It’s the third week of March, we’re not dead yet. At least I ain’t dead, let me speak for myself. Maybe you’re dead. Me, I’m still alive and kicking (though I don’t even know what I’m kicking) Donald Trump’s still the president over there in the land of Beyonce. Over here across the wall, we’re doing fine. Our president is still hurling insults to anyone who annoys him, our deputy president is still being accused of killing Tupac Shakur, and he still calls everyone his friend. Our doctors are still on strike ever since Trump was sworn in. Solidarity forever guys! And me, well, I’m about to celebrate my birthday, yes it’s about a day from today. But judging from the look of things there won’t even be any celebration at all. Mercy tells me I’ll just have popcorns and cooked beans for the day. Not even juice will be present. Then they’ll just post in our WhatsApp group a happy birthday message to me and that’ll be it. But still, it’ll be probably the best birthday I’ve ever had anyway. The rest of my birthdays I usually spend my days either in some cyber café scrolling down facebook newsfeeds, typing Amen and liking whoever cared enough to post those HBD messages on my wall or I’d simply be holed up somewhere in my bedsitter, listening to loud music by Dufla Diligon and jerking off after every hour. So yes, even the popcorns are a welcome idea.
Birthdays to me are cursed anyway. I’ve only celebrated four, three of which weren’t even mine and all went wrong. On one occassion I even ended up getting a rested and spending the night at Buruburu police station.
And now that this post is about birthdays, I guess it’ll be fine to say nowadays I just write on occasions; last I wrote during Christmas, the other day it was Valentines..and this one is somewhere close to my birthday. Am not saying my birthday’s even any special. Remember I told you I’ll spend it typing Amen on Facebook posts or if Mercy shall have delivered good her popcorn idea then I’ll be seated somewhere at the office, typing haphazardly to some random audios I’ve been listening to for the past one year. And yes I just used the haphazard word up there haphazardly, even me I don’t know what it means, I just thought it’d sound better when thrown in there. Did it work?
But I should be glad I even find time to write this stuff, at least I can squeeze time between work and the bar to think something up. At least I ain’t like my buddy Jordan, nigga hasn’t even typed Amen to a Facebook post since he got a job. Probably the reason why the god’s are not happy with him. How does he just scroll past those pictures without typing Amen! Jesus is on the other side waiting for his Amen so that he can treat that sick kid yet Jordan can’t even type amen. The nigga is always busy on his laptop with earphones stuck in his ears all the time you might think he’s listening to the conversation between Jomo Kenyatta and the guy who killed Tom Mboya. He’s probably somewhere right now arguing about Machiavelli or Aristotle with some workmate, or he’s compiling the list of people who owe him money so far so let me just leave it at this point. I have his deni and he might just double the amount.
Back to birthdays, what do people do on such days? I mean during Valentines we buy flowers to our loved ones and watch a movie or something. And later on in the evening we probably get laid or something close to that. On Christmas we travel upcountry, again buy flowers for our loved ones back at home, watch some DJ Afro movies and later on in the evening, find the Chief’s daughter and get laid. But birthdays? Where I come from nobody remembers such things as birthday parties. Heck I’m even sure Mum won’t even know it’s my birthday. She’ll probably just call me in the morning to ask if I’ve got myself a girlfriend or I still haven’t got one coz as I told you earlier, at times she gets worried that I might be gay. But hey, am not gay. God knows I love women, even if I rarely get to be in the company of any girl but I still love women, as rare as they come my way. And I love kittens too, I’d never sacrifice my arsehole for any man whether am alive or dead. Well, dead maybe. Coz then I won’t be able to control whatever they’ll want to do with my butthole…but I guess by then it shall have shrinked to a size smaller than it usually is so whoever will want to walk through that dark valley of the shadow of my hole will just be hurting himself, it won’t get in even with all the lubricants in the world.
Okay, what am I even saying? Totally off topic. I was at the point where Mum was to call and ask if I’d found a girlfriend yet or am still as single as she left me when she visited. She won’t even have a clue that it’s my birthday. And if I’ll even try to remind her and ask for a birthday gift, she’ll just ask me “Kwani nilikubeba miezi tisa bado hio haikutosha?” Yes, she’ll pull out the gospel of I-Carried-You-For-Nine-Months-So-You-Shouldn’t-Be-Asking-For-Anything-From-Me, not till you give me grandchildren, which from the look of things seems quite unachievable at the moment considering that the other week I fucked up things with the only girl that used to give a fuck about my life. I know what I did was wrong, very wrong. And I know what I did was stupid. So if you’re reading this, if you ever read it, then maybe one day I’ll be forgiven. But I fucked things up there and now am back to square one. So any hopes of a grandchild are doomed at the moment, Mum.
Back to the birthday thing, this time I think I’ll just buy a bottle of Vodka, download some random zombie movie using the office Wi-Fi, go back home, lock myself indoors and drink myself to death. Okay I won’t drink myself to death, I can’t do that. Let’s just say I’ll be dead drunk, almost to a point of death. It’ll just be me, my bottle of Vodka, and my petroleum jelly. See you later if I don’t die. Till then, Happy Birthday to myself, I hope I live long enough to shit myself again.