𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/25/2025, 1:25:29 PM

Season 2 loading 😂😂😂

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/24/2025, 3:13:56 PM

https://ngl.link/klyrical_rhymes2/dealbreaker

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/26/2025, 4:57:46 PM

He has never opened the bible, he even doesn't know the book of Romans but yet he wants to open your legs and give you romance🤔😂😂😂

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/25/2025, 1:57:35 PM

*𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧 & 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞* *Ep 1* There’s something about salons that turns even the quietest women into seasoned talk show hosts. Maybe it’s the heat from the hairdryers, the chemical fumes, or just the sacred sisterhood of shared heartbreaks and hot gossip. Whatever it is, this particular Tuesday afternoon at Salon and Barbers Tattles was destined to be historic. Janet not her real name, the self proclaimed Queen of Lace Fronts and Gospel Karaoke, had just reclined into her chair, sipping a lukewarm Fanta, when in walked Belinda, high heels clicking like she was walking into a courtroom, not a salon. She wore oversized sunglasses indoors (because drama, obviously), a scarf that screamed “my husband doesn’t ask questions,” and a look on her face like she had tea hot enough to scald a bishop. The room tensed. Even the dryer stopped whirring. Chatter the stylist lowered her comb midnbraid. Something was about to erupt. “I have something to say,” Belinda declared, peeling off her shades like a telenovela villain. “And I can’t hold it in anymore. This weave has seen too much.” Now, in any other establishment, people would politely nod and return to scrolling Instagram. But this was Curls & Swirls. Here, confessions were currency. “I’ve been… involved,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect, “with our school chaplain back in high school” Gasps. Full bodied, chest clutching gasps. Janet choked on her Fanta and screamed, “As in Father Father? The one who ends mass with a smile and a Bible verse?!” Belinda nodded, eyes gleaming with the twisted satisfaction of dropping a nuclear bomb on basic morality. “Oh, sweet Moses on a motorbike,” mumbled Chatter, now fully invested. “Girl, you’re telling us you’re sleeping with a man who baptizes people?” Belinda shrugged. “Well, technically… he baptized me too. Twice. Once with holy water, and once with... you know what, never mind.” A moment of silence passed as everyone imagined the logistics of that particular sacrament. “But why?” someone finally asked, not out of judgment, but curiosity. Like asking why someone would voluntarily eat pineapple on pizza. Belinda rolled her eyes. “Because he listens, he is romantic, smells like incense and forbidden fruit. And when he recites scripture in Latin? Whew. That man could part the Red Sea with just his voice.” Janet fanned herself with a wig cap. “That’s not lust, darling. That’s possession. We need an exorcist.” Chatter leaned in, whispering like the walls had ears. “Did you confess?” “To him? Every time,” Belinda replied with a smirk that could curdle milk. “In private. Behind the choir stands. Once during a church retreat. It’s like sin, but make it premium.” The room was now in full hysteria. Even the owner, Mama Grace, who only came out during payroll, peeked her head from the office like a meerkat sensing scandal. Belinda sipped her juice like it was communion wine. “He called me his spiritual awakening.” Someone snorted. “More like his damnation.” And just like that, the dryers started spinning again, the scissors snipped, and the salon slipped back into its regular rhythm except now, every blowout was punctuated with side eyes and quiet murmurs about Father sins. Because in the holy halls of Curls & Swirls, there’s only one commandment that matters: Thou shalt not bore. And Belinda? She had just secured her place in the gospel according to gossip. *_What other story or gossip will drop next?_*

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/24/2025, 12:32:29 PM

*THE ART OF DECEPTION* *Story by Klyrical Rhymes* *Part 5/5* If pain had a post address, Adrian Mwangi now lived there. He fell for the one woman who saw through his mask and burned it, with a smile. But let’s rewind, because Nairobi doesn’t tell stories straight. It prefers irony over clarity and heartbreak served with sarcasm. Two Weeks Earlier. Evelyn’s Apartment, Kilimani. Zawadi kicked off her heels like she was dropping emotional grenades. “So what’s the plan now, Lady Vengeance?” Evelyn swirled her tea like a villain sipping poison. “We take him down slowly. With elegance. Think Lupita with a blade.” Zawadi cackled. “I live for this season.” Evelyn’s face, however, wasn’t playful. Behind her calm was grief, the kind that doesn’t scream, but simmers. It had taken her days to cry, and when she finally did, it was so silent even her own mirror looked away. She hadn’t just loved Adrian. She’d trusted him. And trust, in her world, was more dangerous than desire. So she turned pain into strategy. Adrian saw Bianca approaching the boardroom. Enter Bianca. Yes, that Bianca. The ex with a PhD in pettiness and unfinished business. She waltzed into Adrian’s boardroom like karma in heels, portfolio in hand and revenge in her purse. “I heard you need damage control,” she purred. Adrian stared. “You’re applying for PR?” She smiled. “No. I’m applying to ruin you slowly, legally, and with a killer wardrobe.” Jackson, seated nearby, whispered, “This is better than Netflix.” Adrian ignored him. He was hemorrhaging respect, losing investors, and the media smelled blood. But the worst part? He couldn’t stop thinking about Evelyn. Not the woman he seduced, but the one who sat on the floor of her NGO office, cradling a child’s drawing like it was gold. She had integrity. And that made his betrayal lethal. Evelyn on a local station when she was asked about Adrian. “I don’t hate him,” she told the journalist, in a tone more terrifying than rage. “He’s just... a reflection of what happens when brilliance forgets to be kind.” The journalist blinked. “You’re... forgiving him?” Evelyn tilted her head. “Oh no. Forgiveness is for healed people. I’m just choosing not to bleed in public.” Twitter exploded. #SoftRevenge trended. Adrian watched it unfold like a man strapped to a chair, forced to witness his own funeral, served in bite-sized hashtags. The city sprawled below, loud and alive. But the rooftop was silent. Just the two of them. Evelyn wore black. Again. Like grief. Or power. Adrian arrived, not in a suit, but a simple hoodie. The man who once played god now just looked... human. “I came to say I’m sorry.” Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker?” He laughed. “I deserve that.” She stepped closer. “No. You deserve worse. But I won’t give it to you.” “Why?” “Because you’re already living it,” she said. “I loved you, Adrian. With the parts of me that were still learning how to believe again. And you turned me into a case study.” He flinched. “Say something smart,” she challenged. “Come on. Give me a quote. A line. A speech.” But he had none. So she walked away. Again. But halfway down the stairs, he followed. He grabbed her arm. “Evelyn. Please.” She turned, fury sharp in her voice. “Do NOT touch me like I’m yours. You lost that privilege the minute you chose ego over honesty.” “I was scared,” he confessed. “For once in my life, I didn’t know how to win you. And that terrified me.” “Good,” she snapped. “Now you know how the rest of us feel, loving someone who might not choose you back.” “I do choose you.” She shook her head. “No. You choose to want me when it’s convenient. That’s not love. That’s selfishness with good branding.” There was silence,“I’m pregnant.” Pause. Rewind. Re-what? Evelyn stared him down. “I found out last week. No, I didn’t trap you. No, I’m not asking for anything. I just thought the man who built empires might want to know he created life too.” Adrian looked like his soul had been hacked. He opened his mouth but no words came. “You can leave now,” she whispered. And this time, he did. Evelyn stood before a crowd of women at her NGO launch event. “We’re not just teaching girls how to survive,” she said. “We’re teaching them how to win with integrity.” Thunderous applause. In the corner, unnoticed, Adrian watched. He wasn’t there to reclaim her. He was there because for once in his life, he wanted to witness greatness and not ruin it. And in his arms? A tiny baby barely three weeks old. His daughter. Evelyn had let him co parent, but not return. “You can be her father,” she’d said, “but not my man. That seat’s taken—by someone I haven’t met yet, but who won’t need to lie to love me.” Final Narration (Adrian’s voice): “They say love is a battlefield. But that’s a lie. Love is the truth that exposes who we really are. And me? I was a king of deception. Until she crowned me with consequences.” THE END. Or maybe... just the start of redemption.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/26/2025, 4:26:02 PM

They told us freedom had a price But never said it came with vice That ballots bend to greedy hands And justice sleeps We march in streets they never pave Name drop martyrs Hashtags echo, fists held high But change still flinches when we cry The preacher prays in tailored suits The cop reloads while chasing A classroom leaks, a slum collapses While wealth is passed They dress our pain in fancy words “Policy,” “growth,” “Tumetenga.” But every speech is just a game To shield a system built on shame Tell me, who builds and who breaks? Who feasts while the hungry fake A smile for crumbs, a dream for rent When hope itself feels counterfeit? Yet still, we rise, scarred With pens as blades, we lay truth bare They can't unwrite what we become The voice, the verse, the burning flame https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaWTkG2BPzjdJd9AeV3k ƘԼƳƦƖƇƛԼ ƦӇƳMЄƧ ™

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/28/2025, 5:35:15 PM

*𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧 & 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞* *Ep 2* It was a typical Nairobi Saturday afternoon at 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧 & 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐓𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞, where the smell of aftershave fought for dominance with cheap cologne and sweaty secrets. Football analysis was playing on mute because the real game was in the conversations. Three guys waited as DJ Moha worked the clippers like a surgeon, bantering between fades and relationship trauma. In the hot seat today: Brian, mid thirties, fitted jeans, Nike hoodie, and the face of a man who had seen some nonsense and lived to laugh about it. “Eh bana,” Brian said, as he settled into the chair and squinted at himself in the mirror, “you people ever lie to your wife with your full chest, like even the devil pauses and takes notes?” That was all it took. Every man in the room turned their full attention to him even Moha, who paused mid line up like the machine had jammed. Brian cleared his throat, enjoying the stage. “Wacha niwaambie. So my office gives me paternity leave, eh?One month paid. But I didn’t tell Wairimu. Why? Because I knew what would follow cleaning baby bottles, changing diapers, being sent to Quickmart every five minutes. Kwani niliitwa baba ama househelp?” The barbershop burst into laughter. “So what did I do?” he continued, brushing invisible lint from his hoodie like it was a podcast. “I dressed up every morning, kissed the baby, told Wairimu, ‘Babe, leo kuna board meeting,’ then left the house like a serious HR executive.” “Board meeting ya wapi?” asked Kevin, the guy waiting next. “Ngong Hills?!” Brian grinned. “Close. We went on a road trip. Me, Ken, Ochola, and Marcus. Our plan? Naivasha for a night, maybe Nakuru. Light drinks, fresh air. Boyz to Men things. But nooo… Marcus, that cousin of Satan, says, ‘Let’s keep going. Let’s see where the road takes us.’ Next thing I know, we’re in bloody Isiolo.” The room went quiet. Even the customer getting a beard trim leaned sideways to listen. “In Isiolo,” Brian said, “at a dodgy pub called The Camel Toe , no lie someone accidentally pays the bill with a fake note. Cops storm in like it’s a Netflix drama. We try to explain, but all they hear is ‘Nairobi men, fake money, no ID.’” Kevin leaned in. “Bro, kwani you didn’t carry your ID?” “I was on paternity leave,” Brian hissed. “I carried diapers and a warm flask , not identification. Wairimu even packed them in my ‘work bag.’” The room exploded again. Even Moha dropped his clippers and doubled over. “So now we’re in a cell, smelling like goat stew and regret. I looked at my phone and saw the devil himself smiling. What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi babe, I’m not in the boardroom I’m in Isiolo Cell Block C with Marcus and a guy named Kiptoo who thinks he’s Jesus’ cousin’?” “Did she come?” asked Moha, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, she came,” Brian sighed. “In my other car with the baby. She looked at me like I had stolen Jesus’ sandals. Didn’t say a word. Just handed the cop the fine, took the baby off her back and gave him to me.” He paused. “Then she left me there with the baby. Told me to ‘bond.’” Silence. Then wild, hysterical laughter. One guy even clapped. Brian shrugged. “Moral of the story? Don’t lie to your wife. Or at least, lie better than me.” Moha nodded solemnly. “Bro, you didn’t need a fade. You needed forgiveness.” “Facts,” Brian muttered. “But at least now I’ve done real paternity duty. In Isiolo.” And just like that, the clippers buzzed back to life, and the barbershop sank into a new wave of laughter and chaotic stories each man now wondering if they had the guts to outdo the Isiolo Incident.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/27/2025, 3:59:42 PM

You touched me like a question cast in fire not asking for answers but watching how I burn We were never mere bodies but elements you, the storm laced mercury me, the aching iron drawn to your chaos Your breath a spell spoken backwards undoing my calm unraveling me like silk spun from a sorcerer’s dream Fingertips mapped galaxies across the topography of my spine, and I, starbound drifted between gasps and gravity orbiting the fever of your name it was transmutation a dark chemistry where I died a little only to be reborn each time your mouth claimed mine https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaWTkG2BPzjdJd9AeV3k ƘԼƳƦƖƇƛԼ ƦӇƳMЄƧ ™

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎 🫀 💬✒️

5/24/2025, 12:38:37 PM

I’d steal the moon And paint her name on every crater Whisper to stars till they blink in her favor I'd walk barefoot through chaos and flame Just to hear her laugh or whisper my name I’d hold back time, rearrange fate Turn war to peace at love’s gate No logic, no limit, no line I won’t cross To love her loud, no matter the cost https://whatsapp.com/channel/0029VaWTkG2BPzjdJd9AeV3k ƘԼƳƦƖƇƛԼ ƦӇƳMЄƧ ™