It is a bitterly cold Monday morning, you are in a matatu, grumpily headed to work. Your body is wrapped in layers of clothing but still, you are freezing. “Can’t the government introduce compulsory frosty leave or something like that so that on cold days like this one, hardworking taxpayers like me can rest?” You wonder. A part of you wants to whip out your phone and read something from Brian Mbanacho’s love tales or The Rackster’s humor but you are too frozen to move. You had started your morning rather badly and are drowning in your Monday blues. You alight from the matatu after an awkward moment where you rested your arm on the left thigh of the guy who had occupied the seat behind you. The whole time you thought it was the arm-rest but you realized that it wasn’t after noticing the uncomfortable stare that the conda gave you. Apparently, the legroom was too little for his long legs, poor thing! “Tall people problems!” You think to yourself because you are vertically challenged, those are problems you have never had to deal with. Anyway, you apologize profusely to the guy because the last thing you need on a chilly Monday morning, is a sexual harassment in public transport suit. Luckily the guy smiles and reassures you that there is no tiff.

Your office is a few meters away from the bus stop so you walk to your office. By now, you have plugged in earphones and you are tuned to your favorite morning radio show. You love radio, you always have. You have always been amazed by how this mode of communication has managed to remain relevant to date. In fact you have a favorite show in a good number of stations. The song being played now is Yvonne Darq’s ‘Fire’ and you are loving it. The presenter has promised some perambulation in Tekno’s Rara in a few and you are waiting for that. Plus some udaku on Beyoncé and Jay Z’s life is coming shortly, the presenter has promised that too. Who doesn’t love The Carter’s anyway!

Just as you are making the last corner to the road in which your office compound is situated, you realize that God still loves you……dearly for that matter. Your sight is graced by this hooooooot dude. He is walking towards you, actually you are walking towards him……no scratch that, you are walking towards each other. Like people whose paths were destined to cross on this day that the Lord had made. You have your glasses on because ever since you got the new frames, you fell in love with the lenses. You can see him clearly. From his cute forehead to his almond shaped eyes. His eyes are perfect, so perfect, just like you like them, small. You come from a family of big-eyed people so really appreciate a man with smaller eyes. There is a scintilla of some sexy laziness in his eyes that reminds you of Kid Cudi’s song ‘Day and Night.’ By now, all you can hear in your head is Usher’s ‘There Goes My Baby’ and that is not what is being played on the radio, actually, screw the radio show, you can’t hear a thing from your earphones. Even though people may not believe it, you can swear that everything is now moving in slow motion.

You are getting closer to each other and your heart beat rate is escalating with every passing second. You can feel the throb in your throat. Your body temperature is significantly increased and it is like you are not freezing anymore. Then this guy decides to unleash a killer smile on you. “Hobeee! This one was sent to kill me! But I will survive in Jesus name!” You say to yourself. It was like at first sight which immediately graduated to love at first smile because by now, you are willing to say yes if he asks you to marry him. So you smile back and hope that the red lipstick you had worn hadn’t smudged on your teeth. You see, make up has this tendency of letting you down when you need it the most. His smile widens and so does yours. All this happens in such a short time but it feels like eternity.

It is a fairy tale and at some point you swear that you heard the angels sing louder to the Most High for making this meeting come true. You could even picture them dancing with more vigor as this was the day that the Lord had made. Before you could thank your Maker for sending to you the man of your dreams on a cold Monday morning like this, you get di shockooooooh! No way! It can’t be! Di fine fine broda! The guy who a few seconds ago managed to convince you that God had really seen your morning plight and had decided to send you a gift from above! The very same guy who stole your heart with nothing but his mere presence spat thick phlegm to the ground! By the way had you not been careful, the damn contents from his mouth would have landed on your shoe. You was so heartbroken that you could feel some turbulence in your tear glands. Why? Surely, why? A fine fine guy like you? Don’t you that is how TB is spread? Your love for him vanished into thin air and the ear to ear smile on your face morphed into a frown flooded with disgust.

Just like that, he sent you from heaven straight into a pity party in which your only query to God was, why Lord? Why me? You walked past him and didn’t even look back. Now you have Monday blues, a heart break and an inviting pity party to indulge in, just great! Fuckin perfect! You swear to make a blog post from this incident but are not sure how to categorize it. Maybe fiction, but then again you would be lying to your readers. You can’t accept that, the horrible event happened in your life, for real. Your pitiful reverie was interrupted by your phone ring. You stare at your phone hoping it is not your boss asking you where you are because you have had enough for today and it is only a few minutes past 8:00am. The caller ID reads ‘Nyangi’

“Hello?” (You receive the call.)

“Bujuu! Mambo mdada!” (She answers oozing enthusiasm. For a fraction of a second you are jealous of her happiness.)

“Nyangi for the gazilionth time, stop calling me Bujuu!” (You say trying to be serious because to be honest, that name is funny. What a name! It is the kind of name that you give to that fluffy tip of the mboshoris that your mother made wear to school while in lower primary. You hated those things by the way and every time you miss your childhood then remember that the mboshori was involved, you thank the heavens that now you are an adult in full control of her fashion sense. Bujuu is the kind of name you give to the madness of those matatus plying the Nairobi CBD – Kayole route but they are branded, ‘Philadelphia.’ It is the kind of name that you give to that annoying passenger who seats next to you in a matatu and reminds the conda when he forgets to collect fare from you, a God forsaken idiot who doesn’t understand that you are on a budget and savings are more than welcome, not matter the form they come in. Bujuu is the name you give to that horrible PMS that makes you puke like a dying cow. It is the kind of name you give to an overgrown baby, like the ones who partake of revenge porn. Nothing reeks of immaturity like that.)

“Aiiiii! Bujuu, usikuwe ivo.” (Some people never listen, you want to remind her that Bujuu is not your name but it will be a waste of energy.)

“Sema shida yako ama nikate simu.”

“Aaah! Aaah! Bujuu, now I can’t call my sister to ask her if she has gotten to the office?”

“Iyo knowlegde itakusaidia vipi? Anyway, niko karibu kufika.”

“Sasawa. Please don’t forget to bring me that sweet I normally send you.”

“I knew it! Ntakuletea nikitoka job” (there is a certain sweet packed in a miniature tin and comes complete with an equally miniature spoon, that is sold at the general store near your office and every time you go to get it for Nyangi, the shopkeeper always tells you that the child you are buying it for will love it. You usually smile back and agree with him because you can’t reveal that you are not getting it for a child.)

“That’s my Bujuu! Abuju buju buju bujuuuu!” 

You both burst into an incessant laugh. As annoying as the nickname is, you laugh until you are unable to walk. By this time you are at the entrance of your office compound and the security guard is checking to see if you are OK. You are holding your stomach because your ribs can’t take it anymore.

“That’s not funny!” You manage to say amid laughter

“Yeah! No wonder we are laughing.” Nyangi responds and you continue laughing till you hang up. You ask for a seat at the watchman’s post and continue laughing some more. You don’t understand how you two are related. Of all names she chose to call you Bujuu? Ni sawa tu.


*****On another note good people, let us exercise peace during the elections. Before you turn against your neighbor with a machete, remember that the perpetrators of 2007-2008 post-election violence were not prosecuted. All we got was a list of suspects (which I felt was a big ass joke) who got released due to lack of evidence, IDPs, a scarred nation and innocent deaths. I am not so sure if we have leaders of integrity on those ballot papers because, the last time I checked, politicians are all the same, so it will be more of choosing the lesser evil for me. So guys let’s be politically tolerant. As for the IEBC, you guys owe us a credible poll! Na si tafadhali! God bless you. God bless Kenya.

Image Credits: andrewrobyevents.com







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