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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Weed Cookiez – Part One.

My roommate, Billy, bless his soul, always means well but one way or another he always ends up fucking me over. Always. Doesn’t matter which scenario is depicted, Billy will somehow always end up fucking me over.

A gun can be placed to my head with Billy kneeling beside me and the assassin would adjust his spectacles (I always imagine the person who’ll assassinate me wearing glasses.) and say, “Billy, I will kill your roommate unless you tell me what Kyalo’s favorite color is.”

And Billy, with a straight face, would smile with confidence, look the assassin right in his bespectacled eyes and say. “Orange.” And just like that, I’d die. Because who in their right mind has orange as a favorite color? It’s the least likely favorite color for anyone in the world. But somehow Billy will assume for some unfathomable reason that orange is my favorite color. (My favorite color is magenta by the way, just incase the whole gun thing actually happens.)

I was in the shower, singing that UB40 song that goes, “Baby baby why oh why, why did you leave me for another guy.” I love that song, I always sing it whenever I’m dumped and it does wonders for a broken heart. Though one time the girl I was dating left me for another woman and I had a very confused break up period because there just aren’t enough songs about lesbians stealing your girlfriend.

Billy stuck his hand in the opening above the bathroom door and held out three cookies. The hand startled me but the sight of food eased my fright. “Eat these.” He said. I obliged, gobbled them right up. They were by far the most tasteless cookies I’d ever eaten, it tasted like cardboard and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Coming out of the shower I found Billy gobbling down his cookies, stuffing them in his mouth like a starved pig.

“Those cookies tasted like water and bread.” I said.

Billy nodded. “Sherry gave me six cookies, oh that girl, my love. She just handed them to me and told me to eat them slowly throughout the week but I told her my roommate’s appetite won’t let them last the week so I decided to give you three and I’ve eaten the rest.”

I stared at Billy as if he’d just sprouted feathers and a beak. “Billy,” I spoke slowly. “Billy,” He nodded. “Sherry, where has she been this past few days?” I hadn’t seen her around. Sherry was Billy’s lover. For some reason she loved him despite the fact that he looked like Sid from Ice Age.

Billy nodded, realizing I had my no nonsense face on. “She has been in juja with her friends—” He started.

I raised both hands to my head, my towel dropped, my balls and dick were out in the open but I didn’t care. “Oh God Oh God Oh God.” I started muttering. “You’ve killed us, Billy. You’ve killed us.” A thin sweat sheathed my face despite having just stepped out of the shower. Billy looked confused and somewhat frightened by my penis.

“What’s wrong Kyalo?”

I picked up my towel and sat on my bed. “It’s weed cookies you idot, it’s weed cookies. We just ate weed cookies. From Juja! You’re suppose to eat half, maybe one if you’re daring! We just ate three! Three!”

Billy stood up. Took his index finger and shoved it into his throat. He gagged and coughed and choked but nothing happened. He gave up on his attempt to hurl and reclined in his bed. “What are we going to do Kyalo?” He asked, his voice so stricken with such fright that for a moment I felt a temporary respite in my anger towards him.

“We have to go to hospital.” I said while putting on my boxers.

“Yes. We go to the emergency room and tell them to give us a vasectomy.” Billy added while getting up. I stopped what I was doing and stared at him, taking in those widely spaced eyes, small nose and upside down triangular face. Just like Sid from Ice age.

“You’re going to tell the doctors to give us a vasectomy?” I asked.

“Yeah, a vasectomy is the operation where they open your stomach and remove impurities. My uncle had a vasectomy, he told me all about it.” He said.

“Just for curiosity’s sake, what is a C-section?” I asked.

“It’s the part of the road where there’s a curve.” Billy said. He was so confident in his answers. So bloody confident, what did Sherry see in him?

I put on pants and a T-shirt and sat on the bed. My thoughts were a jumble, I needed to think. If I went with Billy to hospital and I somehow passed out because of the Juja cookies, Billy might end up telling the doctors to cut my balls off. I imagined myself waking up with a bandage where my balls are suppose to be, my sweet precious jewels, gone with the wind. The horror.

“How long will the weed cookies take to hit?” Billy asked. At least he was capable of reasoning.

“Anytime between an hour and three hours.” I said.

“Oh, so it’s like viagra then.” Billy said.

“Wait, you’ve used viagra?” I asked him.

A dark shade went over Billy’s features. “Yeah, I talked to this girl about how good I am in bed. Told her I’m the Kenyan Johnny Sins. I talked a lot but when she sent me a video of her twerking I knew I’d bust a nut in two minutes, at most three. So on the day she was coming I bought one pill. Then an hour before she arrived I took the pill. Then she canceled the appointment, said her mother had ulcers.”

“What did you do?” I wondered.

“I masturbated for four hours. Kept on nutting but the dick won’t go soft, I started crying while wanking. I even started praying, telling God I’ll never do it again. I used the entire bottle of Nivea that I had just for wanking. Then I started using spit. Ever spat on your dick while masturbating? And at the same time crying? It was a traumatic experience.” Billy concluded.

A silence enveloped us. Billy’s mind caught in the haze of traumatic memory while I imagined him spitting and jerking. A smile spread across my face.

“So what do we do?” Billy asked. “Why you smiling like that?”

“We go to hospital,” I decided. “Tell them that we accidentally poisoned ourselves, they’ll syphon the poison out.”

“Good idea.” Billy said and together we got up to leave.

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My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend.

I went to my girlfriend’s place specifically when she told me she doesn’t want me around because her Nairobi boyfriend was coming over. I went there because I’m stubborn. I’m a rebel, a gangster. I once sagged my pants for two whole hours while at church. I’m against the law, I once touched a gun, like I literally touched it. A dude standing guard outside Equity Bank had an AK47 with him. I went and said. “Can I touch it? I’ve never touched a gun. ” He said. “Sure.” And he let me touch it for three whole seconds… I’m a gangster. I come from the rough parts of town, by rough I mean the roads aren’t tarmaced but you still get how badass I am.

I didn’t knock on her door. Why would I? When she texts me. “You up.” At 3AM while it’s raining and there are hailstones and murderous lunatics running rampant in the night, I rush over to her place, brace the storm just to taste her sweet nectar. And I do not knock then so why would I start knocking now?

I opened the latch and entered. I found her in bed with the Nairobi boyfriend, she lay on his chest like she did on mine. Her leg drapped over his thighs like it did with mine. Upon seeing me she abruptly sat up. A look of shame crisscrossed with rage touched her features only to quickly recede to give way to nonchalance.

She was a player, I could tell by the way her character shifted to accommodate a mishap that was expected. She smiled at me. “Kyalo, what’s up? Can’t you knock? What if I was naked?” A true player. Countless times I’ve opened that door and found her naked, but her Nairobi boyfriend did not know that. He shouldn’t know me at all.

I had two options at that moment. The first was to cause a scene, act up, scream, insult her for loving another. And then grovel at her feet, begging her to choose me. Or I could choose the gangster path, the real reason I was there. To study my enemy.

Sun Tzu wrote the Art of War where he said, ‘If you know yourself, and the enemy, then the battle is won.’ I know every quote in that book because I feel there will one day be a zombie apocalypse and we’ll revert to the medieval times and we’ll need someone to lead us in war against the zombies and I’m certain it’ll be me. I’m gangster bro, I once killed a chicken, with a knife. I’ve had blood on my hands bro, I’m dangerous.

I knew myself, I am from Lotiokitok and I’m gangster. But the only thing I knew about the Nairobi boyfriend is that he’s from Nairobi. My eyes darted towards him, he reclined on the bed, his arms crossed behind his head, his caramel skin marked him as a light skin. I instantly knew I could beat him in a fight, light skin guys don’t know how to fight, they cry while throwing punches and moan when punched.

He had a mustache like me, which meant he might also be gangster. Mustaches are a symbol of male power, the bigger the mustache the more the testosterone. I once saw a guy with a mustache chase an elephant. True Story. I turned my attention back to her, I wouldn’t want the Nairobi guy to realize I was studying him. Sun Tzu did say. ‘Never let your opponent know you’re studying them.’

I smiled at her. “I thought you were free we go for yogurt? There’s that thing I told you I needed your help with.”

She smiled, paused a moment, then spoke. “Oooh yes, the blurb thing.” She turned to her Nairobi boyfriend. “This is Kyalo, he is a writer, he writes really funny short stories though some of them are sad. He’s working on a fantasy novel.”

The Nairobi guy abruptly sat up, I thought a flee had bitten his arse. “You write fantasy?” He asked. His voice was smooth velvet, I was suddenly certain he could sing. Damn it, I can sing too but only Wakorino songs, a side effect of growing up next to a Wakorino church. Those songs are not romantic. Plus for full effect you must beat on a drum. This guy didn’t need a drum. He was ahead of me.

Until he stood up.

I’m six feet tall. He was probably five eight. He looked up to me, and suddenly I knew my enemy. I knew he stood no chance.

“I love fantasy novels bro.” He said. I stepped closer to him so he’d have to tilt his neck back. It brought me such pleasure to take advantage of a vertically challenged dude. “What’s your favorite fantasy novel?” He pressed on.

I was thrown off my game. Why would he ask me such a thing? Was he trying to gauge my literary prowess? Was he a writer too? Did he not see I’m taller than him? “My favorite is a fantasy series, it’s a series of books, it’s called Malazan book of the fallen, it’s ten books long. Really hard to get into. One of the hardest books to read.” I said.

I hoped that would cement my place, that it would mark where I stand in this battle for the affection of a woman, I stand above him, just as I tower over him physically.

“Oh yes, Malazan, I love Tehol and Bugg.” He said.

It was as if my mind just erased itself, everything just became small then disappeared and all that was left was darkness. Then a small bubble of thought sprouted of this like a star being born. And I suddenly realized the guy standing before me was more than just a rival, he was a man. A man who might be just as gangster as I was.

Do you know how hard it is to find someone who’s read Malazan Book of the fallen? People give up on the first book. The characters he’d mentioned, Tehol and Bugg, appear in the fifth book of the series meaning this guy has read the books.

“Uhhm… Guys?” She realized we were staring at each other like long lost lovers.

I pulled the Nairobi boyfriend aside. “Did you read that part in Bonehunters where Kalam took out the Claw?” I mentioned the sixth book, baiting him, trying to see how far he’d reached.

He smiled, God that smile, so knowing, so filled with wisdom. “I knoooow.” He started. “He nearly took out a hundred claws. I thought that fight would be the highlight of the books but when Yedan Derryg picked up a hust sword in The Crippled God,” He shook his head after mentioning the tenth book so casually. “I’ve never seen a man go so wild.”

“He took down dragons.” I said.

“And the hounds of light.” He answered.

I stared at him, he started at me.

“Uuhm guys?” She said. Coming between us.

“You drink keg?” I asked the Nairobi Boyfriend.

His lips gently parted in the way lightskins unconsciously do. “Regular.”

I nodded and turned to her. “Can you excuse us for a moment? We’ll be back. I’ll bring him back.” I said

“Wait what?” She looked perturbed, her face turning to each of us.

The Nairobi Boyfriend grabbed his coat started putting in on. “Yeah, I’ll be back.”

“What the fuck—” She started to exclaim but we were out the door by the time her sentence finished. We went on a three day bender, drinking non stop while talking about books. And I discovered then, amidst making merry and pondering the intricacies of fantasy writing, from character arcs to world building, that the boyfriend to my girlfriend is after all my friend.

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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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Cindy is a fucking whore!

Have you ever had an erection and a hangover at the same time? I have. There’s a science to it, the way both of a man’s heads work together in harmony. To ensure you’re as uncomfortable as one could be.

My head was pounding, I woke up with my ass in the air, my penis pitching tent beneath me. I rolled over, stared at the ceiling. Color seemed to be an anathema, it assailed me on all fronts. And the ceiling, mould staining cream, was the only place where the barrage of light was dim.

I made a decision right there and then, that when the hangover receded I will never drink again. That I’d shave my hair clean and go to Asia where monks dwell on mountains and take a vow of silence to join their ranks. I then thought about the decision and wondered whether there are any black monks in Asia. I wouldn’t want to turn up at a monastery and be chased away by a monk yelling. “Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!”

I needed water, my mouth felt dry, like I’d spent the better part of the night licking sand paper. I turned my head to the bedside counter, a glass of water lay there, beckoning to me. I thanked the drunk me for caring for the hangover me. I took a huge gulp and almost died. It wasn’t water but vodka. I spilled the drink on the bed as I heaved and spat out the bitter taste. My headache increased ten fold and for a brief moment, I thought I could see Buddha.

It’s odd. Like, I’ve been a Christian my whole life, yet when the headache hit its peak I saw Buddha. Must be all those DJ Afro movies I watched as a kid taking effect in my time of agony. I saw a fat man with his legs crossed beneath him, hands resting on his knees, a light shining like a halo above his head. I blinked twice, thrice, then noticed I was staring at my neighbor from outside my window. He waved at me, the fat fuck, I didn’t even return the wave. I closed the blinders and struggled to stand on my feet. I breathed in deeply and tried to blink away the spots in my eyes.

I was suddenly so certain I was going to die. God, I was going to die in my twentys, there’s nothing as poetic as dying young. I have followers on my blog, and on my wattpad and reddit accounts. Followers, people who care about what I said. But I felt like I haven’t been saying anything of importance, there must be some profound thing I ought to say before I died. Something that would really really remain in the hearts of my followers forever, my last bit of knowledge before the grim reaper drove his scythe up my ass.

I picked up my phone, went to the notebook page and typed. *“Cindy is a fucking whore.”* And flung my phone away. That’s how I do my writing. I build on a single sentence, from that line a story would unravel, and if indeed death was knocking on my door, if I took painkillers and the headache persisted, I would lay in bed and take out my phone and write the story stemming from the sentence before I died.

There was a chemist close to where I lived. I made my way to it, I had 20ksh in my pocket. Enough for panadol. I looked like I’d been through three famines and a divorce. My hair stood on end, like I’d been electrocuted. My eyes were bloodshot and my gait was awkward as I dragged my feet across the ground. The sun was like a giant middle finger from God and I winced whenever the light touched my eyes. Through patience and alot of saliva, the ant swallows the elephant. I repeated this mantra as I crawled to the chemist.

I was among the first to arrive at the chemist. Normally when there’s a medical emargency you go to the hospital so pharmacies are mostly not that crowded in the morning. You just have a bunch of women there for the morning after pill and a bunch of men there to make sure the women swallowed the morning after pill. I leaned on the counter, struggling to breath.

“Hello, how can I help you?” The Pharmacist asked. He sounded cheery, as if he’d woken up to a blowjob from an angel.

“I’m dying.” I said.

“What are you dying from?” He asked. I looked at him. He had huge cheeks, and his forehead was shining like an Olympian’s medal. I wanted so much to just tap his forehead with my knuckle, just one gentle hit.

“My head hurts, I drunk a lot last night. I drunk so much because of Cindy and now I’m dying.” I said.

“Uhuh” The pharmacist said while moving to medicine arrayed around him and picking up a few. “Cindy, what did Cindy do?” He asked.

“Cindy is a fucking whore, that’s what she did.” I said. “I’m going to die because of her, because of that whore. God, I loved her you know? I’ve loved only three things in this world. My dog Dorothy who also turned out to be a bitch of a whore, my ex girlfriend Daph who cheated on me, that whore. And now Cindy, Cindy why… Why Cindy… Why are you such a fucking whore!” I was blubbering at this point.

“Sir your headaches might be affecting your cognitive ability.” The Pharmacist said while putting a bunch of meds before me. “Take this liquid, only 50mgs once a day for five days. Take these tablets, the pink ones, two times a day for five days. And this white tablets once a day for five day. Then you’ll be fine.”

I stared at him as one would a talking donkey. “How much is this exactly?” I asked.

“It’s only 750ksh.” He said.

“You’re working with Cindy you dumb fucker. I know you!” I blurted out. “You’re all working together with that whore, every one of you! 750kshs, what do you take me for? A millionaire? Do you think if I was a millionaire I’d give Cindy my time of day? I’d be in Hawaii drinking out of coconuts and entertaining a blond called Lily with a friend called Rose who is also a blond and we’d go and hook up with another friend of theirs called Daffodil because they are all blondes and blondes name themselves after flowers. I wouldn’t be here nursing a broken heart over Cindy, that whore. What does Cindy even mean? Might be Jamaican for whore.”

“Sir you’re causing a scene. If you won’t buy the medication kindly depart.” The Pharmacist said. He looked frightened.

I took out the 20ksh and tapped the counter with it. “Give me panadol, and water to down it.” I said.

The pharmacist obliged. I took all four tablets at one go. My audience of one was appalled. “It’s Cindy.” I said as he gawked at me. “She’s a whore.”

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Wang’s rental

A buddy, a pal, an afidas achate of mine told me that if I ever have a hot babe and I require a place to devour her, his abode is always open for a small fee. His name is Wangare but I call him Wang because it sounds Japanese and the Japanese are an extraordinary people.

Wang rents his place out for people to have sex in. His place is a brothel and often smells like a fish market. You have to book an appointment a day prior to the dirty deed so he’d spice up the place for you.

For 100 Bob you get the place in its most basic layout with just a mop run over the floor. With 200 Bob he selects and downloads for you a sex Playlist for your enjoyment on his woofer and he sprays the place with cologne to ward off the fish smell. There isn’t a higher package but I know a dude who rented the place for 50bob, Wang did not mop the place up and to make matters worse he carried away his woofer so that his client would fuck in absolute silence. I like Wang, he is business oriented and we need people like that if this country is ever to develop.

We need people who look at their homes and go like. “Jeez, I’d make way more money if I hired this place out for people to fuck in.” People who look at a fruit vender and offer advice like, “Jeez, you’d make a lot more money if you sold bigger bananas so people would have sex with them.” People who offer free massages with paid happy endings. Sex sells, if we invest in it as a country instead of parading in churches and stealing money on the down low, we’d be far. Sure the whole planet will regard Kenyai as whores but we’ll be sleek whores, high end whores who offer Wi-Fi while you wait your turn.

I had a girl, a beauty, okay she wasn’t a beauty. Her face sort of resembled Atwoli but she had a really huge ass. And it’s that ass I wished to die on, there at the crest of one cheek, lying insensate with shallow breaths as the ass devoured me. I needed a place to chew her and I called Wang and told him I’m sending him 300bob for a super special package. I just needed him to make his place sexier.

Wang was so happy. He went like. “Bro I’ve been suffering for so long, incapable of attaining my goals because few people believe in me. But you believe in me, you with your weird mouth and blind eyes, tilted ears and lumbering gait. You and your wretched sense of humor and retarded perspectives. You bottom feeding mud dweller, you cunt of all nations. You believe in me when no one else would. I love you bro. Come to my place tomorrow, you’ll love how spiced up I’ll make it for you.”

I agreed to meet the girl at around 3PM. You choose a time after lunch and far from supper so you won’t incur cost. It’s a miser’s trait, I get it and I’m ashamed of it but money is scarce and if there was a male strip club I would have enrolled and earned my place in this society but nooooo. Let’s just build more churches. At around 2:30 I went to Wang’s place to check out the crib.

Perfume greeted me at the door, not expensive perfume like Chanel or Lui Saint Vuiton or Sermada or Agregor or Timelache’. (I know you’re thinking, daaaaamn he knows expensive perfumes. Lol, I made those words up. I only know rexona and that perfume that smells like goat seed.) The perfume was nasty, smelt like abandonement and erectile dysfunction all in one bottle. But the perfume didn’t hold my attention, the lay out of the room did.

“What the fuck is this Wang?” I asked. The bed that was usually next to the wall was in the center of the room. Wang had taken a red carrier bag and tied it around the bulb so the room will be red. Beside the bed was a stool with two glasses of water and something that should have been flowers but wasn’t made a trail from the door to the bed. “What the fuck is this green shit man?” I said while picking up what might have been a petal but seriously wasn’t.

“Relax, I’m setting the mood.” Wang said.

“The fuck you mean! What is these things on the floor and on the bed?” I wondered.

“I was thinking of sprinkling rose petals from the door to the bed,” Wang started. “So I went around town looking for rose petals all over the bushes and stuff and found nothing. So I improvised.”

“Improvised?”

“Yeah. I figured, what’s the difference between a flower and a cabbage? They are both plants aren’t they? So I went and cut up a cabbage and planted a trail from the door to the bed.” He said and smiled at me. Wang with those wide lips and beady eyes, he was a romantic without the money to cater to his ideals, so he improvised. “In the red light the cabbage looks like rose petals.” He tapped the side of his head. “Improvise, adapt overcome.”

“And what’s this then?” I asked while pointing at his shoes that were arranged in the form of a heart with a candle burning in the middle. “What the fuck is that?”

“That’s the symbol of love my friend. And the candle burns to ignite belief in the symbol.” He smiled at me. “Where is that beautiful lover of yours?”

“She’s not beautiful man!” I was furious. “She’s just thick, her face resembles my grandfather’s and the whole purpose of this day is so that I can smash and pass. Now what is this now? You’ve cut the calender into heart shapes and why are your clothes spread out beneath the bed like that! If she sees this she’ll think I’m into loving her and that shit. Aaaaaah God.” I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out an anguished cry.

Wang sighed and fished into his pocket, took out 300 Ksh and tossed them at me. “I can’t let you use the place, man.” He said.

“What?” I was flabagasted.

“I have a specific rule. Only beautiful women are allowed in here. When the deed is done and both of you have departed. I lay in bed and touch myself to images of the naked woman who’d recently graced my bed. There’s a streak going on man, each woman as gorgeous as the last. I can’t let that streak break.”

“You sexist piece of shit. How dare you objectify women like that you pervert—”

“I have my flaws man, I have my flaws. I’m a perv, a delinquent. I have flaws and I wear them proudly. Please depart.” He said and chased me away.

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Sigh.

I lost someone. I’m not saying they died. But they were close to me for years, for so long have they been there but now they are no longer there. And for some reason I thought it to be my fault, I thought there was something wretched about me, something so terrible about me that revealed itself to them hence why they cut me off.

I’ve been sad, and lonely but not depressed, no, never depressed. If you give depression a wedge, it will pound on it and split you open from head to toe. Melancholy is my friend, this brooding feeling that makes me relate to batman, I understand it. And now I’m in it but I don’t want to be. I want be happy, like the people you see in the advertisements. Someone is advertising soap so they are in the shower but they’re smiling there as they bath. Have you ever smiled while in the shower while smelling soap? Those people are fucking sick in the head but I’d like to be like them, to experience joy even if it’s for a brief period of time while doing something as mundane as smelling soap. Ssssssssiiiiiiigh.

I’ve never been cut off without a reason. There’s always something that I’ve done, something despicable or embarrassing but in this case I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve thought about it, I’ve pondered and scratched my head with my fingers, and with a pen, and with a ruler and I also asked the most recent girl who kissed me to scratch my head. I’ve been doing a lot of head scratching but I can’t say why I’ve been cut off.

I tried calling, thrice. They didn’t pick up. I went and killed a hen, there are plenty of them roaming around. I went and grabbed one, took it to an abandoned building and broke its neck. Then I took out a blade and slit its throat and took some of the blood and touched it to my forehead and vowed never to call them again. I also left a text which went unanswered. I went and grabbed another hen and took it to the abandoned building and slit its throat with the blade which was very hard to do because the other hen I recently killed was still lying dead there and this new hen was seeing it and panicking but I managed to kill it. Then I touched the blood and placed it on my forehead and vowed never to text them again. There have been police roaming about the abandoned building, thinking there’s some ritualistic sacrifices going on, a cult of sorts.

I have pictures of them, and videos. I’ve tried deleting them but I can’t. I’m such a weak man. Maybe that’s why they cut me off? Because I’m not strong enough to do the things strong men do. Like brew their own beer, and fight a bear and have sex with a fish. (There’s a guy on the dark web who fucks dolphins for a living, I think he’s very strong. It’s hard to have sex under water.) But maybe after this article, I’ll delete the videos and the pictures. Maybe that way I can be free of them. Loss, loss fucking sucks. But I can’t be the only one holding on to a friendship that’s dead. That’s like walking around with a conjoined twin who’s dead. It’s creepy, sure people will give up their seats for you on the bus and give you space on the streets but it’s because you’re walking around with a damn corpse. Yeah I’ll delete the pictures and videos. Then I’ll have absolutely nothing to watch when I go to sleep.

Or maybe I won’t delete them, I like to thinking about them. They are unique, it’s not every time you come across someone whose sense of style comes off as a breath of fresh air. Siiiiiigh….

I think they gave up on me. That’s my biggest fear by the way, someone I care about giving up on me.

It’s funny, it’s really funny. Because in the past decade one person who mattered to me like oil matters to America, gave up on me and it shattered my world and I spent years building high walls making sure no one will ever have the leeway to do such a thing to me again. Yet here I am again, suffering the same predicament. Sigh, I’m such an idiot. I think I built walls to my front and flanks and didn’t build one behind me to avoid claustrophobia and now I’m paying for it.

I envy Narcissists… There, I said it. Those people do not give two fucks about anyone else but themselves and they glow because of it. You can spot a narcissist from miles away because of the way their perfect skin reflects the sun. They have absolutely no worries, they just feed off people’s pain without it affecting them in anyway. You won’t hear them complaining about love or loss, they don’t give a shit. And karma is absolutely elusive of them. If I hurt someone, in anyway, the same pain I dished out will be dished out to me sometime in future by someone else. Narcissists break the paradox, they literally dish out pain while denying you or anyone else the opportunity to hurt them back. Because they simply aren’t vulnerable.

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh…. It’s just sighs in this article. Forgive me, I know a lot of you have been hurt by Narcissists, I’m just a willow man, looking for an excuse to praise people who don’t feel. I don’t like being controlled by my emotions, I do not like pain. I do not like losing friends and lovers. I do not like meaningless sex, I do not like causing anyone pain or strife. I just wish I was different, maybe then I’d be more alive. I don’t think what I’m doing is living, sure I’m breathing and shitting as we all are but other than that I’m in this putrid miasma where sorrow is a constant and I’m so tired of it and everything. Sigh.

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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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