Growing up, I used to love watching 7th heaven.
Malcolm in the Middle. Everybody Hates Chris. The Jeffersons. Sister Sister. That’s so Raven. I am fully resigned to the fact that my peers are now closer to retirement than they are to changing jobs. Myself, I’m now talking about investment vehicles instead of roadtrips. Chei. Brainstorming baby names (the original babies not these Naivasha ones).
Speaking of, most women don’t know this, but I am a boobs guy. And the reason I don’t want twins is because they’ll leave me nothing. You know what I mean.
It’s the same reason I have always wanted to date a nurse. There is just something dangerous, intrusive, and bawdy about nurses. And it is almost impossible to find a nurse who doesn’t like uniforms. As you can tell, I am into uniforms too.
Dating a nurse is like asking a Catholic for a sermon. You don’t know what you’ll get. Have you noticed how unbothered Catholics are? You need an Omosh-like confidence to date a Catholic. Now imagine a catholic who is also a nurse and boy we got a runner.
Where was I?
Oh. Life is too short and the time we waste in yawning never can be regained. You want to know why I am not replying your DMs? Economy! They gave me fake money! Fake! Hurt people, hurt people.
Some of you are probably saying: Fool, what did you expect?
When it gets to the end of the month and you have approximately 70 shs to your name, it’s easy to think that you live in the most expensive place on earth.
Let the record reflect that living in Nairobi is like having a Faustian bargain with the devil. Sure, when you forfeit your soul to the infernal dominion of Lucifer, you might end up with limitless knowledge and sensual pleasure—but a pact with Satan just doesn’t get you what it once did.
Ten years ago, the market for mortgaged souls was strong, and what the archfiend took in lieu of our integrity is just not worth the same anymore. Nevertheless, it’s not totally hopeless. (Well, in terms of your soul’s eternal rest, it is absolutely hopeless, but, re: your mortal living situation, there are slivers of hope here and there.)
You know what I believe, deep in my heart? That cooking is not even important. If we’re going to ever heal this nation, we need to start having uncomfortable conversations about why I am not cooking anymore. I am not a Russian oligarch or belong to thaat family. I’m frugal with money. I’ve got money—okay, fake money—but I won’t spend it refilling gas. Throw in nyanya and bread and you’re officially on the radar of Nairobi’s Spiciest bachelors.
At a wallet-demolishing 1,250, this gas is making just as much impact in my stomach as it is on my life savings.