Ever been in a police cell?

I bet you haven’t. You are a law-abiding citizen, yes?
So was I, until I wasn’t. That was last Sunday morning.

Life can be depressing. More so when I get a call in the frigging hour of 6.00am on a Sunday morning the only day I get to sleep like a normal human being. The call goes something like; come to the office now!! Run or hire a jet (with my two shillings salary) but be here ASAP!

Some citizens decided to help themselves with some money in the office, yours truly and the entire crew of other aspiring pensioners in the workplace had officially signed their ticket to doing woodwork and carpentry in prison. We were all fucking suspects!

Seriously, do people still break into an office and steal money in 2013?
Like hell they do. Especially the dumb ones.

I dragged my sleepy ass to the office, mumbling incoherent things to myself because I was either half awake or oh yes I remembered, I went partying last night and now it would take me a whole year to recover..
I got to the boardroom and found like three dozen employees already gathered, a dead calm space, all eyes cast on the ground. I thought to myself, it’s a Sunday, they must be memorizing their chapters and verses from whatever religious book they have gathering dust under their cabinets, then three policemen walk in, and I knew the shit just got serious.

Here is the thing, if you work in a place where money change hand and the money in question disappears mysteriously, you can go to prison, if you have ever come into contact with the office safe, you can go to prison, if you have ever come to as near as to looking at the said safe, you law-abiding citizen can say goodbye to your porn collection. You don’t have those? Okay, me neither.

You will start praying but before you remember where we start the Lord’s Prayer, the said three policemen will have whisked your ass in their van, all sirens blazing.
And so it happened that we had to record police statements and go through gazillion hours of interrogation, ten hours to be precise. While this was happening, we were locked in a police cell, waiting in turns for our questioning.
Some fellow employees were not amused at all; they wear these imported designer clothes and walk around with grand air of importance.

Now, I don’t suppose you are the President’s daughter, so just save your breath and sit your ass with the rest of the commoners. Else, you will receive the beating of your lifetime from the said three policemen, as soon as words like I know my rights and Kenya is a diplomatic country are out of your mouth, a whole parade of officers will have put you in your right place, which could be anything from smashing your balls or biting off your nipples.
You-just-got-served

What I am trying to get at is, you are better off keeping your mouth shut because the more you try to prove your level of high education, the more you are intimidating the men in blue and naturally, I believe you like your balls and nipples. So keep taking notes.

Inside the police cell, you will find other Kenyans who being a weekend are mostly the call girls and your usual drunk and disorderly Raias. One look at you and they will know that you are not one of them. They have a street code or something.

Being regulars, they know the nitty gritties of how the police force works. They will want to know what brought you here and give you advice more than your lawyer could and they will predict a verdict right there.
Some will shout their indignation, roaring in arguments which will resound in the corridors. This might irritate the police officer on duty who might come inside the cell to show you who is the boss. The said call girls will get into heated argument with the police officer saying they are Mother Earth themselves and they have every intention of outliving every court in this godforsaken country and being the wise one, he will haul insults at them and walk away.

There was this girl of about twenty-one lying semi consciously on the floor; once she woke up, she stood suddenly to reach for her pockets; checking whether her tools of trade were still intact. There is this powder they use to drag their customers; I don’t know what it’s called. She had three packets of those. Being the curious one, I asked her to show me how it looked like which she did and then hid them inside her panties. She had also smuggled a phone inside the cell, which she used to call someone, yowling erratically at them to come and bail her out.
Meanwhile, the rest of my colleagues were discussing in hush tones what could have transpired, others were crying their hearts out praying to the Lord of Daniel.

Our relatives came in turns to check on us, bringing tea and cake with them. They were devoured by our fellow cell mates because we were too shocked to eat anything. Besides, we were taught to wash our hands before we eat and no water was in sight, such was the air of importance we carried around with us..

Ten long hours later, we walked to our freedom.

A traumatic experience for me indeed. So traumatic that I’ve been getting the shakes on an off for a whole week. But I will survive.

As of the theft, it was an ‘organized’ plan between one employee and a hired gang. The case is still in court but by the look of things, the buffoon will be spending a several years prison.

And such are the days of our lives.

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Self Identity

Hey Kitties 😀

What do you have going for you?

This may lie in things like religious beliefs, a person or calling you would die for, your way of life etc.
Take me for instance, I love and dream women like my life depend on it. I am fond of pizzas, chocolate …and on and on the list goes. If you are a healthy freak, maybe what you have going on for you is your ability to live on steamed vegetables and carrots every single day of the year. Living permanently on the grocery section of the supermarket is what tickle your fancy.

Necessary side note: I would rather eat nothing than live on steamed vegetables; I’d rather eat an ant hill.

There has to be a thing you identify with so clearly. Something that makes people aah and ooh at you. Here comes Jane and her runaway mouth! a statement I use on one of my co-worker. She never stops talking that woman.

I had a conversation with a friend recently and seeing lust is my first name, we were talking matters sex. I will call the said friend Ed. As in Edward, I keep explaining things because you might think I am talking about a friend with erectile problems:

Me: Which day of the week is it? (Sometimes I even forget my name)
Ed: Friday, why?
Me: Eer, how is your girlfriend?
Ed: (grinning), whimsical as usual.
Me: You mean you guys are still feeding each other pickled onions during sex?
Ed: Hell yeah! Yesterday she burned my knob with a candle.
Me: eeer so your eeerr is half way burned now, can I see?
Ed: (unzipping his pants)
Me: (panicking) Stoop Ed! I am kidding! I don’t want to see that creature!
Ed: (grinning, again) but it is not a creature, damnit! Why can’t you say PENIS and move on!
Me: But why do you do those things during sex, what if she falls asleep on top of you and burns your entire manhood?
Ed: But I like it! Did I tell you about the day I almost bite off one of her nipples?
Me: (throwing my eyes to heaven), can we talk about something else?

After he had successfully scared the lust out of me, I realized that maybe the two individuals lived for kinky sex. Maybe that is what keeps them going.

Evaluating my here and now, past or present, my brain goes into a host of locations. I have identified areas in life I am not good at and vice versa, some things I can do in my sleep while some, I do trial and error until I master them. Like math for example. I have to repeat one equation a thousand times to get it right.

Talking of math, there is a fourteen y.o kid I saw recently getting interviewed; he is doing a Master’s Degree Yo! He fancies Quantum Physics and such like stuff.

I mean, people on this earth can make you feel inadequate.

It is a world full of ghouls and knaves and this is when self-identity becomes your best companion. Identifying what you are good at and doing it good.

As a kid when mother dressed me in a dress I didn’t fancy, I used to pour water all over myself and even though she would give me a good beating, I wouldn’t go to church or wherever with a dress I considered ugly. Poor mother, I always kept her on her toes. I was a stubborn kid maybe but that is what got me through my childhood days. I identified with my stubbornness.

People’s idealistic goals about you don’t matter.

Live for your cause and enjoy the things that give meaning to your life.

... aand watch movies

… aand watch movies

Snapbacks and tattoos……and lesbians

Hey tits owners 😀

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The hiatus is over. I missed you guys and I missed this three months blog baby of mine. Sorry for replying your many emails this late (all fifty of them). Three actually, sigh.

Where I was you ask? Well, I would have loved to say I went to Siberia and discovered salt mining is the ultimate hobby to richness or I was tanning my thighs in a beach somewhere in Jamaica, sipping cold margaritas, poking my kindle and sending nudes on my Samsung Galaxy 4.

Thing is, I don’t own a kindle or the aforementioned phone. And my thighs are black as coal, au naturel. But I really fantasize about the said gadgets and I keep wondering which person in the family pedigree wronged the sweet Messiah so much because money and I have never seen eye to eye. Not because we hate each other but because I have never known where to get it. You will notice that I have used the word because in this paragraph over four times, the idea is to piss off the grammarnazis, I have one hundred problems and writing proper English is not one of them.

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Back to my sabbatical. Apart from my imaginary holiday, I was meditating. Yeah, I can totally walk on water now.

I am at a point in life where I feel I need a turning point. Like the Otonglo kid, my hand yearns for the President’s handshake. I am bored to death by everything in my life. People get stuck and bored sometimes in their life, they keep it to themselves and I bitch about it.

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Maybe I should sell my ovaries, or start selling drugs, or make my womb useful and try surrogacy, or sleep with my boss, or buy a gun and start killing every moving object standing in my way to richness. Which of these sounds less criminal?

I think selling my ovaries is the best choice considering the punishment of painful periods and the one hundred pimples I get on my face during this cycle, one for every Maumau warrior who died fighting for Kenya independence. There is a direct link between my menstrual cycle and the grave. They are the worst four days of my life. Imagine having to visit the Niagara falls every four days of the month in your life. I am sure the real Niagara falls are beautiful, but I am not so much an outdoor person so no I hate the frequent visits. The cramps make me cry and gnash my teeth in agony and they are the only days in my life I keep wishing I was a man. How sad.

Being a man that is.

I would never want to be a man in my life even if the human race depended on it, never.

Does that make me a sexist? Or what is the word? I can’t remember but I am sure the people who work under the men empowerment department can always leave a comment and educate me, and call me names while at it.

Some people will call this depression with a capital D and they will say I have a mental illness and I am a total nutter. They will suggest that people better avoid me and talk to me slowly because anytime I might start throwing flying objects at them. But as I have said earlier, everyone get depression sometimes in their life, it is part of being alive.

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People get depressed about not having enough money and that is what I am depressed about. Top-of-the-range, no-expense-spared depression. I might come out as very entertaining talking about it but my life right now seems like the big party where my ass was not invited.

A whole depression package of a life with no menu or map.

Money is not everything or so I hear. Whisper that to me again when I am sipping Chardonnay inside a chocolate bath tub and then maybe we can have that conversation.

Relax people, I will snap out of it. Especially if all of you happen to give me your ATM cards, accompanied by their passwords of course.

What was the topic of this post again? Stares into space….

That reminds me that I owe you guys a post about lesbian sex, patience is a virtue.

Isn’t it?

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My Motivation

Hey kittens 😀

I have cat submissions to do in the next two days. I like pushing things until deadline is mauling me in my sleep (deadline doesn’t do that, terrible schooling). Last minute runs, because running was invented in Kenya. Bleh.

When I finally figure out when my uterus will carry a child, I will redefine motherhood. That kid will be trained on how to not do their homework from uterus day one. I have heard that motherhood is a natural experience. You know, like how you shit and stuff. No training is required. I read blogs in the toilet; nothing comes naturally after you spend fifteen minutes seated on a big bowl.

I am like, the only natural thing I do is natural yoghurt, which I hate but drink anyway since it is good for things under there or I don’t know, Google is not my friend.  Besides, I never liked sciences in school. I basically hated all subjects and it is a pity that I made it through and wasted my parent’s money (sorry, folks!). I remember when my biology teacher came to class with drawings of reproductive organs and my heart crushed.

Back to today’s main topic. I have a short concentration span. My bad.

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Small brain

I want to be rich. Like gay men in the Time’s magazines rich. Own little Chihuahuas and pink dolls. And white surfaces and African art collections. Afford to have a Jacuzzi airlifted in my bathroom and have mirrors everywhere in my basement. Because I have to see the awesomeness of my cars in 3D. Have manis and pedis daily, although I think it is a total waste of chocolate money.

I love all my gay brothers. But is there some secret code that says you have to don white everything and yes, what’s will all the money? Also, someone has to explain to me why all gay dudes have abs. At least the ones I know personally. I would really like to know because I intend to come back as a straight succubus in my afterlife.

Really fine brothers from another father. Tightens my lesbian screws.

Money motivates me. And beautiful co-workers

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I don’t persevere the morning traffic and wake up early like a mad woman just to be bored at work. I hate my job so there has to be something I look forward for waking up to everyday.

A friend has a crush on his female lecturer. Fair enough. It makes him go to school every day. There has to be something going on in your life. Could be the fact that you are broke and pizza craving drives you crazy, or beer or just anything. Or you want to surprise her with an expensive gift on her birthday or anniversary. But you can’t afford that shit and hell has no fury like a broke woman.

Money is my biggest motivator. I don’t care whether I will get it at the hands of my maniac boss or wherever, I have to harlem shake all the way to my bank. I am overwhelmed at how much I can do when I want the bank notes. I am lazy at many things, like cooking. But when it comes to envisioning my future with lots of money in the bank, Bolt can’t beat that.

Every minute in your life counts. Bathe your neighbor’s kid, do community work, volunteer in a children’s home, anything. Success won’t find you in your pity party mode. You have never set foot in a college door, so what? Steve Jobs did not die for that crap!  

Pass time doing something you like, like writing crappy blogs (I am a living example), cook something, you just might discover your culinary skills while at it. Have an outlet to life. Bore people to death with recycled jokes, or posting gazillions of pictures in face book every day, they might give you a job in a mental institution.

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Exactly,no?

                                                   Don’t just sit and do nothing.

To live is to choose, but to choose well, you must know who you are and what you stand for, where you want to go and why you want to get there.

 

If you don’t like where you are, move, you are not a tree’.

I hate quotes.

Happy weekend y’all.