MERU DAILY

A Poster of the much anticipated Pool Tournament. Image/Felix Kinyua.  Makutano, brace yourselves. What began as a simple community pool tournament has grown into one of Meru’s most exciting youth events — and it just leveled up again. Aquadel Drinking Water, the original force behind this grassroots wave, has now teamed up with Mann Insurance Consultants, Thorn Expeditions, and local transport mogul Msafu to deliver an event that’s not just about pool — it’s about purpose, unity, and giving back. If you thought last month’s splash was impressive, you haven’t seen anything yet. This Saturday, 2nd August 2025 at 3 PM, Murugi’s Base (near the former DCI boss’s residence) becomes the arena for a fiery face-off between Makutano and Kaithe–Kinoru — and the community is turning up in full force. --- Bigger Sponsors. Bigger Impact. At the heart of this movement is Patrick Bundi Rungu, aka Bloko, the man behind Aquadel’s mission to hydrate lives and empower youth. What started with bottled...

    A Picture of a slayqueen with tattoo and     Piercings. Photo/News24 Mabibi na mabwana, Hello again my dearest readers wa Makutano and beyond.  Every day in my humble rounds across the beloved dust-choked corners of Makutano—especially my HQ at Mikocheni—I meet people. I hear stories. Some of rise. Some of ruin. Grass to grace. Rags to riches. And sometimes, grace back to grass faster than a barmaid’s eye-roll at a broke client. But the other day, as I was on my usual patrol (read: jobless loitering with purpose), I stumbled upon a true-life Nigerian film being acted right before my eyes. Today's topic: Sponsors. Yes, wale mmamas na madaddies wenye wanageuza town's finest slay queens and slay kings into instant millionaires with just a swipe of their pension-funded cards. Let me confess — I personally have never had that opportunity ya kuwekwa kama pet by a rich mama. But let’s be honest, if a soft life miracle ever lands at my feet, I won’t hesitate. I...

A picture of revellers enjoying themselves in a club. Photo/Getty images. Makutano, kuna mambo zingine ukiwa sober unakumbuka na unajiuliza, “Hii ilihappen kweli ama ni ndoto ya hangover?” Well, my weekend confirmed one thing — Meru nightlife is now just a theatre for fake up, loud flexes, and the rich acting broke while the broke act rich. So, I took a short trip to Nanyuki — that cold land they call Mwisho wa Leri — and came back with a few coins and a lot of curiosity. Then someone whispered about this “exclusive, high-end, next-level, VIP-only, strictly limited, invite-only-but-anyone-can-enter” club in town. You know the type — where posters have champagne bottles and the DJ’s flyer looks like a Hollywood movie cover. I pulled up. Respectfully. Alone. Focused. Alert. Now let me describe the setting. Outside, it looked like a presidential rally. Inside, it smelled like desperation, secondhand cologne, and budget heartbreak. People were dressed like they were about to inherit the fa...

  An illustration of ladies having fun moments.  Photo/The Standard.  Petoo my people wa Makutano, Meru! Or as our Nollywood brothers and sisters shout when someone tries nonsense: “God forbid! Tufiakwa!” That’s the level of disgust I’m on today. Not emotional heartbreak. Not unpaid chama debt. I’m talking deep internal choking — the kind that even three cups of strong Meru tea can’t clear. Today, I write not just as a man, but as a village representative — appointed by ancestral spirits and committee of common sense — to address this madness we’re calling “standards.” Yes. STANDARDS. Apparently, this word has been hijacked by vibes and Wi-Fi. Somewhere between TikTok and a motivational meme, the concept of standards morphed from basic personal preferences into a glorified entitlement manifesto. And now, even in Makutano, where men chew miraa and build dreams on boda backs, the dating economy is crashing — not from inflation — but vibeflation. Let me explain. There I was,...

Men Enjoying Keg Beer at a local joint in Kenya. Photo/getty images. They say I’m petty. And honestly, they’re not lying. I’m proudly petty. The kind of petty that will cancel you faster than an expired Mpesa loan limit. I won’t return to a cheating ex even if she reappears with a choir and a PowerPoint. And I sure as hell won’t keep giving my money to a business that treats me like a nuisance instead of a valued client. Unless, of course, you’re selling tickets to heaven. Then we can talk. Now, I usually write about life—mine, yours, and that of random strangers I meet on these Meru streets. Some stories come soaked in emotion, others in satire. This one? This one is drenched in cheap beer, petty drama, and my own wounded pride. Makutano Nights & Local Church Vibes Let’s begin with a confession. I enjoy the occasional drink. Not the daily-down-your-sorrows kind, but the kind that says, “I survived today, let’s toast.” You can’t even blame me. My folks named me Kinyua, which in Mer...

  An illustration depicting a Slayqueen.  Photo/Getty images.  Ladies and gentlemen, and the undecided in between, They’ve said a lot about me. Oh yes. I’ve been called names too vulgar to be printed on a church bulletin. If vibes could kill, I’d be six feet under and trending posthumously with the hashtag #RestInPiecesFelix. But guess what? I'm still standing, still typing, and still too stubborn to be cancelled. Because while respect is nice, it doesn't pay my bills. Writing does. And today, I’ve come with no filter, no apologies, and absolutely no chill. Let’s talk about my two sworn enemies—those who keep me on my creative toes: Slayqueens and Bitch N*ggas (yes, we’re going there). Chapter One: The Gospel of the Slayqueen Imagine this creature. Eyelashes heavy enough to start a tornado, nails so long they could pickpocket you from across the room, and filters so advanced even NASA couldn’t detect the original face. This, my dear readers, is the modern slayqueen—Mother...

Image of uncooked raw beef and Vegetables.  Photo/Getty images.  There are many ways life can humble a man. You can get dumped via text. Lose your last 50 bob to an ungrateful mpesa reversal. Or worse — go to bed hungry with uncooked beef staring at you from the kitchen counter. All because of one missing item: a matchbox. Yes, dear readers, this is not fiction. This happened. To me. A grown man. A bachelor. A man of modest means who knows how to fry beef and boil water with respectable skill. Let me set the scene. It was one of those Makutano nights — the kind where you do your usual rounds: check on humanity, take mental notes for your next article, and hydrate your throat with a cold something. You know… social journalism. I came home slightly tipsy, but happy. In my possession: Half a kilo of boneless beef (no bones because I don’t fight two wars — meat and alcohol are enough). Some leaves of sukumawiki that a kind mama mboga blessed me with. Ugali flour sitting quietly in...