Tag Archives: relationships

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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Getting to Know Achieng’

How well do you know Achiengs?
 
Achiengs are firstborns, even when they’re not. Achieng will be the sibling helping you to find your socks in the morning when other siblings have left for school.
 
She’ll be the one taking care of her sick mother; running around soliciting funds, back at home changing adult diapers and fixing catheters, and making meals and catching the bus to the hospital at visiting hours. It doesn’t matter if she has ten siblings, she’ll always take care of her parents as if she’s the only child.
 
They have a heart of gold.
 
She’ll be the sibling in whose house you can crash for unforeseen number of days when you lose your life’s bearing.
 
My sister June Nyawade is a testament to this, I can’t even count the number of times she shared her pocket money with me because our father never gave us, boys any money while in school. And when it was time for me to have my own crib, she’s the one who gave me the means. She was still a student!
 
But Achieng is a no-nonsense woman. She can be militant if you want her to be.
 
She’ll be the one knocking the neighbor’s door off the hinges because she’s heard a child is in distress, or a woman is getting a beating. She can risk her life for a complete stranger.
 
Achiengs are activists by nature. That’s why they name themselves like freedom fighters; Achieng Otieno, Achieng Omondi, Achieng Odindo. You’ll read her name twice just trying to figure the kind of mayhem she is.
 
Achieng is an incredibly strong woman, both physically and mentally. She can be there for you when you least expect. If you need money from Achieng but she doesn’t have, she’ll make calls to her aunt in Oyugis, Asembo, or her boyfriend in USIU, and you’ll get the cash.
 
When Achieng loves, she loves with everything. If Achieng loves you, you won’t even need a house to hit her genitals. In the village, Achieng can even hold an anthill for you; you hit the thang from the back and life goes on.
 
And they love this sex thing. And they don’t hide it. What she wants she wants, and you can’t use her love for a good dick to manipulate her!
 
Your beloved Vagina Mouthpiece is Achieng Omondi. Had to be an Achieng!
 
Also, a husband can’t scare her. If you’re married to Achieng, and then you begin playing games, you’ll be chased from your house with your clothes in a Nigerian bag.
 
Lastly, Achiengs are not lacking in beauty. In a pool of 10 Achiengs, 7 of them will be beautiful. Look at my homie here, Emma Nyar Asembo, isn’t she beautiful?WhatsApp Image 2020-04-28 at 23.11.34

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.

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?

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Three Letters

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I remember her. Every day, I see her. The soft-spoken beauty who grabbed my hands when other beauties were still waiting for the opportune time. She reached out, in three words, a paper ironed and slipped in a perfumed envelope.
“Anto Iberna. Aduari”
(You’re beautiful to me. I want you)
I read the letter, the meaning too gross for my mind to process, so I studied her handwriting. Lord, it was a result of routine scribbling. It wasn’t calligraphy per se, but it was nothing ordinary.

Every word smiled at me.
Every word seduced me.

I think I saw her writing them with a ruler pressed on a page as a pen left bits of her soul on the page. She was the letter.
It was an art.
What was I to do? What did it mean when a class 6 pupil wrote a class 4 a letter?
“Anto Iberna. Aduari” this had to be a joke, because I knew ‘beautiful’ boys were not skinny and didn’t have big front teeth; they had round heads, and more meat, and were taller, and were fighters. But I was just a skinny boy. I wasn’t ‘ beautiful’. I was different, I was weak, but I could run, so I ran from her. Ran away from her.
She was the letter, remember? I ran away with her in my pocket, and when I couldn’t run anymore, I crushed her in my palms and chewed her. I killed her.
Fast forward, 15 or so years later. Nairobi homes ghosts. She is the most beautiful of them all. I, the murderer sips coffee that her ghost has paid for.
“I love your locs.” They are four words now, she talks more now. Her thighs fill her skirt. She is juicy. She is the words. I chewed them.

No Resolutions for 2018

Early this year I had a stint with a lady who kept telling me that I’m too hard on myself. I didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t party, didn’t bet, didn’t …my guard was always on duty, never down. We were not in a relationship, I didn’t own her, she didn’t own me, we just kind of made an unspoken vow to be present for each other whenever testosterone hiked.
I enjoyed the simplicity of the game; there were no entitlements, Just shaky expectations, longer erections and fleeting orgasms. Man, for all the yearnings it felt good being laid by an adult–on birth control.
My routines changed and so was hers, we spent more nights awake and more days lost in lust or nursing our tired genitals. Those were the days I could spend 24 hours in my single room naked. We ate and snacked sex. Nights became shorter and so were the days. In no time, the good boy that vowed never to smoke a thing got his first puff of weed and more followed. In short, my 2017 resolutions lost meaning in January.
I made amends quickly, and today 2017 is one of those years that have brought me immense blessings. I won’t list any here though. I made resolutions that I haven’t accomplished, some were silly af, some were too obvious and some just plain boring. I might not be proud of how the year began, but I’m grateful I met someone who taught me how to let my guard down. As crazy as it sounds, I’m thrilled I did stuff I swore I’d never do. Life is too short to follow routines, too short to keep it together, too short to be a perfect son, too short to be a role model, too short to be sober all the time. So even as 2018 approaches, I won’t make any damn resolution, I just want to live as wild as life was meant to be; smoke a little, read more books, make more enemies, sleep more, slap my landlord with a whole year rent, dance more, scream more ( in this life try hard not to be my neighbor) and just be a little bad, you know, I’ve gotta find something to be forgiven for.
My advice to you as you enter 2018 is to do something that freaks you out; something as odd as having a quickie backstage 5 minutes to your cue in a play you’re the main act! Feel the rush, the dum dum in your chest. Yes, remind yourself, you are only human. Happy New Year folks.
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Childhood Indulgence

The place we used to hide in is no longer a secret, they have discovered it and known the secrets it kept. Our beautiful moments flew when adulterous wives brought their men in; the charcoal notes stood the test of time—to tell tales of our childhood indulgence.

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Bad Ones

There comes a times when all you do backfires on you
When she keeps mum and hurts
And still blames you for not knowing her problem
When your hi sounds bye
And your laughter mocks her
And your love just hangs there
Waiting for her to be the girl you knew
And she drops you an sms
” you can never make me happy”
And you feel your balls melting under the weight of self-loathe
Your heart doesn’t respond, it’s dried
The only proof that it lives on is the fact that you’re still alive
Your patience reserve isn’t rich
But you try to give her space
And pray, that you will change
For you’re always the bad one