What’s his vice?


Don Benzo
“Do not trust a man without a vice(s)”. That was my two cents to a young lady who thought it was a good idea to ask me for relationship advice. The truth is I’m terrible at relationships and everything that comes with it including advice. The problem is this young lady holds me in high regards and I would hate to be tipped off that pedestal simply for the reason that I could not give out a few tokens of wisdom on how to know one of my own is relationship worthy. I know this house of card will come crashing down some day when she realizes that I’m all glib and no real insight but I’m prepared to stretch this out for as long as I can. That’s why when she asked me what I meant for that I told her that I’ll “app” her that’s what we cool kids call what’s app this days. So while sitting in my room summoning all gods of bullshitting I started to really think about it and it hit me, what’s a man without a vice? Really? Okay, I’ll tell you ladies exactly what I told her.
Every man has a vice, it is important to know the type of depravities your man like engaging in. some its alcohol, some it’s gambling since gambling is the new black, some it’s wandering eyes, some it’s rigid principalities, some it’s hanging out with the boys, some it’s games either watching or playing, some it’s susceptibility to peer pressure, some sycophancy et al. The point is, every man has this thing that will always get your goat. If you see a man without a vice, chances are his vice is the ability to hide his vices. My advice is to avoid such men at all cost. You do not want to be two, three or four years into relationship and then you finally realize that your man’s vice is smelling your dirty panty while you’re in the shower, or he’s into cross dressing, or he suddenly gets this high libido every time he sees that old mama basking on the rooftop, or say someday while experiencing some form of hormonal imbalance you say something curt and he suddenly slaps the living crap out of you kumbe the man was a true son of the soil but you didn’t notice because you decided to practice ostrich politics and live in a bubble of blissful ignorance, or even worse you guys are together for over a year and find out he’s an Arsenal fan then you start wondering if the relationship is really working or he’s just there stoically because years and years of being an Arsenal fan has eroded his perception of relationship trajectory and functionality.
To all those who practice indiscriminate optimism with no caution and would rather live in a bubble of blissful ignorance than march straight to the kitchen and see how the sausage is made, knowing very well that it can spoil their appetite you’re the kind of people any man would like to meet and take full advantage of. However, if you’re one of those aware of the fickle nature of an African man and believes some deficit I trust is good for the soul then here is an counsel for you lady. On the first date do not go asking what is the man’s thought on the recent supreme court decision to nullify the elections result or what is the best wine to pair with a vegetarian four course meal, instead ask him what is his vice, conscious or unconscious. I would have given the same advice to the gentlemen reading this but I’m sure you all have this ladies figured out. If not ask one of them, Lavender, can help you on that front.
Here is the thing though, I’m terrible at relationships. I’m so wet behind my ears about this matter it’s appalling. The few relationships I have been in I adopted the laissez faire policy, therefore it goes without saying that they were relatively short-lived and some ended up quite ugly. While reading it I will greatly urge you to take these opinions with a grain of salt but perhaps just a little bit for the hassle of finding these nuggets of wisdom from a pile of manure you can just give it a little thought. And with these very many words “Cupid” Don wishes to bid you adieu.


​Flash back Friday : when a laptop and a smart phone earned you a fresher. 

It’s the chomoka na fresher period of the year. Second years are feeling too hot to just cool their heels in their rooms and peruse pages of the Old Testament in attempt of learning something from the story of Joseph who run away from the thighs of that Egyptian Queen, as expected by their mothers in ushirika and fellowship.

Instead, they (including chicks in second and third year’s) are wondering up and about hostel corridors and campus sidewalks like baboons on heat, whispering, winking and engaging in all manner of tomfoolery in order that the heat in their loins might be cooled by the new fire fighters in town.
Seeing all these happen, from the glitter in the eyes of these young folks, to the spring in their step, nostalgia, like an undigested meal seats at the depth of my tummy so I’ll help myself to the ENO that memories of time past are.

I’ll lie. Girls were not a big deal to me as a first year. Girls with a hallelujah kind of butt were. And my friend, they were in droves! Sent from high-schools all over. Couldn’t seat still in class.The beauty was too much for a former villager to endure. Coupled with the light skins, fake accents and smiles that made me wanna say, ‘ girl, look at me like that again and I’ll tell my pastor you are tempting me into sin.’ And too sin I slid.

I identified one, a BCOM lass with a booty large enough to send I to the bosom of Delilah in hell. Evenings after the first day our eyes rammed into each other at the school canteen, I set out to have her number. And possibly, more than just her number. After lots of stammering, and sweating, I earned the details of her hostel address and a small date.

knocked on the door. A number of come in replies made me shy. Twisted the handle and pushed the door inside. She was there. Lying on her tummy so her butt appeared like Mt Kilimanjaro covered by a fluffy cloud of cotton that was her duvet. Then I saw him.
She sniffed my disappointment and quickly added, “Huyu ni Charles, Charles meet Collins.” He shook my hand. I managed a subdued, “Pleasure meeting you.” ‘”Collins ako 1st year. Journa, ” Charles gave a mocking smile.

“Collins you’ll come later on, say eight PM? We can take a walk. Sahii naona movie na Charles,” she added. The smartphone in her hands not the one that my number was saved in.

Were I a girl, there are men I’d never give two shits about!

Collins Osanya
No girl studying a degree course, not even under the influence of witchcraft or ovulation should flirt with, kiss, text back (unless it’s strictly classwork) or hung around a male campus MC, DJ, dancer, musician/music producer, photographer or model for more than two minutes unless she wants to be eaten kimandazi, cheated on, have her heart broken or her womb filled with a baby whose daddy is sharp idiot only capable of reasoning through that thing in his loins.

These fellows appear chic and suave, even moneyed. They stand at a higher rung on the campus life ladder, owning an amount of influence in university fairs but they are a threat to a young girls’ tertiary education, happiness, emotional and physical health. Especially now that ladies in first, second even third year are teenagers easily preyed upon by petty womanizers that these folks are.

A model pal of mine, we’ll name him Mark, has since our days in first year to date broken the hearts of more than fifteen girls. I’ve witnessed as he snaked his cunning self into the pants of chicks- some so smart I’d like- smitten by his trendy (borrowed) suits and coastal charm only to be forgotten once he’d eaten their fruits. And intriguing enough, chicks kept going back for a tasty test of his spear (shared life a frying pan in an estate in Nyalenda, Kisumu) which in most times left them ‘bleeding’ and hurt. I wonder, a model?

A man who just catwalks? Come on girls! You don’t study physics in high school only to fall in love with home science in campus. But we cool Mark, hehe, you still a bro.

As a flaw in character, I don’t take seriously any girl whose boyfriend is a dancer. Because I know she’s being cheated on and she’s either drunk in love or too foolish to know that her bae isn’t just dancing in her hall but many halls. Can I be proved wrong? MCs, DJs and photographers are wannabe cool guys. The sort who sip Carlsberg or Heineken while dancers twanga one Guinness the whole night in a club. They are corny fellows who ride on their hype to get laid, chicks as I’ve come to learn, love glamour, something flashy. And girls, the worst flashy men to bed are these, as a girl I once liked would say, are a joke of a man.

So girls, be women, sensible. If you must spread your legs for any of these fellows, compare his character and attributes to your dad, then go ahead and have fun. You’ve been warned

Friends and folks, now is the time for us to be comrades!

Collins Osanya

Let’s observe a moment of silence in honour of Chris Msando. Let us worship at his feet of unshakeable integrity, independence and professionalism. That aside, thumbs up to all comrades who registered to vote on Tuesday the 8th. You, my friends, are better than adults who have failed us, who have let kleptocratic regimes mutate into subtle tyranny that is turning our nation to a kangaroo state! I ask that we vote objectively and get rid of this dirt our adults have kept in power!

And bure kabisa to any student of higher education who is eating campaign money, who is being bribed to tilt his or her vote towards a particular political divide. You, my friends, are a let-down to the principle of objectivity, respect for the rule of law and academia that university education should imbue in you. It is useless folks like you who cheat in exams but who now desire and expect a free and fair election. It is students like you who prop thieves to the helm of student union leadership in exchange for alcohol, chocolate cakes and pointless goodies that offer no solution to the problems student unions should address. Shame on you! You have let greed and a love for free goodies chase integrity out of your heads and that is why shrewd business men are making money out of your gambling addiction not to mention that private or was it public liking online thing!

I’m worried. Most of us are burning data bundles as we run fruitless campaigns online, as we hurl tribal doused insults at each other instead of being a single force that will take care of her future by ensuring good leadership and governance is given first priority.

In memory of slain former SONU chair Tito Adungosi, deceased parliamentarian Chelagat Kimutai and other university students of the seventies who, regardless of tribe, religion or fear of incarceration stood up against a government that oppressed its people, I implore you to step up and be the conscience of our nation. We are not comrades, not yet. We aren’t fighting for our nation.

So let us be comrades. Let’s forget about demonstrating against petty issues like poor WIFI, shortage of water or congestion in hostels and focus on the main cause of all these which is poor leadership in the country and institutions in our country. Let us in Einstein’s words, ‘try to be men of value than men of success ’. Let’s save our nation before the hounds take it.




Lectures who like to ‘kula vithuu’ will not go to heaven, period!

Lavenda Amunga


One thing I know is that there are lecturers who be it through osmosis or diffusion, will not walk the angelic streets that lead to the man upstairs. Kwanza I’ve heard that most of today’s lecturers like to ‘kula vithuu’ as my cheeky friend would call it. The wrath that awaits them…

Takes me back to three years ago when I was this innocent naive lass who knew not of the sin that had befallen the earth. I tell you, I was so naive. So I go to this school -I’d rather not mention-to visit my ally. The day is slow, the mood at this institution is casual. A clear indication that it’s Friday and almost everyone except the Shakespeares of the school isn’t reading like it’s their last. I head to her room, knowing exactly where she resides but on my way, bump into her jamaa who is busy blubbering about whatever, to his friends. Thrilled to see him, I immediately ask where Bev is. He looks around as if to have been given a platform for his end of semester presentation. He then puffs his cigar, reminding me of a fat satisfied monkey before he opens his big ugly sad mouth and loudly utters, “That one is probably down with Ebola. She let the 50 year old lecturer with a disintegrated sack feed on her goodies!” 

Comrades I tell you, there is nothing that disturbs me more than knowing the people who should be our mentors, the people who our parents have entrusted us to, are the same ones who would not mind indulging us in forbidden affairs. Surprisingly enough, as soon as a lecturer spots a pretty naive lass with saccharine sweet lips, blossom soft- he forgets what brought him to that institution in the first place. You see, when this Jemo guy told me how Beverly his ex had gone out with a lecturer to avoid getting a mean mark in her exam, I was disappointed. She was my friend. At least I thought she had been. Tell me that lecturer so and so is asking for a favor in order to give me marks and I will show you why luhyas like me feed on a serious plate of ugali.

My friend, trust me, those lecturers will not see heaven. Probably they will stare from afar and in that moment will they be turned into a pillar of salt. You wait and see!


‘Yaliyo ndwele sipite!’

Lavenda Amunga

Based on true story of Bill Owiti


…but again, the new sage on the block, Wavinya Ndeti, was actually right when she meticulously came up with the adage that goes, ” Yaliyo ndwele sipite.” Come to think of it, there is a meaning.

Ladies are a people I would never want to be associated with, ever again. Sadly, thanks to them, i lay on my bed distraught, broken and without a care of the world any longer when in real sense, i ought to be psyched up for the coming best general election of all time.

Phena, you were my kryptonite. When i set my eyes on you at the swimming pool, your skin glowing perfectly in the sun, your kinky hair already bringing an incredible image of how our kids would resemble. How i wanted to see you those eggshell white teeth once again. My heart gave in when i saw you a second time after class. You took my breathe away in that sexy outfit. You were my revelation of a great future after I had sworn never to fall in love again. You changed my perspective on ladies completely. I adored you Phena.

Love, how i spit in spite at the thought of it. Just like everyone else you were a green snake in green grass. I curse vehemently the day i continually posted your lovely breathtaking photos on social media and changed my status to ‘In a relationship’. Why would you even agree to a date if you were not head over hills for me in the first place? After I struggled to acquire your number from your friend, after I begged you for a week to go out with me before you finally agreed! I  mean, if mother nature knew that the son she left at Multimedia University of Kenya to study for his future was in the streets begging a mere girl to go out with him, she would slap the lights out of me.

When I would skip a meal to take you out for the time of your life… Oh! I used to see those guys as a bunch of miserable losers until the song they sang felt like my messed up life (Uliza Kiatu!) I never thought I could say this but, you broke me girl.

I bitterly shut my eyes and remember that not-jovial-you that stood in front of me, with no sense of humor and without bluffing blurted out: Love for you died. I don’t feel you no more. Just because I was the silent type who did not converse often like you wanted. Just because I took you to my cousin’s house yet you expected me to take you to my place. I mean, girl, I felt you were worth a bigger place unlike my bedsitter! You were a diamond that deserved to be placed carefully in its rightful place, but i guess you did not see that.

It is quite disappointing that we only lasted 3 weeks. Instead of giving these girls room to break me further, I’d rather ponder over my predicaments at school, for I have made up my mind: #MUNGUNAMASOMO.

So when Wavinya Ndeti opened her mouth and uttered those words, she made sense, to me especially, that what happened in the past should always be a wake up call.

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.

Telltales of an idle mind

Don Benzo

The other day I was holding court with the boys at one of the campus hostels, I don’t remember exactly what we were talking about but I am sure it was about  chillez because it is the university and men cannot leave on bread alone but on every knickers that he sheds. In campus as men we are not judged by the  content of our character or by the color of our skin (maybe a little by the color), we are judged by the number of our conquest and the depth of your pocket. I know, vanity will be our downfall.

Okay back to my story.

One of the guy retorted, “Maze, hizi vitu sisi huita umama zinakuaga form, kama udaku na lollipop”.  Thinking about it now, he was right. Men love gossip just as much as the ladies. If not more. Yeah men, I said it. You can get your knickers in a twist all you want but you all know it’s true. You want to get the grapevine of who is the hottest girl, who has hit what, which girl has a sponsor, which two jamaas are unknowingly tilling the same land. Which student leader is pillaging the most from the union’s coffers, which lecturer is sexually inducing degrees et al. just pitch tent in one of those campus men clicks and count to ten. The stories are usually so catchy and comprehensive you cannot get yourself to leave. I like listening to these stories. I can follow strangers to their homes just to get to hear how the story ends. I know. I’m an embarrassment to the male gender just by virtue of admitting it. I get points for honesty though, no?

Here is one fresh from the creeper. A friend of mine was giving it to me about this girl currently on the conveyor belt. The conveyor belt is the term used when describing a girl being subtly passed from a guy to another. This chiq was passed to him from his friend and apparently she became to clingy and wanted more than he could give (read relationship) so this cat decided the whole situation was getting out of hand. He did what any other gentleman would do, forwarded her to another friend of his. You know what the saddest part is, she never learnt. She is still making her rotation. I don’t care how this girl decide to experience her sex life. I’m just assuming she is a big believer of variety being the spice of life. But I got to ask is this girl just dumb or is she being deliberately obtuse.

By the way if you are waiting for this story to connect to how men love gossip just stop. It already has I’m gossiping right now. What bees my bonnet is the fact that men define machismo by such things.  My point is, I have no point I’m just a bored person with a colorless life looking for some information to peddle. Word of advice though, not all the gossip are worth listening. Like this one afternoon we were chilling, shooting breeze and cracking wise with the boys talking football girls and whatnot. Then this cat joined in and out of nowhere started volunteering information on how he and his girlfriend like doing the nasty. It was so painful to listen it felt like swimming in a sewer line. It really sucks when someone interrupts my quality talk with their below par gossip. I don’t know what the measuring scale for exciting gossip is but if you stick around the talk doesn’t seem to improve on your boredom, walk away and do something constructive with your time like say read a novel or just sleep.

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.