The Unfinished Degree.

It Has Been Left For Nobody.

Ever wondered or thought how a parent can feel recieving news about the death of a son or a daughter completing the 8-4-4? Well if you haven’t, then think about it today. Life brings us many opportunities it’s by luck when one is born but as you step into the world you are guaranteed of death whether you like it or not. Most of us probably fear death cause it’s compared to an uninvited guest in many households- KU Dean school of education. Death knows no mercy and doesn’t really care about nothing.

A Saturday morning in the busy streets of one of the prestigious universities in Kenya. Reports reaching comrades that one of their colleagues has lost his life the previous night. Being a Friday night I believe many of us understand what such nights mean to the comrades. It’s a night to happen as they say, ni siku ya kujiachulia na kulenga stress and all that.

Marca is a fifth year student in the school of engineering. Such a prestigious course after medicine as perceived by many households. Bright future it seems until this Friday night when together with his fellas decided to go and have some fun as they usher in the weekend. “Msee we utalipa fare ya kuenda me ntalipa ya kurudi”- biggest scam than NYS and NCPB combined. So Marca together with his four friends board Neo Kenya headed for the capital. One of the clubs downtown along Moi Avenue is their preferred destination. Surprisingly they even have a chill spot. They happen to find a middle aged man enjoying his mug shot of Tusker…. Sisi ndio hukaa hapa mzae hebu inua joh. the old folk without complaining finds another chill spot and continues enjoying the serene environment accompanied with some good rhumba music. The language these guys speak is almost similar to Kiswahili but far away to the the northpole of English. It’s neither a pidgin nor a creole but something just in between.

This group appears to be rich and it’s popularity is well spread within the campus. It looks rich anyway. They start the party with some tequila shots. Marca is incharge of the shots. mnakuanga na lipa na mpesa hapa? I don’t have cash to settle this. Chapchap attendata anacome through na playbill number. Nigga realizes the bill is surpassing the depth of his pockets. Pale mshwari na tala ni machos tu. He’s already on CRB.

He takes a break- kiasi narudi wasee. He goes to a quiet place preferably to the washroom to do some fundraising. Mum aki leo nwlala njaa sina kakitu and it’s almost supper time. The humble caring loving mother as they usually are drops him 530 Bob. Na ya kutoa that is. He comes back and settles the bill as they wait for mizinga. Kuchafua tu as the saying goes comrades must enjoy.

They purchase some three 750 ml bitter liquor. Bitter than the local brew “chang’aa“. It should be noted that these three bottles combined are cheaper than the pair of shoes the oldy they chased away from the chill spot. The party goes on well at around 11 pm the mother calls to confirm if his son has taken supper. The phone goes unanswered. Si utamchapia uko library akipiga tena. After a few minutes the call comes through again. Without consent of kwangwaru hitting in the background yaani huyu boys anaamua kuwhisper “mum niko library” and hangs up almost immediately. It’s followed by a laughter and a weird question kwani msee lib yenyu sikuhizi mnaskiza kwangwaru? He realizes he didn’t go to the washroom as usual. They decide to switch off their phones and the party continues.

Sip after sip, it’s now two in the night they have to get back to their hostels. Lakini ile kulipuka wamelipuka it is only God that knows. The crew can’t afford a cab home so slowly they stagger to the nearest bus stop. Howling like people possessed by demons. The scam continues msee ako na cash alipe tutarudisha kesho morning. They board successfully and alight too well however two of them including Marca are dead asleep. Wasee amkeni tumefika joh. It’s a battle for crossing over the ever busy superhighway. Marca”mazee siwezi panda hio footbridge nyi pandeni I’ll take the shortcut na nifike before nyinyi. Drunk thoughts they laugh out and let him cross the road solo as they take the footbridge. The unexpected happens. A car at 120 km per hour probably being driven by a man rushing home to avoid questions Jana usiku ulilala wapi? Hits the guy. Life cut short, son lost, investment brought down to shambles, Degree unfinished, boyfriend, brother and best friend lost in less than a minute. A lifeless body collected and the four friends can’t believe it happened they even joke about it somehow. Come morning it’s when they are hit by the reality Marca is no more. As a routine of comrades the group icon is changed to honour the dead. Classmates even those who disliked him update statuses to let the world know they are mourning a comrade. Candles are lit to commemorate on the person you used to be. Everything good will be remembered at thIs point.

The most difficult part is calling the parents and letting them know that their son has passed on. They gather at the dean’s office probably consoling each other. The hugs of course. The parent however is told the son was involved in an accident and is in a critical condition. She has to rush to see the son and contact the relatives in Nairobi to confirm how the son is. It’s a sad day in the household the uninvited guest has arrived. News reach home that the son is no more.

Funeral arrangements are made as usual the comrades will have to bury one of their own. Branded t-shirts are availed at a cost bearing the photo and a few comforting words. The university offers a bus to convey the comrades to the burial. Deep in the village without electricity nor piped water. Along the way they start asking themselves questions about how the nigga looked sharp and smart from such a village. Maze huku ndio huyu msee alikua anatoka I can’t believe it. Some make jokes about it.

The learned friends alight heads raised straight. Swag check, selfie stick check, tinted goggles check. You look at them you’d think they’ve come for a birthday party or something related to that. The entire event they are seen giggling at some point, selfies are being taken like nothing else. Slayqueens are present the event might even be covered live on Instagram but the network 🙄. Hii net ya huku iko down. A photographer has been hired to capture every moment so as they get something to post online. Speeches are given the known ‘widow’ by the comrades is also given an opportunity to eulogize the potential husband. The mother is too weak to even say anything about the son. She says the last thing she heard from her son was that he was in the library. He had promised heaven to the family as soon as he graduated. The younger brother probably heading for highschool barely knows how to eulogize only thanks the mourners for coming. The father on the other hand is probably too drunk to eulogize his son. “My son was a very good boy. Na ametuwacha bila hata degree hata bila mbegu yoyote nyuma.” He believes that a son to be complete has to have atleast a kid accompanied by the degree.

The comrades take over the funeral like nobody’s business. They assign themselves roles including overthrowing the MC. From dust to dust as they always quote the holy book. The incomplete degree is lowered slowly as the church choir sing all the dirges. It’s not only sad but it’s remembered that the son was smart and the A grades parading on his transcript will be a waste. The school fees was a waste. Hope has been tarnished and the family has to wait for other 10 plus years to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Lumps of soil are thrown one after another. The local community looks at how the comrades carry themselves. This will remain the talk of the village for the next couple of weeks.

As the remains are being covered, watch out there’s always this guy called “I am here for you”. Very busy hugging and consoling the ‘widow’. It’s not just because of the death but he’s a potential candidate to inherit the one left behind. As the burial draws to a close a group of comrades is seen carrying twigs and heard wailing and making funny noises approaching the grave. However, they appear drunk but they are here to mourn the comrade anyway. They cover themselves in dust. This is the moment where photographers make alot of money. Shots are taken from every possible angle.

The degree is incomplete, the hopes are tarnished, a brother, a son, the future, the spotlight of probably the country if not the village has gone off at a young age. Nothing has been achieved. All lost. The replacement on the other hand has been found however, the family shall never find a replacement. Education as an investment has brought back a lifeless output.

Choices have consequences. However, fate can’t be evaded.


An Open Letter To The current SQ-“slayqueen” Generation.

“No one wakes up and finds herself a slay queen.”

There has risen a new kind of mischievous cheeky and nonsensical ladies confusing themselves with ladies of class and brains. They go around taking like every kind of drink that can get one drunk, smoking weed and shisha you’d think it’s a 1949 mahindra diesel truck stuck in mud at one of my village markets, applying heavy makeups like up to two kilos thinking that they look classy. Hang around rich men close to their grandfather’s age group. In reality this is a bunch of lazy chaps who wanna harvest quick cash but in real sense don’t even have the muscles leave alone the urge and the vigour to find their own cash. They have a tendency of borrowing their girlfriends clothes and go around bragging about how expensive they are yet they have either picked the mtumba from either Gikosh or Githu  at only ksh 30 to probably 50.

These crazy generation plastic ladies tend to move in small groups and putting on clothes as if there was no enough material to do the finishing touches on these clothes. Lips red you’d think they are from performing a cult of taking animal or human blood. Some with black lipstick you may confuse them with Lucifer whom you’ve never even seen.

Your mama never gave birth to a slay queen. The day you were born maybe if I’m not wrong that church “chama” from which your mama comes from was there thanking God for such a wonderful angel. Singing praise songs and praying to you not knowing that one day you’d be extorting money from their husbands.

No man will resist paying attention to your booty, no man will pretend that you aren’t “cool”.  No man will assume that theres nothing yet there’s a slayqueen in the room. You’re mere but attention seeker. The reality about that hoeish life of course it’s all about getting you in bed and feasting on you like a pride masquerading around a prey in the pack. After sex I’m assuring you my dear sister it’s all gone. There’s nothing like attachments with slayqueens. The SQs are nothing but mere cheap attention seekers who got nothing to brag about rather than the cheap thrills they are into.

No one in the world in his right senses will commit himself to a weed smoking girl, a girl who cares more about her looks than thinking about how to invest. No dude will do all that shit with you then takes your crazy as to his parents and introduce to them as a wife, you will smoke get high have sex for an unlimited number and he ends up marrying that lady you used to laugh at in campus saying she’s a village girl.

Life is more than just social media. Real people have no figure to impress but it’s seen through whatever one does. You will take that cheap alcohol get drunk, go around as a slayqueen claiming you are untouchable. Unfortunately, untouchable to who? The guy who bought you these locally brands of alcohol? Hell no! That’s where you go wrong. You have to give the value of this money. Who doesn’t want to see his or her money doing rounds, making profit and making him comfy? Everyone loves that. That dude will make sure you are made use of. Do all the crazy stuff he’s always thought about and wake up in the morning in a bed somewhere you’ve never been. Due to your hoeish behaviour you won’t even notice if you got banged or not. He won’t admit that he did it to you. Three weeks down the line you realize you aren’t the same, probably you arequire pregnant. That slaying queen has to take a bold step and have a pregnancy test.

After consulting the senior slay queen council our dumb SQ is advised to get rid of the kid. Listen now clearly you are not a slay queen anymore you are a mother to a dead innocent kid. Probably a future Mugabe, Museveni, Uhuru or maybe a slay queen like yourself. The termination is then “successful” and you get back to who you used to be. That lady who used to party all night and extort money from your desperate daddy’s age mates. Life goes on well your hoeish ways are back. Getting laid to you is something that can be done anytime as long as you have that opportunity. Time flies, days, weeks, months and you begin to fell like you aren’t yourself. Our slay queen is probably sick. Some little coughs, chills and sore throat but your pride of SlayQueens tells you that it’s normal and you take some few drugs you get fine.

You get back to the club again partying like you come from the middle East. Taking all brands of alcoholic drinks, weed, sheesha and all the hard drugs one can think about. This is the YOLO generation-You Only Live Once and that’d be the anthem. Smoking from the cheap shisha pots with funny flavours. Waking up in the morning smelling like you’ve been roasting mtura all night.

You are probably a finalist after all the years of slaying and sleeping around with anyone who gets along your way. It’s your graduation ceremony and your parents back at home get to organise for you a homecoming bash. Maybe the only person from that rural village who has gone past class eight. They turn up in large numbers “kumira kumira” as they say. The daughter of the land is a legend, is a star, is the new hope for not only the family but the entire village. After the ceremony everyone shall be picked with their families. The maasai will be there singing chanting and jumping up in jubilation collecting their daughter, the kalenjin, the Luhya the Agikuyu taking back knowledge to the society. You won’t probably even get a chance to take that slaying photo for the social media with close to ten hash tags. You are taken to the bus with a seat preserved for you. The “special one” not knowing what you have gone through and the unimaginable things you’ve been doing throughout campus. The fattest bull is slaughtered for you. People celebrate a new brain in the village.

Life goes on you miss your slay Queens but the only way to be close to them is photogrid. Not forgetting that in that village of yours the only person with electricity connection is your area MCA and a nearby local primary school.  The distance between you home and the market place would take you forever. You become a rare species on WhatsApp. People are worried and make jokes about you in their WhatsApp groups, that huyo hana bundles ama kwao hakuna stima- she doesn’t have data bundles or there’s no electricity in their home. Village dudes are all over your place hoping to land on you. The university material, thinking that you are good for the bed. The ego in u makes it even hard for you to leave that homestead. Our slay queen is just slaying on the mirror. No more tights, no more make up, no more raves, no more weed, no more cheap alcohol, no more shisha no more nothing even those selfies.

Months pass by you don’t get a job all you do is relaxing your lazy ass in that old man’s home. You are sick again and this time a little bit serious you are rushed to a local dispenser but then referred to nearby hospital. You get admitted for some days and then get discharged. Your health is slaying the queen in you. Your wings are getting clipped. Several weeks again you develop chest pains and  weight loss. You are again taken for medication but this time the news is broken. Our SQ is both HIV positive and has been diagnosed with cancer of the lungs. It’s not the end of life anyway but sooner or later someone is regretting. Your cancer treatment begins and all the little money your parents had is finished. The livestock in your home is sold, the pieces of land are sold and there’s nothing left but only prayers for you.

A pay bill emerges in those WhatsApp groups for well wishers to help raise funds for your medication. Several well wishers contribute towards your treatment. I’m assuring you I won’t contribute even a single penny for you. Those old men you were extorting money from wouldn’t even know where the hell you are. You manage to raise some funds but unluckily it’s not enough to cater for your treatment. There’s no hope left for the SQ. She’s on the verge of dying. Her fellow slay Queens don’t even manage for bus fare to come pay visit to one of theirs. The condition is getting worse for the SQ. The cancer is now slaying, the shisha is now slaying. The grave waiting to swallow the way you used to swallow the D in the washroom coriridors along koinange street and all the clubs you’ve been partying. Down in that sickbed all you see is the time you wasted while your mantra was YOLO. Life is short and you tool the shortest route possible to getting to your destination. The GPS routing to your grave has been set. Arrangements for your funeral are underway though you aren’t dead yet. The family has already given up on you. Think about your desperate mother, father and the siblings looking after you. A local pastor is called to come pray for you at least when you die God shall have mercy upon your soul. The morning before he comes, the slay queen is pronounced dead. The only thing left is to pray for your carcass. The remains are so helpless and that’s the end of  slaying.  It has ended you where you belong from ashes to ashes from dust to dust. The news is broken to your campus colleagues who some even me included would have probably forgotten about your existence. People will contribute funds for your send off. Print T-shirts and come for your burial in that village. You would be laying helpless  in that cheap casket and your girlfriends will put you on their WhatsApp statuses and profile pictures for some few days mourning your departure. Who cares now, someone behind the keyboard will sponsor the alcoholics with that cheap village liquor-chang’aa, which will turn them boys mad just from the first sip of the drink.  Disco matanga will be lit. People will dance and ensure that all the grass around your yard is dead flat. The boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen will be there to send you off. There’s no coming backmonths laying helpless and probably your soul watching people dance in your funeral. You are miserably buried, it’s such a shame because there is not even enough food for the comrades to eat. The man behind the keyboard again with the help of a certain friend sponsors for the meals and drinks.

#RIPSlayQueen is the new mantra, life has slayed you and clipped your wings terribly. Your miserable life ends six feet under our feet in again cheap casket which can be bought with 3 mzingas  of KC leave alone black label. I don’t know where you’ll end up but probably if there is hell say hello to Lucifer because heaven is not your portion. Life goes on when you are gone. You weren’t that important of course but anot attention seeker, a cheap whore and died a miserable death.

Life is precious to be the YOLO. Make decisions wisely they may end up ruining your life. Life is short don’t take the shortest route to your destination. The village will forget you, friends will forget you, enemies will celebrate your death but your family will have to put up with your grave in front of the door on a small piece of land you left them with. Your pictures and that degree is useless.

11.30 AM