This is a happy account of a tragic feeling. The pain of loss and gain of experience. The predictable cycle, welcoming the same results that comes from trying and failing. Trying and failing. But never failing to try.

This is what credits each journey as a memorable scar.

It is now becoming a pattern, this makes this thought very scary. I am addicted to love and love gives me a special kind of high. Heights that keep me smiling at life with vivid paintings of the future.

Like the ‘conquering prince’, tales of brave men who slayed dragons to win hearts of entire kingdoms and the solemn love of a fair lady; my mission in this life is driven by love.

This is one of my stories.

A lady who won my heart and made me a KING.”

kings and queens


I had just finished burying the remains of a previous ruler of my heart. Her loss had really taken a toll on me that I decided to lay off my mission for a while. Love could wait. Her death was figurative, this was the only way I could deal with this insane situation sanely. I had to kill her in my mind and mourn her as she breathed. Full Five star General sendoff including a 21 gun salute. The FIVE stages of grief.

I managed to kill six years’ worth of memories and suppress them into one sad image of pain in mere months. It was an accelerated program. I will not lie, it was painful and took a lot of will power.

It worked. I finally replaced my dead queen with the presence of the living.

The world sometimes can be a cold unforgiving and a very cruel place. But like the gracious white polar bear fishing with its furry paws on the ice cold worlds of the North Pole, I believed. I believed that it will not be long till another queen stumbles upon on my path. And she did.

The Mission

Reset. Readjust. Restart. Refocus.

It had been long since I tapped into this feeling. Heck, I even had a phase where I created imaginary posts to imaginary queens on social media. I addressed love in general and focused on black kings who had found thorough bred queens. My next move was all chance and not a calculated one. It was like my avatar state had kicked in and I was being guided by my spirit self. I found myself profiling women that can make queens.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to spot a queen from social media. This is where queens are made overnight. Similar to biblical prophets who obeyed voices and whispers giving them instructions to their new calling, I heard a whisper early this month. The voice was clear and like a message from the oracle, the message of my destiny was scripted and my path defined. “Follow your instincts, when the time comes, follow your heart and your queen will be waiting.”

I am a champion of love and a self-proclaimed ambassador of the same. If William Shakespeare had a cult, I would be a pious and religious follower with the ambitions of rising to be the high priest. I worship in the altar of love.

An opportunity presented itself and my instincts kicked in. I followed them and further followed my heart. It was magical, like a fairy tale, it carried a promise of a happily ever after ending.

Like all good dreams, I knew I was in one and hoped never to open my eyes. The reality is I lived an entire love life packaged in a single weekend. Promises, love, desire, passion but above all, chemistry. I lived my best years as KING for a record 72 hours. My second QUEEN is not dead. Just gone. And my mission is to rescue her from the jaws of death that wants to hungrily claim the ETERNAL ruler of my heart.

I shall not let this happen

By the lawful order of the White Knights, I swear to chase after my light. (Bondi, 2018 AD)

OMOGO CREATIONS.kings and queens

Honor to my first

images (56)

First love is a forbidden love. A love that needs strength to keep the fight going in order to live the dream you carved out together.



This story is a memorabilia from the unwritten pages of my book of Firsts.

I was seventeen when I met my first love. The environment I was in was more like prison than a boarding school. It was far from home, the food was bad and had traces of kerosene. Mistakes punished by strokes of the cane, while the strong preyed on the weak. It felt more like a correctional institution than an educational facility.

Discipline wagged loosely on the tongue of teachers as well as the ‘holier than thou’ prefects. Hard work echoed all over the school compound. Success was in the mind of everyone but in reality, only a few squeezed through to attain results that lifted the hearts.

It was not all doom and gloom. There were distractions. We had sports, we had social clubs and the best part is that we had girls living in our hub. I joined Busali High School when I was in form 3. I was sixteen. It was a mistake from my father but fortune to me.

I remember sitting with him in the schools administration block during the day of my admission. The break time bell struck at 10 am. All this time my father and I knew the school was a boy school. I believe the ‘broker’ that led him to the school knew the school was far deep into the green lands of Western Kenya and hid this information from him. I could read the disappointment on my father’s face when we both saw a mixture of boys and girls walking away from class matched in similar uniforms as he had bought me. It was then that he gave me the shortest lecture ever in my school days history.

He queried, “Son you can see the school is a mixed school, right?”

I nodded in the affirmative.

Then he continued, “If you came to learn you will learn but if you came to do your own things, you will also do them”

That was it. He finished the bureaucracy with the school and gave me Ksh 500 as pocket money before parting with my company for Nairobi.

A year later, I was a senior in my school. I had secured a seat by the window that overlooked the entire school. This was my vantage point. My go to place when the classes became unbearable. Sometimes the weather and the timetable combined to hand over one hell of an afternoon. The grass golden brown and distant winds blowing mildly on the grass under the hot sun. The effects felt under the blazing galsheet mabati. My mind would drift to the trees and see birds feed their young ones while the mathematics teacher kept at matrices and probability to a lively audience that grasped none.

It was during one of these unbearable moments that I saw her. My first love. She was a real beauty. Everything I say about her will be exaggerated and might pass as flatter. In truth, she stood out from every living soul I have ever seen to this day. I say this delicately, I mean no offence to other souls I have touched. I was expecting nothing from this afternoon. Good fortune has been known to strike when least expected. This day was defying the odds. This was the day love first revealed itself to me. It showed its face to me in the form of *Wendy, whom in all ways is now and forever, etched in my memory as my first ever everything. Each RnB song I have heard since then brings her face closer to the realms of both reality and fantasy.

Wendy was joining the form two class. The form two class was two blocks from my class. At the right angle, I could tune my window to see the rear. She joined form two west. I would later learn as I wooed her that she was also from the distant plains of Nairobi and I would confidently place fate as responsible for giving me Wendy.

I smile as I think of the steps I took to lure Wendy into my then young adolescent arms of love. I remember I was passionate about journalism and even founded a journalism club with my then friend and formidable foe in English- Sebastian. Sebastian challenged me a lot in matters literature. At some point, Sebastian and I wrote a play and tried acting it in a bid to revive the drama club that had fallen from grace. The play was something in itself. The first draft was the final copy. So amateur. Such is life. Other ventures fail while others thrive.

Busali News Agency aka BNA was my brainchild. It was an ambition driven with the desire to grace school “outings”. I said earlier, school felt like prison and I had to get away at every opportune moment that I could muster. Since I was not a scout I needed a way to attend all sports, academic and religious functions that I did not participate in. The only thing that came to mind was to become a reporter. I set task and lobbied to the rightful ears to introduce the idea of reporting weekly events at the Monday general Assembly. This was my podium handed to me by nobody.

Into my last year, becoming a senior student meant that I had to take my studies seriously. It involved sacrificing my love for outings and replacing them with hours of study. I had accepted my prison and my fate along with it. My brainchild was no longer an individual project but an endeavor that other students from the journalism club embraced. It was a platform to becoming popular. All one had to do for the school to know them was to know me. I was the English editor of BNA. I decided who reported what and when. Silent super powers I donned back then.

After seeing Wendy, school stopped being a prison. My spirits soared high above the Eiffel tower. I could see the best in everything. The golden brown grass, though dull impressed the sight of a horse ranch. The old school structures looked like big barns. The clouds would always carry a promise of rain. I found my bearing, every word I heard rhymed and with time, I would know all the corners of the school, as I would arrange for different rendezvous points with Wendy.

I had to let Wendy know me. My plan was simple. Prepare and read the next weekly report at the next general assembly. Like clockwork, she stood at the front with the rest of her classmates at the assembly. A spot reserved for all junior students. One look at her made the task at hand have so much meaning. I had to make it memorable for it was my first introduction to her. The school knew me but Wendy had to know my name.

Like a good reporter, I said my name at the beginning of the weekly report and at the conclusion. Those were two initial attempts aimed to steer Wendy into my existence. I tried reading her face on both occasions and not an ounce of expression escaped her innocent eyes. Her radiant face kept blank and she seemed not to notice the love that was oozing from my end as I struggled to send attention her way.

After the assembly, I walked in class wondering if I had done enough to secure the confidence of her audience. The next part of my introduction was to be direct and had to be face-to-face. The plan had to change. In my heart, I felt like I knew Wendy, and I could trust her, but my heart and instincts have been wrong before. It would be humiliating if I trusted the fate of my intentions and my repetition on mere instincts. I dug more Intel on Wendy. I discovered her desk mate. It was *Jombaa. I was in the same class with his cousin. This was a silver lining towards my end. I interrogated Jombaa to establish the character of the new girl Wendy. This proved pointless, as jombaa’s Intel was inconclusive. I could still not preempt her response to my intentions.

Like Shakespeare, hiding behind a love letter, I scribed my thoughts and was about to send Jombaa with its contents carefully concealed in a folded A4 foolscap but I changed my mind. Instead, I sent Jombaa by “word of mouth” to ask her to wait for me after the days classes were done. Come lunch break, I traced Jombaa to his table and requested him to join me for lunch at my table. I wanted to know if there were any new developments. No news means good news, but this felt discouraging.

He said, “Your message was well received but replied to with silence.”

I further inquired if there was even a hint of smile or a tinge of frown. At this point, I was desperate and even imagined my own Intel.

This could have been an approval or a dismissal. Suspense hung over my head, like a dark cloud pregnant with rain or a terrible headache after a wild night out, I could not shake it. My afternoon classes brazed faster than usual and soon it was time to meet my fate with Wendy. A stage I had set for myself now appeared too big to conquer.

My heart literally drummed outside my chest.

Dib-dib, dib-dib, on and on it went.

I felt as if everybody was looking at me and somehow knew my mission as I slowly marched one-step at a time towards Wendy’s class. I thumped my chest absent mindedly, in a gesture to perhaps slow its tempo or stop it from beating entirely. It hushed. In a single breath, I recollected my thoughts and focused on the mission ahead.

There she was. Seated in the front seat of the middle row. Oblivious of my presence at her classroom doorway, and perhaps my face. It was encouraging. She waited for me after all. I smiled as I glided towards her trying not to make a sound and drew the seat next to her. She did not move. Her beauty was even more exaggerated when I got up close and candid with her. The smell of her scent still fills the air to this day whenever I think of her. It was the fragrance of love at first sight. She was fifteen and I was seventeen. It felt like I had known her all my life. On different occasions, I would get lost in her innocent white eyes and promise myself never to love another as I loved her.

My insatiable thirst for love quenched only by my first love goes beyond the day I met her loveliness, queen of my heart, the unsullied beauty that was Wendy.

Like all tales of firsts, the love never grows old. Memories never fade and the rest becomes history.

OMOGO 2018.


Independent Observer

Independent observer


Just for a minute, I held on to a dream as a liberated citizen in a free nation. I felt like I was finally making a difference.


“All of you who kept polluting the environment with loud speakers. Shouting in my ears every waking day for endless weeks. You made your fanatics whistle and heckle your name in the neighborhood and they, in turn, made dogs bark and car alarms to go off. You kept holding road shows and littering my city with campaign posters. Some of you even invaded the privacy of my home and filled my screens with prime time shows to advertise your personal dreams; I am hereby sending you home. Thanks for coming.” Jeff Bondi 8th August 2017.

I had a complete list of those that I will ‘send home‘ in my head and a list of the candidates I will spare for having made some necessary noise. I felt in control.

But it only lasted a minute. After casting my vote, my instincts kicked in. I felt like I should do more than just drop my vote and leave. I had an overwhelming desire to protect it. Like a lioness with new born cubs, I scanned the room to ensure the safety of my vote. It is what I do each time I visit the bank. Too many Hollywood movies make me play different bank robbery scenarios. I could be taken a hostage at any time, more so before I get to hand over my valuables to the teller and have it taken away from the bank and not me. That way, I could be sure of getting back my valuables.

I am guessing I am not alone at this; everyone always seems to be in a hurry as I am. Suspicious characters glancing at their watches every minute, others stay glued to their phones perhaps disabling the bank security remotely. Who can guess what they are up to? Some even wear a poker face you can hardly profile anything from them. Nevertheless, every day I step outside the bank I feel confident that my actions will make a difference.

As I walked home that day, I was still not content with the safety of my vote. I really wanted it to count. I felt I should have given my list to Chebukati himself and let him count it on national TV.

The system stabbed me on the back

back stabbing

It so happens that my concerns were not borne from paranoia. The genuine concern for the safety of my vote was warranted. “Aibisi” through Chebukati would later announce its leaders, I felt robbed. Till now, I cannot shake away that feeling. I feel like I cannot trust the system to accept my verdict. For the first time, I feel like a woman living in Kenya during the pre-colonial era. I feel undermined. The system is compromised and pre-determined. It chooses on its own who will carry the day regardless of the choice of its citizens.

From a management perspective, where any bias must be ruled out before making a decision, Aibisi has failed to offer Kenyans an indisputable election.

It was free, it was very fair but it was not credible. Every Kenyan knows this. As you put on a good show at the Supreme Court (for the second election running), you can try to defend your actions and even succeed at it.

You will still have lost my trust. In my eyes, you have just wasted my tax money and you are still exhausting it in your defense. Who knows the side shows you are pulling now to get your way? If I were indeed your employer as you say I am, I would have given you the boot, maybe even have you arrested. What I know for sure is I would cut my losses and never do business with you again.

Now, in my reality, the reality of the world I live in. I am a citizen who does not trust the system, I would suggest that the country stays without an opposition for a while and see how it pans out. After every five years, we may suggest the names of our preferred leaders but leave it to Aibisi to hand pick our leaders. PERIOD. It already happening anyway.

I rest my piece.



“The birth of a lion cannot be announced by a goat”


From Left: Mamake Ace, (Ace yumo tumboni) na Babake Ace.  Photo by Reuters.

All I ever wanted was a sense of belonging, to be around people who made me feel important. I have searched all the corners of the world for one such audience only to realize I was born with it.

On the 15th day of the 7th month in the year 2017 of the 21st century, marks the time I spent an entire night with my family and friends. Childhood memories flooded the gates of my mind. It was like walking back in time but minus all the regrets. The only piece missing from my decrypted puzzle was the love of my love.

It was the biggest family re union of Kapiyo offsprings in the year 2017. Everybody turned up for our favorite brother George Bondi and his better half Vera Nimo. It was a day of celebration without the ululations. We celebrate the designated birth of Baby Ace Bondi. The firstborn grandson of the Bondi generation.

How do I fit in all this?


From left: Rachael, Jeff, Stellar, George and Aggie. (Photo by Vera Nimo) 

Besides being the storyteller, I am the designated “Uncle Ace”, brother to “Baba Ace”. As expected, I had to clear my mind to be able to record new events. I wanted to see things with a clear perspective should I be tempted to share my thoughts as I am doing now. I started the day sober as a church mouse. However as time passed by, I drowned some parts of the night in “Johnnie Walker” but the most important parts are sure to stay afloat in this piece.

There are lessons I picked from this simple gathering.

  1. Ladies and Time

Ladies and time are like water and oil. You cannot mention them together in a sentence without the word delay. However, this was an exception. The event scheduled to start in the afternoon did so. Courtesy of the beautiful Agatha a confirmed and treasured sister-in-law. Through her graceful planning, the event kicked off without any hiccups.

  1. Ladies are United

If you want anything done quickly assign it to a man, but if you want it done perfectly, assign it to a woman. I mean there was even a theme that all ladies adhered to. They went shopping for new dresses. The theme was a blend of white and yellow. The men, however, never got this memo. I for one was lucky to show up in a white shirt and very fitting denim blue jeans (needless to say, I looked like a male stud). I missed the single opportunity to wear my yellow suit and white tie. The suit just hangs in my closet like an old relic.

  1. Feast of the Eye

If only one could get full by feasting with his eyes alone. This was a buffet for any member of the famed team mafisi. By default, the seating arrangement was an “n”. From my sitting position, I was directly opposite with some of the most beautiful legs in Nairobi. Ideally, come to think of it, the decision to wear white and yellow was not a coincidence. How else could you make such a mature audience of women appear like virgins? It was a remarkable sight. No level of brain washing will ever fade this memory from my collection of beautiful legs. The 8th wonder of the world was how these ladies could pull off a virgin look with dresses high up above their knees.

  1. The kitchen Cabinet

Most of the beautiful legs and thighs I was ogling at belonged to mothers and wives. This was the only disappointment of the event. They had to leave early for motherly and wifely duties. Whether it involves breasts and feeding is a story for another day. Like having a premature ejaculation, I was very disappointed. My feasting of the eyes was cut short before my Johnnie Walker had taken a toll on my sensible parts of the brain. Moreover, I duly parted with the hot legs. Shamefully, I did so with incoherent and almost nonsensible informal bidding of goodbyes.

  1. The after party

When one’s goat gets missing the aroma of a neighbors soup gets suspicious. It would be an injustice if I failed to mention the goat that unwillingly gave up its life to make this day a success. It is drinking 101 that you should not drink on an empty stomach. I, therefore, stuffed my belly with layers of goat meat. In this, I was not alone. Baba Ace was the undisputed champion of this feat.

The after party was something I will never forget. We took the party to anchors in Langata. And I could have sworn I had two left feet. Dancing with your cousins and in- laws is not as easy as people might think. No matter how many shots of Johnnie Walker I took, it never became easy. I was torn in between dancing and chasing tail or sticking with my family in a club. It was also a daunting task of protecting my sisters from my male friends. Especially my baby cousin Stellar whom I have always been so fond of.

The night was a blessing to everyone, it was also really short. Hours flew like minutes and minutes like seconds till morning came. The body tired and unwilling to go on, but the spirit never de-escalated. My only musician friend Vanso Da Gama aka VDG was also around. I mean this guy can dance. Besides singing he can also dance. I wonder what more tricks he has up his sleeves coz he really impressed my sisters.

Tribute to Racheal who was also a surprise entity into the dancing feat. Stellar, happy as ever and Aggie were the best company. My lawyer brother, Ibrahim Sankoh was full of wits, he took over from me and made us all laugh with his cynic remarks of everything. My elder Sister “Hami Bonds” became the sole tutor to my other sister in law Khathra on her whiskey debut night and also doubled up as our default photographer. I must say it has been a while since we enjoyed a bottle of fine whiskey together.

I also pay tribute to my sister in law “Mama Ace” who has time and again proved to me and my family that Kindness is like butter, it works best if you spread it around.

I will never trade this memory for anything in my life.

I rest my piece.

Bad things happen to good guys.

ex profile

I am a very comic person and that gets me a lot of drama and attention. Some necessary and some just downright shameful.

Have you ever had the saying, hell hath no fury than a woman scorned?

Over the long Eid holiday, I experienced this first hand. This is my shameful piece.

This year and for the latter parts of last year I have been struggling with quitting alcohol. You might say that I’m winning considering I have only consumed alcohol less than ten 10 times in 6 months. ( did I hear you clap) you should.

Okay, so this past Saturday I had a reason to indulge. I was surrounded by childhood friends and my best brother. It was epic. The gods of alcohol were so generous that we had more to drink and more to eat. It was the best re- union.

I had just got off from work and made a random call and hence the random invite. Immediately I arrived I was greeted like a popular MCA. One would think I was the guest of honor. And you know what they say about joining the party last? So I had to make up for lost time. I needed to be level headed with my peers. I felt stupidity beckoning to be let out as I poured a shot of Johnnie Walker in my empty glass.

It was complete. Everyone was seated with his girlfriend and drink in hands. Everyone except my brother and I, he is married and I am in a long distance relationship).

That pressure got to me and I just felt the pressing urgency to invite a girl I once loved very much. I loved her so much that if I was ever to leave my true love (wangeci), I was thinking it would be her. I met this girl in January this year and dated her for like 2 months. I was on a rocky patch with my woman and believe it or not we were separated after being together for four loving years. Though temporarily.

This new gal I met, let’s call her Doty short for Dorothy, was like a breath of fresh air in the morning after waking up from a stuffy duvet having slept on a full stomach. The relief was more than clean air after an atomic bomb in Vietnam. She was made for love and catered to my every need. I hurt her when we resolved issues with my Wangeci after waking up to the fact that we were fooling ourselves.

This was my chance, my alcoholic brain was leading me to a downfall I could not just fathom at the moment. I was led to believe by my split personality that I could charm this flame to have a final taste of what we have been missing and I have been craving for.

And my friends, I have to admit I am on a long dry spell. I have chewed so many girls in town with my eyes since my Wangeci went MIA till further notice. Dotty was all I could think of. I got through to her, talk of my convincing alcoholic nature. I picked her up and it was all fun trying to catch up and make feeble attempts at wooing her again.

I must admit, it would have worked had my celebrity friend not stepped in. I was funny, I said jokes that I laughed too heartily myself, making everybody laugh, especially my Dotty who was dressed in this amazing short dress that left you wanting to see more. Indeed less is more.

fupi   short

Now in comes this childhood friend of mine that does collabo’s with Timmy tdat and the likes of Naiboi. Vanso da gama, we call him VDG. The mistake I did was show the many youtube videos of my friend in action. My Dotty whom I had called to feed on later when the lights were off, became an instant groupie. Almost as if she was doing it on purpose to hurt my feelings. Man, she wounded them. Am still licking my wounds like a stray dog from a street fight.

Soon I was this drunk, lonely fella who couldn’t even convince his ex to remember the good old days.

The night was far from over. We left to pay homage at this lovely joint in Lang’ata called 1824. I kept drinking as if by a miracle it would impress my ex. I should have instead counted my losses early and left the table with the little remaining dignity I had left. Reminds me of a song called the Gambler by Kenny Rodgers, that I now understand after years of dancing to its tune at reggae joints.

“…you can never count your money when you seated at the table, there will be time enough to count them when the deal is done.”

Five lessons from this night.

  1. Always hate your Ex.
  2. Hate your Ex and her friends.
  3. If you can give a f*** to all your Exes friends, please do so.
  4. Never invite a musician to a party that you have invited your Ex.
  5. Let Exes stay exes. There is a reason they did not make it as the main.

I rest my piece.

Memories of the Past

police-child-illustration-771x484It is very important for parents to support their children in school activities. Not just in academics but also co-curricular activities.

I used to be a very talented kid. I was never short of friends or people who liked to hear what I had to say. People kept telling me to join comedy (they still do). At one point in my life, I was poached by some standard 7 kids when I was in class 5 to go for mchongoano. (Mchongoano is a popular game in primary school where kids gather up to hear other kids hurl creative insults at each other). Think of it as a rap battle. That is how good I was, yet I never let fame get into my head.


I was a free spirit and very emotional come to think of it. Speaking of emotions, I was a ‘brief’ kid who always had a way with words, and when words failed tears occupied my eyelids. I have never cried in my life, but my eyes always roll with salt water when I get emotionally overwhelmed.

Not that I have ever tasted tears, but my guidance and counselling teacher, one day during our session  confided in me that tears are salty. If you find yourself short of salt, all you have to do is cry on your plate.

I was a good listener then and still is today. I believe my GC teacher was the first to discover this personality in me. In retrospect, she always enjoyed our sessions more than I did. Perhaps it is because we could talk about everything. Sometimes her emotions got the best of her and she would just let loose and cry. I wished then that I were old enough to lend her my shoulders to cry on or more if she wanted, but I guess I was not her type. I was brief and she was much taller than I was. Perhaps if I was an inch taller, it would have been different between us or maybe she just had sisterly love for me. I will never know.  In any case, she used to whine about some ungrateful guy whom she has dated for years but can’t be together because her family and his are sworn political enemies.

The Main event

This takes me back to Nyang’oma high school. I was in form two and had just joined the schools drama club. I was good at it. Usually, I would never care about parents’ day, but this was special, my father was coming. What made it even more special was that the principal, Mr Andare, singled me out and asked me to prepare something to present for the parents.

Maybe he had seen my potential, or maybe he asked because he was my father’s classmate, my basketball coach and an old boy of the school. Like most things in life, this too I will never understand. Nevertheless, he chose me; however ‘brief’ I was. That was enough to set my thinking wheels on motion.

I put my back into it; I only had a fortnight to develop a narrative that I would perform before the entire school. I do not even think a mule could match my work rate. Not even the crossbreed of a zebra and a horse could.

Finally, parent’s day arrived, and like glorious sex that leaves you feeling like an ancient gladiator, my performance on that day received a standing ovation. I swept through the floor trying to locate my father amidst all these cheers, claps and whistles. I could not trace his face. I felt I wasted the best performance of my life. Simply because the one I prepped for was not around to see his son win the hearts of punctual parents. Parents who were proud to see other children perform or wish it was one of theirs on the stage.

Anyway, my father came very late in the afternoon and soon parted with my company. I never got to know if the principal ever told him how great I was that day. I may have won the hearts of other parents, maybe even drove them to ecstasy, but I failed my mission. I almost impressed my father.

King of the Concrete jungle


I am on the top floor of a very tall building. I have to climb a lot of stairs before I reach my house. I like to consider this haven as my eagle nest.

I fancied this name because eagles rule the air. They fly the highest and perch on the highest trees and mountains. They have their own social club up there where no other bird can register for a membership.

This is the feeling I get each time I stare at people from the comfort of my balcony. Tiny creatures walking aimlessly like ants.

As a kid, I was fascinated with what the ants were up to and to pass the time, I would play god on them. Though I never had any angels. But unlike our God who is just and forgiving, I found myself condemning the ants to their early grave.

I was only seven and had secured myself a lens. I was a mean god and when an ant did not impress my eye, fire was on their backs before they even got a chance to repent.

Back then a lens was a precious toy. Bullies would focus sunlight to a tiny hot spec on clean shaven heads of small boys. We called this shaving style- Jordan. Named after the legendary NBA player Micheal Jordan, whom I have never seen with any spec of hair in his head. I wonder if he grows hair at all in any place.

Anyway, the small kids would react by scratching their heads in pain before welling with tears in their eyes. I was not a bully and I was not bullied.

I just bullied the ants.

I was still to know the different classes of ants in a colony. I mostly tortured the worker ants who were busy carrying particles of rice and legs of dead cockroaches. Whether these particular ants were banking for a rainy day or just toiling to feed the already fattened queen was a mystery to me then as it is now.

But now that I know better, I have mad respect for worker ants. They want nothing in the society but to better the lives of the lazy queen and the male ants who eat and fuck all day.


While on this topic of ants. Did you know both the queen and the male ants have wings? It is only the worker ants that lack wings. I find this strange…both the queen and the males never leave the comfort of the anthill. What are the wings for?

The worker ants who are wingless fend for the winged.

It kind of reminds me of our half-baked politicians and legislators. The average citizens, toil hard. Day and night to feed these greedy lot. Bloodsucking vampires in the government feeding on blood and sweat of civilians and calling it taxes. I have a point or two to say about taxes. How it never seems to be enough.

The ungrateful government that keeps taking and taking from its citizens. When the coffers dry up they revert to public looting and daylight robbery. The idea is working under a false belief. ‘You are now entering a corruption free zone’ then at the gates you see a different sign “ This building is a corruption free zone. Such irony.

As a country, we must be really ignorant. In a country of 45 million plus. I know mathematicians can help me out here. I am not one but I am curious to know.

How many times can we change the faces of the entire government given our population with a bare minimum of worthy leaders?

(Take pie to be 5. Number of years between general elections). Something like that.

A clean slate like in our individual lives. Forget the past and move on. What will it take to have a different crop of leaders?

I should rid myself of such idol thoughts.

I take in a couple of fresh air from my balcony and watch a jet plane attempt a landing far away at a place called JKIA. Then I look downwards.

Mayday mayday!

The bird is in the nest,

I repeat the bird is in the nest.

Now, this is code speak for when I spot my prayer partner from high up my eagle nest. I relish the opportunity that comes with praying together. And all these mindless thoughts of ants and eagles lay to rest at the back of my mind where they should have been in the first place.

I rest my piece.

OMG 2017


Revelations of my visit to the Gynaecologist


I have to keep preaching to you my brothers and sisters of the importance of having money. Whether you are a “saloonist” or a barber you should make it your life’s priority to at least carry millions of Kenya shillings in a gunny sack (gunia) before you depart this life.

This is the reason why.

Over the weekend I had the privilege of visiting Nairobi Women’s Hospital in Hurlingham. Remarkably it was business as usual and doctors were dressed in their usual white coats going by their business as if there was no nationwide strike of doctors.

My business was with a gynaecologist and like everyone else I had to wait for my turn to be seen. Generally I have no clue what *gynas do when alone with their patients, but I have a rough idea it involves touching parts that are considered private. Whether they use gloves or plain hands like the local genge musician Gabuh of the P unit trio remains to be a mystery to me and I suspect many others.

While at the waiting bay curiosity got the better of me. Surrounded with full bellied women I found myself staring impolitely at all the pregnant women waiting to see this special doctor of private parts. These doctors can have only one look down there and for sure will know what is amiss or which parts have been misplaced before shaping them to their original position using only their fingers.

I bet many insecure ladies who are unlucky enough to date gynas will often want the lights off on the first day.

Further observations…

Apart from the obvious swollen stomachs, I noticed some similarities with the women present there. I mean they had freaky huge noses to match their swollen lips. I found myself wondering if it could be because they are breathing and eating for two. But this would imply conducting their business at the ladies for two. Does it mean those parts get swollen too?

Pardon my thoughts they seem to be making me lose focus on what I deduced from my short visit at the gyna…

So, the rich who could afford medical care went on with their normal lives and sought medical attention when the need arises.

Meanwhile, doctors from public hospitals have since downed their tools for over two months. I find it difficult to even imagine what the financially deprived people are doing. Which gynaecologist are they visiting? This could either mean that the government is secretly providing health care to the common mwananchi or is completely blind to the fact that they too need to carry their pregnancy to term.

It would later occur to me that the rich follow the news like they follow their favourite programs on Netflix. I am starting to doubt the importance of news and the role of media to the public in this country. News is just an ever continuing series of ambitious and actors and public looters posing as politicians and legislators.

I Rest My Piece

OMG Creations 2017

The Writer Who Owned A Dead Laptop


There are some good reads out there. Especially from the winner of BAKE awards 2016 Biko Zulu.

In his article “moments of 2016” he describes the life of a budding writer who lost the love of his life and her laptop because he was a struggling writer at 28. I find this inspiring as I am about the same age, a writer and recently got dumped. He further awes me by the effects this dreadful end of a relationship brought to this writer of sorts.

Well, in my situation one thing led to another, and my writing skills sort of took the downward spiral just before she walked out of my life and slightly after that.

You see, in the year 2016, all was well. We started the year in Mombasa together and even went ahead to make solemn promises by the beach to each other. In this moment of 2016, I felt like I was the star in a spanish- mexican soap. The vibes and the justice of the moon lighting up the skies and my world was just picture perfect. I even took a picture as evidence of my stardom days.

Now, there is this common saying that a lot can happen in a year. I found myself within the same year quitting my lucrative job to fancy a job opportunity in Nairobi. To be close to her. I had grown overconfident of my writing abilities. Indeed I landed another not so lucrative job in Nairobi and from there all hell broke loose on me.

Let us not cheat each other that there is romance without finance. I was about to learn first hand of the straw that broke the camels back as I was soon to wake me up to this reality.  The job was frustrating and had nothing to do with writing. I was in a world of designing text books for CPA students. I grew to know somethings about accounting but still could not account for almost the three decades I have been alive. Struggling from hand to mouth and in between bus fares my girlfriend of four years no longer seemed to think I was the right choice for her (financially) as she did barely four months ago.


My friends without money, quarreling with your spouse is inevitable. Excuses of why Otieno is better than you or why a classmate is in Qatar and you are stuck in Kenya becomes your normal everyday news besides the usual rantings of NASA and Jubilee.

As the year began, like everybody else the buzz of new year resolutions would choke on me like the thick smoke from a cheap cigarette in a dimly lit hut (simba) in the village. I would have amongst my objectives to quit my frustrating job and become a freelance writer which I went ahead and did. Now this is taking the bulls by the horn.

So my girlfriend of four years apparently had other ideas. In her resolutions, dropping me was on top of her list.

To be fair to her there are lots of other issues that warranted such but the timing of her actions doesn’t do her any justice. This coupled up with the stereotyping fact that she is from the land of waru.

For a month in this new year, I have suffered and overcome a silent heart break. Unknown to my friends and family but as Biko Zulu points it out. It is better to have a heartbreak at your twenties than have it at Forty.

I Rest My Piece

OMG 2017

Lawyer by Association (Part 1)


I believe myself a lawyer even though I do not practice the law in Kenya. Many might wonder how I came to acquire such a title having never seen me in a law classroom. I am pretty sure I score some perks for voting for the promulgation of the constitution in 2010 and  mostly having attended the media law classes in my years at KIMC (Kenya Institute of Media Celebrities).

I have also been to Kenya School of Law (as a ‘guest’ during their annual sports day 🙂 Heck!! I even had a go at their swimming pool pretending to care about the ladies who wanted to swim on the edges of the deep-end. A savior of sorts but just enough to gain a whiff of legal attention from my opposite anatomy. Lets raise a dab for our beautiful law practicing ladies. I fancied seeing them in their skin without their black graduation like gowns and white wigs like pre-colonial English soldiers.

Enough said, before I settled for the title above I was really conflicted between either that and the title “A subaru expedition”. Or  a title that had Subaru standing up like an ovation or a sore thumb at that.

It was a typical city Monday morning just like any other, the alarm set off early at 5:00 a.m and the snooze button programmed to my thumb was at its best to allow me slip in a couple of shaky sleep moments. Sad to know I kept at this 10 minute snooze for an hour.

Its now 6:00 am and we are damn late for a Narok business road trip. My brother and I both overslept. We had an agreement to be at Yaya Center by 6:40 am. we had to be in Narok by 9:00 am.  Of course having two grown men shower and ready to go in ten minutes or less is no new feat. Men are known to do this daily, it is our female counterparts who are challenged in leaving the house within a record time. If a woman is set to leave the house at 6:00 am even if she wakes up at 4:00 am believe me she will not be ready to go by 6 am.

Now there is this challenge that common citizens who do not have the privilege of loud sirens to pave way in the face of traffic endure. The the notorious Nairobi traffic. Especially from T mall roundabout heading to either Nyayo stadium or Waiyaki way.

By this time our other companion who is also a lawyer is turning purple hurling insults at the other end of the phone. It is good to have such friends who yell at you in the morning, it is bosses who yell that are intolerable. I assume its the slave mentality that makes us hate our bosses. Something to do with the name “white collar jobs” something tells me such a phrase is quite un-common if not illegal in Zimbabwe.   We all have such friends, loud and abusive and intolerable but we need them. They remind me of my first art and craft teacher in primary school. She was so loud and her voice kind of musical in a kikuyu way. Needless to say she was also yellow in a kikuyu way.

Yes, about the Lang’ata traffic. We did not face it. I know this boda boda guy who knows a secret passage from Lang’ata through to Kibera then Ng’ong road and “voila! ” safe and sound and on time at Yaya Centre.


Kim (our loud lawyer friend) comes driving fast in this new model white subaru legacy. The aim is still to be at Narok by 9:00 am. We made it by 9:15 am. On our way to this land of maasai’s we were afraid that we might not make it in time. We even tried to make calls and arrange for a delayed meeting citing imaginary traffic at Mai mahiu. All these proved to be insignificant as we in fact “arrived early”.  Arriving early is not always a good thing, just ask your fling or wife. But on this occasion it got us the best seat at the high table.

I have watched a lot of Hollywood movies to know a thing or two about safety in the American highways. American highways have people hitching hikes from strangers who turn out to be serial killers? The Narok  highway kind off seems like this. Deserted with scary road signs and very very straight roads. Lots of climbing lanes but very smooth. It would have been an injustice not testing this beautiful machine to its limits. Pushing the accelerator deep, deeper than most have been. Like having your wife or girlfriend for an ecstasy drive and hump for the first time.

In similar fashion we had Kim driving this Subaru to its limits. At 180 km/h and counting. We needed more length – pardon – more meter to know exactly what speed we were cruising at. It was not scary. But I still found myself humming to that common semi prayer semi gospel song by Nyashinski…

Sijui ka ntaona kesho, kaa ningali na uwezo wakuifanya ntaifanya hadi mwisho…

mwambieni huyo devil, simwogopi shetani Sir God yuko nami hadi kifo…

The ride was smoother, for the first time I felt like I had wings flying high with the eagles. We were cruising but at the same time passing objects and leaving them behind before our brains even processed what they were. I believe this is the clear definition of a frenzy. It is no doubt that the endless carcass of dead animals on the road was as a result of over speeding. At one point we even saw a coyote like animal scavenging in the middle of the highway, struggling to pick a dead cat or whatever was left of what was once a cat bragging to have nine lives.

Speed that thrills kills, to this point I am in total agreement with my friends at NTSA. If you do not heed you might suffer a fatality like an overgrown potbellied politician over dosed on viagra seeking a thrill and adventure from a bony 20 something girl still in college. If only hotel rooms could speak. But that’s why we have twitter.

To a freeman, a court delay is very frustrating, but to a criminal who is going to have his day in court and face Justice, Narok law courts would be ideal as it would allow them the false sense  of freedom by taking in huge amounts of fresh air longer than other criminals in other counties who have their courts open by 9:00 a.m.

Watch out for part two ( Maasai on Subaru).



Previous Older Entries



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The Insatiable Traveler

Embrace Adventure

Joyness the Brave

Wonderings and Ponderings


Poetry laid bare

Journal Scoop

A fly on every wall.


You cannot fight Technology embrace it

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