Don’t bother with a chick’s past

Men are always curious about a woman’s past. Especially after a mind-blowing blow job. We know practice that practice makes perfect. And if she does it so good and dexterously, a man is too concerned about her past to think of the present excitement. It is a contradiction of sorts.

Picture a woman. In her mid-20s. You have just met her. In the first shag, she proves quite a good a game. She knows her moves in bed and she suggested some moves that made blood boil in you. She is adventurous. You enjoy it.

By deductive reasoning, probably she did not learn these things playing with bananas and carrots in her bedroom. Certainly, she did not learn the moves watching a B-rate porn movie. If a woman is sufficiently experienced in bed, we can assume that she has been with at least 8 men in her life or she has dated the same man for over 8 years. I am speaking generally. So if you are enjoying, know that it is something born out of practice, watching ceiling boards in many lodgings and bachelors’ pads.

Potentially experienced women, tend to confound and confuse men. On one hand the man enjoys it that you can serve it how his sex gods prescribed it. On the other, he is doubly worried that the woman might have slept with so many men and we are all jealousy as hell. A woman’s past is as mysterious as they come. If she decides to open up to you, you will end up getting offended.

To this end, any time a man probes her past, she is likely to look up at the Sisters Bible, old testament and insist that she has dated at most 5 men, of which only three IT consummated. Remember as my buddy Teddy often tells me, women have softer words to describe sex.

‘We went out.’=we fucked.
‘We dated a while=we fucked.
‘It never worked’=we fucked. So on, so forth.

Women subconsciously know the kind of psychological damage they can cause a man if they told the whole story. They know how a man feels when he learns that she has sucked more than she has eaten bananas in the recent past. They know how a man feels if he learns that she has been giving it ever since her 16th birthday, discounting the 14th and the 15th.

Men can be mean. They want it both ways. They want to bake the cake, have it and eat it as well. It doesn’t happen that way. If you meet a woman, just know that she has past; colourful to her, annoying to him. The same things you have subjected women to, she has been subjected to. If you demand that she must give head, and she gives, certainly you can’t be the only one. Next time, see how they leak a lollipop or eat a banana if you want to know what I am talking about.

If you like it adventurous, know that a man does not become a hunter hunting birds in his own backyard. Wait! that sounds like a proverb I have coined right here. He must venture out with dogs, brave the deadly and poisonous snakes, the occasionally malicious wild animal and the terrain before he can bring the gazelle home.

Similarly, before women become specialists and experienced, they must pass through fire. If you were in a high school that had communal bathrooms or worst still, bathed in at a river, you probably saw what men possess down there. You saw those ones that if they were cut and left down will be like dangerous snakes. You saw those that were crooked. You saw those ones that seemed lifeless. You saw those ones with veins. You saw those ones the size of a thumb. You saw those one that were scrawny, thin and wirily.

Yeah, all those she has probably hosted them in her house. You need to get used to this fact. Life is not fair. Deal with it.

A friend who works in Uganda came recently to check on his girlfriend at the University of Nairobi. When they were in the act, going deeper and harder, demons struck him and he decided to ask her if she has ever given it to anyone. Any woman you have slept with for quite some time you can easily tell the changes, when it comes to elasticity and lubrication. That is what he was told me, just in case you think I am a perverted stupid person. He persuaded her until she decided to tell him the truth.

“Yeah, I have slept with my pal twice.”

“Who is he?” He inquired.

“He is Luyhia. A classmate.”

Little Joe Wood died on spot, recoiled to the size of an an ant’s poop.

By the way, I hate the word pal and dude, when a woman uses them. Those are just a softer way of saying fuckmates.

And they broke up. After having an impractical two year long-distance relationship. Men are stupid. Not that he has not been sleeping around in Uganda. I know for a fact it is difficult to reconcile the the fact that what you are banging was being banged a few days prior to your day.

Of course it is rigidly stupid but men can’t help it. I have come to the conclusion that wanting to know a woman’s past is the equivalent of following a bee to see where it gets its ingredients to make the honey that ends up in some cabinet in your kitchen. The same honey that you also call her. Get real. Don’t bother with her past.

If she can give you, remember there are a thousand other men who are well suited, tall, loaded(both in the wallet and the boxers)time for that prudish assumption that she does not dish it out is so 1997, July.


That Nigerian Man Will Never Marry You: A Warning To East African Women


Wednesday, 24 April 2013 12

@Professor Flibbertigibbet


It seems that dating Nigerian men has quickly become a trend in East Africa. The ‘show me your Oga I show you mine’ syndrome has rapidly spread and these men have even replaced the white man preference. But what many women don’t know is that they will wine, dine and fuck you but never marry you.

I spent a few weeks in Nigeria early this year and the picture I got from them- people behave differently when in their original environment- was rather different. Nigerians tend to avoid contact with foreigners, especially their women. It’s only ashawos that date white men or men from other cultures- did I say date? Sorry, sell is more like it. Your average girl next door Nigerian woman will not even look at foreigner so this creates an unfair advantage for the Nigerian man. However this is not why they will not marry you. The reasons are:

Their Mother

Nigerians are a very cultural lot. Despite travelling, exposure to other cultures, copious naira they still maintain their culture- look how they dress. So a mother would not want a foreigner for a daughter-in-law to bring ‘conflict’ into their culture. Especially from a culture that is so influenced by the West that they cannot kneel down in front of their husband’s mother or cook traditional foods.

Nigerian Women Traits

Nigerian women love their men and put up with so much shit from them. A man will meet you, move you to America then leave you there to give birth as he stays in Nigeria having fun with other women. And the women are okay with this. Which East African woman can agree to be left in a foreign country to just produce children so they can get foreign passports? The rationale of the women is that “Well, as long as he is providing for my needs I don’t care what he does!” Even if he runs around with other women she has her car, her house and is living abroad.

Aggressive East African Women

Nigerian women are very aggressive and loud but they can never raise their voice or fists to a Nigerian man. The East African women are the opposite- they abuse and can sometimes turn violent (Kenyan women especially because Ugandan women are ladies.) So the Nigerian men fear them and can’t even contemplate marrying such a person. Nigerian women release their aggression on other women not their men…so they guy knows he can fuck around but it’s his girlfriend who shall get slapped.


East African women are Easy Quick Lays. All a Nigerian has to do is drive them in his big car…knickers drop. Take them to a fancy restaurant…knickers drop. Buy them champagne…knickers drop. Buy them an iPhone…knickers drop. Nigerian women are tougher to bed thus a greater challenge and greater respect. To bed a Naija woman you buy her a car…buy her a house or even buy her a jet. Some men take a chick to Europe for a week and still sleep in separate rooms and even when they return back to Nigeria the guy gets nothing until he proposes. An East African would drop her knickers at the idea even before the purchase of air tickets or visa application even.

So, as he takes you out…and you drop your knickers. As he buys you champagne…and you drop your knickers…as he buys you phones…and you drop your knickers- just know he shall never marry. He will leave your ass and go marry a Nigerian woman. The only ring you’ll ever get from a Naija man is a call saying he never wants to see you again.

Dancing is for the stupid; research

If she dances with everyone in your presence, she will be screwed by anyone in your absence.
Nothing brings stupidity in humanity than dancing. It precedes sex and supersedes politics in the stupidity meter. On this one, my conscience is very clear. Absolutely clear. Dancing is for fools, was invented by fools and only fools embrace it.

Picture a woman without hips or an ass trying to dance, all sweaty and smelly on a dance floor. Now picture those really stupid, potbellied men, trying to readjust their groin to the bottom of a woman for the grind, or socket dancing as it is called. Look at those Jamaican video clips. Listen to people shout when a Beenie Man song is unleashed. If what you witness here is not stupidity, you clearly need a small meeting with a psychiatrist. Book it.

I must set it off from the word go, I can’t dance to save my life. I only dance when completely coerced. I consider myself too cool for that shit. And I am virulently judgmental observing women shaking their asses and men drooling from behind, ever so ready to undress them and have sex there and there, but for civility. Cool people like me, always distance themselves from the dance floor.

“But how will you ever court a woman if you don’t how to dance?” asked my lecturer Mr Kimingichi Wabende a few years ago, while we were on some research mission down the South Coast.

Kimingichi, a great dancer himself, and a good one at Salsa, offered some insightful opinion and for the Salsa dancers, they can get a pass here. I have actually suffered great for my inability to dance. I have lost three the dance floor, because  of my disability.  And they danced away with strangers in the club. Some of those strangers looked really bad. The kind that can brag while screwing, ‘YOU SCREWING WITH THE BEST’. Some looked uglier than me. Some were broke on some cheap faded jeans and a T-Shirt that looked like a moper. But they won.


Ever since it has made me skeptical when I am courting someone who drinks and likes dancing. Hate me or love me, a woman who drinks and has no qualms dancing with a stranger in a club, is a pass for me. Especially, if it a long-term thing. Short-term is OK.  Men in Nairobi have become such predatory opportunists and as soon as they take to the dance floor, you will see him make certain moves and she will be all smiles, from I guess, feeling the D, hot on her ass. I can’t rust men in Nairobi.

The next thing you see is them whispering to each other, mostly phone numbers. Or if audacious enough, they can exchange numbers there, but watching their backs. I have obtained numbers right under the noses of stupid men who don’t attend to their women in a club. What happens afterwards is not necessary.

But this is not about me and my inability to jig along to some beats. Neither is it about my insecurities that naturally stem from the fact that I have lost girlfriends in the dance floor. It is not even the dancing that hurts, it is the fact that they were high on drinks paid by MY OWN money. It is a ghost I have yearned to exorcise for four years now.

Generally, I don’t object anyone dancing, certainly not my girlfriends as long as it is done within the decency limits. But to most individuals in Nairobi, dancing and decency are metals somewhere in the periodic table. I have never quite understood the female obsession of rubbing their ass on the male groins. Naturally, it is the default setting of dancing in Nairobi, that women enjoy more than men.

97% of the men on the dance floor only want quick access to a lay. 77% of Chips Fungas are courted on the dance floor. 70% of women who can dance on the floor with strangers when drunk are susceptible to end on a bed other their own that particular night.

I think you cannot divorce the Nairobian club dancing from cheap, quick sex. In fact if you are hunkish enough, with liquid cash and a ride and you stay in any of the city suburbs, you are good to go. I have seen my friends dance and kiss strangers like every damn weekend I go out. I have seen some really nasty and dirtier dancing, especially on the wee hours of the night.

I hate men and women who dance vigorously and sexually. It brings the animal in them. It reminds me of evils such as the barbaric 2007 post-election violence. And I am not even playing hyperbole here.

Dancing is stupid. Just stop for a minute to ponder to ask yourself what you are doing when you are shaking your body. Why do we need so much alcohol in order to loosen up her? Would you like your picture or video while dancing to be put in the newspaper or on the internet? Imagine your sweaty self, and ask yourself, is this why Jesus died? if you are believer. Can mum and dad be proud of me doing this? Remember 6 million Jews died within six years, did it happen so that you can make erotic and drunken moves on the dance floor for the sole purpose of a danceorgasm.

What drives people to dance is sex. Period. Very few people are disciplined enough to balance their drinking, their dancing and at least end up in the same bed they woke up in the morning (that is if it was their rightful bed in the first place.) But I would be sexist and chauvinist if I draw conclusions, but I am sure I am not too far from the truth.

For men, I can speak for the straight ones. The main reason they take to the dance floor is to get some ass job done, right there. When we were younger, my friends routinely confessed that if you meet a good dancer on the floor, they can make you cum. What debauchery? I mean you dance holding her from behind; she probably has nothing under (65% of the time), she rubs her ass on you so hard. You get a boner, she grinds harder to feel it. Definitely she is enjoying, and the man is getting dirty as well. Then it is time for RDX’s Bend Over and all hell breaks loose… They both orgasm, just like that. She will go sit, sip her drink, if it is still there and start asking herself what life is about and what just happened. But the DJ wouldn’t let her finish…Because the will play Konshens or that other bugger with a bleached skin and she will jump back.

Only one woman has ever impressed me, when I took her out. It was an Easter date, and for long I was afraid of her, I actually respected her. I gathered guts and summoned her. I was glad, she never turned me down. We went out and she danced like lady, sensibly. My wily and cheeky cousin Patrick, who can shame Usher with moves, was not very lucky. They danced decently and every time he tried some mischief, she shooed him away. And only insisted that if it is not me, she can’t dance ‘indecently’. She couldn’t get down without me. That evening, I was so happy, I saved a street kid’s life.

See, the kid came to me, and told me… ‘Daddy, saidia.’

I asked the kid, ‘If I gave you Ksh 1,000, what would you do?’ The kid said, ‘I would be so happy, I will die of laughter’ OK, you know where this stolen joke is going…Right? I didn’t give the kid the money, because we don’t want people dying senselessly. Just kidding.

Until some sanity and decency comes to the dance floor. Until they stop that annoying socket-dancing. Until rubbing one’s ass on the man’s groin stops as the standard measure of dancing. Until women stop dancing randomly with strangers (that does nothing to nation building by the way). Until they stop exchanging numbers on the dance floor, I will always remain cynical about dancing.

Dancing is one of those things that we invented to allow us to interact with our stupid selves. Look at those old women and randy men, dancing in circles during weddings. Look at those old, bald, potbellied men in the locals dancing to Nimon Toki Lala and Mbilia Bel with Guinness in their hands targeting the waitress. It just sucks. And it is stupidity. Let us not pretend.
Call a spade a spade.

If I have sounded too judgmental, it is my opinion. The fact that I am right should not stop you from dancing. You will be stupid in my own eyes. But you don’t need my approval for you to be be stupid. Or do you?

Forget looks or intelligence; women can shag anything

Generally, I am stupid. While some ladies have found me fairly intelligent, others handsome (especially the visually challenged and the extremely drunk), I affect a certain level of stupidity that often lands me in regrettable trouble. Hence this tale.

We keeping up with jAnus. Remember him from last week’s blog? I have every reason to insist that the J in his name is silent. And I am not making this one up. He is called Janus. Or Janas. He is a monumental prick. And here is why.

I didn’t call when I was dropping by Phanice’s place on Tuesday, when Uhuru was being inaugurated at Kasarani. I should have called. See I was rapping and whistling one of my favourite numbers. Rapping where I knew the lyrics and whistling where I didn’t know the words. The song: ‘Hey Ma’ by Cam’ron featuring Juel Santana.

I knocked on the door and twisted the lock. I walked in confidently, chest pressed forward, head held high and generally trying to keep the fact that Uhuru is our president out of my mind. And as I walked into the sitting room, I saw jAnus seated on the sofa, his legs on the coffee table. That is a very comfortable pose that tells you immediately that he has laid the lady of the house.

One of my strengths is the ability to draw conclusions which are 99.99% correct. He was in a milky white unsershirt and a track suit. FML. I stopped whistling and gave him one appraising look, expecting him to cut the eye contact, but he got balls. Under such circumstances, whoever says ‘hi?’ first loses. At the 7th second he mumbled a merely audible,
‘Naje.’ I said curtly. He had some strong and decent cologne on that combined with his body odour and overnight sweating to render the sitting room with a strong feral and masculine scent. That combined with my hatred and jealousy made the testosterone levels in the environment palpable.

To throw him of guard, I sneezed, cleared my throat sarcastically and wore a childish and a knowing smile on my face. To jerk him further, I entered the washroom to show him that I was very familiar with the house and I wanted him to inadvertently think that I’m one of the numerous men that Phanice lays. And I have accepted my role as a stud.
In the washroom, the loser in me made me look around for any sign of male life. I looked at the soap. There was some long and wavy pubic hair on it. Presumably female. There were two short hairs. Presumably male. I checked on the number of toothbrushes inside the cup. They were at least ten. If I can use the colour theory, and assuming there were no gay friends, four had what you can call masculine colours and three were pink, purple and red; that makes them female. I checked on the pants. There was a lace thong, a lingerie and the normal panties and one that looked like what Avril once wore on those online nudes. There was a male boxer, tucked on the far end of the pipe that looked like it had stayed there since the time Churchil was funny, some three years ago.

This moment of introspection and retrospection took me about 1 minute and 23 or 24 seconds. Then I had Phanice voice speak in the sitting room. I listened and I heard her say,

“Sweets, wacha tutumie tu ya white.” Sweets, what did I miss here? Then I heard jAnus utter something like…

“And you make some eggs as well,” in a controlled, confident voice. There was a riot in my head akin to the Second World War. Then I walked out of the bathroom into the sitting room and I found her seated on the arm-rest of the sofa, cuddling. jAnus, had the casual disinterest of the man who had his fun and didn’t want Phanice bothering him reading his newspaper.

When Phanice saw me, she suppressed her surprise look and acted normal. The first thing she said was…
“We ulinienjoy ticko za Blankets & Wines.” She said this with a straight face. Women.
“Ilikuwa when?’’ jAnus inquired. More like telling me and Phanice that he can afford that any day any time. He is not into that shit of complimentary tickets…
I stood there nonplussed. It is difficult to hide hatred, downplay disappointment, or escape the envy that engulfs one under such circumstances. I gave jAnus one look of disapproval and he looked back in manner that said, ‘I f**ked her. So F**k you.’ The look the ex of the man gives the new boyfriend if they ever meet is not a good one. If contemptuous, he will be like, ‘he sucked my D before he did yours’. If he still feels the chick, the other man will be like, ‘she is sucking mine’.
“Haukunipigia nilikuwa nazo,” I told Phanice in a defeated voice. She gave me that sympathetic look women give you when they have committed a mistake or when they want to leave you and you are clueless. jAnus gave me that mocking look of ‘see, I got bigger balls.’
Phanice went to the bedroom and came back with a package and gave it to me and told me that he would pass by the office later in the week to check on me. There was no invitation for breakfast. For the three minutes she was gone, I endured the worst humiliation any man can endure. jAnus sat there, reading his newspaper, and flipping the TV channels.

What I learnt is that women are generally bad judges of character. And they are driven by physical impulses just like men. jAnus does not look clever or intelligent. Bright? Certainly not. I mean, I possess some royal genes and good pedigree but an intelligent lady like Phanice can afford to call a stupid, useless SOB ‘Sweets’ and call me by my first name points to where the world is going. You wonder is this why we fought for the new constitution. Or is it the reason why Mboya was assassinated.

But maybe, jAnus drives and uses a better cologne while I am stuck with a Nivea roll-on in 2013. Life.

Of dumb choices: Two men, one woman; a question of balls

Two men, one woman; a question of balls

I think all human beings are naturally predisposed to dumb choices. Give a man a Keith Kilonzo and some dumb blonde somewhere with big ass an attitude that stinks from one end of Kenyatta Avenue to the other, and sure as hell he will go for the blonde. Brains are always secondary and so overrated. Equally present a woman with a relatively short man, with brains and character and another one who is a tall schmuck with the character of horny donkey, and sure as hell she will pick the schmuck.

On the subject of dumb choices, give Kenyans Peter Kenneth, Martha Karua and Ole Kiyiapi…see what we did there. And so, this developing story.

It is a Saturday evening. I am with Teddy Fischer, my retrosexual friend who gets a kick putting me down and Raul, a ninja the girl I am  currently eying thinks is funny. Women are actually complex to understand. What she calls funny is what will make Larry Asego weep. Suffice to say Larry Asego is not even funny, just in case you get me wrong.

The mission of the night: My female pal Phanice (someone was given that name, I think out of parental neglect) wants me to go see her other close friend off to the airport so that we can go for drinks together afterwards. OK, Phanice gets what Phanice wants. Besides, she reassured me that my philandering friends might be luck and get some of her ‘fly’ friends.

The number of ‘single’ women who show up in parties ready to be shagged after a few shots of Tequila has been giving me sleepless nights lately. Just about any other party I have visited, a friend has been lucky with an extremely beautiful woman; married, sometimes; dating, often. My extremely efficient friends never waste a chance and before the lady knows what hit her or getting piquant into an imaginary relationship, she discovers that she doesn’t even have the number of the said man. Nevertheless, she will show up at a different party with the same expectations. And the cycle continues.

So we arrive in her big house in South C. What do they say about South C? It is the most confused and exploited estate in Nairobi. South C, even if the conductors decided that the fair is 200 bob they won’t complain. Let them try such a stunt at the Kayole stage or any Eastlands bound stage…South C gives us people like that lady of Tujuane. Just about the only good thing that ever came out South C is E-Sir(RIP).

There is a substantial crowd of seemingly mature fellows in the house in different stages of courtship and drunkenness. As usual, there is that one guy, probably broke or shy watching something on NatGeo. There are three young girls physically and aesthetically challenged trying to act normal. But it is the big-assed, ‘weaved’, with the bust pouring out of their chest who grabbed  our attention.

Ordinarily, you would call them ratchets. My stupid judgmental self could not stand them. There is something eerily plastic, when a woman with a long hair, painted make-up, holding a HUUUGE smart phone shouts, MORE AMARULA!!!!. It has a way of getting to my nerves. Why do I hate women who pretend so much?

Anyway, as we took our shoes off, amidst the chatter and the shouting, all eyes were trained on Teddy. Many women have whispered to me, ‘he is quite a looker’ and many have kissed him in my presence, just for the thrill. I guess by the time he leaves Kenya, there will be enough ‘pointees’ to feel up Nyayo Stadium We took to our seats and we logged onto Twitter as we tried to acclimatize ourselves, waiting for the drinks to be served. Phanice knows that Gilbeys and Lime Juice is the best thing to happen to me since myself and that is it what she served as she distractedly told us to feel at home.

Phanice, if you will allow me is one of those women I have pending issues with. I want her. She wants me. But we know, if we dare cross the line, things will never be the same again. So we are friends but no one has been friendzoned. I sat there with Raul and we started gossiping about which chick could be laid on spot, which one will prove a challenge, so on, so forth. Across the room, Teddy was talking to the DJ, but I am sure he was eying the lady next to him and he had taken the long route, knowing, the chick will be curious and of course instantly be interested in him.

There was a gentleman, nay a schmuck, I took an instant dislike to. He was one of these guys with below average looks, averagely tall, but being a gym person, the muscles were pouring out of his shirt and he had been rightfully ignored by everyone. But what annoyed me most is that he was erotically eying Phanice, especially her behind. He seemed a man on a mission and instinctively I knew that he had his eyes trained on her. A sharp tingle of irritation pricked me. I should say that the word irritation and jealousy had the same meaning.

I had tried saying Hi to him and he didn’t even wait to get my name, though he had said his name as Janas. Or was it jAnus? The kid is probably hated by his parents. That name. Whether it was his nature to ignore people, or he hated the attention I was receiving is neither here nor there. So we agreed on spot that we can’t be friends.

I wanted to talk to Phanice and exit, when Teddy told me to get myself someone and get busy in order to stop my wet blanket’ tendencies. So I looked around, there wasn’t a chick I fancied. All I could see was plastic and polythene bags. Any woman who drinks something that costs half my rent is out of my league. It is all about lanes. Lanes.

Thankfully, Phanice realized that I was getting bored and she brought her tipsy self my way. She was playful and we had some nice banter. jAnus was watching and I could see he was not terribly impressed. Fuck jAnus!

To make him feel jealousy, I started getting touchy, touching her inappropriately just to make him angry. He was ticked off and I saw smoke come out of his nostrils and I thought I saw his middle finger up, but Phanice had given him her back. Life is not fair… As the times went by, time to leave to the airport was due and we all assembled in the parking and that is when jAnus pulled a shocker on me.

Given that, Phanice had to ensure that everyone was secure in the cars or taxis, it means, she almost missed out on a ride and jAnus came to her rescue and offered her a seat next to the driver’s seat. He was the one spinning. And he watched as we tucked ourselves into our rattletrap. He remembered to wink at me at having beaten me 5-0. ROUND ONE.

We got to the airport and it was drizzling. I offered Phanice my jacket, in front of jAnus. He actually had a nice feminine sweater on and he realized his blunder and bit his lower lip. I had given him 2-0. To that end, Phanice probably had not realized we were trying to kiss her ass. Or if she knew, she was going about it everything in a graceful way. Quiet and composed. Not to be outdone, jAnus (actually, the j is silent) proposed that they do coffee in their nearby lounge. He scored 3-0. I tried to be cool about it, but he seems driven to piss me off. And he was succeeding. And we don’t want that. When I am angry, someone’s life is always in danger. Off to coffee, they went.

But before they left, I called Phanice,

‘’Sweets, tomorrow, si you drop by for some storo.’ Maybe, she didn’t like the name Sweets. Maybe it is that sheng word Storo. For she didn’t say, ‘Yeah, get a Martini ready’. Rather she said, curtly, ‘Call me.’

When a chick tells you ‘call me’ curtly, you know she wanna feel important. OK, it was Phanice, so I didn’t mind too much, but I noticed a fatal crush developing on Lord jAnus. What is going on here. I will be snooping around her phone this coming weekend to see the kind of correspondence going on. Keep it here, if interested. …