THE REAL F**KBOYS OF NAIROBI.
All Episodes.
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Here's a link to all the stories for this last season.
[I'm putting the Season 1 - 3 links here as well.]
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Avoid scams, keep your money safe, safe to use & access. #SafeIsSmart with #StanChart Visa Card. #TRFNrb
THE EARTHMOVERS
I Know A Guy | Season 6
Episode 1 of 3.
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A FRIDAY.
Johns, a burly guy with a big tummy, and ideal weight of a heavy person, leaves his home in Njiru as early as usual, a short distance off the main Kangundo Road. It is about 5:25am.
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Disclaimer: Similarity of names and situation purely coincidental.
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He drives his beloved Maria, a green tinted Rover HSE, on the lonely path. He can see beams of lights, other cars on the main road.
Just before joining the road, he notices two cars on the side.
Mmh!
One with the trunk popped, the other with the bonnet up, looking like they are needing some helping.
They wait for him. He just waves at them, but he doesn’t slow down or stop.
Strange. He thinks.
Because it is way too early. to breakdow and get help.
Yaani the lawsuit against Esto has taken a whole turn.
But first, how we got here.
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Our Esto has 3 full time employment departments.
1, Security & Safety. 2, Engineering & Technical. 3, Grounds and Works. For real, these are actual jobs.
Security and safety is more obvious.
Engineering and technical hao ndio wanakuwanga na kazi mingi na ngumu.
Mara stima.
Mara pipe ime-burst, mara mtu anataka kuoshewa gari. Sijui Kenya Power ama Nairobi Water, sijui Safaricom wanataka kuweka net... All major issues that affect the whole esto, hiyo ni yao.
Grounds do the detail work. And detail mostly ni udaku na umbea with the housies and security peeps.
But for real, their work is to also to make sure the esto is clean always, the garbage guys don’t steal the cats and the playground, live fences don't look bad when guests come.
#IKnowAGuy
Season 5
The Swindlers - Coming Soon.
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11:30pm.
This girlie opens the door of her apartment and locks it behind her. But there is some uneasiness.
Like someone else is in there. She rushes to her daughter's room, finds her asleep. Just like she left her an hour ago.
Phewx.
But she's still scared. Very scared for someone who has walked from Tamasha to Rose Avenue past 10pm.
She goes into her bedroom, gets under her blanket and whispers a prayer.
Lights off.
Kidogo, she someone breath out sloowly.
She freezes.
Her heart is in her tummy.
Her duvet is lifted slowly. That someone slides into her bed. He smells like half a man. She jumps off on the bed for the lights, but bumps into another man, who grabs her by the neck, lifts her and pins her back into her bed.
An Old Poem.
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If we must ever have to write each other, it must be poems.
You must write in short sentences, using catchy phrases.
It must be in at most three verses that stand alone, but that find much deeper meaning in each other.
Nothing more than a page. Maybe slightly more.
If you should ever write me a poem, it should take my whole being into it. My mind, my heart, my body and my strength.
It must not have my name, but whoever reads it must know it is me.
It must be short and sweet, it doesn't matter how much rage is there. Sweet rage even.
It must be so discrete, not open to everyone, that someone can steal and send to their loved one. Or the one they hate.
If I should ever receive your poem, it must be about passion. Or hate. Or Anger and pain.
It must be open, straight, upright and full of integrity.