Wednesday, January 24, 2007


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.

Well… almost…

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!

Sema Yeah!

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.

Thursday, January 18, 2007



2011 EDIT:

I am typing this with one hand. My right hand’s middle finger is stuck way deep in the arses of naysayers who said I couldn’t write to save my Napshizzle; yuppie friends who wondered who read my mtaa blog. I pull that finger out, momentarily; smell it; cringe at the stink and shove that finger right up the arses of newspaper editors who wouldn’t touch my shit- even with a borrowed dick.

I know I have mentioned my pretend publicist- not the recent fine breasted one- N.M. N.M. the mercenary writer who I am told has now sold his soul to yet another NGO, a kind of publishing outfit or some other donor funded hustle to that effect. In 2004, after many nights of buying me booze and letting me sleep on his couch so that he could listen to my ‘hood stories, N.M. decided that I could turn them all into a newspaper column. It sounded like an excellent idea until he sent the stuff out to BUZZ.

What the fuck?

Thank God they rejected my stuff. Like where would I be now if I had written for Buzz- celebrated by the prepubescent? Maybe my only claim to writing fame would have been in knocking off my man Smitta Smitten off the ratings table. When I tell people that what got a lease of life on this blog was submitted to Buzz, they laugh in derision- at that juvenile rag of course.

“But Potash you are a writer”, they remark. Well maybe I am one and it is not that I would have ranked amongst the Copy Pasters on Kimathi Street that bothers me but the thought of how I would have had to work with an editor who cannot spell; who claims brag rights from having read The Da Vinci Code. How would I have worked with so called entertainment writers who do not seem to know what a groupie (see a piece on Ja Rule) is or who think that Collabo (see Shaggy Interview) is a word peculiar to whatever demographic group it is that constitutes ‘Buzzers’?

To the bulk of my readership, who wouldn’t tell Buzz from something your lavatory didn’t flush out, I am sorry I cannot find parallels in such murky depths. Those of my generation might remember Patch Dispatch- those Nairobi School scribblers, against Buzz, would take the fucking Pulitzer. Hey even the prison memoirs that the geeks at Starehe put out would beat Buzz 10- 1 in content.

But that is all a long time ago, seemingly, and I ditched N.M; continued to walk out to the EPZ, ever so rarely in search of Kibaruas and sitting juu ya mawe, ever so often trading stories, flambĂ©ing my brain cells and declining spermatozoa with Napshizzle; and writing woe begotten tales. I’d sit with Timi and the rest of what had come to be known as the Potashian Book Club- a book club that read more labels on varicoloured alcohol cans than books- and indulge in literature as we knew it. We were the neighbourhood’s philosophers and pseudo-intellectuals (yes pseudo-intellectual because we had no Ivory Tower from behind which to analyse disposed urban youth- which is what we were, anyway; no catch phrases to encompass our experiences and ultimately, no departmental chairs to back stab each other for).

We would sit and talk; then we would sit and wait. Waiting… waiting for a half-life. A half-life that soon became a pitiful metaphor for existence sans the luxury of a future tense.

Club Log: Yesterday we got drunk!

Always yesterday… the last meal… Only that drop of alcohol that has been imbibed can be known- Potashian Epistemology!

Then came January 2006.I got a loose gig packing boxes of contraband computer parts at a Muhindi sweatshop in Hurlingham. Every time the Muhindi went to the back of the shop to crap; eat the junk that put the stink into his crap; indulge in ritualistic self abuse; or whatever it is Muhindis do locked up at the back, his slaves would assault his bandwidth with porn downloads for future (ab)use. Not being voyeuristic in nature- my right hand has more sex appeal to me than all the pink cunt that a grainy, low resolution P.C. screen can throw at it- I had to find an interesting way to bullshit the Muhindi’ s clock-in formula:

Internet Forum Boards. Eureka!

I got onto this site that was full of armchair do-gooders of the Let’s Save Africa variety. I shoved their “oh but the dog food wasn’t exactly unfit for African… er… human consumption” up their Burger King enhanced arses. Someone noticed. Yeah, there was this old fogey saying that he was digging my thinking and that my writing was as tight as a picaninny’s arse… woah. “So what’s up with an online collaboration, chap?” he asked.

(A year later and after getting on the conference circuit; all these five star restaurant lunches and brainstorming sessions over hyphenated cocktails, I can tell the mzungu hustle. You know the fellow that wants that token African into the project to tell the native kids how to look sick enough for the award and or donor winning NGO photographer! I can tell that kind from a heated swimming pool length away, now and I can tell you that that fellow wasn’t that. But I didn’t know shit then; I was down for whatever. Really, I would have taken anything, well maybe a little more if the plan involved you shagging me in the arse!)

Then this guy told me something. Something more amazing than finding out that your daddy still has a mind blowing coital engagement with your happily married sister. “Potash, you could set up a blog, you know” said the old man.

“A blog” wondered P, the.
“Yeah, a blog… even an idiot like me can set up one, check it out.” Typed he.

Eureka’s Orgasm!

That old fogey was John Powers. Mr. Powers, enjoy your fifteen seconds on my spot. Sir, you set me on the path to E-Penis enlargement, see how my online cred has grown! (Yes, a year later I have grown an E-Penis straight out of the Chamber of Internet Monstrosities.) It is so unfortunate that we Africans do not have souls and cannot express our emotions but you can take a photo of yourself looking eternally grateful and paint it black. Alternatively, I could drink a can of Napshizzle to your health- but then again my taste buds have been gentrified, lately!

Okay, move along sir. I know it has only been ten seconds but there is a pile of other egos in my massage parlour that I must deal with without eating too much into my drinking time.

Without further ado I present to you the people who were there, who have been there and who will be there in this journey from a neighbourhood wordsmith into ‘the finest writer of this degeneration’.

At the onset, I must dedicate every post to the street. The street might not love me as much as it used to but it is my heritage. Because of the street I had a story to tell. I got into all these new spaces not because I was a good writer- the heck I haven’t written shit in ages- but because I had street cred. I was this unknown kid with what others considered a remarkable story- an untold truth. I am given to immodesty but I will never take credit for that knowledge. I didn’t build it, I merely absorbed it; regurgitated it on this blog. From my street corner to the world- come feel this shit!

Special thanks and immense credit must go where it is due- The Potashian Book Club. You came, you drank, and you passed out. And in my stories you stay passed out; and the Yuppies and Development cowboys marvel: “But Potash, what can we do for these kids?” So they do the NGO thingy: conference, conference and more conference; only that this time they call this cat as the authority on Nairobi Underground! And my conscience goes up in smoke as I join them in shagging our shared whore- Africa- in five star hotel dinning rooms.

I must pay tribute to all those Kids we lost on the streets… I still look behind me, even as I write in the luxury of beach fronts and manicured lawns. I can hear the rattle of the G.K riffle… I can see myself running… watching you fall… pouring Napshizzle into yet another unmarked grave in Langata. You are gone but in my stories you live again!

This goes out to my man Jose in Kamiti or whatever jail you at now- too bad this new hustle got me too busy to keep tabs on erstwhile friends. The Third Caucus of Nairobi’s Finest, I am glad you let me in. Abdulla of Loki, thanks a lot for the autographed ‘Black Hawk Down’ Kevlar on street check off. And my man Dinda- the Street Pharmacist- that Locum post was a much needed brolly on a rainy day.

To my man Timi- still the cutest boy I know- I love you in more ways than I can say! Get your hustle on homeboy, but remember that writing is all we wanted to do. The Nairobi Anthology is still a dream I live for.

And finally, my appreciation goes out to the following people for making so much possible. Without them I would still be, just another kid with a blog:

Njoroge Matathia
Nyaguthii Mwangi
Amber Takavitz
M. Mbugua Kimani
Binyavanga Wainaina
Billy Kahora

And a last minute insert because I have learnt the art of sucking up:

Ivelisse Rodriguez
Njoki Mungai
Kwani Trust

To my Ardent Fans, Groupies and Stalkers, finally I have come to recognise you. Much as I spent so much time saying that this wasn’t about you, I cannot kick you out of my spot. Buy the fucking book when it comes out, else you are worthless to me!

To all those who are wondering why I forgot them, well i didn't. You just weren't an integral part of this hustle. And if you ask why I didn't thank my God and my Mother- go setup your own blog and thank your God and your Mother on every post!

Wednesday, January 10, 2007


“I am gonna save the world folks!” screams John no Dough to no one in particular. “Get a fucking job, loser!” the trailer park warden yells back as he hurls a baseball through the polythene make believe window of the battered Winnebago. John no Dough’s partner who is squatting outside peeing- at one with nature or the debris strewn simulacrum of it- flips the warden a birdie and lights herself a king size joint.

John no Dough opens the trailer’s door with much screaming of aged hinges and pauses at the threshold to squint into the wintry day. He sees her, now standing her hair in sexy dishevel and her eyes mascaraed with that ethereal glaze that was his waterloo the first time he saw her. The look she wore as she held her ground against a truncheon wielding foot soldier of Global Capital in some long forgotten battle ground: New York, Davos or fucking Oshkosh, who cares? Her photo had made the front pages in her mid-western home county and though it wasn’t exactly the fucking New York Times; the photo still looked good pasted above the decrepit washbasin, of the Winnebago, in lieu of a mirror.

He clambers down the makeshift stairs still baffled by their continuing ability to hold his weight. The next moment he is looming ten inches above her and fondling her multiple-gang bangs-survivor-titties with one hand and plying the joint off her stained paws with the other. He puts the joint to his mouth holding it without a roach clip because, as he is often heard saying, “roach clips are for sissies… what the fuck do I look like, Bill Clinton?”

“Aurora!” He mouths.

Aurora-Woodstock Flint. That’s the girl’s name; her mother brought the ovules and her daddy brought the acid. “Too bad he was gone when the trip was over… the other one too… and the other... damn, what a summer it was!” was her mother’s mantra until Aurora shipped her off to a mental home and made her way to New York mainly on her back.

“We are gonna save the world, Aurora!” John no Dough says. ”Yeah”, Aurora responds. “We are going to Africa.”

“Yeah, Yeah,” John no Dough muses as he blows plumes of smoke in the general direction of Africa. Then he grins at her and all the while scratching the perpetual itch in his groin and nodding at her as though in admiration. “What will I catch from her this time?” he wonders. In New Delhi it was gonorrhoea; herpes in Cancun, maybe in Africa it will be the big one: AIDS!

AIDS, now that would be a badge of honour; bigger than a bleeding Purple Heart from Iraq. It would make John and Aurora feel better than all those mercenaries and looters in Africa; fucked up common thieves from the geo-political North flying under Globalisation, AGOA and WTO flags of convenience and returning home with blood diamonds.

John no Dough hates the new face of colonialism: Multi-Nationals, IMF, Pfizer and the motherfucking Republicans. (By the way, how come every one of these bleeding heart Americans crawling all over Africa are adamant that they didn’t vote for Bush? Maybe he wouldn’t have gotten re-elected if all of you stayed home and voted. Unless you all needed him and his non policy on Africa to keep you donor funded!)

Anyway the world is full of all these farts with Messianic Complexes always forgetting that all Messiahs end up dead anyway. I mean look at Jesus. Kwanza him, despite a cruel and unnecessary death and 2000 years of post-humous infamy, the fellow cannot sell more t-shirts than Harry Potter.

I think there are three kinds of Messiahs and the smart, Pop Idol, ones have side gigs: Bono sells records, Oprah sells self esteem to fat American women and now thanks to Madonna & Brangelina Messiahs Inc, you can order an African baby from a Gap store near you. (Conditions Apply. The RED thingum is a registered trademark of Poverty is Their History LLC)

The other type is those who went to college and realised some where along the way that it takes more than a degree and foppishness to hack it on Wall Street. But they went to school be to some sort of card carrying executive or other- so they joined Save Africa Plc where all you needed to do to balance the cash book was write a funding proposal.

For instance there is this guy that works for a subsidiary of Save Africa called UNEP whose mandate is to organise talking shops on environment, climate and whatever. For reasons more ridiculous than the weather forecast, UNEP headquarters is in a hardship station called Nairobi, Africa (Africa is a country, duh!) So in order to fulfill his mandate, our guy and his colleagues live in a clearing in the middle of Karura forest. Of course there is no conflict of interest there because all the trees were used to make paper for them to push. As for the luxurious hard wood fittings in their living rooms…

The final type of messiah is that of the lowlife John and Aurora- latter day hippies- variety. These ones join the world’s largest travelling circus- The World Social Scrotum. The World Social Scrotum is an eclectic mix of crackers and varicoloured crack heads from the North who purport to be its conscience which is really sweet of them until they decide to air that dirty laundry in our (re)public.


Ah… but now I have chokad and I need to get this post done away with and get on with today's booze quota… so I will interrupt this garbage to bring you all a public service message from the General Caucus of Nairobi’s Finest.

Nairobi’s Finest a collective of Pimps, Pushers, Hustlers and gangland executives are purveyors of shit to sixteen diplomatic missions and the fucking Peace Corps. We are also suppliers of willing (the court records prove it) Samburu women to Her Royal Majesty’s Armed Forces. Tight arsed young Native lads, mountain Gorillas and other beasts are also available for those of an exotic palate.

The General Caucus of Nairobi’s finest would like to inform all the delegates to the World Social Scrotum that we are the official Shit suppliers to the conference. We do not welcome you to our city but you are gonna come anyway, so what the fuck- to jack you will be our pleasure! We are aware that you are used to crappy greenhouse marijuana and are pleased to inform you that sixteen forty foot containers of Export Grade Busia Gold are currently in transit to Nairobi under the armed escort of our legendary corrupt police department.

In other news and in the spirit of fighting Globalisation; the inequitable distribution of capital and in working towards an Open Society, I relinquish my Intellectual Property Rights to the following t-shirt slogan:

World Social Scrotum: Don’t Come to Africa, Send Money.*

*Fine Print: Only Applicable if Merchandise is clearly marked “Not for Sale”

Tuesday, January 02, 2007


I have Erectile Dysfunction;
I am made in the image of God;
Ergo, God has Erectile Dysfunction.

Now Ivory Tower philosophers will call this syllogism a fallacy of the nyenyenye middle term or some related bull crap, but me; pseudo-intellectual me, I call that the fallacy of the wrong middle finger. I mean, I have told you before that I can put sex on a pedestal or up a maple tree but I cannot seem able to put it up a willing pussy (or anus) where it belongs.

Story of my sex life! As most of you are always looking for some neat law to crystallise my sexual inclinations into, I suggest we try Sod’s Law.

Picture this: Marooned on an island, 69 degrees Nowhere South Nowhere of the Statue of Liberty, you would think that Ms. Sexus Tourista Americana would yell Mayday!Mayday! Hardly. She screamed: Dakimu! Dakimu! Dakimu for those still living sans a formal (or coital) introduction is that gismo otherwise referred to as The Potashian Male Member.

Ms. Americana’s Noble arse called out for Savage sodomy. She lifted her arse higher than the fellows down at the Main Street Mosque her twanging yell drowning out the calls of every Muezzin from Shela to Kipungani.

While many islanders had left the islands on pilgrimage, Ms. American had come here. She had come to pay tribute to the object of her highest desire. She that was a Literary Dick Collector had finally reached her Mecca. She had found the Holy Grail; the mythical dick of the Kenyan Blogosphere- Dakimu! Ms. Americana prostrated herself beneath the Potashian prostate (and related organs).

Behold Anus Americanus- tighter than the mainsail of Nassir’s dhow in full wind- presented to that Noble Savage Dakimu. And thus it came to pass as was written in the Holy Blog:

“From the barbarous North;
Winged serpents brought forth;
Travellers with mouths wide open;
Pudenda flung wider even;
Garishly tanned maws;
Gold coin and tablets (of ecstasy) on their claws;
All their trash with no winnowing;
Down here Sucking and then swallowing;
On African sunsets and the sands of Lamu:
They all live to honour ‘Kimu.”

But all that shivers is not cold; all that is hyped is not ripe and Dakimu is nothing more than stuffed tripe.

Arse. Dick
Gimme. Gimme

Arse. Dick
Nasal twangs of anticipation: Oh my God, this will be awesome!


Readership what if you went to heaven and found the throne room empty, would you genuflect and wait for a higher revelation? What if you went to Africa and realised that a dick by any other colour would still shag the same? Or worse if you were to learn that Africa needed more Viagra than mosquito nets, would you sit and play with yourself?

In truth you wouldn’t have to because in the Heart of Darkness a mystery and or a Hard on always lie around the corner. To end an African sex story in silence, then would be premature (ejaculation). It would wrongly suggest that orgasms don’t live here anymore or that Karen Blixen died of Syphilis that she contracted while playing with herself. Please!

So my horny people, to avoid bullshitting the efforts of my good friends at The Kenya Sex Tourism Board, allow me to employ a time honoured literary device to tantalise your vanilla clogged taste buds with chocolate flavoured ejaculate. The device I will use is referred to as Deux ex Machina but since God is still not taking my calls I will settle for my upgrade called Sex ex Machina.

Arse. Dick

Arse will be long suntanned before Dick can splash her with some of that Chromosome X Body (fluid) Lotion. Press on Mr. Dakimu, Kenya’s dick Economy doesn’t need any more bad press. You know, sex tourism thrives on word of mouth. Yeah, give her a mouthful! Tourists shag and tell and because of your faults next season we might as well be fucking our right hands- for fucking free!

Get a grip Potash… on the tourist’s arse, silly, not your dick!

The day and possibly Lamu’s sex tourism industry was saved by Hassan. Hassan the cocks.. er… coxswain extraordinaire and Beach Boy* of insurmountable aesthetic appeal. Hassan a Mandingo warrior with dreadlocks hennaed right down to the pubis. Hassan who could come in Flemish or whatever other fringe European tongue that wrapped itself around his dick. Hassan a.k.a James Njogu Gitau. (Moral: For money, a Kikuyu is a good shag; for love, a Kikuyu will have another beer and sit there scratching his balls like a cartoon husband.)

Hassan had landed at Kipungani beach at 0000hrs Crotch Time. In Lamu, every time is Crotch Time; either you clutch it or you miss it- well, until the next boat lands at the jetty laden with Nordic women, as Aryan as Hitler’s dream, hell bent on living out his nightmare of miscegenation.

Hassan had sold a boat ride to a clump of antiquated German ladies- must have been World War II widows- but not managed to sell himself. A little earlier, they would have killed each other to spend the rest of their menopausal years with him, but now after spending three weeks with Euro- starved beach boys all that these nice ladies wanted was a quiet place to stuff themselves with douche, suppositories and double doses of Brufen and valium to still the maddening rage of arthritis scorned. (Yeah, hell hath no fury like arthritis scorned so take only a hot water bottle and reminisces to bed tonight, old girl!)

Once thwarted but ever cocksure or rather his cock sure of getting laid and getting paid, Hassan hit the beach- enticingly choc blocked with American pussy- like it was Pearl Harbour and he was here with his canon balls ready to blow them off to Come-land. With uncondomed (Kamikaze?) bravado he staked out the shoreline and all the while screaming the Beach Boy Regimental Motto: It is not over till the white lady comes (back with dollars!)

His chest was bare and his wee pants had long given up on the elephantine task of reigning in a savage in pursuit of ivory (hued cunt). A savage created in the image of Shaka’s assegai, at least in its lust for white blood; honed for battle with later day Imperialists and their newfangled Scramble for Africa… or is it Scramble for African Dick, now?

Now that I have you by the pussy hairs Ms. Ardent Fan, it is time to lunge at you with my new found phallus: To Be Continued! How do you like that now? When I said I had Erectile Dysfunction, I meant that of the Literary variety…. Nyenyenye boo boo!


*In the event of my cruel death and posthumous infamy, I can foresee a mercenary publisher putting out a title: The Pseudo-Intellectual Goes to Lamu. This will contain my quasi-scientific explorations of the Lamu Archipelago and will include my inebriate study of Beach Boy culture and the seminal-ahem- Freudian Analysis of the Wakalapi Tribes People of Southern Lamu. In the meantime, this blog can only promise snippets and anecdotes from the same.