NYERI MEN: The Art of Male Battery in Kenya

Imagine this,

You are a man. You arrive home after decorating your throat with cheap daiquiri in a local den dished in sooty tins as glasses. You hic to the effect that you need food to your other half, oblivious of the emanating fetid stench from your mouth exacerbating her already irked spirits.

The food is cold and you struggle with it but it completely refuses to go down your throat. You begin realizing your wife has commenced serving shit for supper, what with the emetic taste. You chastise and remind her where she belongs in an African family setting.

Her egregious habit makes doldrums creep through the collar of your shirt and the evening is spoilt. You rise and stagger towards bedroom, then halts suddenly, this woman's fatuous actions overwhelming your feeling. You turn around to add another volley of castigation towards her when you spot a shining blade at the control of a matronly woman targeting your neck.

You are quickly sober, you mind clear and gaze appalled at the approaching blade, then at your wife's determined countenance, then at the fast approaching blade again. Your wide eyes are receipting the environment in a slow motion mode, as if through series of photographic slides, before ducking.

The last you can remember is trying to locate your dislodged jaw, your dismembered hand and your shattered ego infront of cameras, pouring your tribulations to Nderitu Njoka, the MAWE (Maendeleo ya Ihii) boss.

This is the fear an average man in Nyeri County is facing in his matrimonial home.

Men battering will soon overtake maladies as a major cause for hospital incarcerations in Nyeri. Women are blaming men on forfeiture of their marital responsibilities, inebriation and blatant aloofness as a result of vile caused by deadly cheap alcohol.

Raphael Tuju launched his political Party of Action (POA) yesty-day. Melikes this humble servant, his sagacious reasoning , his ebullient nature. He is visionary, young and possesses an assiduous catchet. This is a clarion call to all and sundry to take into account the readiness of a leader to serve the nation on achievable ideals and not mere tribalistic cheap-talk propaganda.

I was brought up with serenading musical tones of Whitney Houston. In high school days, we would plaster her lyrics on letters as dedications to our potential soul-mates. Her demise is a cause of sadness to the world spanning all ages.

African Cups of Nations ended yesternight with a sizzling match between Zambia and Ivory-Coast. Drogba's only chance to hold the cup turned foul when his penalty went above the bars. Gervinho's and Toure's blatant shoot-outs sealed their fate and gave the Chipolopolo their needed win, dedicating to the '93 team that perished in a crash.

Muffled Killers: What went wrong in Kenya?

Last year i caught up with a client along Kimathi Street and ushered him in one of handful up-class restaurants within the street. CCTVs, G4S guards and a mannequin with an overflowing coat ushered us in. Serene and dimly-lit, an environment suitable for a briefcase rendezvous.

My client's fervor spirit immediately gave in to deprecation and barrage of effusive castigation about my choice of the place. I feigned ignorance, for i was really ignorant.

I let mine eyes get accustomed to the surrounding and gulped hard. Yes, the place was darn familiar. Skimpily dressed courtesans batting their eyes at us tables away. We were in a bordello!

I was contrite and profusely apologized for the incidence.

So Nairobi Mayor, George Aladwa, invades the telly space and manages two cents worth of something about legalizing prostitution.The statement is mired with social incorrectness, so he follows his campaign PR's sage and come the next day, the family man with a wife and daughters is filled with compunction, apologizes to the potential voters and asserts the media mis-quote him. Way to go Governor!

It gets juicer. Anne Soi Mwendia, a senior reporter with KTN comes up with a startling revelation about male harlotry in her documentary Muffled Killers.The cogent realization biffed my conscience, down to my throat.

John cried!

Soon public rage was witnessed in social networks, radio discussions et al. Most excoriated the vice, few sympathized. Argue the genetic way and i'll brand you worse expletives than envisaged by our faggot brothers.

I have always had a loathing for faggotry - that uncharacteristic act of chewing asses - for sexual gratification. My certitude ideals have been further strengthened after watching effete masculine figures with effeminate voices, trying to woo the public's battered conscious into accepting them, understand them, hug them with their pink tees.

I remember worrying about a trend of men who are evolving into sissies, the idea of facials, plastic surgery and tights. How does a man wear tights and be comfortable with them?

DAVID VS GOLIATH: A collection of Kenyans fables and other escapedes

The first time Keruraza-gate saga exploded in the Kenyan Media,  I was flummoxed. The untimely incubus elevated the status of a security guard, propelling her to the limelight of a celebrity while her portrayed nemesis enervated in bales of flak.

Kerubo passed as a diffident, humble ingenue who couldn't hurt a fly but behind those big innocent eyes i detected a sly smile. Baraza's inimical reaction branded her diabolical, exacerbating the situation with cavalier barbs and eventually trying to wriggle out of the situation with a present worth trolley-ful bag of Tusky's shopping.

I could have laughed if it wasn't unfortunate.

Now that she has been suspended, courtesy of the powers be, i weep for what was to be her apotheosis in terms of achievement. Pride is a commodity essential for disgraceful downfall. Combine it with arrogance and the greatest of humanities will fall from the grace of apogee to grass of stark humility and eventual ignominious evanescence.

The seven-member team will judge her harshly, but i believe our President will employ his adroit way to break the truce. She will retain her seat but her character will be severely damaged and the public will drown her with their disdain. They will have no confidence in her.

The Ocampo 6 has been reduced to Ekatrina 4. Ali's aquiline features and Kosgey's convivial brio betrayed their pent-up catharsis. Of course the confirmation of the remaining suspects was a clarion call to all politicians with addled bonces to display their emetic crud in public. They did not disappoint; a hunger strike to show solidarity? Pooh! go suck a pig...

Ever heard of Uggie? There is a worldwide outrage by adoring fans that want Uggie to be included in the nominations for the forth-coming Oscars. No, they have no problem with Brad Pitt or George Clooney having all those nominations to themselves. Having appeared in The Artist, a movie with ten nominations, it is then prudent, they reason, that Uggle should have a chance at winning in Oscars. The committee will have none of that because, Uggle, who already has almost 4000 followers in twitter, is not an ordinary guy. He is a 10-year-old Jack Russell terrier, a dog.

Now to the best news of the decade. There is, there has never and there will never be crap called G-Spot. The manufactured erogenous zone by Dr. Ernst Gräfenberg in fifties that has resulted in inferiority complex in men and as a black-mailing tool by women does not exist. Surprised?

                                              

"Without a doubt, a discreet anatomic entity called the G-spot does not exist," said Dr. Amichai Kilchevsky, a urology resident at Yale-New Haven Hospital in Connecticut, and lead author of the review, published Jan. 12 in the Journal of Sexual Medicine.

Dear men, we have troubled ourselves for too long. It's time you switched off your torches.

The Christmas Gift

This happened to me before Christmas. It has taken me slightly over a fortnight to overcome the frightful incidence. Writing about it is the only catharsis to these emetic doldrums, a price for an innocent's heart actuated to pursue happiness and bliss from a feminine creature.

It was a simple Facebook friend request. I could have ignored it and continued with my daily activities. She had a mutual friend. Something kept gnawing the depths of my brains. Was she of whom Kelly kept praising her effeminate beauty, a congenial lass whose countenance bore an elixir to a dry-balled like me?

I have few Facebook friends thanks to my old-fashioned beliefs of knowing persons you interact with in social medias. I scrutinized her photo and almost died with pleasure. She was indubitably an angel. So it came naturally that i accepted her friend request.

Binti Kazuri. A quick scan on her profile page revealed 60 friends, student at University of Nairobi, works at Gliuntelle Fashions.

She inboxed: Yu luk like a reasonable chap, mind coffee?

My heart exploded with desire. Reasonable? I wanted to tell her i was more than that; a man full of fervor, extreem doughty in principles and ethos, a certitude erudite with business acumen and power of gab despite my lean cadaverous body features.

Yes, i would meet her for coffee and show her all my qualities.She had added magnesium in my incendiary emotions. I could visualize her writings as dulcet tones caressing my ears and coaxing me to be complaisant with her every desire.

The day arrived and the appointed time crawled at a snail's pace as if taunting my impatience to meet Binti Kazuri. The whole day my mind was plagued with her pleasant impression of ivory complexion, dreamy eyes and a body pulsing with youth and vitality. This meeting was fate implied, i thought, cementing my belief that the acquaintanceship would produce something permanent, not transitory.

At exactly 1, I spend off from office at View Park towers to Nakumatt Lifestyle, the strategic meeting place as my heart pounded with the walls of my chest with inebriated vigor due to anticipation. I would be in black pants, blue shirt and brown suedes, i naturally lied.

Standing there for over ten minutes gave me jitters and the worst of probabilities attacked my timid mind. had she thought otherwise, ditched me without even meeting me or there was a passenger-jam? Time was ebbing so i whipped out my cell and called her. Then for the longest two-minutes of my whole life i survived a catatonic trance.

A lady...ok, a feminine creature next to me received the call and you can guess it right, she answered it.

Feminine creature: I've been here at Lifestyle for the past 10 minutes waiting for you...kwani uko wapi?

My tongue turned into a sand paper, no saliva to gel it, just an ugly catarrh blocking my wind-pipe. Was she the Binti Kazuri? Oh no, i groaned loudly and my bowels almost gave out with disappointment. For the first time i appreciated the power of blue-tooth gadgets. I tried all my best to act normal and discreetly return the cell back to the pocket but it was too late. She had seen me.

My heart literally bled with confusion. Before me stood the perfect contrast to an image on her wall-page in Facebook. I shook my head, pinched my nose and willed, strongly, for a sign or something, a miracle, anything to assure me that i was dreaming. 

Feminine Creature: John, here you are...(arms flaring wildly for a hug). It is not sensible to keep a lady waiting!

I groaned heavily. Then robotic-ally explained to her my pressed schedule at the office and desire to re-arrange the rendezvous. She was impressed with it. As i headed back to the office, still reeling with shock and disbelief, i blocked her number and eventually her FB profile.

                                                     

That's why, my dear friend, i usually have phobia for friend requests. Especially from ladies with very beautiful photos.