Wednesday, 31 May 2017

THE MOTHER OF ALL RIDES.

So now i burst onto this Boda boda shed,because i'm in a hurry to attend that political meeting.I glance around and i pick the one that has a replica of a Buffalo's horns,somewhere  at the top of the front wheels.Buffalo horns,because this is the animal that i associate with real virility,which is actually what my preferred candidate is riding on-virility.Then at the back,it has a picture of Bob Marley smoking something that simply cannot be a cigarette,if the shape is anything to go by.

As i hop on,i notice that my rider has this distinct smell of cannabis,coming off his soiled jacket,but quickly make the assumption that the jacket may not even be his,that he may have just picked the wrong one,seeing as they are all hung on a single nail.Opposite,this damsel is trying to sit astride her ride,but her short dress is instantly transformed into a handkerchief,and she has to stand right up again,so she can pull it down wards.Only when she sits,the dress goes all the way up again in defiance,and she stands up, so she can pull it downwards.Again.My ride takes off,and we leave the two going over the standing up, and sitting down motion for the umpteenth time.Quickly,i wished someone would just tell them that you don't make a short dress longer,by pulling it downwards.But i'm not even through with that thought,before my ride jerks forward like a released conveyor belt,without warning.My head is yanked backwards,and i involuntarily swallow the muguka i was comfortably chewing.Now,anybody with half-a brain can tell you that, you do not under any circumstance, swallow your muguka,unless you want everything you look at ,to turn green.I dismiss that as a dismal attempt by the enemy to soil my moods,and swear to smile,no matter how many times i make involuntary swallows.Then off we go...

WRONG TURN.

We haven't even made  500 meters,before my rider hits on the brakes,the way you would step on a snake's head.Because we've apparently gone down the wrong road.The braking is so sudden that we both involuntarily stand straight upwards,barely managing to stay on the little machine,almost flying off it altogether.Immediately,i notice that everything is appearing in twos,and i suspect it must be from the muguka i swallowed a couple of minutes earlier.Only later,do i realize that my glasses actually flew right off my nose,and into God-knows-who's-farm.So we turn around,so we can find the right route,but the machine skids,and sprays rain water all over this woman's tomatoes,neatly arranged by the road-side.When she emerges from her vantage spot,she has the exact walk of a lioness,when you touch her cubs.I immediately see the need to involve God in this whole scenario.Because there's visible smoke, coming out her nostrils,and soot out of her ears.Clearly no one is going to silence this one,looking like a million women scorned.(You know what they said about a single woman scorned.Now take that,multiply it by a million.Yes.A million).You wait for a woman like that,you would wait for a meteor.My rider wants to start saying something to her,but i immediately remind him that all we have in this world,is the 10 seconds its going to take this woman to get to where we are.He gets my point,releases his clutch and we take off like one of those American F-16s,atop USS Roosevelt.

We're both screaming 'pole mama',as we go hurtling back up the direction we came from.I distinctly pick out the words 'ningewafyeka kama nyasi!' from a female voice,and i inform my rider that by running off, we may have actually made one of the best decisions of our lives.I glance back,and i realize that she may actually be tearing the tarmac off the road with her bare hands,and i lean forward,like i want to run past the bike,now doing close to a hundred plus.

 CLOSE SHAVE.

Just then,i somehow manage to whip my phone off the side pocket.A quick glance reveals that i'm running really late.So i inform my rider that we cannot afford to waste any more time taking wrong turns,and he gets my point.He gets it so well that, when we get to that inter-section he doesn't go right,(which is where we are supposed to be headed). Neither does he go left.He keeps going straight,at breakneck speed.I would have alerted him that we've once again lost the way, if i hadn't spotted this eighteen-wheeler truck hurtling down our way,because we are now suddenly on the wrong lane.
All the words i've read about the miracles of Christ flash through my mind,all at once,and for a moment i think about my sins as well.I see the face of St.Peter standing by the pearly gates with a golden book,reading out names aloud.I see winged creatures,some beckoning,others just going about their endless praise business.Clearly this is it.The last time two men on a bike hit an eighteen-wheeler truck head on,the mourners had to bury the mixture of the three in a single grave.There's no telling this, from that.Even the shoes have been ground into powder,then mixed with the kidneys of both occupants,which are then ground into this sick-colored water,that the undertaker has to scoop using a spade.
I would have told you how we swerved,and heroically saved our lives.But i won't, because we didn't.Actually we did nothing.But the bike kept moving forward,as we waited to die.Somehow we didn't and we miraculously escaped with our lives.I remember hearing screeching brakes,obscenities from directly above me,then the smell of green raw maize.Because that's where we stopped-in a maize farm.You could have heard my heart thud from a mile away.But my rider had this chimp grin on his face,like he does this for kicks.Or like its some sort of a game he's playing on some gadget.We dust ourselves up,half an hour later,get off the farm,then zoomed off again.I'm really late now,and we really need to hurry,never mind the fact that,by now,i look like Huckleberry Finn,on his worst day.

So we turn back,after confirming that we are really alive. Once firmly astride,the smell of cannabis gets stronger now.I'm beginning to worry that a snake might just be in this guy's jacket,because i hear snakes love the smell of cannabis(Snakes and i,never ever mix). I've since established that my rider's name is actually 'Moshi',from the brief conversation we held in the maize farm.If you are being driven around by a guy called moshi,then smoke might as well be your next destination,i deduct.\
This time,we turn off at the right place,left that is,now that we are approaching the intersection from the direction of the moon to earth. Moshi gives the little piece of wielded metal some more gas,and the shameless two-wheeler responds with gusto.It cruises relatively well on this new highway,and even though i'm late, i'm beginning to entertain the idea that i might just make the ground to participate in the closing war-songs.(Kiboiya.That's how we always close our rallies).

I can see  two police Land Cruisers straight ahead,(Remember,i lost my glasses,so it might as well be one)and i'm assuming everyone can see them.I'm thinking Moshi can see it(Or is it them),too.I think nothing of them,seeing as we are all headed to the same direction.That's until he rides right up behind it,and goes in like knife through butter,hitting the hind door into a million police smithereens.

Moments later,we are sprawled on the grass by the road.Moshi is coughing soot like an old house's chimney.The cops are all over us,asking a million questions at once,and not giving time for even a single one to be answered.I get no time to explain why i participated in an attempt to assassinate the Police of Kenya.Or why i became a terrorist,out on a suicide mission,rather than be home,hugging my kids because they've eaten dinner well.As far as they are concerned,this is no accident....we tried to kill them.And when Moshi looks up to plead his case,and they catch a glimpse of his eyes,they need no further evidence.I can see the headlines tomorrow... "Swift action by the hawk-eyed elite force,saved the day".

POH-LICE CELL.

As i write this, i'm sitting in a damp police cell,discovering the importance of always getting the waist-size of your trousers right.Because you can never tell when you will be the recipient of the orders..'Toa mshipi,nyang'au!'
I knew mine were a few sizes larger,and the belt always kept it in place.Now with the belt in the safe custody of the cops,and with no shoes on,i have to grip one corner of my trousers to keep them from 'dripping' to the floor.And with the kind of guys i'm locked up here with,you never can tell what their minds might come up with,upon seeing a bearded man who's just dropped his pants.
Moshi is snoring soundly on the cold concrete,and i thought i heard him call out to 'Gakii' in his sleep,whom i deduct must be his sweetheart.Even reptiles fall in love.And the evidence to that, is snoring right before me.And as i wait for the next name to be called out by the Afande on O.B,who's meaning i'm yet to know,i pick out the deep bellowing of the O.C.S,now heavily bandaged from head to toe, despite suffering only a bruise on his mid-finger.Then i know we are in some real trouble...

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

IN TRIBUTE TO ALL RURAL WOMEN.GOD BLESS YOU.

She's not had much sleep,yet the sun is almost out.Because Kiracha,her husband,has spent the better part of the night screaming obscenities,to all and sundry in the house and out.He always does that,this husband of hers.Whenever he staggers home from Ngurwaru,the local shopping center,where he spends the day 'hustling' for cup after cup of mugasha,some potent illicit liquor,he embarks on this barrage of screaming and yelling ,to no one in particular.He's not violent,Kiracha.In fact,not even once,has he ever laid a hand on her.Partly because she's stronger than him now,(And he knows it)and also because she feeds him.Somehow.

The rats,mice,cockroaches,even the mosquitoes of the house have long gotten used to his barrage,and don't even stop mating when he shows up.If it wasn't for the noise that he makes,no one would even notice his presence,or lack of it.But tonight he's particularly been noisy,maybe because a local MCA contestant was buying death-tickets for all men at the shopping center,that pass for alcohol.So Jasiri,mother of five,having had enough of the snoring and the foul-breath,turns sharply and gets off the creaky bed.Besides,its time to go milk Kungu,the cow,before Kiracha does so,because when he does,he carries the milk to the shopping center,leaving the kids without breakfast,only to exchange it for mugasha,the local brew.

Ahead,is another full day.Plenty of planning needed.So Jasiri sits on this stone outside her house,gazing at the rising sun,and wondering if,today,it would bring with it some good news.Something different,from all this struggle that she has to endure daily.Briefly.here's what she has to do,before the end of the day...

Jasiri's Day.

After milking her cow,she quickly makes breakfast for her family.A litre of milk should do,so that the other litre,she can sell to the primary school teacher neighbor,who has just stated the second week of their national strike.(They are seeking a five hundred percent pay rise,so they can build more senseless economically nonviable bungalows,filling up whatever land is left in the villages).This she does,because her second born child,a boy,is joining upper primary soon,and this gesture is so that the teacher may remember her kindness,when she shows up in school,child in tow.
After making sure the kids have had breakfast,accompanied by the previous night's left-overs,she's going to send all her kids off to school,except Kamari,the last born kid,who is down with some Malaria.

At around this time,her burden,that pass for a husband,is going to wake up,come staggering outside,and demand for food.And she's going to give it to him....she's used to giving,almost never taking.Then she's going to wait on him as he eats,listening to him criticize her cooking,her methods of tilling land,her inability to milk the cow with finesse,her crude way of cutting nappier grass for the cow.Even her looks,for she has by now,completely forgotten that she too,has a right to look and feel good,as every woman should do.She somehow slid into the role of a farmhand,not a wife and mother,finding these two as luxuries she can ill-afford.She's going to ingest more verbal attacks from this man.as he carefully describes how all the above things ought to be done.
Never even once,has he ever showed the way,if he was that good,always describing in detail,how this and that ought to be done.Jasiri is going to take all that in her stride,and when its over,she's going to see him off.He's going to bark a few more instructions as he troops off,'to attend this meeting with the MCA,in a bid to sound important.He's going to assert,as he leaves,that this aspirant stand s no chance of election,if he was to exempt himself from the campaign trail.But Kiracha goes to no campaign trail...he's always left sprawled at the shopping centre when everyone else has left.Seems his ability to withstand the sting of mugasha is caving in..all it takes is three mugs to 'speak English',four to sing circumcision songs,five to say goodbye to the world and six to 'park the bus'. All that therefore,costs sh60,and its done.He wakes up at night,takes one more so he can see,then heads home to start the screaming session.

Jasiri is going to join the other women,at their Rabbit rearing project,sponsored by some wazungu from Norway.She's going to be there till noon,then head straight back home so the kids coming for lunch may find her there,having already prepared their lunch.Then she's going to get more feed for the cow and the goats...at least the chicken can fend for themselves,of course with the risk of poisoning, should they stray into the neighbor's field.(A neighbor will poison your chicken,then come to listen to your radio saying.....raira is coming soon,i hear.Is he a pitch black as darkness?). She's as hard as an officer from the Special Force,Gilgil.Her life is like a never-ending military drill.Things have to be done at specific times,or the whole family will disintegrate.

In between,she'll somehow manage to clean the house,the kids,plus the homestead.How she does that,nobody knows.She seems to be at all the places at the same time.Her energy is legendary.Its inexhaustible.Some quarters call her the weaker sex.Yet the only weak thing in her is her inability to be weak,in times of adversity.Even when there's nothing to eat,she puts on  a brave face.Probably hoping that tomorrow will be different,better.She long refused to give up.She soldiers on,forgetting herself in the process,as she makes great men and women of the country.She forgot herself.She's the last to eat,even to sleep.Sometimes she'll skip a meal,so Kiracha can eat.All this with a smile on her face.

The Heroine..

Then come Sunday.She's the first at the church compound,so she can help clean it before the 'yoyos' show up with their headphones and CAT shoes,to soil it all over again.In between the preaching,she'll volunteer to cook for the guys in ties at the high table.And serve them,even though she knows they'll criticize the way she is dressed,especially the slight tear on her sweater,which she didn't have the time to fix.Only when the day is over,will she realize that,once again she's served everybody else,and forgot herself.And there will be none left,so she'll smile and head home,this time to cook for her kids.

My intention was to capture Jasiri's daily work.Midway,i realized i couldn't.Because i'm not Jasiri,and i have no idea how she does it.So i quit trying.I quit trying to know how she makes her world turn.All i know is Kiracha would be lost without her.Her kids would melt away in her absence.The family unit depends on her.She carries so much on her shoulders,that it would be impossible to capture it writing.She hardly ever sheds a tear,even when the abuse from Kiracha goes overboard.Even when she's got nothing left to give,she hardly ever cries.Except when in total private,when she prays,for everyone else but her.

When we meet Jasiri and company,let's for once,not keep commenting on her flat shoes and unkept hair.Or shaven head.Because,she's carrying more than we can ever handle.The things she gets done,on virtually nil resources,are vast and wide.No writer can aptly capture it.Choose to see the heroine in her.Choose to help,if you can.And if you can't,please zip up and walk away...she's had enough as it is,without more of your comments.

 Glowing Tribute.

Today,i pay glowing tribute,to all women out there.All mothers who keep giving,forgetting to take.This day may be insignificant to them,they don't even know its here.Not much recognition goes their way,because even in all these social functions,all they do is cook for you and serve you.Then they sit at the back,flat on the ground,as you sit on the chairs they carried.Then they'll eat what you've left.Then they'll smile at you,as you hop into your fancy cars,for that drive back to the capital,as you complain about the taste of the water they served you.Sometimes you throw a few coins of appreciation to their direction,and they,in turn pray for you.So you can have more.So you can drive safe,so you can be more healthy,even as they make do with pain-killers,to treat that backpain that never goes away.These women are special.

For all that its worth,Mamas of rural Africa...i'm proud of you.God bless you richly.He's proud of you,too.Amen.

Friday, 18 November 2016

GRISLY STATS,YET CHRIST IS STILL ON HIS THRONE.

This very night,Stealth Bombers from the world's top Armies, will bomb an obscure village,in the remote Tora Bora mountains Afghanistan,that posed no threat to world peace,back to stone-age.Kids will be torn to shreds,women will be dismembered and men will be skinned alive by radiation-fueled flames.The press will pick it up,and after days of consultations,the Superpower will acknowledge the bombing,terming the innocent deaths as 'collateral damage',and pretend to regret the occurrence.They will assert that,from their latest satellite beams, the village was harboring armed, and dangerous terrorists responsible for widespread terror plots,and hence their-strike.Never mind the fact that even if that was true,then the village needed to be freed,not made extinct.It will become inhabitable for the next millennium,and those who dare survive,will remain scarred for life, scars no one can visibly see,except maybe for that distant, detached look they will give you when you go shooting that movie for Hollywood years later,wondering if that 'bird' that came one morning and dropped death upon them,came from your world.

Tonight,thousands of fetuses will be aborted by their mothers,who's role is to specifically do so for various Satan-worship orgies across the world.Thousands of three-year olds,will be sacrificed to Satan by demon-filled men across the world,in orgies too painful to describe,for the more the pain to an innocent soul,the more joy for the fallen angels of death.These butchers will emerge the next morning,looking sharp in their blue suits,to make the next agenda for that company or that country.They will give lectures on morality,visit the sick in hospitals,even preach from a blood-bought pulpit,and call people to salvation.They will instruct,correct,own and lead.Then they'll wait.For the next date.

Tonight,a new bus,straight from the assembly line,will somehow resist the commands of its driver,and plunge into a fast moving river,fifty meters below with its occupants.No one will survive,and momentarily the river will turn red from human blood.Flesh-eaters that no one has ever spotted before on the river,will show up from nowhere and will have a feast to remember.C.N.N will report it with glee and blame driver incompetence if it has happened in the third world,but blame the weather if it has happened in the West.The wreckage will be pulled out after some days,even though it could have been done much earlier,but the President was out of the country,and he needed to reap maximum political mileage from visiting the scene.

Tonight, a Volcano will erupt in some island with a funny name.An earthquake measuring seven point five on the Richter scale will bring down everything this impoverished nation has ever built in the last decade,and in an instant return it to early formative days.Millions of Dollars will be mobilized to bring back at least some level of civilization and sanity,with half of it ending up in individual off-shore accounts. 'Christian' organizations will join in the scramble for this new 'opportunity',raising millions of their own, through telecasts and sermons that have little to do with the real Gospel.

Tonight,another scandal will be unearthed.But many more will be swept under the rug.The world will make deafening noise over the one that is out in the open,not knowing that this is just a tip of the iceberg..that if they were to know the real scale of theft and decay,they would have nothing to say.Words will fail them,and they'll think the world is about to end,so the less they know,the longer their lives.Commissions of Inquiry,constituted by cronies of the perpetrators will be formed,and soon,their findings will be gathering dust at some ceremonial system-created office with a fancy name,that has never intended to indict,leave alone prosecute, anyone.

Tonight,another disease will break out in Sub-Saharan Africa,and European Pharmaceutical companies will immediately give it a name to match this latest export off their labs,and hence new market,for their new drug.They will announce modest Profits in the End year results,a far cry from their actual windfall,most of which is derived from the poorest areas of the universe.Well meaning medics will volunteer to go and die in these areas,as they stay true to their calling,and the mainstream media,which is part of the machine,will cover their heroics,to show just how grave the situation is.But the cause of the outbreak will be discussed in hushed tones and will appear at the back pages of the large Dailies,to attract little or no attention at all.The outbreak will die out when and if,some board-meeting convened in an exotic island,decides so,having surpassed their set monetary targets by about one Hundred Billion Dollars.

Hope;And Life.

Tonight,all we are going to hear is how bad things are.Good no longer makes news.And the news makers would rather concentrate on that which brings in more revenue.Tonight,an invincible army of Christ is out,healing,restoring,creating from nothing.It doesn't depend on the mainstream media to move,nothing stops it,no barrier is big enough.Its as powerful as it is invisible.And its out.It has gone out to accomplish a purpose,and nothing is going to change that.Dynasties will come crumbling down,and desperate men will be left groping in the dark for the correct scientific terms,that defied their numbers.They will logically try to discern,but only succeed in drifting further from the truth.Yet the truth, stands right in front of them,and they would see it if they,for one moment,stopped pretending that they possess answers to every query.

Contrary to all that is coming out of every speaker that's functional, and forum that's on,and mouth-piece that isn't blocked,evil isn't winning."Everything,as you know it will end,yes.But on My Terms",Says The Lord.True,the future seems bleak,what with countries seemingly aligning themselves with their allies,anticipating a final showdown.Destruction comes with the loss of hope.The latter always precedes the former.Let no one lose hope with all these headlines,lest you accomplish their purpose.The more grisly the headlines,the more defiant The Soldiers Of Christ ought to be.The more the faith,the more the praise,the more Hope.

Tonight,amidst all that,and much more yet to come,Jesus Christ,The Lord over all that is and yet to be created,The Son of The Living God,is as in control today,as He was two thousand years ago,and before the very formation of the earth,over which they fight.Be a true foot soldier.Enlist.Sign up.Take up arms.Choose sides with wisdom.Then go to battle.Confidently.For you have,as your commander,The one and only winning General-JESUS CHRIST,God's only Son.

Thursday, 29 September 2016

MISS BELINDA BUTT-'THE SOCIALITE'.

Hello.My Name is M'mugwika M'raini.And i  have nothing against you.Nothing.Why would i be.I'm not anyone you'd look at twice.In fact,my background is bananas,nappier grass,cows that kept 'pooing' where they were supposed to sleep and more bananas.First time i saw a sky-scraper,i was twenty.And that was The K.I.C.C,Nairobi,where when looking up,i felt either the clouds were moving a bit too fast or the darn thing was coming down on me.I went to lower primary school barefoot,not because my folks couldn't afford decent footwear,but because shoes were outlawed in my school,in an attempt to curb an imaginary divide,between 'privileged' kids and the 'not so privileged'.My only encounter with a Boeng 747,which is how you travel Business Class to that social function in Singapore,is through the movies.I still don't know how to dine in five star hotels and i've never quite understood why a sane man will abandon the legendary spoon for the chopsticks.I don't even know how they are held,or why there are all these weapons on my table when all i  need, is to scoop my food. Something i can easily do with my fingers and,when too hot,my spoon.

 So you see.I would have no reason to harbor any ill feeling towards you.You are way above my league.But i do have reasons to believe that i own a brain that works pretty well.And save for a few mishaps here and there in my past, (And even those were caused by veve,a stimulant grown in my county,and Senator Keg beer,a brew that is made of whatever is left after they have made Tusker,i hear),i have not been known to walk around town minus my entire thought unit.And its from that unit,that i derive these few concerns that surround you and people like you.

The Transformation.

First time they took your picture,and placed it in my weekend newspaper pull-out,i thought you looked beautiful.Your hair was great,even to a naive guy like me.Your teeth looked naturally healthy and that smile real.Even your out fit was stunning,if you ask me.You looked real,even believable.Then someone placed on you the tag 'socialite' and you abandoned the outfits for the skimpy wear that only falls short of revealing the unmentionable.But because,as i said,some of us may have functional brains, my imaginations are stirred every time they put your picture on my magazine or when someone uploads your video online,dancing(Funny how you dance..only your waist moves,and your audience sits strictly behind you).But i've been made to understand that, that is actually the intention(To stir our imaginations to toxic levels) so i should either shut my unsophisticated mouth or relocate to Mars.To Mars because i hear you've now gone global and there's no hiding from you.Even The Arab Royal families now invite you to grace their lavish birthday parties,i hear.And i believe it because,the other day,i saw you playing with a tamed lion in some Riyadh Palace,belonging to a renowned oil tycoon.Yet for all her efforts,they never did the same for Mother Theresa.Or Wangari Maathai,despite putting her life on the line to save the planet,for a thankless human race.Its you and that tall American,who walks like a giraffe with a knee handicap on a catwalk,Naomi Campbell.

Those days,they would take your pictures from the front,just like the rest of us.But now they will only snap away if you turn,to reveal your ever-growing backside. And then you have to look back ,or we wouldn't know who it is.Now all our girls have abandoned being photographed from the front,and they all do it while turning around,then looking back as if they forgot something where they are coming from.These things i don't understand.And i'll hold you personally responsible if any of our daughters dislocates her midriff,in an attempt to emulate you.

The Querries.

 Many times i've heard people wonder why your skin keeps getting lighter.Or why your backside keeps threatening to break out,increasing in size every six months.And i try to make them understand that its no fault of yours,that for some people,some body parts keep growing in size,even after you have hit thirty.Other parts keep changing in complexion,like your skin.It happened to Michael Jackson,now its happening to you.Some conditions are only for the affluent,i guess.That's why to date,no such occurrence has been reported in Turkana,which explains why the Health Department remains largely un aware of it..But these people keep saying that you actually spend a fortune making the changes yourself.

Now,this is where it gets risky and hence my concern.Take one look at Dolly Parton and you'll see what i mean.Am not saying the same is going to happen to you when you hit seventy like she has.Am saying its going to happen to you earlier,like in your thirties,at the exact time you want to make some babies,and even Matendechere, the hand-cart puller, will take quite some convincing to come anywhere near you.So here i'll say this to you;go easy on the knife.If you are not being 'cut',like a true Mumiiru man,then avoid going under all these knives.You may accuse me of poking my nose in other people's affairs hivi hivi.Well.at least,its my nose and i run no immediate risk of having to collect it from the floor like Michael Jackson,having fallen off in the shopping mall.

'The Hators'

Then there are these men(And women) who keep asking what it is that you actually do for a living.They seem to be under the impression that everyone needs to work,if they are not Paris Hilton.Or if their Dad isn't Lewis Hamilton's employer,meaning they own major high stakes in some Formula One Racing team.They assert that no one born in rural Msambweni can just have free tickets to every party in the world.Maybe its time you told them what else you do,apart from being a 'socialite'.So they can stop peddling all these lies.

Like when they say that if all you do to make the big bucks,is show up at some party graced by oil tycoons's children,then there is a name for that profession and its not nursing.That the profession is not even studied in any college in the world,even American ones, where kids will get a Distinction in English,then rush in droves to google, for the meaning of the word 'stamina', when it shows up in their presidential debates.But these are unpolished men and women who don't understand basic civilization principles,like outlawing ogling by men at women,then turning around and legalizing gay marriages...make it as hard as possible for a man to show interest to a woman,while only falling short of endorsing 'gayism',as the new "classy,trendy".So maybe you should dismiss them with that word you throw at all who fail to agree with your choice of weave(Or is it wig)-'Hators'. Not that i know who those are,no.Its just that you utter that word more than you utter 'am like' and 'as in...'. And it would be the ideal word because its the same one you label all those who dare ask dumb questions like what University in this planet you went to,and who saw you there,apart from God and yourself.As if one can't attend university in outer space,if they have the means.

But here,i agree with some of their sentiments.I know nothing goes for free in this world.I know that no man gives a girl a free ride to Monaco to watch the Grand Prix (Something she knows nothing about,but will cheer every time their 'Beau' does so) in his 30-Meter yacht,expecting nothing in return.There has to be a way through which you pay for all those treats.And it can't be money,because these guys have more money than Djibouti's entire running budget for the next millenium.I may be from the bush,but still a man nevertheless and i know how our minds are wired.Even the Pastor is no exception if he is human.Its just that he's learnt not to do what his carnal male mind is instructing him to do,he's learnt to keep his hands,both of them on the steering wheel while driving his Choirmaster's wife home,from that event.The problem with paying these playboys that way,(We both know which way) is if a girl with a bigger butt and lighter skin shows up,that's your cue to move to Malawi.Because to them,you are a memento,a souvenir,part of a collection of some sorts.You've been objectified,you are in a chess game and you don't even know the rules. Because the rules are of no use to you-you being any of the 32 objects being moved about on the board.The only way they win accolades from their peers is if they keep nailing the latest,the least used,the newest in their circles.That's why i chose Malawi for you,because that's the same place they are growing lots of tobacco and once they are through with you, you'll need it to,at least,make your own cigars,a complete departure from the Cuban ones you held just a few years back.That cigar,in Kajiampau where i may come from,we call it 'kiraiku'. And that's not the other name for shisha, no.

So,Miss.Here's my unsolicited advice..get out while you still can.Quit while on top,as they say.I know its hard but it can be done.If Size 8 ditched chanting lewd phrases on stage,which passed for music, for the pulpit,then nothing is impossible for a determined soul. Quit because all humans hate slavery and that's what you've become-a light-skinned slave with a Rolex watch.But you'll say, that's better than being free and having none.And you will do with your body as you please and those who have a problem with that 'can go hang'.(See?.I know all your phrases!) I disagree.At the risk of sounding all 'churchy'(Gosh!.He's going God on me!.Who does that anymore!?),your body is actually worth every honor and respect that God bestowed upon it.You are simply the custodian of it,it doesn't belong to you.He loved you,so He gave you the honor of seeing to it that its well taken care of.Do it and all shall be well.Ignore,and you'll have an expiry date,just like all consumable goods on the shelf.And the one who sees things about you which no one else does,the one from whom you can't hide all your pain and tears,which you privately shed in that gold-themed apartment in Burj Khalifa's 160th floor,will guide you home,gently,with his loving eye.He'll welcome you home with a smile,erase your past in a flash and usher you to a place,a level,where all the lies and the 'smoke-screens' will only appear as a tiny, little dot,in the far horizon.Good Luck,Ma'am.

Wednesday, 14 September 2016

YET ANOTHER DAY GONE-KENYAN YOUTHS WAY.

Its a beautiful sunny day.Days like these had better be well spent.If you let these kind of days pass you by,you'll remember them with regret.Am the smart type,so i know what to do.I'll just put on my best clothes,and head to town.There,i'll get down to 'hustling'. Hustling means, getting muguka on credit from Mwas,and some cigarettes from Kiaba,also on credit.How i'll pay them back i don't know.A real man worries only about real issues,like how to get Donald Trump back to winning ways.Besides,mwanaume ni madeni.In fact, once this herb kicks in, i've got solutions for the global warming,the ailing Greece's economy and the famine related suicides in India.Its as simple as that.So worry if you feel like,am not joining you down that road.

Building Castles In The Air.

Am now seated by the road side,my Muguka neatly arranged.Things are beginning to change right before my eyes.Its now noon,but i would care less about time,if this feeling is anything to go by.All the issues that were troubling me before, begin to evaporate,as i imbibe more on this wonder-drug from Mbeere.I'm beginning to wonder why i was so worried about that house,yet now i've got a house in every town in Kenya.Hell,i even have a mansion in Brazil,where they held the Olympics.I wonder why i didn't think of making the trip,like i do every summer,so i could watch Bolt bolting and obliterating the field in nine seconds flat.Or so i could house the Kenyan robbers in blue suits,masquerading as the athletics team officials,then knock the NOCK out of them by charging exorbitantly.All that from my balcony,overlooking the Rio beach.

A bus from Mombasa is speeding past.I wonder how much they have made today.See,its time i caught my bus's crew in the act.I've always suspected they steal a fortune from me.From my ten buses,plying the Mombasa-Meru route,i wonder how i could only manage 50 million in a whole year.It has to be more.Time i switched to helicopters,if this keeps going on.Because a chopper doesn't need a road to reach its destination.Besides, i can always build an airstrip in Timau,where i own a hundred acres of land.Not that my choppers will need the airstrip.No.Its the Cessnas am worried about.Two, i've already acquired,three are on the way coming.By the end of the week,i'll be owning five Cessna aircraft...damn!.The green stuff is running out and its not even night yet.

My wife was going on and on about some cash she needed.I had nothing on me.But looking back now,i wonder how i could have been so blind.See, all i have to do,come tomorrow,is walk into a bank,ask for money,then walk out.All banks will want to lend me some money.Sometimes they'll even forget to get it back.Everybody wants to do business with a high end businessman like me.All i have to do is make up my mind on the amount and walaa!,its done.But i couldn't have thought of that in the morning,because i had just woken up and was as sober as a judge.(Judges are sober and they still haven't nailed that Asian,three decades since the maverick leech milked the country's coffers dry?). See,it takes one 'bag' to get my mind running,two to move it into full throttle mode.Then,and only then,will everything just fall into place.

What i don't understand is why with each passing day,i seem to be getting poorer.I've built Malibus in Miami,alongside Maina Kageni's.I've bought and sold apartments in high rise skyscrapers in Chicago.I've cleared squatters from my thousand acre ranch in South Africa and sold it to the government,so they could build a soccer stadium.The state of the art Soccer City,to be precise,where Iniesta scored that goal that sunk the then fancied Dutch,and won Spain the world cup in 2010.Whether the rumors doing rounds,that all those stadiums S.A built for the tourney have now turned to white elephants,is none of my business.A real business mogul sells,forgets instantly and takes off the next day.All that i've done in one day.I've banked proceeds from my secret Congo gold-trade, in a Swiss Account that the best money laundering sniffers wouldn't sniff, if they took all year searching.All that as i sat by the roadside,chewing this wonder drug, muguka.So i don't understand why with every passing day,instead of the Gucci shoes am supposed to own,my left shoe keeps looking like my right one.And vice versa.Now even the big toe is threatening to break out and it doesn't seem to be joking. I can't figure out where all the deals i make disappear to,on the onset of dawn.Why in the morning,all i seem to have is my matchbox,with a stubbed-out cigarette inside.This is puzzling and i better get to the bottom of it,before it gets to the bottom of me.

The Reality Blues.

The other day i noticed a few strands of white hair on my head.This could only be from age,since its been a decade since this habit kicked in.And rather than listen to all the hot-air being peddled by politicians left,right and center,i imbibe on this stuff and i can make my own promises.Get my own stuff done,in record time and with my own kind of precision.They all come trooping back to the village after every five years with more promises to the youth.Frustrated,some of my age mates headed east,to fight their own country,hooded like sore thumps.Some came back,some never did.Those who came,now roam the shopping centres like zombies,directionless,and the cops take them in for kicks or when bored.And hope,for them, is gone,same way the zeal to live did.Though i didn't head East like they did,i did something similar-i tore my voters card to shreds,mixed it with my herb, then chewed it.That's how i keep getting certified crooks for leaders,having eaten my only remaining weapon.

Time to head back home is nigh.And because i've spent the whole day doing nothing,i'm headed home with nothing.The crushing feeling of reality is gradually creeping in.Its the most fearsome feeling ever.It attacks you from all corners,leaving you feeling empty and worthless in its wake.I hate this feeling,i hate the truth.But its here,and Mwas can't be of any help now.Its time to face myself,time to soak all the lies in.There has to be a better life than this,but i don't know where to find it.And as i lie in bed,counting the iron sheets above and,in my mind, painting them in the process for the millionth time this year,i realize the bitter truth.Its all a sham.Its a hoax,made real by some twigs.Its the adversary's way of keeping you rooted at the exact same spot,year in,year out.Time i ditched the adversary.Time i switched sides.Time i joined the winning side,God's side,if he'll have me.

But for now, i turn to the wall,swallow hard and shut my blood-shot eyes.Because for me,this,is yet another day gone.


Wednesday, 20 July 2016

GROWING UP: Our Way.

At some point,we were all young.And probably even good-looking.Back then,no one would have made us believe that one bright morning,we were going to wake up,look in the mirror,then go back to sleep again, in shock.Because staring back at us, will be a wrinkled bloke with a white beard, who looks like something someone dug up in the backyard.Then we'll realize that we are now all grown up, even ageing.Then we'll wonder just how the years have come flying past.

This age comes with strange new behaviors.We'll suddenly start waiting for that Mathree that's not playing loud music,yet just a few years back,we'd nudge closer to the booming Kenwood speakers.We'll start wondering why there's all this hullabaloo about some guy called Demarco,yet all the Jamaican Ragga criminal does,is yap on and on about some woman's wriggling bottom.We'll smile less,and start finding the nine o'clock news interesting,when just a few years before,we'd do rounds in the village instead,hunting for the damsels.Men will develop that beer belly, and start wearing funny jackets to church.To church, because that's the only place that is open on a Sunday morning,thus offering them refuge,as they seek to flee from their teenage kids,who've now turned the home into a recording studio.
The ladies will find themselves belonging to four to five Chamas.They'll be looking forward to the meetings,so they can eat sweet Mandazis,drown in bottles of wine and complain about weight.They'll even probably ditch the knee-high skirt for the garbs that fail painfully short of concealing the toes.
Nothing will make you understand why a sensible young lad has chosen to drop his pants to his knees,dye his hair like Chris Brown and adopt that walk that the hyena tried and failed.We'll start conversations with age-mates we've never met with the phrase "Kids of today!",for the other party will most likely also have something to say on the same,and just like that,new bonds are established.
But we conveniently choose to forget that,even as we find the young lads irritating,someone out there had to bear the brunt of our own growing up trends.The only difference is in how we executed our ploys,how we went about "being cool". Let me give you a small glimpse of our growing up days.

Growing up.

As little boys,we served it rough and had it served even rougher back at us.We played brutal pranks on each other,and looking back,i think the judiciary should have been more involved here.Like when we'd place pieces of broken Nacet razor-blades on the ground as we sat around,then invite you to take a seat.Looking back now,i think those who fell for this prank, had every right to prosecute,for one's backside would be grossly shredded.In the absence of the razor-blades,we'd place hot coals of charcoal,and cover them up with a little dust.You'd sit, then your shorts would be burnt and you'd let out the kind of scream that would cower a demon.There's nothing like burning charcoal on your soft backside.

If we wanted you to watch us play football from the sidelines,we'd carefully wrap a rock with old newspapers plus black polythene,then invite you to take the penalty spot-kick.Images of 'Ncabubu' jumping on one leg, while clutching the other in his hands(or whatever had remained of it) are still fresh in my mind.He hit the rock, split it into two and rendered his North-Star shoe irreparable.I don't know how many times his right leg was split into,if he could do that to a rock,but i seem to remember him in crutches afterwards,watching us play,exactly as we wanted it,for the guy kept scoring for the opposing side.That's why a plot had to be hatched,damage-control mechanism had to be deployed to stop the guy,because he wasn't also bad in boxing,which ruled out any possibility of a direct confrontation.

Footballs drove us nuts.We'd even play on the dusty road,since vehicles were hard to come by those days.And even when one showed up,we'd quickly retreat to the sides, stone it, then vanish.And the driver would hit the brakes,then come out screaming obscenities to no one in particular,ready to kill.Then he would look around and immediately realize the futility of bracing yourself for battle with an army you can't see,for we'd be nowhere to be seen.So he would just get back in his vehicle and drive off in a huff.Why we did that,i don't know.Because these were pure acts of terrorism,which would earn you time in the coolers today.

Sometimes innovation would be awakened in us.Like when we made these four-wheeled wooden"machines",big enough to carry four to five suicidal boys.Then we'd carry the darned thing to the top of that hill,get on board,then have it roll downwards toward the stream(or river) below.Sometimes the wretched thing would disintegrate mid-way,and send us sprawling to the rocks by the roadside.Or it would successfully make the trip, with us screaming on board,only for it to end up in the river below,in what would easily pass for a real road-crash,requiring the attention of the traffic cops.But those were hard to come by those days, so we weren't really scared of the guys in uniform.

Sharing was taught at an early age.We'd mill around the boy who'd successfully managed to steal that sh.10 from his mother's pulse.How a loaf of bread,or Kaimati,would be shared between five to ten screaming boys,i can't tell you.But each would get off with a piece,no matter how small.Sometimes sharing would turn tricky, if Matebe was present,because the kid always wanted it all.He's the reason why most fights broke out,and he'd always vanish with the whole loot.I hated him for that,and many times we plotted on how we were going to kill him,though am not sure if we understood what killing really meant.
On weekends we'd rise up early to go hunting for birds who's names we all knew.We possessed astonishingly effective home-made weapons, that would have shamed The Boko haram anyday.Sometimes we'd lay traps for birds,and end up with the wild rabbit instead.Need i say,that kind of a catch was the boys' version of Christmas.And it instantly made you a celebrity in our circles.

'The art Of Conversation'

Onward to high school.At Ikuu Boys,Chuka, we'd write love letters to girls in neighboring schools and painstakingly scent them.Sometimes we'd use Life Buoy soap,if Bruce,the only one with a perfume bottle, had ran out of it,to scent the letters,by applying a gentle,small coat at the back of the paper.I never heard anyone lament that the letters smelt of the bathroom,so the girls couldn't have been any smarter.Then we discovered James Hadley Chase novels and all hell broke loose.I would read a copy again and again,while playing the goings-on in my mind,more like a movie.You protected a Hadley Chase novel the way kids protect their i-pads today.

It was then when we perfected the art of conversation because then,you actually had to physically meet your target girl,present your case,then wait for the results after a fortnight.Sometimes the results came,and sometimes you waited till you gave up.No matter how many borrowed jeans you'd show up in,some girls just didn't seem to budge.My first encounter was disastrous.No matter how hard i tried,words just wouldn't come out,for my mouth had turned drier than the Kalahari.Finally,the girl drew something on the ground with her big toe and left.Still no words came out and after spending eternity rooted at the same spot,alone and motionless,i sauntered home to hug my pillow.It was mandatory that you report to your peers on every outcome of every date,so when prodded,that was my cue to lie.But the chic had squealed on me,so when i tried explaining how successful my date had been,Jordan and Bingi just laughed off my lie.I was so mad at the girl i immediately started plotting on how i was going to commit my first murder.Eventually,my shame wore off and i moved on to my next 'conquest'.

Today,kids will meet a week before they move in together....Facebook and twitter will have done the rest.And as they talk about their favorite soap opera on their first 'date' and discover that they like the same character,they'll deduct they have a lot in common and wedding bells will be ringing after a month.Then the world will be required to finance both the wedding,and the honeymoon in the Seychelles,where some media house with nothing better to do,will screen their pictures on prime time news,as they play with the baby-crocodile.The same media house will stay mum on the split,that happens at the airport when they fly back.But the girl will have gotten herself pregnant in the brief 'marriage'and before you know it, she's posing for some magazines,published and read by her peers in high places,as she holds her 'baby-bump' and 'giving motherly advice to aspiring mothers'. With a mama like that,now you know why kids are calling their mothers by their nick-names.

Brotherhood.

If you come from my area,then chances are you had your own quarters,most likely at a certain corner of the compound.Some guys went a step further-they would make their own "gate",for obvious reasons,to and from the compound.And because we knew our cows by name,and they knew us back,sometimes you would sneak in a girl in the dead of the night,only for the cow to start mooing on recognizing your gait.The more you signaled her to keep her big mouth shut,the more she mooed thinking that breakfast may have come in early.Then the old man would wake up to see who's milking his cow at night,only to come face to face with Gacunku,the first-born daughter of Salesio, his sworn enemy.These are the kinds of things that brought tension between youths of our time and our fathers.

Your circle of friends were entitled to your possessions,including your food.They would troop into your home pocketing and head straight to your quarters.And because the spot where you hid your key wasn't exactly a secret(almost always at some top corner of the door,or somewhere on the flower bed),they would let themselves in,eat your food,listen to your tapes and on realizing that the Eveready dry cells were getting sluggish,they would leave whistling,exactly the same way they came in.And no one would call the cops on them,for your circle of friends was known to your family.Besides,at that exact moment,you were probably at theirs,doing the same thing,so nothing to worry about...just another day in the office.

Anyone who acquired the prized 'Savco' jeans would be made to understand by his peers,that the acquisition did not belong to him alone.Each member of the group was entitled to it,if he could prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the damsel he's out to impress was a few social steps higher,and proper presentation would, therefore, be key.So Jordan would show up at Canisius home in search of a damsel,dressed in a black trendy pair and Chris would arrive in the afternoon,dressed in the same pair,in search of the younger sister.If the renowned lawyers daughters could tell that a single pair of trousers was being used to woo them,they never showed it .Maybe out of kindness.And these two guys won our admiration for making forays in such an affluent home.But Leftie wouldn't play the sharing ball,citing skin diseases(A false accusation.We were actually a clean lot),and he was instantly blacklisted.That meant he could borrow nothing from any member of the group....in fact, the first thing i did the next morning,i repossessed my ruck-sack, as a sign that things could only get worse for him.No one could survive this kind of an embargo and,need i say, his resistance was short-lived.He, like Saul of the Holy Book,suddenly turned from fiercest critic,to staunchest ally.And for his troubles,we elected him 'treasurer',because,after all,he was the chief financier of almost all our 'habits'.

I have no way of bringing back those days.Once a second has passed,its gone for good.And clearly many have passed,since those beautiful days i've been re-living above.Here's a toast to all 'wazees' whom i grew up with, my age-mates..Jordan,Chris, Baggio, Cloudie, Leftie, Mugash, Pauloo,The late Tonardo,The late Bingi,(You guys went too soon.We miss you) and of course,Max,the best all round footballer that Kenya never had.There will be many, many more who'll remain unmentioned, but without whom,the 'color' of my growing up days would be tragically lost.It wouldn't have been the same without you guys,i salute you.And from behind my key-board,i am secretly sipping a toast,in your honor because,for now,that's all i can do.Cheers,gang!.


Friday, 17 June 2016

TRIBUTE TO A FALLEN COMRADE AND SOLDIER-2.

I know its been six months,since that last letter.At least,from where i sit.I don't know what calendar you use over there,or if you use any at all.If a place is half as good as The Holy Book says it is,a calendar would be of no use to anyone.No one is awaiting their payday,having already received all their dues,no one is looking forward to that presidential pardon,because all are free and no one is waiting eagerly for that divorce hearing date,for all are married to Christ over there,the perfect one,the giver of all.So a calendar would be of no use to anyone.But down here,its what we look at every morning,because we keep hoping for a better day.There's always something we are looking forward to,and that's probably why we are never really satisfied with what we have.

When you were here,you kept making fun of 'political party hoppers',and specifically of that perennial defector from Juja,Stephen Ndichu,who back then had joined more parties in one year than all that had been formed since independence.He was never satisfied,wherever he went.Each time he lost,he would cry foul.He lived in so much denial that it almost cost him his sanity.In the end,he got so fed up,he quit politics for good and started his own church,a common trend with most political rejects,including one from my own area,who also doubled up as one of the system's most trusted assassins.I guess the name of the church must be "Church Of Christ Against Election Rigging Ministries",like Christ has anything to do with his own political failures.

Divided To The Core.

The bullets have not stopped flying around.Only the reasons for the same, have changed.Whereby we demonstrated over corrupt practices and injustice,today a section of the population will do the same because their tribal chief is out of favor with other communities of the country.On the opposing side, charged laymen will cheer their deluded,war-mongering legislator because when he sings war songs,in their drunken and ignorant stupor,they stupidly imagine he's defending their tribe.They are totally blind to the fact that even the little they have,will be all gone if the leader gets to have his way.That whom they should be shunning in totality,they cheer and celebrate,because their forefathers 'okeyed' it, in a snuff-sniffing meeting held by the edge of a forest,which they imagine is actually their tribal property because of its name.That's how low we have sunk,how divided we have become.The imaginary divide between people from 'The mountain region 'and 'The lake region',rather than thin,what with the enlightenment of the population,has instead, become more pronounced.The former feel more entitled to national resources,almost more superior.The latter feel they've been short-changed by the 'mountain-led' system,over the years and their time at the helm is long  overdue
But that wouldn't surprise you, because you were here when the perpetrator and chief architect of the biggest financial scam since independence,turned from villain to foe, to role model,complete with his own church in the leafy suburbs of Westlands.(Yeah,you are right..he of Asian descent,who for decades has ran rings around the country's judicial process with glee).

The art of stone throwing has been defiled.Its either people have lost their ability to take proper aim,or they don't know who the real target is.Because these days,they destroy all property around them,save for any establishment they imagine belongs to one of their own.Activism has lost meaning.It has been replaced by out and out rioting,with destruction in mind.Activists of yesteryear,who openly rejected bribery and impunity in its entirety, have now taken political sides.Even that prolific writer,who wrote about the naked king,and the perils of a leader who chooses to surround himself with stalwarts and loyalists,as opposed to thinkers and critics,has since taken sides.I guess he can barely remember why he wrote about the mountain eagle's re-birth process,a painful real-life process that happens up in the mountains,that he used then,to encourage resilience in the political arena,specifically for the then budding pluralists proponents.You will have trouble believing that he's actually singing the song of the same system he criticized and now his name is coming up in one major embarrassing scandal,that even the devil would have been too ashamed to touch.Back then,he would have exposed the scandal,shamed the thugs.Today,he's not only in the scandal itself,he's also the culprit's biggest defender.How a man can intellectually degenerate so fast in less than a decade,i don't know.But it has happened right before our very eyes,and scholars(specifically writers) who based their studies on him,now have to grope in the literary dark,directionless.

Watching that Rwandan documentary,of how in ninety days, close to a million humans were butchered,i see an uncanny resemblance to the build-up,back then...the thinly-veiled broadcasts on vernacular radio stations,the tribal meetings that pass for campaign rallies,the deliberate polarization.Its all there for all to see,but we keep walking towards making grisly headlines all the way to mars, with our eyes widely shut.Even professionals have abandoned their intellectual prowess to stand by their 'people'. And now my theory,which you literally mowed,then shot down,is actually beginning to make sense.That the reason we are a million miles behind Singapore and Malaysia is because we hold dear a useless addition-tribe.We have tribe,they don't.And where they do,they've thinned the differences,not glorified them.The only difference a man will see between himself and the next guy is maybe height,which they will make fun of,then get down to business.Here,we still carry identity cards that distinguish you from your brother from the other tribe.And just like that,your difference has been approved and sealed by the system,that has struggled to relinquish the colonial-era kind of divisive tactics.And with the leaders directly benefiting from this kind of community awakening,the hate is bound to go on.And that is the sad  reality that you didn't have to witness,you being in  place where there exists no differences.

Civil Rot.

You did lead a robust civil society,that the world took note of.And through your writing,many more were awakened in far-flung areas of the world.(By the way,The Dalai Lama, leading the Tibetan struggle half a world away in Tibet,admitted to reading and getting some inspiration from some of your works-a monumental endorsement).But that's where the problem is,because now i have to break your heart.The civil society,is no longer the spotless lamb,that you left.Its has been infiltrated by moles and porcupines with fiery darts.It now depends on politicians to thrive and is bankrolled by the system.You,know that's like dining with a rattle-snake,hoping to make the darn thing a friend.It no longer has the moral authority to criticize and pin-point flaws,however glaring and announced they may be.Because one false move,and all their underground deals will be exposed.So they play ball,sing the song.The reasoning here is by so doing,nobody gets hurt,everybody's happy.

But a country spirals to a banana state that same way.Loyalty is only good up to the point where it doesn't blind you nor cloud your judgement.A civil society that dines in State House every week,will feel indebted for the 'meals',and fail to ,say,educate the public on the blatant flouting of the constitution on various state-sanctioned errands.And we don't speak out like you used to,give what you gave,or even have the same zeal and determination.Even when an entire platoon,due to glaring technical military blunders were ran over by terrorists in the lawless Somalia,the civil society only half-heartedly sought for more clarity on the exact number of live lost.To date,the same remains shrouded in secrecy,and understandably so,because the embarrassment in military circles on the region's top military power-house(Or is it) would be most unwelcome.Am afraid this time all i have for you is bad news.But then again,can the world produce cheerful news to one who's already in heaven?. I guess that's like expecting for a sensible speech off the mouth of The Gatundu South Legislator,in his current state of decay-an impossibility.

Wheels Of Justice.

We did compel the painstakingly slow process of justice to move a little faster on the drunk truck driver who smashed onto Mr.Bean,and sent you to heaven before me.Though the company that owns the truck did their best to oil the palms of the judge,fear of the media and the uproar his acquittal would have caused nationwide, carried the day.The son of woman got away with seven years,after which he'll be back on our roads,having hopefully learnt his lesson.Forgiveness is a virtue,i agree,and it wasn't easy doing so.But i've now learnt how to make the best and the most out of everything,even if it means doing so at the expense of this thing called common sense.

I hope to be the one to welcome the guy by the prison gates when he's freed,for my desire wasn't exactly the punishment,but to ensure  admission of guilt and that justice is served.(No amount of punishing is ever going to bring you back,and none is equal to losing you). My point has always been,social status should have no bearing on serving justice,and no one should languish in the gallows because they couldn't facilitate movement of justice.If the legal system clogs up when the weak are lined up on the dock for failing to raise the few hundreds shillings fine for brewing 'chang'aa',then something is tragically wrong with how its being served.Contrary to many a believe,its supposed to free,not imprison,a society.Its supposed to enlighten,not muddle with people's thought process.Correct,not punish and teach new criminal frontiers.Those,as you liked to argue,are the fundamental flaws without which,a country is supposed to know 'it has arrived'.

I,this time,have much less to say,because i suspect with elections drawing closer and closer, i will have to write to you again soon,hopefully from the spot up your favorite hill.Snakes may still terrify me,but am not giving up your spot to them.I'll face them if and when they show up,for a snake can't tell when a man is so scared he's about to pee in his pants.(Even if i have to do it while hanging from a tree branch).

The wailing dog has since gone silent,and i find myself wondering why. Maybe it mourns you,maybe it too,had enough and went to dog's heaven.I don't know.But i'll let you know all about our favorite hill,your paths uphill and down hill(Why did you have to make two paths,to and from the same destination?),your 'desert spot' and your rocks.It still remains my treasured writing spot,where i get to really talk myself dry to my keyboard.

Your beliefs still influence us mightily and no one could have shown that better than your Mum,when she donated all 'proceeds' from your accident to charity,to the utter disbelief of the financial 'crocodiles and the hyenas'. You hated the 'i miss you' phrase and other hypocritical statements that are used by a materialistic world to 'smoke the cash out',so am not going to say it.Just rest knowing that we would be far more energized and focused with you around.And united against all the ills you fought so hard against.Watch over us,send us your help when stuck-we'll know its you.May the fire keep burning,in the life that i am in,and in the one that you are  in,for someday,they will meet and transform to one.

Once again pal,R.I.P. SHALOM.

Wednesday, 1 June 2016

SKINNY MEN;A Peep Into Our Skinny Men Club.

This club,to which i belong,is made up of men whose ribs you can count,no matter how many pieces of clothing they wear.We steer off the weighing machine,the way you steer off a speeding truck,because its an invention made to confirm the theory that gave us the name skinny.We have eaten raw fat,drank molten lava and eaten the hind quarters of a fat pig, yet our bones keep protruding from the neck area and our backsides look like the entire area has been carefully carved out.Not many of you have any idea what we go through in silence.When you speed past us,and we are blown off to the ditch,we calmly pretend its the slippery road,but we know its the resultant wind.We don't come out during windy days because of the comedy that is sure to follow us all day long.We opt to stay indoors till the winds subside,thereby increasing our chances of more weight loss.After years of suffering in silence,today i will speak on behalf of all skinny men,worth their salt,because the constitution actually protects us,as much as it protects you.So that from today,as you drive along and you come across a skinny man being driven backwards by the wind,you don't pop open the next beer can and laugh.You go out of your way and help that member of my club,get to their destination safely.Ask all the Biblical men of faith,and they'll all confirm that blessings come to a man that way.When you make fun of us we lose more weight,yet there's really none to be lost.We keep wondering where all the weight you people struggle to lose goes,so we can head there and get some of it,if for nothing else,more stability in and out of the house.We live in a brutal and unforgiving society.And merciless,i might add.

The Hell That Is Dating

No woman wants to walk around with a skinny guy.This,in all honesty,is not only unfair, its cruel.I want to emphasize here,that just because a man is skinny,it does not mean he is skinny everywhere.Collective condemnation will get this world nowhere.If Michelle had dismissed the then utterly skinny Barrack,the way you ladies dismiss us today,who would have rescued the American gay population?Those who laugh at a lady because she's dating a man who looks like an inverted pole,make the assumption that the man is as useless as he looks.Please understand that looks can be deceiving,and no matter how malnourished a man may look,he deserves as much chance as the biceped one.Or the one with a bulging chest,like those pill-popping wrestlers.

Most ladies will take one look at us,survey us fro head to toe,frown,then click.All this as she turns to leave,making you feel like the Preying Mantis(I pity this insect-the male one),that's about to have his head chopped off and eaten by the one person you were trying to impress.It get worse if your wallet is as skinny as you are.In this case,nothing short of a miracle would ensure continuity of your genes in this world.Yours will be a life of perennial starvation,and am not talking about food here.We suffer untold misery in this department.We are dismissed the moment a well-built man with half a brain shows up.Anger has been welling up inside us over the years over this blatant discrimination against us,and the moment Cord is done with their demos,it will be our turn on stage.Because even when you manage to make a girl see beyond your bones,and she has to introduce you to your potential mother-in-law,that always turns out to be the worst day of your life.Because the mum will keep asking for the guest while you stand right in front of her.And when the girl points to your direction,the Mum lets out a scream.A scream,instead of 'karibu'.A scream when all you want, is to get married.Because if this chance passes you by,you are done for and you know it.

Many times i have seen a girl i fancy and i have tried to puff myself up like a puff-adder,by breathing in hard and pulling my arms outward slightly like a body builder.Or to inflate myself,like my friend Tosh,he of the Trans-Nation Sacco fame.But am not a frog and i can't keep this look for good because its not real.The moment i breath out,the girl has already started looking for other options because staring at her,is a carefully arranged array of bones held together by thinning skin,that looks like black polythene.Just like that,i am judged and dismissed as 'bure kabisa'. Sometimes, a bike runs faster than a car.Fine, the car will always cover longer distances but there's nothing like a bike, for short distance darts.And Tosh should know that,for the guy can no longer run to save his own life.That sentence shall not be expounded further than that,for security reasons.

 'Picked On By Mr.Picky'.

Some guys have esteem issues.And rather than have them addressed by the appropriate authorities,they will pick a fight with us for absolutely no reason.Especially when they are in female company.Many times we walk into a social place,only to discover that its not so social after all.Because midway through a meal,a well built man will walk over and accuse you of stepping on their huge feet.Or looking at their girl,the way a hyena would look at a piece of meat in the middle of the dry season of The Kalahari.And with that,the meal has to come to an abrupt end.Because the guy will pin us to the wall the way you pin a poster,while lifting us by the collar.But you see,a poster is not only flat,its also lifeless.Now,if you have to lift a human being the way you lift a poster,at least try to remember they are alive.And when they finally release you,to sprawl onto the floor, to the amusement of the lady for whom this show was all about,you can be sure our appetite for the next one week will have disappeared.Our shirt collars,though they may look unusually flappy on our necks,are not handles or hooks on which you attach your dirty body-building paws.How do you expect a lady to look our way again,if you perennially have to subject us to this kind of free for all comedy?.How do you expect us to enjoy the free for all air,if every time we walk out, we have to keep walking around people, as opposed to walking past them?.
This treatment has to stop forthwith,because who knows,we may just put on some weight one day and come looking for you.Even though it has taken Europe seventeen years of non-stop construction, to complete a 75 Kilometer 'bullet-train' underground tunnel under The Alps mountains(The world's longest),its completion has actually been done a year before the projected time, so do not rule out my weight gain that fast,just because i have been working on it for more than a decade.It may take long in coming,but rule it out at your own risk.

Ignored

Many times we walk into a restaurant and the usher goes ahead to ignore us,the way you ignore something you can't see.Once inside,the waiter will go a step further.They will choose to serve the bigger guys,totally oblivious of our presence.I am tired of all the waving and the whistling,as i try to catch the waiters attention.Even when he finally spots me,he will study me first, then instruct the trainee to come and serve me.No waiter worth their salt will waste a lot of time on me,assuming that i couldn't possibly be a good tipper,seeing as i probably need more tips than any waiter anywhere.
So i have learnt to to accept trainees as my closest friends wherever i go.At the bank, the teller will signal the security guard to attend to me,so she can move swiftly to serve the big guy behind me.That's despite having queued for an hour.And if there is pushing and shoving,that's my cue to take a seat.Because pushing and shoving against all these huge men,is like doing so against an unrelenting wall.If you are not Dj Soxxy and neither are you Eric Omondi,then please avoid being skinny.It is a tough calling for most of us guys.

Suspects.

Whenever we attend these functions you hold,please stop being ever suspicious of our eating habits.True,a hungry mosquito presents more danger to a sleeping human than one that's so full it can hardly fly.But we are not mosquitoes and if Nyama Choma has run out in the middle of a party,do not always keep looking suspiciously at us.Even our stomachs are kind of skinny so we eat in moderation.We pose no danger to any party and the groom should rest easy when we are spotted by the gate .All we are in search of,is someone who will look beyond the bones,beyond the ill-fitting clothes.Someone who'll actually take time to listen to what we have to say before releasing 'Simba', the dog, on us.

I will defend the skinny guy,till the day i put on some weight.When and if i do,i may still carry on with their defense.But i don't want to make any promise i can't keep,so let's just settle for now.But the world would be a much better place if we went easy on stereotyping.That's what this has been all about.When you judge someone you don't even know,you do them injustice.And that's where i always have a problem with all those religious zealots out there.They will put silly tags on people they don't know,because they feel they are holier,better,more godly.Fine he's a drunk and you are not.But you are not them and you know nothing of where they come from,what they have to deal with or the reason they do what they do.If their creator still sees it fit to keep loving them,who are you to speak ill of them.Maybe by pinpointing other people's flaws, we feel we have covered ours.Maybe its the need to crucify,as a way of avoiding crucification.Maybe when we accuse,we feel we have avoided being accused.I don't know.All i know is,whatever it is,we'd be better off without it.

HAPPY MADARAKA DAY!.

Thursday, 26 May 2016

IGNORE THE INNER MAN AT YOUR OWN PERIL.

 All of us can remember that time that we went against our gut feeling and ended up in tears.Its a real voice that tries to steer our decisions to the right direction,to the most profitable and beneficial option.Its not a shout,no.Its not like anything you've heard before.Its gentle,considerate and loving.Its sounds like its from a source that knows all there is to know about us.Its more audible than the loudest shout and even though sometimes we ignore it,we can't really forget the moment it spoke.It leaves lasting memories.And over the years,i have had reasons to believe that if one has the guts to follow it through,its rarely wrong.Its promise may take time to come,but if we stay the path,they always comes to pass.Its the safe option,where every risk and danger,is covered.But many times,like i said,we go against it and end up wrecked on the freeway.

'Smitten'. 

You are young and you possess this very hot blood that your entire clan is known for.You have a bright future and this is not a muguka-induced illusion.You really do.Your first job rakes in six figures a month and before long, you are known by your first name in all the city's top entertainment joints.Even the entertainment magazines have ran a feature of you,placing you firmly in the most eligible bachelors top ten list.Ignore the fact that you probably have no intention of ever getting married,because you are suspicious of this wilful sentence that begins with a party.This opens a ladies windfall and soon you are trotting around with a half-black, half-white damsel with a strange 'tweng',never mind the rumor that she actually comes from Kitale,a place that doubles up as the country's food basket and consumer,meaning it consumes all that it produces.This is not only a complete departure from what your mama taught you,its also in direct collision course, with a small voice that keeps equating  you to a zebra that is dating a crocodile.You dismiss her insatiable appetite for wild parties as a youth problem that will go away by the time she hits thirty,but the small voice is constantly reminding you of an English saying that has to do with a man digging their own graves,meaning we are talking graveyards here.

You ignore the voice as being the result of a naive and unsophisticated past,and before you know it,all her leopard-spotted underwear are hanging in your bedroom as she marks her territory.By the time you hit forty,you are known as the guy who dozes at the bar counter,because you are too scared to go to your own home.The damsel has since transformed into a full grown dinosaur that hates pot-bellied men,of which you've now become.You remember the small voice you ignored and you order another beer because that's the only way you can avoid crying in public.

Ill-Fated Journey

Its been raining donkeys and horses.You know that junction near your home becomes impassable when it rains,because water from the nearby hills first converge there before deciding where to go.For some reason,something inside you keeps discouraging you from picking your car keys.Its a feeling you can't really describe,but you know its against you driving out,at that particular moment.But you go against it because you have to go for a hair-cut,and half an hour later,a break-down vehicle is spotted headed towards that deadly spot,because you are now in someone's farm.You are wondering why you ignored that little voice,that red light,so to speak,because you have no idea how the car drove itself out of the road,past the barriers,and into a farm.Now you have to be pulled out,and because of you,Christmas has come early for the mechanic.
You can swear something was against you driving out at that particular moment,but you don't know what.You escape without any physical injuries,but i wish i could say the same about your sleek German machine.The moment you see it lifted up by those breakdown chains like a bull that's about to do the unthinkable,then pulled away,the same lifting and pulling motion is happening to your entire insides,because this 'baby',cost you both an arm and a leg.But you can't do much about the situation now,for it has already happened.

The Lottery

This betting game has been going on for ages.You are perfectly aware of the addictive nature of gambling,and for that reason,you have totally stayed out of its way,the way a cat stays away from mud.You have no desire of going to any rehab in this lifetime like some people you know, so you stay out danger.And you have successfully done so,until this day,when your chic urges you to pick the numbers for her, because she's busy cooking dinner.You remind her of your new year's resolve to stay away from gambling. She picks the numbers,swearing divorce if she wins,never mind the fact that you aren't even legally married.A small voice tells you to pick the darned numbers one last time,but you dismiss it as a voice from the pits of hell.

 A week later,you are sitting in the audience as your girlfriend makes her way to pick the giant dummy check,that introduces her as the country's latest millionaire,having won with the opportunity you let go.You want to cry,not because she's won,but because you actually had the chance in your hands.Now its the survival of the relationship that you are worried about,since common sense dictates that unless you become a millionaire yourself within the next one week,she'll be inclined to go in search of fellow millionaires(the males one),for only they can give her 'sound investment advice'. Birds of the same feather flock together,she will say,as she wheels her last bag out of your servants quarters.She's now become a firm believer of that and other English sayings that encourage women to 'step',if for nothing else,to be seen as 'strong,free and liberated',especially in single women's gatherings.
Maybe that small voice wasn't from the pits of hell,after all.But its rather late for you now,because the lottery game picked its last winners the previous weekend,and it wasn't anybody you know.

The New Craze

The enlightened,of which you are one,are rushing in droves to invest in the quail,arguing its more profitable than that piece of small land in the town's outskirts.Every thing you have read in school is in favor of the land option and the small voice is screaming at you to ignore the quail direction. But you are a firm believer in 'hitting the metal when its hot' and you go for the quail,sinking hundreds of thousands in it.
The piece of land is snapped up by an 'unwise' investor before you buy your first batch of quails and months later,no one will touch a quail egg with a plastic ten foot pole.The craze has left,exactly the way it came.Because you ignored that small voice,the money is gone and now you have to subject your loving family to endless quail dinners,because there is nothing else you can do with your birds.You should have known you live in a country of one craze after the other,and after the quail,who knows,maybe its going to be time for the lizard,because of the medicinal value of its head,especially the yellow-headed ones,if boiled for exactly forty and a half minutes.(If no one gives Loliondo,he of the healing waters fame, even half a thought anymore,then surely all will come to end).You followed the craze,against advice from the tiny little voice,and now its time for you to pay,between your clenched teeth.

Wrong Turn.

This is most common among people who find themselves doing jobs they find unsatisfying,meaning they are the majority of Kenya's workforce.That morning the still voice urged you to wait for the School of Journalism intake,you ignored it and rushed off to the K.D.F recruitment because all youths in your village were turned on by the uniform.Besides,you had overheard that girl you had a crush on, express her undying admiration for the men in uniform.You mistook a brief obsession with the real thing,a crush for love.A year later you are an unwilling soldier and no amount of training will get you ready for the battlefield.Every time you watch war movies,you suffer endless nightmares,and its on record you peed in your uniform once,when they asked you to carry the Rocket Propelled Grenade to the Armory.Because you are handling arms,when you were made for pens and cameras.
Or the office clerk who should have been an athlete,but took a wrong turn at some point despite protests from the little voice.Now the chair irritates you and the sight of a computer key-board gives you goose-bumps because you find it grossly repulsive.The thought of the office layout sends you on a binge of illegal substance consumption, because that's not your environment.The ideal work-day becomes torturous because one bright morning,you chose something else over a gut feeling that would have led you to peace and fulfillment.And it wouldn't have been,had you given it more thought,more consideration,rather than dismissing it with a cup of Keg beer,bought on credit.
 
The examples are not about to dry up.But i have to stop now before i irritate someone who ignored the still voice and is now living 'behind closed doors' of Kamiti or Shimo La Tewa,sending dumb texts to an enlightened public,that refuse to buy the cheap con ploys.
If i knew the source of that still small voice,trust me i would tell you.But many times,its the difference between success and failure,even life and death.Trusting your gut feeling,will sometimes make all the difference.Sometimes it makes no sense.But its there.And you can't run away from it,even if you wanted to.Maybe its your guardian angel speaking,maybe its God Himself,who knows.Next time you have to make a choice,take time to listen to that small,pure gentle voice from deep inside you.It may lead you to a treasure!.

Sunday, 15 May 2016

FROM THE HORSES MOUTH-The Boda Boda Rider.

 I have been in this business for the last decade.I have seen all manner of bikes come and go.With their riders.The bike to the junkyard,the rider six feet under.Or more, depending on the mood of the grave diggers.Sometimes a fela's so unpopular,the diggers will dig seven feet, instead of six,in case the son-of-a-goon decides to perform a 'grave-break',like Lazarus of the Holy book.I have learnt to keep my peace,to let you pass if you are in such a hurry,for many times i have done so,only to find the 'overtaker' mixed up with metal,only a few meters ahead.Then, they are wheeled back to the opposite direction,from which just a few moments ago,they were fleeing.

I have seen colleagues give their very lives to this business.I have seen others get theirs from it.It depends on whom you decide to study,i guess.By and large though,we have remained unappreciated.We are suspects of every wrong-doing in the society.True,there will always be a bad apple here,and another there.Just like there are bad apples within the force created specifically to eliminate bad apples- the police force.(My personal belief is,if the police force was made up of apples,by now they would have all turned to bitter lemons). The collective condemnation we suffer is painful.Especially because on almost all counts,we are innocent.To prove my point,here is just a brief look at the very selfless roles we perform for the society.

The Unofficial Custodians Of Gossip.

 We have come a long way to usurp this role.On realization that the Salonists were not very good custodians,we voluntarily offered to yank that role from them,on behalf of other peace-loving citizens.You could not trust the salonist with gossip.Because she would only manage to stay silent on a matter,as long as there was no other human being on sight.The moment one shows up,trust the salonist to spill all the beans,plus the maize.Many a household have been broken this way.Because the Salonist wouldn't keep her mouth shut.A salonist with a new secret,is like a balloon that has taken in maximum capacity.You prick it with a feather and it explodes.She has this funny look on her face,that will always prod you to ask a question,so she can squeal.When she has some new piece of gossip,she bulges on the forehead, with the words 'inbox' blinking to a stranger from a mile away,begging to be clicked open.
On realization of that,we have officially usurped that role of gossip custodian.Taking the role from her hasn't been easy,though.But finally,after numerous attempts, i can report success.She did resist,yes. And the fight has been brutal.But we knew we were winning the moment ladies embraced the boda boda as their favorite means of transport.All we needed to do was win them over,get them to talk.Soon,they were offloading to us all that they used to offload to the salonist.

Now we know who slept where and with whom.We know who's house erupted into a wrestling match at night,moments after we dropped our clients.We know which households didn't just erupt into a wrestling match,but exploded into a full-blown heavyweight category boxing match,complete with the ear-biting technique,invented and perfected by a fading 'Iron Mike',back in the nineties,after dismantling all and sundry for a decade.We know which men(And there are many) are battered by their wives.We even know of a man who has slept on the couch for the last one decade,having been served with a conjugal rights revocation letter before the current president took office.These many things we know,yet we keep our mouths shut.We desist from spreading rumors unnecessarily because we are peace-loving citizens,who not only pay our taxes before time,but also pay more than is required of us by law.Willingly. We go out of our way,to ensure households remain as firm as a Captain bike,because we understand that a society that squeals on its customers,is a society hurtling down the road to vehicles.And no one wants that.Where everyone is driving their own cars,because they couldn't trust the Boda boda rider,that is detrimental to national growth.So we've embraced honesty.Our ears are open,every time of day.You will accuse us of not brushing our teeth and having foul-breaths,buts its actually you,who do almost all the talking.That means,if anyone's breath is foul,it might as well be yours.But we don't tell you that now,do we.Ours is a listening role,a rather passive role.

Spare Boyfriends

This is going to hit men hard.But it needn't be so.See,sometimes a man is rather too busy in nation-building activities.Sometimes a man is almost always away in all these important functions,especially now that devolution is taking root,and every meeting is blamed on devolution.A guy will fly to the Seychelles with his twenty-year old mistress,and still pretend to be in a devolution conference in Kisumu.People who are this busy need not be bothered with questions like why wherever he goes,network issues seem to follow them.These kind of men need their peace.Or the economy of our country will crash.Our very lives depend on the amount of peace these men will have.

You do not want to disturb a man who is in a devolution conference that has gone on all the way to three in the morning.Especially if he shows up,in those wee hours, with a hoarse voice,meaning he must have been the lead speaker.That's how much this nation depends on him.So we offer alternatives for their girlfriends and spouses,for the sake of our country's economic goals,especially now that we wish to hit double digits,this coming financial year.So understand,that most of these things we do out the love that we have for the nation.Patriotism.That's the word.We have to work collectively,if we wish to move this country to the next level.And if anyone realizes that,it sure must be us,the boda boda riders.Trust me,we don't stink as much as the media people have portrayed us.Or we wouldn't be playing the above role so flawlessly,and to so many. You don't hug a stinking pole the way most of you lady customers hug us from behind,pretending to be as scared as a rabbit.This is one of those lies that have been carefully choreographed by our business competitors,whom we are gradually driving out of business-the Taxi.

Voluntary Suspects

Ask the cops,then you'll know how much easier their work has become because of us.That's because whenever there is a major crime,and the ill-equipped cops have no clue where to start their investigations,all they have to do is show up to our sheds,and pick a few of us up to "assist with investigations". Next thing you know,we are paraded to court,then later,acquitted for lack of evidence and the cops,who hate investigations by the way,can resume their daily fattening routines and lifestyle before beer runs out at the brewery.Simple.Their work has become so much easier now,yet there is hardly anyone willing to give credit where its due. We provide ready suspects for a crime that is yet to happen,a suspect for an assassination that is yet to take place.

We are the society's willing sacrificial lambs But we will keep playing that role because we realize,the role of sacrificial lamb,is not only a calling,it is holy as well. Never tire of doing a good thing,they say.So you can trust us to remain committed to our calling,even if it means doing so by force.Contrary to what many of you believe,there is actually such a thing as volunteering by force.Mostly that is what we do,since most of you are too naive to know what's best for you.

Platform For Ladies To 'Tease'.

Look.You have been alive for three decades straight.You believe you are an attractive lady.Yet the only person who has ever looked your way,the way a man is supposed to look at a woman,is the guy who carries groceries for customers at Marikiti.And even he, did it once when stoned to high heavens.He's never quite looked your way again,despite numerous winks and suggestive overtures from your side.Now you are beginning to wonder if,from the moment you step out of your house,you turn into a spirit that people can't see with their naked eyes.Men seem to ignore you.You've read that they are supposed to be dogs that will take anything to bed,as long as she is breathing.Well, anything except you.You are beginning to develop a dislike for them.Men and dogs,including the innocent chiwawa,that knows nothing about dating or hating.

For these kind of ladies,we understand their pain.And we provide a perfect forum,from where they can display all her wares,as we cruise through town.Men will ogle and whistle,for the skirt has deliberately been pulled a few inches upwards.By the time she alights,the lady will be feeling much better,its therapeutic.She will have confirmed that she is not an invisible spirit after all,and there is still hope to nail herself a real man.Then she will sleep much better,and hope that the spell continues even when she is walking the streets.Some women will be irritated by male attention,because they've never had a problem getting it.Others would give anything to have all those male dogs,seated by the wayside chewing green cud,to at least whistle even disrespectfully towards her.You see,then,how helpful we are to such.We help restore her confidence and self-pride. And we ask for nothing in return.We don't even talk about it when we get back to the shed,no.We keep our mouths shut,only speaking when spoken to.

Punching Bags.

Some men have never had the privilege of giving an order all their lives.They have lived the life of a lion that can't hunt.They have had to watch events unfold,without having ever had a direct input to it.No one answers to them.The wife long 'grew horns',and no longer sits up when the poor bloke coughs.She doesn't even stir,because the hunter has brought nothing home.But you can't keep blaming the lion for the annual wildebeest migration that leaves one section of the park without sufficient prey.Its the economy,not the man.So,though battered to submission by the economy,traces of a lion can still be found in most men.But ladies don't seem to understand that,and will take very little nonsense from a man who's pockets have been plucked out.

So,whenever they can,these men take it out on us.They bark orders to us,the way they wish they were doing in the work-place.Sadly,at the work-place and at home,these kind of men are usually the recipients of orders,not the givers.So we accord them the only opportunity in life that will make them feel better.We obey without question,save for a few occasions when they have trouble paying for services rendered and we have to turn them upside down,so coins can trickle down.If we weren't there to receive this voluntary battering,where would such men turn?Who knows maybe they would turn to trees.Because a lion is still a lion even when he's been rained on,and whether there are gazelles in the vicinity or not,eating fresh meat is not negotiable.We avert untold psychological catastrophes,by being the uncomplaining punching bags to these kind of men.

So there you go.I hope from today you will accord us some respect.Without us,you people would suffer untold misery in your day to day lives.We willingly immerse ourselves in winter jackets,in tropical African weather,so your lives can be better.Do not blame everything on us.Sometimes we make our mistakes.But then again,so do you.We are an important addition to your life.And we will keep volunteering for those roles above,and many many more that will best remain unmentioned for now.

But for now,i have to go pick up some damsel downtown,before she opts for the wretched taxi.See you around.

Saturday, 30 April 2016

THE DAMSEL.

When she walks in,she has to bend slightly by the entrance.She is that tall.The way she strutted along the array of tables,beautifully arranged,a peacock would have had nothing on her.Her head seemed to be floating,carried along by an invisible pole.Her face is expressionless and you wouldn't know if she was impressed by her surroundings or outright irked.She sweeps her eyes around,absorbing the sea of humanity who's attention is now firmly rooted on her.Her high-heels are sinking with every step because its been raining and water has found its way inside this tent.Don't ask me what i was doing inside a tent with tables beautifully arranged.When she pulls out her heels off the ground,she has to make this slight jump and all her accessories clap in unison.The necklaces and bracelets,that is.The traditional dancers who walked before her,wore stuff that produced this same clapping noise.Talk about tradition and modernity agreeing on something for once.She's shining all over.I mean the clothes she wore.Shining brighter than the lights up in the tent's 'ceiling'.At some point i thought she looked like one huge permanent camera flash-light.Hii Umeru itaniua,haki ya nani.Then,half way down the tables,she stops.All her accessories protest at this sudden stopping of movement and they clang and clatter some more.Then she sweeps her eyes round,as if in search of someone to torture.Then she swings ever so slightly,and her gaze finally rest in my direction.I want to hide but that's like hiding from a giraffe in a grassland.If she's been reading my thoughts,then my day with my maker may have just arrived.For these thoughts were far from what you would call nice.I breath in hard,for she has started the forward motion towards me,sweeping all aside.Behind her you will find napkins and table-cloths,for she is in this gown that seems to be mildly magnetic,attracting stuff on it,only to release them after a few seconds.Being dressed for the occasion,she has this huge ribbon running across her shoulders to the waist,which announces to all who she really is.She's a beauty pageant winner,something i know nothing about.

I breath a sigh of relief when she veers off my path and heads to a table occupied by these black men with curly hair,who speak like they have a throat infection,and who's description will not be expounded further,for my own security.Never mind,they had earlier been frisked and ascertained to be carrying no grenades in their stomachs so this damsel is no physical danger at all.As she takes a seat,she swings her midriff like its about to move out of its place.The men stare at her like she's from outer space.Then they embark on a barrage of this strange language that no one can understand if you ask me.Even they.It doesn't bother the damsel one bit because even though they are obviously talking about her,she understands not a single word,so that's their problem,not hers.When the waiter approach,the damsel studies him first from head to toe.Too bad the fela's shoes have seen better days,and trust me there's nothing as degrading as someone staring at the one flaw you have and is aware of, but can do nothing about at the moment, because of 'torn pockets'. You want them to look elsewhere but they'd rather pull everyone's attention to the one flaw you'd rather hide.It gets worse if,instead of shooting them,you are required by law to smile.She proceeds to place an order,after half an hour.As the waiter leaves,you can see smoke bellowing out of his ears even though on his face,is this smile.

It would be another ten minutes before the waiter returns.He's shocked to find an empty seat.The men with the strange language are too engrossed in their hearty conversation to be of much help.The damsel,immediately after placing the order,rose and strutted to another table,half a mile away,without waiting for her order to be delivered.The waiter is searching frantically around,then spots the obvious give-away that would direct a blind hippo to you-the shiny clothes.Carrying his overloaded tray,he heads to her new location and places his load on her table.Just then,another waiter shows up and places his own load on the exact table.Apparently the damsel,in her impatience,sent two waiters,though she placed different orders.Now sitting in front of her is a party,not a meal.And when you look at her size,the irony sinks in.Modelling must be a costly business.There is a sharp bone protruding from her back,just below the shoulders,who's DNA you can see.She's skinnier than skinny.As a matter of fact,the skin is the only thing that's holding her bones in place.One false move and she would disintegrate into a million pieces of beauty pageants.Its her turn now to wish attention away.She pretends to type away on her large gadget,(Again,hii Umeru itaniua),but even if you don't know what it is like me,you can tell when something is on and when its off.This one is clearly off.But maybe it works best when off,who knows.For this damsel is typing frantically like her life depends on it.The waiters stay put.Each one is trying his own 'karibu chakula dada',but the damsel may have turned deaf,for she pays them no attention.

She raises her head,to face the waiters,like her Majesty the Queen of Mongolia.Then she looks at the party before her,inwardly salivating.But you are not allowed to consume unhealthy foods,if you want to remain a 'queen'. The other guests must be crazy,according to her,for looking around,all seems to be enjoying the hearty meal.If the Cosmopolitan Magazine says African food is awful and unhealthy,a 'queen' worth her salt would be best advised to believe it.Then she waves the food away,with a scorn on her face,but not before nibbling on each plate,as if to ensure nobody else will touch it after she is through.She's been on this table for ten minutes flat,by which time she's managed to irritate all and sundry.Reminding me of the day 'Miss Kenya' showed up at the site of a collapsed flat, with flowers and high heels.As others were using bare hands to move blocks of concrete and steel away,she posed for cameras,with the site as her background.She may have had compassion on the families trapped under the rubble.But you couldn't have told that from the flowers and the high heels.She was the most unwelcome sight on site,and the most useless as well,under the circumstances.

The damsel gets on her feet.The clatter and clang follow suit.Her heels are inches deep in this soft ground.She pulls her leg up forcefully,so that the other one sinks even deeper.Then she repeats the motion over and over again,all the way to the entrance,by which time the other guest have started clapping for her ironically,for having successfully navigated through the most difficult lunch of her entire life.Hii Umeru,kweli itatuua.Maybe its time we stuck the only things we are sure of at all times-green things.