boyfulani

When I have loose minutes to walk around, I could burn them ‘javving’ the office lift.

Crazy I know, but here is my story.

First, though some people feel like throwing up when in one, I tend to think that it has a similar effect with getting high: you just sit/stand and it takes you places. It also tends to have the same purpose as i toilet- after you leave it,  you soon forget about the relief it has brought you.

Maybe that is why they say there is no lift to success- for most people hold it that you have to sweat it out.

But don’t successful people use lifts? To the highest offices where they keep on succeeding? Never mind, just thinking literally!

Well, I have discovered offices i never thought existed after pressing the wrong floor, or zombie-ing while studying fellow occupants. This, i would have missed, had I taken my usual dose of the spiraling  staircase. On the third floor, a lady was getting busy checking herself out in the mirror. She looked good yes, and my cheeky self confirmed that with a side comment.

“Er, just confirming…” she started, a startled look on her cute face.

She was seeing some ‘new guy’ who was waiting upstairs, and wasn’t not for the abrupt end of the lift’s journey, somebody would have been turned down.

I haven’t bumped into her since, nor have I called.

It’s the Asian guy, who probably works with some bank that interests me. He stands at the front as if he is in the gents, hands clasping on his crotch. With face looking down, you could think that the national anthem is about to be played. The other day, he was accompanied by a Kyuk lady – who had a tad too much make up, hair woven into ropes- a hairstyle that seemed to have seen better hair days. But she had a perfume about her that bespoke of a ‘don’t-assume’ kind of attitude.

Her legs were chocolatey, smooth as if they came into contact with a Kamba sculptor- the most striking thing about here. Everybody abode seemed to ignore her incessant conversation that she kept shouting into her mouth piece.

I can’t forget those people who try to make small uncomfortable talk in the lift. Maybe silence is the best way to make it through the journey – as you steal looks, however suspicious, just to make sure Onyancha is not around.

Fame-ass

I’ve bumped into some pretty celebrated faces here too, and it’s suffocating. The experience i’ll not forget is that of Sheila Mwanyigah.  Her infectious smile and flawless skin, dude, you could think she jumped off the cover of  Vanity Fair. And vanities were all that my thoughts spelt out, buried in some exquisite perfume-

I mean, who taps that?

Some lucky chap, of course… I tell myself, as I strangle my crazy groupies self into the corners of inaction.

I wonder if it is possible to have that one experience in the lift;

probably get busted, fired, that scares me, but the prospects gets me kind of lifted from the reality.

A situation among my pals has made me re-think my stand on this HIV thingy.

As this semester unfurled its wing, i was with Ms. S,  Sanchez and his girlfriend in my campus hell hole, playing (light stripping) poker, my eye dancing off Ms. S’s watermellonish chesticles  as she stamped the winning card  on the table . Accelerated by the passing bong, the daring antics started to shift and swing, riding on the care-free mode of highness, the passing hours and the dimming light bulb.

Long and short, Ms.  S. was singular, in the cold.

And so was i.

Well, on the real, the signature never actually soiled the dotted lines. Maybe i was disappointed, may be i wasn’t, but with another party lined up  the following day,  my ‘insured interests’ seemed to be ’safe’.  I had just got to know Ms. S ‘well’ – at least how daring she could be- and the prospect of hitting it off the following day was exciting. (Un)fortunately, the previous day encounter fell off the radar as I shifted my gaze elsewhere.

Consequently,  Ms. S. somehow and some guy (my friend too) who I’ll call Soul Jah hit it off. He lived nearby and for the bro codes’ sake or some thing of the sort, asked for a ‘go ahead’ which i told him not to dare care about.  And well,that was the genesis of the symbiotic r/ship’ which has lasted all through this semester. Many are the times we’d shikisha goks (green Meru twigs) in Soul Jah’s crib as Ms. S. sat by, reading some novel or watching telly…and i won’t lie, the thought occurred to me not once, about  ‘finishing what i had started”- but the sensible me killed it off, halfheartedly (wanaume ni mafisi, i admit)

Long story short; turns out that Soul Jah got the thingy and somehow it passes to Ms. S. who has been so diva-stated she is just stuck at his digs, pretending all is fine. Her talk has suddenly changed. What would you do if you woke up one morning and found that your life will never be the same again?

It’s full of regrets but bears the spirit of moving on…and i don’t like thinking about it all to a certain extent. They are all my friends, and with all confidentiality, it just generates more and more questions as to why! why would you infect someone deliberately?

Other questions that can’t cease crawling in my cranium:

• If  I followed up with Ms. S after that naughty poker, would I be in the bandwagon too? Would I have ‘rescued’ her?
  
• What the hell would i do if i was part of the effing stats?
• Who is to blame? Is it even time to blame or live with the consequences?
  
• When will reality really hit campuserians and they quit this bila-protection adventures?
• Should it in anyway affect our relations?

Enjoying life?

Truth is, as campuserians, we like calling it ‘living life to the fullest’: waking up next to someone whose name you can’t recall, use protection for a while, then quit, get singing in the choir  (combi) recklessly…and when we discover tuna-enda, spread it all around mercilessly.

See, guys generally tend to rush over this topic as if it only happens to ‘other people’.  Nobody wants to admit that labda last weekend, alienda ka-dive (sex bila socks). We all want to appear squeaky clean and sometimes, depending on the level of intoxication, we, either out of guilt or floating in the feel-good rafters of alcohol, suddenly declare that they did it without one, severally-  kwani? We hide under theories of realities and realities mask our own insecurities through justifications like how it  is easier to catch HIV from your campus girlfriend than  in a brothel?

And it rages on and on, until you discover, that one among you, is the killer.

Or, you’re one of them.

They say that a camel is a horse made by a committee.

Observing what group work produces, all the doubts disappear on the possibility of the above. Today, i was listening to a pal who was looking for some information from me. Well, this surprised me as Biggie (the guy), is ever at Pioneer(Campus Makuti Watering Hole). His talk mostly revolves around weed, booze and questions to reality. This day, as he explains, tables had turned, and he was a group leader. Well, i’m not doubting his intelligence but Henry Wanyoike (the blind marathoner) could as well win the Safari Rally. Thinking about the attitude of the rest is another story altogether.

Joy Riders

See, when it comes to group work, campus class experience would teach you to choose your members wisely – in case you are concerned about grades. And most students  are concerned enough to slip in their name and student number (with a biro) when the printed projected paper is to be handed over.

Focused Chaps and the no-nonsense kind

Severally i’ve sneaked in my name under a group i didn’t even belong. Even so, i still hold a certain disapproval for  group work. If you be a lazy bone,it’s easier to get along when you are with some focused chaps, chicks especially, marveling at your ‘carefree’ lifestyle enough to ‘understand’ why you never attend meetings or produce any work. Actually, some go ahead to call you up when the group is meeting – and mostly, the story doesn’t end there. On the other hand, there are no-non sense types that will NOT put up your name if you miss but one group meeting. But some how, guys still navigate through this.

Jokers

As for jokers, when the meeting time is set, all agree and even go ahead to ask about the venue. On the material day, no one turns up and things move on as usual, till the assignment is due. On the eve of that day, some group mates who are pals call each other up and compile something quickly (Via Google) and leave out the cover page (to bear names) for printing, minutes to class time. Incidentally, this is the morning the printer jams, the server is down, or your flash catches a deadly virus and all work is lost.

Lecturers have a list of these excuses, and few hearken to them – but students are students, new excuses prop up by the day.

Other Side of G Work

But there is the other side of group work (not when all are friends- still, nothing gets really done) when you meet new people (read chicks) and things happen. I’ve my best and worst from these and school work and pleasure never mixed better. I’ll tell one of the tales, when the coast is safer.

Oh, and last year, there was a wedding between two lovebirds who met at an Environment Class group. Talk about not changing ‘your environment’.

Group work has some benefits too – besides churning out mediocre stuff (when everyone thinks their idea is the geratest)- especially when small ideas die.

But nothing ever GREAT has ever been born there.

P.S.

Which reminds me, due, was an group assignment which yours truly was to compile and send via email…i’ve just begun thinking about out, procrastination will surely slot it for a good sunny day.

Ghettogolfer-word of the day.

This word has been stuck in my mind like the stench of cham. I think i picked up in those random mindless talk that dot the chattering box (Kenyan radio).

So, i pictured myself as this ghetto golfer…and the whole outfits starts fitting on, not perfectly, but just in the awkward way things always look in the Ghetto.

Nothing is ever original. If one has a really gisty phone, so many phony details scream out at you once it rests on your palm. Some day, in one of those drinking session at some random backstreet back in the hood when on Pita chomoad an iphone and all our mouths were like: Whoa…

But later on, we had a reason to laugh out loud over the discovery. Wait, it wasn’t really the kawa fake-ass China iPhone…but as he tried to fiddle it over and make it work, its shortcomings were enough to make you make love to you Kabambe or Mulika mwizi ata bila gloves, ha!

I mean, you know those phones unaombanga beshte yako akuokolee na call alafu anaanza tu zile za:Finya 3 na nguvu…space bar huwa haiwork, ha!

Stori na kwambia!

Anyway, kenye imeni-inspire nichore hii risto ni mshe-fulani tumepatana na yeye this week amenimada kima da ga…wawawa!

Ushaiona roho ya ghettoboy ikobonyeka tu ka andazi ya ashu pale ivi base ya jenga mwili?

Time ka hizi ndo mi huseti tu ki-kolo [mbo] kwa keja, mkono ndani ya chest na-count nywele za chest tu alafu ma-ol’s school bluuz zi-na whisper from my ka-palito..bru ha ha ha…

Hii story bado hai-jasink, bado mie tu nacheki tu ka ita-flow vitamu alafu niwamwagia mtama, au vepe?

Meanwhile, checki checki hizi ma-lyrics za Bishop ujiseti kwa scale…

U know u ghetto (dont be ashamed )
U ghetto
U ghetto ( dont be ashamed )
U ghetto
U know u ghetto

[Bishop]
U know u ghetto when you got rats and roaches
With the fan in the window, front door wide open
U know u ghetto when u say “I aint offended”
Change the channel with some pliers, got a hanger for a antenna
U know u ghetto eatin chicken everyday
With color weave in your hair and you trickin for a pay
Gold teeth in your mouth
Out talkin loud
And the car that you drive cost more than your house
U know u ghetto when your job is illegal
Live in the projects with furniture like rich people
U know u ghetto when you cook with lard
Only credit that you got is your food stamp card
U know u ghetto when you own section 8
Have dues everyday, but you pay your bills late
Understand this song, get your jam on
And yo grandma whip you with whatever she get her hands on

[chorus]
[lil kids (Bishop)]
U know u ghetto ( look at the way you walk)
U ghetto ( c’mon, listen to how you talk)
U ghetto ( look at the clothes you wear)
U ghetto ( haa, look at that style of hair)
U know u ghetto

[Bishop]
U know u ghetto pickin boogers and you flick ‘em
And eat with your hands stead of washin ‘em, you lick ‘em
You dont know your daddy
And your hair nappy
People catch the Holy Ghost in church gettin happy
U know u ghetto call the crib your house
Be at funerals screamin, fightin, then fall out
U know u ghetto sellin clothes that you stole
And when you go out it’s like a fashion show
U know u ghetto with a name like Shaniqua
Pookie, Red, and Peanut puttin codes in your beeper
When you hear stuff, helecopter, city bus
????? straight out of the ice cream truck

[chorus]

[Bishop]
U know u ghetto only shop when there’s a sale
Late everywhere you go with an excuse to tell
U know u ghetto when you pee outside
Catch bronchitis, get ?????? and sleep tight
U know u ghetto when y’all stealin cable
Cussin and DJin on underground radio
Sayin Yo’ Mama jokes
Fightin on talk shows
Matress against the wall
Aint no frame, it’s on the floor
U know u ghetto with dreads, ????, and braids
Weave, colorful nails, afros, ??????, and ?????
U ghetto, wont pay back money that you borrow
And wearin an outfit you gon’ return tomorrow
U know u ghetto bettin on a number
Usin words like “Uhh-huh”, “Naw”, and “Uhh-uhh”
Stead of “Mom” you say “Ma”, stead of “Dad” you say “Da”
You see nickel stores, bar-b-cue stands, and laundromats

[chorus]

[Bishop]
U know u ghetto punchin aint playin house right
Your kids bare foot playin outside
Eat food of the ground, say “God, bless the church”
Let your kids drink beer talkin bout “It gives ‘em worms”
U know u ghetto borrowin your friends clothes
Ran out of water supplies from people next door
U know u ghetto heat the house with the oven
And anybody famous from the hood your cousin
U know u ghetto cussin out your teacer
And when somethin happen your mama screamin “Lord Jesus!”
When you use street knowledge
Graduate from school and go to jail instead of college
U know u ghetto bar-b-cuein every holiday
Pizza man wont even deliver around your way
Whjere the gang hang out, cornerstore hang out
Mom’s at the gas station beggin for some change now