I am not gonna be paid for some time.

I will be broke for some time.

I am a consultant, as of 2 months ago — an unpaid consultant — and I get paid per deliverable. I haven’t been paid for the last two deliverables. I work for a UN organization. So, naturally, a lot of the funding comes from member states. So, when you get a contract, it is attached to a coding block. A coding block is a bunch of random numbers and letters used to identify and keep track of funds.

Why haven’t I been paid for 2 months? This imbecile racist bitch that needs to return to whatever abyss produced her put the wrong coding block in my contract, so when it was time to get paid, the funds associated with that block were empty. We used money that belonged to another office and another project, and we finished it all. So, a memo had to be written to start the process of canceling my current contract and creating a new contract with the same Terms of Reference; the only thing that would change is the coding block associated with my contract.

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse, bureaucracy, rears its head.

One day,two days, three days, four days, five days …

Finally, I signed a new contract with the updated coding block last week. I expected to see some dollars in my account this week.

So, tell me why found out today that the coding block associated with the updated contract that I signed last week belongs to a different fund that I should not be getting paid from.

That incompetent piece of racist Japanese shit put the wrong code again. I really want to bash her head into something. Fucking waste of space and air. Sigh!!! That’s another almost 4 weeks of waiting. At this point, I should just give all my deliverables and say bye-bye to this turd of a human. I need her tied to a tree and whipped till her entire body is pink, then pour honey all over her and unleash the bees. When the bees are done with her, put lettuce all over her body and unleash the slugs. I hear they have about 27000 microscopic teeth.

I was celibate for about two or three years. Then, on a random day, a few months after I had rejoined Instagram, I followed a man. This man is one that I used to have sex with about seven or eight years ago before I went MIA on the whole world. I was reintroducing myself to the world as a new and improved me. Let me follow him; what is the worst that can happen, I thought. I forgot about it, and then, about six or seven months later, I get “She lives” as a comment on one of my Instagram stories that I absolutely love so much because I was in my house, back from therapy, feeling absolutely elated and beautiful and thinking, I need to show the world the beauty that is me; I am a work of art after all.

A few days of conversation go by. I am absolutely enjoying this conversation. I had another agenda, apart from just enjoying his beautiful mind and the words and beautiful sentences that come out of it. I needed to know whether he was still a free agent or spoken for. Before running away from the world, I was a hoe. I came back, still a hoe, though non-practicing. However, it turns out the men I whored with were all spoken for. Spoken-for humans are a no-go zone for me. Voilà, he was single. And this made me so horny, horny as fuck I tell you. So, when I returned his Instagram call, I heard his sexy voice on the other side, and with that sexy voice, he asked a very beautiful question: “Do you want to fuck?”

Yes, I do. I did the moment I learned you are not spoken for.

I dressed, called a cab, and went to him to fuck. I wore my shortest skirt (the legs, I love flaunting them; they are very sexy), no underwear, a wet pussy, and a top that made my breasts look yummy. If we never saw each other again, I needed a horny, sexy girl to be the last image of me in his head.

It happened again and again and again. I began to care. Oh! I have changed; casual sex is not a thing I can do anymore. I like to share bits of my life with the people I fuck, make love to, and share bodily fluids with. I can’t do those things if I do not care for you.

I was fucked. This man would become a topic in therapy. Through him, I saw what alcohol does to unprocessed feelings. Through him, I saw what it looks like when an adult blames everyone around them without taking any accountability on his part. Through him, I saw what contradiction looks like in a man who, when intoxicated, sees himself as king and god but is powerless to change anything around him or within himself, so he blames everything outside himself for any misfortune or tiny inconvenience.

Through him, I learned how to make my own emotional boundaries.

I saw a man who called himself a king, had a god complex, but had nothing mentally, spiritually, or physically that made him a god. I saw a man who accused me of emotions that he was guilty of. I saw a man try to control a world that refused to be controlled.


I love sex. I wanted safe dick. He was always open to taking HIV tests and other tests with me. I especially appreciated this part because my previous experience with men in Nairobi was them asking me, “Kwani unajishuku?” each time I told them I wanted us to get tested together. Sir, if I am going to share this body with you, for which I do not have a spare, I need to know that your body is clean as well (both internally and externally). For the sake of safe dick, I decided that if he calls and I am horny, being horny is one variable that had to be there for the condition of me fucking him to be fulfilled. He also had to be sober. I would not ask him if he was drunk; his voice would let me know. If military language was involved in his speech, he was definitely drunk. He would talk about how he had wars to fight, and that the war would involve calling someone who had disrespected him a while back and then disrespecting them in return. Boy, does the person on the other side of that phonecall know that you are in a war – with critical and unkind words as your ammunition – all fueled by alcohol? When sobriety hits, he’ll delete his call log so he doesn’t face the 5th horseman of the apocalypse — embarrassment. Wapi kifua ulikuwa nayo ukipigia watu simu jana? Oh — back to the equation –

a-call-from-him + his-sober-sexy-as-hell-body + my-horniness - his-military-language = sexing-all-night/day

All those were constant variables. They all had to be met and never altered. My variables, never to be shared with him.

I had so much fun hanging out with him while he was sober. I feel so much love towards him when he is sober. When he gets drunk, I despise him. Why is he talking in military language? Why does he think he is fighting wars? Why does he think he has the power to significantly affect anyone’s life? What is this paranoia? Why does he think the whole world is against him? Sigh! It’s fascinating, but it’s not my problem.

Content Warning: Discusses sexual harassment and assault within a family, including an incident involving a minor. Reader discretion advised.

You smell disgusting. You smell of cheap liquor. And you dare to come to my room and ask me to sleep with you.

…in the house that your wife pays for.

…in the room that your daughter sleeps in.

…and talking to the girl whose mother is your aunt and you have the same grandfather.

I would mention your teenage son, but unfortunately, the apple does not fall far from the tree. Right before he went back to boarding school, he did the exact thing that you’re doing right now, except he was sober. He pinned me to the wall and insisted on kissing me just one. Just once. And my crime was that I was too beautiful for him to waste the chance. I wonder where he got that from.

Luckily for you, you’re not the first cousin that has tried to sleep with me. You are just one in a really long line. Your son, however, is the first nephew ever to try to give. So f*** you and the rest of the family.