I am sniffing as I write this piece. This stubborn cold has been kicking my black ass for about two days now. I have been drinking concoctions of ndimu and kitunguu saumu (or is it sumu?) day and night like a black magic ritual. And that shit tastes bad.
Meanwhile, I just read a blog post by one of my favorite Kenyan writers, George Williams Magunga. He was ranting about how turning thirty is a big deal; how he had neglected writing; and how he is seated at a desk facing Mount Kenya with his housemate sleeping somewhere in the background. Well, I am seated at a desk facing a beige-painted wall. I stare at it and it stares back at me, and for a moment it appears like we are in a stare down for a boxing match or a UFC fight. And by the way, UFC is the real deal. Forget the pretenders who call themselves boxers and keep running around the ring the entire time. Boxing died with Mike Tyson. I am staring at a blank wall not because I hate mountain views. I am broke. I can’t afford a desk facing Mount Kenya. The desk facing the wall will do just fine, at least for now. And it probably won’t stop if you guys keep up the “it’s too long to read” attitude. But I will not point fingers. Fuel prices just hiked and probably the last thing young want to hear is an amateur wannabe licking your feet; begging you to read his damn blog.
Writing here is tough. It is like trying to approach a girl when she is with a platoon of other girls, probably talking about how Mike lasts longer than the COVID lockdown. Or how Matilda changes men faster than how Wetangula switches allegiance to political parties. Approaching a girl in a group of three and above is catastrophic, at least for me. And that is how writing this blog is. I have held dozens of consultative meetings with myself and reprimanded myself for being a procrastinator, a lazy buffoon, an inconsistent bugger.
I am downing a bottle of Krest kadogo soda as I write this sentence; to drown my sorrows. Two years ago I would have opted for some cheap liquor but I quit that shit. Or maybe I am just broke. Maybe when a few coins drop into my now-deactivated bank account, I’ll go back swaggering to mathe (my former liquor plug), and with a tinge of arrogance ask her to give me her best rum. Then I will swipe my card, and go back to my house, connect the bluetooth device and marinate my throat as some rhumba tune plays in the background. But I quit. Or maybe I am just broke, and the Krest kadogo has to play liquor for now.
I digress. I was saying something about how tough it is to run this blog. Men, this shit is tough. I will tell you why.
First, I am the reigning, defending, undisputed champion of procrastination. Damn! Procrastination has held on to my lapels like a toxic baby mama. I feel calm when I say, “ah, sahii sina inspiration. Nitaandika baadae.” Then I will log on to social media and woe unto me, content creators are always splashing content on our faces like their life depends on it; because it does. And then I will sit back, and ask myself, “lakini, ni nini hukua mbaya na mimi?” And I will feel terrible for a moment, but then it will fade away, slowly. But there is always that voice in my head calling me out for being an arse. When it gets louder, I block it even harder. No, it can’t be a lineage thing. If my ancestors procrastinated going hunting or stealing wives at the river, then I wouldn’t be here ranting. They would have been wiped out from the face of the earth. Tales would be told of a lineage that was wiped out because they could not get out of their sleeping skins to look for girls to marry. And children would be cautioned about being procrastinators unless they wanted their lineage to disappear from the face of the earth. So it can’t be a lineage problem. I am probably just not motivated. Okay, let us not sugar coat it…I am just LAZY. Or am I?
Second, folks, these days don’t just read. The bounce rate on the website is at an alarming 0.5 seconds. Yaani people barely read the first sentence. They would rather watch some raunchy model on Instagram shake what her doctor gave her any other indiscretions they would not watch in public but not a damn sentence I wrote. I know my stories do not turn you on Lisa, but can you at least read the first paragraph. I spend hours writing and editing a story and you are going to bounce after 0.5 seconds? The audacity! I was supposed to come here and beg you to read my shit lakini pia mimi nimechoka bwana. Okay, that sounded rude. I retract my sentiments. Anybody who feels offended should register with HR. You will be compensated accordingly.
And then life also happens. Would I rather sit here and type my brain away for guys to bounce at 0.5 seconds or chase invoices that make sure the ugali matumbo on my menu every Sunday does not change to chapo madondo? No disrespect to chapati and madondo lovers but we can’t compare matumbo to useless things. How? So yeah, I’d rather chase those invoices than let you break my heart with record-breaking 0.5 seconds bounce rate. It is fragile, this heart of mine. This other gender has trampled on it, stabbed it, and dragged it in the mud. So I get lost in the world of paper-chasing and forget that there is a blog to run. I know some sons and daughters of Adam and Eve will say that I need to be consistent first. That I need to earn your readership. That is like asking a fresh graduate to have three and a half years of work experience. Itoke wapi? How do I earn your readership when you bounce after 0.5 seconds?
It is 10:50 p.m. and about one thousand and thirty-seven words later, and I am hungry. That means I gotta go. Anyways, I will write when I can, and if not, we wait until I can. Adios muchachos.