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Beware of strong lingo.

This week’s post is coming fairly ahead of schedule for obvious reasons that people are in the election mood (erection for my friends from Kiambu), or something close to it. This is like a surprise wedding, an early delivery of an infant scheduled for the next two months. For story lovers, it is a sexy surprise because it might help your mind unwind.

It being such a week when political agitation and tension are peak, the likelihood of us having a story on Wednesday is almost nil. Furthermore, I want to run before Wednesday. Call it Akombe syndrome. Call it being selfish. But in this Kenya of ours I have learnt that in order to survive, you must forget everyone else and put your interests first. It is even what our leaders are doing- you think they care if people will die? To my reasonable thinking, I know that these politicians are after a share of the national steak.

So the plan to evade this country at such time is the best option on my table right now. I no longer feel patriotic enough. I don’t wanna lose my life over someone who doesn’t care about me. What is there to be patriotic of anyway? The truth of the matter is that with the ongoing precarious political climate many people are going to die. Still, I am not willing to die for a country where no one thinks of the other.

I have been packing my bags, one by one. Two items a day from Friday. So that by the end of Tuesday, I take a flight or a car. Given that I don’t have many options, I might end up in the green valleys and hills of Kisii. Oh boy! I miss the place. At least there no one will come to beat me up when their preferred candidate doesn’t end up in White House, or when hell breaks loose and tribalism which reigns in our hearts gets manifested in actions, and in our rented house where we’re the only people out of the box, we get butchered.

If I end up in Kisii, then things will be good. Being the most peaceful people in this region (don’t forget that we get angry fast when things go wrong), I can enjoy my matoke and sugarcane in peace- walking by the greens of the land, along river beds and listening to the alluring bubbling of the fresh water snaking down hills, lie down under the shades and listen to the distant chirps of birds with full stomachs because right now it is a season of abundance. In Kisii if it fails to rain for three days, people complain of drought- which makes it the greenest part of this Kenya.

Again if my Visa manages to go through, I’ll be basking somewhere in Americas. Close to me will be this white woman, third naked because she only got knickers and a bra. The only accessory on her body will be dark goggles to shelter her from the sharp rays reaching out sharply for her eyes. She is the only woman I will want by me because she has my enthusiasm on the most fundamental level and thinks much about my bliss, and my want to venture to the far corners of the planet.

I wanna be a runner. To desert the wretchedness that this nation is entrapped in. If possible never come back because I am devastated and tired of the day by day dosages of distress and hardship causing extraordinary melancholy in my life and those alongside me. I don’t care where others will be, or what will happen. Why should I care when others are obsessed with their own needs? Do you get me?  I want to go and chill out with Akombe and forget there was Kenya for a while- go and hide somewhere similar to some part of Kwale with zero network coverage and forget everything.

Today I want to talk to men, specifically because this subject might not interest women. If some women hope to end up here for some reason, please hold your anger. You can choose to get irked or you can choose to move with the flow. The choice is yours because you decided to join the conversation uninvited.

So this is simply a man talk. The silly things that men discuss when they’re alone. When they’re sited in bars having a drink during the weekends or late in the evenings. Silly banters that don’t necessarily zest their life- all they sap from these stories is laughter.

I didn’t tell you that our landlord is the worst buffoon I have met. If you’ve never seen a stupid person, then you need to know that our landlord is a wazzock. The silliest creature in form of a human being I have ever met so far. With him, you will discover that even common sense is not so common to all of us.

He is not the subject of today’s subject. He comes in because he has very beautiful daughters. In total, he has 4 kids. All girls. Two who just recently finished high school, and two others who are just kids in class one or two maybe. The first two are twins, the same with the young ones.

Society will tell us that twins possess discordant behaviours. That is, one will be well behaved and the other is just a dunderheaded maniac. I somehow agree basing my argument on the behavior the two exhibit. One is just a dotard (you remember the North Korea president versus Trump?). She behaves totally like her dad. Essentially a nutcase, has no regard, inconsiderate, stubborn, and silly.

Come to think of the other one. I am not one person who is interested in knowing people’s names ever. I never care. You can be my friend and die without me knowing your real name. You can be my girlfriend and never know your full name. It is something I don’t care much about. But I have heard his baggy mouthed father call her Soni. If you hear him calling out, straight away you’ll know she is some kind of radio we used to call Sony.

The other day I was descending the staircase when I meet her. Of course, I do greet her. Simply because she answers back my greetings. She is warm, sensible and cheerful. In their whole family, it is Soni and the mother that seem to have working brains. She always saves her ever drank dad from most of the messes.

I really need to talk about this man because he is just silly. Even if I am ugly, he is too ugly. He becomes uglier when he drinks. I don’t know how he managed to get a beautiful wife but I guess it is because when you have the money you automatically become handsome. On a number of occasions, I have heard his wife tell him “afadhali kurarukiwa na nguo kuliko kurarukiwa na akili.” They fight often. To be precise, he beats the whole family. He makes fracas and the whole plot has to know because he really beats. Underline beat. From the mother to the youngest of the kids.

Since I landed my eyes on Soni, I wanted to fuck her. I mean she is the true definition of a beautiful woman. She might be 18 or 19 but I don’t care. What I cared about is how to get her in bed. If you’re asking if I did succeed, I didn’t. There are unwritten rules about men that you shouldn’t throw a stone too near.

If anything happens, such young and fresh lady makes all men melt with desire. And when you come across such, the possibility of using a condom is nil. Your mind just tells you that you need it all raw and sweet. You don’t waste such young and tight honeypot like that. You eat the honey directly.

So if anything goes down- the biggest possibility is that she will get pregnant. Having in mind that not all women will buy the idea of the morning after pills, your life suddenly changes. Being a father changes everything- trust me. Most men run off. Others get scared.

I recall there is this time I got expelled from a plot for sleeping with the landlord’s daughter. The girl wanted it. I mean any man in my situation would have done the same. It taught me a lesson- that you shouldn’t fuck up all the time because you’ll end up having a bad name. An awful notoriety diminishes your odds of carrying on with a cheerful life. People start avoiding you, help escapes, people stop talking to you, and people start talking behind your backs.

To be honest, I haven’t had any deep talk with Soni. We hardly meet. But on this day, I met her cleaning the staircase. She had this buttoned blouse on. Somehow, one of the buttons was not functioning and her boobs were smiling at me. Do you know this young boobs that are firm with areolas sharp and pointy like the mount of Zion (If it is as pointed as I imagine)? She had no bra. These sharp nipples pointed at me like they wanted to cut loose through her blouse and reach out for me.

I have never been transfixed as I was. They confused me in a way only satan can attest. My legs stopped. My mouth was agape. My hands couldn’t move. And my eyes just rested on her chest. Ashamed that I had seen her boobs, she ran to hide.

This kept me thinking what happened to such boobs. Where did they go? Those boobs that had straight nipples that could pierce through a man’s heart? Come on, men love ass and nice tits. Nowadays all women can do is use these bras to hoist their tits and try to seduce us.

A man with experience knows what a nice tit is even if it is hidden behind a thick bra, and also what is not a nice tit. And there is nothing as distasteful as sagging tits.  While I don’t blame anyone, it is something that makes men go crazy.

Nice tits are bewitching. Whether small or big, they should have this attention stance that affirms a man that they’re the real deal.

I am among those men who get carried away by beautiful women. In the world I live in, women are sexualized. I don’t care what women will think of my view towards them. All I care about in them is sex. They are pussy carriers. Apart from using it to piss, there is nothing else they use it for.  So they carry the honeypot for us. They should, therefore, keep it clean and healthy.

It is the business I am in- women business.

I still get bothered by women who can’t keep their body in shape. There is no excuse for that. It is not expensive to be in shape as a woman. Using natural medication and prescriptions, a woman can make her body so nice that she will be proud of it. Of course, men will also be proud of it.

There is no problem if the boobs are sagging. If they are big, there is no other way they can be. But small and flabby? That is disgusting. Even if they have nipples on them, shit won’t happen. A good boob should be firm. That is all.

I might not be knowing much about women boobs because I don’t own some. A thing that women in here will agree with me on. But sure enough, I know what I want. The same with other men. Whilst others will like it anyhow so long as it has a nipple on it, some will want them standing in attention.  Some will like round, others east-west, others side set, others teardrop, others slender, others asymmetric, others bell shape, others relaxed, while others go for the athletic boobs.

While we have a range of nipple types (protruding, flat puffy, inverted, unilateral inverted, bumpy, hairy, supernumerary), my favourite runs along puffy. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t suck others, but it could easily turn me on.

Now if you ask me if I am thinking of marriage, I will say I am not. I don’t want any responsibilities in my future. The baggage in my life already is enough. Some pussy, some fun, some fun, some Jesus, some hard work, some pressure, lots of money, some positive attitude, some right friends, some music, nil alcohol, nil puffs, zero stress, zero responsibilities, giving some family support, travelling the world- that is the life I want. Nothing smaller nothing more. A life that has something that keeps your happiness levels in check because that is all I need.

I can climb mountains when happy. Happiness makes me walk the streets and buy some of those hungry street kids some food. Happiness gets me winning everywhere I go as it convinces people that you are at some level in life where you can do anything. Just happiness.

This story was written in a business class lounge somewhere in Hamad International Airport (Doha, Qatar) after a delay of my flight. A delay caused by me missing my real flight. In anger and frustration, because I have to pay extra money as I wait for another one which was to happen three hours later, I try to punch 10k words. Qatar is such a nice place-people have money and they don’t bloviate. Real money and you wouldn’t know who doesn’t.

From this lounge, you can write all your brains off. The ambiance is alluring. The space and the environment, and the comfort, all make you think of becoming an expatriate. You start thinking lowly of your country back home. From where I am seated I can see this big teddy bear on the ground floor. It gives me a lot to think of, especially its very essence at the airport.

Since I need concentration to hammer down a story, I retreat to a chair at the back and think of this novella I have been working on. It stands at 4.5k words. I tell myself that if in those three hours I can work myself out and do close to 10k words, then my novella would be out and up in the Amazon in the next two weeks.

Just like any writer, I start off well. Somewhere in the middle, my mind changes and I shred the pages into pieces. There is some movement. I can see some shiny shoes pass by but I don’t look at the faces attached to them.  Once I start seeing faces my mind migrates. And in that instance, I will have to make friends at the airport.

Then I start off this story. Down in the middle, some texts pop up on my phone. WhatsApp. I steal a quick glance. The glances increase and soon I am chatting and the story is gone. Then somehow someone sends a nude in a WhatsApp group I am in. a certain kiuk lady who comments that if you need my nudes inbox. She goes on to quote the prices for boobs, live chat, sex chats and all that.

The members of the group get irked because first of all the group is a respectable one. Secondly, she is ugly as hell. The only thing positive next to her ugly name is a nice ass. So the dudes and women in the group start chongoaring her. They concentrated so much on her boobs that were in a very bad shape and her face.

Normally, I don’t pick up fights. Especially with people, I don’t know as it doesn’t help me in life. But the reaction to her out of shape boobs remind me of so many women in my past.  That is when I think of breaking the norm and writing my feeling on boobs.

Of course, somewhere I get overcome by emotions. I pour all my brains on the paper. My pen refuses to write on the way, oh boy, si I shake it like crazy. It had to write. Two hours later, I toss the notebook and pen in my backpack and leave for a cookie. They offer them at the airport in every lounge. The people around me all have laptops and in long white kanzus. I sit in a different seat and focus my eyes on nothing specific. I can feel my blackness announcing itself because I can’t find any single person.

I type the piece in London a day later. At Mama Elsie’s place. She has this nice place. To be honest, I made all the trips courtesy of her. Later, I wire it to Shi, I don’t know her other names. I inform her to go through it and tell me what she thinks. For all I care about, she edits well. Sometimes she can pull and push things, cut and place new things. She can replace words and phrases and at times change the whole story without changing my voice. I don’t pay her directly. However, she is a beneficiary many lunches, invites to events and Mzangila Network merchandise.

She messages back in a few minutes.

“I don’t feel where your story is going.”

“What do you mean? “

“I mean just that. There is no meat in it.”

“Is it because it talks about boobs? Did it affect you too?”

Then she types for a minute. The expression nkt! Comes through. She clocks out.

I sms back, “where do you want me to put the meat?”

After two hours, she replies- “don’t run the story. It has no relevance. That is all.”

I prefer her to all editors I have managed to have. She takes her job seriously and she is a professional at it.

Being a crackpot, and because writing another story will take me untold misery, I shoot it at Mike. He has helped me once in a while to edit. He is not good but at least as a man, he won’t send me things like nkt! To make me feel about bad myself. He cuts lots of vulgar stuff and tells- “boss, that’s all I can do.”

His tone informs me that he was also almost giving up on me. So he cut my 4k piece into 1k. I had to find things to compensate. Still, not a good job. So I edited the rest myself because I know they can’t stand me anymore with this story. Is it going anywhere really?

So, suck it up. I can deal with Shi later because I did exactly what she told me not to do.



Mzangila Snr


Where shall we go, we who wander on this wasteland in search of better selves?



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About Mzangila

Mentor, media consultant, photographer, editor, poet, writer, and counselor.

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