The Heart Never Learns

.............i can' t hold my breathe........can' t seem to get my bearing right........I'm exhausted, i can' t fight anymore..........where am i?.......where am i?.......the effort to remember is just so much and i pass out again............

I come again and its so cold. Up ahead i see a withered ref rose. My head is filled with so many memories that i just wish i' d forget. Pity, there is no delete button in the human system.

She had gone. She who, at one time, i thought she was responsible for the very survival of my heart beat. Someone said,''the heart is not so smart'', wish i would have believed him or was it her(pardon my disorientation).......what was that?.......a small voice in my brain just said,''i told you so''. One would think that it was not a part of me.

Years spent on teaching my heart to do two tasks at a time, just went up in smoke. Though hard, it had learn t to ensure that my veins never run dry and at the same time, beat to the tune of love. Now, it came close to ensuring that i became non-existent as it over flooded my veins with a liquid that is vital for your presence in this universe. It had bee sacked from one of its tasks and thought that the energy should be directed to pumping more blood through my veins and that if necessary, my system would construct a dam to reserve the excess blood. Talk about it being dumb. Stupidity to a whole new level.

In the sea of emotions, i was lost. My fear of water exceeding the bucket capacity, is unrivaled. The waves carried my tired being and threw me in parts unknown. Nearly 12 hours of my life never to be recovered and not a single memory of what had transpired in that period. I get up, dust myself, or maybe in this case, mud and grass or is it weed myself? Got lots of that combination all over me. I vow not to trust my heart and give my brain the power to dictate all that takes place from now on. After the little stint of my veins wanting to open up, i' m taking no more chances with my heart.

As my brain dances in triumph, and my heart is a little bored for it only has one task to perform, i come across a clearing and there before me is the full definition of beauty. She turns and smile makes the sun shy away. As i go towards her, i think my brain just went bananas. Its seething with anger trying to remind me of a vow i made not so long ago. I have no idea why its throwing tantrums while my heart starts getting excited as a smile starts to form at the corner of my mouth...............

Let us be thankful For Murder And Not Yet Slaughter

Let us be thankful for murder not yet slaughter,
For the pressure of something controlled, however slight,

That keeps their blood from turning quite to water;
Let us be thankful for dusk that is not yet night,

For half-felt meanings that render their acts impure

For the random pause

And the knife...

That is not quite sure

Remembering, it is wrong to dream of other days
And wrong no less to conjure a perfect land,

Let all of us give thanks,

And pray for the hate that will

Steady the knife in our own sure hand.

MUAMMAR GADHAFI; A Hero, A Mentor, A Champion. A Saint

The death of Colonel Muammar Gadhafi, a hero, a pace-setter, a determinant.

If only he could be eulogized as thus. A visionary leader, un-bowed, smart and eccentric. But the world, the Western-idolizing world, celebrates his death with wild cries of rugged coyotes and pitiful pats on their backs. An achievement worth of champagne, important-looking faces of glee, indefatigable salutes of importance speeches, rush to acclaim the glory by the western regimes. The miscreants of noble gangs!

I mourn Muammar's death, and rightly so. He dreamt dreams and was ready to make them come true. He visioned the conglomeration of African States in an attempt to subdue the pathetic asperity the westerners had on Africa.And he, single-handedly, funded African's highest union, the African Union. he was the African savior.

But the African countries, despite all these, have proofed to be moribund. Under the aegis of asinine avarice from African leaders, and petty promises of international funds that will swell their personal coffers, it's no wonder that no one from AU raised a finger on Muammar's augurical woes that commenced in mid-February. Whereas Gadhafi cared for each and everyone's ass in Africa, the vice-versa cannot be averred.

It is a case of pure and brutal betrayal.

So pure, so bile-filled than his purported death, which amazingly, has varied versions and ego-induced balder-dash poised to fortify the rebel's greatness. So great is the word 'rebels' to many an ears, that will soon bring a different acceptance to the title 'pirate'. It is no longer the antagonist's name but the champions of right and democracy!!

And the African leaders, their wrinkled balls emanating from their heavily lined fore-heads, continue with their devotion to protect their country men with high inflation, un-affordable food and fuel prices, internal self-extinction in the name of tribalism and plain, raw poverty. They have no time for someone who has tried to induce an environment of self-respect and recognition, donors instead of beggars, credibility instead of arrant stances.

Libyan's celebration is not Libyan's celebrations, it is the rebels celebrations. And i know some of the rebels, deep inside them, know that something has gone terribly awry. Here are some facts the Western-idolizing hard-hitting fourth estate has failed to highlight;

Libyans have never ever in Gadhafi's rule experienced anything called poverty! And in their country, there has never been a recorded terror-incidence since his reign. he may have been a dictator, yes and all that, for no man is a saint, but he was the most rewarding dictator in the world ever recorded. His lavish style with the use of the country's coffers is acceptable, for he gave much...too much for the citizens, too much for any country leader to invest in his people. Gadhafi was a saint.

1. There was no electricity bill in Libya; electricity is free for all its citizens.
2. There was no interest on loans, banks in Libya are state-owned and loans given to all its citizens at 0% interest by law.
3. Home considered a human right in Libya – Gadhafi vowed that his parents would not get a house until everyone in Libya had a home. Gadhafi’s father has died while him, his wife and his mother are still living in a tent.
4. All newlyweds in Libya receive $60,000 Dinar (US$50,000) by the government to buy their first apartment so to help start up the family.
5. Education and medical treatments are free in Libya. Before Gaddafi only 25% of Libyans are literate. Today the figure is 83%.
6. Should Libyans want to take up farming career, they would receive farming land, a farming house, equipments, seeds and livestock to kick-start their farms – all for free.
7. If Libyans cannot find the education or medical facilities they need in Libya, the government funds them to go abroad for it – not only free but they get US$2,300 per month accommodation and car allowance.
8. In Libyan, if a Libyan buys a car, the government subsidized 50% of the price.
9. The price of petrol in Libya is $0.14 per liter.
10. Libya has no external debt and its reserves amount to $150 billion – now frozen globally.
11. If a Libyan is unable to get employment after graduation the state would pay the average salary of the profession as if he or she is employed until employment is found.
12. A portion of Libyan oil sale is, credited directly to the bank accounts of all Libyan citizens.
13. A mother who gave birth to a child receive US$5,000
14. 40 loaves of bread in Libya costs $ 0.15
15. 25% of Libyans have a university degree
16. Gaddafi carried out the world’s largest irrigation project, known as the Great Man-Made River project, to make water readily available throughout the desert country.
Prior to the international sanction placed on Gaddafi & Libya in the 1980s, it was one of the richest in the world by GDP per capita – with a living standard higher than Japan. It was the richest in Africa before the revolution.The living standard – GDP per capita is $11,314 for Libya, you cannot claim they are poor if they live better than your country. Gaddafi might have spent or carried out personal investment ventures using the country`s money but he did what most dictators don`t do, give back to the people, look after the average Libyan.
17.. Under Gaddafi’s oil-revenue-sharing program, each Libyan gets $500 (DOLLARS) dumped into his or her bank account, each month
18. Women in Libya have equal rights, not only as a philosophy, but also in practice.
19. Libyans have a direct participatory democracy based on People’s Conferences that puts other “democracies” to shame

I again reiterate, Libyans have done what Africans are adept at, digging their own graves in the name of Sarkozy and his cronies. When gnashing of teeth and painful nostalgia will starting hitting them hard, it will be too late. Let us give them the grace period for celebration before they embroil themselves in abject abyss too deep to be saved from. And then, probably then, they can unanimously proclaim Ken saro-Wiwa's lamentation:

AFRICA HAS KILLED HER SUN!

An Ode To Clueless Babe

I stood for long by your door last night, listening to the quiet sobs, tears going cold & heart hardening in resolve, as you cried yourself to sleep trying to soothe away the ache…in the morning your eyes looked hollow, doubt clouding your face, gone was the resolve and tenacity of yester night, replaced by desperation and contradiction, sifting through the sands for happier memories – changing truth to fantasy – looking for reasons to hold on. You tell me he’s still in-love with you, he really hasn’t moved on, you saw him yesterday and he looked miserable; he seemed gutted with regret. But you are just clutching at straws; it’s what you desperately want to believe even when you know better.

You saw the lights fading and knew the curtains were closing, all the signs were there but you chose to ignore them; the nights he never came home, all the texts that were never replied, the new best-friend – who used to be his old crush – how she slaps his hand every time they share a private joke… then one day he took off the costume and stopped playing the role. He said that you had changed and things just weren’t the same anymore but all the while he couldn’t look you in the eye. She came to pick him up when he moved his stuff out – a shoulder to lean on – but the next day you saw them, holding hands, in school.

                                

I have seen the look in your eyes every time we ‘unintentionally’ bump into him at the all places you used to visit together, each time with a different girl hanging on his arm. Most times he doesn’t even notice you, so you whisper nothings into my ear and burst into exaggerated laughter but even then he only glances around to acknowledge you with the slightest nod. You squeeze my hand in hurt and plant a kiss on my cheek to make him jealous… I only wish the kisses were real but I keep my jealousy close!

Every time the world comes crashing down, you always wind up at my door; tears flowing, feeling used and cheap, faith broken, swearing never to take a chance on love again, not to let anyone in but every time those walls come crumbling down, you always rush in again; blindingly seeking the same hurt like the moth that rushes to a flame of its own destruction. And every time I am always there to catch your tears, to tend to the bruises; trying to salvage what is left of you heart – and each the time the pieces are getting smaller – reminding you that you’re worth a lot more, holding your hand so you may not give-up on love, mending your heart so you might love another.

My love seeks triumph in disguise; masking my true feelings with the pretense friendship and all the time secretly hoping to be found-out…It is true am seeing someone now but I lied when I said I loved her because my heart isn’t mine to give. Am afraid to show you the face of my love because am afraid you’ll turn away form me, afraid to tell you that what I feel for you because you might not feel the same. So I live clothed in wistful desire because I can’t bear the thought of you turning me down. But I have loved you all along and if I could, if I had the courage, if ever I find the right words, if it still isn’t too late for us…I would tell you how much I care, if ever you give me the chance, then maybe I will tell you how much I want to hold you, how am dying to kiss you, to soothe away all the fears and the pain from past hurts, if ever the time comes, maybe then you might be truly loved!

NICOLE AND MUTURI: The Kenyan version of Romance

Hunching over my desk-top i am spoiled for a choice of two hilarious events that wrapped up last week. The Saturday's cowboy shootout at Buruburu was anything but brilliantly executed. Yaani a three-hour+ showdown between a battalion of Kiganjo products and one lone thief hidden in a kitchen balcony! My heart literally bled for the mama who sacrificed her life for a stray bullet resulted by twits-of-trigger-happy opponents. I am grateful that with the gargantuan crowd that thought this was a movie-shooting scene (and you kept wondering 'Kenyans are stupid' is still a cliche) there were no casualties after GSU stormed the area and saved the day in under five minutes. Check the link below.

 live xchange of fire at Buruburu

I wont divulge into that mire, the baloney of trying to comprehend if these are the same people we expect to protect we, the civilians. I swear with my skill in PS shooting games, i would have upheld a modicum of dexterity. I love the way the house was turned into a mesh, though.

Listen to this link first for the uncensored fone call

What i have in mind, and abundantly though, is the viral Nicole and Muturi saga. I have since established that the saga was first highlighted by the intelligently-challenged duo in Classic's morning show. That eluded me because, significantly, i am allergic to a show fueled by uncensored rigmarole emanating from a cluster of married old (wo)men celibate by default due to their unglamorous sex life.

And their form of releasing pent-up sexual frustrations and dissent is by calling the duo and airing lurid made-up sexual fantasies with croaky diatribes and insane laughter to the chagrin of the 'loyal listeners'. Pity-ful. Back to Nicole and Muturi.

I heard the uncensored version of the phone-call with my mouth wide open. Four good minutes of cajoling, wheedling and begging for sex by a female named Nicole. I was traumatized by raw language, un-romantic drivel and courageous hunt by a vixen. My mouth was still wide opened moments way after the four minutes.

It was not because of Nicole's un-tactical callous invitation to Muturi that sent my head in spin, nor was it the plain promises of queer culinary gifts of endowment Muturi had been promised that made my nose wheeze. No, it was Muturi's mind-boggling quandary that deflated my tired balls!

Who in the land of Bullet-Wizardly, phony State-Funerals, IDPs and Downward-Performing-Shilling refuses a cordially invited cat-chewing session with perks and adamantly quavers in such derring-do. Must have been a homo, Muturi is!!!

I remember those days, days when i was shy of teenage-hood and intelligence was a peak higher than Mike Sonko's, i received a fone-call at the wee hours of the night for an emergency mauling. I am not the proudest for saying this, for that was then, and then is history, and none can judge me from the past. I vaguely recall making it to Hurlingham from Zimmerman in a record time un-edited. Given the power to break the same record in the current setting i doubt if i would hesitate to.

Which begs me to ask, have the hunters become the hunted? Is the situation really that bad? And unfortunately the answer is yes. An average, upward mobile and seemingly the 'independent' woman has figured it all, there are no men out there. There is no life without sexual life, and sexual life is becoming a goldmine hard to tap. My theory...

Once upon an years, young ladies were expectant of happy Cinderella's life, thanks to the print-outs of True Love, Saturday pullout, Eve and other garbled versions of feminine magazines, a de rigueur for a lady with purpose(s) in life, a lady depicted successful in eyes of peers and family. And the magazines came with one conclusion, a successful lady has a good job, three-bed-roomed maisonette with kitchens seen in gourmet magazines surrounded by white-Pickett fence,  nice wheels, a tall and dark handsome husband and two-to-three beautiful children.

I have always wanted to know the mythology behind 'tall and dark' masculine species, like how come not all Sudanese men are married?

So when the lady starts realizing the tick-tock of the clock, panic commences and desperation ensues.The tall-something, she realizes albeit late, is a fictitious character just like the frog-turned-prince-charming tales. And as desperation becomes a constant companion tugging at her sleeve, she deduces aggressive tactics that might resolve the self-induced quagmire. The tactics are minimal, hence the honorary employment of coyote's tactics. She becomes 'Le Cougar', the chaser, the hunter, the subduer.

I have no problem with the change of the game, it sounds a relieve to scores of penny-less men who would otherwise in their penny-less lives never envisaged the probability of making it with an elegant lady...and getting compensation for it. Muturi is your mahindi-choma average kind of guy, and Nicole, though not that classy (the language and limited phone credit despite promise of a cab back home) is the aggressive cougar with means and wants. The symbiotic relationship here is incredulously tasking.

Muturi's refusal to the offer and feigning need of slumber can be due to possible theories: 1. he was really tired and he needed sleep, which is balderdash, 2. he was romping another cougar with a sweeter deal and 3. Nicole is a sucker in bed.

Because, with sincerity of a pope, it would be a cataclysmal mental and physical torture for a man to turn down such a request.

A Teenager's View of Heaven

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like. 'I wowed 'em,' he later told his father, Bruce. 'It's a killer. It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote..' It also was the last.

Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He emerged from
the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.

The Moore's framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room. 'I think God used him to make a point. I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it,' Mrs. Moore said of the essay.. She and her husband shared their son's vision of life after death. 'I'm happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll see him.'

Brian's Essay: The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and
seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read 'Girls I have liked.' I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being
told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named 'Friends' was next to one marked 'Friends I have betrayed.' The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird 'Books I Have Read,' 'Lies I Have Told,' 'Comfort I have Given,' 'Jokes I Have Laughed at .' Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: 'Things I've yelled at my brothers.' Others I couldn't laugh at: 'Things I Have Done in My Anger', 'Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents.' I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked 'TV Shows I have watched', I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked 'Lustful Thoughts,' I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to
destroy them!' In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title bore 'People I Have Shared the Gospel With.' The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me.. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of
it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. 'No!' I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was 'No, no,' as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand
how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, 'It is finished.' I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. '-Phil. 4:13 'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.' If you feel the same way forward it so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My 'People I shared the gospel with' file just got bigger, how about yours?

Serial Cheat

The mysterious equation of love is the only formula by which logic cannot be derived.

How many of you obtusely dim-witted ludicrous earthlings alleging to be in love know for certain that they will say “I do” to the person you are with at present and expend the remainder of your wretched existence on earth with her? Moderately a number, that’s the exquisiteness of living in the figment of one’s imagination – anything is possible in that extraordinary world. Yes, you can even toss out a rope to the skies and pull down the moon if her sky is too dark.

It’s factual that previous to marriage there is love-making; subsequent to that what you do can only be equated to baby-making. And the very last thing you want is an annoying peeing mini-human sneaking his way into your matrimonial bed and invading your space hence denying you conjugal rights in the name of being a new-born.

If you ask me, I think women usually abhor sex so much that they pop out these creatures to tone down men’s libidos because let’s face it, once you are through hearing the wailing thing and seeing fouled diapers being changed all night flanked by you trying to touch all the right spots of your better half’s anatomy to get her in the mood and her exclaiming that there is a little one in your midst… There is no way you can even want some… (Then women still wonder why m%* cheat?!)

Plain and simple, Love is a magic word men use to make girls’ legs part with no much trouble and on the other hand, Can you run in these??the word is a solace torch women let point them down to the ever lie-infested lands of horny m#*; Despite the fact that girls know for a fact that the chaps just say it to get to the next level, they will brainwash themselves beyond realistic uncertainty and fine-tune the frequency of their Mexican-wave brainpower to be in-sync with those intellectually-crippling nonsensical soap operas on television.

Just so she can have a picture perfect finale where they slouch on the bed afterwards and engage in meaningless palaver: In the pretext of pillow-talk.

Shut up, I need to sleep. Could you just let me do that? Or need I say ‘I love you’ so as to be permitted to drift away to slumber, especially after a really intense stress-relieving session for me and ecstatic state of trance on her part- I think of the concept as using ear buds to clean your ears… Who feels the pleasure?

After meeting her friend, I walk Cynthia to the basement, where she had parked her car. Me, I’m a pedestrian- by choice. She gets into the driver’s seat and as I lean over to bid her farewell through the window, she plants a wet kiss me on my lips and then tells me to get in.

I’m a street racer, and this being the yellow light, I wasn’t going to wait for the green light to dash my car down her stupefying lane, get her to the finish-line in decent time and eventually park my coupé inside of her refreshingly welcoming garage.

And so I got in. Not inside of her (for the perverts). Into the car.

I park myself in the passenger seat and just gaze at her for a few flashes trying to get wind of the prevailing situations. This lady’s soul was drowning in thirst and only my lust could lay her to rest. I edge closer and let my hands get locked in hers.

“What do you want, John?” She asks, looking at me straight in the eye, without as much as a flinch.

“You” I assertively say, like a form four apprentice who’d already had leakage prior to the KCSE.

“Then, are you going to just stare at me or are you going to do something about it?”

I chuckle then mischievously put across: “Could I do a little bit of both?”

Just as her lips crack to let a beam escape I hold her by the chin with my left hand and draw her towards me. My yearning lips too eager to taste her, meet her halfway.

There was necking. Terrific necking. First at the front of the car, overlooking the likelihood of being nabbed by the guards . (There is a signboard in the parking lot clearly stating: No sex in the car) My right hand lost control while trying to inspect all protrusions on her frame but finally settled on her thick quavering set of thighs and started to pace their way up to her inviting haven and with my fingers getting the finest of it all, they found sanctuary in her untainted territory right at the centre of her being… I felt jealous of my fingers as I also wanted in on the action…

So we proceeded to the backseat, by which time all clothes had dropped – I could have sworn they fell off through some telekinetic means and we were teleported to the backseat. Incredibly wonderful, frustrating pre-love making session this was indeed. She loved it. Maybe.

“But not further than just making out” (she said) “Aki Johnny, please don’t, please…”

Nevertheless, my fingers wade deeper into her and she starts to breathe heavy while her hands clutch on to my back tighter as her nails dig into me with every thrust, like she is beckoning me to proceed. Her body and mouth don’t seem to be speaking the same language. In such situations, it’s advisable to let the body triumph – as it never lies. And I did just that!

Then down to the ultimate sequence of the play, I’m lying on my back and she is on top, then it sinks in:

“Cyn…”

“What?”

“I have no condoms.”

“Seriously?” She comes. Seeming infuriated.

But then she goes on to act like she didn’t make any sense of my utterances and goes further to hold my yearning manhood by one hand… So(Despite my craving for her) I pronounce my decree again, just to make sure we were on the same page and that she knew what she was getting into…

“I have no rubber, Cynthy”

“So?”

Then before I can piece together the pieces or even say anything, she shifts position and in the process slides me inside of her. Damn…

Her hips swung and slithered with the same skill required to elude enclosing tacklers as she let me explore her inner temples.

Then amidst all this she pauses.

She says the L word.

I say I love the series. I’m in season five.

She says she is serious.

I say I’m just delirious.

And I add that she knows how I really feel about her.

She says she doesn’t.

So I tell her.

At this point in time, it’s out of harm’s way to declare that we made love and used nothing, because we were ‘in love’, the gods would watch over us

RULEBOOK OF A PLAYER: Sequel 2

                                                 

I am a man of easy ‘virtue’. I am the kind of man that wants to literally bed any girl he sees walking in the street. I am that man who gives Men a bad name. Though calling me a slut in this overly sensitive world would be derogatory. How about we settle for part-time-lover… That’s just about subtle enough.

Hi. I am John. And I am a man-whore…. Sorry, I meant to say ‘part-time lover.’ The reason we are here today is to sow our wild oats. If you are thinking commitment, think of her ten years from now: Yes, even Wambui Otieno would look better. When the make-up can’t even salvage the accident of a face she has. And you ask yourself: How did it come to this? Reminder: You were tipsy, she was horny. You sealed the deal, like you were supposed to. Then you made a mistake, called the next day.That, you were not supposed to do. Years later you are walking down the aisle. You are trying to convince yourself that maybe, you will get used to how she looks like in the morning. After all, that is what marriage is about- Tolerance. I care a great deal, and that’s why I wouldn’t want you to end up caged for life in a sex-free union. Marriage leads to the death of your libido and the birth of immeasurable responsibilities. Whoever said settling down was a signature of maturity must have been one unintelligent bastard that couldn’t charisma his way up a girl’s skirt…

1. Never take her to your crib. Should the worst come to the worst, she will not know anywhere else to go but back to her place. And by worst case scenarios I’m talking pregnancy and an STI that you may have contracted from Ciku (many whores I know usually go by that name, so no disrespect meant to all namesakes) and spread it to X in the heat of the moment when the rubber burst.

2. Never introduce X to your friends. This makes the dumping and playing easy. When you have mutual friends and you are spotted with another girl, word will get back to her. And try make up as many excuses when she’s eager to introduce you to her friends. Girls are controlled by their moods, so get her out of that mood. I don’t know, make her cranky, and do something. But regardless of whatever you do, please don’t do her friends(And I don't mean this in a sexual context)!!

3. Act dumb. This always works. When she says something intimate like WHERE ARE WE HEADED? Say: WHAT DO YOU MEAN? You know what she means alright but make her repeat herself and she will get bored at some point and switch the topic. If she keeps repeating, then ask her back: WHERE ARE WE, TO BEGIN WITH? Say you wouldn’t want to jump into conclusions.... Stupid will always sail you through to the next day

4. Never perjure yourself. Wait for the verdict. Like if you were with another girl then next day X asks suspiciously: What were you doing last night?? Don’t rush to answer, ask her the same question back and see how it goes. But never admit to anything or act like you are guilty (women are like private investigators, they usually pick up on the slightest of clues) until she pronounces her decree, please, act cool.

5. Never explain yourself. Be brief. When narrating a happening, try and limit yourself to minute details. Women are beautiful liars: they can really be economical with the truth in a million ways {Faking an orgasm during sex, telling you she’s only slept with six men in her life (when in actual sense she’s swiped so many ‘cards’ that even an Equity Bank ATM machine has nothing on her), the yellow kid who’s a midget is yours (when you are darker than night and taller than a Sudanese)}. M%* on the other hand forget the lie as soon as it leaves the mouth, as such tripping over your fibs is quite easy. Therefore it is important that you give minimal tit bits that you can easily track back.

6. Don’t do sleepovers. Girls get quite comfortable once you let her spend at your place. Once you’ve let her sleep in on the first night, she won’t be sure how to act. Second time, maybe, it was a rebound. Third time, oh, boy, this is the same as giving her keys to your place. I forgot my bra, I forgot my panties, Oh, my toothbrush etc… She will say. Fact: Women never forget. In reality, the same manner a dog pisses around to mark its territory; X is strategically laying down her tracks and sinking her claws deeper into you.

7. Wear rubbers all the time. X says she’s allergic to rubber, I say I’m allergic to babies. No matter how much she claims to be faithful or into you thou shall not proceed into her in-zone without night goggles on. It’s a jungle out there… With militants such as Syphilis and Gonorrhea looming in the shadows camouflaged and all. And there are some psycho chics (Yes, I presume you thought the era of baby-trap was long gone) Reality check: It’s not, some crazy mannerless senseless hopeless women still pop out these creatures to lay claim to your future earnings(Women have a knack for telling who’ll make it to a somebody in the future, like they are fortune-tellers of some sorts)

8. Jealousy is a vice. Pay no mind to whatever she does in a bid to make you lay claim to her. I don’t know what it is with women and wanting to be treated like @$$-ets. She’s getting cozy with some guy at the bar or on the dance floor and keeps glancing in your direction, hoping, waiting… For you to make a move or cast a glance in her direction. If nothing happens... She’ll subconsciously write you off in her mind as a lost cause. Women, don’t like undecided or 50/50 m%#. They like their m%# decisive on what they want, by not being decisive about wanting her to just yourself, she’ll figure that you aren’t just that into her and her “settling” antennae will be switched off to your waves.

9. Shallow. Never engage in intellectual conversation or show any signs of being a big thinker. Be the average blonde bloke who talks about the most inconsequential of things. E.g. the clubs, matatus, anything nonsensical. (Note: This is after you’ve had her and not before. On the first instance acting this way could repulse her.) The only depth you are allowed to delve into deeply; is hers. *If you know what I mean*

10. Bang her as soon as you can. Dragging a one-nighter could be detrimental and feelings could start to develop, on her part that is. The first night is the best. If it doesn’t work out on the first, try lock it down on date number two. If this goes beyond a week, count your losses and move on to the next one.

RULEBOOK OF A PLAYER

Many a times, I have heard scores of m*% pronounce derogatory effects relating to the female species. Say for instance: Girls don’t love boys, girls just like cars and money, That behind every fine rich booty lingers a child-support lawsuit or better yet a divorce settlement. That hidden in the closet of every accomplished old hag is a broke but ambitious boy toy. That woMAN can’t do without m*#. That woMAN needs m*% in order to survive. I beg to differ.
If you’ll indulge me, woMEN are ‘independent’ and make the world go round. As such, woMEN are an obligatory factor necessary for the continued existence of humankind. I approve this message. And it is with paramount reverence that I present you the continuation of the dos and don’ts when dealing with our esteemed members of the opposite sex:

1. Talk less. A wise man once told me that girls know within seconds of meeting you whether or not they are going to let you have a bite of the cookie. Anything you say in-between the meet and the sleep is just a bonus and such you have to know when to shut up. E.g. When she bitches about her guy, never try defending the fucker, just nod your head and agree with every single thing she says in spite of how juvenile, dim-witted or ridiculously vexing her utterances may be. Let it linger at the back of your mind: There is a lay at bay.

2. Practice. While she is still contemplating on whether or not to un-clutter her legs and let you swipe your visa card, you should by all means be sowing your wild oats. I mean, you wouldn’t want to hound her ass for months like a Texas sheriff tracking down a Mexican who just sneaked across the border only to be a fast-cumer when she finally lets her pants fall down to the floor. Act like a swine, rummage through all the skirts you could possibly sniff through so that by the time you get to her, the tricks up your sleeve would so tickle her cat to the point of no return.

3. Never show her you have money. Chics can tell whether or not you are baked. New money is fond of showing itself off to be noticed. From your taste and preferences, she will be able to gauge where you lie. Don’t lead her there, let her lead herself. Something to note, if on the first hook-up you take her out to Java/Savannah, you just set the bar too high mate because the moment you take her to Kenchic she will tell her girls: He’s lost interest. Plus there are those professional sluts who are strictly out for the cash (Okay, we all know for a fact that all girls are after money, but that's a story for another day) who once they discern that you are swimming in paper, they will do everything in their power to let you pat on the cat from a safe distance ensuring you don’t get close enough to contract a scratch for the simple rationale that they know once you play with her cat, she won’t get any more spoils and as such she won’t have leverage. Instead, you will go out to the animal orphanage in search of another ‘pet’.

4. Win over her friends. Being a smooth talker always works to your advantage. If she is playing hard to get, make sure her friends are eating from the palm of your hand. You have to be a pig at that, because some girls are just out to massage their ego by being admired, more like a store puts on display it’s most attractive items of stock. She wants you to hang on her every word then she will move on to the next or she may hold onto you until that someone she really wants comes along. This is where my plan comes into play: Fuck at least two of her friends and an enemy to even the scores. That way, the time and work you put in don’t go to waste but instead you have fun will you avenge your bruised self-esteem.

5. Don’t try too hard. Girls to some extent like being treated like trash. If you jump at her every whistle and dance whenever she snaps her fingers, you are so not getting some. Women like being made to feel like they are the shit, just be careful not to make yourself feel like shit, in the process…

6. Always be cool. A girl likes being the centre of focus, when you on the other hand outdo her at literally all levels from the dance-floor to charming her friends and getting more airtime than she does, dressing better etc etc You are painting yourself as a Homo (No disrespect to the homos, if anything I love gays for the fact that they translate to a more cozy ratio of men to women in the mating pool)  And you may just not get to the peak of the mountain... Be easy, make her feel like she’s the one setting the mood and all the sh*t that comes with it. 

7. All girls are sluts. Yes, this is the mind frame you need to foster at whatever time you are about to make your go. Some persons may find themselves in a ‘stiff’ state of affairs with a superhot babe but end up not making progress as a consequence of their conscience whispering in their ear: She’s out of your league.  Come on, someone somewhere is tired of banging that fine piece of ass (tell yourself that). See what happened to Halle Berry and Eva Longoria, Yeah, I bet that makes you feel better already. Go ahead and do your thing, always remember: You are the one who has on the pants.

8. Girls are dumb. They know when, where and how you are lying, but still choose to make themselves believe your every word, so you need not self-reproach and acquire the compulsion to make a clean breast of affairs. Women are certified detectives. Sniffer dogs ain’t got sh*t on them! Let her cipher the fact from fiction and believe what she wants. Women love to hypothesize with their girlfriends, deliberate on and on for hours trying to figure out something that isn’t even there. Confess at your own peril.

9. Be touchy. Make sure you rub that chic senseless every single second you get. One thing to observe - girls would never let a man touch them, if they haven’t contemplated fucking you. So when you talk don’t get all wrapped up in speech, think of it as a play and with appropriate essential body contact get your message across. Like what you are saying has everything to do with her. Though be keen to act like you don’t even notice when you touch her, that way she won’t unravel so soon your hidden agenda and by the time she does, it will be a little too late.

10. Show her you got options. Yeah, always flaunt to this girl just how many girls want you, not in a so cocky a manner but in a subtle like it-isn’t-that-much-of-a-deal manner of fashion. Though be smart to point out unmistakably that she is the subject of the essay, or rather the key witness in your case of courtship. That way she gets to know that she’s merely part of a list and if she does trip even a single step, her position on the list may change.