Insecurity and giant homosexual frogs.

I have this thing that I do every morning that very few people know about. I wake up at the crack of dawn (I’m lying, it’s not at the crack of dawn, it’s more of the thigh area of dawn, just below the crack.) I go for a walk and think about which is my greatest fear between giant homosexual frogs who are attracted to humans and true love?

Love is dangerous, it spreads over the mind unbeknownst to you, the mind, same place where all decisions are made. You find yourself choosing someone the first time, let’s say you have your phone in hand and them in your mind so you say, ‘Let me text them.’ or ‘Let me have a wank to their profile picture.’ Then you choose them again at another time, and they slowly encompass your entire being until you find you can’t live without them, then losing them becomes a very potent fright. Sad thing is, if you focus on your fear you will bring it into fruition. You will lose the person you love and your mind will become fractured, like broken glass. But how can you not focus on your fear? That’s like ignoring the sun. It’s quite the conundrum. But on the other hand giant homosexual frogs are quite terrifying.

I was walking towards my usual chill out spot where I often come to the conclusion that the giant frogs trump love when I found a friend of mine already seated there, on the makeshift wooden bench facing an unsowed farm.

I smiled at Evanso when I saw him, there was always this cheer he brought. Like a clown at a party, his nose was big too, just like a clown’s, so were his shoes. He had a smile that could temporarily make you forget your woes. If I was ravaged by several giant homosexual frogs and I came across Evanso, for a moment I will forget the amount of money I’d need for therapy when he smiled.

“Evanso.” I said with a smile while taking the seat beside him. “It’s a beautiful morning, aye?” Evanso didn’t answer. That’s when I noticed his usual smile wasn’t there, he looked at the ground like a gold miner would at a lump of shit, hoping it would turn to gold. “The frogs will take years before they are human sized, and even then it’ll be a while longer before they are sentient enough to have a sexual preference.” I said.

He turned to me, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asked.

And that’s the thing about that question. It sends me spiraling within myself. What exactly is wrong with me? If offered the chance to bang Beyoncé or Hilary Clinton, I have a feeling I’ll choose Hilary. There’s just something that’s wrong with me, it’s not even a matter of  their age, it’s just political intrigue, a certain fetish like lure to politics. Given a choice between Vera Sidika and Martha Karua, I’d choose Martha.

There is something wrong with me and I knew that if I thought about it long enough I’ll discover other things that are wrong with me so I turned the question back on Evanso. “What is wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?” There, sent him into his own spiral as he sought to do me.

Evanso sighed and turned his head back to the ground. “I’m insecure.” He said.

I did not expect that answer. I did not! I just always thought when such a question would be posed that its answer wouldn’t be so direct. I realized then that Evanso might be more than the clown he resembled, he may be something bigger. Like a philosopher or something. A philosophical clown!

“What’s making you insecure?” I asked. I was quite interested in hearing the reason. I hoped it wasn’t something relationship based. Insecurity is most of the time based on relationships, it’d be quite amazing if the insecurity didn’t stem from relationships —

“It’s my girlfriend.” Evans said and I deflated, like a balloon popped by a clown. “She texted me that she’s going drinking with some guy yesterday. Told her it was okay because I didn’t want to come off as clingy and controlling. Waited for her texts for majority of the night, she didn’t text. Tried calling this morning. She didn’t answer.” He sighed.

And there, my first fear coalesced before my eyes, pushing the giant homosexual frogs to the back. Seeing the bags beneath Evanso’s eyes, I understood a sleepless night when I saw one. And his hands were clenched into fists, as if pain had translated to rage and the only way it could be expelled is with the threat of violence. I was suddenly afraid he’d punch me if I said something wrong.

I don’t like being punched. The first time I was punched was by a girl called Cindy back in class three. She saw me holding hands with a girl called Sandy, walked over to me and hit me in the nose. I felt very proud of myself, I thought she had a crush on me. Turns out she had a crush on Sandy.

“Insecurity huh.” I said. It’s not something wrong to say that, just make sure there is no humor in your tone, that way you don’t get punched.

“You know what irks me, Kyalo?” Evanso asked. I wanted to say ‘Insecurity.’ but I realized such an obvious answer would touch on humor, so I kept silent. “What bothers me,” He went on. “Is the feeling. Like, every thought has been about her since yesterday, rage, denial, hope, love, fear then rage again, and all of them in the negative aspects. I tell myself, if she cheats on me, I’ll get angry and use said anger to leave her. Then I ponder on what it’d feel like to lose her, then I deny the fact that she might have cheated, that she might be asleep or something and her phone stolen. Then I find myself hoping that’s the case which brings back memories of the love we share and this brings fear of loss, which in turn becomes rage at her cheating and throwing away what we have. It’s like a circle.”

God, he was a Philosophical clown! I had to offer him advice, I felt like I had a duty to him somehow. But what exactly can I say about insecurity? It’s something I avoid thinking about. That’s why the whole giant homosexual frogs thing is quite scary for me, I don’t like therapy, I prefer to avoid facing traumatic thoughts than facing them. Something horrific in your life happens and you opt to confront it? What am I, Tarzan? Best to ignore it. Act like it never happened. You’re gonna die soon anyway, why waste time confronting terrifying thoughts? Use the time you have now to stop frog evolution. Focus on what matters.

But Evanso needed me damn it! He looked so lost, like a mangy mutt with three legs. God, I felt like petting him but I also feared fleas. As if touching him might send his trauma my way.

“Fuck.” I said.

Evanso turned to me. His pupils were really large, he looked like he would start crying at any moment. “Why did you curse?”

“Because I want to help you but it’ll cost me.” I said.

“How?”

“The same thing that is happening to you happened to me. I have been where you’re at.”

“Did she cheat?” Evanso asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“Fuck.”

“And no.”

“What?”

“I’ve been in several relationships. In some of them I’ve been insecure and the girls didn’t cheat. In others I was insecure and the girls cheated. And in others I was insecure and never found out whether the girl cheated or not.” I paused. Finally grasping the advantage of having been in plenty of relationships, it’s like a recurring lesson, training on a topic until you’ve perfected it, or believed you’ve perfected it. “And in the latter relationships before I took on the life of a celibacy, I was insecure but it was a weak sort of insecurity, something easily ignored like thoughts of having anal sex with giant frogs.”

“So you know how to end this… this… feeling?” Evanso wondered, his face full of hope, and then his brows scrunched up quizzically. “Wait, anal sex with giant frogs?”

“I know how to end this, I just dive into myself and try to figure out the exact moment insecurity became weak.” I said. “This will take a moment.” I closed my eyes and thought about love and the image of a woman came to mind, a woman who is everything and more. I eased from love into thoughts of fear of losing her to someone else and there, insecurity availed itself.

“Insecurity avails itself from comparison.” I said, I find it easy to speak while tackling my thoughts, speaking the thoughts aloud enables you to better ponder on the next thought. So mostly I speak to myself, which is not something I advice you to do in public. You’ll be one of the reasons weed isn’t legalized.

“You’re insecure because you compare yourself to the person you believe might take your place in her life. The reason you believe they might take your place in her life, is because you find yourself lacking in a compartment they might excell at. You might consider them more financially secure, or more attractive or taller or charming or any one of those things people consider in a valid mate.” I said.

“Huh.” Evanso pondered. “I think for me it’s financial. Couldn’t afford to be close to her last night, and another could.”

“Yeah. It’s mostly always financial. The ability to provide is considered to be quite a powerful motivator for ensnaring a heart.” I said. Felt a pang of pain as always with that hypothesis. That’s the thing about diving into your past to confront shit, like fucking Tarzan. Swinging on the vines of your neural network, hollering like a banshee on your way to confront your terrible thoughts. Sure you’ll heal yourself and shit but you’ll come out scathed, a thought that causes pain will hurt you again. It’s like placing your finger into a candle’s flame to see if it’ll burn.

“Fuck.” Evanso lamented.

“But,” I broke into a smile. “Financial stuff is only one aspect, one attribute, no matter how significant it is, it’s only one aspect of something that might ensnare a heart. And the reason your woman is with you, is because of a collection of attributes, things you excel at beyond other men.” I paused. “And other women.” I patted his head. “So you see, you’re insecure because of the one part you lack in, forgetting the other parts you excel at.”

“But what if she still cheats?” Evanso pressed. And that’s the ugly thing about insecurity, it fight backs. That’s why it’s a waste of time confronting it, every solution is met with adversity.

“Then it means the man she’s cheated on you with might be better for her, for he might be actually better than you in more than the financial aspect, better than you to an extreme degree.”

“Better… than… me?”

“It means she’ll be happier.” And I lowered my hand from his head and squinted at him. The hard squint, the kind you give your child when they poop on the sofa and use the curtain to wipe their bum and they hold it up to you with pride thinking you’d be proud of them for using a tissue, not knowing the difference between a tissue and a curtain. I gave Evanso that look that meant business.

“In this world you must be certain that there’s someone better than you out there. A better writer, painter, architect, Data analyst, Porn star, Drug addict, Prostitute. Someone who is a better match for your woman than yourself. That’s the hard part about relationships, always trying to prove that the version of yourself that you are is the best someone deserves, hoping the whole time no one offers better. If you truly love her, you’ll take consolation that she’s found better, then you move on and do what everyone does to get over someone.”

“Which is?”

“Get on top of someone else.”Evanso tilted his head back and laughed, and there, amidst the turmoil that had assailed him for the better part of twelve hours, a brief glimpse of sunshine availed itself. That clown smile of his spread over his face after his laugh came to a wheezy end. And I felt certain that seeing the smile when the frogs evolve into giant amphibian homosexuals with human preference, it would be quite a big refuge for me.

Brutal Honesty.

I know that if you don’t have money your next alternative to getting women is to use your looks and if you don’t have that then it’s your personality, and if you’re lacking there too then your only solution is simping.

But I’m here today, a survivor of dry spells, to tell you young blood, that there’s another alternative, an ancient alternative that many do not speak of because knowledge of this ancient art may be frowned upon by all within this society not because of how morally degrading it is but because it requires a certain finesse that few have.

I’m talking about Brutal Honesty. To be honest is something society worships in public but shuns in private. If your girlfriend asks you, “Have you eaten?” You tell her you have even though you haven’t eaten in three days because you’re poor and your grandmother was a witch who messed up a spell and poverty is bound to haunt you and three of your generations because of this.

But what if you tell her. “I haven’t eaten because I’m poor and my grandmother was a witch who messed up a spell and now I’m destined to be poor and my children too for the next three generations”? It is an honest assessment of your current predicament but you stay your hand from typing this because honesty will lead to you losing her. This is what you believe and this is what you fear will come of honesty.

Fear is the mind killer. Fear does not belong within us and fear wards off honesty. So in order to understand how brutal honesty works, how you can use it to get laid so cobwebs will stop appearing upon and around your genitals, you must first be without fear. You must first say out loud. “I have nothing to fear.”

I remember it was on a Friday, I was in my bedsitter listening to Ed Sheeran and thinking out loud about life and love and how horny I was. I was so horny, I come from the Kamba tribe and they are known for being horny. I went to Machakos once and saw this guy scratch his armpits while moaning. It’s like my tribe is cursed. While horny we have to find a solution to this predicament or else we’ll die. That’s how my friend Mutuko died, got so horny he just collapsed and died. At his funeral people were like, “How did he die?” And his relatives were like. “Kutu.” and everyone gave knowing nods.

My door was open so it came as a surprise when a neighbor of mine knocked on the door and entered. She was a babe. Beautiful in every sense of the word, I sat up in bed, my eyes taking in her short skirt that showed succulent thighs. I’d never talked to her before and I wondered what her purpose in my home was.

“Hey,” She said. I nodded. “Do you have any weed? Your house always smells like weed.” She smiled at me, her face lit up and I found myself saying a silent prayer to God, thanking him for creating women.

Now, I had no money. In terms of looks I’m a solid 7 but a 7 without money is just a premature 3. My personality is great but it takes time for a personality to take effect and I did not have time. I was horny then. But I knew of brutal honesty, I knew it could work.

I had a blunt, we lit it. She sat in a chair while I sat in bed. She started talking about her course and how difficult her studies were. I paid attention as if I cared, I didn’t give a shit. I doubt guys give a shit when women talk about their day, but we have to pretend like we do otherwise we’ll lose them.

I’ve heard women complain about their nails, I’ve heard it so many times until I know that Nail polish is a lacquer applied to the nails, typically on fingernails and toenails, to color them or enhance their appearance. It comes in various colors, finishes (like matte or glossy), and formulations (regular polish, gel polish, etc.)

Did I ask to know about this nail shit? No. I chew my nails. I’ve never used a nail cutter, I chew the damn nails. Even the nails on my toes are chewed! How else do you think I’m so flexible during sex? Do you know the strain of chewing the nail on your little toe?

I listened to her talk and nodded at the appropriate parts and force laughed when she made a joke. Women are not funny, only one has ever made me laugh. I told her my favorite color is red and she said. “So you’ll have no problem crossing the Red Sea.” It was the funniest shit I’ve ever heard from a woman. I had to dump her immediately after I stopped laughing. I can’t be with someone who’s funnier than me.

When she stopped talking, I realized that I wanted her. Not her necessarily, I just wanted to stop being horny. But how would I tell her this? We barely knew each other. I didn’t have time to do that nonsense couples do where you go to the beach and start making heart shapes in the sand with your names so she’d let you smash.

I didn’t want her number so I can chat with her till 3AM I don’t have the strength to do that. I was just horny. I couldn’t simp, thinking about praising her beauty nonstop made my butt crack itch. I needed a quick solution. And it availed itself through a message from deep inside me. ‘Be brutally honest.’

I turned fully to face her. “Caro.” I started.

“My name is Josephine.” She corrected.

I nodded. “Jose.”

“Josephine.” She corrected once more. Beautiful women can be so irritating.

“Josephine.” I started. “I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t want you to be my friend, I don’t want a connection or something we can build up on. I don’t care if you have a boyfriend or if you’re engaged or if you’re pregnant. I’ve looked at you once and I’ve realized that I want to fuck you. Not soft fucking like they do in soap operas and in PG rated films. I’m talking about hard-core banging, HBO type of shit. I want to eat your pussy from behind, I want my nose in your ass as I do this. I want you to thrash and beg and cum while speaking in tongues. That’s all I want. Just once, just one fuck and we’ll never talk about it again and nobody will ever know.”

She stared at me, I took the blunt from her and took a drag then blew a plume into the air.

“Okay, I’m going to be honest with you.” She started and I nodded because the reward for brutal honesty is brutal honesty. “I have a boyfriend and I love him and I’m loyal. Even if I do this and nobody finds out I’ll still know it. If I was single I’d give in at the drop of a hat but I’m not.”

I nodded. Cursed inwardly at my bad luck.

“But I have a friend.” Josephine continued and hope welled within me. “She’s just as beautiful as me. She has a boyfriend but he isn’t satisfying her, she wants someone who’ll do what you’ve just told me. How big is your dick?”

“Have you ever seen a donkey’s dick?” I asked her.

“Yes.” She gasped.

“Well it’s roughly six inches of that.” I said. Dead serious. She laughed.

“I’ll bring her tomorrow, repeat what you said to me the minute I leave you alone with her.”

The next day she brought her friend over. I had a two blunts ready, she was right. Her friend was just as beautiful as her. We talked lightly about education, the state of the nation and commerce before the weed made us start talking about nail polish and wigs. Things I did not care about.

Josephine excused herself and left. I was left with the girl.

“Linda.” I started.

“My name is Lyan.” She corrected.

I nodded “Lion.”

“L-Y-A-N”

“Lyan.” I started. “I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t want you to be my friend, I don’t want a connection or something we can build up on. I don’t care if you have a boyfriend or if you’re engaged or if you’re pregnant. I’ve looked at you once and I’ve realized that I want to fuck you. Not soft fucking like they do in soap operas and in PG rated films. I’m talking about hard-core banging, HBO type of shit. I want to eat your pussy from behind, I want my nose in your ass as I do this. I want you to thrash and beg and cum while speaking in tongues. That’s all I want. Just once, just one fuck and we’ll never talk about it again and nobody will ever know.”

When I was done repeating what I said to Josephine to Lyan. She turned her eyes to the door and said. “Lock the door.” Never before had I ran for a door latch like that. I almost broke my neck while sprinting for it. I started undressing myself while smiling like fool.

I’m not going to get into details about how I banged the living hell out of her, or how she fell in love with me after a week of consecutive sex, or how her boyfriend found out and threatened to cut my penis, or how she wrote a suicide note where she mentioned me after I ghosted her because her boyfriend was a maniac who’d threatened to cut my penis. No, the aim of this piece is to show you that brutal honesty works. It always works.

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Weed Cookiez – Part 2.

The hospital was a kilometer from where we were and Billy and I would rather suck a hobo’s dick than use money for transport. Never mind that this was a life and death situation, the weed cookies we’d injested were in our tummys, who knew how long it would take for them to hit and render us insensate, or rather, dead.

We walked either way, choosing to risk it all so as to save a hundred shillings. Our pace was hurried, eager to barge through the hospital doors, screaming for the best doctor available to rescue us before it was too late. We’d be quite strict on the fact that we wanted the best doctor available, I mean a doctor who’s gone to India. It doesn’t matter if they went there on vacation or to see cows, we wanted the best doctor who’d been to India. Only they could save us.

We bumped into a friend of ours called Mark, short skinny dude with a pinched face and massive nose. “What’s up guys!” He greeted us. We made to walk past him but he grabbed us by our hands. “What’s the rush?”

“We just ate six weed cookies accidentally and we’re going to hospital to get a vasectony.” Billy said.

Mark placed both his hands on his head. “Six?” He was appalled. I was suddenly so certain none of the people I knew knew what a vasectomy was.

“Three each.” I added.

Mark then started laughing and for the first time in my life I felt the urge to kill someone. I have never thought myself capable of murder, no matter how many times my Sunday school teachers picked me to play Cain in the church plays just because I looked like I can bash someone’s head in with a rock. But standing there, listening to Mark’s husky laugh, I contemplated murder.

“You can’t go to hospital because of that, they’ll have to write a report and they might involve the authorities.” Mark said. “You’ll end up in a cell and—” As he was speaking, something odd happened. My thoughts that were centered on panic, suddenly ceased to be so. Then I looked at Mark’s clothes, simple jeans and a T-shirt with the words ‘It’s Friday night on it.’ but it was a Wednesday afternoon. This irked me terribly.

“My skin feels weird.” Billy said, interrupting Mark. “God my skin, it’s so smooth, Kyalo feel my skin.” I was suddenly overwhelmed with a need to feel Billy’s skin.

I ran my hand across his arm. “God it’s so smooth, is my skin as smooth?” I asked Billy.

He moved to ran his hand over my arms and then he exclaimed. “Oh my God, it’s so smooth, and dark.”

Mark turned his head to either of us. “The high just hit, right?” He shifted his gaze to the passers by who would definately take note of us if we started caressing each other in public. “Come guys, don’t go to hospital, I’m taking you to my place. There’s some milk there, it’ll help you chill out. I’ll stick with you guys until the high goes down.”

“But Mark, it’s not Friday night.” I said while pointing at his shirt.

“Yeah, you’re a liar Mark, you want us to go to your place so you can have your way with us.” Billy added. I was suddenly so afraid of Mark. Sure he was shorter and slimmer but we were vulnerable, what if he seduced us?

Mark face palmed himself. “We have to get you guys out of the public’s eye. Come with me right now!” His command moved our feet into action and we followed him to his place.

I felt as if my whole body consisted of just a floating head, the rest of me was smoke drifting wherever the head went.

“I know how to become a millionaire.” Billy said.

“Me too.” I said

“And how will the two of you become millionaires?” Mark wondered.

“Listen,” Billy whispered, forcing Mark and me to inch closer to him as we walked. “You know flash drives, yes? Like the USB flash? Mechanics cannot resist buying them. I don’t know why but if you want to sell a USB flash you just look for a mechanic. Like, mechanics provide a ready marker for flash drives.”

“No way.” I said.

“Yes way.” Billy was getting excited, his head started bobbing and the pitch of his voice got lower forcing us to get even closer. “I’ve sold ten flash drives to them. They simply cannot resist.”

“No way.” I said.

“Yes way!” His pitch was now shrill. “Yes way yes way yes way!”

“Okay shut the fuck up.” Mark cut him off as we entered the gate to his abode. He led us to his crib and we entered the door while marveling at his house despite the fact that we’d been there before.

“Oh my God you have a mattress!” I started while touching his mattress.

“And look at this, it’s a sink!” Billy said.

“Does it have water?” I wondered.

Billy turned the faucet and water spilled out. In unison Billy and I raised our arms. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaah!”

Mark shook his head, he went to the utensils, took out two glasses, reached below the sink and emerged with a pitcher of milk. As he poured the milk he asked me. “Kyalo, how will you become a millionaire?” He asked.

“I’ll write.” I said.

“Expound.” Mark ordered.

“Expound.” Billy parroted Mark.

I placed myself on the bed and reclined. “Well, I love writing. It’s the only thing I want to do until the day I die, so I figure if I keep doing it one day I’ll get noticed, might be now. Or decades from now. But being noticed is inevitable and when that happens everything I’ve ever written will come into light and I’ll be a millionaire because my words will enrich many.”

“But how will that make you a millionaire?” Mark asked.

“But how will that make you a millionaire?” Billy parroted.

“Through osmosis.” I said.

Billy nodded his understanding, as if my reasoning was sound. Mark tried to press further but he realized my eyes were closing. The smoke that was my body rose and ensnared my mind. Mark and Billy talked but their words became distant, then their pitch reduced and i couldn’t hear them at all and all that was with me was darkness and the last thought I had was. ‘… My words will enrich many.’

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The Philosophy Lecturer.

The door is open. I can see him at his desk, typing something on his laptop. His beard is stained grey along the edges, so too is his long hair that’s obviously thinning and is kept whole only through prayer and virgin sacrifices. He wears thick framed glasses to add to his ‘modern day philosopher’ allure and his brown coat has patches at the elbows. Seniority oozes out of him like pus from a boil and I would be wise to recognize and take advantage of this if my purpose at his office is to be met.

My purpose. I had failed his class, I needed to talk to him into changing my grade so I won’t have to explain to my parents how I failed at something called, “Philosophy.” That’s like failing at ‘wisdom’ or ‘goodness.’

It’s not my fault I failed. I thought the lectures would be about Aristotle and Socrates. Not about, “What is the difference between to be and being?” What the fuck kind of question is that? It makes my brain hurt thinking about it. His classes gave me migraines so I stopped attending after the first four lectures. I passed the CATs though, through a simple technique called cheating.

I knocked twice, he glared at me above the rims of his glasses. Recognizing me, he smiled. A smile akin to the toothy grin of a wolf who’d just spotted a crippled fawn. There’s something wrong about this guy, he has a sheep porn vibe about him, meaning if you searched his browser history you’d find sheep porn. People having sex with sheep or having sex while sheep are around. 

“Kyalo Mbatha Junior. I’ll be damned, the king himself has graced me with his presence, come in boy, take a seat.” He said while gesturing to the chair opposite his desk. I shuffled in with my palms gripped tightly before me. I looked like a bride on her wedding night, a pompous air of humility and innocence about me. As if I’m hesitant about parting my legs but at the same time eager for it. This lecturer was going to penetrate me.

“Lecturer Kinuthia.” I started as I placed myself opposite him, making sure to shuffle forward so my butt sat at the edge of the seat. My aim was to appear humble and eager to please, betraying no sense of comfort let alone desire to appear equal or superior to the Lecturer. I found out how people called him this morning. I didn’t know his name until this morning, I always thought of him as Sheep man, the distant retarded cousin of superman, whose power came from eating radioactive mutton.

“Please, call me Jeff.” The Lecturer said. A short moment passed where I pondered how anyone in their right mind would want to be referred to as Jeff. It’s the blandest name in existence, right up there next to Gary. And I’m not saying this because a guy called Jeff stole my girlfriend, this is purely a fact derived without judgment.

“Jeff.” I started once more. Anxious. He nodded, urging me on. “I recently received an E grade on the last paper?” He smiled at me. God his smile is terrifying. I’d be in a rocking chair when I’m eighty and his smile would come back to me and it’d cause me to have a stroke and I’d die. This man right here is going to kill me, I was sure of it. He’d kill me and feed me to carnivorous sheep. “I was wondering, sir, if you’d change the grade to a D? It’s the only way I’d graduate.”

Silence engulfed us. I stared at him, he stared back at me. “Kyalo Mbatha Junior.” Jeff broke the silence. “You’ve come to what, four of my lectures?” I moved to speak but he waved a hand for silence. He leaned into his desk, opened a drawer, took out a bottle of gin and two glasses. He poured one and handed it to me, then poured himself a glass and placed it before himself. “You know how I know you came to four of my lectures? Because you came while wearing pink crocs. Dammit, do you know how odd it is to see something for the first time? In all my years delivering lectures, only you’ve come to my class in pink crocs. Astonishing.”

“But sir—”

“I told you, call me Jeff.”

“My family is poor sir—Jeff, I only had one pair of shoes and they were stolen. I had one girlfriend and she was stolen too, she left me the pink crocs, I had nothing else to wear.”

“And the shoes you wear now?”

“I stole them.”

He laughed. A rich full belly laugh. Shaking shoulders and everything. “Well, then, my boy, I forgive you for your lack of etiquette, please, do have a drink.” He gestured at the glass before me.

There was a trap here. Something set to ensnare me. He wasn’t touching his glass but staring at me, eagerly awaiting me to take a sip of the liquor. I knew he was up to something, I tried to kill time to see if he’ll reach for his glass by tapping my hand on my thigh. He didn’t move. He just sat there like a sheep fucker, staring at me.

I took the glass and lifted it to my lips, I took one sip making sure to twist my face at the bitterness as if I don’t down bottles of the stuff every weekend.

He stood up, his glass of gin untouched and turned to the window. He spoke while staring out the window, like some sinister villain from a post apocalyptic dystopia. “During one of the four lectures you attended. I remember asking a question. I asked, ‘What is to be?’ Philosophy is an intimate subject, and I teach it. I expected nobody would answer the question for it demanded a certain aptitude. I picked you because of your pink crocs that made me wonder at the state of your mind. And you know what you said to me?”

I didn’t know. I barely remember things that happen a week ago. I literally have three brain cells, one to enable me to walk, another to enable me to remember where I’m walking to, and the last to remember traumatic events. Traumatic events like when this guy said, “Good morning.” to me during the afternoon and I replied. “Good morning.” Then he started shouting, “Good morning? Does it look like it’s morning to you? You fool! You idiot! Your people depend on you and here you are, a failure!” God that trauma didn’t leave me.

So if something happened weeks ago and it wasn’t traumatic, chances high I don’t remember it. Majority of my relationships have ended because I’ve forgotten that I’m in a relationship to begin with. But I had a feeling Jeff’s question was rhetorical and after a moment of silence I was proven right.

“You said, and I quote. ‘To be? What is to be? Huh? Are we all, be? When you sit outside in the night in a blanket because it’s cold, and you see the moon and the stars and you think about your place in the universe, in that moment as the chill breeze of the cool night laps against you like waves lapping against the shore line, do you think to yourself.  ‘Am I be?’ Well. Sir, there’s the answer to your question. What is to be? Well, think about that night beneath the stars. Think about it.'”

A moment spent in silence passed, a moment where I thought about that night between the stars. He turned to face me. “I’ve never heard such stupidity spew out of a person. I was shocked to my very core.”

I nodded and took another sip of gin. Forgetting myself.

“You have no regard or respect for philosophy. You are anathema to the very thing I teach. You got an E? You should have gotten something lower. You’re here on campus grounds, drinking alcohol! Have you no shame?” He said.

Jesus Christ I knew there was a catch. I pushed the glass away from me, it tilted and tipped over. Spilling gin all over the desk. Jeff pounced on his laptop and yanked it free of the spreading liquid. “Get out of here you fucking alcoholic. I hope you don’t graduate for the world requires manual laborers, people to wash latrines and shovel manure. Get out of here and go get a job among your kind.”

I felt tears welling in my eyes but I did not let them drop. I stood up and walked to the door, then something halted my steps. A certain opportunity to have the last laugh, it is after all the loudest. I thought about *to be*. And I finally realized what it meant.

I turned slightly, my face half to him. I cocked a smile then spoke. “You ask me what to be is? Nobody knows, even the answer that you hold to your chest, the answer that you learnt about from a book or a lecture, the answer that you believe makes sense because smarter people came up with it and smarter people fed it to you. Well, Jeff, deep down you know it’s a lie. To be is something we’ll all know when the last second strikes and we cease being, that moment when life drains from our eyes and leaves us sightless, in that moment you’ll have your answer and I pity you for thinking yourself superior to everyone because of believing something that might be false.” I then left without turning back.

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Spiritual connection.

There’s been a lot of talk online about spirituality and it being tethered to sex. And the reception regarding this hypothesis is balanced between doubt and ridicule but I am here today, a guru of spirituality, to enlighten you regarding this topic.

How did I become a spiritual guru? Meditation. You sit still, find a place of silence within yourself, enfold yourself within it and enlightenment will avail itself. It’s not hard neither is it easy. As a spiritual guru I learnt the ups and downs of traversing the spiritual plain and today I am here to set you free from the hold of nonsense you’ve become enamored by.

There are a variety of things you need in order to pass as a spiritual guru. For starters, you need incense, you know, the twirling smoke that gives off the ambiance of deep spirituality. You can ask your local witchdoctor where to get incense but if you’re financially strained like I am you can make your own incense. It’s actually more cost efrective. Just take a bunch of papers and burn them, then sit wherever the smoke is thickest. Sure you’ll cough and you might suffocate but you’ll be deathly close to spirituality. There’s just something about carbon monoxide that’s deeply spiritual.

You also need the attire of a spiritual guru. I googled them, they dress in robes which is just a fancy way of saying bed sheets. Just strip naked and wrap a bedsheet around yourself and Viola! You look like a spiritual guru. You can also scream at random intervals within the day, gurus scream alot because enlightenment is a heavy thing and when it bares down on you, you have to let it out. I’ve taken to screaming during the early morning hours and mid afternoons. Sure my mother has threatened to kick me out of the house under claims that bhang has ruined me, but very few understand the significance of enlightenment let alone how to go about it.

Now, to the spiritual sex stuff. We all have a spiritual imprint that dictates our state of mind, body and soul. If you have sex with someone your spiritual imprint becomes tethered to them, and a part of them remains with you after bumping uglies. This has been scrutinized by atheists who have taken it upon themselves to oppose everything regarding spirituality and God as a whole in order to somehow seem important and clever.

Do not be fooled by atheists, they are donkeys. Fucking donkeys with their long faces and big asses and huge dicks. The atheists are the reason there’s famine and drought and gonorrhea. Their lack of belief is killing this planet. My first objective if I ever come into power is to kill all the atheists. Only then will the world know peace and prosperity.

So if someone is suffering from addiction, let’s say they are addicted to a variety of things ranging from drugs to porn to Kalenjin music. And you proceed to have sex with them, the spiritual essence of addiction will be passed on to you and you’ll find yourself downloading Kalenjin songs and waking up at 4am in the morning to run for absolutely no reason. I have proof to support this hypothesis.

I hate avocadoes. I hate them. Did you know the word ‘avocado’ means ‘testicles’ in the Aztec tongue? And the word guacamole means ‘testicle sauce.’ The consumption of Avocadoes is basically the sucking of balls if you think about it. My hate for this fruit that tastes like liquid grass is something I’ve had since childhood. Then I met a woman, the total opposite of me. She looooved avocadoes. She ate them for breakfast, lunch and supper. She applied it on her face and she told me that as a child she enjoyed throwing avocado seeds at passers by. (See how the fruit spells evil?)

I had sex with her. It was spontaneous and violent and when she came she cried out. “Ovaaaa.” Which at first I thought was her boyfriend’s name but turns out it was just slang for avocado. I didn’t think much to it, then after a few days I started realizing a shift in the way things presented themselves to me. I started coming across memes about avocadoes. I’d be watching a movie then the actors will start eating an avocado. Someone will tell me their favorite color is green before expounding on it. “Not regular green, no, a dark chartreuse color. Like that of an avocado.”

I went to the doctor with a bad case of acne and he tells me. “You might be suffering from a fruit deficiency, you should eat more avocadoes.”

The universe was bending its will towards me, forcing me to indulge in the forbidden fruit. Heck! I think the forbidden fruit was an avocado. People think Adam and Eve ate an apple but I’m sure it wasn’t. Apples are sweet and deeply nutritious, there’s no reason God would prevent the first peeps from eating them. No, it was an avocado, I’m certain about this. And Eve ate it raw, with the skin and everything and forced it on Adam. And now here we are.

I had to find a way to free myself from the avocado parallax. So I looked for and had sex with a woman who was a kleptomaniac. She stole things. After sex I had to hold her tight so she wouldn’t get away with my wallet and phone. She did steal my earphones which came as quite a surprise to me. But it was worth it, I figured the thieving would cancel out the avocado obsession.

It did not. I ended up stealing an avocado from a fruit vender. I didn’t even want the avocado. It’s the spiritual connection thing I’m yapping on about here. Do you see how dangerous it is to have sex with someone?

A friend of mine had sex with a woman who’s always absent minded. The next thing we know he’s putting a thermos full of tea in the fridge so it’ll cool off! I’m telling you, it’s the spiritual connection.

Another friend of mine had sex with a woman who was in her late fifties. The chap was barely in his twenties. Next thing we know, he’s waking up at six in the morning to go and buy a news paper. He even starts talking about land rates and taxes. It’s the spiritual connection thing! Open your eyes.

I recently developed a connection with this girl who eats her food with bananas. Like ripe bananas, she just cuts them into her food. She can be eating chips and meat, rice or ugali. She’d just cut in the bananas there. Luckily for me she cut me off before I could hit. Otherwise I’d be eating bananas with tea in the morning. It’s the spiritual connection thing maaan, open your eyes! Lol.

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Subterfuge.

I didn’t notice her at first, my eyes just glazed over her. nothing of significance held my gaze. I passed her on the streets and I didn’t even realize she was my neighbor until the day I bumped into her at the gate.

I was on my phone, trying to understand a meme. As a human being I have come to discover that my passion isn’t fully dedicated towards writing. Memes appease me like a virgin sacrifice appeases a god. I study memes and collect them, it’s not even a hobby but an addiction. I’m not gay or anything but I think if memes were somehow banned and the only way you can access memes is to give a government official a blowjob, I will be gay. For the memes. God, I will be gay. I’d suck so many…

I was on my phone while crossing the opening in the gate when she bumped into me, her head collided with my chest and I felt as if Thor’s hammer had been thrown at me. I know this is far fetched but I believe since the time of creation to now, there must be a man who’s been killed by a woman’s forehead. It might even be hundreds of men! Her forehead felt like a rock as it ploughed into me.

I dropped my phone with our collusion. Now you think that thing in movies is going to happen where the heroine and the hero go down on their knees to collect something and touch hands, which shifts to meeting gazes and a spark would form. Nope. What she said was. “Look where you’re going you four eyed bitch.”

I was appalled. I am disabled, I cannot see without my glasses. And making fun of a disabled person is not cool. When you see a guy in a wheel chair, will you start singing “When you legs don’t work like they used to before…” No, you don’t sing Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking out loud.” No matter how much you want to.

I stared at her. She stared at me, she had heavy lids that cut her eyes in half. Her skin was dark but even in a smooth tone, her lips were thick and her nose bluntly pointed. She had the symmetry to make one mark her as beautiful, but for some reason the symmetry didn’t register to me. Something about her spoke of blandness, a certain lukewarm water feel to her air. And now she was plucking at my nerves by picking on my disability.

Countless times I’ve sat down and wondered what it would feel like to see clearly, to live without my heredited myopia. Without having to wear plastic around my face. I wondered what my ancestors would think of me now, they survived with poor vision, many of them died because they thought an approaching lion was just a fat rabbit. But they survived. And here I am, using aid, something they didn’t have. “What a weakling.” They’d think of me.

Something weird happened between me and her. The amount of time we stood there staring at each other was a tad bit too long. After calling me a four eyed bitch, an insult was in order. But my mouth was sealed shut, my eyes just resting on her. And odd enough, I did not feel a desire to insult her back. Or to throttle her. What I felt like doing was just stare at her, wondering how her features are so pristine yet simultaneously bland. And she stared back at me, this menacing glare that was so pronounced upon her half lided eyes.

The moments spanned on, we still stood there like Greek statues, her glare receded and in its place was curiosity that fanned out to cater to mild amusement. That’s when I smiled. In this game of cat and mouse. Where men bank on wealth and status to win a woman’s heart, those of us who have neither have learnt the intricate art of the game. The smile, well timed, when her guard was down, served effect. The flush across her face spoke of this.

I bent down and picked up my phone, making sure to extend my posterior. There are some women who are into man butt. You use every weapon in your arsenal my friend, everything to set the foundation for pleasure. I got up slowly, turned to her, pleased to find her still gawking at me and said.

“You fucking cow eyed bitch, picking on my disability, you muffin nosed chimpanzee lipped cunt. Don’t walk with your eyes closed and next time when you bump into someone you apologize you spawn of Satan.” I then walked away really fast without looking back.

Now you’re wondering, “What the fuck?” It’s called subterfuge, women aren’t to be approached head on, that’s what defines a Simp from a Chad. You have to confuse her, make her think you want her then take a shit on her bed. Ask her how her day is going on WhatsApp then block her and delete her number when she’s typing. Lean in for a kiss then bite her nose. You should never have her on steady feet, make sure she’s always on the back foot. Always guessing what your intentions are. Only then will you win her over.

As I was walking away, she called to me. “Hey you.” I turned. “Your a fucking idiot.”

I smiled at her and said. “And you have the most beautiful lips I’ve ever seen.” I hurried my pace. She was left there, wondering what was wrong with me.

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Lost in Love.

Tom’s girlfriend lived far away. The distance between Tom and Janet is the same as the distance between you and achieving your goals. They live very far apart. Yet they are in love, the same love poets write poems about and ballads compose dirges about. It’s the love that drives a man to run ten kilometers because a woman texted him, “You up?” I think you get the gist of how profound their love is.

Tom wanted her to come over, and he had just the place to take her. A romantic place where it would be just the two of them. There, at the outskirts of town, a dirt rode permeates a forest, driving deeper into it until coming upon a meadow that borders a pond that’s fed by several streams. The pond’s water is cold, he thought of dipping his feet in it with her by his side. Then he’d reach down and splash water on her. Then a game will coalesce and they’d laugh, forging memories in the process. Of course he was afraid of bilhazia but the price of peeing blood seemed worth it.

He’d only been to the meadow once before but he believed he could reach it again without any need for directions or a map. So it is with this faith that he saved up money for her bus ticket and brought her over.

The first night was fueled with passion. They were rabbits on viagra, heated and ready to procreate for as long as their nether regions allowed them. In the morning he told her of his desire to hike a forest path with her. And she, the ever so loving Janet, blinded by desire and whatever comes before, gave herself fully to her lover’s plan.

When the sun was at its zenith, they left Tom’s place.

“Shouldn’t we carry a bottle of water?” Janet asked. She wore hiking shorts and sneakers. Tom wore timberlands and baggy jeans. Tom did not know the first thing about hiking, neither was he very smart to be honest.

“Water? Where we’re going there will be water my love. Enough water to bath in.” Tom said. Janet nodded her acquisence and the journey started.

They left town, talking animatedly about their adoration for each other. Then they set upon the wide dirt road, flanked on all sides by trees, far away from the town. Then the path diverged, taking a sharp plunge to the right where the trail became thinner and the tree canopy more encroaching. Then solitude became a factor, they found themselves alone upon the path but they delighted in the ambiance brought about by this. The hike led them to a fork in the road where two roads diverged. Tom didn’t remember the fork in the road the last time he came here. But he went with his gut and took the right path. *After all, you can’t go wrong with right.* He thought.

The journey was suppose to take them less than an hour to reach the meadow. But the path Tom had chosen proved treacherous, with thorns riddled upon the ground and hanging from drooping branches. With the chatter of monkeys high upon the trees and the underbrush thickening with each stride until Tom couldn’t tell where the path actually was. Still, his confidence didn’t dissuade his stride. He marched on, sure as day that he knew the way. (Hey, that sort of rhymes!)

“Are you sure you know where you’re going?” Janet asked. She was getting irritated by the flies that swarmed her and stung her naked legs. That and the upward climb that never seemed to end. Also, her lover wasn’t entrancing as he was at the beginning of the journey, the chatter had died down and he seemed more enamored by the trail they were on. The journey had taken them one hour thirty minutes and yet the meadow he’d spoke of wasn’t in sight. “Are we close?” She pondered aloud.

Tom was getting irritated by Janet’s nagging. She was insistently inquiring as to whether or not he knew their bearings. Putting into question his masculinity. A man who couldn’t lead surely doesn’t deserve to be called a man. That’s what his father had told him, right before he bashed his mother with a thermos full of tea. He was in charge her, he had to let her know this. “I know the way Janet, trust me, we’re close.”

“Janet? So you aren’t calling me your love anymore?” She said playfully.

Tom turned around and pointed a finger at her. “Janet, please, not now. I am finding our bearings.” He spoke, curtly.

“Don’t bring that tone with me.” Janet declared.

Tom turned around and quickened his stride. Janet was forced to catch up. Still, the terrain wasn’t parting into a meadow. A part of him wondered whether he was indeed lost. They hadn’t met another soul for over an hour, there was no one he could ask directions.

“So, we’re lost aren’t we?” Janet intoned as she slapped a fly upon her calf.

“Janet. I’m going to say this in the most respectable way possible, but would you kindly shut the fuck up?” Tom said. “I need to think. And I can’t think with you yammering back there.” What Tom just did was the equivalent of taking gasoline and pouring it over a fire.

“Tom.” Janet said and stopped walking. Tom turned around to face her. “I’m going back.”

Tom stared at her for a span of several seconds. It was only now that he realized the nose he’d once thought of as cute had surprisingly wide nostrils that made him think of a pig. And her eyes he once thought beheld the world started to appear as if they only beheld the sub-county. “Going back where? We’re on the right track here Jane— I mean, love.”

“On the right track where? You’re dressed in fucking timberlands to go hiking. You know how ridiculous you look? Like you’re going to reggae convention in the wilderness. You look like a hippie who isn’t hip anymore.” Janet started to back track and turn.

Tom sprinted towards her and grabbed her arms. “Listen to me you bitc— Janet… Janet. Listen to me, there’s a meadow out there and it has a pond and the water is cold and the atmosphere is serene. All this anger is born of irritation and is but a slight bump in our road of love. I love you, trust in me.”

“You were just about to call me a bitch!” Janet interjected.

“Yes, you are being bitchy but I apologize, besides, you are my bitch.” He smiled at her and moved to kiss her. She pushed his face away. He got mad and shoved her. She fell. The moment froze, with him hovering over her and her lying on the ground. They stared at each other, the love that apparently burnt bright was too dim for neither of them to see it in the other’s eyes.

“You floundering asshole.” Janet spoke, her words even. All emotion drained from them. “You puckered, malnourished, flea ridden asshole.” She started to get up. “You hopeless, pity —” She stopped. Someone was approaching from behind the tree line. An old man, ladden under the weight of firewood.

Tom turned to the old man as one would to the Messiah. Seeking salvation Tom told of his unfortunate predicament, unwilling to tell it as it is, that he was lost. He spoke of his destination and how they were yet to arrive at it and it looked like they never would. The old man laughed and pointed them in a direction. “Travel that way and you’ll be at the meadow in no time.” Tom gave his thanks and ushered Janet in that direction.

They walked in silence, neither of them willing to break the tension that had been woven tight with every fly bite and heat and upward climb. Tom knew it would all be better, once they arrived at the meadow and they dipped their feet in that cool water. He’d apologize then, make it right and have her fawn over him as she should be doing.

“I’m thirsty.” Janet said.

“In a while baby girl, in a while.” Tom said.

They broke free of the trees after a moment and found themselves in the blessed meadow. The patch of level grass was free, the trees crested around the clear ground. It’s beauty almost moved Tom to tears. He made for the pond, pulling at Janet’s hand. Eager for her to witness the sole purpose for this journey. The pond that will wash away the spite, contempt and irritation.

They arrived where the pond was suppose to be. But instead there was nothing. Not a drop of water. Just depressed ground with the tale tale signs of once holding water. They stared at the dry dirt and Tom knew, just as Janet did, that it was all in vain.

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A 3Am article. Would you look at that. I’ve been up late night for the endorphins so you’d wake up to this. Are you pleased? Of course you are. Leave a donation at.

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Long Distance.

The trees bend with the push of the wind, their trunks creaking as they brace against nature’s horrid breath. The air is rich with the smell of life. The bugs scatter upon the ground, indifferent to my strides whose placement determines the length of their lives. A flower sits perched upon the end of a stalk, its yellow hue is remenice of a daffodil, yet it isn’t that which it resembles, no, it’s but a cheap replica and my failure in grasping its uniqueness does not stay my hand from plucking it free of the stalk, only to sniff it and discard it. Its scent unworthy of my praise.

I hold my phone to my ear and I listen to her speak. She is miles away. I calculated the distance between her home and my own, 662.5 Kilometers. If by vehicle it would take me 10 hours to reach her, to sniff her hair and run my hand down the length of her arm. If I were to walk it would take me 132 hours, that is, if I walked without a break. In that instance of placing one foot before the other to guide me to her, will my desire for her ward of hunger? A need for sleep? My hunger is her flesh and my sleep is ruled by dreams of her.

Is this love? I ponder as I listen to her speak. Conversations hold little to no interest from me. When people talk to me I blanket their words with a nonchalant air. Their stories hold no meaning, their tales stir me to nothing. And no word of theirs moves me to action. Yet when she speaks it is as if the world has drawn a collective, pleased sigh, and each pause before every utterance is pregnant with my expectation. I am enamored by her words and her very existence is an anathema to the dark cloud that follows me wherever I go.

Should I profess my feelings? In my short span upon this earth I have come to the conclusion that women do not find weakness attractive. Bear your heart on your sleeves and a woman will slit said sleeves, tearing into your wrists and as the blood flows in thin rivulets down your arm she will stand back, a menacing smile drawn across her face, and her eyes will mirror her desire to see you die. No, weakness is unattractive. Telling a woman you love her, without her saying the words first, is opening the door for torment to barge in and pitch tent within your soul. So I hold back, the words are there, at the tip of my tongue, blossoming with each passing moment like a flower in spring. The words are eager to be let loose, to be made known only to see her reaction. But the thought of her being repulsed, the thought of her turning away from me as one would from a thing pungent thing, it holds the words at bay.

She sends me pictures, when she wants to. I fight the urge to tell her that the pictures are more than just pixels on a screen, they are a dirge, a song of sorts that is without end. And with each picture received in my phone, a note is pronounced, clear and loud to my ear. It massages my scalp with its sheen disposition. It renders my limbs weak and the blood running through my veins is channeled into one direction. Fire stirs my loins into awakening. And desire rules my heart. And I find myself wanting her more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Yet I drown in this miasma of need, incapable of making my will known and so I sink ever further and those three words, ever heavy on my tongue are as of lead, and deeper I plunge into the cold wet abyss where nonchalance rules and desire is an anathema. Until the time she would send me another picture, and up again I will float to the surface to hear her song.

Her voice can’t be regarded as the most beautiful sound in the word. There are humming birds and their humming, bees too with their buzzing, the sound of the piano as the keys are pressed, the sound of a stream as it runs down the terrain. There are sounds that spell beauty. Yet if her voice is withheld from me, if I am denied the pleasure that is her voice. I will cut off the wings of the humming bird so its humming will be lost to the world. I will squash bees upon their flowers as they yearn for nectar. I will set the piano on fire so the keys pressed will burn finger tips. I will scorch the earth so the streams will dry and the terrain will mirror my ears, bereft of her voice, I will be dry.

The distance between us is large, but what swells within me is larger still, it is the same thing that guided Da Vinci’s hand as he engraved Mona Lisa’s smile upon a canvas and upon our minds for eternity. It is the same thing that guided Romeo’s hand towards the poison, pronouncing in words that  a life without Juliet simply isn’t worth living. And so with a heart heavy with what ails me, Shakespeare’s hero met his end. This thing that burgeons within me, threatening to tear free of my ribcage. It frightens me. It frightens because its death will mean the end of me, yet there is nothing that can kill it except her. Not even the distance between us. In her brown hands with nails trimmed short, fingers slightly thin yet pudgy upon the palm, she holds my flame. It flickers through wind storms and heavy showers. Yet with one breath, she can put it out. Is this surrender? No, it’s vulnerability, a weakness. And as I said before. Women detest weakness. What shall I do then? Nothing, it is too late for me. It’s too late.

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Now you’re like, “Woooooow, what’s with this guy?” I sometimes do this. I take some time off writing funny silly things and just focus on word play that I think is beautiful. I’m not sure what you think but the pondering of the mind in relation to the soul is a thing of beauty to me. Is this based on a true story? Yeap, I’m doomed but enough if that. Say, wouldn’t it be cool if you like, dated me? You’d receive loads of articles like this and wouldn’t it be amazing if you shared it with your girl friends? They’d be so jealous! Haha.. I’m joking though, I only want one woman and she doesn’t even read my stuff. Sigh, the ironies of life.

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Jerry’s Passion : Final Part.

So, from where we’d left off, my friend Jerry had received a silver lining upon his cloud. The girl he’d fancied had replied to his note with a declaration of her own love. I mean sure, in order for a woman to declare her love you must go through a number of trials, in the past the trials may be based on  war and your ability to ride a horse, both of which Jerry couldn’t do, but in the end the girl had declared her love. Claiming, quite vividly in cursive script the words. “I love you.” Words that sent me into a rage for how easily Jerry had earned them. I mean, honestly, what’s the difference between me and Jerry? Our height is almost the same, him above me by mere inches yet the woman he’d fancied, a woman he knew nothing about, had professed her admiration for him without a glance in my direction. Me, who’s more handsome by far, I look like a Sudanese Henry Cavill for fucks sake. I should be the one she fell for.

Now, I know you’ll presume me to be jealous, and to this I say, shut your trap hole! You fail to see how the three words, “I love you.” Hold a profound meaning to me. Those words aren’t a joke neither should they be spewed without thought. I understand the depths of which those words hold, you can drown in them if you don’t know how to stay afloat. And Jerry, he didn’t deserve them. He’d done nothing to deserve them. He simply wrote a note for fucks sake! Is this how I should approach my dilemmas of the heart? If I see a woman whom I fancy, should I go and cut up a calender into a heart and scribble on it how her smile churns my soul like a cement mixer? Is it that easy? What happened to the talking stages where you’ll have to talk about your favorite color? Is this how things are? Are people professing their love without even knowing the favorite color of the one they are professing their love to? What if you tell someone you love them and it turns out their favorite color is orange? Will you in your right mind raise a child with someone whose favorite color is orange? I’d rather sire children with the village idiot, at least they’re too daft to know what color is.

Jerry was on cloud nine since he received the note from the beautiful woman whose house flanked his own. He talked about it nonstop, about how in all the heavens and the earth, he alone was the honored one. What about me? What was I in all the heavens and the earth? What is the opposite of honor? Dishonor? In all the heavens and the earth am I dishonorable? I felt like sticking my fingers in his mouth and pulling his tongue out. I was at the end of my string here. He did not shut up about her.

I’d start a conversation. “My, it looks like there might be a chance of rain today. See how that grey cloud amidst the blue out there? It will build up, it always builds up and showers are born of it.”

Jerry would reply. “I wonder how my baby shower with the girl next door would be like, since, you know, she loves me and all. We might get a child from this, a daughter, she’ll have her mother’s eyes.”

I’d try to change the subject. “The dollar is actually dropping compared to the Kenyan coin. I don’t know if this should raise the hopes of the nation as a whole or whether it’s a flimsical blessing on shaky legs.”

Jerry would reply. “Shaky legs, I hear some women’s legs shake during orgasm. I wonder if my neighbor is the same. I read somewhere that if a woman loves you her orgasms come easier. In that case she’s gonna be like twig in a hurricane when I get under her skirts.”

I was tired. I felt like a guy with leprosy being forced to advertise Vaseline. What the fuck will Vaseline help me with? My skin is fucking peeling! Yet there I am, with a bottle of Vaseline, my nose attached to my head with celotape, advertising something that isn’t helping me. It’s pointless. My conversations with Jerry became pointless.

Then one day, as dusk set upon the horizon, the sinking sun offering a promise of a day yet to come. Jerry called me. He said. “Bro, I need to talk to you, I need… God… I need help…please… I need someone… I’m, I’m so afraid.”

I told him where I was. He asked whether I had a cigarette, I told him I had the whole pack. It normally takes him twenty minutes to come to where I reside but it took him ten this time. He called me outside the gate and I joined him, we traversed silently as the dark of night set in until we came upon a bolder where we each leaned on it.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Hand me a cigarette.” He answered. I gave him a cigarette and a lighter. I watched as his hands shook with the effort of bringing the lighter’s flame to the cigs tip. He then took in a long drag, and another, and another. The cigarette was three quarters gone when he handed it to me. He stared at the ground like a man willing it to open up and swallow him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

Jerry sighed. Then raised his eyes to me, what I saw in their depths unsettled me. This was a man set upon by wolves that tore at his soul. He tried to smile but it’s as if his mouth had forgotten how. After a long moment he mastered the words and willed them free of him. “I was at my door, right? You know my door?” Of course I knew his door! What did he take me for, a guy who’s never seen a house? “I was there, looking at memes on my phone. Then she came—”

“Who came?”

“My neighbor.”

“Jesus Christ Jerry if you’re going to tell me about how she loves you and shit you better let me get back into the house.”

“No, man, she…” Jerry sighed. “She violated me. I have been violated, man.” This peaked my interest. I nodded for him to go on. “She came out of nowhere, like a cow in heat. She pushed me into the house. It was dark, the light wasn’t on. She pushed me to where the bed is, I don’t even know how she knew where my bed was. But it’s there where she pushed me to. My phone fell out of my hand, I tried to reach for it but she slapped me hard across the face. Hard, like the way my mother used to slap me. I tried asking her what was going on, but her hand yanked on my belt buckle, tagging it free of my waist. She pulled my trousers down, ripped my boxers free of me. Literally ripped them free. My boxers are torn, man, they are torn at the waste band. She then started yanking on my dick. But I was too traumatized, my body wasn’t submitting to her whims. I wasn’t getting hard. She took a finger man, her middle finger, the largest among the lot. And slipped it up my ass.” He stopped. He tried to speak but a sob escaped him. “She shoved it up my ass. Again and again. And I don’t know how but I got hard. Then she straddled me like I’m some type of horse, you know? A horse! And then she started twisting my nipples and when I tried to speak she slapped me hard. Across the face. Like my mother used to” He sobbed again. I maintained my silence, knowing that I was before a violated man here and laughing would be pouring salt on a wound. “She…” He tried to continue, I wanted to pat his shoulder or something. Offer any comfort I could conjure but I kept my hands to my sides. I might touch him with my middle finger and that would renew the trauma and all. “She rode me until I came, and then, and then she leaned forward and kissed my forehead. Then she patted my right cheek twice. Got up and left. I lay there for a while until… Until I decided to call you.”

“Damn. She must really love you.” I said, holding back a smile.

“I have been violated! I have been violated! I have been violated!” He repeated the words as if willing them to be untrue. He had indeed been violated. Now he knew that love is a flower and its stem is riddled with thorns. And one had just pricked him. Watch as the blood swells, with a promise of more if he ever set a hand to her love again.

“What tribe was she from?” I asked.

“She’s a kamba.” Jerry said.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” I said.

We remained there in silence. I lit another cigarette, took one drag and handed it to him. I did this two more times with two more cigarettes. As if willing the smoke to cleanse away the fact that he had been violated.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Suprisingly, this is a true story. And the girl is still at large. We wanted to report her to the police but the last guy who went to a police station claiming he’d been raped by a woman ended up becoming the laughing stock of the town. So I told Jerry not to worry, I will handle her. I have been trying to test her to see whether she’d rape me too but she hasn’t, she has proceeded to rape Jerry two more times though. He doesn’t stay at home anymore which is sad but I’m sure with resilience and dedication I might get violated too so I can gather first hand evidence that may incriminate her. She is a menace to society as all rapists are.

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Turrus!

How to shoot porn.

Ngash and I had come into some money. A generous donation by a friend turned lover and we pondered as to what business venture we may pursue that will ensure we were millionaires within half a decade. We had three options, we could either start a brothel, sell weed or shoot porn.

The cash we had was too meager to allow us to start a brothel. A brothel requires whores and the only whores we knew of were Ngash’s exes who weren’t speaking to him on account of that they were whores who were quite aware of the fact that they’d drained him dry. So a brothel was out of the question, because we didn’t know where to get whores and also we had no place to accommodate them. We did think about a bedsitter brothel but Ngash wasn’t willing to transform his place into a sex spot because he didn’t like the smell of raw fish which was what the bedsitter would inevitably smell like.

The weed business sounded sound, but we were quite aware of the fact that we would end up devouring the stock and little profits would come of the venture besides us being high.

The third option was the most valid. To shoot porn. All we needed was a video camera, something our phones had. And two people willing to have sex on camera. Simple. We could even use Ngash’s bedsitter to carry out the work, seeing that the fish smell wouldn’t be as heightened when it’s only one woman’s theatrics being displayed on occasion. The logic was sound. We’d shoot porn, get millions of followers and be millionaires within five years. We toasted later to our genius over mugs of keg. Certainty of our future opulence stretched between us like a blanket inlaid with gold.

We split the work into two, Ngash will get the woman to star in the x rated film and I’ll get the man. Ngash had earlier on asked me to pertake in the activity provided I was well endowed as I always claimed to be whenever the opportunity to say so availed itself. Heck! The opportunity didn’t even have to avail itself. I’d be walking across a street and I’d come across a dude and he’d be like, “Hey man, what’s up?” And I’d go. “Things are great man, just struggling with being well endowed, you know how it is.” At a wedding the vicar will be like, “If you do not wish to see this two joined in holy matrimony, speak or forever hold your silence.” And I’d raise a hand up before standing and saying. “I do not object to this marriage, I just wanted you all to know that I’m well endowed.” You get the gist right?

I declined Ngash’s suggestion to have me star in the porn film. Why? It is because I value the sanctity of my being. My body is the temple of the lord, not some thing to be masturbated to by a thousand men. I have morals, and being well endowed comes with a great responsibility, as does having great power. You need to think upon a moral guide line lest your life be similar to that of a beast that walks this earth on all fours with nothing but its basic instincts dictating where it will go. I am not a beast, but a man. And being a man requires… Sigh, you aren’t buying this bullshit, are you? I didn’t want to star in the porn film because I was afraid I’ll be unable to perform with Ngash and his wide face and small beady eyes, hovering about me with his camera. It’s a lot of pressure you know.

Ngash went to get the woman and I went to get the man. A watchman told me once that he has this great desire to star in porn and whether I could hook him up with a gig. It’s odd because the watchman was the gate keeper at a local nursery school and at the time I had just been a passer by when he approached me with this request. There’s just something about me that screams, ‘Porn director.’ Must be the mustache. The watchman had had a premonition, boredom can lead you into such foreboding alleyways within the mind. I went to the watchman and found him at his usual place, a guy in his mid thirties, wide eyed with a small nose and wide lips, with very dark skin and ears like Lionel Messi’s.

I asked him whether he was still up for the porn gig and he almost hugged me with joy. I told him what I was wiling to pay him and he was so happy for the meager amount I’d offered. It made me second guess his commitment. It seemed the chap wasn’t in it for the money, just sitting there, bored out of his mind watching nursery kids eat snot must have broken something within him. Leading him to develop an innate desire to be viewed while naked.

“Are you well endowed?” I asked him. I had to interview the chap, not hand him a job on a silver platter.

“Yes, it’s very big. Can I show you?” He started to take off his pants. There at the nursery school gate. At noon. Sure there weren’t many people about but that’s how you end up on a sex offender register. I had to stop him.

“No, it’s okay, I can tell, I can tell.” I said. He nodded but it wasn’t a knowing nod. “You know, I’m well endowed too.” I started. “Realized it back when I was a child, my uncle and I went swimming and I wore really tight briefs and he wore the same thing, yet my bulge was more pronounced than his. I was in class three back then, he never took me swimming again.” The watchman nodded. “Another time was with my first girlfriend, I always hit the cervix, you know, it’s something us well endowed guys do. The women scream, they always scream.” The watchman nodded. “Then there was the time I measured my penis with a ruler, know how many inches I recorded?” The watchman nodded. “How many?” I asked.

“Four?” He answered. I stared at him for a long time.

“You’re an idiot, aren’t you? You just nod at everything I say. Nothing quite registers, huh?” I asked. He nodded. “You’re perfect for the job.” I told him and smiled at him. He returned the smile with a nod. I asked him when he was available and he told me whenever I wanted him, he’d be there. We set a date for the following night.

As I departed the gate I called Ngash. “I got the man.” I said.

“I got the woman.” He answered.

The deal was on. We were going to be millionaires.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

This is part one, there will be a part two. Yes I know that there’s also another story which I haven’t delivered a part three on. But I’ve noticed great writers do this, they work on multiple projects at the same time. Plus, how else will I get you to subscribe to my blog? Please subscribe, pretty please with a cherry on top?

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Turrus!