Aluta Continua

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There are two things I will never understand. Women and Kenya Power. Kenya Power I gave up trying to understand. Women, I try sometimes, then stop and chalk it up to It’s impossible and I never will. Something I’ve learnt out of this is, you can’t fight women. Not physically, no. That’s just primitive. I mean like mentally, or emotionally. Why? You will never win. Never. I learnt this the hard way. I knew it wasn’t possible to win, but I’m my father’s son; I’m as stubborn as corruption.

Now, the way I was raised, wives are always at home. Even if they worked, they rushed home with their three bags of various sizes, passed by the market and hauled themselves home. The wouldn’t go out. The only time my mother left the house was for a chama meeting. Or a kesha on New Year’s Eve. That was it. No ‘turn up’. No girl’s night out. That’s a new concept. One that I recently experienced.

The wife decided to go for a girl’s night out. I obliged. Because though I’m the son of a chief, we live in modern times. Besides, the wife being out means I can chill in the house in my boxers, eat junk food and watch shows like Discovery Science and Spartacus. Also I get to have the remote to myself. I can make sandwiches and leave breadcrumbs on the kitchen counter. I don’t have to watch sijui Braxton Family Values or Keeping up with the Kardashians as I hide behind the newspaper peeping up occasionally to ogle at Kim Kardashian’s ass.

The way I was raised, men get home whenever they want and the wife opens the door for them no matter what time they stumble in. The man comes home to hot food and a willing ear to listen to his drunken tales of how he was about to leave the bar, but  an argument ensured on who’s wife is the prettiest and he couldn’t leave until he won. That’s the way it was. Not anymore I tell you. On this particular girl’s night out, the missus had chosen to forget her house key and so I had to wait up, or at least be available to open the door for her. The chief doesn’t and shall not know of this tale. If he does, I shall deny.

It so happened, that the club was ‘kicking a good one’ and the ‘dj was so on point’ meaning the missus rings me up at dawn. 6:17 AM to be precise. I dragged my boxer clad self to open up for her. In my head wondering how and when these tables turned. Then I stopped wondering and started scheming. And scheme I did.

The following weekend I decided to hatch my scheme. Saturday morning I was asked that questions wives ask when you’re sitting on the couch thumbing through the paper, uji in hand.

So, what are you up to today?

Me? I asked that as if there was anyone else in the house. Eeeh. Nothing much.  Just chilling, but I’ll meet up with the boys later in the day.


Hah! I knew I’d gotten to her. That one word response, ‘Ok‘. She probably wasn’t happy I was meeting the boys. Or that I didn’t have a plan for the day. Or that I had left breadcrumbs on the kitchen counter. Or maybe, as I later found out, it was that I had conveniently forgotten her pal’s child was turning two and there was a birthday party to attend.

She went out to shop. Therapy maybe. My plan was coming together. Insert diabolical laughter.

Fast forward to 5 PM. I grab two bottles of Glenmorangie, a bag of peanuts and a jacket to head off to my boy’s place. That was the agreed rendezvous spot before heading out to the club. Nyama from Tulips had been ordered, and all the crazy boys were en route. Including LK who once fell in love with a stripper. No driving. Uber was to be the chosen mode of transport.

I get to my boy’s place and the usual suspects start streaming in. Pass by the kitchen, get a glass and move to the sitting room and pour yourself a fifth. That was the modus operandi. As more guys streamed in and the drinks sunk in, we got louder. The stories got funnier and the confessions came in.

You guy I had a crush on that chick with the weird feet. Remember her?

Hahaha. What was her name? Flipper? You guy kuwa serious. She had enormous feet.

For real bana. She had a good heart though.

Ati good heart, kwani you’re a caridiologist?

We all laughed.

And so it went on. Stories of love, love lost, rugby glory days now in the past, predictions for the Euro football championships and who had the biggest pot belly. All that interspersed with some sordid tales that cannot be put down here.

Then as sure as Kenya Power will have an outage, so too did the whisky bottles get empty. With no supply of drink and the guys already ‘well marinated’, it was now time to prowl the town. Off to the club we were. In pursuit of various things, some for more drink, other’s for fine women to ogle and maybe even get to know a bit better.

Then it happened. My plan started falling apart from one innocuous act.

In the midst of the boys popping bottles and ogling skimpily clad women, I texted the missus to tell her I was out in the club. And I told her which club. Now, before you lambaste me for this grave sin, hear me out. It’s a habit I have, to let the missus know where I am. For many reasons but mostly so that in case I  end up drugged and stabbed in a seedy bar in Kayole at least she won’t be surprised when the cops call her. So that she won’t be headed to the mortuary wondering, ‘But he doesn’t even know where Kayole is’

So, probably just to rub it in that I was not going to win, she showed up with her pals at the club I was at. Of course my boys were all over her pals and I was now about as free as a tethered goat. And so, prematurely, ended the boys night out. My revenge plan had fallen flat on its face.

We danced and had a good time though. Not what was planned, but it was a good night overall. She had won this round, and I lived to fight another day. The war continues.

Aluta Continua.



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