First blog post

If you don’t have a picture of the sunrise or sunset, photojournalism isn’t your thing. The beauty of the earth is beheld by such.

The Office Affair

Kevin had left the office a little bit earlier. It was a Friday and like always, public offices rarely work on Friday afternoons. Earlier on, he had teased Brenda, an intern, that he would like to go out with her. He had never hit on a colleague over the one year he was employed. However, Brenda (or Bree as they called her) had something had pushed him off the edge albeit he was afraid to show it. She was pretty, beautiful and had a way with about everyone but she also looked fierce. She was the kind that men don‘t play with or as they say, hard to get. Even the usual mafisi colleagues had stayed off this one. She was in the Communications department. Kevin was in accounts. They rarely saw each other and if they did, the usual Hi and cheap talk would be it. That morning Brenda had complimented him, ‘unakaa poa leo kwani unapeleka nani out?’ He had smiled and talked back, “labda wewe. Si leo tuende out?” He knew he stood little chances but aren‘t half chances also chances?

‘Saa ngapi? Nitatoka kazi kuchelewa juu ya field work leo’

‘You will just tell me when you get done in the evening, sawa?’ he said

“Cool”

And with that they parted ways.

So easy it has always been, asking her out, he thought and even cussed not doing it earlier.

Kevin was over the moon but he knew better not to count his eggs before they hatch. All the same, it was unexpected progress. He had been devoid of female company for quite some time. He believed there was no use for a clingy, smothering female presence in his life, at least not now. That way, there were no attachments. Once in a while though, he‘d have a way with someone and would break up soon enough before the ‘someone’ became emotionally attached.

Brenda on the other hand, had just gone through a nasty break up. Her longtime campus boyfriend had crushed her heart. Dude had a baby mama and it wasn‘t her. It wasn’t the familiar Caro. Not the constant flirting Sharon. She had indeed fought off a string of side chics often confronting them on phone. She had affirmed her position as Brian‘s, or so she thought. Brian however ended up paging her friend, Cate, whom all along she had known was just a harmless friend. Brenda was stressed. She promised not to date any sooner. She was wary of men and every advance made at her reminded her of Brian. That was six months ago. Time, they say is a healer. And isn’t the body made of blood and meat too? It surely then must have needs. She was ready to go out again. She had missed and desired that manly touch. Some assurance and compassion would do her some good.

That evening she went straight home, filed and sent her report to her boss through mail first. After gathering a nap and showered, ate some take-away, dressed up and called Kevin. But first, she thought of elevating her moods the only way she knew too lest she becomes a dull party pooper. She reached for the cabinet and grabbed the half-spent bottle Malibu rum and poured couple shots while she waited. Her favourite drink was as usual smooth, sensual and lovely just like her moods were this evening. It set up some feels and atmosphere for her and all she wanted now was to parte!

 

Kevin had sent a taxi friend to go and pick her. He was already waiting at the terrace lounge, a chilled beer on his table and some bitings. Soon as she arrived, he went downstairs to pick her. Behold, she was stunning! She had a short beautiful red dress on with a makeup that was perfectly applied.

He grabbed her by the waist and gave her a smooth peck on the cheeks. He then held her hand and helped her to the stairs. Brenda stepped into the staircase of the club, now lit by the glow of sidewalk-lights. There was a beautiful aura .

Laughter, dances and noisy people filled the club. The music too was so loud. Party life in town provided an opportunity for the girls to wear very short shorts, minimum minis and lots of other skimpy stuff. The generous display of skin at the club was thrilling. They pushed through the crowd which was now gyrating en masse to the mellow lyrics of Masauti‘s -Ipepete. Brenda chose a corner table where she knew at least there wouldn’t be much distraction especially from people they knew. Kevin brought his beer and joined.

Back at work, Kevin had been this quite guy. Brenda was surprised that he actually drunk and that he could talk this much. But here he was, with a bad boy kind of swagger that she definitely found attractive.

The waiter came to pick their order.

“Do you do whiskey?” asked Kevin

“Definitely” she replied.

“Shall we have a Black label, ice cubes and lime juice” Kevin asked.

I will probably be too drunk, Brenda thought. But I don‘t care, I have no curfew tonight, no one to answer to, and nothing to do but party. It was fun doing as she pleased.

“We‘ll begin with shots” said Kevin as he poured doubles on the two glasses.

“Damn, that was strong” said Brenda in a gesture of delight. “You are much confident than I thought” Kevin smiled.

“I‘m glad you accepted to go out with me,” he said into her ear as he eased one arm on her shoulder.

“Turning to face him, she answered softly, “Me too.”
Alcohol breeds familiarity and they soon were long Time couples, well at least that is what they looked like. Smiling, laughing Happy couples.

Feeling the vibe, Kevin threaded his fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck. She let out a low sigh. With very little pressure, she turned her head toward him, bringing her face closer.

The bottle was now half way. Brenda put down her glass and turned to Kevin. “What do you think, will this affect our encounter as colleagues?”

He fretted and moved closer to her, scrutinizing her beautiful face.

“No sweetheart, It doesn‘t have to”

Their eyes locked. Bending down, he kissed her roughly on the lips, pulled back, then returned for a second kiss that was long, deep and so intense. It left him breathing hard and fully aroused. Kevin touched Brenda‘s smeared lipstick and murmured “”well, I think you’ll have to redo your make up“

Smiling, Brenda pulled Kevin‘s face close to hers and thrust her tongue deep inside, while guiding his hand into the front of her red dress.

Kevin needed no second invitation, caressing Brenda‘s full, warm breasts. He slid his hands along the sides of her tiny waist, both relieved and pleased to feel her yielding to his touch. With one hand on the rise of her softly rounded bum, he helped her down the stool. She gasped, laughing at her own brazenness as he guided her to her feet and led her to the reclusive dim-lit corner of the club. “I can fix my lipstick later…” she murmured seductively, watching for Kevin’s reaction.

Standing in the dim lit section, he put both of his hands on her back and slid them up and down in a slow movement sending tiny heat waves down Brenda‘s body. She began to breathe deeply, determined to remain calm though her heart was beating so fast she was sure he must have felt it. Brenda leaned in, parted her lips and let him know how anxious she was. The kiss lasted until she felt Kevin’s hardness begin to rise up between them and the reality of what was happening broke the spell. Stepping away she wiped sweat off her face.

“Ghai! You are too fast”

“Its because I see what I like”

“Oh, and do you always get what you want?” she asked eager to know about Kevin. Was he a player who kept score? Was he an unconscious heartbreaker or just an adventurer?

“No. not always, but I never stop trying.” He smiled.

“And tonight I’m what you like?” she teased.

“yeah. And not just tonight, I always have liked you”, he said trailing his fingers on her back.

She smiled.
******

Part two
………Shedding her robe and exposing every inch of her soft body. She settled on the couch and threw her dress to the floor. “Now be a dear and lock the door Kevin” Who would have thought…..

THE NEWSROOM

“The inconvenience of this traffic is just too much for a newcomer,” I begin. If I was to get along, it would be better for me to start off by breaking the ice. With an appointment scheduled at 1500hrs, it wasn’t until 1515hrs that my ugly shoes would show up. But that is way into the story, it has a beginning.

It is October 2016 and my prospects of graduating are real. Like many Kenyan jobs, I needed a connection. Luckily for me there is this brilliant chap, educated by my father who knows a guy somewhere at The Nation Media Group. So when I finally receive an email from Mike, the associate editor of The Sunday Nation, I am thrilled of the ‘big breakthrough’. Although it was replied a little late than I would have expected an editor to respond, I was fine with it. All along, he might have been doing a background check on me. Not every riff raff is worth precious news time.

1400 hrs and I already was in town waiting for Mwende. For those who don’t know her yet, she is a former classmate and a savage so obviously a friend of mine. She had promised to be available by then so I could take her out for lunch. Well, her main purpose was to take me to The Nation centre. The lunch was just a plus.

I was a new one on these streets; it wasn’t time yet to perambulate without clear knowledge of my destination. Not with an appointment at stake. Like all ladies do, she arrived at 1445hrs a couple of excuses tagging along. It was imminent there wasn’t much time for chit chat. Straight up, we got to some basic fast food eatery. The fact that I don’t know how to roast a chicken, grill a steak or even make a decent green salad doesn’t exempt me the privilege of criticizing that meal. The chicken turned out to be yesterday’s that seemingly were dunked in a sink of cold water then re-baked in a very hot oven. The ‘fries’ can speak for themselves. I underestimated the impact of that meal given the bathroom ordeal I was to undergo later that evening. Anyway, we got done by 1500 hrs and got to Nation five minutes later. This is where the story begins.

source( internet)

Coming from the village has its own misgivings in the city. A village guy with an urban clad and style has an aggravating problem. Ordinarily, no one could expect that such a guy doesn’t know how to operate a lift. But yes, I didn’t. I can truthfully say the first lift I ever used was that at Nation Media group. Thank you Aga khan!

Laugh all you can but can I tell you something? Back then in Homa bay, the tallest building I had been to was The Sonyaco plaza, basically stairs, ok? You don’t bring such a guy to Nairobi and expect him to find his way out, do you? I was terrified, shaken even. The fact that the lift was completely concealed didn’t help either. Passengers alighted, some more came in and alighted too with the only constant being me and my shoes, the clearance note firmly clutched on my terrified hands. Boy, weren’t those several trips under my belt!. I watched and learned with every exiting and incoming passenger. I pressed ‘G’ which thanks to God took me back to the ground floor where it all started. I got off and went straight to Mwende who by now was being hit on by a certain pervert at the waiting lounge. Nairobi!

It was surprising how fast my appointment had gone but alas! A bigger surprise awaited her. Smart Vincent never knew how to operate a lift! Thankfully she wasn’t such an asshole about it and gave me the lifts 101 course. For that, I thank you Mwende. Hopefully you don’t become an asshole after this revelation, ok? And that guy, did you pick his number, eeh? Forget I asked.

I get to the 5^th floor and there’s another watchman, too many watchmen for a single building, I believe. He dutifully receives me into the newsroom like I was some kind of a revered informant and points to where I was expected. It is an open plan office hall. An aura of intellect is felt the moment you step in here, it feels like heaven I want to be in. These are the brains behind the daily newspapers, tens and tons of writers and editors. Some chap in the adjacent desk is so taken by the designing of a page. I am told there is almost everybody responsible for a single page of that paper. The editors room is perhaps the busiest room I have ever been too, only preceded by an exam room.

Chaps are banging copy, stories coming in thick and fast. The crime reporters are holed up together and speaking in a silent tone, like they have just come about a big revelation. Maybe that is just how they talk because of the nature of their work. Perhaps they are just hideous, who knows. Save for the good watchman, nobody realizes when you come in, nobody realizes when you go out. It is such a fast paced office having revered heads and idols and is too dazzling.

“So you are Vincent, the guy I have been expecting  for the past 10 minutes?” he begins. Well, you do realize I couldn’t be somebody else, I say in my head. But that can’t come out loud, can it? Instead, “Sorry Sir, I was actually a little lost within, but believe you me, I was here by three”, I say. I also hate excuses, but how in the world did you expect me to start announcing that I had wasted time because I didn’t know how to operate a lift? Is that even believable besides humiliating? Thankfully good Mike is soft on me, rather very welcoming than I had expected. My preconceived notion was that editors were mean people, sadists who also happen to drink a lot and care less. But here was a gentle soul; a marsh mellow. Apart from the guy who kept texting him on phone, he always looked at me straight in the eye. And believe me, I was ready for this. The journey from Homa bay is quite a long one for one to come and stare down at an editor, status quo notwithstanding.

“So which is your favourite part in the Sunday Nation?”

“Uhhm, pardon please”

Oh God! Wait, when did I last read the Sunday Nation? I did read the dailies mostly because they were freely available at the office but Sunday Nation! I don’t even remember. My Sundays were for sleeping, laundry and watching football. Booze too, I think.

He then rephrases, “Who is your favourite writer in the Nation?”

“Jackson Biko!” I am quick to point out. Back then Bikozulu as you fondly know him was a columnist for Man Talk, which prior had been done by one legendary Oyunga Pala. What I wasn’t certain of is whether it was a Saturday publication or a Sunday one, but hey! Biko was and still is my favourite writer.

“So I have been going through your blog, it is a good one for a start.”

Wait,what? Did he just mention my young blog- which I have sadly neglected for quite some time- a good one?! The one I wrote in my travails of looking for a job? How flattering. Trying to keep on edge I say “Well thanks, I try” I didn’t want to come out too needy. We get to speak a lot about many other things, career advice, opportunities and so on. Mike is an interesting conversationalist.

So we actually had to sign off because this is the newsroom, nobody has time to listen to the rainy patterns of Homa Bay or how this Nairobi weather is harassing you. “Now you go through the Sunday paper and see which section you love writing about the most. You will be sending me your articles and if I approve they will be published. But keep off commentary and politics, izo ziko na wenyewe’” he says smiling. He then takes my number and sees me off.

I may never have known a feeling of inspiration like I did that day. I was thrilled.

A year later while I write this, I haven’t sent a single article. One day when I was perfecting my first article, I saw a very similar kind on the daily nation. It was a feature story about bodaboda operators. The author was a journalist, had the relevant data and perfect grammar than I could muster. I felt dejected and defeated. I stopped trying. I switched on to concentrate on other stuff like photography. Currently I am on video editing and know just a little bit of everything.

Maybe one day I will email mike. One day I will do a serious story for magazine and get it published. Until then, the newsroom conversation will always remain with me. And on nights when I can’t sleep like this, it will replay in my head.

Journalism facing a threat?

Somehow, the war of attrition in this country has to end. We have all felt and seen the results of previous elections and governments, amongst them the Jubilee ‘youthful’ and ‘inclusive’ government. Heading towards the August polls, the nation looks very divided, and angry. Is the media going to keep whipping up that war or is it going to take a deep breath and maybe have a reset?!

 

If ever there’s a time to celebrate, honor, protect and mobilize for press freedom and basic good journalism, it’s now.

Like many people watching news or reading newspapers, I admit I am shocked by the exceptionally low bar put for our politicians. And this means that they can literally get away with anything. Yes, anything! I can’t get far with this without mentioning one guy, The Moses Kuria. He is a man known for crossing lines, being used as somebody’s lapdog. To many he is a hero and to many more, a villain. You will remember just the other day he used the word “F*** you” on live TV. Unprintable, right? Maybe it can be put that he has bad blood with the press, correctly so.

And while asked by a fan this question regarding his post

Hilarious, I admit. (Somebody tag Njoki Chege)

 

But where did the bad blood begin? When did they start attacking the media and when did we normalize it?

Journalists have been pushed into political partisan corners as we see delegitimized, accused of being enemies of the state.  Politics itself has been driven into poisonous partisan and paralyzing corners, where political differences are criminalized, where the zero sum game means in order for me to win, you have to be destroyed.

 

From Kuria’s pronouncements, and by very being Kenyan, we know the politicians are uncontainable, perhaps above the law. Okay. But what is the end game in all this? Anarchy! And we are not there yet. But postcard from the world: This is how it goes with authoritarians like Sisi, Erdoğan, Putin, the Ayatollahs, Duterte, et al. First the media is accused of inciting, then sympathizing, then associating — until they suddenly find themselves accused of being full-fledged terrorists (remember Mohammed Ali “Jicho Pevu”). Then they end up in handcuffs, in cages, in kangaroo courts, in prison — and then who knows? Yet we must fight against the normalization of the unacceptable.

 

Moses believes the Kenyan press is fake. To some extent yes, it is.  And as a Journalism student, I know from both practice and experience that the profession has become weaponized. We have to stop it.  But we also have a huge amount of work to do, investigating wrongdoing, holding power accountable, enabling decent government.

 

Now, it appears much of the media has got itself into knots trying to differentiate between balance, objectivity, neutrality, and crucially, truth.  I remember Linus Kaikai (a man I greatly honor) saying at one point in time, “You cannot be objective when reporting about corruption”. There are no two sides to such a story. I believe in being truthful, not neutral. And I believe we must stop banalizing the truth. As a matter of fact, never should a journalist equate victim with the aggressor, never to create a false moral or factual equivalence, because then you will be an accomplice to the most unspeakable crimes and consequences.

Which begs the question, what do these Kenyan government operatives mean when they say the press is being used to misrepresent facts on corruption? Where does the press get these figures if not from the oversight authorities? Matter fact, getting information from government sources is no mean feat. Go ask Ndegwa Muhoro “Who killed Jacob Juma?” and come share your answer.

And so, where can we get alternative sources of information? Social media?

 

Social media and Fake news

Many Kenyans, especially in this social media era have been exposed to a lot of lies that somehow they could not, would not, recognize, fact check, or disregard more so in this campaign period. Fake news has the sweeping effects that its critics charge. People have always put stock in dubious ideas, and the latest deluge of suspect headlines traversing the Internet smells more of continuity than it does of change.

Complete with eye catchy headlines, they often assume the form of a non-satirical story written with intent to mislead in order for gain, either financially, politically or otherwise. One of the main writers of these false articles -these lies – says people are getting dumber, just passing fake reports around, without fact checking. We need to ask whether technology has finally outpaced our human ability to keep up.  Much of what I have seen through social media is often a version of reality that was molded to conform to a theory.

I believe we can’t, just yet, pick on Social media over the mainstream media to be critically relied on as an alternative source of information without some kind of skepticism.

However, I feel that mainstream journalism is facing an existential crisis, a threat to the very relevance and usefulness of our profession. Now, more than ever, we need to commit to real reporting across a real nation, a real world in which journalism and democracy are in mortal peril

As my role model CNN correspondent Christiane Amanpour puts it, we, the media, can either contribute to a more functional system or to deepening the political dysfunction. Which world do we want to leave our children?

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS, WITH CHAPATTI!

 

I have this void sensation, one that needs to be filled with Chapo. I would have made some by now but reminiscent of most honest bachelors, I can’t spin the dough. Unlike the chapatti I love, mine doesn’t come out round. Or even golden brown. Symmetrically, my chapo wouldn’t go far away from the shape of a cabbage’s outer leaf.

The last time I made some, I was utterly disappointed. I remember myself scraping a piece of burned chapatti out of the kitchen window, a crease of annoyance across my forehead. Don’t get it wrong, this is an occasional occurrence, a once in a while hiccup in an otherwise excellent chef’s day. I cook other stuff pretty well, and I bet I am not saying this to change my relationship status from single. I would say other stuff like how much money I got, or how good self employment has been in 2016. But I would be lying. And that is what you do to get a wife, right? Thank God it’s Christmas anyway, and chapatti is a guarantee.

You see, growing up, chapatti used to be a festive meal. When you are raised in the village, in the bucolic rural of Homa bay, chapatti is very likely a Christmas meal. It only comes to save you from the year-long struggle of tired jaws chewing on gidheri. We could as well have been telling Santa to bring us chapatti for Christmas. Had we not travelled widely, we might never have known other ways Christmas was celebrated. We wouldn’t have known an embarrassment called pizza, which somewhat, looks like chapatti except for some weird stuff atop it. I am told the middle class call it a taste of goodness. Naked pizza. By the way, many people (light-skins especially) thought they were middle class, until a recent survey pretty much disappointed them. It’s the cost of living people. Absolute peasants like me even live by under a dollar per day, and we still choose to celebrate together. Sawa?

Once it was festive season in the village, every home smelled of chapatti. That and meat. Hopefully chicken too. Christmas counted a lot. Even perennial debtors were allowed to peacefully celebrate, a virtue that has since been abandoned.

And it doesn’t matter what chapo was eaten with. Wait, I lied. I don’t recommend waru or cabbage. Please don’t do that shit. I am a proud ‘foodie’- whatever the hell that means- and in the best of interests recommend those potatoes to be used purposely for chips and crisps. After all I haven’t understood why they are called Irish potatoes when clearly there are more of them in central Kenya than Ireland.

Now, before some crazy human belittles chapatti I want to put some logic across.

Chapatti holds a family together. I really believe it does. My father was a different man when there was chapo in the house. Warm. The sort of man I wanted to hug rather than shy away from. If he had a chapatti on his hand, I think it would be alright to climb up on to his lap. You could ask him for money for stupid things and still get it. Depending on your negotiation prowess, or tact, your demands were halfway fulfilled at these times.

The kitchen would be warmer than usual on the days chapatti was cooked. I would mill around Mummy-that’s how I called her at such cute times. And there is something mothers love about being called mummy. I don’t know if it was kinds of manipulation to allow me get the first chapo because it always worked. Mummy would adorn that I-have-just-cooked-chapatti glow on those days. There was something about the way she would put chapatti on the table that made me feel all was well. Safe. Secure. Unshakeable. How much I am going to miss her this festive season.

Apparently, It is impossible to not love someone who makes chapatti for you. People’s failings, even major ones like my mum’s, when she gave me a basket to go mill at the posho-mill notwithstanding the ‘potentials’ in the area fell into insignificance the very moment she cooked these golden stuff. Once you make a bite of this goodness, you are smitten. All sins are forgiven.

The goodness of chapatti is in the spots, those golden brown blessings. The secret is in the kneading. You may get a recipe here, cook chapatti and invite me. I’d tell you if the process was right or even If the right ingredients got in there. Or you can just save yourself the hustle and invite me to come and help. Haha.

Look, you can’t smell a hug. You can’t hear a cuddle. But if you could, I reckon it would smell and sound of warm chapatti.

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Guys, a good thing you could do this Christmas is to share with the less fortunate. Visit a homeless kid out there, share that extra packet of flour, do shopping for that underpriviledged family etc. There is just so much around us that can be done to uplift other peoples spirits this Christmas. Ultimately, blessed is the hand that giveth.

 

The Burden of Being a Luo in Kenya

Kenya Stockholm Blog

A Luo man dressed like a witch doctor

Being a member of any ethnic group in Kenya carries with it a burden. Whether you are a Luo, a Kikuyu, a Luhya, a Kalenjin, a Kamba, a Mjikenda or a member of any of the forty two ethinc groups that form the Kenyan nation, there is usually a distinct stereotyping of any of the ethnic groups, a situation that can create what I call “a burden”. It is a burden because the stereotyping may not apply for many Kenyans although, in many cases, the victims have to live with them. Under this circumstance, what is the burden of being a Luo? The following points could be true or false depending on how you look at them. This is not a blue-print but a rough guide of what it takes to be a Luo in Kenya.

In politics, you are always accused…

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On graduation….

It is now certain that I will be joining the list of 8.4.4 success stories on 11^th November, which by the way I welcome any interested persons. Besides travelling back home to prepare my people for this BIG ceremony of the year, I put some notes for my blog, which I must admit feels very lonely.

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First of all I would like to express gratitude to God.

Next, I would like to wish many happy returns to ‘hardworking’ me, my good parents, people and my troop. CPR class 2016 and Google ^TM, you are by the same token deserving of credit.

For the tough times we had in campus, those guys at Anniversary towers should comprehend we still made it. We have thrived by survival.

While I am still thinking of what to carry out next, any casual labor or miniature jobs are welcome. The unforgiving job market needs experience from me, familiarity that only they can give me, and so I will continue hustling. I do a lot of stuff; fix me anywhere you remaining good people!!! I already told you I am Seeking for a job right here, on this platform.

Dear friends/ comrades/ savages, I hope you also get to attain success larger than your dreams. And by the way, those of you who ‘come from Nairobi’ we have ongoing discussions aimed at preserving seats for you at the dais. It is the courtesy we were raised on, we natives from mushadha/ocha. If Soda shall be made available, you will be permitted to pick first, Fanta, Coke etc then we can accept our sad bottles of Krest/Stoney if and when they remain.

Dear family, you are about to experience diversity. Be geared up to handle it. Do not be vexed if you see comic characters hanging around me. Don’t mind their shaggy hair, torn pants and piercings they have. They are my associates. They helped your son through campus, sometimes fed him though most often consumed his food. Those truckloads of maize I carried way back were eaten by these people. They are good men and women. I know you will notice some of these men wearing skinny jeans and will fail to understand why. Well, I fall short of an explanation since I also don’t understand. However, many of them were questionably born and raised in the city, and that is how people dress there. Those of you who have been to Nairobi can bear me witness.

While still on my friends, Dear folks I would like to set the record straight. I went to school for a degree. I am coming home with one, not two. Go slow on those questions you have been bothering me of my significant other, ok!?

My relatives, we shall take pictures, several of them. But WHOOAAAA!!!!! Go slow on the kind of apparel you want hang on my neck or adorned elsewhere on me. The ceremony itself is glamour enough; don’t buy those things we buy for our guests of honor during a Harambee. Keep saving and acquire even more loads of those garbs after my PHD or on my arrival at the airport after winning the Nobel Prize, whichever comes first. For Christ’s sake it is just a bachelors degree, don’t make me feel important. (I think that was subtle enough a way to say I hate them!)

I also invite you all my attendees to a mini-party after the event which won’t take long and not so far from the venue. I understand we are in the weeding season; the crops surely need more attention. After all we still have to eat long after I have graduated, don’t we?

Finally, I am aware that times are hard. Not all of you friends and family may make it. Neither is it my wish to make you dig deeper than your shallow pockets allow.  However, to cater for my understanding and your probable absence, my MPESA number is 0712673588. We have to support this testimonial good work of the Lord. (FYI this number is open even to those who will still make it to the ceremony)

Seeking for a job? (That’s hell of a job already)

You just completed school, what next? You could be stranded in some internship in some office whereby despite your huge ambitions, systems have reduced you to a decorated tea-boy/girl. You want to quit, but some forces won’t let you. Sources that funded your education, you know them..eerh?? You skip work once a while because of under motivation. And then one day you choose to write a piece of the goings-on in your career, a piece you hope your boss won’t read. Because you are conspicuously missing on duty; you don’t want him to assume that you stayed home to write nonsense posts though you actually did. But that’s what you love, writing. Posting baloney on some nondescript site. It makes you happy.

So for your entertainment and my insight, I thought I would note down some of the stages of this job search so far. Inspired by story time with John, these are the stages of joblessness.

Subscription to job websites

There are several job websites than there are jobs; I have come to perceive so. Personally, I subscribed to  BrighterMonday which made me look through the amazing opportunities. This is great at first as you can look through all of the wonderful positions and delight at how many there are! “I thought there were no jobs?” you chuckle with a moronic sneer to yourself, as if everyone was over-reacting and that somehow you are a genius who will slide into one of those roles so easily it’ll be as if you were always there.

Promptly you begin to picture yourself in those roles. In my case, a Corporate/External Relations Director of some blue-chip company. I’ve seen myself getting off the lift on the 10^th floor at PWC for a quarterly presentation.  The amazing image of a suited you dancing merrily in your mind’s eye at a workplace where everyone thinks you are hilarious. There will be lots of managers saying you did a great job, and everyone will just give you constant high fives for no real reason other than they want to be best pals.

However you have to stop your daydreaming at some stage or you will never get to the application process (this takes longer than others to get around to.)

Building the perfect CV of your life

I blasted off almost ten applications on my first day in Nairobi? Well it was easy, I just found the jobs I liked and sent them a resume – case closed! That’s that! I then slapped my hands together and congratulated myself on a job well done with a sprinkle of something down the throat.

But this isn’t always the case – actually it usually isn’t for any of the jobs you truly want. You see these corporate devils don’t want your CV (they are allergic to the sight of Microsoft Word I suppose), and instead want you to fill in the exact information that is on your existing resume into their own little boxes. There is Cue typing, and scrolling, typing and scrolling – until you are so bored of your own life story that you begin to wonder if you should bother in the first place.  And you probably wouldn’t if it wasn’t for the whole needing money to feed, clothe and shelter you thing.  But eventually you get to the next hurdle…albeit with a sore clicking finger.

Waiting

It is a well known and scientifically proven fact by the University of Job-Seekers that time passes by at a tiny fraction of the rate it would ordinarily when you are waiting for a response about the job interview you just went on. Of course while you are waiting for the answer, the people at the office you applied for a job will just be milling around. They will be making cups of tea, talking about weekend plans and whatever else. You aren’t their priority anyway, a sad reality.

Lucky you made it to an interview my friend. You are still sat there stressing out and unable to focus on little else, thinking over all of the stupid things you said and all the tremendously impressive things you would have said if you were to be given a second chance. You turn to binge eating and drinking. You call yourself a foodie. In fact grazing would be a better word.

This leads you to begin feeling like a big looser until – OOH AN EMAIL! YES! HERE WE GO FUTURE! 

Missing out on the Job

Could be you weren’t right for the position, or you weren’t qualified/experienced enough. Maybe the owner got someone they knew in. Maybe they hired internally. This is Kenya, and there are many reasons to miss out on a job, ask Makau Mutua.

I believe you are a strong person if you can endure the several beautiful words of a regret letter. These corporates will tell you how amazing your skills were ,but then blah blah blah… I don’t usually read past the part I understand I am not considered.

Recognising that the right job will come along soon.

This is where I am at right now, or at least somewhere between these two polar opposites – things look bleak, and despite the fact it is sure to work its way out somehow/someway eventually, this offers very little comfort. 

So drop some inspiration in the comments, another stage if you will. It’s really what I need to hear right now! And who knows, we could help some others feel better about their job search at the same time!

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There is a young man, Marcel, who will definitely read this blog. Before and after switching to a customized domain, he will be engaging this site, trying out layouts, options and some nice themes. He is a web developer or something like that! Cheers bro, you know this counts as pro bono though, right?

And by the way, he also writes, and is a blogger @doubleO newspost. Check him out here.

Just randomly

So, I’m having such busy days it’s crazy in a good way. Sometimes in a bad way, but sooner or later from bad comes good and even better than it was before. So many things happened, so many businesses, and personal successes and failures that I don’t even know where to start. But on the other hand, I focus on what’s yet to come. And these things are even more amazing (hope so!).
I don’t know, if I had a writer’s block in the last few weeks or it was just all the things that were happening and I couldn’t just pick something to write about, because then I would have to leave other, equally important things out… And also, on the other hand I was a bit scared and under pressure. I realised that people are actually reading my blog and they find themselves in my words, so I felt that if I’m going to write I should write something of value to readers. And than I didn’t feel that my shit is good enough to be of value to somebody. + lack of time, and there we are… The thing I love so much, writing and sharing it, doesn’t get much attention from me. And this blog, that gave me so freaking much in terms of people and opportunities, looks abandoned.
Am I gonna change that, will I place it on the top of my priorities or will I just make a good resolution and then leave it hanging in the air for few months again?
Will see. I give myself a right to change my mind.

NAIROBI TO JINJA, UGANDA NEW YEAR CAMP on 30 Dec – 2 Jan

#Road_Trip_of_the_Year NAIROBI to JINJA, UGANDA NEW YEAR CAMP!! 4 days, 3 nights Let’s visit the magnificent Source of River Nile! (Road trip from Nairobi through Naivasha, Nakuru, Kericho, K…

Source: NAIROBI TO JINJA, UGANDA NEW YEAR CAMP on 30 Dec – 2 Jan

The turn-around date

A year outside dating was finally weighing toll on me. I had cursed at love after my first ever breakup, which I recalled recently and funny enough, with the cause offender. My pal Mike suggested the need to get out and find female companionship. But how could I stir romance without finance? As if fighting my battles weren’t enough, this new ‘battle’ would definitely pit me against the sponsors who -by the way- have really inflated the cost of dating. As a problem solver, who Mike claims he is, he promised to hook me up with some lady in town; she would be good for me. He would also come along with his date. We set to hang out on a Friday at some classy Westland pub. He is one of the flamboyant Luos around, rose from a well off family. In regard sorting of bills has never been a problem at his mercy.

Fast forward- Friday evening

The anticipated Friday evening hangout was quick to materialize. The weekend mode had gripped the city. Bars were thronged, DJs finally got something meaningful, and the moonlight nurses were looking for patients. In Nairobi, they think every man who passes through their ‘hospital’ along some notorious avenue requires some sort of treatment; these moonlight nurses. Well not today, ladies. I am just headed somewhere, I didn’t schedule a visit. Bye!!!

I am somehow always the latest to come during meet-ups. I walked composedly into the agreed joint, and spotted Mike in a cool booth. He was sandwiched between two attractive girls.  Mike introduced me to his date, a tall, skinny girl, with long dark hair and the most intense, dark eyes I’d ever encountered in a female. Her name is Sasha.

“Nice to meet you Sasha,” I said, checking her out. She looked flawless-except for her big nose, which I thought gave her character, something perfect looking women lack. Then I turned my attention to my date. “And this is Tessa,” Mike said.

“Tessa, this is my good friend, Vinny”

Tessa was gorgeous, but Sasha was a knockout too.( I wouldn’t mind the Kakamega wife swap, lol.)  I was attracted to her instantly. The four of us chatted over drinks for about an hour.

The ladies were sensational. Tessa was an ultimate seductress. The conversation soon changed into Two’s- Tessa and Me, Sasha and Mike. “I like your outfit,” Tessa quipped. She was a conversationalist one could tell. She is probably the first lady ever to admire my blue hoody, which everyone else including me thinks looks trashy. But the talk was steamy, that passed and so did many other things we said.

Throughout the story telling, Tessa had been staring at me. A funny feeling gnawed at me. She had this look, which she still has, that locks onto you like radar. I didn’t know what to make of this girl. She was a hot blooded paradox. I knew she was still young, obviously younger than me but she looked and acted way older a freak.  She sounded badass, yet I sensed a vulnerable part of her. She was trying to hide that softness with a tough exterior. She talked dirty, the filth streamed out in every sentence, but I knew she was doing that for effect. Our friendly encounter developed into a flirtatious conversation. This was fun. Tessa was a real player, coquettish and street wise. She and I were basically two lost people who found direction in each other

The drinks flowed, sparks flew and everyone was happy. Sasha then suggested we go dancing at a club they promised was going to be lots of fun.

“What’s it called?” I asked.

“Club Thrillerz,” said Tessa.

They spoke of the club with great familiarity, as if they were registered Guarana suppliers there. If the girls had said it was hot, who was I to be at variance?

The club had a nondescript exterior and like any other club, there was a huddle of people around the door, probably party vagabonds. Unlike many other revelers, they live the hobo approach and stick to no one favourite joint.  It was dark inside and the ladies led us to the table.  Some uneasiness crept over me, but I glanced at the ladies and they were fine. Looking across at the other tables, it became obvious that we were the only men. Something was not right.

My curiosity peaked even further when Sasha and Tessa got up and danced with one another I was confused and shrugged Mike a look that asked what’s up!? He shrugged.

“They are fun lovers, you know”

“Are you sure they aren’t something else too?” I asked.

I was in one of the most uncomfortable positions ever. (drag a pun if you want to). For the first time, ugly beauty unfolded right in front of me. The yellow, white, dark, chocolate characters were all here, beautiful sinners. I am not out rightly pious neither judgmental as my retweet says but beautiful sin exists. When Sasha and Tessa came back to the table, it was painfully evident that none of the positive vibes I had with Tessa were going to happen. The new girlfriend I dreamt of was just that-dreams.  Was she flirting or playing a game? After this Club Thrillerz escapade, I couldn’t tell. There was no question she had stars in her eyes, but for the life of me, I didn’t know what she had in her head.

And Sasha, I didn’t know what to make of her. She seemed clearly comfortable with Mike as was she with Tessa. I left for the latrine as escapers always do. Clearly this isn’t the arrangement or type of date I expected. Did we change numbers? I don’t think so!

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