Don’t wait to be loved, love yourself!

Lavenda Amunga

Written, courtesy of #CreativesKenya (new blog alert!)


He bolted. Talk of Usain Bolt sprinting for Jamaica in the 200meters relay, my knight in shining amour of many years also bolted, and never thought to look back. To think that I had a bun in the oven was a predicament he could not decipher. So what he saw best to do, despite the preaching on love he gave that finally made me agree to be his; despite the manifesto he presented to me in the days he claimed he had seen the sole fish in Lake Victoria, he ran. Left me to handle my own pickle as if the sinful deed had been committed by me alone.

Well fellow readers, love is just a fancy word for pain. When an Adonis walks to you and presents his well detailed manifesto -what he will do when you down your tools and let him in- piece of advice, run! Take off and never look back lest you turn into a pillar of salt! Love is an unwanted affair; and sad thing is that this thing called love is quite overrated. Men, when you see that lass who appears to blow your mind away with just one glance, my friend call upon your God and He will answer. Ask him for guidance as you take off like the whirlwind; because love is pain.

A moment of silence for those of us persons that have been lied to; played like mere cards; treated worse than the garbage we trample on every day. As we all take a journey into this amazing world of creativity , let us all remember that it is only us that can make ourselves better people. Life is full of ups and downs; today you are in school, the next day a long unending strike looms! Thus, stay woke and please yourself where you can. For if you do not, nobody will. Just as my colleagues have decided to come up with #CreativesKenya for you, why not try finding yourself in their awesome articles? They are the best!

It is only in #CreativesKenya where when you feel like your whole world is crumbling before your very eyes, you take a breath then sit down to marvel at creativity! CreativesKenya gives you a tip of better days to look forward to. Read through and get a chance to marvel at how pleasing yourself doesn’t have to include doing what you would have done had you been in a those God forbidden relationships, rather, it shows you that it involves an easy activity such as going through entertaining yet informative articles once in a while! About the bun in the oven, well, check out #CampusSnapshots to find out!


African technology; the afternoon I thought I’d been bewitched

Collins Osanya

Many semesters ago, while busying my idle self with key units like development studies and Kiswahili for communication, my academic week would end and begin on Wednesday. And the debauchery, that semester, begun on Thursday to Monday midday. The son to teacher Ruth, clothed in the same attire for four days, staggered through the campus gate, high as kite, the scent of cheap vodka and his girlfriends’ geisha bathing soap clinging on to him like regret. He sat himself on a stone metres from the gate, looked to heaven and asked himself how a former altar boy and potential priest had lost his ways.

Folks, good boys like us didn’t just grow up, we were bred. Which means we grew up knowing why we say please, thank you and excuse me. As such, when I found myself intoxicated for four days in a row, the only explanation to my predicament was witchcraft. How else, would the grandson of a retired inspector of police and son to a career teacher lose the discipline that saw him get to university?

Then I remembered what a jealous villager had done to my dad. A junior elder and tycoon (by village standards) working as a newspaper editor in Nairobi, who owns a red blanket, happy socks and a tired maroon saloon car amongst many other worldly possessions, mysteriously became a senior bachelor even when his skill of story telling and word pelting can draw a troop of slay queens to his singular life.

The enemy of progress had done to son what (s)he had done to father. Only difference was that I had been turned into a drunk, the intelligence inherited from my mom watered down like the biblical house built on sand. I ordered my inner eye to look into the depths of my heart, mind and soul and seek the dudu sent to corrupt my morals and person by that infidel. Hardly had I sobered up when a text message sent my phone in wails and ululations, its speaker shouting: Doro Bos, Doro Buchi, Doro Liar. The sender, my girlfriend – three years my senior, a melanin back breaker bred on mursik was ‘already missing’ my company and that she had already bought a pack of ciggies, my favourite bottle of whisky and prepared a plate of pork and ugali. The devil was telling me go when heavens had me look up in deliberation and the words: bad company corrupts morals, scribbled on the wall, smiled at me.

Holiday Chronicles #2

Don Benzo
Just got home from the longest semester in campus. You know, after the lecturers decided that the almighty shilling was more important than nourishing the minds of the future generation and went on that long ass strike that saw us having two more months added to our already lengthy semester. Getting home for the holiday came as a relief. It also presented that particular opportunity to eat something else other than ‘chapati ndengu’ or rice and beans. Since I was home and being the pretender that I am, I had to quit some bad habits. So I figured, since I was kicking the likes of weekend partying, idleness and he once in a while dogogio bender to the curb, there was room for a new habit. I chose the iron mill. If you ever wanted to hit the gym, tone your muscles, burn the extra fat, finally get the New Year resolution 6pack there is no better time like the holidays. Why you ask. The work out comes with no baggage attached. That extra baggage like one; the extra money for food. Two, the money for extra food and three; the money for the campus extra judicial activities. At home all this extra expenses are transferred to the peroz (long live mum).
So the next day I hit the tracks looking for a well-equipped gym to start. I found this cool gym at our casual business district (CBD). Here at “the city of champions” we don’t have a central business district.
Not with all this people walking around town rocking suits and trainers. The weather at Eldoret is so moody, you never know what it has in store for you. One second the sun is roasting you so hard till your toes sweat the next second it’s raining dogs. The people here have given up predicting it. Nobody gets surprised anymore when he sees some chap walking around in 88 degrees of sunlight dressed like an Eskimo complete with gumboots.
I stray.
The gym cost an arm and a leg but it was worth it. I wanted the taste of the good life too. Who knows with all this important people dying I might be the one pushing daisies next. So I registered for membership. The gym was an ample hall with organized, clean and well-polished facilities. The instructors well groomed and courteous. And the air, oooh!! The air purged of mild strawberry, lavender and opulence. Unlike the gyms I was used to that reeked of sweat, vanity and hustle. The members are mostly married couples and mid-twenties ladies in for yoga and pilates, considering how sore the body gets during work out routines, I was glad there was a sight for the eyes. They men had their gym tracks and trainers, the ladies with their training bras and yoga pants (told it was a sight). Now that I was going to Rome, I had to drop all my crass behavior. I got myself the necessary gym apparel’s, the next day I hit I joined the gym.
It was like a five star hotel that place. You sign in at the reception, you’re given a colored tag with a color that signifies the trainer you get. I get red. Despite the bad reputation of the color red, the trainer was quite remarkable. As it was my first day he suggest we just do a full body to kick start he muscle. He suggests we take it slow. No straining. I almost yell him. Does he know I used almost all my savings on this darn gym? But I restrain myself. He was a chit chat and the 2hours passes by seamlessly. He says you can leave now, or wait for the yogis to finish in half an hour and join them for stretches. I choose to
wait. I pick a bench at a covert corner and start watching the yogis do their thing. These people can bend over backwards. Literally. I marveled at how far the body parts can stretch when well-motivated. The women have the art down. The men on the other hand, apart from a few seem forced to be here. They kept falling and groaning during the whole thing. It was a sad sad sight to watch. I decide to pay no mind at the men. I’m telling you, very few things can match the joy of watching ladies do yoga. Completely
consumed in my new creepy hobby, I hear a voice from my back. A woman’s voice
“Enjoying yourself?” she asks.
I turn back to meet this poised woman. Garbed in white sneakers, black yoga pants and a zipped up jacket. She had an unusually appealing round face, harsh hazel eyes, slim and of medium height. It was impossible to tell her age. She was as beautiful as any other woman in the room but she had something about her that captures your attention. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She was casual, casual almost in a way that screamed “I’m hiding from attention” except the screaming instead drew attention to her. I struggle to maintain my composure.
“Not really, it is court mandated” I reply cheekily. She chortles.
“I’m Beryl” she states.
“Hi, Beryl, wanna join me in this voyeurism, it is a great pastime” I say.
She sits at the bench directly in line of view. I want to whine but I decide against it. We start talking and laughing. She can repartee like no one I know. We become so consumed in our chit chat I forget about the stretches the next thing I hear is voices of relieved men and self-congratulating women leaving the hall.
“I’m on this shift” she gabbles.
“I was on this shift” I say pointing at the group leaving.
“Why are you here really?” she asks taking my phone from my hand, handed it back a few seconds later and said “text me” I shrugged.
“Aren’t you going to tell me?” she asks.
“God’s honest?” I ask trying to come up with something clever to say.
“Is there any other kind” she quips.
“Okay since you insisted. I am the in house EMT in case someone pulls a muscle” I reply.
“You’re impossible” she resigns. Laughing heading for the group of yogis readying themselves. I text her a day later.
“Nothing is impossible” I text. Two or three hours later my phone beeps.
“Sorry!! Who is this?” she asked.
“The court mandated/EMT guy from the gym” I send.
“oh! You. Have you tried licking your elbow? That should adjust your perspective about impossibilities” she sends back.
“Such a defeatist attitude” I reply.

Casual chats turned into late night schmoozes and early morning phone calls. Our arcane frivolous talks turn to coquetry. One night we arrange to rendezvous the next day. She pulls over an hour and half late, rolls down the window and asked.
“Have you waited for long” as she motions that I go around and hop in.
Of course I had waited long. Can’t she tell from my shining forehead? I make a personal decision not

Holiday chronicles #1

Don Benzo

She pressed a blue button immediately below the steering wheel and the gate obsequiously rolled to the side and paved way for the Pajero to pass. She lived 45 minutes from Eldoret town. Calling it an estate will be apt but not quite. It is more like a village seasoned with modernity. The houses were far apart. When I say far I mean far like 4 kilometers apart far. I think every homestead owned a minimum of like 20 to 30 acres of land. As the gate rolled over, I could see the gate man peep through the window and back to his business. No salutes, no pleasantries, nothing. Three other cars were parked outside the mansion. We got off the car, she picked something from her handbag and threw it at the back of the car then locked it. All the while, I was standing their amazed by how beautiful the compound was. The bushes in front of the house were neatly trimmed to the shape of a heart. The grass was green and flowed to the world yonder effortlessly. The facade of the house was decorated with shiny marbles that trickled down to the porch with such grace it broke you’re your heart. I followed her into the house. It was unlocked so we just entered. Her living room was beautiful, with leather sofas, an oval shaped glass table with books under it mostly Shakespeare’s.

“Make yourself at home, let me go change into something casual” she said. “You can help yourself with anything in the fridge’.

Her voice seemed to have changed since we last spoke. Which was 45min ago when she asked me if I had waited for long. We drove in an ominous silence for the whole 45 minutes. No small talk or chit chat of any kind. A few minutes later she came down the stairs wearing a white t-shirt and a blue silk short. She had washed off all the make up on her face and unhooked her hair. I caught myself staring just in time to save myself from drooling. I was seating on an accent chair. She came straight to where I was, bent down and whispered to my ear, “not even thirsty?” I felt the whisper in my pants.

“I’m famished, I’ll go make us something to eat” she said. “Why don’t you come with me to the kitchen” she added sashaying off to the kitchen without waiting for my response. Everything about this woman was mysterious. Which kinda gave me the creeps. I had not seen anybody in the compound apart from the watchman with some serious work ethics. The place didn’t clean itself. The bushes didn’t trim themselves. And from how she looked, she did not seem like a person who will pick up the sheers and start trimming her own front yard. So after a few minutes in the kitchen I decided to break the ice.

“Your place is quite neat, do you do all this all by yourself” I asked.

“No, I have help” she answered.

“Where are they?” I inquired.

“Gave them the day off, don’t want any witnesses when I chop you into pieces and cook you for dinner” she said, stone faced while spinning the knife holders.

I stared at her mouth open. I’m sure I wanted to say something but words didn’t come out. If I were to guess what I wanted to say it was probably some weak plea for my life. You know, plead with her humanity by telling her how my siblings depended on me. But I just stood there, unable to do anything. Suddenly I heard a burst of laughter. She was laughing so hysterically her eyes watered.

“Relax” she said, “they all leave at 4 p.m.”

I love a dark sense of humor but this is the first time I have been a victim to one. I have to say this. I didn’t like it one bit. Was it not that my bladder was strong and the timely laugh this could have been a story of how a grown ass man pissed himself. She started beating the eggs.

“How do you like your eggs” she asked.

“Unbeaten and in my pants” I answered tongue in cheek. She chuckled.

“Is it hot in here or what?” she asked after a few minutes of awkward silence. Looking at me, she took off her t-shirt and remained in her bra. (The story is going to get a little risqué from here on, so all those prudes you can call it a day). She moved close to me and kissed me. I didn’t balk. I have to say, for a woman her age, she had a flat tummy, perky tits and her kissing game was on fire. Oh!! Did I forget to tell you that her name is Beryl, 36 years old and I’m not yet sure about this but I think I just got myself a sponsor or is it “sponsor-ress”

The rest of what happened and how we met to be continued next time.

Campus beauty pageants or Mr and Miss University fairs are a charade! 

Collins Osanya

 Like student leaders who walk around campus in an air of exaggerated self-importance, unknowingly pretending to be politicians with loads of money, a string of clandes (mostly first years) and the ability to call a press conference, taunt the Vice Chancellor and foolishly proclaim comrade power as the only power that can defeat Kenya power, university beauty pageants are a waste of time, resources, an excuse for organisers to eat student union money and a chance for students to drink their parents money, dance the night away only to wake up in a cloud of hungover wondering how they’ll find 200 shillings to purchase P2 pills. 
Where I school, Mr and Miss MMUK fairs are a ridiculous event for lustful dudes, losers and chicks who have no worthwhile activity as a pastime. There’s less of modelling and more of bosom, thigh and booty showing by lady contestants coupled by taunting of those ladies not considered good looking enough or sufficiently endowed to strut in front of horny and useless 1st, 2nd and 3rd years. It’s always a charade my friends. You should hear and see the fellows shouting and cheering a booty gifted 1st year babe, you’d think they are from Pluto and they don’t own or have never seen buttocks.

On male models, I strongly believe no man, even the Queen of Sheba’s descendant should cat walk in front of anyone let alone his lover if she fancies this type of thing. Imagine your son, a bulky 21 year old rugby player in later day K.U, asking over dinner what you did in campus.  49 year old Ben sips from his glass of water, steals a look at his wife before replying, ‘I was a model son. We’d borrow fancy clothes to catwalk in on the runway.’ What a shame!

I have it on good authority, well researched data complete with diagrams that about 2% models are smart enough to be the face of a university as a Mr or Miss University. No offense intended but when an idiot who owns a big booty or a tall dark and handsome man is chosen as Mr or Miss University then that university consists of idiots.

If winners of these fairs have no defined roles, if their presence can’t be strongly felt and if they can’t be the appropriate face of a university, then let the money used in organising the pageants be channelled in research, purchasing of condoms or buying free keg for serious students like me.

This piece was first published in The Nairobian.

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.