They say “write what you love.” One random writer’s website posts “two cups of coffee and a cigarette will guide your writing, easy.” as solid and universally applicable advice. I have been told that writer’s block is what happens when you are not writing what you want to write, that you aren’t challenging yourself enough. Your creativity has filled the box that you have built around it and it cannot produce any more results until you get rid of the box. All this advice is valid, but I feel like it stems from bits and pieces of a larger story. Little excerpts from a larger novel you might consider reading one day, but never really get around to doing because the narrative doesn’t seem real or tangible. Most ‘wise quotes’ feel that way to me.

Write what you love.

I write mostly non fiction. I write about my experiences, my thoughts, my warped world view. I am a human. I am not rigid, I am not unchanging, I am an open minded person. I try to be accommodating to opposing views because I am not all knowing, but I will always preserve my energy when I feel it being threatened by stupidity. By the way, my drafts are full of articles just like this one. Articles that start off with an apology. The introduction is filled with excuses and long winded statements that seem to plead a case for the article before it is even accused of anything, before it even gets a chance to do anything. When I realise that it is taking this form, I quickly discard it in shame before it even gets a chance to make yet another apology.Write what you love? I do not love making apologies for simply existing.

Yet that is what I have made a habit of doing. Not raising my hand in class even when I know the answer. When I do raise my hand, the answer is preceded with another apology. “Sorry sir, but…” “I’m not sure but…” To speak is to risk a louder, less restricted voice watering down my point in language that even 15 year old me would never use, and get that lauded as the most original thought of the day. I have been made to question and re-examine every argument I have gotten into and been forced to dismiss logic as emotional overreactions. This is not something that started yesterday. It has been repetitive and slow, drops of water wearing a hole in my brain.

Ever since I became a feminist, I have ignored this blog on purpose. It has become an archive of old ideas that I shudder to re-examine. To reread this blog is to be reminded of who I am trying to erase. I can’t even scroll past three without feeling a bit of shame. A lot of the things I wrote in the past were misogynistic and sought male approval, fat shaming, slut shaming, everything shaming. I don’t know whether I even believed half the things I used to write. I haven’t been able to reconcile myself with the things I used to say or do. But that person isn’t here anymore anyway, I can’t debate on her behalf.

Rigathi wrote a piece on “The Mess In Your Home” where he points out the reluctance we show when faced with problems that are so close to our person. The ease at which we let our close friends and family get away with things and quickly run off to the internet to flash our social justice warrior badges at strangers. I have tried to put this into practice and the results have been insanely disappointing. For those who actually know me there are tens of scenarios where I can also be called out. “Oh you wanna say I shouldn’t do _____ but remember the time you were faced with the same situation and you did __________ who the hell do you think you are?” Well not in those words exactly but there are those undertones. There is a mess at home simply because your own mess will be reexamined and juxtaposed to theirs as if it makes it any better. The house remains dirty either way.

“Don’t start with your feminism here.”

There is also the bruising of friendships. I’ve started thinking about how “partner in crime” is used to define friendships. In the movies the one who snitches is the pariah, the bad guy, and more often than not dies in terrible circumstances that the audience will cheer at. “He got what he deserved.” This is not an accidental analogy. You dare say something to one of your friends, that their behaviour is trash, that they’re being sexist/misogynistic/homophobic/classist and you automatically become the bad guy. You can’t call them out in public because “its never that serious, you’re spoiling the fun.”. But then again the only reason that society is stuck in this ridiculous patriarchal system is because of the refusal to actively break it down. To take some things more seriously than others, even when they are.

I am in a love hate relationship with my feminism. I can’t stand always being the novelty. I hate it when I say something and then everyone gets that stupid look on their face like children who were found plotting about stealing sugar. I hate the air quotations whenever they question my beliefs. I HATE THEM SO MUCH FUCK YOU I IDENTIFY AS FEMINIST WHY ARE YOU PUTTING THE WORD IN QUOTES ITS NOT LIKE I  PUT AIR QUOTES WHENEVER I SEE YOUR “WALLET”   I hate it when I begin questioning myself. I hate the fact that it is seen as some sort of slur. I can punch a bitch if I hear “I’m not a feminist, but” as if its something you should apologize for. (“I thought feminists can’t say bitch?” BITCH BELIEVE IT. BITCH SO NOW?) I can’t stand Patriarchal Patties who pander to the male gaze when it comes to feminist discourses, or any discourse for that matter. I’m constantly wearing a scowl on my face because of the stupidity that surrounds me. But I’m happy with it. I’m so in love with the fact that I see so many women talking about experiences that I thought were restricted to me. Its so relieving to not be the only one any more. Feminism gave me a safe space to be who I was and to let other women be. And its exposed me to so many good things and experiences. I no longer have to pretend to be enthralled by dull white male writers like Grisham, Sheldon and Ludlum any more whose writing is so generic and stoic, nor impressed by dull men who have read them and think they are scholarly. I no longer have to tolerate boring men!!! This is probably the best thing about it. There are so many men who have had a place in my life who were useless, unintelligent, unfunny, BORING pieces of trash who only took up space because they had penises and deep voices. (As a woman who watches football and loves to drink beer and talk shit, you have no idea how many of these I have been exposed to.)  Feminism has not made me unafraid but it has made me unapologetic for who I am, and I am such a bad ass. Before I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, simply because I wasn’t a “lady”(worst word in the English language btw). I don’t know how many times I prayed that I was born a boy instead so that I could just be allowed freedom to do things I wanted.

“Have feminists done/read/watched ____?”

I can’t speak up on every instance of misogyny and neither can anyone else, you’ll probably go ape shit insane. Being a feminist you’re expected to run up and stop every sexist in their tracks with a whistle and a fully written lecture with citations. Everything you say can will and has been held up against you. Its not a job, okay. Its just praxis. Are you going to pay me? But in itself that’s sort of a compliment. That you hold our opinions in such high regard that you wait with bated breath to hear what we have to say. Fuck you man think your own goddamn thoughts and stop waiting on others to think/say things for you so that you can immediately disagree.

(The funny thing about feminism is that the materials that got me started, were sent to me by a man who was trying to discredit the entire movement. “Look at these crazy women.” I still look back and laugh at that. LOL. Thanks dude.)


Ugh, It’s *Her* Again

So… This blog….

*rubs temples*

It’s really so hard to come back to writing personal blog posts these days. It doesn’t pay and right now? Any article that doesn’t contribute to my quota is a waste of time. That statement sounds more arrogant than it actually is, but you need to understand that my building has a shitty policy on rent (I get charged 500/- for every day after the 5th. I mean what?!!! Adulting is expensive. No mercy whatsoever. “No excuses. Just 500/- I don’t even bother to Okoa Jahazi, I’ll just save that 10/-” (because even Safaricom is fed up with my borrowing and late payments. “UGH. It’s *HER* again.” But my Safaricom woes are so many. First of all I can’t Okoa twice, ever since the systems ‘came back’. I could before, now it’s just like before. I see other people still doing it though 😦 Do you know they STILL won’t let me take an M-Shwari loan? I still don’t qualify. I don’t mind I probably wouldn’t pay them back ever and get blacklisted but… it’s the essence of the thing, y’know?! LET ME BEG FROM YOU! A BLACK WOMAN CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS?!)

Anyway, before I turn into the beggar blogger…

im poor

I don’t know what to do with this site. I can’t even read the previous posts without cringing (UGH THE IGNORANCE!) and that’s 96% of the reason I just stopped writing. The drafts are there and they all seem fake deep because I was really trying to distance myself from all the homophobia. And let’s not forget the weird ass post on feminism, because God knows what I was going on about. I have thought about deleting that post but I’ll keep it there as a reminder to just how far I came from. “See? Mommy used to be a dumb bitch too!” Although maybe that post is the reason I get messages at 2am from someone demanding I read a slanderous post they wrote about my feminist praxis. (This incident really pissed me off, not even because of the post itself but because I was directed to it by the author and not a concerned ally or at LEAST a cackling troll. Anyway. STILL I RISE.)

I have discussed the future of my blog with several people and I have told every one of them something different. There was a time I thought I was going to write a lit erotica blog. Erotica is garbage across the board, either written by beginners who, while they may be documenting their discovery –and that’s cute and everything, yaay journaling- are still on some 101 shit OR by the people who still think having GMO filled strawberry syrup near your genetalia is sexy. Either way it’s a cringe per minute. Adverbs and cuss words don’t make you a lit-erotica writer.
Also I was being misled by the ‘SO WHAT IS YOUR SOLUSHON WEA IS YUAAAAZ?’ band of writers. Writers I beseech y’all, stop this shit. I have every right to say your article is trash if I think it is trash; I am not however obligated to write a follow-up just because I also have a laptop. LET MY LAZY BUT OVERLY CRITICAL ASS LIVE.

However that idea also tanked since the erotica I imagined writing probably doesn’t exist for a reason. Currently there’s always some back story about a romantic dinner or sending raunchy messages to your best friend’s husband which do happen but they are overplayed and then… wait for it…

I don’t want to read about sijui what candlelit dinner on a rooftop in lit erotica. I know, that happens to the rich, that’s cool, they can have the Mills and Boon or those Desperado books with the same male model on the cover with the unchanging story of the damsel in distress. And besides, is it really THAT night when you’re going to get laid? When your dress is so expensive and pretty and you can’t really dance along to your song and can’t get TOO drunk because you look too good to make an ass out of yourself? Or is it the night when after two bottles of red wine and a Shondaland marathon in between bouts of furious masturbation you get fed up and call Fuckboy Philip because even if he’s a misogynistic piece of trash he’s the closest around and has a slightly above average stroke game? Is it really the fine girl that you’ve been eyeing for a while and leaving compliments disgusting messages on her IG pics that’s going to approach you or is it the light skin laundry lady with a thick Kamba accent and a fat ass? There are less of the latter! Why? WE NEED DIVERSE STORIES.

But. That’s way too much work and I just cannot deal with the insecurity.

“hehe Olivia hehe so are you hehe going to write about me hehehehe? Usinichomee picha hehehe”

I wasn’t laughing after I didn’t cum, I’m not laughing now.

Then I thought about just being as annoying as possible. Every article I’d written in the last year I’d share on a loop every day till I got a book deal. However the idea of door to door blogging annoys me. Not that other people can’t do it, just that I don’t even read when I see other people doing the same. HEHEHE

So here we are. I still have no idea what to do with the blog, but, I’ve written something. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right writers? Write every day. (Maybe some should do it less… *waits for CAPSCAPSCAPS*)


Here Cometh The Feminists

“Why are you feminists always so angry?”

“Because there’s a lot to be angry about.”

will this be a problem?

The movies were wrong. The alien invasion did not come in spaceships. It did not come with beams in the sky or crop circles in the fields. We did not even even see it coming. The invasion came and went, we were occupied and we did not even know it.

You’re skeptical. I understand, but look around. There’s a chance that the invaders are with you or near you right now. The species that wants to destroy everything you know and bring all of us down. You’ve no doubt heard of them. They go by the name…. feminists.

We have all heard many things about these feminists. Disturbing things. Unsettling things. Things that spring from the same well that inspired Dante’s Inferno. But I wanted the truth. I wanted to know what it is that they truly want. So I decided I was going to meet one. Against the advice…

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Vote for Madness

So to my utter bewilderment, we got nominated in the Best Creative Writing Blog category in the Kenya Blog Awards 2014. We’re practically the underdogs in this. Vote for the underdogs all ye hipsters and lovers of breasts! And here are 15 reasons to vote for Do Not Feed The Bloggers. Vote here: http://www.blogawards.co.ke/vote/

Do Not Feed The Bloggers

You may have heard that we’ve been nominated for Best Creative Writing Blog for the Kenyan Blog Awards 2014.  Cue unseemly celebration with terrible dancing and everything. I’d like to thank all you sick twisted people who nominated us. We will take you with us when we take over the world so don’t forget to vote for us here:


As for you new readers. Why should you vote for us? First, meet the bloggers.

Left to Right: Fred, Nat, Gachagua, Aggrey, Liv Left to Right: Fred, Nat, Gachagua, Aggrey, Liv


I’m the boss around these parts. I’ve been kindly informed several times that sanity is not my strong point.

You can read about my (succesful) quest to find the funniest book ever here

My thoughts on cartoons here

And my adventures with withdoctors here and here.


Meet Olivia. Aka BBB (Big Breasted Blogger) our resident cynic.

Are you happy? Let her disabuse you of…

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I Am A Bad Girl

I am a bad girl.

I will never say anything about tonight, will never reveal that I was called up by my two friends and told to dress up because we were going for a really cool party, how she complimented me on the red dress I wore that clung to my tiny waist and how he jokingly mentioned that the cleavage spilling out of the top resembled fresh baked scones, about the massive mansion we went to, about the cacophony of drugs and the expensive liquor and OMG don’t forget that pool, with the lights that lit up on every step because “Billie Jean came out the same year my dad made his first million.” When asked I won’t describe the increasing discomfort I felt as everyone else departed into other rooms and left me alone with him,  I won’t tell anyone because they already know my alcohol tolerance was high because I like to drink and party hard, because that alcohol didn’t magically appear, that car didn’t fuel itself, that weed didn’t smoke itself. I can just hide under a blanket and try to shut out the image of that door closing behind her as my friend turned into my enemy, try to forget how hard my head hit the wooden headboard when he pushed me down as I struggled once realized what was going on, try to erase the image of his satisfied smug leer after he discarded the condom, and how he laughed when I tried to salvage my dignity and walk out but couldn’t because I was bleeding and it hurt so bad and hope I never remember that stupid bitch standing on the other side of the door telling me that she thought that was what I wanted.

I will go home and scrub myself raw of the memories and the caked blood and the semen, I will cry, I will scream, I will bleed some more.

I will carry that shame with me, I will carry that hatred within me, and I will imbibe this poisonous act like it was the last drop of water on earth, and let myself drown in the embarrassment. I will tell myself over and over again that I deserved it, because I was the one that was drunk and I was stoned and not my friend. I should not have worn that red dress, I should never have dared to think of myself as an attractive woman blessed with great attributes of femininity, and I should never even have had breasts in the first place. I will remind myself of all the previous times I enjoyed sex and label it all mindless meaningless fucking. I will call myself whore; I will keep that name slut. I will wear bulky t-shirts and baggy jeans, try to erase all the femininity from my walk and talk, I will slump forward and lean sideways, I will call men ‘bruh’, I will call everyone my nigga, I will spit when I talk, wash my face with black Protex and call it a shower, because that way it will never happen again.  And when other girls tell me about other parties I will not go, but they can, because they don’t drink as much as I do so it won’t happen to them.

I will resent all women who are proud of their femininity; I will call them bitches, hoes and sluts because nothing good can come from showing your breasts and ass and thighs. I will join the men in their misogyny and sexism and attack all feminists, because women should be happy to get even a little bit of respect for being such hoes. I will ridicule the idea of patriarchy, I will perpetuate it,  I will even deny its existence. I will see women as evil and I will quote scripture to back it up. I will remind you that in The Bible, Eve caused Adam to sin, Samson was betrayed by Delilah, Herod’s daughter asked for John the Baptist’s head. (Was this misinterpreted?!) I will call them ugly because that’s what all feminists are, and if they aren’t then I will encourage their silence because being pretty in this day and age is all you need. If they do not comply, then fuck them, they are just single and alone. A good dicking and they’ll be fine.


I will sympathize with the men they are against, they didn’t mean it, they were human, and their lives have value. I will explain to everyone that Chris Brown suffers from bipolar disorder and insomnia and drug addiction and heat exhaustion and the price of fame, and that is justifiable for his violence against Rihanna. I will reiterate the press rumors of her giving him herpes and repeat other reasons like they were universal truths. I will demand to hear what she did to deserve that beating. I will remind them of the various beatings Shebesh has previously suffered, and will project that as HER fault. I will know my place in the kitchen, I will be seen and not heard, I will be a GOOD woman.

But now?

Now I will shut up. Now I will not scream. Now I will ignore the sharp pain on the back of my head and hope to God I’m not bleeding. Now I will ignore the sound of heels receding from the door into the hallway. Now I will look away as he pummels into me, because I am a bad girl, and that’s what happens to bad girls. They get raped.


Can I Write?

I have an opinion on everything, and that’s why I have an opinion on nothing.

So many things are wrong with Kenya. So many things are wrong with the world. So many things are wrong with me, and so many things are wrong with you.

I have no idea where to start. That’s why I have been silent. I started thinking that it was a creative block, but its not that, you can’t not create, every thought is a creation, every fantasy, every daydream.

I have been reading a lot. Clever articles, stupid articles, inflammatory articles, Kenyan literature, bad poetry, very bad poetry, classic poetry, comics, letters, fiction, non-fiction, erotic fiction, tweets, status updates, labels on products, prices on products, percentages on bottles, electricity meters, water bills, the weather. This is all reading.

In high school, my best friend and desk-mate used to keep a small book filled with little quotes that she would read before she went to bed. It was like her little book of inspiration or whatever it is she wrote on the cover in pink, I don’t know, I hated pink. I hated everything actually, I was not a fan of positivity or optimism because our temperamental principal (50% temper 50% mental) swore by all these things  my desk mate was writing in that book but Madam’s behaviour and general outlook was similar to that of a long term chronic meth user. (Teeth falling out, violent psychotic behaviour (she was pinching noses before Nancy Barasa made it cool) aggressiveness, delusions and paranoia, auditory hallucinations (never forget the year a keyholder started a stampede and people were trampled) and so on.) Actually…


GOOD MORNING GIRLS!!! (But, both these faces at the same time.)

So you must forgive my past scepticism. 6 years later, she’s in Kenya School of Law and I skipped a Pol-Sci class to tell you this story. (There’s nothing I’m doing in school honestly. I refuse to participate in class because I think everyone should know better than what mainstream media shovels down our throats. I am stuck in a serious ego trap (ego trap – drowning in your own pool of self righteous superiority because you are not ____ like others – in this particular case, programmed sheep) but you know, maybe I’ll get over it. But I doubt it will be any time soon. Because they ARE programmed sheep) So, I figured maybe I should start my own little book of wisdom, but this time round there is the internet, and not just The Good News Bible – which isn’t really, if you think about until like the 40th book.  And NOW, now I can get high and look for inspiration in that high, and not in a chapel that I couldn’t be in  without breaking into a cold sweat. There was something about that crucifix that was off. Maybe the nails and the blood. Or the abs you could fry eggs on. I was aroused and horrified at the same time. Religion is still very confusing to me.

I believe in miracles, where you from, you sexy thang you

“I believe in miracles, where you from…”

Keeping this book of highdeas on world peace, love and unity is something I would highly recommend especially if you are as loud-mouthed and as opinionated as I am. The reason is that you will have so much less to say to people. It saves you from the greatest cases of stupidity. (Again, great remorse for not doing this in high school.)

So, back to why I have not been writing. I am scared of writing. It has stopped being about me. I focus too much on what YOU expect from me. There is a standard I have set for myself as this anti-feminist feminist who drinks beer, watches football and wishes she had a set of balls just so that she could scratch them in public and make other people uncomfortable. Like a 23 year old Bad Grandpa. With tits. (HA. That is awesome.) So I worry if I start writing other things about other stuff, REAL STUFF that fucking matters you will stop reading or something. I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like Dora The Explorer in that Robot Chicken spoof, when she asks why nobody answers her and ends up jumping off the roof in a drunken Ecstasy haze. As an internet writer, the only way I thrive is through groupies. LOL.

So whilst stuck in this defeatist “they-dont-like-me-fuck-them-dont-go-please-stay-I’ll-change” cycle I decided to read other people’s articles, and even though it helped, it didn’t really. Nobody is writing what I want to write, and even if they are they are missing the point entirely, or dwelling on the wrong point; even those with good intentions place two or three idiotic statements in there that call for you to close all tabs and go hunt people for sport.

For so long I’ve been cooped up on the safe side of the internet colliding with very few people, and that no longer is satisfactory. I’m not saying I want to fight on the internet. I already do that, and it sucks balls. Nobody knows what the fuck they’re saying because they don’t have enough time to think it through. They just type and hit send just to see how many people agree with their contradictory view of something that they’ve seen being said for the first time, hoping that that will be the direction that will trend.

It reminds me of a story I was told by my class 3 teacher about this monkey that went and played in red paint and ended up being covered in it from head to toe. So when the monkey gets back to the others, their primitive minds couldn’t register that it was the same one from before. They attacked, killed and dismembered it. For being different. (The dismember part may not be true.) I think she was trying to warn me about the future I would face, because I’ve been a shit talker for very many years.

Everyone wants to capitalise on derogatory jokes, anti-gay jokes, misogynistic jokes, anti-feminist jokes, jokes based on the amount of money you don’t have in your wallet, on the car you don’t drive, on the food you don’t even eat,  jokes, jokes, jokes, most of them bad, unoriginal, stolen and plain shit. How many jokes are you going to tell before you realise you yourself are a joke? You too are also bad and unoriginal.

I mean come on. Who are you beneath the sycophantic slurs? Who are you behind that internet profile you hide so bravely behind as you call for the death of your fellow man? Do you not think there will be any karma that comes your way that may be a BIT negative? Even if you hide your misogynistic/anti-feminist/homophobic/JUST PLAIN STUPID comments behind the titles of father/mother/theist/atheist/CORD/Jubilee/darkskin/lightskin/man/woman if we stripped them away who are the fuck are you? Nothing! Apart from a monkey with an internet connection, dismembering everyone in sight.

People will do anything, no matter how absurd, in order to avoid facing their own soul.

– Carl Jung

I don’t want to fight with those people. Lord I don’t want to fight with anyone. I want to talk, I want to be talked to, I want to discuss, I want to share, I want others to share with me, I want to be convinced, I want to convince, I want to grow, I want to promote growth, I want to teach, I want to be taught I want to create. And I want to be dismembered, so I know that I am different.






I had come down with the worst case of writer’s block.

Even though there are some pretty awesome things that have been happening to me of late that shall now be documented and rubbed in people’s faces till the end of time (or until the NSA gets rid of my blog for YOUR safety) like me, attending The Tooeesker Lite Experienzzzze with AnthHHonEEE Hamilton (you got to say it like the guy for Capital) the day AFTER being on Kenyan airwaves for the first time.

[And I don’t mean it like those sad women looking for love on Classic, you know the ones who are always “light-skinned and slim” but you know in the back of your head she most likely has the sex appeal of a brown cow, or why else would she be calling them at rush hour when everyone and their grandma are tuned in? Those women are not serious though, all the men listening in to Classic are not doing it by choice. Either they are listening in because their wives, yes that’s right, WIVES have forced them or most likely are on their way home in a MATATU… so when you hear them asking for a man who drives a car,suppress your laughter before the woman next to you starts a never-ending monologue about how the youth of today are useless and fail miserably to muster the willpower it requires to not to stare at the weird SINGLE beard hair on her chin.

“Why doesn’t it have friends? :(“]

I was on the other side of the conversation, actually talking on the radio. LOL. I swear to God I could not eat breakfast, not because I was nervous… well, I was, but I didn’t eat because I knew my anxiety would probably lead to explosive flatulence.

My phone went off on air though. -__-

So yeah, readers, I will occasionally feature on the Friday morning show on Venus 101.9FM (old people you know it as Metro FM). Go me 🙂

You thought we were lying when we said DNFTB will take over? Media gag my ass. They weren’t going to hire us anyway. WE CRASH OUR CAREERS INTO THE GROUND, WE DON’T CARE!

I mean really this is such irony. The year stuff is going great for me, considering how shitty 2012 was (a year so bad that even having the guy who roasts nyama at the local remember my name and slip me a free chicken breast chini ya maji would have been considered (and probably was, considering how specific the description is) a great thing.) I knew that I was going to have a good year, and probably at the expense of others, but I didn’t expect it to be on such a large-scale. The rest of the world is going bonkers, which is making me think that maybe I have superpowers that are activated by the need for vengeance and destruction. Or maybe I’m a spy. If you think about it, having moved 6 times since 2009.

*government changes name on Tru Caller to SUSPECT*

There was even a threat of a world war! WORLD WAR! Or is it there still? Who knows any more anyway what new form of bullying the States is up to. AND what happened to no GMO’s in Kenya? Eh? Why is Monsanto in Kenya? Yep. On Mombasa Road, just before the Bites factory. This is for the conspiracy theorists by the way. Everyone else just scroll down or go to Vigilant Citizen hehe) This is a very infuriating thing for me to discover… as in all that self-effacing “fresh from the market” nonsense has ceased to be relevant, since now the women in the market get their stuff from the greenhouses that they own. Damn it!
The New World Order people. It’s here. Which sucks, especially after I thought I was ahead of the curve, by subtly making the great exodus from Sodom and Gomorrah County.Lot was told to never look back, and quite frankly I would like never to return. Yes that’s right. Nairobi is a horrible place. In this bundus of mine (that everyone refuses to come visit but still expects to see me every weekend you selfish good for nothings) I fall under Alfred’s administration.

(Who would’ve thought he would do so well. Better than yours :p)

With your stupid senator and that loud-mouthed women’s rep who keeps being beaten by everyone. I’m sorry, no, feminists everywhere, don’t justify anything that happens to that woman or even bring her up in a conversation. She’s beyond our help. You can’t help a woman with such taste in weaves.
(LOL. As in that slap. You see the dust flying off that rag. She was misquoted! It was “AYAYYAYAYAYA! YAANI KIDERO YOU’VE MADE IT CLEAN!” You sensationalists. Tsk.)
You didn’t think that that governor was bad news when you were constantly tweeting about him being from USIU? Autocorrect changes Kibera to Kidero! (Well, mine.) Look at all the horrible things that have been happening ever since Ganja 1 came into power. Remember when everyone was chewing everyone else’s head off for not being a registered voter? (Sorry, Raila.) I remember, especially the people who told me that if I didn’t like the leaders that we elected it was purely my fault. ( I didn’t vote. You all know why. I am not responsible for all that. You are! Just because you hear the word accountability being thrown around by men in suits you think you can lecture me on politics when you can’t even do simple math.) This cannot be put on us. Just put your voter’s card in your hand, slide down the wall and crawl into the foetal position and suck your thumb. See if you can taste the bitterness of the black ink you flaunted so proudly everywhere. Fuckers. LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!!!

These are the educated, eh? Everyone and their chips funga has a degree. Ugh. Eh… graduates? How is it out there? After four and three-quarter years of barely making it through those early morning lectures as the consequences of drinking 250/- vodka press against your skull, you finally get to the final hurdles of handing in dissertations and finalizing projects, get your gown & cap, and can now leave the destitute life of bitter black coffee, soggy noodles and cheap cigarettes behind and set off for the corporate promised land, flowing with milk and Henny, but not before you put up that photo of you and your mother on Instagram.

#IGotItFromMyMama #congratulations #classof2013 #yaayme #imagineOliviaisSTILLin UNi

[Actually I have been having serious issues with Instagram of late. Natalie warned me this day would come, and goddamnit it’s here.
Man, fuck your faces. I am sick of them. Frame after frame after frame after frame after frame. As in at least change the filter. Yeah yeah yeah, you look good in Low-Fi. Tsk. Then someone over there put 4 million bob there. 4 MILLION! The way people remember where they were on 9/11, I remember how poor I was the day I saw that pic. Why would I purposely log into a site that makes me feel absolutely terrible about everything in my life? My alcohol, my holiday decisions, the colour of my skin, the size of my butt, my thighs (but never the breasts! UP TOP!)Well, yeah, my life is going well (throwing that out there, again), but that’s according to my standards, which are known to be compromised if chicken is involved. Instagram is just a place to put you in check, and not in the kind, motivational way that makes you want to work hard and achieve all that; its in that evil demoralizing “LOOK AT YOURSELF, NOW LOOK AT ME!” type of way. We can all make excuses and question the credibility of a picture of a receipt for 27 hours. Or you can just block Instagram from ever appearing on your timeline like I did. Yep. I study in Mavoko. This sun is murderous, so almost anything passes for lightskin here. I’m just going to enjoy that false title in peace.]

Anyway, now you are graduates. You are better than all of us university students, aren’t you?
You read, you put your shit together, you attended class, you sacrificed your weekends, and now you finally out of that place. Go you! With your free time and your economic books. Weuweee! Go on son, read Graham Norton’s Lords Of Poverty and go online with your deft explanation of the federal reserve system and how the government shutdown is another sign of how the American Constitution serves about as much purpose as the first box in a roll of tissue. Go do volunteer work, and don’t forget to update us on every single good vibration you get from being such a good person. Don’t forget to put it out there, and get so involved in your goodness that it becomes busy work. We are one, aren’t we? And as you read that book and twitpic that baby you’re holding (with just the right amount of cleavage, not too much eh, there’s a baby in the frame!) remind yourself that you are better than every one of your friends who still hasn’t filled the “studied” part on their Facebook profile. (Mine keeps reminding me :()

So, let’s do this. Let’s be real. You aren’t graduates anymore. You get to be a graduate for that one day, and keeping that profile picture up doesn’t change anything. The day after your graduation party, you are now nursing the first hangover as an unemployed member of this wonderful society. The easy part is over, as you keep realising. Your mother won’t give you money anymore, and it’s not like your father is doling out millions either. And even though you can put up a front that those (free) plays and running those marathons that honestly were just a means of boarding school kids to leave the gates, but now that you’re Mr Bachelor of Commerce, it is a test of your skill and tenacity. Ha.
Truth be told, there is no difference between you and the people who sit around Kencom all day, busily fingering brown envelopes that contain a poorly written CV and probably a shopping list from the wife. Your internship is your brown envelope, and you hold on to that for as long as you probably can. Even though you’ve doused your designer shirts with enough cologne to be a fire hazard and have the perfect length of nails that go clickety-clack on the keyboard, loud enough to sound like you’re constantly working even though you’re just talking to another one of your intern friends, bitching about an errand you were sent on to a building without air conditioning, interrupting those office toilet selfies you work so hard to perfect. Your presence in the workforce is shown by the way the back of your shirt sticks to your body as you unattractively glisten with sweat and smell like a class 5 GHC teacher. Come Friday you’re all meeting for after work drinks with your after work friends (at a place you know your unemployed friends are most likely not ever going to show up, because you know it’ll just be a series of embarrassing conversations. “EYYYYYY! (you know that Velociraptor noise people make when they’re impressed.) Since when did you have money to come here? Hata hulipi, sindio? Take a photo of the receipt! Hashtag work tingz.” And then when you go home, slightly buzzed off the 3 beers your workmate bought for you because they actually have a real salary with a KRA pin and everything, you go to bed, trying to figure out which tie will work best for your act tomorrow morning, even though you know you can go to the office lit up like the 4th of July nobody would really notice because nobody cares.
Maybe I’m just bitter that I’m losing friends to the workforce. It’s not like I’ll never be there, you can even say I went back to university to evade this nonsense and postpone it. Why would I postpone this though, by the time I’m done God knows what Shebesh and Ghafla! would have done to ruin the image of the Nairobi woman further.
(Probably should have saved the cleavage for prospective employees and not moody bouncers.)

I write this for those still struggling in university. Its terrible out there. Don’t believe everything you see. Don’t listen to your friends who work at Chase Bank. (They need to investigate the hiring policies at that place. Such beautiful lightskinned girls.) You have to have experience to get experience. The rich are rewarded for working harder with large salaries, and the poor are motivated to work harder by being paid next to nothing. Even though that has been a reality for ages, that’s the most warped view of life there is. I can’t be a corporate slave. I CAN’T. I’ve been trying to figure out how I can put my blog on my CV, and which job opportunities can come up. (Two, so far.) Just because I use the internet for fame doesn’t mean I am not worthy, and because you have a boss doesn’t mean that you’re better than everyone else.

I hope this makes your ‘busy’ Monday morning better.