Mjengo indeed

reply to... mjengo story. Yes... those flat chapos with no salt or sugar. Those big hard hands callous and rough. Those sweaty breasts; that money that smells like breasts and God Forbid! ass!!. That dad that was crashed to smithereens when coming drunk and blind from Waragi/Methanol/Ethanol mix. The other dad who died of Cholera and other who just ran to shags, his last words... "fuck it". Those shoes ... sole-less and usually gaping.... and those dusty faces exposed to the unforgiving brunt of the African sun .. Those parched lips... holding those gaps of missing teeth.... Those guys, are what? happy with their lives? Really? This is not just ironic! It is evil. As you caress the Maasai-beaded steering of your old-school limited edition E class and massage your nuts in your Gucci underpants... picking out the bits of nyama choma from Kenyatta market with wooden tooth picks. And as the remaining strands of your balding head dance to the beat of your A/C in that jam... with that Nancy with the sultry slutty voice and big breasts sitting where Lucy with the big ass sat yesterday... on the beige Napa leather of your front passenger seat... probably laughing at your joke and holding your knee coz "heee biko...you are just too funny"... I mean... as you touch the cold gold pendant on your necklace and look at the swarm of workers flooding your road.... you'd imagine that you can be a judge of their happiness?!?? Well... to put it simply. If any of those God forsaken day laborers was asked to give one of their hands to be you... they stick out the hand closest to the blade without a moment's hesitation. And you know. That's the sad truth. This is a feel good anecdote for the rich by the rich about people hustling to survive. A low blow... A typical one dimensional story told from a bird eyes view... a half-blind bird flying a little too high.