I remember lying in bed, incapacitated, with darkened eyes and drips in my arm and all, looking like Whip Whitaker after the crash. I remember coming to and finding the nurse with her pen and pad in hand and ‘Cecilia’ tagged on the left side of her chest. I try to stand but she tugs my shoulder ever so gently and tells me something about how I’m still in bad shape and shouldn’t move. How it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’m okay. How everyone else from my regiment (I’m a high ranking casualty in this reverie of mine) has been fallen by the enemy, the cold. Unheeding to her words, I clutch against the drip-stand and stand to reveal the patterned hospital robe I have on. It’s the only thing I have on. Its straps are undone at the back so my bare ass is in the open but I care not about that. All I want is to leave. She rushes to my side of the bed, holds me so I don’t tumble over and insists that I shouldn’t stand. With my husky voice, I retort, “I gotta get outta here” and she asks “Why, sir? What is more important than your health?” I turn to her and shoot a disgruntled-Clint-Eastwood look and roar, “The blog damn it!”Read More »
Are you happy? Are you tired of being happy? Have you forgotten how it feels to be angry and moody? to be depressed and to contemplate stabbing yourself in the gut? Mmh? Do you long for all these feelings but at the comfort of your own home?
Here’s what you do.
1. Get a TV
2. Get a couch
3. Get a Tuesday
4. Lock off all sharp items somewhere out of reach.
5. Tune to Citizen TV at 7.30pm and watch an episode of Tahidi High.
6. Do this every Tuesday for a month.
You will feel a lingering pain in your lower gut, like a ball of acid just spilled somewhere in your duodenum area, and this pain will not go away until you satisfy the urge to tell people just how awful the show is.
It’s awful, people.
Listen, I don’t hate. Hating is not my thing. Let me tell you what my thing is: Dipping digestive biscuits in milk before I eat them. That’s my thing. Hating is too mitochondrial, too much a preoccupation. What I’m doing is making a commentary on something that everyone, deep down, knows is true.
90% of Kenyan TV is shit.
Don’t look at me like that, you know this. Let me ask you something: On your laptop I’m guessing you have a folder labeled ‘Muviez and Seriez‘, right? Okay. In this folder of yours, how many of these are Kenyan? Don’t even try and lie ’cause I know all you have there is Royals, Baby Daddy and some other shows that are ‘in’ right now.
So why don’t you have Tahidi High on your laptop? I mean, it’s still airing. Let me tell you why, cause it’s shit. And I firmly stand behind my sentiment that, like many other shows, Tahidi High has overstayed it’s welcome.
I loved Tahidi High as a kid. I lived for the antics of kina JeanJoyce and that tall, dark spiteful chick; Shirleen? Back then it was real and original. It had believable characters and relatable story. It was why I woke up on Tuesdays.
But now, *shaking head* its just… sad. I mean, I don’t think high-schoolers these days sneak out mid-lesson to smoke cigarettes in toilets with ties round their foreheads; do they? You can only show us that for so long before it gets old. I’m not going to go any further into the grits of why it (and Kenyan TV) is awful ’cause really it’s right there. All I’m going to say is high schoolers now, from what Rubadiri tells me, are burning schools and killing their fellow classmates in septic tanks.
Show us that; and make it realistic.
Thank you for listening.
By the way, have you seen the new Safaricom ad? The one that’s sloganed ‘Keep The Connections Going’ and has that beautiful track in the background. Eh that ad. Safaricom, those guys just nail ads .
Oh and while we are on this topic of television, For the next month I shall be keeping a super low profile; completely under the radar. See, I have received credible threats imminent from hooligans who are intent on ruining Game of Thrones for me.
For I say unto you, You will text/DM me but I will not reply. You will call me but I will not pick up. You will e-mail me but no sir, I will spam you. You will even go as far as to yell out my name when you spot me on Banda Street but brother I will run. Don’t even try, I smell spoilers from miles away.
I think someone who would intentionally blurt out spoilers for a show like Game of Thrones is not your friend. That is a sadist. That is someone who would strangle a cat then go get lunch.
I have a friend like that, his name is Brian Yego. He lives far away in the distant Rift Valley, somewhere on the fertile hills of Eldoret, where I picture he has a space in the homestead granary where he murders cats. He wants to spoil season 6 for me ’cause he knows I wait till it’s done airing so I can binge watch it. I don’t really fancy the show the way he does so I don’t get why he is so intent on giving me spoilers. He sends me texts like ‘mse umewatch episodd latest ya GoT?!!! JonSnow na Ned wamerudi! Nikugwan!‘ but often I can tell he’s pulling my leg so I call his BS. I text back, “Sharap, no way they’re back. Pereka huko” then I block him. He thinks its funny that stuff.
Yego, I am your alert. Niko rada yako.