The last piece of bread lies on the broken glass table, the speakers are blaring in full blast and ‘Carrie underwood is screaming blown away. A thin man of about 5.9 with medium built, a long chin, roughed up hair and somewhat bigger than usual eyes passes by. I recognize him to be martin, but I prefer calling him Ndirangu. Ndirangu describes him precisely, martin seems like a cool person, a person who never asks the price of beer at a bar and always sits on the counter. Martin seems like the person who usually has a horde of women drooling over him while they patiently wait for him to take them home. He is wha some guys I know describe as ‘ule msee’. Ndirangu on the other hand is the opposite; the name befits a farm boy, a town wanabee. Ndirangu is the type of person who wears an official trouser with timberland, or simbaland. I can’t tolerate someone who wears simbaland. But this Martin Ndirangu has these two ghosts inside him. He passes walking along the corridor, slowly looking down as if he has just been informed that his dick has been reduced by two inches. By the way, that’s the worst news that can be given to any man…well they will have to reduce mine by three inches so it can be standard…true story. He trolls in a checked official shirt and a white short… a sore sight to the eye. I quickly lose attention and glance left, my leather jacket is jumbled up on my couch, remote next to me. It seems immobile, and it seems satisfied by where it is, it seems that it might protest when I decide to take it to my luxurious king’s palace bedroom. So I just leave it there not to spoil its mood. I know there are some of you out there…yes I have just said it, the likes of Oginga…who are wondering why I do not intend to reduce the blasting volume, well I just do not feel like it. It’s not my thing…yaani its just not ‘happening’ for me…well I also intend to show that I have watts to my next door neighbor, after all I could get lucky and land some you know matchbox when I need one (the missus will read this and for you who know her, you well know that a reckless statement inside here might unleash unimaginable havoc into my life)…Mama wa soko can see the sequel to what happened a few months ago when the Missus decided to take matters into her own hands. Am still in my pajamas- and in pajamas I mean a borrowed tracksuit stolen for one Austin and an oversized shirt that are usually spotted with a person I do not wish to name for my personal safety. I do not even know why am writing…I just decided to try it to cool off my nerves. Stupid but effective... My two fishes are swimming silently but in what seemed to be a calculated move….I usually tend to think that they are planning some coup or something. There are times that they just stare closely at me when am typing and then go behind the plastic undergrowth in the aquarium as if they have just discovered a weak point in me and proceed to stealthily plan for my demise. These two fish are important in my life, they are always there when nobody is there. They are always happy tp see me. This piece of writing cannot be effective if I do not declare my undying love to my missus. Well I know she will be reading this and this statement of love might just act as my protection and defense when am wrong. And believe me am always wrong to her even when am right. Until when am free to write again…look at a guy in an expensive leather jacket, khaki trouser, Italian loafers and press a 1000 note into his hands. see ya