We haven’t talked for two straight years. She is my cousin. I was going through my whatsapp contacts looking for a nice damsel to chat with since I am in singlehood and really liking it, when I came across her contact. By the way I am no guy who looks at other people’s photos or status updates on whatsapp. It is simply being nosey. My dignified indulgence tells me an ostentatious man should not stoop that low to be digging into other people’s social lives.
I really thank saf for this promotion thing that has really enabled people to become talkative. Personally, I never used to call. I don’t fancy it. I just don’t get it but that is true. I love my fingers doing the thinking and texting long texts to people, so that I can gather ideas on stories to do. This day I had a bonus of kshs.105. I never buy a credit of such amount. If I do it may leave an indelible scar on my heart and pocket that may never heal.
With that I exited whatsapp and retrieved her contact from my contact list and decided to place her a lengthy call. At first I thought she had forgotten me. So I had two sided feeling about the buzz. It was like she had been waiting for my call because the first words she sent across really puzzled me a little.
‘Ghaaai.’ That was her first response after a hello. I went dumb. Waited what was to come.
‘Are you for real? You know I have been reading your stuff and really failed to get words to tell you all those years.’
And she went on and on while I downed my mouth for her to narrate for me and ask questions she had harbored about me and my tales for those two years. But what hit me is some random statement where she said sometimes, in fact so many times, that she read my stories and felt so sorry for me.
And for a moment I thought to myself, shit! Have others been feeling the same for me? Maybe my stories were so ghastly and mind numbing that even readers wouldn’t comment because they felt sorry for me. Instead of commenting they just prayed for me. Or were they too waiting for my call so that they can open their hearts and give me their piece of mind?
So we talked. And talked. And talked. One thing I discovered is that she kept throwing me under the bus about the stuff I do around here. In the end I lost in my own game, while trying to justify how good I was at my job and how I felt about it.
It was no doubt that she has this greater affinity of reading my stories, the stories I call tales in this local lingo of mine. But the whole point I elicited from our talk was that I was doing ‘more dirty’ that dignified job. The seriousness and gravity of my terms raised an air of suspicion about my character.
A gentleman takes such admonition with the seriousness it deserves. I did the same. I wondered whether all my readers thought I was dirty, or rather my mind was that ghastly and filthy. I was disturbed when I thought the latter might be the reality. And disturbance changes my whole system; it eats me and boils my intestines in a bucket of sulphuric acid. And I had no antidote to cool that down.
As her lovely voice faded away, the words reverberated through my mind once again ‘how do you put up with such dirty stuff? Is all the stuff you say true? How do you manage to place or your life as an open book for others to read even your little dirty secrets?’
Her name is Edna. Just a lovely damsel. I adored her from the first minute I set my ugly head on her. Only that she is my cousin. But does that change the equation?
Since then my head has been going crazy. A girl may be just a girl but when it is a girl you admire being a true realist to you, then that carries considerable amount of meaning. I have been thinking of how I will start apologizing if for real my shit sounded that shady. I don’t know how to do that gracefully, or like a gentleman, so that we get back into good terms and moods.
In the hope that my digs have been that dirty, I would want to pursue a new path from this day. But first I wanna apologize, in full dexterity and say that I am absolutely remorseful in case I have been letting the dogs out. If that is the case, that I have been giving wrong information on this media infiltrating the young minds and others who deserve to keep their dignity, I am terribly sorry. Hope that sank.
Hoping we are good to go, I want to inform you a few things which I have a feeling that you may be ignorant of.
There is this strong feeling down my gut that there are missing links that you still trying to connect but you can’t get them straight. I understand that many of you think that I solely run this blog. Well, I used to till you started reading strange words. Words like marriage, wives, exes, talent, and others. Words that made you think I was crazy. Now here is the thing.
Also read: Tales of the silent
In the course of your reading you might gave come across this title every Thursday on this blog. To clear the cobwebs, this is an edition managed by a respectable lady known as Robertinah Mbula. She is a model, working with The Models Charity Foundation. She brings on board talent and skill from various platforms and encounters of her life, with a fundamental goal of giving us basic skills, motivation and hope for another day. She features young and successful people who have risen from grass to grace, pushing through rough terrain and serpentine snares only to make it eventually.
Beautiful, nonchalant and humanitarian as she is, she is based in Naivasha. With that little change, all Thursdays will be under her custody. Put that in your diary. TIANARTHURSDAYS BY ROBERTINAH MBULA on our Featured section. Hope you will get entertained and inspired.
Her name suggestively throws her under the bus. Maybe she ails from western, maybe not just western, but inside western where folks eat chicken with all the feathers. I mean that is less practical but I didn’t say it wasn’t true. Meet Agnes, a lovely lady whose articles are straight and strong for my understanding.
That may sound like an overstatement but it isn’t. She is the one lady who uses words like girls, exes, clandes, families, mwalimu, bibi, mpango wa kando and the likes. She is yet to discover her toes in this wide area of social and family entanglements. One thing about her is that she is real. When you read her articles your throat will necessarily go dry, so you’ll probably need a strong drink to sink that down.
She is our second author. She is a teacher by professions, and unlike us, her lingo might be a little bit concentrated. Soon her category will be up. Expect her stories to be the week opener.
Charity is the only peg that fits every hole, the round peg in a square hole. Her dignity cannot allow her to follow the ways that the society has already carved out for her. She digs and curves roads out of blocks and mountains. Her experience in writing overrides mine.
She is one lady of difference. Almost all her stories are Americanized. You will just get the notion that whoever wrote this gig has her digs in the USA. Imagination and flow of her thoughts is what makes her outstanding. Her stories will always hit the four walls of the earth, with affably ardent readers requesting to know when her next piece will be out.
Apart from that, she is the only chick who has admitted to have a huge African ass. My favorite, huh! I am trying not to get back to my previous stuff. We will run her stories on Saturdays, when you all have time to snuggle on the coach, grab a bucket of popcorns and get reeled by her dope stuff. To say the least, she is a script writer and reigns in the filming industry. Soon they will be launching their movie- OUTSET. Will let you know when.
I don’t know how he came up with such a crappy name, but for sure it is cocky and admirable. He is a punk who has established himself in the field of poetry. With him it is straight. There is no intricacy. He is just a poet. He and I rock this category known as poetry.
His real name is Bravin Millan. I furiously admit that it is a nice name for a man. It suggests confidence. He can do lyrics and I just love how he can play around with words.
He is just obsessed with the old wine kind of thing. To him, Chinua Achebe and the likes set and carved a path for him to rock. His stuff is dope and has a way of doing it simple but so reveling. He has a great taste for things that amaze, and the olden ways that are cherished in villages, things like busaa, wise men, death, weakness, circumcision and the likes.
The traditional caliber and fibroids reign supremely in his head. The stories he writes deserve to be called tales, they qualify the nomenclature. Once in a while you will see him call himself Kegengo Bw’anyona, which to me is royal and grand. The name in its social structure fits his enthusiasm.
As for me, I have been edgy, cocky, and slutty and all you can say. But to mollify that, I am the forlornly solitary soul with a cacophony of old taste of things which bear sophistication. I just don’t write, I write and war and warn and educate and make people laugh. I don’t like stuff that I will read and remain foolish or stone-faced. I want people to breathe heavily and wear happy faces with nicer smiles.
I look at myself and decide just spread my happiness with others, even if I am describing death or sickness. I just think we all deserve laughter, happiness, and smiles and live well. My problems are my problems, but I will tell you. I am not into transferring my trouble to you, and that is all about writing.
Someone told me I always write very long articles. I heeded to that. So from today I will toss all long articles away and be brief. I will be throwing my articles in between these days, but more so on Wednesdays
having said all that, our stories will be aired thrice a week. That is on Tuesday, Thursdays and Saturdays. Brace yourself for the changes.
That said, this right here is the whole gang man. That is us. Readers, meet my gang.
-PHOTO CREDIT: brandeffects