R n B (Rude and Boring)

I grew up on ballads. No. Don’t wince. There are guys out there like me. We live in the shadows and speak in whispers. You can identify us mouthing words every once in a while and then looking off into the distance as if remembering some deep-seated memory. But if you confront us about it then we will vehemently deny it. (Should have thought about that before I posted this on the internet. I’ll still deny.) 

We shunned the tough-talking, crotch-grabbing hip-hop trends of the nineties and even resisted the ‘I’m so deep but wanna cut myself’ teenage angst of the same period’s time scene. We whispered the lyrics from love songs to unwitting girls and they swooned at the deep words unaware that we had ‘borrowed’ them from Brian McKnight, Boys II Men and Backstreet. (Never Westlife by the way. There are lines we could never cross.)

HUNGRY FOR HUNGER

So get this. I'm becoming a celebrity and no I don't mean like that Hemedi guy from Tz. I mean a real celebrity. I have made the headlines of every single major newspaper and news show. (Yes even that Kiss TV news where they are sitting behind a child's desk.Or maybe it's Kids TV news and they just misspelt it?) Even Julie Gichuru is in on the fray. Aaaaah Julie....we'd make such sweet children.

I've led a pretty sedate life until now. My days were spent staring back at people while they tried to grab me. Sure, that wasn't too exciting but it's my life. Once in a while I would get really great days where I would watch mothers push their little kids on trolleys and the little things would just lose it. I keep hoping to see one of the parents stuff the children on the shelves and just walk away. Hehe. Sorry it tends to get boring. I need to entertain myself somehow. After all it's not easy being a bag of sugar.

FALLING FOR A 74 YEAR OLD

I fell in love today. Hook, line and sinker. It was pretty simple. The object of this affection was Robaim Mkoto and she is 74 years old. Before you start making those faces and cursing me for stuff you are dreaming up I will offer a scandal-free explanation. Work has a component called screening which requires us to meet possible candidates for our community sessions. Today this less than sprightly young lady walked in and sat down in front of me with the kindest smile I had ever seen. Her face, lined with wrinkles from both age and the elements, showed experience in things I could only imagine.

On this cold morning, we hunched over a questionnaire as we worked our way through the relevant information. She was a grandmother taking care of her late daughter’s children. This wasn’t mentioned as a fact but rather an emotional outpouring. Tears were blinked back as this woman confided in me like an old friend. After having raised her own children, she found herself raising her grandchildren in her twilight years. Work done, she rose up on her unsteady legs and thanked me for the time. At the door, she stopped and said she would pray for us both.

HOW I DIDN'T MEET YOUR MOTHER:RULE III

My early twenties were the very genesis of the technological crazy generation. On my way home from work, I was sitting in the bus next to Tony. We’d had a great day but the effects of trying to absorb the words of a shrubbing senile octogenarian had won us down. We kept smiling about he kept saying ‘Colorando’which is supposedly somewhere on the continental US. Check your maps.


Anyway in keeping with the tech craze, Tony had come up with a very fascinating version of IM which he dubbed Intense Messaging. It was really simple. He would scan the area for active Bluetooth devices and pick the ones with feminine sounding names. (Bosslady, honeypot, feline, magzphone). Then he’d send a provocative message which would force a reply. The game was actually very successful and I’d seen him bag very interesting catches in the past.


The element of surprise was so great that some women could barely control themselves. Which is not to imply that he never stumbled upon the occasional reply from a guy (leave my girl alone, you perv), a mother (shame on you) or a pastor (Repent!!!!). Anyway, I had seen him do this so often that I figured I would take a turn. It was time for the apprentice to take over.

THE FRUSTRATED SAMARITAN:A NAIROBI TALE

I wanted to write this while I was still seething with anger. While I was still hopped up on righteous indignation and the need to make someone feel accountable. But now all I feel is sadness. A deep, ridiculous sadness. But I am getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back to the beginning. 2.30 am and we are tearing down

Mbagathi Road after having had a long meeting. I’m sulking at having been kept up way past my bedtime and the only sound is the wind howling outside as I unleash my frustrations on the speedometer.

We turn the corner and he materializes out of the darkness. A ghoulish figure. Lonely. Staggering. Alarm bells sound as Nairobi instincts kick in. He raises his hand to stop the car ahead of us and the driver goes on. And then he comes into full view. Blood everywhere. His face bruised and battered. A single yelp of surprise comes up from us both. I take my foot off the accelerator for but a brief moment then the speedometer needle inches higher again. Mercy still has her hands clasped around her mouth. Horrified. Her mouth agape as if in a silent scream.