MARTIN THE FARM BOY

The last piece of bread lies on the broken glass table, the speakers are blaring in full blast and ‘Jaguar is moving one centimeter away as Commando-or rather something like that'. A thin man of about 5.9 with medium built, a long chin, roughed up hair and somewhat bigger than usual eyes passes by. I recognize him to be martin, but I prefer calling him Ndirangu. Ndirangu describes him precisely, martin seems like a cool person, a person who never asks the price of beer at a bar and always sits on the counter. Martin seems like the person who usually has a horde of women drooling over him while they patiently wait for him to take them home. He is whaT some guys I know describe as ‘ule msee’. Ndirangu on the other hand is the opposite; the name befits a farm boy, a town wanabee. Ndirangu is the type of person who wears an official trouser with timberland, or simbaland. I can’t tolerate someone who wears simbaland. But this Martin Ndirangu has these two ghosts inside him. He passes walking along the corridor, slowly looking down as if he has just been informed that his dick has been reduced by two inches. By the way, that’s the worst news that can be given to any man…well they will have to reduce mine by three inches so it can be standard…true story. He trolls in a checked official shirt and a white short… a sore sight to the eye. I quickly lose attention and glance left, my leather jacket is jumbled up on my couch, remote next to me. It seems immobile, and it seems satisfied by where it is, it seems that it might protest when I decide to take it to my luxurious king’s palace bedroom.

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 So I just leave it there not to spoil its mood. I know there are some of you out there…yes I have just said it, the likes of Boris, the party poopers…who are wondering why I do not intend to reduce the blasting volume, well I just do not feel like it. It’s not my thing…yaani its just not ‘happening’ for me…well I also intend to show that I have watts to my next door neighbour, after all I could get lucky and land some you know matchbox when I need one (the missus will read this and for you who know her, you well know that a reckless statement inside here might unleash unimaginable havoc into my life)…Mama wa soko can see the sequel to what happened a few months ago when the Missus decided to take matters into her own hands. Am still in my pajamas- and in pajamas I mean a borrowed tracksuit stolen for one Austin and an oversized shirt that are usually spotted with a person I do not wish to name for my personal safety. I do not even know why am writing…I just decided to try it to cool off my nerves. Stupid but effective... My two fishes are swimming silently but in what seemed to be a calculated move….I usually tend to think that they are planning some coup or something. There are times that they just stare closely at me when am typing and then go behind the plastic undergrowth in the aquarium as if they have just discovered a weak point in me and proceed to stealthily plan for my demise. These two fish are important in my life, they are always there when nobody is there. They are always happy tp see me. This piece of writing cannot be effective if I do not declare my undying love to my missus. Well I know she will be reading this and this statement of love might just act as my protection and defense when am wrong. And believe me am always wrong to her even when am right. Until when am free to write again…look at a guy in an expensive leather jacket, khaki trouser, Italian loafers and press a 1000 note into his hands. see ya

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THE OL' SKOOL KENYAN CHURCH

Kanisa

Ask a Nyeri guy what’s the capital city of Thailand is, n the guy will be like “um…could it be BANG-COCK?” (no pun intended).

Anyway, I remember my childhood Sundays…I guess my dad chose the hood church coz of its proximity to our crib!!! He was justifies to do so coz it would be more expensive to pay for his fare, my mum’s, my two step mum’s, ‘aunty’(mboch),my big bro’s and step bro plus my uncle who had kujad to tao to tarmac!!! Yeah, that was my family. My mum would bathe me in the big Geisha soap or Flamingo depending on the time of the month, and then we would have a good breko where the first sibling on the table would always have the ‘crust’. I would then lock up my dogs Bosco, Siba and Tusker…(those were the coolest hound name in the hoods)Then we would all trek to Holy Spirit Catholic church where we would be given 2baab as sadaka. That was the biggest mistake my dad was making coz we would buy the tradition ice ‘creams’ (Ingredients: water, food color and sugar) with 1bob and pay the remaining as sadaka. I remember our Sunday school teacher telling us that each ‘bob’ represented a brick in the mansion that Jesus had gone to build for his children. That kinda motivated us to give ‘full offerings’. My mum, after church, would also conduct a forensic analysis on our tongues for any traces of ‘colored’; this was enough evidence for embezzlement of church funds. She once told some church elders to give the Sunday school kids receipts as proof that they paid their sadaka- hehe, crazy is but an understatement for her!!! Anyway, that’s how I made my first shilling, at the age of 6. That has evolved much. For instance, skuizi mi hutumia pastor sadaka bila doh ya kutoa!!! Hehe, that reminds me of some story that happened in some church in Koma; The pastor had called for an harambee to raise some 70k for a church project. Kanisa ikajikaza kisabuni ikachanga only 15k to the pastor’s disappointment! And of the 15k, 5k was given by the County Rep but was in pledge form (Welcome to Kenya). Apparently, some thugs who had posed as ‘washiriki’ pounced on the congregation and robbed all the values! But before they fled, they counted their loot at the pulpit…They had 200k in cash, from the church members!!! The jamaaz asked the pastors how much he wanted for the harambee and they gave him the 70geez and fled with the rest. “Forgive them father for they know what they are doing” said the pastor!!!   Tafakari!!!

LOL and Out 

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