Posted in My Tales



“Excuse me sir, could you show us how to make a respectable ugali?” A deep voice came from behind.  Everyone went silent as eyes tried to trace the person. A man stood from the far end. A bald head and a very thick mustache, from his physique you would mistake him for Apollo (Rocky). His deep voice did not match his question and thus the bewilderment.

“I’m sorry…”


“Yes, Morpheus, what exactly do you mean by respectable?” asked the speaker.

Morpheus adjusted his voice and changed his position of stand. Like hip hop rapper from the 70’s he explained.

“Respectable, as in ugali that is soft but not too soft with a sweat almost partially burnt smell oozing from it. Yellowish-brown almost burnt sides on the edge and in between the neatly shaped meal. What I mean sir, is ugali that would keep a marriage steady even with love gone”

With that the crowd burst into an uncontrollable laughter. The women looked the fellow with shocking expressions and eyes which screamed ‘who hurt you poor guy?’ The speaker, a reputable chef could not control himself as well.


First time I cooked ugali was in shags. I had just finished my primary school national exam and decided to visit my favorite person in the world. I enjoyed time with my grandma. In some weird way I consider home to be wherever she is. So it was me, grandma and happiness, did I mention a lot of work?

One particular day in this moment, grandma had gone to the shamba to tend to her fields (she loves it) and I was left home alone with a boiling sufuria of water meant for ugali. When the water was ready, I ran out to call granny dear because I had not cooked ugali before. But in her cunning way she convinced me to start cooking, that she would join shortly to finish. I believed her.

Do you know how hard it is to cook on a three stoned jiko? Halfway through, I added the flour but it was too little and the ugly started spurting out like popcorn. Burns like candle wax only multiplied. So I added more flour but this time it was too much. While worrying about that, the fire went out and smoke had started filling the room.

So here I was, tears rolling out my eyes, sweating like a whale (do whales sweat? How would you know? Like, with them being in what and stuff… ) I wanted to give up, I was giving up. And just then, grandma came to the rescue. Boy was I relieved. The ugali was horrible, very horrible. It could break into pieces and flour would come out of it. It definitely wouldn’t keep a marriage anything. But grandma applauded me for being such a good cook…

So when Morpheus asked this delicate question, I too became attentive. I wanted to know how to cook good ugali.

stay tuned.

Posted in My Tales

frozen yogurt



My phone rang. On the other end was a lady. So I fixed my voice and awoke the deep bass voice, tried to be normal about it. She had a calm-confident voice like Oprah Winfrey. I haven’t heard Oprah speak off camera to actually know her calm-confidence voice but its where my mind takes me when I think of confident women. We exchange salutations then she, after few awkward talks says she was just saying hi. I wanted to play the ‘who gave you my number’ card on her but I figured that would be me pushing my luck too far. Someone on their own volition took their time, called me and just to say hi, it doesn’t get any luckier, besides, what more can a man ask for? So I hung up.

I was really pumped up by the strange call and the mystery lady, so the following day I decided to after a long ponder on what and how to text her. I ended up saying ‘hi’ because what else was I going to say? She replied almost immediately as if she was expecting it. We talk a little bit too much and before long we were planning world domination. Ok that was too far. We didn’t actually get there. Not until our third chat where she said “I really like you”. Am single no more, I thought. We scheduled a meet at the mall and had frozen yogurt. I paid for that shit, I also got her uber later on. Myself I haven’t ever done uber. I wanted to cry when she tapped too much but hey, what’s a gentleman if not cool calm and collected right?

See clever people say that we always see our nose but our brain chooses to ignore it. This has been used in many occasions to advice and encourage people on many spheres of life’s challenges. Other times it’s just through around to show guys that you know something about the nose and the brain, like now. But unfortunately, I don’t know about the brain, I’ve never seen it, I only believe I have one. The human body is a big mystery. Scientist have tried to make sense of it all but not fully I reckon. Science can says we have a brain but doesn’t explain how the brain came to being, it says we have a heart but how? You cannot understand the ways of God let alone explain it. But hey, because of science we know we have a brain, that’s gotta count, right?

Like brain, the heart is unexplainable. One organ that pumps blood all day everyday (unless your body is subjected to cryogenics which is still practically impossible and you’d die!). They say you love with the heart too. How? Who knows man, it just happens. The heart also chooses to interpret reality as it suits it. That’s why he will beat her up every day but she will always defend him saying he’s a good man and such. It’s the heart. The heart chooses to see the good and ignore the beatings. I realized after the party that my heart was operating in the same angle. But to fair, she led me on.

She invited me to a party hosted by her friend. I arrived late because that’s the right thing to do. Why the hell would you go early to someone’s party anyway? Everyone was already there apart from the ones who were not. She ushered me in and squeezed me a spot next to her. We drank water, ate lots of food and talked. We talked and laughed a lot. And every time she laughed she’d lean on me or slap my shoulders. I thought, how is she finding me funny? Is she pretending or it’s the water (it’s actually water we drank, don’t go putting alcohol near this story). Then it clicked! They say if she laughs at every one of your jokes then she’s the one. So I figured I found her.

She held my plate as I went to receive a call. Mama Dearest wanted to check on her adorable son (me) because she missed me. Ha-ha, hell no! Mama wanted the keys to the digs because Jemo had stepped out and was not picking his calls. I was not ready to leave so I texted Mama that I was on my way home, then switched off the phone. I lied. I went back in and picked up the conversation somewhere close to where we had left it. Soon people started leaving and we remained fewer in the room. I thought to myself, “This is it”. Sometimes fate works in our wind and those times you pull down your sails and let it ride along. I was about to do just that when her phone rung. I thought, maybe it’s the folks or one of the Bff’s. She picked it

Hello babe,

Then the shock happened. The one people keep saying. A sharp chill ran down my spine? That shit happened to me man and it wasn’t pretty. Couple of seconds later I calmed myself. When she said the previous day that she liked me, I felt that thing. My heart saw a lady who likes me, my mind was already planning a future and now this? What was this…

“I love you too”, then she hang up!

The rest of the conversation wasn’t so easy. I kept trying to figure out if the person on call was her boyfriend or just a friend. Because girls have this habit of using the words babe and I love you too quite loosely. I was in doubt and I was starting to miss my mama so I switched my phone back on, no calls. We eventually left after she got a text. We walked holding each other to the main road. I had had enough talks for the day and resorted to doing what men never do, listen to women talk! We got to the road and a red vits packed up ahead. She rushed a hug and said bye. I thought, why is she in a hurry? Then it downed on me, the man driving the vits was her ride. I was left by the roadside man. Later that evening she texted me

Hey, I had a good time. You’re really fun. Paul says hi…I think you two would make good friends.

Who’s Paul?

My boyfriend…

I didn’t text her back man. I wish I knew who gave her my number, they’d have some questions to answer. Hey bill, did you give anyone my number?



At this point of the story I was laughing so hard my left lung hurt. I know, I’m a terrible person but wouldn’t you laugh too? I later told him to take it easy and life wasn’t over yet (me trying to be supportive). Funnily I was a certified counselor and was an official in the guidance and counselling team back in Kisumu Boys. Apparently, people were supposed to come to me with their life troubles and suicidal thoughts and I would in turn listen and tell them nothing other than suck it up. No one ever came to me if you are worried. Have you met boys in that school?

Sometimes ladies don’t like like like you, they just like you! Don’t try make sense of that….



Posted in My Tales



Turns out there was a wayward kid who caused trouble all the time. He was eventually expelled from school and life forced him to get a job. He was lucky to find a clerical job which paid ok and yeah. But unfortunately, the job was boring and we all know when shit is boring time freezes. So he decided to read science magazines on his ‘boring work hours’ and eventually developed a passion for science. The boy here is Albert Einstein, but that’s a story for another day…

Here’s todays story,

It would surprise you to know that results are usually effected or affected by the minority. Contrary to the popular notion that maximum effort begets maximum results, which may as well be true, but who really knows this things? I happen to have noticed a book by Richard Roch dubbed The 80/20 Principle and thought to myself, what if this is what someone out there need to know about? What if am the one to deliver it to them? And so I decided to write something on it. I hope you learn.

A while back, my good lecturer and a mentor pitched me the theory of ‘principle of least effort’ and at first I thought, well it’s just one of the many theories out there. What I did not know but now know, is that it works. The least effort principle is but a glimpse on the Pareto law or in this case, the 80/20 principle. Vilfredo Pareto was an economist who sought out to study the patterns of success attributed to systematic implications. He went ahead to find out that the whole system is imbalance, hence the 80/20 thing. It was only right to name the discovery after him.

So what is the 80/20 principle?

According to the book, it is scientific law which says in essence that 80 percent of results or output come from only 20 percent of causes or effort. And it has been proven to work in business and economics time and again. It implies that most of anything done is attributed to the few in a group. The minority resources enforce the majority output. According to me, it’s just an awesome theory that I’d like to try. But here’s the whole picture first.

In a semester, you have say, six units. In this units you have say two which you are really good at and you would perform exponentially without even trying. When the examinations are carried out, in most cases you would score average marks on the other four units and higher marks on the two. They are what we call boosters. In compilation of totals, the average marks are equally high and the grade thereafter is a welcomed one right? See this is majorly a contribution of the two subjects with high score. Two here being the minority number. We getting somewhere?

Another is an insurance company. They probably have a lot of clientele ranging from private car owners (usually the majority) to public transport companies. The car owners may decide to insure one or two cars at most three. The public transport companies who are usually minority in number, usually insure more than fifty vehicles which if my math is right, would bring the chunk of the business. Which means more attention is diverted to them. You don’t want to lose your business.

See this is no call for laziness of any kind, rather one for smartness. Many a times you’ve probably heard or been told to work hard and blah blah. It’s never only about hard work sometimes. I’m not saying don’t listen to such voices but the smart thing to do is to be smart. Reading from Donald Trump’s school of thought, hard work is overrated. Working smart means diverting most of your effort to what you are good at. Be it that subject, that business, that talent. You perfect your strengths, you devour your weaknesses. This is a simple strategy and as Sun Tzu says, a great conqueror needs a good strategy. Time is important, when used wisely its productive.

My pitch!

Time is a gentle God – Sophocles

We waste out time often dwelling in matters that are neither here or there. They might be matters found or considered important but in reality they are not. In life it’s very rare for one to not know what is really of importance in their lives. But we’d rather please the universe and society acclaimed pedestal for certain situations that we don’t consider the minor things. Brother Abok used to shout at us ever so often on the assembly grounds ‘take care of the little foxes, the little foxes which spoil the vineyard’, makes sense every day. In as much as the minor things can bring and often do bring majority outcome, the same can be contrary. The small things can also lead to major distraction or loss therein.

The owner of KFC (example for everything) spent majority of his lifetime doing a job he didn’t like and earning very mediocre wages. He retired and was left with nothing to show of. But, the remaining years of his life he focused on his passion, his strength and came up with the best chicken recipe which resulted to an international brand. Its’ no coincidence.

So you there, focus is good. But focus on the price. Focus on what is good for you. Savvy? I hope I made sense here. Bye!









Posted in My Tales

we are done


Relationships are so complicated. They bring pain and joy and a lot of mess along with it. I know this how? Well back in kindergarten, I had a girlfriend and we were seriously going steady. I was the cool guy in school who wielded power and so it made sense for me to have princess (no her name, I never really got around to knowing her name, being in one class and all, I might have known it at some point but forgot it. Her dad used to call her princess just after dropping her to school so everybody got on board with the princess business.) Did I mention I was so powerful I decided who went on the swing and who didn’t?(I know I don’t look like it right now but…) and I also had a pencil with an eraser on the other end which was a big deal back then.

Princess was a tiny little pretty girl with the cutest teeth gap ever and dimples to go with it. Dimples are magic! She knew English more than the rest of us, considering she was the richest kid in school and her dad was white. She had a smooth skin and her clothes could easily render your olfactory modality dysfunctional. She had a nice scar on her left thigh courtesy of yours truly. Also she was the only girl with plaited hair and had a pet. We all know everyone with a pet is a princess right? (I’m kidding). We did most everything together. Things like eating her lunch and so on. Fast forward to my point. There was this one time a couple of kids were picking on her. Being the good boyfriend I sought to defend her. I engaged the other kid in a good fist fight or whatever the hell kind of fight we had, pretty sure those were not fists. But that was one of the many mistakes I’ve ever done. A couple of boys from nowhere came at me to defend the poor chap I was working on. They beat me so much I wanted to cry and pee at the same time (I think I did). Even girls beat me up that day.

Lesson: you might have all the power but when people are fed up, they are fed up and people together? You can’t win against that.

Anyway, a teacher came to my rescue, boy must I have been so glad to see her. Princess was crying for me at this point. My pains were dressed with a cup of juice and the other boys got punished (because who beats up a poor boy whose only mistake is defending his girlfriend?). Point? My relationship with princess got me beaten up like a dog and I lost power, pain. But it also made her love me even more (or whatever was going on between us), I was her hero (I think), joy. And I guess the messed up part is the fact that we were five years old and in love.

But that’s not the story here….

Penelope, not her real name but let’s call her that. I figured it’s a name you’d give a fat beautiful lady with lovely legs and an amazing soul. Before you say anything, she is indeed fat and she doesn’t mind being called fat, unlike some who consider the word an insult. Penelope broke up with her guy. I was listening to one of Sauti Sols jam. It went something like, ‘we can fall in love again…’and it just so happened that at that moment and time I was going through my WhatsApp, catching up on conversations and stuff. That’s when I saw the stories with harsh and bitter captions. Normally, she would put up Mr. Guy’s three or four pictures and write some really sweat captions on them. Not this time. And

Because I’m such an idiot (an idiot who cares), I asked her what was wrong. I wish I didn’t because now I’m writing about it. Penelope told me too much. Then because I’m poor at consoling broken hearts, all I did was encourage her to say more. She said “That broke ass dude broke up with me on a text! Who does that? Cant he be man enough and say it to my face? After all I’ve done for him” Mr. Guy, if you are reading this thank angels you did not dare do it to her face, she’d kill you this one, literally.

Because I’m so insensitive, the only part of that story that intrigued me was the break up text. I asked for the screenshots and now I’m depressed.

Now here’s why I wrote this.

Complicated as relationships are, which they should otherwise where’s the fun? I believe they are worth it. When a man is romancing a lady, he goes out of his way. He borrows that car and take her out somewhere tranquil and say all the right words. He’d even write a poem or sing a song, I know I would. Because effort is important. Effort is required. A lady the same. They borrow dresses and shoes and all that lady-look-good-stuff. Process is good

I think break ups too should be done with more effort (I know, I sound crazy). Break ups either break you or make you or to the extreme, they destroy you which means they are an important event. I think they should be done properly. If it were up to me I’d write a letter and it would be the stuff of museums. It would be lovely but not too lovely. A bit serious but not too serious, it would have life and reasons with why’s and the works. I’d make it so reasonable that after she reads it we still remain friends no, besties. Who limits a breakup with a simple ‘we are done’ text? That’s not even right. Effort! You wanna brake someone’s heart at least try and do it right

Princess if you are out there reading this, I still fight for you.



Posted in My Tales

New strength

i’m the other guy

Growing up was not a bed of roses. In fact it was as tough as they come. ‘Work hard and make your own butter’ is what they used to tell some us, hell, most primary school motto was hard work pays (pssssssss!). Not like making butter was our main goal in life or that we even paid attention to such. Living in the ghetto is no easy task. Fights broke out almost every day, people bleed for everything. Ranging from territory to girlfriends to small pettifoggery and such. From the young to the old, even ladies fought for something (mostly men). It was a perfect real life way of saying survival for the fittest. Everyone was ready and able to fight, or go down honorably. I wasn’t ready to lose a fight if it came to that so when I heard that freshmen were being recruited for karate classes, you bet your ass I was the first to join. Every 4 o’clock we’d meet up, punch the air, make some really scary noises or shouts (I don’t know which it was), did a lot of pushups which left us weak and finally, the good part, seek a worthy adversary to ‘ngara nayo’. Most of us gave up after some time, I was the first. Long story paragraphed, inasmuch as it was a real bitch of a life, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I was going home the other day. It was late and dark, people had retired to bed or bar. See I fear very few things, meeting Mia Khalifa , death by cockroaches (if you’ve watched the mummy you’ll get the picture. Not the latest mummy remake by Tom Cruise, I’m talking about the real mummy, the bald dude who opens his mouth and cockroaches come out…)  I’m still working on my other fears. Anyway there were footsteps behind me and darn was my heart racing so fast. The footsteps increased in tempo successively as I tried to look scared whilst terrified. I wanted to look back but, hey you don’t wanna spook them, you don’t want them to know you’re onto them. So I kept it cool and tried whistling a hum under my breath and change my walking style. At this time I’m trying very hard to recall my karate class lesson and the dangerous shouts. I’m pretty sure if Mr. Oketch saw me right then, he’d be very disappointed. I ran every scenario in my head and decide that if I was going down, I was taking a tooth with me. Part of me wanted to run but you know…

I stopped right ahead and was ready to fight. Imagine my shock when a small kid came walking towards me. I bet she was eight or something. She reached near me and looked at me with the most grateful eyes ever. She was scared but glad to see me. And I was terrified. And was ready to punch her nose. She didn’t talk to me but her eyes did. So I walked behind her till she reached her place then I went my way.

Fear is a great thing. A weapon? I don’t know, maybe. But one thing is for sure, fear keeps us going. Most people think being brave is everything. Being macho is some sought of high pedestal. But I found a new pedestal. Its fear driven. Picture this, if one doesn’t want to fail, in studies, in life…they prepare. They read and stuff like that. So fear of failure makes one read which in turn makes them not fail (most cases). Fear of death makes one take care of themselves. Back in form one, there was this tall guy, Weba, he was a fourth year and very scary. I didn’t want to get on his bad side ever. I once saw him slap someone so hard the whole class went silent, the boy didn’t even squeeze a tear or two. He just stood there absentmindedly. So when Weba came one time and asked me to buy him a mandazi, I bought him four. When he came looking for a calculator I ran to him with one (I never got it back until he sat his papers). I feared him so much I didn’t want his anger near me. So I made it my business to provide. Big picture, with all those deeds, I bought my protection. No fourth year ever bullied of harass me. Not that Weba even knew my name, being seen with him was all it took. Point is, my fear for him got me protection! So fear is good.

It’s been a while since I wrote something so I thought I scribble this and tell you about fear. Tell you that fear is allowed. That if you tried bravery and it never worked, it’s about time you feared something. Right? Good answer.


For those asking, I’m ok. Nothing bad happened to me. As to why I’ve been missing in action, well I don’t really have a good answer for that. I’ll try make an effort to do something for this blog at least once a week. Thanks for the support.



Posted in My Tales

Isn’t it so?

graduation cap diploma isolated on a white background

Finishing high school education is probably the best feelings ever. On that very last day of school you get to do almost anything. You get to burn your note books and all the papers, we called it academic bonfire. You’d ink your school uniform with varied graphics displays from signatures to funny cartoon drawings and, the generous part, the part where you get to give handouts to the junior students. Of cause you were saying goodbye to lousy morning calls for dawn studies. Stuff you no longer needed. Bid good reddens to the crappy food. The food was always crappy, the beans with weevils swimming in it, oh and the white porridge. The porridge was quite good, if I do say so myself. After some cocoa and margarine additive…heaven!

But that wasn’t all. See the real excitement was the road ahead. I remember we would sit down a tree on Sundays and imagine how life after would be. We fantasized about being together in one place just being troublesome and looking cool while at it. But that didn’t come to pass. College!. I don’t know about you but back in high school, teachers made it sound like some ultimate utopia. The freedom, the wear-whatever-you-want policy, the no early morning assemblies and the pitch was always the girls. The smart, beautiful girls of college. Once a teacher got fed up and yelled “stop wasting time with this small time girls at the fence, there are beautiful, intelligent girls waiting for you in college.” The ‘waiting for you’ part won us, most of us anyway. I got to university and boy were those teachers exaggerating. But what the fun in telling the plain truth right?

The first semesters are always the best. You are so focus, so determined and you are ready to take on the world and anybody else in your way. It’s the only time you will attend all lectures and even the make up or extra classes. The only time you will have three pens, the blue one, the red for writing headings and black for answers. You’d take notes so keenly and even go to the library for further research. You goal is to get a well-paying job, probably a 6 figure salary, a posh car, maybe a Porsche 911 turbo S, a good big house and the girl. You are so obedient and self-conscience this time, you don’t indulge in any other activity threatening your studies. Hell you even have a personal timetable for personal studies. Like I said, the best moments.

But with time comes change and nobody really likes change. Except for a second year student. The second semester you realize that you are ‘alive’. You want to taste the limits of your freedom. You make new friends. Join new circles, drop your first year pals and such like. You want to go out to every event in town. You want the latest fashion, the new kicks in town. Basically you forget about your ambition and focus on yourself, you forget the books. This is usually the part where you quote the “You Only Live Once” phrase and convince yourself that everyone is doing it. By the end of semester, you know everyone who is anyone. You’ve had like 10 girlfriends and maybe if you’re lucky enough to not get some sickness or pregnancy. You barely pass and move to the third year.

Now third year is the year of claiming ground. There is school politics, you want to join in. Every activity that brings out the authority and dominance in school you will find a third year in. Of cause this comes with pressure. You also have to convince everyone of your academic dominance. So if you can’t cheat well then you have to study. Thus comes the stress. Most people defer the semester at third year out of fear. They realize they have not learnt a thing and time isn’t friendly. You will find yourself very active with matters lecture. When a lecturer is absent you want to fire the whole school. Third years complain about everything. Your famous phrase here would probably be “we pay a lot of money and we are not taught.”

The last semester is a tricky one. You suddenly realize that you are almost done. You are soon graduate and venture into the real world. Most people panic, for a minute then say something like “am not alone anyway” that would calm things for them till they realize that they are actually alone. At fourth, you will probably want to pass highly at whatever cost. You know what I mean. You will pay for your project to be done, the research reports and all. You have no time at fourth. You are either juggling some job and your studies –because mama isn’t gone house a grown-up no more – or job hunting and studying.

It’s tough out here…

Posted in My Tales


I was resting the evening away by the wall. The big wall with broken soda bottles stuck on top like some security measure. Every soda company brand is represented on the wall. Behind the wall, on the other side lays everything called garbage. Plastic bags from every supermarket around, Jameson bottles and –people here clearly don’t care about the environment –just everything constituting a nasty dumpsite smell. But the mademoiselle on a green dress on the other side makes it all go away, the fetor. If I didn’t know myself any better I would say I always get to the wall just when she steps out of the balcony for whatever it is she does there for approximately 45 minutes, sometimes its 43 other times is 50. But today she didn’t come out. So I didn’t stay long.
Just when I turned to take my leave, this young girl came up to me with a math book. She is in primary seven and she needed help solving some problem. I froze for a moment. I wanted to ask her, “girl who sent you? Who put you up to this? Huh? Who are you working with? Where are your headquarters? How much do you know about me?” but I didn’t. I smiled and took the book. See before you think what you’re thinking, math and I were friends, once. You can ask David, he’s the one who made the answer sheet for every math paper back in high school and I helped him most times. But really? I don’t even know how to spell math this days, it’s been like 100 years or something since. So my reaction is justified.
With that said, I have a trifle of history with math. In primary three, I remember one afternoon we had a math class. I wasn’t warmed up to it so I opted to skive. I begged Peter to come along but as always he was a chicken. I went alone. I ran towards the field in stealth mode. I was scared but it didn’t matter anymore. In my head I was a ninja spy. Leaping on the tip to the toe. I managed to reach the field and lay down on the long yellow dry grass. I lay there for a while. Being scared and stupid. I thought I hid well I started counting, to distract myself. The sun was so hot that day I remember sweat passing all the way to my grey sweater and making a huge patch there. Time wasn’t moving at all. Long story short, I was caught and BEATEN, not caned or punished…BEATEN. I still hate that security guard who caught me. And that how my spy career ended.

We sat with the young girl and went through the math ‘together’. It was some quadratic equation. I didn’t remember shit so I pulled one trick! Make her do the math herself, while thinking I was helping out with the math. It’s simple really, I asked her questions after questions concerning the problem and she answered. I was being all teachery*** like what do you do when you are given this and that. It worked. She did the math herself with my voice in the background and that was that, she got it right.
In her eyes am that ‘mtaa genius’. The guy you go to with the crazy math problems. The mum also thanked me for helping her child and even asked me to tutor her. Of cause I declined the offer. I gave her some bullshit excuse and she bought it. What matters is, her view of me has drastically changed to my advantage –that’s if she even had a view on me – and that;s a good thing.
The 48 laws of power: let people do the work for you but always take the credit. Always!