A mini-van with the attitude of a race car and the name of a misunderstood pseudo-state conventional army that uses terror tactics.


I’ve never done a car review before and after Top Gear decided they were going to let up the gas on Jeremy I put a halt to my dreams. Well, not really a dream, as far as I am concerned a car is about looks. Trust me on this, if your car looks fast enough no one will challenge you to a race. You will get by on these Nairobi roads the unspoken king of the streets. Once in a while though some chap with probably low self esteem will rev up next to you and roll down his window menacingly. He will raise one eyebrow giving you that “you know what it is” look blasting something out of a Paul Walker movie soundtrack from his Kenwood. He will wait for the lights to change and he will race himself to god-knows-where and smile at himself for winning.

Me? I race. Don’t give me that look. I’m a mean racer with an NFS record that’s hard to beat. I’ve probably hit R1 harder on that pad than you’ve hit what’s-her-name for make-up coitus. In real life though nothing sends adrenalin through my veins than cruising at a safe speed of 60- with hands at 10 and 2 singing along to Don Moen incase some truck decides my bonnet needs to eat its booty(read bumper) like groceries. But her, on the other hand is a born racer. Forget that she is a mother of two and has this whole step-ford wife thing going, when she takes the wheel (sorry Jesus) all hell breaks loose.

We met on a Sunday afternoon. You know the kind where the sun is showing off its knickers and it’s mooning you and you just want it to put some clothes on? Well, me neither but you know… So she stops by the side of the road to pick me up. She’s all glam as usual. I want to drop labels but my knowledge on fashion goes as far knowing red socks and yellow shorts are a no – thank her for that BTW. She mentions something about been in a race with a Ractis. The Ractis is quite a small car if you’ve seen it and if what she said was anything to go by – guys, do not date a Ractis driver. She pushed that car to its limit she might do the same with you, get frustrated, and move on to a much sportier version. I am not talking about a car just in case you got lost.

So we rev down the highway after a few pleasantries are exchanged. In the back seat she has baby car chairs. Sometime back she swore they get her out of trouble. No cop will arrest a mother with babies – it’s against the law I think. Remind me to install baby chairs when I buy a car. I’ not yet sure how I will pull a mother kind of look but people say I have feminine cheek bones so some make up here and there, a clean shave, and a sun dress that can double up as a Maasai shuka should do the trick. At some point I do take the wheel (again sorry Jesus but the last time you rode was on a donkey things changed bruh).  I didn’t know what to expect with her car. But first let me introduce it.

*insert Jeremy Clarkson voice*

A mini-van with the attitude of a race car and the name of a misunderstood pseudo-state conventional army that uses terror tactics. Ladies and gentlemen meet the ISIS.

Did I nail that? (Again Jesus I’m sorry the puns just keep coming)

Well, that’s as far as that goes. Did I miss anything? Oh yeah, It looks good, has an awesome A/C, has an infotainment system and the gas pedal is on the right side of the floor.

P.S. Being a mini-van we weren’t stopped not even a side glance. That right there is a pro-tip.


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