Sunday, 8 May 2016


Who wouldn’t want to be a woman? Even Levi’s wife looked back to see if her girlfriend was behind her. Pun intended. There is a certain flair attached to womanhood that men would never relate. Well, unless they transition into this formidable species. The LGBT or GLBT community better known as the gay community are taking over the world by fag (*cough* storm). Gay pride is the new black and no one is bleaching it.

“My name is Chris”. First thing I thought was definitely this is a man. Probably my type too. The name has a nice ring to it, something like Nate or Tony. Its rasp is masculine, humble and extremely striking; like chocolate, vanilla and strawberry together. Apparently it was short for Christine, her cues were impeccable. She looked like a man, sounded like a man; how on earth did she have lady parts? Everything about her screamed testosterone; downright to the nitty gritty. Impostor. She would probably have taken me out and I introduce her to my family before knowing her true identity. I am actually blonde but born black.

For some reason people tend to be more comfortable with lesbians than gays. There is something about a man being feminine that makes eyebrows meet the hairline. Being partially trans phobic, borderline conformist and full on homophobic, I am not very willing to actively interact with this particular community. However, after researching and getting to understand their daily lives in this cruel world, I am much more open minded. Hey Caitlyn!

LGBT community are constantly faced with discrimination. It’s almost like being black in 1757 or Lupita in that porn movie. Horrific. Nobody really understands them and nobody wants to. Biblically they are cursed for having fetish for the same sex or cravings of being of a different gender. Socially they are not worth more than a poodle chained to the kennel. There is no such thing as right or wrong; it’s just is what it is. I mean Shakespeare said ‘To be or Not to be’. Who even knows what that means? Yet nobody never questioned that.

There is nothing wrong with being who you are. If it feels right then it is right. Never live your life within the confines of other people’s version of reality. If you are gay then you are gay. Just don’t tell my mum and a billion of other people who might end up stoning you. Stop homophobia, after all we all living this life for the first time; there was no handout

Thursday, 5 May 2016


It wasn’t what he said that scared me, it was how he said it. The rapture of his voice could send a vampire back to its grave, his tone was not that of trauma. It had something hazy, some sort of hidden fear marinated with great strength. He saved himself from the jaws of death in the land of paradise he says. He never wanted to leave Garissa. It was his Canaan. The militants egyptified it.

There were rounds of ammunition fired, really loud bangs then grave silence like something bad was about to happen. Two minutes after that a pandemonium escaped; chaos everywhere. I was in my room when it all happened. The militants ordered students to come out of their rooms and lie face down on the school grounds. Some did, others couldn’t live up to the task.

I couldn’t leave my room, my friends and I were frightened and knew Hell’s gates were flooded. We hid in the last room of the dormitory side. Thank God our room looked more like a storage facility from the outside; something which always bothered us but who knew it would be our ticket out of the heist.

After realizing that some students were still hiding in the halls of residence, they set out for them. Each room was ransacked and those found were made to kneel outside along with the rest. I didn’t know it was about to blow up. We only thought they were out to scare us or send a message that Garissa has gone back to its ancestral ways. But we were wrong.

The militants were targeting Christians. It was definite, they conversed in Arabic but addressed in Swahili. Being a Christian, I was certain I would not see another day if I stepped out of that room. It was my safe haven. Luckily I had Muslim friends who dressed me in a Kanzu just in case. A few students were saved by the Kenyan Defense Forces but those who remained were not as fortunate. Another round of shots was heard. It did not seem like they had killed two people.

We quickly hid under the bed and covered our ears. There was a lot of screaming and I could smell death from round the corner. The militants then told the girls to separate from the boys. Some few boys pretended to be female thinking that they would be pardoned. They thought wrong. The radicals shot every single one of them in cold blood in front of the others.

Earsplitting wails could be heard once more but they were ordered to calm down or they suffer the same. By this time I was no longer scared. I had accepted my fate. I had lost hope. I no longer froze at the thought of death. I just lay on that floor waiting for it to come find me and be done with.

I lost friends, classmates even enemies I might say. I was not ready to give them up, they were taken from me and from their families. I only have memories now, there is no point of memories if you can’t remake them with those who you loved.

Moi University Garissa branch was an amazing place after it was reckoned. The sun was always up, the community was united and commodities there were accessible and cheap. Anyone would have fallen in love with it after a few days; it was paradise to most of us. I guess nothing good last forever. I want to pay a tribute to all those who passed away and many condolences to the family.

-The above is a former student of Moi University Garissa branch and a survivor of the second deadliest attack made on Kenyan soil.

A moment of silence for the 148 students we lost.

Sunday, 1 May 2016


I realized I was born in the wrong continent when I had a five shilling coin transformed into a note then back to a coin. If you didn’t go through the twenty shilling note and five hundred shilling Moi note, it is illegal for you to be perusing my blog. You should get out of those diapers and get some big girl panties or big boy pants (non-existent). Many escapades passed that confirmed my doubts about this country’s prospects. Only one sets me off till this date; writing is a janitorial work.

The only people who consider writing as a source of income are writers themselves and landlords. They are the two lots who get paid through writing. I saw your warning Bwana Chela (landlord). The rest of the population dismisses it as gum stuck under their shoe. Writing is considered uncool almost placed on the same level as reading. Thank God the odds are over and not draw. (See what I did there). Most people would rather watch a dog chase its tail in demented circles than hold a book.

Kenyans don’t read; they Instagram, they Tweet, they Snapchat and occasionally visit my blog. Typical. Everything we do involves reading or writing which is a tad too ironic. Using hashtags, setting locations, putting down captions, setting statuses, updating quotes; come on people. Then after all that; you’ll hear Njoki WA Wairimu saying in that fake Briton accent; “I don’t like reading”. Ms Wambua and several other writers pull the trigger one after the other, others also willingly go to flooded areas; sorry Huruma.

The worst feeling a writer has is to write a five hundred word article only to achieve five views. This is the number one cause of suicides among the artists behind the words. Worse still is to write a whole novel and no one shows up at your book signing apart from your mom and siblings. A book only a mother could love is averagely not a very good book. It gets worse when you forward your friends links to your work then get asked what are these stuff you keep on sending. It’s worse than onions next to your pupils.

Being a writer has so much encompassed but very few know the struggle that comes along with it, most don’t give a damn. Well, we also don’t give a damn. You readers are selfish and the worst human beings on earth. I should probably take that back before my page views become ancestral.

Reading is not limited even socialites read; remember Huddah Monroe realized it was Prince who died? We read for the most part of our lives and it makes us better people, more interesting and diverse; try it, it won’t kill. As for my fellow writers, we may not be Biko Zulu or my personal favorite Oyunga Pala but who wants to be them anyway?