THAT Year After High School

Idle unemployed youth Kenya

KCSE is over! I had forgotten about KCSE, it's existence, and importance till this year. My brother, who has had a very difficult high school life and a live-in cousin have both completed KCSE. Welcome to semi-life, Evans and Alex. Now, please stop, and tell your parents to stop, calling me asking if you can come to stay with me for some time. I'm a bachelor about town and I like staying alone. More importantly, I want you to stay at home and 'enjoy' life as I enjoyed it back then-raw!

It was quite a year, well, not really a year because life became hard and I shipped myself to college too soon. It was a year I had been looking forward to for four years- when I would be finally free from the high school bell(I hated that thing), githeri and Maths. I would also turn 18 at some point in that year, and hence the license to do adult things.

Right after high school, an older cousin of mine talked my mother into making me go to her place to help her run her shop. It was fun for me because then, our part of world didn't have electricity and I was a sucker for music, movies and coloured TV. I would spend the day alone in the shop in a very bad location, reading novels, listening to music, playing Snake on my Nokia 1100..... and entertaining girls from the neighbourhood, also Form 4 leavers. Winnie, are you reading this? :)

It got boring. I had fast, warm blood and I didn't want to stay in a remote town doing nothing. I wanted to go back home where I knew more people, and where I would stay without working.
So, I 'resigned' and went to Computer School. Those computer basics classes people go to study Microsoft Office and MSDOS. Here, I reconnected with friends, made new friends(Are you there - Jon, Maureen, Aggy, Matthew, Deno?). It was a fine, two hour class, after which people would take each other for lunch, go to one of the rich kids' house to play computer games and deejay; laze around, or go home. Life was good. Until KCSE results came out in February! People separated themselves-those who passed, those who failed and watu wa katikati. It was a childish game of esteem. Don't ask me where I was.

In the process, I got a job! You see, I was, and I think still am, a fairly respected member of the society and I was offered a job to teach every afternoon, after computer class, at the local secondary school! They didn't have many teachers and had to share classes among three or four teachers, but then, there were only two classes, Form 1 and 2. No one could teach Geography. I asked them to give me subjects I loved, like English and Swahili but the elder who approached me told me they believed I was capable of teaching any subject. So Geography it was-never mind I didn't take Geography in high school. I simply summarized the text book and dictated notes. For a whole two weeks! And then I resigned. Teaching wasn't fun. Ladies and gentlemen, this was how long my career as a teacher lasted-two weeks!

Since there was nothing I was doing in the evenings, I started going out like a proper circumcised Meru man. I would go to "canteen" ( take it to mean town or shopping centre) and hang out with other guys. I have always been sensitive about who I hang out with, so, I never misbehaved too much. I never chewed miraa, which everyone else was, so, I would always get tea and ngumu and make intelligent analysis of the village politics, play pool and watch soap operas. I did not miss a single episode of Love is Timeless on KBC!

I had just discovered Hip Hop and in true gangsta livin'(knowwhatamsayin?), we would spend days in Maua town, listening to hip hop in barber shops, photocopy bureaus, and cyber cafes. The crew- Marti(he used to run his father's battery charging joint), Royson, Kawaida, Kiumbe, Anto(the only employed person in the group-those chopees work for Equity after school), Mwalim Tembe(he had accepted the teaching vocation) and Alex (he used to run a photocopy)- had formed a clique, clad in flashy tshirts, baggy jeans and standin' caps). Sometimes, armed with Marti's car batteries, Anto's woofer, Alex' computer and my music CDs, we would go to parks, blast music (I should have become a DJ, Virtual DJ) and fool around with the hottest girls in town.We were living the gangsta life, man.
Don't they look G? Royson, Marti, Kawaida and Chief Kiumbe
But then we started disintegrating, or growing up. Some of us were shipped off by their sore parents. At some point, an NGO appeared, giving courses on community mobilisation and HIV to idle school leavers. We formed an objective group of five. We called it Touch and we had lots of dreams for the community. We would perform play-skits in churches, youth camps and an event we developed-The Touch Extravaganza. It was fun. We were talented. We would not write the scripts. Since I was tasked with coming up with ideas, I would write one paragraph synopsis, and the team would know what to do or say. I have paused here to stare at the ceiling in nostalgic memory. That was a good team. Me, Alex, Doris, Bessy and Mfa (Bless his soul). I think this is how the high school leavers should spend their one year. Getting creative for the society.

I also had a girlfriend(say Amen). She was still in high school and I would make her late for school every time on opening days. When she was around, we would spend as much time as we could. She had two other friends and with my clique of Alex and Royson; and a few introductions and match-making, we became a group of 6 young lovers-3 couples trying to outdo each other in love antics. We did crazy things. Not bad things-my girlfriend dumped me because I was not ready for sex no matter how hard she tried. Story for another day.

Buoyed by the new free labour, my father finally bought a cow. For too long, we had been the only home in the neighbourhood without a cow. And the cow he bought was a guzzler. A Fresian cow. Those things can eat- they are supposed to eat 90 kilos of food and 50 litres of water every day. Living in a suburban place, there was no way we could get this much food. She was placed under my care and life became hell. I cut all the banana migomba at home to feed her, I ran a fence to the ground, I drained the water tank, and the cow would moo throughout with that loud mouth of hers. I decided that was tabia mbaya and resorted to corrective action. Every time she mooed, I would whip her, or hit her with a stone. Soon, she associated mooing with pain and stopped. What was the name for this from Biology?
The Fresian cow is a beast. Pic: LIC

But she was a snitch. Any time she heard dad come through the gate, she would throw tantrums like a kid. She knew this would always earn me "why is the cow hungry" questions. Another thing, she hated women. No woman would go close to her. And I was the only guy spending time at home. Why do females hate each other so much?

Silly cow made me cut my free year short and go to college.

Main Pic: Unemployed youth 

A Kenyan Man Goes to Buy Condoms

Buying condoms funny Wikihow
So the girl you have been eyeing for ages has finally accepted a sleepover and you have a feeling that this will be a good night. You had praised your kitchen skills on Whatsapp and she wants to taste your food. You will cook for her. So, you go to the market, or supermarket depending on where you are, and buy cooking stuff you don't use in your bachelor pad, like carrots and cucumbers, garbage. You get ginger, dhania and pilipili hoho, too. If you are like me, the only malighafi(read spices) you normally use are salt, a small onion and tomatoes. Today you are stocked. It will be a hot dinner. You aim to impress the empress.

Your bachelor pad has only one bed, and you have a feeling that the kitchen won't be the only hot room in the house tonight. You see, on Whatsapp, in your late night chats, you have started raunchy Truth or Dare games with raunchy details. You have this gut feeling that you have been blessed. Not for procreation purposes - she is not here for marriage. And you don't want to return home 'on a vehicle carrier in a box' as your grandmother once said.

You will need condoms..... you know, just in case.

So after your shopping, you set out to look for the sheaths. That's where trouble starts. You don't buy these things like you buy potatoes. You have to sweat for it. As they say, good things rarely come easy.

So, you walk down the street, peeping into shops to see, one, if the good old packet is hung on the shelves and two, if the shopkeeper is an approachable agemate. If you live in a small town, the shopkeepers are mostly women the age of your mother wearing glasses and kilemba. Such shopkeepers don't stock condoms. It's a sin. Your best bet is a chemist. So, you keep walking, looking for chemists.
Assorted Lifestyle Condoms: Amazon
Assorted Lifestyle Condoms: Amazon

Chemist 1 has a queue. There is no way you will queue, and in the full glare of the public, ask for the forbidden sachets. Pass.

Chemist 2 has more than one attendant. You can't imagine walking in and whispering to the guy that you want Durex and he shouts to the lady. "Do we have Durex in stock?" To which she shouts back, "No! Tell him we have Trust Studded and Salama!". And after you leave they will discuss you, anyway. Pass, again.

Chemist 3 has one, approachable guy. But there is an older guy there, eating stories with him. He has even been given a chair, and from the looks of it, he is not too sick to stand. He plans to stay for long. You kick an avocado seed in the street in frustration. Why do people go to talk with the pharmacy guy? These people are cursed.

Chemist 4. Voila! There is only one guy inside. You pull your hood to your eyes and walk in. You find him talking on the phone and he cheerfully lifts his index finger, to please wait ooone moment. You place your shopping paper bags on the floor and shuffle your feet impatiently. Then, just then, a cute girl from the neighbourhood walks in. There is no way you are buying condoms in her presence. You never know, she may be a potential. You ask for mosquito coil, and ABZ, for de-worming. "This elnino has come with too many mosquitoes". You explain.

You start walking back the way you came. Popping your eyes into the chemists. There has been no improvement. You start trying to remember if you have any left over CDs from previous sexcapedes. You have one piece of Trust, two pieces of Femiplan, one piece of those brown government condoms, and an empty packet of some Durex under the bed. From what she had said on Whatsapp, she doesn't do the deed in the dark. Chucking brands upon brands of condoms will be suicidal.

You decide....kiumane. You walk into Chemist 2- it also has M-Pesa:
"Naweza toa?"
"How much?"

As the guy is perusing his M-Pesa book, you ask discretely. "Uko na CD gani?" He unashamedly turns and takes you through the entire wall of condoms like those Bata attendants showing you different shoes in a rack. You cut him short. "Give me 5 packets of Femiplan"

Femiplan has 6 pieces per packet and with 30 condoms and limited supply of partners, you know they will last a long time. You don't want to go through this gruelling experience again. 

You walk home, feeling like you are Roman and you have just conquered the entire world.

Your guest arrives to a hot, saucy meal. It is that time of the month for her. You will not be using the condoms tonight, or any time soon. You wail in agony.

And die.


Who Said Skinny is Beautiful?

Be proud of your body. Big or ssmall.

A girl friend of mine inboxes me on Facebook, "Frank, imagine someone called me fat today".
I ask her, "Who? Njoki Chege?"

She hasn't replied to me. I think she feels terrible someone called her fat. She actually isn't big, she has a nice body, but could might have added on just a little weight. She is a modern girl. It is a taboo for modern women to add weight.

But. What happened to the world? When did growing thin and skinny become sexy? When I was growing up in the village, that's before I came across neo-colonized lifestyle magazines, being big was a sign of prestige. A big woman meant a wealthy husband who could afford food- unless she had elephantiasis, of course. My grandfather would ululate whenever I got visited by a big, healthy girl. And he would commented on such, even in her presence, "Mwenda, umetoa wapi hii 'ngutu' nzuri hivi?" (Where did you get such a beautiful young lady?).

On the other hand, being thin showed either of two things. You were either poor and couldn't afford food, or you were sick. Very sick. Especially with the 'neck disease' of tabia mbaya.

There was even a song to it. Pole Musa. .... Kweli Muusa, uliponioa nilikuuwa na afya nzuri, nilinoona, kama ngoima ya....(never got this part).... Loosely translated to 'Moses, when I married you, I was healthy. I was as fat as a ngoima(whatever it is)..... And now with our unhappy marriage, I am thin.

Then this somehow changed.  I don't know when, I don't know how. My theory is some thin model with anorexia(sorry) decided to turn her body to her advantage, and marketed her condition as an advantage. Wicked opportunist. And then it became a trend...You know women with trends, trickled to Africa, and baam! Our women don't want to embrace the African beauty any more.

The barbs thrown at big women by other women is disheartening. Have you ever wondered why it is only women who jeer at other women because of their size? Because, we, men, love plus size. It makes us proud. It shows the world there is no drought in our homes, that we are feeding you well, that our homes are happy.
Bodies should be praised for the amazing feats they accomplish every second of the day, not for how they look in a bikini.

"Bodies should be praised for the amazing feats they accomplish every second of the day, not for how they look in a bikini. So rather than shaming thinness to empower “real” women, can’t we all just get along?"

To the naturally big ladies, be yourself! Don't let anyone make you feel bad because of your size! Don't lose your sleep because some thin person thought thought they are the SI unit of beauty and you are all things ugly. Look at yourself in the mirror. Smile. That is beautiful. Your smile is beautiful. Don't cry your face into gloom. Treat other humans well. That is real beauty. Inner beauty, and that is all that matters. Body size is just that. Size.

The fellow women writing all these things to put you down have esteem issues. True story. And when you see such a post in social media, comment with your photo. That's the best revenge. Show them you are everything they are not.

Don't force yourself to be them. YOU are beautiful, let them also try to be YOU for a change.
When you force yourself to be thin and it's not your body, it makes you look bad! You grow bags under your eyes, your neck looks funny, your breasts become oversize and overweight because they don't slim with you, and soon, you bend over permanently. Can't you see that? Don't force yourself. You were created wonderfully and amazingly beautiful, don't struggle to fit into someone else's body. Don't fight to become someone else! The master had a plan for you.

I didn't say the slim women are sick. Okay, just a few. What I mean is, be yourself. You have your body for a reason, and whether you are plus size or minus size, it is your body. Keep it fit. Maintain it. Don't distort it in any way. Dress it well, flaunt all you can. You are beautiful. They are not. Appreciate yourself, and others. Don't tell others off because you don't have their type of body. Shut up- unless you created them.

I am also not saying you get obese! God forbid. Just make sure you keep your BMI on point. Be healthy.

Norah: My Flame!

We all have those contacts in the phone that are just that-contacts! Numbers and emails we have no idea where they came from. Or, is it only me? I have accumulated so many over the years, considering I have never lost my contacts since I got my line in Form 2. Some have just come, somehow. Mostly in the era of 2Go. (Let's not go there) :)

So, the other day, I discovered a name that has been lying in my phone book, long dormant and sleepy. Norah. This is Whatsapp, you can text for free, so I say "hi". We start small talk-she has so many similarities, I think she is either a long lost sibling, or she is my soulmate. Same college courses, same tastes, same lifestyles, same county (it matters). The chemistry is tight. From her Whatsapp profile picture, she is cute. I think she is heaven sent. 

She reads my blog! And she wishes she can write, too. 

"Why not? Go on, write"
"But where"
"I can help you set up a blog"
"I will just write for you" 

She was in love with the  "Looking for a Wife" and "I will be the perfect Husband" posts. So, she wanted to be my wife! Teren teren. Her response was in a record few minutes! Read on:

I am waiting for my flame. I am not looking for him, it is his job to look for me. And if he is my perfect match, he will recognize himself in me. When he finds me, he will feel it, he will be drawn to me, in a way he can not explain. It will be mystical, perfect and we will fulfill the purpose of our union. Together.

As I wait, it is my duty to mold myself to perfection. To reach my highest self. I want to be perfect for him too. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. Mentally. It is simple, we attract what we are. That's the law of attraction.

I want to give my best to my flame. For him, it will be worth the search. For me, it will be worth the wait.

I want my beauty to run more than skin deep. I want my heart to be beautiful. I want it to love my flame, truly, madly, deeply. But before loving my flame so purely, I have to love myself first. To accept who i am and respect my inner self enough to be true to myself. Only then will i learn to love my flame in equal measure. I will cherish him, love his quirks, admire his strengths, i will love him so. As much as i love myself.

To love is to serve. I want to serve my flame. I want to cook for him. There is something intimate about cooking for your man. And serving him. Better yet, we can cook together. And enjoy every moment. I want to do his laundry. Clean our house. Make a beautiful home. I want our home to be our paradise.

Playful sex.
Relax, I got you. Source:

I love to play. And i want my flame to be my partner in crime. I want us to share hobbies. Laugh silly. Play games together. Have i mentioned sex? Hmm. Playful sex too. I want us to tease. A lot. Try new things. Be wild. Fulfill our fantasies. I want to be totally open with him, because he loves every part of me. Without judging.

Not everyday will be a good one, without sadness, there would be no happiness. I want my flame to be my shoulder to cry on. I want our relationship to be our safe haven. Be our source of comfort.

My partner will trust me enough to let me be his helper. Make me his partner. I would love it if we made decisions together. Run our finances together. Invest together. I want us to be a team. A strong one at that.

Finally, my flame will understand that if God does not build a home, those who build it do so in vain. He will let God be the centre of our relationship. We will pray together, for ourselves, and our family. He will understand that a family that prays together, stays together.

So here i am, waiting for my flame. When i see him, i will recognize him. My handsome prince charming. I will admire his masculinity. He will cherish my femininity. He will love me, like Christ loves the church. And I will respect him so much, I will submit to his authority. I will let him lead me. And i will follow him, gladly. When he finds him, I will definitely marry him.

With all my love.

Isn't she just perfect? She is waiting for her flame. Will you be her flame, or should I just be? I am sliding into the friend zone quite fast-even before I meet her. 

Yesterday was her birthday. Happy Birthday, Norah!

Catch up with her on: Facebook 

To My Teachers and all Teachers: I Love You!

The teachers' strike is over! Or what did the government say? Are they being paid, or what happened? I haven't been watching news recently- maybe I hate the monotony on Social Media and Real Media on the same issues all day,all week, or my tolerance for politics ( which dominate news) is hapa kwa throat.

Back to teachers. I am who I am largely because of my teachers. I am even writing this blog, in part, because I don't want to let my teachers down. They all thought I was going to be a journalist, or editor of some sort, because, English and Swahili were my bread and butter. Oddly, all teachers, both in Primary school and High school; even teachers who never taught me but knew me... They all advised me to be a journalist. I feel like I let them down. Or maybe I should write a newspaper article and send copies to all my teachers.

Somebody hook me up with a newspaper!

I joined nursery school, or preschool to you, at three years old. I think my mother was busy and she wanted me to spend my days in school. Who else went to school that early back then? And so, my second mum became Teacher Seberina. She would take me to the ruhusa( that's short call to the uninitiated),  she would feed me and do all the things mums do. And because my parents used to teach me how to write the alphabet, my name and their names(first child syndrome), I was very bored in class, I knew most of the things Seberina taught us. Our Class 1 entry test was "Write your name" I wrote mine and Teacher Seberina promoted me to Class One. But the hunger I felt that day! Nursery pupils would go home at around 12:00 noon and Class One pupils would go at 1:00 pm. I simply couldn't handle the, the following day I went back to Nursery and told Seberina my mother had told me to go back. I never told my parents- they knew after a few months - Parents, check your kid's books every evening! If you know Seberina, and where I can find her, please tell me.
When my decided time for Class One came, I went in and met Teacher Mutunga. Now, Mr. Mutunga was feared by pupils in Upper Primary. But to us in his Class, he was every so gentle. He rarely canes us, and was just too patient. In first term, I got paracent(100%) in all subjects except Kimeru, where I got 36%. So I had 736/800 points, I was at number 16 out of 81 pupils. It was a huge class of clever pupils managed by one teacher. Mr. Mutunga called my grandfather to school (I will tell you about my father one of these days) , and told him to buy me a Kimeru textbook, and he would be amazed at watt I could do. I got a Kimeru book, and needless to say, the following term I shot to number 1. My grandfather still talks about this one incident. Long live Mr. Mutunga.

By class two, I was a philanthropist. My teacher was Mrs. Maore. She, like Mr. Mutunga, had two sides. The gentle one, and the tough one. She taught us the National Anthem in both languages, the Loyalty Pledge, and the Lord's prayer. I think that was her mandate. We were the only class in that whole school that knew the Loyalty Pledge. One day, I did homework for my best friend, Barnabas, and Mrs. Maore knew from the handwriting. So, she sent me to the staff room to get a cane. The only cane in the freaking staff room was this loong bamboo stick! The teacher who handed it to me just told me 'Good luck to whoever is going to be punished with this'. To cut a long story short, I have never helped anyone else do their work since then. :)

Class 3 was also a big big class. We were 73, in one class. So big it was divided into two classes, but in one class room. Two rows were a separate class from the other, with a separate class teacher. Miss Susan and Mr. Kathukumi. They split the subjects, but marking would be done separately. They would sit with us in class, each on their side of the class. And they somehow managed us. I was position 3 in all three terms.

Upper Primary: Coming back after lunch!

Now, Class 4 was different business altogether. Upper Primary. On a separate block and "coming back after lunch". Discipline was paramount and you were now a responsible youth. Our big Class three was cut down to only around 40 pupils. Some were 'asked' to remain in class 3 and others just dropped out. Others went off to boarding school. Mr. Kathukumi went with us as the class teacher-all the way to Class 8, but now we had to live with many teachers. Different subjects. Life was tough.

Mr. Kungutia taught us Home Science and Mathematics. This was another crazy teacher who I hated with passion in school...and loved outside school because he would always come by our home to chat with Grandpa, and buy Mr maandazi. I meet him every time I go home, to date. And he has maintained if he didn't beat me as he did, I wouldn't turn out how I did. But he says he wished I was bigger- I was so small, "nilikuwa nakosa nitakuchapa wapi". He became my best friend when he was transferred.

Mr. Mbogori taught us Music and Mathematics at some point. He would give you one stroke of the cane for every sum you got wrong. And since I was one of the poorest in Maths, I was an enemy. I was guaranteed to receive canes. One day, he came to Music class and said "There are two clefs in music. The G-Clef and ....... ". Being a mjuaji, I raised my hand and said "Bus Clef".
Stupid! Which bus are you talking about, Kensilver, Stagecoach, or Kamawe Bus? It is Bass Clef.. pronounced, Biis". I was the happiest when Music was scrapped and he became our English teacher. He became my best friend henceforth. Last we met, he introduced me to his teacher friends as ".....he used to write compositions better than most novelists....

Female teachers are so much like mothers. Smiling with you one minute and beating the bejesus out of you the next. Take, for instance, Mrs. Mutua. She was a very good friend of our family, and her daughters, Dorothy and Bessy, were and are some of my best homies. We loved her in church and the community (still do), but when she was on duty at school, woe unto you if you came to school late. She used to cane our bare feet-in that cold. One day, it was raining and I refused. We had running battles all day with her, and I presented myself to her in the evening when she threatened to report to my father. Mrs. Kamau, too. She taught us CRE and was very motherly, always counselling and advising our adolescent heads. Until she caught you getting naughty. She would cane you while advising you. "I-am-doing-this-to help-you. You-Frankline-will-remember-me-in-future!" How many hyphens did I use? Those are strokes of the cane. 

Did I tell you I loved and thrived in languages? My favourite teachers, obviously, were my English and Kiswahili teachers. Mr. Marete and Mr. Ngeera. I would entertain them using my English Compositions and Inshas and they would repay me with specialized care. They would give me books-novels and riwayas- and compositions from other schools. Where I lost points in Maths, I made up in languages. We talk with Mr. Ngeera all the time on Facebook, and I still exchange novels with Mr. Marete whenever I go home for holidays. Sorry, I never made it to a journalism class.


There is a time our school had a different head teacher every term. I don't remember most, but it was a very unstable phase-when I was younger. The school performed very poorly-inevitably. This changed in my upper primary years. We had two headteachers:

Mr. Meeme  did so well, all the sorrounding villages sent their sons and daughters to our school, and he was poached to head Maua Primary School-where he is to date, because-it is in town and, and, as the face of the division, we want Mr. Meeme to maintain it for the visitors. How crooked is that?  Now, Mr. Meeme was a no nonsense teacher. He also used to come home and talk for hours with my grandfather-an education pioneer in the region-but would not be smiling at us in school. He had what he knew as, "Twenty Strokes of the Cane" Twitch your Chill fingers...that's how he used to demonstrate it. He would have you hold the flag post during assembly and work on your small ass with his rapid fire cane.

After Mr. Meeme came Mr. Mutua, commonly known as by his first name, Richard. Now, Richard was a nice man with lots of stories. He taught us Mathematics in Class 8, and oddly, I have never hated him like I hated all my Maths teachers. He had stories. And he was the sponsoring church chairman. And he was very caring. I was crazy enough to sleep away from home on the second day of KCPE, and I came in late-who does that?- Poor Richard! I met with him at the school gate coming home to see why I wasn't there yet. He hurriedly took me to the class, where the papers had already been handed out. He is so caring, still. We talk from time to time, and the other day, when the rogue NGO was hiring, I was on top of his list. Since retired, he is now running a school of his own and is quite successful at it.

Unbroken records

Some of My classmates

We had good teachers. Teachers who had taught our parents before us, there was stability in Gitura Primary School. They produced the best class ever in the school-us, and most of them were promoted and transferred to other schools right after we left in recognition for their good work. And the school has never been the same again. It pains me that the record I set- I came in the first position-has never been beaten, so many years later. Neither for Boniface, who came second, and Lenana, who came third. The school has never beaten our mean score, and the way things are, we will hold the record for some time. I wish I could save it. 

Sadly, the big class of 81 we had in Class One completed with just 23 pupils. Some repeated, some never completed. It is all good. Those that completed are doing well- we met the other day, at Eric's funeral. We are represented in  most professions, some of us are married, with kids and I am looking for a wife. ;)

I am glad the teachers' strike is over. But teachers deserve the highest salary affordable. It should be the best paid profession. I am here, writing this blog, because my teachers taught me. You are reading this blog, because a teacher taught you how to write. LET US PAY TEACHERS!

My Wife and I: I Will be a Perfect Husband

The other day, I I told you I am looking for a wife. I told you, candidly, what I am looking for in my wife. That turned out to be one of the most popular posts I have done so far. I received lots of comments, including people calling me up.  Friends wished me well in my search, my mboys blasted me, random people told me enough things to fill a book, and speaking of books, there are readers who think I should write a book. Would you buy a book of these random things I write about? Story for another day. Among the feedback I received, was scathing attacks from feminists. Women who believe the woman's position in the society is up there. 

I am feminist, too. I believe the woman is up there with the top man. I believe in the strength of a woman. I believe women can do anything that's doable, perfectly. I believe men and women have equal positions in the society and should have equal chances, from the secretary's desk, to the night guard to the CEO to the presidency. With no favours.

Now, extreme feminists think my article was way off hand, and that I was expecting too much from the modern woman, that I was looking for a house help(I read slave too).

Someone challenged me to state what the woman would be getting in return. So, today, I will tell you the man I want to be, the person I aspire to be.

I know the Njuri Ncheke will be disappointed, they will say I am failing the African man. My mboys will say nimekaliwa chapati. Neighbours will whisper and pinch at a distance. And we will give women stories to talk about during chamas. But I want happiness. I want paradise for a home:

I will be my wife's best friend. I will share everything with her. I will be honest with her. If she messes I will be there with her, for her. We will have fun, my wife and I. We will do all the stupid things friends do together. Go swinging, raving, I will even learn how to swim for my wife. Who else doesn't know how to swim without floaters, by the way?

I will support my wife in all she does as best as I can. If she wants to go to school, I will be down with it. She can study more than me. I would not mind to have a Prof. Mwenda (Mrs.) in my life. If it's business she needs to do, I will even take a loan to help her develop herself. If it's a career whe will want to nurture, I will support her. I will help take care of the kids as she pursues her dreams and try my best not to fall into the "are you sure you are coming from the office at this time of the night?"

See, trust will be the foundation of our marriage. I will love her so much she won't imagine I can see another woman. Cherish her so much my heart will be beating with hers. As I said, we will never let jealousy get in between us. I don't want my wife getting tempted by those overbleached women along River Road to buy mafuta to make me eat from the palms of her hands, like a zombie. Do those things work, by the way?
Responsible husband
Pic: HubPages

When I say my wife has to be able to cook, keep the house span, and do laundry, and all these household chores, I don't mean a "domesticated" woman, like one feminist accused me of. No. She is not an animal or something. I will cook for my wife, every Friday, Saturday and Sunday! I will watch those cooking shows with her and we will try the recipes together! Then Saturday mornings will be our cleaning day, together. I will wash the cars as she cleans the house. She will wash clothes and I will hang them for her. We will scrub the compound together. These are traditionally women chores, but I will help her. Just as she will hold the stool for me as I fix the lights in the ceiling.

I believe marriage is about being a team. Doing things together. If her boss harasses her unfairly, you visit her workplace and give him a few choice words,then you pack her stuff and go help her write a new CV. Or scrub her back every time she takes a bath. Or help her undo her hair (I miss bomoaing hair, by the way, I could get addicted, if only for the stories you tell while undoing hair). My wife will be my defender and I, the goalkeeper. She will provide assists, and I will score. We will be a team.

I was arguing with my partner in crime, Shiru, the other day, when I told her, nowadays I buy household stuff with the future in mind. I buy things to use in the long term, with my family. She told me, she agreed with her boyfriend that, when they get married, they will sell off everything and buy stuff stuff together. Furniture, electronics, kitchenware. Her argument? Equality in the house. So that neither of them feels like the majority shareholders, because they own more in the house. We argued and quarreled for most of an entire six hour flight, and agreed to disagree. But now, as I write this, I think she had a point. Because, I want my wife and I to own our marriage, 50-50.


I have been warned about the ways I handle my problems with people- instead of confrontation, I tend to walk away and keep quiet about issues. When I get married, I will build a boxing ring in the house. We will fight with my wife. The first few years will be for us to fight. We will face every problem head on. So that, by the time kids come along, we will be done fighting. From experience, I would not want our kids to get us quarreling. We will try to know each other completely before they come along.

A woman need to feel safe and secured with her man. She needs to feel that when he is with her no one can harm her. I am not a muscle man, and I don't intend to be a body builder but I will keep my wife safe. And when we walk around, I will be this mean looking macho man. I think other men should not make passes at my wife when we walk around the street, it would make her feel unprotected, unsafe. I will be better than that. If bullets fly around, I will stand in front of her, and shield her from the world.

And very importantly, we will a religious home. We will place our family in the hands of God. We will be built on the foundation of prayer and the Word of God. We will serve God in the church, and also outside, in Children's Homes, in hospitals, in the streets, in conservancies. Because the true religion I believe in, is about caring for God's people, and nature. 

I will keep dating my wife, forever. And, oh, remember what we said about sex?

Where is this wife?

I'll give you love
The things you want
I would do anything for you
I would do anything for you
I would do anything, girl, anything for you

Main Pic: My work colleague, and one of my best friends, Evelyne, and her family. Hubby Benah and daughter, my niece, Jaja(Wanja)

I am Looking for a Wife!

Gerry Photography

Have you slept hungry, not because you don't have food in the house, but because cooking sucks, especially when you know you will eat it alone? Have you then tried to sleep in a cold bed (in Limuru), alone, and still hungry? Have you woken up at 1:00 pm every Saturday, hyper hungry and stayed indoors till Sunday evening without speaking to anyone? Makes the mouth stink. Has Monday ever reached without you doing the laundry for the week because you had no one to wash for you, or at least motivate you?

Unkempt bed. Unmade shirt collar. Toothpaste smudge on your trousers. Books and newspapers all over the table. Unwashed dishes. Lost socks. Unholy weekends. Growling belly. Loneliness.
I need to get married. Now. Yesterday! I need a wife.

I recently posted a pic of my "engagement" on Instagram and Facebook. I captioned it with the sweet awww things we love hearing on wedding shows, and down there, gave a disclaimer, this was a joke, and I wasn't getting married to Keziah! It was a photography moment. Pictures being worth a thousand words, people only saw me kneeling, holding her finger ring, and Keziah doing her "Oh my God! Oh my God, YES!" That's all they saw. The comments were hilarious. People were actually happy I was getting married. So happy they couldn't read the entire post. I got prayers of blessings, offers for soup with my lady, congratulations to the beautiful couple(am I beautiful?) etc etc... And lots of disappointment from the ones that read the entire post. I got some curse words.It was a good laugh.

#WCW alert. There comes a time when a man has to go down on one knee and ask, "Will you marry me?" The lady, in turn, in...
Posted by Frank Kenyan on Wednesday, 19 August 2015
But then, after all these jokes, I am here thinking. Does the society actually want me to get married? Does it look that bad? Do I look that lonely, unkempt, in need for love? Or what were you all showing me?

I think you are right. I am now looking for a wife.

I want a beautiful wife. I want heads to turn when she gets into a room. I want men to oggle at her, and random women to stop and bow when she passes. Granted, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, and I have my definition of beauty-which make my ideal for wife and angel, by the way, but I wanted her to be beautiful from inside out.  I have dated hot girls who ended up to be quite ugly when we broke up. Personality plays into attractiveness big time. I am not interested in a socialite. I will be seeing them on my Facebook, but never waking up next to any.

I want a wife that can cook. Do you know how frustrating it is when one of my day scholars comes over and sits down the entire weekend for me to cook for her? Do you know how it lights my heart when a woman gets in the kitched and cooks for me and serves me? My heart softens into a sponge of love. Maybe that's why my mother is up there in my love rankings. That's the absolute window to my heart. Good food. Lots of food. Variety of food. My wife's target? To get me a prestigious tummy within three days after our wedding!

I want a wife who does laundry. There is nothing as sexy as a woman bent over, lesso around her waist, washing clothes and whistling. Now, that's a turn on. And because I don't want to break vows by being turned on by a mama fua, my wife has to do laundry. You don't want the housegirl washing our towel, do you? Or a random mama being paid to wash our bed sheets. It is not right! I wouldn't want our glory literally hung around other people. And it is disrespectful to the other woman!

My mother

I want a woman who understands, and accepts, that I will have one mother only, ever. I have heard of divorces, but I haven't heard of estrangement between sons and mothers. My wife has to love and get along with my mother. Granted, there are mother in laws who become hell, in movies, but I know my mother is the coolest woman around. She never fights. She has given me liberty to make my own decisions since I was a kid and she gets along with everybody. She would make tea for my girlfriends back in the days. And I know she will love my wife like she loves me. I therefore do not expect my wife not to have a mother-daughter relationship with my mother. I wouldn't want to be in the "choose between me and your mother" situation. I will choose my mother.

I want a wife who is as good in bed as she is in the tableroom and in the kitchen and the bathroom. By this, I don't entirely mean conjugally. (See what I did there?). I want a wife who keeps the bedroom homely, the table room exquisite and the kitchen hygienic. In a nutshell, cleanliness is key. I know I am careless and all, and I will leave a cup wherever I finish my tea, even on the floor...and this is one of the reasons I am looking for a wife- to manage my cleanliness. To remind me to pick up the sock from the door. To convert my bathroom into a place of peace from the kanju toilet it is now.

I want a geek wife. 
Source: IndiaPictures
I am looking for a geek wife. A wife that will play PlayStation with me, a wife that knows a thing or two about computers, a wife I can call from overseas to send me a file in my Linux without having to send an IT fisi to my house.  I want a wife who loves gadgets like I do. Only she will understand that I am not wasting money when I buy a game, or the newest iPod. She doesn't have to be a glasses-wearing-creepy Big Bang theory nerd. Just the basics.

A Manager for my Money

I want a wife that actually goes out and earns a salary. I don't want my wife to be a housewife. I want her to afford her own hair and basic things in the house. She doesn't have to ask me for salt. I heard in some quarters that Meru men leave Sh. 200 every morning for food in the house, and come late at night with bread. My wife will be worth much more than 200 bob. She will be worth a round salary. She can earn more than me, or very little, isorait, but I want an independent wife. African chauvinists reading this will disagree.

Speaking of salary, I want a wife who can manage my money. If I will still be employed, she should be in charge of my payslip. If I will be in business, she should handle my balance sheet. I am not saying she will, but I want us to be an open family. No secrets. It is our money, right? I wouldn't want mismanagement in any quarters.

Sex isn't everything in a relationship, but it is very important. People get married for sex, by the way. Kids? Sex. Glowy days? Sex. My wife and I will make magic. That's all for now.

No excuses for what I have in mind
Pic: AngeliaAngel
Finally, forget what they say about love. I want my wife to love me just enough to be loyal to me, not to be obsessed with me. Research shows that, 67% of suicide occurs due to love related reasons. I don't want my wife to love me too much. She should leave some love for our kids, our parents, and most importantly, for herself. I want 50% + 1 of her love. Not 100%. 

I don't want an extremely jealous wife. My wife has to understand that I have very close girl friends, and when, say, Winnie or Annred buzz me for some jiggle, she should treat them like my mboys, because that's who they are. And, that doesn't mean she shouldn't be protective of me. She should show me I am important. And yes, I won't mind much when she goes out with her girlfriends, but once in a while.

I will be very faithful to my wife. Loyal. She will be my queen, literally. I'll rather steal than let her sleep hungry. I will mind her and give her many, many children. We will fill the earth, me and my wife. We will be wealthy, and we will be a reference to the society. They will all want to be "like the Mwenda's" Say Amen.

Are you there?

Main Pic: My man, Gerrishon and his wife, Polline. That's where I bounce when hunger strikes at night. If I were to have a personal photographer, it would be him. Check out his works.