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.