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When Anger Drove me to Push Boundaries (Part 1)

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Stony

Village Elder
#1
Now that my heart valves are starting to flap as they threaten to quit like those of Guka, I believe it is time the likes of Mtoto mzima had an opportunity to learn from some mistakes of my youth. In the same spirit, pink handles accommodating present and future Gukas will get the rare chance to learn a few lessons on how to handle invalids when the task at hand involves harnessing vertical motion to fulfill horizontal desires ( I hope I didn’t lose some ‘civilians’ with that intellectual exude, sometimes I veer in that direction involuntarily).

First off, the pink handles. You need to take cognizance (oops, here I go again) of the fact that mortals have never faired very well in raising the dead. It takes earnest prayers to my ancestors, exemplary persuasion skills, and lots of meditation to convince my circulatory system that the boneless appendage in my never region needs to hog the blood supply for five minutes to pleasure the pink handle under my roof. While am multitasking to get this fellow to rise up, please do not interrupt with conversations that are not related to the task at hand. If you absolutely have to open you mouth, use it to massage the limp fellow to life; or at least say something that will make my brain cells fire sparks. It offends me when you start planning your next salon visit aloud while am trying to bring the rear view image of Vera Sindika into focus to get the poor fellow to rise. You should tell me how much I pleasure you with my joy stick; tell me you are all humid with succulent lips waiting to feel the mad thunder of a possessed animal. These encouraging words, together with the benevolence of my ancestors, are enough to give me some life to see me through the five minutes or so. Unlike you pink handles, men were created to be honest. It is either you are present or not. You cannot fake it. And no, Viagra does not tolerate protesting hearts, especially those that have been forced to admit alcohol in the list of viable circulatory fluids.

I now go to the second part of my discussion, which broadly targets the XXX, Fvck, and Shiet! generations. When you see me walking about with my head bowed, do not pass judgment. You would never tell that my baggage track trails longer than that of my brother from Stoke City, he who owns the famous garbage truck. The one man who has transgressed further than any mortal is allowed to in one lifetime. Records have it that a close friend of this brother used to bang invalids and handicapped pinks for a buck. Knowing the brother for who he is, I can confidently postulate, with my balls on the anvil, that he wasn’t too far off from the action. I am not sure why he hesitates to come clean on this one. If you ask me, it’s one heck of a job. I would envy such a position, and so would every goat on this floor, including the village high priest. By the way if I ever set foot in England, I would never bother searching for work. I would simply set up a ‘Buck for a Fvck’ agency to offer pleasure services to female in the target segment. And may be recruit distinguished talent like Kidinyi and Uweskamua for backup, while my brother serves as the lead specialist in threesomes and up. We might also consider… …… The village butcher???? No,no,no. Let’s stop at that. We can’t afford to start with lawsuits. I hold nothing against this man. He is intelligent but seems not to have undergone much cultivation.

Kindinyi would man the mobile unit, which I’m sure would benefit immensely from his vast experience gathered between Luthuli and Kirinyaga road. By the way, if you can sample five pokos in a space of 8 hours, you need to enquire with the Guinness world records; they might just have an entry for you. It baffles me that I need a lot of intervention to engage Mama Boii in a second round even after a six-hour interval of good sleep. I marvel when I look back at my youth when, after nabbing the random poko, I would lose count of the rounds by midnight; all in efforts to drive the per-shot cost as low as possible. If you paid 60 bob for a long chase (today’s wakulala), it was customary to bring down the per unit cost to 6 bob. On the other hand, a sprint (today’s single shot) would set you back 15 bob. Back then, the milking profession was not littered with landmines as is the case today. The worst that could happen to you was a random STD infection, which could be cured with drugs supplied by the underground village chemists. This way, you did not have to endure the embarrassment of facing a Luther, most of who would use the opportunity to put you down. But I had a healthy respect for gonococci bacteria, seeing how they could turn ruthless gangsters into very meek men as they sought treatment after striking it hot.

Times have really changed. My last Kidinyi escapade took place in Eastlands and I did not like the experience at all. This incident got me thinking may be it is time to quit You see, I managed to box this youngish looking housegirl-cum-shopkeeper. Now, she was a Bukusu with the characteristic facial endowment and legs that could shame Arsenal players. I didn’t mind all that. Age has taught me to focus on what matters once it’s wet, more so when I have no complaints about the rump. However, the trouble begins when I start sticking her because she starts speaking in a lingo I have to translate manually step by step, sometimes wondering whether I should go with the figurative or literal meaning. I can tell she is starved; I’ve never seen anyone do the milking action using the thighs with my stick inside. I think she feels too good and in the heat of action starts yelling “Buda gonga iyo kitu kabisa, igonge kugonga,” “Usisleki buda, rarua cargo roho safi,”” Msee kaa inakubamba nisukimie”. Now, the words make me a bit uncomfortable. Although I was born in the city, it was not in Eastlands and that was at a time when Kenya’s population was a little shy of 3 million people. Still in action, I start analyzing the semantics. Buda in my dictionary means something different. Similarly, permitting for mother tongue influence, the word msee could bear dual meaning. So, I engage the little numeracy left in me to try to deduce whether the word Buda, as used in this context, wears a literal or figurative hat. Remember all this time I’m caught in a female who is trying to strangle my member with her thighs. It is no easy feat trying to rummage through remnants of biology lessons while doing calculations using figures with high uncertainty margins trying to establish whether I qualify to be a buda to the damsel. After several minutes of brain racking, I give up and promise to mark the issue for attention at a later date.

Back to the line-up, Uweskamau would be the in-house specialist for difficult-to-handle cases. I understand Europe is bursting with people who occupy more than their legal space, and this, I’m sure, would create an attractive revenue stream. I just need to ensure that Uwes has a constant supply of Unga. This way, he can deliver stellar services that will see out client waiting list grow exponentially. I could also throw in Pamba into the mix as the head of security, to ensure that Uweskamua maintains focus on the job and not the Unga. This will be a case of killing two birds with one stone because Pamba will never ask for a salary raise, not with a constant supply of the white stuff. Should the business flourish, I would consider opening a second wing to cater to male clients. At this point, the pink handles would come in handy, including those who profess or are suspected to run on quad core processors. In addition, in line with my reputation as an equal opportunity employer, I would do my best to find fitting roles for villagers with mixed hardware (Shimails) as well as those whose software openly clashes with the hardware (Ngeis and Resbyans).

Now, back to the main theme of the story, and sorry for the digression. (At this point, I need to lock this document with a password. If Mama Boii gets a whiff of what I’m about to spill, Syria will look very attractive to me).

NB. Part 2 Coming Soon. I had to break the story into two parts out of consideration for our self-medicating demographic (Web_devil and Garbon come to mind) who can’t follow the calendar without crossing out the dates with a black marker pen.
 
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