Of sailors and beautiful girls

Do not accuse me, dear reader, of being mundane in my writing seeing as it is I have not delivered any post containing deep issues bent on world enlightenment. I have disappointed you, educated one, for that, my deepest apologies. But sometimes a man must write for the sake of writing,  a man must seek vindication, any where or everywhere, and in writing, even the mundane, lies redemption. So as I sit in my office, my colleague busy watching a movie, the Monday blues tampering with my work morale, I chose to tell you about my Saturday sojourn in the confines of a bar in Hurlingham called Sailors. I do so not because my Saturday was better than most but because of an aspect of this place that appealed to my fancy.

Sailors is a cool place, at least in my book, and I’m sad that I just discovered the place after having to suffer for so long in crowed noisy CBD bars. The bouncers at the entrance were a tad too strict on the age limit, I don’t quite remember how old they  were asking but one of my pals had to borrow an Id from her older sister in order to pass. On the brighter side, this kept most teens out of the club, in particular a bunch of six or so high school louts who were busy trying to bribe the said bouncers for admittance. I got news for you toddlers, grow some beard or ask your dad to buy the damn club or otherwise just party at the likes of Tacos and steps. The upstairs section was comfy with its expansive sofas and its lack of congestion and the music here was suave and mature. After being placed strategically in the middle of my three female companions, I would have been comfortable to remain there with my ice cold pilsner ice hadn’t my pals gotten restless with their urges for dancing. So I was, with indignation no less, dragged to the underground section which was more livelier and more to the taste of my friends.

Here the crowd was busy getting down and in the world of some obscure artist, shaking what their mamas gave them. You should have seen my pals shake their ample behinds, and since they were all well endowed kaos, you can bet your sweet *** men were ogling. Holy cow how they ogled, such ogling can only be fathomed in a mind totally obsessed with the ogle of beautiful ladies shaking, with extreme vigor, their sizable assets. I even took pictorial evidence but I shall not insert  them here due to the effort needed to get this task accomplished. Hell I even got molested, temporarily by one of them but i shall insert the pictures at a later date. The music was okay here and we danced our hearts out till our bodies were spent with exhaustion. Unlike most pubs, here men don’t disturb ladies when they stand to dance which is a refreshing change from the hyenaic tendencies of the Nairobi man. So for those who like bars where you have a choice in the type of music, between loud an jiggy or mellow old school, then I recommend you add sailors to your favorite pubs list. You can get more helpful information regarding the pub here http://www.hurlingham-noticeboard.com/?ad_listing=sailors-bar-restaurant-lounge-2

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A tale of beauty and wolves-season finale

Ps read the previous two posts in order to get a grip of the whole story.

Rafiki was fun, but we dint stay and we decided to head to town and check out this new Galileos extreme at Lifestyle. The place is cool, all Galileos are cool, and we take a strategic high table from where we could survey the place, drink comfortably and get down like the world depended on it. The waiter saunters to our table and takes our orders, a pilsner ice for me, a tusker for gathosh and  redds for our lovely pal, C. The music was ok and I basically spent the time there ogling at my pal doing those sexy kao dancing moves, made more delicious by her figure hugging dress. This is where I should probably point out that even Ngilu would be jealous seeing as it is someone from her backyard was giving her a run for her money.

It would be wrong to tell this story, having mentioned C, without going all back to masaku sevens. Masaku happened, masaku was fun, masaku had too many beautiful ladies sauntering about in their colorful clads and looking all saucy under the fair weather. I dint watch any match though, I was too busy drinking, eating and admiring the bevy of beauties who had trooped to either watch the match or be watched by the ravenous Nairobi crowd. After raiding some Mulei supermarket and arming ourselves with several drinks (alcoholic), we made our way to the stadium where we, after a large and expensive meal, (Meg i still want my balance) we made a circle and got down to serious drinking. Shortly after the melee began, Gathosh in his characteristic fashion appeared with several ladies in tow and one of them,  a very jumpy lady, happened to be C. The afternoon was interesting, one can’t go wrong with alcohol and beautiful ladies, and time drifted by too first. Soon it was dark and it was time to head to wizards for the after party where, though the music wasn’t all that, the crowd was fantastic and the ladies were hot as the January sun. Now C is a bundle of energy, to use her own words, ”  a one woman army.” It is impossible to be around her, to listen to her weird ideas (can’t be shared here) and not like to add her to one’s friend list. It doesn’t hurt that shes super hot either and apart from the puffy colorful dress she had on that day, she’s super cool in my books. It would be literal nepotism not to mention other peeps like George, meg and Vinny who were in our entourage and the likes of Aggie, Fridah, michelle, Kate and the rest of C’s friends. Can’t wait for next years edition but for now, lets hope Nanyuki rally this weekend shall be  fun.

Going back to our story, we were the last patrons to leave Galileos and ended up in fedha for a good morning sleep and a day of lazing round doing nothing but eating and movies. Life is short people, its advisable to live as if there is no tomorrow now and then and make memories with the people who matter. Should you pass on, we should have the pride to inscribe, in your tombstone, that he died without regret and he left no stone, and for others skirts, unturned.

A tale of beauty and wolves part 2

PS: kindly read the previous post in order to continue with this one.

For those who are privy to the previous post, to which this one is a continuation, we were describing a certain vivacious and utterly hot lady. But to put context to such a description, and woe unto those who missed it, the said lady was gyrating her extremely awesome and indisputably mesmerizing hips in a certain bash held in Rongai to celebrate the birth of a certain lad whose identity is not known to me. The room was small and filled to capacity with humanity engrossed in different activities from the imbibation of liquor to the thrill of dirty dancing with ladies and gentlemen clearly in a mood for some social and possibly carnal fun. There were several ladies in the house and it would not be possible to to give an accurate description of them in this post which is constricted by both time and space. But I do remember this particular one, clad in blue miniskirt and flaunting her bosom in what appeared to be a  skimpy vest. The said lady was enthralled with this dude whom they seemed to be getting it on in the kitchen, I’m not quite sure they were just enjoying a  harmless dance. It would be unfair not to mention the liquor lady, mama pima if you may, whose sole intent was to get every one drunk. She seemed to be quite effective in her role since by the time I arrived at the party, around 9pm, most of the people were senselessly drunk.

Most of my pals were around and its always a pleasure having one’s friends in one place with such  friendly fellowship blessed by sweet liquor and bonded by eternal whiskey. Take for example my pal George, a guy I’ve known since form 1, who by all definition can be said to have his shit all together and not one to be swept down by any amount or brand of alcohol. But this night the guy saw black out before 11pm, a testament as to the amount of alcohol available at this night and not the kind of cheap liquor usually available in most bashes. My other pal gathosh, he is a lad, wasn’t too drunk; maybe because he is a drunkard (all pun intended) or simply because he was too animated with certain ladies as to pay attention to his liquor. This would have turned out to be a party of epic proportion, one to rival the likes of project x and the hangover had the caretaker and house agent not decided to bring an end to it. All in the name of complaining neighbors; in my humble opinion, they were just jealous. So My pals left and i would have been immediately behind them hadn’t the liquor lady decided to play hide and seek with my shoes in a bid to stop me from leaving; what her intentions were, I shall not guess. By the time I got on the road, my pals were already home and one of them, whom we were to continue partying after linking up with another lady, was already at Rafikiz.

This, my dear reader, is how I ended up in Ngong forest at 2 am in the night pitted against three mighty wolves and emerging victor after some courageous and quick reflexes. To tell you the truth I don’t know how I got lost, somewhere around Bomas and rather than ending up long lang’ata road I ended up in Karen. I do remember going all the way to the junction but I must have taken another wrong turn because I ended up somewhere in dagorreti. To add salt to injury, and in a manner still fuzzy to me, I ended up in the middle of the expansive kibera slums. I cast my eyes unto the fuel meter only to realize that it was past the empty mark, my God, my heart nearly dropped down to my gut especially with the sight of menacing kids lurking on the sides of the road. Its after my narrow escape from this slum that I ended up in Ngong forest, talk about the proverbial saying “from the pan to the fire.” I do not have to recount the momentous events that occurred within the confines of this dark jungle but I shall continue wondering how I ended up in kabete nd the waiyaki way when all I wanted to do is make my way to rafiki and join gathosh and this cute lady for what seemed likely to be an interesting continuation to the party. Finally, after being lost for over two hours, near death fight with wolves, I  made my way to rafikiz and into the embrace of the most lovely lady I saw that night and a cold beer from my friend.

PS: To be continued

A tale of beauty and wolves

Saturday night, at 2 am in the night, i was having a small rendezvous with the wolves somewhere inside Ngong forest. There were three of them, huge and majestic, one of whom wasn’t all too happy to have a homo sapien interrupt their midnight orgies. This particular wolf, white in hue, of strong build and with huge fangs that could intimidate a polar bear, dismounted his bitch and glared at me. Not to be cowed, i disembarked my car, folded my sleeves and with absolute cool walked over to challenge this alpha. The night turned silent as we sized each other as the other wolves moved inches behind to watch what potentially seemed like the match of the century. Human versus beast, warrior versus creature, mortal versus demon; a battle of such likely viciousness as to spread an eerie silence over the whole forest. Just as the suspense reached peak almost to orgasmic proportions, i unzipped my trouser and pissed on the damn beast. I don’t know whether its the surprise of my act or the size of the weapon but the wolves stood down and paid homage to their master. Needless to say i peed in new found security with the protection of sharply fanged bodyguards and after a pat on their backs proceeded with my journey.

Most people are curious, at this juncture, of how I ended up peeing deep in the jungle in the wee hours of the morning. It all began on Saturday morning when I attended the wedding of my Mum’s youngest sister. The wedding was being officiated in an Anglican church at the outskirts of Rwaka with the luncheon being held in Parklands. I found the church ceremony too long and boring and the only other aspect more odious that the ceremony was the ugly wedding gown so proudly adorned by the bride. Even lacking the affinity for flare and hyperbole of one particular Mwende, I have to point out that the dress looked like the work of a cunning river road bloke who used pins to stick different white table clothes together and without wincing declare it  a bridal dress. But the highlight of the wedding was the food and I stuffed myself until my very trim tummy threatened to fool my buttons and escape to  the dismay of  bewildered public. It was only fair that after that kind of gluttonous indulgence, one should seek liquor to complement the witnessing of such sad day events. Luckily for me, my friends kept letting me know, grudgingly from my side, that they were in Rongai and the place had more alcohol than the stores of Kenya breweries.

After dropping my granny and dad home, I sped off to town and headed to the sprawling town that is Rongai with the single intent of getting super intoxicated and having a carefree blast. Needless to point out that the place, once I was able to trace the house, was literally on fire and the hype and drunk energy in that house was electrifying. After tentatively saying hi to most patrons, I was welcomed with a fat glass (fat because it contained humongous quantities of scotch whiskey) which I proceeded to gulp down without much ado or ceremony. I don’t quite know who the host was but I do remember the host’s girl, fine lass she was. The said lady was parched on top of the sofa, white printed dress which hugged her voluptuous figure like the embrace of two re united lovers and sparked lust in the groins of many lads. ooh how she moved, her big hips swaying to the rhythm of the night, her ass enslaved by the beautiful beats, her body a beautiful silhouette in the midst of unruly humanity. Her facial expression as she danced was orgasmic, her lips parted in uncontrolled bliss; her eyes shining in drunken wonder.In that kind of a surreal moment, one gets transported, aided by the alcohol, to another place where such divinity can be possessed by a mere mortal and celebration of such perfection would yield untold pleasures.

PS; The story continues tomorrow.

Searching for I

Descartes lived a bizarre life where he obsessed on the topic of his existence. He delved into issues which seemed apparently obvious to other intellectuals before and after him. How a man, probably insane and not aware of his own insanity, can get the audacity to question his very existence when even an imbecile with an IQ similar to a duck can see the stupidity of such endeavors is beyond my comprehension. But maybe he wasn’t alone after all as most people, aware or not, are in a similar path as the try to make sense of who they are or why they are. For as the great thinker once pointed in his celebrated ego sum (Latin) ” i think, therefore i am.”

So the man began to acknowledge his existence by accepting that the presence of a vibrant and above average mental faculty is proof enough that we exist. In this regard, it remains an indisputable fact that logical thinking is the keystone to determining one’s homo sapienship and thinking in general proofs one’s existence. But maybe indisputable is a strong word to use as one Russel John tried to prove, everything exist only as an idea into a higher being’s mind and everything else just a projection of our collective mind. If this argument holds truth, it means that a shift in thinking of the one who is responsible for our being would shift reality as we know it.This concerted effort by two of the most celebrated thinkers to query the way we view existence only shows that maybe, just maybe, there is something they saw that the rest of us misses. But one thing is for sure, religion, politics, association and even emotions are just a remnant of questions we long to satisfy but have long forgotten the origin or even the genesis of things we see as obvious components of living.

After all we pursue religion, based on faith, as we hope that it will eventually lead us to the source of all enlightenment. We do so as an acknowledgement that we are not totally whole and as thus cannot have the ability to answer all questions regrading our beings. So we make choices thinking we know where we want to head only to find misery in the realization that we were wrong and that the paths we trend are not suited for us and are contrary to our passions. if we can make such small mistakes, if we keep reevaluating our paths, if we keep looking for something higher than us, keep making certain declarations like a country must be bigger than an individual, then it must be because we do not know enough about who we are or why we are. So the question still lingers, to most of us, who are we? In coming times, we shall dissect this question and hopefully arrive at some meaningful answers, but that’s only possible if you participate in this discourse with me.

 

In the footsteps of a hustler: formation

A hustler is not always born from a humble background, but that exception, is rare and contradictory to nature. In most cases, the hustler, was once a young one raised in a family without means and taught to survive the harsh reality of an unequal life. The maxim of religion is that All people are equal but the irony of life is that maxims are just a perception of a few while the majority know better. For as scientists point out, human beings are after all animals and that makes this world an animal farm. Needless to point out, in the animal farm, all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than others. So most people are born without means, condemned to a life of hardship, suffering and misery while a select few hog all resources and live in senseless splendor and gluttonous excesses. The common man and by extension his offspring is left to scavenge the little he can from the crumbs that spill over the laden table of the rich man. This scavenging, though refined a it by education and street cunning, is what many like to christen as hustling.

So one has to contend with public local schools where resources are scarce, teachers are unmotivated, discipline is scarce, vices are rampant and performance is mediocre at best. This at at time when secondary schools of note were few and us unlucky bastards had to compete with rich man’s kids being spoon fed education at posh academies in lush neighborhoods. So one has to ask, this question being posed to no one in particular; what’s a imp bundled into a public school supposed to make it big in the professional world when he is denied all chance at academic success and the little chance is stealthily awarded to the fat kids at those overpriced academies. So in my humble logic, the failure is not in the part of the little hustler but is an orchestration of government, a conspiracy to keep the common man perpetually poor and a little threat to the ruling elite.

Most of these looked down upon teenagers ends up in shady district schools, questionable provincial schools, community schools while a good many drop out and either get assimilated into casual laboring or get married and perpetuate the cycle of poverty and desperation. A few make it to good schools and have to bear with the excesses of the rich, the entitlements of the children, the disparity of their financial situations, the indignity of being sent home while their counterparts study, the hunger as their fellow more equal than them pigs munch on their many delicacies and wash it down with their many concoctions. Such is the formative process of a hustler, the journey to the adults they become, the reason for their agility and resilience, the pivotal stage that shapes them into who they are. An unequal society cannot be expected to mold equal individuals and our personalities reflect mostly the kind of experience that we have had to bear as we trudged on the road of life, jumped over the obstacles of fate, swam across the moats of destiny, fought the contempt of our more able peers and bore the wrath of those who sought to direct our paths.

In the footsteps of a hustler: genesis

Hustling is unglorified, its tough, burdensome, unpredictable and most times simply disappointing. Its a life that receives no celebration nor acknowledgment, a rat race if you may, the kind that always leaves a rat regardless of victory. Its a life for those who are born with the misfortune of restlessness, poverty, wildness, folly, eagerness among other traits. It is not for the weak hearted however for that breed of people follows but one path, employment. I do not blame them, those that seek security, even though meager that security may be. They shy away from the unpredictability of hustling and the chance that fate usually thrusts a hustler into the breezy cold now and then without even the dignity of a warm sweater.

But some must walk this path into the uncertainty of a an unpredictable tomorrow and hope the gods smile unto them and offer them a better future that the past which they have gotten accustomed to; a past full of senseless strife and unrewarding toil. A past full of disappointment hopes and broken promises. A road laced with failure, hunger, tears and surrounded by dams of acid which eats away at their insides like floods eroding ground. A yesterday whose sad memories linger like phantoms in a ghost movie haunting the tomorrow which they build with blood, sweat and unyielding hope that they can make it despite all odds. While some make it into the achievers club, many are shut out by the bouncers of fate and are left to spectate from the gloomy outside and wade off into their circumstance which is perpetually tiresome, strenuous and fruitless. yes, they must go on with their hustling and pray to their gods, that sooner than later, they see that proverbial light at the end of a tunnel.

But what drives this breed of people, these modern gladiators who fight fate on a daily basis and have the audacity to believe that they can master destiny. Is it for glamor, to own assets and cars, to wield power in due time? Do they do it for wine and women, to enjoy life, to make true of the eternal saying “one day at a time.” Or are their motivations more idealistic, a need to control their affairs and have no other masters but themselves.To understand this people, one must probably be hypocritical for to assert ones ability to do so is probably one of the biggest lie one can impose on himself. For these people are complex and diverse and their reasons as many as there are birds flying across the free skies. All we can do is make a toast to the hustlers and offer to them a silent prayer and hope the most high will make their paths more smoother and their futures more clearer.