It has been barely a month now since we went for our long holiday, and boy don’t I just miss campus life. I miss school. I miss my friends; group awesome and the rest. I miss my roommate- no homo. I miss the free internet connection, the cheap yucky food they serve at the mess. I miss hating on those who afford samaki ya kupakwa by the poolside- they made me miss home. The paradox of life, huh? I miss Rose Ayugi and her constant disapproval of her housemaid, though I only attended like six hours of her classes the entire semester.
I miss the China Wu Yi (pronounced as China Woiye) and how their incessant Caterpillar (did I spell that right?)Tractors woke us up daily as they threatened to bring down my hostel. Trust me in my side of the halls of residence; you can’t sleep past eight in the morning. Though I am told that the ladies loved it….you do not want to know why.
I miss taunting the two closest people I have to being my best friends with their dysfunctional class relationships, how their culinary skills are repugnant to all written and unwritten laws pertaining to gastronomy. I miss the swimming pool; my swimming buddies….that includes all of them dudes who can walk across the shallow end; but then act like they are the pros when adolescent girls from Innorero come, yet they do not know the first thing about a freestyle stroke. I miss the pretty ladies who hurdle themselves by the pool in their bikinis without even daring to step inside the pool. They are there just for the show, regardless of the NO IDLING warning that greets you at the entrance. But I doubt our Mr. Pool Manager is ever going to drive them away, because they bring out the cheerleaders effect.
To understand what I mean, try singling them out one by one…you will find out that they are not so Kim Kardashian after all. They are more like Wilbroda or Mama Nyagothie. I miss the church, the bible study, and all the class fellowships. To be honest, in first year I used to imagine that church was this mawkishly corny gathering of souls, where students who have never been to heaven brag about it to those who will never get there. Now I know better. Do not expect me to explain why because that is a story for another post.
I know now you are wondering how my melodramatic missing of school has got anything to do with that title above there. Do not close this tab just yet. We are getting there. Thing is, a while back a group of idle, senseless, selfish and completely mediocre vigilante members in our hood (make that village) decided to make an ODM supermarket out of our home, leaving no electrical appliance other than my mother’s calculator. You the ones that bleep and shimmer when you press a button? Yes that one.
So for me there is no any other mode of entertainment other than Facebook, unlimited sms and the two songs that my Nokia 7610 can accommodate. The fact that my mum is always on the road every three days does not make it any easier for me. In this neighborhood, er, village not so many people have experienced technology beyond Nokia 3310. The funkiest hairstyle that is rocking the ‘hood’ is box. It is not uncommon to find a woman old enough to be experiencing menopause( or should it be meno-stop), so shamelessly raise one of her legs ala a female dog and piss by the roadside…pardon me, bush-side, without a care in the world. A laughable caricature of the female homo sapiens.
I cannot walk around the milieu of what I call home without an accompaniment that is the nauseating stench of the products from the local breweries down here. Thank God they don’t make those that have names of WWF superstars. On the plus side, I have to admit that I love the murmurs and giggles of a village boy in 05 jeans, (remember the ones that could be worn inside out?) trying so much to get laid by a lady who has no time listening to him because she is meant to be picking firewood. Remember A Meeting in the Dark folks?
#Sigh*. This basically means that my idea of fun is basically goose fried.
So what do I do after I have copy-pasted funny Maranda-beats-Alliance texts from the net and sent it to everyone in my phonebook? Initially I would sit by the backdoor stairs and kick it. However I have recently stumbled upon a stunning revelation that has developed into my hobby and that is the foundation of this blog post….our poultry. They remind me so much of campus, and so I thought I should share this with my peeps out there who are also bored as I am…except of course the racist one who has the proud one from Siaya omena market breathing down his neck. Again, no homo.
P.S if you are not from Parkie Class of 2014, please do not bother understanding that joke.
Back to our poultry. Essentially, there are nine of them, but one was hennapped. I named them, though my mode of nomenclature was not in relation to any person, and as such, any resemblance is purely coincidental. Just so you know, come from the lakeside city where we measure distance using the SI unit of Stonethrows e.g. X lives six Onyango stonethrows away from Y. So here we go…
BRAD: This is the cockerel. I mean the badass who thinks he is the shit and every other person…sorry, chicken, is shit. He has black feathers with some little patches of creamish-brown on the side. He reminds me of Chemistry and Biology classes in high school in which there were no definite colors like red, blue, green excetra. Rather we had brownish-green, Blue-black, yellow-orange. His muscles are rather established, so that only means that if he were a person, he would be a gym-goer. If he were in University of Nairobi, he would most probably be a member of the Goons Fraternity, who go around weightlifting tuck-shop fridges, and walk around in white mitumba vests and show off the bumps in their bodies. This means that he would most probably be a luo or a luhya. Sorry Maitha, you do not make the cut. He is a glutton (Brad I mean) and is very rowdy and mean during mealtime; but nonetheless, just like his human counterparts, he attracts all the ladies in the house, er, hen in the compound. Girls will always love bad boys I guess. No offence Shelly.
DICK: This is the other cockerel. He is quiet and humble…in a gay kind of way. As a matter of fact I think he is gay. His feathers borrow all colors of the rainbow. Okay not all, maybe a few. But still, that means that if he were human, he would be one of those guys who put on colorful skinny jeans and V-shaped lady tops that make them look like women on a diet. He is the sodomite, fudge parker, and butt pirate; his name is definitely not a mistake. He would be more inclined to the modeling industry, talk with a lady’s pout and sluggish accent. I mean this capon does not hang out with the hen at all. He is a loner.
During mealtime, does not engage in the primal foodrush. He steps back, probably fearing that he will ruin his nails. He pecks maize seeds like he does not want to blemish his makeup, and lastly, he catwalks. I am damn serious this thing sways its tail feathers as it walks, and acts like it is the next big thing that ever happened to our homestead after my birth. I bet it can lick a lollipop, and there is a good chance that it clandestinely wears Victoria’s Secret! If it could speak, it would most probably sound like “OMG, I love your shoes!” If it has a Facebook page, I would not think twice of blocking him. I mean, I am not such a huge fun of pokes, persistent ‘likes’ and ‘LOL’ comments.
TATIANA: This is the soul of the company. The Miss Thing. The hottest piece of cake that Brad keeps of chasing after to satisfy his debauchery. She is a brown-skin… I mean, brown feathered sexy young bird, with an amazingly bright future from behind…if you know what I mean fellas. She beats Dick to keeping well-manicured toenails, er, claws and walks with a chic-swagger. I mean this chic is smoking hot! No chic deserves the title of amazing better. Her swag is on point.
She is kinda fond of Dick, because, well, they share beauty products and the latest grapevine gossip at night when the rest of the brood is sleeping; something that totally pisses Brad off. She reminds me of these campus ladies who dress up in flirty dresses and strategically place themselves at the poolside café, where over a drink, they cross their smoothly shaven legs and act like they are not being admired. Mannequins of desperation. Make no mistake readers; they are full of shit…just like Tatiana is.
To drive the point home, let me digress. Yesterday, I was home alone. Mum was away so I had the house to myself, and other than hating on Dick, I was craving for an omelette. So Miss Tatiana walks in the house, and I can tell that is either she is either tired of playing ‘dress up’ with Dick, or her waters just broke. Much to my delight of course. So she makes herself comfortable on am old furry bag of mine. She is still uncertain whether or not to do it, because I am watching.
I figured she is shy, so I pretend to look away, but I still have an eye on her. She begins to squat, and I get excited. I have never seen how an egg comes out from a hen, or from where. I catch my breath. I remember my eyes growing wide in anticipation. This is really happening, I say to myself. Her butt, I think, begins to crack, and her bowels gyrate as if to let something out. Push! Push! I urge her, clenching my fists. Then it comes out, but it is not an egg. Damn it! This () b#*ch only wanted to bloody poop! Some green limy, ghastly poop, with a white garnishing on the top! I try so hard to control my anger as a kick her out of the house.
“Go bend over for Dick for all I care!” I say together with other expletives that would make a German porn star blush. So much for an omelette I guess.
Chloe and Claire: These two are the Cramp Twins. Twisted, misguided, and totally confused pair of chics is what they are. They are immature and niggling. You cannot miss them with their totally white-feathered body. They perch on anything they find, and they leave no tables unturned…I mean literally. I am sure they argue a lot about who will take over from Tatiana when she hits menopause. Or, just like me, they cannot wait for that day when my mother will finally decide to put a knife around that shitty thing.
They remind me of some two campus ladies who are always together yapping about how Camp Mulla is the next big thing in Kenya. They banter about the newest iPod product, the latest jams over a bottle of Coke, which they never finish by the way. The last time I saw them, one had yellow braids, while the other a Mohawk. The both have belly rings which they dutifully show off with tumbo-cuts. Seriously, who still wears tumbo-cuts? I would give a two thumbs waaaaay up for a lady in my hood that puts on that, but you two? Are you kidding me?
Jezebel Wangoi, Delilah Wanja and Conjestina Wamboi: From their names, it is pretty everyone’s guess what they do for a living- kill husbands! They are the panga-puff girls. The new Nyeri breed of chicken in the block. They walk together and terrorize the rest of the brood. Note their surnames…they sound like missiles! They are particularly affectionate of pecking the living lights out of Dick over nothing at all. They are jealous of Tatiana, and find the two twins totally despicable. They are only afraid of me and one chicken; Brad. They don’t mess with Brad. Nobody messes with Brad…again, except me. However, to the rest, there is only one advice I could give the chics at home: RUN! Or walk around with a pepper spray. Whichever keeps your neck-feathers intact. But do not mess with this trio. They come from a genealogy of Latino-Gekuyu mafias…totally insane.
Wambua Wepkhulu aka WW: I do not know where this one has his roots from. Probably somewhere in the conduits of Mayakos or the bowels of interior Bumula. This one is ever absent minded. WW lives in a world of his own creation. He waits around after feeding, hoping that there is a second helping. He keeps lamenting of how little food is, he picks fights with pigeons that land on the ground. He looks at the sky and wishes that he too could soar. He imagines in his hallucinations of how high he could soar. I bet he is the one that lost the hawk’s razorblade in the African folklore. He stars in the book; Why The Hen and Hawk Are Now Enemies, as the drunkard whose children always had dirty nails and unkempt feathers. He reminds me of those guys in school who walk around in Umoja flip flops.
They are probably the kind that first rode in an elevator when they came to Nairobi- Anniversary Towers, and in particular, when going to enquire why their HELB(P) had not been credited into their Post Bank accounts. They have a Compaq or Hp laptop (bought courtesy of the Wezesha Campaign) and they have an hp printer with which they run their printing and photocopy biashara at lower rates. I am not hating…I do not own any laptop or printer. I actually live on borrowing theirs. As a matter of fact, I love these people the most, believe me. Other than the fact that I get to print my assignments free, they are actually good company. Funny.
They fill my days in campus with mirth at how they only knew of KICC and Anniversary Towers when they came to the big bad city.
How they love streetlights at night, the new superhighway and the flyovers, and how they totally cannot understand how a person can pay sixty bob for a mug of juice…the infamous module two. That’s like paying your kidney with a finger on top! In fact they first had a taste of this juice when there was the buy-one-get-two offer down by the poolside café. Hilarious .
Anyway, Dick got lost the other day, much to the relief of everyone….except my mother. She whines about him (her), almost daily. I wish I were in school. I would have posted it on the ParQlanda Weekly. I can only imagine the headlines: WHO STOLE MY DICK? Or WHERE IS MY DICK? Or DICK, COME BACK TO ME! (every pun intended). I got a job in town…yaaaaay…. Siganga & Co. Advocates. Google it. I hope to make other new friends from there, and maybe write about the someday.
Fab week readers.