How to cross Mombasa Highway on foot when you are a 105kg hulk of a polygamist whose grand father was a no nonsense paramount chief and great grandfather was a tough as nails porter in the Second World War:
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Chill by the side of the road for half an hour waiting for the right opportunity to flee across like a chicken thief.
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After six false starts, give up and leave it to the Lord.
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The Lord will respond half an hour later by sending an angel. She will be yellow in colour, with a behind that stretches all the way to mlolongo, a chest that would put Brookside to shame and a skirt so short it would win a UNDP award for water conservation. Her heels will be as tall as rugger star Kayange and as colourful as Dr Alfred Mutua’s maendeleo chap chap PR spins.
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Say a quick amen and duck by her side, so close her elbow touches your missing rib. Trust me, all those murderous husbands hurtling to Mlolongo with condoms in their pockets will brake like their lives depend on it and allow the two of you stroll across the highway mwendo wa aste aste.
Who is the weaker sex again?