Trending Now:Njoki Chege Strikes Again-Attacks Roysambu and South B Men

I’m starting to accept the notion that Njoki Chege will end up fat, old and single. She has received enough backlash for her articles on the Nation, yet that only cements her views.

The last time she generated as much hate as yesterday, it was when she wrote that fat women are to blame if their husbands cheat on them. Now on Friday, she wrote a lengthy article attacking the dignity of decent Kenyan men. She said she will not look at you twice if the idea of fun is a weekend at Masaku 7s or Naxvegas. She also had some unkind words for men who live in Roysambu, Kinoo and South B.

Here’s the article as published by the Nation.

The last one week, I reconnected with two male friends I had not seen for ages. The lingering question was ‘So are you dating?” Or ‘Iko kajamaa kamekufurahisha?” (Is there a young man that has impressed you?).

I am not dating anyone right now, I tell them as I hastily move on to the next topic before they demand answers.

Even my mother, who for as long as I can remember always told me how ‘boys are bad’, is now asking if I am bringing a ‘friend’ this Christmas. Sorry mom, I will be flying solo this Christmas, and the next one too.

I sigh every time a well-meaning person asks me why I am not dating. Mostly, the answers I give skirt around ‘I am too busy with work and school,” or ‘Jesus is the only man in my life’. Okay, maybe the second answer is a lie, there are quite a number of them but that is not the story here. The real answer, ladies and gentlemen, is because there is simply no men my age to date.


I am a few weeks shy of 25 years, which means that the guys I should date should be aged around 28-30 years. Maybe 33 years if I am to stretch it.

But the unfortunate thing I have come to realise is that the young men I am supposed to date are far from being men. They are boys. Tall boys with blue Subaru Imprezzas who drink cheap liquor on weekday nights and show up to their workplaces the next morning hangovered, smelling like a brewery.

Now, I lead quite a busy life. Actually, my life is busier than a brothel in a sailor town. (Hahaha, wrong example).

I am either at work or at school or sleeping off the fatigue on weekends. My nights are late, either working or studying. Or maybe binge watching episodes of Scandal and Covert Affairs. This means I am a rare woman to pin down. Which also means that I give you an hour of my time from my busy schedule, then you must have really impressed me.

I am not wasting any more time with this i-Phone wielding 29-year-old jamaaz whose only goal in life is to catch a few drinks at that goddamn strip club on Baricho Road that has very few millionaires.

I cannot have a coherent, meaningful conversation with these young Instagram braggats who feel the need to take photos of every bottle of cheap lager they imbibe. I am way beyond them and their intelligence levels are nowhere near half of mine. We are on different wavelengths.


Who has time for a man whose idea of fun is Masaku sevens and “NaxVegas’. Not me! How, pray do tell, do I get into a relationship with a young man whose only achievement is that cut-rate Toyota Mark X whose car loan he is struggling to pay? Are you telling me that I will stoop so low as to be with a man who gets broke on the fifteenth of every month and his is the only mouth that he feeds? How is he supposed to take care of a family?

I am sick and tired of going out with these young men who drink themselves silly, mixing low-end lagers and counterfeit whiskey only to black out on me. I am a highly respectable woman in this society, not your mother.

A lot of girls my age would be impressed by a jamaa who buys them shots of fake tequila on Electric Avenue and take them for Masaku sevens on weekends, but not me. First, I don’t drink alcohol and secondly, I don’t do cheap gigs. So try harder, young fella, it takes more than liquor, lines and lies to impress me.

Because I cannot stand these little boys who hate on strong-opinionated women like me on Twitter from the discomfort of their poorly finished one bedroom apartments in Kinoo, Roysambu and South B, I go for the refined older men who add value to that precious one hour off my busy schedule.

Who wants to chat on WhatsApp with a guy juggling his limited data bundles between Instagram, Twitter and chatting four other girls on WhatsApp, Viber and Skype?


The refined men, on the other hand, are a slice of heaven. They are critical thinkers. They are gentlemen of chivalry. They are experienced. They are well groomed. They have class. They can manage their alcohol. They are independent. They are not like these little 29-year-old sexually frustrated emotional leeches I avoid.

They don’t brag and they drive cars worth Sh3 million. You drive a Subaru Imprezza worth Sh850,000 and I won’t hear the last of it. Some of these older men are not even on Twitter. Unfortunately, all the gentlemen that tickle my fancy are all married! Nothing could be more heartbreaking than this.

Every night, I ask the Lord, why, oh Lord why, are all the good men in this world married? Why are all the Instagram Braggats and Twitter Idiots still alive?

I am yet to meet my ideal kind of man. Not that I have a list. Okay, maybe I need him to be no shorter than six foot two inches, no younger than 34 years, can manage his alcohol and those who are financially blessed are encouraged to apply.

If we can have an intelligent conversation, even better. Are you the man for me?

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