THE LONELY END OF A GOOD MAN; MZEE

This is the story of my high school friend, the guy we called “Treadmill.”

We played rugby together.

He was our scrum half.

Fast feet, low center of gravity, always pumping those legs like he was on a treadmill, but somehow, never moving forward. That’s how the nickname stuck.

We carried that name from high school into life. Into campus. Into careers. Into marriage and baby showers and group chats and road trips.

I watched him hustle.

I watched him win.

I watched him become a man.

What I didn’t know is that I would also watch him break.

Seven months ago, I attended the funeral of his father.

I got there early, the way you do when it’s someone close.

People were seated under tents, the red Nyahururu soil kicked up into the air, women cooking in one corner, pastors in shiny suits, the normal funeral chaos.

Then they called up the children of the late.

That’s when I noticed it.

His siblings walked forward.

Most of them were light-skinned, that soft brown you see a lot from Central.

Then there was Treadmill.

Dark.

Not “a bit darker.”

Dark-dark. Clearly different.

You could tell this had been the running joke all his life. You could almost hear the old aunties laughing in the background: “Uyu ni black sheep wa family.”

He stood there in a neat suit, broad from rugby and gym, successful, confident.

The second last born, but by far the most successful of them all.

He had done very well in life.

Engineering at the University of Nairobi.

Good job.

Money flowing.

Connections.

Married with kids (from two baby mamas, but that’s another story).

You’d think this funeral would be mechanical for him.

Go, bury, leave.

You have no idea.

Growing up, his mother adored him.

He went to better schools than his siblings.

Got the good uniforms.

The good shoes.

The extra attention.

He took it as love.

Which it was.

But it came with something else: poison.

Because every night around the kitchen fire, up in the slopes of the Aberdares, she would start.

She would talk about Mzee.

How he was never home.

How they picked coffee until their fingers cracked.

How they walked up and down those hills carrying sacs of beans to the coffee factory.

How they queued at the coffee factory until late at night and still went to school the next morning.

She would spit out the words: “He is in Nairobi with milayas, prostituting himself while we suffer here alone.”

She said it with tears.

With drama.

With conviction.

And kids believe their mothers.

Night after night, the fire popped and the smoke rose and her words sank deep into young hearts.

“Don’t ever be like your father.”

“Don’t ever chase women like him.”

“Don’t ever abandon your family the way he abandoned us.”

Treadmill loved his mother.

So he swallowed all of it like medicine.

Hate disguised as truth.

By the time we were in high school, he hated Mzee.

Hated him with a passion that looked righteous.

To him, Mzee was a useless man with a permanent cough and a selfish past.

Life rolled on.

He smashed KCSE.

Got into UoN Engineering.

Graduated top of class.

Got a solid job.

Money started flowing.

He became the guy who pays bills at the table without checking his M-Pesa balance.

He took care of his mother like a king.

Sent her abroad.

Paid for trips.

Let her see the world, countries she never imagined.

But he never did the same for his father.

He didn’t even send him past Nyahururu town.

Why? “Why waste money on a man who wasted us?”

To him, Mzee was the architect of their childhood suffering. End of story.

Then, about a month before the funeral, his father called.

He told him: “Even if this is my last wish, come spend one hour with me. I have something important to tell you.”

When he told me, he was angry.

Imagine being asked to go see the man you’ve hated for decades and sit with him one-on-one.

He felt disgusted.

Like the world was forcing him to drink dirty water.

He wrestled with it for days. Finally, he came to me and said, “Let’s go.”

So we drove to Nyahururu.

That Thursday, we played a full 18 holes of golf at Nyahururu Golf Club.

We laughed.

Talked nonsense.

Two grown men pretending there wasn’t a storm waiting the next morning.

We checked into Panari Nyahururu that night.

Swam.

Hit the sauna.

Got massages.

I wanted him relaxed before he went to face his father.

The next morning, he left early to go see Mzee.

The home is about 15 minutes away.

I stayed back.

Swimming pool.

Steam.

Massage again.

I wanted to give him space to talk.

He found Mzee sitting outside the gate, waiting.

Not inside.

Outside.

On a plastic chair.

Like a man waiting for a visitor he isn’t sure will come.

His cough was bad.

Years of that deep, nasty, chesty cough.

But he stood up anyway.

“Let’s go for a walk, my son.” he said.

They walked down towards the river.

Slowly.

Step by step.

One man broken by age and work.

The other man broken by lies he didn’t know were lies.

They got to the river and sat on some rocks.

That’s when Mzee asked: “Of all your mother’s children… why do you think you’re the only one who is this dark?”

Now Treadmill was irritated.

He’s an engineer. He had always assumed genetics did its thing.

He thought he’d inherited some “dark gene” in the bloodline.

That’s when his father detonated the bomb.

Mzee told him: “When we lived in Kingeero, your mother had an affair with the village chief. That’s how you were conceived.”

Silence.

You could almost hear the river stop.

He went on.

He told him about working as a watchman at British American Tobacco (BAT) in Nairobi.

How there was a theft at his workplace.

How he was arrested as the suspect.

How he was remanded in Industrial Area Prison.

How the case went through Makadara Law Courts.

He stayed two years in remand.

Then, eventually, he was found innocent and released.

He came back home excited to see his wife and children… and found a new baby.

Eight months old.

Treadmill.

The whole village knew.

His father knew.

Everyone told him: “Chase her away. Send her back to her people. That child is not yours.”

He refused. “I forgave her. I chose my wife. I chose this child. I chose my family.”

He told him:

“You were the happiest to see me. You cried the loudest when I left. You clung to me when I came home. I could not send you away.”

Then he explained where the money to by the 10 acres they live on in Nyahururu that the title was written in their mother’s name came from.

BAT compensated him for wrongful incarceration.

He was paid 1,000,000 KES.

A lot of money then. He said:

“I gave the entire 1 million to your mother. All of it. I told them to write the 10-acre title deed in her name, not mine. I cut ties with my family. I moved us here. I started again.”

He never had a bank account in his name.

His entire salary for his whole life went into her account.

His pension? Paid to her bank account.

His retirement package? Paid to her bank account.

His life? Signed away in trust.

He showed him the BAT payslips, the compensation letter, the cheque copies, the Makadara file, the Industrial Area records.

All the proof.

Every salary.

Every benefit.

Every cent deposited to Lucy Wangui Kimotho.

Not “Mrs Mzee.”

Just Kimotho. She never dropped her fathers name even after marriage

Then he dropped another truth: “I have never smoked a cigarette. I have never taken alcohol in my life. This cough? It’s from years of working in that tobacco factory air. I took that cough so you could eat.”

At this point, Treadmill was shattered.

Everything he’d been told…

Everything he’d believed…

Everything he felt righteous about… crumbled.

The “useless man with bad habits” was actually the one who carried them all.

The mother he saw as a victim… was the treasurer of his life.

Reasons Why a Woman with Previous Multiple Sex Partners is a Dangerous Choice for Marriage

Gentlemen, let’s get real. A woman’s history matters. If she’s had a multiple sex partners, she’s not going to make the stable, loyal wife you need to build a secure future. The truth is harsh, but ignoring it will only lead you to a path of frustration, heartbreak, and even financial ruin. Let me break it down for you, unfiltered and straight to the point. Here are 10 reasons why women with high body counts struggle to maintain stable marriages and are statistically more likely to divorce you. 1. She Will Always Compare You to Other Men

A woman who’s been with many men carries the memory of those experiences. She’ll measure you against every man she’s ever been with—how they made her feel, what they gave her, how they performed in bed. It’s a never-ending comparison game that you’ll never truly win. No matter what you do, she’ll always find a reason to feel dissatisfied because she’s used to variety. This constant comparison erodes the foundation of any relationship.

A CHEATING WOMAN IS MORE DANGEROUS THAN POISON

A man can cheat on his woman and still love her but a woman cannot cheat on her man and still love him. I say this because while men do not have sex with emotions, women can't have sex without attaching emotions to it. This is the reason men simply need a place to have sex while women need a reason to have sex. Most women who take their husbands to court for divorce are those that cheat on their men. A non cheating woman would most likely never take her husband to court for divorce, unless the man exceedingly abuses her physically and emotionally to the point of killing her.

THE DIVORCE OF NGUGI WA THIONG’O AT 85 IS THE TYPICAL MAN’S SET-UP BALANCE OF AUTHORITY.

In the lifetime of most family settings, there are 3 Dispensations of Power and Men are most afflicted.

1⃣- The 1st is the first 25 years in the life of the family (father, mother,… twitter.com/i/web/status/1… 1⃣- THE 1st DISPENSATION.

🔴- Total dominance of the father. He is the Lion of the Tribe of his House. The boss.

🔴- During this dispensation, the father rules with an iron fist. He barks orders and determines what does or does not happen.

🔴- The father often mettes out… twitter.com/i/web/status/1…

Steve Jobs, Muhammad Ali, and Nikola Tesla All Had One Superpower.

In addition to their extraordinary wealth and notoriety, what else do these titans have in common? SEMEN RETENTION.

Find a lion that hasn’t had some food for a while, and you’ve got a dangerous cat Nikola Tesla believed “I do not think you can name many great inventions that have been made by married men.

Don“t dissipate your virility on fortune-hunting women, promiscuous women who shipwreck leaders (Proverbs 31:2 MSG)

Dead Horse Theory

The tribal wisdom of the Dakota Indians, passed on from generation to generation says that "When you discover that you are riding a dead horse, the best strategy is to dismount."

However, in government more advanced strategies are often employed, such as: >Buying a stronger whip
> Changing riders
>Appointing a committee to study the horse

OF DOCTORED DATA AND DAYTIME THIEVERY

If you grow numbers in a greenhouse the process will most certainly backfire.

Statistical data necessarily follows an organic and predictable path.

THREAD: Therefore, the curious numerical patterns in certain poll results are simply impossibility and indeed a living lie.

Sample the following:

How come that the gap between the winner and runner’s up in virtually all hotly contested elective positions is predictably consistent?

BREAKING; A Mobile Money company has been Hacked. Sacco’s and Microfinance banks B2C API hit, millions lost! Most mobile money corporates have funded their company’s B2C accounts to the tune of over 100 million, to facilitate mobile money settlements.

That makes them at big risk to loosing millions without them realizing they are loosing money