Rough Ride

Before anyone attacks me with ageist, sexist or plumpish nonsense and elitist stances, these are real occurrences that marked my yesterday. Matatu industry has it's shortcomings,but it has rare advantages too. Leaving the bed sitter at three for the city, I hopped into the first one. The occupants were sleepy save for the driver and the khat chewing tout. I had my location at the last seat. On my right was a middle aged man, smiling and letting saliva slip,maybe he was dreaming letting free fluids elsewhere! On my left was a lass, twenty or twenty one, good voice, glowing eyes and with the little light,I could spot curves. We made slight introductions, then she fell asleep. And I became the pillow! One hand around my neck,head on my shoulder,our ribs had a jigsaw fit. Total strangers, and we had a rhythmic breathing pattern. We crossed forests, towns and villages. She woke up as the rays of the sun showed the magnificent floor of the Great Rift Valley, Big Five Viewpoint. "Oh my! I'm sorry I fell asleep on you. Forgive my late night watching habits. So sorry." "I'm good. I have to apologise, you slept on me but awakened a lot in me. You fell on me, I fell for you." That's that. We exchanged more than words and numbers. ####### Whoever gave karma that 'b' name wasn't mistaken. My trip back had it's dose too. A second seat behind the driver's,at the corner, near the window I sat. A nice lady, armed with a green paper bag full of ripe,very yellow bananas. And well her size was twice or thrice mine. She took her sit, and half mine. That wasn't a big deal, I'm still so skeletal, probably the worst possible( how do I add weight and still a Certified Job Hunter?). Hell broke loose when she began 123-undressing the bananas- and with a funny sound, chewing and swallowing. A funny concept, small pieces spilling on my khaki. And her speed? By the time were near Limuru, the paper bag was empty! Then her sleep wasn't far. Her mass found a pillow on me. Poor lad, was all I could. Trying to push her was an uphill task. I hate matatus. Gladly, the vehicle was a box, good speed and the road free of traffic jam. Her destination was Naivasha. She left me with a funny grin. I spat bitterly. And she was sweaty! Thanks to my Verseman roll on. ##### From Naivasha, I was lucky to have a man of my size, body not age. With similar likes. He had a Daily Nation, reading all the Budget pieces. My phone was running out of power. I remembered my Nairobian. Witty, gossipy,sexy,bloggish* and well a youthful paper. With that story on Eros getting paid soft loans by the Luo daughters in the list( via uchi wa mnyama!), I peruse quite fast. Before we get to Kikopey I'm through and bored. My next-generation grandpa is done too. He suggests we swap the papers. I warn him mine is age specific, he doesn't mind. I can only go through My Network pullout, the rest are taken care of, I had watched the Budget live on television and had the pdf somewhere. My man was having fun. Softening his lips as he went through every story. He felt a bit embarrassed,but so happy to be overcome by the age nuisance. His destination was Elburgon, as he left the vehicle, he bought me 'tea' for such an informative ride. I told him when the publication is done. He quoted one of the stories, "Old Cats Too, Take Milk." I laughed as I bade him goodbye. I hope in fifty years from today, I'll not be eating tens of bananas in a PSV. Neither will I sleep on others, nor read the Nairobian and it's likes! #Nomys_Madness

I Succumbed:48 Hours In The Abyss

I died the for last 48 hours, but I'm back. Yes, I know it's weird and out of this world to declare such madness. I'm not the one saying it. Ask my friend James and my little brother Dave. In fact, it's them who decided to call me dead. After a long journey, local tourism crisscrossing the hilly but currently dry land of our beloved country, I took not only a heavy meal but also a nice shower. Within an hour, I could hardly follow the comic film, The Vice Principals. I took one more thing, a triple dose of piritons and bade the excited boys good night. We were to share the bed with James, a conflict that always made nice battling. " I don't know what ,makes me feel that one day, you'll attend to me uninvited. That's the day I'll break your typing hands and render you a good for nothing brat." He would laugh it off claiming I was too skinny and too manly to arouse anyone of the same kind. Not to say he was otherwise, but his love for beauty items and the prowess in the kitchen made me throw the dirty punches. We shared and still do share the room, our first after college. Little brother had just closed school, we hosted him and our sofa was his bed. I died on Saturday. The first twenty hours, I slept heavily or really died. On their way to bed, nobody noticed but on waking up, six hours later, they noticed the dead body. I was still, slightly cold and my breathing was undetectable. James tried waking me, I didn't respond. He went to the kitchen, made breakfast, woke Dave in the sitting room as he was the one to iron clothes that day. He slapped me. My nerves couldn't respond. He got shocked and smartly asked the little brother to have a look on me. I was straight, even colder. Zero response to sound, touch and sight. ##### # A call home. Mum is devastated. Uncle is on his way. A friend of ours, a nurse we call Daktari, is called too. She confirms my death medically. However, there are inconsistencies. The pulse is there,though slight. She's detecting no twitch,the eyes are dead. But at least there's some warmth,she calls it a half death,a coma. No one is impressed,but confusion rises. I can hear them,though miles away. In whispers. Elsewhere, in my world, gigantic duo is playing pranks on me. Funny faces, scary eyes, enormous hands and on birthday suits. Hairy chests and trumpeting voices.One is on my chest, reducing air to negligible. The other one is a mockery machine. Asking me to do my best,for they're my kidnappers, my saviours and judges too. I'm using gestures,they want sound bytes. Ever wished death? I'm yet to, almost at the breaking point. I can hear my uncle's arrival,he's confused. Sees me and confirms death, traditionally. Says that even after slaughtering an animal, pulse doesn't leave instantly. He suggests of a morgue, Daktari says no. There's a flicker of hope. They argue, in the sitting room. I'm with Dave, he's weeping, losing his brother is unimaginable. I cough. He thinks it a hallucination. He waits for a second one, none comes. He tells no one. I'm getting slaps, forced to make decisions, confessions and declarations. The gigantic duo in the world where only the three of us exist, are cleansing me. Promising a second chance,if I abide to their expectations. I have no choice. There's a boring world with no food nor friends. An abyss of fear and neglect,however it was one of redemption. Having signed, the papers, I was released. Uncle mentions casket, I jump and ask him, " My casket you mean? Not yet dear uncle. Thanks Daktari for saving my life from the freezing chambers. And James, Dave, sorry for my oversleeping. I'm hungrier than you two combined, get me something to eat as I take a shower." #Nomys_Madness

Masters Of The Loos

In the cubed chambers, What's done there is amazing, In the comfort of privacy, Waste and exploration meet, Creativity picks to the peak... You may wonder, The ingenuity, Behind absence of paint and brush, But the strokes on the walls, Where the finger becomes the brush, And you know what the paint is! But some messages are so strong, And the drawings so artistic, Does this amount to vandalism? Before you make furrows, In that caked face of yours, When did washroom become a studio? Don't you think the photos stink too? Or is it love for the feeling after dropping the load? But don't we love the toilet mirrors? #Nomys_Madness

Who Are You?

Who are you? The photo is unrelated to the poem. Photo credits: Daily Nation You're a specialist in awakening my best, Every moment we chat, Hold a conversation at the wee hours, And the neighbours wonder how long a call can be, For your stitches, Your stories, Are always so green that my vitamins and minerals level shoots to the stars, Like a comet, You leave a sparkling tail, Tail longer than any epic tale... Who are you? I'm lost into your world, World full of ambition and passion, You dare the river to move uphill and the sun to rise in the west, Your glow grows like a wild weed on a fertile land, Wild fire on a windy day wouldn't outdo your speed, The rush to get the unexplored... Who are you? With boldness of a rooster, The courage to mount on your target and spit the seeds, The seeds of your desire, The desire of your heart, The heart that was once hurt, That heart that's wandering and wondering where its true destiny, True destiny, will it ever find rest? Who are you? A friend or a confidante? A joker or a joke? A masquerade or a lover? Your identity,is synonymous to your complexion, You're simply complex, A natural mystery that needs a nerd to demystify... #Nomys_Madness

WHORING

They'll bump into you, One after the other, Full of lies and cheap stolen cash, They'll rap like hooded goons, And beg like the proverbial camel, With their malicious intentions, They'll haul their false hopes into your places of worship, Distract your funerals with crocodile tears, And steal all your fun with their feigned social concern... After falling for them, And their cruel antics, They'll fly to better lands, Where their security is guaranteed, They'll sleep in the August house, And expand their accounts, For your money will be diverted to theirs, You'll die and sink in lack, Their bellies will bulge, And belching will be a normalcy, Just as yawning is to you... And stupidly, You're shouting, Getting kicked, Defending quacks, Whose ulterior motives, Are beyond your stripping, And like a whore, Your services are paid for, Even if you carry the seed, The few coins you pocketed, Were the sign to the terms, That you're cheap, And desperate, To be used for one's pleasure, And zero strings attached... #Nomys_Madness

She Was Unique

Whereve she's hiding, he'll find her.PHOTO/COURTESY.



She wasn't weird,
Her happiness was in craziness,
Simple but out of norm,
Was her definition of fun,
For she was unique,
A laughter engineer...


That afternoon,
She kept on counting,
The number of beard on his chin,
As he enjoyed the little nap,
She kept on losing the number,
And chuckling to think of it,
She wasn't weird,
She was unique,
A laughter engineer...

He woke up,
Opened the ears first,
And the eyes tactically,
Then joined her fun,
Can I help you lady?
She softly patted his cheek,
I'm lost because of you,
And he softly replied,
I'll never be found,
I'm lost into you,
And they held warmly,
For she wasn't weird,
She was unique,
A laughter engineer...


On the dining table,
Her diet was lively,
Fresh fruits and veggies,
Fresh crabs and frogs,
Fresh love and laughter,
Fresh hope and loyalty,
For she wasn't weird,
She was unique,
A laughter engineer...


She wasn't weird,
She was unique,
A laughter engineer,
Wherever she's hiding,
He'll find her whatsoever,
If he doesn't,
His disease,
Laughter deficiency,
Will ensure he succumbs,
But before it does...

#Nomys_Madness

Cheap Chat

Our meeting point in the evening is a den that parents disapprove of,a falling shed cum hotel where we sip cheap coffee, sell rumours,tell our dreams and bet. The owner, makes a staggering profit of KSh. 300 a day. Mutwe is his name perhaps his naming squad noted his massive space between the ears and named accordingly, who follows the naming processes nowadays? Our talks are random and very small too. The most important thing is to keep the chat lively to suspend the memories of aching backs. You see, in a season like this, lifting cabbages is our goldmine for coins. Our muscles aren't left behind,like we put it around here, like the cock knees (who thinks like that?). We don't mourn, we tease and have fun.

We love fun,we have it.PHOTO/COURTESY

We, the guards of the Muchene village have been practising fairness in our actions. Of course, fairness in our terms is for the "fast rat" an explanation behind why Gathenge has impregnated three girls and sponsored four abortions (some of us are struggling to sustain one). His heroism has made our mouths busy and his story fascinating. His run away,remand and cheating escapades make some 'newly cut' revere and dream breaking his record. He has money as a broker who cons fathers and mothers with their consent and therefore buys us all. It doesn't take much as you can think of, just a cup of the cheap coffee and a several kangumus and he's in control, only when around but as he departs, his stupidity is mocked.


" This conman must have the genes of a rat and a fox!" Spits Mathuri. We burst and this exoneration is embraced.

"How does one dip his whatever in all the available depths and without protection? Let him get near my sister..." Threatens Rucwiri, the thinnest in our gang.


Mathuri is besides himself with laughter,

"The last time I checked, you were thoroughly beaten by two sisters only to be given a month rest with swollen limbs and a broken lip. I'm waiting to see your action in dealing with a well fed man."

We, the spectators are enjoying. Our ribs are endangered,and as the attention shifts to the lady beaten sister protector, we can't have better.

"You fool bought me the outlawed liquor knowing so well that sour milk was my single most fermented drink. And those idiots..." He stops, spits and sweats not to say another word.

Gathuri, a more sensible, quite experienced having nursed two post-marriage back to zero (asset wise) and already grooming for a third one, raises the security topic.

" Do you guys think its fair for us, the young to stay out guarding the resources of these freedom fighting aged fellows as they snore?"

That's a great silence pill, maybe unconsciously, we're made thoughtful. The responses vary. For and against. It's agreed that by the end of the day, the folks are dying and within no time, we'll be well rewarded. The only concern is on fairness, a major unfair issue.

The rain falls. Heavily. We're excited, there's job tomorrow, planting and pushing lorries on the neglected roads. The truck and tractor owner, Wamakari is campaigning for the area MCA, promising good roads and a better bridge, probably to ensure his business thrives. Sadly, most of us were so busy sipping the cheap coffee that the voter registration period 'left us' behind, I bet Omtata will try fighting for us,and lose.

It's getting late, time to see what the stinking(cowdung and shower skips ensure this) wives have prepared and of course the whines top the list. We part but not without a final replay of the rogue boy's wife who is nursing face injuries after a failed attempt to scare the girl alleged to snatch the husband and most importantly his weekly paper bag( shopping).

Unlike, sheep and the river that follow a common course, each of us knows his way home. Speed is necessary as cowardice levels rise, at least when we're not together. Hasn't the rumours stated that some of us are the thieves and muggers? Plus Mama Toto songs lately are suggestive,war...

#Nomys_Madness

Bloody Dogs

The dog licked the thick blood. Everyone stared. Who had the the guts to dare stop it? Wasn't the 'dog' that stabbed the lady worse than the real one?

A knife can and did more than peeling potatoes.PHOTO/COURTESY.

### ### ###

Nights were meant for sleep while for others, they were meant for slip. Save for internet sprawls,no more motions for me at night. Liquid consumption is always checked to control dream distraction and injuries(last time I stumbled on a stool on my way to drop another one, I fell with a thud, bled like a cornered mosquito, and forced to open eyes and let go my Beast and White House dream. A sad explanation to a fake birthmark on my right cheek) of course cowardice is not part of the equation! So as I stick to sleep, an idiot specialises in slipping. And this night wasn't the best, it was a test that saw someone rest.

### ###

A cock can't be cocked or cock in a single territory or as the adage goes, no cock serves a single hen. This is a battle ground for Guthu and Tuthu, neighbours who are happily married. Their partner in crime Metho has ensured that the two have a competition, his wife. You see, this madness of building a house in the Muchene village,leaving your wife there and working in the city only to appear on well-known dates, is the mother of all differently mannered kids under one roof.

So Metho is working hard in the city and heavily investing in Muchene. His latest acquisition, the high density Bobmil mattress and a king sized bed have ensured that the guest frequency is a notch higher, the bed is too big, too cold for his wife. Company is necessary. The fact that the lass is well endowed, shy and generous, makes conflict paramount. Guthu and Tuthu have their shares but as usual, battle for dominance is up. Guthu argues that he deserves a larger share since it was he that the lady wanted but Metho had the cash and speed, he spewed too fast and claimed ownership. Tuthu on the other hand believes in survival for the fittest. Above all, the lady called him more often than Guthu. This is the birth of death.

###

Grapevine doesn't sleep. Whispers crawl. Doubts and allegations against the two rivals reach Metho. His wife doesn't deny anything, but confirms nothing. She pesters him to either choose her or the job. He chooses both. Wife at home, job at the city. The wife, Nyarari warns that if anything happens, she's not to blame. Their children, Jill and Job have joined boarding schools, now the wife is the sole occupant of the mansion. Rumours haven't spared the ears of Guthu's and Tuthu's wives. They've heard and issued threats to the accused.

Guthu, in a desperate mission to revenge his loss in the competition, confides to and confesses to his wife,Nyakairu. She's happy but also ready to punish the husband snatching neighbour. She's an embittered soul for as much as her husband has come back, she's certain he wouldn't mind dropping his finger in her (Nyarari's) honey jar one or more times. Nyarari, like her name is a pretty petite doll whose glow only a fool would ignore. They conspire. And the conspiracy falls in the right place.

Tuthu,free of competition now rules Nyarari's body. She's all his in the absence of the hardworking husband. To his surprise, instead of Guthu getting annoyed, they become even better friends. Like a hungry hyena, he falls in the trap of trusting and confiding his moves to the former rival. Tuthu's wife, Mso, is a giant both in body size and anger management. She has a record of husband battering and her siblings hate her too. She is the reason behind the dents on their faces and stomach linings. Her husband reveres her but the charm and wells of a meek prettier woman have made him a warthog.

##

This evening from a spree with Guthu,Tuthu tells him how he'll enjoy the night,in the best loins of Muchene. They laugh. Guthu sends a text message to his wife who forwards the same to the enraged giant who's more than willing to enjoy the catch.

#

"She's killing her, help! Help!" Guthu's wife calls for the fake help. She's happy of the outcome. The scheme was excellent. She's however worried, the giant is too aggressive and emotional, she'll cause damage beyond the plan. It was supposed to be a lesson,not a murder.

Nyarari's death is in everyone's mouth. Perhaps, this is my version of the same, various versions are flying. We're helplessly watching the dog lick the blood. She was stabbed several times before anyone came to save her. The scene is sorry. The architects out of fear have confessed, the culprit is on the run. A siren is heard, the remains and the architects are flown to their various cells.

#Nomys_Madness

And we crowded. Telling the various

versions. PHOTO/COURTESY

A Replay Of A Sorry Tale.

 It has been long. Yes, so long a silence that the memory of my last chat is blurred. So long that the young birds have developed crushing teeth!

Sigh. Here's my balderdash...

#### ####

Listening to an orator is an exciting experience, listening to an exaggerated experience by an orator is even better. My neighbour, the young man whose paternity is linked to a veteran politician is such a fellow. His mother sang so well and the politician got impressed to the extent of singing for her too, only that his was a lull that saw the melodious bird silenced by the bulging tummy. The father of the girl, grandfather to our orator was silenced too. A nylon paper bag full of cash for total silence over the daughter's 'little mess'. This led the man astray, drinking dens that saw the grandson inherit nothing but the laudable prowess in both lovable and laughable oratory skills.

Too much narration? Here we are! We are around the three-stoned kitchen, (its ages since we met here, thanks to cold and KPLC) Janie, my shy teeny sister, Andre and Dan, the cheeky twins we faced the knife the same day but I'm their senior, I got the cut first. Also in attendance is Grace, the queen cousin whom the naysayers and gossips claim we share more than blood. And how do I forget the man of the day? Jack, the politician's bastard, who also deserves the b name for his unapologetic crude utterances.

Of course this is not our kitchen.PHOTO/COURTESY

It's a bit smoky and sooty too. Jane is whining over low battery and the constant power outages. She's wishful, a little nostalgic of the good old days.

“You dunderheads worked so hard to make me scream on my way to the river. Only cowardly boys of your caliber had fun in making a girl shriek then, sadly none of you is hooked yet, so it appears you're still cowards."

That sounds fun. We laughingly tell her off. And the captain gets the topic of the day out of it.

“Wow and you are too scared and reserved for us. Otherwise, all girls of your age are mothers of not less than three tots. Keep a year longer and depreciation will be sipping coffee, enjoying the scene of your 'baby less' at forty. You'll have to beg me for just one." He rants, like a chant, apologist to none. We love the sadistic jeer.

He twists the story, making fun of my sister's low battery and the power outage in relation to the 'technological revolution' in our village. That sends shivers across the smoky kitchen especially to us, boys in the house. The twins revolt. They can't stand the torture the memories harbour. Sadly, the politician's son is in control, like his father, he's a real piece of work. He thrives in negativity, probably that makes him feel so happy that he forgets his weather struck den, a symbol of political neglect and personal negligence to duty.

He takes the little podium in style, like a well exposed traveller,

“Not so long ago, the village of Muchene only heard of the radio, TV and solar through the old newspapers that the shopkeeper wrapped the precious items such as half bread with. The great news of having such town's treasures in the village were received with open arms ,and a series of thanksgiving prayers in the church the following weeks. Thanks to the first man to sire twins, despite their loose nuts and shared height, he was outstanding not only for ownership of notoriety, but also in having the privilege of having the possession of the first ever radio, TV and solar panel !" We listen keenly, sheepishly rather like townsfolk listening to an ancient tale from a historian.

Jack enjoys the attention and the occasional blast, correction and 'nonsense' from his all-knowing audience.

The shape was funny but then,sounds mattered more. PHOTO/COURTESY.

His recollections on how we stole the radio on adventurous mission to find out where the singers and the anchors hid. That calls for a moment of silence. Not that the discovery was such important, never. The aftermath was. We were beaten and bitten too. Our action was more than a modern day treason. We were a disgrace to the whole village. The elders meeting was immediately convened and our parents had to pay and apologise profusely for our lack of manners. Were we cut by then, we would have been ostracised, thanks to our age and delayed studies.

The tale continues as Grace, my precious controversial cousin serves us tea. She takes charge for a while, retelling how I almost cried as she strained to explain to me how a piece of black striped glass 'brought power' to the battery through some wires. She enjoys my stare to the blackened roof, aware that she's got me, not off guard though. It had took the Thomas in me to see, so that I believed.

Jack has taken three big sips, his big lips are already dancing, re-energised.

"The way we filled your sitting room on Sundays made you feel like demigods. Your dad's instructions were clear, 'no lights while watching the TV', otherwise we were bound to get blind."

He gives us time, to let the village tycoon's wisdom.

If the greatwall was this size maybe we would be in the Guinness book.PHOTO/COURTESY

Nothing excites than the memory of the black TV promotion to a coloured TV, a in the name of a funny transparent rainbow like plastic piece that made eyes feel some funny itchiness.

"You were admired by girls oh stupid twins, but you were too naive to take the advantage. Now that everyone owns a flat screen, coloured and classic gadgets, you're doomed. We'll have fun scrubbing ashes into your ridges now that we have GMO maize cobs." That's deep, and cruel too.

Lights 'return', our story ends.

#Nomys_Madness.

Careful

Enjoy,

Toy,

Have fun,

It is worth,

But,

Let caution cushion you,

For surprises rest not,

And the heart hides a lot,

Be ready.