𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑

You can’t help but get pissed when you see women driving SUVs and living in leafy suburbs, while my boys are stuck in single room shacks. The only green they know is the sewage of their own shit flowing through Paipu and Umoja. Truth is, we lost this game a long time ago. The problem is we are still playing by the same rules while they keep winning. Instead of facing it, those with inferiority complexes turn on the ladies and dismiss their hustle. We do not admit they have become better dribblers in this ball game called life. Instead, we shout from the roadside as SUVs pass, calling them kept women, mistresses, “mapoko wa masonko,” “wife ya dosi,” or inheritance. Meanwhile, we waste hours at the car wash plotting quickies with Adhiambo or joking about Njeri moving from Umoja to South B. What we miss is that the same Njeri is saving every shilling to clear her Sacco loan for a plot in Kitengela. I am not here to tell men not to seek exclusivity with their kept women. Men need safe spac...

The wife's first instinct once she gets home, is to tell you - the husband - about her entire day.  First, she'll diss whoever irritates her in the office.  You'll hear of the obnoxious HR, who gets double ration from Mama Chai.  "Imagine M'Babaz anakula mandazi nane tukikula mbili mbili ...." Your role as the husband is to shake your head, and mutter something like: Wololo 😊 Stacy, the Secretary, has never been in her good books since she drunkenly hugged you in that office party, circa 2010.  This time, Stacy has begun a side gig - selling bras from the boot of her Vitz.  "Babe, imagine anakuletea Size D ninunue. Mi nakaa kuvaa Size D? Nkt".  She'll dive into office politics. How so-and-so is still drawing hardship allowance though it's a year since they transferred back from Dadaab.  "Ile siku atanijaribu, atanijua. Nitasimamisha huto tupesa na vile loan imemkalia...." 🙂 You, the husband - know very well she's the major pro...

In Class 5 at Itongo Sengera Primary School, our teacher of English was the headmaster, Mr. Mosongo. He was a man from my village… and the most white-looking black man I’ve ever seen.  One afternoon after break, he strolled in with English Aid, that tiny little book from hell, and his signature warm smile, a smile that vanished instantly and turned into horror when he got annoyed.  Now… next door, in Class 6, Mr. Morimbocho was forcing pupils to understand .. And no, he wasn’t using a microphone! His mouth was the microphone. And because Class 6 had no door — like most rooms in our school — his voice blasted right into ours.  Honestly, if the school wanted to raise money for doors, they could just rent him out as a sound system for church crusades. Anyway… Mosongo started teaching. The topic was Countable and Uncountable Nouns and the focus of the day was uncountable nouns.  Water, milk — uncountable. Money — uncountable.  He added examples like, "How much water...