Have you ever entered a shop in town, dearly fallen in love with an item with your whole broken and ragged soul, negotiated for the best price, then exited with the best deal? Perfect. Well, I can’t relate because I have always been poor at bargaining for items and whenever I try hard enough and manage to pull the right string I just end up leaving the shop mumbling under my sore loser breath that “I should have said this or that. I should have been more persuasive. Damn it.” The thing is I normally feel like I should have done better. It’s funny because I always have a way with words.

Frankly speaking, knowing how to genuinely coo women to go with you for a date has nothing to do with bargaining for the best price to buy that Samsung TV set, formal leather shoe, men’s Louis Vuitton traveling leather bag, or that killer wallpaper that deserves to be tattooed on my living room wall. Worth considering, bargaining with a seller is not that complicated but it wholly depends on the gender. I can negotiate with a female seller and come out with the best price. Perhaps I could pull off a couple of jokes, sheepishly smile at her, or even compliment her collection of whatever she is selling. I can’t say the same with male sellers. You know, you bargain for a few minutes to show how much you need the item yet attempt not to look so desperate because if he knows, you are doomed. So for me, bargaining for items is partly dependent on gender.

There was this one time I entered two shops and bought two separate shirts from each stall. The price tags were the same, they were both owned by male sellers, and each person had an irrestistible collection of shirts. However, I recall putting little effort when bargaining for the lowest price possible. So when I whisked by my aunt’s place and showed off what I bought, she laughed her ass off, all the time bragging how she could have pulled off a half-the-price triumphant purchase. My aunt hailed my taste but jeered at my bargaining power, saying “Son, wamekugonga cause ningekuwa hapo ningetoka na nusu ya hiyo pesa ulilipa. (Son, I could have bought it at half the price if I were there.)” She was painfully correct.

In most occasions, I prefer when a woman accompanies me while buying stuff. The reason being, they have a distinct way of dealing with male sellers. Period. No argument there. And I don’t want to sound stingy but with this fragile economy, who wouldn’t want to buy an awesome khaki trouser at Ksh. 250 less? In my recent quests of buying goods and not services, I have either been accompanied by a female friend, cousin, or rare intances simply one of my pretty sisters. Before then, my ex-girlfriend seldom handled my formal and casual wears. When these options are not on the table, I often put on my buying-in-shining armor and march on. Like we say it in Kenya: If I die, I die.

So there it is. I am a shitty negotiator when it comes to buying items. But you know what I’m going to do? I’m going to sharpen my negotiating skills. I will be triumphant! Watch out, sellers! There will be a new sheriff in town soon. It’s been long overdue. In the meantime, I raise a toast to me, the terrible negotiator.

The seconds that have elapsed felt like seasons of torture

My fragile fingers playing with the bed sheets’ texture

While I have been trying to keep myself in the same moment

But the veins on my temple told you a possible story of torment.

I could tell, you were reading my mind from where you were lying

I guess I have been looking for a darker place worth hiding.

But if look through the windows of the past I realize that it will always haunt me

So babe when you walk out, just switch the lights off, there’s nothing left to see

Cuase I think I lost my purpose somewhere along the way

Without a lighthouse to guide me, my spirit degrades into total decay

Kuna wale wanabreak the pot that once gave them WATER

And those who insult the breasts that once gave them PLEASURE

Kuna wale huhit the road to shags times wameSOTA

But soon wanashikwa na kiburi when they fall for a chest of TREASURE.

What about wale wanaokuroga, ukipass away kwa mazishi wanadai walikuPENDA,

But lowkey they celebrate lifting you back to the SENDER.

There are those wamefanikiwa so they thank their lucky STARS

And those who have toiled and failed, so the skin, heart, and mind zimejaa SCARS.

Kuna wanaobelieve in the good LORD

Na wale waja wasioweza kum-AFFORD.

Kuna wale, wale, wale………..

A hundred broken pieces that I never knew existed

Another thousand failed trials and I thought I was defeated

I became a sore loser outwitted by my flaws

Nikawa tu bendera following upepo wherever it goes

Stuck with echo in my empty soul

Kama vile Saul before aitwe Paul.

He, from above placed His Holy hand on my shoulder

And whispered, “Son, before nikujenge na V8 lazima nikuhumble na bodaboda,

Just have a little faith in my working

cause najua it’s surely lacking…”

I fell on my knees and looked up to the sky

And felt His grace shining on me, and I shouted, “Thank you El Shaddai!”

He was one of those priests. His name was Priest but he was no ordinary priest. At least that is what I suspected. Who goes by the such a name. It’s like saying, ‘Hi. My Name Doctor. I will be your doctor for the rest of your stay in this hospital.’ So, yes, his name was “Priest.” 20 years old Priest. Pumping blood like a full blown bull. Nobody ever asked why but his mysterious arrival in a remote village aroused my curiosity. Priest replaced old Ogutu whose sermons turned the congregation into sleeping machines. However, Priest changed all that. Not only was he vibrant but enthused the villagers with hope of the second coming. Priest sparked a fire of hope in this rural church. Finally, redemption.

However, one day all that changed. I noticed how close he was with the local women and how invited them to his home-church for private prayers. So when I went to seek ‘counsel’ in his office one Friday afternoon while everyone was in the field harvesting, I was hardly surprised by what I saw. old Ogutu’s young wife was on top of Priest’s office table. Ripe and ready with legs pointing towards heaven and her was skirt open like the clouds wanted to rain on her. Thighs flooding the table from here to Timbuktu and back. On top of her, was Priest, saving her ‘soul.’ A part of me wanted to ask “Is this the second “cumming” or the first?”

Listen:
Roses are RED
Kuna diamonds ziko BLUE
Before matters end up in BED
Na majuto yawe mjuKUU
Shall we start with a simple DATE
Niprove naweza come THROUGH?

So, MOJA, I can be steady kama SOLDIER
MBILI, once or twice I can be SILLY,
THREE, niko na tendency ya kuwa careFREE
FOUR, najua ukisema NO, sitakubother anyMORE
FIVE, I’m grateful its Him who’s kept me ALIVE
SIX, I can put you in the right mood, before we make that litu FIX
And SEVEN, when trouble comes I hope we can be each other’s safe HAVEN
©guttothewordsmith

Amidst heavy crossfire, Private Steve “Sulphur” Owino scampers next to me barely clenching his rifle. Too much bloodshed for our liking but the job had to be done. My mind was almost bleak due to war burnout but I kept an open mind to what he’d say next. He always had something to say.

Sulphur: Bro, now I know bana!! Death is nothing  I’ll ever joke about tena!!

Me: Really? You seemed confident about overcoming it back at camp.

Sulphur: Si ni mi nakushooow!! Death is not an adventure to those who stand face to face with it.

Me: Haha!! Saa hii ndo unaload? Welcome to reality Mr. Dreamer.

He did not respond to my taunts. There was a strange silence and I assumed “Sulphur”  was reloading his weapon. Strange enough despite all the constant explosions and ricochets around us, Sulphur’s sudden silence was the loudest. Taking a quick glance at my good friend I realized why. Frozen to death by one clean gunshot to his forehead, Sulphur lay still in the mud with his eyes glued to a void that only his spirit could understand.