Has something so soul-sucking ever happened that made you so certain that Lucifer is actually alive and kicking? That one evening the devil sent God an email (wasn’t he the rogue angel who broke away from heaven and started his own Finger of God? So yeah, he still has God’s email address) and wrote;
I hope this finds you well….OK, I don’t. Hehe. I hope those annoying harps in heaven have finally messed up your eardrums. We are good down here in hell I will have you know – nothing much happening other than the usual gnashing of teeth. Hehe. Come on, Lord, that’s funny, lighten up. (See what I did there? Lighten up?…no?)
Anyhuuu [note: it’s the devil that started this annoying word by the way] I will make this very brief because I know you have “lost flock” to go gather. It’s about Biko. Not Soko Analyst, the other annoying one with a large forehead. I know he tries to pray when he wakes up and I know you said that I shouldn’t harass him too much because his curse is his forehead (good one by the way), but I have been thinking about it and I have decided that I take great exception at him writing about those lanyards. I especially don’t like how he said some bad stuff about Airtel’s t-shirts – I’m wearing one right now so I don’t know what the hell (sic) he means when he makes disparaging statements about these rocking tee’s. I believe he was knocking my style but nobody knocks the devil’s style. I can’t let such acts of foolishness go unpunished otherwise there will be guys like him running around twitter making fun of my wardrobe choices.
I’m writing to let you know that I will be having my revenge. I would appreciate if you didn’t intervene. Or if you must, give me some time to have my fun at least.
Yours (not technically, of course).
Lucifer. A.K.A Satan.
Ps. By the way, congratulations on making Blatter do the right thing by resigning. I was tired of him anyway. He was messing up the rotation down here.
Of course God receives this email as he is about to take his stroll in the gardens, rolls his eyes and marks it as spam. Before he steps out he picks up the phone and dials 329-29, angel Gabriel picks up and he tells him, Satan wants to throw Biko under the bus. Angel Gabriel is like Steve Biko? I thought he died during apartheid? God is like, No, Bikozulu! Angel Gabriel is like, Who is that? God sighs and says, My goodness! What do you read online, man? And Angel Gabriel is like The Huffington Post….um, I meant the Bible. Anyway, why does he want to throw this Bikozulu guy under the bus and why can’t we let him? And God says, Because he wrote about some lanyards and Airtel tshirts and he says he felt insulted because he owns one, but we can’t let him throw Biko under the bus because we already gave him an extremely large forehead! Angel Gabriel laughs and says, Oooh, that forehead guy, si you should have said that kitambo? God says, Anyway, make sure Satan doesn’t go overboard like he did with that girl’s weave for yesterday. Or what he did with Job.
Yes, Job…from the Bible? The one you said you read?
So last week the devil threw me – not under a bus – but under a small car. But that’s not even the worst part, the worst part is that it was a small car owned by a woman.
Look, I see people complain on twitter about traffic jam or lousy bosses or clients from hell or Kenya Power. I see people whining about something that a politician did. Or about Monday in general. But you haven’t had a lousy day until you have hit a woman’s car in traffic.
It was technically my fault. No, actually it was the devil’s fault. So I’m waiting to turn left from Marcus Garvey Road onto Argwings Kodhek, right? In front of me is a new Mazda, a KCC something something H. The colour of the spoon sticking out of little bratty kids’ mouths in Runda. We have both indicated left and I’m concentrating at looking at the cars coming from right. What happens is that I assume that the Mazda has already turned onto the road and left and so I do the natural thing & I turn onto the road…only to realise, a bit too late, that she hasn’t moved and bang, I’m kissing her mazda ass. It’s a ka small thud, but a thud all the same.
I turn on my hazards, adjust my Deny-hat and step out of my vehicle to inspect the damage. At the same time this lady steps out holding a phone and I’m like Oh shit, just what I need today. Just my luck! I’ve seen before what ladies do to men who have hit their car. It’s ugly. They don’t take prisoners. It normally takes a sexist route very quickly if you say the wrong word. Just one word and she will be like, Are you saying because I’m a woman I can’t drive? Then you will be like, Oh come on, I didn’t say that! Here is a home truth, you hit a woman’s car, especially from behind, don’t say nothing. Anything you say will be twisted. It’s worse if it’s her first car! If it’s her first car, you’re safer insulting her hair than hitting her car.
Anyway, the damage to her car is not big, no scratch on the paintwork, just a dent inside, something a mechanic can just hit once and it pops back into shape.
She’s wearing flat shoes, but going by her dress her heels are on the floor by the passenger side. She’s about 29 or early 30’s. Probably drinks lots of water at her desk (read; glowing skin). About 5’6” tall. Chocolate. She has these thick braids that curl like serpents on top of her head. (Lucifer hiding in there, maybe? No? Disappointed is me.) No lipstick. Large breasts. A big-faced gold dress-watch on a thin wrist. No earrings. Or necklace.
When she comes out of the car she shoots me this disgusted look as if I’m the one who has serpents on my head. Like I’m a scumbag. She looks at the dent.
The hell? She says.
Not too bad, at least the paint isn’t scratched.
Are you kidding me? The paint is scratched!
Uhm, not really.
So she bends and runs her palm over the dent and then points with a finger (she has chipped blue nail polish) and says sarcastically, This, to me, looks like chipped paint!
I want to point out that that is an old chip, and you would have to use a microscope to see it. But I tell her that this is something my mechanic can fix quickly.
I don’t know your mechanic, she sniggers, to imply that my mech is incompetent.
He does great body work, this will be fixed.
No, we have to take it to my mechanic. I don’t take my car to strange garages.
Then she walks away, shaking her head while bringing her phone up to her ear.
Look, I don’t know why ladies normally get all worked up during these small fender benders. Why froth at the mouth and act like the world has stopped spinning because you hit their car. And what’s with the raised voice? There is never any reason to raise your voice. I swear if you just speak in a normal tone, you will be heard. And then there is always someone she knows in a passing car who rolls down her window and asks, Sheila, kwani what happened? And she rolls her eyes at you and tells her, HE happened, I’m sooo pissed off I don’t even know! Then her pal shoots you a dirty look and tells her, Call the cops, aki pole! Call me girl. And she drives off.
Only she doesn’t call the cops or her mechanic, she calls her man.
Ladies, will you please stop doing that? Stop calling your men when you are involved in a small fender bender! Unless they are also your mechanic. Your men can’t help you. Everyday, there are hundreds of men in this city walking out of important meetings to hear a rant about a small scratch on the car. Well meaning, hard working men are losing 10-mins of their precious time holding the phones to their ears, I say holding because they can’t get a word in edgewise. The lady just rants and rants and rants and then before he says anything she says, Let me call you back and you are left wondering, do I wait outside this meeting room until she calls back or do I walk back in and walk back out again when she calls? Then before you make up your mind you phone starts pinging with about 30 whatsapp pictures of what is supposed to be the most tragic accident in Nairobi. Life, as you know it, MUST stop!
As the lady paces up and down, spewing hate into the phone, (I catch words like “babe”, and “blind” and “some guy” and “bat”…or maybe it was “butt”) I stand there like a schoolboy who had been caught sneaking out of class early. By this time traffic has backed-up to Jogoo road & people have started ranting on Twitter about the insane traffic jam. I really wished she would get off the phone so that we can sort this out before Christmas especially since I hadn’t even said I was blameless.
Here is what I noticed though. As other motorists drove around this carnage that could have been easily sorted out with dialogue, I noticed how the male motorists gave me that sympathetic look. The one that said, they’d hate to be you. That look you give someone who has gout.
She finally gets off the phone with “babe” and I’m wondering, Is Babe coming over to put me across his knees and spank me with a big stick? Is Babe going to leave his desk unmanned and come rap me over the knuckles with a ruler? And, pray, what unprecedented judgement would mighty Babe pass on poor me? Is this how my life ends, at the merciless hands of a lady with chipped nails? The devil has surely won.
Let’s wait for the cops. She declares with her hands defiantly across her chest.
Cops? Is that necessary? I ask.
Yes, I think they should come and decide who is on the wrong.
I am in the wrong, we don’t need a cop to decide. Look, this is simple take your car to the mechanic and I will pay for the damage.
I have meetings you know! How will I move around? Will you pay for my cab?
I come oh so close to telling her, No, but I will pay for your manicure. But I try to recall some verse in the book of Ecclesiastes 7 or something which says, Be not quick in your spirit to become angry, for anger lodges in the bosom of fools.
She walks away in a huff, leans on her door and starts going through her old messages. Suddenly a skinny cop shows up – I hate skinny cops by the way, they don’t yield, they are stubborn and they don’t negotiate. The cop comes and asks, Kuna shida? And in my head a little voice says, Hakuna shida, officer, tuna relax tu hapa kwa intersection na huyu mrembo ana kucha mbaya.
The skinny cop looks at the damage and says it’s not bad, that we can sort it out, so could we remove these cars from the road immediately? We drive and park by Chaka Road and, still with hands across her chest, she rolls her eyes all the way to the back of her skull when I tell her I will offer her 1,500 bob. (I know, hehe). After 30mins or serious pulling and tagging we finally agree on 3K. I pay her and she gets into her car and drives off without even giving me a hug. (Nkt).
Babe never showed up.
This is to all female drivers on our roads. Accidents aside, why don’t most of you ever see the need to give us way? Most women drivers will NOT give you way. A huge ball of fire could be headed your way but she will not let you get in, she will stare straight ahead under her huge shades, chin defiantly thrust forward like she’s a soldier in a passing parade. You will burn and die in your lane, my friend. But you should see them when they want to join, how they roll down their windows and flash you those smiles like you have genes that they might want for their babies and you know it’s a ruse, but you always fall for the smile and let them in. I know the Bible says do good without expecting anything in return but would it kill y’all to say thanks when we let you in?
Of course for every mean female driver there are about five great ones. May God keep blessing these five drivers. May he stop lucifer from standing in the way between you and reverse parking.