My 5-minute disastrous appearance on National TV

“This mukimo guy looks kinda blond and dumb”, read the first tweet I saw while on Larry Madowo’s #TheTrend. There were more. Mostly questioning my cognitive abilities.

Never in the history of blogging has a blog rallied a whole community against a ‘dumb’ blogger than it did last week. I was tremendously overwhelmed. A while ago, a very senior Kenyan summoned to his office and warned me that I should be careful about what I write, for I never know who my ‘strong’ language may offend. I should I should have listened.

It all started last Wednesday morning. I had not done the week’s blog. So I sat and decided to punch a few words about food. My idea was that I will come up with a series that will basically hate on Kenyan foods. Save for the Coastal people, the rest of Kenya culinary landscape is just a joke. So I will start with Mukimo. Go to the Luo’s Omena. Go to the Luhyia’s mrenda. Go to the Kisii’s extremely bitter weeds that pass for vegetables that strangely people think have a medicinal value of clean blood.

So I uploaded the blog and left. Four hours later, I checked, I had 200 clicks. That was fair. Because the blog is for my small army of friends, mainly those I went to university with. In deed those I schooled with and those familiar with my Retrosexual column in The Nairobian are familiar with my style and did not find the blog as mildly offensive as the people who stumbled upon the blog for the very first time.

24 hours later, the blog had gone viral. It is every blogger’s dream, to write a blog that goes viral. Only that the blog attacked the sensibilities of a people of the House of Mumbi and the feedback was negative and offensive. There were three kinds of responses.

The first category was that of Kikuyus and others who saw the humour, laughed it off and went back to work. Way to go. The second category saw ignorance and decided to educate me. Thank you. I have learnt that the worst Kikuyu food is not mukimo, it is pilau ya njeri. Even from the name…I have learnt that every district in Central has its variant of Mukimo and those from Kirinyaga have the most original Mukimo. I have seen the word irio bandied about like it is the aphrodisiac version of mukimo…

The third category is the annoying lot who see everything through their ethnic lenses. So defensive and protective of their communities even it is not necessary. You write anything negative about Gor Mahia, they say you are attacking the Luo community. You complain about corruption in the government of Uhuru, they dismiss you as bitter loser.

I saw people I respect so much; some journalists of great distinction dismiss and discredit the blog as an overt hatred towards the Kikuyu. Imagine someone claiming that I’m capable of causing a genocide…Come on the only genocide I’m capable of is if I masturbate and throw away a million sperms that have the potential to be humans.

Some thought that I dated a Kikuyu woman who cooked bad mukimo hence the beef. Or a Kikuyu woman left me. Yes, the three most beautiful women my heart has ever hankered after were Kikuyu. One was an intelligent light-skinned lass who decided after three months, to give me her friend zone estate to manage. I quit. The second one, well, I did not have the balls, she was too alpha for me. Overambitious women are a turn off to me. The third…well, that is too much information. Thing is I have never had a problem Kikuyu women. Not a disagreement. Not a spat. I enjoy a healthy relationship with all my Kikuyu buddies.

So amidst the heat and as the blog was shared in all social media platforms, Larry asks me to appear on The Trend. I sack at public speaking. I stutter and my Kisii accent gets in the way. I pondered about it. I ask the missus. She is opposed to the idea. She calls me an attention seeker. I vehemently deny this charge. But given she is a bright woman; I give her the benefit of doubt. Sometimes we don’t know much about ourselves as we think.

Anyway, I show up for #TheTrends having psyched all my friends on social media. At NMG, I share a lift with Ciru Muiruri and take it from me, she is hot, too bad she claims she has sat on someone’s chapatti, but we have a date. Anyway at the lobby, I’m with Sabina Stadtler before my homeboy Ringtone shows up, all geared up to expose the rot at the Music Society and Copyright Kenya. At first I didn’t know who Sabina was and I kept wondering who is this garrulous, hot girl? Until I run into my junior in Campus, Edmond Nyabola, NTV sports anchor, who helpfully calls her by name and it hits me that she is the lady we sent to South Africa for a week to represent us at Big Brother. But I don’t watch Big Brother at all, at all.

Anyway, as Sabina goes to the studio, I’m set up in the newsroom, earphones, tablet, cameras…it is all systems go…

When we came live, I was tongue-tide. I was nervous as freak. I was sweating from every orifice. I knew that I was going to make the biggest ass of myself on national telly. Given I was going to argue with Ciru Muiruri, I was lost. She is combative. She is bold and never afraid of to speak her mind. So I freaked.

Verdict: 90% decided that I came out as naïve, nervous and rather too dull. I’m sorry. And to that lady at the beginning, I was blond and dumb. She is entitled to her opinion, I will not resort to abusing her.

Sadly with that catastrophic appearance, advisors in my head have decided that I don’t appear on TV until October 2046. For the new readers, I welcome you to my blog. Learn to laugh. Drop your ethnic or gender lenses, here you come to read for entertainment and it is never that serious.

Tomorrow, I will publish a response from the reader titled, “How to Prepare Mukimo” to wind down the madness. Monday, we resume the normal banter.

Mukimo is a lazy and bad food, period.

I will not even mince my words here: Mukimo is the worst Kenyan food. It does not matter how many Kikuyu friends I have. It doesn’t matter if they have the presidency. It doesn’t matter if they hold key positions in the government, military and everywhere where the politically inclined tend to pick bones with them. I don’t care the stereotypes about their men and women.

For me, my beef with Kikuyus will always be about their lazy approach to preparing food. Kikuyu are some of the laziest, least creative people when it comes to food matters. Some of their other lazy inventions include tumbukiza: Simply you cut 2 kilograms of beef steak, deep it in salted water and let it boil, boil,boil, booooooooil. At some point bring a 2 kilogram cabbage or 20 leaves of uncut spinach and throw in. Serve while hot…

This is a joke. Not a culinary delight. But Kikuyus are some of the poor eaters I know. I have never met a Kikuyu who sat to enjoy and appreciate a meal. Savour the peculiar tastes of each and every starch and vegetable serving on the table. Understand the epicurean peculiarities of spices. Get the crispness of beer. Let their tongues dance to the exciting delights of natural fresh juice. For some strange reasons, these guys are constantly on the move. This explains their cavalier attitude towards things that really matter in life. Like food and family.

Kikuyus are possibly the more ‘civilized’ of Kenyans, given their earlier exposure to the colonialists. They don’t have many cultural inhibitions save for ruracio which seems to be widely respected and some really expensive weddings. It was a geographical accident that they be proximate to the capital. By that advantage, they at least ought to have produced the national delicacy.

Countries without a national delicacy are often very divided. And it is the Kikuyu’s fault for failing to raise to the occasion when it comes to food. When your most creative meal is mukimo, we are trouble. To make matters worse, they never learned to prepare ugali (which is the acknowledged national starch). No sane man from Western Kenya will let their Kikuyu wife or girlfriends touch the cooking stick. When it comes to ugali, they do such a terrible job, they stop short of mashing the potatoes into the simmering maize flour porridge in course to be made ugali.

And now the mukimo. When was the last time you heard someone say, ‘this Mukimo is niiiice’. Never ever. I can imagine who came up with mukimo. Three theories. These folks have always been entrepreneurs and commercial farmers, hence they never had time to start boiling the potatoes separately, the corn separately and also preparing the green vegetables or weeds they colour the mukimo with independently. So the council of Kikuyu women decided that just put all those things in one pot, let them boil together. Serve them when lukewarm.

Take a break to watch my disastrous appearance on the trend. Don’t laugh. I will not make any TV appearance until 2046.

Theory number 2. The Agikuyu are classified as the only matriarchy in Africa. As far as I know. So since the women ruled, they had no business of enticing their men with food. I can imagine Wangu wa Makeri (was that her name) telling the women to focus on more important things in life. Like whipping the bad bottoms of men for fun. So, men never would tell what bad food was from good food. Importantly, they didn’t care since they were plotting for the fall of womanhood. Remember that stroke of genius where they impregnated all the women simultaneously and made them weak and essentially overthrew them? How their timing defied biology is a story for another day.

Theory number three. During Mau Mau, the Kikuyus had no time for niceties and pleasantries of preparing food with the all the luxury in the world. They cooked everything hurriedly before the Brits disrupted their daily routine. For that we are thankful. But what have they done to boost their culinary skills 51 years down the line?

Simple, they discovered carrots, irish potatoes, peas, cabbages and decided that is what they will feed their men and all the people who throng their restaurants. And then, to make the matters worse: They decided that Githeri is a delicacy and essentially ruined our high school lives. NKT. Imagine if Martian arrived on earth and asked, ‘how do you prepare githeri?’ and you answered,

“Just take beans and corn and boil them.” I swear that is the simplest recipe in the universe. Now imagine the panache with which women at the coast prepare their beans even to the point of putting coconut oil in it. Imagine the spices that transform a simple dinner into a heavenly pleasure.

The Luhyias specialized in the chicken stuff. Luos know a thousand edible fish and a hundred ways of preparing them, even though omena is culinary insult. We the Kisiis, if you didn’t know invented ugali, before the Luos copied from us and passed it to the Luhyias who perfected the art. For Kalenjins, they make Mursik through an art passed down generations and is the secret to their success in athletics.

What about Kikuyus. Their food is devoid of any heritage. Any cultural teachings. Nothing at all. Mukimo is tasteless, you will need salt and spiced soup for you to make head or tail of what eating. It is simply mashed potatoes mixed with githeri and a food colour made from some weeds. And their brand of beans, njahi, tastes like warmed loam soil. Bad, bad, bad…

For their cavalier attitude towards food, Kikuyus should be banned from eating pizza or any food that requires any imagination towards making it.

What most people don’t know is that the reason why marriages between men from Western Kenya and Kikuyus don’t work is less political, more culinary: And I will say it here without fear or favour: for men from Western Kenya, if there isn’t ugali on the table, there is no lunch or supper there, period. He may lie to you that he doesn’t really mind, but mostly it is because you are light-skinned (hence can’t put you through so much trouble). Or, you are too pretty, he doesn’t want to offend you.

When all said and done, we did not endure all those forests and wild animals from Cameroon to come and eat githeri and mukimo. Kikuyus owe us an apology and their women should be sent to West Kenyans on an exchange programme and be taught how to prepare proper ugali, nice vegetables and a protein dish. While at it, be taught that potatoes need not be a constant on every meal. And no Shiro, a man cannot sleep on a paperful of chips!

There are other methods of preparing dishes, besides boiling. Try frying. Smoking. Roasting. ..

Why is everything in Nairobi so scandalously overpriced?

Nairobi is ruinously expensive. And it is getting worse. You will know this when you will take a young campus woman to an average restaurant and she asks for milk shake that goes for Sh 450. And all you have is 500. So you will be forced to pretend to be having some terrible flu, and order lemon water. Except that you will realise that hot water and slices of wrinkly and nearly rotten lemon cost Sh 100. Why is so?

Beer for instance. In an averagely bad club with white lounge chairs and a DJ who dropped out of his DJ College, beer goes for Ksh 250. The government just needs to state that it intends to tax beer and prices will shoot up like an morning erection. Or the club shuts down for renovation and hooray! Beer suddenly costs an arm, your leg, spleen and your liver. Nothing justifies the beer prices in the Nairobian CBD. It is just the untamed greed. There is a respectable joint right in the middle of the city that still sells beer at Ksh 160. And don’t you get me started on that ambiance bullshit! And how did we accept buying shots for Sh 150, without feeling like we are being ripped off. I think I should start my own club

Then there is sugar. It is only in Kenya in the whole Planet Earth where a kilogram of sugar goes for more than an equivalent of Ksh 100. Even landlocked, war-torn, godforsaken shitholes like Sudan and Central African Republic, it costs cheaper. Even maize flour for crying out loud is scandalously overpriced for a country that is agriculture-reliant. Why Dedan Kimathi’s name?

Just recently I went to my favourite restaurant only to discover they now sell tea, damn Kenyan tea for Ksh 180. That is the cost of four packets of milk. A year ago, it was Ksh 80 and you paid for the Wi-Fi, which is the fastest there is within Nairobi, by the way. Now, a mug of tea is Ksh 180, and you still pay for the Wi-Fi. Why in Mekatilili wa Menza name? And their tea is not the best. Most certainly, it is powder milk warmed off a microwave, because it tastes nearly like rotting camel milk. why, we’d rather go to Java, even though mostly most Kenyans cannot tell good coffee from bad coffee. But tea?

Think about the Maasai markets on rooftops of malls. First the local sellers have a stupid disdain towards fellow locals and see Whites as the only potential market. Isabel Hughan wrote a great short story back in the ‘80s titled ‘Skin Colour Of Money’. Nothing has changed ever since. An arm band or necklace made in the pattern of the Kenyan flag goes for a fortune. Same as a cotton T-shirt or anything we deem as Kenyan souvenirs (which basically anything deemed Maasai-like sold by folks from Central Kenya).

You probably guessed that I had to mention rent rates and land buying in Nairobi. An acre of land in Rongai of all places now goes for more than Sh 10,000,000. That is not a misprint. Rents in Nairobi have become impossible. In estates, such as South B and C, agents and landlords were sired by Satan and raised by Pharaoh and Jezebel. They are the perfect picture of extortion. For you to move to a good two-bedroom house in South B, you need a deposit of Ksh 36,000 and a rent of the same amount. Then you will pay Ksh 20,000 for legal fee, Ksh 5,000 good will, Ksh 5,000 for water deposit, Ksh 5,000 for electricity (they import their electricity straight from heaven.

Property valuers are the devil’s representatives on earth. They can sell you a two-bedroom house in an apartment for Ksh 8,500,000 and shamelessly promise to give you a ‘free’ 40 inch plasma TV or double-door refrigerator. What do they take the collective IQ of Kenyans to be? That of a rat? Or that of an insane warthog?

Bus fares. Someone going to Murang’a pays Sh 150. Someone going to Rongai pays 150. Yet the Murang’a chap will arrive first before the Rongai chap even gets past the border. Have you noticed that the closer you are to town the more expensive the fare? Lang’ata and South C folks, with or without the traffic pay at least Ksh 50 or more. Nobody bothers complaining for fear that you will be seen to be broke.

Bata shoes. Bata is a great shoe-making industry with world-renown repute. Except that their shoes are…how do I put this? Lemme say, bad. Like baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad. And they cost a dime. Their shoes are generic, monotonous and I have never been convinced that they are made of leather. We may have liked Bata when we were young, but I see no reason whatsoever why any right thinking person will cough up to Ksh 4,500 for loafer shoes when you can go get good mitumba ones that will last forever. I bought my loafers along Kirinyaga Road in July, 1991, they are still intact.

Sometime last year, a visiting German friend asked me if she could get to sample our famed Nairobi National Park. I took her there only to discover that foreigners paid nearly four times what I would pay. While as a tourist, it makes sense to pay more, what defeated her, was why four times what a Kenyan would pay to see the same things. She was on her way to Botswana, Namibia and South Africa and she said she will try down there or National Geographic would suffice.

If we were to use the excuse that she was a student, she had to get a letter from her university, another letter of admission to the Kenyan university, a letter from the faculty dean copied to deputy vice chancellor academic affairs and forwarded to KWS from where it will be approved by ten individuals. That means by the bureaucratic standards of the Kenyan government that might have taken anything from 9 months to eternity.

And that is the precise problem with Nairobi. Throughout her stay, she complained about how some things were unnecessarily overpriced. And it is not about the notoriously miserly nature of Germans talking here.

Even flying KQ is unnecessarily expensive and they do not have the best service given their cabin crew never attended smiling classes. Tomatoes officially go Sh 10 and nobody seems remotely bothered. Education in public universities, more so public university parallel programme is outrageously expensive, yet the quality of their programmes is very substandard.

I can go on. But you get the drift. With Sh 2,000 you can barely buy anything substantial in a supermarket. I think I should move out of the country.

Moving house. And neighbours

The first thing you learn when you moving house is that, you will never find a perfect house. There is always something amiss. And if you go searching in the company of a woman, it is a totally different experience. They are very picky and you will triple the patience of Job to handle their many nonsensical demands.

For some reason, women pay special attention to the bathroom and toilet. The bigger the better. Best if the two are separated. This is hardly the case for Nairobi’s money-hungry, stupid developers. Men don’t care about the space in the bathroom and toilet. As long as it is big enough for his ones and twos (peeing and shitting). As long as there is enough room for hand movement during a quick wank, any bathroom would do. But women have a near mystic attachment to their toilets and bathrooms.

The house you get is either good and on the wrong floor (5th floor) or right floor (1st or 2nd) but poor in design. Many developers save millions by skipping on wardrobes (so that carpenters too can make clothes’ stands). I have seen wonderful houses without wardrobes. Or the toilet always looking like it was made with fifth-hand bowl that not even Harpic can salvage. Sometimes, you don’t have a balcony or you have but on the dusty side of the house. So dust you can start a garden there. Anyway, why do Nairobians insist on the balcony. All I see in balconies are those things that cannot fit into the house; the jerricans, mattresses, that extra bed, you name it.

And when you move in, things start coming off. Mostly the toilet flushing system breaks down on 13th day. Only 0.1 % households I have been to, that had full functional WCs. When they work, the flushing system is mostly weak to wipe out any sticky mess that you leave at the bottom of the bowl. Sometimes it is too close to the sitting room. So much so you can’t risk doing your twos there, lest you let out earthquakes from your bowels that will stink all the way from Mlolongo to Kinoo. We are all familiar with that walk of shame to the sitting room can ruin your confidence for good. Who came up with the notion of toilets in the house? In the village, the toilet is 30 metres from the homestead. And you will never value the fruits of independence from the Britons, until you have relieved yourself without any inhibition.

On the surface, moving house is an anthropological exercise. You learn so much about people’s temperaments. You deal with the agents who have sewages for brains. Out to con guys so coldly, so heartlessly. Then you have the pickup guy who despite having agreed will insist that you have too much stuff, you have to add a few hundreds. When you vehemently deny, he will not speak to you until you finish unpacking and he will ensure he knocks the TV or the fridge against the wall for good measure.

Then you have the agents who want that stupid fee for signing some lease agreement that you are sure will never help you. And if you are moving to South B, you learn the infinite stupidity of Nairobi’s most evil lot: landlords and agents. South B, despite the relatively older houses, presumably owned by senior citizens who should have made their money in the past has some of the greediest human beings.

On Sunday, I moved house for the fourth time since I finished campus, some three years ago. It was a draining experience. And take it from me, moving with a mkokoteni is expensive than when moving with a taxi.

Now, the first house we ever moved to was in Umoja, Innercore. A two bedroom flat, just by the road. Me and my homeboy Banad had gone house hunting in Zimmerman, Roysambu, Kasarani (naturally they are the estates for starters out of college). We got a good house in Zimmerman, but it was expensive even though sitting on a swamp. I saw the mosquitoes in their open market in the nearby stagnated water, and they looked menacing. Kasarani proved too unattractive for us.

Then at Roysambu we found a 4th-floor, 2-bedroom apartment, with a monstrously humongous sitting room that would take us 15 years to fill with furniture. Then, when haggling for the details, the caretaker called the owner, who asked us what was our occupation?

“We are two, straight from college, searching for a job.” I told him.

“And how will you manage to pay the rent?” he asked, the skepticism in his voice palpable. A good question.

“Mmmh, we sure can afford. And we will get the jobs,” I pleaded.

“Then you have to pay rent for at least four months upfront,” he firmly said in a discouraging voice.

“You are a piece of stinking sh*t.Nkt. Go burn in hell.” I nearly told him. On realizing that we were dealing with a middle-aged arse-ho**, we left without as much as backward glance. Look, we were from UoN. And you don’t just talk to loaded ex-comrades like that.

On that Saturday, living on borrowed time at our campus room, we ventured to Umoja and found an available house. The kind caretaker who showed us the house was not as inquisitive. By the way in Umoja and the entire Eastlands, Landlords are not as greedier as the so called Lang’ata, South B or South C. The house in Umoja was a 2-bedroom. Tiled. Big enough kitchen. Water 24/7. No wardrobes. OK, you can’t have it all. Besides, we were rushing to Naivasha with other friends. So we paid the rent and the deposit through MPESA and left.

I stayed in the house with my housemate for seven months. My housemate took the room directly above the highway and every morning he was awoken by the sweet hooting of Citi Hoppas picking passengers. A little price you pay for taking the master bedroom. My room on the end was permanently dark, given it was on the windward side of the apartment. I will not mention the small experience we had when some women stole the sugar, the perfume, blue band and shoe polish in the wee hours of of that first weekend.

Now in that flat, I scarcely ever knew more than two or three neighbours. Our next door neighbour was a fattish, Luo man (he always wore a clean Gor Mahia T-shirt). Constantly he had young women in his house, you know the smallish kind of women you neither can tell whether they are of age or teenagers. But he had a family. I saw one or two toddlers. He had those badly designed, but extravagantly tasteful sofas. Often he said hi. There was also some lady, in her 30s. I often saw her escort older men in old Mercedes and Land Rovers.

One Friday night, at around 3.38 am, I was awake and decided just to stand by the window and ponder about life and the country’s GDP (I’m lying; I was having my usual bout of insomnia). I stood by the window and looked down. Two floors down, in some kitchen, there was some man who I could only see his grey boxer. As you would have noticed, normal, straight bachelors often bother having curtains in their kitchens. He was boiling two eggs. Then in walked a naked woman. I could only see her thighs, and partially, her round, taut bum. They stood there. Probably reflecting on the electric sex they just had as to warrant boiled eggs. Or they were about to have.

It struck me that life is unfair. There I was without sleep, no girlfriend, and down two floors some man had a naked woman to himself. I watched them, expecting that they will do something as bad as have the overrated kitchen sex. I’m told women like such random surprises and sex in cars is their number one fantasy. In the kitchen no.3. Few have sent me signals in cars that I totally miscued, but either way, at my height, it is impossible. But I digress. The two didn’t do much. They broke their eggs. Switched off the lights and left. I went back to hug my pillows.

I temporarily moved to Dohnholm. It was a decent, spacious house. I liked the house very much. I can live there once again. One night, as I rinsed some glass in the kitchen, I saw a man only in inner-wear in bed caressing his balls. The girlfriend or the wife had tied some leso around her body, covering her boobs up to her thighs. From my view, the thighs were superb. My type. She was clearing some clothes from the bed and seemed to having some animated talk with the man who seemed casually disinterested. Kind off, she was nagging him. She kept looking outside. I switched off the lights so that I could follow what they were up to without realising that I was up to something from the next apartment. The man was not listening to her and she was getting agitated. She picked her toothbrush and angrily walked away. The man pulled over the blankets and covered himself.

When she came back, she took off the leso, revealing red innerwear. Damn, she was sumptuous, despite her foul mood. She looked at the window and realized there were no curtains. She took something heavy, like a blanket and angrily covered the window, effectively ending my reverie. I realized that I needed a steady girlfriend on that day. But I moved out of the country for a great deal of that 2012.

When I came back I was back to the Eastlands. Thing with the Eastlands is that it can be addictive. The new apartment was good. But directly beneath it was an evangelical church that every Sunday at 5.58 am, blasted music to my chagrin. I used to be mad. Given a grenade, I would bomb them. Picture this, you partied the previous night and only came home at 4.47 am. An hour later, before you even catch some good sleep, someone is blasting jumpy gospel music and the congregation is already jumping and shouting Jehova’s praises. What compounds the problem is that yourself goes to church on Saturday. So there you lay, the hangover already taking its toll. You feel like someone is sewing in your head using Singer sewing machine. I moved.

Next stop, Imara Daima. I have previously written about Imara Daima here. It is a sleepy, boring estate. There was more. In my next apartment, the biggest nuisance I ever dealt with was the neighbour who lived in his own house in the adjacent house. The fool kept chicken and in the morning I was always awoken by his cocks crowing and many a time it took the missus calming me and stopping from throwing a stone to the compound in protest.

As I have mentioned, I sleep late. Usually 2 or 3 am. Now, no sooner I sleep than the stupid cocks start their cock-a-doodle-doo. Trust me; I have never been madder and angrier. If you are a light sleeper you probably know the difficulty of courting sleep. Often, I’m forced to read molecular science and astrophysics to dull my brain into sleeping. I hated the matronly lady from that compound. Often I have felt this this compulsive urge to tell her to the face that she sucks. Big time. And I once wanted to report her to the City Council.

I stayed on the top most floor. Across the floor were two women. In their late 20s or early 30s. Mostly single. For over a 9 months, I have never seen a man walk out their houses. One of them is plump, but with a permanently naughty smile on the face. Sunday mornings, she excites my morning when she wears an extremely body-hugging dress as she washes her clothes. Boy, does she have a body to die for? Often I humour myself that she does that to entice me. Although plump, she looks the type, who can be extremely flexible in bed, given she is either Luo or Luhyia. Her facial disposition is Luo. Her legs, certainly Luyhia. May be she is a mixture.

The other is fairly light-skinned, always in a foul mood. I have never determined whether she is beautiful or not. One morning she looks extremely beautiful. And in the evening, when tired and drained, combined with her foul mood she is not all that. But she has a terrible attitude, either she is a snob or shy. Or even a misanthrope. I have seen her talk with the fat one, but she is quite reserved. More worryingly, she blasts music on Sundays. And she only plays love songs. You know the Westlife, Brandy, BoyzIIMen type of music. Whoever who hurt her, should make up with her. She deserves a man. The forlorn look probably is from a dry spell.

My caretaker in this apartment was very interesting. A young man who had the best conflict resolution method. You went to his room, fuming…

“My sink is blocked and the water seems contaminated…” You shout at him.

“Ooh, let us go and have a look.”

When he arrives, he will give the sinks one thoughtful look and exit telling you that he will come to fix it. He never comes of course. And you have to fix the problem yourself. There was a helplessness about him that instantly made you empathetic after that good formula he has of solving problem.

Now, in the new house, I just realized that the roof of the two bathrooms are coming off. The bathrooms and the toilets while separated, water from the bathroom definitely spills over to the side of the toilet and there is no let out, it stagnates. What that means, once I shower, I have to mop the floor. Who schooled these architects?

I’m yet to know my neighbours. Though on the first night I moved there, I saw some really beautiful, tall lady, climbing the stairs. But as it happens in life either she is some yuppie’s chick. She looked the snobbish type. Or I will wake up tomorrow and find her pulling out of the parking with the mercedes and that will automatically disqualify any stupid intentions I may be harbouring.

What is paining me is that no landlord has ever returned my deposit. Anytime I give it out, I assume that it is a sunken cost. And I know many Nairobians who gave up. We all hope that, they will burn in a place hotter than the chambers that will torture Hitler…