Posted in Rich Kids

Rich Kids Of Kenyatta Road

CHAPTER TWO

Story by Kelvin Mutune; Machakos, Kenya.

My pen bleeds again and it’s my beloved K-Road I want to talk about. But before that, I wish to thank all who read my other article on Kenyatta Road and went on ahead to read my other articles and poems. I write for people to read and it gives me much joy when I achieve that aim.
Back to business.
When I moved to Kenyatta Road last year, I didn’t expect it to be this fun. I mean, what’s fun about dusty roads (MCA, see to this) and kikuyu-speaking folk (no offence intended). I only knew a few people and they rarely visit my man-cave. So I turned to solitude and embraced it with all I had. I would stay indoors from Friday evening to Monday morning and still be alright. For those who know me from a personal level they’ll tell you that I love reading. So I would stock up on coffee, snacks and a whole new playlist then get to my weekend. That has since changed, I now have what you rich kids call a clique.
 This was initiated at a movie shop in New Wood where I go pick movies and music from. I was a loyal customer who would go for the latest music and movies regularly but at first it was all business until the attendant, the first member of my ‘Those-who-shan’t-be-named’ clique, told me one fateful Friday evening that maybe I should hang out there longer to see if I’ll like the people who frequent his business premise, not to buy movies but to pass time. I agreed.

 Later that night, I was to meet one very beautiful lady, and a bunch of other guys who are the funniest folk ever to live. I tried to milk the phone number out of that pretty girl, I succeeded in getting her number only to be  friend-zoned later that night. Her name is Narnia (Narnia business). I loved the people there and from that day onwards, my ‘Those-who-shan’t-be-named’ clique began growing. Every evening, I make a point of going to that movie shop and say hi to folks.
Those-who-shan’t-be-named is no ordinary clique. We tell of stories that are not meant to be said out aloud, but we still do tell those stories, and if they are funny we will laugh our *beeeep * out. We will compliment a lady with the most insanely honest words in the English Lingua, then we will appreciate the beauty with our eyes. Many of you will call that ‘ufisi‘ but we prefer to call it ‘Appreciating God’s work with our eyes wide open’. We will talk of our high school days till late at night and we will only go to sleep because the Police canter ‘Black Maria‘ has been seen roaming around looking for victims. 
So Narnia and some friend from my high school days had been inviting me to this awesome church not far from where I live. I heeded their call one Sunday and accompanied them. It was a wonderful experience I tell you. I met totally new people and all. But most of all I learnt the new and rich meaning of clique.
These rich kids will never cease to amaze me. I knew that a clique is a group of people you hang out with until I met the rich kids of K-Road. I learnt that a clique is not a clique unless you eat pizza every Tuesday. I learnt a clique is not a clique unless you all have foreign accents when hanging out. And most importantly, a clique is not a clique unless you take selfies and pics of everything you are doing. Being a resourceful young man aspiring to be rich someday, I decided to introduce my findings to Those-who-shan’t-be-named. I was received well, with a good laughter and a hell whole lot of roasting. I was called all kinds of names that day, and even one asked, “Mimi unaona nikikaa light skin? Mimi?”. Well, he’s nothing close to lightskin, I even doubt if it’s a skin he has. It might be a hide for all I care.
Being a Rich Kid, or trying to be one, has its consequences. You can’t live in peace without a clique. And mark you, if you are terrible at taking selfies like I am, you’ll have trouble fitting in. You’ll meet your friend who is a rich kid, and also lightskin, who is wearing make up, a matte lipstick and a crop top and ask her what she’s been up to. Her fake American accent will kick in as she narrates, ” Aaaawww, on Monday I went with my clique to Java for Coffee as we talked about KUWTK, oh my! It was really nice to see them. Then Tuesday we went to imax to watch triple X and later went to Pizza Inn to grab some pizza. Alafu ebu imagine Patty Alikula pizza mzima peke yake. We took an Uber home and met in Two Rivers on Wednesday for some coldstone…” She’ll continue yapping about her Uber rides, the the model who wants to date her (you had all along thought the model was gay until then) then you’ll go home to have some time of your own to see your life and try to correct where you went wrong. You’ll look up KUWTK in Google only to find its Keeping up with the Kardashians. 
Selfies of her eating pizza with her clique, or drinking coldstone or outside imax will get you doubting if yours is a clique or a bunch of guys who think alike. Then you’ll painfully remember how you and your bunch of guys had planned to go to Imax at dawn so that you pay 200 for a movie and then go home after that to take brunch. Sad, right?
ODP Forever.

Posted in Joy

Neighbours From Rabai

5am

I wake up to a deafening cry

The cry of a little baby

Oh! How comforting the sound is

I try to go back to sleep

But the intense smoke won’t let me

Mama Lau is fanning her charcoal ‘jiko’

Getting ready to cook ‘mahamri’ for breakfast

Grandma is unbelievably energetic

She bangs on her grand children’s door

Yelling at them to get ready for school

Grandpa is equally nuts

Gertrude routinely wipes poop off her baby brother

She changes the diaper chanting a Rabai folk song.
Soon it’s midday because I smell Una, the fish

Little Mercy tells her mom about school

A nasty fight

A crack head who tried to take her lunch money 

And a flooded classroom

Baby starts to cry again

Mama Lau crushes a coconut and digs for its milk

Cooks some rice with it for the baby

She then goes out calling Mama Amina’s name

She owes her fifty shillings for ‘mahamri’.
5pm

Grandpa comes home

He’s carrying Nile perch dripping water

He shouts for someone to make dinner 

Everyone is home

Everyone is still shouting

Everyone is happy

A family from the valley of Mikanjuni

My neighbours from Rabai.

Matolo Kyalo Jr.
Seasons & Times of Gabussar Mathers
‘I love Our Daily Poetry for all the days of my life and beyond’ – Gabussar.

ODP Forever.
©May, 2017

Posted in Rich Kids

​The Rich Kids of Kenyatta Road

Story by Kelvin Kimanthi Mutune; Machakos, Kenya.

The Wordsmith

Description:

The Rich Kids of Kenyatta Road is a recount of what happens around the writer. He tries to bring out his and his friends’ experiences in a funny way. The series is set on an area called Kenyatta Road, along Thika Superhighway. Kenyatta Road has one of the wealthiest societies along the highway, hence the name of this series. As the writer interacts with his friends he picks up stuff that might be worthy of writing about and then with the help of some irony and exaggeration, “The Rich Kids of Kenyatta Road” is born.

CHAPTER ONE

Beware! Lest the dusty road and the forsaken-looking buildings along the road deceive you. Kenyatta Road, mostly known as K-Road, houses one of the most affluent societies along Thika Road. The value of the cars that grace this dusty strip of road can quadrupole the cars along tarmacked estates like the famous umoja. You’ll see a Fortuner and find it’s your friend behind the wheel and on close investigation you’ll find it was a hand-me-down from his millionaire dad. That’s how rich these peeps are.

When your dad is a millionaire, and your mom another millionaire and your older brother yet another millionaire, what do you become? You become a Rich Kid. Yes, and around here there are so many of them. Being a kid who’s not any way close to being called rich, I know a rich kid when I see one. They’ll dress simply (I said simply, not cheaply. You’ll see Prada somewhere and your nose will occasionally catch a Calvin Klein scent), not like those eastlando kids who dress like clowns, and they’ll walk as if the whole world rotates around how they walk, they will have original foreign accents (sorry eastlando fellas with your plastic accents) and most of all these rich kids will have attitude. 

They can’t simply “punguza” their a-t-t because theirs is inborn. It was inculcated in them since birth. They woke up to find a silver platter on their hands, literally. They want nutella, a box of nutella is bought. Not like some of us who’d ask for peanut butter and would get hit with peanuts on our faces and orders to go roast them ourselves. Anyways, why would you not have attitude if all you ever wanted was given to you ten fold? You just clear your throat and a doctor is dragged from a surgical operation to come take a look at you. Even if it were me, I’d have attitude. These kids don’t know what lack is. They grew up believing in the existence of the tooth fairy and Santa. They even silently believe that elves do exist!

Woe unto you if you are a guy trying to get a rich kid to love you. These rich girls are a hard nut to crack I tell you. Take her to Debonair’s and to her it will be substandard. You’ll sweat off to pay the bill as she’s taking selfies hashtagging captions like #ThisDudeAaarrgghh, #BrokeAf, you get the drift? Wait until she takes you out, you’ll eat at a 5-star, a meal that you can’t even pronounce the name and the bill will make you choke on the sip of wine. Then she will not even twitch. Raise an eyebrow, naaahh! Why? Coz she’s a rich kid, from K-Road, with a millionaire dad and a chauffeur waiting for you guys downstairs. She’ll pick her Louis Vuitton purse, pull out another Louis Vuitton mini purse and inside it pull gold embedded credit card. By this time, your mouth will be wide agape. This will make your Debonair’s stunt seem like a skit and your heart will sink to depths unfathomable.

But bro, lemme give you a rich kid hack. They love the simple things. Walk her home in the evening, hold her hand at dusk and for heaven’s sake you guys even have a railway line running across your estate, let her balance herself on the rails and help her by holding her waist and she’ll automatically wrap her hands on your shoulders. If you want to impress her with money you’ll never win. Thank me later 😉
Thank you for stopping by.

Catch CHAPTER TWO next week only on ODP.

Giving Hope.

©2017

ODP Forever.

Posted in The Village Rooster

​The Village Rooster

Story by Mwangi Wa Kabii; Meru, Kenya.

Chapter Four

Amina had seen my suffering in her mother’s hands. She squizzed my hand tenderly under the locker. It was then when I swore in my heart that I had to climb her in revenge. She had to pay for all those beatings. Even if what might happen to me might be worse than what happened to Sodom and Gommorah, I swore to eat the forbidden fruit.

Later that day during lunch time, me and her went through the odds and evens of her getting laid. We realized that both our mothers went to the same chama meeting on sundays and slated a date on the next one. We were to meet at a Mango tree meters away from their house just near their gate. I am a keeper of time, date me to confirm. The only things I dont keep are promises. They tend to be very fragile and break easily in my rough palms. I arrived exactly after her mom left and parked under the mango tree. It was dark, the moon had hid itself beneath some clouds. It was not to witness whatever would go down that night.

Mama used to give me lots of carrots so that I could see the blackboard from the back of the class: my official sitting position so I had no trouble making out the figure approaching despite the darkness. She had almost reached when I heard two familliar voices approaching from the gate. My mama and Amina’s Plus Jimmy trailling behind them. I froze, I did not even blink or breath lest I sell myself out to the beast. They came and stood right where I was – thanks to the hedge. Then they started sharing stories. Mushene aiish! I prayed for rain like Elijah from the Good Book to disperse the parrots but no such power was bestowed on me. But that day the devil was working overtime, the place where I stood was infested by the red pliers-mouthed ants and they had been positioning themselves at my genitals all along … Then they started biting …

To be continued …

Thanks for stopping by.



#talesofthevillagerooster

ODP Forever.

Posted in The Village Rooster

The Village Rooster

Story by Mwangi Wa Kabii; Meru, Kenya.

Chapter Three

I was selling like illegal drugs owing to the fact that those days most family planning methods like the ‘morning after pill’ had not been introduced. If you ‘poured’ inside someone’s daughter during one of her odd days, you either had to remove whatever you had put in there with hands or take the bull by its horns. Even the withdrawal method had not yet been invented. It was invented later by a friend of mine which.. a story for another day. By the end of second term I had left a trail of carnage. Climbed (humped) every girl who knew what was between her thighs, but one: Amina, my desk-mate. The teacher’s daughter. We were both willing but it was not a feasible walk in the park. She was the tree in the middle of the garden of Eden that Adam and Eve were warned against. The forbidden fruit. But did Satan die after tricking Eve into eating one?

Amina’s father was an AP police. Rumors had it that it was him who ended the reign of the ruthless robbers: Wanugu and Wacucu. And that was not all, they had a big trained German dog called Jimmy that used to hold the entire village hostage when not on a leash. Passing near their gate was equivalent to having a noose around your neck. And now her mother. Our maths teacher. My blood and her’s didn’t augur well. Our relationship was like that of street dogs and chokoras. She used to beat me generously. Its like she had an orgasm every time she caned me. The glow on her face after beating me can only be described as so. Its like she knew I had intentions of humping her daughter and she sought to erase such thoughts from my mind completely. Forever. With beatings. I recall one day she brought back our maths papers. Mine was last to be read out. “Mwangi wa..” she din’t even finish. “16%..? Shame on you!. Even your mothers cow has more ticks than you. Come here and ‘catch’ the locker”. That day she clobbered me like she wanted to kill me and feed me to Jimmy. She topped up my 16% to 50% target with canes. I went back to my seat with buttocks hotter than Huddah Monroe’s …

To Be Continued …

Thanks for stopping by.

v rooster

#talesofthevillagerooster

ODP Forever.

Posted in The Village Rooster

The Village Rooster

Story by Mwangi Wa Kabii; Meru, Kenya.

Chapter Two

Those days condoms were rare. We had only heard of them in the science book. I was the first person to use a rubber in that village. And now Sarah had told all her girlfriends I had access to that rare commodity. They all went crazy. Everyone wanted a piece of this overnight legend. I became a celebrity. The whole lot of them buzzed around me like incessant flies hovering around a heap of freshly laid cow dung.

That evening after school, one of her friends approached me as we walked home. “nataka unifanye na trust kama Sarah” she said. Manna from the heavens! Who was I to say no? Caesar twitched on hearing that once again he would be given what rightfully belongs to him. I had one more packet of Trust condoms left since I had practiced with the first one how they are worn. And that evening, a familiar whistle was heard at their gate. She came and I led her behind a hedge where I had prepared a makeshift bed with a piece of sack. Unlike Sarah, she was a little ‘sexperienced’. So was I.

To date, I still think of suing Trust company. Cause it is I, the village rooster, who popularized the use of protection in that village. I should be one of the principal share holders in that company. It is my face that should be on that package not those bubbles they put there. Even the World Health Organization should recognize me as one of the medical icons cause I contributed greatly to the modern health field. I had even started a programme of teaching my weaker brothers on how condoms are used. I deserve more than the title … “The Village Rooster”

To be continued …

Thanks for stopping by.

v rooster

#talesofthevillagerooster

ODP Forever.

Posted in The Village Rooster

The Village Rooster

Story by: Mwangi Wa Kabii; Meru, Kenya.

Chapter One

I was in class eight. A green cabbage head. Everytime I saw a boy talking to a girl I wondered what they were talking about. I didn’t have the slightest clue. It was then when a friend stole me the secret and told me what they tell girls. I didn’t waste a sec. I approached Sarah and borrowed her . She agreed we meet in a coffee plantation next to her house after drawing several maps with her toes and eating her nails. But she had one condition: I buy her a Fanta madiaba first. I did.
I was sweating as I waited all the buyers to leave the shop.Then wispered to the shopkeeper.

“nipee trust condom”

He told me not to worry that he would not sell me out as he wrapped the packet in a newspaper. I left the shop feeling as if I was carrying a loaded gun.

By nightfall, I was whistling near their kitchen which was by the road. She arrived promptly and we got into business. I had trouble finding the right socket but as soon as I landed into Netherlands I didn’t last longer than a rooster does. I felt something crawl out of my toes, to my legs, all the way to my spine and then I paralized on her bosom. She too must have passed out. The last thing I heard her say was her mother’s name.

I cant remember how long we lay under the coffee trees but we were shaken back to the world of the living by her mother’s voice calling her back to the kitchen. I then went home feeling like Naaman after swimming in river Jordan and getting cured of leprosy. The next day I got to school not knowing Sarah had sold me out. She told her friends that “nanii alinifanya na trust”…
… Stay tuned for the next Chapter.
Thank you for stopping by.

#talesofthevillagerooster

©2017

ODP Forever.

Posted in #ODP_Erotica

She Thugs Me💯

PART ONE

Chronicles of the emotionally constrained 21st century teenager.

By: Jluxx; Nairobi, Kenya.

 

Babe,

Aki Melissa baby…

…Shits so **ked up when it comes to you.

I tried carthtatic inflation,

But the spark wasn’t there

And I’m usually so ****ing good at it I swear.

And it never fails.

Like in ever.

But with you,

I don’t know baby.

It’s not working.

My poems are so ****ing shitty when it comes to you Aki,

Melissa,

Melissa Ithagu,

Melissa Ithagu third-name-which-i-so-****ing-wanna-own-rynnah,

Umeweza.

Umeniweza Aki.

Nimewezwa, sawa babe?

So just ****ing stop this.

Stop making me go Gaga over you.

Designing Nike outfits for you when I haven’t even decided what mess I wanna get myself into with you.

Get my front on your back and pull your back up, whispering screams onto your ear,

Just make you laugh.

Talk nasty.laugh.sigh.Eat your neck, my hand on your waist one under your Jluxx T-shirt

****, Ithagu make my emotions tone down, but don’t stop it.

Cause I don’t want you to be mine now.

And yes, sadly I don’t want me being yours.

I want us being ours.

Just two low-key thugger trappers.

Living.loving.sharing.Messing.Dancing.Trapping.Kush 4:20 babe.Thugging.

Aki Ithagu yes.

Me I’m tired Aki.

I’m tired of us putting a leash on each other.

I want to explode on you right now.

Yes.

I wanna grab you and get you sitting on my laps, your legs around my waist. Now.

So.****ing.bad.

I try to close my eyes and stop this feeling…
But all I see is an image of you so reeling, …

In a Nike croptop.

With a bomber jacket.

Top button closed.

I open all the way down …

 
TO BE CONTINUED …

 

©2017

 

ODP Forever.