I had another weird day

So you are forced into this awkward unexpected hug when all you did was stretch out your hand. Then to make matters worse, the person wants to hug you on the other side too. And when you pull yourself away as quickly as possible, you find the said person is still holding onto you, and does he want to lean down and kiss you? Arrgh, you put much more effort in pulling yourself away and say your goodbyes.

It happened to me.

Remember the Patron of our church story? Well, let me refresh your memories. He called me requesting for a meeting, asking me to go to his house and talk. I didn’t know who he was then, so I was asking him what his intentions were. How did he get my number? When I eventually agreed to talk to him, he never got to the point. He just talked on and on about everything in general and nothing in specific. We talked about our families, the church, the student body, politics, university issues, education, discipline issues, the weather, counties. Rather, he talked I drank cold uji. Then his wife invited me for supper, which I’ve never made an appearance.

Anyway, in short he was asking me why I haven’t been active in church of late etc and made me promise to be going every Saturday. That was like almost two months ago.

I did go back to church. Once. The first time this year. Then I sort of went MIA. I lost my phone soon after and it took me a while to replace my Safaricom SIM card so if he was following up on me, I wouldn’t know. When I finally replaced my SIM, he was one of the first people to call me on it.

Recently, we had a finalist dinner with the VC (on the 19th of November) and he called me then requesting another meeting. I agreed to meet him after the dinner, but afterwards, I just wanted to hang out with my pals so I cancelled the meeting. The following week, we went for our annual (unacademic) class trip to coast so I told him I’d meet him when we got back. Eventually, we did meet on this past Tuesday night, around 7pm.

This is an exam week and I have a paper tomorrow (Friday 3rd December) so I told him we couldn’t talk for long. We sat by some bench at the graduation square and watched students walk to and from the library. He asked the general usual stuff: how have you been? Any problems? How are your studies going? Do you think you’ll get a first class? How was coast? Did you enjoy yourself? (I digress here to tell you I utterly enjoyed myself. That blogpost is coming up soon. Again, something very exciting about playing with fire. When I was down in coast. That’s a story for another day though.)

As usual, there was no point to this talk. He asked me why I don’t go to church anymore, and I told him it’s a faith thing. It’s not just our denomination, as he was thinking I’d moved to a modern flashy church or something. It’s the whole Christianity thing. He asked me if it had anything to do with a relationship. Excuse me, relationship? Yeah, he said he’d heard of students who break up with their sweethearts and then leave church because of that. I laughed and said I’ve never actually been in a relationship in JKUAT. He said that’s good news.

So I told him am making a clean start next year, I’ll be attending church as from 1st January of 2011. He said that’s good news. Etc etc.

So after talking for about an hour, it was now a few minutes past 8pm, it was time to part. He was going in one direction, and I in the opposite direction, but he asked me to ‘stretch my legs’ a little in the direction he was going. I saw no harm in that and walked with him towards the university hospital road, and there were many people walking around. When we reached the hospital, I told him I can’t go any further, I had a lot of studying to do. He said alright, be a good a girl. You’re very special and very bright and you’ll go far if you keep up and if you get a first class you should come back to the university and teach so you can be sent to German/London for Masters. I wish you knew how special you are. Etc etc.

Then I stretched out my hand to say goodbye and instead got the surprise hug. I was so stiff, and wondering what the hell is happening when he hugged me the other side too. So as I started to pull away, there he was holding my waist and refusing to let go.

I’ve never been so disappointed.

Not that older married men have never approached me, but they are always direct in their intentions and they are not the PATRON of our church. They don’t pretend to be interested in saving your soul or concern for your well being. I just don’t like pretenders, especially in the name of the church or something. And one thing about these ‘direct approachers’, they never force physical contact.

Earlier, we had agreed I’d go to his house for supper on Wednesday 1st, because I had made a promise to the wife.

After that awkward goodbye on Tuesday night, he hasn’t called me again.


The Highs and Lows of My Life in Campus

The highs:

First day in campus- definitely a life changing moment. I was so excited to be joining campus, though the queues to register and what not were the longest I’d ever seen. Campus meant new relationships, another chance to shine academically, the pursuit of computer studies, fashion etc. campus was everything.

Numerous crushes. I think I lead the list of the highest number of boys I have crushed on. And when they responded I was the happiest. At least for the week or two that it lasted.

Babaroa announcement in 2008. Babaroa is the award for being top of the class for your course. What do you know, working hard actually pays off. I was a diligent student in the first year and was rewarded with a trophy, certificate and 10K in cash. I bought a phone, Nokla 95, which was stolen from my room about a year later. Sadly, Babaroa has eluded me in subsequent years. Blame it on my competitive class.

Nokla N95

Writing/blogging contract- this came in June 2009. I signed a contract that would pay me about 10K thereof per month, and they used to delay payment, so after three or so months, you got yourself a nice fat cheque. For a student, 30k or more of your own cash, awesome. Sadly, it was not renewed come June this year.

Hanging out with my friends. One night in particular stands out, sometime when we were in third year. It’s my first ever twitpic.

My crew

The class trip to coast in third year. Our trips are purely un-academic.

Traveling to Uganda in September this year. I just packed my bags, called my ex-high schoolmate over there and off I went. I used my own hard-earned cash 🙂

Internal attachment (internship in campus) at the beginning of 2009. It was the most idle time of my life. I watched so many movies and series.

The day I bought Z (sometime in 2009). Z is my laptop.


The day my blog got a mention in Zuqka.

Getting a place for internship at the beginning of this year was not hard. In fact, I had two offers and I chose the better one. Turns out everyone else who was interning there knew somebody, but my papers spoke for me.

And now I have two job offers out of .ke, of course am yet to do even do my exams, let alone graduate. Decisions, decisions, don’t know which job to take. Hope I make the right choice.

The lows:

Having this fight in third year. I still bear the scars 😦

Soon after, somebody stole my Nokla and wallet. They didn’t just take the cash, they took the wallet and all my IDs, school, national, ATM card etc. I had to struggle to replace them. And I know it’s those chicks in the next room who took my stuff. Am watching you, if you’re reading this.

Every year, whenever the Babaroa list is out, and everyone is making comments like “Savvy, am sure you’re getting it again” and I just wish I’d never got it in the first place so guys don’t have to remind me every time of my earlier successful days 🙂

I’ve ever had a bad experience with Naps. First and last time to take it. Enough said.

Had a disastrous last day at work during my internship (Jan-April 2010). Almost got in the middle of some office politics, ended up not going home that night and got lectured the following day by my dad. He said stuff like, “if you want to get married, just tell us. You’re an adult now.” I’d never felt more of a kid.

Also during internship, I met a tweep who borrowed me my savings, to invest or so, I was stupid and all yeah. Anyway, it was hell getting it back but after a long struggle bravely borne, he finally MPESAd me the cash and I erased him from my phonebook. So long, sucker.

During internship yet again, I went to Naivasha for a weekend, and on my way back, my wallet was nicked by a pickpocket. I had to start replacing IDs and ATM cards all over again.

Last month, I’d just had a new Nokia C3 for about six days when yet again I was pick pocketed.

And so many more, the good and the bad, these are just but a few highlights of my adventurous life in JKUAT.

Where is that campus-to-do list again?

It’s time I updated you on my progress. I still have around one and half months more of campus, so if there is anything left, there may still be time. Let’s see what I’ve done of recent.

I got a tattoo

I tore down papers from the notice board and climbed the water tank at Studiz. I wasn’t drunk when I was doing this, au contraire mon ami. I had just had a few shots of vodka and smoked some tobacco and something else. Just a little. So I did both of these on the same night. I was with my friends when we relieved the notice board of its burden, just for once we wanted to be young again. To do something silly because we can.

Now as for climbing the (I think 30m high) tank, the only thought in my mind as I gripped the ladder was, I hope to God I don’t slip and fall. So I climbed ever so slowly and ever so carefully, and when I got to the top, the view was well worth it. It was at night, and you could see for miles on all round.

The campus was looking beautifully lit during the night, and I shouted to one of my friends who was waiting for me at the bottom: “It’s breathtaking. It’s so beautiful up here.” And so encouraged, he joined me up at the base of the tank and it was a beautiful moment, and for a time, we were flying, we were superheroes with the wind beneath our wings.

Ever so carefully, we made our way down and I ticked one more thing off my list. However, there were no pictures because my phone couldn’t take photos at night, and some moments just can’t be captured on camera, you know? If you have a fear of heights though, this may not have been your cuppatea.

Towards the end of the month, (24th of November to be precise) we are going to coast for a final class trip. It’s going to be so much fun, because we are almost under pressure. We have so much to do: a very demanding project and the usual course work of 7 other units, so this break will be good for us. It’s supposed to be an educational trip, but it’s going to be beach time during the day and club time at night. Will keep you updated.

The Nokia C3: My Review

My heart is breaking because I lost the Nokia C3 I had had for barely a week. How it got lost is a story for another day.

Have you ever been in love with a phone? I thought I loved my Nokia 2700 Classic when I bought it with my own savings in December last year. It was my Christmas present. It’s a sleek, chic phone with a decent 2.0 megapixel camera, ability to support java applications, edge connection etc. however, this post is not about the 2700 which served me well for almost a year. This post is about the Nokia C3 which I’m now in love with.

The Nokia 2700 classic

Here is why I love the C3 (am comparing it to my Nokia 2700, it’s only natural).

Reason One: QWERTY keypad
I knew my next phone after the 2700 would have a QWERTY keypad. See, when you tweet a lot like I do, or when you read a lot of emails on your phone, you need to be able to type a fast response and trust me, even with the T9 prediction on, a non-qwerty keypad limits your speed. So I had in mind an E-series phone, but those are expensive. The cheapest is the E63, which goes for at least Kshs. 16, 000.

The Nokia C3

The C3 goes for Kshs. 10, 000 and that’s pretty affordable. In fact, when Nokia first launched it, it was on offer for 5K! Please Nokia, have an X-mas offer so I can buy the C3?

Reason Two: The Camera

While it’s still 2Megapixel just like my ex, its picture resolution can be as high as 1280 by 800, while the 2700 had a high resolution of 800 by 600. Coz of this, pictures appear smoother and of higher quality, so when viewed on a computer screen or any smaller screen, they look better that those of the 2700.

There’s a new snaptu version (snaptu is a mobile app for facebook, twitter, news channels etc.) available from http://m.snaptu.com/alpha which allows you to twitpic (post pictures on twitter) directly from your camera. This came in very handy, as previously I had to take the picture, save and upload it later with another application or via the computer. By then, it may have been overcome by events and lost its relevance, or I’d have forgotten the witty caption I had in mind. Am sure this snaptu could still work with the 2700 and other non-vga cameras but tweeting had become a blissful experience with the qwerty C3 and new snaptu. Deadly combination.

Reason Three: Limited multi-tasking

I need to warn you guys; the C3 is not a smart phone. It’s way too cheap for a smart phone really. So it does not support multi-tasking in the real sense of the word. If you were surfing on opera mini, snaptu or any other app, and you want to minimize it to make/receive a call/text, you can’t. You have to close that app first.

However, if you are using the phone browser, and you go to the menu, you can make a call/text and pretty much access the main menu. So there is limited support for multi-tasking, albeit with the phone browser. If let’s say you were using snaptu and you click on a link that opens in the phone browser, voila, you can then make calls/texts from there. Hope you find this helpful.

Reason Four: @ application

Push email. Or its equivalent. There is an app labeled @ already installed for mail. All you have to do is sign in with your yahoo/gmail or whatever mail server you use, and every time a new mail arrives, you get an alert. That way, you don’t have to keep checking your mail manually like I used to do with the 2700 (polling vs interrupts, he he. It’s a computer joke. Or analogy, rather.)

Reason Five: Ovi Store

There is a direct link to the ovi store and I admit though I resisted the idea in the first place, this is where I was on another night shopping for apps for the phone. I got the opera mini 5.1 something (the latest latest) and was still browsing for free games/apps etc when I probably fell asleep. I think the Ovi store is a great idea from Nokia. Wonder why ovi though. It’s the plural of ovum. That’s why am wondering.

Reason Six: The whole shebang

The usual expected functionalities and ports. It has a slot for a micro-SD card (memory card), micro-USB? Slot. It’s the small sized port so I didn’t have to change data cable from the 2700. The small pin charger, and the standard earphone port so you can connect the phone to multimedia speakers and play your radio/music. There is the usual video/audio/notes/to-do list/ alarm clock/calendar/countdown timer/calculator/reminders/games/extras etc. they are all there and they look nice on the large screen. Which is reason 7.

Reason Seven

I know the 2700 was small and sleek, but the C3 is a lighter and more chic phone in comparison with the E63. It has a wide screen with high resolution which makes viewing of anything on it, be it text, images, video just awesome. It also looks really great and you look quite classy typing away on it, who knows it ain’t that smart? It looks smart.

Reason Eight

Texting. Remember when you have been text chatting with someone the whole night and you want to go back and read the messages? You have to change from inbox to outbox to inbox to outbox. However, the C3 automatically marks any reply as a chat. So when you go the chat folder, you can see the back and forth messages sort of like a wall to wall, know what I mean? And now that I had subscribed to the Masaa ya SMS from Safaricom, I was enjoying text chatting so much, I had almost forgotten to tweet.

Reason Nine: The Main Screen

It has three customizable ribbons (if I can call them that. Or bands. Or sections. Sort of like shortcuts.) the first short cut is to the phone book, and you can place your favourite/most called numbers on it with their pictures for faster dialing.

The second ribbon/section/band has communities: facebook and twitter. I did sign in and it was more like a bad browser for tweeting/surfing. I did not really like it that much. However, another tweep said if you quit the communities to call/text, when you go back, you find it in the same state you left it. Kind of like an earlier paradigm of multi-tasking where they freeze the apps you are using, save the state and when you go back to them, they resume. Did I lose anyone?

The third section is more like a go-to. It has shortcuts to camera, web etc and is customizable.

Reason Ten: You Tube

I could not play you-tube clips with my 2700 no matter how many apps I downloaded. Maybe I did not try harder. I think the C3 has support for you-tube and other videos from the net, e.g. like videos posted on facebook. However, I never got the chance to try this out. Phone got lost before I could. 😦

11. Wi-Fi

I had forgotten about this one! But thanks to kirima (see comments below) who reminded me. The C3 has support for wi-fi so whenever you are in Java or any places with free wi-fi, you can browse worry free.

I only had the phone for barely a week, six days to be precise, and am sure I’d have discovered more gems with time. Sadly, it was not to be. Hope I have given you enough reason to go out and buy (me) a Nokia C3.

Why Kenyan Women Went to KICC

Crashing the High Metal Fence of A Fungible Reality

by Eric Ng’eno on Wednesday, 08 September 2010 at 11:17

One of the best people I have had the good fortune of counting as a friend is a woman. A woman in full. And she has been my friend since fresher year, back in the day. Intelligent. Sensitive. Strong. Feminine. And a stark raving mathematician.I suppose the latter attribute led me to be plentifully wary of her.By the way, under the constitution – yes, you idiot, there is no old and new when it comes to constitutions, because that would imply that you are governed under two sets of laws, which is impossible, meaning that you are generally an idiot, QED, thank you very much – you are obliged to report any mathematician you spot to the authorities ASAP, otherwise you become guilty of ‘harbouring a mathematician’. If you have ever scored 6% in Mathematics, in High school, and someone known to you scores the Full Red in the same paper, then you know that the law is excellent and all mathematicians ought to be computing their iterations inside Kamiti.

Anyway, this best friend was full of very unsettling insights. For example, she once made known to me that the term ‘out of body experience’ is a male construct, because for women, it is everyday life. In fact, so is ‘multiple personality’.We were discusssing designer wear, actually, and the fact that an utterly shapeless person will cram her entire self – body, mind and soul, i.e. the hips and butt – into an ill-fitting, expensive jeans that will not flatter her at all, and walk about in arrogant majesty, as though she has never seen herself before a mirror. This puzzled me, but did not puzzle her in the least. Why?

Apparently, a vast category of women make their choice of attire, accessories, make-up, name it, not based on their physique, complexion, personality and other personal attributes, but, rather, on the firm conviction that they are virtually the twin of whichever model advertised the product, and that once she is geared up in the item, the ineluctable result will be a gigantic chorus of oohs and aahs all round. This means that there are two women wearing the jeans. One is the one physically cramming her entire life into skin tight trousers and the other, the one who inspects the result and decides that there has never been a more perfect booty this side of creation.

A wise man is necessarily a democratic man. This means that he quietly succumbs to the will of the majority – the woman.The numbers do not matter one whit; the gender does. Each woman therefore constitutes an overwhelming majority, whereas all men combined cannot even raise a decent minority – look at the census results. So when several women, who clearly get the cue, see the quivering, semi-liquid mass of utter shapelessness trapped in denim and borne on heels, they recognise at once an insuperable ass, the one that Beyonce and J-Lo light candles for at St Paul’s. And they let this be known to the wearer of the jeans and bearer of the youghurt-in-12-micrometer-paperbag-butt:”Wow Georgie! you look fabulous!” Whereas we in the stark minority see an unprecedented disaster-on-two-feet. As a rule, all women get this. As a sub-rule, all men live in eternal perplexity and horror and ask, Why?

Because I am, naturally, ahead of the pack, I accept my mathematician’s verdict as read, and bow to democratic reality. You do know, of course, that all reality is democratic, right? That is why the man was beheaded despite the fact that the emperor was actually naked.If he wasn’t, he should be.

I was at the National Bureau of Statistics a few days past. I learnt many incredible things. However, the statistics on potential for unreality were really eye opening. Let us summarise it this way: more women are likely to wear ridiculous-but-fashionable outfits, affect an accent, date and marry a foreigner whose only going thing is his foreignness, and depart this country for the West for no particular reason. There are men who do that, naturally, but we can’t be hating on professional beach boys here in this new dispensation, can we?

The reason girls will do this without batting a fake eyelash is simple: the female reality is completely fungible. In their mind, the pre-Cambrian, huffy-puffy,limping, apoplectic, overweight octogenarian is a dead ringer for Mr Brad Pitt, Esq. The clearly illiterate, awkward, redneck truck driver wallowing in the grossest tattoos is, in reality none other than Master Theo Walcott in the flesh. And the fact that this nobleman of Europe and America has finally rewarded her over-made-up, slutty-dressed, blatantly whoring gyrations with a brandy, then Viagra-assisted, unremarkable sex, and has not yet sent her off with 50$ , is all the evidence, if any was required, that on her part, our girl is Halle Berry, Rihanna and so on. Hence the accent. Hence the fact that our girl is keeping poodles in a bedsit in Uthiru. Hence the frank, adoring gazes, holding of the pink, wrinkly hand, and PDA with the octogenarian.

Her lover

You think, because of you limited education, that the girl had big-time daddy issues and is compensating in Freudian form. Bure kabisa. You are the minority, the ones not yet admitted to the fungible reality of the elect, and, obviously, you can’t see that the Agweng-Octogenarian couple before you is actually Alejandro and Paloma moments before they go into the golden sunset.

Once in a while, the blinkers somehow fall off, and she calls me up for coffee and goes, “Gosh, Kip. He turns really pink when aroused, and his nakedness made me want to puke, so lights off for the Deed.” But that is only before Joe the Plumber arrives to sweep her off her fake leather boots. Before you know it, she has children with a Nigerian, Swede, Iranian and Frenchman, and all nationalities signatory to the Declaration of Human and Peoples’ Rights. So when the fathers’ visitation day comes, she is to be heard calling out,”Ricky, your dad’s here, Joanne, present, Gilbert, apologies, love, Ruth, present, Jack, absent.”

Anyway, this ability to substitute reality – replace a drab existence with a soap opera and reality television episode occupies girls throughout their 20s and most of their 30s. This explains the attire, the accent, the mannerisms and gestures, the cocktail sipping brokeasses dissing Kenyan men and gazing hungrily at a Hosni Mubarak look-alike on his fifth by-pass and third kidney transplant. It explains the bedsits in Gigiri, which have caused matatus to plague the leafy suburbs,and the bashes, gigs and do’s in places no one has ever heard of, but where all white-dating Kenyans are considered life members.

The ones who get the passport will be heard of, eight dead husbands later, in connection with some Pension fraud racket, facing 380 years in prison, or dead of an overdose, S&M strangulation or a simple knock in some dockside hovel in Belgium, or in a documentary, cleaning melons at an organic farm. Very few of them ever put their KCSE, BAs, etc to any good use apart from fellatio.

The ones who do not get the passport continue to litter the lobbies of the Stanley, InterCon, Tribe, Serena, swigging cointreau, doing the salsa like a dervish, singing the men-bashing girl-anthems on the Karaoke and looking wistfully at portraits of the Aga Khan, whom they confuse with George Clooney, and it does not matter one bit. Oh, and they continue to hate Kenyan men, who are neither romantic nor sensitive nor deep nor gallant, until, without a sound, they sneak off to become mistresses of politicians and unhygienic millionaires, bearing children named Mau and raising dairy cattle in Kiserian.

Others hold out longer until, one morning, they fill in 35 in the ‘age’ section of their income tax returns and then the penny drops. Reality shatters into a million shards to reveal a pot-bellied, jelly-assed, double-chinned harridan in designer jeans, dreadlocks, a slight bald patch, and a huge handbag – in other words, a Halle Berry still waiting for Denzel. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the girl who wanted to take down the fence at KICC, having fully convinced herself, in her wash-and-wear reality, that a Nigerian fraudster has crammed his suitcases chock-full with handsome husbands. She was resorting to her right to self-help, in order to rescue her David Beckham out of a Louis Vuitton travelling bag for her eternal delectation, amen. She was Being a Better Me,exercising The Seven Habits, finding who Moved Her Cheese and appealing to Her God and Her Man, and actualising all the toxic ‘motivational’ nonsense she has been reading on her way to work every morning of her life.

Yet the beauty of a fungible reality surely must lie in the vast array of possibilities in every combination, including overt acts of abject desperation before national television, right there in your capital city.

Harambee Stars Vs Ugandan Cranes

Do you remember this post? I had no choice but to be in church on Saturday morning. I prepared and was in church by 10 a.m., which was a little late because the lecture theater where the services where being held was full. You know how lecture theaters are? Entrance is at the front and if you have to make a quick exit, that’s the place to sit. I was hoping that my fashionably late entrance would be noted by whoever was watching and nobody would ask me later why I hadn’t been to church.

Lecture theater looks almost like this one

I sneaked out just before the main preaching started, because once the speaker of the day is given time, he takes as much time as he wants. He could preach for 3 hours if he wanted and that would mean missing the Harambee Stars match. I’d bet heavily on the game: I was going to change my twitter name from Savvy Kenya to Savvy Uganda, and possibly my nationality too if the stars lost to the Cranes.

Having left church around noon, and changed from my dress to jeans and carried a borrowed vuvuzela, I got into a matatu around 1p.m. to town. Now, my small brother who’s blowing the vuvuzela below was in possession of the tickets and had been at the stadium since noon. He was giving us (my other bro and I) one hour to get to the stadium or he’d sell our tickets. I kept telling him am almost in town even when I was stuck in traffic because the Chinese constructors (contractors?)had decided Saturday was the best time to divert traffic to roadside paths.

My small bro

By the time I finally got to the stadium, it was 3.30pm and my brothers were already inside. Somehow, we managed to communicate and they wrapped my ticket around a small flag they’d bought and threw it over the wall of the stadium. Of course, there were few spiderman wannabes who scaled the wall but since I had my ticket no need to resort to desperate measures. The queues were long and so winding, but hey, am a chick so I just smiled at some guy and he let me cut the queue. He later told me he’ll be my husband and I said yeah, we’ll get married for sure.

I finally got into the packed stadium. Somehow, I found my brothers and abandoned ‘my husband’ because chicks were getting preferential treatment getting in. You just stand next to a cop and he ushers you in.

The packed stadium

I don’t want to get into details of the match, I tweeted so much during the match keeping guys updated because the match wasn’t being shown live. Thanks to greed KFL/FKL/KFF or whatever the match organizers are called who were asking for so much money even the state corporation KBC could not afford it. Needless to say, Kenya’s Harambee Stars were dominant and we had very many scoring chances. The energy of the fans was awesome even if the Ugandan fans refused to participate in the Mexican wave. They did later though. And they were very many. They came in like 20 or so buses, I hear.



Ugandan Fans at the other end of the field in yellow


The match ended in a nil-nil draw which means Kenya is at the bottom of the group. The other countries include Uganda, which leads the group with 4 points, followed by Guinea Bissau which has 3 points, then Angola which has 3 points too but an inferior goal difference, and there we are at the bottom with 1 point.

I eagerly await the return match, which is sadly not until next year October (7th I think). I wonder if I can make it to Kampala, I don’t even know where I’ll be at that time.

Meanwhile, you can read about the other matches I have previously attended here (AFC Leopards vs Gor Mahia), here (Harambee Stars Vs Cameroon’s Indomitable Lions), here (A disappointed Harambee Stars fan), here (Kenya Vs Mozambique, a 2-1 victory) or here (Harambee Stars Vs Tunisia, a loss!).

P.S. Doing a post you may want to read tomorrow. Let’s meet right here.

Tales From Kampala – The Final Part

This post is continued from here Part II

Part III: Kampala Night Life As I Saw It

So I know most of my readers have been waiting for tales from Kampala’s clubs and am sorry to disappoint you, I didn’t club much. However, all is not lost. That Friday evening, we dressed up to go out. I’ve never been the type to take three hours of preparation just to go out; am more of clean pair of jeans, matching top and some cash. Anyway, that night I took about 2 hours: from matching nail polish to shaved eyebrows to dresses and high heels, I was finally ready to hit the town.

Garden City at Night

We took a boda boda (motorbike) to Garden City. Garden City is a mall. That boda boda ride turned out to be one of my highlights of the trip to Uganda. You haven’t been in Kampala if you’ve not taken a boda boda, helmet-less and in a short dress being blown by the wind (while M.T’s dress couldn’t even be blown by the wind, it was that short and she was that tall), negotiating potholes while you hold on for dear life, and when you finally join the main road, you cruise past cars, weaving dangerously in and out traffic, and being stalked by at least half a dozen other boda boda riders telling M.T she has nice thighs.

At some point, we jumped the red light and then had this black car following us; the boda boda guy slowed down while the car caught up with us, and they guys inside lowered their window and hooted at us and said something like “ You chicks are so hot, you’re going to blow up Kampala.” Okay, I just assume that is what they were saying in Luganda. Or something similar. Anyway, they had intentions and I don’t think they were good intentions and we told our boda boda guy to hurry up, we didn’t want to end up in a slaughterhouse with ritual marks on our bodies when we are finally found floating on River Nile.

Garden City at night

We finally made it to Garden City safely, paid our fare and headed to Allegators. It’s in every sense of the word, a gaming center. It had video games, pool, etc and a bowling alley.

Notice anything? Bowling? It was on my to-do list, remember? One more thing off my list, thanks to a Ugandan blogger (seriously, he’s good. Good in writing, I mean.). Read his sleek and wild blog here.

Bowling looks easy, but after 3 attempts of clean misses, I was almost giving up. I was pissed, I took the ball, tested it for weight, cursed it, removed my high heels, focused on those pins and sent the ball down the lane. I hit ¾ of those pins. I was so proud! M.T on the other hand, was having lots of success, finishing up the game in one throw.

a bowling alley

From Garden City, we were a crew of about six and some wanted to go home and others to go dancing. A compromise was struck; pass by the club for one more drink and then the supermarket for a mzinga (a 750ml of something strong- Ugandans also say mzinga, FYI ) and then go home. That’s how we stopped at Fat Boys and Just Kickin that’s next door. There was a mandatory security search, I was starting to complain when I was reminded of that World Cup bombing. M.T and I got some Redds in plastic cups from Just Kickin, got some chips and liver somewhere along the way too and with a mzinga safely in the car and diluting the Redds, we retired for the night.


Saturday morning was spent catching up on sleep and preparing for lunch; which we finally had at 3.00 p.m. I had planned on going sightseeing and swimming in the lake in the afternoon but it rained and I just wanted to stay in bed. M.T and I spent the time catching up; and reminiscing our high school mischief. We were classmates in high school, just in case I haven’t mentioned that before.

We may have had a house party invite that Saturday night, but then there was no electricity at our host’s house, so we just ended up passing by the supermarket and picking up a bottle of waragi (whose remaining contents I still have in my room as I type this) and having a quiet candle lit evening. Waragi is Uganda gin (chang’aa) and it’s pronounced waraji. I remember tweeting a little and fell asleep while tweeting. I was woken up at a quarter past six; I had to catch my bus back to Nairobi at 7 a.m. that Sunday morning.

-The End of Tales From Kampala-