MR KOTIKOTI

I went to high school with my editor. He was one class ahead of me and proud as fuck. I don’t get the source of such hubris. Back then he was short, small and stout. I hope he’s grown tall. He couldn’t turn up in an argument where rugby folks were involved. He watched from a distance, shouting in rebellion once in a while but steered clear of the big boys, like me.

My high school was keen on promoting talent. Thus, one time, as the year drew to a close, a talent showcase was held. In Nandi, they call it ‘Talent splash’. All you had to was show a peculiar talent and walk away with a cool 300 bob and stamps to buy bread. It was a cool thingamajig, with a professional DJ in attendance. Not those guys who use Virtual DJ on their worn-out laptops and convince themselves that they are Mix Masters. They nurse dreams of being the next Joe Mfalme but we all know that they are better off if they give up on such dreams.

In the last Talent splash before the editor left the school (remember he was a class ahead), he headlined a speech contest. I was also participating but anyone who knows me will tell you I can’t give speeches for shit. Peer pressure pushed me to register for the event. Form three boys howling at me.

“Osoch you’re the king of Speeches! Nani kama wewe. Kuongea wewe ni champion. You will win by landslide! You’re the Cock of speeches.” (Cockerel that is.)

Even though I perfectly knew that speeches weren’t my thing, I signed up. My friends had hyped me too much. I felt confident, I could walk into parliament and give a state of the nation address. Heck! I could even go to Washington and address the house of Congress. I was feeling pretty good with myself.

The competition began. That moment homeboy took the microphone, I knew I was toast. There was no way I would be winning anything. The bastard was too good. This is how he started his speech.

“The dynamics of American politics have shifted greatly since the entry of Donald Trump in the presidential race. The self-made business Mogul…..”

The word which changed everything, ‘Dynamics’, which high school student would use such a word to describe politics? I knew he’d won before the rest of us even had the microphone.

From then on, I hated him. We did not see eye to eye. How can such a short guy beat me in the facilities of language? Actually, we never interacted. But to this day, he accuses me of stealing his novels. Allegations I won’t comment on. A boy got to read.

First forward in 2019, a lot has changed. He sent me a friend request on Facebook and we got talking. After a while, I realised that he wasn’t much of an ass. He is a nice guy. We share views on lots of matters, and we would text into the night. Arguing about violence against the feminine gender and such. Stuff, I am sure your bitchy boyfriends don’t talk about. They would rather argue about Ronaldo’s ratings on FIFA. Or what that boy band… what was the name? Ethic.

Anyway, when the blog readership reached a certain threshold, I decided, you know what, we need an editor. Over 11k folks can’t be showing up monthly in this space and they get half baked stories. We needed someone to go over these tales before I unchain them to the world. I had him in mind with a certain lady friend. Both have an analytical eye, but I settled on him. Women can be hard to deal with when it comes to deadlines.

“Lisa*, I need copy. It goes on air tomorrow.”

Silence.

“Come on Osoch, I will be done in a few minutes. Be patient.”

Three hours later. 

“Lisa, what is your definition of a few minutes and patience?”

More silence.

On the morning the story should go up.

“I am sorry Osoch, I forgot my laptop in school. I went for a sleepover at my boyfriend’s place.”

Because I don’t want her to catch major feelings, I reply. “Cool, I understand.”

But what I really want to say is, “While you were fucking, I sat up waiting for copy. Do you know readers will crucify me if it doesn’t go up?”

In any case, I reached out to him and he agreed to be my editor. And furthermore, he wouldn’t be charging me. I almost fist bumped the ceiling. I wanted to tell him that he was a good man, may the Lord open his ways. That he was smart and knew that a campus dude had no money to pay. But I held my horses, that would be sounding uncivilised. And who wants to be a bush guy? Not me.

Our relationship has been great these past months. We’ve talked about lots of stuff. Women, alcohol, weed, careers, purpose, what does life really mean? He’s the kind of guy we can argue from morning to evening. Once in a while, when the pocket is smiling, we meet up for coffee (he doesn’t drink) and we argue more. 

In the past week, our bromance hit the rocks. He sent me an email. He was whining about how he feels he has been left behind and how underappreciated he was.

“Oh please! What do you want?” I shot back, “Flowers and chocolate?”

He shot back.

“Don’t be a bitch. Anyway, I am concerned about the stories we are airing on the blog. They are too masculine.”

“What do you expect? They are written by a man, edited by a man. And none of us supports the feminism and misandry bullshit.”

“I don’t mean it that way, it reads like a gay blog.”

That rocked me. Threw me off balance actually. I made a mental note ‘Reads like a gay blog.’

“Why would you say that? That is treason you’re suggesting.”

“I don’t find any stories from women. You should consider having women as guest writers. We are not in the 18^th century or something.”

I thought about it, he had a point. We need lady stories in this blog. The funny part, seventy percent of fans here are women, thus it would be fair if we heard the tales they have to share.

We want to read the stories you women hide behind those smiles of valour and layers of make-up. If you’re a fighting single mother, drop us a line. Those who want to remain spinsters forever, this is your platform. And do you want to describe your first time with a man? Please write to us, we wish to read that from a woman’s perspective.  Just be courteous with language, don’t be too graphic. If a man has never touched you, do reach out. How does it feel to be pure, unsullied? Which type of man would you allow into your life? What makes you avoid men?

One time I talked to a campus chick, in her second year, she opened up about her sexual experiences. Had slept with over twenty-four men.  She was a beauty that one and wished to add me to her body county. I disappeared before she had me for lunch. And those are the kinds of stories we want to hear. What would drive a chick to want to sleep with so many men? Aren’t our bodies temples of the lord? Or everybody is welcome into the temple?

Were you raped? Did a man force himself on you? Let us know. How has the experience affected you? Would you forgive the man responsible or you would drive a dagger through his throat? Will you ever trust a man with your body again?

We want to hear stories of women from Turkana or a village deep in Nyandarua. And rural outposts where the network is a bitch and they’ve come to the city and they are making a name for themselves.

Tales of defiance. Going against the norm. Swimming against the tide and the hope to win, fuel which keeps them going. Like a fading light at the end of the tunnel.

P.S.

If you have a story, any story, send it to momanyiosoro133@gmail.com in a word document. 1300-1700 words. Your identity will be protected if you want. Salute.

Word has gone around about the passing of Binyavanga Wainaina. A great literary icon, my biggest Kenyan influence. May his soul rest in peace. 

Photo credits[Dolphine Obare.]