WARNING:The situations and circumstances detailed in this post could not be relieved in the abscence of strong language. They are narrated in context and in the idiom of the protagonists. This is not an intellectual excercise. This is the real world. If strong language offends you, skip to view the next post.
I am the Big Shit in this here, tiny Shitville. See, Dinda the Resident Pharmacist is on compulsory leave. He took the Green Moody to some government resort; I do not remember which. So me, I am locum.
Now I did me two units in applied Chemistry for my Advanced Levels at Mtaa Senior School. Recognise that. Okay, so what if I think Enthalpy Change is some Revolutionary Ideology, at least I know that Delta- 9- Hydro- Crapizzle + limited amounts of brain is equal to FUBARed.
Anyway, these two days, I am stuntin’ sudden like. I am dealing on Sector I- that is the Digz side- Sector III and Ngong Road; from Adams to Karen. Oh and I got to watch the Dead Letter Drop Box on Choo Namba Nane. That there is a War Zone good folks. But it is where shit hits town. You ain’t got control of supply lines they tell me; then go to Parliament, start a church or such like easy scams. (Now the only church I would be in is where I am God and I am too young for The Cabinet, so I gotta hustle.) Anything for money boy. Anything!
As Pac used to say “…I ain't guilty cause, even though I sell rocks it feels good puttin money in your mailbox…” And it ain’t easy partner. It ain’t easy sitting on those there rocks, in the ‘hood, with Papa that is Sixteen- with a gun -and the rest of the Kids from Sector III to right down my place pushing Jay like it was Kay Salt or some crap soft enough to take home to mama. But mama needs her insulin and Pfizer didn’t get big doing Pro bono, see? It’s the money or she dead- deader than The Rainbow Alliance.
Loose conversations, Half lifes and twigs, Trust wrappers and Napshizzle cans. That is the debris that is eternally pilling up all around us- defining our lives. (Defiling our souls.) Lives spent in emptiness trying to live, at least, today that we might die another day. Care to sift through the garbage? Mind to take a look see? Or you are afraid to see the hope that once was? You cannot stand to see how shit you did last year, and the year before has turned these lives into a theatre of broken dreams?
I am Big Shit today, yeah you can call me king up in here. King Shit of Turd Mountain! And all my subjects is sitting around me. Fucked up morons shooting crap into their membranes….ssssssss.
“Holy Kushumpeng” says Keno that been on these streets long enough to remember the tarmac.
“Yeah bra…. Jesus Christ on a Hookah…. this here shit be aiggghhhttt!” says my boy D
“Take two hits then you pass it on…pass it on!” yells Bobo- that Bobo that I toilet trained.
“Puff! Puff! Pass!”
Losers. I don’t smoke it. I just sell it.
Until they spring my boy Dinda, I am on this shit. But he ain’t gonna walk this time. They have done pinched him for a string of murders in Ngong. All the while that shit was going down, Dinda was in Mombasa with (censored) waiting for a boatload of crap. How is that for an alibi? Rest in peace young whore. (Pss…I hear they ain’t hang no one since my uncle’s second cousin in ’82.)
So how does this pan out? Well, Dunno. But in the mean time and in between times I got me a 3G cellie – which don’t mean squat coz we all on two G- and a bunch of low lives to carry whatever piece I be packing…like you know the deal, insecurity is a bitch in this city. What with all these morphs like cannot get a real job; they just wanna chill in the ‘hood acting like they was Potash. (Like I paid a couple of them last night to suck mine…just for kicks. Well, it feels kind of nice to pay for something, sometime. Help out a brother. It is like a three- second- Incarnation into Godhood. And my experience was more blessed coz I got to keep the fuckin’ Orgasm.)
I am pimpin’ man.
Now I see myself in the big time. So what about these kids? How they be the Change when they blazed to Indo Heaven? Maybe they can get high and think they was revolutionaries, I say. Okay I mean, hallucinate it. That is where they meant to be anyhow. Young and dreaming. Leadership is for the old. It is the African way.
Meantime I do not care. I am still too broke to afford a conscience. So I am on the hustle so I can be a bigger thug. Imagine me Hon. Potash, M.P, LTE- Legal Tax Evader. I want to be the first kid to bring a tax-free salary, or any salary for that matter- to the ‘hood.
Like I am fucking tired. Fucking tired of these walks down the railway line to inda and petty cash vouchers that you cannot wipe your ass with. Yeah, they taken Dinda’s felonious arse out of these streets. (Made it a better place, at least for their children- coz ours is hungry) and I am big fish…I got a plan…this is the plan…. now see…
Oh fuck, there goes my cellie, some cat wants to claim Sector II. Oh fuck, where is my (censored), like I need a bloody flack jacket. These streets is too hot…. run Potash run…
They don’t take you alive. They take your balls.