Wacha tufunge week na this memory.
Pants Down!
In my final year in campus I shared a room with a nigga called Marto. I once told you that apart from pursuing a degree in biomedical sciences, the guy pursued girls and alcohol with impunity. Whenever he was drunk, he would run around the tuition block singing circumcision songs and declaring to all that he was more learned than the Vice Chancellor.
The male hostel we used to stay held the world record for the most coitus per square meter. Being a born again brother, I diligently applied anointing oil on the entrance of the hostel every morning to bind the spirits of fornication; but it seemed the devil always won. I was actually convicted by the spirit one day to throw away the condom dispenser which I considered the sole motivation behind the romps. I was caught by one sexually starved idiot as I was empting the contents into a dustbin, he raised alarm and I was almost lynched.
At each given time, somebody was being laid in our hostel. You could always be sure that every girl who entered into the hostel was going for a dosage of conjugal installation.
There were unwritten codes of communication. If you saw a socks hanging on the door knob of a room, it was a signal that a daughter of someone was undergoing ‘*Semenal baptism’. You were to pass there tiptoeing and fast to avoid hearing the sound effects.
Despite Marto’s efforts to seduce, he was always unlucky with girls. He didn’t take that lightly. He was a bitter and frustrated nigga. Every Friday night he would drink and come to the hostel infuriated. He would run across the corridors of the hostel shouting loudly, actually screaming aiming to insult the girls he was sure were under ‘seminal baptism’.
“Hatutaki malaya kwa hii hostel!”
“Kama unajua kimwanaumme kinabounce juu yako, shame on you! Vaa suruali yako na uende ukalale! Ulikuja Kusoma ama kulimwa!”
Whenever he saw socks hanging on a door, he would camp their and start insulting and threatening the lovers. He would threaten to report to the janitor their presence. Given it was illegal for ladies to be in the hostel past 12 midnight, Marto’s threats were always dreaded. At times the notorious guys would find a girl for him to silence his nasty mouth.
Life moved on.
This particular evening, around 6 PM, Marto had taken too much for the night. He came to the room, switched his iron box on and left it on the bed as he proceeded to the urinal to eject some of alcohol. By the time he was through, he had forgotten about the iron box.
He made one lap across the corridor yelling and telling imaginary girls “shame on them” and calling them sex addicts. Instead of going to his room, he walked out of the hostel towards the canteen to buy Blueband ya 5/=.
His sheets caught fire. Slowly the lazy flames were spreading. Given that his room was always full of Keg and stacked bottles of spirits, it soon burst into full flames. Smoke spread first through the windows but seemingly nobody was noticing.
A bunch of us who were experiencing a drought of girls were just outside the hostel playing pool. We were the first to hear the blasting sounds as flames gushed through the windows and smoke spread across the corridors. The hostel had four floors, and most sex addicts stayed on the third floor.
Most of the idiots were too absorbed in their chakacha’s to notice that the hostel was on fire.
We raised alarm shouting Fire! Fire!
Those who were anointed like me entered into intercessions binding the fire and condemning Satan for it.
No sooner had we raised alarm than those inside realized hell had gone loose. Unsatisfied manhoods were pulled out, ejaculations stopped mid-way and orgasms terminated. Moans of " hadder ! Harder ! were soon replaced with screams of Help! Help!
In few seconds a scene only attainable in a Hollywood Blockbuster was unraveling in broad daylight. Tens of ladies ran out of the hostels naked carrying pants in their hands.
Majority were carrying their trousers high as the fled like Rudisha for the dear lives. Boobs heaved up and down naked chests of poor girls as they ran out and away from the looming death. One of them almost knocked me off as she dashed out totally naked and screaming the name of her mother as I hugged her and consoled her to remain calm.
I felt warm.
Niggas too rushed out nude, most with condoms still on.
We were laughing our lungs off almost forgetting we needed to act fast and put out the fire.
Marto’s room was on second floor and therefore the corridor was in few minutes engulfed in smoke and unpassable. As we struggled to direct the horse-pipe into the room and the corridor, we were fearful some guys were stuck in. True to our word, when the smoke fizzled out, we found many ladies suffocated on the corridor totally naked and majority still smelling of sexual fragrances.
We carried them off, for first aid. We laid them on the grass to recover, and because of shortage of clothes most of them were naked. It is then when Marto appeared still drunk and shouted, “Naona leo mmeamua mtakuliana hapa kwa nyasi?”
“Wacha mimi niende room nika-iron manguo!” as he staggered towards the scorched room.

Hehehe, the naked mile.

Wewe ulikuwa mwokovu kweli?


a true case of our university life very disappointing

Watu wa picha, video na labda sketch?


Very hilarious read. Though with that kind of flowery language I doubt that you’re still on the straight and narrow road to Damascus

:D:D:D:D:D:D nice piece, rich with humour, love the imagery

Hi ni UoN kabisa

hehehe reminds me of a fire incident. wale wanaume walitoka hostels za madem na wale walitoka za maboy…

Sounds like Hall 6.

It was renamed Hall Sex


Hilarious tale though grossly exaggerated.

In our public university, he is true

All well and good. Now acknowledge the source.


MARTO = @Mathaais


"Ulikuja Kusoma ama kulimwa!” :D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D:D