Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Wsup kiddo, no, don't fret it's me. I mean you. Yes, it is you from the future. Confusing right? Sorry. It is 2010 and I know you are somewhere studying hard for your KCPE exams. I know mom keeps talking about education being the true inheritance she can give you and although it doesn't make sense, she's right.
I am all grown up and boy am I having fun. I know you received a good beating from mum today just like yesterday and I can bet tomorrow too. You are one energetic kid Phil and she has to ensure that you grow up to be a respectable man in society. I'm happy to say she accomplished that task and she is happy with what I turned out to be. Your baby sister no longer sucks her thumb and your big sister actually loves you despite hitting you on a daily basis.
They all love you and you will grow closer and stronger together. Respect women, they run the world for sure. All that talk about men being the stronger sex is a big fat lie. Women run the 21st Century. All men do is pretend to protect them.
For someone who got his first suspension in nursery school and threatened to drop out of school at standard one if she didn't move you from Michinda Boys where you were to join boarding school in class four, let me say I am proud you will not grow up to a be rabble-rouser.
Next year in form one, you will be suspended not for something you did, but because of that big mouth you were so blessed with. But don't try to tame that mouth, it will come in handy later. Trust me.
You will meet a fellow called Wachira in High School and he will make your life hell. If you can stay away from him, the better. Students from Kieni Girls will confuse the puberty and adolescent in you. They are pretty girls and very sharp too and you will find yourself "pushing" with some although you will never see them again after high school.
All that talk about you marrying them after school is a lie; she's married and has two kids. I saw her yesterday and she's expecting her third child! Ok, enough with girls. You will not like Maths at any one point in your life. This is pretty much where you and maths part ways but don't worry, you will not be a engineer or anything like that. Phew!
High school will be fun, you will meet some fellows called Mungai, Jackson Kamau and Wallace. You will start rapping and fool yourselves that you can be the next big thing after Kalamashaka. Let me be frank, you won't. Even Mizizi won't feature you but you will be entertaining other students during Drama and Music festivals where you will be mini celebrities and the girls will love you. Not bad, right?
College will be fun, study hard and make mummy proud. She will buy you tons of those shiny things they put on your neck at graduation and force you to wear them in all the pictures. Don't fret, they will provide moments of laughter later on.
Enjoy being a kid, having no worries in life knowing that whatever you want will be provided for. You are a responsible guy with a bright future, don't waste it.
From your future,
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
We know it’s a global event and it is therefore expected to adhere to international standards but it is our world cup right?
We have used the vuvuzela to make the global event even African, meaning nothing can stop us from applying African nuances to it. Time, for instance. I don’t understand this funny business of matches starting on scheduled time.
Why do you think they say “African time” when referring to people who are late? This is something we have perfected over the years. Why should we lose it just because England, Italy and America are here? They are our guests, they have to play by our rules.
I want a scenario where the referee arrives at a match 30 minutes late, saunters to the centre of the field, looks at his watch and says: “Boss, hiyo traffic leo ni mwenda. Mmepitia wapi nyinyi?” (That traffic is crazy, how did you guys manage?”) He should do this knowing very well that the roads have been closed for the benefit of teams and officials . Just as he is about to start the match, he gets word that one of the goalkeepers is late.
Everybody is on their phones trying to reach him but he is “mteja”. The keeper shuffles in after one hour looking amazed at what time it is. The ref is now so pissed you would think he slept at the stadium. “I didn’t expect the kick off so early?” he protests.
If the game is supposed to start at 4pm, it starts at 6pm or is altogether cancelled until the next day. You can imagine England and their timekeeping culture getting to the stadium at 2pm, two hours before kickoff only to find an empty stadium.
Worse, even the stadium keeper, the guy with the keys is not around. So they try raising the African World Cup officials and their phones are off. Whenever they ask passersby what happened to the match, they are met with: “What match? Ohh, that one, if it has not started by now, maybe tomorrow.” Rooney and Co cannot believe it but it looks like they are the only one who did not get the memo.
During the match, preferably just before a penalty is taken, it is very ok for a boy to cut across the field, phone in hand yelling “Daddy, it's mum, where did you keep the bedroom keys?” The embarrassed ref, excuses himself and takes the phone and can be heard saying: “Under that Safaricom rug .” After an eternity, he returns and the game continues.
Since when did Africans play football in a “carpeted” area? This green I am seeing is not African. If we wanted an African team to advance, we would have let the grass grow with cows grazing on either side of the pitch.
What is a referee doing with a whistle? Give the damn guy a vuvuzela, secure it on his back like a rifle and let him run around with it. You can imagine when he is blowing to signal a penalty.
He stops, retracts his vuvuzela and blows it as much as possible, gesturing wildly. I doubt the players who are complaining they can’t hear the whistles will have no problem with the vuvuzela.
In a perfect world, that is how a truly African World Cup should have been. But then again, if horses were wishes, they would trample on the dreamers.
Monday, June 7, 2010
I have heard people accuse me of bringing the industry down with my constant advise and observations. People like Nameless are always complaining to my colleagues and fellow artistes that this column is the reason the industry is down.
Well, I would like to offer my sincere apologies. Apologies because this column is the reason artistes go into the studio, spend lots of time and money only to finally come out with a sound that can only be appreciated by cats.
My sincere apologies to all actors, producers and writers of shows like ‘Nairobi Law,’ which has no flow, probably the second worst acting ever exhibited on Kenyan TV after ‘Cobra Squad.’ I am sorry that this column has picked up those things that everybody else seems to be thinking but are afraid to voice.
Please accept my sincere apologies for being the reason a very promising (allegedly) comedian like Omosh is off air. I solely accept that this column was the reason he was unfunny, uncreative, boring and nobody watched the show. You may not know this but this column is to blame that this boy’s hair wasn’t combed as well.
I hope you will find it in you to forgive me, the writer of the column, that I am hard to please and I demand the best from an industry with people whose sense of high quality is as sharp as that of a sheep.
I feel really bad that much of radio has gone to the dogs. I feel the column is to blame that radio presenters no longer have any meaningful content to share with the listeners. That all they do is give us a couple of boring sex or relationship stories then ask us to call is completely on me.
My dear readers, this column accepts the stories by Kenyan artistes that I influence you on everything I write. I am sorry dear artistes that you expect your fans to swallow everything you spew because they should be supporting everything Kenyan, no matter how stupid it is.
So allow me to finally say that Kenyan artistes are the best in the world. They are perfect, full of talent and if I ever said they had done something wrong like producing some useless track, I was wrong.
So here’s to the artistes who want to be the best in the world but don’t you dare compare them to the best. That is how best they are!
NB: This article ran on the SN BUZZ Magazine's HEAT column on Sunday 06/06/2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Going to an AFC Leopards and Gor Mahia duel requires a lot of spine. The fans were known to be the leading cause of stone-related injuries in the country and, even though statistics show the trend is slowly taking a dip, you never know when they may decide to rekindle those memories.
If you ask me, Gor Mahia and AFC Leopards were formed during a fight between the Luhyas and Luos and in between they decided to engage in a soccer match. Remember how the Spartans in "300" fought in the shade of arrows? I think that's how these two teams played back in the day when soccer was played by real men.
Anyway, I decided to throw caution to the wind last week and headed for the Nyayo National Stadium for a thriller between the arch-enemies. In the company of a die-hard Gor fan and registered AFC member, I felt safe — and figured I could claim allegiance to whichever side that showed promise in winning the stone fest.
The atmosphere was as I expected: electric. How these fans group themselves in the stadium remains a mystery to me. You’ll never find them mixed, ever.
So I found myself a space in the ‘VIP’ section of the arena, the part of the establishment where the ‘neutral’ masses follow the proceedings in their sparkling dark suits and sparkling mineral water at the ready.
Don’t, however, let the suits fool you. They guys can — and will — descend upon you should you be foolish enough to try some nonsense ... like blocking the guy behind you. You only get a warning that lasts a staggering three seconds before you are grabbed from behind and ordered by a hundred guys to put your bum down.
“Ketisha mwili chini buana! Ukitaka kusimama nenda huko!” comes the chorus of barking, angry mouths. Question, where is “Huko”? That’s their preferred dismissal word. You start coughing, “Enda kohoa huko” somebody lets a stinker rip, “Enda nyambia huko” You can’t win against these fellows.
Not even the coaches of either sides dare ignore their demands. These people run the show, including calling for substitutes and ending the match (sometimes in a hail of stones).
If you think rugby has the best cheering squads ever, you have never been to a Gor vs Leopards clash. Man, if you are a hamstrung player in the field, you pray that you don’t lose the match, otherwise you will be eaten alive.
And, speaking of losing, this is the biggest test for the fans. I don’t have a choice team in the Kenya Premier League although I was forcefully given a team, Thika United, after one of my pals announced I didn't support any of the two. Soon, words like “Nyinyi watu wa mananasi mutaenda huko” were being dished out.
I decided to cheer both teams ... but forgot my neutrality when AFC scored. Engulfed in the spirit of the moment, I stood up and clapped long enough for AFC fans to see I was with them, but short enough for the Gor diehards not to notice.
I was still smarting from my momentary lapse of judgment when the stadium started to echo with a supremacy battle between the Luos and Luhyas.
“Obama! Odinga! Oliech!” shouted the Luos, to whom the Luhyas replied: “Musalia! Marende! Mariga!”
Call it whatever call it you may, but this maniac loyalty to one’s tribe is the best display of positive ethnicity I have encountered in recent times.
Most people where I was started finding their way out five minutes before the end to avoid the flying stones trilogy.
There was no sense of order, it was a free environment and I loved every bit of it. That is why, me and the "Mananasi express" (Thika United) will be at the stadium when these two bulls meet again.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Being a celebrity looks like lots of fun to us ordinary folk. Know what's not fun? Hanging out with them.
For some strange reason, people zone out in front of celebrities. I mean really zone out. You might as well be their well-endowed naked brother; the fans will not notice you even if you were swinging youryou know what like a noose. (No wait, they will notice that)
I say this because I have been in this situation several times.In case you are wondering, I don't hang around celebrities; it’s the nature of my job, that's all you need to know.
The few times I have been in their "hallowed" presence, my self esteem has taken a beating. Not because of the people I am around but because I look like every other hanger-on and groupie whose space I have taken up, albeit momentarily.
Posers have a wretched past. MC Hammer had a posse of around 45 hungry illiterate men and they are the ones who managed to "touch this" and sent the guy and his parachute trousers tumbling down to the land of bankruptcy. I do not want to be associated with that kind of history.
I feel like there is some parent thinking to themselves: "What a waste. Is that all he could do with himself? What does his mother say his son does?" I should warn you I have a very proud mother—proud of how she raised her children, and when I am around a celebrity, I feel like I am dishonouring her.
Hanging with celebs means you run the risk of being the guy picking his nose at the back when their picture hits the press. If you are on the picture, the caption reads; "Celebrity blah, blah poses with an unknown admirer...." You cannot win I tell you.
I need to make one thing clear. I am not dismissing celebrities. Some are brilliant people with great minds and attitudes, and we spend time together on a regular basis. There’s a big difference between hanging out with and spending time with. Got it? No? Too bad; maybe it’s just an excuse.
The bouncer tag was attached sometime back, I was with a what we call in entertainment circles, a “celebrity couple”. We were walking into a club when, out of nowhere, some girl screamed as she staggered, okay, let's say she ran, towards the celebrity duo.
I never knew drunken people had such speed and balance; her screaming would be grounds for divorce if I were the boyfriend. But did she care? I have seen rioters with more decorum than she had.
After all the running and screaming, she gets to the couple and guess what she says? "Oh my God, I am speechless," Really? After all the screaming? She could have fooled me.
The couple are basking in the midnight fan love and adoration and are all smiles. I am at the back looking on with my hands in my pockets totally disappointing my dear mother who still wonders what it is I do when I’m awake at midnight.
She still demands answers whenever she calls me and I tell her I am "out". "What are you doing out at this hour? Do you have a sweater?" The love of a mother!
Back to our groupie. After what seemed like years, she finally asked: "Can I hug you?" (Not me, the stars) It’s a yes, and she squeezes the two like they are cute puppies. Then decided she needed an autograph, and that is where drama began.She had some paper but no pen.
She fumbled through her "Guchi" handbag (I kid you not, looks like the House of Gucci is expanding fast and catering to the local market), but there was no pen.
Then it happened. It was a light bulb moment for her. She looked up, froze for a second then stared me in the eye, and like a scene from a karaoke gig, I could read what she was about to say before she said it.
She turned to me and ordered: "Bouncer, bouncer, give me a pen!"
I saw it coming, but once it left her mouth, it still surprised me. She grabbed me and looked at me like I was the dog that ate the homework. Her grip was tight and with purpose; she wanted an autograph and not even the lack of a pen could deny her.
I just walked away wondering what it was that made her not see I was just a friend of the stars and not a bouncer. With all due respect to bouncers, I am not built in that way, I have a "soft" stare, and my voice is friendly.
Oh well, the joys of hanging around stars.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
You need to watch one of those American shows where they do cosmetic surgery and you realise these people really do have money.
One such surgery is liposuction. In liposuction, a vacuum-like structure is inserted beneath the skin then sucks up all the fat leaving you with a lean stomach albeit with an ugly sagging skin.
Then there is tummy tuck and other surgeries that rich people decide to splash their money on. But there is one cosmetic surgery, a facelift, I realised we can do in Kenya for as little as Sh1,000 at Kenyatta Market. A facelift.
Two weeks ago I met a girl and she had one of those “Chinese eyes” and they looked like they had been transferred to the forehead. It was as if she had to tilt her head backwards to see properly because they were almost at the spot where the hairline starts.
I remembered my own sisters used to come home looking like her. The girl's skin was tight, real tight, and that's when I remembered, Dr 90210 on the E Channel had a “patient” who wanted her face skin to be tightened. I can bet she had to part with thousands of dollars for that operation and here was, let’s call her Vicky because, well, that’s her real name, who had the same operation for Sh1,200.
Come on, isn’t this a talent we can export to the US? We can land in Kenyatta market, round up a few of the stylists and voila, Kenya will be mentioned in the fashion circles and not just the usual athletics.
Anyone see my business sense? All these women walking in town with extremely tight facial skin did not have needles stuck on their beautiful faces to numb their pain, they did not have to undergo anaesthesia and their skin mutilated. All they did was hop into a Ngumo Estate bound “Hoppa”, and drop off at Kenyatta Market where someone pounces on their hair and starts plaiting as they haggle over the price.
If you are in a hurry (FYI, all this info came from my sisters) whoever finally “won” your head calls for backup, you are forced to sit on the cold floor as they hoist their dress revealing everything, (thank God there are no men around unless they are gay) and start plaiting.
I am told the facelift-cum-plaiting takes two hours and you have to blink severally to confirm that your eyes are working and can see from their new position at the forehead. You pay and voila, a job that would have taken a surgeon in Beverly Hills five hours to do and a month to heal takes two hours and you can even run after a City Hoppa! The only problem I am told is that you can’t touch the hair for two days!
This is one project I am willing to undertake and ya’ll can laugh but when I am sitting on the Oprah couch talking about my “ingenious bloodless facelift procedure” and the crowd will be full of “Awww that's so sweet” and some even crying, you will take me seriously! I will even add the “It's a procedure that’s very environmentally friendly and does not contribute to global warming” just to have Oprah hug me!
So all you Westerners looking for facelifts, look no further. Africa has the solution, you can save your money what with the recession and maybe you can use it to adopt another child since African kids are accessories!
So Kenyatta market, I salute all the women who do bloodless cosmetic surgery everyday. Keep it up. Up yours Dr 90210!
Monday, March 22, 2010
Now that pigs have since flown thanks to "Swine Flu,"
Would I still have to wait until Pigs fly
Going by the rate of obesity in the world,
Would I still have to wait until the fat lady sings
With Iran and North Korea building nukes,
Would I stand a chance with you if I was really the last man on earth,
I know its your life,
But would I attract yours even if my life really depended on it
Global warming is melting the arctics,
Do I still stand a snow balls chance in hell
Still on the change of climates,
Do I still have to wait until it snows in summer
And what are the chances that Hell will freeze over
Vegetarians are on the rise,
Do I still have to wait until the cows come home
You told me to go to hell, and your still here,
Does that mean you followed me
I told you to get lost,
But I came looking for you
You said we are like two peas in a pod,
More like two beans in a pot, boiling
They say like poles repel,
We are more like two poles rebel
Thursday, March 18, 2010
I am that breath
that just won't go through your nostrils
I am that last sight
before blindness creeps in
I am that lover
who introduced you to hate
I am that piece of vegetable
that sticks in your teeth
I am that breeze
that turns into a chill
I am that extra air through your windpipe
that gets you to choke
I am that extra fat
that clogs your arteries
I am that extra line
that destroys a compliment
I am that dream
that you let turn into a regret
I am that "one last beer"
that causes you to crash
I am that "one last dip"
that brings you AIDS
I am that poop
that stinks up the whole house
I am that drop of rain
when you walking out of the salon
I am that gush of wind
that send your sunny dress flying
I am that step you miss going down
I am that fly
that won't close in public
I am that technical hitch
during a live broadcast
I am that writers block
when you are filing a story
I am that loose button
that pops when you sneeze
Yes, I am a dream away from being your nightmare
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The resulting facial expression depends on three things; If he was forced to marry after the two month old girlfriend got pregnant and didn't even know where she came from, if he married for love only or if both mom and dad had hit the dreaded 30's and needed to sire ASAP.
The kind of expression is that of nostalgia, reminiscing about the days he was a "free man" and how much fun he had until he checked into lock down. Being the era of Facebook and Twitter, I can bet my salary majority of the marriages will have been made possible by the two social media networks.
The year was 2010, he starts, there was this thing called Facebook. (The kid looks at him wondering with amazement because FB will be so "yesterday" at that time and chuckles)
As I was saying, it was 2010 and I was on Facebook going through my friends pictures and I saw this girl holding a bottle of Smirnoff Ice Black screaming so loudly, I could see her thorax, she was really pretty so I tagged myself to that picture.
I figured out who she was and I clicked on her link and sent her a "friend request" with a simple message, "Hi, I think you are pretty".
She did not accept my request immediately, infact she waited for six months before she agreed. (At this point, the mother walks in and explains the delay)
He had this shady profile picture and we only had two friends in common and I didn't know the other two. I went to his pictures and saw he had tagged himself in one of the pictures and I thought he was a stalker like many men back then so I waited until we had several friends in common who I asked about him.
Immediately I accepted his request, he wrote on my wall "Thanks for the add". Surely, how blonde can someone be, we used to have something called "Inbox" which was private. But that was not the worst thing, he had subscribed to some "Gift" applications that kept throwing pillows, snowball cats, chocolates and flowers at me!
(He looks embarrassed but takes over the story) I kept poking her but she never poked me back or even send one of those virtual gifts I kept sending her way.
(Mother) Worst thing was he was always the first person to comment on my status updates every single time. I would write "Bored" and he would be there two seconds later, "What's wrong hun?"
I even put a dot on the status, he would still comment and even "like" it. I thought he was psycho! He was all over my wall and pictures he practically owned my FB account.
(Father) I was a consistent man and I knew if I kept entertaining her, she would respond and she did.
We set up a date and went to Java where she came with three of her friends. They asked for the most expensive stuff there that I only took a pot of tea which was cheaper.
We then started hanging out and then one day she was pregnant and guess who was the daddy?
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
This is a public service announcement. Ladies, stop doing the “Gully Creeper” in town!
Wondering what that is? Glad you asked. By now I am sure you have a clue what “Gully Creeper” is, if you don’t, don’t sweat it, you are in good hands.
“Gully Creeper” is a ragga dancing style where the dancer strikes a pose like they are creeping. It was popularized by none other than Usain Bolt.
So what do women have to do with a style associated with Usain Bolt? Again, I’m glad you asked.
There is this craze about extra high heels with women. Some look gorgeous while others are a complete disaster. The latter are the ones who do the Gully Creeper.
Ever seen a woman walk like she is stepping on nails, has this constipated look on her face and her walking style is, well, gully creeping?
Just look at what she is wearing and you will find your answer. Women have this thing about following fashion that’s straight out of Cosmopolitan magazine.
I once saw a woman on the phone – must have been her boyfriend on the other side and he was asking that they meet at one of Nairobi’s most popular meeting places. No, not Tea Room, 20th Century building.
She was totally pissed. She was screaming on the phone asking the boy to come to where she was -- Kimathi Street.
I am not one to eavesdrop but I understood why she was angry. Her heels almost reached her knees. They were extra high like those worn by strippers. Don’t ask how I know that.
Her knees were awkwardly bent and, with every step she took, I could swear she hoped it would be her last but no, she had to keep moving and now the man in her life wanted her to walk an extra 400 metres. Such a mean guy!
To make matters worse, one of her heels got stuck in a crack in the pavement and she had to hop around, balancing herself on one long heel.
Women are a strong breed to put themselves through one long heel day after day. They even have some sandals in those “self-contained” handbags for such emergencies!
Scientists have forever warned of back problems later in life for women who balance themselves on needles but to them, that’s a small price to pay for looking like Beyonce, right?
OK, here’s a pointer. Don’t copy Beyonce, she is chauffeur-driven everywhere she goes and doesn’t walk the length of the Globe Cinema Roundabout to Afya Centre every day on those nine-inch heels like most of you!
But, for comedic purposes, continue wearing them. They make my day.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Some weeks ago, I came across an advert in the local dailies about an upcoming motivational talk by a “world renown” author and speaker. His name fails me.
The talk was to cover how to get to the top of the field and soar with the eagles in the financial world. Titled, “Are you an eagle or a duck?”, the workshop was meant to make eagles of ducks.
It sounded interesting and very motivating... until I got to the charges. A whole Sh65,000 for, wait for it, one day! At that point I figured that I might as well be a duck than an eagle. If I can afford Sh65,000 aren’t I an eagle already, or at least a swan? I mean, such an amount should at the very least buy me a plane ticket – so I will be soaring anyway.
Come to think of it, while being an eagle might look and sound exciting, ducks don’t get sucked into plane engines.
Here’s another thought: as a duck, why not save the Sh65,000, which I can then use to pay for a two-week holiday somewhere at the coast? And by the way, don’t eagles fly alone? So what would all those eagles be doing in the same place?
Motivational speakers are brilliant business people. Pay all that money only for some guy to tell you how you need to set aside some money and invest in a profitable cause. Excuse me, didn’t I just part with my capital money to attend this workshop? So much for being an eagle!
Part with Sh65,000 and all you get to do is fill out a questionnaire to determine if you are a happy with your life or if you have what it takes to become rich.
I have never attended such high profile ‘eagle meetings’ but I do know there is nothing about attending one that will really change my life – apart from being Sh65,000 poorer.
Want to know the secret of being a millionaire? Simple, don’t spend your Sh65,000 a day on a workshop that will tell you everything you probably already know. For Sh65,000 I better come out of that workshop with a multi-year government tender or, at the very least, something to attach to my CV that will get me a job as an expatriate.
Who really is the duck in this case? Is it me who decides that I have better use for my money or the bloke who spends such a hefty amount to listen to some other dude talk about how he got to the top?
On top of all that, I still have to buy his damn book! Am I the only one who doesn’t see this for what it is – a brilliant business opportunity for the motivational speaker?
Heck, I need to become a motivational speaker and travel the world reciting my life story to some multi-millionaires who want to know the secret to making your first million.
Like I said, eagles may soar but ducks don’t get sucked into jet engines! I am an eagle, but I fly economy.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
If you have been following the international news, you would think Toyota has just started WWIII after recalling millions of cars because of a sticky gas pedal problem.
The car making giant has even stopped selling eight models in the United States and Canada, including its popular Camry and Corolla, because of possible unintended acceleration.
This story is likely to make Toyota drop the "ota" in their name and start making toys!
The media is furious and is constantly updating the story, how Toyota's stocks have plummeted ever since that story hit the headlines early this week. There seems to be chaos and confusion. Apart from this part of the world.
In Kenya, that story has not even graced the news pages and is tucked away somewhere in the international news columns. But there is a reason for this, Kenyans and most of Africa don't buy their cars from the show rooms.
The few who do are yet to save enough to buy the 2009 model, which is most affected by the pedal problem. If anything Toyota Kenya has since issued a statement that no recalls will be done in Kenya. I wonder why?
The rest of the population rely on imports from Japan and the "newest" model you will get is probably the 2003 one because of the seven-year-and-below rule on importing a car to Kenya.
So going by that projection, we will experience the gas pedal problem in 2017! By then, the rest of the world will be grappling with another problem, the "personal eye reader" which is used to start the car might be causing blindness.
And I doubt people would even blame Toyota, they would imagine it's only their car that has the problem and proceed to the "mechanic capital of Kenya" on River Road and have it fixed by a "Kinuthia or Moha" and that story wouldn't even make it to the media.
The other problem would be a typical Kenyan having to return their car and remain "carless". That never happens to my fellow citizens. "Why can't I just take it to the mech and have it fixed on a Saturday afternoon while I am at the pub?" Many would ask.
Can you imagine a recall of the Vitz? Do they have gas pedals or do you just pedal away like a bicycle?
Think people are worried about the Toyota recall? Nope. Even if it happened in Kenya, only ten people would be affected. Now if that recall were to happen to the recently purchased government VW Passats, then we would have a problem although the procurement dudes in government would get paid to let the problem "go away".
But if a story would surface about a problem with the 2003 models, Lord help us, Toyota would have the gas pedal stuck on the floor hurtling towards doomsday!
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Kenyans are a peculiar lot like one Michael Joseph once claimed and was almost ran out of town.
But there are signs to show that this is indeed true. Take what Kenyans do while on vacation.
Kenyans spend half of their working time dreaming about going on vacation and resting. When they finally get to Mombasa, Naivasha, Nanyuki or Nakuru, they will do everything else but rest.
They will hang out every single waking moment, dance themselves lame, shout themselves horse, drink themselves silly and stare their eyes blind.
Ask any soul that was in Mombasa over the Christmas and New Year how many hours they slept. Want to bet that in the ten days, there are guys who slept a combined 10 hours?
Club Lambada and Bobs were the main reason for this self induced insomnia. Guys would rave for 12 hours straight. From midnight to midday, leave the club, catch some forty winks for two hours or less and hit the beach with their poison of choice.
The drinking would start at 3PM until 9PM before it the session would be transferred to Bobs.
You see, Bobs is not that great a club, the music is boring, security guys feel sweet but people love it because that is where Nairobians meet.
It beats all sense why you would escape the concrete and traffic jam laden jungle that is the Capital city only to go and meet everybody you always see back home. But hey, we are Kenyans right? You wouldn't understand.
The ladies who feel sweet for guys in Nairobi are extremely friendly when they are out of town. So if there is a girl you have been following in vain, just know when she’s headed to Mombasa and you will be in luck.
So after all the rave, it is time to go home and what do Nairobians do, they intoxicate themselves further with the slim hope they will sleep on their way back.
That never happens, they keep slipping in and out of slumber to make sure the levels of their intoxication is constantly rising. They get to Mtito Andei and they refill further.
You would think after a week or two in Mombasa, one would be ready to get to work. No, not Kenyans, they will need a day or two so as they can get the rest they were to take in the first place.
Now, check, the itinerary of a foreigner, they check into the hotel, sleep and then the rest of the days will be spent at the beach getting a tan, snorkeling or kite surfing.
Save for those who come for the sex tourism, the rest get as much rest as possible that when they go back home, they can work for a year straight.
But that’s boring to a Kenyan. Don’t expect me to sleep on vacation.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
There are somethings that I, or any of my fellow citizens would do that only we understand. You see, "We are Kenyan, You wouldn't understand."
Every holiday season, we all made the exodus from the concrete jungle to the the lush green jungle that is "shagz" (upcountry). We still do batter trade here, We take maize and wheat flour, the XXL loaf of bread, Kasuku (thats the name for all cooking fats) and some other fancy items and they in return slaughter a goat, buy the soda and provide accommodation. You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
We are shocked whenever we hear a full grown American or Brit saying they didn't make it in life because their dad missed their recitals, soccer games or graduation. You see, for us, the only time we wished to see our parents was on visiting days, for those of us who were in boarding schools or when she just dropped by and brought goodies. If you got news that any of your relatives was around, it was probably bad news or something that resulted in an ass whopping. You see we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
Sometime back, Oprah Winfrey had a guest on her popular show talking about how to discipline children. Really? Apparently, this genius of a person, recommended was not the good old spanking, no she advised parents; "You look your child in the eye and with a very stern voice tell them to stop," Now if that had happened in my house while I was growing up, I would have written a best seller by now. You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
Still on spanking, what in God's name is a timeout? The only kind of timeout Kenyan children know is when your parent is taking a "time out" to catch a breather and continue with the ass whopping either with a belt, slipper or anything they can grab. Most of the time, the fight stopped when the neighbours intervened. You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
You must feel for Tiger Woods, just because he had 14 mistresses, he is the scum of the earth? If he were Kenyan, or African, he would be a hero. This story would not even have made headlines, if anything, he would be on a public rally somewhere launching his political career! Just 11 mistresses? There are politicians who have been accused of raping and they didn't even step in a police station. You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
You see, when it comes to ladies, we have the most beautiful girls in the continent. They are gracious but they do have their own lingo. Let's call it "Swanglish" (Swahili and English) and it goes like this; "Jana I kwendad nyumbani and I kutanad with your brathe usiku. I was nyeshewad mbaya sanaa!" Or it can also go something like this; "Si I ambiad you to wacha chekeleaing me?" You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
When it comes to our parents, we have never heard our folks talking about how they have money. Never! Its always "I am as broke as a church mouse" then they go and come back with a new car, buy land. Even when we grow up, they still never have money! You see, we are Kenyan, you wouldn't understand.
We never understand why some of our own would wish to travel to the US and get a job bathing old people in homes while your very grandmother who is older than them is still strong enough to go and till her own land. You see, we are Kenyan, we also don't understand.
Whenever tourists come to Kenya, they always struggle to address us in Swahili only to find that some of us have more complicated accents than them and they have never stepped the inside of a plane. You see, we are Kenyan, we also don't understand!
When you have a birthday and you wish someone "A Happy birthday," you will most likely get this response; "You too". You see, we are Kenyan, we also don't understand!