Letstoriesunfold ™

Hii Nairobi kuna watu tofauti, for example, there are those that work hard, those who don't, those who wake up to chase the bag, and those who wake up to chase the bag that you have been chasing.  In the heart of Nairobi, under the shadow of the bustling city, my friend Alan, a tech-savvy software developer with a penchant for pranks and a sharp wit resided. One lazy afternoon, as the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the city in hues of gold and crimson, Alan's phone buzzed to life with an unexpected call. "Hello,  tunakupigia kutoka Safaricom Customer care,"  the voice on the other end responded with a confident, almost rehearsed tone. Alan, intrigued yet cautious, decided to play along but with his own twist. "This call is now being recorded,"  Alan announced, his voice steady, betraying none of his amusement. There was a brief pause, the kind that hangs in the air like a question mark, before the scammer continued, his voice now laced with a hint of...

Nataka niseme hii story initoke.  Yesterday, I was coming from a candle lighting occasion held at one of the estates along Mombasa road. The candle lighting was for one of my Gs who had rested on Saturday late at night. The news had hit me hard on Sunday morning, like a sledgehammer impact on a surface when I got to know. I am in the company of three people. One friend called Mulla, who writes spectacular articles touching on creatives, and two acquaintances. We had just arrived in town, and it looked like it had rained before. As we are all heading in the same direction, we decide to go board the same matatu, Super metro, at archives.  The matatu fills up pretty quickly, considering it's almost one am at night, and it's so damn cold. Funny thing, the conductor I can't see him. Where is he disappearing off to when the matatu is full? I can sense the growing frustration among other passengers who are also wondering, where has he gone off to?  As we all wait for the conduct...

           Kuna hizi silhouettes za a popular figure zimekuwa zikinimaliza ajab, plus story ya Baltazar Engonga ikatokea, that legend, singlehandedly putting his country on the map. The last time I heard anything concerning that country was many years ago, when I was in primary. Kidogo nisahau kuwawekea story mfurahie.  Anyway, nilikuwa nimejipata nimepitia thread ya “in my prime” kwa social media, sikumbuki kama ni TikTok ama Twitter, a few days prior ndio nikakumbuka hii story, after kushangazwa na revelations za watu, particularly, what people's daughters did in their prime. I had an ordeal in the hands of my own mother twenty-five years ago that I have failed to forget. Back in the day kuna wale wazee walikua wakizunguka vitongoji duni wakinunua "chupa na debe" n old stainless steel sufurias. The pioneers of Mari kwa Mari, or old skull Mari kwa Mari.  (For context and for those who don't know,  Mari kwa Mari  are people who go aroun...

Denno felt his blood pressure spike. He didn’t even bother responding. He jumped up, grabbed his jacket, and bolted out the door.  When he got to the club, his heart was racing, not from the sprint, but from the anger simmering within. He spotted them immediately—Stacy, looking too comfortable, laughing at something this guy had said. Denno could feel his fists clenching.  He took a deep breath, trying to calm down, then marched straight up to them. “Stacy!”  he called, his voice louder than intended. She looked up, eyes wide with shock.  “Denno!  What are you doing here?” “I should be the one asking you that.  Busy at work,  sio?”  he spat, glaring at the guy beside her, now looking more amused than concerned. “Relax, bro,”  the guy said, raising his hands.  “We’re just having a good time.” “A good time?  Dude! This is my girlfriend!”  Denno fumed. “Denno, calm down,”  Stacy said, standing up.  “This is just a collea...

Denno was having one of those days where everything just seemed to flow.   He had hit the “Send” button on his final proposal a few days back and leaned back in his chair, stretching and yawning. He had just received an email confirmation that his proposal had been accepted.  He couldn't believe it, he had just landed a big online gig that promised good money and a steady workflow for the next three months.  As a freelancer, this was the equivalent of hitting a jackpot in his world.  “Babe!  Guess what!”   he shouted towards the kitchen, where Stacy, his girlfriend, was busy preparing breakfast. “What's up?”   Stacy replied, glancing at him with a smile that could melt an ice cap. She was dressed in her corporate attire—a crisp white shirt and a pencil skirt—ready to head to her office job. “I just secured that big contract I was telling you about!  We’re eating good,  for the next three months!”  Denno grinned, showing his exciteme...

Under the TV I adorned the biggest boner I have ever seen. It looked like it was supporting the tv on its own, trying to rip off the shorts. Since I was a commando with baggy shorts, it protruded and looked like Pinocchio’s nose after telling several lies. It stood like a jousting lance. Shit!  I froze.  I pressed my thighs together, trying to hold the dingdong back in vain. Shit! What should I do? I panicked and almost threw the TV down.  (I might have dropped it,  but,  with my sperminator  at that angle  it could never have fallen down)  Mohawk had walked two steps ahead of me. He stopped, looked back and asked “Buddy, what is wrong?” “Kuna shida, njoo kidogo,”  When he came near I whispered,  “I have an erection.” He looked beneath the TV and then looked at me, while holding his laughter, he whispered,   “It looks like a rhino’s horn,  it looks angry too,”  After laughing for a while he added,  “I actually have a ...

I looked at Mohawk and asked him if he wanted one. He nodded. I told the hawker I would take two at Kes 100. The bus was on its last bump as the hawker reluctantly agreed and took the money. I gave Mohawk one stick as I tried to figure out how to start chewing the toothbrush.  The stick had a thick bark that I tried peeling off but I soon realized I might be doing it wrong. Mohawk had already started chewing on his, so I just followed suit. He looked at the TV and asked, “What happened to the TV?” “It fell and the screen cracked,” “Pole,  I know an electronics fundi along Luthuli Avenue.  A very  trustworthy fellow  I could hook you up  if you are interested.” “That is exactly what I need,  would you mind taking me to him?” “No problem buddy.” We chewed and brushed while making small talk like old pals until the bus reached its destination at the Odeon cinema about an hour later. We alighted as I carried the TV with the screen resting on my tummy while...

 I no longer trust hawkers. Flashback Two years ago I bought a black tie from a hawker in town, at night, only to find out the next morning that it was a green high school tie with a school emblem stamped in black ink and a name Brian written at its base. Brian must have been a form one student.  I should have learnt my lesson,  but that  is a story for another day. I left work early , for Easter, and took a matatu straight home. I found my wife seated on the patio, weeping. Upon inquiry, she told me that our daughter had hit our T.V with a serving spoon and broke the screen. The T.V  is one of those cathode tube ray T.V’s  (the ones with huge backs) I love my T.V. and my wife knows it. I can kill for it. My love hierarchy is; T.V, daughter, parents, wife, other things follow. I guessed she (wife) must have broken it and blamed my princess. On Friday I decided to take the T.V to Luthuli Avenue in the CBD to have the screen replaced since I planned to keep m...

This is a continuation f rom  the first part of   Nyama Enjoy. I parked my chopper and went over to check the carcass. I found it was still oozing warm blood, then I quickly scanned the area and found that it was clear, not a car in sight for miles. I was still scratching my head, thinking about what to do, when I saw Jakofu.  He lived a stone's throw to where I was. He was herding a caucasian's goats when I whistled to alert him. He knew what was up because he came with a major (hunter's knife). The moment Jakofu came, we moved to where the Zebra's carcass was and started to quickly divide up the meat.  I even got a gunia to carry the meat in. I thought to myself, today at Mama Njoki's place there will be an invigorating aroma that will make people's mouths water. I also knew that my hands would be fortunate to caress some notes and coins for my thoughtfulness.  The day was promising to be a success. Jakofu helped me to load my luggage onto the bike, and I left...

This days, I don't eat meat, be it red, white, or multi colored like an army's gear.  Reason why?  Let me take you a few years back. I used to live at Naivas by then, a common hustler in that lakeside estate called Kihoto, kwa mukorino mwisho. Living in a single mabati apartment room posh enough to have a cemented floor.  When I say hustler, I mean hustler or rather what Mbusii says, “sufferer”. There are people who came through massively for me in my life a lot like Mama Njoki. Mama Njoki had certain a “Villa Rosa Kempinski” kibandaski, near the stage offering, and serving all types of meals.  At Mama Njoki's place you could even have a pizza if you fancied.  Let's chill on that for a moment. Back to the main story, I was a life member at Mama Njoki's, meaning it's where I took all of my meals. I could eat, without a coin to my name because I was trusted. You are wondering how I pulled it off,  aren't you? We used to supply the place with assorted foodstuf...

The following proceedings occurred when Anko Ice was still a bachelor and reckless. Any attempt to refer to this against Anko Ice in the future shall be construed as a declaration of hostilities and shall be met with the vilest kao remote-controlled magic if you know what I mean. Man must eat, and therefore, man must work. Anko finds himself in Tongaren, Bungoma, with two of his other buddies. We did our work, and after finishing what had brought us to Tongaren, Bungoma, and receiving our dues, we decided it was time to venture out and explore and experience “vitu za huku” .  We ended up in a pub that looked like it had seen better days. It had a sound system or as the locals called it “retio” with the worst sound quality you have ever heard, blaring out Lingala like whoever was singing was being strangled mercilessly, or as the layman would put it,  (alikuwa anaimba ni kama anapigwa ngeta) After a hearty meal of brown ugali and chicken with some mrenda, we started downing the...