To Date A Writer

To date a writer

I found redemption in her thighs.

– Ashioya –

I have been out of creative writing for so long I can still hear Mugabe’s ego whispering to me that ‘Only God can remove me from power.’

But in a country where the government demonstrates against the government, the teachers demonstrate against the students and the wife demonstrates against the husband, it is hard to find good things.
I mean Kenyans are known for many things, denial being the apex of our bragging right. And I think I am in denial, my writing skills have gone to the dogs. The only pen I can hold on now is the one that ends with an ‘is’.

I am trying to finish this damn article and go home because it is 2018. I said in 2018 I will push myself to the limit. I keep looking at the word count – damn, it’s just 100 words.
Working in the advertising industry has made me a man who comes short, at work only, so wipe that slapstick grin from your face. Pervert.

Anyway.

I am at work. An expansive office with 2017 Macs and a bevy of hip-throwing, slay-queening, goal-destroying Daughters of Zion
I switch to YouTube and tune in to Khaligraph Jones to see if his fake accent can rub off on me, but the Russians have infiltrated the internet again.

I am stuck with Gabrielle Omollo’s ‘Lunchtime’ hit, God rest his soul in eternal peace, and I can’t believe the level of truth in this song.

So this new intern chic comes and sits next to me. An acolyte of sorts, she interests me with her mannerisms. She is not particularly beautiful. I just like her boring nature in particular.
And her name.
All her names are brief and to the point – like her parents were in the morgue, sorry birth room, and they just said name her whatever.

She has no body to die for – but the dye on her hair looks goodish. Her perky breasts do not fill up her H&M blouse, but I can see her ass struggling to free themselves from her tight beige granny pants. Her teeth are mildly white, but her breath smells of a sunny morning at Diani Beach having breakfast under the stars. In a few years’ time, she m,y become one. No, not a star. Someone’s breakfast. Beach?

My boss would not be happy of how I am writing. I am writing to no purpose. This article has no meaning and it is a means of me just ejaculating points. As a matter of facts, this article is as useful as a used condom.

Btw, I have just been alerted that le prezidente Nyakundi is an avid reader of my blog posts lol!
So before all the slay queens jump away from this line of writing, remember that the world is not fair, but it is lovely.
Plus Willis Raburu is working out and now it seems my relationship with people also needs to go to the gym.

This is the holy grail of explicitly. I have tried cleaning up my mind this 2018 to see if my articles can be family friendly – but Ezekiel Mutua won’t read me if his life depended on it.
But in the middle of my angst, I found redemption.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m Cyprian Nyakundi. When I look in the mirror, I wonder: Is it me? Am I Cyprian Nyakundi? But then a chip crumb falls from my hair, and I’m forced to remember that no, I am not Cyprian Nyakundi—I am merely a vast, yawning receptacle of Nyakundi knowledge, like everyone with internet access and a passing interest in Twitter.

I don’t like the suggestive look on this girl’s face. Sure, I don’t mind having lunch with her, but my wallet could give two shits about her. I know her kind.
The sexy-smile-what-are-you-doing-later-tonight kind of smile.
But I know how to deal with her.

I eject my HTC from my picket pockets. Scroll down the contacts.
Aha!

‘Hello Boychild?’

‘Hello. This is Cyprian, is Nyakundi, Boychild Headquarters. For slay queens press 1. For over 27 press 2. For forced meals and bills press 3.’

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