From Binyavanga to west's end

RIP, Robin Williams. You rocked. From tyme to tyme, a dude can end up on a thirty-hour bender, n last Toodae just so happened to be one-a them days. In conjunction with Kwani, we were having a ‘Things We Lost in August’ (in memorium of me kid bro Benjy) poetry slam at I-Max. And goode buddy Alexei Serkov had kubalid to patia us the main movie hall 4 da event. I got theya @ seven, n after vibing wit Kwani’s Mike Mburu n cool radio MC Cindy Ogana, popped into Wine Bar for a quick drinkie with wa Micheni n Faith Njagski. Fortified wit wine, we then went into the main I Max hall for the poetry slam proper which waz eventually won by poets Mufasa, Sugu (RIP too, Master Sugu) and Divine Bandit, with Word Bender (with his ole fashioned belt n suspenders) coming fourth. Msoo, Clifton Gachagua n Velma Kiome helped me judge. In the interlude, Man Njoro n I put on a poetry show, after my pre-amble ‘If I had 5 minz left to live’ which basically sez I’d ‘have a vodka cola in three, be a one minute man, n then with pants round ankles, repent last minute.’ Binyavanga Wainaina, our literary godpapa waz in the audience, alongside UK installation artist Phoebe Bowles. N after the poetry, with a gang like Msingi Sasis n rocker Ronjey, we went to Tribeca but found some album launch over. So after leaving a vodoski wit the bouncer, we re-located to Simmers @ midnyte. Now Binya can be the real nyte runner, n over pint, he regaled us wit tales of his ‘walking down River Road’ (or rather pub-hopping down that famous street all night long). Thaz how to be a real artiste – not just lounging in posh lounges all the tyme, just coz yu got cheddar. Some langrel ‘ji-poxed’ into our artsy group, mistaking Phoebe for Sharonova (from the pix) n I bought her a coupla pints just for her ‘entertainment value’ to our motley crew. Big mistake, amigo. At four wen we decided to relocate to the West-Side, the whore wudn’t let go. ‘Smitta, jo, huwezi niacha hivi,’ she shrieked, the whole of ghetto eastlando now chomokaing. It took Binya’s considerable mass blockin’ to stop her from photo-bombing herself into Msingi Sasis’s van. (I wunder if pokos wud call dat ‘cock blocking.)’ Once thru with that drama, we roared down to Nairobi West. N finding both Deep West n West Mall closed (we talking after 4.30 a.m.), we settled for West End. Where I found Evans Ayaka, one of me old man’s n Professor Nyasani’s drinking buddies from the late 80s n early 90s. Talk of déjà vu. I also patad old hood alumni like Georgie n Annita, as well as Steenie Njoroge n of course the talk predictably revolved all the way back to childhood, growing up in ‘Weo’ n all those storos of how we’d do ‘safo’ n so on, making motis out of mkebes (n not like tois of these days who instd play ‘Grand Theft Auto’ sijui six). Asubuhi came n went, n at mid-day we decided to re-lo across the barabara to Lazino’s. There I ran into a childhood bud I’ll just call the mad Monk for now who blasted me as ‘having sold me soul to the devol’ n sed I’ll chomeka in Hades. He’s become sum kinda Xtian nut. But dat dint stop him from nyemelearing me vodoski, or ‘borrowing’ five sock from me. ‘I’ll re-fund yu,’ he sed. Solemnly, I said unto Monk: ‘You will re-pay me in heaven.’ This is, of course, after the world ends thru a black hole sun as I x-plained to my Daystar pal Moses Miricho n we ascend to Eden on the waves of the Sound-Garden song – ‘ In disguises no-one knows/ hides the face/ lies the snake/ the sun in its disgrace ...’