You need to visit the polling booth for the air you breathe

This past week, I’ve been pacing up and down Nairobi streets clearing my blood vessels from any fatty deposits that were made without the approval of my bank manager.

My medicine man warned me to take a break at the exact spot my lungs begin to wheeze, so I’ve decided to box-box this lap, like Formula One addicts, would say.

I’ve found a lonely corner at a closed-air eatery in Starehe Constituency; the engine room that runs Nairobi – where the sun wakes up to find everyone at work and goes down before the boss clears you to go back to your families.

It’s my first time here, and the menu reads like materials final-year students would be asked to assemble for their Rocket Science Paper Two.

They have chicken thighs escorted by salsa (which, I’m informed, is not a dance).

The tilapia they dragged in a cooler box 300kms from Lake Victoria was skinned alive, bones buried in a shallow grave, and only the flesh – boiled at current political temperatures – is served here dipped in a thick sauce of tiger orange.

The tariff card claims I wouldn’t be eating fish, just finesse, and it doesn’t come at the price of organic guavas.

But just when I had succumbed to the temptation to break the bank for finesse, I received a menacing text message from my landlord advising me to choose my lifestyle wisely. 

Soft life 

Starehe is the constituency that babysits Nairobi’s heart.

It houses the seat of power and expels all MPs every five years with instructions to only return for the soft life if they exceed expectations back home.

Those who study trends say Kenyan voters are difficult to please – more than two-thirds of the current lot have been advised to prepare for life after political death, as they’ll be seeing their former workplace only on television.

The current MP for Starehe will not be on the ballot this Tuesday.

Charles Njagua is his name – Jaguar is what he called himself those days he used to bemoan the hypocrisy of our politics before he became the poster image of what he was singing against.

It, therefore, wasn’t a startle when he was beaten in the primaries like a percussion, and, after throwing toys off the pram and watching heaven refusing to mourn, went back to sit in the wheelbarrow begging for a joyride.

The guy who sat on Jaguar’s head is Simon Mbugua. If you call him Honorable Simon Mbugua, he’ll add you something on top, as it helps with bleaching the black reports that come out of his Google Search window.

You’ll find a lot of diagrams on the internet explaining why Hon. Mbugua rearranged his political base from next-door Kamukunji, where he had served as MP.

Many claim the ethnic matrix in Kamukunji no longer approves of those with inborn talent in outdoor theatrics.

Other experts conclude that the nanoscopic roughneck is desperate for a new lease of life, but keep quiet when asked when the roles of the National Assembly were adjusted to include dispensing holy water.

Starehe voters aren’t alone in scratching their heads at the dehydrated choices available on the menu.

I’ll be voting again in Stream 07 at Kilimani Primary in Dagoretti North, and only Raila Odinga and Edwin Sifuna have cleared my mind on why I need to fight my sleep this Tuesday.

Why consequential Kenyans have refused to meet politics halfway is something that has bothered even those who chew political science for breakfast.

Making laws shouldn’t be left in the hands of those whose only qualification is being an expert at doing the shimmy.

If we wanted those who can effortlessly shake their tail feathers, we would’ve gone to Muguku’s poultry farm in Gitaru.

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