He drops three ice-cubes in his glass. They tinkle. A tinkle that announces a tipple. A sound that arouses your tongue. He then – like a chemist- fleetingly waits at the ice cubes to mist up the glass.

Even though the music is loud, and the bustle swirls all around, there is an inexplicable silence borne from the deliberate way with which he goes about mixing his drink. It’s almost ritualistic. Sacred.  

The clock ticks away as he stares at his drink. I regard him. He’s shaven inches away from his skull, his scalp is oiled. The greenish light from the overhead lights bounce off his skull in a shard of rainbow. He’s in a white dress-shirt, un-tucked over blue jeans. On the wrist gleams a watch I wouldn’t wear if you threatened me with hair loss. Not that there is much left to lose. Loafers step on the rail that run along the edge of the bar. He’s neat, too neat. Like he’s hiding a flaw. Most very neat people are hiding something. Those guys who move around with a comp in their cars. Or cologne. They are hiding something with those layers and layers of impeccable self-grooming.

Now he lifts the other glass containing the double of the greenish gold liquid, and as he tilts the glass slowly, the liquid’s viscosity shifts and surrenders to the pour. The ice immediately gets wet. Then they sigh, as if they have been released from their own prison of longing. John Jameson, would be proud.

“I love that song,” he now turns to tell me, ...... Read the entire article

She doesn’t want her names published. Full anonymity. Stand in the shadows. That kinda thing. She says she is a critic, which you can testify from earlier comments on this blog. Windy comments, infected but struggling to pay attention. She sounded like she had a bone to pick with something. I can tell those from the first word. Once in a while you get those; people who woke up on the wrong side of life.

Lucky for her, I harbour a seething contempt for critics who hide behind monikers and pseudonyms, critics who don’t have the stones to stand by their criticisms. I think it’s yellow. And today they are everywhere on social media, wielding hammers, knocking anything that dare raise their heads above theirs. 

So anyway, when a few readers here asked her if she had a blog, I thought maybe she could Guest write here. An email with the request was sent. She said sawa. She sent me an email with her first piece, which I liked. Then she said, no, strike that, I want to write another one. So I said sawa. She emailed another one. Which I liked. Then she changed her mind. So I told her, look, I will run with the first one. 

She wants you to call her Fra. She will explain why. She doesn’t want you to know that she is stuck in a job she isn’t hot about; an auditor in a major audit firm. She just wants to write. She wants to critic. And she can critic, because she has got a decent narrative for an auditor. She can because she is intelligent and she posses ...... Read the entire article

Question. What would you do if someone held down your kid’s head in a swimming pool?  Another question? What if that someone in question is another kid? Like about your kid’s age (5/6), only fatter? What would you do? Hell, what would Jesus do?

This is not a question a father should be made to mull about because it’s a crossroad of sanity. But that question was recently thrust at me, like Tybalt promised to thrust the Montague’s “virgins against the wall with his maiden sword,” in the set book Romeo and Juliet. I realise how the know-it-all Y-generation reading this must, at this moment, be sporting creased brows at that Romeo reference.

Happy New Year, Gang. Is it me or does this feel a tad strange? This is like one of those long distant relationships where someone has been gone for so long that when they finally come back there is that slight air of discomfort. Like you don’t really know them that well anymore. Like you have to learn them all over again. Or is it just me?

In my fleeting moments of reflection at the beginning of this year, I realised that my neglect of this blog pointed at my greed and overall lack loyalty to High School, all because it doesn’t pay bills. Reality is, High School was just a place I came to horse around, to let loose, and it wasn’t supposed to be where I made money. So this year, I will try and revert to that old model and blog more frequently.

And so on that note, I’m starting the New Year on ...... Read the entire article

Men have always strove to build cars that transcend imagination, like the Audi with its four rings that promises to wring all the pleasure from life. Or the Volvo, a sure sign that God only wishes us nothing but safety. The Jaguar, a perilously curvaceous car that was built nude, and has always remained nude in our eyes. Or the Range Rover – my first true love, you won’t find a more orgasmic machine. With these fine machines, man continually proves that luxury will always be borderless.

But the one car that doesn’t have any disclaimer, chokes debates before they start, silences cynics and herds admires into a lifelong cult, is the Mercedes. Even the name sounds highbrow. Like it belongs in a family lords. And it does.

And it’s this car – a Mercedes E200 (2011) – that soundlessly pulls over at the underground parking of Johannesburg’s OR Tambo Airport last Saturday. Sleethingly black. Long. Sleek. Gleamy. Gratified. Hot!

We gawp.

This is how South Africa Tourism folks pick up their guests. This is how they show you that they woke up on the good side of their beds. And their guests are myself and two lovely ladies; Susan Wong from Capital FM and Njeri Chege from Hill and Knowlton Strategies, the PR that put this small media shindig together.

So we, while desperately clinging on our suitcases, stare at the Mercedes for a bit as she stands there on the asphalt, massive wheels turned against the pavement, waiting there like the thoroughbred ...... Read the entire article

Saturday I spent a whole day in Funyula, Western Kenya.  World Diabetes Day. Long story. In the evening, I linked up with my cousin Farouk. Remember him, the ex-convict? He got a gig in Bunjumbura where nobody knows he spent a few years in jail. He was in shags for the weekend, to see his father, so we agreed we would meet in Kisumu and catch up. Haven’t seen the bugger in a while.

He suggested Signature club. It’s the hottest club in Kisumu now. It’s downtown, on the 4ft floor of some building. I rode the lift with some actor from Mother-in-Law. That gentleman who plays the son to the Mother-in-law. The dark one who never smiles. You should have seen him, behaving like monarchy. His highness, hotshot actor. Celebrity extraordinaire. Two-time Oscar Award nominee. Give way, ye peasants.

The elevator opened to three dark bulky chaps: boat-builders by day, bouncers by night. Palms the size of frying pan. And their necks, my God, their necks! Cinderblocks! The held off a chap who had this small paper bag and asked him to surrender it at the main desk. The guy moaned that it was only groundnuts (I’m not making this up, I swear) and that he wouldn’t eat it in the club. A small argument was underway as I made my way to the cashier. Entrance is Ksh 250. And Kisumu folk, unlike you, whiny Nairobians aren’t averse to forking out Ksh 250 entrance. What is money?

Signature was packed! And hot. And stuffy. And loud.  The waitresses wore mismatched ...... Read the entire article