In my primary school years I had always been a performer. I belonged among the creme de la creme of the school. Those who banged in 90s and 80s come what may. Whether it rained or shone. It rained a lot though. But when I moved to high school, my grades also moved. Migrated to Serengeti like those bloody wildebeests. But then, I was in a high school, not a secondary school. And in high schools, exams are set differently. They are tough, they are savage, they are unforgiving. You sweat blood in those seedy exam rooms.

As such, in my high school years, I hammered not so top grades. My grades competed with the number of years I've been alive. But I never gave up and God never left me. His so handsome and extremely lovely creation. So I foraged my way through school. Managed to eke out a good grade and will be doing a premium course in the next few weeks. That's if the stars don't align and I jump to some other field.

But this post ain't about high school or campus, heck no! This is purely about my primary school years. And the fiery rivalry that was there. It wasn't an academic rivalry. We had better things to do. It was a tsunami of hatred, a field blood. It was pure war. Boys lost teeth, lost confidence and everything that made them boys. It forged us into men. Phantoms of that dark past still haunt and sing in my ears. They flash in my mind, I twist in bed, I writhe in pure agony. But hey, don't be tensed. My primary school years weren't that bad. Twas really cool actually.

Here is the rivalry.

I don't know who lied to the administration. But word which reached us was that the school was going to have a new leadership system. Gava like, where there is a prezda, attorney general and the works. There was this common myth that fellas who hammered social studies were perfect choices for the attorney general seat. And boy! I hammered social studies like nobody's business. Always the champ with 90s. My closest rival was this fella Nyakado. He was good too, really good.

It was thus said that in the upcoming elections. Nyakado vs Osoch for the attorney general position. Ahaa! I had always won.. This was going to be another cakewalk. Little did I know that tribal politics have roots in primary school. See, it was a luo school. And those homeboys were never going to allow "mtu wa nje". To have the much coveted instruments of power.

We campaigned.

We lied to little boys how we were going to change the school. Printed banners and such shit, bought people bread. Come election day, I was over the moon. I sat with my gang, the likes of Onsarigo as we waited for the results.

Sadly, those bastards had rigged me out. Nyakado won by a landslide. Yaani aliniosha. Guy garnered 320 votes to my 67 votes. I felt like mourning. But I was already circumcised. And circumcised men don't cry in front uncircumcised boys (no pun intended). So I let the vitriol suffuce within me. It flickered for a while then died. A fallen ember. 

We stayed in touch with Nyakado. He went to Bush, I went to camp Laz. We still talked, a buddy and a nice writer too.

Last week, he reached out. He wanted to do a guest post. And I was like. 
"Jamaa, you stole those primary school elections. But you still have the nerve to want appear on my blog."

But we're buddies and I don't hold grudges. We surely can't let some motherfucking election get between buddies. We laughed it off. Talked about a lot of stuff. And I thought, why not. Let Nyakado post his stuff on my blog. We'll that's partly because I like him. As a friend of course. Uhm.. We need to be clear on such statements this days.

Without further ado. Fam, I give you Stanely Nyakado. Nyakado, meet the lovely family. 

You begin to curse. You begin to regret why you did that. And of course, you start hating yourself. 

‘’I’ll never forgive myself for what  happened to her," you say to your friend Stano.
“It’s okay bruh, it has already happened and no matter how hard you cry, things cannot be changed,” he replies.

Thats utter bullshit!
You feel like hitting some sense into the cretin’s head but the pain that you feel inside is more and you stop. How can it be okay when she is not there with me? How can it be okay when I am not to blame for what happened? How? How? How? (Sad Nigerian song) Those bloody West Africans.

She loved you. Wait, she didn’t love you: she really loved you. Let’s call her Aisha. Aisha because apparently every beautiful costal girl is called Aisha. Aisha because every na├»ve girl from costo is called Aisha. Aisha because it is only a five letter name that fits her. We'll call her Aisha because my crush is called Aisha. (Stanley's crush, not kinasisi)

No word is fit enough to describe how beautiful she is. If you think the name is beautiful then wait till you meet the owner. God must have created her when he had all the time in heaven. Maybe during December when he was in a festive mood or end month after earning his salary. Her shadow was more beautiful than some girls faces (Sijataja Mtu). 

She had a smooth non pimpled flawless face. Her two breasts were bigger than some people’s brains. Her waist and hips perfectly accentuated by whatever she wore. Then her perfect thighs and legs wah! Even from a distance one could see that cleave. No words can be used to describe her beauty.

Yours was supposed to be friendship just friends and nothing more. Even ingeenda sana maybe you’ll be the chairman of her friend zone or better still you two become mega best friends. Introducing her was supposed to be like; 
‘’ Mambo Lameck (@ Batasi Schmidt) Meet Aisha, a friend.’’
 But she could hear none of it.She added girl to friend and pap! She became your girlfriend. A self-declared girlfriend (Ladies please be like Aisha) 

Your heart was not meant for her. It didn’t skip a beat when you set them on her and meza mate. Your heart beats didn’t rhyme. 
To you she was a friend but to her you were more than a friend. 
You are booked and the sign’’ In a relationship’’ neatly placed on your forehead. Aisha knew that you were single but still you couldn’t find the courage to tell her. She knew that you were single and ready to mingle at any angle. Courage! Courage! You were not courageous enough to tell her that Shirley was your only oxygen that you breathed. So you resorted to keeping mum and entertaining her stories. She was too beautiful to be a side chic, too new to be a spare wheel.

 You once thought that you had gathered enough courage to tell her that she wasn’t meant for you. You invited her over to your crib and treated her to a fine dinner (by tha chiles love dudes who cook like costarian chiqs) you then relaxed as you took a bottle of Jameson (After kukopa pesa Kwa branch) 
‘’ Aisha there’s something that I have wanted to tell you,’’ you started.
‘’ No need I guess I already know what it is. There’s no need to say more. I know that you love me and my answer is yes; I’m ready to be with you.’’
What! You had lacked words to form an answer. You didn’t know what to tell her. Silence prevails where courage fails. There was no way you were gonna tell her about it today. You couldn’t imagine breaking he heart instead of her virginity. 

Before you knew it she was into you. You looked at her sexy lips and noticed the power of her seducing dimples. She ran her finger from your lower thigh gently to your upper to your upper thigh and you had felt your pulse racing 

‘Show me your worth as a man. I want you to make me feel like a lady a real one to be precise.’ She had whispered softly into your ears. 

Now that had been difficult. There was no way you were gonna sleep with her and Shirley was coming around tonight. ‘Look here Aisha; I’m not ready for this tonight. Maybe next time please.’

‘Come on; don’t tell me you’re lame down here.’ She had saying while gently stroking your member.

I think you’re talking like this because you are drunk,’ you had told her as you escorted her back to her apartment. Days went and soon they had turned into weeks but you never heard from her and when you finally did, it was at the graveside. 

You look at Stano and hate him for no reason. Here you are: Aisha DEAD and Shirley dumped you like hot potato. Maybe I should have told her that I didn’t love her, maybe then she would be alive. As it stands now there’s nothing that you can do. She committed suicide because you could not give her back the love that she freely gave you. You look at her at the letter she left behind and hope that you’ll have the courage to read it. 

‘I’m sorry Aisha but I loved you only that I was afraid to tell you because SUCH IS LOVE …. Those whom we love never love us but those who love us we never love….


By Stanley Nyakado  

Photo credits [t.a.a.r.i.q] Find him on instagram https://www.instagram.com/t.a.a.r.i.q/?hl=en. One brilliant photographer. If people were like t.a.a.r.i.q the world would certainly be a better place to live. Cheers man.

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