Why I will go to church and sit through a full sermon without falling asleep

By Kimathi bin Mutegi

THAT which you just heard is called a burp, my friend! If you are from Germany, then may be you were told it is called a belch. It is the art of letting out gas, through the mouth, gas that is being displaced by solids.

In other words, it is a result of feeding well. Now, this is not something that I am accustomed to, feeding well, that is.  But for the past week, I have been dining like a king, thanks to my new girlfriend Flora. She is an angel, this girl and I am thanking the couple that gave birth to her.

There, I am belching again but I have to do it in a very low volume lest the madam of the house discovers that she has a guest under her bed.  I can see her feet shuffling around the room with the blue painted toes stretching up and down like some wriggly worms. The big toe is enormous, I am surprised. It seems like the creator stuck it there as an after thought because the space between it and the others is like a kilometre.

They do not look pretty, I conclude. Right now, my analysis of the toes has just been interrupted by a piece of clothing that just dropped on the feet.  It is yellow in colour and I think it looks very beautiful. The madam is changing, I deduce and I am a silent witness from under this bed of hers. I am wishing that I could see more, I am even starting to move towards the edge of the bed to take a peek but just stopped when I realised that it was actually not my head, the one with an actual brain, that was doing the thinking.

I am discovering that the gas I was belching hasn’t totally finished. I can feel it shifting in my tummy, and the route it is taking is clear. It is not moving towards the mouth.  The gas has discovered another exit and is headed towards the backdoor. To be honest, it feels good and I wait and listen as it pushes, tumbles and rumbles silently through the intestines.

This is going to be a good one. Finally, it is there.  I am wishing that I was back in my ‘cave’. Then, I would let it rip so loud that the mongrels scavenging on the heap of litter at the entrance to the shanty estate would run scampering in terror. If I was in the ‘cave’, I would let it loose so loud that tu mtu twa magazeti would be scrambling to reach the point of the ‘explosion’.

But I ain’t. So I let it out silently – and it is long. Gosh, that felt good, a bit disappointing though.  When you let go such an investment, you expect to, at least, feel some evidence of it in form of some smells. There isn’t. I am settling back to admiring the cobwebs hanging from under the big bed though when finally, it hits me, Drat! It is worse than tear gas.

I am very uncomfortably discovering that it is a thoroughly stupid idea to break wind while hiding in a confined space.   I am also remembering that because of the  nature of lavatories in my estate, emptying of bowels is a luxury that you exercise when you absolutely have to. For that matter, we detain the waste foods in our tummies for as long as four days, which turns them into a serious industry of some absolute stinkers.

Right now, I am gagging and I am guessing that because of the heavy concentration of the gaseous matter, it is why it took so long to travel. I can hear madam coughing too and she just lifted her shoe and sniffed it. She is sounding confused as she moves to open the window while under the bed, my eyes are on fire. This is a world class stinker, my friend.

It is even coloured, some dark blue, yellow and green, rasta colours of sort.  It was an error of judgement on my part, a serious miscalculation, but as long as I am not discovered, I will be fine. How I ended up under the bed? Well, you see, as it turned out, my new girlfriend Flora is a house-girl. So, when the employers leave for work in the morning, then I become the new owner.

They do not have any children, though I think madam is expecting one, and if she is not, then she definitely and badly needs to find a gym. Anyway, I have been visiting Flora each day at nine and as I pick the channel with the best Nigerian movie on the big TV, she would be frying eggs and making other beverages in the kitchen.

After a kingly breakfast, I usually follow her to madam’s room to assist in doing one thing or the other, like folding the clothes or spreading the bed and of course one thing usually leads to another and we will leave the room quite exhausted – and happy. Then we settle down to watch some witches doing their stuff on a West African movie after which another session of exhaustion and fun would follow by which time I would be famished. Luckily, Flora is a great chef and my tummy would be full and fuzzy in a jiffy, and in time for the afternoon movie session.

Today though, madam came back home unexpectedly. We heard the car on the driveway and from the confusion that arose, I found myself in the master bedroom, inside a clothes cabinet.  After a short commune with my senses, I decided that it was the most idiotic place to hide and I was right. Moments after I dove under the bed, madam came into the room and went straight to her clothes cabinet.

It was a close shave but right now, as I suffocate in my own gases, I am swearing that if I am not discovered, I will go to church and sit through a full sermon without falling asleep one bit. I am reckoning that I need to confirm whether miraa is a sin because I could actually use the twigs to manage that feat — of keeping awake during a church service.

I am doing a silent prayer and discovering that I actually have no idea how to pray. So I am going back to wondering how madam would react if she found me under her bed. From the pictures, she is the size of Mount Kenya and so I shiver…




How could my house-help lover ditch me for mechanic?

By Kimathi bin Mutegi

I am angry my friend. Drat! I could murder someone, if only the fear of some bully doing some nasty unnatural things to me wasn’t so overbearing. I feel cheated, betrayed and thoroughly wronged. I am mad and so I spit. Spit on Flora and spit on women for bringing so much misery to my life. Never have I known a female that hasn’t caused me so much heartache. Even my ma, God rest her soul. If she wasn’t so blind to dump my ugly father who later became a wealthy politician for the broke father of my step-siblings, I would probably be writing this on a ipad or an expensive computer somewhere in an air conditioned office on top of some Nairobi high-rise building.

I wouldn’t be struggling to race against time in this dingy cyber cafe that, according to my analysis, has deliberately faded the key board letters so that you have to mis-type each letter and take as long as possible on their confounded machines. In fact, I would be writing this thing complaining about the chain of models that is working extra time to trap me into even smiling at them. I would probably be updating my Facebook status on the cat fight that just concluded outside a five- star hotel as these five very hot chicks tore into one another up over me.

I would be seeking advice from fellows on how to handle a harem of beautiful stalkers who are going to great lengths to try and get me to further my genes. Gem of my heart I would probably be writing wondering how you disengage from a clingy daughter of a wealthy colleague of my wealthy dad. But what did Ma do? Yep, left the guy that had potential for giving me all that and instead hooked up with the village looker that had no clue when the sun rose and set.

I have to write this because I was rejected by the girl that I thought was destined just for me. And what’s more, she is not some lawyer, or journalist, or even a nurse. She is a house-girl, rejected by a maid. Gosh, a maid! How could my Flora, the gem of my heart, the sugar in my cane, the ‘f’ in my food do that to me? I feel like crying. Unfortunately, I come from that part of the mountain where crying is promptly banned once a boy hits three! The last time I cried, I must have been in Class Two and it didn’t end up well either. I approached Ma with a huge gash on my foot which had been occasioned by my underestimating the sharpness of barbed wire.

An attempt to squeeze my small body through left a tear that would have made a doctor faint, according to my estimation. I limped to my father’s girlfriend crying like the devil and promptly displayed the horrendous cut on my foot, expecting sympathies and being rushed to hospital. Ma stared at the cut lazily, assessed the bleeding and told me to shut up or she would fill my mouth with saw dust. You probably do not know Pa’s woman but I had learnt early to take her threats seriously.

So I shut up and as she filled the wound with a mixture of salt, ashes and soil to stem the bleeding, she kept on telling me to get used to a man’s life. “A man’s tears fall inside, that you have to remember. You cry but no one should ever see them.” She told me as she tore a piece of dirty clothing from an old shirt to bandage up my leg. “Besides, you will have to heal a bigger and more painful wound some day to become an adult, so get used to the pains…” I do not think I have cried again ever since.

Now, I am wishing I could remember how to because I think I could do with one heck of a massive flooding right now. I wish I never went to visit Flora yesterday. Or I wish I had notified her before I went. But then again, that would have spoiled the surprise. Again, how would I have known that she was double dealing me, with the mechanic from the garage across their apartment? When I sneaked into the house, a packet of cold maziwa lala freezing one of my hands and a lump of ugali brown burning blisters on the other, her favourite meals, I expected my Flora to go weak in the knees and wobble into my willing arms.

I was anticipating a lengthy session of thoroughly grown up niceties at the end of which I would have all the toxins flushed out of body. Imagine my shock when I opened the door to the sight of my woman on the lap of some strange fellow, complete with oily coveralls, dirty fingers lost under the hems of the girl’s blouse. When I threatened to throw the guy from the second floor, he in turn ordered me out of the house lest he opened up my gasket and gave me an oil leak that would have me misfiring for the rest of my life. Picture my frustration when the guy stood up and I discovered he was bigger than Githongo, that fellow of corruption and whistles.

Well, Flora has not been picking my phone since. I have sent her all the please-call-me’s and still she is ignoring me. Wait a minute, I think that’s her message, and by jingo it is. May be she is apologising and clarifying that this was all a huge misunderstanding. May be that was her doctor and she has a heart condition or he was checking for lumps like they do on those cancer videos. Should I forgive her, will I? Gosh, I am trembling and accepting her tearful apology at the same time as I open the message…’pls STOP callin me my huspat wil b angyl…’