Kenyan Madness Abroad

Will this turn out to be the elusive outlet for me to unleash my creative genius on an unsuspecting world? Or is it destined to be nothing more than a hi-tech pen and pad chronicling the ramblings of a delusional mind? You be the judge ... Just so ya know there's a disclaimer: This blog contains strong language and some adult situations. Viewer discretion is advised.

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Location: United States

Cultural, expressive, thoughtful dude. It's not all good though coz I am also an internet addict, and a sometime stalker too. But I am happy to say I am in therapy for the internet thing :)

Tuesday, December 24

Christmas Experiences

One of my first jobs in the US was during the Christmas season some years ago. I got a gig at a small time strip mall as one of Santa Clause's little elves. My job was basically to make sure the kids stood in line for pictures, and then give them their gifts as they sat on Santa's lap.

I had applied for a job as Santa but I was turned down for a couple of obvious reasons: One, I was too black and two I was too skinny. Si u jua the way most Kenyans are usually thin kwanza in those Freezer jeans? I was one of those ... infact I was so skinny my back pockets were touching coz my diab had kwishad from criss-crossing tao on foot pursuing a visa, MMR vaccines, bank draft, and various other documents that were needed to enable me to travel.

So here I was during Christmas time dressed as Santa's elf in a tight green costume which embarrassingly showed a little too much at the front causing me to kinda lean forward at the waist to reduce frontal exposure.

One day I reported to work with a running stomach. Maybe I had not yet adjusted to American food. Or maybe that murram I had bebad from home a month earlier had gone bad. Whatever the reason, it was not a good outcome.

The whole morning I was jikazaring and fighting an almighty urge to rush to the bathrooms. My stomach was making those Chirooooooo sounds when its about to be on like a mofo. Mpaka the little white kiddos were asking "Santa, what's that sound?" when they were standing next to me. And that forward-leaning pose was not helping matters any. Infact it was increasing the pressure on my abdomen.

It was about noon time when the most number of paros were there with their children when my stomach could hold it no longer. I had bent to pick up one of the kiddos when I heard a Trooot sound. I dropped the kid fearing the worst and gritting my teeth in an almighty clench (that is rarely seen outside of Hollywood movies where the hero is barely clinging onto a helicopter hovering over the city with nothing but his bare fingertips), dashed off to the toilet holding my rear end with both hands grunting, "Woi! ...nggggg .... Nini sasa? ..... ngggggg ..... Gai fafa!"

I got to the bathroom just in time and really tore up the joint. I finally emerged dripping in sweat and looking like I had wrestled with Hulk Hogan. I don't mean to brag (if there are any bragging rights to be had by such a feat) but judging from the looks I was receiving, the incadescent aroma could be savoured from as far off as the parking lot. There was my boss waiting for me with my cash for the day. He told me he never wants to see me again ... Oh, and I can keep the uniform!


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