This is Nuts

Hello everyone.

Welcome or welcome back to the blog. Always a pleasure to post stuff here for you to laugh at my life. In the days that I haven’t been posting here, I have been taking online art classes. I want to remember to draw again – the last thing I drew, I drew when I was 13. It was a house in the rain and just before that I drew the face of a girl called Juliet. It was a good drawing. Impeccable. And then suddenly the next thing I remember drawing is graphs of oscillation vs time.

What a sad decline of raw talent.

Anyway, one day I was coming home from work and I took a path that I usually only take in the morning. There’s a small bakery along that path that is (or was – I’m not sure) owned by a colleague. A friend of mine had bought me a piece of cake from there once and it was actually really good so here I thought, “Let me see what’s going on here.”
I have to say, the place was well stocked. There were cakes on display, candy in elaborate glass jars on wall-mounted shelves, various kinds of nuts, dates, and those dried mango things people like for some reason. Achari, I think they’re called.

I could have spent everything in that little cake shop. But, thankfully, I rarely carry my wallet with me and this helps with my impulse buys. Unfortunately, my wallet remains at home with Eve and that doesn’t help with her impulse buys. It’s a lose-lose situation but a bit of a win for me because I can always blame her for the unnecessary purchases. Who needs new curtains anyway? The old ones still work.

Anyway, I was interested in getting some cashews because it’s been a while since I’ve enjoyed them. I barely remember how they taste so imagine my glee when I saw that this lady was selling them by the kilo like an established drug dealer. Big beautifully packed packages of cashew nuts.


Bitmoji ImageI asked how much a kilo was and she said, “Only 700.”

To which I replied, “Kenyan shillings ama ile ya Uganda?”

She didn’t laugh so I knew I was screwed, “Nifanye nini na Ugandan shillings jameni?”

Fair enough.

Now, because I hadn’t brought my wallet with me (and because I knew Eve had bought something totally unnecessary like I don’t know, unga ya ugali), I said I’d be back for some at some other time.

To be honest, I waited a really long time before going back but I am a man of my word, so when I did go back, the lady no longer owned the shop but it still sold the same things.

I asked the new girl about the cashews. There were small – tiny, minute, minuscule – packs of them but me I like big things. She told me that selling them by the kilo was not working for them as a business plan because most of their clients were small-minded. It’s so hard being this evolved.

So I asked if I could get a kilo on request. She said, “Sure. We can arrange that.”

Because I had waited so long that the price of oil went up, she said that they could no longer sell a kilo at the same price.

“So how much will you charge me then?” I asked.


“Does Jesus know what you’re selling them at?”

This one laughed. “Yes. I’m sure He does.”

“Okay, fine.”

But then I backtracked and remembered I can haggle.

“What if I offer 750 instead? We meet in the middle.”

She said she’d have to confirm and she did. She called the new owner and actually asked.

The new owner said no.

“Fine. 800,” I said.

“Utakujia kesho?”


I did not return the next day. In my defense, it was raining and I did not take that path that day. The day after that is the day I went to KRA so I did not go home via that route. I did however remember to go back a number of unknown days later where I found some cashews on the display counter for me.

“Sorry I took so long,” I started. “Nimekujia zile korosho.”

“Ndio hizo hapo,” the lady said. She was talking to some other lady – probably gossiping about people who say they’re buying stuff but never come back in their mother tongue.

But there was something off about this pack. I picked it up and it felt like less than a kilo.

“Is this a kilo, really?” I asked.

“No, it’s only half. Lakini amesema [the owner] atakuuzia hivyo ulitaka mara ya kwanza.”

“Oh, a kilo at 700?”

“Ndio lakini amesema she can’t sell you a kilo at 700 but she can sell you half at the price instead.”

“So you mean, half is 350?”

“No, half is 700?”

“Excuse me?”

“Atakuuzia hio nusu at 700?”

“But why?”

“She said that she bought a kilo at 700 so she cannot sell you the same at the same price…”

So I was doing mental mathematics and I might have had the same expression as that woman in the trigonometry meme. I could not understand what this woman was saying. My mind was glitching.

“Let me say this slowly so I understand,” I said. “You mean to say that she bought a kilo of these at 700 but she doesn’t want to sell me a kilo at 800 and instead wants me to buy half the amount at 700. Correct?”


I was still incredibly astonished so I asked the other woman the same thing. “Does that make sense?” I added.

“No, it does not,” the other woman said.

I placed the half a kilo on the counter and said, “Good luck with your business.” Then I just had to leave.





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Speaking of nuts, last week I went to the doctor. I had been feeling a bit strange down there so instead of digging into my macho-man ways, I ran to my doctor to complain.

“What’s going on, doc?” I asked. “Why do I feel this way?”

“Could be several things,” he said. A brief strange examination later, he asked, “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“About a week or so.”

“Hmmm…” It’s never a good thing when a doctor says hmmm. Nevertheless, he asked me to wait a week to see if the symptoms go away on their own. It was the longest week of my life. I was stressed. These were my balls, bro! Okay, just one ball – the right one – but one is just as important as both.

After a week I went back to him and he scheduled an ultrasound appointment for me. He wanted to rule out an inguinal hernia (which is apparently a common affliction) or torsion or varicoceles. So he wrote it down in my file. An inguinal cavity ultrasound and a scrotal ultrasound -argh! Even the name of the procedure sounds disgusting. Like someone evacuating their throat of phlegm. Scrotal.

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At the imaging center, after giving my info and referral letter to the receptionist, I sat and waited for my name or number to be called. I sat there afraid to go on my phone and search for things on WebMD (which all inevitably lead down the way of cancer and death), so I people-watched. I saw a number of pregnant women shuffling around holding their lower backs for support. I wondered where the seed planters were and why they were letting the gardens go get scanned by themselves. Then there were two different five-year-olds who were seriously bothering their mothers and the old man in me was enraged. If they were mine they would have caught these hands. Whoop! Chile!

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Eventually, my name was called and I was led away from the unruly children and into a room where I was asked to drop my pants and lie on the blue-covered gurney. So there I was, looking at the ceiling, my bits exposed waiting on the radiologist to fiddle with me. It sounds bad but it felt much worse.

“How are you feeling?” Radio guy asked.

I wanted to say like a helpless piglet separated from its mother waiting for the world to end. Instead, I said, “Funny.”

Radio guy then squeezed an unhealthy amount of what I assume is KY gel on my balls and told me not to move. It was really quiet in that examination room as the world faded from sight and all I could feel was the ultrasound wand and the machine printing extremely intimate pics of my insides. Also, that gel heats up fast, it was a funny feeling – like my eggs were being lightly sauteed.

Suddenly it was over and I cleaned up some. Radio guy told me to wait for my results.

I was too out of it to say anything at the time but now that I write this, I can say I wanted more… interaction. I mean, dude, you’re seeing all this for free! Wait, not even for free, I paid to come here and be awkwardly fondled. Talk to me. Show me my scans. Explain stuff, dude! Do radiologists not have interpersonal skills?

Anyway, my scans came back clean. Apparently (and thankfully) there was nothing wrong with my boys.
I went back to my doctor with the results and he said, “See, you were worried about nothing.”

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing’?” I said.

“There’s something in medicine known as phantom pain. It’s imagined pain,” he said.

I pinched him and asked him if he thought that was imaginary.

“Wewe uko sawa. Enda ukunywe maji,” he said. “It might be you are over-exerting yourself when you exercise. Or it might be just gas.”Excuse Me

I made my eyes small at him and left his office. And I purposely also did not take water that day. Like I was punishing him and not myself. 

Anyway, the moral of the story is don’t let people who sell cashews take advantage of you.

Also, if you are a radiologist, do better. Be better. Soma communication skills.

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