On Tuesday morning I was listening to a Kikuyu radio station as usual. The presenter started talking about the Gay Rights stand at the World Social Forum. In exasperation and utterly lost for words all he could do was play the song: Sodom na Gomorrah!
“Mhh, so why do we need a new constitution if the pernicious superstitions of dead Jewish scribes will suffice?” I yelled at the moron in a box.
Then the presenter dragged into the studio the Reverend/Bishop/ Prophet… e.t.c. Pius Muiri. Now this is one veteran of the Prosperity Gospel Industry who has finally collected enough tithes to fund a presidential campaign. So the guy is there saying that God has called him to be more than a spiritual leader. God sent his message through, as Muiru says, a Nigerian Prophet.
What the Fuck… just when we were all resigned to the fact that the only adjective that can come after Nigerian is ‘Con’?
Frankly, I hope this is all a con because the last time a moron waved his bible to the presidency; God got so angry and sent a thunderbolt at him. Too bad God missed and hit Baghdad. (Well as the First Potashian Epistle to the Heathen says: He works in mysterious ways his blunders to perform!)
Asked about Desmond Tutu’s sentiments last week to the effect that preachers should sit their arses out of politics, he said: “Desmond Tutu was asked last year what he thought about gay Marriages and he said they were okay.”
That kind of answer, readership, is what philosophers call the Fallacy of the Brain Damaged. I wonder if it is the same argument he applies in his Biblical Hermeneutics… ahem, like he would know what the fuck that is. But he said that Kenyans should wait for June when God will have revealed Muiru as the anointed one. Well, me when I skia mambo of God’s anointments I am reminded of that other guy who went down screaming: Eloi Eloi Lamma Sabachthani?
(Moral: When you hear a voice like God’s; check yourself into Mathare Mental Hospital or ask him to send written instructions and read the fine print!)
Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to the Gospel according to Potash; you came for sex… and you know I do not do it a la Missionary! So let us cut to the Coitus.
Now my boycott of all things World Social Forum means that I got to miss Nairobi’s biggest gay party. The do was put together last Sunday night by the Gay and Lesbian Coalition of Kenya with the Support of HIVOS, Netherlands. (Incase you want some cash for that bootycall, you know who to call!)
I sent out a cub writer to bring me a frontline report but the bloody homophobe says he is too traumatized to write. Damn, surely a Different World is (im)Possible… so today we will have to dedicate our shared perversions to things heterosexual.
After several months on the conference circuit, the ego bloated Potashius returns to his roots pen in hand like he was Kunta Fucking Kinte. Some naysayers say he has finally discovered that not all beings have a right to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Yuppiness. Others say that he has got a book deal for a sexed up version of his life story; like what the fuck do I look like, 50 Cent with a High School Diploma?
Watu wanadai ati raundi hii Potash amekuwa ka-babi.. soap soap.. supa.. mavi! Ati kuna vile mambo tu ni kudunda na madame ma-working class. Kumanina Zenu! Mnajua mahali nimetoka?
He was a dude. She was a chick. His name was njane. Her name was Sandra…or some other zung jina to that effect. He was from Sector II- eh, hapo mtaani. She was from some leafy crescent. Or was it a lane, or close? I do not know. Brookside, sijui wapi! He was 8.4.4, without the last 4. (hey he was my Mawe Mate at Mtaa Senior School). She was G.C.S.E.x?.. eh, hiyo. Currently a summer Bunny from Leeds, near Oxford, I suppose.
He spoke sheng. She spoke mixie: eti lupa lupa.. shortie nini nini- hola back!
His breakfast: Not Applicable.
Her breakfast: Cholesteral with fruits of the season.
“Mate, you jua they sell Kellogs at Serit Hyper- wicked, innit?”
He loved fish. He meant omena at Toi Market when Timi was paying.
She was allergic to prawns.
Jesus F. Christ that sounded like a cool allergy! You would have to kula prawns kwanza to jua you were allergic, no?
The only trouble he had had with food- apart from the lack of it- was cholera, typhoid; some third world shit. His boys told him that maybe akitia huyo dame ball ataomoka… ashike dough abuy ile vako inaitwa Anorexia!
“Si kesho we do sevens?” Asked she
“Ati sevens.. mimi sipendi bar za Westie!” answered he.
“aiih.. sweetie.. you don’t jua sevens...?”
Hmmm.. maybe it was time to consult Potash, The Streetosopher!
Haya.. washa hiyo kitu; Weka rasa down; panua bongo… skia hii story...
“You got a light…”
“Just light on the jiko there!”
Her skirt rides up her thigh. Hordes of tantalised eyes ride up her… washana naye! We jump into her... er... well her dad’s cream Beemer. Njane is driving. She is on the scrub seat. How bizarre.
Njane is 6’2”; only the 2” is inside the car. He is cruising so that all the hood rats can see him. Watajuaje?
There is Bobo… splash! “Osha jeans.”
Round the corner Kiki is sitting on the wooden steps outside Rasta Dready Kinyozi: (Ask for Plumber). Those cornrows will cost her 30 bob but frankly her hair would make that mathe of Ashley’s consider taking a job at City Mortuary.
She has a pretty face though. Yeah, if you have the time to look beneath the scar tissue. At least Akinyi her hairdresser has discovered Fair and Lovely ya Kadogo. But still, Akinyi didn’t have to use it all in one go. Like how lighter can you get, really, when your natural skin tone is navy blue, Khaki?
We park at the Chief’s Camp, way out of Sector III which is where digs is. We do not park there because it is safe but because it is the nearest to my crib you can get by car. For security, well, I suggest to Sandra that she passes a fifty bob to AP Constable O-. She makes it five hundred.
I feel faintly. The cop looks faintly. Both of us for totally divergent reasons. Haidhuru. What goes to a cop ni kama what goes mganga, it doesn’t come back.
“Keep change!” Mumbles Njane. You can see the waru ride up his throat.
The key is on the eaves. (Damn, will have to change that now… some of you folks…) Tri-cycle 261. I open. Unlatch the door. I remember I needed to get some oil to grease those hinges. Will do that soon as I have something to grease the mechanics palm.
“Mi casa Su casa:” goes Potash, The, with a flourish.
“Gracias” Sandra returns with a smile that is quickly yanked of her Nivea enhanced face as she topples into the stygian depths of The Potashian Domicile. Oops, I had forgot to mention that my earthen floor is several degrees below sea... er.. alley level.
Something scuttles across the earth floor- my pet rat or my neighbours... who knows. Sandra screams.
“Sandra, please. What you won’t see cannot hurt you!” I say passing a hand calloused by my jerk-off pursuits across her sun-screen protected face.
The boys are on the, now world famous, Vono bed. The girl is on the, once upon a time, three legged stool. “Just lean on the wall for stability…” I instruct. “But do not lean too heavily on it or the neighbours will pour through!”
I chomoa a Borzoi. Uhm, Borzoi is what the boti says. But si you jua mtaa vibe- chang’aa na sprite!
…Wacha tu huyu babi awashe;
…wacha tu abambike;
…si ma-boy hiyo haga wataishika;
…hiyo combi wacha tu ijipe!
Nijea wasee… somnajua hiyo vako!
There are audible grunts coming through the paper thin wall. Sandra stares at us in puzzlement. We shrug and puff- puff- pass.
What’s to say?
That there is Baba Lulu on his second coming!
There is a muffled scream…
Sandra is acting scared now.
But we just sip on the pseudo-borzoi with decided nonchalance.
What’s to say, readership?
That there is Lulu…
…next month she turns five.
Ghetto Love Making.