Sunday, 20 March 2016


 Nothing transforms a man more than the news that,henceforth a title ,that catapults him higher than his colleagues,has been bestowed upon them.If a Constable,now a Corporal.From a village headman to Assistant Chief.From being a normal football mid-fielder to overall Club Captain,or even normal thief to certified thug and gang leader,complete with a tattoo of Aleister Crowley,founder of the church of satan,and arguably one of the wickedest men to ever walk the planet.These titles seem to instill in a man an air of invincibility,while also transforming his goings-on of life in and out of his work place.They seem to inject a fluid that sends you on a very temporary high,then later reduce you to pulp.How beneficial these titles are to overall performance of man,i don't know.All i know is,for some reason they seem to distract,curtail and even send a potentially top achiever on the downward spiral,if handled improperly.No two men will respond uniformly to a new title,but here's my brief take on what to expect from the new guy calling the shots,both at the quarry and at the school.(I choose the school because that's where the quarry worker made that fatal mistake,that sent him mining for rocks in the scorching sun).

The Transformation.

A hands on worker in a quarry,who would always wake up before the cock crows so he can produce more than his colleagues,suddenly starts taking his breakfast from his creaky bed,while going through 'important mail,from important people',on his phone that has,as one of its accessories,a dirty rubber band wrung around, to hold it together.Because someone has placed on his head,the tag 'supervisor'.He becomes sloppy and starts blaming the tea-girl for his unmet monthly targets.All his handwork virtues are watered down in a week,because he starts considering his previous roles inferior.Suddenly he starts realizing that quarry stones are,after all dirty and should only be handled while wearing two pairs of leather gloves plus disinfectant.But only when he's the one doing the handling,for the others are immune to the purported side-effects.They might as well carry the damn stones with their fingers and toes as well,for all he cares.He'll be seen doing rounds in the site,pocketing and barking out orders to no one in particular,as he seeks to perfect the art of leadership,the way he understands it best.

Like the colonial master,he'll reduce wages for his colleagues and accuse them of being wayward spenders,conveniently forgetting that he too,owes a fortune in the local drinking den.He'll acquire new friends with equal titles and instantly sink into debt as he tries to fit in,forgetting those probably scoff at the title,having long discovered its detrimental effects on the family and person.He'll borrow a suit so he can attend that function,alongside his 'peers',thereby shrinking his income even further.His walking style will change,for a rather tiring gait that the Hyena tried and failed.In the end,the title has brought more chaos into his life than salt does to an open wound.

He'll acquire a new accent that blurs his speech and change his eatery for the home made lunch done by his latest girlfriend-the same girl the previous supervisor ditched when she hit him on the forehead with a beer bottle,thereby sending him to bed for a month,and hence his demotion or sacking altogether.His speech will change and suddenly there is him and there is 'these people',who almost always 'don't understand'.He'll instruct the boda boda rider to carry only one soul,his,at all times or risk action from the OCPD.He'll call in sick three days a week and bark out orders from his 'hospital bed',which will almost always be in Shiku's bedroom, in the neghboring town's filthiest slum.His wife starts cursing the bearers of the promotion letter,since the man will not touch Sukuma Wiki with a ten-foot pole,because the sukuma plant is the same one fed on by rabbits,thus making them perennially anxious and jumpy.Yet Sukuma wiki is all his pay seems to buy comfortably,new titles not withstanding.

An office messenger who enjoyed his job and uniform thoroughly,now starts quoting Stalin's verses as he threatens all and sundry with the mother of all battles.He's now changed his entire wardrobe,yet the only increment in his payslip since the new title was bestowed onto him is a meager few hundred shillings.The only thing he's not delegated is his wife,but even she,the Chief has noticed is becoming rather lonely,and in the spirit of serving the community,is willing to do something about it in the dark nights when the newly promoted clerk is out 'strategizing with Central bank officials'.Trust the chief to know everything in every household,exactly as the president directed.

The School Head.

While nothing much has changed except the title,the new Deputy Principal will start noticing that he's too senior to attend classes.He'll delegate all his lessons to this lanky trainee from K.U,while all along threatening him with dire consequences,should the new arrangement reach the ears of the area Education boss.The watchman will be required to polish his shoes,after every trip he makes round the school compound inspecting nothing in particular,for there is obviously nothing going on worth inspecting,except the trees nursery.He'll drop his glasses an inch down to the tip of his nose,and peep to the new parent from above them,giving him this Wambora look,of course minus the perks of the latter.He starts carrying files around and will only stop to look,if asked to do so by the Principal himself.He will at all times be ready to cane even the church Priest,and consequently acquire this angry look that he painfully has to shed off after five,for that's when the borrowing starts.From the butchery to mama mboga,the day-time disciplinarian will smile from one ear to the next muttering "mwisho wa mwezi iko karibu,usijali".

His overall performance will wane as a result and will always be looking forward to the next political gathering of his peers to sing misplaced circumcision songs and gauge his overall popularity in the teaching fraternity.Students who previously benefited immensely from his effortless grasp of Physics now have to make do with the predictable answer,"see me tomorrow",for the fela no longer has time for his own career.Those who stood to benefit from his prowess now have no choice but to go looking for new territories. In this case,he absconds his primary calling because someone somewhere made the mistake of promoting him.His blessing is, in some angles a curse.Only he seems to be mesmerized by his new found status.He develops an uncanny ability to detect and veer off instances of responsibility,citing his busy schedule as the reason.He misses his grandma's burial for the delegates elections-an unthinkable occurrence before his promotion,and forgets to send his apologies too,because he 'read book' late into the night.

  The Youth Leader.

In our church themes,the Keyboard player is as captivating as he is industrious,until the day he's made overall youth leader.Instantly he wakes up to the fact that Suzzy,the girl with that silky voice in the choir is not only a good singer,she is also beautiful.And when he decides to put a voice to his observation,his demise has started.First,Suzzy squills on him,and it get personal since the Pastor,being also a man with two functional eyes,wastes no time in expelling the love smitten chap out of the church over 'gross misconduct'. Feelings he'd so successfully swept under the rug for Christ's sake,now suddenly rear their ugly heads,this one included.Satan will not stop until this otherwise committed christian has ditched the bible for the Keg,citing irreconcilable differences with the church.With his emotions kicked to the kerb,the young chap embarks on a self-destructive spiritual revenge mission.That would have not happened if they hadn't taken him away from his beloved keyboard.In no time,he's grown dreadlocks and is playing for Matata Boys Band, an outfit that only plays at night while smoking weed on stage to increase creativity and keep mosquitoes at bay.He has no apologies for switching that Jesus Christ poster in his bedroom for Bob Marley,a rebel who managed to turn his rebellion into a global lifestyle.He'll waylay the Pastor at night and send him fleeing into the maize farm,as the situation spirals out of control,fanned by the adversary.All this because someone gave him a title,which is equal to placing coals on his forehead thus muddling his thought process and behavior.

I am all for promotions and recognizing every individual for their output and honesty.But in my view,the new title ought not to transform adversely,rather positively,for that was the intention of the promoter(Hopefully).But some will raise you, so your fall from grace can be most spectacular.Titles/posts mean nothing,except to those of us with esteem issues.If someone elevates you to a god status,kindly remind them, through deed, that you are only human.That you are simply serving to the best of your capabilities,and do not wish to be worshiped nor fed with falsehoods.People,performance,output means everything.And its all that matters to man and to God.So folks,at all times,wherever you are,in whatever position,just give it your best shot.

Saturday, 5 March 2016


When Christina Jenkins,an African American woman from Cleveland,Ohio, invented the weave back in the fifties,she had no idea she was putting into jeopardy the lives of anything with the slightest fur(or hair) on it.Every inventor prays for their invention to become a viable business opportunity,a life changer..maybe even a blessing of some sorts .Few,though, see a future where their invention will turn out to be a curse.Or they wouldn't pursue their inventions into fruition.Even Mikhail Kalashnikov,a Soviet General who invented the AK-47,once famously said his invention was a weapon of defense,not a weapon for offense.For diplomatic reasons,please say you believe the guy and pretend to know nothing about the arms race that came immediately after the 2nd world war,when the deadly rifle started its human population statistics correction.It was a weapon meant to pursue peace,not one to maim and kill innocent Africans,who's only crime is to be born in an area with lots of diamonds(Sierra Leone war was just a tip of the iceberg).Or Arabs who reside atop oilfields,an unforgivable crime in a capitalist world.Or other natural riches and wealth.

Now Jenkins's invention has turned into something that most men dread and fear,especially because in some quarters,though still on a lady's head,it is known to host all sorts of living organisms and wildlife.The last thing a man wants to see,especially during those intimate moments,is a live recording of The National Geographic,live on his woman's head,as he cuddles it.Or the migration of the wildebeest,from the left ear to the right.You can only enjoy wildlife,watching,not touching for then,you'll be hit so hard it will make your head spin.But the weave has brought the deer,mice and rats to the house,complete with the maternity department.Because our ladies are putting this thing on,and will only take it off on Christmas eve,for an even tighter one.So that for some,the strain is so much on their veins,one begins to look like an athlete on the finish line,after finishing last in a long distance race,thereby meaning they've toiled for nothing.The veins connecting the eyes are strained too and an otherwise healthy woman begins wearing those scary spectacles because she has trouble seeing.If young,this weave will add years to a woman's features and if old,it will slice off a few days.(If you look from behind).I have nothing personal against this thing and to prove it,let's just go over its pros and cons.

The Pros.

We may not spend much time here,for the pros are hard to come by.But we will try,because even the beauty magazines gave The Aborigines a chance on their cover picture.Only for them to beat a hasty retreat,to salvage the dwindling sales that resulted.Telling the difference between a weave and a wig is neither here nor there,but they are both placed,sown(read sowing crops,only this one is watered with sweat),or knit into place.How,i have no hope of knowing.But some guys apparently get paid for practicing tailoring on the heads of other humans.Kajairo wouldn't be where he is today,if it wasn't for the weave.But he is a comedian and most of our ladies aren't.Just because it catapulted him to fame doesn't mean its going to do the same for the local church choir leader.Plus he is gifted with brains and amazing oratory skills.I wish i could say the same about some of our other wearers.Its alright for all the woman's guild members to put on weaves(even uniform ones),but you know there is a problem when the youth leader takes it up too.

For any cheating woman,the weave is a necessary accessory.With all this technology around,you never know who could be following you.So always be sure to carry a spare one in your hand bag,if you are to succeed in the cheating field.Put the weave on and walk looking downwards,to avoid the cameras.This way,the only person who can tell that the Sunday school teacher has just walked into Dhambi Bar and lodgings(The local butcher will have checked in much earlier),will be yourself and God.For the weave does magic transformation on a woman and the hired private investigator will hand in their resignation letter first thing come Monday,citing double-vision and supernatural citings.

Shop lifters will not give it up any time soon for obvious reasons.Its the perfect place to hide lipstick and lip-gloss,assuming that's the stuff that glitters on our ladies lips,without raising the suspicions of the watchful supermarket attendant.Plus a lady can walk in,visit the washrooms,shop,then walk out totally a different person.And the attendant will not know who exactly the cameras picked up,hiding stuff in unmentionable places.

As i said,we may have to leave this section early,over lack of clear-cut advantages of the weave.But we can't leave without acknowledging the fact that it is not about to go away before the socialite takes a bow.If Vera is without fake hair,then the sun may have to set in the East,for the picture to be complete.And you can take it from me,that will not happen overnight.What is therefore required here mate, is patience.Lots of patience.

The Cons.

National holidays have been reduced into a weave contest.All the choirs in the stadium have the same head-gear,for they probably bought their weaves from the same source.And when the cameraman zooms their faces in,they all look like Mama Mboga,on her way to a church function.While there is nothing wrong with Mama Mboga's dressing,its how she exported her style to all her customers that's raising eyebrows.When normally it would have been the other way round.Some of these weaves are so shiny,the dignitaries have resorted to gracing these events spotting those large shades that hide the face,leaving journalists to only speculate on who is seated where.The most shiny ones,are rumored to be off horses.There is a time when a horse actually thought he could trust a man-a tragic mistake.For with the onset of the weave,the horse is now perennially on the run,from the racecourse and out.One false step,and the poor stallion is reduced into a heap of fur and hair.No prizes for guessing where the meat goes,because at this rate you are going to start asking about the donkey as well,and the whole of Naivasha will come looking for you.

Our ladies have found ways to emulate,not only the looks of their favorite soap stars,but also their movement.Now a lady from Nyandarua,will be perfect in the art of sweeping imaginary hair off her face,all because of the wig.She will then jerk her head backwards,to sweep her massive hair into place,as it pours down her shoulders,risking shoulder dislocation in the process,as she mutters,"Oishie!Hii nywele yaangu!".She is wearing at least two kilograms on her head,for these things are not as light as they look.Add to that the jewellery,the layers of make up and other additions and you will understand why our girls are always so tired and snappy.Beauty comes at a price.If only this was beauty,for the price is clearly heavy here.Its strange because tables have turned.Now the ladies with stunted,shrub-like hair,also have the 'longest hair',if we go by the entertainment writers assessment,on the snapshots gracing weekend newspaper pull-outs.

A guy will pick up company after a night out,totally mesmerized by their features,and will take them home for a one night stand.(Not that i encourage those,but Noah didn't encourage drowning too,yet people chose to drown). At exactly six in the morning,with the onset of natural light,this guy's neighbors will be awakened by his screams.For the woman sleeping next to him,is not the one he picked up and he can swear that on his grandma's grave.He picked up a Caucasian woman.Now snoring on his bed,sprawled like a wet painting, is this strange multi-colored Hottentot,who's face now looks like the military camouflage gear.The weave is resting neatly by the lamp stand beside the eyelashes.When she finally comes to,she screams too,and runs off to the bathroom carrying all her 'armory' of beauty products.She'll emerge half an hour later,looking like the Mona Lisa drawing,complete with the side bars.This transformation is puzzling and men don't know who to trust anymore.Or who to pick up.

The sight of drops of sweat slowly drooping from under the weave to the neck,is a complete turn-off,but men dare not say it out aloud.Especially if the lady is seated by the window of the matatu,and is ignoring all pleas to slide the window open.Woe onto you if you are a man in that situation,for any complaints will be met by accusations of improper sexual conduct.This is where a man will lose hands down,and alight two bus stops from his estate,and walk the rest of the distance,having ran out of cash and options.Keep your mouth shut and say nothing of the wig,if you are scared of hell fire and brimstone.Say nothing of the pieces of Raymond blanket that are hanging by this weave's threads.If you have to speak about it,please ensure you are speaking to yourself.If she turns to look at you,smile.Go a step further and pretend you can't tell the difference between a weave and natural hair,and complement her on the latter.She will still not open the window,but at least you will alight safe.If you own no 'stings' of your own,it makes sense to stay clear of the bee-hive.

The weave is a good addition.But at times,it makes sense to let your real self flourish and be celebrated.Kudos to the ladies who've resisted the notion that only skinny is beautiful.Because truth be told,they knew what they were talking about when they said,its to the beholder.Or something close to that.Now,before the fashion police come calling,its time i crawled back to my fashion less hole,hoping i won't trip over some wig/weave someone threw away,when it started melting black wax on their scalp.