Remember the 1920s? And the dinosaurs? And the Agrarian Revolution? Me neither, I don’t remember. I wasn’t there. You weren’t there too, so forget whatever it is that you thought I was going to say next that makes sense about the 1920s. I was just saying things that don’t even have any meaning. But I’m sure they would have made more sense had this been a movie and it would have been read in some deep Morgan Freeman voice. And in that movie I’d probably be dating, or been married; hopefully to a virgin. I’ve always wanted my wife to be a virgin, which means I need to hurry up; Martha Karua isn’t getting any younger. But either way I’d be married to a beautiful lady who knows how to twerk the hell out of her big behind after I’ve had a stressful day at work. Probably I wouldn’t be working where I am currently, or if I will be then I shall have been promoted to the CEO.
Okay, let me not get over my head here; this place got no such thing as CEO. We are just managed via Whatsapp groups, where all the messages begin with “Hi guys…” then a bunch of instructions follow and we all get to work, scrambling for projects like army worms. So that means the highest position I can be promoted to will be the group admin which means I’ll eventually be able to change the group’s profile picture as frequent as I wish, our profile pic has been there since they murdered Osama in cold blood and it’s like it isn’t going anywhere soon. But judging from the past few weeks’ experiences here, I guess all my CEO hopes are gone. First it started with a rant on that group, then a few heckles here and there, then a meeting, then another sub-meeting, then speeches, then memes, then my ass almost got fired. And since I’m not even allowed to comment on the issue because it’s still in court, I won’t write anything about it. I got to be humble here fellas. Just put a brother in prayer and hope my ass doesn’t get fired. But hey, there’s no job that’s ever perfect. In fact nothing is ever perfect except for Jesus and the first season of Game of Thrones…that season was so full of nudity that I almost thought I was in a relationship with it. I kept replaying the scene where that Lannister nigga pushes the little kid off the roof while having rough sex with his sister as I happily smiled at my tin of Vaseline Blue Seal. I mean which nigga gives doggy like that? You tell me, I’ll wait.
Where was I even going with this piece? This is one of those random days I’m just sitted in the house, chilling with a glass of water on my left hand, the right hand is fidgeting with my trouser’s zipper. It’s refused to close since yesternight when I yanked it off to pee by the roadside as I walked home from Woodpecker Bar & Lodging. I had gone there with my 350 shillings hoping to get a hooker and relieve myself from this yoke of dry spell. But kumbe wale hawabebwi na 350 my friend! They insisted on 400 shillings and above, so with a heavy shoulder I just decided to get into the nearest open cyber café and spend half of that money on redtube.com. Better late than dry spell, right? Or as my dad used to say…well my dad didn’t say anything. He usually says a lot of things that don’t make sense so I don’t even know which one to quote right now. I just thought that line would be better with a quote from my dad.
After trying to close it to no avail I decide to hell with the zipper, it’ll stay that way till I feel like I’ve had enough fresh are in that area. It’s not like it’s even the worst thing to happen to me. Unless it’s like that time when I accidentally walked on hot charcoal and it burned the hell out of my feet, no wonder I don’t have footprints.
So I decide to take out my laptop, or mabati as the queen of Zamunda likes to call it, and write anything. And up to this point I even don’t know what I want to write about.
Today I’m expecting a visit. A visit from Amina. Oh, by the way during this long while that I’ve been away I met a girl, probably the first girl to reply to my ‘’Hey there’’ messages since Atieno dumped my ass years ago. Remember Atieno? The one who dumped me the day she grew breast? Yeah, that one. Amina is coming and I expect her to text any minute from now with those “Niko hapa kwa stage nikujie” messages even though she’s been to this place three times now. I’ll still have to go pick her up at the bus station and walk her home, flaunting her small buttocks as we walk to the house as if we’ve been dating ever since Queen Elizabeth slapped Queen Latifa the other day.
So I guess that explains my long period of nothingness, don’t start thinking I won the Pulitzer Prize and decided to never write again, or I got a new job with the IEBC and I’m already planning how to rig the elections, or I got myself a sack of unga and I’m hiding away from the rest of the world eating my ugali in hiding. Blame it on Amina.
Amina smokes pot, or weed, or chuodho, or ngwelo, or chapatti…the hell, this weed plant got more nicknames than William Ruto! Amina smokes, and considering how I used to hate girls that smoked, I’ll say this one is one of a kind. I hated girls, girls that smoked, girls that smoked weed, or just smoked anything. I hated any girl that smoked anything, except girls that were smoking hot . Then Amina came along and gave me my first taste of weed, real weed. Not these fake shash that are sold for 20 shillings behind my building. Amina’s weed was those Cuban weed that many people died for during its processing; from the farmer that planted it to the peddler that sold it to me right before he got shot by those undercover cops from Umoja. RIP nigga. And that was when I had my first smoke, then I realized I’ve been missing out on a lot all in the name of “Mama said we shouldn’t smoke weed before marriage.” The only drug I used to do was alcohol. And I’m not saying I quit drinking, so if you bump into me along the streets of Soweto just feel free to buy me a shot or two, I won’t mind. I even think I’m having a drinking problem. I drink everything nowadays; from McDowell’s, McMohan, McDonalds, McMuga..anything with a Mc on it I’ll drink. And also this does not mean I’m advocating for you to start smoking pot and blame it on me when it goes south on you. That’s at your own risk my friend. But hey, if even Albert Einstein said YOLO, who am I to disagree with that?
Back to Amina, I’m expecting her over today. I’ve already bought my bottle of McMohan, the house is tidy enough, the utensils are clean, I’ve made my bed for the first time since I-don’t-know-when, the dirty clothes are all stacked neatly in the basket. And now I wait, chilling with the glass of water on my left hand, the right hand finally stopped fidgeting with my zipper, and now it’s idle. I’m tempted to reach for my Vaseline and give myself a jumpstart but then I think twice about it. I don’t want Amina coming over and finding me on autopilot mode after having wanked my dick off so much that she’ll just have to ride on as I just lay there with my flat tyre. Which reminds me, I think this might be the longest I’ve gone without jerking off I guess. Excpet for that one time when my cat died and I got so sad I couldn’t do it for like half a day. But when it struck noon, baam! I was back on track. I’ve already bought two packs of protection from duka ya maasai which he gave me on condition that I paid him the money I’ve owed him since the last week first, and since desperate times call for desperate housewives, I just had to pay the nigga.
Now we wait.
My phone’s vibrated. I have a message. I think that’s Amina. She always texts, never has airtime to call anyone. The only time she calls is when she wants borrow some cash and promises to pay the next week which she never does. I got to go pick Amina up or else she’ll buy chewing gum and start chewing while swinging her waist at every nigga that looks her way. I garra go. And as I always say, see you when I get laid. And this time it’s for real, I mean it. Adios!