ROBERT MWANGI .... The diary of a soccer player
ROBERT MWANGI .... The diary of a soccer player


The married man, BLOG INSIDE


Nduta put on her mini skirt and high heels and reported to work at Njuguna’s Bar. She was a light skinned girl and the pink lipstick went well with her red dress. Ever since she was hired to work in the bar located outside Muranga Village, business had been good and more men had been reported to frequent the bar and go home late. People said she was the hottest barmaid they had ever seen and young men fought each other to get a glimpse of her swaying hips. There was one man in particular that Nduta liked. His name was Njoroge; the quiet type that say very little but look very promising. Unlike the other men who tried to grab her ass, Njoroge was always polite and always said thank you after being served. They became friends and one Friday after work. Njoroge walked her home and kissed her goodnight. It was the happiest moment for Nduta and she knew she could easily fall in love with this man.

The following evening, Nduta reported to work at the bar with a big smile and a certainty that life was smiling down on her. She served drinks and wiped tables as she whistled, and everyone thought she looked stunning. Two hours into her shift, a crowd of villagers carrying pickets gathered outside the bar and started crying for her blood. They said she was a prostitute who was destroying their marriages. She had to go. The men inside the bar tried to shield her, and one above all begged her not to listen to the crowd. Nduta felt sad and lonely. This was a place she so badly wanted to call home. With a sigh, she took off her apron and walked over to Njoroge. She looked him in the eye for a long time and then kissed him on the cheek. “You should not have walked me home last night,” she said. “You should have told me that you were married.”

Njoroge lowered his eyes and wiped his sweating palms on his trouser. “I’m sorry Nduta,” he said. “I like you very much. I don’t love my wife anymore.”

Nduta rose to her full height. “It doesn’t matter.” There were tears in her eyes. “She is still your wife.”

Nduta left the village that night and felt like her world had ended. She would move on to another town and try to pick up the pieces. One day she prayed, she would find a good husband and make a good life for herself.

Karen Blixen (Out of Africa) - I once had a farm at the foot of Ngong hills.


 If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that I have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagles of the Ngong Hills look out for me?





While we breathe we hope ....





In the definition of the American Dream by James Truslow Adams in 1931, "life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone, with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement" regardless of social class or circumstances of birth.


Publishing in Kenya