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They're Higher Than Kites; These Comrades of Mine

My comrades are on drugs. They’re hopped up on ecstasy, hyped by Bluemoon Vodka, topped up on Cannabis Sativa, puffing on sheesha and acting like a bunch of marauding dim-wits on a midterm break from the Mathare Institute of the Insanely Profane. It’s disgraceful and makes me really furious.
You may want to know why am concerned, and I’ll tell you. According to my own uncorroborated research, these campus half-wits are already dangerously low on the brain cell count. Why they’d embark on a mission to fry the remaining few brain cells by taking drugs is a question not even Mutahi Ngunyi is in a position to answer.
Those of a certain age would recall that in the halcyon days, when decency prevailed, comrades only enjoyed a few tipples at the student center to cut loose after a laborious week. Beer was sacrosanct, and a drink was never imbibed on Monday afternoons. Juxtapose this with what is currently the case at my campus. Students are ever drinking; you’d think they are canvassing for their livers to be named employees of the month. They even drink in-between the lectures! For the skint, cheap spirits are the poisons of choice. I haven’t had a chance to taste Satan’s urine, but I am sure it tastes better than these fatal concoctions that are imbibed by my comrades in the name of enjoyment. Enjoyment my foot!
If you host a party in campus and marijuana does not make an attendance, have you really thrown a party? Bhang is to campus jamborees what laptops are to babies nowadays. And unlike in the past when people used to smoke it like chimneys, it is now consumed more discreetly in birthday cakes and cookies. Everyone appears calm, shy and reserved at the beginning of house-parties. But as soon as the birthday cake is cut and passed around to unsuspecting guests, the most asinine and vile revelry unfolds on the floor. The madness that ensues is such that you would be forgiven for thinking you’re at an asylum. Elite bong-toting dope fiends go ahead crown it all by inhaling flavoured sheesha.
A word of advice: If you enter a room and find all its occupants are glassy-eyed and grinning like Cheshire cats for no reason, kindly bolt the door behind you and run faster than Semenya. Chances are that those guys have just popped some ecstasy pills, a trend that’s really catching on. Girls, beware of date rape by being extra cautions with your drinks, as odds are it might be spiked with Rohypnol enough to bring down an African bush elephant.
Why would one intoxicate himself silly to a point whereby he sees no ill in taking a nap along a flyover? There excuse is that they take drugs in order to escape. My million dollar question is; Escape from what? The fact that you converted a six figure HELB loan to vodka in one weekend? Escape from the fact that you forgot to swallow morning after pills last month? Oh, please! Spare me the malarkey!
They’re higher than kites, these comrades of mine. Booze is their wine, weed cookies are their sacraments, and the peddler is their priest. All in all, Inebriation is their religion.

P.S
I would never have written this post without steadfast support from my friends Lameck Orina and Christine. Thank you guys!

Amicus Scrabblae

Everyday, I get more and more convinced that the only reason why grown men play scrabble is because it’s the only socially acceptable way to explore their curiosity about jumping onto other men. For those who don’t know what scrabble is, gather around me as I explain to you the Byzantine nature of this dastardly sleazy game. Scrabble is a game in which guys the size of a tractor (Injera, Kidinga and Tiger Woods come to mind) scamper around in tight shorts chasing after an egg-shaped ball. Why is everyone so confused?

Oops! Sorry, am conflating scrabble with rugby! But you can’t blame me, can you? After all, these two games are eerily similar.

Now, let’s assume that we all know what scrabble is and go straight to the reasons why I play the game, shall we? Yes we shall.

1. Am Too Good for Hockey

Once upon a time, before I discovered goat-screaming and deer-dancing, I was a very lonely guy. There wasn’t a game I could engage in. That is when Chris Ng’eno, the hockey captain at that time, approached me and urged me to join hockey. My experience at the hockey pitch is one I’d prefer never to recall. If you can call running around the field like retarded penguin on drugs athleticism, then I was easily the greatest athlete Nakuru High School has ever known.

Again, hockey was an extremely dangerous game. I had to show up at the pitch wearing a wire-gauze around my groin so as to protect my future (unwanted) children. I still do that while walking around Nairobi though, this city ain’t safe.

My only moment of joy came that day when I scored the only goal of the match. But the limelight went out five minutes later when I came to a realization that I had veritably scored an own goal. Can you believe it took me a whole five minutes to realize I’d scored an own goal? My teammates were so mad that after the game, they all went Django unchained on me. They beat me with everything they could lay their hands on, including hockey sticks, boots, and fists. Some of them even used their nails! By nails, I mean they brought out hammers and nailed me to a nearby tree for three days!

Okay, the last line in the last paragraph is baloney, but you get my point. From that day, I divorced hockey and went scouting for another sport. I contemplated trying golf, but changed my mind when I discovered that impecunious guys like me would need to sell a kidney or two before they could afford entry into a golf club.

Thank God I later met Joel Birgen, my current scrabble captain, and he introduced me to the game. The rest, as a wise ruler called Mugabe once said, is history.

2. It Prevents me From Catching a Girlfriend

Other than Goat-screaming and deer-dancing, scrabble is the only thing I can really sink my teeth in. It’s so addictive that I usually stay in the house to play scrabble every night. I guess this gives you an idea of how wild and exciting my life is. But then, maybe I’ve just assumed my role in the society as an 83 year old senile man.

Unlike other kids who rambunctiously go out for raves and gormless jamborees, I prefer to stay in and do scrabble instead. Besides, am not in a rush to contract the latest version of venereal warts as those who go out for bashes are.

Even at school, it’s either calculus or scrabble. I stopped attending parties long ago when I was invited to this bash but they insisted one should bring along their own date. I brought with me my calculus book, after all my female cousins refused to accompany me. Worst party of my life!

Plus, scrabble prevents me from doing some very bad things like smoking weed, downloading porn, drinking Bluemoon, and catching a girlfriend.

3. It Strengthens my Gray Matter.

Nothing keeps the mind sharper than a little word jousting with your peers. In fact, when compared to other asinine games like NFS, FIFA, kalongo, kati and fornication; scrabble comes out as the most stimulating, scintillating and thought-provoking game ever known to man. The only games that come even close to it are goat-screaming and deer-dancing.

The strength of scrabble lies not so much on what it does to the body, but what it does to the mind. The other day I fell through the window from the fifth floor and hit the pavement head-first. Instead of calling an ambulance, they had to call someone to repair the pavement. This is a true testament to how playing scrabble has strengthened my medulla oblongata.

Another thing, scrabble gets your creative juices flowing. If you’re creative enough, you can bottle these juices and sell them to people as refreshment.

It has come to my attention that today’s youth are woefully obtuse. Most of these nitwits are more concerned with the growth of their hair than by the brain beneath it. These are the same ninnies who need to swallow pain killers every time they change their minds, because they’re just that stupid. Out of sheer concern, I am writing a missive to the Ministry of Education asking them to inculcate scrabble into the curriculum.

4. How about Better Spelling?

 I am a rare species, and the government ought to protect me and house me in a museum after I die. This is because am the only young person remaining who can spell words like ‘thanks’, ‘sorry’, and ‘success’ correctly. In fact, for this rare ability, President Uhuru should award me a holiday with a masseur of my choice. Heck! He should even crown me Moran of the Burning Spear! And do you know why I deserve all that? It’s because scrabble and Jones go together like Noah and pine-wood.

I have always reserved a special place of hate in my heart for people who rape the lexicon with asinine and discombobulating (I always like to use that word) spellings. This is a sorry generation of young people who are reliant on lethargic short form communication and must end every sentence with an emphatic LOL. You really have to wonder what the hell runs through the minds of these young people when they take a perfectly sensible word like ‘sorry’ and ruin its etymology by making it ‘XOWY’.

Let’s put a moratorium to this asinine trend by playing scrabble. Is that too much to ask?

5. My Crush Plays Scrabble.

I know it’s none of your business, but it behooves me to inform you that my crush (Not President Uhuru’s daughter this time) plays scrabble too!

Whenever I turn on my computer and find that she’s online, I bubble with joy as I inbox her “Wanna play?”

When she says yes, I celebrate by doing a little deer-dancing before rushing to the bathroom for a quick shower. I also brush my teeth and steal my mum’s perfume before the game starts. Never mind she (my crush) can’t even see me from the other side.

When playing against her, I make sure put down words like honey, love, sweetpie (a bingo), sexy, et cetera. It’s really disappointing how she never takes a cue.

I always let her win on purpose.

6. The Board is Uncensored.

This Image has nothing to do with this story

If you think am nuts, then you’ll be utterly flummoxed when I introduce you to my roommate, Otongolo Donge*. (The real name has been changed to protect the identity of my real roommate, Sebastian). (I still maintain that the picture at the beginning of this post has nothing to do with this story).

From a distance, Otongolo Donge looks like a paragon of good morals. But on the board, the façade crumbles to reveal the most amoral and vile creature the world has ever known. While the game lasts, Otongolo Donge’s salacious side gets revealed as he makes some very degenerate and unsavory moves.

His favourite offensive is f**k, and he usually strives to play the insult early during the game. He then proceeds to put down other raunchy words such as sucker, faggot, and others that I can’t post on my blog because my grandma is reading. (Hi grandma!)

While playing against Otongolo Donge, I try to secure a place in heaven for both of us by playing holy words like Bible, Jesus, cross, and Abraham (a bingo).

But despite his saucy and perverted moves, Otongolo Donge usually manages to wallop all his opponents. Nay, he smashes, squashes, pummels, flattens… Okay, you get the point.

One day, while playing against Otongolo Donge, I put down the word ass (I swear I was thinking about a donkey). The devil then took a hold of my friend and made him put ‘hole’ just beneath my morally upright play. I was so offended that I reported him to the nearest police station the following morning.

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Jones' Say on the Elections

Throughout this election period, I have been rather indifferent and mum about the ongoing polls. But though I appeared rather inscrutable, I’d like to inform you that this does not in any way reflect a measure of my patriotism. My love for Kenya is huge, because this country is the only place I have ever called home. So today, allow me to digress from my usual bloviating and instead serve you with my thoughts on the recently concluded elections.

First and foremost, allow me to put it to you that me thinks the elections were conducted freely and fairly. The water tight system set by the IEBC left a snowball’s chance in hell for anyone with sinister motives to rig the elections. We should all accept the results as they are. However, anyone of a contrary opinion is free to challenge them in court. Chief Justice Willy Mutunga is more than capable of delivering justice.

Let us all support Mr. Kenyatta.

Once again, let me thank you Kenyans for turning up in large numbers during the March fourth elections and keeping the peace. Kudos also to Mr. Isaac Hassan and his team for showing complete probity in handling the elections. And congratulations too for our President-elect, Mr. Uhuru Muigai Kenyatta.

This is a happy moment for all the citizens, a moment in which a new Kenya has been born. It behooves all and sundry to give praises and celebrate the moment.

Mr. Kenyatta, the president-elect

It is time that we all come forth and support our new president, whether you voted him or not. He will be your president too. As my mercurial friend O’Brien Telly  states, Mr. Kenyatta will not be president for the Kalenjins and Kikuyus only. He is a president for us all. We should all support him as Kenyans without a trace of rancour.

This is a moment for all of to put aside our blood and ideological feud. Kindly shake off your ethnic jingoism and tribal myopia, for they are of no use now as Kenya enters Canaan. All of us are obliged to abide by him, Hobson’s choice.

The ICC is a very emotive matter I know, but me thinks Uhuru’s burden has become Kenyans’ burden too. At this juncture, we should all deal with the ICC as a nation now. Mr.Uhuru is not a perfect man, no one is. But if we could all get down our high horses for a moment, we would realize that the Hague duo needs us now more than ever.

It would be wise for Uhuru to make friends with the erudite Mr. Odinga. Uhuru should elevate Raila to the position of government consultant, as Raila’s experience in matters of governance is vast and will surely come in handy.

It would interest you to know that I myself did not vote for Mr. Kenyatta. In fact, I backed a totally hapless horse, Peter Kenneth who emerged a disappointing fifth. But I am going to give my new president my all.

Oh, and accolades are also in order for the dark horse Mr. Mohammed Dida. Methinks Dida deserves to be awarded the trophy for man of the match.

                           Thank you Kenyans for Keeping the Peace

The world braced itself for the worst on March fourth as Kenya went to the ballot. Foreign media had already trooped into the country, prepared to pen columns galore that would otherwise have been outright scurrilous and would have painted Kenya in bad light. They anticipated that like in 2007, our elections would be an abysmal failure.

But what we chose to give them instead was a horse of a totally different colour. Thank you Kenya for driving a chariot through the foreign media’s nefarious agenda. We instead chose to stand by peace and harmony, and stood true to the words of our national anthem. Thank you Kenyans for choosing peace.

Thanks also to IEBC for conducting the polls excellently. Methinks the election results are yoked to free will, unlike in 2007 where a bitter concoction of the results was rammed down our throats by the then Electoral Commission of Kenya.

Black for all wananchi, red for the blood all our forefathers shed, green for all land and most importantly, white for peace. Here’s to Kenya. 

Spectres of my Girlfriends

Dullsville Section

If you missed the last post about knowing your professor, click here. 

 Specters of my Girlfriends

It is with great gloom and disquietude that I funerally jot down this frighteningly fiendish and macabre experience that has been tormenting me relentlessly of late. For the past couple of days, yours truly has been having atrocious nights that are threatening to pass a chariot and horses straight through his sanity.

Lately, diabolical and outright horrid nightmares have been driving me to the precipice of insanity. I am no longer enjoying the peaceful nights that I have always known ever since I became old enough to recall my dreams. Something went completely astray the past couple of days, and all of a sudden am having the most outlandish nightmares ever. Dreams that are so horrendous that I wouldn’t wish them upon my worst enemy have now become part and parcel of me. I know during the day I might seem bubbly and happier than a king, but let that not fool you. When I retire to bed every night, I’m even afraid of shutting my eyes out of fear of the unknown.

First of all let me make it crystal clear that I have never been scared by the notion of those things that go bump at night. Secondly, though I listen to rock music quite often, I am not that type of a psychotic teen full with scary morbid fascinations. Number three, I only watch as many horror films as the next guy. It would help to inform you that though a majority of people find those grotesque films extremely blood-curdling and spine chilling, I never as much as butt an eyelid. I just sit there through the entire flick straight-faced, coz they don’t excite me that much.  

But if what I dream about of late is anything to go by, the phantasmagoria is happening right in my mind! The script never changes much. The setting and plot are forever analogous to the previous versions of the same dream. But the characters are not your regular Angelina Jollie and Brad Pitt. The cast is composed of wraiths of people that I know very well. People who know me like the back of their palms. People I’ve dated. People I’ve broken up with. Girls I’ve had crushes on. Girls whom am considering to date in future. Lasses am currently having a fling with. In total, my phantasmagoria contains over twenty characters.

It would be foolhardy for me to avail this piece to the public domain while it contains the real names of the girls that I’ve nearly had hanky-pankys with. So, for reasons rather too obvious to state, I have tinkered a bit with the names of the lasses involved.

“We had agreed with my girlfriend to go to a late night movie at IMAX Theatre, and we were to meet outside Kenya Cinema Plaza. I think I chose the place because I’ve been there so many times before that I know it like the back of my hand. You know the place? Just outside Uchumi house, the building that abuts Electricity House. Opposite that row of edifices sits a parking lot that also serves as a skating ground on Sundays.

I am not particularly certain which girl I had come to meet, coz some times it’s Catherine, while at times its either Charity or Lynne.

I arrived at the place at around 8 pm, but my partner hadn’t turned up yet. Since, the movie (twas Hobbit, I suppose) wasn’t to start until 11 pm; I knew I had a few hours to kill until she arrived. There is a raised edge at the end of the pavement overlooking the parking lot, and I opted to sit on it as I waited for her.

No sooner had I made myself comfortable than my sixth sense began indicating that the atmosphere around that place was rather incongruous.  Something was totally wrong. Something I couldn’t quite put a finger on. For a moment, I felt like bolting out of the ominous environment, but I chose to stay. Now when I recall what happened to me afterwards, I wish I had loped away as fast as my legs could carry me.

A chilly wind brushed by my person and I shuddered, more of dread than of the cold. Before you could mutter “Harry Potter”, a tawny owl landed on a nearby tree and started hooting incessantly. I turned back towards the buildings but what I saw sent kilos of horror tumbling down my being. Believe it or not, a poltergeist was shaking the buildings so that they danced as though they were on a divine mission to mock and scare me out of my wits! If you ever read those spooky novels titled Goosebumps as a kid, I bet you get the picture of how haunting my situation was.

Shaking with trepidation, I managed to stand up and prepared to run out of the haunted place. But I knew my goose was cooked when I couldn’t muster enough energy to even lift my leg. It was like I had grown roots which had firmly transfixed me to the macadam.

I needed help. Fast. From anyone! But when I looked around desperately hoping to catch an eye of even a policeman, there was not a soul of humanity to be spotted around this hell. A drowning man would sure clutch at a straw, and so I tried to mumble a prayer. But my lips could not move. I knew I was moments away from the worst.

I am sure I saw someone dashing around from building to building. That someone was actually a human skeleton, clad in a long pitch-black robe that covered him from head to toe. He carried a large scythe. Grim Reaper? Dear Lord!!!

“Jay!”

Only a few people usually call me Jay, my closest female friends actually.

“Jaaaaaaaaaay!” The melodious voice rent the air again. That was Catherine’s voice, no doubt. I knew Cat’s voice so well that there was no way I could have failed to identify it. She used to sing to me regularly, and what a beautiful voice she possessed!

For once, my heart melted with joy and relief. I was relieved that at last she had arrived; to bail me out of this hell hole at last. “Cat! Thank God you are around!” I said as I ran towards her. I hugged her so tightly that if I had held on for a second longer, I am positive I would have broken her back. Hot tears were trickling down my cheeks. “Thank God Cat, Thank God!”

I leaned forward to give her a kiss. When she opened her mouth, I received the shock of a lifetime. In place of her fluorescent teeth sat the ugliest pair of fangs ever! The fangs were so huge that they sent fear coated with horror up my spine. Before I could recover from the trauma, my very girlfriend set on a metamorphosis that gave birth to the most grotesque progeny ever! Her face changed from that of a beautiful girl that had once hypnotized me with her beauty to a hideous creature that resembled none other than the devil’s own grandmother. From her chin sprout a beard that was so long it could win an Oscar. Zits the size of donuts implanted themselves on her forehead. Her fangs grew so long that they could no longer fit in her mouth. Out came the fangs, and with them a slimy thin and pronged tongue akin to those possessed by serpentine creatures. She hissed and the smell that came out of her cunt uh, mouth was so acrid and appalling it could suffocate a new-born.

I stepped back two or three paces and shouted the only words that came to my head like my life depended on it. “Help me! Help me! Somebody help!”

“Jay!” A voice rent the air. It was Charity’s voice. Had she come to my rescue?

“Jay” That was undoubtedly Lynn, my first love.

“Jay!” Twas Maryanne.

“Jay!” Vivian.

“Jay!” Fridah.

“Jay! Jay! Jay! Jay!”

The whole place was now echoing with my name, in voices of myriad female personalities. The chants were fast getting shrill and frightening; I couldn’t take it a second longer. So I placed my fingers to my ear and as though on reflex, I also twisted around with my left leg raised using my right foot as the pivot. My eyes were tightly shut. Silence.

The quiet that descended upon the place was really intense. You could hear a pin drop from as far as Afya Center. As if on slow motion mode, I sluggishly opened my eyes to the parade of the most hideous phantoms ever. In front of me stood ghostly apparitions, about a twenty of them. They all resembled the previous version of Catherine, in that they had long beards, fangs, and pimples the size of donuts on their foreheads. Though the specters looked synonymous, I could somehow tell that each face belonged to a specific girl. Anne, Fatuma, Janet, Njoki, Njeri, Caroline, Martha, Pauline, Maryanne, Charity, Christine, Eva, Cat…

My eyes stopped roaming almost instantly as they landed on Cat. Unlike the other girls who wore uniform gaudy frocks, Cat’s dress was most terrible. Her ghastly negligee conveyed horror of death and disease with utmost realism. I realized that she must be the ghost-in-chief, the prefect to other phantoms.

By now, rivulets of icy perspiration were running down nearly soaking me wet. My knees were knocking like crazy, and I was quaking all over like a pregnant chameleon on a frail twig (excuse the cliché).  

“We warned you Jones, we warned you!” Cat spoke.

“Wh-what did I do?” I stuttered.

In reply to my question, Cat instead burst into a devilish laugh that was really frightening. She was soon joined by her troop, and they laughed on for what seemed like eternity. Then out of the blue, their mirth deflated in an instant like a pricked balloon. Njoki stepped forward and in a sepulchral voice, she repeated what Cat had said a moment ago, “We warned you Jay!”

Then Eva too stepped forth. She twisted around and took a step closer to me, letting out a guttural, weird howl. By now I was sure I had either peed or defecated in my pants; wouldn’t be surprised if it were both though.

Charity came forward too. One by one, all the girls stepped towards me and before I could blink, they all went Django Unchained on me. Blows and kicks rained all over my body from head to toe.  For those who have experienced child-birth before, my pain felt ten times worse. I sputtered blood all over, but that did not seem to evoke even an ounce of remorse in any one of them. Black and blue they beat me on and on, as though they were on strict instructions from the devil himself.

After an eon of torture, the presiding monster, Cat, pushed her disciples back and bent down closer to me. She then extended her right hand towards my chest and for a moment, I wondered with trepidation what she was up to. Then from beneath her nails grew another set of nails which glittered like silver. She then dug all of them into my chest. Squish!

Like a fountain, blood gushed out of my system spraying everything and everyone around. The girls’ gaudy clothes turned crimson. Cat’s face itself was a horror, though she appeared to be grinning with satisfaction as she looked at me. She fidgeted with my flesh a little, squeezing her palm now and again sending torrents of hot human blood shooting into the air now and then. When she noted that no more blood was coming out of my system, the daughter-of-a-ghoul then pulled out a huge chunk of flesh from my chest. Dear Lord!

I must have fainted when Cat bored my chest coz the next thing I remember is finding myself in some place that was full of dead bodies. The cadavers were emitting a really fetid smell that was chocking me to a point I couldn’t breathe. It must have been a mausoleum or a morgue.

I don’t understand how, but in the next instant I was inside a pit. It was raining not only cats and dogs, but also all the other domestic animals as well. The muddy pit must have been relatively shallow, coz I could see the girl-ghosts staring down upon me. From the looks on their hairy faces, I could tell they were extremely happy and satisfied. Some were even stroking their beards and squeezing their pimples leisurely.

Out of nowhere, Cat produced a spade and the other girls followed suit. They then started pouring soil on me spade by spade. I tried my best to get out of the pit, but the slimy walls ensured I always fell back in, thanks to the rainfall. I was being buried alive!

I remember screaming for help, but the girls continued pouring scoops of sand on top of me nevertheless.

The last thing I recall of that dream is hearing the girls laugh out loud with satisfaction.”

Some of you might want to dismiss this as cockamamie on grounds that one can not remember the details of their dream so clearly. Well, I’ve had the same dream over and over so many times that I can now retell it lucidly to anyone. And besides that am a writer, what do you expect?

I do believe that this diabolical nightmare of mine has a meaning beneath it. Anyone out there who knows someone who has the ability to interpret dreams? Please contact me on facebook or twitter by clicking here and here respectively. Or why not drop me an email at jonesdeelder@gmail.com by hitting here?

Know your Professor

Am that type of a person who would rather skip class and catch up later on my own. Not that I am a genius or anything, as my virtuosity itself has been hovering around rock bottom. It’s just that am the kind of a person who would rather bunk class and instead have some fun with my plans. You know, when I look back in my life, I come to a realization that classes never made me smile. Memories did. Again, what’s the use of attending class when you’ll have to beat me to concentrate? Not that I haven’t tried, wallahi nimejaribu! But no matter what effort I put, I usually end up daydreaming or facebooking during lectures. In fact, the only time I look forward to class time is when I got this poem I need to write or when I want to put some finishing touches to some script that’s due. I mean, in class, while my professor is yapping away, that’s the time when my brain gains maximum attentiveness and my poetry skills go from good to super-genius. I know there is this rule that requires students to attend at least two thirds of all lectures before they are allowed to sit for exams, but who actually follows up on that? Remember that story of that billionaire who never paid attention in class? No? Okay, me neither.
And again, am not ashamed to admit that am super lazy.
The semester had gone almost halfway, and there is this one (actually several) unit that I had never attended. All I knew about the unit was that it was mathematics, but I was clueless as to what area of math it covered. Don’t look at me that way now. I’ve got good reasons as to why I never attend mathematics lectures, first and foremost being the prophecy that was foretold by my high school mathematics teacher, that my head would forever be impermeable to mathematics. Can you believe my own high school teacher told me that? The irony of it? I ended up at the School of Engineering.

Occasionally I’d get a text message from the class representative that read something like: “Dr. Makokha’s class at two. Please attend.” Then I’d reply “Thanks for informing me, but am not around.” For all I cared, Dr. Makokha could kiss my ass.
One day, halfway through the semester, I got a text from the class representative that said. “There’s a cat on Tuesday, Dr. Makokha’s class.” A cat? How now? Tuesday was only two days from the day I was informed, so I had some time to catch up. I went to the library that day and downloaded all the pdfs remotely related matrices, and locked myself in my room that night boning up on the matrices. But it wasn’t a smooth ride. There were a hell lot of stuff that seemed Greek to me, and I had to seek some clarification. So the following day I walked into a classmate’s room in full arithmetic regalia, calculator, SMP tables et al, with a numerical mindset and attitude to boot.
“Brayo, there a few things on matrices that I didn’t quite understand, and I think I could use your help.”
“Matrices!?” He snapped in surprise coated with angst.
“Yea.” I answered. I was starting to get a little uncomfortable, coz Brian was looking at me as though I was growing a second head.
“Am sorry bro, but I know nothing about matrices. What are they? A new breed of monkeys?” He chided. I was started to get irritated. One more sarcastic remark and I swear I would have adjusted his dental formula to resemble that of Kiyiapi’s.
“You want to tell me you haven’t read for tomorrow’s cat?” I asked, getting really impatient.
“Oh, you mean vectors?”
“Vectors! Whatever! I mean ECU 106.”
“ECU 106 is about vectors my brother. Not matrices!”
I couldn’t believe how stupid I was. I had burnt the midnight oil last night reading for things that were not even in our scope! If that wasn’t the height of senselessness, then I don’t know what is. I knew I was by now a poster child for advanced folly and idiocy. What could I do? I simply asked Brayo for his notes, photocopied them in a jiffy, and went back to the drawing board.
The D-Day came and at exactly nine am, we were all seated in the lecture waiting for Dr. Makokha to arrive. I had done my homework well, and I was sure I was going to perform well in this cat. Turns out vectors were not a very complicated unit, and terms like Dot and cross product  which a day ago had been foreign to me were now at my fingertips. Told you am a genius, didn’t I?
A few minute past ten, Dr. Makokha had not yet arrived. I was really eager to meet this professor, I don’t know why. In his place was a certain lady who, in her prime, she still looked attractive. She announced that she would be conducting the cat in a few minutes and passed around the answer sheets. The cat commenced soon after.
The lady was pacing all over the room, keen on nabbing anyone foolish enough to have brought along their mwakenya. Then she stopped beside my desk. I could feel that she was staring at me intently, and I was feeling really uncomfortable. “All is well, all is well.” I muttered to myself. I was sure I had nothing to fear, coz am the kind of person who uses underhand tactics in exam rooms.
Then she tapped my shoulder and I nearly defecated in my pants. I slowly tilted my head to face her, then she spoke. “You don’t seem familiar, gentleman. Are you in my group? Do you even attend class?”
“Y-Yes madam.” I stuttered. “Am in the other group.”
“Which one?”
“Dr. Makokha’s class.”
Everyone sited around me burst into uncontrollable laughter. I became more confused than a homeless guy on house arrest. I mean, what’s so funny about me being in Dr. Makokha’s class? The next words that the lady spoke made it all crystal clear why once again; I should be crowned the idiot of the century.
“I’m Dr. Makokha.” She said.
It all sunk in now! You mean, this pretty lady here was the Dr. Makokha I was looking forward to meet? Oh my gosh! That was truly a shocker. For Dr. Makokha, I had anticipated a MAN so manly that his beard alone could make a little girl squeak. I had projected a man with a voice so hoarse that it would scare King Mufasa of Lion King. I mean, the name itself evokes images of stout rugby players, doesn’t it?
“See me in my office after this.” She commanded.
The Moral of the story is; KNOW YOUR PROFESSOR.

In 2013, No More...

 Wasup peeps? I bet you are all having yourself a happy new year. Well, I don’t care. What I know is that the shit hit the fan on my New Years (RIP Granny), but am not letting that dampen my spirits this time round. I don’t exactly have a soft spot for odd years, but 2013; am gonna try and make it my best!

Every Tom, Dick and Harry out there is working hard on making New Year’s resolutions, but we all know it doesn’t take a village witch a black cock (no pun intended) to tell you that those resolutions won’t last a week. I’ve been a victim of these New Year pledges craze before, and am not going down that road again. In the past I have made resolutions that lasted for such a short period that they would make Mudavadi’s marriage to Uhuru seem like a lifetime.  

No, am wiser now. This year I have decided to survive on autopilot. Let the gods lead me wherever they want to, hakuna matata. However, there’s a list of habits I’d like to do away with this year:

1. GAGNAM STYLE.

Seriously, why are people so obsessed with these silly equine boogie moves? Let musicians like Psy remain in 2012. I mean, there are cooler ways to shake a leg than jumping around like a retarded horse. For your information, we will be remembered as a generation who thought a fat Korean pretending to ride a horse was entertaining enough to look at. That isn’t something that anyone worth his salt would be proud of, is it? Very distressing. :( 

2. PLACING BITCHES OVER MONEY.

Like I had either of the two in 2012

3. GLEE, TWILIGHT, JUSTIN, ET AL

Ok, brothers, I admit that I have found myself nodding to Beiber’s song at a small number of unfortunate times. But don’t lynch me or revoke my membership to the males’ club just yet, give me a chance to apologise first. I also apologise for watching Glee, and listening to some fags called One Direction. Apology accepted? No?

If it would help, let me tell you that I deeply regret my transgression. In fact, I have actually contemplated committing suicide the few times I have found myself listening to Beiber. The only thing that held me back was the fact that I was undecided whether “I caught myself listening to Justin” should come at the beginning or at the end of a suicide note.

Am told that you can accurately determine how straight or cooked a dude is by the number of Beiber songs contained in his ipod. Well, for starters, I don’t even own an ipod, so I believe am as straight as an arrow.

Oh,. And before I forget, a moment of silence for my pal who paid 800 bob to watch Twilight.

4. CARING ABOUT PEOPLE WHO ONLY CARE ABOUT THEMSELVES.

In 2012, I had scores and scores of friends. Now that I am a year wiser, I have come to discover that some people would call you a friend when all is well, but when darkness sets in, they flee just like shadows.

At times I sacrificed so much for a friend that I would get myself into a precarious situation. But when my turn of need comes, yule niliyemdhamini kua rafiki wa kufa kuzikana anaadimika kama maziwa ya kuku, na kuniacha nikitepetea na kuyumbayumba katika janga la huzuni na biwi la machozi peke yangu.

A word of advice: The fewer friends you got, the less shit you get to deal with. You all have heard that it is better to have an 1000-bob note than twenty fifty bob notes.

But amid these wolves in sheepskins, there were some diamonds in the rough thank I must give thanks to. Friends like Felix, Job, Mabel, Delilah, Mercy, Sebastian, Dyner, Del, Nancy… (The list is long) truly made my 2012 worth it; and I’d like to grow our friendship come 2013.

5. MISSING PEOPLE WHO DON’T MISS ME

“Hi”

“Hi. Sema Jones, Aki I’ve missed you….!”

*Two months later*

“Hi”

“Hi. Sema Jones, Aki I’ve missed you….!”

Bullshit! If you actually miss me, why am I always the one hitting you up?

This year it’s gonna be different! You ignore me, I ignore you. Simple. With only 200 texts per day, it would be barmy to keep a phonebook a phonebook the size of Encyclopedia Britannica. Would you do me a favour? Aki please delete my number if we haven’t spoken to each other for three months.

6. TEXTERS FROM HELL.

What’s worse than your pal not hitting you up for 3 months? Read on and you’ll find the answer.

“K”. O, how I hate that reply! It drives me nuts! You’d rather smack me on my face with a foko-jembe than reply to my text with a K. What do people do with all the time they save by writing K instead of okay? The answer to that question I don’t know, but what I do know for sure is that I am capable of punching you in the face via sms if you potassium me. Do I look like I’ve got 19 protons to you?

This goes to all those people who are intense on clogging my inbox with those odious generic forwards. Can I tell you a secret? Let me not spill the beans coz if I do, no one will text me for the rest of the year.

There’s a special corner in hell reserved for all those dorky characters who reply to my long from-the-deepest-part-of-my-heart texts with one word. I bet you didn’t know that.

It’s okay (in fact it’s cool) when a girl who probably got kicked out of kindergarten mistakes the letter S for X and thus sends stuff like “Xaxa”, “Xawa”, “Xalama”, et cetera. But it is really discombobulating when you receive such a text from a dude. In my opinion, dudes who put X in place of S also wear pink g-strings and take pictures of themselves in front of the bathroom mirror. Not sexy at all.

Let’s not forget those people who rape our inbox with poor grammar.

Oh, and this goes to that girl who refers to me as “Deer Sweathut” (sic) with admirable alacrity. Pliz don’t text me in 2013. In fact, don’t text me until you can afford a dictionary.

7. NO MORE MISSING MY PERIODS.

I know this is very flabbergasting to all of you with whore-able minds. Relax, because Jones hasn’t been pregnant. By period, I mean class. Yaani, I will attend most, if not all of my lessons in 2013.

In 2012 I had a wrong perception that Campus is the place where people go to make merry, as such I attended less than 10% of my classes and took my studies like a gag. Anyone would tell you engineering isn’t a walk in the park, so am gonna pull up my socks come 2013.

8. GOODBYE PROCRASTINATION

I got a confession. Am the type of a guy who would rather go out and buy a new pair of socks every morning than do the laundry. Yap, am that lazy. When did I blog last? Only God knows. My ardent followers would tell you it takes a period longer than the time between two general elections before I revisit my blog again. But come twenty thirteen, am trading away my lethargy. In fact, I plan to... (I’ll tell you about that later).

9. KIBAO ONCE IN A BLUEMOON? NOT ME

Remember back in class five when we all vowed never to touch alcohol in our entire lives? Well, Jowal Jones, aka Lukorides, is still living in those innocent days.

Bluemoon Vodka? Nkt! How does one stoop so low? Bluemoon is not fit for you. In fact, it’s not fit for any human being’s consumption. There exists better stuff than Bluemoon. In my opinion, you better let your throat get drier than #ChapatiZaAkinaAdrian (Feel free to ask a tweep) than irrigate your throat with Bluemoon. I haven’t had a chance of testing Satan’s urine yet, but I believe it tastes better than Bluemoon.

My pals tell me they take Bluemoon because it’s the only beer they can afford other than chang’aa and busaa. But me thinks being skint is not an acceptable excuse. I’d let a broke guy wear a rubber-band on his hand in place of a bracelet, but I’ll never let him get away with drinking Bluemoon.

What I’m saying is, in 2013; catch me dead inebriating myself with such cheap liquor. Given a choice, I’d happily imbibe a gallon of paraffin than take a shot of Bluemoon. Felix, take my word on this: I cross my heart and hope to be smacked on the forehead with a foko-jembe if I ever insert Bluemoon into my system this year. It’s not like am canvassing for my liver to grab the 2013 employee of the year award or something. I’ve discovered cooler ways to roast your liver, like setting yourself on fire.

10. NO MORE PLOT-LESS FRIDAYS

2012 just wasn’t my year. The gods of financial prosperity refused to smile at my direction. This was the year whereby I was so broke that mice used to point fingers at me and laugh and laugh and laugh. Heck! Even ringworms (read ugonjwa wa mashillingi) gave ma a cold shoulder. As such, I slept-in most Friday nights. Only a person whose senses had taken a leave would invite me to a party, as no one loves broke fellows.

But if my psychic intuition is anything to go by, 2013 is the year of prosperity. 2013 is the year when it’s going to rain paper. So I have made a solemn vow that Friday nights will never find me in my hostel. I shall have to somewhere; anywhere. Even if it’s Suguta Valley or Baragoi. Am gonna party like it’s 3012 , sampling all the finer things in life. Stop! Wait a minute… Did I just quote Justin Beiber?

11. GIVING CUPID A CHANCE

Sniff! What is that smell? Are they Valentines’ Roses?  Do you imply to tell me that Jones is in love?

No! No! No! This can’t be true. You mean Jones, the President and Commander-in-Chief of #Teamforeveralone, has finally started catching feelings even after what he wrote last time? (If you missed last time’s blogpost, click here)

Whether I’ve finally decided to turn my back on #Teamforeveralone is an issue I’m working on, and I’ll be putting it up for on this blog in a few days. Watch this space.

Don’t want to miss a post? Y u no follow me on Twitter (@jlukorides) and Facebook (Jowal Jones) by clicking here and here respectively? You may as well leave a comment in the comment box below, or go an extra mile by sharing this post with your friends on your timeline. Thanks. Am wishing you all a happy and Blessed 2013. But above all, am wishing you love.