The Return of Bilbo: Chronicles From the Keg Side (Part 2)

A Photo of a Young lady working remotely online. Photo/Getty Images.

Meru elders once dropped a gem that goes, “Ukitega mtego wa kimû, hautashika mmoja tu.” Translation? If you set a trap for a mole, don’t be shocked when a whole family reunion falls in. Case in point? Bilbo.

You remember Bilbo, right? That backstreet keg-joint heroine I wrote about? Yes, that Bilbo. Well, turns out the blog did what blogs do best—it traveled. Wide. Even Bilbo’s radar picked it up. She read it. And ladies and gentlemen, the Afrocinema continues…

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Scene 1: A Decent Drinking Spot (For Once)

Last week, I linked up with an old friend. You know, one of those responsible human beings who still believe in cutlery and chairs that don't creak with tetanus. They convinced me to ditch the swampy keg den for a "decent" establishment. So there I was, mentally adjusting to functioning restrooms and walls with actual paint.

Just as we were strutting in—clean shoes and all—guess who spotted me like a hawk tracking field mice? Yep. The one. The only. Bilbo the Bold.

Only this time, Bilbo was soaked—drunk not just on booze but on misplaced confidence, armed with what I assume were liquid courage and a touch of vengeance.

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Scene 2: Enter the Dragon

We barely sat down before Bilbo marched in like a wounded general, lips locked and loaded. She beelined straight to our table, no pleasantries, just verbal vomit—literally and figuratively.

She came out swinging, accusing me of airing her “dirty linen” to the world. Now, I’m not saying she lied—but if lies were bananas, Bilbo had a whole plantation. She sprinkled just enough truth to make the nonsense look nutritious.

I swear it turned biblical at one point. She pulled a Samaritan woman at the well moment, trying to flip the script. Only this time, Jesus wasn’t there to save her narrative.

According to Bilbo, I was a bitter manchild who couldn’t handle rejection. Yes, friends. Apparently, I had made advances, and now I was out here writing chapters of heartbreak like a jilted Mills & Boon character.

But having had an earlier episode with her (and knowing better than to argue with someone whose brain was floating in ethanol), I maintained the silence of a monk. Why wrestle a pig when the mud’s not even your shade?

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Scene 3: Online Hustle vs. Manual Muscles

Then came the job-shaming. “You, you sit behind computers all day, like a woman!” she spat, comparing my online hustle to her muscle-flexing admirers who “sweat for their coin.” I almost asked her if emotional labor counts because I’ve suffered for my gigs too—mostly from clients who pay in exposure.

Bilbo wasn't done. She went for the jugular. My teeth. Yes. Apparently, they weren’t white enough. A solid jab—considering it was coming from someone whose mouth at that moment smelled like expired injustice.

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Scene 4: The Great Exit

When her rants started sounding like a poorly dubbed Nollywood film, my friend and I decided to bow out. Because as any wise man knows—you don't argue with someone who thinks logic is an STD.

Still, as always, I walked away with lessons.

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Moral of the Madness:

People will always try to drag you down—especially when they’re watching you rise from the comfort of their 30 bob bar stools.

Here I am, a trained journalist and certified hustler of the digital kind, being psycho-analyzed by a former Form Two dropout who’s found steady employment in the world’s oldest profession (no, not farming).

Dear readers, take your kids to school. Let them learn about life, hustle, taxes—and maybe spell-check. Because out here, while we’re no longer chasing government jobs, we are out here carving our digital legacies one click at a time.

I may not be a doctor, engineer, or cop. But I am surviving. Living. Earning—without lifting a hoe or bribing a traffic cop.

And if you’re reading this from a café, your phone, or under the blanket you told your folks was “office,” remember: whether you're sweating muscles or straining your brain, if it pays the rent, it counts.

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A Final Word for Bilbo (If you're still reading):

Please, madam. Do what you must. But don't drag others for chasing their bread online. Not everyone is built to entertain drunkards in 12x12 mabati structures with plastic chairs and loud reggae.

Some of us just want peace, WiFi, and enough data bundles to pay bills and annoy haters.

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And that, my good people, is today’s sermon.

Can I get an Amen from the back?

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About the Author

Felix Kinyua – Freelance Journalist | Media Professional | Public Policy Enthusiast

Felix Kinyua is a seasoned freelance journalist with a sharp pen and an even sharper eye for the human stories hidden in everyday life. He holds a degree in Communication and Media and a Master’s in Public Policy and Administration—an academic blend that gives his work both style and substance.

From gritty urban encounters to deep reflections on society and governance, Felix brings a unique voice to journalism: honest, witty, and unafraid to ruffle a few feathers when necessary. His writing explores the intersections of culture, policy, and personal experience, offering readers both entertainment and insight.

When he’s not crafting compelling stories or chasing leads, Felix is deeply invested in shaping narratives that matter—especially those that give voice to the often unheard and unseen corners of society.

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