Category Archives: Despair

7 Bravest Kenyan Whistleblowers

Since there are always as many scandals as there are potential scandals going in Kenya at any one time, it is hard to pick out a few whistleblowers from the many who go unnoticed.  It takes bravery to expose the system, especially when it involves the powers that be. The problem is that there is no reaction beyond a mere grunt from the populace, with the occasional twitching of the conscience that is quickly covered up with layers and layers of political sycophancy and apathy.

#7 The Grand Regency 11


In 2003, 11 employees at the Grand Regency Hotel volunteered information to the KACC on alleged corruption within the five-star hotel. It was at the time owned by Kamlesh Pattni. The hotel subsequently fired the employees.

Their testimony is said to have contributed somewhat to the decision by Pattni to surrender to hotel to the government. It did not, however, stop the fraud that took place when it changed hands to another owner. When the hotel was handed over to the state, the Receiver Manager reinstated the eleven back to their jobs but they were physically ejected and locked up at the Central Police Station.

#6 Kipkemoi Arap Kirui

Anyone who followed the 2007 elections remembers the man who the opposition party brought to the platform and whose introduction was ‘My name is Kipkemoi arap Kirui and I am a Clerk Assistant at the National Assembly working at the Table Office. I am a lawyer.’Some of the issues he raised include the suppression and reduction of results in some constituencies, and other irregularities.

Kirui’s information exposed the sham that was the counting and tallying process that was the ECK. It provided fodder for the opposition party to claim that the electoral commission had skewed the numbers in favor of the incumbent. While nothing tangible was ever done to correct the mistakes of 2007-except the cosmetics of course-Kirui’s courage in the middle of corruption and fraud is admirable.

Like many of the individuals on this list, he was forced to go into hiding as the country slowly sunk into mayhem and violence. Some of his academic work points towards a brilliant thinker on parliamentary procedure and democracy. 

 #5 Catherine Gicheru

One of the lesser known whistleblowers, Catherine Gicheru is a practicing journalist who wrote a series of explosive reports before the 1992 elections. Her scathing articles touched on two things, the involvement of KANU’s power men in the assassination of Ouko, and the corruption schemes to siphon off millions of dollars into a private housing development. Basically just exposing what KANU did whenever any of its leaders was concious enough.

Gicheru was harassed and threatened by thugs but that was pretty much it.  The KANU government banned the Nation from covering the Electoral Commission at the time. She was later awarded Courage in Journalism Award by the International Women Media Foundation.

#4 David Munyakei


A brilliant clerk who passed a chance to enter the military as a cadet for a job in the CBK, Munyakei blew the whistle on the Goldenberg Scandal. He noticed that Goldenberg International was receiving massive sums of money for alleged export of gold and diamonds. He leaked official CBK documents to opposition members of parliament and so initiated a series of clusterfucks that were the reactions to the multibillion scandal.

He was arrested, released, and then fired from his job at the CBK. He fled to Mombasa where he hid for four years. Within that time, he converted to Islam and married Mariam Ali Muhammad Hanii.He emerged from hiding in 1998.

After the NARC mistake took over in 2002, they used him for PR and he testified before the Goldenberg Commission. Munyakei died in 2006 a poor and dejected man. The scandal for which he sacrificed what would have been an illustrious career is still a blemish for which justice may never be achieved. Everyone received a slap on the wrist, a few went to prison for months, and everyone but the Kenyan taxpayer went home richer.

Munyakei’s heroic story is serialized in Billy Kahora’s book ‘The True Story of David Munyakei.’ 

Although the two were most likely unrelated, there is said to be some link between his troubles and the death of his mother.

# 3 John Githongo

gstatic dot com

Another famous whistleblower, Githongo made headline news when he quit his position as the Ethics and Governance Permanent Security and accused several power men of Grand corruption.

The scheme involved a $600m contract to Anglo-Leasing, a non-existent company. Some of the contracts in the scheme predated the NARC government but the new government had furthered and increased the money-stealing scheme. Githongo named Chris Murungaru, David Mwiraria, Kiraitu Murungi and Moody Awori, and Kibaki, ostensibly the most powerful men in the country at the time, as the people behind the scandal. He subsequently fled to London for a few years. His story is recorded in Michela Wrong‘s book It’s Our Turn to Eat: The Story of a Kenyan Whistle-Blower.

A former journalist, Githongo first founded the Kenyan chapter of Transparency International in 1999. The London-based New African Magazine selected him as one of the world’s 100 most influential Africans in its June 2011 edition .

Like the Goldenberg Scandal, the Anglo Leasing (Fleecing) Scandal remains a crude joke in recent Kenyan history.

#2 Oscar King’ara and Paul Oulu

These two were human rights activists whose work investigating police brutality and extrajudicial killings led to their public execution. Oscar, a lawyer by profession, was the founder and director of Oscar Foundation Free Legal Aid Clinic. Oulu, a former University of Nairobi student leader, was his assistant.

The two had played an extensive role in investigating police extrajudicial killings. In 2008, Oscar released a report that accused the police of killing and torturing 8, 000 people during a crackdown of the Mungiki gang. He also contributed extensively to The Cry of Blood — Report on Extra-Judicial Killings and Disappearances. Oscar had also given testimony to, and assisted UN Special Rapporteur, Philip Alston.

Assassins, almost definitely government operatives, ambushed them on March 5, 2009 during rush-hour trafficThe aftermath was even weirder. University students moved Oulu’s body into a hostel. When the police tried to retrieve it, they fired live rounds, killing one student. The police answered to the call a whole two hours after the shooting despite the nearest police station being a walking distance away from the crime scene.

The image above of Oscar’s body slumped in the driver’s seat in his white Mercedes remains a constant reminder that the dragon of police brutality is alive and well.The man who had spent his adult life fighting police brutality, was killed by what was ostensibly an extrajudicial killing. 

Addition 24 January:

Oscar and Paul’s story is featured in the 2013 movie, The Fifth Estate, which features the Wikileaks quest to expose the corruptions of power.

#1 Elias Njagi Kavanda

Rusty Corruption. Image Credit

Rusty Corruption.
Image Credit

One of Kenya’s unsung whistleblowers, Kavanda investigated and exposed corruption at the Kenya Railways Corporation in 2003. Kavanda was dismissed and his family subsequently thrown out of the government house.

Kavanda was employed at Kenya Railways in 2002 as the Senior Security Officer in charge of Central Kenya. He was the number two in the security department. Kavanda stupidly believed that his bosses were interested in ending corruption and over the course of his yearlong employment, investigated and reported cases of corruption.

Their first solution was to demote him to a small station at the coast. Here, he discovered a racket to smuggle new spare parts that would be later sold as scrap metal. Unrelenting as ever, he also discovered that his corporation and the police were in cohorts to steal bags of sugar in transit. Between February and July 2002 alone, over 1, 500 bags of sugar were stolen.

Even after his request for funds was denied, Kavanda investigated another fraud, this time involving his bosses. This one involved the movement of empty containers from Malaba to Kilindini where certain individuals would pocket the money. Other scandals included the corrupt sale of Railway land plots and houses. 

He started filing his reports at the Office of the President from where it was later leaked to his bosses. His bosses fired him and threw his family out of the government house. Luckily for him, he had backup copies of all his reports to defend his actions. The gravy train continued unabated, however, despite his relentless bravery.

Owaahh, 2014 © 


Posted by on January 22, 2014 in Crime, Despair, Discourse, Events, Kenya, Lists, Pages from the Past


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Quit, You’ll Never Catch the Phantom Pooper or see Cats Shag

Nobody I know has ever seen cats fuck. Once, as a child, I thought I saw our pet cat at it with a stray but it ‘all happened so fast’ I am unsure whether it wasn’t a product of my at times hyperactive imagination. It seems a phenomenon only known to nature and the participating felines. 

You will hear them moan at night though. They congregate outside your window in the deep of the night. And they moan. So loud sometimes that you think it’s a band of crying infants. But you almost never ever see them do it. By the time the flashlight beam hits their romp, probably a groupie, the female is nowhere to be seen. The male glares at you, embarrassed. Planning your death. You cockblocker! For half a minute you two stare each other down until he decides you are not worth it and runs off to restart the courtship you just ruined.
If indeed my informal analysis result that no one has ever seen cats at it is credible, is there something we don’t know?
They come together to come. You feed them yes, but you are not invited. not to this party anyway. Walk away and pretend you didn’t just see the snail trails being left on your couch. Just turn and go. You are not invited to these orgies, all you are expected to be is silent and permissive. Ask no questions, make no testimonies, and all 
shall be well with your soul. Life, I mean.
But at the back of mind you know what’s going on, the noises are graphic, as is the evidence of claws where erotic scratches were made yesternight. You know it, your neighbor who gave you the kitten knows it. The dog knows it too, and he is traumatized. All of you are witnesses to a horrendous crime of nature and victims of not-so-subtle threats by a guy with whiskers.

I engaged an invisible friend into a conversation about recently.


Unless you are a cat, of course.

Hehe, are you?

Maybe, Maybe not. The theory of parallel universes gives space for such a possibility as me having fur, whiskers, and a soft threatening purr.

Depends on where those whiskers are!

Why? Does that change my species or just what specific feline I am?

Makes you an interbreed.

Sounds like a bore, an interbreed. Have you ever seen cats fuck?

I have not, why?

Because, they are mammals. They must shag sometimes. But almost no one has ever seen it happen.

True, nobody knows.

I think cats kill off all the witnesses.

Or turn them into other cats?

Or clean out their memories.

The threats are delivered by those intriguing cat eyes. They scare the hell out of you and incase your light is ever faster than a female feline fleeing from a fuck feast, your fate is no longer yours. Those cats will most definitely murder you. Or wipe out your memory. Or eat your children. Or make you clean after the kittens that result after the romp. You are a slave. Your master is much smaller than you, much weaker than you, owns less than you do, has nothing on you except eight lives more. You are a pawn in the cat’s procreation activities and it owns you. As your master it makes you pay for everything, including the STIs it might contract during the mating seasons. Feed me, it meows. Feed me and don’t you forget who your pimp be! Also, I pooped earlier and threw up behind the couch, your favorite couch, would you be a darling as to clean those excreta up? No? How about if I promise to kill you, and the dog? Yes? Good boy, good. Meow.
You see things. You hear things. You elect things. You vomit things. You complain things. You Witness things. You should never talk about them, if history is any lead. 
Your cat is planning to kill you. That has never been in question.


Talking about things one does not see until the next morning, thieves broke into the supermarket on the ground floor of my apartment building the other day. Three thieves, scrawny young men, or at least as I imagine it.

Our robber antagonists were after the money of course, the millions stored in a safe within the premises. They chose Sunday, the day in the week when all the cash collected over the weekend is stored in the safe. So our thieves were sharp, and lucky. A thief thieves, right? But these guys were not done just yet…

After cleaning the safe, they went downstairs and raided the cake and pastries aisles. They ransacked all the food aisles, leaving behind a telling tale of a man in a nipple factory. They helped themselves to delicacies galore, carrying very little and eating most of it there and then. Of course they drank soda and juice, almost half a bottle of each. Only one soda was missing from the fridge. It seems that ice cold drinks are not a thief’s drink of choice.

I can see why. Imagine trying to combine a heightened adrenaline rush with the feeling of an ice cold drink. Brain Freeze! Unless of course they drank the cold sodas and then replaced them with the others on the aisles. So the supermarket would have enough cold stock in the morning. When gentlemen were thieves.

Anyway, they ate. Stole and ate. Pooped too.

There was a mound of shit in the office the next morning. Several hours old, already past rigor mortis. And stinking. Stinking as the distinctive smell of a well-preserved colon of pooh can be. It was right there in the open. Just one mound, apparently only one guy had the urge to take a dump in the middle of a heist.

I know it smelt because when I heard the story two days later and (still) went to shop there, I could still smell it. I think it was in my  head, but I smelt it all right.

I looked at the manager with a pitiful face. His, not mine. I wondered what he must have gone through the morning after. Even after you have wiped away the physical evidence, and sprayed several cans of air freshner (because it is a supermarket, I imagine you spare no expense), you still know that it was there. So, you have to work inside there long before your brain has enough distractions to forget that there was excreta atop your table or floor some hours prior. Yet you must, like a general who strolls into a war zone the day after the armistice. Or a president visiting ground zero. If they bomb the president’s house while he is away, he has to visit as soon as that shit is in control-pun wholly intended-to convince the populace that he is hurt but not conquered. That work must continue.

Well, there are objective thieves, and then others poop in your office. Poop as a weapon of psychological intimidation. Like when we replaced the loaves of bread in our school dining hall with poop. We, because when it came to paying for the damages caused during the strike, we all had to pay for it. Poopers and non-poopers. The distinction was never made. 

What damage can a comprehensive mound of excreta do to a stainless steel sufuria? Or rather, what damage that a good disinfect, a prayer, more disinfectant, and handing said sufuria to a neighbor, not do?

They never bought new sufurias. The phantom poopers were never caught. They left a ‘series of smelly situations’ and got away with it; we paid the price. 

Neither were our three thieves of whom only one felt the dire need to take a dump right there in the supermarket manager’s office. Imagine the giggle. How genius the idea instigator felt.

“Man, we should raise the stakes and poop somewhere in this supermarket.”

“(Giggling) IKR? Waaaah! We so should. Thief #3, do you feel like taking a dump?”

“Guys, how do I always end up being the kinetic energy for your insanities”

“Don’t be a party pooper #3, you lost at truth or dare last night, remember?

“Consider this a dare.”

“But what if I don’t feel like dumping right now?”

“Its okay, we can wait a few hours, eat a few more cakes, maybe make alien messages with the rice.”

“Until the urge comes of course, there’s tissue here too by the way”

“Please guys, let’s not poop in the supermarket, what if they do those CSI things and my pooping ass is hauled in jail where big burly guys with lice colonies make me a pipe shitter?”

“CSI shit don’t work in here. Plus we’ll pour salt on it to burn off your DNA…”

“Okay, just let me choose the spot, okay?”

There was the other time we filed to one of the bathrooms to study a mound that had been left on the edge of the toilet bowl. It wasn’t a normal mound.

Picture a log of wood. A very wide and large log, like one you would use for a support column. Placed from the edge of the toilet bowl towards the door, as I reconstructed the grime scene then. It doesn’t make sense for the log to be placed from the door towards the bowl, there is no logical explanation for that. For the former, however, Newton must’ve been on point! A propulsion! The very very very large and wide log being dumped propelled its owner in such a way that he took off like a witch on a broomstick. Or Quidditch players.

The mere circumference attracted an audience. It was a concerned audience; so much so that had the  logistics of forcibly helping the victim, we would have subjected each other to a stinky strip search. The phantom pooper who might have needed reconstructive surgery was never found.


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The Perfect Crime: Not a ‘How To’ Manual

The man laughs maniacally as he hits the keyboard and stares at the screen. He is killing them and he loves it, or rather, he can’t control himself. The urges. They will never catch him, he kills as he wills, and they can do nothing about it. They are born when he says they are born, and they die when his whims desire. Except for that wretched editor. He tricks them into situations where they are sure to die, dangling on a cliff begging for dear life. They are his small ant farm.

He makes the hooded thug stab the blonde woman, and then rape her dead body. He makes three serial killers hunt each other, and makes his hero have sex with a prison warden. His villains are his toys, social wrecks with too much money and in desperate need of a thrill. He has killed his own mother thrice and slaughtered an entire family in a single paragraph. He had a woman once throw her infant son against the wall in five words.

The other day at a party a child hang on the balcony railing and everyone panicked. He removed his notebook and his pen, and he pushed her right over. He even added the thud as her head hit the pedestrian holding his girlfriend’s hand below. Not only did he kill the child’s mother after he slept with her, but he gave both the child and the pedestrian a concussion. He can do this, and although they all know who did it, they can do nothing about it.

See that man who just parked in his driveway and got mobbed by his loving wife and their two lovely young daughters? Can you see him kissing all three of them and smiling as the joy of family overcomes the fatigue that almost made him run over an old woman? Well, I’ll tell you a secret…tomorrow this home will be a crime scene, and our man up there will be alone in the world except for the framed photos of his now murdered family. Too soon? Did I rush you? Well, we needed to give the man a purpose.

Or the wedding you have been waiting for through so many pages of text and hours of screen time? How about we make it into an orgy, only a murderous orgy where we kill everyone you love? We can do that mate, the law doesn’t apply to those who sit on the throne.

Every night he labors to find a new way to kill the very people he has kept happy all along. He makes them, and he takes them away when he is done with them. He gives birth to them in the beginning, but he does not think himself a god, at least not just yet. Wait, maybe he is one. Hhhmmm… or he can be one next time.

The only true perfect crime, they know he did it, but they cannot do anything about it. The only crime in the universe is the unfinished story. It is what is wrong with the world. Even an incomplete dream must be finished, even if by force.

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Posted by on June 11, 2013 in Despair, Morbid, Random Musings, Stupidity


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7 Myths about the ‘Mau Mau’ War (Some are TOTAL BS)

The 1950s are Kenya’s curse. No one cared to correct the myths because they fit into a certain context which romanticized the Mau Mau while keeping them subjugated to their new lords. While they died off in abject poverty and a society that blamed them for Operation Anvil, a different set of myths took root and became the mainstream stories…

Oh, and the tale of pseudo-gangs is not comprehensively explained on this list but you might want to ask your grandparents which Mau Mau exactly they really were on by the end of the rebellion.

#7 MAU MAU? Mau Mau? Mau? 

Depicted in British Culture as a group of savages

Depicted in British Culture as a group of savages

Basic Kenyan history huh? You could answer this one while overlapping and texting on the phone and not endanger anyone on either lane, right? Well…what we have are ideas, guesses, too many to be sure…it seems like we forgot to ask Sir Evelyn Baring’s predecessor before he left. Dedan Kimathi’s assertion in the KFLA Charter notes that the ‘Mau Mau’ was a synonym for terrorists and that the movement was called the Kenya Freedom (and) Land Army (KFLA). If it was propaganda (and quite effective, given that it is now a brand and a term used to indicate brutality), where did it come from in the first place? It clearly has roots in some African language, more so Bantu, but which one and/or why?

The group originally called itself muingi [masses];Other possible sources of the common name include the ‘Movement of Unity’, the Kikuyu Maranga African Union (KMAU); or, as Bildad Kaggia claimed, the secret code muhimu. Some accounts even claim that the name could have been taken from the Mau, the range of Mountains in the Rift Valley. In 1963, another claim emerged, this time arguing that young Kikuyu boys would say ‘Uma Uma’ [‘Get out! Get Out!’] during initiation.

The murder that started it all...

The murder that started it all…

Another myth (well, I warned you there are many) 2claims that it came from the first ever prosecution of a member of the Mau Mau, that of Magroui Ole Kedogoya, for attempting to recruit his supervisor into a secret society.  He allegedy said (as quoted in Kinyatti, 1992) “ndingikwira maundu mau mau nderirwo ni kiama.[ I cannot tell you those, those things that I was told not to tell you by the movement.] This version claims that the wide coverage of the case by the colonial press grasped the words ‘mau mau’ (those, those) and assumed they meant the secret movement.The group later made due with the brand as ‘Mzungu Aende Ulaya. Mwafrika Apate Uhuru’ (No, not that Uhuru, the feudal prince one, although come to think of it….)

There is one other plausible source…

 It is likely that the name came from a mishearing of a Kikuyu or Swahili word, and ‘ muuma’ seems like the most likely candidate. Some factions of the freedom fighters refered to the movement as ‘Muuma wa Uiguano’ (Oath of Unity). Could it be that the loyalists, in attempting to explain what the Mau Mau oath was and why it was so strong, never noticed that the British colonial government heard something completely different and seemingly retarded?

The name itself was not exactly unique as it formed part of Sojourner Truth’s mother’s nickname ‘Mau-Mau Bett.’ Truth’s mother was an enslaved African from Guinea. She (Sojourner) died in 1883.

 #5 Obama’s Grandfather 

The guy in the background knows, he does...

The guy in the background knows, he does…

In Dreams from My Father, Barrack Obama claims that his grandfather was detained and tortured by the British.  Sarah Obama, according to multiple accounts, says that when he came home he was thin, dirty, and injured. Hussein Obama had (supposedly) been suppling weapons and information to the freedom fighters.  Sarah has further been quoted as saying that Mzee Obama’s testicles were pressed and he had been whipped by his African oppressors twice a day…because, of course, the British and their cronies had an unhealthy obsession with pliers and testicles. Obama claims in his book that his grandfather was held for 6 months, and Sarah claims he was held for 2 years, it was the 1940s/50s anyway, time was a blur…

 The only would-be corroboration for this story is that of Tim Symonds (3rd Last Paragraph) where he says

 “During one mission in the bamboo forest he captured a 50 or 60-year-old insurgent named Obama who spoke perfect English. That is clearly not a Kikuyu name and Tim has written to the American Embassy trying to discover if this was the grandfather of U.S. President Obama.”

Why its BS…

An Obama biographer, David Maraniss critically assessed this claim and came out with nought; he got multiple accounts from Hussein Obama’s friends who worked with him and who noted would obviously have known. There is also the curious fact that at the time when Obama the Elder was supposedly in prison, his son, Obama Sr. (father to the current POTUS) was studying at Maseno National School (1950-1953).


 At least he didn’t come home and say ‘I was swallowed by a whale’


It is likely that Obama was a friend of the founders of the group, then running the militant wing of the KCA, the Group of 40 but it is unlikely that Obama ever became an active member of the group.  Tim Symonds’ story implies that Obama Sr. was an active fighter, a seeming discrepancy from the other myth that he was a secondary participant in the war…

One of Obama Sr’s daughters, Ayuma, gives a more logical explanation; that he had been kidnapped by thugs and the story had been weaved through generations to claim he was a freedom fighter. 

#4 Lari Massacre, The Night of Long Knives

Kenya’s poster-child case of how a counter-massacre is the generally accepted response to a massacre.

On March 26th 1952, a group of Mau Mau fighters attacked and massacred entire families yanking children away from their mothers and hacking them to death. Anywhere between 70 and 100 people were brutally murdered in a single night including Chief Makimei and his predecessor, Luka Kihangara.

Lari Massacre

The counter-massacre began when the homeguards returned and found Luka’s, Makimei’s and other homes ablaze. As they gave chase to the fleeing Mau Mau fighters, they began a counter-massacre that eventually outdid the initial crime. Lari DC at the time, John Cumber, made the situation even worse when he ordered that all male suspects be rounded up (which, if the chronology of state massacres is anything to go by, means virtually any male in the vicinity).

Luka's Homestead, where all hell broke lose...

Luka’s Homestead, where all hell broke lose…

In Volume 2A, Page 165/6/7, the TJRC report vividly explores the counter-massacre that made the first massacre look like a joke. The Commission refers to the massacre of the early hours of 27 March 1953 as “Little-known, little-discussed, little-acknowledged and yet undeniable...” Although almost all historical accounts hold that the 70 people died in the initial massacre, over 200 bodies were strewn all over Lari on the morning of 27 March. In the East African Standard report sometime after the massacre and counter-massacre, the government acknowledged having killed 150 people. This is generally agreed as the lower limit of the fatalities of the counter-massacre, and does not even include the over 70 people who were later hanged for the initial massacre.

The Lari Massacre of the loyalists and their families was just the one that received the most attention and the one which the Colonial government milked for propaganda. Photos of the initial massacre appeared on numerous pamphlets and news reports, and was used to show the Mau Mau as savages. I guess when you call dibs you must take all the blame…

 #3 When the Mau Mau war ended

A Propanganda pamphlet distributed during the war

A Propanganda pamphlet distributed during the war

Officially, the actual war began to subside after Kimathi was captured in 1956. In truth, the Mau Mau war ended in 1963/4, and not without the characteristic massacre that the KE Government uses as a signature strategy to solve security issues. Mwariama -shanekeven dot typepad

The Meru faction of the insurgency survived the decade. Field Marshal Mwariama and General Baimungi (People’s General) had been in contact with Kenyatta as early as 1962 when he (Kenyatta) gave Mwariama a 15-acre plot of land which was, in truth, a loan he and other similar recipients had to pay back. Baimungi went back to the forest in Jan 1964 with ‘200 fighters’ (reffered to as ‘thugs’ in this Times article). Mwariama is the dreadlocked man in the famous photos with Kenyatta. He was good PR. 

At Ruring’u Stadium in Nyeri, Mau Mau fighters including Field Marshal Muthoni, Kimathi’s ‘Weaver Bird’, surrendered their weapons to the government. FM Muthoni left the forest in 1963/4, according to her own account but was first cleaned up and dressed well. General Baimungi, clearly not a known-giver-of-fucks,and his group were massacred on 26th January 1964 and their bodies (Baimungi and Chui) paraded in Meru Town for three days.

The exact reasons of his refusal to surrender are unclear, G. G Kariuki here asserts the popular myth that he demanded that the Mau Mau be given control over the Kenya security forces. His wife,Evangeline Muthoni Baimungi, later said that he (Baimuingi) had been given a Land Rover by Kenyatta and a flag to fly on the car. He used the vehicle to transport about ‘seven 20 kg containers full of cash’ he was holding in trust from the oathing fees. Mau Mau veterans agree there was cash, but argue instead that Baimungi used it to buy the Land Rover. 

Very little is known about what happened to Mwariama, although this account tells us that he died in 1989 due to ‘complications from snake venom he had sucked from the leg of a friend who was bitten during a visit to Ukambani’; the man who enlisted both he and Baimuingi died in April 2013.

#2 Who was Field Marshal Kaleba?

Sydney Morning Herald 1954 2

Sydney Morning Herald 1954 2

I KNOW, you have also never heard of him have you? Neither had I when I first set out to research entries for this list.

Sydney Morning Herald 1954

Sydney Morning Herald 1954

To understand who ‘Field Marshal Kaleba’ was, or was supposed to be, let’s first describe the Gray Leakey Murder, perhaps the most gruesome of all known assassinations during the course of the Emergency.

Arundel Gray Leakey, cousin to the more famous Louis Leakey, and known as ‘Morungaru’ was a white settler farmer in Central Province. He was the brother of Nigel Gray Leakey, a badass World War II soldier who jumped over an Italian tank and shot all its occupants except the driver. He (Nigel) was awarded the Victoria Cross, the highest award of gallantry that can be awarded to British and Commonwealth forces, albeit posthumously (he was killed when he tried the same stunt again).

In October 1954, the less accomplished Leakey’s home was attacked by 60+ Mau Mau freedom fighters who killed his wife and force marched him to the Mount Kenya forest. Almost all available accounts of his murder indicate that he was buried alive after being tortured and disembowelled. The murder was reportedly sanctioned as a human sacrifice to appease the spirits, but embarrassed the colonial government and forced it to look for a scape goat.

"Go catch someone, anyone!" The Courier-Mail Brisbane

“Go catch someone, anyone!”
The Courier-Mail Brisbane

A ‘Field Marshal Kaleba’ was the man the colonial government hanged for the gruesome crime. True to character, they paraded him before the media as a ‘Half-Kikuyu Half-Somali’ savage who had led the murder and sacrifice of Gray Leakey. The link above claims that he was captured with two bodyguards, a girl, and most importantly, Gray Leakey’s revolver. Some just named him as a leader of the Mau Mau, although no corroborating evidence exists on who the man was. He appears in no literature post-1954…

So who was he? We know from multiple accounts that there were the only Field Marshals were Muthoni, Mwariama, and Kimathi. So, again, who was ‘Field Marshal Kaleba’? Was the sacrifice of a government that needed to show some success in its fight? Well, we might never know, given the fact that the colonial office must have disposed off of those records to cover up for the fact that they picked up a random guy and gave him a rank and a crime. 

#1 Mathenge, the Tragic Hero

Not pictured: Mathenge

Not pictured: Mathenge


A tale weaved over the course of fifty plus years, and hardly ever questioned, that General Stanley Mathenge led a band of fighters to Ethiopia in 1956 and never came back. Kimathi and Mathenge were something akin to rivalling siblings. Kimathi usurped power from the uneducated Stanley Matheng’e and declared himself Field Marshal while Mathenge remained a mere general despite being older and more experienced.

The competition led to the creation of two main ideological factions within the group, one which was aligned to Kimathi and was called ‘Kenya Parliament’ and another called ‘Kenya Riigi’ which had a less defined hierarchy but was led by Mathenge and Kahiu-Itina (Gen.)…and no, the last one did not get his name from stabbing people in the ass, he used to sheath his sword around his waist such that it rested on his buttocks.

By 1956, the ideals of the Mau Mau had pretty much changed from those of a war for freedom to a civil war. Waruhiu Itote and others had turned and were giving valuable information to the colonial government. The colonial government, through the pseudo gangs, reached out to Mathenge and the broader ‘Kenya Riigi’ to change the rules of engagement.

A typical pseudo-gang...  How long did it take you to notice that there is a white man in the photo?

A typical pseudo-gang…
How long did it take you to notice that there is a white man in the photo?

General Kassam Gichimu Njogu gives a more plausible version of what really happened.Kimathi was pissed and ordered they (Mathenge and Kenya Riigi leaders) be court-martialed for treason. “Mathenge was bound with six fighters loyal to him to nearby trees as the court proceeded. A Wambui wa Nderitu from Mirangini in Nyandarua supposedly cut the ropes and Matheng’e and his group ran into the forest.”

Or posed with the corpses.

Or posed with the corpses.

Two likely scenarios? Kimathi or the British government caught up with, and killed, Mathenge. It is unlikely that the British government did because, from what happened during Waruhiu Itote and Kimathi’s own capture and trials, they would have made it into a propaganda victory. This leaves only one ugly but more likely event, Kimathi’s side of the Mau Mau re-arrested and executed him and made sure his body was never found. 

Kimathi had more to gain by portraying Matheng’e as an uneducated coward who had abandoned the cause than by admitting he had had him killed.  It was akin to a sibling fight for survival, and everyone lost, except in popular culture where Kimathi is almost deified and Matheng’e tucked to an incomplete part of history. Somewhere in the Mount Kenya forests lie the remains of Stanley Matheng’e and other prominent members of the Kenya Riigi.

“War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength.”
― George Orwell, 1984

Update, 6th June 2013.

A keen reader noticed that entry #6 is missing from this list. I apologize for the oversight and shall add the entry soon. As you were…



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3 Proofs that the Kenya Government believes in Magic

Do you know how difficult it is to dupe the government into buying fake things? The government has entire institutions dedicated to detecting fake things, police to investigate any fraud, and killer gangs to settle scores…and of course, your taxes to play around with… Apparently, its not harder than convincing your two-year-old that you have stolen her nose.

#3 Mahindras with Low Self-Esteem


What we asked for…

You probably remember Mahindra’s from the series Renegade, the police officer with a pony tail called Bobby Sixkiller had one. Apparently, that was all the KE police needed to know they needed one, make that more than 1, 000 units.

Chamanlal Kamani figured out something every Kenyan knows at birth, the government is all-seeing and all-powerful…ish. Through his company, Kamson’s motors, he tendered to supply 1, 000 units plus of Mahindra Jeeps at the cost of Shs. 1 million each to the Kenya Police…for cars that would not be charged duty, and were cheaper in local showrooms. It turns out that the government would have been better buying several flying brooms and pointed hats than buying the jeeps. Since you do not see any of the more than 1, 000 unit that were bought, well, at least now you know. Or they were sold off, who cares anyway.

what we got.

what we got.

…and if you clicked on the link above then you know the Kamani’s didn’t stop with the faulty Mahindras, they are the guys behind Anglo Leasing, CID forensic laboratory, and a few other scandals we wear on our lapels with pride.

Or was Bobby Sixkiller’s car a Hummer? Its not like we are experts or something…

#2 Bomb Detection through Sheer Will Power

What we asked for...

What we asked for…

Remember that one time you were carrying a bomb in your bag, ostensibly for work or some party, and then the police stopped you and magically known you were carrying a bomb? Then the big obese officer went directly for the bag and now is why you are in Guantanamo? No? Well, neither do I…but you remember how you would grab a butterfly or moth at its pupal stage and then make it do silly stuff? Like pointing towards where Nairobi is? Given that it could only wiggle in four directions, there was a one in 4 chance it would point to the right direction, right?

What we got... Alternative Caption...the belt doesn't look so bad, maybe it was a bargain...

What we got…
Alternative Caption…the belt doesn’t look so bad, maybe it was a bargain…

The government of Kenya has a magic wand that uses the same logic and not only that, it much works in the same way as Moses’s staff, wiggling around until it points towards the place where the would-be terrorist is hiding a bomb, or drugs, or a gun, or used condoms. This small Hogwart’s-stick-of-an-antennae can do pretty much anything if you have the right card. I am not joking, it uses cards which specify what you are looking for, and then you grab onto it as it seemingly pulls you towards the would-be offender.

Here it is in action (warning, the video below contains proof of magic, if you are a non-believer, please skip it).

The ‘maker of that magic wand‘ is already in court for lying to gullible governments which did not have any experts and it would seem, common sense, or Google even, to ascertain whether they really work…and where the other 2 entries are from 1995 and 1997 respectively, the video above is from April 2013, last month (*cough*cough*)

Since there is no scientific evidence of how the magic wand works, we can only guess that it is proof of what you can achieve with sheer will power.

 #1 TRANSFORM, or Jesus’  First Miracle

What we asked for...

What we asked for…

The ultimate proof that the government believes in magic and if we are Christian, then that Jesus did indeed turn water into such good wine that the groom woke up next to all the bridesmaids.

In 1997, the government, okay, to be fair, the City council of Nairobi, decided to procure chlorine for its three treatment plants. The tender went to a Kenyan called Kimani Kongo who decided that he knew something more effective at disinfecting water for the capital city…guess what he supplied?

You know this one…

Trust me, you do…

Think…if you won a tender to supply chlorine, and you intended to supply something cheaper, a joke maybe, but something powdery, what would you supply?

I am waiting…

Why are you acting like you haven’t been to school?

You know it…

Didn’t the teacher’s chalk disinfect your illiteracy?

Here is a hint, the answer is the sentence above.


Yes, he supplied the city godfathers with enough chalk to disinfect the entire water system, or, maybe, he intended it as a practical joke to show them they needed to go back to school.

Meanwhile, in Kimani Kongo's lab...

Meanwhile, in Kimani Kongo’s lab…

What did he do with the Kshs. 70 million they paid him? A good patriotic Kenyan this one, he bought a home in Muthaiga and a Mercedes Benz, returning most of the money to the economy…and of course he was a politician, accused of murder and grabbing land and houses in Woodley Estate, but none are as symbolic as chalk dust. 

Since the CCN paid him for the chalk dust (despite the blatant denial by the responding minister in the link to the Hansard record above), we can only assume that he told them that the water to be disinfected was the primer of sorts. That ‘dormant chorine that changes when you put it in water and pray” is better than all other colors of chlorine…but at least it was just the once...that we know of…



Seeing that we haven’t gotten any ‘dissolved’ chalk dust in our water systems since, and there has been no massive dumping of chalk, we can only assume it is what was used to color the City Council headquarters.

Owaahh, 2013.


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Shove over World, Africa Has Boobs Now!

This comment belongs inside here...

This comment belongs inside here…

Here! Have our kids! Eat our wives! We offer thee this sacrifice of our souls! Give us Money! Sell us things! We need! We Want! We will let you stare at our cleavage! Hell, you can even touch them while we are sleeping! You can look at my cleavage, but don’t make it too apparent, buy me dinner first, take my elected leader to a dark hotel room and make a pimp of him first, show me your constitution that I may copy it word for word without wondering why you are not going to be a superpower in half a century.

 The mother continent is a pot of energy, she is undergoing a phase where she is not sure nationalcleavagedaywhat her mood is, or whether the feelings are real. She is unsure about the acne, but she has boobs, they are perky and firm at last, and men are beginning to notice and salivate. She might be 15, but she is sure that hot gangster guy from her hood was checking out her chest when they ‘met’ (he was an ocean away, but it does not matter). It doesn’t matter if our mother says we are beautiful; we want outside validation. We want to hear the strange man who looks lives across the street tell us our breasts are attractive. We want to hear him tell us sweet nothings, that we are now of age, that we can now indulge. He wants us to go to the houses he built, where we will be too distracted to remember that breasts are not everything.

The next Vicar of Christ should come from Africa? The next successor of St. Peter should not be from the cradle of humankind? Kofi Annan’s two terms in the UN did not do any magic for Africa, nor would a Vicar of Christ who is a son of the motherland. He would not increase the number of souls going to St. Peter, nor would he canonize more Africans to satisfy our growing need for validation and recognition. He would not make Christians of our problems, nor would he do anything but dress in uncomfortable robes and be driven around in a silly-looking bullet-proof car, because what is faith without action?

African Grumpy Cat: no :-| NOT until an African asks me!

African Grumpy Cat: no 😐 NOT until an African asks me!

We had Kofi Annan at the United Nations, and Boutros Ghali before him; but I guess the latter does not count because he did not have the skin tone our mothers told us to marry. Actually, North of the Sahara is a no-go zone, unless they dress in robes and give us money and things, then we can lay prostate and call them kings.

While we continue to demand for a seat at the high table, we assume that getting the top positions will validate our right to eat; our turn to eat. Whether it’s the papacy, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the UN, European soccer leagues, American basketball-Africa is slowly ‘taking over the world’ or so we like to assume.

We are like the youngling who falls in love with the sugar daddy, the vastly experienced man with more around his stomach than gravity should allow. He knows he is fat and wobbly, and  too quick to shoot, but he knows money and a good life can cure all. What does the young thing know anyway? What does she know about this murky business of global politics? I will let her yell in the bar around my friends, make her a secretary, even let her tell me what to wear and why I should go to church. If I let her yell at me during our dinner date, she will most likely agree to my advances. Oh her perky breasts…

We feel that we have now come of age, that our

But the question is, is that minute African?

But the question is, is that minute African?

breasts are now firm and perky, and that the rest of the world must notice. They are all over us, courting us, buying us flowers and weapons so we can let them tap our oil (implied pun wholly intended) and suck our resources. While they have been at it all along, we now know enough to make a conscious decision.

We want to play in ‘the big leagues’, even poking our brothers to go and whore their talent. There is nothing here at home for you, dear, you must venture into the world [read anywhere but here] and make all of us proud. You must win and only come home to play for country and charity- also, send us things, and don’t, under any circumstances, marry anyone who does not bear the marks of our tribe.

In fact, at this tender age in our development, we have become gold-diggers, looking for the highest bidder to whom to sell our souls and the futures of our children unborn. We import from each other, but as one Obbo notes ‘one who marries his neighbor is not considered to be adventurous…” We will run, and win, and get paid, in your city marathons. We will play, and win in your leagues, and only go home to sleep after the walk of sh(f)ame. We will not read your newspapers or listen to the stories you tell your boys in the club as we perch on your thighs, until you say something racist- then we will use call all our friends, text our acquaintance ‘Oh no he didn’t!’ and gang up to lynch your ass with your computers, your internet, your patents, your money, your motel room key.44307_289825991143216_1057019466_n (1)

So our perky breasts are the talk of town, courtiers now fill father’s hands with goats, and fake polythene and drugs, and some take a dump in our backyard while we are too distracted to notice. They lace our food with drugs and take from us to give to us. Africa, young sassy Africa, has been conditioned to believe she cannot be beautiful without validation-that a safari should only matter if it’s the strange ones who don khakis and seek the thrill. She won’t scale her mountains, wash her own hair, she won’t even cut her nails, without waiting for Big Brother’s opinion.

We now know how to hide our acne under shades of gray, taught to us through soap operas and imported literature. So we fill our streets with foreign literature at a throwaway price, while we place our best minds in the friend zone, the never-to-be-seen-as-anything-but-a-symbol-of-brotherly-love zone where there is no sunlight but the tight hug and the occasional kiss on the cheek. No one wants what they have anyway, at least not in the age we are in.

We are boiling with energy, raring to go, eager to please, excited to experiment, craving for attention. We have discarded the previous generation of bras in favor of push-ups, to make sure the rest of the world cannot act like our cleavage is not the best thing before sliced bread and hot showers. We want a version of everything made for us, intended for our needs, and not for your first wives, mh. Mh. We are young and we do not care, who needs love anyway, give us money for food for the few, and the evening, and a glass of wine, a candlelit dinner, and enough attention, and we will not even ask whether you bothered to carry condoms.

Do you feel like this cartoon should have African characters? If yes, then it is you I am speaking to...

Do you feel like this cartoon should have African characters? If yes, then it is you I am speaking to…

Now we are demanding the Vicar of Christ’s seat, because that will most definitely make sure you cannot ignore our nipples. We had the UN seat, and a North African once held the Papacy but they are not ‘African enough.’ African must be dark as coal, with hair as brittle as a twig; African must be strong and sturdy, hefty, buff, with piercing eyes and a heavy accent. Anything else and you are getting duped, those breasts are fake, yes, you might have noticed, because your wife’s are too, but who really cares.

The old man, tired from fighting unnecessary wars, stealing wives, playing with money and doing things that only come with age, is mesmerized by this new young thing. Damn! Was she always this hot and sassy? How come I never noticed it when she was sprouting? Here Africa, have these things so I can have those juicy-looking things!

This cat is not African, can someone put an African cat in this picture?

This cat is not African, can someone put an African cat in this picture?

So we are standing here now, at this spot where you want the value for your money and I am ready to cry foul and scream I never saw this coming, I thought you were a nice guy who merely noticed my boobs and hunger and wanted to feed me. I will act shocked as you give me all the top seats and take away all my land, virginity, oil, resources, life, nipples, love, confidence, and destroy my idea of men. I will cry and wail and yell neo-colonialism yet I opened the door for you late at night and even caressed you, sending you delegations of foreplay to attract you to come visit me. At this point where we are now, or will be standing soon, I am wearing nothing but the clothes you gave me before you turned into ‘just another guy’ (the fact that your grandfather did the same thing to mine notwithstanding). There are no lessons from history, people change, the world is different now, and I can have ice-cream and do drugs with the fun girls! I can be president! I can be Vicar! I can be a Bra Model! Who cares for Common sense anyway?


Posted by on February 18, 2013 in Despair, Discourse, Events, Random Musings, Stupidity


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No Country for Skinny People, and Stories of Stolen Phones

Once I regained my composure, I realized that the moment when you it hits you that your precious phone is gone is an epiphany of sorts. You arrive at a quagmire where you have to make a life decision-do you scream, react, slap someone, ask for a hug, run after the thug or just sit there trying to soak it all in, like I did? When you have to go through all the stages of mourning in a split second, time slows down, and for a moment you can almost reverse time-travel, have the phone in your pocket in that moment, then acceptance.

I lost my last phone in Githurai 45, the place where phones go to die. At the time, I did not realize that I had joined a small and growing population of people who have fallen victim to that little town’s phone-snatching menace. It is when I first shared the story of the theft with my friends that everyone first sympathised with until I mentioned where it had been stolen. It turns out that losing your phone at Githurai is like getting mauled in a lion’s cage.

It must have the highest number of people per square mile with the guts to snatch your phone through the car window, run and stop thirty metres away and stare at you-as if daring you to alight and go after them. Githurai 45 is so insecure that any matatu or bus conductor worth his job is likely to start staying “Chunga simu! Chunga simu” as you arrive at that little stopover. You might have heard the saying “Your girlfriend is so insecure we call her Githurai 45 (pronounced ‘FORE FAE’). Any bump on the road is a potential risk area because of obious reasons, and any open window is an invitation to treat.

There are 10 phones being stolen in the scene in this picture. Go ahead, look more closely....

There are 10 phones being stolen in the scene in this picture. Go ahead, look more closely….

Losing you phone in this city, contrary to popular belief, is a good thing. It is a good thing for the economy, and for the phone companies. Some of us would stay with the same phone until the last button on the keyboard dies or the battery swells (Yours truly has had both, and still won’t let go of that one). Once your phone is stolen you have to buy a new one, injecting much-needed money into the economy and making the middle class look good. Getting your phone stolen is your civic duty, and I suspect that in the long queues of the eagerly anticipated March 4th elections, thieves will not only be getting elected to office, others will be in your pockets. The economy has needs, and no one can deny the economy what the economy wants.

We have reached the point in the economy where anyone who has a cheap phone is automatically assumed to have lost a smartphone and had to use the spare phone as the primary phone.

My phone was snatched by a guy who was inside the mini-bus, as opposed to the common victimology where the phone ‘goes through the window.’ Why didn’t I just scream and grab the guy in a matching blue T-shirt and cap? Because he was standing at the steps and I was seated in the inner aisle, and have you ever heard a man-scream? That, plus my adrenaline takes its time to kick in, it just slugged its way as the phone left my hands in the middle of a Tweet (I should have ran after him crying out “Finya OK! Finya Ok!’ huh? The most annoying thing was not even losing my phone 1t 11 AM the day before the end of the year, but the lady seated next to me. She started telling me ‘Aki nilikuwa nadhani ni yangu anaiba’ (I swear I thought he was stealing mine). Who does that? Who tells the victim of a crime that she feels lucky it wasn’t her. I should have slapped her in the mouth the way mother used to but I couldn’t because my slugging adrenaline was not yet in port.

A friend of mine once lost her phone when using the washrooms at Kenya National Archives. As she removed her pants to begin her business, the phone slipped out of her pocket and fell below the door. Since the business at hand could not be stopped, and there was hardly any movement outside, she decided it was safe to continue and pick her phone on her way out. She never found it, and even the janitor swore by his mother’s grave that he had not seen anyone take the phone.

Because no one wants you to walk out of the house without skills...

Because no one wants you to walk out of the house without skills…

I know someone else who dropped her phone when alighting from a bus. She heard the sound of something hitting the ground, look behind and saw someone bending to pick something and decided it could not be any of her business. Until later, when she realized it was her phone.

The art has been so well perfected that I suspect there are Yodas of the art now, taking on apprentices and showing them how to spot a mark and make a move, or a snatch, if you will.

The pick pocket is the scariest of all phone thieves, at least to me, because they take a risk that involves skill and patience.  I fear the heart attack that follows the moment you realize someone was in your pockets without your knowledge; so much for being conscious.I think being robbed, in the literal sense of the word, gives you time to accept the loss. Time that being pickpocketed or conned does not, it just of tosses you inside that den of lions and expects you to cope.The phone snatcher is also a marvel, he is almost always wearing a cap so all you see is a blur. Some people manage to scream ‘Mwizi! Mwizi! until their voices are hoarse. The most ingenious ones I’ve heard of was a group of three that lifted a laptop off an acquaintance of mine in a bus. 

If you want to see the thief brought to justice then you need to grow a pair of boobs, because that is all you need to have it easy….or a millitary ID, either of them will make grown men act at your behest. In fact, if you are already endowed with a pair of the tits, and your phone is snatched in the matatu, and you play your cards right, you can leave with a new smartphone from a Don Juan-there is no scarcity of men seeking damsels in distress to prey on in this Nairobi. I suspect that had I had been blessed with a pair myself, the conductor would have no qualms chasing after the thief and getting me my phone back, but not before dialing his own number and telling me his name. Sadly, however, this is not a country for men, and we skinny men are at the bottom of the tier, the lowest rung of modern middle class-driven society.

Unless they are fat too, then the dynamics must change...

Unless they are fat too, then the dynamics must change…

You would think thugs would target fat people-its only logic because they are heavier, and cannot make good running mates-but they target people like us, the skinny, because our society hates those who have succeeded in keeping their body mass below 60 Kgs. It is almost a crime to be skinny in this country, although there are many people in the gym right now fighting to join the Skinny Party. Our African culture tends to relate having a kitambi (beer belly) with riches- and a loving woman or barmaid. You will get served faster if you have a big tummy, and people will respect you more. Cops will even be more polite to you, at least at first, before you open your mouth and ruin your own luck.

If you are skinny then you have to make an extra effort to get the teller to believe the money you are withdrawing is actually yours and you are not a thief or a boy toy of some old rich woman. The onus, and the pressure, will even force you to buy a newspaper once in a while so people can give you an ounce respect. Most people, including the phone thieves who are themselves skinny, do not even know they have a ‘skinny people bias’. Fat people look rich, or endowed, and will be served before you in a restaurant. In the man world, if a 50 Kg man sits on a table next to a 90 Kg man who looks nine months pregnant, the bill will be brought to the latter. To women, that is completely normal when they are on a date but to men, there are ego issues to sort out.

Disclaimer: This is only a hypothesis, the would-be sample population is not exactly forthcoming with data...

Disclaimer: This is only a hypothesis, the would-be sample population is not exactly forthcoming with data…

Note that this mostly applies to males, although there is a pecking order in the female world too. At the top of the chain are the lightskinned medium sized middle class women with more products on them than an aisle in a beauty shop. At the bottom of the ladder are the skinny colourless girls with too much geek to shop for a good bra. The obese women with serious self-esteem issues are slightly above. Men will give them seats in a matatu because they are afraid of the possible impact, not for chivalry.

...or the next best thing, a man with man boobs...

…or the next best thing, a man with man boobs…

Back to skinny males, culture expected a man to grow a tummy once he was married and rich. It was and still is regarded as a sign of opulence, that one is now too settled to want to see their own reproductive organs. You will see it with men who rub their tummies during a conversation, sending subliminal messages that they are hungry, and bored, and important.

If you are skinny then the shop attendant will be rude and hormonal since her first assumption is that you are just windowshopping. If you have the kind of egos they are giving birth to these days then you might even buy a car, three cars even, to prove to the car dealer that you are not toying with him trying to find out why a Vitz is more expensive than a Probox. The pressure to tip the waitress is immense, because the sneer on her face everytime you distract her asking your fat friend whether he wants a refill is more scary than annoying.



The skinny guy will have to work harder to get the ladies attention because the first impression is that he is a high school or young campus boy with nothing to show. He is best left as a boytoy, never for anything of meaning.

The bouncer at the entrance to the club will most definitely freeze you and demand your ID, and even then illuminate your face to confirm. A fat person will, unless they have small boobs, just walk through. A tummy also implies you did not use public transport, and that you can afford your own beer and meat.

You can’t even fit in the space between seats in a matatu, where you will be inevitably forced to sit if you use public transportation in Nairobi. Where a ‘buff’ person can comfortably anchor themselves on the seats on either side, leaving only the crack in the middle, a skinny guy can only anchor on one side. Its sad, having to hold on to the person seated next to you and with one cheek in the air as you grab the seat next to you with your butt crack. Being skinny is a crime!

Actually, if you are skiny you might as well tell the butcher to sell you steak because you are in for a good duping. The size of the bone the butcher selects is subjective and is dependent on how much he thinks you know about meat; being a skinny thing the first assumption is that you are gullible and therefore unlikely to to complain when half your order is nothing but connective tissue.

Discrimination on the basis of body mass; survival for the fattest.

Discrimination on the basis of body mass; survival for the fattest.

I challenge you to go and shop for pants or belts if the only thing on your waist is your pelvis. Its the skinny man who must use up a great deal of his lifetime getting the tailor to reduce the waist size on his pants, and the shop to reduce the length of his belt, while the heavyset pregnant-looking man can focus on more important matters.

There are so many people walking around with a fat person in them waiting to be fed into existence. Thieves do not want you, neither does the government, or even the women, being skinny is a curse, you should cancel your gym subscription and stock your fridge with GMOs.

Where you would think evolution would have discriminated against fat people-for obvious reasons-it seems skinny people are now in the outliers, waiting for the inevitable mutation or extinction. Maybe the zombies will restore the balance of nature as Darwin perceived it.

Owaahh, 2013.


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