Sunday, 31 January 2016


People care about food, fashion and money. The three basic things you can’t live without fixating on. Trendsetters are spreading like a flu and this varsity couldn’t be kept in the quarantine anymore. Moi University brought the glitz to the glam this past week and to say the least; it was worth the while. The words ‘fashion week’ echo an ambience of class, front row vibe, couture and everything that is six feet above ground.

Well let’s put it like this; Moi University is in the middle of nowhere. Tickets were misprinted, miscounted and fake apparently a signature at the back was the pass. Number of chairs were almost twenty, fifty bouncers at the door and three spotlights. Not exactly an event where you would bump into Rihanna and Giorgio Armani but pretty faces and great concepts were all over.

The kind of event you attend and leave happy that you were part of it. It might not be on the same scale as New York’s fashion week but it’s all a matter of perspective. I simply can’t wait to see what the next one will entail.

Sunday, 24 January 2016

MEANWHILE IN SCHOOL..... by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

God created the universe in seven days, a fourteen year old took ten days to get constant water supply for her whole village and Noah built an ark in forty days. Soon after, time started tripling with Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Mau Mau so on so forth. However, who said that it must take me decades to finish one degree?

Being held at one place for longer than expected has a way of fostering lunatics. Every day starts to look the same, time drags along excruciatingly; you can almost identify with the seconds. Monday and Saturday become analogous, the weekend seems longer than the week days put together. So much time is dispensed, with the to-do list exhausted one can only be passively crazy. It’s supposed to be a respite; freedom and zero responsibility. But once it kicks in, it can make you wish to kick the bucket.

Waking up to the morning rays filtering through my sheers, the then bright sun fades away by ten o’ clock. The clouds feud and cover the whole sky, hanging so low you could breathe them in. Light showers quickly escalates to a heavy storm, the sky opens and pours like a woman’s wrath. It resumes calm a little after six in the evening. A whole week of indoor activity, the brave hearted jostle with the aftermath to their destination. A burthen to those with an actual life to lead.

These times are bad. This weather is worse. Two weeks down the line you get accustomed to the schedule. You find yourself waiting for six evening to clock in then you go buy a few amenities for the next day. Tallying the scroll because these kind of days are like shillings and you can’t wait to turn them into notes.
Believe it or not, I have been here one week. But the way my mind is set up, I will have disintegrated by ten o’ clock tomorrow.    

Thursday, 21 January 2016


When I first heard Catchy Mafeelings by Dela, I didn’t know whether I was watching MTV Base or Eburu TV. Albeit I couldn’t stop watching, my eyes were just transfixed. Some sort of trance that I snapped out of when the chorus sneaked up.

The pitch, the harmony, the rhythm and the form so well contorted, to call it a local Kenyan song would be sin. It’s a high energy club banging, roof blowing overly dramatic song. Be sure it will keep your feet stomping like Kirk, fingers pointing like Moi and brow barred at the center with imperious lines like a mad woman. This song has the aptitude to waver every woman’s emotion to that between hatred and loathe.

Nimecatchy Mafeelings oyoyo has a pulled back drop added to it that strips down every emotion carried by the lyrics. The video being high definition pitches in more pros, the clothes and make up, the set and the musician herself are definitely on the correct level. It’s a song every woman can relate to and heck! Even the men can relate whether as perpetrators or victims. Dela is on her way to the top and not even feelings can stop her.

After the glitter, the mud must resurface. The song title is generally not so good; not good enough to say it out loud and not good enough for it to be a chorus in a song. It however represents the Kenyan aspect of queer grammar and phrases. Just in case somebody is thinking of following this similar path, no need to air the country’s deranged way of speech. Normal song titles like Isabella, Nerea, Baadaye and Haree are very much appreciated. They also tend to encourage pride for one’s country. I doubt I will attest to knowing Niko maji by Jalang’o to anyone, my patriotism is tied.

All in all, Dela nailed it on the Adele’s Hello cover and she has done it yet again with her own song. It’s always such an inspiration seeing a woman win.

Wednesday, 20 January 2016


For security reasons, the place which was referred to as ‘stage’ four months ago is void and blatant as it gets. The cars, the business men and women, and some few entrepreneur-cum-students have been shown the door or should I say the gate.

To create a free and safe environment, you do not kick out the citizens. You make the environment suitable. What happened to putting up streetlights? How many more students shall fall victim to insecurity? Which measure is being taken to ensure nobody walks into the premises armed? Installation of full body scanners? Will we live to see security cameras? Night patrols? I won’t start on tarmacked roads.

The kind of change we ask for and that which we deserve does not involve shifting the place where we board the bus. This relocation is pointless and is a silly move to curb attacks. At what point did the panelist concur on such a strategy? Where did we go wrong? They are stripping the little guilty pleasures that help comrades loathe the school a little less. First accommodation,hygiene, lecture halls, decent dispensary and now stage, they will not stop; not until Chela gets it.

They did not move Westgate after the grave terror attack and therefore you should not move ‘stage’ before a threat is even made.

OUR KDF HEROES by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

The cobra black sky, the ungodly smell of blood, the tangy taste of air, sudden groaning and yowling as the battlefield becomes slick with innards and constant clobbering and clubbing to preserve life. Most soldiers say it’s their calling to stand in the line of fire, others avoid the whys as no one would resonate.

KDF soldiers are more Kenyan than Kenyans are. Personally, I wouldn’t be so forthcoming in suffering martyrdom for my country. Heck! I wouldn’t even kill a fly if it posed a threat to this great nation. The KDF soldiers are the chosen people. They are the muse for this country, those who give us a reason to raise the flag and to do it with pride.

We did not lose heroes, we were taught how to be one. They reminded us that our country is worth more than what we deemed it to be. That we have no excuse but to do that which is noble in honor of them and to always remain united.

Sunday, 17 January 2016

LIVING LIKE ITS MY LAST by Daisy Waitherero Wambua

I have short episodes where I crave death. For my body to give in and succumb to the excruciating pain and useless battles. My armor lies popped open on the table written in some gibberish that I try to read every now and then. It’s my source of comfort, the doctors say it’s my Messiah, they are right in their own way. A crucifix stands in my bank account, if anything, there lays my Golgotha. In times like these is when family and friends become indispensable.

My eyes seem bloodshot each time I look in the mirror, “Mirror, mirror on the wall who is the prettiest of them all?” My jet black silky hair covers quarter of my face, my make-up precedes perfection, my eyebrows seem surreal and Mac lipstick should seriously consider hiring me as an ambassador. A mash up of Jennifer Lawrence, Khloe Kardashian and Angelina Jolie, no angel comes close and no devil seems more enticing. If only my doctors would halt the medical marijuana maybe my imaginations would tone down. Cancer stage four, hail the heavens and curse upon the fallen angel.

I could have counted a few things that would have been be my Achilles’s heel. But darn cancer, it has some stealth, a certain creep almost like team mafisi but a little more cunning. I have different wigs lying on my dresser, all bearing names; Shaniqua for my ghetto fabulous days, Juliette for the girl next door feel and Precious for the days that life’s returns are less than my givings. Multiple scarves too, hair can be daunting and a tad too cumbersome. These simpletons make me want to wake up every single day plus other mixed bag of reasons.

My old reserves melt daily if not an hourly basis. They look at me different, like am a weakling of some sort, a child whose daily munch is monitored. Strangers take a couple glances more so to satisfy their curiosity and less to issue pity. Few ask at first by hints then by open pressure, they become uneasy upon disclosure then get overcome by guilt for their inquisition. Michael Jackson sang ‘Human Nature’ so I don’t hold my throat when they start asking why. I am still far from tasting the serenity of my health but I am as young as I can be and my vitality as high as it can rise. I grieve to say that I may not see tomorrow but I rejoice in living today like my last.

“I know that I will live long”. “No, I believe I will live long”. I am not my disease, I am not its ramifications.
                                                                                                        -Survivor Series

Tuesday, 5 January 2016


Most of my primary school classmates had gone under the needle and the results, simply majestic. I couldn’t really understand why my mother’s favorite chant ‘you’ll do it after high school’ had to apply especially in this situation. I have ears now, I’ll have ears then, I joked to myself. I wanted my ears endorsed and not by hearing alone.

As I proceeded to form one, I encountered more girls with more dark spots in their ears. An abomination, I thought. It didn’t bother me as much- jewelry was not allowed in school and so many of them rendered to find alternatives. Some used fresh stems of grass, others used short broom bristles and other wazimus made use of staple pins. It appealed to me less and less and my vigor diminished as the school had more important plights to address. However, I did not quite abandon my dreams.

Few days to starting my KCSE I got a pimple on my nose. Probably a result of devouring too much junk food at one hunger episode. It soon diminished albeit a mark was etched following close similarity as that of a nose piercing. I took no notice until a discussion of piercings erupted among some of my friends and I idyllically talked of a nose piercing. One of my classmates drew closer to my face and pointed out that I already had one.

Who was I to put cancellations on this befitting absolutely wrong judgment?
I continued with the frenzy and most took it as the Bible truth, others were skeptical as how I got a piercing in the middle of the term. I took pride in vanity and it came to a sad halt as all wounds heal and all scars fade. I still remember how lit my face was when I was told of my ‘piercing’.

Today I have seven existing piercings; one on each lobe, two extensively apart on my left cartilage, another inside my pinna, another on the cartilage attached to my face and one more on my nose. Maybe am also one of those wazimus.

Piercings are easy to get, its keeping them that is hard. The stringent measures! Lord have mercy! Sleeping becomes a nuisance, four to six months of dreariness just to estimate the least. For the ladies hair grooming becomes a hot pan; blow-drying becomes the fire in every sense. There is no wrong in the world and nothing deserves more punishment than someone brushing their hand through a freshly done piercing. These people belong to jail or juvenile prison from that five month old baby to a fully grown up person; zero discrimination.

Piercings are a form of beauty from our ancestral days hitherto and should be treated as such. Nevertheless it should be done in moderation. Don’t do it like you are applying lotion or in the essence of filling all skin pores. We don’t need walking reflectors, especially those that are straining to the eye. Live well and remain porous!

Sunday, 3 January 2016



A slang acronym that is a mash up of rat and hatchet. It is used to mean undesirable or coarse person. It also refers to shallow and petty behaviors. It is used extensively by abnormal people and those with little knowledge of vocabulary. It was probably brought to light by some middle age rapper with twenty ‘baby mamas’.
It cannot be prosperous therefore should not be used in this New Year.


If you are in any way absurd and incoherent with intelligence that you drew ‘slayage’ and ‘slayer’ from ‘slay’, May the Good Lord forgive you. It has a number of meanings from impressing, to be funny or to be a bully. It’s generally a good word, not too long and easy on the tongue. However, ladies have taken it on a rampage; it is used literally in every sense. Please do note it is debauchery to use it when someone has passed away. We do not ‘slay coffins’.
It is not pragmatic and frankly quite nauseating to the ear and it shall not thrive in 2016.


It means on point or very good. All I can say is pass!! It is therefore safe to say we are leaving it in 2015 as 2016 will be too on fleek for it.

4. Doe

If you are still using this word well, you should have remained in the archives with it. It is another way of saying though and another way of annoying all those who actually have time to write the whole word. You understand me ‘doe’?


Come on, we can’t all be Luyhas! Tea in this case simply means gossip, the phrase sips tea however means that one chooses not to engage on the subject matter.
We all better start sipping on something else this New Year.

6. YAS

Its ‘YES’ my people, No! it does not have an ‘A’ in between Y and S and no it isn’t accompanied by a weird Briton accent. Therefore Yasssssss we are leaving it behind.


It basically refers to the group of friends one has or a clique. Most probably one of the group members is secretly texting your ex-girlfriend, one of them stole your phone during one of your escapades, another sabotages all your prospects and one scratched your parent’s car before you returned it. So really, squad? I don’t think so. Find out who you are and stop looking for approval from wannabes framed as friends unless you are actually acting F.R.I.E.N.D.S *good comedy*

8. AF

As F*** is used to express or explain things in a higher degree. I have one problem and one problem only and it is the number of times this phrase is brought into context. ‘Fresh AF, Clean AF, This food is yummy AF, Those shoes are tight AF, Late AF, I am angry AF and so many more instances that will get me pissed AF if I name them.

Kindly let us in unison drop it like its hot AF before anyone else murders the use.

MOI UNIVERSITY COMING SOON...... By Daisy Waitherero Wambua

There is something about the varsities that lures you at the same time repels. The rich tapestry of living, the riot of intelligence, the plethora of languages, the hub of naivety and curiosity and let’s not forget the sudden brokenness that allies itself from time to time. The rush of being amongst those who are lost as you are, prime in self-actualization, caring more of vanities and less of future prospects and murdering energy on sweet nothings.

Moi University, a university with a difference. Different alright, not in a way you would appreciate but no one cares, if they did we would swerve to a more positive note. However, it is the oasis of Eldoret; no other place gives off the youthful ambiance and overly hyped serenity. It has a way of giving a humble bargain, none is above the other nor six feet under. We all seat in the same classes (read also stand, squat and peep) commute in the same automobiles (shout out to Chemu) and skid and fall on mud.

I can neither share optimism nor hopes of those who wait upon change.
Unfortunately I lack the courage to change what I cannot accept and the serenity to accept what I cannot change, but I do have the wisdom to see the glaring difference. However, I carry a little pride with me for being part of this varsity even though I out rightly condemn it, I place it on a pedestal once or twice. Margaret Thatcher is a pedestal, School of Human Resource, Nature Springs, Hostel K and staggering in Dadina into the list.

After four months holiday, most of us feel out of touch with the struggles that come along with being there. My arms are definitely not wide open to the idea of my return. East or West, home is best and Moi is definitely south when it comes to charms. I tire upon the thought of the numerous downgrades and putting it on paper would be somewhat of a repetitive nature. All in all, God bless Moi God bless comrades.

Yet another year, yet another hassle.

Saturday, 2 January 2016


Wednesday afternoon, the sheers completely forgo their function or maybe the sun is raging out over the El Nino aftermath. One couch sits directly facing the window giving the room a sauna feel. My mother sits directly opposite the television set, gleefully playing her crossword. My nephew joins my mother and me. Takes the tablet lying on the table, (who am I kidding? He grabs it from my hands when I was scrolling down silly Instagram pages) then sits next to me, partially on my hips. I scoot a little bit almost submerging inside the couch then he slides closer.

Quickly, he goes for one of the games featured and becomes blissfully unaware of everything else surrounding him. Norm for eight year olds. I still probe him with level 1 questions which he dismisses rather bashfully maybe because I inquired of the same since he got out of diapers. I soon escalate to level 100, “who do you want to be when you grow up?” I ask in a low tone to give off a sense of intelligence and effect an exaggerated witty vibe. He seems unbothered and continues to play his game which my mother joins in to polish his skills and drop off a few pointers. I then started questioning myself if it was still a level one question and why is it I didn’t ask him to name all the bones in the human body.

I like to think am a Jackie of most trades. If it isn’t for my frequent and expedient boredom shocks, I would probably be a guru somewhere. It would be considered sin if I didn’t add laziness to that category, I mean who likes waking up to do the same thing over and over again? Even Sir Kenyatta takes a ‘few’ trips here and there.

Sometimes I want to become a hero and at other times I want a hero to worship. My ambition and aspirations of youth beat very strongly in my heart and other times shallow almost too shallow that I almost give zero damns of what the future holds. I still battle in finding that which will rekindle and fully illuminate my purpose in this world but I will be damned if I drop the torch and sit in darkness. I may not have full disclosure of who I want to be but I know the woman I want to become.

As expected he didn’t quite get round to my quizzes, he carried on with his game and soon after went on to play with his water gun. The path of self-discovery is rigid, finding one’s merits is easy, it’s to know the vanities that run parallel that is challenging. I soon joined him in playing with his ‘AK-47’ blissfully unaware of what 2016 has in store.