WHAT CHRIST HAS TO DO WITH CHRISTMAS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

For fear of debauchery and suspicion of lunacy I will not quote the ‘Kenyan’ version of Isaiah 9:6. I am quite certain of rattling that whom I should seek forgiveness from and I am more than certain that I do not want to be Waigurud. The verse clearly depicts who was born and I fail on all accounts to see the name Brenda, Ochieng and Nafula appear in the context. So why are you all exceeding merriments like you are wonderful counsellors?

Christmas is no longer Christmas. It’s a season to pour coins on food, clothes, vacations and other shenanigans that have no Jesus in them. Jesus was not born in Mombasa, Dubai nor Kempinsky unless you are gathering there in the name of the Lord, let’s kindly stick to the manger. We use Jesus’ birthday to engage in activities that are far off from the scripture as teachers are from their pay. No one quite remembers what encompasses this recurring tradition or maybe 310 steered us so far that we no longer care.

Christmas is always so much miscalled. A celebration framed by extreme atrocities that bear no image nor remembrance of the king Himself. Then soon after memories become aberrations as the ‘New Year New Me’ motto is appraised. My words however hold little gravity as I participate and indulge in all these affairs. Furthermore, I might just catapult it to the next generation and the ones following. But who is responsible? Who shall we hang by the noose of blame?

This string of thoughts may arouse emotions but bless your heart. Devour that chicken, mob that Versace, trod that white sand and wake up in that Bugatti. Felis Navidad.

Forgive Us Oh Lord For We Have Sinned.

IN THE CLOSET WITH PRETTY PATRIZ

LIFESTYLE BLOGGER

Style is borderline fashion, do you think there's a difference?

Yes, I believe that there is a huge difference between fashion and style. Fashion issimply clothes may it be in a store or runway but style to me is how you put together pieces of clothing to fit your comfort and most importantly your persona or sometimes mood.

Was fashion inborn or did you grow into it?

To me fashion wasn't inborn. 2-3 years ago I cared very little about fashion or my personal style. It all came to be about a year and a half ago, at a point in my life, where I was getting to find my self and generally my purpose... Which I truly believe in every sense its fashion!

With so many upcoming stylists and gurus in the industry, what would you say makes you stand out?

What I believe stands out about me, is that I stay true to my style, I am never swayed by anyone, yes I draw inspiration from other fashion icons, runway shows as well as other bloggers , however I take what might work for me and give it my personal touch to make it my own.

What is your favorite print? Or collectible in your wardrobe?

Hahaha this is probably the hardest question for me, but it would probably be distressed denim.

Your fashion repertoire is pretty chic, what was the biggest milestone you faced before you settled on blogging?

I think the most challenging thing was that I am usually very hard on myself so I strive for the best and the best of who I can be. So I guess I didn't want to get into it if I knew I wouldn't make it to the top. Well am not at the top, however I still strive to be there someday. In short I guess I was my biggest hurdle.

Do you personally select all your items?
Yes I do select all my items.

Apart from styling yourself, have you redesigned anyone else's wardrobe?

Well, if it counts I have redesigned my boyfriends wardrobe and my sister, I practically style my family and friends.

What do you think is lacking in the fashion industry generally in Kenya?

In relation to the Kenyan fashion industry, I feel we lack a fashion culture, and there is a lot of great and inspirational Kenyan designers, but the general public doesn't really support them enough, I am personally guilty of the same. I guess it's easy to run to 'gikomba' than research on a Kenyan designer and support them. However, I feel it's a growing industry and this may possibly change very soon or the near future. I am happy to be apart of this.

At what point would you consider yourself a full blown stylist or have achieved ultimate success?

Am I a stylist? Haha, well I hope to get a chance to style masses. As per now, I am still growing my brand and am yet to get this opportunity.

As a female stylist what inspiration do you want the youth in this generation to draw from you?

Well, I would love my readers or followers, to grow their confidence in themselves and appreciate their personal style.

Who would you like to work with both locally and internationally?

I would love to work with Kenyan designers such us as Adel De Jak, Nur, other companies such as, Woolworths. Internationally I would die to work with Chanel, Alexander Wang, Alexander McQueen, Balmain Paris among others!

What is your favorite part of being a fashion stylist?

I love to experiment new trends and incorporate them in my style and sharing them with my readers on my blog.

If not fashion, what other creative aspect would you be embracing?

I love music, I would love to do some work in radio. I guess that's what I would do if not fashion.

Last, not in any way the least,
Is Leah Patriz your real name?

Yes my name is Leah Patriz, my mum gave me the name Patriz. Leah is my official name, among others

Feel free to visit her blog at leahpatrizcom and keep up with this lass on Instagram Patriz_instyle

STREETS BECOME FAMILY by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I had alighted at Cannon House where most Rongai buses and matatus claim dominance. This is mostly to avoid the ongoing traffic and getting subjected to delve much deeper into Railways station. Not a minute after, my phone rings capturing the attention of those walking besides me and in opposite direction. I have never been taught the art of shyness or perhaps outgrew it as age began catching up, I dare not speak out of aberrations. Claiming part of a house that produces strong women who have a fine prowess in multitasking, I could initiate, conduct and become fully immersed into more than one conversation.

A young girl lies on the cold pavement covered in a deplorable headscarf exposing her graven feet, full of cut marks probably from walking a long distance. A boule with seemingly empty or bearing two or three shillings is placed not so far from her head. Imploring many are yet to be convinced and some suffer blindness as they make their way. Irascible passers-by quick to call her out of her ‘fake’ act, aggravate their voices as they near her. However, she doesn’t seem disturbed by their scoffs or their precedent disregard. Her body seemed dry and drab, no interjections, no fuss, no gesture, quite odd especially in a country that savors rants and raves. This particular case struck me of how I so often withhold rotary in fear of exploitation or endorsing dependency.

Two minutes too soon (still busy planning my weekend shenanigans) we come across several cases similar to the prior. As if the universe was giving a second chance. This round a woman sat impecuniously one leg over the other, a half masked face, frail hands holding onto her bare naked child. The mid-day sun charred her lips, illuminating the dentures as she asked for a hand of kindness. The bundle of joy sitting on her laps seemed blissfully unaware of her diminishing energy and ultimate sacrifice. He smiled so idyllically that I found myself smiling back. That’s when I realized all this time it was me who was disabled, not them. I was blind to them, my brain was malfunctioning and my hand withered. I gathered that physical inability does not drive us to pits of mercy and ravels of fine acting and manipulation. It’s the mind, the heart and the soul predicament in seeing a better day and striving to achieve it.

The inability was only but a state of mind inasmuch it affects so many of us but we remain unaware.It’s not just charity to them, it’s a hope for a more desiring day. An opportunity to see the good in a world that grosses and only gives when it’s assured back.

Manipulation has many artists of contours that we fail each other for fear of exploitation and deceit. But would you rather give to somebody who is at the depths of famish whether calculated or not? Or deny them mercy on account of pure guesswork and misguided imaginations? If you give out of a pure heart, what is it that you will lose? Money cannot overtake goodwill and if does then it shall find you in the streets. When a rich man has no morals, we altogether succumb to blindness but when a poor man suffers the same shortcoming, he shall be stoned to death. Hitherto a politician grabs land and no one utters a word but a commoner will snip a loaf of bread and so shall death befit of him.

One event can make you be on the other side of the hand.

HELLO BY ADELE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

A strong cocktail of emotions and power vocals undeniably makes one’s soul quiver. She possesses such an alluring voice that gives will to your heart, at the same time suppressing it. She leaves you twirling in emotions of mortality and incandescent peace. She gets you angry, remorseful and resentful for a love never felt. Then again soothe, bewilder and solidify you enough to be aloof and forget you had water boiling. You will find yourself dating a stranger, falling deep in love, becoming unfaithful, breaking up, and picking it up with someone else. Thereafter, call the prior seven years later. ‘Hello it’s me’. All this happens in your head.

Hello by Adele has been topping charts since its debut. It’s the type of song that brings El Nino to your heart. Everyone (read sadist) loves listening to it, Rihanna is threatened by the musical prowess and Taylor Swift needs a new ex-boyfriend. If I was in the music industry, I would probably be Beyoncé; the queen sticks to her throne. Jennifer Hudson do not be bothered, you blessed child (black American accent). All other self-proclaimed artists, well you are ‘all other’ now quit playing. Probably you haven’t been in a relationship or you are yet to care enough but once you listen you will wallow in a darkness so deep, you will crave hell. Adele is definitely hypnotic, no other song will be close enough to help you heal that open scar she leaves. With songs that are so intricately assembled- she will let you feel the fire, be kind enough to help you tender the scald only to burn you in the next album.

A series of emotional turmoil engulfed by four words, a couple of lines and one singer that can take you there. A vocal belt that can strangle you and lyrics that can put you in shambles. This is the song that defeats all the reasoning that made you save your ex-partners phone number. But if they call a thousand times just pick it. Adele managed to slay all functional relationships and make a million dollars in a week. It’s real talent, believe me.

Choose wise, choose Fetty – ‘Hey Wassup Hellnoh!!!’ and do not look for anybody, Lionel Richie was just playing.

OF POLITICS, SOCIAL MEDIA AND SIDE 'CHICKS' by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I cry for my people not because most of us are ingrate fools who do not know better than to elect those who will send us to oblivion on a first class ticket, I cry because we spend eight hours a day on Instagram \elnino \netflixandchill. It’s sad enough that it got real for the people at Kilifi but who cares about that when President Uhuru has his Olivia Pope all over town claiming blissful ignorance. I mean I buy my pens and furniture but I really cannot tell how much they cost. If you date the most powerful man in Kenya, you wouldn’t even know how to spell piano. Commas don’t matter here even if threatened by 40 million people. Happy side, happy life.

Politics is a Pandora’s Box; you delve far too deep then you start deliberating as to which devil sent you. Corruption cannot be done away with, it’s the means that gets them in power and also keeps them in power, and we are just manipulated into thinking that we are part of it. The liberals will insist on fighting for the greater good but as soon as they get alleviation; dining with the gods, indifferent schooling for their children and diamonds for their nagging wife, the ‘greater good’ becomes a gray memory.

Should we condemn ourselves for our wisdom is so elusive? Our leaders? For greed is their El Nino and none of them own Noahs. Anthony Mbugua for the 15 seconds of scripted messianic acts? Or Mugo and Kanyari for bagging The Best Supporting Actors 2015?

We believe in a power greater than ourselves and that power must be social media. The generation we live in does not cultivate insurgency, it cultivates likes, double taps, comments and direct messaging. We are in a century whereby vibrators are key in HIV classes, 155 dead in Paris is far much important than the 100 we lose every day in road carnage, the president is ride or die for his side chick \bonnieandclyde \relationshipgoals \usagainsttheworld. (Most people think the main chick has the power but once you meet the side, main who?)

Two weeks later we have forgotten what Dj Crème de la crème did and that’s just how quick we all get slapped. Who really runs Kenya?

BEING DIFFERENT IS NO LONGER A CURSE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Ever felt like you are trapped? Nothing physical withholding you yet you are incapable of doing anything. You are trying to move forward, probably better yourself or even wreck yourself but you can’t seem to find the keys? You can clearly see the knob, the windowpane has never been so clearly cut out, the roof can never get that amiss but there you are, you can’t crawl, you can’t roll, and you almost can’t breathe. The El nino is swooping you over but it’s the dry season.

You are so confined within your own skin, your will is surpassed by what you think is reality. You get so submerged in what others (family, friends, strangers) think or feel is right that you forget that there is no right or wrong; it’s just mere opinions turned into facts. Your walls cave in but you no longer fight back because you used up all your strength trying to convince others that your glass is actually half full. Before you realize you are so comfortable in your discomfort that it befits normal.

You beat up yourself as you are a spectacle and no longer human. People use you as a point of reference, discriminate against you for being different, shunned for the choices that might have been made for you; they owe and applaud for the mess you have become. Forced to take up everybody’s opinion but yours; you lose yourself by trying to live up to everyone’s idea of who you should be. You then realize that there was nothing wrong with you but it’s too late. You spent so much time convincing others that you were the perfect fit for everything. But nobody really cared.

Celebrate that your skin colour matches the dark, appreciate those zebra stripes on your hips and butt cheeks, flaunt your idiocy through your craftsmanship, parade your womanhood and take the presidency and don’t you dare forget to spray that bald head for the sun to mirror a little sharper. You are beautiful, do not be ashamed to show it to the world just look a little deeper. Do not lead a life of incarceration. Do not just not die. Live! Live! Live!

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 39 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The first reaction I get when I tell people that I listen to reggae is simply startling. Hair falls like winter, hearts cringe, eyebrows meet hairlines, teeth separate; amusing, yes? No? I never quite understand why, considering music chooses you and not the other way round; rest in peace Kenyan music. I bet if I had dreadlocks, wore a straight outa my mom’s closet blouse and a cap pointing to the sky I would fit in perfectly. But I am not about that life.

Reggae music has a sacred tune to it that awakens at the same time calms nerves that you rarely feel. Its rhythmic contortion of different instruments at the same time having one key higher than the rest is purely artistic; a resonant above the rest, a salvation to the deaf. It feels African yet not fully conversed to our ways at the same time not corrupted by the Western noise. It’s beautiful to the ears, its eerie yet identified with; it’s the stream of life and the way to death. Reggae music can kill you without you feeling the pain. Instead you find yourself savoring the intricate moment of a combination of knife on neck to a mellow beat. It’s the type of music that you dance to at a wedding, disturbing all your pearls without making a complete fool of yourself.

Tonight, its Reggae night! My kind of music. Culture has been in my records for so long I should be arrested but I can’t seem to leave him behind, kicking it off with “Frying Pan”. It’s amusing how the genre speaks so much sense yet maintains a fun and dramatic vibe throughout. If you do not have the legendary and overrated Bob Marley; gerrarahia please. I am absolutely absorbed in “Could you be loved” and of course one of his number one hits “Get Up Stand Up”; who is not? You cannot be a reggae fan if you do not embrace creative artists like, Marlon Asher, Don Campbell, Admiral Tibet, Freddie McGregor, Burning Spear, Richie Spice and my all-time every time drug the talented Gregory Isaacs.

Reggae is the only genre which has remain loyal to its heritage compared to all other fields. As much as it has branches like roots and culture, raga and dancehall, all these branches like the tree have a little bit of the Genesis in them. Reggae music soothes, stimulates, lifts, stirs and empowers all at the same time. It’s not just music, it’s a lifestyle. Unfortunately I still can’t sleep after this, my search for a ‘Cure’ continues and not ‘Jah’……..

Buo buo boom!!!

MY VERY OWN GOLIATHS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The real identity of this person shall not be revealed due to security and mortification purposes.

My life as a drug peddler

Which substances do you deal with?
I do not have a limitation as to what I put in the market but on a daily basis I sell weed. It does exceptionally well at all times, I suffer little to non-losses.

Is this the ‘career’ path that you wanted to take?
No, Not at all. I would wish the circumstances were different and I would be the president (he giggles) but life has a way of giving you lemons and I decided to make drugs out of it. My background is definitely the root cause of what I am doing today, I lost both of my parents when I was very young so I live with my grandmother who is the sole provider; she can barely make two ends meet. I ventured into hawking, washing cars even a public toilet cleaner but none paid off.

How much do you make on a daily basis?
(Chuckles) I make close to three thousand a day on a very good day and it’s always a good day. But it goes down to one thousand five hundred float because you have to pay your mignons and it’s crucial that the police get their fair share. In a month I can bring home fifty thousand just from selling pot only.

Selling illegal drugs is risky business, why not start up a shop instead?
It is a risky business. The police are not even the ones who pose the threat, doing jail time does not scare me one bit, it’s the veterans and the publics that give me shivers. You can get killed at any time once they feel you are threatening their market. Opening a shop is a good idea but it’s just not for me. I am not cut out for that kind of business. I want to pay rent for one structure and that’s for me and my family, I can’t keep on checking expiry dates of milk and bread or asking suppliers to drop off a new stock. However, it’s something I can consider once I find a wife. (Smiles)

How is it that you balance school and your businesses?
School is actually my core business. I thank God for being so kind and allowing me the opportunity to learn and to get sponsors who have helped me all through. I am in second year right now pursuing a degree in Mechanical Engineering. Balancing the two is as easy as eating peanuts. You would find students make fifty percent of my customers, twenty percent are lecturers and the remaining are workers and locals. The two support each other.

Clearly you have wits and the papers to prove it so is it a lifestyle that you have acquired or a necessity?
I do realize that with my level of education, it’s ironical that I am venturing into the ‘wrong’ path as many would say but what people don’t see is that I have a family to take care of. I have been taking care of my grandma and siblings since I was seven. I may not be using the correct channels to put food on the table but that’s not the matter in hand. I was blessed enough to get sponsors but the two siblings following me have found a hard time . Food must be put on the table, books on their desks, clothes on their backs and shoes on their feet. It is a lifestyle yes and a necessary one.

No given today that you are provided with everything you need, you and your family, would you consider quitting?
I would consider leaving the practice but it is not as easy. If I happen to leave this life, I would be causing mayhem amongst many people. Especially with the police. They get a certain cut so as not to lock me down and if it so happens they do not get that cut, I am not sure what will happen to me and my family. In this line of work, you cannot just up and leave anytime you want, you are answerable to many people.
Do you ever regret doing what you are doing?

DIRTYL AUNDRY PART 2 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The floor was cold, the stench from the ‘restroom (read bucket)’ became stronger, the one blanket to be shared reeked of urine worth of centuries, the blood on her chin had then clotted, and her kinky hair had gone afro from all the sweat. It is nearly dawn. Her fellow jailbirds would take turns in throwing up, with the bucket full, it would slowly flow towards where they cramped up. The guards pretended not to take notice.

Kantana reached out for the blanket, she covered her back and face just to forget for a second the situation she was in. She could feel the bedbugs making their way down her back but no pest could compare to the one she was facing. She gently began to scrape off the blood from her face. She spit in her hand and rubbed off the stubborn ones. Her stomach felt uneasy; she hadn’t eaten for three days. The bile tortured her insides occasionally trying to find an outlet. She was weak but she pressed on.

‘The jury finds Ms. Kantana Ferusi guilty as charged, sentenced to thirty years in jail!’ Her eyes were blank, no emotion as she faced her verdict even her lawyer was taken aback by her reaction. She showed no dispute, no sigh of relief either. One would say she took it like a man but even a man would be broken if they were to spend the prime time of their life behind bars. She would get out when she was fifty, her one and only son would be thirty three by then, and probably Peter Kenneth’s son would have taken presidency. She thought randomly.

Prayers were her cocaine, her grandma taught her that God listens to those of broken spirits and of damaged souls. She prayed for her son, not once did she remember herself. She would think of him when she wanted to give up and end her misery; she might have given life to him but without him, she wouldn’t have kept hers for that long. He motivated her, he was her little Messiah in her apocalypse.

Day 1478. It’s March 5th 2007. Her son’s 8th birthday. She calls home to speak to him as tradition, she was always the first to wish him a happy birthday and she made sure of this. Kunta was growing big, his naivety has shrunk down a couple notches. The neighbors were talking and the fallacy that his mother was in the army seemed less true by the day. However, he loved his mother, he would take her word for it to the grave. She would tell him the sun is black and not yellow and he would live by her word to the very last. Conversely, She was a stranger to him, barely remembered the curvature of her face, was her skin bronze, was her hair long, did she have a birthmark across her back, was she tall and lean or short and thick? He would ask his grandmother.

Despite all the mystery, she was his hero.

BEAUTIFUL WOMEN DO NOT END UP WITH 'BEAUTIFUL' MEN by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Beauty is a curse and a blessing. A fact that those with rare beauty dispute but given a day to walk in Beyoncé’s shoes, you would wish you were Birdman. Whatever Lil Wayne meant when he sang ‘Stunning like My Daddy’. Beautiful ladies never get the respect they need no matter how hard they’ve worked or how much they have achieved. They are always the pretty face in the office and we all know the stereotypical view that no striking woman has brains. I want to personally thank Kim Kardashian, Amber Rose, Becky Arunga, Vera Sidika, Huddah Monroe and Vanessa Chettle for being so kind and propagating this notion. You all deserve a brain.

To begin with who exactly are beautiful men? There are different categories of men depending on looks, money and……well that is actually just it. Michael Ealy from ‘Act like a Lady Think like a Man’ is beautiful, our very own Nick Mutuma is a beautiful man, Alonso from Tujuane is a handsome man, Ian Mugoya is a handsome man, George Clooney is not human; he is a god, Jamal from Empire is a very huge loss to society, Mwai Kibaki cannot be categorized due to various physical features that only Lucy Kibaki could handle, Paul Muite; bless your heart. I have no intentions whatsoever in questioning the Most High’s word, but how are we all created in the same image?

Attractive ladies suffer the most when it comes to dating because of one or two things. They can get whoever they want, whenever they want and however they want even when they do not want. This means they are spoilt for choice and would hardly settle down with anyone. This Marylyn Monroe mentality tends to cloud their judgment of everyone, both male and female. With a pretty face, all doors open without you knocking but with brains you are allowed to get in.

Having the knowledge that you are actually an attractive person, allows you to understand how someone in the opposite sex who is equally attractive feels. They all feel like gods and God bless Casanova and his legacy for he has rendered cupid unemployed. Beautiful men go for manicure, pedicure, massage, eyebrow-shaping, it’s like dating a woman only that the anatomy differs. Beautiful women are used to the constant attention so when they date from the same caliber, they feel threatened or belittled. This is because their glory has to be shared and therefore no one pays as much attention to them as they did before. You cannot blame them however, you cannot drive a Phantom your whole life then all of a sudden start walking, it’s not right.

For a woman it is easier to date a man of lower ‘standards’ than one of the same or higher level. It creates a certain psychological balance in the relationship. For example Jay-z and Beyoncé, I look at them and wonder how did that happen? Was it at gun point? Is it illuminati? Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, Nikki Minaj and Meek Mill, Uhuru Kenyatta and Margaret Kenyatta, the list is unending. Some of these are charity cases, apologies Meek. Therefore ladies, for you to be married for long years and wear those jerseys written ‘Together Since Before Christ’ choose well and choose rare beauty.

MEN PLEASE STOP THIS BLACK AMERICAN NONSENSE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Kenyan men have adopted a new style of talking, walking and carrying themselves, I would say it is good but I do not have time for lies. I have no idea why they are all acting like they carry a gun all day and belong to street gangs like it’s an actual job description. Apparently they are all from The Bronx, New York and they have been hustling their way to the top by selling dope and crack. We all know you live in Lang’ata next to the Shopping Centre and your mother still whoops for coming home at 7pm instead of 6pm.

I thought it was only one man that was like that until I met my good friend Derek, now referred to as Rich Hommie Derscrapntenae. Just to clarify, he is not exactly rich, I am not sure about the Hommie and what does Derscrapntenae mean? How is it even formed from Derek? Anyway he is a self-proclaimed rapper and has several mix tapes- the main reason he dropped out of medicine school and terminated a six year sponsorship. Bless his mother’s heart. I don’t like putting a brother down but music was meant for some to hear only.

There is a certain thuggish aura that is being passed on from comrade to comrade, most of them are broke so I can’t judge them for aping black American men. Plus I would hate to be Mutahi Ngunyi and be forced to eat a humble pie. Apologies for referring boys in campus as men, truly from the bottom of my heart. However some few of them are actually grown up and decent. The rest are busy trying to look like snoop dog in his song ‘What’s My Name’ and accidentally come off as Prince of Bellaire.

The clothes, the hair, the shoes and to top it all off the slang; sisters, run. We all know thugs don’t have money. Saying words like ‘Wassup ma’?’ boy I didn’t ‘birth’ you therefore keep that WhatsApp as an application and go get educated on how to address women. Statements like ‘wachu doin’?’, ‘we hang’, ‘you real cute lil ma’, ‘you bangin’ and others that are too below my literacy level should cease! Effective immediately. Hang? Hang what? Clothes? Probably yourself if you talk like this and no, I am not little, I will bang your head if you approach me like this. I will not touch on the grammar as I will fall down because of poor game disease.

Be yourself gentlemen. You do not need a bunch of women so as to show who is boss and if you do that means you have never been one your whole life. Focus on getting that money, honey. They say money doesn’t matter and those who say that don’t matter themselves, get it right. It’s a broken world already, don’t add broke to it. Women are manipulative, they will use you and leave you like you were a theory but don’t bother unless they are stopping your cheque. Don’t conform to who you are not and stop running around in packs like lesbian women.

Keep it real and keep it one hundred.

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 43 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I have always known I will be one of those mothers who buy cake for their kids instead of baking one. Who said baking is what makes a mother a mother? If I ‘birthed’ you then that is it, my job is done. I have earned the title, I have carried myself for two decades plus so in a farfetched way I have been my secondary mother even before I have walked down the aisle. You don’t see me baking myself anything and for that reason those nine months are not of my concern. Apologies to all the actual real mothers, my condolences to your freedom of having to lack certain knowledge.

It’s going to be a long night ahead and no one gives great company like Martha Stewart. She is so inspiring; gives hope to all the cooks out there and all the non-cooks who still try to cook and they are already in their forties. Better switch up hobbies; if they cancel dinner on you for a decade, sweetheart bless your heart. They will never make it even when 2030 comes, let’s just say it is not in their vision.

I love good food, if it isn’t good then I am not eating it unless it is the serious case of munchies; with munchies I can even eat a sponge and assume its vanilla sponge cake. It gets realer. Determined to pull a Hell’s kitchen in this house and I am not even prepared for the heat. Raise your hand if you know what a skewer is, anyone? A dredger? A marzipan spacer?
Crickets………plus I really can’t see you, you know, the art of writing and everything.

May the games begin, so far I have a mixing bowl, baking powder and a sieve. How efficient am I? Somebody bow down. Clearly this ship is about to pull a titanic on me but I’m going to bring a Noah stunt and save us all. For I have a dream and my dream is to bake cake, cookies and biscuits for my proponents of good genes and not even a dredger will stop me!

Two hours into time, I am already tired of running around the house trying to coincide with whatever Stewart is saying and doing. Zero knowledge of what she is talking about therefore proving my work half-baked, literally. It became more of a work out session than a baking frenzy. With a void existing in my culinary skills, zero to non-tools, Instagram posting of \bakingtingz \kenyanmarthastewart \isacutteraknife? And constant replying of text and WhatsApp messages my baking didn’t even take off, sad tale. Here I am staring at food network wondering; Martha Stewart, who is your mother?

DIRTY LAUNDRY PART 1 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Sweat drenched the t-shirt, seductively revealing her bosom, one could clearly make out the color of her bra and the size of her waistline, strands of hair appear skillfully separated from the band as they lie freely on the shoulders and some clinging to her face. She was tired. Cold sweat would not have enough of this woman as if it had an unknown history with her. It drips from her forehead, trickling in between the eyebrows almost creating a stream on her nose. A tingling feeling is felt. Ankles become wobbly, no longer supporting the weight as they did a few hours before.

She had walked for two hours but had been weighed down for longer than that. She knew her actions were irreversible at that point and she could not possibly go back. However, she neither felt remorseful nor petrified at any given moment. Different situations bring out the insanity out of people, to some the world is a whirlwind but to others it’s Crystal Meth. Walter White from breaking bad series gave Kenyans the hope of one day becoming drug lords, Kanyari soon after killed that dream, buried with a shovel six feet under, put a flower on top and built his Church. The devil is a lie. Thank you Rick Ross.

His body was becoming heavier, she could feel the struggle as she dragged him along. Her heart beat a little more vigorously than before, her back began to strain; her t-shirt was now all wet. The moon had reached its peak. Trail of thoughts baffled her; was it right? Is there such thing as right or wrong? Did it even matter? Would it be misconstrued? Who is she asking?

Guts never lie especially when it comes to a woman. A woman would think with her heart, reason with her mind but will always consult her gut. It’s the ultimate punishment; the confusion is unbearable, you are cornered to either deal with reality or make your own reality. She knew chances were slimming down. This nevertheless did not seem to be her noose by the throat, she knew exactly what was required and would not let anything get in the way.

When life ceases, nothing else is of importance, actually there is no such thing as nothing else. It all become nothingness. She robbed him off the chance to be forgiven, a chance to reform; she had no mercy for him as he had shown no mercy to her. She would strip him off everything; his mental peace, his unforsaken love, his gullible nature, she would take it all and burn it to the ground but not out of spite; out of love for someone else.
Down on her knees, the gravel pricked her hard enough to penetrate the knee cap, her hands laying on her head shaking like a starved addict, her head held high revealing blood on her chin running down her neck, her eyes cold like the silver gaze of a predator on the hunt. She looked ahead, probably into the future or perhaps stuck in between two realms of psychological war. Police surround her, the body still lying next to her feet like a sacrifice unto the gods, he seemed to be at peace; I bet he would be smiling if he wasn’t already a corpse. He was dead and so was she.

To be continued……………….

GERRARA HERE by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

We all have that one friend who went to states and came back after one month with a borrowed accent from Obama. Coincidentally they are all the same; with an unrealistic ambition of becoming Madonna, related to Kenyan natives who preferred the white side of life, probably hailing from the middle class but trying to experience the first class citizen treatment, let’s not even dwell long enough to start on the ‘bragging rights’.

Joyce goes by the name Droopie (the ‘ie’ is used purposely as ‘y’ makes it look shady-her remarks). Bearing my name, I understand how spelling meant Madagascar to her, I cringe anytime someone puts a ‘z’ in my name. However, I never quite got the logic of how Joyce became Droopie with an ie at the end neither was it my core business.

I would probably be forced to eat humble pie after this, a big shout out to my homeboys Mutahi Ngunyi and Ali Hasssan Joho. Whatever happened to freedom of speech and calling people poor? The whites call us poor everyday using camouflaged statements; third world, no basic necessities, plunging economic status, zero to no facilities, we live in the trees and so on so forth yet you don’t see Uhuru campaigning for an apology.

Back to accent diffusion and tonal conformation, Droopie goes to America, specifically Brooklyn. Her great Aunt Kelly who married a white, mainly because of his money and less because he is a kind man has lived there for almost a decade. She spends most of her days bossing the Italian help and taking pictures of herself to send to Droopie who then sends to us. It’s a vicious cycle my people and just like poverty, it’s not voluntary.

It’s been two weeks since her last brag, I guess packing for a month old vacation on the other side of the pacific has become a tad too consuming but who is complaining? That moment when you are grateful for a situation then two seconds later the nightmare begins like you were ungrateful in the first place. That moment is now. Pictures of her in front of statue of liberty, pictures of her in front of Empire State Building, pictures of her with Justin Bieber, pictures of her in Apollo Theatre, the rest were photo-shops of her and key celebrities. I mean in which world would you be spending time with Beyoncé sipping on wine and watching movies in a five feet condominium? I am not a hater but Beyoncé won’t even leave her mansion and her man to simply go buy food, who are you?

A month in America is a week in Kenya, we must be the third world indeed. New closet, new personality (I wish I could say better), new hair, new eyebrows (definitely borrowed from a pencil) and that heavy fake Samburu-English accent straight out of everywhere but America. Droopie no longer went by that name, now she answered to Dru with a ‘U’ at the end. How were we friends? Blame it on our parents. Mothers bring the whole family to their friendships.

She wasn’t even in the UK but she spoke like Clause in episode thirteen of Vampire Diaries, carried herself like his sister Rebecca, her skin was close to being transparent and I refuse to mention her Brazilian hair that could be traced back to slavery in the 1800s. I have never quite understood what is so wrong with being yourself, the need to be somebody else is hunger that could actually kill but you still remain alive. You are alive but just not living. Either way, bless her heart and the millions who think if it isn’t white it isn’t right.

COWS ARE MY MORTAL ENEMIES by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The good thing about growing up in upcountry, you get to be one with nature in more than one way. As a kid, you get the true meaning of joy that those in urban areas cannot possibly imagine. I spent quite a number of months in Kangundo (my ancestral land) as a child. Quite a delightful span in my life. We had our own house there, a small land that my dad constantly referred to as ‘shamba’ (garden), our school was a five minute walk from home and my grandma was literally a stone throw away. Not to mention we were living in Central Business District. Yes, we were those kids. I don’t know why children refer to their grandparents’ house as ‘kwa shosho’ (at grandma’s) yet both grandparents live there. A little confusing, don’t you think?

During the holidays my cousin, my brother and I would go to grandmas since she had a much bigger compound and countless dogs, most were stray dogs but who cared? We considered them our friends. We were loyal to her place, a bit too loyal than we should have been but all grandchildren are slaves of their grandparents’ love. She always served meat, meat with rice, meat with ugali, meat with chapatti almost tried meat with meat. She was the best in my eyes. Until she started dishing out duties and giving out porridge. I hated working especially after drinking porridge, it was an easy tranquilizer.

It rained that morning. By midday the sun was up and there is no rewarding feeling like a child’s prayer of the sun to shine. Three boys go outside set out for mischief and bad deeds. Yes, I was a boy. An energetic one though a bit quiet for anyone’s liking. My grandmother loved animals to the extent that she named her cows. Her favorite, Teresia, a massive cow, with patches of brown and white, all white hooves and a nasty look on its face. If it was human, it would probably be friends with Martha Karua. No pun intended.

Playing with mud got boring, we needed more action and less boredom. What do the three musketeers do? Go disturb a calf. Seemed more like a horse back then but I guess visual incapability served us right. Poking it with sticks, hurling pebbles, pushing it and hitting its head. Quite inhumane one would say but to me it was a unicorn with less flair, no harm. The next thing I remember was running. Panting, falling down, getting up, leaving a boot behind, going back to pick it, leaving the other boot behind, ignoring the snails on the way. Apparently Teresia had already given birth. Quite a nice way of showing us. We were chased for up to ten minutes, serious case of mad cow. The boys were long gone, hid in my uncle’s compound. Men. Sigh.



Returned home with one boot, mud on my behind, grass and pebbles inside my left boot, grazed elbow, my trousers looked unfinished and my hair was missing though it was missing from before. Every child below seven years had to shave their heads- an unwritten rule but a common tradition in Kangundo. I then became a girl after this. I hate cows.

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 47 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

It’s been 20 hours since I last slept. My left eye feels like it’s being pricked from the inside, I barely feel my derriere; I have probably been sitting a little over 8 hours, my legs have partially dislocated conveniently at my knees and ankles. My neck is on a GOSLOW; my eyes adopt its functions. I wouldn’t dare move a nerve let alone a muscle. The light appears hazy the more I stare into it, the loud splatter of tap water in the sink disrupts my thinking rather my blank state.

Classical music has a way of putting bore and dom together. I am certain that I am speaking for quite a number of people therefore I don’t care one bit about the disputers. Who wants to listen to beats with no words? It’s unlawful to call that music. It’s like saying Meek Mill is the man in the relationship.

I am not saying I am the benchmark for what is to be referred to as music but come on, why spend time listening to something that doesn’t even have words. Probably these are frustrations of a writer when we feel underused and our talent disregarded but I know music when I hear it. The likes of Mozart, Dussek and Beethoven are regarded as the best composers of their time but oh well.

Music is life and life is music. Music is like a novel only that it’s accompanied by musical instruments and occasional good voices. Hip Hop music however is a breath of fresh air that infuses life back in ways that nothing else can. Something about the lyrics, the emotions, the instruments and the vocals that become one and the product is such an amazing creation. I bet Hip Hop artists do look back at their work and say  ‘it is good’.

Other genres of music are exactly that; others. I pass out a little over two seconds after listening to a piece by Mozart

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 50 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

‘She is panting and raving in anger. Her heart drenched in betrayal and deceit, she never knew she could hurt this deep let alone hurt at all. She had let him in too soon, it was partially her fault. A deep sense of numbness settled at the pit of her stomach, her heart cringed for a moment. His dark brown eyes gazed into hers and seemed to burn into her memory forever’.

I love soap operas. They echo a certain feeling that one may not experience in a lifetime yet again connect to those who have felt it once more. Its 2:30 in the morning. It’s strangely peaceful compared to other days, a certain aura of mystery and desertedness hovers around. As mundane, my room is the only one that has lights turned on and people talking in low key could be heard. It was indeed pin drop outside. I go through my drawers before Ferdinando expresses his undying love to Maria Cruz and denounces Isabella.

In search of my junk food. Nothing completes a movie night like Pringles and grape juice. My name is Daisy Waitherero and I am an addict. I love crisps more than my family and believe me, I am obsessed with my family. The same way kryptonite is to Clark Kent or MJ is to Spiderman and I lack more examples but you get the point. Crisps are my kryptonite. Pleasantly firm, easily broken, embarrassing to eat and an after taste that would leave you single. They are the love of my life.

Like all soap operas, they pretty much end the same way. In addition to taking annoying long breaks in between each episode. It eventually ends with Ferdinando dead and both women crying on his chest. The catastrophes of love and soap operas. In Kenya, those two women would be fighting each other for his wealth not wasting time on his chest. He is not Lazarus, his best friend won’t raise him from the dead no matter how long they cried (a Kenyan woman’s chain of thought). Just ask what happened to Kirima. Love runs the world but money is the CEO.

THE INSOMNIAC DAY 53 by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Turn. Toss. Curl in blanket. Smell of an undying fabric softener emanates from my pillow, the soft splattering of rain becomes louder and louder each second. My hair is now covering my face, almost strangled by it after my routine morning yawn. I brush it behind my ear with my index, reach for my phone, barely opening my eyes. The light from my screen is blinding, I squint a little to make out the time; its 2:47 am.

I am wide awake. It’s the fifty third day and I still find trouble sleeping. Disordered sleep pattern? Perhaps. I usually stayed up until noon clocked in then sleep overcomes me unfortunately due to classes and extracurricular activities, the bed is usually just a state of mind. Throughout the day I would be cranky and on the verge of a breakdown. My mind would process things faster and people’s actions or my actions would be slower by a whole notch. The frustration could kill.

I slept three hours today.

“You are improving” I say to myself while making a cup of coffee. The previous night I slept for an hour and thirty five minutes. I had a rough day afterwards, skipped an afternoon class when a migraine kicked in. The irony of drinking coffee when you can’t sleep, but for some reason, it makes my brain tire faster. Plus other beverages like tea do not fancy my taste buds and hot chocolate taste like sand mixed in water, I won’t even begin with porridge.

The coffee hung heavily in the air, it was ready, I preferred boiling instead of using a coffee maker. It gave it a more refined taste and its scent when ready was purely nerve calming. It was hotter than I usually make it and smelt a bit like roasted nuts. Perfect. I was fond of my mug; it had a nice grip, its curvature allowed it to settle perfectly on my lower lip and was the perfect size; not too big, not too small. It lasted me the whole night and sometimes I wouldn’t even finish it. I slurped to taste the sugar content, it was just enough to get me going to the dentist by end month, nothing spells out perfection like a cup of hot coffee opening up all cords.

I sit down for a minute, my room is chilly, probably the window is open and mosquitoes have become my roommates of late, pesky little annoying bugs. They must be looking for hideouts. This aggravates me, I shake my clothes to make them more disrupted, I walk around with a slipper in my hand, jump on my bed trying to reach the furthest part of the room, and throw pillows hitting the ceiling. This shenanigan goes on for half an hour. The wall suffers a blood bath, one of the pillow hangs loosely on the edge of the bed, my slipper is lying upside down on the floor next to the dustbin. It’s a mess. I reach for my coffee, my right palm filled with traces of blood and mosquito parts, I am their Adolf Hitler now. Bow down mosquitoes. I smear on one of the dirty laundry but it doesn’t help. I start drinking with my left hand. Its 5:30am.

THE GLORY OF SINGLE PARENTHOOD by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Being raised by a single parent makes us a lot of things and one of them can never be weak. It gives a certain balance of grit and encouragement that settles well when one grows or becomes an adult. A social scientist insisted that one raised by a single mother whether rich or poor will tend to end up in jail, as a pregnant teen or a drug junkie, however this is not the case in contemporary Kenya. Living in era where deadbeat fathers and single mothers outweigh the number of couples, it goes against the odds to have a nuclear family.

In every résumé; age: 45, status; Head of the family, nationality; Depends on where I am. Two decades have already passed, she is surprising herself with cake as a desert this evening. It’s her anniversary, more an anniversary of singlehood. Despite she championed in raising four children singlehandedly. In marital circles, two decades is an achievement of sharing toothbrushes, confusing towels, respecting each other’s sides of the bed and being asked where the socks are but in un-marital circle, it’s more of failure of the prior.

Research show children do better in terms of behavior, grades and socially in homes that have a single mother than a single fathers household. This data however is non-essential and downright bogus as one’s upbringing and outcome has nothing to do with the number of guardians sleeping down the hall. However there is a strain whereby there is only one parent under one roof, the same strain can also be a perk.

There is beauty in every struggle, refinement in every strain and constant happiness in emerging champion in the impediments. Major milestone is whether the parent is able to provide financially. Put food on the table, clothes on their back, walls around and a roof on top and will they graduate school or not? Money is not everything nonetheless, support, love and attention carry as much importance as the former. Money won’t instill good morals, will not prevent pregnancy and it will certainly not keep them in front of bars. Though It may bail them out of jail.

The misconception that families with both parents have twice the love, twice the attention and twice the financial security is faux. A survey of children under the influence coming from a nuclear family was 4.3% and that of single parenthood is 5.7%. A difference of 1.4% is definitely not a reflection of the case study. Growing up in a family of a single parent, values such as independence, diligence and humility will be impacted by default. Don’t get me wrong, children from two-parent families can develop these values from other situations. There is power in the negative, I have witnessed it first hand and I took it positively.

All children hailing from a single-parent family, you are not shortchanged just because you are shorthanded.

TALENT THURSDAYS WITH DAISY WAITHERERO WAMBUA

BRUSH ON CANVAS BY JACKTONE OTIENO

Did you choose painting or did painting choose you?
FROM WHAT I HAVE SEEN WE CHOSE EACH OTHER PAINTING CHOSE ME AND I ALSO CHOSE IT

Being able to produce such amazing work definitely requires a lot of practice and sacrifice. When did you start painting? And what was your first artwork?
I STARTED SERIOUS PAINTING IN HIGH SCHOOL FORM THREE AND MY FIRST WORK WAS A SYMBOLIC PORTRAIT OF MYSELF

Painting requires a lot of tools and with them a work room comes along. What is your most important tool and do you have a working station?
MY MOST IMPORTANT ARTIST TOOL ARE MY COLOR PENCILS. AT THE MOMENT I DON’T HAVE DEFINITE WORK STATION SINCE AM STILL IN SCHOOL BUT I DO OIL PAINTINGS AT HOME IN THE MOST QUIET AND SECURE ROOM.

Artists work with inspiration. What motivates/inspires your work?
GOD INSPIRES ME A LOT I ALWAYS WONDER HOW HE CAME UP WITH ALL THAT SURROUNDS US. PURELY ARTISTIC. I ALSO LIKE LEONARDO DA VINCI AND RAPHAEL’S WORKS: ANATOMY AND MACHINERY

Which is the greatest and most challenging piece you have ever done? And why?
THE GREATEST AND THE MOST CHALLENGING WORK IS THE MULTIDIMENSIONAL MAN: A CUBISM ABSTRACT PAINTING BECAUSE IT’S A SINGLE PORTRAIT CONTAINING MANY PORTRAITS.

Is there an element of art you enjoy working with most? Why?
THE ELEMENT OF ART I ENJOY WORKING WITH IS THE USE COLORS BECAUSE ALTERING ONE SHADE CAN TELL MANY STORIES.

Painting like all the other types of art requires a lot of focus. How do you stay focused and in sync while painting? Describe your ideal working atmosphere
MY IDEAL WORKING ATMOSPHERE IS A QUIET ROOM WITH NO PEOPLE AND EARPHONES IN MY EARS. MUSIC RAISES MY CREATIVITY AND TAKES ME WHERE I ONLY UNDERSTAND AND NO ONE ELSE.

In Kenya, painting is not known as the most lucrative job, do you do it for the money or the skill?
I DO IT MAINLY FOR THE SKILL BUT IF SOMEONE IS VERY INTERESTED IN MY WORK I MAY CHARGE THEM IF NECESSARY.

With such a high level of skill, you can merely paint anything. What is your dream project?
MY DREAM PROJECT IS TO OWN A BIG ART GALLERY AND POSSIBLY BRING TOGETHER THOSE WITH SIMILAR SKILLS. ALSO MAKE A PORTRAIT OF PRINCE OF UAE.

Where do you see your work taking you?
I SEE MY ART TAKING ME TO PLACES LIKE MARVEL STUDIOS AND FINE ART MUSEUMS OF EUROPE.

Painting involves a lot of inhaling of chemicals. Can you pass a drug test?
AM NOT SURE WHETHER I CAN PASS A DRUG TEST BECAUSE I DON’T USE ANY BUT SINCE I PAINT A LOT THERE IS A POSSIBILITY PASS OR FAIL A DRUG TEST. (Laughs)

To render his services, you can reach this artist on ALPHAPACKinc@gmail.com

GARISSA STUDENTS ATTACKED YET AGAIN by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Moi University suffers the same fate as JKUAT Juja. Men. They are everywhere, in the library, in their hostels, at the ladies hostels, at the barracks, in the lavatories heck! Even in my head. We all know what happens when the ratio is inversed and women outweigh. There is a new breed in town and campus boys know no old breed. All of a sudden the natives are too old, too boring and to some we are extinct. But thou shall not worry, for Jesus did not die on the cross for you to perish in Kesses.



People have different ways of healing, some lash out in anger, others drown in their sorrows until they sorrow no more, some prefer a little silent prayer but in main campus, you either heal or you will get healed. There is zero personal space and maximum cohabiting going round. Do I blame us? Not really. We are in a village somewhere close to Kesses; anything goes. A student gets strangled by barbed wire; you will still find comrades at 2am walking to God knows where, a local gets bewitched and eats grass for stealing; five laptops go missing the following morning, a Garissa student suffers a tragedy; welcomed with open arms and beds. Do not be mistaken; it’s called comforting not cohabiting. So they say.


It is indeed saddening that we nullified all attempts to send away the souls of the departed with the due respect. Given the fact that we are Main Campus yet we take zero initiatives to carry any flexible exercises, is a tragedy in itself. Sigh. It’s Eldoret. Away from the campus with a defect, back to our fellow students. I respect, honor and cherish every single individual that had an open mind with regards to the incoming lot. I disrespect, dishonor and denounce every student with a regressive mindset. Garissa students don’t say no to comrades, say no to \teamfisi

JOY KENDI VS THIS IS ESS COMPARED TO MAY WEATHER VS PACQUIAO? by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Sharon Mundia, better known as This is Ess started her website in January 2012 whereas Joy Kendi started a year later in 2013. They both run numerous social media platforms such as Facebook, Instagram, twitter which they use to showcase their work and engage with their fans. Both very talented fashion bloggers.
 

This is Ess has quite a following on her social media accounts compared to Joy Kendi but this is given to the fact that she had a one year head start. Despite this, I believe more people tend to identify with Joy Kendi’s work. This is merely due to the fact her posts are what we refer to as ‘raw’ or natural. This is Ess tends to have her posts being professionally done though both remain at their top of their game.


This is Ess does an extra segment that involves travelling whereas Joy Kendi lies more on the DIY segment. Definitely the audience would rather educate themselves more on how to look good affordably more than going to new expensive places as many online magazines act as an expose for new places. Joy Kendi definitely tops this one.


You definitely have more chance in getting a response from This is Ess as compared to Joy Kendi. Life is unfair. This is Ess can generate up to 200 responses in a day’s time compared to Joy Kendi who generates up to 150 response. This may be due to the fact that she does carry a larger audience. I give this one to Ess.


Joy Kendi is not only known for her exquisite taste in fashion but she also partook in Kenya’s leading series 2012/2013. She is also into advertisement and has recently done one on. And last and definitely not the least, she has been recognised by the syndicated Wendy Williams.

Most people do not know this but Ess’s favorites body part is her brain and loves to sing. She works as a radio personality at Capital FM and doubles up as an online writer of their lifestyle segment. She is a two time award winning BAKE Award winner for 2014/2015 and 2015/2016.

The two are definitely top of their game, both diverse but united by their love in looking good. Nothing is better than two ladies winning. They are definitely serve as an inspiration to all. The next in line are ‘TWO FASHION DORKS’ who not only know how to put great pieces together but also have great personalities that tags along. Follow their blogs on  
twofashiondorks.blogsopt.com .

IS HE A MAN OR A WOMAN? by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Most women look for partners in life keeping in mind the three rules; must be tall, must be handsome and must be paid. The latter was added for no one in this generation wants to be associated with poverty. Right decisions but wrong motives. Focus on what is important like the bank account. Men, they are right in the beginning then swiftly move to the wrong after a couple of minutes. Typical. Don’t right their wrongs unless they write them down for real has become a trend whatever happened to being a man? I wouldn’t even know since I haven’t met one yet. Sigh.

You pay the water bill, lighting bill, rent, transport, service the car, provide the food, provide the roof, provide the warmth, this providence list can go down all the way to Abraham. A woman should never have to take up all expenses if she is accommodating someone resembling a man. In fact she shouldn’t even take up half unless he proposed to her on a mountain loft. Or he got you a Bentley. Neither has nor will ever happen to you, yet you act like Oprah. Provide one more thing in that list and I hate to break it down to you but you are dating yourself. This is a sin. Jesus didn’t die for you to be an ATM. Do not cash out until he cashes in.

Television needs wiring, your telephone sounds like there is an ICC witness at the end of the line, the showerhead keeps falling off, the microwave is like the electronic voter system has never worked and you never hear the doorbell. Sister you are not deaf, blind nor are your nerves malfunctioning. He doesn’t even know where you kept the spanner nor the hammer. You have a baby brother right there and you don’t share blood. Get that DNA done. He is not what he seems to be; that’s Bruce Jenner in the making.

You still carry your luggage to the car, you just started fixing the shelves, you carry his briefcase and start wearing the pants. This is a given; you are two people with estrogen. Clearly he has more than you; no lady is allowed to carry her own bag unless she is Audrey or was it Andrew? If you are already at this stage, you need to stop being gay.

FLOODS WILL TAKE US BACK TO GENESIS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

With so many deaths and numerous injuries accruing due to floods in Kenya, it leaves us wondering whether we will need an ark and where is our 21st century Noah? A moment of silence for all victims of this saddening calamity.

Somewhere in Nyeri, a saved drunkard is wondering when Jesus is coming to change all this water into chang’aa (local brew).

If cheap liquor doesn’t wipe us out then Mother Nature surely will. But who is to blame? The government for not building proper drainage systems? The citizens for falsifying the obvious results of littering the environment? The Chinese for simply being Chinese plus we blame them for every malfunction? You and me for not taking initiative to follow up our leaders’ responsibilities? The leaders for requiring you and me to remind them that indulging in development money is bad for business? A trail of questions, yes?

‘We as common mwanainchi shall stand and not fail’ we said this before elections, during elections and during some strikes too. Soon after our morale died along with the attacks, the failure of the government to keep its people safe, the drought, the incompetence of the leaders to merge technology and agriculture to get better produce and now swept away with the floods, the pain of backtracking and the agony of having to begin all over again. The one mistake we made was not electing poor leaders. We will always pin the misfortunes we go through on the people we elect but when will we look in the mirror.

You eat that chili flavored potato crisps covered with a tinge of salt and gallons of vinegar while rushing to your afternoon class, the polythene bag goes away as the taste of the last crisps fading; ten of you do this unconsciously but in unison. He eats sweets as he is diabetic, feels better then eats two more not to leave his taste buds hanging, she eats biscuits, she smokes a full pack of cigarettes and another one gets on that ‘chips funga’ (takeaway fries) as he can’t afford to sit down, the rain is coming.

Hundreds of thousands do this unconsciously and just to notify you we are a little over three million people, the ones who do this consciously claim to be putting food on the table for the cleaner. Sigh. Again with the backward thinking. We are all so caring and sharing. What a good people, correct? Wrong. I will not stand on a moral high ground and pull a Wangari Mathai on you but I will tell you to build your own ark if you are going to cause your own flood.

Shout out toall those in Rongai. \dryasabone \wedemboys \myamarula

I AM A MUSLIM, NOT AL SHABAB by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

Cripples, blind, albinos, Blacks, Asian, Jewish, Muslim and to some extent women are the chosen minority in the world. But who determines this list? We live in a world that depicts different as unsubstantial. Therefore anyone or anything that is not of, for, by, with the majority is perceived to be of lesser value. Being different is a curse. I am not sure which SI unit is used to establish which human is better than the rest in our existence. However, the methods/procedures/protocols they use to arrive at certain conclusions are definitely faulty and they should find a replacement.

Diversity is meant to be embraced so that we can all be unified by the fact that we are different but yet the same. This has now been corrupted into thinking diversity is seclusion of the most deserving in the world from those who deserve death. At the end of it all we all suffer the same catastrophe; six feet under. Everyone’s mindset seem to take a reverse sail of there are those that are more equal than others. Hence losing vision that we are all joined by love and coerced to live in the same universe. We live together and we will die together.

Being Muslim has now been associated with violence, unrest, fear and war. The veil no longer stands for decency, it serves as an instigator of violence. Unworthy and despised. Anyone with curly hair and a light skin tone is now considered a threat, a menace waiting to happen, a dormant mountain erupting, it’s no longer as pure.

Because of other people’s wrong choices and their strife to rebel. The entire religion suffers. Everyone undergoes scrutiny. No one is spared and no one will be allowed to be free. Doomed to suffer the confines of a sacred religion, of the subscription to follow and obey Allah. Scrutinized for choices is one thing but being discriminated and intimidated due to spirituality is inhumane. Don’t persecute because you don’t read from the same scripture, persecute yourself for not adhering to your own.

We as comrades need to move beyond backward and unsubstantial thinking, ape-like comments must stop. We need to create a form of healing for our fellow students and use this as a momentum for larger and more important structural issues. This is a starting point for unity. Be the flag bearer. Be the inspiration to the rest of the population that indeed Muslim, Christians, Pagans and all other denominations can live peacefully. You must be the first.

With that said, I welcome all students from the Moi University branch; Garissa Campus, here you will find a home.

WHERE WOULD YOU BE WITHOUT READING? By Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I recently decided to go back to the Genesis of the blog, reminiscing the times I had just started writing. Man those were the days! I would write up to two thousand words worth of an article bearing eight paragraphs each having fourteen lines and in each twenty words, all in one hour. I was quite the writer you would say; messy in every sense of the word.

But I didn’t care, I still wrote and forced everyone who I considered literate to wallow in my new found obsession. Apologies to you all, let’s just say I was young and determined. I was able to write during the day, the evening, the morning, Heck! Even during the afterlife I would have written.

While I was quietly reprimanding and congratulating myself on the growth and the need to do better, my seven year old nephew comes and stands beside me. Probably expecting me to be playing our favorite family game; subway surf. Then he sees my picture which is usually at the bottom of the blog. ‘Unafanya?’ he asks. Common inquiries by children below see level (play hide and seek with him and lose fifty pounds).

I vividly expounded to him what it is I normally do and as expected he takes no interest and goes to his next agenda like mine was of no consequence. I have never had my work being treated like a side "chic" but (sigh) men these days.

At no point did I pay attention to his reaction, was there a reaction to begin with? Up to date. The more I think about it the more it buffers me. Of course seven year olds should not find reading interesting, I am grown and I still don’t find reading interesting unless its zeros after the one in my bank account. But the level of his disregard, makes me want to go back to the drawing board.

Enough said.

Dear writers, writing might become extinct in a couple of years. I have conducted research using one sample representing a whole country of children. Not entirely research but you get what I mean. Writing is art and with art comes a lot of passion, sacrifice and requires a lot of soul. With that said, next time don’t treat writing or reading like a side dish. It is the main! That is why you are reading this right now.

MOTHERS OVER FATHERS by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

When I am asked what my greatest fear is, I go mediocre and mention the likes of cockroaches, snakes, spiders, and of course on everyone’s list; the dark. Mostly because I never really quite put much thought into it, sometimes I stretch it and say fear itself. This is just to deter people’s thoughts and to seem mischievously witty and add a little spice of drama to it. 

One day while reveling (read enduring) the breeze at Moi University’s great academic walk my mother calls. Like all mothers, she calls randomly and talks for centuries on. I have no scuffle with this because I tend to relish in her long talks; they have a calming effect.

Sometimes I do not pick up; depending on the location, nature and state of my surroundings. If you have been to University, you need no explanation. Mother, if you are reading this, my blog has been hacked; I promise. Aside from that, this time I picked the call, we conversed about everything and everyone and in due time I had already reached my place. At the end of the call, I realized something that I have never paid attention to.

Contentment. Zeal. Ease. Relieved. It’s like bursting out an overbearing secret, or like feeling hungry in the middle of the night then waking up only to find leftovers, or staying up until late to write an article about your mother. Its unexplainable, its mystical, it’s the undying ‘yes’ feeling we all experience once every black moon and it’s downright mine. So what is my greatest fear?


Losing my mother. The meaning of treasuring someone has been demeaned and regarded as something of monetary value but when I say treasure I mean exactly that and in that order. When you treasure someone to the core of your very being, their status becomes automatically elevated to the top, your whole existence is covered with their ambiance and halo. You get to realize that one plus one can actually be one. The kind of love a mother gives is unfathomable hence the saying ‘a face only a mother can love’ meaning everyone might go blind upon seeing you but a mother would still call you a handsome boy. Not to sound sexist.

A mother would blow your nose with the corner of her best blouse, she would take her saliva and wipe of food from your face, she would hit you with a dirty slipper only to give you a bath, let’s not forget the way they would tie a handkerchief around our waist so as not to lose it, or put coins for snacks in a handkerchief and of course singing lullabies and soon after beating us so that we can sleep faster.

If thank you could be able to feed all the sacrifices, turmoil and pain you have gone through I would be happy but just like 2 Pac I only want to show you that I understand; you are appreciated.