"The hardest time in a man’s life is exposing his manhood in front of his crush." I was invited to a graduation ceremony in Kampala. Who was I to say no? Me that a black dog licked my legs… "How could I say no. I am the real Kuumira Kuumira. I booked a bus to Uganda and pap! I was in the land of Sebo. Uganda is very different from Kenya. After the graduation party, we had to paint Uganda red—the Kenyan way. We went from party to party. Kenyans will always be Kenyans. We got to this club, and Njoro barked orders at the waiters: “Chafua meza ijae!” 😂😂😂 We were celebrating his hard work. Besides chewing books to PhD level, Njoro’s throat is eternally thirsty for beer. The son of Mt. Kenya irrigates his throat with dozens of beers. Did I mention that in Uganda, a beer goes for 80 bob? With Ksh 1,000, you can get ten bottles. And have I told you that Ksh 33,000 is over a million shillings in Uganda? 😂😂😂 The waiter replied, “Hatuwezi jaza meza, tunaleta moja moja.” To which Njoro clapped back: “Pesa ni yangu! Leta pombe ujaze hii meza ama tuhame!” Ugandans drink one bottle at a time; Kenyans don’t operate like that. We partied hard. Ugandans were in awe of how Kenyans consume alcohol. “Funika meza kabisa!” After partying and shopping, it was time to return home. On the bus, I sat next to a mzungu lady who talked like a typewriter. I started throwing millet—she was hot and seemed to enjoy my vibe. Then... shit happened. We were in Kericho when the bus diverted into a forest at night. We didn’t think much of it at first. But when the bus stopped and the lights came on, we saw three guys standing outside, waving guns. “Kila mtu inje! Na usijaribu kushika simu!” In the middle of the night, we were frog-marched outside the bus. “Kila mtu atoe nguo aweke kwa hii bag!” I looked at my mzungu friend—yaye piny tek. “Kennedy, what is he saying?” she asked. “They’re saying we remove our clothes and place them in that bag,” I replied. The hardest time in a man’s life is exposing his pendulum in front of his crush. They took everything and loaded it onto a canter. They left us all—men, women, children—in Adam suits. Then they punctured all the tyres and took the ignition key. We had to split—women and children at the front, the men followed behind. Despite the darkness, I could spot some elongated pendulums swaying in the wind. Libido doesn’t care that you’re in a crisis. Every time a car passed by, we dashed into the bushes. After some time, we didn’t even bother hiding. Some motorists thought they’d encountered wachawi wa Kisii. We finally reached Kericho Police Station. The OB light was on—but who could move forward to record a statement while butt-naked? Kenyan police are funny. One officer flashed his torch at us, and we were all in our birthday suits—ndethe! The kind officers went to their houses and brought us clothes. Mungu awabariki sana. A bus was arranged for us, and we made our journey back to Nairobi. My mzungu companion was in shock, but I calmed her down—with millet, and strong hands to console her. Two days later, she called: “Wamacups, can we meet in town for some good moments before I travel abroad?” Do I need to tell you how I fully represented my community? Good morning, my people All rights reserved