You're still not sure about him, are you?

So you have the man, and it looks like he plans on sticking around for a minute, or two, but you're still not sure in what capacity he intends on doing so, right?  Men can be shifty like that, managing somehow to be both in and out of a relationship, at the same time.  You're probably sitting there wondering if the man is planning on giving you a key to his digs, or his ATM password, or if he's still wandering around out there looking for Ms Right, now that he's found Ms Right Now. You want to ask him, but you don’t want to scare him away with your neediness, right?  Right?  Don’t bother being shy, round here shy only earns you evil looks, and the odd nkt!  You don’t want to scare him away, God forbid you become like his ex who demanded a wedding ring after three weeks.

That's where I come in.  I'mma gon' tell you whatcha need to be doin'...  (Sorry, been watching stand up, now I'm speaking in ebonics every so often, sounding like Chenehneh and shit.)  Because I clearly know everything about relationships, I am now going to share with you the wisdom I have carefully distilled from years of being single.  If you do not see the irony in that statement, stop reading right now, you are way too serious.

The 2013 Kai Ni Kii? Guide To Finally Getting A Man (Funky Soundtrack Included).

BOOK 3: ARE YOU HIS BABY (read, baibee...), OR HIS BABY MAMA (current or future), OR HIS MAMA (as in woman, not mother, or perhaps both, depending)?

Thanks to the brilliance of Book 2, you now have a man who is feeling you, only now you want to know how much he's feeling you, because us women are never content unless we know exactly, and I do mean exactly, how the man feels.  Now you could make like an idiot (read, me) and ask him a bunch of questions he won't answer, or worse still, he answers with cruel honesty.  Alternatively, you could take the smarter route, and use my questionnaire.  Yes, I've created a questionnaire, and yes, you will thank me when you are done.  Or not, depending, but if you're unhappy just keep in mind that this brilliance is free (if you want quality advice you shouldn’t be looking for it on a bandia blog written by a crazy woman with no filter. Just saying...).


I said you wanna be startin' somethin'
You got to be startin' somethin'
It's too high to get over (yeah, yeah)
Too low to get under (yeah, yeah)
You're stuck in the middle (yeah, yeah)
And the pain is thunder (yeah, yeah)

1. Does he often call you after 9 pm?
a. yes
b. no
c. only when he's been drinking
d. he never calls me

2. Does he often call you baby?
a. yes
b. no
c. only when he's been drinking
d. he never calls me anything

3. Do you mind that he calls you baby?
a. no
b. yes
c. only when I'm sober
d. he never calls me anything

4. Do you still need me to tell you the obvious?
a. yes
b. no, dammit
c. what's obvious?
d. what are you trying to say?

Now if you answered a. to all, then you my dear are his baby.  Wake up and smell the coffee, he does NOT know your name.  You are that girl he calls when he needs whatever he needs, and odds are you are one of what I suspect are many.  'Baibee' is not a term of affection, its a random term used to refer to the girl whose name he can't be bothered to remember, sometimes interchanged with 'Mrembo', or 'Shoree'.  Please note that this rule does not apply to 'Babe' (as in, babe in the woods, another way of saying 'Hun'), that's a term of affection, kinda, which is a fancy way of saying that you are no longer random.  You may not be as close as you think, but you're not random.  Woohoo! for you.

For the rest of you, if you answered mostly b. then you're clearly not his baby, and you're way too clear-headed to be reading this nonsense.  If you're a c. kinda girl, you're either his booty call and you're in denial, or you're his booty call and you're too drunk to realise.  If you answered d. to any, you are a stalker, and perhaps delusional.


If you can't feed your baby (yeah, yeah)
Then don't have a baby (yeah, yeah)
And don't think maybe (yeah, yeah)
If you can't feed your baby (yeah, yeah)
You'll be always tryin'
To stop that child from cryin'
Hustlin', stealin', lyin'
Now baby's slowly dyin'

1. Are you having unprotected sex with the man?
a. yes
b. no
c. only when he's been drinking
d. we never have sex

2. Is that his decision or yours?
a. his
b. mine
c. both

3. Are you currently with child as a result of said sex?
a. yes
b. no
c. perhaps, I’m waiting to find out

4. Is he aware of said child?
a. yes
b. no
c. define aware

5. Is he happy about said child?
a. yes
b. no
c. define happy

When you hit a certain age, you quickly realise that protection is one of those calculated risks one takes in life.  Disease versus pregnancy, pregnancy now versus pregnancy later, emergency contraception versus plain ol' protection, implant versus pill?  Decisions, decisions...  Thing is, if there is unprotected sex being had, then the risk of possible babies (and/or death) has been calculated and accepted, hopefully by both of you, and therefore you are either his current/future baby mama, or you have no issues with abortion/morning-after contraception, or you're both too drunk to know better.  Don’t try to deny this, he may not have thought that far ahead, but you definitely have.

As to whether being his baby mama is a good thing or not, who the fuck knows?  I'm the idiot who's averse to children.  Hell, I only put it in because it made the sentence work better.  Baby...baby mama...mama.  See?  Stop frowning, it's free brilliance, remember?


1. Have you met his friends?
a. yes
b. no
c. I've seen them from afar

2. Have you met his family?
a. yes
b. no
c. I've seen them from afar

3. Has he ever introduced you as anything other than 'a friend'?
a. yes
b. no
c. introduced?

If you answered c. you are a most persistent stalker.  You need therapy.  If you've picked b. anywhere, pole sana, it's not looking too good for you right now, but on the up side, it's early enough that you can still turn things around.  I'm lying, by the way, that ship has sailed, but I figure I don’t have to spell it out to you, being that you're smart enough to answer a questionnaire and everything.  I could be wrong though, I usually am.

Lift your head up high
And scream out to the world
I know I am someone
And let the truth unfurl
No one can hurt you now
Because you know what's true
Yes, I believe in me
So you believe in you
Help me sing it...

And if you answered a.'s, bite me, you bloody cow.  You already know you're his woman, you just wanted to show off, didn’t you?

ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ku sa...
ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ku sa...

I refuse to tell you about this song, because we must have some basic standards here, no?  Probably not.   

I'm in a Philly mood...

Have you noticed how after a particularly good shag you can't stop dancing?  Not immediately after mind you, immediately after you're basking in the glow of the good loving, too worn out to walk let alone dance.  But a day or three later?  You got your groove back.  You find yourself getting down for no reason, shaking your ass, or gently stepping, whatever rocks your boat.

What?  Why are you looking at me like that now?  You don’t dance?  Not even a little?   So it's just me?   Shit.

We are still in the sewer, but today it won't be particularly crude, not even a little rude.  There may be some explicit material, but nothing you haven’t seen on TV before 9 pm.  I suspect this will be one of the fluffiest sewer tales I have ever told.  That said, go away if you don't like to hear tales of lust and such like nonsense.  And go away if you're not old enough to enter Dolce, this here is grown folk business.  I'm serious.  Younglings, exit stage left, you buggers don’t, nay, can't get what I'm on about, and I don’t have the time to slap good sense into you right now.   Are they gone?  Probably not, but at least they'll be quiet, no?  Probably not, I suspect I've just earned myself some wrath right now.  Ah well...

You need to play today's ka-ruimbo, because it is the shit.  I know I say that about pretty much every song I play you, but this one is special.  No really, special, press play and listen.  I'm waiting.  Is it playing?

Oh, let's make it groove,
Taking it nice and smooth...

'I'm in a Philly mood' is one of those songs from when I was a youngling that I have loved from before I knew what he meant.  I heard it when I was in Form 3 or thereabouts, back when I still had the youthful glow in my cheeks, back when my knowledge of the sewer was limited to most basic plumbing.  It was love at first listen, and first sight.  The video was a (then) stunning piece of arty B&W swaying, complete with a sexy middle aged white man to boot.  I knew of Hall & Oates in a more general sense, they were a funk band from the 80's, good tunes but nothing to write home about, at least not to my adolescent mind.  But Mr Hall, in this song...  Hubba hubba!  He catapulted himself into my dreams of passionate hand-holding and swooning.  What?  I was kendo 16, my dreams were only about hand-holding, and kissing, and vague groping in soft candle light.  Yes, I was once an innocent little virgin, unschooled in the ways of deviant behaviour.  Those were good times.  I can see you laughing at me, and I don't care.  I love musicians who surprise me, white soulsters, black rockers, versatile buggers who refuse to conform to skin colour, or upbringing.  Daryl Hall is one such musician, for all intents and purposes he is a soul man, and a damn good one.  Sexy is just a bonus, despite his first name.

Oh, let's make it groove,
Taking it nice and smooth,
I'm in a Philly mood,
Oh, baby come down,
I wanna hold you now,
I'm in a Philly mood...

I'd sing this song with no understanding, thinking when he sang about love he meant, well, love.  Then I grew up and realised this bugger was talking about the making of love, as in sex.  This song is a nice and fluffy shag song, and I only came upon that (in retrospect quite obvious) realisation after a particularly, umm, stimulating session, many years after childhood.  I was standing there, swaying, such as my geriatric ass does, lost in the song, listening, truly listening, for the first time in ages.  It felt like he was describing the sex I'd had...

Oh, lately, lately, girl it seems that we've come home,
To that place, that made that time our own...

You've just pressed play, haven’t you?  You want to hear what it is this man is saying that sounds like my sex, don’t you?  I told you to press play, but you lenga'd and now you have no clue what I’m on about.  Insert evil laughter here...  

This song is what good sex should feel like.  Wait, that's wrong.  Good sex should feel like something heavy, with throbbing bass, but mid tempo.  I say 'feel' and not 'sound', because good music is felt, not heard, just like good sex.  No, this song is what good sex should leave you feeling like.  Mellow, laid back, destressed, copacetic even... gently swaying to a good tune as you sip on a glass of whatever, smiling at the memories of a most excellent shag.

I did say it was going to be fluffy, no?  That's why it's so short.

Blogging 204: Is nothing sacred?

You idiots, you must stop stealing from me.  Yes, you.  

I've never bothered to do the whole copyright protected disclaimer on this page because I figured no one would be silly enough to steal from the sewer, right?  Wrong.  Seems there's no honour among deviants either.  

Now I have had people 'borrow' from me before, use me as their 'inspiration' for a topic, or subconsciously using the odd 'no?' or 'my lovelies' as they speak.  That's just fine, I do the same thing myself, all the time.  Odds are you can tell what I'm reading by how, more importantly what, I write, reflecting influences from Doc and the crazy sex lady on Salon, through to Flani and Woolie, but I'd like to think that I never blatantly rip them off, claiming their words, or styles, as my own.  I take inspiration, and then I add them into mine, not me into theirs.  Some geniuses out there, however, are adding themselves to me, and passing me, us, off as their individual brilliance.

That's a spectacularly shitty thing to do, and it will stop, henceforth.

Cue awkward silence...

This is the best bit about the interwebs, nothing will bloody change, will it?  Buggers will come, read, replicate, and life will move on.  But before you choose to rob my sewer, a word of wisdom, my lovelies.  Sewer tales earn you the unfortunate reputation of unseriousness.  You will be written off by the 'real' writers, those ones with poetry and shit, as nothing more than an uncouth hack.  You will never win a BAKE award, or be nominated, not unless they start a sex blog section (I'm laughing hysterically.  That's never gonna happen, thankfully...).  Now if the sewer is something you genuinely love, that warning will make no difference to you, because you know that to have certain conversations you need to be in a hidden corner of the internet, away from the moral bastards.  If, however, you're using the sex to get famous, don’t bother, and if you do, don’t steal my well thought out and carefully researched sex (I am not mocking myself, this time).  Go out and get your own damn sex, you thieving little...


I don’t mind being robbed, but I object to foolish, and lazy, robbers.   


Idiot Press: The Standard Edition

I have little to no respect for the Standard Group in general, The Standard Newspaper in particular.  For too long they have specialised in pushing their master's agenda, and given that their master is a former president, along with his cronies, well, they have no credibility in my book.  Unless, that is, I feel like siding with the KANU types, for whatever reason (I see the irony of that position, but our governments and the stunts they pull sometimes make for strange bedfellows).  Given my opinion of this media house, it therefore comes as no surprise that I consider their coverage of the Shollei matter less than satisfactory.

See what I just did?  I issued a disclaimer, stating clearly that I dislike those bastards, and therefore have a strong bias against them.  Did you read any sort of disclaimer in The Standard concerning their bias towards Gladys Boss Shollei?  At any point, did you see a statement saying, in unequivocal terms, that Mrs Shollei is the wife of Mr Shollei, MD of the Standard Group?  Was there any editorial talking about the nature of the relationship between this media group and the embattled registrar, even as they launched an all out smear campaign against her employers?  A newspaper prints what it claims are private emails from our CJ, and they don’t bother to tell us that mkubwa's wife is the subject of said emails?  

Exactly what in the hell is the media council for?

And just for the record, I don’t care who the Standard Group does or doesn’t support, I only want them to declare any conflicts of interest and/or vested interests upfront.  Campaign for the wife all you want, but do not pretend to be doing it for the good of the country, come out and tell us, 'Roho safi, my wife is in a spot of trouble, and now I'm going do everything I can to sort her out, mpende msipende!'  They did not do that, and for that they have lost the last remaining smidgen of respect I had for their pretence of a paper.  Bloody NKT!

There are certain levels of shamelessness that are simply unacceptable.

Say it with me...NKT!

Meanwhile, here are the allegations against Mrs Shollei, and her response.  Decide for yourself who's right and who's wrong, or who's more right than wrong.

Idiot Press, continued...

A couple of weeks later, our press has woken up to the shocking realisation that there is more to the story of Westgate than they were being given by the government.  Gasp!  They are now engaging in what they consider investigative journalism, digging up random CCTV footage exposing what really went on in the mall.  Good plan, no?  No.  Seems they all went to investigate at the same place, and found exactly the same thing.  For all their claims of information gathering, all these buggers showed us the same CCTV clips.  Some added sound effects, some looped specific portions, some even drew circles around the rummaging soldiers, just so we wouldn’t miss the rummaging, but for all the noise they were making about their exclusive clips, they were all showing us the same bloody thing.

Don’t believe me?  Watch for yourself and compare...

First to release footage was...shock on us...CNN.  Now how the Americans got this footage before our guys did is beyond me, but hey, let's not look this gift horse in its imperialist mouth, no?  Kenya mall attackers prayed, talked on cell phone between shootings.  They claimed that the reason for them showing us the 'graphic footage' was because, "there are few opportunities for the public to fully understand what happened..."

Then came...again, shock on us...K24.  These special buggers managed to scoop all the other media houses, at least as far as I can tell.  K24 Investigates: Westgate Siege Unravelled.  These buggers had serious sound effects, yawa, you'd think it was a movie.  That the guy wasn’t actually saying anything of maana is immaterial.  That they also showed more blood than everyone else was also immaterial.  They were first.  Well, second, but first locally.  Well, second, after The Star, but The Star had no pictures so they were first.  Woobloodyhoo!

Citizen TV, took the time to string together a time-line of sorts, but for some reason they don’t seem to have done an in depth investigation (read, 15 minutes of rambling interspersed with random images. See above, and below).  They were content to report what CNN had reported, Terrorists in Action.  Then they reverted back to type, and decided to report tweets, again, because viewer feedback from their mafans is what's really important.  Spoils Of War: If The KDF Did Not Loot, Who Did?

NTV, having learnt a lesson from the cover photo débâcle over at the Sunday Nation, went out of their way not to show any blood, tactfully blurring the shooting of the guard at the entrance of Nakumatt.  Again, as with the others, they selectively edited their clips to show not much more than everyone else was showing.  Chilling CCTV footage shows 4 attackers invading Westgate Mall and CCTV footage shows KDF soldiers ransacking shops at the Westgate.  'Chilling!' they said. 'Not any more,' we said, having seen it all before.  Incidentally, 'ransacking shops' implies more than rifling through a counter.  Just saying.

And then came the mother, KTN and their in depth reports.  Slight detour, do they go out of their way to name these things to sound like D-rated movies?  Why must they always be so overdone?  The wolves of Westgate?  Really?  Moving right along.  The super reporters of KTN...no NTV...no KTN again, they went behind the scenes to uncover the truth.  Almost one hour long, their expose uncovered...stuff we had seen and heard before.  In fairness, theirs is a magazine format and their scope is broader, and they went out of their way to get first hand accounts, featuring valuable interviews with those unfortunately caught up in the attack.  They also sought input from a security specialist, the value of which we are yet to verify.  Ah yes, they also interviewed the MD of Nakumatt.  In between making claims of escape via Peponi Road, claims that have also not been substantiated, they sought to investigate the allegations that there were 10-15 attackers, and by investigate I mean disprove.  Yet somehow, for all the talk, they didn’t manage to reveal any more footage than that which we had already seen on other stations, save for brief clips of two soldiers in the jewellery store, apparently intact as late as Monday.  They then went on to 'investigate' the planning of the attack, but that was a brief interlude, a token gesture.  They quickly went back to the footage and pictures we have already seen, all accompanied by insinuating commentary, hopefully informed by more than what we've read on The Guardian.

Which brings me to the point of today's rant.  Given that they all repeatedly told us there are hours upon hours of footage, most 'too gruesome to show you', why is it everyone is showing us the same clips?  Is this a deliberate attempt by our media to frame one particular narrative?

Take the much talked about KDF looting.  Every station has shown the clip of the soldiers walking out with paper bags, and plucking boxes from the stand/counter at the entrance.  Is that it?  Is that the damning proof?  If it is, then we have more serious problems, my friends, apart from our soldiers of possibly ill-repute.  The press is trying to convince us that there are things they cannot show us, because they are too graphic, yet they were happy to show us a man writhing in his blood, getting shot repeatedly?  Then what are they not showing us?  If they really have hours of footage, as they claim they have, then they need to start showing us more than the pre-approved CNN ready stuff they're throwing at us.  I expect that several media houses in competition with each other would be looking to outdo each other, trying to release 'previously unseen' footage.  Not so, unfortunately.  These geniuses are simply replicating what the other is doing, changing the sound effects for dramatic effect, and then reading a couple of reaction tweets.

Investigate?  Uncover?  Tell the fucking story, the whole story and not just the bits you copy from someone else, or the bits someone hands you on a platter?  Noooo...  That would be too much like real journalism and we now know they have no interest in that.

I understand that there are questions regarding looting and KDF, but we have to ask ourselves, why is the media is so keen to point fingers at the soldiers and the looting that happened after the attack?  I know this sounds like a silly conspiracy theory, but I'm of the opinion that our mainstream press has been acting like a government mouthpiece lately, and throughout this period they too fell asleep at the wheel.  They dropped the ball, spectacularly, but rather than admit it, they would have our anger directed at others.  That's fine, understandable even, but while they redirect my anger, I shall be directing my money too. Folks, I started buying The Star this month, so there!

Idiot press.


Size matters.

You need to read that sentence not as a statement of fact, I'm not saying that size does in fact matter, what I'm talking about is matters of size.  That's less threatening, right?  The last thing I want is for your little Jimmy to retract even further into big Jimmy.  Come now, don’t be shy, it's not only yours that shrunk upon reading that line, at least nineteen others (half our population) did the same, no?  No?  Are you fellas not bothered by a conversation about the size of your members?  Then why the hell have I been ducking this for so long?  You should have told me...

Clearly we are in the sewer today, but this time we're heading into the drain pipes for some routine maintenance, clearing of unwanted blockages and such like.  Blushing flowers and whatnot, leave now, please.  Today I plan on making use of my apparently well earned reputation for 'loin discalming' activities (yes, I was accused, by proxy, of not having calm loins, this as it was suggested the likes of myself, among others, are less than suitable blog reading material).  Today I plan on talking about the size of your, or your man's, dick, because I can, so there!  Insert my most evil laugh here.  I must throw in one further disclaimer.  I know I like to make the odd reference to the size of a man, more often than not insinuating that anything less than 9 inches is a crying shame.  Thing is, and I need you to listen closely here, I have no idea what 9 inches actually looks like.  It's just one of those things I say, because I think I know, but I don’t really know, because I've never pulled out a tape measure mid coitus and pima'd a bastard, have I?  I've never even thought about doing it, seeing as how I'm otherwise preoccupied with said member, in the pursuit of what I hope will be pleasure.  Keep this information in mind at all times, I do not know how big it actually was/is, so don’t go thinking this is about you.  That's to make sure I don’t get slapped the next time I wink at the man all come hither like.  Stop laughing, this is a serious concern, men take their willies very seriously, too seriously sometimes.

How big is the average penis?  In Our New Research on the Penis Sizes of 1,661 American Men, Dr Debby Herbenick went out and found out the size of the average American penis. Turns out, the average penis is a whopping 14.15 cm.  That's about 5.57 Inches for the metrically challenged amongst us. Surprised?  Don’t be, turns out all that talk of 9 inches is nothing more than a vicious rumour.  Ahem. I know what you're thinking, you're thinking those are white men's dicks, a black man's cock is much, much bigger, right?  You may be onto something there, have a look at the map of penis size worldwide.  Can you see how the green areas are mostly found in Africa and South America and how America is a peachy colour?  Seems the black man, make that the African black man is in fact larger by as many as 4 cm (that's less than 2 inches).  Before you go strutting your magnificent cock around, kindly note that Kenya is grey, as in no information available.  Sudan (South and North) are mandingos, but how many of you can claim similarities with those buggers?  Ethiopia and Somalia are smack in the middle, but again, how many of you can claim to be even remotely related?  At best, my Kenyan brothers, you're wanna-be mandingo, so don't go challenging any Congolese brethren to a cock fight, is all I'm saying.

Now if you've taken a minute to think about it, you have to be asking yourself the simple question, how the hell is there data from Somalia and not Kenya?  There's no country up there to speak of, so who the hell did they count?  More importantly, you buggers, if ever there was a time to stand up and be counted, that was it, but nooooo... you were probably out drinking, useless langas the whole bunch of y'all!  I digress slightly, apologies.  They've given us this most lovely map of dicks, complete with technicolor and shit, but without much of any real data.  The black man has a bigger dick, on average?  Does he really?

11 Random Findings In a Study of Penis Sizes Around the World starts to poke holes in the statistics, and in a list format no less (most excellent).  Granted, he doesn’t try to dispute the 'African penis is the biggest' myth, but he does attempt a subtle take down of the 'higher IQ = smaller penis' argument being floated, somewhat disingenuously, by the researchers.  See, for all the charts and stuff, there is a long held view that the massive black dick is the reason why black men, and black women by association I presume, are more stupid.  Don’t believe me?  The Pseudoscience of Race Differences in Penis Size is a depressing read into the mock science of penis size.  Seems some of these researchers so keen to push the stereotype of large black men are doing so to advance their most flawed theories regarding our “personality, intelligence and social behaviour”.  Simply put, they figure we are a bunch of savages because we have big dicks.  “According to this theory, African men have the smallest brains and the largest penises, whereas Asian men are the opposite. This has been described as a ‘Goldilocks’ theory of race, in which European men are ‘just right’ having a combination of high intelligence and a reasonable genital endowment.”  Because that article is a load of scientific mumbo jumbo, have a look at this one, Average Penis size by Country, it lists 21 countries, including Africa. NKT!

Still proudly stroking your big black cock?  Stop nodding.

That said, is the black cock really bigger, on average?  ““Anthropological studies from the past 100 years have really documented that, on average, penis size of east Asian males are smaller than western European and North American males,” states Dr. Robert Francoeur, editor of The International Encyclopedia of Sexuality. “And African males, on average, have a larger penis size.” But Francoeur is also first to admit there are always many exceptions to the rule. So what’s the answer?”  This is the problem with the internet.  For every answer you find, there is an equal and opposite answer.  The writer continues, quoting yet another scientist, “Confused? Bain says that if penis size is related to race – which he says he’s not aware has been scientifically proven anywhere – it might actually make sense. After all, he points out, if Asian men have smaller penises than Caucasians, that may have something to do with the fact that their body build and height have a bearing on the matter. And when it comes to this side of the equation, Bain knows his stuff. Bain has looked at whether the length of a man’s penis can be determined (or guessed) simply by looking at some other less private body parts – like feet.”  Repost: Do ‘penis size’ studies measure up?  What this man is saying is that penis size is not related to race, at least not how they try to tell this story.  More to the point, the myth of the big black dick is one racial stereotype we need to shake off, forthwith.  Average Size … for a Black Man: Penis Size Myths, Racism, and the Patriarchy is mandatory reading for all ye men of intellect.

Racial politics aside, it's repeatedly stated that many men do not know how large they really are, and that many men think they're smaller than they are.  Size Doesn't Matter: 'Penis Shame' Is All in Guys' Heads.  Talk about a bloody rabbit hole.  Seems men are even more obsessed with their dicks than women are, “...30 percent reported dissatisfaction with their genitals. About 35 percent of the men were very happy with their penis size, with the rest falling somewhere in between satisfied and dissatisfied.”  You geniuses are convinced that women want big dicks, and that somehow yours is not big enough.  Fair enough, a lifetime spent absorbing ridiculous porn may have convinced you that other men are all humongously hung idiots, but surely a quick look around would prove otherwise?  Do men not like to get naked around each other at the drop of a hat?  No?  Hmmm...  That may just be one of my fantasies.  Seriously though, the idea that men are wandering around worrying about their size the same way women fret about their bums is a scary thought.  You do realise we can't tell how big you are until you get naked, and hard, and even then, we still don’t know how many inches long you are?  More importantly, we don’t care.  We may talk a lot of smack, but we don’t, not really.  Really.

Wait, I may be lying...

I started to think about this topic while reading a post on size on Adventures (my latest blog obsession) a couple of months back.  Now when I read about the 12 inch dick my brain froze, waiting for me to convert that into centimetres, and then convert that into an actual distance, about yea long (hands a foot apart).  Eh?  How now?  I put down my phone, and wandered off in search of a 'futi', because my mind could not, and still cannot conceive of a dick that massive.  How?  Why?  Ow...  That post, more accurately the comments below it got me thinking about how women talk about dicks, and about the size of our vaginas.  See, we keep going on about how big dicks are better and all that jazz, but most of us will willingly admit that big dicks are not all they're cracked up to be.  Simply put, that shit hurts!  A woman's hoohaa can stretch quite wide, but it seems it has limits, or at least that would be my logical conclusion based on experience, one I sought to confirm on google.  Cue further rabbit hole...  I don’t know how, but I ended up here, The Kinds of Physical Unions.  This one you must read, if only to make sure I'm not bullshitting you, such as I do.  Turns out, not all vaginas, or yonis as these tantric types like to call them, are equal.  There are little vaginas, and medium vaginas, and big vaginas.  If you have an itty bitty vagina a man with a 4 inch dick will feel monstrous, but if you have a super size vagina, then the same dick will feel like a stub.  Turns out, it's not just him, it's you too.  Think about that the next time you call a man little finger.

Gentlemen, do women prefer bigger penises?  Should you be hung up on the size of your member?  I'll let the lovely people at AskMen answer you.  “If the science doesn't do it for you, and you're still wondering "does penis size matter," then the study also took a look at perceptions of size and asked more than 50,000 heterosexual men and women how they rated their own size or the size of their partner. They found that 85% of women were satisfied with their partner's penile size, but only 55% of men were satisfied. Notice anything? The women were much more forgiving and didn't feel like they were dealing with inferior goods if they weren't being bludgeoned with porn-star worthy penises. Chances are that women within measuring distance usually have better things on their minds than finding a ruler, and if they don't, penis size probably shouldn't be your first concern.”  Does Penis Size Matter?  Before you get obsessed with your allegedly minuscule cock, and resort to foolish enlargement procedures and potions, you might want to pull out a tape measure and reassure yourself that you are in fact quite average, or possibly even above average.  Better still, google micro penises to see what a truly small dick looks like.  Trust me, after you see those pictures you will never question your 'manhood', despite the nonsense constantly being thrown at you by the porn idiots, me included.

I said it at the beginning, for all my talk of 9 inches, I have no idea what that looks like.  Maybe I've seen it, maybe I haven’t, truth is I was just glad to have seen one, live and in person.  The same way you buggers can look past our cellulite and stretch marks, hairy legs and saggy tits, that's the same way we very quickly get over what may or may not be a smaller than usual package.  Do we have something against smaller dicks? Perhaps, but once we factor in the not so minor fact that we may be lacking in certain areas as well, we become much more accommodating.  Frankly, for as long as your brain is large enough, we're good.  You?

Judging by the mockery pointed towards Sonko in light of recent, umm, revelations (I took potshots at him and I quite enjoyed myself, and I am not ashamed to say it), one would think size is a very important thing, but let's think about it for a minute.  The man has a wife, and children, and a mama on the side who appears to like shagging him, perhaps too much.  I'm just saying, he doesn’t seem to be suffering in the sexual department, despite what appear to be certain shortcomings.

Do you still think size matters?  So help me if you tell me yes, I will beat you...



It was a sunny afternoon, I’d just knocked off work and after a quick stop at my sister’s for my ’raiding the fridge’ Saturday ritual, feeding myself on their leftovers (read, elaborate meals lovingly prepared for the clan, and thoughtfully left unfinished for lazy scavengers like me), I made my way home with an elaborate plan to bum, outside out on the little patch of grass next to what is laughingly described as a terrace.  I had in mind a lazy afternoon wrapped up in the fantastic world of Mr Martin, accompanied by a glass of whatever poison I would find under my sink, but as I was making tracks, I got a call, a pal wanting to stop by and join me out on the grass.  He was bringing the wine, with the expectation of nothing other than comfortable silence, broken occasionally with requests for a refill.  ’Why not?’ I thought, ’It would be good to have someone sitting next to me, no?’  He showed up at my door several hours later, with his partner in crime in tow, Uchumi paper-bag in hand laden with a bottle of whiskey, a bottle of Coke Light (more on that later) and a jumbo bottle of wine (more on that too).  My kinda people these ones...  What was meant to be a quiet afternoon out on the grass became a drink up with mind fuck conversations/arguments, random music, a late night fry-up of meat and potatoes, and at least one unhappy neighbour (although, given that this neighbour is always unhappy, that may not be saying much).  Again, my kinda people...

Detour.  Coke Light tastes absolutely horrible.  I have the better part of that crap still sitting in my fridge and I don’t know what to do with it, I’m thinking of using it to unclog my drains.  Clearly the secret of Coke is the sugar, take that out and what’s left is carbonated coloured water.   Further detour. I’m the genius who puts Tonic Water in whiskey, so clearly I have questionable taste, but mixing whiskey with Coke is suspect.  Whisky a la Famous, perhaps, but whiskey with an ’e’?  Listen to me talking like a whiskey snob, and a couple of years back I was the langa causing outrage in the bar by adding that very same Coke into a glass of Glen.  Nkt! myself.  Kila mtu na chake, no?  Just as long as I don’t have to pay for it.  Second last detour.  I know the jumbo bottles of wine are seen by some as lacking in ’class’, but why buy two 750ml bottles, to look fancy, when you can buy one 1.5l bottle and save 300 bob in the process?  Granted, I’m a bit of a cheapass, always looking for a bargain, but I refuse to put on airs when it comes to wine.  Given that I go through a fair bit on a typical month, seeing as how its my refreshment of choice, other than water, that 300 bob saving adds up to another bottle, or three.  And there you have it, how to drink wine on a budget.  You can thank me later.  Last detour.  Food cooked at 11:00 pm under the influence will inevitably taste good, no matter how rare the meat and/or potato.  And it will never kill you.  True story.  Detours over.

Today’s track is a song that’s been on loop on my computer for the past week, this after said Saturday pal gave me a flash disk full of random music.  Incidentally, people do that, bring me music, just.  Seems my fondness for a good tune, and booze, and books, and maybe porn, is well known.  Hmmm...  I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not?  Still, it could be worse, I could have people bringing me Blue Band, or cement (oddly enough those two have some similarities, no?).  I was saying, I got some new tunes, only these new tunes are actually old tunes. I am now the proud owner of a mini-collection of Jimi Hendrix, James Brown, a truly genius lady called Irma Thomas (whom I had never heard of and who will definitely feature here soon), and this month’s obsession, Ms Aretha Franklin.  Haiya!  Kumbe all this talk of how great the woman is wasn’t all dubious Motown hype?  I always thought she sounded a little screechy, too woohoohoo for my liking (stop laughing, that word makes sense).  Her greatest hits album spans blues, soul, pop, traditional gospel, country, rock and roll, I think the only thing she hasn’t done is reggae.  This mama is the shit!  ’Daydreaming’ is the song on loop, and it is so damn lovely I can’t help but to play it for you.  I’d heard covers, but this is the first I’d heard of the original (yes, I say this with shame).  Its the perfect song for a lazy afternoon in the sun, a strange combination of almost jazz rhythms, easy vocals and psychedelic sounding thingis at the beginning and end.  Useless fact No. 648: Donny Hathaway plays electric piano on the single version, very nice (don’t look at me like that, si I said useless?).

He’s the kind of guy that would say, ’Hey baby let’s get away, let’s go some place, hun,
Where I don’t care,’
He’s the kind of guy that you give your everything, your trust, your heart, share all of your love,
Till death do you part...

These lyrics sound like this is one of my fluffy posts, no?  Unfortunately, that couldn’t be further from my intention.  Ignore what she’s saying and just go with the flow, kick back and relax with a mellow tune and stop trying to guess where I’m taking you today, yes?  Good.

Living alone is a strange thing.  On the one hand the freedom to come and go as you please, revelling in the silence, never having to speak to anyone, or anything, unless you want to, its a wonderful thing.  But then one day you want to speak to someone, see someone, have someone around to bother you with inane rubbish, someone to throw the paper at in a fit of rage after you’ve just read yet another idiotic restaurant review that spends more time talking about the colour of the chairs than the food (I am resisting the urge to go off on another detour...).  Sometimes, you just want someone around, no?  Hang on, I think I’ve blogged about this before.  Shame man, I have.  Clearly I’ve been doing this blogging shit too long, now I’m going round in circles, but that’s a discussion we’ll have another day.  The last time I talked about this, I made my one and only foray into erotic writing (read, porn), this as I described my afternoon caller.  My sentiments on living alone haven’t changed much from last year, except that these days what I crave more is random conversation, not just random shags.  Which is not to say I was only craving the shag last year, I’m just saying I now want...  You know what?  This hole I’m digging can only get deeper, so I think I should shut up now.  Let us move swiftly along...

Man is a social animal.  That’s what a friend said to me on the phone last night, as he sought to explain why he was in a bar on a Tuesday night.  I’ve never bought that line, I’m more of a hermit, preferring my own company to that of strangers.  Or so I thought.  For the last couple of weeks I’ve been feeling quite...friendly? I’ve been actively looking for company, any company.  Out for dinner on random week nights, out visiting people on the weekend, talking to the one idiot I swore never to talk to at the local (the man is creepy when sober, worse when drunk).  Random conversations.  Thing is, I’m not the only one who’s been doing it.  Something about Westgate got us eager to get out of our neatly sealed little worlds, looking to reach out and connect with those we consider near and dear, and even the odd ones.  In the week immediately following the attack, the week we were stuck watching pictures that weren’t changing (I’m still upset about that saga), I found myself talking to people I hadn’t talked to in months, a year in one case, people who, like me, were alone in their houses, and feeling alone too I’m guessing. In a city of three million plus, living alone sometimes feels like living in a city of one, until langa terrorists come along to remind you that you are not an island, and your fortress is not impenetrable (mixed metaphors?).  Perhaps tragic incidents are a timely reminder just how fickle life is, or perhaps reaching out to connect is in fact the human condition, who knows?

I want to be what he wants, when he wants it, and whenever he needs it,
And when he’s lonesome and feelin’ love starved, I’ll be there to feed it,
I’m lovin’ him a little bit more each day,
He turns me right on when I hear him say...

That Saturday, three people who all live alone, and proudly so, sat down and spent many hours together, just talking.  No TV, no iPads or internet (well, there was internet the one time, to take a dodgy Dr Phil test.  Yes, we were probably kinda mellow at that point, or at least I hope we were...), phones virtually silent.  Soul on the hi-fi, booze in hand and conversation. It was like being in the local, only without the dodgy waitresses, inflated bills, smelly loos, mismatched furniture...wait, the furniture was, is, mismatched...no loud drunks in the corner arguing over Hague...wait, we did get loud over politics, no?  No, that fight was about religion.  At one point, one of the guys leaned back and said, taking a contented sip of his James and Coke, having just made what he considered a profound statement on the benefits of weed, ’This is the best evening I’ve had in ages,’ to which his pal eagerly agreed.  Please note that this is coming from a pair of idiots who go out so often they should have a club in Westlands named after them by now, in honour of their constant patronage, and/or foolishness.  I leaned back, took a sip of my wine and smiled.  ’It is,’ I replied, enjoying the sound of voices other than my own in my house, voices not coming from the TV, or radio, or my head.

Hey baby let’s get away, let’s go somewhere far,
Baby can we?
Where I don’t care...

As you have no doubt realised by now, there is no point to this tale.  Truth is, I just wanted to play you this song.  I probably should have warned you right at the beginning that this one would be a bit random, but where’s the fun in that?  


Tragedy at Lampedusa

Thursday 03/10/13 a small vessel carrying nearly 500 migrants from Africa sank just a kilometre off the coast of the Italian island of Lampedusa. 150 passengers were rescued and 103 bodies had been recovered from the sea by Friday morning. It is feared that more than 200 other passengers were unaccounted for. According to rescue workers it was likely that there were some bodies trapped in the vessel which was about 130 feet below the surface. Most of the passengers were from Eritrea and Somalia.

According to survivors, the boat started taking in water after the engine failed. Some of the passengers decided to set fire to some sheets on deck in order to attract the attention of passing ships. The fire spread out of control causing panic amongst the passengers. They moved to the other end of the boat making it capsize

The Lampedusa coast guard confirmed that they had intercepted 2 other boats carrying migrants earlier that evening. Sources said that many boats carrying migrants landed on Italy's Meditarranean shores every day.

The Italian government declared a day of mourning for all those killed in this tragedy. As more bodies were brought out and laid by the dockside the mayor of Lampedusa, Giusi Nicolini described the scene as one of 'continuous horror' , according to reports from reuters.

Southern ports in the Meditarranean are now seen as the gateway to the European Union for thousands of people fleeing persecution and insecurity and poor economic conditions in their home countries. Once landed the migrants will try to make their way to the richer cities of Northern Europe in countries like Germany, Austria, Scandinavia, France and the United Kingdom.

The EU has clamped down on immigration over recent years making it almost impossible for would be migrants to get visas and other necessary paperwork to travel in the normal way. In desperation the people are left to rely on traffickers, many of them criminal gangs who charge huge sums of money to smuggle them into Europe by sea in crowded and often unseaworthy boats. Over the years thouands have died trying to reach the shores.

It has been estimated by the UN Refugee Agency that nearly 8,400 refugees have entered Italy and Malta this year. That figure is nearly double the total for the first six months of 2012. The crisis in Syria has led to a huge increase in numbers. Pope Francis visited Lampedusa in July where he said a mass for the migrants. He also condemned the 'global indifference' to the plight of the refugees. Last night in an audience at the Vatican the Pope described this latest human tragedy as 'a disgrace.'

Further reading