Is it wrong?

     That even after you had left, months
later and you were loved, I still
couldn’t bring myself to delete our
conversations? That I would
constantly read them over and over
again in the hopes of reliving the
memory of your existence, but all I’d
end up in is in tears and the pain of
bitter sweet reality knocking me off
balance, leaving me knowing you’re
no longer here. The only thing I know
how to do to cope with actuality is
simply wailing and wishing you’d be
back, is it wrong? Is it wrong to
constantly be wishing that I’d have
spent more time than just to 4
O’clock in the morning each day
talking to you? Maybe an overnight
chat and seeing you weekly was
never enough, I should have done
better than that, right? Is it peculiar
that I feel oddly satisfied each time I
read the words that you typed out
when you were still here and feel
comforted with the weight of your
presence in those late night
utterances you made? How couldn’t I
have seen this? When you talked
about how petrified you were, not of
the pain but the outcome, you kept
mentioning that you’d like to fast
forward to the end. How didn’t I
see it then? When I read it over now,
squinting my eyes, I can see it all
clearly. Persistently, since the day I
grasped the leverage of your
words, as I close my eyes, behind my
eyelids I constantly see an image of
you facing an end . I keep gasping
for a release from this revelation but
I can’t open my eyes, I have to force
them shut to prevent the oncoming
tears from flowing.
Each night after you left ,I forced
myself not to cry, willed myself to be
happy that you are free from the
pain you were put through, the pain
you perpetually termed as
“unbearable”, the very one you told
me you hated and kept wishing
would ebb away and leave you in
peace. But today I want to be selfish,
I want to cry because you left me
behind, you walked away from me,
from us. It was never your choice, so
I comfort myself with the thought
that maybe just maybe, you fought
hard but it wasn’t hard enough to
make you stay. Teardrop after
Teardrop I seem to drown your
memory in the salty waters of my
overflowing sea, abundantly they roll
down my cheeks and splash onto my
phone screen. The screen that is
brightening the gloom in my room.
Darkness that wraps its hands
around my throat, chocking out all
the held back emotions, illuminating
more than just my room, chasing
away the shadow, the despondency
and void that hovers around my
heart.
Reminiscing all over again and
continuously ending up hurt. This is
the type of pain I like, the type of
agony I fell in love with. Because in
that pain I remember the feel of your
essence. In that pain I know and
can remember vividly that you once
were present in my life. Then as per
routine, I’d sleep at 4:00 a.m. only to
wake up with a hangover of the
thoughts that rushed through my
head the night before. Swollen eyes,
tired body, exhausted heart and a
cold yet weary expression. This is
what I subdue myself in every day.
The feeling? I would describe it as
walking on an ocean of joy that I
can’t baptize myself in, that no
matter how much I crave to make
contact with the euphoric waves
crashing against the shore of sweet
oblivion, I just can’t. But now that a
lot of time has passed and you’re
still no longer present, that pain isn’t
as satisfying anymore, it slowly kills
me time and time again. Continually
reminding me that anyone can be
ripped away from me and forced to
leave me behind at any given time…
both of us completely unaware, such
are the vagaries of life. I’m
habitually reminded that those I love
can be led into circumstances where
they have to walk away. This
disclosure haunts my every thought.
In denial, I suppressed whatever
feelings I had fleeting before my now
fragile heart because I was trying to
keep myself safe. I made myself
numb to the intensities that came
with your departure and now that
they’ve built up, like brick upon brick,
cemented by the tears I kept in and
my not so strong facade, it has
come crashing down. For the walls I
built couldn’t hold up any longer.
Those emotions are escaping, they’re
flowing free with no constriction,
wetting my pillows as soon as my
head hits my bed. I haven’t said this
in a long while nor admitted it to
myself, afraid that I would
breakdown all over again but… I miss
you.
So much, but there is nothing I can
do but face what time brings.
Nothing we could’ve done even if we
wanted to change things. I can’t even
ask myself why you left, because
neither you nor I know the answer to
that question. It’s like a never-ending
equation where I’m the k and you are
gone, one haunting my being, yet I
choose to store it where I can see it,
in a jar right under my windowpane
next to my mirror so I’d see; each
day, how fickle everything is, how
many promises are broken, not by
choice but just by how
circumstances play out.
[10/06 8:20 am] Caymil Even after all that, even after
realizing that you’re actually gone
and you’d probably never turn back,
never be able to look back at what
you left. Even after all that I’m
getting cozy in bed,putting on a new
pillowcase of denial same design as
the previous rebuttal deluding myself
its all different, but the change is the
same and painfully so the results
just the same, its work to collect my
next flow of memories as I switch on
my phone clicking onto our texts,
scrolling up to when it all started
and reading slowly and painfully all
the way down to where it all ended.
The ending always the same, me
subjecting myself to the torture of
waiting for a response to my last
text. That I very well know will never
come. I only said “Hey” And you’ll
probably never reply, never ask me
how I’m doing, never give me advice,
never show me a different
perspective to life because you’re
gone. Yet I’ll still repeat this cycle
over and over and over again, like a
broken record causing my life to
stutter in that position because I
can’t see it stopping. I still can’t get
myself to say goodbye .
Even when it is, has been and would
always be…

By Purity Bolo ( Kenya)

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Wild horses run faster

       She was always scared of something permanent. Maybe that’s why she never got a tattoo. The rock n roll phase hit her pretty bad; the whole weird clothes, acoustic and bass obsession…you know what I’m talking about. She’d like to think that her Christian upbringing and fear for damnation played a key role in ditching tattoos, truth, she hated baggage. She hated carrying on parts of her past to the future. Her teens passed without much hitches right up until she met a boy. You know how you read stuff about first love and then get thrown off by these unicorn and rainbow lies the fiction tries to depict? She did too. She didn’t want to believe that you can meet someone who makes you feel like you would cushion all his falls, paint a perfect universe and throw both yourselves in it, she didn’t want to believe in perfect strangers. Having lived the first quarter of their lives in completely different settings then on a fateful night they cross paths and suddenly become hitched. Too alike to tell apart, same beliefs, same ambition wavelength, same fears…like I said, perfect strangers. You ever had someone who takes you on a natural kind of high? Just a graze of his fingers on you and you’re a goner? His lips on you… don’t even get me started on that. You wonder how you two fit so well, then you get stupid and do something silly. Something that makes you realize you might have met your soul mate a little too early. That is what she made of it after they fell apart. Didn’t give her much consolation either way, hurt like a bitch. Few years later she still thinks about their times together, both good and bad. Most times she would end up smiling. Smiling because she knew what love looks like. Smiling because she was hopeful he would cross her path again. Smiling because she hated wrinkles. He hated wrinkles. In case he came back, she didn’t want him to find her all wrinkled up. After her throw back sessions she gets up, promises herself to live wild, be wild, go all the way. Some people tell her she walks like she owns the world, she wishes she owned the world.
       She has had her moments alright. She lives by her beliefs. Like the power of visualization. As long as you want it bad enough the universe will provide so, where do you see yourself? She’s one of the most positive people you will ever meet. Things will be all up in turmoil but count on her to create the perfect illusion. You know how you think after getting rejected so many times the blow softens with time? It doesn’t. Looking for your first job might be the hardest job you’ll ever do. The negative feedback still hits you the same way a series of failed interviews later, but it makes you stronger in a way. It took a while before she got a worthwhile callback. The job wasn’t all bad. It wasn’t what she was after though. Months later into it and her expectations weren’t anything close to the level she could compromise to. It was like buying that well packed potato crisps sachet and after opening it you’re not sure whether the salt and vinegar flavor was meant for the air inside or the three pieces of crisps. You just end up not getting what you were promised.  She believed in going big or going home, she went home, well, at least for that day.  I don’t want to say quit, it isn’t an admirable trait so we will go with, left for better conditions elsewhere. When you are bold life tends to find ways of humbling you. Don’t let it. Always remember that wild horses run faster…go further. See being nice is okey. Nice works for some people, but then there is a type of nice that is simply the text book version of people going nowhere fast.  She learnt the rules of the game with time. Learnt never to give up or stay down. To always use everything at her disposal. A smart outspoken mind, her self-presentation, relevant papers, looks…  In some cases beauty became lethal. For some reason people tend to think you’ve always had it easy in life just because you have a good head above your shoulders. These are moments you have to work extra hard just to prove your worth. Beat the stereotypes who think you slept your way in or up…          At one time someone asked her during an interview what her drive was. That was a simple one. Satisfaction. The guy seemed interested suddenly, so she had to explain. It wasn’t power or money or whatever else anyone would say that got her off the bed every single morning. It was her need for self-contentment. To reach a certain level where she felt she was living it all, doing all the things she had set for herself. He was intrigued… hooked. Kept asking questions that felt personal now. Like if he could buy her dinner sometime. He had given her a bargaining chip and she wasn’t shy to take it. Close the deal while it was still on the table.
    “That’s workable, but you have to get me on that swivel chair behind my own desk first.”

By: Diana Kituku

Value of friendship: what’s your worth ?

   Family might be an accident of birth; you had no choice but to accept your parents and siblings, but your friends are purely your choice. How do you relate to your friends, how much value do you give them?
   There is always the factor of levels in friendships: we have acquaintances, these are people you were introduced to by friends and you don’t know them well, mostly the friends of your friends . Next we have casual friends, these are mostly work colleagues and schoolmates that you relate at a closer level but still keep a sort of boundary. We then have friends, just friends, people you are close to, you share a lot and hang out , the people who might or not bail you out when arrested or when your credit card plays up in a fancy restaurant. These are guys you can request to pay your fare and such. You have to ask things from them for it to happen, call them before visiting and such. Relatives and cousins sometimes fall here.
   Platonic friends are the people who have bro- zoned you. Persons of the opposite sex whom you are close to but have no sexual relations, no kissing no nothing just maybe flirting. Then we have really close friends, people deserving of the name friends,bffs, etc. These are persons you consider brothers and sisters, you are close to them, they know you, you know them. People you get shitfaced together always hang out together, have multiple photos together. Your boyfriend/girlfriend knows them and probably even your parents. These are people that when visiting you doesn’t have to call, just crash at their place, find them dancing naked and join in the dance. People you probably shared some amazing, embarrassing and weird situations together. These are people you did exams for, they represent you someplace, acted as your wingman when you were hitting on your current girlfriend etc, probably they will be your best man or bridesmaid.
  Crushes are on a category of their own
   Unique reasons hold friendships together, it may be love, lust, family, kids, hobbies, job affiliations, secrets, money, connections and fame, skills and sometimes nothing at all. Some friendships just exist. When the key thing that holds your friendship fades away, most times the friends also fade away, which should not be the case. It’s mostly up to the individuals to try catch up and at least keep the friendships going. Some friendships have survived the tests of time: I’m sure you have been introduced to your parents school mates.
  Back to the value of friendships. How do you treat your friends?
You don’t reply to missed calls, ignore messages, blue tick persons on WhatsApp, don’t call back after more than two missed calls.

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   It’s often interesting how a person who has blue ticked you will hug you and smile telling you that they miss you when you meet them. Its also weird when someone ignores your messages and keeps on changing their profile photos, as if mocking your message. Unfortunately for me, when you blue tick me, I snob you when we meet, tit for tat.
   People will always create time for people they like and value. Remember when you were trying to woo your current girl/boyfriend, nothing mattered, you had to reply that text, call back and you did everything to ensure that happened, from Okoa Jahazi the please call me’s. They were priority to you. Now when a person snobs your texts, ignores your requests to visit your place, doesn’t call back and generally takes you as meaningless, you are to them.

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  Also when you value a person, let’s say your boyfriend , using airtime worth 100 shillings seems little. But for calling another normal person that 5 shillings airtime feels like it’s too much.
  The people who wait for you to text first, then they reply “you too”, are the kinds who to them you are just another unnecessary person in their lives. Excuses will always come up from such “friends” to defend why they ignored your communication attempts. “Busy” is the most common excuse. Nobody is ever busy for someone they value and love.
  I’ve been in both a military training camp and a seminary, in both places you are not allowed to access any mobile device for up to 3 months to communicate with friends and family. In such conditions I still had some friends in mind, people I value. Some people are just not forgotten. But it’s all about how much value you have attached to them. So when some sorry excuse of a friend tells you that they were reviewing their  lives and decided to cut out some people, know to them you were just an acquaintance, nothing deep.  I feel good when I delete a person’s number, I guess it’s just me but it really feels awesome cutting out toxic persons from your life. Take your time today and delete those numbers with a smile.

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   Human beings are social creatures. You can easily make a new friend. You don’t have to push yourself to people or beg for their time. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone in order to gain their friendship. Friendship should be based on mutual things not having one person superior to another in the relationship. It’s easy to walk away, delete the person’s number and recover your lost dignity. You don’t have to force yourself on people who don’t have time for you.  Stop watering dead flowers.

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  Marilyn Monroe said “ I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you can appreciate them when they are right. You believe lies so that you can eventually learn to trust no one. Sometimes good things fall apart so better things fall together.
It’s easier to build a new friendship than try salvage an old one (Caymil senior 1995).
Feeling guilty already? Before they also read this article and delete your number, make that call, reply that message, and visit that long forgotten friend. Your ego should not hinder you from making amends with your friends. Egos fade, but some friendships last forever.

Photos courtesy of;
Google images
  former high school mates Kanjuri high school class of 2012 form 4 Batian
Former military colleagues
  All rights reserved.
Caymil
0727088223    (+254727088223)
Nairobi Kenya

struggles to fit in: the middle class

Too many young professionals have internalized the lesson that to earn any money, you’ve got to spend a lot of it and keep up appearances. I know a young marketing executive who bought a car with her first salary and now sleeps in it. Between rent and loan repayments, she was starting to starve. I won’t tell you where she parks, but thank God Nairobi is still safe. Then there’s my junior journalist friend. For a period, she was coming into work less often. And she was growing thinner. She insisted it was because she was jogging every evening. When she started to disappear at lunch time, or nurse a cold coffee all day, I knew. (I dint miss the signs, because I’ve done it too.) I WhatsApped her. It was the only way to be discreet.
“Do you have enough money for a meal?”She didn’t
. She explained that when she did, shed wait to go to KFC and pay 500 shillings for a sandwich. After 6pm, the day’s stock is discounted. The office canteen offered meals all day that she could afford, but eating was a lower priority than keeping up the appearance that she could, when she chose to, do it at KFC
.These is the urban poor. Objectively and relative to a vast majority of Kenyans, they aren’t “poor” at all. But they are certainly hungry and broke a lot. These are the metro-dwelling twentysomethings who’ve internalized the pressures surrounding them, and spend a majority of their salaries on keeping up the lifestyles and appearances that they believe are essential to earning those salaries. The expenses that rack up are notionally non-negotiable: the clothes and the grooming, the bar nights and office dinners, the Ubers you have to take because you’re networking until1am, the Starbucks coffee you have to buy because that’s where your job interview is. The heels and the dresses. As the bank balance crashes past zero by the 22nd of the month, they concede that the math may not work today, but they hold on to hope that it will work out in the end; when that increment comes, when the promotion arrives, when Dad sends a little extra one month.
.For admission to good colleges, we spend uninhibitedly on tuitions. For job placements, we throw savings at PHDs and MBAs. For promotions, we spend on suits and drinks. We dress for the jobs we want, forgetting that most salaries are tailored to afford dressing for the jobs we have .Every newspaper and media house has its neon lights: how you need to eat, look ,and dress to be successful. Where you need to vacation, what you need to smell like, what car you should probably drive .But they don’t tell you how to pay for any of it.
What we’re left with is a flood of twentysomethings running hard to leave behind chapo madodo for a perception of burger-coke. From there, they sprin twith equal abandon toward the cheese-champagne. When I first moved out on my own 15years ago, my salary was 10,000. My rent was 4,000, my college fee was 4,000, and I spent the remaining 2,000 on my commute and electricity. I used my credit card for groceries. And ,because I was 25 and my son was 1 year and sometimes you need ice cream, or movie, or to be able to laugh at life, I used my credit card to do those things too. By the time I moved to a higher-paying job, I had a maxed-out credit card to pay off. I had spent all the money I was about to earn. I quickly learned that with each salary hike, the price of earning it goes up .While in my first job I’d gotten away with rotating three tops with one pair of jeans, more advanced roles brought the need for better clothes. I was asked to“grow up”. Then a lunch here, a happy hour there, a meeting at a high-end coffee shop .I worked hard to defy the circumstances conspiring to push young professionals into bankruptcy. I did the mental math of each outing before committing to it. I got only one beer and drank it slowly all night.
Now, at any table, I can easily spot the person verging on broke: the vegetarian who didn’t eat any starters, the teetotaler who drank only water, the junior who pretended she already ate dinner, no thanks. And when, after all that, someone else casually suggest diving up the bill equal parts, you recognize theirs as the faces that fall. I’ve been there. You don’t say no because not only might you cry, you’d also look cheap. So, regardless of whether you can really afford the drinks and appetizers you intentionally didn’t’t have, you sometimes suck it up and pay for them. Later, you count coins. You pull 100 out of the sofa corner. You wait until everyone’s out of sight and then you board a bus home.
Now, I make it a point to stop my younger colleagues and ask: Have you eaten? Can I buy you a coffee? Are you walking home? Need a lift? Sometimes, they stay strong and pass on the offer. Other times, their facade crumbles and they nod. Their parents, subscribers to a new-age refusal to openly discuss finances, taught that no expense is too much for their happiness and mobility. Now ,in phone calls, when Dad asks if he should send more money, they say it’s fine, everything’s under control. Yes, eating well. Yes, all good at work. Raised by parents who sacrificed everything for their comforts, a whole generation is nonetheless learning discomfort quietly. People who survive this stuff get called“strong” all the time. Strong is just a quiet hunger and a stifled sob. Most days, I think I’ve put that time behind me.
Recently, I was at an interview when the person I was speaking to stopped me in the middle of my question. “Dear, my driver has a better phone than you,” she laughed. “Buy an iPhone, for Christ sake!”I’m better dressed now. I own my home. I have an actual bank balance. But the humiliation rushed back like the last 10years never happened. Last month, I began tweeting about this particular brand of urban poverty, and watched an outpouring of “me too”s. One person confessed that for three years in Mombasa , he ate only coconuts and carrots, saving money so he could buy his family clothes when he went home. Someone else said “everything’s fine!” on long-distance phone calls to justify his mother having sold her gold bangles for his move abroad. Someone sleeps on a single mattress and stashes sneakers under his desk so he can walk home 8kilometres after work every night.
I got stories about marketing guys who starve all day to buy one coffee at a five-star hotel. About a father who hasn’t taken vacation days in 13 years to be able to pay for an international education for his child. Someone survived on water all day and hitched rides on trucks to get through university. Someone got called a miser for not eating out. In a country where genuine hunger is ubiquitous, this brand of it comes via lifestyle choices. Somehow, we’ve built a culture that places such immense value in appearances that we’d rather spend a lot to appear full than spend a little bit to buy food. The hunger has touched different people differently – briefly or permanently, lightly or severely, may be once or may be over and over again. But once you’ve felt it, it’s indelible, marking you forever as a member of a tribe that understands what’s going on when someone starts bringing their own lunch to work one day, starts losing weight, starts spending nights at the office to avoid paying for the commute. If you’ve felt that hunger, even briefly, even a long time ago, you see it everywhere you look.

blueband and silver shoes

​There are those times you wake up and try to hum the morning away. Regardless of how joyous the tunes are you cannot avoid the cloud of sadness in your heart. It disturbs you, reminding you that something is not okay. When you feel it tickle you cannot help but think, “why am I sad though?” then you remember. He is not talking to you and he hasn’t returned your calls from yesterday. Is he that angry at you, or is someone consuming the time you two should be having? You know things will get back to normal, but the sooner, the better. You feel it’s good to make the first move, after all, are you not the one that annoyed him by nagging him too much about the amount of time he gives you? The value for the relationship is bigger than your ego. He comes first. Always. 

 Edward does academic writing for a living since his dad dropped him as his responsibility. You of all the people should understand that he is busy and has been having a hard time paying all his bills plus university fees. Sometimes his mood snaps, but your brain asks you to understand and you listen to it. “He has daddy issues,” you tell yourself. The father is not even biological. He is one of those that ‘came with their mum.’ I hate to use the word bastard.

You did not know love until you met him. They say you will know you are in love when you want to do everything with one person. Edward is that person for you. Anyone thinks love is blind? They need to wear your shoes and experience what you share with Edward. You have a clear vision of your eternity together. Those evenings you normally sip away with light laughter filtering into the air at a favorite café, are memories you hold dear. That is why each time he goes silent on you it pricks you. It stabs every part of you that is vulnerable. It bruises you.

Your friend Brenda – your best friend, your partner in crime, your emotional healer – thinks you should give him a little time to figure something is wrong and he’d get back on track. “He is probably having a hard time with his life and he needs space to figure it out,” she advices. For the very first time you go against her advice. You choose to make it right. He lives a few blocks away, so when the evening comes you’ll just prepare dinner and invite him over. Didn’t they say that a lady who cooks is a gem? You choose to be that gem.    

I’ll pull this back just a little bit. To the part where you are seated with Brenda at a fast food joint somewhere in the heart of Ruiru Ndani. She’s wearing one of those wavy weaves that cost a fortune. She’s a big fan. Time elapses with chat, gossip and catch up. Every female does that sometime. It is around 8 p.m., its dark outside and the first floor of the joint allows you to have a clear view of the Thika Superhighway. The endless street lights make it appear like an enormous magic path winding into space. We all love Nairobi at night, or rather you do. Something about the lighting and music of this place makes you not want to go home. Time is not a worry, thanks to lectures’ strike. At least neither of you has a morning class to worry about. As much as you hate to accept this, you are idle.  

A little bit about Brenda. She hates cooking and loves to party. She wears a royal blue band regardless of her hairstyle and silver shoes regardless of her dressing. Unlike you, she wears twenty-two layers of make-up accompanied by a thick layer of sleek lipstick. She is secretive about her relationships (though they are always wavy) and you don’t know how she gets you to tell her everything. Your friendship is from way back in high school and even your mum knows her. She is one of those friends she asks about how they are doing while she’s trying to wind up her airtime.

“so how’s bae?” she asks.

“Not talking.”

“I wonder how you manage to keep one guy for so long”

“The same way you manage to wear your blue hairband every day.”

As you are saying this you are trying to avoid the topic. It sucks to think that your boyfriend is not talking to you and there has been fighting for no reason in particular. In the quest to keep your circle small and your relationship life private you choose not to talk about some things. However, you listen to her advice and concur with her. Only that you decide against it later.

Evening comes and on the menu is what you cook best. The peas stew is ready and your pilau is cooking. You figure it’s the best time to call Edward and invite him over. No man says no to food. At least not one that is luhya. You try calling twice and it asks you to leave a message. You gather he’s probably busy with a long paper, thus doesn’t want to be disturbed. You’ll go get him. You pick your keys, which also contain the key to his door. You’ve always had it. As much as you don’t drop by often, it always gives you some assurance of trust between the two of you. 

About ten minutes later you are at his door. Your first knock is not answered and there are no shoes on his door. You figure he hasn’t gone far and you decide to make this one of the few times you use the key you’ve always had. The moment you open the door it hits you that you were wrong. There’s actually someone inside. There’s music too. Soft soothing rock. However, not soothing enough for you not to see that someone just jumped into the bathroom.

Your brain takes a while to process what is happening. Your nose can smell a sweet strawberry flavor that you are familiar with. Whoever came up with the idea of flavoring protection must have been a genius though. In front of you is Edward leaning slightly forward, popping out his eyes of guilt. He sighs and breathes heavily. A breath of betrayal. He is speechless. Shirtless too. There are clothes allover. A bra on the chair, pants on the stand, a shirt on the TV… There’s a lady in the bathroom.

Once your system has fully processed what is happening you freeze. Your heart is not only broken, its damaged. You can feel the stench of the sin he has committed and it gives you a painful lump on your throat. You swallow it. Nothing prepared you for this. Before you walk out of Edward’s house, out of love and out of the person you have been for three years you want to see the lady. Through the translucent door of the bathroom you see wavy hair. You look at the carpet and there’s a royal blue hair band and Silver shoes. That’s what truly breaks you. 
all due credit for this article :

© Phanice Obwaya.

pain behind parents divorce

  After your 20th birthday you convinced yourself that nothing can scare you. You have seen it all, crossed the Rubicon. Your skin is now tough, your defense mechanism military grade. But this you did not see coming. It hit you at point blank, floored you, trampled on your ego and dignity then spat on whatever was left of you. It hurt you where it hurts most. Your only treasure. It hit the bull’s-eye.
Your parents are divorcing.
   After 30 years of a perfect marriage, 4 kids down the line, a stable home and perfect reputation in the estate, now they decide to throw all that away, without telling you. It was Ben, Reuben, that draughtsman who has been working at a lawyer’s office since you knew him without any hopes of a promotion, who told you. It was during your weekly meetings up at the dingy club to chug your kegs when you refused to pay that in a drunken stupor he spill the beans, complete with the evidence- a copy of the divorce papers duly signed by both parents. Reflex action told you not to believe in as much as instincts told you to. In the morning you decide to call home. Nobody picks his and her phone respectively. The uncles are also in the mix , nobody picks the calls. Messages go unreplied.           Your brother confirms the story.
       Yes they told him. A younger brother, but not you.
    What could be the reason for the divorce? They looked happy together. You want to believe it’s a joke they are playing with you and one day you will wake up and realize it’s a prank.
No, the court hearings go on. The divorce is final. You watch as your last barrier of defense come tumbling down. Your mom cries off on your brother’s shoulder, your dad walks away silently. You are torn on whom to follow. You walk away, your aunt’s giving you those weird looks as if blaming you for the divorce, and you walk on like you don’t care. In the car you cry your eyes out. The tears of a full grown African Man.
  You now wonder what else did they not tell you:
Already you know you are the family’s black sheep, that’s why they sent you to another country to study. You fear one day your mother may reveal to you that dad is not really dad. Or that dad may tell you were adopted. To avoid such you decide never to ask about the reasons for the divorce. Let the stomach ulcers kill you with the worry, but over your dead body will you ever ask, after all they decided not to tell you.
     back in the estate, the family name is at a free fall, just like Zimbabwe’s currency, the rumor’s have spread. That aunt you had respected, without knowing that she had a crush on your dad and that at one time they had dated, was the rumour mill. She fed the estate with the juicy details of the divorce case, some information even you did not know.
  At the local church questions are abound, why did she stop introducing herself as Mrs., now she uses her maiden name? Why?
    Choir practice now becomes a forum to discuss her. You quit going to church. Mom changes her church. More rumours follow. You move from the estate as neighbors’ all of a sudden become “busy” and can’t talk to mom. You rarely visit dad as you will have to cook for him . You ignore their calls and consider changing your line.
     you convince yourself that this will not change you. But it does. You become a don’t care, engage in spending binges, crazy parties and extreme sport’s. Your girlfriend breaks up with you; you became violent and emotionally unavailable to her. You are broken; your last lines of defence are breached. You block all family members’ contacts and become rude to those who offer counsel. they tell you you aren’t the first to go thru it, it’s like they know how it feels when your parents divorce without telling you.. You have lost your loved ones. You start blaming everyone for all your mistakes. Your friends start falling off like dominoes. You are past caring, you are now hardening.
Life looses meaning, love becomes just a word, family, an accident of birth, friend , unnecessary distraction and you a skeleton of denial, Shame, blames, anger and frustration. Hopelessness settles in. you vow never to marry, just as you vowed never to ask why they divorced.
   You join the minor seminary: to hide from the past, redeem your future and avoid marital commitments.
Finally hope for you.
Caymil
All rights reserved
3-2-2016
@ 3am

standing for a wedding

​    When I was growing up, way back in the 90’s, being part of the bridal train was every child’s dream.  I still remember Kim for he held the record for standing for the most weddings, anyway he was the most connected kid in the hood- his father was the chief, the mother the headmistress of the only primary school, the uncle our pastor ,another uncle the ward councilor, his cousins uncle was a police officer. Connections did matter even as kids. Failing to have him in your bridal entourage could have most probably resulted in you being denied the schools field for your wedding reception. In short the village was theirs. 

  Anyway being in the bridal train during a wedding had its own perks, apart from the chance to eat at the high table with the newlywed, having new clothes and SHOES, man new shoes… also appearing in countless photos in a badly fitting suit. The only village tailor was a drunk, mono eyed resident idiot who made clothes according to his moods or how he was related you were to him. Incase you stood for a wedding; you became a hero in the school for a few weeks due to your wedding shoes, until the next wedding of course.

      Although sometimes some grooms looked dishrivelled, as if they had been forced at “heelpoint” like  in gunpoint to marry, anyway the politricks that went on during the negotiations of marriage were way beyond our understanding , all we needed was a chance to eat the cake after fighting for it, good times. 

     And the best part was observing the bride’s stomach grow big a few months after the wedding, of course from all the food she ate at her wedding, later she would go to the big supermarket to buy a child. I’m sure I was bought from a kiosk, that explains why I never got a chance to stand for a wedding… 

    Just to put into context about this village of ours. It is in El- Burgon warufaga, the land of potatoes and potato heads, on the slopes of Njoro in Nakuru, the most fertile of places, both agriculturally and biologically. our identity was having yellow teeth and funny shaped heads. Having less than 6 kids here is seen as odd, the average number of kids was ten. Due to the nature of fertility and plenty of vegetation, livestock was in plenty and so when growing up we used to be given cow dewormers when the parents thought we had worms after eating less than two plates of githeri.

   This was the kind of village where we only knew of six careers as we went to school. Teacher, nurse, policeman, soldier, farmer and getting lost in the city. in that order. All the other careers were under the category of being lost in the city. That was just euphemism for saying that they were beyond the beacons of our collective intelligence. This was the kind of village where the bus conductor knew everyone by both names, and was probably related to them by bloodline.

   This was a small community, so small that the pastor was the chairman of the school committee, secretary to the cattle dip committee, chairman of all wedding committees, treasurer to the burial committees and of course the MC in all events in the village. Everyone was related to each other in some way, your cousin is someone’s brother-in-law niece who happens still to be your distant aunt. The shopkeeper was my grandmothers, uncle nephew brother-in-law cousin’s half brother. The village was one big family gathering.

   As kids we had our own share of adventure, I actually still hold the record for the longest stream of urine shot from a standing position from across the river, a record that still stands for 18 years, by April that will be 19 years.     

Diani chronicles

​First year university, ended up going to a trip with friends to Diani, just enjoying the “campus freedom” .we booked a hotel for a week

Now, this was actually a really nice hotel

(4-stars, Swahili beach hotel), and

had its own bar/club. As lazy students, we

didn’t want to go far, especially in the coastal heat, so we would hang out in the hotel

bar most nights. So, one night, I muster up

some courage and decide to talk to an

older woman at the bar (30-ish, which is

old when you are 19). We talk for a while, I

engage in a poor attempt and flirting.

Finally, I ask for her number. She smiles at

me, says, “you’re very sweet”, and writes

out her number on a table serviette

I get up to leave and go back to my room.

I look at the napkin, realize she had given

me an obviously fake number to get rid of

this kid, and toss it in the trash.

Later, my friends ask me if I managed to

get her number. I tell them no, she gave me

a fake one–it only had 4 numbers in it, so I

threw it away.

I then have to be explicitly reminded that

while phone numbers aren’t 4 digits long,

hotel room numbers are 😭
good times

jerkboy theory

 

 Jerkboy Theory states that any woman who claims to hate jerkboys secretly loves them. The louder and more insistent her claims, the more she loves them. This is no surprise to anyone who really understands the biomechanics of women because they know exactly how women swoon over charismatic assholes who are the embodiment of the zero-fucks-given attitude.

Now you’re probably wondering why a woman would go through the trouble of denouncing jerkboys if the jerkboy’s love is the one that she secretly craves. They have two reasons for this. First, women are social creatures and the one thing that they crave more than the love of an asshole is social acceptance. They know that if they publicly announce that they actually enjoy being treated badly then they will be shunned by their peers, especially by feminists. The second reason for hating on the behaviour of jerkboys is that they use it weed out the beta guys. If they publically denounce jerkboys and the guy trying to get with her conforms to treating her like a princess then there’s a good chance that his secret identity is Captain Save-a-Hoe, and nobody wants to fuck him.

captain_save_a_hoe

Don’t be this guy

The jerkboy’s total disregard for how things work out has led to a common misconception that the jerkboy is immature and young. It’s actually an ageless personality trait. The jerkboy can be a young player at the age of five who makes all the girls on the playground blush, or he can be on old pimp who knows how to keep his bitches in line. Whatever his age, the common issue that he faces is in being shunned by a society that wishes to shackle his masculine energy and make him easier to control. A critical piece in how successful he is in wooing and bedding women is down to how well he ignores the feminists and moral Nazis who try control him.

Women in particular, the same women who keep spreading for jerkboys, are the ones who try the hardest to control them. They even came up with a derogatory term, the fuckboy, in order to take back some of the power that they lose when turned into giggling messes with their panties on the floor when in his charismatic presence. They’ll always have an excuse for why they allow themselves to be manipulated by such men, their favourite being ‘it just happened’, which is exactly what the jerkboy wants them to think. Corollary to the theory, women who hate on jerkboys (read: fuckboys) the most are also the ones who love them the most. Their harsh words are the result of constantly being overlooked by the man who makes their legs quiver with nothing but his shit-eating grin.

Men, to understand why women love this attitude you have to first accept that women are fundamentally different from men when it comes to what turns them on. Think about the chemical and hormonal reactions that happen in your pants when you see a fine piece of ass walk by. That is exactly how women respond when in the presence of a socially dominant man who carries himself with pride and acts with zero outcome dependence. Women don’t care about looks. What really gets them going is social standing and charisma. Toned muscles are an optional bonus.

Gym-jumping ‘roid heads can’t stand to accept what I’ve just said because 1) ‘roid heads can’t read and 2) they cannot fathom the idea that all of those hours spent working out in the gym are pointless because women are more interested in banging that point-dexter who has the balls to grab her ass and not apologize afterwards, no matter how much butt-hurt and indignation she fakes. Pay attention and you’ll notice that she still makes sure to be in his touching distance so that he can get a feel of her other cheek which she considers to be her good side.

Nice guys (quasi-feminists) are offended at the idea of the Jerkboy Theory being true because they don’t understand the sado-masochistic nature of female sexuality. Mr. Nice-Guy will never accept how evil a woman can be. To him a woman will always be delicate creature that wants the best for everyone. This is why it’s so easy for women to use nice guys for emotional and resource support while knowingly leading them on with no desire to ever give up the cookie.

Mr. Nice-Guy, if you find yourself surrounded by a bunch of hot girls then you’re halfway there. If you’re wondering why they treat you like you’re eunuch, it’s because you’re too nice. You’re going to have to start being a dick if you want know what it feels like to be inside them. Try not to get too offended when she refuses your advances because defensiveness is a seduction killer. Just walk away, never look back and start your new life as a man who actually gets laid.

Denialists will tell you that jerkboy-game only works on immature women with self-esteem issues and they’re right, to an extent. Jerkboy game works wonders on most women but it will have limited results on mature and self-assured women. They still get crotch-tingles when in the presence of a charismatic asshole but they are wise enough to know that such guys are bad news. Jerkboys are nearly impossible to pin down to long-term relationships that lead to marriage, which is always the end-game target for all sexually-active women. There are a few exceptions but the only men who are guaranteed to be good long-term prospects for women are nicer guys who are good providers of resources and emotional support. These are the guys who are denied sex, bombarded with tantrums and tricked into unknowingly raising the bastard children of the jerkboys that their wives have been seeing on the side. Some jerkboys are willing to be tied down to marriage and it is in these marriages where the women are the happiest. But women shouldn’t count on finding such men because they are the rare exceptions.

If you want to win in the only game that matters, then ramp up your asshole-levels high enough to make women give you the side-eye of contempt mixed in with a come-hither smile but not so high that you’re ripping out their ponytails just for kicks. Never, ever go full asshole.

So gentlemen, are you the kind of guy who always opens doors for women and still can’t figure out why they won’t spread? Try slamming it in her face next time and see how that works out for you.

article by

CHRIS KABIRU

under: bad trips on scary journeys

blog

facing your crush…

​   She had this puppy, kitten and squirrel like cuteness, seriously adorable. A small button like nose, two wide open eyes, big ones like the eyes in an animation character- the younger sister in _frozen_, those ladies in _despicable me. Her lips were small pouty slits of flesh, in a soft upward curve always. Behind them small teeth, not in line. Her teeth grew as if in protest, none in order, all facing different directions with gaps at uneven spaces. Teeth that only looks beautiful in Adele Anyango and her
. And when she smiled, which she did a lot, they would furiously stand out, as if curious as to know what so was funny. Those teeth looked awesome, the kind you would look at and wonder what you did wrong to the gods. The kind of teeth that would make you be a clown just to make her laugh all the time just to see those teeth. she was much aware of her dental formula , actually the error that was her dental formula, and when she laughed she subconsciously covered her mouth with her hand, lower her eyes and then slowly lift them up to check if you were looking. This is usually so cute. Mostly the time she shyly lifted her emerald eyes.

   Her body was the standard Barbie doll. Long slender neck, which as always was hyper sensitive. Her small bosom standing out as if in protest to her chest, the eventual curve flowing from her bosom smoothly to her waist, truly a sight to behold. To me it was just one if the little pleasures of life nature had granted me. Then we had those little pudgy legs below the small body. Legs so swift and shapely. She had this springy step when she walked. Now imagine this, a short person walking fast with a spring in her step, she looked like a cat cat-waking. Of course the view was pretty awesome from behind, a glass of whisky to the guy who came up with “ladies first”.

    from behind all you saw was: flowing mass of hair bouncing up and down small shoulders which you itch just to massage, then a small curved waist expanding out to the hips – the shape of a pot which is upside down- hips which moved side to side in a hypnotizing way. I imagine hitting trees and electrical posts following those enchanting movements, then from them small legs furiously trying to overtake each other.

    She was clearly way out of my league, so I really never bothered to try her. Although I must admit she possessed all I ever desire in a lady: short lady, long hair and chubby.

    But then you may wonder why I’m writing this… right?

   Yesterday I saw Her .I’m not a religious person and the last time I was in church was in 2010 back in high school when it was compulsory. But yesterday I took my Mother to a Christian fellowship at some other woman’s place; I was her driver. So after dropping her off I just sat in the car passing off time until their meeting (read _mushene session_) ended.

    That is when I saw her.

    She also had come with her mother but did not enter the meeting with her. A kind of teenage rebellious behavior, not wanting to do what you are told. So here i was a member of team shygang, hidden behind the tint of a car observing her. I know I was losing a very good chance of getting myself a girlfriend, a wide open chance. All I had to was step out of the car, go up to her and say hi, express myself, all the while jingling the car’s keys for emphasis. She had to see the potential in me. Considering I’m of average looks, the cars keys would have boosted the little chance I had with her. But then what did I do?  I took my phone and started taking photos of her, I was to later ask my mother whose daughter she was.  

    But that was not all, my mind took over with its crazy imagination. I could see myself next to her, nay not next, cuddled with me. I’m standing by the door to my room, yes that rickety door with posters of Amani and Wahu from 2003. She is standing astride me, her small pudgy legs tight on my waist. Her thighs squeezing me, her chest now my chest level and so is her face. A few millimeters is the only distance from our lips. then as I lean in to kiss her she starts to playful jump up and down , all on my waist. Have you ever tried to restrain a 2year old kid on your arms who wants to jump out and run? That’s how this feels just that she is not 10 kg but 45kg. Now a bouncing mass of cuteness playing on your face, her breasts bouncing up and down your face. So eventually I turn around, clipping her to the wall and lean in for the kill. It always works.

   But now all that is in my head, she is still out there sitting on their car waiting for her mother.
And here I am looking at her instead of going outside and making my dreams come alive.