we’d be having new parents in 2020. This whole generation couldn’t have lived. It makes me laugh because most of you couldn’t have known Corona.
Nor read about these balls.
Now, think. Could you have lived?
Or you’re a factory defect?
I love middays. Just when the clock strikes noon sharp. Sauchiel meant every mother was in the kitchen preparing something for us, kids.
You’d hear a mother asking a pupil;
‘Omondi, iduogo chon nadi, en sauchiel koso oriembi?’
And Omondi would answer with a starved voice, chocking on his anger because he knows his mother depends on this woman for time. Omondi’s parents didn’t have a radio. It meant his mother wasn’t even back from the shamba.
Midday splits your day in half.
When I was a serious man with a serious job, it was the time to take stock of the day; what I had accomplished, and what more to do before the day ended.
Today, midday finds me too stoned to take stock of anything, but when I miraculously do, it will be about the pleasures of wasting oneself. It’s a mixed thing you know; on one side you want to take stock of the pleasures you’ve got and how you can’t sacrifice them for anything, but on the other, is a biting conscience that you had so much potential but smoked it all away! Still, midday is midday.
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.
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.
If corona takes another month,
many employees shall be their own bosses.
Have you found a new skill that might help you abolish your 8-5 job?