If you honk at me when the lights have just turned
green, I will put on my hazard and pretend the car
has stalled. If you cut me off on the road I’m like an
elephant, I won’t forget, I will trail you to your house.
And report you to your wife. I silently curse those
chicks who drive VW Polos and who are adversely
allergic to acceleration lanes. You know them. The
pesky ones who will have cars backup because they
are waiting to join the road when Kingdom finally
comes. I’m that guy who will eat his shoelace first
before he lets anyone overlapping join traffic. I will
eat my whole shoe if it’s a Probox.
I just don’t let things go on the road. I’m vindictive. I
curse. I sometimes show the royal middle- finger. I
find little mirth on the road and even less in driving.
I’m a basket case when my foot is on the pedal.
If I’m a prick off the road on the road I’m a first-class
prick. I allow things to foul up my whole morning: I
will walk around mumbling to myself, cussing under
my breath, feeling lava flow in my veins. I’m
inconsolable. Incurable. Irredeemable. Anger is my
co-driver on the road.
There is something evil I’ve always wanted to do.
Normally while dropping off the princess to school in
the morning I usually get off Waiyaki Way and join
Musa Gitau Rd into Lavington. In the mornings there
are usually this bunch of matatus that illegally join
Waiyaki Way by cutting right across Waiyaki Way
from Musa Gitau Rd thus blocking the guys like me
joining in. It’s the single-most selfish thing anyone
can do on the road in the morning.
I’ve always wanted to block one of these morons
before they join, get out of the car and thrust the
cold business end of a pistol in the driver’s mouth
and then proceed to politely ask him to suck it. I
obsess about this. To see fear in the man’s eyes. To
imagine the chap on the passenger seat gasp and
coil away from him. To imagine this insolent and
insensitive matatu driver wetting his pants and seat
as he chokes on the muzzle. I want this ghastly and
graphic experience to leave that matatu driver with a
bad (metallic) taste in his mouth. Every time he’s
eating and he’s bringing a spoon to his mouth, I want
him to remember that morning in traffic and how he
would have killed to wear an adult diaper before
leaving the house that morning.
And this is the only reason I can never acquire a
firearm: because I will shoot a matatu driver at the
drop of a coin.
There are two types of middle-class men in Nairobi
today: The ones who own firearms and those who
don’t. The ones who own guns are also categorised
into two classes; the Gunslingers and the Good
Fellas. The Good Fellas are guys who acquire firearms
for responsible reasons; for sport or genuine personal
protection. Forget the loudmouths in bars who like
saying, “wuot is money?” these guys handle real
money and they need guns for protection. This guy
won’t pull out a gun on a whim, no matter how badly
your provoke him but when he does, he will fire it.
The Gunslingers are those who buy guns to
compensate for their premature ejaculation. Now I
want to make it clear that this article is about the
latter not the Good Fellas. So let’s not get it twisted.
In socio-economic context the middle-class and
upper-middle class are the most concerned about
personal safety. They want guns. You heard of
GunPolicy.org? It’s an online portal that provides
accurate evidence-based country-by-country
intelligence on gun violence, gun control and policy.
According to them there were some 40,000 guns in
private hands in Jan. And that’s just the legal guns.
There are folk out there with illegal guns in their
Subarus, just waiting for you to annoy them on the
road or look at their women for a second longer than
necessary in the bars, then they will have a reason to
brandish one in your face.
The most common firearm in Nairobi in private hands
in Nairobi, according to an informed source who
packs a gun himself, is the Ceska 75D.
If you Google this gun you might understand why it’s
common by just looking at it; it’s kinda sexy; a little
over 1kg, 106mm in length and 120mm barrel length
(can fit perfectly in a big matatu driver mouth). She
uses a 9mm bullet, which goes for anything between
70bob and 120bob apiece. This bullet can travel at a
speed of about 9.8m per second so it’s unlikely a
matatu driver can outrun it if he tried. Any cat with
rudimentary training can hit anything smaller than
an elephant with it as long as it isn’t more than 50m
away. Which means a guy drunk out of his shorts will
can still nail you with it at the parking outside Brew
Bistro should you cross him.
The Ceska 75D costs anything between Ksh 180k to
200k, the price of a small “ka-prot” in the bowels of
Isinya. If you think 180bob for a bottle of beer is theft
you most likely can’t afford a Ceska 75D. It’s for the
I can assure you that VAT isn’t your worst nightmare.
A Ceska in the hands of a Gunslinger is. It gets
nastier if he is either drunk or is in the presence of a
woman he’s trying to impress. Which, when you
think about it, is the same thing really.
In fact you would rather a thug pulled a gun on you
because a thug just needs your money – or your car –
then he will be on his way and will most likely not
harm you if you don’t try your tattered Stephen
Seagal chops. But when a Gunslinger pulls a gun on
you it’s a different kettle of fish; he doesn’t really
want anything from you other than to arouse
something in him that, unfortunately, has got
nothing to do with you. He wants to feel important.
Revered. Powerful. Respected. He weakly feeds off
your fear. You are only but a mannequin onto which
he hangs these frivolous ambitions.
You see them, these Gunslingers, at parties and bars.
Swaggering in like a man with a big secret. Feeling
like he has mufasa nuts. You can always tell a man
who has a gun and a man who has Jesus. The man
with a gun might just shade your blood, but the man
with Jesus won’t, because Jesus already did. You will
realise that the Gunslinger is cocky even before he
cocks his gun. His gun is a told for many trivial and
often complicated pursuits but what is most
saddening is that its supreme role is that he uses it
as a cock. The Gunslinger has transferred his
manhood to the butt of the gun. The gun does things
that he wouldn’t do without it. Makes him what he
can never be. He will make other men cower. He will
make women cower. In his head he’s a hero, the
saviour of the metropolis, the sheriff who keeps
everybody in line. And we are all peasants before his
barrel who’re undeserving of nay a word.
I’ve only seen a gun only twice in real life and it’s not
as sexy as when you Google one. It’s like gangrene.
Have you seen an old septic jigger wound? Yup. A
gun’s ugliness is what it personifies.
First time it was pointed at me by this thugs who
took away my Nokia 5110, my first phone in 2001. I
didn’t have time to have a good look at the gun; I
was busy trying control my urethra. By the way there
should be a rule against pointing a gun at another
man when he’s in the presence of his woman, his
child or his dog. A gun to your face strips one off
every single fibre of his manhood. It makes you
feeble. Takes away your sex and wells up such
horrifying and embarrassing fear in you that you
never imagined existed. And it turns you into the gun
handler’s bitch. It’s unfair to place a man in that
situation. If you want another man to be your bitch,
at least buy him a leash first.
The second time I saw a gun was very fleetingly
when some guy was showing some two ladies this
gun outside a large parking lot at a hang. He was
maybe in his early 40’s. He was holding it,
unwrapped in a brown paper bag. The women
gawped at it. When our eyes met momentarily he
gave me one of those cocky looks. That look that said
he was the man. Like he was Samuel l Jackson. I
doubt if Samuel L would wrap a gun in a brown paper
The Gunslinger acquires a gun because he lacks. He
might be successful businessman or have good
connection in the government, but he still needs to
fill that void. Money and status can’t bring him that,
he needs to smell fear off you to feel like the man.
At this rate you will soon meet this Gunslinger. In
bar. In traffic. At a party. He will point it at you,
hoping to put the fear of the gun in you. But you
won’t try and be a hero. The only heroes before the
gun are dead. So you will let him hold your nuts for
you. Because that’s what this is about, a man
rendering you useless before him.
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