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.
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