So one claimed, and another proclaimed. Munagagwa didn’t care. In Eastleigh, they say whatever comes be it a penny or a pound belongs to the pocket. And so her chants begun tying the knot, from the single innocent string emerged several and each knot specified a certain chant. She called unknowns, chanted what seemed to Farida to be the names of unseen humans. A slow mist of white forms emerged from the ghoulish smoke in the hut, and then a funny cackle followed by a haunting silence that made Farida’s skin cringe. Munagagwa’s efforts intensified and for a moment she violently placed her smoky pot on the ground, flecks of the embers cracking the cringing air and then she covered herself completely using her scarf, her face against the rising smoke in an almost prostrate position.

The room became a mixture of green smoke and the golden lustre of the bulb. Farida seemed lost. Her host whispered and cried as she mumbled things to the tiny pot on the floor, her face hidden under the emerging smoke that at one point choked her, and at some, made her spit on the floor.

“You are choking me… you are choking me….” Munagagwa’s voice finally came in painful cuts as she gasped for air. A force had thrown her from the pot she earlier faced and her scarf now lay on the cold floor, as her eyes bulged. Something had stuck on her throat…

“I…I… Will pppay… Juust…listen…”

Farida almost ran away. Her womb contracted. But the courage for someone else’s destruction made her eyes hard, and her heart beat a little faster. Now she could see a clear dark region from the woman’s neck, as the veins threatened to burst. And then Munagagwa coughed several times with an open mouth, looking relieved.

“You have humiliated me!” Munagagwa whispered. She rose and came looking for things in a hasty manner as she fixed back her scarf. She brought more resins and turned off the light. Only a green speckle flashed from a corner of the room and then it was more smoke and more fire and more chants. A new string was in place, and again with every chant was accompanied the tying of a knot, the calling of a name and then the imitation of a song. Munagagwa jumped up and thumped her chest, her eyes fierce, her soul sprinkled with peppery salt and fire before thrusting her fingers violently in the air.

“Dddestroy…” She screamed.

“Ddddddestroy…..” Her voice came again like thunder, threatening to burst the roof. Darkness was now in total control, the rising strings of smoke almost invisible except for the creepy movements of Munagagwa.

With every word destroy, Farida’s heart lightened and brimmed in vindication. With every word she attempted too, in her heart to follow Munagagwa’s directives or take part in communicating with whatever forces her helper was calling. For here a woman had understood her plight and was working on her pledge, not solely for her, but also for the baby in her womb. Will it not be good if she fought rightly, for a right to a father? The baby will appreciate her sacrifice later, perhaps.

The lights switched on. Munagagwa’s eyes had turned so red the only missing thing in them was blood. Her hairs were so ruffled she looked just like a good witch, one that helped people. She attempted no smile. She took the scarf from her face and wiped streaks of sweat from her neck and face. She was pale. When she took a stool and sat right in front of Farida, the first words that escaped her mouth were very manly, and so somber it made Farida think it was somebody else in front of her.

“Your plight has been heard! Dddddddestroy! Ddddddestroy…” and then Munagagwa lost consciousness. She fell in a heap.


She begun with a hand on her cheek, her head slightly slanted. The first words that came to my ears struck me like thunder. I could not believe. Realizing the way this pretty woman, rejected Jalal, I knew it was nothing else but love for someone else. Remembering the way her heart was satisfied earlier, and the way the natural rejection of my friend completely made him hate Nairobi, or run to his ailing mother, I knew her refusal was nothing else but the pure love for someone else. And I also knew, or still know, or might have come to bitterly agree, that once a woman’s mind was set up, nothing could change it. And before some other words even came and oppressed my ears more, I knew for her to go back to that man, whom she now plainly confessed her open rejection, and who had made her go through some unthought-of pain and depression, she must have truly loved him.

“Why I said”

“Why Farida?”

“Why do you say that?”

She kept her head low still, contemplating, thinking hard and before I could say some other word, she sobbed silently.

I just watched on. She will speak her heart later.



Shack House


My financial problems have made me sink a little deeper into poverty. I have relocated from my one bedroom in Ayani to a single tinned iron shack some few paces off the place. Not so far though, for I can clearly still see the expensive gates of Jamhuri if I stretch my neck higher and still think I live among the rich. Nothing has changed much, if I lie to myself. Kibera is awful, it’s just misery and poverty and dirty sewers with hungry kids playing in the dirt and jobless khat chewers looking at you as if you’ve just received your pay check. Still it is life that has brought me this low, and seeing I couldn’t earn the six thousand I paid and my business declining by the minute, the landlord came to show someone the room while I was sleeping. Within a day or two (I had defaulted for two months) a hardworking girl who works for Huduma Centre came and gave me a two days’ notice and by that time generously fed me the rice and stew from her hard work. I have stooped so low.

Jalal whom I partly blame for our failed business ventures, his misery with a girl who couldn’t reciprocate his love and finding another whom he constantly texted the whole night, departed back to the village. Though I haven’t completely cut him off from communicating with me (I need to be telling someone my woes, for if I don’t I may go mad) he called some few days back saying how Shamakhokho was blessed. It had rained there. The grass buzzes with life and honeysuckles blossom and the earth is filled with acres followed by acres of tall maturing maize crops. Though what prompted him to relocate back to the village in the first place was his ailing mom, he says she has perfectly recovered, and just a day back helped their cow give birth to a heifer. Now the villagers know him as the only animal obstetrician, for it’s a small place and news spreads by word of mouth.

He has no plans to come. I told him life has taken a turn for the worse where I am, he said why should that be? Come to the village. In the morning he drinks fresh cow milk and for break time he milks their goat and for lunch his mother cooks sweet potatoes. In the village there is no misery. The only misery for him is whether Fahima will accept to live in the village with him and lead a happy life there. Without asking, I could instantly deduce their texts have taken them so far, as to start thinking where or where not to live. Whereas I could think of how to eat my next meal, he was seriously thinking of when to eat it, for real now. How life places people in different scenarios is a wonder.

This takes me to a love life misery. I have no girlfriend. Everyone in Kibera has someone. I have seen several teenage girls pregnant! The small ones have been dishing out the pie for all and sundry and now every corner I see is an advert by NGO’s speaking about sex and how safe it should be. In this dilemma a small one has been coming to my shack exactly at one o’clock every day in perfect synchronism with my lunch hour. She doesn’t know, the rice I normally cook is a credit I took, and the stew I buy is from bones a butcher friend has been keeping for me. His generous soul thinks, why throw to the dogs when a friend is in need of the bones? She is not more than seventeen, her breasts are like two finger like projections. If I even try to pass my hands there, it’s over. I am a dead soul roaming the earth. But I know its hunger that makes her look for lunch. I know if she goes elsewhere, she’ll eat and then be eaten. I try to find out where her mom is, but every time she deflects the conversation to other horrible topics like condoms. She needs to be exorcised.

In the desolate position I find myself in, and having looked for a meaningful thing to do, all this while I had completely lost track of what was happening to our former friend in Runda, so much so that I couldn’t figure who she was when one day a quick noisy knock rung on the shack. I had just finished having lunch. When I opened, a woman in a veil was in front of me. She had a ninja, or calls it a burqa.

“Excuse me?” I said. “Are you looking for someone?”

“Oh Tariq it’s me.” She said. I couldn’t place the voice. It sounded familiar but unrecognizable.

“Welcome me in… quickly!” She said. The teenager was in my room. She craned her neck to see who the womanish voice was.

“Ah… Tariq… you have a baby inside your shack?!”

“It’s me… Maryam… remember?”

“Ahh… oh… come in…” I said as I quickly setting out a stool for her as I sat on the bed. The girl was busy washing our dishes, and I excused her.

“Go home, baby girl.” I said.

“Tariq! What on earth are you doing with a class six girl? Have you gone mad?”

“No…She just comes… forget it, she’s the neighbor’s daughter.”

Maryam looked at me curiously before letting that topic slide away. Her moving from where she was, going the lengths to look for me was a serious indication of a problem somewhere. She remarked if her car was safe where it was parked. I said she should pray they don’t steal her side mirrors. She looked sickish, and very much stressed. My room is so compact, dishes and cockroaches compete for space, and the bed is so small i fear it will break in the coming days. She sat on a stool. I offered her some water but quickly refused, whether from fear of cholera or from just not being thirsty I couldn’t figure.

“I am in deep, deep distress Tariq.” She said.

“Please… I don’t know what to do.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I don’t love him! I don’t. There is not an iota of love in me for him. I made a terrible, terrible mistake.”

She looked pale and very weak. Her veil had hidden lines of distress in her face. She had no makeup. Her hair lay near her shoulders. They were thin looking and poorly kept. Though her dark gown concealed the many more defects I could have seen, I knew she was not the person I had seen some few weeks ago.

Life of Knot


Munagagwa took her time to look at her client, thoroughly, as she sat on the only decrepit bed of that house. Her left arm lay on the edge of her knee and palms rolled near her left eye. Keenly. The client’s wasn’t the face of a high schooler or the fading features of a madam in her forties or early thirties. Her skin tone, slightly lighter than hers, and much tighter than hers, and her comely slender nose, which turned to be round at the tip and red ravishing lips placed her probably at mid-twenties. Her bulging stomach suggested one and only one thing; that a man had already done either some harm or some good, which as a natural instinct that came to Munagagwa, were the only two things man was capable of. Ah, aren’t men just capable of other useful things, other than planting seeds in a womb?

Not that she cares. Not that she admires her client. Business is business. Farida’s stomach appeared lost in her sitting position, but her healthy chest betrayed its invincibility. The scarf that lay over her head had now landed on her bosom, strings of hair were visible inordinately arranged, escaping the grasp of the band that had arrested much of the others behind her skull.

“Ah…It’s hot,” She said as she attempted to wipe the streaks of sweat over her brows. The mud and heat of Nairobi had quite unsettled her. Munagagwa stood and disappeared into a tiny curtain, a compartment within that shack to come back with a glass within which a liquid was in. In Farida’s eyes they were cold, and she gulped it once. She almost spat, the liquid was salty and bitter, contained traces of garlic.

“What is this?” She almost yelled.

“Good for you. Good for the baby. Good for the eyes. Good for the bones.” The woman said, sitting down, and continuing her internal digestion of the client’s features.

“You look better.” Munagagwa said afterwards.

“Mmmmh…” Said the other reluctantly said. The bitterness in her mouth wasn’t in what she drank, but what drunk her soul. She smacked and fiddled with her fingers, childishly.

“What has brought you to the famous healer in town?” She asked.

“That…that…” Farida couldn’t continue. Her anger, the bitterness inside her soul made the tongue freeze, and she could only bend her head low, place her arm over her forehead, as if the greatest calamity on earth had fallen on her head.

“That what?” Munagagwa asked softly, with much patience her profession had taught her over the many years. She had seen strange cases, visibly worse than her client’s but chose not to indulge in that line of conversation. She wanted her client to feed herself that malice, that hatred that so much made her cross mud. It’s what made her profession, proud to say, relevant.

“Bitch!” The word just came softly, adeptly without much forcing.

“Man or woman!” Munagagwa asked as if she hadn’t heard her soft reply.

“Bitch!” She repeated louder.

“So it is a woman! Your source of misery?”

“My source of unhappiness.”

“Over what?”

“What else?” Farida asked angrily. Her brows rose.

“Tell me everything. Everything. From the very beginning, till your last footsteps in my house.”

Farida begun her narrative, in pretty much sad tones and regret. She described the love of her life, in positive features, his handsomeness, his wealth, his undying love, once and his final good deed he had ever done for her. Adultery was a gift he had given her, and the product was a baby she will forever cherish. Hers are memories of their night together in Italia, of the cuddling and the touching that led to the final piece of the narrative and her misery. She was his first love. And he was the first he had ever loved, touched, sexed, and so many other things which he had done on her mortal body, until the evil witch came and took him, stole him, and seduced him. That…That… let her not say her name, has held him by a spell she doesn’t know if it’ll ever end, or how it would be broken.

“I just want my man back.” Farida cried. Tears rolled her cheeks, falling on her knees.

“Ehh… my friend, that’s easy” Munagagwa rose and roamed within her room, looking for her working accessories, moving a basin here, a stool there. Looking for herbs that were hung on the tinned-walls of the house and a tiny pot filled with ash. She went out and dumped the ash and came back with three fresh embers of coal glowing red within the pot. A few drops of resin, commonly called Lubadin, and the room had ghoulish rising streams of green smoke, spreading their ghostly fragrance all over the place. She came and placed a dirty carpet-like rag on the floor and ordered her visitor to seat, modestly with legs folded, and her scarf encompassing her from head to her thighs, hiding her face. Munagagwa brought her resin-filled smoking pot and circled over her client dozen times as she chanted muted voices of things never heard, listened.

The room turned dark. The tin-roof of the house begun to spatter lightly, an indication fresh rains were falling. The clouds hovering over Nairobi, and the mist the rains brought made everything turn shades darker.

“Tell me, dear, tell me what you want.”

Farida slowly rose from her reverie. She freed herself from the scarf covering her face and on the floor found a string.

“I want,” She said as she went for the object of her desire, demonstrating with a satisfying grin visible within the darkness, “Her life to be like this.”

She hastily turned to Munagagwa, who was keenly observing, and made strings of knots, so many that the beautiful innocent string had turned into a cruel ball of knots.

“Easy,” Munagagwa proudly said.



Farida looks exhausted. Her brown face has had a foundation smeared upon it. A red scarf hangs on her head, stretching over her shoulders and beneath it is her long black gown. Her cover of modesty. Except now modesty is a thing once heard, but forgotten, like a distant dead relative. The area she finds herself is an unfamiliar territory; forget about the serenity and calmness of Runda’s posh estate. Here in Eastleigh she is in mud and sewage. Everything stinks. Everybody sells something. Stalls are stuck to each other, pavements have disappeared. Wheelbarrows have erected temporary umbrellas selling; mothers struggle to juggle their kids past the frenzy of humans.

It rained, and now black, sticky and stinking waters flow in calm serenity. Filling nostrils. The not tarmacked areas are a threat. Dare and slide, you will fall. But the masses never give up. Means and methods always sprout. A group of mercenaries have erected a temporary pulling cart between two well-known streets. They haul and transport customers, or rather people willing to do anything, to cross. Waters, dirty and murky, stinking and deplorable fill to the shins. The stinking sweaty muscle men don’t care a dime; work has been brought right to their arms.

Farida has an arm over her hip, with the other using her scarf over her nose. The sleek after-rain winds push her black robe, exposing her ever growing belly. She had added several pounds over the past few weeks since her first vomit and her breasts are swelling, gradually. The heaviness upon her is nothing comparable to the heaviness in her heart. She is a bitter woman. Beautiful but bitter, over many things. Top amongst other things, the cause of half of women’s problems worldwide, being a man. Fadhilludin, but forget about her cute and sinless man, forget just about him. It is the evil that has snatched him that has all her vitriol directed towards. Today she will know…

But the sad reality, stinking Easleigh, rowdy crowds, overpopulated Nairobi, hooting Matatus, careless motor-bike drivers and the dirt all over temporarily distract her thoughts. Ah, in Nairobi everyone wants to eat. They hustle, they bustle and some sprint with someone else’s phone, purse or anything edible. A strong man unwittingly brushes against her shoulders and she falters before avoiding a calamitous fall. A Good Samaritan asks if she is okay, and nods. That dirty street has to be crossed.

“Twenty bob! Twenty bob” A man counts fifty shilling notes with his fingers. He has rubbed saliva with the free arm that will do the counting. He is short and plumb. With muscular shoulders and a raggedy brown shirt. On his lower limbs is a discolored jeans.

“Cross the bridge of life,” It seems people are lessening. And the waters are receding. The bold cross like nothing has happened. Farida approaches and hands over a twenty shilling coin. She is helped on to the cart.

She has crossed. The other side is still the same but less water and more mud. The tall new buildings sprouting haven’t given Easleigh the luster it always lacked. If at all, they have added on its misery, and the generous government hasn’t a clue on how to fix things. Nearby the raging sounds of motor indicate a construction going on, a building being added on the list of long other types of buildings. Business, business… but when will real work be done? Farida has thought about that, but the evil face of that… she doesn’t want to remember her name, never. She bites her lip in bitterness. And that bitterness lands her in a hole nearby. Mud rushes all over the lower edges of her gown. Ah… she hates again. Twice fold.

Alas she has navigated her exhausted body over the chaos of Main Easleigh. She has negotiated past evil looking little boys whose mothers threw them a decade ago, and who have bottles of glue stuck on their mouth. She has passed past suspicious pickpockets, and indulged herself more, into the lowly built poverty houses. The tall buildings, glancing back, look exotic, but she knows better. Down there is a rot no government will ever fix.

She stops over a tin built blue house that sounds more of a shack. Over it are the words, “Come for help.” On electricity post is a long list of qualifications the unknown master of things possesses.

-Relationship-lost spouse-wayward man-taming a nasty wife; finding lost relatives-

The qualifications hadn’t ended. A hater had cut part of other things the advert announced.

She knocked.

A woman stepped. Her hairs seemed ruffled. Her face was pale. Her eyes red. It’s as if she’d just lain with the devil himself. She slapped a fly from her arms, and attempted a smile. She failed.  She attempted again revealing a set of dirty teeth crying for help.

“Are you Munagagwa?” Farida quickly asked.

“The one and only. My friend you have reached. Come in, come in.” Said the woman; as she attempted to push a dirty, old rag that stood as a curtain on the door. An attempt to cover against all prying eyes.

The house stunk of blood. Over the floor was the slain head of a cock with its eyes opened and some feathers nearby. The woman kicked it and it slid under the bed. She pushed a rag nearby and wiped the floor dry, managing to smear more blood on her floor. Nearby was a stool, a thin bed with a worn out mattress, a pot with some brewing some unknown things. The lighting was dim, green.

“How shall I help you, my child?” She grinned as she said.

Farida wiped a sweat from her brow. “Let me first sit,” She said.

Honesty Beleaguered


Soviet Union 1960

Part the second.

It will end when we overcome cleverness. When we realize we are too clever for our own good. It will end when the street guy hustling refuses to give out ‘something small’ as a favor. It will end when honesty comes. It will end when hard work gets valued more than cheap money.

-Hard huh!

At first it is hard. At first it is painful, just like any other syndrome. Take the similitude of the very ill patient. His heart races. His head swirls. Palpitations give him sleepless nights, chills give him no respite, fever burns his skin. The very first he does, in his pain, is acknowledge his situation. He is sick. The sick person will visit a doctor. The sick person will swallow bitter pills: to change his situation. The sick person will eat sand, even if falsely instructed by his doctor. In desperation. For nothing is as sweet as health, and nothing as ever abhorrent and disgustful as corruption. The sick heal.

-Can we heal?

Can we be honest?

-Does it have to do with honesty? Dude I have seen honest people ‘eat’

Those are not honest.

-Bro, no one is clean.

That is the disease. Lack of honesty is the recipe for all the malaise. Take the similitude of a dirty house. At first, on the outside it is very appealing. Dishes keep piling in the sink. The lazy tenant has reached the point, where he has used all the dishes, have become dirty, and is now forced to go buy quick disposable plastic plates and spoons! Sinks remain untouched. Smell comes. Flies come. Sink clogs. Cockroaches come. They make themselves comfortable everywhere…from the kitchen, to the bedroom, in the toilets and in the living room. They are invaders.


Honesty is clean. It is satisfying. It is always straight. It is not sugar-coated to get favors from anyone. It acknowledges that there is no middle ground between right and wrong. Corruption is Ebola but worse. It kills not the few rich, but the millions denied basic rights. It denies school children textbooks, desks, pencils, teachers, while the rich man’s kids are studying in Paris school of Economics, trying to figure what is wrong with African Economics.

-Bruh…there is nothing wrong with African Economics.

But there is something wrong, only it is not a system but a people. It is not systems to blame. It is who runs systems. You don’t need a degree in Paris or oxford to study African problems, or African politics. No one teaches honesty! Not in universities! Universities are the greatest manufacturer of dishonesty in every sector of life. You don’t get degrees in Honesty! You don’t get a degree in established truths! There is nothing like an ‘established truth’ anymore. Everything they teach is a theory. The theory of everything!

-Deep! There is no degree in honesty?

-Neither is there one in uprightness.

Is it the upbringing. Do we blame colonialism?

-We blame lack of honesty!

Is it honesty a hundred percent?

It is the nucleus of the atom. Take away the nucleus you have nothing. Take away honesty you have emptiness in everything. In economics, in science, in factories, corporations, parastatals, ministries, lack of honesty you have ghost structures that bring benefit to no living thing, man or ants or birds. It makes everyone poor.

-How should honesty, be cultivated?

Through teaching. Through speaking. Through punishing.

-Do you think that can ever happen in Africa?

In Africa anything is possible.

-I don’t think so.

So long as things remain, we shall be like that for hundreds of years to come. We shall see China rise and rise, overpopulate, come to the continent and dictate things to us. Because honesty has made us poor; and the few rich with their dishonest ways, live in mansions. We will be living in the twenty first century as we scramble for foods coming in planes as Aid, because we are too dishonest with ourselves that something should change. There will be no running water, no agriculture. No nothing.

_It starts with me and you. Are you honest?

At least I am honest about our state of affairs.

-Be proud you are African.

(Shaking head) Proud, bro, but nothing to show for it.

Coz Cheating is Cool.


It is no longer news.

Money disappearing in billions is the trend.


-Coz money is available.


-Because they easily give us!


-Because we ask them to!

Ask who?

-Donors. We tell them it’s for development.

What’s the development for?

-It will make us have tall buildings, beautiful roads, expansive highways.

Stop. Stop. You confuse me.

-Money was borrowed.

-Yes. Is borrowed. Was borrowed.

Money is given. Yes.

Easily given.

By who?

West, EU, IMF and any other organization with a ‘fund’ as part of its name.

It’s available?

-Yes. In bulks. They print it.

And we take? For what?


And is there development?

Only development so far is stealing. Papa calls it looting. Euphemists use –Vanish, for lack of a better word.

Arrrgh. Africans!

Stop there. We are to blame.

Really? How so?

We are cheated because we are cheats. We are wronged because we are wrong. Cheating has become so rampant that people now compete which type of cheating is more profitable. Yes profitable!


Yes, it is profitable. Cheating is quite rewarding. Positively and negatively.

It gives you ill cheaply (ill gotten) wealth. It makes you purchase a degree. It makes you get a very nice decent, well-paying job, because all you do is pay someone to pay someone. It makes your son pass his exam, because you bought all the examination questions plus the answer sheets. Cheating makes you cheat the government, that pays you millions for a shady job you sugar-coat as a tender. Cheating makes you rich. It pays the rent. It buys you cars. Cheating makes you cheat on your partner (well first because he/she cheated on you before, your relationship isn’t going ‘anywhere’, another promised you better living (he has a car, owns a house) etc.

Because it is the new norm. It is the instant gratifier. Quick everything. Quicky…quicky…pants down, thing in, five minutes pleasure, massive surges of dopamine, it’s so cool, and it’s the new drug. As long as you are not caught, you are the master of your game. All the rest are fools.

They are not ‘Wajanja’ (clever), as many people like to use the term.

So it is this cleverness that many people think to possess, that the ones above them, embody. They live to be clever. They live to cheat the system. To cheat the people. Because being clever and being elected to office has double advantages. All the rest down there, the ‘Wanjikus’ are not clever and they are cleverer.

“Bwana, who do you think they are?”

-So a whole corporation (and any other type of cheating in bulks), will be fleeced on a single day and the money vanish. Several false trails leading to nowhere are pursued for days, because even the ‘detectives’ are paid to pursue false leads. The looters come on top as both the clever (Mjanja) and richer. Now he commands bodyguards. He has built the largest living mansion in Africa. He has a small runway in his farm for his jets. He has a swimming pool the size of a lake. And the people forget, because they thought they were too clever, and too smart not to know they were fools. The image of our man has now turned from an abhorred thief, to a reverent ‘Mkubwa” (Dignitary).

-Mkubwa? You are shitting me!

-Yes Mkubwa!

-Why Mkubwa… how the change?

-Because he smiles as he kills you. He pays some few shillings to whomever he meets. Distributing wealth for show! As if he is in a circus. The masses drool. Malnourished children, with kwashiorkor and marasmus run around him barefooted, and bare-chested as mucus runs down their noses, chanting his name. He opens a tap with running water; people hail him as the most generous man in the continent, next to Jesus.

-I am shaking my head right now.

-Shake it harder. Now his fame has spread. People call him ‘Our person’. He has used the fallacy of his position to endear himself, appealing to his tribe. Touch him now, you’ve touched them. Do anything to him; you have done something to our person. The very early foundations of the cheat, has now been gradually converted to a dangerous sycophancy. Talk and you talk against us. Whistle and you whistle against our very own. Blink…dare to blink!

_That’s a very good example.

Now everyone wants to emulate him. That’s the tragedy. To own a car, a big house, a small runway, and girls drooling over your wealth is a sign you have made it in life. So cheating becomes normal. So long as I gain. There are different types of cheating. The foolish and the clever cheating. The fool will rob an Mpesa at a gunpoint. That fool will probably fall towards the evening by a policeman’s rifle. The clever cheat walks in suits. Drives nice cars.

Will all this end. Can it be changed?

-I will tell you how it will end. Not today. (wink).

Never Look Back…of Growth and Learning. A year later.


I learnt some important lessons along the way:

Time is plenty. Priorities are limited. Your goals fall under your priorities. Unconsciously you may prioritize not what you really want to prioritize. To prioritize you need time. To have time you need to stay away from the noise and listen to yourself. In the dark, alone, in your room, ask yourself, do I have time? Can I make time? (In reality time is not made, but is there, but do I say?)

Time stealers are out-there. Beware! Time stealers are rich. Wealth has made them powerful. If you are looking to make money, know that you make someone out there rich, as you think of ways to make money, you forget you need time. To get time, some genius thought of ways to take away your money that has been given to you in the form of time.

The following, one year on, I came to know are perpetual time stealers.

  1. Series. (Hollywood, Korean, Bollywood…and any other thing that ends with wood.)
  2. Instagram. (really do you need to be constantly looking at your phone?)
  3. Facebook.

Social activities. (Binge- drinking…clubbing etc… things that don’t add value to you, but add only misery after you have finished exhausting your mortal body)


Learning never ends. No matter how much you think you know, you still don’t know.

  • Only the arrogant brag about what they know. The wise think they know not. Didn’t Socrates say, ” The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing?”
  • Medicine and writing perfectly coincide. They are both arts. Whereas one heals humans, the other studies human behavior and their motives.
  • If you haven’t learnt anything new today, your day wasn’t worth living.
  • Addictions can be overcome. Fighting addictions is a war! In that war you don’t need guns. You need a Will. You need tremendous dedication and spirit. In accomplishing it, what are you willing to sacrifice? Can you throw the bottle in the gutter? Can you flash those packs of cigarretes inside the toilet? (If they can be flashed. LOL). In saying this, I witnessed several people around me quit things they thought they’d never quit.
  • Girls are gems. Everyone wants them. No girl I met who hasn’t had a past life. Boys, as I come to learn of these things, it’s time we hitch-hiked the car in the middle and begged a ride to somewhere. Or nowhere, If fate allows it.
  • If a friend around you is not one that inspires you to do anything, It’s time you walked alone in the dark road towards your goals.

I quit Facebook. It really feels good.

I grew up, physically. One year.

I finished my manuscript: It felt good for a while, then the feeling dissipated, wrote a couple of short stories and left some still unfinished. I got bored, started book two of my novel. Why do I feel I enjoy writing the second book more than I did the first, is it experience?

I went a ladder up in the school of medicine.

I tried looking for editors! American editors are EXPENSIVE!

With time I will learn more. I will hope to meet people we would learn from constantly. For now, Bliss.