All about STI’s

I don’t know much about psi, or slip differentials, or short shifting, or even turbo timers. Sitting at a table with the likes of Jim Barasa discussing transmission and check engine light prognosis would be the equivalent  of Huddah sitting at a table with Msongari nuns discussing celibacy and virginity. But when I get into a subaru I want to feel like I might die. I want to feel the thrill, the rush, the stares and I want to irk some Njoki Chege’s.

A subaru is not that car you buy because it’s a sound financial decision. You buy a subaru only because you can’t afford a Ferrari.  You buy a subaru to put in an obnoxious sound system and fancy gauges on the dashboard and stick an urban legend sticker on the back left window or the rear window. You have it ridiculously low with large tims and a spoiler to boot. You give it a color like blue – whatever shade – and if you’re daring throw in a few decals. You smoke out your head and tail lights and fit in race seats and the signature momo steering wheel. You blast through the neighborhood letting your exhaust wake the neighbors and stir sleeping cars resulting in alarmous (there’s really no such word I just made it up)outcry.

You live for weekends and road trips. A subaru doesn’t just feel at home on city roads, not with all the traffic. So you take it out of town anywhere from Namanga to Kiambu. You get your friend who owns a subaru too and you get your girlfriends and go out of town hooning. You create a nuisance on the open road and you let the beast out. You max it out you feel the punch of the turbo kicking in and the ferocious shifting. You get stopped once in a while by greedy cops who take their pound of flesh and let you own your way. You get to your destination and park the machines opening the trunk to get out six packs of beer and whiskey and vodka and enjoy the loud music without a care in the world. You aren’t worried about getting home because that’s what the girlfriends are for.

You get back into the city after a night of binging and hooning. You let the ladies enjoy the car and they now think  of turning in their demios and vitz for one. That whole week the trip is all you talk about. 

“You guy that weekend was mad”
“Crazy bro”
“Next week?”
“Twende vashaa!”
“Sawa but belynda is at the mech’s”
“We’ll use mine and ask brayo to come”
“Cheers”
“Fiti bro. But you guy? Mad!”

That’s what a subaru should be. If it was a lady it wouldn’t be delicate. It would be ratchet, extremely ratchet.  It’d be the girl at the club  twerking without a care and getting cheers from revellers. It would walk up to guys tables and demand for shots. It would kiss random girls and grind on their guys. It would wear a YOLO crop top and yoga pants. It’d be the guy buying everyone shots of whatever they’re having and saying it’s their birthday. It’d be the guy that negotiated with the bouncer to let his already drunk friends in without parting with any cash because he’s cool like that. He’s the guy a bartender knows by name who no one knows what he does but they like him. It’s the car your mother wants you to sell so you can get serious with life. Its the car she cringes when you take her upcountry. She swears never to get into it again every time. She introduces you to her friends who are selling their Toyotas and nissans hoping you take the bait. She will talk about fuel economy even though she knows squat about that. It’s the car your girlfriend secretly hates because it’s taking too much of your time and money – mostly money. She doesn’t complain because, well, she’ll lose.

So now I see a subaru that looks safe. It looks like a volvo and a Honda had a baby. It doesn’t scream speed or come let’s die. It’s safe, too safe. This is the kind of car that you’re seen in and your buddies ask you why you’re driving your girlfriends sister’s car. Even a hatchback driving guy can scowl at you in traffic and rev their 1200cc and still look like a worthy opponent. Matter of fact people would root for him should you let’s say drag. It’s the kind of car that tells potential girlfriends that you’re ready to settle. It says you’ve had enough of life and it’s thrills.

It looks out of place out of the city and while a normal subaru would be complimented by a spoiler this one looks good with a baby on board sticker. You don’t want to announce to people that what you have is a subaru. They’ll ask you “Aii boss when did Subaru start making Toyota’s?” and laugh. You might probably sell it for the ridicule. Driving it feels like a guy drinking a cosmopolitan while wearing a flowery cinderella dress. It doesn’t make statements it nullifies them. You know how you see a buff guy and think they are all types of manly then they speak in a high pitched voice till you hear dogs barking in the distance? This is that subaru. They got it wrong with this one. Subaru isn’t safe otherwise why would they name it STI? Driving one should feel like unprotected sex with a hooker every damn time. That said Subaru, please take the anesis back where it came from its ruining your legacy – pun intended.

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What it should look like
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Not what it should look like
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