PAY DAY

For anybody in gainful employment there’s no time to look forward to than the end month. Forget about this contracts that pay in a fortnight or weekly. The only way you know you are in lucrative employment when you get excited around end month time. This is the time all your sacrifices of waking up in the morning when all you want to do is sleep is rewarded. This is the time those who don’t enjoy their works for once shed off their phony smiles meant to score points with the men whom depending on their moods dictate how much you take home every month. 

You’ll know it is payday when suddenly there’s an influx of people in all the places that shout new money. These include the supermarkets and shopping malls of the city. And I’m not talking about people just passing by to window-shop, haggle about prices of electronics in a supermarket and pick PK worth twenty bob on their way out. I’m not talking about people who think Nevada is charging them too much for a 500ml bottle of soda and decide to dash in and buy a pet bottle of soda at 55 shillings. 

On pay day it is evident-a minimum of a fully packed trolleys laden with all the good things za kuambia mwili ahsante. On pay day those who partake of the bitter stuff in the pubs on the dingy alleys of Nairobi rise to the occasion and migrate uptown, indulge in the excesses of the night, leave behind ‘hefty’ tips of 200 shillings for waiters with Vera Sidika’s back and momentarily forget that they are otherwise responsible members of the society.

Pay Day is most celebrated by teachers. I know because I was a teacher in my other life. Forget all that crap about teaching being a calling. It aint. Unless by calling here you mean it’s a calling from JAB. Let’s face it; those good teachers that moulded us into who we are are long gone. The ones singing bado mapambano in the streets every three months are not motivated by an inner calling in them, a passion to serve humanity or things like that. They are motivated by the huge grin on pay day. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with loving money, I’m helplessly in love with cash too.

Queue at ATM on pay day

I remember my first salary. There’s an exhilarated feeling about the money you sweat for. It’s sweet. It’s adorable. Never mind how meager it is. I used to be a teacher at St Isabel Mixed Secondary school those days that the good University Joint Admissions Board insisted you had to rest home for two years before entering the hallowed gates of an institution of higher learning to do a course that they thought was best for you. The school manager/owner/head teacher/master on duty/head boy was a hairy old man who was himself a senior educational official in the village before retiring and starting his own school. The school had a teaching staff of four when I got in to a student population of about 200.

I was to teach English and History from form one to four. I was just glad to be out of the house and in productive employment. You know how it is after you clear form four and you have absolutely no reason to ask for pocket money. Wenger, the manager was a busy man. He was called Wenger due to same uncanny similar characteristics with one Arsene Wenger. He was rarely in school. He had a flourishing transport company of about twenty pikipikis, a chemist shop that was the envy of the town, a kindergarten for the town’s elite, a dairy farm that supplied milk to many establishments in town among very many other profitable ventures. In this hierarchy it was the school that brought in least profits. 

I guess that’s why he was rarely in the school. I think he just kept it a float in the loving memory of Isabel his deceased mother.

The work of running the school fell to a certain E B Siwo, a trained teacher himself too. He taught Kiswahili though it was obvious it was not his natural tongue. This was a guy who loved his bottle. The school was situated at the very foot of Wire Mountains in Oyugis Town. The close proximity to the woods gave the man the necessary camouflage to go and take a little at break time and lunch time and come back quiet into the staffroom like a sick man. With that it was obvious he couldn’t take his afternoon Kiswahili classes.

Being new and enthusiastic, I offered to teach Kiswahili Fasihi and even later Insha in addition to my other subjects. The good Siwo thus taught just Kiswahili Grammar whenever he was not sick or inebriated or absent. The feeling of authority, of students looking up to you, of asking a big bearded boy to stand up and sit down as instructed was euphoric. See I was never a prefect in my other life. From form one I was a mopper on duty. That was synonymous with slavery in Maseno School. You had no power, absolutely no power. You were not to talk unless talked to and of course the inspectors, who were themselves students (mere form twos for that matter), owned your ass. Not literally I must add.

I loved my job. Being a teacher felt like a calling. I woke up earliest from home and was usually the first member of staff to arrive. I would, just like my teachers did in high school squeeze every time for my three subjects. I rarely used my chair in the staffroom coz I preferred standing, using my well kept high school notes to impart knowledge upon willing heads. I read and reread the new English and Swahili set books, I analyzed them just like my teachers taught me to and on a silver platter fed it to them. I don’t remember a time when my hands were not covered in chalk dust……………. Until pay day!

No member of staff was ever excited to see Wenger because it meant more work. But on pay day it was just about the cash, deserved reward on a loyal laborer. Wenger the busy man was of course itching to get away to his more profitable ventures.

“Mwalimu Robert, come in here” he called me.

I was bubbling with excitement. I wasn’t sure what to do with my first pay. My mother had reminded me that my first salary was to give out to close relatives to bless my future earnings. Of course 10% was God’s and that was non negotiable. You never say no to that woman. So in my head I had already committed half my salary to such ventures. The other fifty percent I wasn’t sure. It was increasingly getting difficult picking up ladies with the Vodafone 125 my father had gotten me from his 4500 Bonga points. It had no memory card slot and of course I couldn’t listen to music loudly for girls to notice or put ‘I’m bawling’ song as my ringing tone.

On the other hand, teachers are respectable people in the society and a suit was trademark for men of such stature in the society.

The phone or the suit….

The phone or the suit……….. The phone or the suit………..

He begun by appreciating my enthusiasm and the fresh energy I was stirring in the students. He went ahead by saying it would be a shame if such dedication and enthusiasm were not to be rewarded. At this moment I was accepting the accolades with a cool demeanor just like a Don receiving compliments from a loyal subject. Of course one cannot eat compliments.

“However, you’ve noticed that this term most of these students have not been paying fees……..”

Here is when I really begun paying attention.

To cut a long story short he paid me two thousand shillings. Yes, two thousand shillings!

I owed the school mama mandazi three hundred shillings from a month of taking mandazis and uji at break time. You should know fuel is compulsory bwana. And of course I still had to get those blessings by giving my grandmother two hundred shillings and buying my aunt Nyasembo fulu. For those who don’t understand French, Fulu are bigger omenas. Too bad we buried Nyasembo over the weekend. Such a great woman.

So the next day, gutted, disappointed and seething in anger I decided teaching was not my calling after all. My mother of course couldn’t understand why I was quitting. In her usual stinging sarcasm she asked me to go out in the streets and show her where one could just walk and pick two thousand shillings.

My fate was sealed. 

The next day I reported to school at ten, in a matching trouser and coat that could easily pass as a suit and sat in my staffroom chair, drunk the sugarless office tea, reading the sports news on the paper and of course the classifieds. 

Waiting for Pay Day; for the big grin; for things to get better

It did …....Eventually, when I was promoted to the school principal and could finally buy a Nokia E series to depict my new status. It was a Chinese model of course; with two SIM cards, volume louder than an woofer, EDGE internet, memory card slot to play all my songs and with a calendar to mark the next Pay Day!

Too bad JAB had other ideas and summoned me to do Public Health when the big bucks had just started rolling….

Any Principal Job opening out there?

Mzee Varaq’s Journey

So yesterday was my birthday. I’m not usually a sentimental man but even men made of stones are allowed to relish some moments once in a while. The point about  birthdays is that they remind you that you growing old and therefore provides you with an opportunity to access where you are, where you want to go, how far you are from there and of course what you need to get there. I know I’ve always maintained that life isn’t that serious but I guess growing old does that to a person.

There are very many ways you just know you are growing up. Of course the surest way of knowing is when you give rise to a new generation of young Kenyans. When you are no longer just Varaq but Mzee Varaq baba ya Petition Mutunga Varaq. I’m not saying that an infant with such a name exists but I’m also not denying. My brothers the Alpha Male, The Legend and Matolo have also done something and being a multiple uncle means that our stories for the next generation are guaranteed. In the words of Japheth my class rep, ’we are going on vere well’.

me

Everybody has a story. Everybody has a journey. A story of where they are from, a story of where they are going. I have my story. I have tasted success, I have licked losses, I have gurgled despair, but I’ve never doubted that I’ll get there. No, it’s not course of any proof or assurance but because of the unflinching faith of a mother and the unwavering confidence poured on a son by a proud father.

big bro n dad

I know am getting old because the basic 8.4.4 system of education is soon behind me and my baby sister who is half a decade younger is in university herself. Her generation is that you can’t sustain a conversation with via text. They have all those xaxa, xema, piwa , ttyl and YOLO things that just make you feel really really archaic. You know it’s time to quit campus when in document verification before a hockey match you look at some of your teammates who are born 96 and you wonder whether the problem is with your  mother for making you start school late.

Finishing school however means that one has to start being creative, to start knowing how to survive in this Nairobi when the taps of parental charity runs out, when you cease to be a responsibility but a bother. For that reason, I pray I get a job soon. I know the focus these days should be from job seeking to job creation but I’m soon realizing that not everybody is cut out for that entrepreneurial thing. I know in my twitter bio I may have indicated that am an entrepreneur but I’m soon beginning to realize that maybe entrepreneurship is rocket science after all. There is a difference between selling wares to get by and managing a business scientifically to get to the desired results. Yesterday during a mentorship session, a Linda Wamalwa, MD at LightBox opened my eyes to that truth. I’m not of course saying I’m in any hurry to edit my twitter bio. 

So I’m a job seeker. This time is for real. I remember in second and third years when I was looking for opportunities for my practicum attachments I did send letters, tones of letters….no they were GBs coz they were in soft copy. Ok, I’m exaggerating, maybe thousands of kilobytes of letters to prospective employers who were either too busy to reply an email or who had firewall settings that made sure the messages sent to those email address failed permanently. There were analogue once too who believed you had to queue for their attention like refugees being served food at Kakuma Refugee Camp. Thinking about it we were really waiting for food, only that it didn’t come. But I don’t blame them; they didn’t know what they were missing. The point is we never despaired and that’s why right now looking for a job is my full time job, a job that I’m ready to embark on with all gusto.

So the other day I was applying for this job that apart from all the other education requirements had certain provisions that just left me wondering how job seeking has evolved into such a rigorous process of thinning. They had this provision that required me to describe my Christian journey. Why couldn’t they just ask me about my academic journey? Then I would just have indicated Maseno School and that would have sufficed. Not that there’s anything hard in jotting my Christian journey after all I’m a Christian. I can see a stupid smile playing on your lips. Wipe it away. You know I’m a son to a Deaconess. 

The issue was the description was to be in 3000 words. I know I’m a writer, a creative writer for that sake but surely what would one write on a religious journey for all those words? Of course I can talk about my baptism all those years ago in River Awach, and my first holy communion and even if I were to list all those Saturdays that I have gone to church that wouldn’t take even two hundred words. But since I’m broke, desperate and most of all idle, all take my time writing my Christian journey. I will write about my adventurers as an adventurer and a pathfinder. I will of course not exclude that my motivation for going out on all those camps was not the calling of Christ but the calling of the hormones. I hope the guy above  will understand.

So that Christian journey thing got me thinking. What if they asked for my romantic journey? At this rate I won’t be surprised if interviewing panels started asking for one’s opinion on gayism and lesbianism, on polygamy, on the ICC and all those questions where either answer is wrong or insensitive; immoral or conservative; progressive or radical. For my romantic journey I would request for not just 3000 words, but maybe a whole ten seasons just like Ted Mosby, he of How I Met Your Mother Fame. I still remember my first girlfriend. She used to be a girl in my class in primary. She was a true beauty, a natural Kenyan leader; corrupt, greedy, drunk in power, selfish and surrounded with a clique as vicious as the Mount Kenya mafia.

It doesn’t matter who was making noise in class that day, she always had a noise makers list which for obvious reasons never had my name. Those who required such exemptions had to part with some goodwill gifts such as sugarcane, scones at break time and of course the pinnacle of the gifts was akuon akuon. Now akuon akuon were mandazis that were made using unga ngano and maize flour in the ratio of 1:100. That didn’t take away any sweetness from them. For a shilling people jostling to be close to the seat of Zee’s power would buy ten akuon akuons. You just have to remember to show your undying loyalty. Of course I didn’t have to struggle much; my love that rained like the El Nino was enough to ensure that I was able to milk, milk and milk some more. Not that milking bwana, back then I knew that thing was merely for passing water. That was Zee for you, my leader girl. She moved to another town and that great love story had to adjourn. Maybe just like in those Philippine movies we will bump into each other in the streets of Migingo, reconnect emotionally and live happily thereafter.

I still remember my first kiss, it wasn’t from Zee; it was from Jacy. I was so crazy about this girl that we merged our names. She was JacyRobz and I was RobzJacy. She was mine and I was hers. We had our own language, complete with alphabet and all. We just reversed the alphabet from Z-A  and matched them with their corresponding letters. Not that I expect you to understand anyway. It was that crypted. ‘O nswaki’ used to mean I love you and ‘jali ki o’ used to mean I miss you. Mathematical terms were also infused in our language. LCM didn’t mean Least Common Multiple but Love, Cherish and Miss. We used to write each other sweet endearing letters that nobody could understand……until my meddling big sister Aluoch broke the code. She threatened to expose my crafty nature to my trigger happy mother. Now my mother is no joke. She is the kind of woman who would cane you thoroughly and still beat you some more for crying yet all she had done was to slightly hit you. It doesn’t matter how painful the canes were, you just had to stop crying lest she starts the ‘real’ beating.

Of course I had to come up with a way of bribing her lest she reports me to the Idi Amin of a mother. So for six months I gave her all my meat whenever we ate beef until she made a bigger mistake and it was payback time! Naturally I took full advantage. Anyway back to Jacy and my first kiss. I know that’s what you guys want to hear.

In our culture once you are a big boy you start ‘chasing sleep’. Chasing sleep means that you no longer sleep under the same roof with your parents. So at night alone with no prying eyes Jacy and I used to discuss LCM before discussing the other LCM. Once again hold your horses; nothing happened apart from the kiss. There were all this adverts about how a real guy waits and of course Mzee Varaq wanted to show his lady love that he was a real man. Too bad not everybody wanted to be a real man and that was my first heartbreak. The thing about heartbreaks is that you don’t see it coming until like a thunderbolt it hits you and leaves you for the dead. It makes you however stronger and wiser. That real man thing was not to be experimented with again. I guess that’s why I have zero faith in adverts apart from the Guinness ones of course.

I told you I could really write about my love journey. That would just be my introduction. I’ve met all kinds of girls, crazy, sweet, innocent, dangerous, vengeful, caring, considerate, naïve, experienced …..I mean all kinds. But each has impacted my life in a different way, each has made me a better man, each has made me learn something about myself, about women. I know I’ll never be an expert on women coz they are complex creatures, even more complex than Algebra to a standard one pupil but so long as life moves on I’ll learn.

Happy birthday to myself; Long Live Mzee Varaq

Theories of the Cracked Lip

So my lips have finally healed. You might be wondering how that affects you. Well it doesn’t. Maybe it does. But you just have to be in my shoes to understand that a swollen lip generates more attention than a terror alert. Okay, I’m exaggerating a little bit. The lips is among the most conspicuous places to have a defect albeit temporarily. Everybody notices and seeks to ask you what happened, how you feel, if it is painful etc. Of course it is painful! Just for the record I have no problem against people showing concern when a tragedy befalls a comrade, but it gets cliché to explain to every acquaintance, friends, random people on the streets what circumstances led to a sagging lip. How long it will take to heal, whether I can still kiss or eat comfortably.

Everybody has some wild theory that they think would suffice. The ex girlfriends would for obvious reasons want to believe that I was bitten by an overzealous inexperienced new lover who thinks kissing is a battle of teeth. With a feigned concern they then will inwardly say, ‘serves him right’.

The religious friends would want to believe that I ingested too much of the COOH group and in my stupor rushed forward to head butt the ground with a little help from gravity. Their theory is of course supported by the fact that my fingers and leg are covered with bruises and sores and my skin cover is as smooth as of a person with scabies. Maybe they will use ‘my story’ as an anecdote before they start their next summons condemning the ways of the youth and just how alcohol and drugs are vanity. You know how it is with preachers, they are divine gossips. For the record, I have no problem when my story is used to motivate and uplift others. It’s just that I have a reputation to protect. 

Johende would of course propel the story that I got in a fist fight while fighting over a lass and somebody finally showed me my place. It’s Johende good people, she is allowed to say anything. Now Johende is a friend of mine who sells, shirts, vests, handa etc. Handa is just a polite word in my language that refers to boxers, pants, G strings and things like that. Johende is thus a person who deals with issues hende. Well apart from her part time jobs of studying public health and selling inner wears, her main job is stirring controversies and arguments. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t have an opinion until she hears yours and immediately realizes it’s fatally flawed. She has a strong gift of garb and strong business acumen. She’s the kind of person who can sweet talk you into buying a necklace labeled Fauzia for future use if/when you get a girl called so. It doesn’t matter that the kind of Kiswahili you know is just sufficient to say I’m thirsty or it’s hot and not sufficient to mount a serious suit. She isn’t the kind of person to just leave a nigga hanging. As part of her after sales services she would give you some pointers and Swahili pickup lines….

Buibui lako la meremeta kama parapanda za Zayuni

That’s Johende for you. I hope she isn’t reading this. I wouldn’t want to get a fresh lip injury just a few days after sneaking food in lest the sores in the lips feel the taste and scream.

Sorry I got off topic, I just wouldn’t want you to continue living without knowing people.

Forget about all those theories that are being peddled by people who want to bring me down politically. The truth is that I was hit by a cork. Okay, stop squirming in your seat. Not that cork, that’s for the Binyavanga’s, I mean a hockey cork. It’s what in football you people call ball. I don’t understand why all this sports equipment and paraphernalia have to have names with a sexual overtones….balls, shoot, D, score, corks, sticks etc. Maybe the ideas for this games were conceived when people were doing you know what. Maybe I’m just a pervert. 

And why you would one still play hockey when it is that obvious it is that a dangerous sport. You see hockey is not dangerous; it can just be harmful at times. I swear that sounded better in my head. You may just lose your entire dental formula, an eye or both, or even your treasured balls. That’s why if you can’t store your seeds in some laboratory it is probably a wise investment to join the Fathers Union of Kenyatta University now lest your lineage die with you. 

There can never be another explanation for continued engagement with the sport apart from consuming passion. It is like those KDF soldiers who put their lives on the line each day in the warfronts of Mogadishu to defend our territorial sovereignty. Once again that’s another inappropriate comparison, but you get it.

I have a strong feeling this could be my sports year. With four rounds of matches to go and sitting at the helm of the Kenya national Hockey league, I can almost see the Vultures lifting the cup and going doing the annals of history .I know anything can happen in the world of sports but even while taking caution not to jinx the moment; that would be the perfect way to crown my university sports career. So for just this two months, I will bear your theories of broken lips and bruised skins, I will give my all for my team and for myself. For just these two months I will marry my hockey and hope it gets pregnant with medals.

Sometimes you forget how it is like to be whole, not to have a single scar on your body, not to have a cut. Sometimes you don’t remember the last time you could comfortably deep your fingers in a bowl of hot soup and not feel the biting sting of salt on a bruise. But yet every weekend, every match day you still line up to defend your pride, your ego, your team, your basic desire for winnings.

That’s sports for you. That’s passion for you. That’s adrenaline. That’s hunger. That’s desire.

Surviving Valentine's

Its February folks! Let’s face it January is never our favorite month of the year. It is the month that we get reminded that life has to go on after the excesses of December. It’s more like when in your state of inebriation you forget that you are not Bill Gates and decide to sponsor half the bar to whatever they are drinking on a Friday night only to request for a soft loan on Monday so that you get the fare to work. January is laced with fatigue and great fiscal demand that you sometimes wonder if the sun is ever going to rise again.

But not February. The month is synonymous with very many things but none as prominent as Valentines. It’s great to be in love I must add. For those of us who are always single around this time of the year, I get you brothers, life is hard. And to those who made one mistake and are paying for it for  the rest of their lives in the friend zone, I’m sorry for you but that's life for you. For those who are in monogamous, polygamous, polyandrous relationships either by consent or through ignorance, it’s ok. Life is still hard. What matters is that you are in some sort of a relationship and you matter.

What I have never understood though is the fascination with February the 14th. I have never understood why I have to wait for the day to tell the person who matters in my life that they do. I have never understood why March the 4^th or Friday the 13^th for example is not a great day to visit your florist and buy a bouquet of roses for your Juliet. And forgive me if I don’t understand why real love is equated to mere materials like expensive ornament, posh restaurants and Gucci dresses. Please don’t stone me just yet, just make me believe why I should make you happy for one day and set the foundation for disappointment for the other 365 days? But don’t worry, just so that I don’t appear analogue I’ll download megabytes upon megabytes of digital flowers and send to you. After all a flower in whatever form is still romantic, right? Maybe thinking like that is why I’m single and depressed around Valentines.

Just so we are clear, I do believe in love. Love that’s not boastful, that’s pure and all those things listed in Ephesians. Don’t look at me that way, I do read my Bible. There are those couples who met each other in the matriculation ceremony in 2010 when we were joining campus and four years later they are still going strong. They inspire me. They make me believe that maybe there’s that one person with whom the world will stop existing. There are those relationships which didn’t survive the lifecycle of a housefly yet there are those who survived the gestation period of an elephant. There are those girls whose ‘uncles’ disappeared in the thin air after professing their undying love and getting the cookies. But yet life has to move on.

So for my friends who wish to play Alejandro this Valentines here are some pointers and romantic suggestions.

Invite her over for a movie

Being a student you’ll agree with me that the semester is not in a good place. Heck, it’s never a great time in campus. Not if you are just a regular Joe with seven siblings in high school and a parent  relying on the proceeds of Sossion's strikes. However, I'm a man who believes that such little nuisances like financial inability shouldn't stop a guy from doing what he wants to do. What’s more romantic than watching a movie together? It doesn’t have to be at IMAX, she should know that the European commission has issued a security alert and that’s why it is probably a good idea that you remain indoors. It goes without saying that your roommate should be in exile then.

All you’ll need are popcorns worth forty shillings from the shopping center. Make sure your date knows they are from the shopping center. It is such finer details that will earn you respect. A good choice of movie would be the banned Wolf of Wall Street for the obvious reasons. The movie runs for a whole three hours which would mean that there isn’t much time for other activities unless it is indoors. The scenes of tits and ass that are in plenty would also mean that you don’t have to struggle too much to get some Valentines action….if you know what I mean. The movie is available at Sumu Movies in KM. Hope the government is not reading this.

The introduction of the food outlets in campus is a miracle straight from goddess Venus herself. Hundred shillings is enough for three plates of well cooked pilau. Since some of these ladies don’t know the meaning of dates, it is important to have a hundred bob more just in case four of her friends tag along. If she comes with an extra mouth, you can always feign an a phone call and leave them to their devices. She isn’t sensitive to the hard economic tribulations you going through and thus she doesn’t deserve you. If she asks for juice or soda you need to inform her of the high cases of morbidity and mortality from diabetes. Sorry, that’s just diseases and deaths from excessive sugars. Just by appearing knowledgeable, your cash will be saved for more pressing needs like treating yourself to ngwacis from Burundi.

Kenyatta university arboretum is actually a great place too for lovebirds. It’s not just the serenity, or the somberness that makes the place a lover’s paradise but its remoteness too. When I say remoteness I actually mean that it is far from the tempting smiles of fries and chicken hovering around most luring establishments that only thrive by fleecing us. Just so that she doesn’t say you 'left her with a dry mouth', it would be good for your portfolio to carry two liter bottled soda and a sheet and some ginger biscuits. Now that’s a fun picnic! And of course you need to remember to return the bottle to the shopkeeper so that he can return to you your deposit. Bwana this is Nairobi. Ok, we are in Kiambu County, but you get it.

For those of you who believe so much in the flowers, I told you what you need to do earlier. However, if you want to do things the old way then Mzee Varaq still has your back. The good university has a medicinal plant unit that plants crops for herbal use and research. You can always feign interest in botanical research and I’m sure you’ll get some yellow or red weeds that can actually pass as  flowers. There is no harm in rubbing them with your Solea perfumed petroleum jelly .Apart  from the amazing scent; it will look shiny and fresh. Just make sure that the weeds you use aren’t poisonous, allergic or capable of causing acute dermatological reaction. Just in case anything happens and your date swells like mandazis rush her to the health unit. Don’t worry about the costs so long as she is a student, the generous university will treat her for free. If she isn’t then maybe you need to include her in your NHIF cover before next week.

There is of course the other issue of some exotic drinks   for toasting to a great past and an even grander future. For normal people who are on the payroll of the United Nations and the Deloittes of the world, a bottle of fine champagne will come in handy. In case you wish to downgrade, Jamesons, Gignac or Johnny Walker are the worst that a Nairobi girl can accept for Valentines. Just coz she knows this brands by name doesn’t mean that she can actually differentiate between a Jameson and a Meakins. Some of these ladies are all talk yet behind the scenes they guzzle spirits of death at Mbugus. So buy your cheap drink, house it in an expensive brand bottle and Voilla they will sing your name till the sun comes down. After all Valentines is supposed to be a time of creativity and surprises. Whatever you do, don’t buy Bluemoon and house it. That they’ll know. It is their breakfast over here. And another thing remind her to go slowly after all you won’t want her too wasted for the final act or worse, blind?

You can’t be breaking up with your girl three times in a row around February and making up in March and expect her not to notice that it has something to do with Valentines. Whatever you do just don’t get caught.

Happy valentine’s good people!