These logs were done on 10 August 2022, the day after voting, covering four of the 17 Nairobi constituencies: Dagoretti South, Westlands, Ruaraka and Kasarani.
0558hrs. In the horizon I can hear boda boda guys urging a sleepy town to wake up and go vote. I am on Wanyee Rd,
And yet the jerrican-syndrome is a familiar site in Nairobi, and not just in the sprawling Eastlands where I lived after campus. I stayed in the infamous Pipeline Estate, aka Pipu, that place where Breeder LW raps in Kalale: “Na usiache ndula nje na tuko Pipu…”
The celebrity as a politician is officially a thing (preceded by the bizarre the-politician-as-a-celebrity epoch of bling bling hookah smoking honourables). And so many are abandoning the mic as they seek to blur the line between showbiz and the once-upon-a-time hallowed halls of power, with most riding solely on name recognition more than anything else.
Vodka tampons or butt chugging (used by men to introduce alcohol into the rectum via the anus i.e. as an enema)—depending on what you call it—allows the alcohol to bypass the liver’s filtering and metabolic processes so that the ethanol drains straight into the bloodstream via veins to the vena cava. It is, in other words, short-circuiting your body’s defense mechanisms by putting liquor in your ass/vagina, creating a euphoric, intense and near-instant buzz.
Bandana Ya E-Sir is a let-down. There is nothing about E-Sir in this song. The lyrics are dirty. Disappointing, even. E-Sir was more than a bandana. Sure, it was his signature look, in the same way I don a hat, but there was more to the man. This doesn’t feel like a tribute, more of a fashion statement. Pun intended.
The capital city is a ringstrasse of dust and cranes. Everywhere you turn, there is either a road under construction or a pavement being done. But there is more than meets the eye, because, due to a combination of poor planning and/or management, Nairobi lacks adequate space for way leaves.
Cigs may seem sexy. However, I can’t date a smoker because I have enough chimneys in my house, despite craving the thrill of the high. Oh, it’s not what they advertised in Hollywood. After my initial puffs, my tongue felt tasteless, like a plumber’s wet handkerchief. In my mind, I had expected that after the puff, I’d hear something, something like horns, something like Angel Gabriel blowing the trumpets.
I am at that age where adulting is doing that weird thing to me. All I want to do is get married. And if murmurs from my workmates are anything to go by, I make for an awesome office husband, whatever that means
We are the chicken thief, condemning the egg thief, sounding like the man wearing a balaclava at the scene of a bank robbery with his pockets filed with banknotes,
