Sunday, 30 August 2015


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.

Saturday, 29 August 2015

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……………….

Friday, 28 August 2015

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.

Thursday, 27 August 2015

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