It is seven in the a.m and the chilling cold outside is enough to make a grown man cry. With pain. This cold had me walking like a giant human popsicle. You ain’t even looking at the guy standing next to you cuz you think they might have some juju that will probably shift some of their cold to you. You literally giving everybody the ‘cold shoulder’ nakwambia.

And then ki-city hoppa pulls over and you breathe a chilled sigh of relief. Y’all at the stage looked like a smokers convention with the amount of steam y’all are bellowing and because the bus took like forever, you fantasized with the idea of being an actual smoker and blow off steam in spirals and short puffs and also dare try blow some off through your nose. In your head, you in a sunny Jamaican backyard in a vest and dungarees and the only smoke and steam around is from the choma you grilling and your tanned skin. Then some mama rudely crushes your perfect utopia by shoveling you over as she hustles to get in the bus. And you click loudly hoping she heard you and you also hustle your feet to get in the sixty something sitter.

The driver is your guy so he spots you and calls out your name but since u-highschool bado hujaisha, you decline a front seat bumpy experience and absolute control of the stereo and go darting your eyes on the aisle hoping nobody has occupied the back row twin seats. He is a good guy, remembers how you went on and on about Maina and King’ang’I so he puts classic on and you ease your chilled butt on the seat and close your eyes as Whitney Houston tell you how she gon’ ‘do it on her own’. You even snuggle like a fat cat and brace yourself for a two-hour bus ride to town. The warmth…

Your enemies of progress are at it again and before you finish hitting the note with Celine Dion , someone or something produces a chilling laugh that you only hear in horror movies as you watch through your big brother’s ripped Kanye shirt- na by the way, I think this guy has like a goup of skilled rodents who do his bidding and made him think he can be a fashion designer na zile shirts zake. The entire bus was obviously melting into Celine’s voice and they obviously pissed at this rude interruption so they spin their scarfed necks to find the source.

To this moment am yet to understand how tiny bodies of those three definitely alien girls could produce such chilling laughs.

They definitely groupies no doubt about that. They look like the kind to have insta names that read Diana Beiber and she has a cropped pic of her and le bae as proof of relationship. They the kind that say ‘oh mi gosh’ after every sentence and the entire conversations sounds like a helicopter ministries prayer cell for bro and sis Ocholla. Their Facebook names look like Egyptian hieroglyphs awaiting to be decoded. How do you expect God to bless you when your ma is praying for Damaris Kanario M’mpego and your handle reads Dar-mavies KandallJener Mcutexx?!!

Yeah, maybe it is a stage for young people to have these cliques and squads. They don’t encourage you to open back accounts or plan how to ace those mocks but with groupies, they tend to drain you. Y’all must have marching items be it shirts or shoes or even jewelry. Hawa wa city hoppa had similar purple and white mohawks and I assumed it was out of respect for the slayed champ, who knows?

So the giggling still goes on and on and I remember that maybe I, too was a groupie person. Though my clique was made up of bullies and more bullies hehe.

Now, the only circles I got encourage me to join Saccos.



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