5 Types of Men The Campus Babe Detests

Lavenda Amunga


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Campus babes are becoming more and more expensive and demanding each day. In fact, with the rise in prices on consumables, the jamaas in campus are almost on their knees, hoping against all hope that the campus babes won’t come up with an ultimatum that is out of this world! It’s hilarious how men nowadays struggle to get a lady to utter a word. Worst is when they hit a dead end, you’ll hear them whisper among themselves, ” Ule manzi anajisikia sukari!” The common jamaa does not understand that the needs of a campus girl ought to be met. In order to fit into her wish list, there is usually a to-do list to be followed. There are a number of men that no campus babe would want to be associated with, so to get her talking, avoid being either of the following…



  1. The Crier


Trust me, no campus girl wants a cry baby to deal with. I understand, there comes a time when emotions not withstanding, too much love in the air perhaps- the man might shed a tear. Still, it does not mean that every time an issue arises, the man wails. Men should grow up, i mean, even Jesus wept only once! Be the man in the relationship and keep calm. I’d rather an argument erupts and the man decides to say a silent prayer but cry? Why? Probably these crying types are tolerated in marriages though when it comes to a campus girl, it should not be the case. A girl wants a man. Someone who is ready to tie her laces or be the one to wipe her tear when she cries…but not the other way around. Try and eavesdrop into a girls’ conversation and hear one mention, “My guy started crying yesterday when i said we were over!” Honestly, the responses you are bound to hear are pieces of advice to drop the dude. No girl wants a cry baby.

2. The Fixer

Whoever told men that they could turn water into wine or could move mountains, was a liar. A terrible liar who should be ashamed of his deeds. That person ought to be spanked! Campo babes do not want people who think they can fix everything. Say, in my kabedsitter, I wake up one morning only to find that my toilet handle is broken and so I cannot flush the loo. I tell myself that I’ll have to pour water manually, till the day i can afford a plumber. This is the time my ‘mzito’ now decides to prove his love for me by equipping himself with any tool he sees fit, including my spoon ya 20 bob, to fix my toilet! Man, nobody wants a man who believes in himself so much yet actually knows not what he is up to. By the end of the day, my bedsitter will be flooded and messy, all in the name of my fixer trying to do the fixing. At times, all one has to do is accept that he cannot do it. I know we want to see how able you are, how skilled you are, but we do not need you to show off- that all this, I am able to perform. NO!

3. The Sagger


Every girl appreciates a man with class. A man who knows how to dress, how to look good; but nobody appreciates a guy who needs to be reminded to keep his shorts in place. Ladies with guys who’ve got fashion are the ones in the best relationships. A campus babe wants to walk around campus with this guy wearing a scented cologne. This person dressed in white well fitting sweat pants and a v-neck T-shirt that exposes his well defined muscles ,a gucci watch to match, awesome tattoo on his neck or wherever and great red shoes to finish the touch, will be the talk of the day in school- he knows how to look good.

Now, compare this type of guy to this one who has no plans, arrives late in class and despite having disrupted the whole session, wants to hi-five every buddy of his and force a hug on every lass near him. His bare butt cannot be missed because his shorts are almost on the ground. To add insult to injury, he keeps on holding his crotch as he passes his hand expecting his people to shake it- whoever told him that makes him look classy, I do not know.

4. The Touchy

Some bros just do not understand the rule of keeping their hands to themselves. These are the kind of boys that fascinate yet bore me at the same time. I mean, why would anyone on this earth feel great about being touched unnecessarily by a guy who does not even have what it takes? I recall being in an intense class a few weeks ago, seated next to this lad. Out of the blues, i feel some cold diabolic demonic hand trying to make its way up my thigh. You try to glance at the owner of the cursed hand and you just cannot place his expression with his action. He looks so non-committal, his eyes focused on the lecturer, it is only his stupid hand up your thigh that remind you of the sin he is almost committing. The touchy kind are the worst. They seem deaf, that when you try to stop them they take hours to decipher. They are mostly those that never speak to you but admire you from afar. The day they sum up their courage, all they can think of is their hands up your skirt. These kind are the demon possessed!

5. The Penniless

A girl wants a man who will spoil her with lots of love and gifts. This may not be the case but a campus girl believes that the man that loves her is he who showers her with gifts. What good therefore will a penniless jamaa do? A guy who will have to feed from your pockets each day; a burden that is uncalled for.  This is the type of guy every girl is fleeing from -as if a man in his final stage of Ebola, who not even a pastor would want to share The Word with.  The campus girl believes that this kind of man is a parasite, ready to pounce on its host as she remains distracted in her undying love for him. Therefore no one wants to be caught up in a love triangle with this one for he clears up your account completely.  He is the kind that clears your HELB loan before you even sit down to plan on it. He is known as the killer disease.


Being in any of this category means a man in campus will never get chance to be loved truly by a campus babe. So I’d rather one flees from either of these characters before it gets too late. Trust me, everyone ought to enjoy the love game in campus before getting themselves into the real deal after school!

Letter to my dearest daughter. My love. My life. My Sophie. 

Collins Osanya

Daddy misses you. Sorry. I haven’t written to you for a lengthy while. I’m in a corner. A fix. I’m once again staggering along the edge of a whisky glass. I fear I might fall. I fear I might miss a step, trip and tumble down into the whisky. That sea of brown tingling and intoxicating brew. I fear. I fear that I’m drowning. Losing my grip. I fear I might be an alcoholic. 

Campus is okay kiddo. A lecturers’ strike is on. Quiet it is, empty as the bank of morals in Kenya. But okay it is. I haven’t found your mother. The ladies in my life are elusive. They are stars in a dark night. Illuminating. Beautiful, captivating. They brighten up the still empty night that my now life is. But I’m okay. I’m in the company of a 750 ml whisky bottle. Thirsting. Drinking. Thinking. Wondering in thoughtful wander.

As at now my fiery flower, elections are looming in this land. And peace is a dove that wanders in an ethnic air. Whether it’ll land and court the weaver bird of brotherhood we know not. Kenyans on twitter are firing arsenals of opinion, bullets of hate, rockets of sarcasm at each other from the comfort of their smart phones, airing their hard views on the unpoliced hanging-line that social media is. And I feel lost. 

Then the bloody politicians have flung the country at the dogs. The economy is being devoured. Folks have lost their jobs. The media, which I’m to join, is downsizing. Laying off workers. Casting former employees in a stage play of worry. Unemployment. Turmoil and squalor. Kenya is bleeding. The bandage that should patch up the wound is rotten. The conscience of Kenya’s future, which comprises of young university students like me is groping in the blackout of drug addiction, ignorance and carelessness. But your daddy will survive. 

I haven’t read a good book in ages. I haven’t gone to church in years. I haven’t kissed a lovely lady in months. I haven’t had a calm morning in weeks. I’m lonely. I feel left out. Side-lined. Like a Shakespearian novel that no longer attracts readership. And I ask myself, where is your mother? I ache for a pitched up argument on who calls me at midnight. I ache for a soft touch. I ache for an intimate moment that will bring you forth to this world. But your daddy will be okay.

I’m afraid I must go. I’m getting too tipsy to talk as a daddy. I’m sliding into sentimentality. And I want to hold your little hands. Kiss your little cheeks. And read you a Jack and The Bean Stalk story. I want to lift you up and toss you into the air. I want to hide you in my arms till sleep claims both of our wakefulness. But until I find your mother, let me sleep. Let me hope that the lecturers strike will end. And let me drink to the disappointing ladies in my life. Goodnight kiddo. See you soon. You are always in my mind Sophie. Kisses jelly bean. Daddy loves you.

Pull up your shorts,boy!

Lavenda Amunga

These boys I see in school dressed in tattered smelly shorts that Matiang’i would highly condemn, need a beating. Shorts worn from the knee, by confused looking boys with kinky lice, jigger, ebola infested hair have no place in society. You see, when Matiang’i starts declaring war on university students, these are the people to begin with…not the likes of me. 

Years ago, when I had fallen prey of the devil’s ways, when I listened not to mother nature’s pieces of advice due to my diabolic adolescent stage, I dated those types of boys. I saw marriage materials in what my mama would have referred to as ‘stupid boys of doom’.

A tall lanky lad with red bulbous eyes and a laughable swing added to his walk would bring a toothy smile to my face, those days. When he opened his mouth and presented his tobacco stained teeth that seemed to have phobia for paste, it would melt my heart further. But, those were the days. And they are long gone. Judge me not; I am better than the 33000 students who spent the better part of their four years in high school scrambling to get the most githeri at lunch and supper, only to get Es by the end of their stay.

This is a new era. These boys deserve a beating! I mean, who still wears their pants from their knees in university, if not persons who escaped the wrath of Matiang’i in high school by a whisker? Let it be known that he is coming for them; and he’ll pull those shorts down completely! Forgive my constant mention of Matiang’i…it’s just that ‘ametustua sana huku university’ I’d rather be in his good books. 

Speaking of ‘where to wear your shorts from’, yesterday while I bought sukuma ya 10 kwa mama mboga, I couldn’t help but notice her son. He had his shorts on alright, and it was pulled up just right. Come to think of it, mama mboga’s son may not be a bad idea in my near future. I mean,he pulls up his shorts!

Yes girl. I am a stingy man.

Collins Osanya.

Welcome. Have a seat. Man to man – including my esteemed  female friends who consume chips mwitu, avocado ya twenty plus mayai boilo na kachumbari ya chilli before washing down the light snack by drinking Guinness kubwa and later on ‘remove’ cheeky air from their tempting behinds whilst shaking their bum bum to Flavour and Akothee’s Give it to me hit. You too have a seat. You are a brother.

So, as I was saying, man to man, I am in search of a lady I met five years ago during the 2012 schools and colleges drama festivals in Kakamega. She was light as a feather. Funnier than Mayweather (the one on an NTV show) and she touched my heart with a feather, you must know that ticklish, tingling whisky feeling. That’s the touch I mean.

You see, that girl handcuffed my attention without using her face or behind – and they were powerful forces my friend. Never mind that the ache for a female touch, after being bullied by the presence of not so eye friendly females in school for months on end, was now raging in my skinny thorax, making childish demands for dialogue with the opposite side, sorry- the opposite sex, the way CORD did last year.

Just like that. Simple as hammering a D- in CRE during this trying Matiang’I times, I was hooked. There on that lawn, on a queue to a makeshift VCT (she’d allow a conversation only if I accompanied her and also got tested), dapper I, thin and worried, in a muted attempt at exciting this girl from Loreto Limuru, ile ya chocolate, while feigning Walker Texas ranger’s bravery met the first girl fashioned out of silver.

We had an intelligent conversation. Her wit was seductive. Her insights slippery and humorous. She made me laugh. And the tight knot in my tummy unwound. The sweat wandering in my armpits dried and what the heck! I offered to buy us lunch! She beat me to it stating; ‘ladies first. Be a gentle man and let me buy us the first meal. This is a date you know’. And trust you me, in my third year in campus, I’m yet to come across a lady like her.

Years ago, when stern and beautiful mama yelled, ‘surely Collins. You must learn to use your money wisely’, it meant a beating was hovering around me the way MCA’s hover around allowances that tie them on a shooting squad poll, ready for execution. I hear that yell whenever a girl walks over, grabs my shoulder, giggles like a tipsy cat then coolly adds, ‘aki Osanya nibuyie…’

I was taught to spend wisely. For a good cause which excludes spoiling one booty baby with cans of Guarana and Flirt Vodka shots that send her flirting with those boys clad in torn jeans and red caps who drink one bottle of All sops beer the whole night in a club, walking around like the trouser sagging, foul mouthed buffoons in hip hop music videos whose songs (…nothing can stop me I’m all the way up…) make me feel like my name is Osanya Poverty Collins.

But that’s beside the point. Biology, that bastard that gave men the x and y chromosomes put men in one hell of a tight spot. He gave women the power of the booty and with it the unspoken, at times foolish, audacity to ask for anything she wants from a man. And to men, this mean fellow gave muscles, which I’m yet to receive, to be used in pleasing, fending and taking care of women and an ego plus lust that drives us downhill.

But I refuse to bow under the pressure of biology. No girl, my pocket won’t urinate a dime on you just because you own a pair of pant dropping booty. And campus is full of this ladies who don’t work hard for their money but whose life style is big like the mouth of a certain politician. This divas, who cake their pretty faces with second generation make up, want to get turned up with a guy who won’t spend less than six thousand shillings on them in a night. Girl, I’m no thief. My pops is a news editor whose sickly vehicle I can’t even accept as a gift. And certainly, my mom didn’t benefit from any NYS proceedings. So, I am a stingy man. Pesa yangu huli.

If I didn’t spend a dime during drama festivals on a lady who owned jackpot assets, didn’t twang and could correctly spell the word embarrass, of which most of you are, why should I waste my meagre resources on financing your ill-informed appetite for things you are not qualified to own, yet?

This jokes of campus boys buying ladies lunch, pizza (I’ve never eaten that thing), necklaces and goodies should stop. If she wants them, let her get a job or a sponsor and get them by herself because dude, you are an Uber ride, delivering this lady to the man she’ll marry in a very comfortable ride. Let her hop onto a matatu (getting an education) like you do so that you  get this good things in life. And lady, no campus man endured cold nights, inhuman strokes of the cane and insolent arithmetic problems to arrive in campus so that he may spoil you with gifts, kindness and love ndio upeane loyalty. This buy me this, buy me that demon in our girls should be exorcised. May our CU brothers begin the prayers. I am sending a dispatch to the Kiunas.  From my end, all I can say is riswa! Shetani afanye nini?





Ten ways you commit suicide in campus

Collins Osanya

2017 is here. And from my bag of words is this insight on ten ways you commit suicide in campus.

Fail to sheath it. Sex isn’t bad. In fact, it’s medicinal according to those people who do research. They say it reduces depression and makes one feel better. However, if the prevalence of unplanned for babies and shameless STI’s is something to go by, sex could be a disease. So, next time you exile your roommates to have a romp in the hay with a 2nd year you stumbled into and liked, put on a bloody condom. HIV is still roaming like those lions on Langatta road. 50 shillings, a condom, can save you from pampers. Chakula ya mtoto calls and that baby mama who behaves like she owns you and your underwear. 

Team sponsors! Go easy lassie. The good things in life, like a posh apartment take time. Those women who are grabbing male MPs by their scrotums in the August House worked their ass off (no pun intended) literally. They attract sanitised attention. Drive arrogant cars. And upload photos of vacations on Instagram paid for by their own money. I doubt they had a sponsor. So keep them knees together. Don’t open up unless it’s for fresh air and relieving yourself. The cookies a sponsor gives you as he crunches on your cookie will be dearly paid for.

Too pretty to be loyal. Men and women, from those days of Mau Mau, have always cheated. It’s not bad. After all, it’s just sex. But if your boyfriend smokes weed, drinks like a fish and plays Fifa all day, it’s your neck he’ll be twisting when he finds out he is sharing you with that wannabe shot dancer whose trousers torn at the knee need a tailor’s attention. You’ve heard of campo stories where a boy killed his girlfriend or the fellow his girl left him for? Secret is in not getting caught.

My friend, yes you! Your girlfriend isn’t your wife. If she says it’s over, imeisha. If it hurts, drown your sorrows in a jug of senator keg, listen to that wrecking ball song that share your soft heart’s hurt all over social media. The beautiful ones are born, strutting in lecture halls, applying cheap make up and looking for love. You’ll find a replacement. Just preach love and drink lust.

Drunk driving. Next time you hire a car, stock a number of your comrades in it, turn up the volume, open the bottles of booze and drive to Nakuru or Naivasha for an event, thank heavens if a cop arrests you. Because, there on the road, death would have arrested you. Death has no bail. Its prison is a casket. Its sentence a grave. Be a good lad, follow traffic rules. You survived chemistry and algebra, surely, a simple attempt at patience isn’t gut wrenching, is it? Buckle up. Watch the speed and stay sober. There’ll always be alcohol.

House parties are the best when we want to unwind. After the reggae, we play the blues than drink the booze. Occasionally, we can smoke weed in shisha and nurse a headache then be okay. Or get drugged, usually brewed weed mixed with alcohol. We end up too high to keep our clothes on. Too high to just kiss. So we smash without protection, lose our phones and wallets, fight and earn only earn an injury when lucky. We know of ladies who were drugged then raped in a house party. Thing is, go to house-parties where you know most of the persons. Or carry a ‘CU’ friend to watch over you. But as for me and my family those jokes of parties nimewacha 2016 unless it’s a meat and porridge party.

Mkubwa sio mwenzako. Dude, if you and the lecturer are eying the same babe, drop out of the race. Ask the fellows who graduated in December. Missing marks are a pain in the ass. Especially when the girl you and your lecturer were fighting for is an intern at the UN Gigiri, warming the bed of 30 year old Mark-X driving man who goes to church every Sunday. Pays his bills on time and only drinks two bottles of Tusker at most whilst you the graduate is fighting for a remote within your mother’s house with the mboch. 


Study hard to go to Daystar!

Amunga Lavenda

I hear that being at Daystar university is heavenly. People like me don’t go there, lest we embarrass ourselves during lunch.  In fact, my friend Makori tells me he visited a long time friend of his at Daystar last week. 
He says the guy had changed, resembled our president, all bossy, composed and in a well pressed suit with a matching red tie. And no sooner had the clock struck one that this ally of his loudly uttered “ Let’s go for high tea!”  

 I bet Makori embarrassed himself since he refuses to tell me what his answer was but rather stresses that Daystar isn’t for the common mwananchi. He must have explained that he’s only used to normal tea since high tea contains harmful chemicals… To cut this long story short, high tea means lunch!

You see, us comrades in these normal schools remain hopeful despite the sea of hopelessness we’re in,that one day, while Matiang’i will be cruising through various public universities, perusing through transcripts of each student, he’ll point at our transcripts and declare: Let this one go to Daystar!

Still, that place remains divine. It’s the kind of place where a security guard drives himself in a Chevrolet to the washroom and comes out side by side with the VC, where the guard then requests to drive the VC to his office and eventually bid each other ‘good day, see you at lunch!’

I hear when a student spots a lecturer feeding on a malnourished looking burger, he immediately suggests: Sir, your health is our greatest wealth, let me buy you a healthy meal. And together, they walk (most likely hand in hand) to the school cafeteria- probably has a better name. Boy! Is that school celestial! 

Bye bye 2016…hello 2017

Amunga Lavenda

It’s been a noisy year. An angry, prudent, harsh year with lots of humiliating surprises. 

Just like any confused youngster whose trying to figure out his life, I’ve been slapped this way and that by unexpected news. And trust me, I didn’t like any of it. 

First of all, my papa broke my heart. Almost squeezed the life out of me, squashed my fragile soul like a berry. Believe me, my life has not been the same since then. It’s like surviving the Titanic tragedy…

Then, my books have been too much a disaster to read. I mean, getting to third year hasn’t been A,B,C for me. I’ve pondered over my predicament spending sleepless nights trying to comprehend what my lecturers must have been going through to give me such mundane assignments.I bet I’ll find the reason this year. 

I’ve questioned my sexuality, wondering why it’s only females who’ve shown interest in me. Three years in campus and still asking myself this question…why me? I am christian for crying out loud!

Still, 2016 has been a year like no other. It’s made me better, stronger, wiser. It’s helped me single out the few that matter in my life. So here comes 2017! What is your resolution?