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'Gladiators' The Masons Kingdom
By Kevin Murungi
Price: $5.00 USD. Words: 21,550. Language: English. Published: May 7, 2014. Category: Fiction
A thrilling, stupefying, entertaining and exuberant content. 

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'Gladiators' The Masons Kingdom

 by Kevin Murungi

 Kshs 435.35 

Synopsis

An envious student is captivated by the mysterious lifestyles of fellow mates in the university and yearns to become part of the group. Oblivious of what it entailed to become one of them, Rupert easily falls into Alaine's trap who entices him into cultism in cahoots with the rest of her associates forming the “Gladiators”. While in pursuit of easy earned bucks, Rupert finds it irresistible to decline the offer but it turns out the cash is a bloody affair. He finds himself intertwined in the core of unfathomable ritual acts with consequential drawbacks and near impossibility of quitting the masonry. He earns himself a baptismal name “Raider” just like everyone else who had colloquial code names from their god Pinto. He turns out to be a rebellious mason threatening to bring the masonry sect into its knees by divulging its evil deeds capitalized by mysterious deaths of resourceful citizens.
While investigating the mystery behind Jenny's disappearance from Crempton University’s campus, Agent Doyle and Donovan were aided by her fellow schoolmate and classmate who turned out to be Rupert. Surprisingly, he was the murderer. Aided by Hector, his new acquaintance, the C.I.B Agents embark on a rescue mission and the beginning of an end for the masonry community stares. They unearth unsolved mysteries dramatically amid torturous experiences for both Raider and Agent Doyle. It eventually dawns on them tertiary institutions of learning like Crempton University are hubs of cults and ritual killers in the name of religious believes.
'Gladiators' The Masons Kingdom will give you a thrilling adventure and a chilling experience of equal measure. It uses an exotic setting of imagination, a city that exists in the Authors imagination intended to engage the reader in mystery, a different world altogether. It uncovers engagements by young adults in organizations they know little about that take advantage of their insatiable need for fast bucks. The content is mesmerizing and stupefying whereas quenching your thirst for some fiction literature.

A thrilling, stupefying, entertaining and exuberant content.

Product Details
Format:
ePub
File Size:
188 KB
Author Name:
Kevin Murungi
Publication Date:
May 2014
Language:
eng
ISBN(s):
9781311482990
Category:
Mystery & Detective

Sunday, March 9, 2014

Forever to the World Cup


I speak football, soccer, whatever you want to call it. But we stand on a common ground about this one thing. It is opium of the masses that enjoys massive uptake of what it stands for. Then there is the climax of it, the boiling point of the partakers of this noble sport played by gentlemen and followed by hooligans. It is the coveted moment that defines whose opium is more dope than others. The clash of the titans, when the mighty crashers in the form of men in small pants with hems above their knee cups regardless of their ages and sizes, meet for the battle of men against the boys, all of their eyes set on the golden trophy. Well, you ask how I know about all this. I’m refraining myself, in fact I’m inclined to calling you dumb at this juncture, but then, I’m couth. I know manners. It’s because I too partake of this good opium. That does not mean I’m anything near a hooligan. I won’t say what team of boys I support but I hear people wag their tongues cursing them for not winning a trophy for like immemorial. I already gave a hint. It’s upon you finding out.

If you’re a partaker of this opium, then you know what I speak of. For thee that pretend soccer is your worst event that life had to offer, I shall disclose that I speak of the World Cup. Then you pop the question, what a monster in the name of a cup. For a football fan, the World Cup is the ultimate moment. It comes every four years according to federation’s calendar and finally, the ultimate icing in the cake, year 2014! This year we’re headed to Brazil, the home of soccer. It is the epicenter, the arena of dreams upon their dreamers, where the men shall sieve out the boys. For those of us who only know the boundaries of where we live and call the extremities of our own country, Diaspora, we shall step into Brazil in style. Like kings who own it; the trophy. Oh! Hell yeah! Step into Brazilian soil, into the arena and thrive in the moment. Yes! On my television set, that’s how! This time not the Jabulani, but chasing the Brazuca, left, right, centre all the way into the net until the fat lady ululates.



But then, cometh the lunatics, them who ingested too much opium in form of soccer, an overdose of it! Those who eat, spit, sleep with boots on whenever their team wins, who can go any length in defending their team including hanging on a sheet upon their necks, or jumping from a skyscraper. They hoist flags embodied by their team’s colors in the homesteads. Those that keep mementos and other accessories associated with the game such as the famous vuvuzela in their rooms. Those with bed covers striped with the colors of their favorite teams. They forfeit sex with their wives for the love of the game. Those who ape what their big stars do in the pitch including naming their sons and daughters after the wizards in the pitch. Of my friend’s and neighbor Mwaura’s ilk.

I can’t imagine how life would have turned out to be without people similar to Mwaura crowning it. It would’ve been one vast hell, jungle. I’ve been around for a while. At least I have seen decades culminate to the age that is upon me today. I’m that old. I have also been around the capital city for a while too. You know, in search of greener pastures and such ironies of life, found me adding to the capital city’s list of least woes. I have therefore known Mwaura for as long as I have been in Nairobi walking on the face of it. World Cups have also come and gone, at least a sizeable number to know Mwaura has forever been saving to his way to the World Cup. He dreams big, setting his foot into an arena where the coveted trophy would find its way to the podium up for grabs for the men to have their way. He has had enough of sitting at the front couch, his eyes fixated to the small screen that we call television.

Mwaura was headed for the World Cup in South Africa. That’s according to the words of the hoarse. He had set a date of departure. How better would it have been having the tournament closer home than ever before than South Africa?  He had saved money. A lot of money! So he said. I however doubt how much money is a lot according to Mwaura’s version. Please note. He’s a truck driver within and without Nairobi and earns what he likes calling ‘jugu’ or peanuts in English. I’m not saying truck drivers are money deficient, but this particular driver? To add to his woes, besides having to part with a thousand shillings for a full week’s household consumption to his beloved Wangeci, which he thinks it’s too much while his wife thinks otherwise, he also has a dozen of children enough to make a volleyball team on rotation. Wangeci, his wife, hails from a county that boasts of women tigresses who purr and devour men who do not yield. I need not tell you who’s the head of the house in Mwaura’s family unit and who’s tail.

On the auspicious moment, on the eve of ‘departure’, when the D day was neigh for this noble man to realize his dream, hell hath no such fury. His wife had marked the calendar for a D day in her own making. Mwaura staggered out of Mama Pima’s shrine with bragging rights up his chest having spent every dime of his week’s earnings on an illegal hard drink served by Mama Pima herself. He as usual, ‘parked’ at his doorstep upon reaching his house after the spree. Let me explain what I mean by ‘he parked” for I mean not a car. He literally dims and leans upon his door before snoring hard to prompt his wife to literally drag him into the house before setting him up against the bathroom walls and running cold water upon him consistently drenching the man on tap’s gush as a way of neutralizing whatever it is in his blood in the name of alcohol. On this particular day, it was the eve of his voyage to the south and I bet he dreamed of the coveted trophy as he snored away his blood oozing of alcohol.

He didn’t make it to the World Cup I tell you. On going, he erred, and still it remains a dream. He was right about one thing alright. The World Cup had never been closer home than ever because his wife for sure had made arrangements to bring it live in their house. Talk of being fried and turned over and over in deep bubbling frying oil then scooped by a tined spoon. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned, and Wangeci testified to this upon her husband’s entire body anatomy. By the time she was through with him, Mwaura had no money for the World Cup voyage. It was ‘depleted’! I do not know how, but his savings had diminished in a flash. I can only speculate what happened on that fateful day that saw Mwaura’s dream thwarted by his beloved wife of many children. He had made her, mother again by scoring goals in other quarters other than the net.



The pain of being called a mother one too many times didn’t auger well with Wangeci this time around. She was pregnant again, a circus. For the umpteenth time, Mwaura had done it again. Perhaps, Mama Pima had told a lie that her ‘kanyauji’ aka drink had the ability to substitute what family planning pills do in taming the number of issues in a family and perhaps, Mwaura and wife bought the idea. A flop it is! Considering that they were ‘proud’ parents of many and that at any one given time they either have a national examination candidate in either primary or secondary levels, in the education cycle, Mwaura’s wife had it up to here! You know, to her throat. Mwaura had chewed more than he could swallow this time altogether. Technically, Mwaura’s dream had come to pass, though he may never discover in his lifetime. The arena was set in the house and the trophy was upon him in the form of another pregnancy for his liking. He however insists this time, it’s for real, all the way to Rio de Janeiro. I want to discourage him by telling him to lower the bar a little bit and not to set his hopes too high but then I remember Lupita’s line about valid dreams. I also remember that he’s not alone in this quest. Our national football team Harambee Stars is with him hand by hand. I dare not tell him also, when the trophy made a tour around the world and happened to pass by, I had a ticket invitation to attend a photo shoot beside it, which I declined to attend. He would turn all his misery towards poor me. Meanwhile if you own a pub or a khat kiosk like mine, embrace yourself for the derby because you will smile all the way to the bank when the tourney begins. Just make sure you have a television set for them who are forever headed for the World Cup like Mwaura and our national team. Forever to the World Cup!

Compiled by tickler,
Son of ‘the unquenched’
Kevin Murungi
©Rights Reserved
murungikevin@yahoo.com

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Solemn Prayer

Lord, I know you're listening,
I'm of sin, I need cleansing,
Separate me from sin,
Separation between you and I, sin,
Take my hand, let's win,
This, my solemn prayer.

I need not ask you, yet you give,
I need not pay, but acknowledge,
I need not yell, but whisper,
You hear my heart's pledges,
But the devil, is a wedge,
This my solemn prayer, whence.

I ain't perfect, son of man,
Mere mortal, I bequeath self,
 Rock of ages, shelter of man.
Embrace me, make me brace,
Precious, ultimately, wholly thine,
This, my solemn prayer, to thine.

Amen!

Compiled by tickler,
Son of the 'unquenched',
Kevin Murungi
murungikevin@yahoo.com

Friday, January 31, 2014

'Butt' Almighty


Life is lovely and in diversity, we are all unique in our own way. It is this diversity of life that identifies what’s special for each one of us. By special, I’m also considering unique aspects of the Homo sapiens man that exists today.  If you believe in evolution and the fallacy that we’re descendants of one ugly creature that looks ages, the so called Chimpanzee, then it’s your own belief. I think you’re supposed to be known as an atheist in civilized English. As for me, I shall not be likened to a gorilla of sorts and I chose to believe in the unseen. It is the reason why I believe there is a superior being greater and older than the evolution theory that you believe in whom I call the Great Supernatural aka God.

My argument is simple and goes like this. If you believe we evolved then evolution started from somewhere.  I believe the superior being behind that evolution theory of yours is one eternal man above us. He is responsible for the diversity and made us look different and think divergent in our own unique individual way including the appearance of our bodies. You call it evolution, I call it creation. The Great Supernatural must have taken all the time at His disposal to create anatomy that He called man. Unlike the rest of His creation which was brought forth by mere proclamation ‘let there be’ , the Great Supernatural made us with His own palms, upon the fingertips like a potter would squeeze clay to mould a urn with keenness and precision and behold, mankind that we are.

However, evolution thrives in all that is artificial including human lifestyle. Obliviously, we call it change. Consider anything man made and find out if it still looks how it used to in eons and you will discover evolution has created change and a new form is gives prominence. Consider the natural thereafter, the eternal, like mankind. You will discover we too change but our form still remains intact. We grow, age and die but we forever remain bipeds, with two arms, same number of fingers, eyes and all that constitutes human anatomy. One of the aspects of human kind that I have witnessed evolves or changes as you may want to call it, is fashion. I have seen them all, the bell bottomed pants and blockbuster kind of shoes, from the famous North Star sneakers of the nineties to Moccasins, from Savco jeans that never worn out to khaki pants and so on. Name them and then look around and see what now exists around you. They say the only constant in life is change and I dare not query.

I have said too much of nothing already. I’m not here to speak about change of grooming but of the ideal body. While I’m at it, I shall be biased to my opposite gender, the other mankind called a woman, the womankind. I’m a very chalant being who loves observing my surroundings. Simply, I make use of my eyes to the maximum. I have been observing the change of the ideal fashion of an ideal woman body size. When I was younger, I thought, at least I was made to think and believe that the ideal body size of a woman was akin to a telephone mast. I heard this was fashionable and passed modeling, the skinny but with a glowing face and long hair. Before I could get myself one of those, another womankind was on offer. The so called “Coca Cola” bottle shaped breed, the size eight I heard. The ideal size eight was supposed to be meaty around her torso, the breast area adopting the “Coca Cola” bottle shape proceeding downwards suddenly adding more meat around her bottom appearing plumper in this vital area. This defined the size eight. Again I thought and was made to believe I should drool for this one but change made evolution and didn’t give me a chance. I thought the womankind had accepted being size eight until I turned on my television the other day.

I watch a lot of television. It’s like my library. I consume of it and one day while I was flipping to and fro, channel to channel, I stumbled upon something interesting, well, on a channel I stumbled upon. It is a channel that I would ordinarily not be watching because I eat not of its content. It doesn’t auger well with my television diet so my appetite for it on this day was erroneous. Note that I used the word ‘stumbled’ but being a man, what I saw aroused my curiosity and suddenly an appetite for the content was rife. What I stumbled upon made me think and realized the womankind has evolved further and is now on a ledge while the man, the male kind was still in the ages of the atheists.

 Besides the fact that the ideal African woman has been eroded by an urge if not obsession that defeats African sense, is now adopting a foreign culture which commands her to turn her dark and beautiful color of an ideal African woman to something that now seems alien to me, right into the murky culture of the white woman. The African woman is under the influence, in fact drunk, of the western culture and has now decided to paint herself with an undercoat, a primer and a main course of alienation over her original skin. I see them with colored faces. By colored, I mean any other color besides her original color of black and beautiful. I look and analyze her closely and discover that her elbows, knuckles, ankles and wrists have denied her the ‘privilege’ of truly converting herself to a white womankind.

Now, going back to what I stumbled upon, on this channel that I shall not name because I do not want to annoy anybody who subscribes to it, a program dubbed ‘Ten over Ten’ was on air. On this ‘auspicious’ occasion, what was being ranked were a collection of top Kenyan celebrities of the womankind species with super drum size buttocks aka bottoms alias butts. I had no idea that having much of your body weight upon your waist and appearing meaty with a protruding mass of bum meant something if at all you belonged to the species of womankind. I hear, well, just hearsay, not that I know, bums are now the ‘assets’ that make the ideal womankind tick and thus how mammoth a size, the better. Again, I hear, not that I know, some celebrity of womankind have an insurance cover for their precious bums. They say, not only are their bums precious in attracting their other half in the name of man, the male kind,  into their lair but also are a source of livelihood prompting an insurance cover earmarked upon them. I halt and engage my mind into thought to crack the puzzle on how these ‘assets’ earn a livelihood for the carrier. I thought if I knew how, I could make a side hustle with my own bum. I thought too could use my butt to make a few bucks for myself and buy an insurance policy for them until I cracked the puzzle.

Amidst deep thought, then I discovered for one, my butt could not pass an insurance valuation for the simple reason mine is minuet and handful. Secondly, and the most important, I realized I belong to a different species other than the womankind. I discovered I’m the male kind. Thirdly, I realized that in all insurance policies, a risk is involved and I failed to come up with a risk that my butt would possibly encounter in my lifetime. I couldn’t pinpoint any. I therefore concluded that my bum was too useless for an insurance cover and I realized it cannot fetch even a single nickel for self.  I also concluded that my bum had only two applications since time immemorial. One of them is sitting and the other is alimentary related.

I’m told, so I hear, that bums of a womankind have a price tag upon them to appear in one of those lewd music videos which showcase themselves in the same channel that I had stumbled upon. I agree, without iota of doubt in my mind because the music videos that followed after the ‘Ten over Ten’ program was over, were awash of super drum size, semi groomed bums all of the origin of womankind and largely of the African descent while the men, the male kind clad fully in designer suits with the best of the best of designer labels.

I’m also told, so I hear, that men are after these plus size bums during these trying times. This is enough evidence of the devil dinning with us. It is enough proof that Lucifer walks on this planet we domicile and bequeathed to us in good order and sanity by the Great Supernatural. I’m also told so I hear,  the demand  for super drum size bums of womankind origin is so overwhelming that entrepreneurs are cashing in on artificial bums in form of huge spongy soft pads that are supposed to be stuffed beneath the pants of these mega ‘butts’. I then suddenly realized the mega super drum  ‘butts’ I see gait in the streets of Nairobi might actually be fake, only stuffed with something that substitutes what is real. Suddenly, everything now makes sense and it’s now clear a new idol is in town, Butt Almighty! If I said I was not worried about the current breed of African womankind, I would be lying. I’m so worried! In fact, I shiver of worry!


Compiled by tickler
Son of ‘the unquenched’
Kevin Murungi
murungikevin@yahoo.com
©Rights Reserved

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