Category Archives: guest posts


My Lovely Doris,

It has been a long while while since I wrote last. I miss you dearly. My heart skips several beats at the thought of your beauty… The thought of your lips against mine… The thought of your skin on mine!

I have not had time to write to you lately! I have stories for you though. There is one about a matatu dropping me off near a grave yard it the dead of the night because I didn’t have change for 1000 bob and another one where I was in the same compound with Shebesh and Sonko and there were gunshots and 1000 women screaming and shouting… At that same compound a policeman with a gun asked me to switch off the music we were listening to because it was too loud! But that one is for another day!

This is a letter I received at the beginning of this year. Another woman who is convinced she is Doris. She will state a few things she claims we did together! Do not believe her!

black-woman-writing-letterDear Ian,

You’re weird! I like weird! I love weird! I would choose weird any day.

Life has never let me choose though. If it had I would not be writing to you with tears in my eyes afraid that you are forgetting about me. I would wake up next to your freakishly long legs every morning… and other long things I remember about you. I would still be playing with your bee sting nipples on Saturday mornings while you read me funny comments on askreddit. I would be falling asleep on your chest while we watch a movie every night. We would be sharing a smoke after ruining dinner because we were busy catching a quickie. I would be wearing nothing under your t-shirt while we watch Boondocks on Sunday morning. I would be with you….

Remember our last night together? You tried singing to me. God, you have the worst voice. That didn’t stop you though; I have always loved that about you. That was one of the many nights we chose to stay in together rather than be out getting drunk and dirty with our friends. My friends were starting to complain by the way. I wore that red t-shirt of yours, that one that you always hated me for wearing because you had wanted to wear it too? Yes, that one.  Oh and you should stop looking for it, I took it with me. Your laugh was louder that night, your kisses deeper and your touch more gentle. Something was different about us that night. It was like we were not afraid to be vulnerable anymore, like nothing but us mattered. I had never been so certain of my love for you like I was on that day. As days pass, I am more convinced that I will never feel any different for you.

I hate that I had to leave but I kept something that will always remind me of that night. I kept a star from that night that shines brighter every day. Her name is Gian. She is lovely!

Something bothers me, you are not writing to me as much as you used to. You are even letting other men write to me, I don’t hate the attention. Worse, you wrote to Adele! The latter arouses very many different shades of jealous in me. What is happening to your feelings for me? Surely you are not going to forget about me, are you? I would hate to not have your letters to hug tight at night when my husband sleeps over at his third wife’s house. We need to talk; our talk has been long overdue. I am afraid, however, that I might not go back to my husband’s house if I so much as get a two second hug from you…. Aaaah your hugs! Those used to feel so good.

Please find a good woman to take care of you. I hear you are becoming thinner and are beginning to look sickly. I wish I could cook for you again but… well, responsibilities. Every once in a while I will sneak away for a smoke in honor of what we used to be. I hope you found your monglinyo, sorry had to put that somewhere.

I have to go make dinner and practice my happy look for when he comes…if he comes.

I luv you!

Yours now and forever,

The Real Doris


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Dear Doris,

I am extremely exhausted… It has been a really long week… Wait, why the hell do people say, ‘it has been a long week?’ when we all know every week has 7 days? I mean, if you had two Mondays in yours then you would have ground to say how LOOONG your week was!

I have a really hot story but I am too tired to type it out right now… Maybe in two days! But not now… But fear not… This man, @magungawilliams, asked me if he could write to you… And I said yes… I am here letting another man entertain my woman… That is extremely sad… But I am too tired to care! Plus his handwriting is wayyyyy worse than mine… And I believe I am taller… My spelling is worse though… I have gone through his letter and deliberately messed with the spellings of ten words… I like being at the top…

He says:

Dear Doris,

We have not made each other’s acquaintance, so it would be polite to manage the pleasantries between strangers. My name is Magunga, at least that is how creative my mother can get. I am one foot shy of a standard Mandingo, my mass clocks at 80 kgs when am hungry and people say God spilled milkless coffee on me on creation. But the truth is, Doris, that I was born on a stretcher (a testament to my impatience) and in 1991 Aga Khan Hospital ambulances engines must have been overreved and underserviced. I had a run in with its smoke in 1991, and I have been black ever since. I am a sucker for Coke, Ginger Ale and pretty smiles.

Now that we have that out of the way, I have only two questions. One; why don’t you ever write back? For a year (or something in that neighbourhood) I have read Ian empty his heart to you, so desperately sometimes that it seems as if he is chasing a figment of his hallucinations. Either you exist, or Mathare inmates must be on long holiday.

Second question; can you shoot pool? Doris? No? Well, it’s a game of balls. Seventeen coloured balls, a long rod that thins its way to the tip, a special white ball and a (mostly green/blue) table. The essence of the game is simple. Each player competes at who would stick his balls first into any of the six available holes on the green table. I really do not know much pool history, but my guess is it a man’s invention. A man who was inspired by a blonde or a cocotte. Google says it was a Frenchman, and I wouldn’t agree more. Here is why; the only way to ‘open the game’ is by inserting money (usually 20 bob) into a slot and the balls come rolling out. Basically the same concept around paying for love; you part with some money and the trollop racks your balls. However he lost me with the notion of balls being stuck in, and the stick remaining out, but then again, my dear Doris, you can never understand these French people and their eccentricities.

At this point I would like to remind you that it is not my intention to talk to you about balls, but about the game.

I love playing pool, Doris. It’s a slow game, but its sluggishness is somewhat exhilarating. Especially when you’re shooting pool for money. I am a campus student, and when the brunt of economic drought coughs its breathe of destitution upon us, we have to do whatever it takes to keep us going until HELB rears its sexy head.

Historically pool was a noble man’s game. They even called it “The Noble Game of Billiards”- can you smell the pomp in that name? When you call it like that, it sounds like a game played by wealthy smug friends on a warm Sunday afternoon over Havana cigars and whiskey; with their wives in the living room shepherding the midday sun into the evening, occasionally sipping on tea and giggling at the hilarity of their own gossip.

Well, where I come from, UoN Parklands Campus, it’s a game of hustlers. This is where broke peeps earn their daily bread.  Personally, I do not play pool for money. True, I have been known to place a bet on the pool table, just the same way I have been known to lose and win some. I play pool for pride. Basically the same reason kamwana plays politics. I play for pride because I am a greenhorn in this game, and I refuse to play in my own league. I play so that when I beat you, I rub it on your face until your face turns green. And when I lose (which is most of the time) I coil my humble tail.

There is this guy called Ayub who coils my tail all the time. He is a sharp shooter, and when he strikes a shot, he does it so hard that I find myself holding my crotch in fear for my own balls. It is an intimidating tactic that is meant to scare you away. It works, because when he hands me the cue stick, I sweat like a virgin on a third date. That is how he wins, through intimidation, and then there is this name he calls me; Kurutu. It means you suck at pool. But you know our God is good and gracious, for in the same measure he blessed him with a talent of sinking balls into a hole, he also took away his eloquence in speech. He is a kuyu you see, so occasionally when playing he goes something like:

Kulutu fungua game, reo (leo) nakutoa frat (flat)!”   

There is this one time we skipped class to shoot pool (this game is like a drug), and on this day, he had vowed that he was going kunitoa frat arafu twende crass. The only mistake he did was that he made that promise in the presence of a lady. Ladies love watching ball games. And like I said, I only play this game for pride.

When he said that, I took it as an affront to my manhood. You see Doris, women inspire vanity in men, at least in luo men like me. So I took him up on his challenge. In fact, I placed money (Ksh. 500) in just to show the fair lady that I meant business, that I had balls too.

I did not know which picture to use for this post... So I went to @magungawilliam's timeline and got this...

I did not know which picture to use for this post… So I went to @magungawilliam’s timeline and got this… I am so tickled! Please be advised though, this is not him :’D

So we began. Focus. He strikes the spotted balls, I sink the ringed ones (ask Ian how to play pool). We went head to head until we were left with the final ball. The black ball.  It is also the number 8 ball. It is my turn. As a principle, this is the ball that is not to be sunk until all others are sunk. If I put it in, I win, if I miss hitting it, I lose. If it sinks into a hole separate from the one I indicate, I lose. I have a lot to lose, because I am also the one with something to prove. The black ball stands stoically against the side of the table.

Ayub taunts me as I take aim. He talks shrubs a lot of trash, but I believe it is because he is squeezing his ass cheeks so hard that shit comes out of his mouth. I look up at the lady. Her T-shirt asks me; “Who needs Brains when you have these?”

“Professor Situma,” I reply in my head.

Since this is a defining moment of this game, I do not have second chances.

“Middle hole” I say.

I have calculated the possible vectors, and the chances of my gamble, and my six months experiences tells me that if I hit the ball against the wall, it would roll back into the middle hole on the left. I stand in aim patiently, like a sniper scouting a kill. I measure the wind direction, the wind velocity, the room temperature, the amount of energy required to hit it. Heck I measure my own heart rate!

I strike.

Just as predicted, the ball comes rolling towards the middle hole. “Kurutu ni wewe!” I jeer at Ayub as the ball comes home to validate my pride.

But then half way through its course, as if it changed its mind, the ball drifts to the left, hits the corner of the middle hole. The impact deflects it towards the corner hole, and it dips in with such enthusiasm.

I sigh. I blame the gods for the humiliation. Ayub jumps around hysterically “Kulutu! Kulutu! Reta pesa!” I hear the lady giggle at my dejection as I reach for my wallet to pay up. I have the option of refusing to pay up, but then I have already showed her that I’m all show and no substance. At least let me show her that I can at least pay my debts.

I reach for my wallet, only to realize that I don’t have it. “Kujia doh kwa room” I beg.

Hakuna! Hauna pesa na unaringa hapa” he cajoles. Ayub is having a field day. “Huyu, he says to the girl, huyu hana kitu. Ni kulutu!”

She walks away, convinced that my arrogance is worth a song. I wish she noticed the watch. I watch her go, and her ass follows.

My ego shrinks.


This guy clearly writes longer letters… Woi! I really hope you do not like long letters… Please do not like long letters Doris… For me…

Read more of his work here:


Posted by on January 24, 2014 in comedy, guest posts


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Kizee, manzi wa yours hapa ivi, roho ya me imekuhata mbaya. Kudoze imekuwa ni ngori bana. NikizidI kuwa limbas na wewe nitatupa form. Hii life haina maana bila wewe mzito, mauchungu kibao tu. Ngoso ngimiz ngimiz ndio zako! Punguza kiasi, animz wa you anataka kuwa anasoma kitu simple bana. Mtu nguyaz nakumind deadly… Barua yako ”the amazing goodnight” iliniwai roho mbaya bana… Kubonga story za ma-animz wengine ndio zako. Wewe hudai nirudi mtaani na vile unahema kila mresh. Za ovyo nazo? Na wacha nikuask, mbona wewe uniita ”the other doris?” kunibagua na kunibeba ufala ufala ndio zako. bado hata siamini vile roho ya me haiwachangi malovings za you mzito!

Wolez nimekumbuka ni birthday yako buda, hata ukae furthest na mimi, siwezi kusahau na siwezi sare kukundapez. Nawajus utafanya kibash kama kawa na hautatuma ki-invite joh, so mimi nitawasha kindukulu, ni puff puff pass na wadhii wa mtaani na kamaisha kazidi. Lakini ujue mi hukumind, ni saa tano usiku, na niko hapa na chora ruabas. Na si unajua nangos ya me haiwezi hizi risto za mitambo, nimeomba neiba key ya cyber, kama hii si malovings basi wee nishow.

Alafu nikuulize, hay festival ni vako gani tena? Ngoso kiasi yenye najua, hay ni dema ya ng’ombe, so jaribu uniradishe hii maneno buda…

Sijui nikuchoree kipoem hivi kama birthday gift, wacha nitry…

mpenzi wa me tangu zamo,

umekaa mbali na me na bado nakupenda more,

mara nyingi una za ovyo lakini nakudai hivo hivo,

wanadai mzito ni effort na yako sijaicheki,

love yako inazidi kuwa kiasi nangoja tu ibleki,

haina ngori hata ukiniondoka,

naelewa mi ni-animz wa ghetto na wewe ushaaomoka,

siwezi bishana na wenye looks na karatasi ishaanitoka

nataka ujibambe yako yote,

furaha siku most na noma mara zote

jibonde yako yote, bila ngori hadi usote

shokez pia ni siku, utasaka na utakule fiteh

A very happy birthday Ian.



The Other Doris Writes Again

Boy wa me niaje? Kunitupa ndio zako? Nimekuhata mbaya mboyz wa mine, nivutie nangos boss. Umeishi aje kama hujachora letter, hata nilikuwa nimegwaya kwani umegedi… ama ulidecide kuishia na hao wasupa wengine wamekuwa wakikuhema. Nakulove yangu yote bana..

Nacheki karibu ubambwe na makanjo mzeiya,kwani hujajua kuishi ya jiji? Lazima ukikaa jiji ujue kuhepa, kanjo ma mbang’a, teargas na hata saa zingine ma alshabab. Yani hata kiwete anakuondoka? Hapo umeniangusha boy wangu. Haya tubonge kitu ilifanya ufike hapo, ndula! Ati wewe hupanguziwa ndula mara ngapi? Ian bana hata kama ni look na usos, ndula panguzia mtaani asubuhi, tembea poa hadi ufike wera alafu jioni sio lazima upanguze, si unarudi kejani ama? Lakini usikonde (btw ukakonda zaidi ya hapo hata upepo inakubeba) msee wa mine hapo uliponea.

Btw kwani wewe hutumia nangos gani? Saa zote wewe husema unanichorea letaa kwa nangos, nimejaribu na nangos ya me na haiwes mek, labda nikuandikie kisms hivi! Na kwani kwenyu hakuna madingo? Uyole ukitoa nangos kwa mat na inakaa inaweza uzwa zaidi ya kavu mbili, hautaicheki tena,unapigwa nyongolo na inaishia. Ile siku utadecide kucome kunicheki uyole usibebe nangos yeyote na hata usivae hizo ndula za kutoka maiyolo ama utarudi mtaani mguu chuma, lakini usijali, nitakutegea kwa roteja so ukidondoka mat nitakuwa rada na wewe mbaya sawa? So unajaku lini mtu nguyaz? Alafu bro ya mine alinyongoa msee westie juzi  na akambeba kisimu flani kisoo kimeandikwa Samsung. Kama unajua mahali anaweza kikinda nishow, hata wewe tutakugawia hio mkwanja biz ikiivana sawa?

Alafu pia nilicheki vile wee unihata hadi umeanza kunilinganisha na matha wa kiothe mtaa yenyu, hizo ndio mimi huita njaro za ovyo, namba yangu unayo, badala univutie tuonane, kazi yako ni kuandama wasupa wa wenyewe. Mimi nishajipa bana, wee tu ndio unaweza niokolea ndio niomoke, hata mimi ningependa kuishi kilee ubabini kama wee joh,nikuwe nadish masandwich na kuenda ma place kama dormans.

Fanya mpango tuonane bana. Wewe ndio msee wa miaeh.



Posted by on August 7, 2012 in guest posts, letters from Doris*



Another Letter From Another Doris

This came in this morning… Another Doris!! By

Niaje mtu nguyaz, nimecheki vile kila m’she anakudai. Kwani kuna Doris wapinga kizee? Sinilidhani ni mimi tu? Ushaa sahau ile siku flani ulikujanga westie hapo sarit na ukanibuyia keroma na beshte yangu? Si nilidhani mimi ndio unapenda bana? Sasa nacheki mara kuna dorcas, sijui doris, mwingine anadai hata ako na wakidi wako wambexe. Sijui itakuwaje mzito. Mwingine ata ashakushow vile chali wa njugu anamdai na bad uko bumper nayeye! Kama madame wanakudai hivi, mimi naona afadhali nijitoe bana. Haina wass!

Lakini sitajitoa virahisi hivyo, matha alinishow roho ya mine ikipenda msee na msee pia ananipenda, nisiwai jitoa hivyo tu, unaniget? So ambia hao madame wengine, hakuna mahali naishia na wewe ni mzito wa me.

Wacha nikushow kitu hunibamaba na wewe, unajua kuwai msee stori hadi anabambika. Story zako za mat hunibamba mbaya.. Kwanza story yako ya kumanga ENO juu haukuwa na fare ilinimaliza mbaya. Nilishow maboy wangu wa uyole hiyo risto jo, na siku hizi hawalipangi fare, umewaokolea mbaya!

Unajua kingoso hunichanga lakini bado uko na mimi, kama hiyo si malovings basi sijui ni nini…

Kwanza nilicheki Easter ulikuwa umeishia coasto bana, hata huwezi tuma ki-invite hivi? Enyewe saa zingine wewe hukuwa na za ovyo!

Wacha niache story kibao, niko kwa cyber na nacheki mbao iko karibu kuisha na sina doh ingine. Btw ukatuma ki-mpesa hivi naeza nice mbaya. Oh alafu ukianza hizo letter wee huniandikia, si hapo kwa malovie davi ukuwe unachora na sheng’ itanibamba mbaya!



Posted by on July 17, 2012 in guest posts, letters from Doris*


Who is the Real Doris??

When I posted the letter from Dorcas* yesterday morning I had no idea what I was starting. I have been receiving letters from people claiming to be Doris the whole day. Here is another one…


Dear Ian,

I am a very angry woman. Rights now my weave is on the floor because of you. Before we go any further, who is this woman? Please explain it to me who she is. I am mad I tell you. I know I have cheated on you twice before, but you forgave me and we moved on. You said you loved me and you looked to the future with our two kids. The 26 years of marriage is a lie now. They were all lies. Smh.

I knew something was up the moment you moved to WordPress. Long gone are the TypePad days when you could exhaust the entire letter exalting my flawless glamor. These days you just mention it in the first sentence then you go ahead to describe the floozies you had good times with. You are not the man I married any more. When you are not stealing novels, you are fighting in bars. When you are not fighting in bars, you are having paying for sex in Sabina Joy. Instead of minding your business in a matatu, you are busy reading other people’s texts and staring at lady parts. What is with all these matatu business, I thought you told me you were about to buy a car? What kind of husband are you?

I really miss the simple diary you used to write every day. It kept me warm, knowing that I am in your mind wherever you are. Where are you today? Italy? France? Venezuela? Or you are still in your all white party in Hawaii? Never mind. You used to start all of them with ‘dear doris’. These days you are using the sophisticated words to replace mine (WTH is enchantment?). Are they really addressed to me or it is those padded yellow yellows she was referring to?

So how long have you been with that woman (who calls a child dorcas anyway)? Charity begins with the neighbours across the road I guess. I must admit that is very smart. I know you were brusquely in her doorstep telling her that it has been a typo all along. She was too blond to realize that she is not the one. This makes me suspect that there are many more. Hell, you even go for blind dates these days.  Shame on you. You are sharing lady parts with 15 year olds. Shame.

I shall move on. Though my love for you is unfathomable, I shall move on. I will discard all those sundresses that you like. I shall resort to flat shoes and throw away those black heels with red soles. I was doing it for you yet you are busy looking elsewhere. Go ahead and chase them. When you fall, you shall find a hard cold floor. We shall not be around. I’d rather marry the maid, she has refused to leave me and the kids alone after all.

The kids say hi. Let’s keep them out of this.


Doris are you out there? Email me on


Posted by on July 17, 2012 in guest posts, love


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Letter from Doris?

I got this in my email inbox last night from a Dorcas* and got a little too over excited. I have not edited it in any way or made any changes. I think I might have found Doris. (Guest Post)

My dear Ian,

It is your true love Dorcas* writing to you…even as I write this I am in a state of shock. First of all, I don’t know why you insist on calling me Doris, when you well know that the name I was given at birth was Dorcas. It makes me think that maybe you are ashamed of me..or worse of our love.

Dearest Ian, as I write this, my heart trembles for you, and yet I am ever so confused. All these love letters that you have written pining for me, and I never received one. In fact, it took Mercy’s sister-in-law’s, house-help’s auntie who told me about the blog. Imagine my surprise to find that for months – nay years, you have been declaring your love for me to the world.

Yet, I don’t understand it…first of all, I have never received one single letter from you. Furthermore, I live just down the street – why would you not come straight to me and tell me….unless there is another Dorcas who you have named Doris that you are writing to?

I spent many hours last night reading and reading and reading, and I have to confess –  my heart shattered into a million pieces. On one hand you declare your love for me, and on the other you constantly talk about these yellow-yellow padded girls. It breaks my heart when you know that I am quite the opposite of that – are you taunting me on purpose?

Well, I have to tell you, you have competition. Last night I received an x-rated message from one Njugu George who sells peanuts at the roundabout at Westlands. He is much more poetic than you, and even calls me baby. Let me tell you – you have competition. And it doesn’t matter that he is only 15 years old.

I write this letter to you so that you can see that I love you, but clearly our relationship is in jeapordy. I am too tired to write love, I pine for you. Forget those yellow-yellows..they only want you for your style. Come back to me.

Yours forever,



Posted by on July 16, 2012 in guest posts


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