Reasons Why That New Title Might Transform You.

Nothing transforms a man more than the news that, henceforth a title, preferably one that catapults them higher than their colleagues or Peers, has been bestowed upon them. If a then Constable, now a Corporal. If a devoted village headman, to Assistant Chief. If a normal football mid-fielder, to overall Club Captain. Or if normal petty thief, who kept being locked up at the local AP post, 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, a transformation of overall lifestyle , while also doing a total make-over of their goings-on of life, in and out of the work place. New titles seem to inject in a man, a fluid that sends you on a high, but which has the potential to later reduce you to pulp. How beneficial these titles are to overall performance of man, i don't know. But seeing as we all cant fit on same levels of life, its unavoidable. But i know sometimes, for some reason they may distract, curtail and even send a potentially top achiever on this 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 or even in school. (I chose school, because that's where the quarry worker made that fatal mistake, that sent him to a lifetime of mining for rocks in the scorching sun, with their bare hands).

The Quarry Supervisor..

A hands-on worker in this quarry, who would always wake up before the cock crows (He has no cock of his own, but the neighbor's does just fine), so he can produce more than his colleagues. But the quarry owner showd up one day, and elevated him to Supervisor, in recognition of his zeal for work. And our brother, all of a  sudden 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 it, to hold it together. He starys calling his juniors, to find out how work is progressing, rather than be physically present like he used to. He becomes sloppy, starts blaming the tea-girl for his unmet monthly targets, and is now finding the stones too heavy and dirty for his shoulder. All his hardwork virtues are watered down in a week. 

He starts considering his previous roles inferior. He's now disinfecting his hands after touching the chisel, and will only greet his former colleagues with a clenched fist, but not because of Corona. He'll be seen doing rounds at the site pocketing and barking out orders that no one ever barked to him. 

Like the colonial master, he'll reduce wages for his former 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. Forgetting that just because you've become a Supervisor in a Congolese Mining outfit, it doesn't mean that you start drinking with the one for NASA, Houston....that same title, may attract different perks, depending on where you are. And our brother instantly sinks into debt as he tries to fit in. 

And the title, rather than be a blessing like the employer probably intended, starts producing detrimental effects on the family and person. He'll hire a car he can't afford, so he can attend that function in style, not to be outdone by his 'peers', thereby shrinking his income even further. 

His walking style will change, for a rather tiring gait that the Hyena tried and failed. He'll ditch his overall, for that mtumba suit. But overalls are what he's good in. He'll change his earlier eatery, for the home made lunch cooked by his latest girlfriend. The same one that 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 earlier than usual sacking. His entire 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, and will drive this point home by brandishing the burly cop's number.

He'll call in sick three days a week and give out instructions from his 'hospital bed', which will almost always be in Shiku's bedroom, in the neghboring town's filthiest slum.

Before you know it, his wife starts cursing the promotion , since the former polite husband will now not touch Sukuma Wiki with a ten-foot pole. Every time she's cooked Sukuma wiki since the promotion, he's instantly reminded her that he's not a rabbit and gone to sleep. Yet Sukuma wiki is all his pay seems to buy comfortably, new title not withstanding.

And for this brother, the new title has brought more chaos into his life, than Bluemoon would to a drunk already high on Keg. Tragic.

The Obedient Office Messanger.

This office messenger who thoroughly enjoyed his job and uniform, has now been elevated to office assistant. Don't ask me the difference between the two, but he's now quoting Stalin's verses as he threatens all and sundry with fire and brimstone from heaven, if they don't toe his line. He'll tell them that the same God who elevated him, after all the waiting, will be the one to demote them if they don't watch out.

Even though he's now changed his entire wardrobe, you'll be shocked to know that  the only increment in his payslip the promotion has brought, is two meagre 'sousands'. 

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 in the dark nights when the newly promoted bloke is out 'strategizing with Central bank officials'. Trust the chief to know everything in every household....exactly as the President directed.

Our 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 loved teaching, and watching his pupils blossom. But now he's delegated 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. One the school watchman's major duties, will henceforth be to polish his boss's 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 tree nursery. And even that, has already been inspected by the prefect.

You'll notice that he's dropped his glasses an inch down to the tip of his nose like Wole Soyinka, and is now peeping at the new parent from above them like Martin Wambora. He starts carrying files around and 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 must now 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. Hes even missed his grandma's burial, because he had to attend that Heads function in Hargeisa.

The Youth Leader.

In our church themes, this 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 of all, Suzzy squels on him, and it gets personal since the Pastor, also being 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 head and his true character comes out. And Satan will not stop, until this otherwise committed christian has ditched the Bible for the Keg Mug, citing irreconcilable differences with the church.

With his emotions kicked to the kerb, the young chap embarks on this 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, and is now thinking waylaying the Pastor at night, as the situation spirals out of control. 

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 it should spur positivity, for that was the intention of the promoterb(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. Performance, output, servitude 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...!

THE WRETCHED WEAVE WATERLOO.

When Christina Jenkins, an African American woman from Cleveland, Ohio, invented the weave back in the fifties, she may have had no idea that she was putting into jeopardy the lives of all animals with the slightest fur (or hair) on them. Every inventor prays for their invention to become a viable business opportunity, a life changer..maybe even a blessing of sorts. Few, though, see a future where their invention will turn out to be a curse. Or they wouldn't pursue their ideas 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 so we can move on. 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.

Now Jenkins's invention has turned into something that most men dread, especially because in some instances, though still placed firmly 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 Wild, live on his woman's head. You are cuddling her head, and out comes a mouse from under the weave. It's been there for that long. The weave has become such a good host of small animals because our ladies will put this thing on during the Easter season , and will only take it off a few days to Christmas for an even tighter one. So that for some ladies,  you can see the stained veins protruding from her skull, blood barely making it through. And they end up looking like that tired athlete who finished last on the marathon, meaning though equally tired, they may have toiled for nothing. Even the veins connecting the veins to the eyes are so strained that an otherwise healthy woman, now has to start donning sight correcting glasses .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.