NASHUKURU(Happy New Year) - Danny P

 

Nashukuru Mungu kwa kunilinda mwaka mzima,
Siunajua kuna wengi walituacha wakazima,
Lakini bado uko na uzima
Na wengine hosipitali wanalishwa kwa mipira imeunganishwa na stima,
Lakini mimi natafuna tu vizuri githeri na sima,
Acha Mungu apewe heshima
Vitu umefanya ata uwezo wakukulipa sina
Ulinipenda ukaniokoa when i was a sinner,
Nasema vitu God amefanya they are great si minor,
Great kama student wa matiangi akipata above C minus

Naelewa huu mwaka umekuwa hatari,
Kuna wengi walipoteza mali,
Case za break ups tumewitness kila mahali,
Na mwingine alinyang'anywa bibi coz hajalipa mahari,
Hata Rafiki yangu Larry alikuwa ameplan kumarry, kabla huu mwaka haujaisha
Lakini bado yuko single coz wasichana wetu wanatafuta mwenye ako na gari na nyumba za kifahari

Shukuru Mungu kama uko salama,
Wengine juzi waliangamia kwenye road accident Mombasa road huko salama,
Wengine kwa mabiashara wamepata gharama,
Juzi rafiki yangu amepoteza mama
(Moment of silence )RIP mama Mercy na Lucas

Yaani Yesu nakupenda na kwako sitahama,
Sijui niongezee mistari sita ama,
Coz vile Umenitendea nashuhudia na confidence siezi stammer,
umeconfuse seasons hadi winter kwangu nikama summer
We ni Jehovah nissi Jehova Shammer,

Rafiki zangu huu ni mwaka Wa urejesho
Kama ulijitahidi jipange sasa ule jasho,
God ako na hesabu ya life yako ya kesho,
Atakupromote uingie kwa ofisi uache io kazi ya Casual
Its your spoken word star Dannypdalton as usual,
Clear sound kama Johnttez wa krucial,
Na hii Ni audio tu ngojeeni vitu visual,
A prosporous Happy new year is what i wish you all

@Dannypdalton
  #spokenword
#Mzikisanainjilisana

 

Till Love Do Us Part

(PART I) 

MAANZONI LOUNGE, 19.02 p.m, 21^st April, 2014

Cool music. Playing in the background. I guess it’s Neyo. Usher. Or maybe Akon. Yeah. Akon. By the way, how does a black ninja sing in such a feminine voice? I don’t get it. That’s a thing for white folks (No racist). But it’s great. Cheers to yoh all Akons out there. Keep making stuff. Serves the purpose just right. Puts you in the mood.

Warm lighting. Illuminates the room. Thanks to the candles adding a breathtaking look. What’s that scent? Scents of garlic, boiled onions, not really sure which it is now. But it is something close to that.

Two silhouettes. Silhouettes in the dark. They hug. Caress. Kiss. Touch. And shag. One of those figures is Stacy. Me. Me naked. Him nude. The shagging goes on and on. 

This is ecstatic. It will last forever. I want it to go on. On and on. It’s magical. I feel him. Him in me. I move my waist round and round. He moans. Moans like a wounded dog each time I do that. Each time. I do it faster, then slower. Faster, Slower. Repeat. I want him all. All in me. I feel him. He feels me too. He is getting there. He is downhill and going fast. He will be 'home' soon. I better catch up fast.

“Keep going!” I shout. That ecstasy again.

My left hand rubs his Arab hair. It’s soft and pleasing to touch. My long nails dig deep into his skin. His masculine back though suffers most of my claws’ adventure. I wrap my legs around his butt. And pull him deeper. I can’t hold it anymore. Yeah! Yeah!

“I’m cumming baby!” I beg.

“Yeah! Have it! Get it baby!” He replies.

“Yeah! Hit it baby!” I command. 

And boom! He explodes like its fucking Afghanistan. His grip tightens with every grenade of his ‘warm-yoghurt’. His grip is stronger than those of Thor and Batman combined. Those guys should come benchmark with this guy. It is the very last blow of his drip that sends me to worlds unknown. My turn is here and kaboom! I blow up and shake like I’m having seizure. His, now immobile, body pins me to the bed like the nails on the Titanic. For a second one could mistake my shaking to power surges. He keeps it in there, just the way I love it, till I am shaking no more. I stare at the ceiling above. Stare, and stare for long.

15 minutes later.

I slip to the side of this king-size bed and sit up. I look at Carl lying there. His chest reveals a good amount of time invested to keep fit. I envy him. How does one get to be so lucky in life? Wealthy and good looking. I think that is success on steroids. No potbelly, or one of those forced-kitambis some of these Subaru-driving boys try to force on themselves. Hey fellows, you look like malnourished kids from somewhere in Turkana. Cut that thing. His eyes. They look so peaceful. So certain. Like he has found exactly what he has always been looking for all along. I do not know what to feel about it. Should I be happy or sad for him? Guilty? Maybe.

I look away and stare at the candles still ablaze. Wide awake. The flame burns lazily. I can’t help but stare at it. The flame is swayed from side to side by the breeze from the swimming pool outside. But never does it go off. It is resilient. It forms irregular, regular and all manner of shapes as it burns. Yet remains as the flame. Just what it is. I feel becoming the flame. I have been hit by waves. Waves of life. Sometimes the waves are too strong that I have had to change my shape. Yet I still remain a flame, no matter what shape I take. Or have I? 

“Creepy?” Carl whispers into my ear.

His voice isn’t the deep type, but it is very reassuring. It has a way with me. It takes me off wonderland.

“So you say, maybe,” I reply.

GNFA CHURCH, MACHAKOS, 11.02 a.m, 17^th December, 2016

Flowers. Lots of flowers. Lilies and roses. I look around and I am amazed. All these for me. I love it. All for love. I never thought in a million years that this could ever happen to me. I mean, why me? I do not deserve it. But well, here it is. You better make hey while the sun shines.

Smiles. Smiles everywhere. Male and female. All smiles. All for this big day. I look around and all I can see are good hearts here to witness my big day. The day I turn from being a little girl, to being a woman. A woman of a man. I have looked forward to this day for long. It’s my wedding day.

Now, here we stare at each other with my soon-to-be husband. His eyes glow. The kind of glow that makes you feel creepy if you are lying. It’s my wedding day, but well, what probably could I be lying about? Well, I’ve lied twice or thrice. Maybe a little more than that. Hey fellows, hold your whip before you begin judging me. Who hasn’t told a lie or two? Well, I have, and can’t a bride for fucking sake have a lie or two hidden somewhere in the past? So like the Son of God once said when he himself was walking amongst us mortal folks, he who has no sin let him cast the first stone. Funny story, the fellow just then decides to begin drawing things on the ground. And before he is done with the fifth bird(if that’s what he is drawing), he looks around and everyone has left. So, kindly, put back your holier-than-thou guns. So where was I? Flowers, smiles, staring. Okay.

He looks very handsome in his tuxedo. Trust you me, this is the first time I have ever seen this guy in a suit. I mean, this guy is allergic to suits because, since time immemorial I have never seen him in one. He keeps saying suits make people like penguins. Forgive his sense of humor, but that’s just the way it is. Not even the pants. The closest he gets to penguinsm is a khaki. He has an attitude to white collar. I guess that explains why he never pursued his education even after having passed so well in his KCSE. He rather opted to get into the farming business. It seemed like a pretty stupid idea considering his parents are advocates, but you gotta give it to the man. He really made it work. And here we are years later. Him forced to put on a penguin by this particular event. Why hasn’t he ever downed on a suit before? He fucking looks awesome. Enough with the cursing fellow! This is my wedding.

“If there is anyone here who thinks these two should not be joined together in a holy matrimonial, speak now or hold your peace forever.” The Reverend poses the most dreaded question ever. 

I mean why the hell do they ask this question? Are you trying to break families beforehand, Reverend? You see, some desperate girl somewhere who thinks my husband could work best with her could probably shoot their bloody hand up and fuck up this whole thing up. Or some random mad man somewhere could just show up in decent clothes, like  my guy’s suit here, and say that we have been shagging in the preparation room just before the wedding. You see? That’s what I’m saying Reverend. Is it possible to remove that part of the wedding recipe?

Karma is a bitch.

“Yes! Here!” Some idiot from the back shoots their hand up and everyone turns around with their mouths wide open like they have seen a ghost. As wedding security is about to grab him, two bigger securities appear, and well, the wedding security curl their tail in between their legs like a little puppy. Every part of me begins shaking like a twig. I don’t know why but it feels like everyone’s eye is on me asking, 

“Who the hell is this dude?”

Hey idiots, it 2016, don’t you know dudes shag dudes these days? Or haven’t you heard of those men who go around kissing other men like maggots do, what the fuck do you call that(cursing again?)? Stop staring, you are scaring the shit out of me. This guy could be anyone guys. So can we at least keep an open mind fellows. Thank you.

No, no, no. Guys, tell me this is a nightmare. Where the hell has he come from? On my wedding day for that matter, come on guys? You don’t just show up on my wedding day fool? Or which asshole invited this other rich asshole? Suckers! I told you guys to keep a secret. Come on. Who told him I am wedding today? Oh, wait a minute, and he didn’t bring a fucking date to my wedding? Gross. Who does that? I mean, everyone brings a date, right Benso(You guys remember Benso? My retarded cousin, and guess what guys, he fucking brought a date!)? Not even a present or something? Come on? Someone please hit the alarm button? Or if there is a sink button too, or any fucking thing that can snatch me from my own bloody wedding? Guess what? That ain’t happening. This shit is as real as it comes.

There, right there. Walking to the pulpit, on my wedding day, is the ‘lover’ I left in the middle of the night two years ago.

“Hello Betty” Carl greets.

“Who is this honey?” Elisha asks.

To be continued.....

Mama, Now That's A Job

"Index 143!" ordered a loud female voice.
"Yes sir! Sorry, Yes Madam!"
The whole battalion of students eager to face their life defining paper burst in laughter as I majestically walked to my desk. I could feel the sharp eyes of the invigilator pierce me to the bone marrow as she escorted me with them eyes like a faithful bodyguard to his master. It was as if she was asking me the Sholei-question, "Do you know who I am?" But I gave no single care of what she was trying to declare with her stern face that completely was no match to her curvy body.

She had the kind of body that God created on a weekend when there was not much to create. You see, on a weekend I imagine God created the "wonderfully" made, while the rest of us normal/ugly folks came off the pipeline as the "fearfully" made. She downed on a very thin dress that seemed to beg any hand that had the opportunity to touch her. The kind of dress that isn't too long to kill you with boredom or too short to make a man have a heart attack, but long enough to hide the subject matter, you know that type? Right?

I took the desk next to the wide window. Not that I chose it for myself but because the Old-Man up there pulled His strings of fate and saw it fit for me to be index 143, not 142 nor 144, but 143. But who am I, a mere mortal, to question what His Highness the Lord Himself selected specially for me? Who am I?

I took my rightful place and began chanting every prayer that my staunch Reverend had ever taught me. I could feel that these prayers were being served to God by His army of Gabriel and the strong fellows up there. They were not the kind of prayers that have to go through the likes of Peter, Matthew and doubting Thomas for vetting, no, they were designed so personally that daring to open my letter/prayer would amount to one trying to read a letter of a son telling His father the problems that ail him. I hope saint Peter with his excessively inquisitive habits didn't poke his nose on matters that do not remotely concern him. If you did, Peter, I have a bone to pick with you. That's not a threat for that matter.

"And lastly, index 223!" That female voice again.
Each student took their designated place ready to reap what they sow for a whole scorching 4 years. I was in "the others" hall with the rest of us bunch of fellows who never worked hard in form three and fell for index numbers that were identifiable by more than 2 numerals. This is where all idiots who hardly managed a mean grade beyond a C - converged to undertake our examinations.

Don't judge me that I found my way to this hall too. You see in form three I had these adolescent emotions which were burning me up like a raging fire on grass. Story for another day, but now you know how I ended up here.

Two very mean looking men joined the lady and begun dishing out the examination papers. A thin sweat was declaring its paths down my shaggy hair which had not had a visit by the barber in ages. I took a deep breath, thanks to my yoga tutor, and calm took over me the same way the seas calmed during the time of Jesus of Nazareth. By the way, I still don't get how this fellow used to talk to storms like they are his pals. How?

So I take out my pen and ready it to ooze knowledge and experience that has been earned not so easily but by a long four years of hardship(read canes) and lots of maize and weevils, aka, githeri, and a few beans here and there. I felt completely ready for this specific English Writing paper, regards to my teacher of English, one Mr. Hillary Muthoka(this is where I send shout out to the rest of my teachers, but today save this space for this soldier-strong teacher).

I was armed to the last tooth to fire arsenal after arsenal. Delivering blow after blow on the Queen's language. I could imagine my fellow students scrabbling to catch the slightest glimpse of the justice I was going to do to this paper. My very joking friend, George Mwendwa(by the way watch his music on YouTube as Rota Dee, how have you guys not watched his music?) would probably be throwing papers at me in an attempt to have me position my paper squarely for him to copy my work. Yeah, he would do that like he had a PhD in Exam Thievery and Answers Editing. Sorry sir, that just seemed like a good line to spice my story

I could imagine the examiner marking my paper with broken ribs out of reading the wealth of memes married with sophisticated language I was going to deliver. I hope his/her insurance works, owing to my humor he/she would be in hospital for days, which means a big bill, where the insurance comes in.

I brace myself up and I open the paper. Karma has a way of embarrassing me each time I am ready to do justice to a task.

Long story short, five years later here I am behind my laptop delivering my wrath upon the keyboard to pen down this article, namely, a blog post, while the rest of THE students are surgeons, pilots, accountants and other jobs which deserve the name JOBS.

But well, I guess it's not such a lose because I keep folks like you glued to their phones, iPhones, iPads and other i-devices.

Mama, now you see where your fees went to? Right? Mama, I have a serious job. I do articles, scripts, blog, write, in short, I am some idle jobless fellow who writes stuff as it trickles down my brain. Now, that's a job.

On a serious note, adults, I am a seasoned filmmaker, script writer, photographer, and basically any job that involves holding my camera or penning down my story via the qwerty keyboard.

Check out my coming film, "Circle of Games". Thanks my faithful readers for keeping me employed here. Have a drink on my bill.
Cheers.

Déjà Vu

Las Vegas Club, Mboya Street, Kisumu. 22:03hrs, 11th August, 2017
Boom! Boom! Boom! If you hear the shot, don't panic, it wasn't meant for you. A wise man once said that. I don't wish to sound like a sadist, but with the piles of bodies lying around this place, I think I love that ninja who said that thing about hearing the shot. I'm still breathing for some reason best known by the man in the skies. Maybe he wants me to narrate this story to my little grandchildren somewhere in the future. He wants me to tell them about how that bullet hole on my thigh came into being. About how fast liquor leaves your system especially when men of the uniform enter a club full of drunkards and decide that they don't like the way y'all are drinking. And behold they unleash terror upon you like they are lucifer on doom's day. Or maybe my kids will decide to be assholes and never bring the babies they make out there to listen to the "old-man's" stories. Whichever way that goes down, the bullet lodged in my left leg doesn't feel so good. Or maybe I'm gonna die, and this right here is it. My last few moments to take a breathe of sweet mother earth's oxygen(or whatever it is we breath, just breath anything). Could it be the end of the world, like my Prophet, Pastor, Dr. Mwaura of Holy Evangelistic Love Presbyterian, or HELP, Kirinyaga(my hometown). Could it be what he was talking about? But not really, he talked of trumpets blowing and white. Very white light appearing from heavens. It's dead dark and those sounds outside don't sound anything close to what trumpets sound like, though I've never heard one real close other than in movies. So I guess I'm stuck right here with reality. This is happening. I'm about to crawl when I hear a gun cock right above my brains. "AK47". Definitely that. And how the hell would I know that it is an AK47 when I've never heard one cock before? I freeze and fall down on the ground and confess all my sins to the good Lord. I also ask Him to prepare a place up there real quick since I'm coming home like the prodigal son. I hope He orders for the fattest calf to be slaughtered since... Damn! I don't know why I just told Him that, but somehow that's how my story as a prodigal son is supposed to go. Right? I need to know how the church runs these days when I get there since I have not frequented the one here in the land of men. I also remember to ask Him to put a straining order on Thomas since he will be pissed for me ignoring God's word yet he himself verified Jesus' authenticity by putting his fingers in the Son of God's hands that were perforated with nails. He will be really pissed that I became an asshole like him. He might want to verify if I'm dead by putting his old fingers(I figure he is old) in my left leg too. I don't want to end up with a finger inside my leg. That nigga must have been bad shit crazy(don't argue, I know he is).

Voice: Nani wewe jinga(Who are you fool)?
Me: Boniface Murithi
Voice: Ati nini? Wapi Kitambulisho?(What? Where is your identification?)
Me: Murithi, iko pocket ya nyuma(I am Murithi, it's in my back pocket)

Karumandi, Kirinyaga, 19:02hrs, 30th December, 2007
"Habari kamili," says the radio-man. And he goes on and on with his usual job that he seems to love. What does one love in reading stuff through the radio that no one even listens to?
"Babu, siku moja utanitolea huyo mtu wa redio akuje tucheze?" my smallest brother asks. He is 4 years old, and attends Greenpastures Daycare, Nairobi. He seems to be loving the stay here in upcountry while me and my smaller seem to hate everything about this "ocha" place. For me it's understandable since I get to till the land with the big men for the simple reason that I am joining class 8 next year. I hate growing up for this sole reason. People begin treating you like a grown up and give you responsibilities of grown ups in the name of 'making you a man'. I wish we could just go back to Nairobi, but you know the thing with wishes and horses. So I gotta grow whatever growing I am being made to grow here. Well, my second bro, I don't know why he hates this place, but whatever that reason is, it seems to make him a piece of work.
"The radio-man will come to beat small babies," the other bro answers the smallest. And just like that, he begins crying and runs to the kitchen where Grandma and mother are preparing supper. My 'work' brother laughs at the smallest in ridicule and follows him out of the house. I sometimes think he is an idiot. But that I leave to the time to prove me wrong. My father and grandpa seem so keen listening to the news. I got to be attentive too and listen like 'men' do. The radio-man isn't one of the sweetest things to appease the ear to, especially in these times of Nameless, Okwonkwo and Jua Cali. Mr. Nice would do good, but well, his sound seems to be facing extinction especially with the emergence of Ali Kiba and Marlaw. But I gotta do this listening, otherwise I won't seem serious to sit on the table of grown men. He says something like the president was declared to be Mwai(that seemed obvious from this side of the country), and kind of that didn't go well with the Kisumu people. Then they chose to reject the president elect and say the votes were stolen. Haha. This thought almost makes me laugh(in the midst of 'grown men'), but I hold it for a moment to think about it. How can you steal a vote? Literally, how? And where do you intend to use, sell, drive or whatever thing people do with stolen votes, where will you put it into use? The radio-man goes on and on. Talks about some people found dead. Some in Nakuru, Kisumu, Eldoret and some in Nairobi. Well, I hope we leave this place real fast so I can go see the dead folks that have been left lying on the roads of Nairobi. I don't know why this thought comes to me. Not that I fancy or have ever seen a dead body before, but it sounds like it could be fun.

Las Vegas Club, 22:30hrs, 11th August, 2017.
Talk of bad and good fate, and I think they mean the same thing in real life. Only that one is the opposite side of the mirror. Well, welcome to the other side of the mirror. I'm here washing myself in beer that I don't have to pay for. Because, well, when you are friends with the man with the gun in the house, you tend to have some power. And the only other soul alive in the house for that matter. I call him my friend because, the good Lord apparently send him over here, to drink with me. And he has taken the bullet that was on my leg off. But I've got to admit that nothing is more painful than having that small piece of metal taken off your body. I don't know how many minutes I was out, but who cares for timessake? I am here drinking from the toughest of the spirits on the counter. He is seated on the cashier's chair serving me drinks. We begin from Kane(750ml), cool it off with Tusker Cider, and now we are uphill Guiness. He seems to be in a pretty lazy but happy mood today. Hell! I've never met this barnacle before, I hope this is how he is always like. We drink few beers as Officer Opondo explains to me the million and one ways he can just blow my skinny-self, but well, karma has it that we should be drinking from the same table. Literally. And to drink we do.

Officer Opondo: Bonny, you know you can just stand up and run yourself out of here. But look, here you are, drinking like an idiot with a man who will kill you at the end of all this. I must say you are the most stupid person I've ever come across.
Me: Some people say I am. Others say I just am an idiot Officer Opondo... (interrupts)
Officer Opondo:... Come on, I'm your friend, you can call me O.O. No need for this Officer bullshit. For all I care this much looks like the end of my career. Have this. (Topping up my glass that has not gone below half)
Me: I must admit that you are the first soldier I have met that doesn't want to take charge of the situation by firing a gun.
O.O : What's that supposed to mean?
Me : Either you don't care about your job or you just feel like not doing it today.
O.O : I take the latter.
Me: Meaning?
O.O : I am just a man that doesn't want to be a zombie. You know how those wicked things chew people to the last bone?
Me: I figure we share an interest in our movies.
O.O: You see, for us we eat people with the muzzle of our gun.
Me: And sentence people to eternal damnation I guess?
O.O: Not really. You see His Majesty Lord has this way of sorting people. (Takes a sip and continues). Those who show the middle finger to the two tablets he gave Moses face eternal hell fire.
Me: While the rest of you saints who remove bullets from strangers' legs are saved from all manner of destruction.
O.O: (Chuckles) I wouldn't be too sure.
Me: I would probably petition my case in Paradise. I mean, look around you, did these guns fire themselves into these lifeless beings?
O.O: Kid, what do you know about this Paradise you talk about? And definitely this doesn't look like the best place to talk about that holy stuff. So can we talk about something else like how I will shoot you?
Me: That's a joke right?
O.O: Ooooh! Did I give you the impression that I was to set you free after this?
Me: I think that's what you do when you take off a bullet from one's body.
O.O: Even if I did, I think satan has some place for me in hell, so no petitions in Heaven. I got a seat down there in hell. More so at the VIP section for the things I have done.
Me: Things you have done?
O.O: Kid, how old were you in 2007?

Owiti Street,Kisumu 22.05 hrs, 31st December, 2007
It's new year's eve. Funny. Why do we always hate the year that is nearing its end? Always. We label it a year of disaster. Even when the village dog dies of old age, it's still because of the bad year. Well, I guess that's us just being sadists. And to cast away the demons of this ending year we gather just to wait for 0000hrs. Typical. So this night is no different, people are meeting in churches, mosques, clubs and others just sitting at home, staring at the clock like some kind of idiots. Just anywhere where people can bury the gone year and welcome the new year. Anything goes. However, in this part of the country, things are different. The city. Is silent as a cemetery. Save for the little drizzle hitting the garbage bins on the alley, the rest is gunshots and deafening silence. The gaping open shops speak of a dangerously fun day. People must have had a lot of feasting on the abandoned stocks. A young soldier in his mid 20's strolls slowly and cautiously. His gun projecting forward in a manner to say "I'm here to execute my master's command." He looks left, right, forward, left, right, forward and so on. He looks so ready to do his mission. Doesn't matter what it is, anything that tries to move in front of him has a shoot-to-kill sentence. Anything. See, thing with being a soldier is simple. OBEDIENCE. I mean when the commander tells you to jump, you jump only ask how high to jump midair. From a few meters he can see a ragged fellow trying to drag itself on the muddy road. The rains are now beginning to increase. He walks faster towards the person of interest. It is a severely wounded woman. She looks wounded. She turns around when she sees the light from Opondo's helmet approaching. She can see the muzzle of the gun but begs mercy. It's at this point Opondo realizes that she is also pregnant. Very pregnant. Let's say one week or two tops, and beyond one more mouth to feed on mother earth will pop up.

"Tafadhali nisaidie!" she pleads with Opondo. No. She prays to Opondo.
"Nisaidie wamenikatakata na panga," goes on her prayer.
Then Opondo stops. He is new to this shoot-to-kill thing. Matter of fact, he just left Kiganjo this September and this is his first mission ever. The rest have been little picnics to arrest busaa addicts and brewers in the villages. Which haven't been much than drinking parties to him since his superiors join in the party of drinking and after they take lots of busaa, they are handed their chai, and leave talking in languages he has never heard of. Then right here is a peculiar situation. A soon-to-be mother is begging for the last bit of mercy left in this world. And only him holds that mercy. He can hear footsteps coming from behind him coming. His squad is on its way here. He better say something about his situation. He stares at the eyes of that woman. He can see the despair. The kind of despair that says, if you don't save me I will haunt you for the rest of your life. The kind that says I don't know you, but I depend on you this one time. Your choice will be the end or the only second chance I have to life. The kind that says, this despair is the only thing I have left in this world.
"Tango 6! Come in! Over!" buzzes a deep voice from his walkie-talkie. They are fast approaching where he is. He can tell that. The footsteps of death sound faster and louder now. He has to decide fast. But what jurisdiction gives him even the power to decide the biscuits to eat even at the barracks? Not so, can he even decide the time to call home? No. Not a chance. He is the bridge between that unborn child's life and death. He can choose to let the kid live, but what if the kid becomes one of these slay queens who will leave you for a ninja who owns an ideos phone? Or let's say the kid decides to be too much of an idiot to pursue music when his mother had saved for his college education to get a "real job"? Or the fucking basturd decides to be bloody terrorist and bomb any country at will? All because you didn't pull the damn trigger. No. No. Not good for Opondo.
"BOOM" The little smoke from the gun testifies of a decision taken. The lifeless body falls on the ground.
"ALL CLEAR! Over!" he yells at the walkie-talkie. The rains increase. Blood flows with it. Lots of blood.

Las Vegas club, Kisumu, 2257hrs
O.O: A wise man once told me that the hardest thing to live with isn't pulling the trigger, but the outcome of pulling the trigger. (sips more of his drink). I wish I never pulled that trigger.
Me: I thought going around shooting people who piss you off at will is fun?
O.O: Kid, you watch lot's of movies. (Stares at the bodies in the bar) Look at them. (pointing at one of the corpse). That there was someone's daughter. Save for her shanty dressing, some day she could make a great mother to some fool. At that other guy at the corner, well, I'm sure he would have become some Lung-cancer survivor. I mean, who takes that lots of shisha all by himself? All? How selfish can one be with smoke?
Me: Lung-cancer is worse than the bullet, you know. That thing I hear eats you alive. You start shedding off parts of your body like it is pruning you. On the brighter side, kind of died a sweeter death than the hungry cancer.
O.O: I wish I could see it that way. Why did I shoot that woman?
Me: You tell me, you fired the gun.
O.O: And then after that I got in a killing spree. Shooting everything I met on my way until the whole nightmare was over. And I don't remember any of the other people I shot, except that pregnant woman.
Me: Could be ghosts?
O.O: (chuckle) I think that's an understatement. That thing been chasing me for ten years, you think that's a ghost? No. It's bigger.

We both go silent. From my community, there is a belief that when people go silent all over sudden, there is a bad spirit passing by.

O.O: All this in the name of keeping our country safe.
Me: I guess to some extent it's true.
O.O: so keep it safe for who if the people we keep it safe for are shot dead like birds and their bodies dumped in lake Victoria for fish to dine on their eyes and every ball-thing on the corpse.
Me: Do fish gorge out the scrotum?
O.O: How do you explain missing balls from the bodies we collected offshore after 2007? That is like getting served with chips and sausage as an added bonus.
Me: Shit! It's a lucky day to die a female I guess.
O.O: (looking at his leather-bound watch) That's my time. So any last words before I send you to join your buddies in heaven or hell?
Me: Do I have to say all my possessions including my socks, to whom these should be inherited to?
O.O: (Cocking his gun) Do I sound to be in the slightest of jokes to you. Kneel down there. (pushing me towards the dead girl) Try to be closest to the ladies otherwise people will think of you as a homo if you die on top of a man's ass. They might curse you even in death.

At this moment I realize that this is it. My final moment. A chance to confess my sins to the Almighty. They are countless, so I don't know whether to put them in a folder then send at once or what. And , I hope He doesn't play them on the slideshow I hear He will be having on judgement day. Otherwise, all the little times I farted at friends' birthday parties, the way I used to stare at "mama-nguo" as she washed my shirts, or is it how I had that quickie with my ex's best friend when she left us to go get waru. Stop staring at me like that. I'm not as fast as a rabbit. Idiot. There is a reason it's called a quickie. And my ex never knew about it. Please, dear Lord, if you have to play the slideshow, can you hit the skip button when you get to this one scene. I figure your remote looks just like the ones we use here. I say my final prayer and hope against hope God does accept it.

Me: I'm ready.
O.O: It was nice meeting you, what was your name again? Whatever the fuck it was, now you just become another statistic. On 3. 1,2,3

"CLICK" Eerie Silence!

Me: What the fuck?
O.O: The fuck is you're still alive. Cheer up son.
Me: Son of...
O.O: Bastard! You should be grateful, not cursing. So, your only mission tonight will be to stay in here till dawn. Don't touch any more liquor or you will rat yourself up to a younger me and he will surely shoot you. Are we clear?
Me: Clear as water, Sir!
O.O: Have a silent night.

And off he walks. I stare in dismay as Officer Opondo's silhouette disappears in the neon lights at the exit. My only job is to stay alive tonight and I will have a second chance. I figure the fellows collecting corpses in the city will be here soon. So I slowly crawly to a place somewhere in the store to survive the night. There are rats, but they are now better than having your little eggs chopped by some hungry fish. I can imagine how the headlines of every newspaper will read tomorrow. This takes me back to my boyhood days. And before I know it, I am fast asleep.
It all feels so familiar.
Déjà vu

When I Met The Cotton Doctor - Morgan Clothline

So one of these days, Felix, my assistant film director and I went to church and truth be told, he looked real dope(save for his black as coal complexion). The thing about me and fashion is, I am the last person you want to meet especially when you have on you are a flop. Doesn't matter what designers you got, if they are a flop, I tell you straight to the eye. Not that I done on the best stuff, because, when you spend your entire life behind the camera, what business do you have with attires save for your black vest, nice shorts and some sandals(if need be, otherwise you will always be on a dolly or crane).
Felix had this nice looking blue coat that seemed to fit every inch of his bony body(ooops! Sorry if you are reading this) like whoever made it was masking it on his skeleton. It had these two white and red stripes, not painted but real cloth, that gave it both an expensive and swaggish look. But the thing that completed this look was nothing else than the classy, glossy, flossy(add all nice words that are am embodiment of great fashion, as long as they end with "sy").
So for once one had me craving for great fashion and I sought to know who the tailor of that coat was, and that's when I met Morgan, Felix's brother(another bony one. Haha).
Morgan is not your ordinary tailor. He is a god in what he does. Like any other person claiming to be good, I put him to test and what he delivered was way way more than what he said he would make. I mean, he didn't just deliver, he amazed me. The African print he made for me was so good that it has become my most favorite cloth. Like, I literally have to remind Felix, and a bunch of other people I call friends, that I have other shirts, because it has become my Sunday best that I do not plan to abstain from putting on. So I sought to know this guy's story and this is what he told me. 

CODESET: Who are you?
MORGAN: My name is Morgan mbuvi
CODESET: So what do you do?
MORGAN: I am a fashion designer as well as an artist.
CODESET: Artist? Tell us more about that before we get into fashion.
MORGAN: Okay I was doing music back then but I noticed that my projects weren't selling that much...
MORGAN: So one day I was called for an interview in a local radio station and as I interacted with some artists I noticed that talent alone in music can't take you far...so I got maself some skills that would enable me push on
MORGAN: So fashion was born...I began creating looks and taking them to my tailor only to realise that this is actually my real talent
CODESET: What a story. And off that was born this? So tell us about your brand?
MORGAN: Actually I run my own brand..MORGAN CLOTH LINE. I concentrate more on flower art I.e lapel flowers, bow ties,pocket squares,hair bands,wrist band and much more...I also work on African themed outfits. Like the Nigerian native shirts,the maasai ngauo styles,the ndembele print patched shirts and lots of colourful goodies
CODESET: does this mean that you can tailor the product to suit the customer's taste?
MORGAN: Sure

CODESET: Morgan Clothline, when did you begin this.
MORGAN: Mmmh 2015
CODESET: So, you have been running this business for 2yrs, how do you find the business?
MORGAN: Like any other business it has got some challenges but I thank God I find it easy to get to a solution incase of a problem
CODESET: Good. So, where can people get your products?
MORGAN: Most of my clients are distant so we work online on delivery basis...but you can get us at Thika youshop stall no 13
CODESET: Majorly online? So what's your page so that people can grab your products there?
MORGAN: Facebook am Morgan Mbuvi my page is Morgan Clothline twitter@MorganMbuvi insta Morgan mbuvi
CODESET: That's great, so what is your final word to the people out there?
MORGAN: Am calling out on the youth to try and  realise their talents and work on them.I really discourage idleness.I call myself THE COTTON DOCTOR all because when am down or something I get hold of 'Kitenge' pieces and do something cool...

There you have it. Simply put, THE COTTON DOCTOR.

I Met A Woman

7.30pm finds me waiting at Guardian Angel bus station in Kisii town. I am new in this town so I am fascinated by the buzz of this hidden town at this hour. It is like it was asleep and is now like the chirming birds of the morning. I walk around here and there, and I realize how beautiful the scenery is. To the far left, somewhere in the sky I can see the "Tuskys" mall sign hanging somewhere, I don't know where. Whoever came up with that logo deserves to sit at the table with the same geniuses who said the dollar ought to be so green. The green letters are not complete without the cream tusk on top. It represents the pride the founders of this family chain stores took in satisfying the customers' needs at an affordable price. Probably coined from the Nakumatt elephant prices, so why buy the elephant when the tusk is the only valuable thing there? That's my theory though. I stare at the glittering lights from a club near that supermarket and it draws my attention that probably in there I can catch myself a beer for company. Yeah, that would be good company especially when your girlfriend whom you came to see has just rushed back to campus for fear of the night. It may be dark wherever she has gone, but whatever is right here is completely different. This city is full of life. I had heard a lot about it but I never in any moment thought of a time the night would find me here till Liz joined the University here. At first I thought it was a bad thing that she came here since it's lots of miles away from Kirinyaga, but you see when you don't come from one of them rich families, whatever JAB gives you, you gotta accept it. It is like the judgment day when His almighty will line up folks of all races and declare how they did in their short miserable days. That is how I picture JAB as, since I passed through the same and of all the places they ever thought of being sent to, they chose Taita Taveta University. Like that wasn't enough, they denied me all the gifting that come with working hard to get a university calling letter. They denied me HELB loan. I never got a single penny of that "right of a comrade" as we called it, and that didn't go well with me. If you have ever been a victim of this you understand the whole process of becoming an orphan all over sudden just to get the right of a comrade. Then they deny you that money as if to tell you that, "Young man we know these tricks." But somehow that wasn't so bad for me since for some reason best known to all hustlers in God-Bless-Kenya, here I am taking my cold beer in some bar in Kisii, with my own money. Money earned from a career I never imagined I would ever find myself in, but out of lack of pocket money in campus, I bought a small camera that has seen me become one of the most sought after photographers in Kenya. I am from a gig in Kisumu for some celebrity who prefers to keep things underground, who had some dowry payment ceremony there. Then after the gig, I decide why not drop by and say hi to my little Liz. And that's how I end up in this bar.

I am staring at the crowd in the bar that is cheering on some team. As a photographer I have learned to stop time and just stare at the excitement of life. All of these men here have problems, lack of fees for their lovely kids, an unfaithful wife, some unpaid creditors, businesses going south. Yet they forget all that just to celebrate this moment. Makes me want to think, we are all headed to the storm each  of these people are going through. Some good, some bad. We don't know how but somehow we all get there.

I am not a football fan, so I stick to my glass at the counter. I am so glued into my thoughts that I don't notice the beautiful woman who comes by and immediately begins talking like we have known each other for years.

Her: So electric like an orgasm.
Me: What(baffled by this woman's erotic language)?
Her: You feel the best moment and you want it to last forever, but you know it will be over, and damn you are back to real life (just then one of the teams scores. I don't know which but the whole club goes wild. It is like she can read the future).
Me: (talking over the noises)I don't know you but whatever it is you are selling, lady it's good for philosophy.
Her: I'm not selling none, but I could if you said what you really want to buy?

She orders a drink from the waiter and she walks like a peacock to the VIP section. As she walks away I stare at her long dress that has a similarly long slit on the side. Her thigh gets exposed with each successful step she takes in her long heels. It is as if she has a masters in walking in those things, not like some ladies from the big city who walk in those things as if they have robbed a person of them. Her perfume is so inviting to resist that I find myself following her like a faithful cult member. As soon as we sit down, I realize that she isn't a lady in those long lion-like nails. Her's are natural, well trimmed and polished with some silver nail polish which seems to agree in color with her necklace. One look at her and I can guess that she is either a model or she is a make up artist.

Me: My name is...(she cuts me short with her finger on my lips)
Her: No names, no details, just enjoy the moment. I don't care whether you're a fugitive or whether I am, just let yourself off to the good side of humanity.
Me: About the fugitive thing, you're not a fugitive?
Her:(With a stern look on her face) What if I said I was, would it change a thing? (meeen, this woman is mysterious).
Me: It definitely would because what the heck would a law abiding citizen who even pays his taxes in advance have to do with a merciless terrorist? Crazy? But well, aren't terrorists allowed to have a good time? So, no, I wouldn't stand in the way of a fugitive trying to let go lest I see her wrath on me and all my kinsmen.
Her: (chuckles then continues) So let's say you could compromise with the fugitive, would you trust her to take you out for a tour around our town?
Me: Why would I want a tour in my hometown?
Fugitive: You are a bad liar?
Me: I hear some people say so.
Fugitive: Your accent betrays your origin.
Me: And what accent would that be?
Fugitive: The sound of money? (we both laugh at this as we leave the bar.)
Me: So you have figured me out yet I can't seem to grasp a thing about yours, but I'm pretty sure you are not from the matoke land, otherwise I would have had a thousand and one "ghaki's"(trying to sound like a Kisii) by now.
Fugitive: You must have been a terrible scholar, if at all you ever went to school.
Me: Why would that be?
Fugitive: You should have noticed the moment I asked for my beer that I speak the local dialect idiot.
Me: damn, why didn't I catch that? I'm an idiot indeed. An idiot following a woman who claims she could be a terrorist to God-knows-where. That is good for an idiot.
Fugitive: Just watch and learn you could graduate to one maybe.

8.10 pm, off National bank round about, we cross to the other side such that Havanna Club is right above us on the first floor. We are headed towards what I make to be Cooperative bank. Not really sure. We walk in silence, just admiring the free souls above us. Looks like Friday lets the dogs out on these people. We reach the parking lot and I realize it's KCB not Cooperative Bank. These two companies should stop bullying the entire race of males with this green color they can't seem to agree on who should have it. I can see the two colors are different but I just don't know how, they all look green to me. She disrupts my thoughts.

Fugitive: See the contrast of life?
Idiot: (thinking she has stolen my thoughts again about the colors) I would call it ego and pride. None of them wants to give up the green color to the other. What do you call that?
Fugitive: I  call that stupidity. I'm talking about them(pointing at some dark figures leaning against the wall of the building across. Curvy figures) One part of the city is going crazy with spending on the devils urine and other harmful substances, while the other part is out here on the cold to hustle.
Idiot: Oookay, now I get you. So you want to tell me that the K-street of Kisii opens this early and is fully loaded with varieties? This early?
Fugitive: Mmmh, let's say those beautiful creatures lined out there like they waiting for a firing squad have been standing out there for the last two hours.
Idiot: Judging from how fast the product is moving, they must be making a good amount out of it?
Fugitive: Nooot really. Let's say the prices of the product are as low as Unga ya 90bob such that even the last of the poorest souls can afford it. You want some(looking at me as if to read me)?
Idiot: What? No. No. No. I wouldn't be caught dead buying that. Why do people even buy when they know very well that probably they are the 6th or 10th client in the last 2hrs?
Fugitive: You acting like a saint now when you have a couple of beers in your blood stream?
Idiot: Not really but I think the good Lord should classify some offences as bigger offences than others.
Fugitive: Well, you are about to commit that higher offense.

And off she hurries across the road and lines herself among the beautiful lasses out there. Then she waves and waves as if to call me.

Fugitive:(shouting) Hey you. Hey idiot. Come buy one get one more free.

At this moment I am thinking, this woman is nuts. I look around and I can see two guys from different sides walking towards her direction. No. If anyone is going to buy whatever the hell she is advertising, then it will be me. I kind of feel like I know her. We can talk freely like some two adults. Without hiding a thing from each other. So you know that bond. So I join the race that is headed towards her, unfortunately I come second. Now she is talking to this guy in some brown leather jacket. He names a price, and she goes mad.

Fugitive: Hey ladies, can you believe this guy? 150bob for a shot.(Drawing the attention of the other ladies) Come on, am I going to take off my clothes and let you jerk of at the site of my pussy? Go use some lube sucker. (to me) Hey little man, come let's hear what you got.

Man feeling ashamed walks away and some two ladies follow him. I think they want to console him for his loss. Haha! Console.

Idiot: (feeling uncomfortable) What the hell are you doing?
Fugitive:(shouting) can you believe this idiot? He asking me what the hell I'm doing? Really? Really? I'm selling parking tickets. That's what I'm doing.
Idiot: (Turning to walk away) You are crazy as shit.

She runs before me and she kneels. And she is begging that I stay. At this moment I feel like I'm a white chicken. People around are staring at me like I'm some worm on their meal. She is now going for my belt. What the hell! I know this is headed the wrong way. I hold her by her arms and raise her in a bid to rescue my beloved "David" from being let out.

Idiot: Come on, this is not what you said... (she is tongue deep in my mouth)

Her lips taste garlic but tender. I get lost in the moment and we are now exchanging fluids like it is a pipeline. How she caresses my ear lobes sends shivers of excitement down my spine. Her tender hands seem to be doing such a great job at getting me to the mood as she combs through my long afro. It's at this moment you probably would shout at us, "Get a room". But man, this is way way bigger than a room. First off, I got no borner to this point yet it seems so sweet like we should continue doing this forever. I can feel the little gap in between her teeth. You maybe would think this is an imperfection but wait till you kiss a nice kisser with one of those. Like I am doing. She moves to my lower lip and she is neither biting nor is she letting go, as it slides back and forth, side to side, in a rhythmic manner as if it has taken ages to perfect this art.

Her moans are disrupted by the ringtone of my phone. Just like that, she cuts lose as I struggle to find my phone to answer. At this moment I am cursing whoever is calling me in my mind. Who the hell calls in the middle of a kiss? Who?

As I finally reach  for my phone the white light from the phone blinds me for a moment before I can read the new number calling. And I am cursing even before I pick the call.

Idiot: Calling from Orange? Really? This is all you can do? Right this magical moment?
Male voice: Ati nini?
Idiot: Unasema nini(at this moment I realize the fugitive is not anywhere in my sight)?
Male voice: Uko wapi gari inatoka?
Idiot:(humbly now) Oooh. Mimi huyu hapa Tusky's nakuja(trying to scan for my fugitive).
Male voice: Harakisha bwana. Dakika mbili ukue hapa. (hangs up)

At this moment the thought of my fugitive disappears and luckily I stop a passing boda boda. I can't even figure out where the bus station is from where I am. I ORDER the rider to break all the rules of motorcycle riding if he has to but get me to the bus station fastest possible. He does just that and as we speed off past Transline bus station, I see someone waving at me. It's her! I could order the rider to stop but no. Right now there are more pressing matters to attend to. I can see my photography equipment at the station getting locked down. And that isn't so good especially when I will be shooting NASA's rally at my village in Thumaita, Kirinyaga. And being a political rally, it must be paying real good. So I wave back. May be we will meet in Nairobi if she is traveling to Nairobi. Or tomorrow I will hear it on the news that a fugitive was arrested.
For now, I travel home.

I quickly tip the boda boda guy and I  pick my luggage and get into the awaiting shuttle. I had been allocated the seat near the door, so there ain't much hustle as I take my place.
Beside me is a gentleman, probably in his mid 30's, he can smell the beer I just took with the stranger.

Gentleman: Must have been a beautiful night?

I think for a while before answering him. Yeah. It was a really beautiful one. The life of this city is infectious. Exciting. Sensational. Beautiful. A beautiful fugitive. I met a woman.

Idiot: (with a smile) It is still a beautiful night.

And off the shuttle leaves to the city in the sun.

THE MUGUMO TREE HAS FALLEN

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