FOUR STAGES OF FINDING A SHE/HE

 My She  and I have just completed two  years off the BT , but no one’s offering us a degree not even a diploma. I might get in trouble for saying this, but I’m not sure which is harder: two years off BT  or four years of college. At least in college, if you fail a test, you don’t have to sleep outside with the dog.
But don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to have someone I can count on for love, affection, and, whenever needed, a wag of the tail.
Best of all, I can smile whenever I see a soul trying to get off the BT, knowing that I survived that stage of my life.

There are actually four stages — and I almost went through all of them.

CAREFREE STAGE:
This stage occurs in your late teens and early twenties, usually in high school  or Colle. There are so many attractive people around, you can’t decide which
ones to stare at. Playing “hard to get” seems like a good strategy, even if no one is trying to get you. Everyone seems available, and if they’re not, just wait a minute or two, they will come running to you

HOPEFUL STAGE:
This stage occurs in your mid to late twenties. You’re hoping to run into Mr. or Miss. Right at your workplace, but in case that doesn’t happen, you’re keeping your eyes open at the local . There are so many attractive people there, especially late at night, after your fourth Tusker.
If you’re a woman, you’re enjoying loads of attention. One jamaa buys you a drink, while another while swinging car keys charms you with a clever pick-up line: “Hey sweetheart, wanna have my children?”
If you’re a man, you’re trying your best to make a connection with the hot waitress in the skimpy outfit. She might be your soul mate, for all you know, so what if she has a tattoo on her backside that says, “Ali Makwere was here.”

CONCERNED STAGE: You’re starting to get worried, wondering if the person you were meant to be with, the person whom fate intended for you, lives in a grass hut in Loitokitok. For the first time in your life, you’re considering enrolling in a seminary or Convent.
Depending on your background and culture, you find yourself reading matrimonial ads, personal ads, or toilet ads. “you want to feel good all over, call Johnny,” one toilet ad reads,and you wonder if Johnny is a doctor.
You even start to go on blind dates. As soon as you see the person your friends have set you up with, you close your eyes and pretend to be blind.

DESPERATE STAGE:
You don’t want to seem desperate, but the idea of an arranged marriage is beginning to grow on you .If you’re a She, you’re relieved that there are still a few good catches in your age group, never mind that they all live in Kitui. You wonder if it’s better to be “single and stomach full” or “married and hungry.”
You convince yourself that you’re not lowering your standards -you’re just focusing on the positive aspects of men you meet. “He doesn’t have a job,” you say, “but he does have most of his teeth and a friend between his legs.”
If you’re a man, you’ve started saving money for marriage expenses, though you haven’t quite decided on a bride. They all look beautiful, especially the ones on the front of the catalogue. Your search for a She comes down to two important decisions:  Regular or Chips funga.

I don’t know how far blogger riding the BT has gone but thank God, me got a She to call gachungwa.

HELP…MAN CAN’T COOK

Hungry and wasted the other day, I tiptoed into the kitchen and tried to fix myself some hard thing  .That was a big mistake, because I wasn’t alone. My flatmate, Natomb-something, was watching me closely — like that bellicious afande at the driver’s license center – waiting for me to do something incredibly stupid.She didn’t have to wait long.

“Why are you using dried maize and beans when we
have so many fresh vegetables?”

“ai we always use dried maize and beans back  home.”

“Don’t you know that fresh vegetables are more nutritious  than dried maize and beans?”

“I … well … uh …asi..yebo”

I felt like an accused murderer who had just been declared a bongo lala(read insane).

I could already  envisage her going on a character assassination mode spreading udaku to her best friend whom I had unaccomplished mission with.

Flatmate: “Hi,  Veliswa,This Kenyan guy is definitely
bonkers. He used maize and beans to make a
hard thing. Do you need any more proof that the guy is not worth a shot?”

Friend: “No dear, you’ve proved your case well. It’s
too bad I can’t  give it  to a guy who’s clueless in the
kitchen.”

Flatmate: “Trust me, my dear, that’s not the only
room he’s clueless in.”

I don’t know why my flatmate brought up nutrition. Had she ever seen me snacking on onion bulbs? Had I ever eaten a cucumber for dessert? In my world, such foods barely exist. I hurry past them in the grocery store as though they’re carrying something contagious.

Needless to say, my flat mate took over the cooking, tossing all sorts of fresh veggies into boiling water and probably wishing she could toss me in there too.

 Let this be a warning to all men: If you live with a woman, the kitchen is dangerous territory. You’d be safer in Mamba Village, wrestling with crocodiles. At least when they snap at you, it won’t hurt your pride or deflate your ego.

Just look at all the tools and gadgets in the kitchen and admit to yourself that you have no idea what some of them do. Don’t even bother with all the seasonings and spices. How can men be expected to understand coriander, cumin, oregano and periperi, when we’re still trying to figure out Salt and pepper? My flatmate has so many spices in so many bottles, I’m beginning to think she’s a collector . She has got not only garlic powder,but also garlic salt, and soon she’ll be getting I don’t know garlic what.

And what about the refrigerator? . Aside from occasionally fishing out  bottles of  Viceroy, I’m afraid to look through our freezer. It has far too many UFOs (unidentified frozen objects). Some have been frozen since Easter.

I am thinking of  moving flats, but then I am only good at  boiling githeri and maybe deep frying some eggs… I can’t stand my power-hungry flat mate but then I don’t want to starve to death..its a terrible way to die with an empty stomach.

This man can’t cook. What to do what to do?

3 HOURS WITH ZULU VIRGINS

I cherish September month end and it has got nothing to do with the paycheck   I get from the dog poo I call my boss. It is always my time to enjoy a fair glimpse of topless Zulu virgins doing their jig around the streets of Zululand.

So on  Saturday Morning, I set myself up  on a doomed paparazzi junket in a  ghost town feted for its nut-dragging hobos, free-spirited outdoor criminals and boob flashing young virgins. It is an out-of-sort town of raving drunks, horny mamas who hang onto your arm and never let go and Sugar-daddying chicks who can’t even give out clear directions.

                             6am

I am already there  …Braced enough not  to miss a boob here and a boob there.

                        6.23am

 The hunt begins.Get this virgos doing some warm up before the real jig ..I am beginning to enjoy myself..

  

                               

                          6.26am

I like what i see and I let them know..then do it click click.

                  6.28am

Focussed the virgin way.

                   6.30am

The virgins pray to the zulu gods of virginity.

                     6.32am

The prayers goes on..

                                  6.33am

And on…

Maybe we should get closer for the gods to hear us..

Then sing and praise the gods of virginity

More singing..

                                   6.35am

Dancing in the name of virginity..

                              6.38am

old man couldn’t believe his luck..

                          8.27am

Back from 2 hours retreat..meet this virgins while cruising the grounds.

                           8.29AM

Met this virgin here.. let me have a bird’s eye view of her chest.

                          8.37am

The jig begins..

                                  8.32am

The beat goes on..

                       8.40am

Virgins can banjuka !

Hurraaaa!!! we are virgins

                          8.41am

Kumbe virgos can katika kwasakwasa too..

                             8.43AM

Princess virgin..

                                 8.44am

Samba samba!

                                     8.45am

Oops!

                                    8.47am

Met Zama. Proud to be a virgin.

                            8.49am

Sindi..She is hot virgo

                       8.50am

Shy kids

                          8.51am

They told me the want to be models

                         8.54am

Proud to be virgins.

                       8.56am

Smile Smile virgins

                             8.59am

Sisanda thought  macho of me

                  9.00am

Virgins forever..Sisanda and her friend Thuli

                     9.01am

back in my crib.

                   4.26pm

Damage already done

                       

GOOD NEWS FOR THE LONELY BIRDS(BT)…TRY THIS AT HOME !

This morning, as I meandered the Mkebe I call my car through the booty to booty Durban traffic, a bumper sticker on an excessively supuu sports car caught my eye. It read, “Honk if you want me.” I was about to honk,because if there’s such a thing as love at first sight, this was it. I wanted that good-looking car.

Then I realized that the sticker was for the She driver,not the car. But I was not prepared to be a Chips Funga hata with a promise of an extra ball  somewhere between my legs…Eish Hapana!

I couldn’t help feeling a little angry though. Why didn’t I think of bumper stickers when I was lonely, horny and a desperado? Perhaps I could have found a She sooner, instead of waiting until I was too old to banjuka.

All those years in school drinking maziwa ya Nyayo and I couldn’t think of such a simple way to find a She. It’s no wonder people say that the Kenyan education system is flawed. Even in my Commerce class, the teacher had never said a word about bumper stickers, at least not on the days I was awake. For so many years, I wasted valuable space on my bumper. I could have placed several stickers, side by side, with messages such as:

-If you’re a lonely She, I’m dateable.
-Honk if you want me and you’re a She.
-Honk if you have a job and no diseases.
-Single man on board, needs someone to nag him.
- Man on board, needs more love than beer.
-Add some kamuti to your life.  Marry a Mkamba man.

Of course, I shouldn’t be too hard on myself. I did find my lovely She through an advertisement – a Lonely Hearts ad in the Saturday Magazine (Nation). It cost a little more than a bumper sticker, but who said good romance is cheap?

While it’s too late for me to take advantage of bumper stickers — I’m encouraging all loyal BT passengers to consider bumper stickers and other kinds of ads.

Remember: Advertising isn’t just for beer companies and
politicians . If you’re reluctant to advertise, maybe that’s because you believe in destiny. You believe there’s only one special she/He for you and you’ll eventually run into that person, perhaps while visiting the Sukumawiki Kibanda in your hood, the estate Mall, your celebrated mama Pima joint or the local prison.

That’s a nice thought, but what if that special person happens to live in Turkana? And what if he or she has no intention of visiting your town?

If you want to be more certain of finding your mate, you
need to take control of your destiny. You need to spend some money and buy yourself a lorry ticket to Turkana. By the time you get there, you will be humming things to the effect that no thaos ($) no thighs.

No, seriously, you need to think about advertising, whether you’re a He or She or both. You can employ a variety of ads, depending on your time, budget (thaos) and level of desperation. Remember: Desperate situations call for desperate measures…

Remember: Ads are just a way of meeting people. You still have to filter out (reject, dump, ditch) the Kumbafu Mburukenge (KM), the ones who make your last blind date seem videadly breathtaking.

WARNING: Be very suspicious of a lorry Driver who spots your bumper sticker, honks and shouts, “Hey babe! What’s your number?”In such situations, it’s always a good idea to flash a card that says, “Hey Kumbafu Mburukenge!  My number is 911-G-E-T-L-O-S-T!”

Good luck all die-hard BT passengers. Your days are surely numbered. Soon, you will start counting your miracles one by one- Gilbert Deya style.

ROSES AND CHOCOLATES FOR MY SWEETIE

Ah, my Sweetie’s Birthday. Here you come again.
Urging me to be romantic. Telling me that if I buy
my Sweetie a dozen roses, a box of chocolates, a
hallmark card and dinner at a fancy restaurant,
she may keep me around for another year.

You say that good romance, lavished on the right
kamama can be just as effective as bribery.

Perhaps you’re right, but I have a few questions.
Does it have to be a dozen roses? Can I get away
with one rose, one carnation and ten dandelions?
Since my girlfriend enjoys both flowers and
vegetables, Can I give her a dozen heads of
cauliflower? Or would that be considered TOO
romantic? I don’t want to overdo it, you know.
I might have to beat her off me.

Roses are rather expensive at this time of year.
A dozen could set me back as much as R100(Ksh1000)
For that kind of money, I could romance 30 women in
Zimbabwe. I’ve tried buying roses a few weeks early,
but they don’t freeze well.

Me: “Happy Birthday, sweetie! I got you a dozen
roses. An entire dozen!”

Sweetie: “Really? What a surprise! That’s 12 more
than last year. Where are they?”

Me: “In the microwave. They’ll be ready in 30 seconds.
You like them warm, don’t you?”

Then there’s the chocolate question: Do I have to spend
R29.95 (Ksh 300) on some fine imported chocolate or can
I just get my Kamama a large jug of chocolate milk? It would
be a lot cheaper and I’d be doing the patriotic thing –
supporting African cows.

I’m even willing to paint hearts around the jug. And
scratch a poem on the label: “Roses are red, violets
are blue, this milk is almost the same colour as you!”
As for the card, does it have to be Hallmark or can it
be some other brand, such as Dollar General? One card
seems just as good as another — even if I have to cross
off a few irrelevant words such as “sympathy.”

And what about the fancy restaurant I’m supposed to
take my Lady to? What if it’s fully booked, forcing me
to make reservations at another high-class restaurant,
namely Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC)… Would that be
OK?
Me: “Sweetie, order anything you want on the menu.
Anything.I just withdrew R50 (Ksh 500) at the ATM.
Get a giant order of fried chicken or a large Coke.
It’s a special day.”

Sweetie: “This place is not romantic enough. Can’t
we go somewhere else?”

Me: “We can, sweetie, but I don’t know if we’ll get
a good table at Taco Bell. How romantic do you want
it to be? I’ve already asked the manager to dim the
lights. And the cook is not just grilling heart-shaped
burgers, he has promised to hum a Sinatra song. “Only
the best for you.”

My final questions: What if I do nothing on her birthday?
How much trouble would I be in? And is there some kind
of men protection agency that would rescue me?

Me: “Sweetie, I thought about getting you roses, but
didn’t get around to it. It’s the thought that counts,
right?”

Sweetie: “Yes, sweetie, it’s the thought that counts.
By the way, how do you like the atmosphere in the living
room? Is it romantic?”

Me: “Yes, it’s very romantic. Why?”

Sweetie: “Well, I just THOUGHT you might like to spend the
night there!”

Me: “You mean I can’t come to the bedroom?”

Sweetie: “It’s my Birthday Day. I want to be touched by Cupid,
not stupid!”

Ah, my Sweetie’s Birthday… have mercy on me…

SECURITY CAMERAS AND ME

  Security cameras bother me. Everywhere I go, they’re around, recording my every movement, giving the security people a good laugh at my expense.

At the ATM: “There he is again, the Kak-type who keeps sticking  the wrong card into the machine. Doesn’t he know he can’t withdraw money with his library card? What’s he going to do next — borrow a bunch of books with his bank card?”

At the grocery store: “There he is again, the retarded guy who can’t find anything. He’s walking up and down the baking aisle, expecting to find yeast there. What an idiot! Doesn’t he know that yeast is kept in the dairy section? Next thing you know, he’ll be searching for booze in the bakery.”

At the record store: “There he is again, the Kwerekwere(foreigner) who Keeps checking if the Bee Gees have released a new album.Doesn’t he know they belong in the ’70s, just like those clothes he’s wearing?”

Even if the security people aren’t laughing at me, I
still feel uneasy about the cameras — and not just because I want to maintain my privacy. I don’t like the idea of people watching me when I can’t watch them. It doesn’t matter whether they’re peeping into my bedroom or peeking into my shopping cart, they ought not to do it without paying me. Good entertainment is never free.

TO MARRY OR NOT TO MARRY

   

Ever since I turned 27, my mom’s vocabulary
seems to have gradually shrunk. It now consists
of only about five words, usually arranged to
form this question: “When are you getting married?”

If I had a buck  for every time I’ve heard the
question, I’d be able to afford a mail-order bride.
Maybe even one who can speak Spanish.

My mom and others ask the marriage question so
often, I’m tempted to tattoo the answer on my
forehead: “I’m a journalist, not a psychic.”

But if I did that, my mom and I would never talk.
She’d just look at my forehead and shake her
head. And her expression would say: “Ngai Where
did I go wrong with this child?”

Sometimes, just for fun, I feel like scaring my
mom by saying I won’t get married until one of
these things happen:

-Ken Matiba has Thanksgiving dinner with  Arap Moi.

-Ross Perot produces a chart-topping rap
song. “My name is Ross, just call me boss.
When I become your president, the interns will
be more hesitant.”

-Eminem   and Elton John fall madly in
love — with each other.

-A pair of Catholic sisters are arrested for selling
drugs. (OK, this already happened. But I still
don’t believe it.)

It’s not that I don’t believe in marriage. I just
believe it should involve two people who love
each other so much, they’re willing to risk
living together.

It’s certainly a big risk. If the marriage goes sour,
you can lose some of your most prized
possessions. Just ask one Esther Passaris ex Boo.

Like me, most Kenyans believe in falling in love
before marriage. Many even believe in falling in
bed before marriage.

To me marriages are more suspect than Wacucu.

ARRESTED FOR BEING A MBURUKENGE LOOK-ALIKE

I like the police. Really, I do. Without them, all those
Mburukenges sitting in prison would be out on the street,
making our lives miserable. And as if that isn’t bad
enough, there’d be a lot more competition for jobs in
the underworld.

Even so, I’m tired of meeting cops on the streets. On
at least ten occasions, they’ve stopped me for
questionable reasons, making me lose what little
confidence I had in my looks. I’m no Denzel Washington,
but I’ve always thought that I’m supuu kiasi, even on
bad days, than the average Swara.

But I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve been fooling myself
all these years. Maybe I just look like a mburukenge. A
menacing, merciless monitor lizard, the type you can spot
a hundred yards away. Maybe the police can’t help
themselves. When they see my face, a single, emphatic
word flashes through their heads: SUSPECT.

Take, for example, the most recent incident. I was
walking through Point Road, Durban, at 7 steps per
minute, just above the walking speed limit, but no faster
than other traffic. A police cruiser began to follow me,
while the officer inside probably radioed his patrol station.

Officer: “I’m in pursuit of a short black man. The man
looks like a Suspect.”

Radio operator: “A suspect in what case? Please
advise.”

Officer: “Not sure, but by the looks of him, it could be
armed robbery or drugs. Perhaps even espionage.”

After a few paces or so, the officer stopped me. He told
me I was walking too fast and close to the right shoulder,
which gave him probable cause to ask me to put my hands
behind my head. Instead of frisking me, he asked, “You don’t
have a knife or anything, do you?”

“No,” I said nervously, relieved that I had left my
collection of weapons at home. Natombasana (yes, Zulus
have super names), my flat mate hates it when I take
knives out of the kitchen. And my rungu is just too heavy
to carry around.

The officer asked me to sit in his car and said, “I just
want to see if there are any arrest warrants on you.”

As he radioed my information, my heart started racing.
What if he traced all my crimes? Maybe I should just
confess them: “Officer, no need to check my record. I’ll
tell you everything. When I was 5, I pulled my sister’s
hair until she cried and let me watch Popeye. When I was
10, I copied one of my classmate’s homework and didn’t
even pay him. When I was 15 and still too young to get a
passport, I drove my mother up the wall. When I was 23,
I told a young She that I’d call her — and never did. You
can put your handcuffs on me, officer, but please, not the
leg irons. I promise not to run. Oh, what a mess I’m in.

I decided to keep quiet and, thankfully, the officer
found nothing on me and let me go, a decision he may
regret one day when he sees my mug on “Kenya’s most
wanted.” (If they run out of real criminals.)

I’d like to believe that this incident – and a previous one
in South Africa – had nothing to do with the colour of
my skin. But I’m not that naïve. I’m glad President Thambo
Mbeki called to apologise, vowing to fight racial profiling-
the practice of considering a person’s race or ethnicity in
detaining suspects or making traffic stops.

I just hope he keeps his vow. I can’t imagine getting deported
for Looking like a Mburukenge.Ngai Vava ! And what will I tell
my She back home?

That I am too mburukenge-look-alike to peacefully co-exist with
Other Inhabitants in Mandibaland? Pleaseeeeeeee…can the real mburukenge stand up!

ILOVEYOU BUG

I was excited the other day. Elated, ecstatic,
enraptured and all the other e-words. I
received an e-mail from a she I’ve been
courting fruitlessly for several months. She’s
been resisting my advances, but as soon as
I read the subject line of her e-mail, I knew
my persistence was finally going to pay off in
a big way. The subject line read, “ILOVEYOU.”

Yes, yes, yes! She’s finally returning my love,
I thought. And she’s declaring her feelings in
all capital letters, too! That means she’s
really serious. Even before I read her full
message, I was ready to dash off an e-mail
to her, screaming, “ILOVEYOUTOOBABE!”

I wanted to send e-mails to all my friends,
saying, “I told you so. I knew she’d come
around. I knew she wouldn’t wait until I’m the
last man on Earth.”

But when I opened her e-mail, I was
crushed. Her “love letter” to me was an
attachment carrying a computer virus. It was
infecting my computer and deleting some of
my files. And even more distressing, it was
sending the very same “ILOVEYOU”
message to everyone in my address book,
including a number of MEN. Talk about a
dangerous virus! I had to act quickly. I didn’t
want people to get the wrong idea about
me. I know how rumors get started. One day
I’m telling a bunch of men I love them, the
next day I’m receiving flowers from Omar
Abdullah. Before I know it, Dr. Kimani is telling
everyone I’m a biological error. Pretty soon,
my mother and Dr. Kimani are ducking it out,
setting off World War III. And I’m hiding in a
closet with Charo Shakombo , the fisherman.

But what could I do? I thought about calling
everyone in my address book and warning
them about this destructive virus: “If you get
a message from me that says I love you,
delete it immediately. I don’t love you. At
least not in that way – not in all capital
letters. Not in the way that Wahu loves
Nameless, Kibaki loves Lucy, or
Chris Kirubi loves himself.”

But I didn’t know the phone numbers of
everyone in my address book. Some were
just strangers who had e-mailed me a joke,
wise saying or some other harmless
message. And here I was, hardly knowing
them, but still telling them, “ILOVEYOU.”
What would they think?

Raila Odinga: “Hey
Ida , check zis out. Zis Kamba guy is zaying
zat he loves me. Vat a freak. He muz be
very desperate. Doesn’t he know zat I’m ze
Agwambo? I’ll hit him zo hard, he’ll start
speaking like me.”

Kalonzo musyoka: “Asi!, look at this. I must
be more popular than the polls show. I’ve
received more than 1,000 ‘ILOVEYOU’
messages today, even one from Ngilu.
The Runaways — Agwambo, William Ruto,
even Papa Jemo — they all love me. I
wonder what they want. I don’t care what
they say, Kalonzo is going to State house.”

You’ve probably guessed that I didn’t really
receive the infamous “ILOVEYOU” e-mail,
which caused billions of dollars in damage
worldwide. But if I had, I would have opened
the attachment. Like thousands of people
who fell victim to the love bug, I would have
been pleased — for at least a few seconds –
that someone loves me. Even if that
someone was a man.

It’s too bad that it took a virus creator to get
so many people to say, “ILOVEYOU.”