By Ian Duncan


A friend’s girlfriend recently gave birth to a bouncing baby boy. Speaking of which, why do doctors say “bouncing” anyway? Lil Wayne bounces. Octopizzo bounces. Cheques from my Boss sometimes bounce. But babies don’t bounce.  Or is “bouncing” a metaphor for something? Like, say, “wonderful”? Or “big-eyed”? Or “soft butt”? Why didn’t they just say that then? Instead of confusing the whole world with “bouncing”? Who was the first doctor to ever say “bouncing” anyway? Was he Okay that day? Did his wife pull some “bouncing” monkey moves on him that morning? Did he wake up with something “bouncing” up and down his stomach? Or arse? Why would he settle on “bouncing”? Why not normal words like lovely or cute or sweet? “Bouncing” is not a normal word. “Bouncing” sounds like something you say when you’re in the loo but no matter how hard you push, the damn shit just won’t come out. Doctors like complicating things; even their handwriting is complicated. Also, why do they use “bouncing” on baby boys only and not baby girls? Does it mean that baby girls don’t bounce? And did someone tell that to that rapper chic from the ghetto in ‘Empire’? Or do they just not bounce at birth alone? Because I know a lot of chics who would like to bounce up and down some of Idris Elba’s body parts right now.

Anyway, so the chap created a WhatsApp group for organizing the mami’s coming-home-from-the-hospital party. And he added about 15 ladies and 10 Gents. A week after the WhatsApp group was created, one guy left; Me. There were lots of fake “Awwwws” and “Congratulations” and “so happy for you” and “he’s so cute” comments in that group. Things I don’t have time for right now. I mean, do I think it’s proper that a man who still can’t even pay his own rent should have a baby? Absolutely not. But it’s none of my business. And, because we’re boys, I will come to your baby mama’s coming home party and be happy for you; if you call and invite me like a normal person. But I don’t need to be stuck in nonsensical WhatsApp groups with mamis who pronounce ‘There’ as ‘Thurrrr’ and post their selfies in the group asking if we think she’s wearing the right dress. No, sweetheart, your low self-esteem is spilling all over that perfect white dress, try another one.

Like I said, because we’re boys, I’ll show up to your baby mama’s coming home party. And I did. I arrived when the ladies had already decorated the place with balloons and “Welcome home, we missed you” signs and lots of other glittery things. I introduced myself to the ladies and one of them said;


“So you’re the one who left the WhatsApp group and never showed up to meetings, huh?”


“There were meetings? What was discussed, baby feet?”


“Basic expenditure. Like food and drinks and gifts. Tell me you at least brought a gift?”


“Of course, I brought diapers.”


“Typical men.”


“What else was I supposed to bring, a bottle of Chardonnay?”


“Never mind.”


I won’t. But first, let’s go back to the part about “Basic expenditure”. Guys, you want to tell me that, after banging someone’s daughter in the kitchen cabinet and on the floor and the couch and the table and in the bathroom and, possibly, even on the sink without any form of protection, I’m supposed to just swoop in like Santa Claus and settle your expenses for when the baby is born? Hehe. Wanaume mtawacha mchezo. Hii ni Nairobi, kila mtu na mzigo yake.

The mami finally arrived with the baby and, after the usual pleasantries, every single lady in that room was all over the toi. Saying how soft his (technically, and grammatically, I should say “It’s” but I know a number of women who would be offended by that) cheeks were and how blindingly beautiful his eyes were and how illustrative the lines on his palm were and how warm his butt was and how cute he was, in general. Some even looked at the toi the way I look at Chapos; like they wanted to devour him. And, all the while, I just stood there. Still. Not talking. Not moving. With a glass of juice in hand. Which reminds me, Joan, if you’re reading this, y’all had a five-hour long meeting on the state of the coming home party and nobody, not one person, thought to suggest…I donno…uhmm…some bloody WHISKEY???!!!!

When everyone was done, the baby mama brought the toi to me and asked, “Wanna hold him?” and I said, “I’d rather not.” She was like, “Why not?” and I said, “I have baby fever?” and her eyes sort of went dark for a second there and she went, “What’s that?” and I said, “Uhmm…I don’t like babies very much.” Then she sulked and called my boy (the baby daddy) and told him, “Ian doesn’t like babies” and the jamaa said, “What? Who doesn’t like babies?” and she answered, “Well, Ian, apparently” and he turned to me and asked, “Why?”

Here’s why;

Babies can’t talk. Which means you can never truly know what they really want. And when they don’t get that which they want, despite the fact that you don’t know what it is that they want (did I lose anyone?), they cry their lungs out like a bunch of cry babies. [Which they are. God-damn it, you can’t even use that phrase with babies. And I love that phrase.] I mean, is it so hard to just say, “Milk?” Or “Toy?” Why you gotta bring the whole market to a standstill just ‘cause you want some breast milk? Hell, I want some breast milk right now? You don’t hear me howling about it, do you?

Babies have some sort of bitchy insomnia that keeps them up at night. Which means more crying. More crying means less sleep for me as well. I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m not waking up from this dream of me making love to Ariana Grande to come and read you some made up story about the beef between hens and birds over some bloody razor.

Babies don’t know how to play or do anything, really, without getting themselves all messed up. Babies are messed up. They will walk up to you with mucus all over the face and sand from the Sahara spilling from their pants, yet still smiling and shit. Like it’s supposed to be fun. I bet it’ll also be fun when I whop your behind, won’t it?

Babies are clingy. I hate clingy. I thought only women were supposed to be clingy. Okay, babies are not clingy to the extent of burning your clothes when you leave them but…still…leave your baby for a second to go get your phone charger and you will know what war felt like.

You guys don’t think I’m mean, right? I mean, these are perfectly valid reasons, No?



[P.S: I typed this while listening to Shaggy’s ‘Church Heathen.’ He begins the song by saying, “If you take this too serious, then you really need some church healing…” I just thought you should know.]


***Have something to tell Ian? Throw candies/stones at him HERE and HERE 🙂 hehe.

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Hi! My name is Lovine Christine Mboya. If you ask me to tell you about me, I would rather write about it, because I am still trying to find myself, and might need to edit and maybe change the whole script. I was born 23 years ago. I love life. I wish I was immortal. And then also have the power to heal people. Not just from physical pain, but mental, emotional. I am a daughter. A sister. A friend. A fierce lover. A girl on a mission. Easy. I laugh a lot. But that's because I find most things funny. Welcome to my blog!


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