boyfulani

How many times do i remind you my name?

I don’t mind repeating it forever, as long as I can.  you’ll have to improve your grip, like you that you got in that language.

Swa yako iko shwari!

Ati Mwanyoha alinyolewa manyoya na Mwakwere? Kwekwekwekwe. No, that headline that won an award jana?

Dope.

I never thought I’d stay for long in this desk,  but I’ve been ’stuck’ long enough to appreciate the learning that comes with it.

There are spectacles too. Not the kind you wear, no.

Picture someone chewing khat kwa jobbo!

Veve!!!!

With googly eyes, he calls out to reporters (who in this desk, seem to have a heights that has a fear of heights). The veve-man? Actually a retarded, er, retired, no he was once a teacher, actually is, and today, i’m seated on his desk. Quite some vantage point. You can literally see anyone coming, and on my right;  a window.

Maybe this makes it conducive to sunda the alele chini ya desk and chomoa as he gets on work, haha.

Seriously- the first time I saw it, I thought last nights spliff had come calling again. I blinked, but he was not blinking- the red veins in his eyes protruding and pumping blood like he had been strangled- his  sought assistance on some work.

There is also this Wafula chick (never mind the name) at the corner with ha big HP TFT. I think I like her. No, not her – the job tittle: Staff Writer.  Often, I toy about with the idea of being a  Stuff Writer.

But mayyyne, the admin guy with a twisted laugh and the swagger of an educationist- he was write. It’s theoritically possible to juggle pen and do design, but practically impossible. Oh, I ‘love’ my life!

Which reminds me of the intern union. More like mother’s union: the ngotha club that brings us together in the name of ‘common interest’ of- begetting little ones?

No, we were the ‘creme de la creme’ as far as the interviewing panel-beaters  is concerned. And the HR.

If my ego would need stroking, I point its needy nipples in that direction.

But haidhuru- One month down the line, I would be missing the lunches we had together.

Not anymore.

I have realized that not all that do hail your name really mean it. Some are mean- Wao hupimana shonde tu! I trust too easily more the reason i used to ooze emails to the group on this progress, as well as checking on ‘our little family’.

Now, ef it, as really, really, nobody cares- or they’re too busy sizing your progress, weighing your strengths, in readiness for the last laugh when it all comes tumbling down.

Or i’m just paranoid.

Happy one Month: Hope the remaining two will be total bliss.

I hope today the breaking, run-ins will cease for a minute.

A good night sleep would sure fit me.

This is the week-after-the-end-month and life for many suburban tenants do change.

Sometimes, drastically- to their  supper menu.

Ask me.

Last night, I was woken by the sound of metal meeting metal, huffs and puffs coupled by the air of determination of the subject causing the chaos.

At first, I thought thugs had grown too bold as to raise such alarm. But a sneak-ed pre-view outside calmed me down.

I secretly watched the 1129H frustration on which a [poor] padlock was on the receiving end.

Not exactly poor:

but why the hell would they think i’ll sleep out in the cold because of unpaid rent?

Si i’ve been renting here since last year but one?

I could only imagine the thoughts of the sweaty jamaa muscles cramping in the dark, as the verandah bulb slightly showed his ‘silali nje leo, wallahi-face.

I understood: Hussler hushiba kabla hajalipa keja!

Courage the cowardly dawgs

I had not returned to insomnia-space for more than twenty minutes when another unwelcome disruption came calling. (I know, I should ignore it, but i can never be ignorant of what goes around me)

It sounded like a serious fight, which I am now used to, but this one sounded like the next declaration would be:

This is Spartaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Msee, I love those- and like that, I sprung from bed to the balcony to watch the spartans.

Wapi!

Some three drunk Kuyus daring to rip each other kidneys.

It got messier when one of them stepped back, belligerent, and began throwing haphazard kicks on his mate when he missed, lost balance and crushed on his head.

Dust arose as his body fell in a heap and the rest went on to rain kicks on him when approaching boots pierced the chaotic scene

Left right: Uuuuuuuuuui; ma-gova!

I had never seen some one re gain form so quickly, while drunk…

But one scared duckling was crippled by the swinging G3s and the flash light and before he could get his spring and catch up with his mates- ile sweep msee alipata wa wa wa…

From the karaos’ fierce interrogation, orders slaps and all ( they were two cops, as their mates run after the rest of the drunk street fighters who had made away) i expected bullets to seep through the unfortunate mates’ bones…

But he drunkenly chucked his wallet and a few notes showed, subsequently softening the FIERCE cop’s hearts ….

OOOOOOOOnly for them to regain their ‘rage’ once they discovered it only a Sok!

Hell has less fury….

After a weekend away, I rolled back to the hood, spirits high, partially glad that this chilly July nurses my birth day.

On a random note, what’s your worst fear?

The only person I fear most is Mom!

Why?

Simple: yaani alini-drop hii dunia ivo ivo pah!

And see, here I am.

Anyway, though i thought it crappy to burry grand ma on the day I was lay-ed, twenty-twenty years ago, the day finished off with some seriously fun session @Kwani? Open Mic. Here, save for a Nameless sourcing for a lighter I got to put several faces to some tweeps: @buggs87 (meeting him for the second time confirms that he is not only delicately nuts, but he does threaten to throw spanners ’stead of wood) @mkaigwa (impressive tweep) and the ever gushing @loco

I was in the company of some tam-tam girl who had me enthralled all the while.

I thank God for helping my punctuating this twenty-second be-day.

I want to see many others  (sounds cliche?) one, with everything that makes me.

In case I never said it: I love you family, friends, the hood and the internet.

Ya keep me ticking.

cc:standardmedia.co.ke

Yesterday, news hit the grapevine on the demise of Benga Queen, Queen Jane. Entertainment journalists have dedicated enough heck-stare of words on her departure from the throne. I will consider her music and how I interacted with it at an early age- having grown up in  kati kati province, where her queendom rested.

Then, my parents had not hearkened to the voice of the Lord (mwathani) and were ardent fans of the disco. Nyimbo cia Daci (-secular music)  especially those with local dialect were quite popular with resonated with the populace. Even  Wagithomo/Wakiugo -saved people lent an ear to them and this could have been mainly because of their message which cut across the spectrum.

Thus the cassettes- swapping culture and ensuing  feuds that arose in homesteads after someone lost/thieved a coveted tape.

Well, Queen Jane, and her message came across clear and unapologetic.

Her disdain for sugar daddies has variously reminded me that the buggers weren’t  invented by [haughty] campus girls chasing the ‘good life’.

Nidarega kuhikira, guka nidarega (I refuse to marry my grand pa for his money) was one such track.

Every Saturday, I tagged along mwendwa wa muthee (mum) as she headed to the  market place (for groceries and gossip I guess) . I’d  break away and explore video dens, tyre centers, kamare (gambling) dungeons and other marvels that quenched my mischievous innocence.

It was a particularly chaotic day, with scores of buyers and sellers - and at times, raucous mob justices as hapless purse snatchers pleaded with followers of Lynch.( The thievers- how would they fish a village woman’s purse from her , er, bra wallet?)

Above the haggling , the disappointed man hawking women’s underwear, the  hot potato samosas that so sinned with my taste glands, Queen Jane’s high pitched voice sought my ears. From her music, i would really wonder what was wrong with men.

Or what they did to her.

Mundurume angihenio uguo ni mundu wa nja angiigua atia…ningi mundurume akihenia mundu wa nja uguo aiguaga atia -Arume ni Nyamu   (Men are Animals)

Lies, pride and all the shenanigans that [some] me rule their world with- if women played the same game, how would men feel?

(i now understand O_o )

Still, I hummed the “tiga kwiyaaamba ota ifuri, gutari mbura”   (Why do you swell in pride, puffing upyour ego like an open umbrella, whereas it’s all sunny?)

The thought of an open umbrella, out in the sun tickled my imagination, as i asked the cigarette-smoking barber to leave a turf of hair on my head (so i would be the mna-est of them all).

Or the said rich man, Q. Jane crooned about. Minus the vices, of course.

Unfortunately, he had been coerced too many times only for the culprits to return and have their head resemble an upturned pot.

Coupling her songs with some JB Maina’s cassettes, man, my kidulthood ‘rocked’ with adult-rated content.

I particularly liked this rustic line (by JB Maina):

kifiriti ni kiu, mundia tawa we-inuke! (there’s the match box, light the tin lamp and vamoose!)

May her soul rest with peace.

Her compelling voice, thanks to technology, will haunt us on.