Black Man, You Are On Your Own


I don’t speak French, but my kisses do.

– Eddy Ashioya –



I work in an advertising agency.


It is like working in an AA but without the perks you know.


My mother thinks I am her most responsible son. Ha ha.

I am as good with responsibilities as Wavinya is with Kiswahili. Everybody has been making jokes about Wavinya’s Kiswahili. I am no exception.

If Kiswahili is work, then Wavinya is Kenya. Things don’t work in Kenya.


Writing is like massaging your ignorance. The thig about words is that they are just there. Lying there, waiting for you to play with them, touch them, caress them. You do all the work, by the time you are getting to the prized asset, you are dog tired. Doggy? Yes, please.


It is much harder finding the right words. It is like having the hots for an African woman. A Kisii maybe. By the way, did you know Kisii women are the hardest to ingiza box? Which is ironical because they are terrible kissers as well. Don’t be fooled by the Kisii word – it does not stand for a kiss. 69? I thought you’d never ask.


Writing is like falling in love with a bastard. He keeps on hurting you and cheating on you with all these ugly tings but whenever he is home – you are in your own world. People say that you should not fall in love with a jerk – but why shouldn’t you when all the Mr. Nice Guys are as entertaining as a speech from Meles Zenawi.


I know I have lost half of you there.

Let me school for you for those who spent the better part of their parent’s school fees staring at the attachee teacher’s cleavage.  Zenawi was the Ethiopian Prime minister. For all his military prowess, dude was a straight shooter when it comes to giving speeches. Staring at a rock was more entertaining than listening to him speak.

Ever asked why terrorist avoided Ethiopia? Aha. You got it.

Zenawi’s speeches were a torture in themselves.


God bless you if you happened to have known his daughter, in the Biblical sense, without marrying her.


“Young man.”




Did you know my daughter?




Young man.




Did you know my daughter?




Young man.




Did you know my daughter?




Young man.



Did you know my daughter?


I… I…


young man.




Did you sleep with my daughter?




young man.




Did you know my daughter?


Yes yes I did. I di with her even doggy, cow, monkey and elephant style. We even tried 69 times but she bit me. I am sorry, I was not myself.


Corporal Haile Selassie Kariuki (of course, Okuyus are everywhere. Who run the world? Girls Okuyus. ) will escort you to the cell. Kill him.


Back to our bastard.


So he treats you like trash when Mr.-Nice-Guy here calls you treasure.


But his dick game so good you can ride on it from here till Mombasa. Forget about the SGR train, this thing longer than the Mombasa railway tack.



It is that small flicker of hop that keeps you going back. Because you think, there is hope even for the damned. And you want to be the lady that finally ‘saved’ the bad boy. But that is like masturbating your thoughts, at the end of the day, the only thing satisfied is your hand.


But everyday you keep hoping=ng. hoping that may be this is the one. This is the article that will propel me to stardom. This is the bastard that will finally give me my first kid. But like everyone else, your dreams are hopelessly futile. There is no difference between you and the ladies that shave their eyebrows and draw back them on. It doesn’t make sense. Don’t argue with me. I am an adult. Nye nye nyeboo boo.


But for those 30 seconds of satisfaction is worth it. Besides the average man collapses faster than the Sigiri Bridge.




I feel it coming by  The Weeknd.




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