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Why are we so drawn to expensive things?


Why, then, if expensive things cannot bring us remarkable joy, are we so powerfully drawn to them? Because of an error similar to that of the migraine sufferer who drills a hole in the side of his skull: because expensive objects can feel like plausible solutions to needs we don’t understand. Objects mimic in a material dimension what we require in psychological one. We need to re-arrange our minds but are lured towards new shelves. We buy a cashmere cardigan as a substitute for the counsel of friends.

Of course, we are not solely to blame for our confusions. Our weak understanding of our needs is aggravated by what the philosopher Epicurus termed the ‘idle opinions’ of those around us, which do not reflect the natural hierarchy of our needs, emphasizing instead luxury and riches, seldom friendship, freedom and thought. This prevalence of idle opinion is no coincidence. It is in the interests of commercial enterprises to skew the hierarchy of our needs, to promote a material vision of the good and downplay an unsaleable one.

Look at examples all around us, pushed on us by advertisers, businesses and the media. I recently watched an advert on TV where a wife was pressuring her husband, nagging him to build a new gate for their compound and buy a Prado, because their neighbours had done the same. The husband relents and actually takes a loan from the bank to buy these ‘necessities’. (It was a bank loan advert by the way, I think.) At the end we see him happy and gloating at his neighbor, because he has a gate just like his, and a Prado just like his. Samsung and Apple periodically without fail come up with a new phone that is allegedly more advanced and more ‘necessary’ than the last, and of course more expensive than the last. The idea implied is that you have to keep buying these things so as not to be left behind. Companies selling strangely expensive houses tell us about the luxuriousness of their offerings, and how modern they are. Some agents will even go further to let you know that many of the houses on sale have already been bought by UN staff, expatriates and foreigners, just to show you how good and necessary these houses are. Yes, having ‘natives’ as your neighbours is not chic enough, apparently.

Our society has embraced this idea wholeheartedly. Our worship of money seems unparalleled. Our zeal for wealth accumulation is fanatical, and people don’t seem to care how this wealth is accumulated. Morals go out the window real quick, and we forget about issues that matter like genuine friendship, good morals, family, respect, fidelity, loyalty and culture. We live as though money is the most important thing in our lives. Interestingly, most of us who exhibit this absurd lust for wealth are Christians; who believe in and worship a deity who specifically preached and taught against this mindless glorifying of money and material things, and lived his life on earth avoiding the same. But the issue of our embarrassing love for money would need a whole other article – another day perhaps.

It is interesting to note that although Kenyans are ranked as the wealthiest in East Africa, surveys show that we are not the happiest – the Tanzanians or the Rwandese are. We are also not the most generous – that accolade goes to the Ugandans. We are also not the most hopeful or optimistic in the region. So where is the benefit of all this wealth? Anyway, I digress.

Back to the issue of why we are drawn to expensive things. How are we enticed even more to buy these items? Through the sly association of superfluous objects with our other, forgotten needs.

It may be a car we end up buying, but it was freedom and respect we were looking for.

It may be the expensive whisky or cognac we purchase, but it was friendship we were after.

It may be fine bathing accoutrements we acquire, but it was thought that would have brought us calm.

Dear reader, allow me to leave you here. I’ve got to go shopping for some really nice suits I saw the other day. Hehehehe.


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Facebook Rant

Censor content

Ladies and gentlemen. The Battousai has always believed in freedom of thought. Ladies and gentlemen, it follows that he also believes in freedom of speech.

Ladies and gentlemen, it seems, however, that the powers that be at Facebook, a.k.a Mukuru kwa Zuckerberg, do not share this cherished and hallowed belief.

Apparently, you can post pornographic pictures and videos, gory images, glorify violence, incite tribal hatred, statements intended to defraud, pictures of dying children et al. Facebook will not give a flying rat’s ass about all these.

Many a time Facebook has taken down my posts and or images, because they deem them offensive. Ha. Riddle me this: looking at American society, what is it that they find offensive? I mean, they allow a hate filled clown like Trump to not only run for president, but actually become a front runner in the race. They actually give Sarah Palin time on TV. America is an implicitly and explicitly racist society that incarcerates, brutalizes kills people based on the colour of their skin. They export war all over the world. They actually think Obama is a bad President. They allow the Kardashians to exist. They allow Morris Chestnut to act in movies. They label you a terrorist, gangster or militia based on your skin tone. They actually tried to impeach Bill Clinton. They have createda new breed of rappers who dye their hair and wear skinny jeans. What do they find offensive?

The answer to that is: My posts. I made a comment on Shoba Gatimu’s post and they took it down in record time, in addition to placing yours truly in Facebook jail.

Here is the comment, verbatim, made in response to a shallow, misogynistic, sexist, offensive post: “These faggots who keep passing judgement on people should stay home and masturbate into their herbal tea.”

I know people have strong feelings about herbal tea, but I didn’t know it was that serious. Herbal tea tastes like shit. Like faggoty masturbatory shit. Yeah.worst-thing-about-censorship

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The Himura Chronicles: The Nairobi He Knows

The Nairobi He Knows

I read an article a while back by some illustrious and well meaning Kenyan writers. The article was titled ‘The Nairobi I Know’ or something to that effect. I found it quite interesting, though I felt that something more could be added about the Nairobi that many of us have known. So I decided to ask my friend, let’s call him Himura, to write about the Nairobi he knows. He is what would be described as a lifer, someone who has burned the midnight oil at both ends of the candle, so I figured he might have something to say. As expected, he refused. I traced him to his fortress of solitude in the countryside, where he now spends his days engaging in noble pastimes such as playing PlayStation and laughing at society. After days and weeks of bribery, cajoling, insults, begging, flattery, ass kissing, blackmail, and pure nagging, he finally acquiesced. Here is the edited version of what he wrote. (Many sections were left out due the fact that as you know this website only carries PG material, and we abhor vulgar language, drug glorification or anything even mildly sexual. We are staunch Christians, just the way Kenya is a staunch Christian nation which abhors and avoids all kinds of sin. Yes.)


Lights, camera… What the hell?

I had lived in Nairobi severally during my childhood, during school holidays mostly. Flashes of Unga House, of Sarit Centre, playing with the elevators in Yaya Centre (and getting promptly kicked out), getting bullied by some cool ‘city boys’ and waiting for them the next day and beating the crap out of them with my pals. That’s just a tiny part of the Nairobi I knew, the Nairobi I know. The Nairobi I want to write about is the one I knew with the eyes of the age of majority, with the eyes of an adult. I’m not sure I qualified as an adult for a very long time, so let’s just say after high school – post 17 years.

The first time I came to Nairobi when I was of age, my brother took me to Florida. The club of course. Also known as F1 or Madhouse, aptly situated on top of a petrol situation, even more aptly situated on K-Street. Little did I know that the most apt thing about it was the nickname, Madhouse. I knew he wanted to show me a good time, but as I grew older I realized that perhaps there was something else he wanted to show me, a lesson he wanted me to see, experience for myself and learn. Thus begins this tale that has been extorted out of me.

The Nairobi I know is walking into Madhouse and experiencing a sensory overload. The music, the perfume, and the sight of the women. Notice I haven’t said women. I said the women. Nothing like I had ever laid my young eyes on. Describing them is pointless, let’s just say that the beauty and variety was like a shocking yet delicious shot of chocolate tequila to a virgin throat. What was even more amazing is that these women seemed to be focused on me. Me. Smiling, waving, calling, uncomfortably long eye contact… I knew I was attractive, but I didn’t think I was that attractive. (Later I would come to be described as devastatingly handsome and incredibly sexy, but I digress). I gravitated to an angel who looked Eritrean or something. She was clad in a sheer purplish burgundy silky dress, I remember. The night flew by. The conversation, the dancing, her beauty, her scintillating scent… I still remember the perfume. It must have been J’adore or Pure Poison. When time came to leave, she told me that it was 3,000 bob. I told her that I had already paid the bill. She laughed and said no, if I was to go with her it would be 3,000 bob. As this slowly sunk in, I could see my brother close by watching us, almost dying with laughter. It hit me then. These were women on the clock, ladies of the night. So much for fantasy. So much for witty conversation and funny jokes. I left, without her of course, feeling a mixture of awe and dejection. Hmmmm.

The Nairobi I know is sneaking onto the roof of the KICC with a girl I had just begun dating, who as fate would have it happened to be part Eritrean. There was a sort of fashion show going on and we had snuck off to view the city from the very top of, well the city. When we were up there, having snuck past various watchmen and workers, the world came to a standstill and for some reason we had our first kiss. There was an army plane flying past and I swear that fella dipped his wing at us. Some romantic shit I tell you.

The Nairobi I know is walking into my first job and getting asked, alongside all the other interns, to take out terms of reference and make changes as we saw fit. Everyone adjusted the duties they could do, responsibilities they should have and what not. I only changed one term. I doubled my salary. The boss glanced through all of our contracts and signed them without a word. Thus I became the most ballingest intern. If that’s a word.

The Nairobi I know is doing volunteer work in the slums at Mukuru Kwa Ruben. Seeing the joy, optimism and hope of the young people who lived there under nightmarish conditions. Teaching them on the side about theatre, drama, plays, writing and producing a play in which they all acted. When they won at a youth festival – I will never forget the sense of pride and accomplishment it gave them, things I took for granted. The Nairobi I know is one of my workmates getting shot in those same slums, and the helplessness I felt cause I had no idea what to do about a bullet wound and I did not want to see someone die, especially not someone I knew. He survived, and went back to work in those same slums. I did not go back.

The Nairobi I know is holding PlayStation tournaments in the hood, playing FIFA and Mortal Kombat. Seeing how boys will always be boys, and how men can get crazily competitive over a video game. Throwing impromptu parties and making punch that would intoxicate you just by its smell.

The Nairobi I know is discovering roast chicken at Jeans in Nairobi West. I swear the first time we went there I ate a whole chicken washed down with a litre or two of Tusker. And then discovering an alley just between West and South C that I swear has the best mutura in this whole country. Also discovering that apart from wrapping meat, newspapers can also be used as serviettes.

The Nairobi I know is walking into campus as a freshman and discovering infatuation. Falling for an older girl and discovering rejection. Cold stone hard rejection that you can do nothing about. Finding out that where there’s a reason, a man’s tears will come. They will come my friend, they will come. Learning what it means to be heartsick, learning what it means to be obsessed. Thank you very much, but I ain’t never going back to that. If I can help it.

A wise man once said that there is a time and place for everything. It is called campus. Eating the most wonderful ugali and meat at Fig Tree market in Ngara. Drinking amazing keg in Ngara. (I guess after the first jug, keg is always amazing) Drinking keg at K1 on the regular mpaka they had tall boys reserved just for us. Stealing tall boys, jugs, ash trays, beer mugs and all sorts of paraphernalia from nightclubs all over the city to adorn our rooms with. Heck, one of my peeps even once stole a whole goat leg from the local. Hehehehehe. Going for BOGOF at K2 (That is Buy One Get One Free, for you unfortunate souls who never lived in such glorious times). Running riot all over Westlands. Leaving Electric Avenue and wondering why the street lights are so bright, kumbe it is morning and those street lights are the Sun. I once ate ten of those eggs they sell on the street with kachumbari. We had a C.A.T coming up the day after, so I spent a whole day on the toilet studying. Insulting the police right at the police station, then running from the same police. Over and over.

The Nairobi I know is hanging out the car window while racing down Uhuru Highway, one hand holding on for dear life and the other one holding a bottle of vodka on the tarmac to see if it might produce sparks, screaming all the while. Discovering that if you shake a bottle of beer, it sprays just like soda. Making this discovery in Carnivore and proceeding to spray my boy with a bottle of Pilsner. The only problem was that in our excitement over this world changing discovery we also ended up spraying four other tables with beer. Tables that happened to be full of people, people whom we didn’t know. Oh well. Deciding on a whim to hop on a bus in the middle of the night and hit Mombasa before common sense gets the better of you.

Getting stoned in Parkie, getting stoned in Westie. Getting stoned in Emba, getting stoned in South C. Getting stoned in Karen, getting stoned in Lang’ata then when the munchies hit making our way across Langata road to get to Uchumi just to have that power sandwich. When I heard that Uchumi was collapsing, my first thought was about how great a shame it would be if we lost the power sandwich forever. Nightmares are made of less scary thoughts. Getting stoned in the loos at the cinema and then watching a movie in real, I mean real, 3D. Hehehehehe. Almost trying cocaine, but after seeing the high it gave to some pals who had done a line or two, decided to give it a pass. Plus those niggas danced for like 12 hours straight and kept talking the whole damn time. No thank you.

Making my first fortune. The most money I had ever made in my life. And then blowing it all. And then, as if once was not enough, doing it all over again. No regrets though, it taught me things that cannot be taught. You feel me?

My phone getting grabbed out of my pocket in the middle of the night at Odeon. Me chasing the thief all the way down the street, then realizing that the guys who were running next to me were not there as good Samaritans. Promptly turning back and discovering that my money was gone as well. Kind stranger paid my fare, and even after I scribbled his number somewhere and called him to thank him, pay him back, lunch, whatever politely declined my offer and said that one day I would do the same for him or another.

The Nairobi I know is me and my boy, during the water crisis, on the daily going to almost every five star hotel in the city just to take a crap. We’d walk in in our suits looking dead serious, acting as though we knew where we were going to and head straight for the loo to drop a deuce, do the deed, number 2 my friend. Believe that.

Checking into Mwenda’s and testing almost every cocktail. And yes I mean testing. Slippery Nipples and Dark Fucks, and the Flaming Lamborghini. Before you cringe, those are names of cocktails. Getting into fights all over. Fights for honour, fights for justice, fights for pride, for ego, for foolishness, for family, for friends. Realising eventually, that pwagu hupata pwaguzi – one day you will mess with the wrong people and get your ass handed to you in an epic unforgettable beatdown.

During the post-election violence, shacking up at my boy’s place – stranded in Nairobi. I think we spent two weeks in the bar. I tried to learn how to chew miraa but it was too much work. Managed much later on with muguka. Hehehehe. Interesting high.

The first time I heard Obama speak was when he came to The University as a Senator. Notice I said The University, so there is no need to ask which one. That is the first time I realized that a special one walks among us. I remember sitting in Q’s on the night of the American election, and seeing grown men cry when it was announced that Obama had won. What it meant for black people, and for Africans, and for Kenyans, was so so fucking much. We will never forget. Glad to have been alive during such times.

Making a foray into elective politics. Time of our lives. Thrilling, exciting, educative, but dangerous. After all this is still Kenya. Getting threatened, more fights, thugs, getting arrested countless times, becoming familiar with various police stations and cells. Oh well. No regrets.

Breaking hearts and having your heart broken. It is even worse when you thought, nay you knew, that you were past the point where your heart could ever be broken. The pain that hurls itself through your body, when you bring tears to the eyes of the one you love and you know deep down that you will continue to hurt her. When you look for a reason to break up because part of you is terrified that this woman will actually complete you, that this woman can be the one, that this woman is… everything. The pain that gnaws at your soul when you know that you shouldn’t have left, you shouldn’t have walked away, you shouldn’t have looked at someone else. The hopelessness that wracks you, along with the occasional sob, when you realize that you cannot change the past, and that in breaking someone, you broke yourself. And what if, the reason that you broke them, is because you are already broken yourself, in ways that you know not?

A friend once told me, over a quiet drink at The Porterhouse, that you’ve never really lived if you’ve never lost your mind. I thought about it and realized there is truth in that statement. But only the brave. Or those who cannot help it. I could write a whole other article about that, but that is another story. That is the Nairobi I know.

The Nairobi I know is maddening, silly, stupid traffic jams. Crime and police harassment. A place where most people are only out to get theirs, are all about money, and actually think that that is a higher form of living. Poverty of ambition masquerading as real ambition. The ugly side of capitalism embraced, flossing, flaunting, lies, ego, treachery, betrayal, pride, hubris, you name it.

The Nairobi I know is good people, who despite all this, still care about the bigger things and work toward them. It is good cheer, laughter, wonder, and something new to be discovered every day. It is hope, it is dreams, it is love. It is family, it is friends. It is memories we’ll never forget, and people who made us.It is the arboretum. It is Eastlands, Buru, South C, B… (I remember someone asking where South A is) It’s the country clubs and the brothels.It is that wonderful chicken, fries, and kachumbari at Sonford. It’s that mutura. It’s that kienyeji chicken made by that Luhya lady just behind the stage at West. It’s McFries. It’s Kenchic. It’s Meditarreneo, The Stanley, Diamond Plaza all those places. You name them, you know what I mean. You know what I’m trying to say. It is how those women and girls dress, always a sight to behold. It is those men with hope in their eyes and a dream in their hearts, and not too shabby too. It is that government official, that police man, who decided to do right. It is many things. Far from perfect, but it is what it is.

I could go on writing but I’m tired, plus there is too much to say. Cheers, another time perhaps.

The Himura Chronicles will someday be a book. Or a graphic novel.

The Night Nairobi He knows

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THE HIMURA CHRONICLES: Don’t Be An Asshole (Or Ratchet, or Bitch, or Bitch Nigga)








One of the best ways to pollute the energy in a group situation is by being a total asshole. Yuo might succeed in getting people fully energized, but it won’t be in a productive way. If you think of your bad behaviour as a lifestyle choice, as in ‘being yourself’ or ‘just being honest’, you might be ignoring the cost to your personal energy and to your reputation. When you piss off the people around you, there is bound to be some blowback and wasted effort cleaning up the mess you made. It can all be quite distracting and draining. Trust me on this one; I know.

I’ve noticed that an alarming number of people have adopted the asshole lifestyle and decided it works well enough to stay on that path. While the word ‘asshole’ usually makes you think of males, in this context I mean it to be gender inclusive. The same applies to the term ratchet. Bitch and bitch nigga are self explanatory, but all these terms refer to the same set of behaviour.

There’s no single agreed definition of what it means to be an asshole. It might include selfishness, arrogance, mean-spiritedness, being a gossip, a hater, backstabber, not helping your friends when they’re down, or any number of other character flaws. You know asshole behaviour when you see it. And if you’re normal, you’ve probably been one for at least a few minutes of your life.

I would define an asshole as anyone who chooses to make the lives of others less pleasant for reasons that are not productive or necessary.

Asshole behaviours:

1. Changing the subject to him/herself

2. Dominating conversation

3. Bragging

4. Cheating, lying

5. Disagreeing with any suggestion, no matter how trivial

6. Using honesty as a justification for cruelty

7. Withholding simple favours out of some warped sense of social justice

8. Abandoning the rules of civil behaviour, such as saying hello, making eye contact, not interrupting people when they’re speaking, and observing phone etiquette.

9. Engaging in unnecessary acts of violence

10. Talking shit about friends or loved ones, especially about spouses.

I assume asshole behaviour exists because it feels good when you do it. In that sense it’s like an addiction. The long term effect of being an asshole can’t be ood for the person immersed in the lifestyle, but it must feel good in the short term.

That’s a bad trade off. You self-interest is best served by being a reasonable person whenever you can muster it.




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THE HIMURA CHRONICLES: Writing Tease and The Six Filters for Truth


Was my eventual success primarily a result of talent, luck, hard work, or an accidental just-right balance of each? All I know for sure is that I pursued a conscious strategy of managing my opportunities in a way that would make it easier for luck to find me. Did my strategy make a difference, or is luck just luck, and everything else is just rationalization? Honestly I don’t know. That’s why I suggest you compare my story with the story of other people who have found success, or have lived or live interesting lives, and see if you notice any patterns. That’s the pattern I’ve always used since I discovered my, well, intelligence.

If you pick up some ideas in my writing and go on to great success, you won’t know exactly what made the difference. But you might think you do, and that reason will probably have something to do with your many levels of awesomeness. That’s how human brains work. But hey, maybe in your case it’s true. In my case, I prefer to embrace my ignorance and leave it an open question.

I really don’t write to give advice. I’ve never liked being given advice anyway, especially when it is unsolicited. Too many people in our society seem to always believe that they have a better idea than you of how you should live your life. Of course a large part of that belief is pure unfiltered assholery, but most among them never realize it. And if you’ve ever taken advice from an artist (yes that’s what I like to call myself), there’s a good chance it didn’t end well. For starters, it’s hard to know when an artist is being serious or when he or she is constructing an elaborate joke. I’ve crafted pranks that spanned months, even years, many a time when no one was in on the joke except me. Some of those pranks are still a work in progress. I have posed as other people online and even in person. I have infiltrated high-level government, business and civil society meetings just to get material for my writing, but most of the time just to see if I could get away with it.

On top of that, I’m getting paid to write, and we all know that money distorts truth like a hippo in a thong. And let’s not forget that I’m a stranger to most of you. It’s never a good idea to trust strangers.

By any objective measure, I might be one of the least credible people on Earth, I’m not too proud to admit that given a choice between saying what’s true and saying what’s funny, I’ll take the path with the greatest entertainment value.

I’m also not an expert at anything, including my own job. I’m a poor judge of character. I don’t like speaking to most people. I write like an inebriated monkey and my writing style falls somewhere between baffling scribbling and downright plagiarism. Yes I believe originality is over rated, a belief apparently not shared by my university professors judging from the grades they gave me in school. It’s an ongoing mystery to me why I keep getting paid.

To make matters worse, there are inherent problems with the whole idea of one person giving advice to another in written form. One size doesn’t fit all. I’d be surprised if there’s anything in my writing that makes sense for all people all the time.

Anyway to finish up, here we go:


  1. Goals are for losers.
  2. Your mind isn’t magic. It is a moist computer that you can program.
  3. The most important metric to track is your personal energy.
  4. Every skill you acquire doubles your odds of success.
  5. Happiness is health plus freedom.
  6. Luck can be managed, sort of.
  7. Conquer shyness by being a huge phony (in a good way).
  8. Fitness is the lever that moves the world.
  9. Simplicity transforms ordinary into amazing.

Before you decide whether anything I say in my writing is useful, you need a system for sorting truth from rubbish. Most people think they have perfectly good bullshit detectors. But if that were the case, trial juries (and in our case, panels/benches of judges) would always be unanimous. Ahem ahem. We would all have the same religious beliefs. Realistically, most people have poor filters for sorting truth from fiction, and there’s no objective way to know if you’re particularly good at it or not. Consider the people who routinely disagree with you. See how confident they look while being dead wrong? That’s exactly how you look to them.

When it comes to any big or complicated question, humility is the only sensible point of view. Still, we mortals need to navigate the world as if we understand it. The alternative – acting randomly – would be absurd. To minimize the feeling of absurdity in your life, I recommend using a specific system for sorting the truth from fiction. The system will be useful for reading this book, and it could be even more important in your life. The system recognizes that there are at least six common ways to sort truth from fiction, and interestingly, each one is a complete train wreck.

The Six Filters for Truth

  1. Personal experience (Human perceptions are iffy)
  2. Experience of people you know (Even more unreliable)
  3. Experts (They work for money, not truth.)
  4. Scientific studies (Correlation is not causation)
  5. Common sense (A good way to be mistaken with complete confidence)
  6. Pattern recognition (Patterns, coincidence and personal bias look alike)

In our messy flawed lives, the nearest we can get to truth is consistency. Consistency is the bedrock of scientific method. Scientists creep up on the truth by performing controlled experiments and attempting to observe consistent results. In your everyday nonscientist life you do the same thing, but it’s not as impressive, nor as reliable. For example, if every time you drink milk (like yours truly right here), one hour later you fart so hard that it inflates your socks, you can reasonably assume milk makes you gassy. It’s not science, but it’s still an entirely useful pattern. Consistency is the best marker of truth that we have, imperfect though it may be.

When seeking truth, your best bet is too look for confirmation on at least two of the dimensions I listed. For example, if a study indicates that eating nothing but French fries and cake is an excellent way to lose weight, but your friend who tries the diet just keeps getting fatter, you have two dimensions out of agreement. (Three if you count common sense). That’s a lack of consistency.

Once you have your bullshit filter working, think about how you begin the process of tackling any new and complicated problem. There’s one step you will always do first if it’s available to you: You’ll ask a smart friend how he or she tackled the same problem. A smart friend can save you loads of time and effort. Many of you have a smart friend or two already, and you are lucky to have them. But my observation is that a startling percentage of the adult population literally has no smart friends to help them in their quest for success and happiness. Basically what I’m saying is that most of you are surrounded by fools and idiots.

I hereby deputise myself to be your smart(ish) friend in the form of my writing. If you already have some smart friends that’s great, you can’t have too many. What I bring to the party is a willingness to discuss a wide range of topics of importance that your in person friends might consider awkward dinner or drink conversation.

I’m not an expert in any of the topics I discuss. But I am a professional simplifier. I also like to believe that I am as entertaining as hell. Strip away everything from a situation until all that is left is the absurd yet true core.

Also allow me to stipulate that if you think I’m full of crap on any particular idea or another, there’s a healthy chance that you are right. But being 100% correct is not my goal. I’m interested in new and old ways of finding truth, success, and happiness, while entertaining myself and you along the way.

Yup yup. Cheers, and I sincerely hope you enjoy the writing on my blogs The Battousai,  Walubengo’s Den, and my book The Himura Chronicles, and share them with your friends, loved ones and enemies alike.





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Dear Lightskin: A Letter from your Future Husband


My pal Tosh a.k.a Anthony Mugabe, who I believe 85% of the time is stark raving mad, wrote this letter. I decided to share it without his permission, as waiting for his multiple personalities and various mood swings to decide on whether to give me permission can take forever. That and his current obsession with Lightskins, Darkskins, Quails and slaps which cost 100 million bob. #TeamShebesh baby. Also I wanted to fulfill a deep desire I have to publish photos of women me and many have long admired and fantasized about. Hehe.



Dear Lightskin,

And on the 2nd day the Lord created night and day, it is now daytime. Good morning to you in the name of Jesus. I am doing okay where I am and I hope by God’s abundant graces you are okay.

You are probably wondering why I am inking to you these scribblings on this Webuye product which was created by our Lord. Yellow yellow, mimi nakupenda aki.

From the moment my eyes fell on your fb page, I knew you were the one. I zoomed your profile pic and the breath that was put in me by the Lord forsook me.
Those eyes were so deep like God’s voice when it came down during Jesus’ baptism.
Your hair flowed down to your shoulders like the waters of river Galilee.
Your lips so alluring and soft like strawberries from Mount Zion.
Your scent sweet like chrysanthemums from the garden of Gethsemane.
Your smile so radiant and bright like the gowns of Jesus during the transfiguration.
Your eyelashes so inviting like the whale’s stomach where Jonah spent 3 days.
Your skin soft like the feathers of the quails that God sent the Israelites in the desert.
Your chest perfectly structured and heavy like the two tablets that Moses brought down from the mountain.
Your hips like the land of Canaan, the promised land.
Your booty like the tabernacle, I just want to carry it around the way priests carried the ark of the covenant around.

I want to grab your hair and pull it back just like David grabbed the sling when he killed Goliath.
I want to squeeze your boobs the same way Naboth squeezed the grapes from his vineyard to make wine.
I want to kiss your lips so I can get taste the honey and manna in them and feel like the Israelites.
I want to slap your butt-cheeks so hard just like Moses slapped that Egyptian to death.
I want to suckle your nipples and make them stand erect like the walls of Jericho before Joshua destroyed them.
I want to part your legs the way Moses parted the Red Sea.
I want to dive in and sink just like Peter when he tried to walk on water.
I want to lick you and make you dry like river Jordan during the 7yr famine.
I want to lick your toes…….no! hio hapana!

Lightskin, I had a dream last night. In my dream I was standing beside a river, and out of the river came 7 fat cows and they started feeding on the lush grass. And then 7 other cows came out of the river, but these 7 were skeleton like and looked hungry. The skeleton cows then ate the fat cows.
My love, this dream disturbed me and I decided to go see Dr. Salim (from Tz) and he interpreted it like this:
The first fat 7 cows represent the 7 years that you and I are going to be having mind boggling sex everyday. The other 7 skeleton cows represent Mps, Hood Ninjas,Drug barons, business tycoons, Pastors,Joc Achuti and Quail farmers, the bigwigs who will try unsuccessfully to break us apart.

#Lightskin, that dream was not a fluke. I am not insinuating anything but I feel like we were meant to be together you and I. It is a prophecy. So let us not anger the Lord by staying apart, just remove me from this #friendzone and let the prophecy come true so that we can #prosper. Thank you in advance.

Yours Faithfully
Soon to be Husband

~Anthony Mugabe

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