Rescue mission left me with a gunshot wound

So I was telling ya a coupla weeks ago how I got smoked by thugs many years ago on what would have been me death day in Black August, and I said the storo was TBC ( To be Continued, TBC can also stand for To Be Confirmed, Text Book Centre or a chronic form of tuberclosis, or also, Testicular Bolingo Cirrhosis, for drunks who put chilled beers on theya balls till they turn a deep shade of blue) ...

On that black Fridae nite, heart-smashed by my high school chicka, I’d listened to Prince sing on tape

‘I want to live life, to the ultimate high. Maybe I’ll die young, like heroes die. Maybe I’ll kiss ya goodbye, sumhow in a wild n special way ... If nobody thrills me, or kills me soon! I’ll die in your arms, under the cherry moon ...’

Now I was headed to Nai West with my UG wing man, Oscar, to buy a coupla Kingfishers to drown the sorrow of that first high school dumping, when we heard these loud screams from a muhindi lady getting car-jacked: ‘Mwizi, mwizi.’

‘Lez get the eff outta here,’ Oscar said in his infinite wisdom.

‘There’s a lady in distress,’ the Bomu Three idiot knight in shining

armour in me said - and with Oscar hot on my heels, we turned that corner into the road outside Rio Hotel. The mwizi turned out to be four car-jackers after the muhindi lady’s Nissan Sandak.

‘Unhand the woman,’ the young n heroically daft Smitta screamed at the 4 gentlemen.

Suddendly, the air was wheezing with bullets, n people were running helter-skelter for shelter. In fact Oscar ran all the way to Nyayo stadium, faster than Usain Bolt, faster than a bullet, running for dear life.

Me I ducked under a chicken shed just oppozit Rio, n found myself facing the trembling bottom of an esto chicka called Muthoni, as well as terrified chicken, one of which shat on my head.

The robbers jacked the Sandak, shot in the air after shooting at the now dispersed mob, n beat it from Nairobi west in a screech of rubber n tyres, gas n exhaust.

After a reasonable interval, Muthoni n I emerged from under the chicken shed, covered with feathers, n in my case, chicken-poop up to my eye-brows.

‘Close call,’ I said, standing up.

‘Huyu ni moja wao!’ a bystander let out a yell, marking me as a jacker fit for mob justice.

TG Muthoni too emerged, n the blood thirsty bystander’s credibility was shattered. Tis hard to believe a seventeen year old dudette with booty is a carjacker (thaz how our peer, Phares Mutembezi, once ended up almost battered to dieth in Roysambu by a bloody mob).

As I began walkin with Muthoni, I realised I had peed on meself in fright

But WTH waz my urine sticky to the touch? Coz twas not pee. Twas blood.

And thaz when I realised I had been SHOT in the right upper thigh!

And only then did the pain come shooting thru, turning my leg muscles into flame.

Luckily my ole neiba, Pat Otembo, had been kunywaing in Rio, n the funky dude had a car.

He piled me into the back seat, n drove me to Nairobi West hosi that ten o’clock at nait, n by midnite, I was in OT for surgery.

I stayed in NW Hosi all weekend, all the tois n teens coming to visit me - as pastor Ng’ang’a wud say, I feot raik celembrity’’ - and I esp liked the visits of the three reigning esto beauties, Angie, Ciks,n my ‘ex’, Kate.

My ole lady, relieved I hadn’t booted the bucket, bought me a ‘komerera’ bike n I got membership to Nautilus elite gym on Msa road, both bike n gym to nurse mguu back to full fitness. The muhindi lady got me Fubu high-tops for trying to interfere with her life n Sandak.

The next term in September, I played the White Rabbit in the

‘Wonderland’ play with a walking stick ( Snoop Lion swaggg) with Alice played by the unlikely Nimrod Joseph Hellon (yeah, the jazz man). Me bullet thigh scar has been many a preamble to a rumble in the jungle, if you know wat I mean, heh heh.

But mostly I learnt that when trouble comes calling in the South, you take to yur heels n run to the north as fast as yur legs can carry you ... n hide in the hills