Seven worst inventions by Nairobian women that really suck

This was the blog of the year. The most read, and the one that had the highest number of reactions. Of course, the one NEVER BE NICE TO A LADY’ was the most widely read and commented.But it wasn’t mine. So here is the replay of the blogs. I had a six month absence. But I will make up for it this year. So we start of by redoing this very blog.

Here is to  great year for the readers. Read on.


The initial stages of dating are usually interesting. I normally like the small talk. You know, the usual standard lies about likes and dislikes. A woman telling you that she doesn’t like sex as such and can go without it for as long as she wants or telling you how she has turned down men ranging from the rich and the famous to her ‘stupid’ bosses. Apparently, all bosses are stupid when it comes to dating. They are always fat, potbellied or balding according to the women I have spoken to.

Men are equally liars in their own right. Seduction is much more like politics. You can employ every dirty trick in the book in order to get laid. You can lie, you can spend, you can buy her all the black ice in the counter and, just but get her loosen up. A man no sooner learns about what makes a woman tick than he re-adjusts to her reality, albeit temporarily, just but to get her to bed.

A story is told of a student leader from my university who had hots for this ridiculously beautiful Muslim lady that he converted to Islam, if only for a weekend with her at the Hilton. He spent about Ksh 250,000, switched religion from Atheism to temporary Islam, had his way before ditching her. I don’t know exactly who was the fool in that tryst.

But those are the rules in the game. We both know them, subconsciously. I suppose, women can smell a lie from a mile but all a man has to do to make her believe is get the right tone, the right facial expression, and add the words ‘And I mean this’ for a woman to start taking the man seriously. In my little experience with women, here are the seven lies that I find hard to tolerate:

1. I only take wine!
When a woman tells me that she likes wine, the first thing I do is locate the nearest exit. My experience or lack of it indicates that women have fanciful tastes that are normally dictated by the financial position of the man footing the bill. I have seen a wine loving woman turn into Kibao-Vodka alcoholic in the least fashionable way and shortest time possible.

Wine! Why would anyone go to a bar or a club to have wine? Somebody teach me. I came straight from the village. Wine? I always try to establish where the chick was brought up. If born and bred in a reasonable urban centre, I can excuse her, a little. If she came from the village like me and I know it, I go ballistic.

There places where wine taking is acceptable. The pretentious dinners. Pretentious cocktail parties. And at home. But in hard parties and in a club it is unreasonable, uneconomical and most importantly stupid to order some wine. It costs a dime and doesn’t make sense to me and to every intelligent straight man.

Here is the thing with women who take wine. One they are likely to be difficult and the kind who try your patience before finally letting you lay it on them only for you to discover they were not worth the trouble. Secondly, such women think, nay, dream that by claiming that they take wine they will look polished, classy and distinguished. It puts them in their own league. The ‘Unchips Funguable’ category. Americans have a word for it: BULLSHIT. You can tell a lot about a woman’s character by her liquor preference.

The strictly wine type is the type that a man must avoid. They have self-imposed rigid standards that are unfair to themselves, humanity and above all men. They tend to have the nasty attitudes that can lift a plane or propel a space ship. Avoid them. They are never worth the trouble. By the way, with the benefit of hindsight, no woman is worth any trouble.

2. Leggings
My ever incensed friend recently bemoaned the fashion sense of Nairobian women. He said that next women might paint themselves and walk around for all they care. The most tragic fashion sense is this thing they call leggings or tights or whatever they are called. Those small, body-sticking, disgusting clothing that every woman is now wearing.

When women made them official pants, I thought they had stretched the joke a little too far. When fat women took them with fervor, the joke ended. Why? Why leggings. Why leggings on a Monday morning. Why leggings to work, even if for comfort’s sake. The lengths which women can go in order to be comfy can be stupefying. I mean they have pushed this ‘comfortable’ button to the limit. If the word comfortable had rights, it will probably be protesting against overuse by women.

I have a specific aversion for women who opt for the leggings and a top that barely covers their ass as the only cover for their body. It leaves little to the imagination. And when you look at a woman without imagination, that woman better be worried. I think the best compliment a woman can get for a man (any man) to regard her sexually. And the main reason for such ridiculous, offensive dressing is to be noticed. Why try so hard?

3. The movie body language and language
Women in Nairobi have apparently been watching too many movies. Ever since the big-screen died and stalls started selling every movie at Ksh 50, women have been watching. And not just watching, but also learning. And learning keenly. If I was to support piracy, this would be the sole reason I would add my signature to that petition.

If one borrowed a line from a book, it is commendable. But from a movie, it is way way too clichéd. But that is even pardonable. What is not acceptable is gaining some deceptive and subtle accent. It sucks, especially if you stay in Buru Buru or Dohnholm. I admire when a woman can speak fluent English. Add some little accent and my libido is already on the downward trend.

But consciously or unconsciously or even subconsciously imitating some movie body language, even if it is porn really sucks like a vacuum cleaner.

Stupid body language imitating includes that pulling back of the hair and having some mild frown. It is sexy, but on the movie. On the movie it is natural, because the whites have generally long hair, so it makes sense. Around here any man intelligent enough can tell one is trying too hard. And please, get off those silly facial expressions. Natural is sexy.

4.Preferring a bedsitter/sq in South B to spacious 1bedrooom in Donholm
Whether for conformity or whatever, I can’t stand life in a squalid, timid bedsitter. But somehow it works for them.For bragging sake. Women!I always consider this arrangement very selfish.

5. Eating in poshy eateries
I like average places. You know the Highlands, Sizzling, and anywhere where tea goes for less than Ksh 100. Not because I can’t afford high end places but because average places sell the best meals for a commoner. Try the Highland or Sizzling tea (and they have not asked me to advertise them) and if it doesn’t knock you down then you belong to the line of ancestors that discovered that a pawpaw is edible.

But women in Nairobi posses epicurean tastes. If it is fries, they like it from the right place…the Galitos and the likes. If it is Ice Cream, they want it from a designer equivalent of a food joint. I hate it when they sulk if you don’t get it from the right place.

It is ego-crushing when a woman fails to recognize your effort and leaves the food you have bought on the table. It is insulting, especially if she claimed that she was starving and she fails to eat. Especially, if the food turns up cold or substandard. It is not your fault but she gives you that look of ‘find a better place next time’. Nkt.

They like good places where they go to get cancer. The highly tasty but inorganic food is bad for their health and any cursory glance can tell you that obesity is upon us in Nairobi. Ladies, always appreciate the little efforts men make to please you. You may be having men who treat you better and afford better places but if you give another man less fortunate some audience, respect his choices.

5. Using emoticons in texts and chats
I don’t know but I find emoticons so dishonest. I mean there is something creepy with smileys. But women seem to like them. Be they French, be they British, be they Korean, be they Argentine, be they…name it…they are suckers for the emoticons. Emotions are spooky.

Nothing screams pretence, dishonest, lies like emoticons. Smileys are to me provocative but in a wrong way. They are offensive. There is some element of mockery in them. It is like a woman thinks by dropping one; she will evoke some emotions in you. It is like she imagines that you assume or think that she really values you so much as to drop one smiley, here and there but all it rings is empty. If they stopped using them or used them a little too less often, like when they mean, all intelligent men will appreciate.

6. Parties, baby showers, weddings and anyplace they can meet for some bad gossip
Women like partying. There is a warning amongst Nairobian men that a woman who is free over the weekend is already a big expense. Women want just any other place they can party and do some gossip.

You know the baby showers in order to sit in the corner and sigh that the ‘bitch’ finally got paged and delivered. To query who probably is next. To gossip who is getting laid around too much and what is anticipated. To compare if the kid is as beautiful as the kid of whoever in their circles.

In weddings, the bridesmaid purposely want her female friends to be envious, that’s why she can go to all the lengths to ensure it is as big as it gets. The female friends on the other hand are there with disbelief that Sheila eventually got into marriage ahead of Everline who has always been in a relationship and everyone thought will be getting into marriage. By the way who finds the name Everline as the least imaginative name like me? Is there a famous Everline?

They will be fussing about everything from the amount of meat in the Pilau to the wrong colour of dresses for the flower girls to the unsmiling groom. They will be very cooperative but the amount of backstabbing going on can bring down even the strongest building in Nairobi.

Women! If only they had the biological capacity to spell, pronounce and articulate the word SIMPLE, the world will be a better place. But as the British comedian Seymour Hicks once quipped:

“Nobody knows more about women than I do. And I know nothing about them.’


Why men laugh, gossip when all that beauty is gone?

Every man knows at least one such woman. Or two. That girl from college, the estate/neighborhood or the village who used to make heads turn. She was explosively beautiful whose beauty defied convention. She had everything in place, physically speaking. A subject of many an adolescent and youthful wet dreams and other soap-jelly perverted fantasies of young men. She was a natural and universally accepted that she was too stunning, it hurt.

Then something happened. It could be time. Biology. A toxic pregnancy. An abortion. An abusive relationship. Heck, even marriage. Whatever! It wrecked her looks so irreparably bad, it is unbelievable. It could be entirely out of her own doing or forces beyond her. But that is not the matter here.

Where she had a flawlessly, smooth skin now exists visible freckles almost making a leopard skin out of her. You will think that mosquitoes dine on her forehead daily. She had a perfect body, every model’s dream. Now, there is nothing outstanding. That cleavage that she used
to expose always is now tucked under some hideous top. And gravity has severely brought down her once erotically pointing boobs. Those coveted hips are now covered with monstrous pants and like giving up completely; she replaced her natural hair with a shocking wig. What

In a murky coincidence, as a man you seem to run into them in that lift, or some social gathering when you are on the other end of the spectrum. Your three-month working out in the suburb gym is paying off and that fitting shirt seems to be working just fine. You finally found someone younger who could be deceived by your lame lines and a cheap car. You have finally fixed that small matter of the hairstyle and fashion sense and single ladies in the office have fancy adjectives to describe your fashion or looks. And then you run into Lucy.

Frankly from a man’s point of view, there is something instantly heartbreaking about meeting a woman who was gorgeous in her prime but now the ravages of nature have served her wrongly and all the beauty is gone. You can’t disguise it upon discovering that the Lucy that boys and men so much fantasized about is now human. Well, we always hold them in highest esteem and often came up with corny expressions that they are excluded from certain duties of nature like farting or pooping. They were graceful and incredible, always.

Of course, in their prime past, we tried our lucky and disastrously failed. But the grudge is kept. Hoping that one day you will have the last laugh. Sometimes, they end up successful in life and you see them on billboards and you hear that they are the corporate beauties in town, it hardly shocks you. May be they had beauty and brains. But often, you find them in extremely unappealing circumstances.

Of course, you will shake hands, have some small talk for ‘ol’time’ sake, exchange numbers( we never call each other anyway, why do we insist) and the next thing a man does is call all the men who knew her. This is how such a conversation is likely to go…on the phone, or
through a Facebook chat… (Sounds better in Swahili).

THE MAN: Hey wassup, long time, you can’t believe this?

THE FRIEND 😦 Ready for something juicy to make the Monday afternoon
boredom bearable) What?

THE MAN: Men, I met Lucy!

There is always one Lucy that they will always talk about in this context. The friend will mentally predict she is either married, pregnant or well, doing well.

THE FRIEND: What with her? (Trying not to be excited about the
gossiping. Being manly. Right?)

THE MAN: Maze amechapa!!!!

THE FRIEND: (Genuinely shocked) WACHA!!!

Then the floodgates for a historic gossipy afternoon will be opened and while not trying to be openly celebratory, they will tore into her peahen days. They will uncover the days she was too snobbish and snubbed them invariably. They will be merciless in the choice of their adjectives and hyperbolic in choosing the adverbs. In this scenario, eight women in a saloon or a Chama meeting cannot even contest in the gossip.

But why?

It is simple. More quite than often, there are beautiful women who carry themselves as if they are goddesses. OK, they are. Everyone around them makes them believe so. The relatives have a silent bias and always spoil them. Every young boy in the hood wanted to touch. Later on in college, every man must at least have a Crush on her, even if in vain. But we somehow lose them to that youthful, money- flapping lecturer, those bad boys and the so-called hunks. Throw in the
charmers who invariably raised the stakes. Somehow, these men leave the country, die or disappear to God-knows-where as we don’t seem to run into them regularly in town.

The nerds, the simple village men soon take over the corporate world or go into business and they are always the conspicuous lot in the life after college. You know the guys from Nyamira, Bondo, Mukurew-ini and Kwale who went to the government provincial schools.

Once they take charge of the city and discover that the once inaccessible women from the yesteryears are actually, human, very accessible and for their convenience all the youthful allure and vanity is gone, it is surely a cause for celebration and that odd 17 minute call to his old friends with whom he shared the fantasy for quite inevitable.

The Germans call this celebrating of other people’s misfortune as schadenfreude. It is Biblically repugnant (Proverbs 24:17-18). Very human. But for men, it is about how the biological clocks serve us in the long run. I just wonder if women gossip as much when they will bump into a past male friend who is balding or a belly seems unstoppable.

Kampala to Juba; Living Dangerously

I looked up and noticed she had been staring at me. She was acknowledging the presence of the hottest man in the restaurant. So I returned the favour. I always do. And she was exceptionally hot. Almost light skinned with coffee brown eyes and a natural Afro; there was a quiet contentedness about her, almost lady-like that instantly struck me as admirable. It hit me for a moment that I was not in Nairobi.

She was sitting a table away from me, facing me directly, and enjoying her Pepsi, wearing a sunny disposition even though the clouds had ominously covered the sun. Our eyes locked the second time and this time she looked away quickly pretending that I was obstructing her from seeing what was behind my rather big head. I decided to act cheeky by getting my head out of the way, nudging her to have a better view. She didn’t find that funny. Neither did I find it funny the fact that she didn’t smile for my effort.

She sipped her Pepsi, and boy! What I saw was pure class! She made Pepsi, a very ordinary drink look like it is the best wine, straight from the best Spanish vineyard. My beer was getting bitter and sour by the minute. I had succumbed to a good billboard at Jinja on my way and had vowed to taste the famous Nile beer when in Kampala; here is how the billboard read:

(Then a photo of three men, the successful corporate types, smartly dressed, holding beers in their hands having a very hearty laugh and a cheerful moment. Totally natural you wouldn’t believe it is was a pose. Then the following word)

(Then the slogan of the beer)

Any beer drinker would be swayed by that. Now here I was in a Kampala suburb regretting my gullibility. But the beautiful lady across the table was ensuring that there is silver in every cloud lining or how does that proverb go like once again?

Our eyes locked the third time and I knew we were game. As the rule states: Once it is normal. Twice coincidence. But thrice, a man got to do something. Her eyes were beckoning but with a cautionary ‘don’t screw the chance’ look.

I gathered some beer courage and walked up to her table and sat directly facing her. I looked deeply into her eyes. They looked sexy, seductive, erotic and lovely. To cap it all, she didn’t look in any way slutty, given the natural predisposition of such eyes.

“I know I have no right to interrupt your own sweet company and even worse I am a Kenyan and I don’t even know whether the laws of the land permit strange men to interrupt beautiful women sipping their Pepsi alone?

Completely disarmed, she laughed and smiling, she said,

“I don’t really mind and there is no law against handsome men interrupting beautiful women having their Pepsi.”

There in lay the trap. I couldn’t tell whether she was being sarcastic or she meant what she was saying. Her answer had taken me by surprise and totally blown the winds out of my sails. I laughed.

“I am Sila, Kenyan. Journalist, on a brief visit to Kampala.”

“I am Lucy, student at Makerere University.”

“You studying what? What level?”

“Literature, third year.”

“Oooh, that is sexy. I studied literature in my undergrad.”

By the way it feels good to throw in that undergrad word in a conversation once you have finished your Bachelors.

“What is so sexy about literature?”

At that point I sensed that my small talk was about to hit the wall.

“Well, I thought if you taking it at such an advanced level you are an enthusiast. Besides, don’t you find Shakespeare quite a genius?”

“I beg your pardon. He sucks.”

It is considered literary blasphemy if you speak badly of Shakespeare and I couldn’t further participate in such a profanity. That is outright sacrilege.

“I can tell you are waiting for your boyfriend here.”


“Well, this place looks typically male. See, no good ambiance that befits your persona. That is a pit latrine over there and a pool table…It is junglish, ”

“You sound a clever guy.”

I rubbed my nose and scratched my eyebrow. That is the male equivalent of blushing. Like beautiful women who don’t know exactly how to take in a good a compliment, most intelligent men are often shy when they are complimented, especially by beautiful women.

“Does he look like he can punch my face into pulp?”

“Actually, he can. He is a jealousy one.”
“Any man would do that. Any man dating you must be justifiably jealousy. But I come from a community of warriors. Can I show you my war tattoo?”

Actually, I have one. It is a spot above my right armpit. I have managed to convince many people that it is war initiation testimonial. I always thank my elder sister for it. That hot porridge she poured on me was actually a blessing in disguise. Meanwhile,  on the speakers, Akon and Shontelle were sticking on each other. How Akon is a musician totally escapes me.

“Yes,show it to me.”

I started taking off my shirt and she held my arm… “I was kidding…come on. You such a joker!”

“Why are you guys always insecure? Is it that you don’t trust us?

“We don’t trust your judgment, like you are feeling my vibe here as you wait for your boyfriend and I can easily lure you away from him right now.”(Actually, I didn’t tell her this but instead).

“We are all different and you can’t lump us all of us together. Now might you steal me your number or Facebook Profile and I get the hell out of here before he shows up.”

She gave me her number and immediately accepted my Facebook friend request. She looked quite responsive. The type that can fund herself to Nairobi and make a weekend worthwhile and my male friends would never trust my word on how we met. It will sound like a fairy tale. I made a diary entry about it.

“Ever been to Nairobi?”


“Would you like to visit?”


“Consider yourself my guest very soon.”
I walk back to my table, and my South Sudanese buddies are laughing rather loudly in Dinka. I am in a Linguistic exile since my friends are sharing what I presume to be boyish heroic exploits in Dinka. It is drawing rapturous and throaty laughter. I can only enjoy my miserable company with the insufferable Nile beer which tastes like it is Pilsner that has been added some bitter herbs that grow near Lake Magadi and some good amount of lemon juice. It is 5.6% alcohol and I notice if I stick with it, I will be high in no time and waste a lifetime opportunity.

I ask for another typically Ugandan beer. They recommend Bell. Wherever they get their beer names? The waitress brings one and I notice it is 4 %. The waitress, I notice by the way, is blessed with ASSets. I take the first sip and I realize that it tastes like premature honey. A bitter version of Malta Guinness and I conclude that Ugandans don’t have beer. I immediately order water. I gallop very fast and I now realize why these Sudes had stuck with Tusker Malt. I hate Tusker Malt. It reminds me a part of my life that I have now learnt to forget. Luckily, good old Tusker was available, in its old, fat bottle. I ordered three even though sleep was really weighing on my eyes and it was time to be alarmed about mixing my mixing liquor.

They tell me that the establishment is run by a Kisii. They call him and he comes over.

He is handsome. Exceptionally. I am not gay but the gentleman is the type that makes any woman say almost unconsciously ‘eish! He is hot.’ He is tall, almost my height, may be an inch shorter and light skinned and has that likable, baby-face. The kind that aunts and female relatives always bemoan at his funeral should he die young. His handsomeness had some touch of femininity, the kind that can make a father be worried. Well shaven, with a very black moustache; he had the consciousness of a peacock about his looks.

He looks the type that the father most likely had doubts about his abilities; academic or otherwise. The type that male friends disprove off because of his meticulous approach to personal hygiene. You know the type that can’t lay a pair of compass askew in the Oxford Mathematical set. The type that uses very white vests and hankies. The type that goes on to marry a not so attractive woman to chagrin of everyone, especially the beautiful exes that he dropped.

He is wearing brown fitting corduroy trouser and yellow-brown stripped polo T-Shirt. Beware of men with fitting pants. He comes over and cautiously stands at a distance, I am sure searching for the appropriate language to light up the conversation.

I break the ice by greeting him in mother tongue. To which he responds in fluently but in controlled fashion. I hate these pricks who think speaking in mother-tongue degrades them. We get through the introduction in about 2 minutes and 37 seconds. He tells me that he is from Kitale, even though his ancestral home is near my home. I think he perceives me simplistically and walks away, pretending to be busy managing his hotel. Or he senses that I am about to ask for a free beer. Actually, I wanted a free beer.

He then takes a proprietary pose outside the restaurant, listening keenly to some petrified chap who I reckon be one of his servants. I can tell that the concern on his face is exaggerated, possibly because of my presence. One can always detect some unnatural behavior. From then on, his look, the way he talks to the servants and all mannerisms are dictated by my presence.

Ever been hosted by a chick at her place for the first time? You know that instant she comes back from the kitchen then pretends to be studying something that is out of place in the sitting room. Then she walks and stares at something on the wall-a photo or anything hanging on the wall- giving you her backside, the ass cleverly accentuated.  You sense that she is not being natural, but maybe she is unconscious about it and you are just imagining stuff. At that moment even if you spanked her, she won’t really mind. It will be taken as a compliment. That is about the time, she will bring that vibe about moving house or buying something for her house. That is how the gentleman was behaving. I decided to go for a power nap to stop witnessing the unraveling farce.

Three hours later we are off some place called Nakulabye or whatever the name for supper and liquor. Only Ugandans have local names for suburbs. I find that repulsive. Imagine if all places in Nairobi had names like Waithaka, Githurai, Syokimau and such. We have at least the Hurlingham, the Donholms to save face.

We settle at a place called Pork Point and Mading, our loaded host orders some Tusker Malt and the table is greener than the Amazon forest. Some good Lingala is on the screen. It transports me back in time to the 90s. Etar Major by Extra Musica is booming. Now that was a timeless monster of a hit by all means. It transcends class, title, race and anything in between. Extra Musica brought Swag to Lingala, with their American fashion and excellent dancing styles. The music made me nostalgic of the days of LokassaYaMbongo, BallouCanta, Shimita, Yondo Sister, Saladin, Dali kimoko, Ngoufou Man, Freddie Majungwa, the whole Sokouss era.

My goodness, how I am not a veteran radio presenter in the mould of Fred Obachi Machoka or Benard Otieno escapes me. I used to and still do hold a near encyclopedic knowledge on music. Anyway, Mading is a pool addict and we let him play as we recollect on the good days when Kanda Bongo Man used to kick ass.

At 10 pm, he opts to take us to Ground Zero. A club in central Kampala, in some unfinished building that is only thronged by youthful men and the obvious odd female. The place reeks off unbridled masculinity but the DJ is on some 90s and early 2000 hip hop. Quite OK, only that he mixes the old and the new rather inappropriately. I take time to digest some of those clips that I have never had time to check on YouTube.

After a couple of drinks, we check out of the place and he buys the famous roadside chicken for us that is specially prepared and Kampala is known for. There are also some thinly shredded cabbage that looks crunchy.Only that I am so full of Tusker Malt that I can’t even chew gum to save my life or breath. We walk back the one kilometer or so to the hostel, kill off the night in anticipation of the journey to Juba, the following day.

Easter Sunday
After a generally lazy day, we watch Arsenal put Man City in its place and that Arteta goal lights up my life like a lightening bolt. Few things are so sensational than Arsenal beating someone like Man City up. Especially, if Nasri and Clichy are playing over there.

We take the bus to Juba at exactly 10 pm and it takes off from Kampala. And boy, Ugandans and Sudanese are decidedly black. I feel racially challenged in this situation. The bus is like the Citi Hoppa. No comfortable seat and we are squeezed three of us in the same seat. The woman sitting by the window looks extremely innocent and the type least likely to cause any trouble, regardless of her station in life.

It is going to be a bumpy ride. Almost 300 KM of Tarmac to Gulu and some murramed 250 KM to the South Sudan border. For the tarmacked road there is nothing unusual, other than that funny feeling that you are traveling back in time. It is adventurous and you will need your faith. If you have heard about what Kony can do up on the North of Uganda, you get the feeling. We get to Gulu and I soon discover that riding a bus on rough road is neither sexy nor adventurous. It is dangerous. That is what I call living dangerously.

Our driver was driving like there was a beautiful mistress waiting for him naked on the other end. My Safaricom network was still mysteriously on, even though I couldn’t make a call. Calls made earlier and messages as far as two days earlier, started streaming in and I knew that I am in deed traveling back in time. And those in Kenya must be two days ahead of us.

Then we got to a point where it had rained rendering the roads impassable and there was a long haul of tracks packed. The sky was clear and the moon illuminated the landscape, rather romantically. The kind of place you can kiss Gabriel Union. Or Kelly Rowland. I couldn’t tell what time it was, day or month. And worst of all: The year. It looked some odd July night in 1967, though. The place looked abandoned and deserted.

There were women and children; I gathered they were from the Acholi community. What were they doing out at such an odd hour? There were guys trying to push a vehicle out of the sticky, predictably loamy soil. If you ever listened to that viral Ugandan FuriFuri condition on the internet about some truck that lost control and caused some accident, that is how Ugandans talk. And that woman actually airs the Ugandan version of Bull’s Eye for NTV Uganda called Point Blank. Ugandan English is humorous in the very least.

If you are already not worn down by this, I should mention the best Acholi export was OkotP’Bitek. The true literary genius of Africa. He of the Song of Lawino fame. Long live his soul and he is immortalized in his enduring literary works. At this point I feel like Okot himself. And could easily relate where his genius came from.

Then this tall man is fuming that Museveni has abandoned the North completely. He claims that other places are having it better than the North. From the way he is talking, if he met Museveni in some dark alley, he will make him scream his mother’s name the loudest before chopping off his manhood. His voice, tone, mood, demeanor all bespeak a certain hatred I have never witnessed. Then he tells us that we are lucky that Kony has moved further into the forest. That otherwise, he will torch all the vehicles and chase us into the forest, those abducted will be tattooed, ears and limbs cut and made to serve in his camp.

That sounds like a death knell but I take comfort from the fact that we are many and if it was taking off, I might not be Usain Bolt, but I can beat a few guys in running. It is quite chilling listening to his account how he was once forced to run for his dear life for nearly 150KM throughout the whole night and day to the nearest town. He still doesn’t know what could have happened to the rest. Through some magic alchemy, somehow the trucks offer to give way a little and the buses are able to maneuver their way and we get off and at exactly 6 am we are at the Ugandan side of the border. After clearance, it is another one hour into the Sudan border but thankfully it is tarmacked.

At the Sudanese border, we get a clearance but it takes almost three hours to finish the whole process and we take off, but not after a security round up that nets up some 10 guys without a visa from the bus. The South Sudanese don’t suffer fools gladly. As we cruise through the unfinished, newly tarmacked road, you can sense that it is a new country with plenty to catch up with.

Six hours later we get into Gumbo in the outskirts of Juba, where we alight and get to our guest house. I am smelling like a pig that has been dead for nearly week. It is so hot and I am sweating profusely. It is a quite a bad welcome. Then as I step out of the bus, the first person I encounter is Cyprian; my former high school and University friend. A former crush once told me it is a small world. Now I believed. He is here briefly for some business deals. So I am. Bet he will be great company.

My host gives me an algae infested Jerri can and shows me the way to the bathroom. I am normally averse to cold water but on this day it is welcome relief. It is hot. As I take off the clothes, I realize they had traced themselves over the body. Little Joe Wood seemed bewildered and overwhelmed by the heat. He looked like a crumpled, overripe banana.

I woke him up and looking up, he asked me;

“Is this how you treat your loved one?”

I ‘shout’ him down,

“You need to understand, I am tryna get money for yah so that I can afford you something good, so you have no choice,”

“Ohh no, but I had you ask about ‘em call girls and about IT while you are here,”

I replied, “I bet you also heard it right if I try any mischief here, I will be taken back in a coffin, so you lay low, I will make everything alright.”

That is Little Joe for you. Always eavesdropping my conversations. Silly young boy. And his slang…

After the shower, there are very rude flies to deal with. It is so hot that I sweat while taking a shower and no sooner I place my towel down than I start sweating all over again. What strikes me immediately is that in spite of the heat guys are having sex.

Is it perversion? Is it poverty? Come on! It is hot and there are mini-earthquakes from the shanty establishment that is our boarding. And here they moan like it is part of the package. My host is shocked at my shock and naïveté. Then he takes me out for some cold afternoon beer. Actually, guys here only take Tusker. He buys lunch that consists rice and ground nut soup. Ugandans serve 90 % carbohydrates. No wonder the hideous skwembes.

I drink to my fill and it is only my first day. The following day we are on the job and I am nursing a serious hangover. At night I am on some Excel programme compiling some report in my room and the noise coming from the next room is disturbing. NKT! How unfair can life be?

Here I am busy trying to compile some report and some nigga is getting it and can’t do it quietly. I make a mental note to check on the woman who took me back to my days in campus and the SEXILING.

In deed I saw her and I wondered how much she charges for that extra moan. It is a booming business for those who trade fleshy and Ugandans are leading over here followed closely by Kenyans.

Anyway, I have enjoyed my visit to Khartoum before the brief war interrupted. They have only roads over there but kids don’t go to school anyway. The Nile boat ride gave me a new idea for a honeymoon, should there be a change of mind in the future. And recently a friend opened a beer with a romantic ring. Never thought there would be a more suitable use of that silly thing on the finger.

I have exceeded my personal word limit ladies and gentlemen. Sorry for such a boring read, I resume to my normal ranting on men and women as soon as I next week. I have missed Nairobi. And guys take it from me, in spite of the jams, the weaves, men in skinny jeans, the chips funga culture and anything that irks anyone, Nairobi is the New York of Eastern Africa. No contest.

I am now back. Great things coming…