NEED COMPASS

Politics of Shame and Our Pride

2010-01-29T19:01:00.000+03:00

We are Kenyan not because they line their wallets
with the sweat and tears of the toothless pensioner
But because we know there must be hope for our seed.

We are Kenyan not because they lack direction, inspiration
conviction, strength, courage or moral spine.
But because we know there are better leaders amongst us

We are Kenyan not because they try to divide us
into tribe, class, education or neighbourhood
But because we know we are one

We are Kenyan not because they give themselves
our land, steal our money, kill our people
But because we know they will rot in hell

We are Kenyan because we are pained by them
Silently we bleed for change but fearing those in the trough
will find ways to misdirect our passion, use our pain against us.

We are Kenyan because we have read
Scribes of old warning of the dangers of power and how
History is full of leaders lined up; the lucky ones in hoods
Is this perhaps what they need?

We are Kenyan because our hearts swell with pride
when Kip outruns the pack, Wanjiku takes the prize,
Okello wins the seat or Shah makes a six

I am Kenyan because I see the beauty, wealth of my motherland
And because of this I dare not despair.
Defiantly I look the mongers of war in the eye
Challenging them to lie to me that they too are Kenyan!

Lucas Ndolo

December/January 2009/2010

Joyce Jumps Me

2007-11-21T17:40:00.000+03:00

Same afternoon.

I have had lunch and some friends come over to visit. We argue about whether to watch a movie in town (Cameo had some steamy third rate shows running every day ) or go out and play some ball ( these days it would be referred to as "shooting some hoops"). We are gathered in our back yard making quite a bit of a racket.. really just minding our own business when Joyce decides to make an appearance in one of the rooms on the first floor! She slowly unties the lesso shes wearing and bends- disappearing from our view for a few torturous seconds! Thankfully she reappears holding a different lesso; this one a rich blue with bright white flowers. She doesn't knot it at the back of her neck like before but slowly wraps and tucks it into itself at the roof of her breasts.

Although the houses are not close to see that much detail, our collective imagination acts like a magnifying glass and more than makes up for the distance. We are as quiet as dead mice and closer to adolescent heaven than ever before! Those third rate movies could not compare with this.... This was the real thing!

We listen to the music playing in our minds, the occasional moan punctuating the silence. I, like everyone else am transfixed... I know she is playing and toying with us but I cant move. She moves her shoulders back and forth, swaying closer and closer to the window. She then faces us, stretches out her hands and sharply pulls the curtains. Shes gone.

Without exception each one of us is breathing quite sharply now. I am numb in more places than one, my head and other significant part are both throbbing. I must have been holding my breath all this time, starving my brain of oxygen, because I feel extremely lightheaded and dry mouthed. In reality it couldn't have been longer than two or three minutes- but it felt much longer. Thinking back I felt like I'd feel after spending an hour watching a dancer work the pole in an adult club. To each one of us this was a sacred moment. To this day that impression is indelibly burnt to memory.

We start to scheme, our recently broken voices edge us on with 'manly' courage. The plan is very simple really.. two of my friends and I would go and go the house and 'visit'- we were certain (or should I say cocksure) that we would be hushed into the lounge and asked to feel at home and offered something to drink. We were certain that we would then be invited upstairs one at a time. We argued for a while who would go upstairs first... for some reason none of us wanted to take the lead. This was not agreed upon but we did reach an agreement as to who would initiate conversation. We choose Cedric because he has a bigger in body and a hint of a moustache on his lip. We are sure he can easily pass for 18.

Well, the false courage was in place and we start off round the corner, full of anticipation, ready for the kill- like an army marching confidently towards its first battle. We know we were going to be men in a short while- we were about to experience what the bigger boys constantly talked about every day.. getting some!! I am excited at that prospect and am busy searching my memory for the things I have read and seen in magazines. We soldier on and with every step the courage that we were earlier full of, is replaced by an awkward fear... my heart is thumping in my chest so strongly I am frightened of the others hearing it. Picture this: three young boys bouncing (nay - floating), pockets filled with hands in an attempt to disguise their unused tools, purposefully down the road to have their first meeting with destiny.

The gate is ajar and in single file we hesitantly make our way to the front door. We congregate at the steps and before any of us can raise a hand to knock, the door is pulled open and I hear behind me the hasty departure of my partners in crime. With my knees weak and my legs heavy as lead, I stand there and Joyce smiles at me and says... " Ahh! marafiki wako waoga kweli." She speaks in that melodious super sexy coastal Swahili. " Karibu." She says and I still dont have words. She offers me a seat and turns the three-in-one volume up a bit. Josephat Ngige is presenting Sundowner with his usual talented mix of love songs. My heart is beating to the sound of Abbas rendition of..:

" Can you hear the drums Fernando? I remember long ago another starry night like this In the firelight Fernando....."

She zeros in on me and moves in very close. I still haven't spoken a word. I see a strange sparkle in her eyes as she grabs hold of me and attacks my lips with wet kisses. Her hands are all over me and mine are at my side. I don't know what to do I am lost. I'm loving every minute of it; but I'm unsure where to touch and where not to- and how!. She wrestles me down to the carpet and sits on me. I still haven't said a word. My eyes are taking in the sights of the crazed beauty in a lesso- bringing forth curves, tastes, smells, sounds and texture that are exploding my senses. STOP!

Memories.

******I am sure a number of you (read Nick and Co. ) out there expected me pen down much steamier encounters with Joyce. Some will no doubt be disappointed but I choose to leave the rather graphic conclusion to this encounter to your imagination.

Living Next Door to Joyce

2007-11-20T21:42:00.000+03:00

Joyce in the A.M

So I am sitting here along the banks of the river Nile. Watching the water flow by, carrying its payload of hyacinth mixed with plastic bottles of water, discarded by some idiot maybe two countries away. Here in Juba the Nile is amazing, at some spots its almost 200 metres in width and sitting under the hundreds of mango trees, the breeze is as refreshing as the breeze at the coast. The temperature, at about 30 degrees, is much cooler than in the town centre. Its four in the afternoon and I have just finished a meeting with a client down the road from the camp that I am staying in. I have just been reading my last post which I did about a year ago. I close my eyes and I can hear an old Commodores song playing from the stereo- " Thanx for the times that you've given me... the memories are all in my mind..."... I doze off and my mind goes back to Joyce.. that perfectly formed Taita princess that I lived next door to; one August many, many, many years ago.

She was 18 and I was 14.
I know you guys reading this can relate to that. In our youth ( at least in mine) there was always that something about older girls... maybe its because as a young boy with hormones playing havoc on you... one was attracted to a (more)mature female. I remember the first girl I kissed was two classes ahead of me- that's another story for another day!

Looking back I now know why my mother took extra effort when interviewing maids and not the gardeners. The older and less attractive, the more qualified they were. I'd always thought that my mother had terrible taste but now I know she was only protecting me from myself.

It didn't take long for things to start happening at our neighbours house. In the morning Joyce would be in the backyard washing clothes... and I would be in our backyard watching her washing clothes. Every time our maid came round - I think her name was Constance-I would pretend to be engrossed in a chemistry text book. At first I think my mother was fooled by this act.. but she began to wonder how I could spend all hours in the same spot reading the same book and then she would call me into the house. Going to the house always took a few minutes longer than usual and I can still hear my mother yelling: " LUKA!!!!" (pronounced with a deep Kikuyu flavour)
The reason for turning the 10 feet into a couple hundred was because of that protrusion just below my waist. I had to give it time to compose itself. Once in the house she would ask me what I was reading and I would reply- chemistry (maybe I should have been reading biology- I could have perhaps landed myself a half decent job) or whatever book I had out there. She would engage me in never ending conversations as only mothers know how to when you are in a hurry. At this point in time my mind would wander over to the backyard and I attempt to extricate myself from mothers' stories. When I finally manage to get away- I run to the backyard and I am there in two seconds flat! But as luck would have it Joyce... ohhhhh beautiful Joyce is done with the washing and I find her hanging the last of the clothes on the line. I watch, mesmerised as a gentle breeze pulls at her 'leso' and I catch a glimpse of the smooth,chocolate milky thighs.

Sadly she's through and starts walking back into the house but she turns and flashes me one of those smiles... you know the type.... the one that says.very softly.... 'soon!'

Next... Joyce and Beat time at 5 Pm

BLUE and His Exploits Along The River Nile

2007-11-19T16:51:00.000+03:00

Blue has been working in the land of Kush. He has touched the waters that for years amazed many 'people' (read white people); flowing from South to North - over 4000 miles , through semi-arid land and deserts. The longest river in the world providing a livelihood for millions of people along its banks. The water that baby Moses floated in....

Surrounded by tall, shapely, beautiful ,berry- black (not black berry) girls who dont sweat in the daily 40+ temperatures. They are sooooo elegant- they all posses long necks, small faces and the tiniest of waists. Their teeth are sparkling white and against the dark skin they are simply lovely. In some parts of this hot land, many of them walk around wearing nothing the waist up... it is not an exciting sight but a truly beautiful one...I am surrounded by thousands of Alek Wek look a alikes..... the mkamba in me can only look and....

are my readers still out there?

Way Back - The first time. Joyce.

2006-06-20T13:35:00.000+03:00

Let me tell you a story.

A long, long time ago when what you call soul today was new music. Way before the carnivore was constructed and Nairobi Dam was a dam which had a terrific nightspot called ‘The Sailing Club’. When apartment blocks in Nairobi were only three stories high and our roads were made of tar not potholes. When one had no doubts about professing to be Kenyan.

It was a time when there were no lines to get Visas and going abroad was really a matter of whether one could afford it or not. When one wasn’t met with stares of suspicion at every airport you entered. It was a time when even Nigerians were welcome almost everywhere. When you never heard a Kenyan Airways stewardess had been nabbed with drugs.

A time when our athletes were kings of track. When Moroccans as well as Ethiopians, were known for exploits other than beating Kenyans in the long distance races.

A time when condoms were only sold in selected chemists and not in every kiosk and finding them in your partners handbag or wallet made you think of promiscuity rather than safety. Back when many a GP made his living from treating diseases that were common and treatable. When the only hawkers in Nairobi were on the other side of Tom Mboya and they attracted your attention with a high pitched “ cpsuuuuuuu” (capsules) to treat that stubborn discomfort.

Puberty came in a rush for me. Zits on the forehead, hair growing in warm places and a peculiar enlargement of my left breast (This had me worried that I wasn't normal for a while). Feeling randy in any old place...etc. These were just the physical changes but they were nothing compared to what was going on in my head. The girl next door who my boys and I made fun of daily started looking attractive for some reason. I started having dreams that I couldn’t have enough of every single night. I fell in love with my class teacher who was 38. I could have sworn that she was the most beautiful woman I had ever set my eyes on. One by one I had a crush on each female teacher in the school.Night after night I would have the same dream! The dreams were becoming more real as the days went by. A friend gave me a dog eared, very well worn copy of a Harold Robbins book and I read the book quickly once and reread some sections of some chapters 10 to 20 times. These parts were what my dreams were made of.

This state of confusion went on for a while; a couple of months at least. The girl next doors name was Jane ( No- not Alice!) and she had two younger sisters. They were from Taveta and they all had beautiful skin- silky, tight and unblemished. Her mother employed a girl to help her round the house- she must have been 17 or 18 and to me and the neighbourhood boys- she was a goddess. We would spend hours peeping through a hole in the fence into Mama Janes backyard to catch a glimpse of her wrapped in a lesso...what heaven!! Her name was JOYCE.

August holidays that year were the turning point in my life. Mama Jane and the entire family went to Taveta. They left JOYCE behind to take care of the house for 2 weeks.

Before she left, Mama Jane came home and asked my mother to keep an eye on JOYCE and the house.

I was only 14 and………

Anger Management and My Place of Peace

2006-05-12T11:12:00.000+03:00

In the lull of my fake battles
Tears of laughter changing into tears shame
As I see bloggers clawing at each other
Throwing care into the eye of storm

Her space violated
Her words knotted in hurt; sweet words into poison
Emotionally emptying – openly?
Anger!!!!!! Seething anger
Pain and misery rolled into a post
To orchestrate such fury would be hard

His respect in question
His words defiantly confident; perceptive words into daggers
Systematically querying – smugly?
Denial!!!! Composed denial
Shifting the onus of proof into a post
To admit to such a charge would be folly

Sides are chosen by the spectators
She said- being one
He said -being the other
The fence is wide for many are astride as
Others jump off to either side

Been away a while, a short while
To find my place of peace
Strewn with anger and bloated with rage
Clueless as to how it all began

All I want is my place of peace.

Nick... the Wannabe Dental Fighter

2006-05-11T21:23:00.000+03:00

So, Nick is spoiling for a fight. He feels, in his small childish way, that he can put up a worthwhile fight with this experienced son of ‘muthokoi’. Someone should spoonfeed Nick with a few facts of life. The most important ones being :

Battles are not won through trumpet blowing and excessive noise pollution.

Allegiances are forged not forced.

Patience not ‘dental patients’ is a virtue.

In order for him to win the war he needs to understand the difference between tactics and tact. Attack and a thumb tack. Defence as opposed to ‘da-fence’.

Let me fire the first salvo.

Nick meets Wangu at a bar.

They get along so well that they decide to go to her place.

A few drinks later, Nick takes off his shirt and then washes his hands.

He then takes of his trousers and washes his hands again.

Wangu has been watching him and says, "You must be a dentist."

Nick, surprised, says "Yes....how did you figure that out?"

"Easy," she replied, "you keep washing your hands."

One thing led to another and they make love.

After they are done, Wangu says, "You must be a good dentist."

Nick, now with a boosted ego says, "Sure, I'm a good dentist, How did you figure that out?"

" I Didn't feel a thing!"

Taking a Deep Breath and Focusing…..

2006-05-08T13:15:00.000+03:00

I have been away from blogsphere for 8 months now. I have honestly missed this world where, with the exception of a few knuckle-heads(Nick&Co.), most of the contributors are level headed, well read, well spoken and others truly beautiful (Mshairi, Guess, Uaridi, Farmgal, Kipepeo, MsK, Gishungwa… and all the other fine ladies)

Nick had you all thinking that I stopped posting because of him. The ‘Kijana’ has a serious problem in over rating his effects on people. I recently expressed to him the need to spend less time in front of the mirror combing his afro and contemplating the degree of curve on his nose- but to concentrate on his career and find a partner that he can share his life with. I told him that his continued infatuation with Spiderman and Michael Jackson are not doing much for his image. At this point in time, I would find it very difficult to leave my nephews alone with Nick!

There is a good reason as to why I took an 8 months break.

Irena.

In October last year I visited Irena’s site. She was the first to do audio posts and was blown away. I decided right then that I wanted to do something different- an audio post. I consulted with my nemesis- none other than NICK and my brother Wanduma. Wanduma being a fan of Rocketboom said that we should use that template but gear it for a Kenyan audience. Nick was excited and encouraged me. He has been a source of constant inspiration and a good ambassador for this cause.

My brother and I brought together three other investors and bought production and editing equipment. We employed a cameraman an editor a presenter and research assistant. We started collecting material in November and presented our demo to a team of bloggers that were in Kenya in December. The bloggers were extremely helpful and their input allowed us to tweak our pieces and production direction. We set up our website in January this year and have been on line since. Even though Nick is unable to view anything we put up ( He lacks broadband like the majority of us here in Kenya, he still goes out of his way to direct people to the site.

The site has proved successful beyond my wildest dreams and we are now moving into phase II. In this phase we are seeking out advertisers and partners to ensure the long term survival of the site. Our aim is to provide Kenyans everywhere with a glimpse of home- what’s happening who’s doing what etc.

I did not intend for this post to be a promotion for the site but it has turned out to be exactly that.

If you haven’t already, please visit www.kenyamoto.com

P.S I am really back!!

Regards,

Blue

OLD MAN BLUE BE PISSED!!!

2006-04-24T15:40:00.000+03:00

HELLO. IM BACK!

I last posted on this blog on October 5th 2005.

Why am I back?

Nick organised a bloggers meet up and I did not get an invite!

I have made the decision to come back and make his every day a nightmare.

@Nick... " chunga marima"

Stay tuned.

Blue

Nicholas

2005-10-05T11:04:00.000+03:00

I have thought long and hard about this and I am compelled by your insistence to write about my meeting with Nicholas . Unlike his meeting Guess he did not offer me cubed sugar cane in fact he offered me nothing at all!

Most of you have read what Guess had to say about Nick. I know you are all wondering whether her portrayal of Nick was truthful or just plain flattery. Read on.

Nick agreed to meet me not on neutral territory but in his home area. He must have been scared of meeting far from home and hence chose Wab Hotel in Buru-Buru as the place. This is a quiet estate hotel frequented by gentlemen my age and a little older. In fact at 26 Nick would probably be the youngest male here. He asked me to be there promptly at 7 PM.

I was there at 1800 hrs and I scouted the area for snipers, booby traps and anything that looked remotely out of place. I parked my car in the parking lot of another building and identified a suitable vantage point at the gas station across the street from the Wab Hotel.
At the gas stationed I questioned the attendants and showed them a picture of Nick in his spider mask and Milo in his kid- Ninja- Shaolin- Sumo wrestlers outfit. I felt relieved, as none of the pictures were familiar to them.

I then made my way to the Matatu stop on the main road and engaged a couple of Matatu touts in small talk- keeping my eyes peeled and my back against the wall. I watched the vendors selling fruit and other wares. They were all busy selling their bananas, oranges, mangoes, shelled peas, cut up sukuma wiki, pineapples etc. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed a 20 something year old kijana selling cubed sugar cane. This brought to mind Nicks date with Guess. The young man was dressed in faded blue jeans, a well-worn Michael Jackson T-shirt. His hair was surprisingly neat in dreads. An oversized rock seemed to weigh down his left earlobe. I heard him ask a young lady in sheng- ‘sasa kasupu? niku-undie ya mbao leo?’ He flashed her a smile and I could see his fluoride stained brown teeth. This teeth colouration is common amongst the Kikuyus from Murang’a but I remember reading somewhere, that in some parts of Kieni the fluoride levels are equally high. Was it possible that I had found Nick in his undercover disguise? (I had heard somewhere that young Nick was studying to be dentist- could his earth coloured teeth be his motivation?) I slowly moved away from the toothy sugar cane vendor, keeping him in sight at the same time scanning the numerous faces for Milo or any other assistant/assailant. A Matatu sprayed with all imaginable colours pulled up to the bust stop and a tout yelled out “wewe Kamash, leta ya kumi!!” The wanna-be Rastafarian rushed a plastic bag to the vehicle and I knew he wasn’t Nick.

Having certified the area clear and since I had about 20 minutes before my enemy number one was due, I decide to walk into the hotel and screen the patrons just in case Nick was one step ahead of me and had planted a mole in the bar. This was my first time in the hotel and I was cautious as I entered the main bar. There were groups of elderly men and women engaged in drinking their favourite Kenya Breweries drinks- loudly in a manner that only Kenyans know how to. From the melodious din of the drunkards there was little doubt as to their origin. There was no one under 30 in the bar full of Ndukos and Mutisos. On any other day I could have been at home here. The two television sets were blaring out Mexican soaps- “cuenda ses mia” on KTN and on NTV “secreto di amore.” A number of patrons were eagerly engrossed in the simplistic story lines. I was at loss as to how they could follow both shows at the same time. The bar was filling up with people coming in to wait for the 7 ocklock news- it has never ceases to amaze me how Kenyans will religiously drop everything they are doing to watch the news.

There were a number of unoccupied tables and I mentally selected two that I would lead Nick to. The tables were positioned at the rear in a covered verandah where I could see who was coming into the bar. Satisfied that my mission was successful and that Nick hadn’t pulled any surprises, I exited Wab Hotel. I found a truck parked by the entrance and used for cover as I watched the driveway.

After full 10 minutes beige Toyota Corolla pulls up and parks in a vacant slot opposite the truck I am using for cover. I watch it as the driver turns on the interior light and pulls out what at first looks like a weapon. I realize quickly that’s it one of those Afro combs. He combs up his fro and pats it into place and places a call on his cell phone. A second later my phone vibrates in my coat pocket and I look at the screen. Caller ID indicates SPIDEY. I say hello and he says: “sasa! Uko wapi!” I tell him I am at the entrance of the hotel as I cross the street. He says, “Sawas- I have just arrived give me a sec.”

Dark khakis and a round neck sweater covered the well-built 6ft frame of Nicholas . A light skinned attractive young man with an infectiously shy smile walked up to me. He reminded me of Todd Bridges of the ‘80s sitcom, Different Strokes. He had a firm handshake that was inconsistent with my first impression of a shy young man. As I sized him up I suspected that he must have been a fat little boy in his youth and this weight had now filled into his frame. I looked to see if he was squinting or maybe wearing contacts but found no evidence of that. I was pleasantly surprised.

In my normal manner, I took immediate charge of the meeting and invited him into the Hotel. He seemed to be okay with this and followed me through the maze of tables to the rear of the resident’s bar. I am sure that he felt slightly patronized by me at this point.

We took seats opposite each other at one of the pre-selected tables. I sat with my back against the wall watching the entrance. The last thing I wanted was to put myself in a position where my reaction time to the entry of Milo and Co. would be restricted. I could see Nick studying me with a bemused look on his face. I managed to get the attention of one of the establishment’s garcons and asked Nick what he would like to have. Nick ordered a FANTA- I kid not- a fanta orange! I ordered a cold Tusker Malt.

Our drinks were delivered without much delay and we got talking. I did most of the talking at first as Nick was restless and kept shifting in his seat. I told him of my experiences in the Kenya Army- which seemed to amaze him. He was in utter shock when I told him that I had retired 10 years ago. I studied his features as I told him I had a 21-year-old daughter. I could not find any obvious physical genetic flaws and I actually thought he would not make a half bad son in law. Nick told me about his family- he is a single child (I am sure spoilt rotten by his mother since the age of two to date.) I learnt that Spidey still lives at home and is actually a dentist. He adores his mother, his computer and his job.

After about half an hour Nick begins to feel more at ease and his sense of humour starts to show itself. He laughs a lot, critically analyses every word said and remembers every comment posted on his blog. I had three beers in the hour that we met and he declined another Fanta.

I am not trying to prop him up but this enemy of mine came across as a very nice and intelligent young man. Single ladies out there- I think you will find him good looking and quite a charmer.

If he is willing to learn from this old fart I will seriously consider handing my baton to him.

He is a truly worthy opponent.

BLUE meets NICK

2005-09-29T09:48:00.000+03:00

In my minds eye I expected Nick to be a geek. You know- the dense bifocals, zits all over his face, shifty restless eyes and a Jackson 5 Afro.

I expected him to be short, plumb wearing oversized, sagging trousers and carrying a duffel bag filled with an assortment of toys, CDs , laptop spares, palmtop and flash disks.

I expected Nick to be shy, fidgety and two come with a couple of geek friends posing as bodyguards.

I expected him to drive to our meeting place in a dilapidated VW, which he wishes was an antique.

I expected Nick to order for his hot milk and Fanta and pay for it- and then offer me a drink and pay for it too.

Was I disappointed?

Find out SOON!!!

Blue's a-travelling

2005-09-19T10:00:00.000+03:00

Across the plains of Ole Ndonyo
Thru the Banana plots of Nyakundi
Near the lake of Omondi
To the home of Chacha Mwita.

Blue is a travelling.

See you all in 2 weeks.

GOD is a Woman!

2005-09-15T09:44:00.000+03:00

his post started as a reply to the Tag that I received from Milo. Together with Nick’s post where he mentioned ‘Indigo Children’- it forced me to take a stroll down memory lane. Yesterday I was watching some show on television and a married couple got me thinking of back in the day.

On TV Last Night. ( I don't remember the names of the characters so I have used Jack and Jane Smith)

Jack Smith has been married to Jane for 8 years. One morning Jane wakes up and heads for the bathroom as she has done at certain times of the month over the last 5 years. A few minutes later she lets out a yell from behind the door and Jack comes rushing in.

“Honey!! We did it”… she says, amid an explosion of tears of happiness.
Jack scrutinizes the pregnancy tester in total disbelief and starts jumping up and down, tears streaming down his happy face. “Thank you God. We have waited for sooo long!”

Jack and Jane go back to the bedroom where they call their places of work and both obtain a day off. They call both sets of parents and exclaim to them “ Mom, Dad! We are pregnant!” The folks in turn call their friends and close relatives spreading the word that Jane and Jack were expecting a baby.

Some people try for years to have just one child. Some people don't have to try at all. I have two girls of my own and the question of why I don't want a boy has always annoyed me. It is disturbing that in this day and age some people just dont get it-a child is a child!

The following is a true story:

I worked in the small lazy town of Gilgil for a while in the nineties. The town was forgotten when the new Nakuru- Nairobi road by-passed it. The only real reason anyone had for going to Gilgil was passing through on the way to Nyahururu. If you know Gilgil; then a picture of a small dusty Kenyan town, populated almost entirely by military, police, youth service and their families will come to mind. Perched high on the Kariandus hills; frequent whirlwinds (aptly nicknamed ********in kikuyu- any ideas- anyone?) blow across the whole town carrying papers, plastic bags and the odd branch or two. There is not much vegetation in Gilgil and you can imagine how painful it is to be caught in one of these, especially if you happen to be unlucky enough to come across a dust devil carrying the famed ‘ngoja- kidogo’ branch! ( I learned sometime back that the English name for that shrub is actually- ‘wait a minute bush’- google it if in doubt!)

In this town I had a close friend- he was a couple of years my senior and till today this story still amazes me. My friend Nzomo- not his real name -was a mkamba. He’d just got recently married and was blessed with twins three months after his wedding. The pretty little girls were his pride and joy. After about six months we started noticing that Susan was pregnant again and we jokingly asked Nzomo what was happening. He replied that since God had given him two beautiful girls he wanted a set of boys and he would be done. A couple of months later he informs us that his wife had delivered not twin girls this time, but triplets! All girls. We had a harambee and thought nothing more of it.

The months grind by slowly in small semi-arid towns. When the wind isn’t howling, its hot and the air seems to just hang in the sky suffocating everything- even the animals in its stillness. Absolutely nothing happens in this town and every day is like the other. The swelling of dark clouds over Lake Naivasha and the escarpment bring with them a distant longing for rain or at least a small shower. As soon as they appear ready to release their moisture, they are blown away to somewhere that doesn’t need the rain; and everyone is back to the slow monotonous daily routine.It was a really sad town.

But my friend Nzomo always looked on the bright side of life and as he resumed work after almost two months leave, his face was beaming. He told us that he had consulted Mzee Kioi and other wazees in his rural home of Mwingi. They had given him a powerful dawa and he was sure to father a boy this time round. We were slightly confused by this because we expected him to put a stop to his fathering after 5 children. But his need to have a son was very strong. I, for one, pitied his wife- Susan, but was impressed by her strength and love for her husband. The twins were now going on three and the triplets were nearing their second birthday. They must have been a handful.

Nzomo started buying boys clothes, toys and was always talking about his ‘son’. As the days went by Susan started putting on some weight and sure enough after a few months her pregnancy manifested itself. We held our collective breaths (or so it seemed) hoping that the visit to the dawa- man in Mwingi would bear fruit. Nzomos certainty was contagious and we all started believing in Mzee Kioi. Susans belly appeared smaller than the previous time and she could be seen looking radiant in the market, one kid on her back and the others at home with the house help.

This time we all went to Nakuru Memorial Hospital. Nakuru was the complete opposite of our little town of Gilgil. It was modern- had about six streets, several ‘high rise’ three and four story buildings. If my memory serves me right, I think the highest had a whopping six floors! The Memorial hospital was in Milimani at the base of the Menengai hill. It was off the tree-lined Nakuru Eldoret road on a side road leading to the rear entrance of State House Nakuru. Old colonial government houses surrounded the hospital. The Jacaranda trees carpeted the grass and roads with their lilac-blue trumpet blossoms. It was truly a most beautiful part of the town

We waited with Nzomo at the hospital for some hours but like all men we became restless. We convinced him that we all deserved a drink while waiting so we headed to Stags Head Hotel on the main street of Nakuru. We decided not to go to our normal pub- Gitwamba. This is where we came for our monthly R&R. The girls there all knew our names so it wasn't the ideal place to engage in a celebration. We ordered our tusker exports and premiums (remember them?) and had us a party at Stags Head! We allowed Nzomo to go back to the hospital on condition that he would return as soon as there was news. Nzomo never came back.

We later found out that Susan had delivered a brand new set of triplets-all girls. Our man Nzomo was devastated. 8 children in five and ½ years. None of saw much of Nzomo after that. He led a solitary life and avoided associating with his friends. Susan was shipped off to Mwingi and Nzomo moved to a small flat near the NYS camp. I left the dusty, hot and windy town of Gilgil that year and never really missed it. I lost touch with almost everyone I had known there.

A few years later however, I did hear that they tried one last time for a boy and had a final set of twins.
Two girls.

Wangu of The Mugumo Tree Part II

2005-09-09T12:53:00.000+03:00

So promptly at seven ocklock Kinuthia was at the fig tree waiting for Wangu. She didnt keep him waiting for too long- she arrived just as the sun was sinking in the horizon. Kinuthia pushed Wangu against the Mugumo tree and put his hands up her blouse. His hard hands squeezed her breasts as one does when checking the pressure on a bicycle tire. His thumb and forefinger moved to her nipple roughly tweaking it. Wangu doesn’t like the feeling at all and she tries to pry herself away from Kinuthia. Reluctantly he let go of her but held on to her hand and said to her in a raspy voice laden with excitement:
"Riiu tudu uturaga ikinjira jiitiirii ndigutuma nyumanii ni wendo?
Ndaguthaitha tuthiii uhii uhanini na ndigakuhuya ringi. Nitutonye nahau undiikiirie!"
Since you always tell me to wait don’t you think I will burst because of this love(need)?
Lets get into that maize field and get it over with.
Her reply was quick and Kinuthia could not believe his luck.. … “Nandungicunuka! Ni ndiri mundu wa kuheana mahutiini- Nduara handu hangi”
Shame on you! I am not one to just give you in the bushes.. take me somewhere else.
"Nituthii cube yakua uhe- muthee na maitu niimathiiri mahoya": Lets go to my cube you give me- mom and dad have gone for prayers.
“Niui nguendete gukira nguacii cia maitu na meru ma maragua- taahutia wiguii uria ndinawendo.”
You Know I like you more than my mothers sweet potatoes or bananas from Maragua- touch me and feel how hard my love is!
Kinuthia directs her hand to his throbbing anticipation. He remembered the last time had sex- about 6 months ago with Peninah right here under this very tree. He had planted her firmly against the tree and had enjoyed having her legs around his waist. *** details removed by author due to explicit nature*** Peninah would later tell all her friends that all she got from this encounter was mahuti in her hair. But Kinuthia KNEW he had satisfied himself and her too in those action packed 3 minutes. Now he was getting really excited. He grabbed Wangus hand and quickly made his way through the ‘maveve’(maizefield).
He was 28 years old and he had done very well for himself- 5 girls – no simple feat for a young man his age. His pals- Kamau Nduati and Srystone- were so impressed with his exploits that most of them came to him for advice ( of course he always exaggerated and told them he had been with ten girls and his first was when he was 20). Only yesterday Kamau had come to him asking what to do about his problem of immature ejaculation. Kinuthia had explained to him that as long as he was ‘inside’ when this happened then it was allright because this is what makes a girl feel good. “Uguo niguo mendaga” that’s how they like it. He further explained to Kamau that once he becomes more experienced(like himself) he would be able to keep going for upto five minutes. This advice Kamau received with disbelief: “Ndagika 5.. icio ni nyingi muno.. mundu ndagikuraguu anagote muno!!!”
"5 minutes.. That’s Way too long.. one must be really tired after that."

Kinuthias ‘cube’ is about 15 metres from the main house, partly hidden by the huge Mango tree that he had loved to climb as a youngster. When in season, the mangoes fell on his tin roof at times shocking him awake in the middle of the night. The room was not very large but it was comfortable. He had a nice bed and he had taken great care to collect newspapers and magazines pages to cover the walls. On the right side of his bed was a poster of a half naked Japaneese model which he had lovingly cut out of a 1992 calender. He also had several posters from'True Love' and 'Drum' and ‘The Pulse’ magazine, serving as wallpaper. These he was partcularily proud of because the younger girls were interested in Roughstone, Wahu, Nameless, Issa, Kleptomaniacs and other contemporary Kenyan artists. He KNEW he impressed them when he sang along to The ‘Gambler’…. “… You never cound yua mony when u a sitting at the tamble… They will mbe time enough for counding.. when ndeerings ndone.”

In one corner sat a one speaker Sanyo radio cassette and about 10 ‘compacts’. He had the latest of Salim, Man Mike, Queen Jane and several Kamaru oldies. He also had Kenny Rogers and Roger Whittaker and Dolly Parton. He had spent the whole morning tidying his room in anticipation of bringing Wangu here this evening. He had swept his dirt floor clean and had even sprinkled some water over it to give a smooth cemented look.
He pulled Wangu into the cube and placed her on the bed. Kinuthia could smell the arousing smell of Suzanna Pomade from her ‘Curly Kit’. At least she wasn’t a ‘kariko’ like some other girls. He turned to his Sanyo boom box and…….

Forever is here already

2005-09-08T12:59:00.000+03:00

Repeat to me my dear how much love you have for me
Tell me again and again why I feel like this for you
I hear you telling me to listen to your heart
Beating so reliably regular strong as my will

Raise this spirit mine from those depths of doubt
and shine your flashlight into the dark chasms
Hold my hand, my love; guide me to a better place
Secure and far from those lying, prying eyes

Waver not for I feel your strength in my weakness
And I will lend you support for your every thought
A helping hand to feel our way in the night
Casting away those against this tender, powerful feeling
Together we must walk this course
Leaning on each other and nudging the other on
Looking back only for memories sake
Swiftly moving onward committed to happiness;bliss

Long has been the path crisscrossing many lives
In search of one that feels like you do or I do
Alone neither you nor I can find what is lost in time
The mating of searching souls now tired wary

I have waited forever for a love so pure so right
Finally my dreams and hopes are fulfilled
Smiles splashing my face feeling knowing
That forever is here already.

NYAKUNDI

2005-09-05T15:41:00.000+03:00

The Nyakundis are close in proximity to the lakeside Omondis but they are worlds apart. It has been said that they’re closest in behaviour to Merus than to any other Kenyan tribe. They can be violent stubborn and very difficult to convince but they are generally good-natured bunch.

Most parts of Kisii have rolling hills and the average farm size in there is ¼ of an acre. On this patch of land Nyakundi has divided his portion to accommodate the following: a few bananas, some tea bushes, and some ‘cash crop’ (weed). This ‘cash crop’ is exported to Nairobi and Kisumu and then to other parts of the Nation. They were the first to raise the potency of their ‘cash crop’ by soaking it first in Changáa then drying it before smoking it. If you have ever been on the Nairobi-Kericho road and are overtaken by a Keroka Express bus with a name like ‘Buffalo Soldier’ being driven at 176 km/hr- you know the driver is definitely rocking to ‘Bob Maroa and the Wailers.’

Nyakundis love their nighttime activity and I am well informed by members of this said community that the ‘cash crop’ makes them very horny. A true Nyakundi may only have one wife but he will have a number of mistresses. It is also common knowledge that Nyakundi men are well endowed in the area between the stomach and thighs. Rumour has it that the use of the ‘cash crop’ is not limited to the men-the women too enjoy the effects. Hence there is an explosion of little Moraas and Nyakundis in the villages. Kisii are many and they know it- during the last elections their political guru- Hon. Simeon Nyachae headed a party called Ford People with clarion call of: “ Watu… Watu wengi… Watu wengi sana!!!” Walking through the streets of Kisii town on any day as like walking in downtown Nairobi during rush hour. The population density is among the highest in Kenya.

Nyakundi is a hard worker- as long as you don’t mind the acrid aroma of ‘cash crop’ coming from the shamba and you are prepared to provide double portions for lunch- he can plough a couple of acres single handed at almost the same speed as a tractor.He is more than worth his pay. Nyakundis working in central province cannot understand how Kikuyus have Githeri for lunch as this is what they have for breakfast washed down with a couple of mugs of brown millet porridge.

Kenyan blue-collar employers are a bit wary when employing Nyakundis- they are well versed in the art of forgery and certificates are carefully scrutinised. One ‘A” level certificate or BA degree could be held by at least four people. Only recently the whole compliment of Kisii members of parliament was up in arms about the ‘wrong’ portrayal of their tribesmen as cheats in the local high school examinations. Three schools in Kisii had their results cancelled due to cheating.

Favourite drink: Not particular but would rather smoke a certain plant.
Favourite Songs- Sweety Banana- Nyambane
Food: Bananas & more bananas-but once the munchies hit anything is good.
Notable Kisiis: Nyambane, Didge and Tichi Nyasani
Characteristics: Hard-headed; fighting spirit; Kisiis love to hang around each other.

Most common Joke:
All sixth form results at St Barnabas High School,Nyamira were cancelled because the Kenya National Examination Council wondered how all four streams could have the same wrong answers in the English and Maths.
The headmaster and PTA annoyed by these allegations confronted the KNEC and explained that since the same teacher taught all the children then all the right answers and all the wrong answers should be the same.

Next… Luyhas…Warias…Embians…Kalenjins…Amerucans(Merus)…and Kyuks in that order.

OMONDI

2005-08-30T15:04:00.000+03:00

"That my BMW"

If you don’t have a friend from the “Lakeside” you are missing out on a serious part of what makes Kenya Kenya!
The Omondis of Kenya are the most versatile of our tribes. They pride themselves in being the hardest working and most learned in Kenya. They can be found in large numbers in all social groupings. From the manual labourers in the quarries of Njiru, to university halls the world over; Omondis are found everywhere. My good friend Perminas Valentine Mak’Odhiambo tells me Luos go to school to become learned while the rest of us simply receive an education.

Issues of class and social position are very important amongst the Omondis- they will rarely cross barriers. The common questions to ascertain where one belongs are: “where did you go to school or who was your teacher and who are classmates now.” For illustration purposes I will use Okelloh a middle class 'jaduong' living in Nairobi. Any reference to his possesions must be preceeded with "That my" or That "his". Possesion is everything.

Saturday afternoon Washington Okello will drive "his" sleek BMW 520i convertible out of his parking slot at the Hilton (he never parks anywhere else) and pass through the drycleaners at the Hotel Intercontinental to drop off laundry as well as collect the next weeks suits. He will then drive to Buru Buru to change into his weekend wear-neatly pressed cotton pants and an expensive silk shirt and a suede jacket to match his Italian suede shoes (pronounced sous- the ‘h’ is silent). He adds the final touches- a splash of very expensive cologne and a heavy gold chain and bracelet. Okello looks round his house and smiles at what he sees. A sparsely yet expensively furnished sitting room (he prefers to call it lounge) seats from Macrays(where the expatriates and people who have taste and money buy furniture) had set him back a clean 250,000/= and the Large screen Sony television with a matching Sony home theatre System another 350,000/=.
Okello calls out to his Domestic technologist( houseboy): “Einstein, Did I not ask you to make sua you don’t touch "that my" music systeeem? I am sua because last night Akinyi and I were listening to Nacion FM- now I see it is on Ramogi! Let me warn you Odouri , next time I will send you straight to Siaya. Do you understand?”
Okello gets into "his" BMW takes his lap of honour around the estate smiling at all the nice Nyakos (young ladies) along the way. He slows down as he sees Akinyi flagging him down at the bus stop. “ Hhe , Yawa why are you not answering my calls today?” she asks as she slides into the brown leather interior of "his" BMW.
“Which line were you calling me on my sosio(social) line or my oficio(official) one?” He then proceeds to explain that his official line is never answered after 1200 hrs GMT.
First stop is the bar between Jeans and Johns in Nairobi West to meet The MD of a certain company, the financial Director or Group Editor of a local daily. They will entertain themselves here then move to Impala Hotel in parklands to listen to Lingala or to the Bridge on Jogoo road for some Benga.

I will say this: If any of our tribes know how to live life to its fullest- flashiest cars most expensive clothes, partake in the best drinks- Omondis take the cake. In my next life I want to be born an Omondi.

Favourite drink: Anything but beer- preferably Chivas or Remy for the middle and upper class- other spirits are referred to as industrial alcohol.

Favourite Songs- “I am not sober”- (This is an actual song and one of the verses talks about having Guiness for power with Michael Powers- an excellent song)

Food: Kuon(ugali) and Samak (ngege)

Notable Luos: too many to name on this page

Characteristics: Flamboyant, big spenders, High rollers, well educated

Lhuo Joke:

Patrick a recently promoted Kikuyu went to have a drink with a friend who had just completed his PHD. Upon sitting down the two gentlemen he didn’t know began introducing themselves:

Man#1: “I am Professor James Oburo Mak’Onyango, lecturer at Nairobi University. I was schooled in the U.K and America among other places. Some of my classmates are Professors John Montiago Odhiambo, Senior Vice President ADB and Dr. Innocent Uche of the United Nations. Nice to meet you.”

Man#2: “My name is Dr. Evanson Ouko Ochieng. I spesiolize (specialise) in the treatment of Cardio-Vascular diseases. I went to school with Dr Gikonyo Dr Ambrose Rotich and Proffesor Nyasani. I currently live in Muthaiga. And who are you young man?”

Patrick: “My name is Captain Kamau sir, pleasure to meet you.”

Man#1: Ahhhh.. Captain – very nice… Which Airline BA, Air France, KLM? Those are the ones I fly with.

Patrick: “Actually sir, I am a Captain in the Kenya Army.”

Man#2 (almost choking on his Chivas): Kenya Army? What happonned (happened)- was there a problem with school fisss(fees)?

Taking votes on the next tribe to feature here

BELOVED KENYA'S TRIBES - MUTISO

2005-08-25T12:31:00.000+03:00

Would Kenya be Kenya without our tribes?
This next series should not be viewed as tribal but rather as posts that talk about tribes with a touch of humour. I personally do not subscribe to the school of thought that advances the theory that we must rid ourselves of tribal labels. This is because to me they are just that- labels- nothing more. Tribes are our identity- none superior to the other but needing each other. Have you not heard it said how Kenyans are warm, happy and fun people? I agree! I say let us acknowledge and appreciate our differences, be happy, laugh together and build a better country.

MUTISO
A tribe of happy people who come from the Eastern parts of Kenya. They have a musical language and are dancers by nature. They have been noted to be acrobatic and can dance to the simple beat of a drum and a whistle. They make excellent house help and passable cooks. A visit to the Parklands area- inhabited by the local Asian community will bear witness to this. Mutiso is that ever loyal gardener who has been in the family since Grudeep ( Pradeeps father) was born.

Kamba men are famed to be notoriously good lovers and their sexual appetite is said to be unmatched within the Kenyan communities. He calls the neighbours housemaid “ngelemende”- (sweet) and they can be heard giggling behind the bananas at night. ( Parents of girls who employ Mutisos are encouraged to take them to boarding school when they turn 14).
Mutiso is also found in the nations disciplined forces. He is known to be a trustworthy, handy, polite and unquestioning soldier/warden/policeman. This is because he made a name for himself as an efficient gun bearer for the settlers as they made their way into the interior of Kenya. In the days of the great World Wars Mutiso fought gallantly in Burma, Ethiopia and North Africa.
Although he can go for months before going to his rural home,he will diligently send monthly payments to Nduku and his 8 children. She visits the city once every 2 months and the sounds that filter from his quarters are to say the least pornographic. He is however a good saver and at Christmas each year he can afford to buy a plot in Masii or Masaku ( they are not expensive there- 20,000/= will buy you a half acre or a whole one in some places. Clad in a yellow suit, red shirt and brown tie; easily setting himself apart from other Kenyans;he arrives at Masaku Airport- near the famous Athusi Day and Night Club-to board a matatu home. When he arrives at the ‘kambi’ he is received with awe by his fellow classmates who are farmers and village idlers mostly high on Kuona Mbee(that Methane based brew). Children at the ‘kambi’ announce his arrival with shouts of; ‘ Mutiso uya mujeci niavika!!’ (Mutiso the soldier has arrived) or Mutiso wa musongo ena suti nzeo ya led!! ( Mutiso wa muzungu has a nice red suit!) He then borrows Muokis ‘Kisululu’ and pedals 6 kilometres down the Mua ‘ills’.

Favourite drink: Fanda Horange

Food: Muthokoi, Maluu (potatoes) and kofisi (cabbage)

Notable Kaos: Late Mulu Mutisya and Parliament Clown Kalembe Ndile

Characteristics: Loyalty,lovers, colour concious

Most common Joke:
Mutiso decides to buy a coloured TV after saving for a couple of years. He goes to a store and asks the attendant:
“Ndo u sell TVs?”
Attendant: “yes sir we do.”
Mutiso: “ah nthey in colour?”
Attendant: “Yes.”
Mutiso : “Can Hi ave a gleen one please?”

NEXT WEEK- From the Lakeside- OMONDI

CAPTIONS...HEEEE..HEEEE

2005-08-24T12:40:00.000+03:00

I love captions. I have collected a few pictures from google images and added captions to them. Its amazing what different people see when they see the same pictures. Lets all humour each other with these. Please include your captions in your comments. Label them Picture#1- Picture#6.

Have a laugh.

Blue

I swear sweetheart theres more in the bank!

Ladies you can only have one of us for xmas... Please choose.

Nick looks so funny chest thumping! heeee heeee heee.

See! It isnt hard we can do it too!

Up yours! If your prick wasnt this big i'd hit you over the head with it!

How to make sure a bloke stops to help you change a flat tyre.

Reason Why Not To Educate your Kids In Machakos

2005-08-22T16:57:00.000+03:00

A friend of mine who thinks that Kao's and their pronounciations are hilarious sent me this phonetic alphabet from Machakos. My Kikuyu half is amused and still laughing.....
(Remember to pronounce it as if your name was Nduku or Mutiso.)

A: for Ause or Handerwear
B :for Mbloke or Mbullshit
C :for Ceenake
D :for Ndie or Ndabrew
E :for Heat
F :for feheyko or fagina
G :for guice
H :for Hindia or opeless
I :for iyena or iccups
J :for jeespot
K :for Kino
L :for Lofermboy
M: for Mbomb Mbast or eballsment
N: for nglleen
O: for ot Like “hot”
P: for ply
Q: for curio
R: for lombert
S for: saver
T for: Tlue lies
U for:you
V for: fegetamble
W for: “U” “U”
X for :Hexcept
Y for :why
Z for: Zelo

Time to Bury our Dead

2005-08-16T11:58:00.000+03:00

Well well. This war has now been going on for a week. Spidey has managed to get himself an escort/mascot/teammate.(Lets hear it for Spidey- Wuff,Wuff!!) To tell you the truth- they are formidable opponents his new found ally has struck me a blow that I am still reeling from. I swear I didn't see it coming, he came out of nowhere and hit me below the belt--OUCHHH!. My intelligence sources tell me that that's only the beginning... Heck they could be coming from outer space for all I know.There's plenty to follow. At first I convinced that I was fighting Nick all by himself but friends of his are crawling from the wood work and fear that I shall soon be out numbered. I need time to regroup and find myself some allies.

I am new at this bloc war thing an I can see I have a lot to learn. Allegiances that were formed before my time are coming to the surface. Nick is a good fighter and he has me a dose of my own medicine. But you can relate to my confusion in this whole affair- I mean look at him: he's barely out of web diapers( but he sure packs a mean punch.) I have no intention of continuing this war single handedly. I have therefore sent an emissary to him requesting for ceasefire.. To allow us count our loses and to bury our dead. Seeing from Mshairis(I know she is biased because Nick is her nephew) scorekeeping that we are even at one all- I think this is a good a time as any to halt the war.

I had a look at what his beautiful Guess could do - and if she is on his side- then I have to seriously take stock of my situation. I may be old but I am no weakling. I just don't believe in fighting the ladies. And besides its grossly unfair to ask the ladies to choose .

But what really upset me is the rumours he spread about SWEET Kipepeo! That was low down and I cant apologise enough for Nicks cowardly behaviour of dragging her into this war. Kipepeo take it from me.. Nick was lying - I said you had beautiful hair. The rest is his imagination.

I was also truly touched when I saw what our good friend NicK been reduced to doing by the "Nyeri chapter". I know we all feel for him. He deserves a break in order to work hard and repay that 2 million he owes. The above picture of him on a rickshaw was taken outside parliament buildings yesterday evening.

He sent back his own emissary has telling me that he has accepted the ceasefire offer. The sign language and chest thumping was a little difficult to deceipher but luckily I managed.

From the sign of things,I am sure this but a lull in the many battles that we shall continue to wage against each other.

PEACE.

Nick the Chick(en)

2005-08-15T11:21:00.000+03:00

Hon. Dr. Muru Wangaru
The Grand Master (Nyeri Chapter)
Rware Towers
Nyeri Town

Dear Sir,

Firstly may I extend my sympathies on your recent banning from traveling to the U.K. I hope your secret meeting with Robert from Zimbabwe went well. As you are well aware we shall always stick by you as our Member of Parliament and also Grand Master. I hope that the meeting was fruitful and a common approach to dealing with Tony Brair has been reached.

I am writing this letter to explain the circumstances that forced me to abandon the boxing match between The Blue Poet and myself. I do recall our meeting in Nyeri where you we partook in Muratina at the sacred Mugumo tree. I heeded your advice and bribed the radio and TV announcers. They did an excellent job and followed our script to the letter. I also planted the rumours about Papa Smurf talking about lice in Kipepeos hair and buying diapers from Farmgals new shop. This was not well taken and these beautiful young girls are still sitting on the fence but are leaning more towards supporting Papa Smurf. I have no idea what kamuti the mkamba has used- but it is effective.

It all started in the changing room. I had never seen Papa Smurf before and when I did I was speechless. His 6ft 2 inches solid frame made me at 5’1” feel like a midget. As I sized the man from his feet upwards I started getting that hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. His legs were firm and toned and as he walked in (like in slow motion) I could see the thigh muscles tensing with each step. His stomach was not lined with muscle but he didn’t have a pot either. His body had all the hallmarks of one who worked out at least three times a week at a good gym. A far cry from the cement filled Kimbo tins I use in my back yard. His chest and arms were well filled and I couldn’t imagine why I had chosen to fight this man. I looked down at my crotch, my spider briefs looked they contained a couple of marbles and a stick of Wrigley’s gum. Pangs of jealousy ate into me as sneaked a look at his briefs.. Man the guy looked he did some weight training in that area too! His briefs were filled by what might just as well have been oranges and I could see the outline the size of a Ugandan plantain. Three beautiful Kamba girls were oiling his whole body and as he turned round I saw his firm buttocks… at this point I was both envious and scared. My trainers started giving me puzzling glances( they weren’t sure what was going on behind my Spiderman’s mask) I sincerely hope they didn’t suspect the truth…. I am not ready to come out of the closet just yet!

The hall was filling up and the crowd was getting excited by the minute. The poet had pre-paid for 10,000 of the 12,000 available tickets. The whole of Makueni and Machakos were here. I could hear them singing the Poets theme song (which had been suggested by one of my supporters who has defected) Queens ‘Another One Bites the Dust’. My two Matatu loads of jamaas from Kieni and Mathare were drowned and our MJs ‘Beat It’ entrance song began sounding like a cell phone ring tone in a live concert. I had completely underestimated the Kikuyu side of the Blue Poet. He had money and lots of it at that. Free muthokoi and drinks for his supporters.Kipepeo,Farmgal,Luna and all the beautiful girls looked lovely jumping up and down- pom poms swinging in the air. I even heard that my aunties and all the girls that had stood firmly behind me in the past were now giggling like little girls. The Mutisos, Musyokas and Mathekas had them eating Muthokoi from their hands!!!
Dr. Wangaru, The Kukekamba combination is awesome.

I was the first to step into the arena and I was hot under the mask, my ribs were already aching with the anticipation of being punished by Blues hands. My rackety legs were knocking and I couldn’t stand properly. I saw blue behind me and the crowd went bananas as he made his entrance… I couldn’t take it any longer and I knew I was just wasting time… I ran back to the dressing room knocking into Blues ring men. What would all those girls think of me now. How was I going to repay the Nyeri Chapter the money they had advanced me to bribe the judges, referee and the radio presenters? This is the reason I am writing this letter to you, sir in the hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive this son of Kieni and to write off the 2 million.

I wrote to Papa Smurf asking for his understanding and he has agreed to call off the battery of lawyers he had engaged to sue me for defamation. I am having second thoughts about this man- he has graciously accepted my apologies. He even offered to take care of Wifey, Mistress and my concubine. That man has an enormous heart. I actually regret engaging in a war I now know I was bound to lose… but I am learning. This is one lesson I will always thank Papa Smurf for. I salute his age, wisdom and pray that I grow up to be like him.

Yours
Nick

Enclosed please find sections of my last will and testament should the mob decide that I should should end up in River Chania.

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
OF
Nicholas Gichu

I, Nicholas Gichu, of Kieni Village,Nyeri District, declare this to be my Will and hereby revoke any Will or Codicil I may have made.
ARTICLE ONE

Marriage and Children
At the time of the execution of this Will, I am married to Wifey, and have the following children from said marriage:
NIL

As used in this Will, the term "spouse" refers to my wifey.
ARTICLE TWO

Payment of Debts

I hereby direct my Personal Representative(Milonare) to pay all expenses of my last illness and funeral expenses.

ARTICLE THREE

Specific Bequests of Tangible Personal Property
I will, give and bequeath unto the persons named below, if he or she survives me, the following described tangible personal property:

Wifey: 1/16th acre plot in Kieni(marriage was never consummated)
Milonare: Spiderman underwear( Hardly used worn 7 days and washed only once.) re: Guess
Aunt Mshairi: My collection of books and movies
Msanii_xl: Sugar cane patch at the banks Nairobi of Nairobi River

In the event I name a person in this Article and said person predeceased me, the said property shall pass under the other provisions of this Will.

I, Nicholas Gichu, having signed this Will in the presence of Kamau Kiratu and Wangu Kimani who attested it at my request on this the 14 day of August,2005 at White Rhino Hotel Nyeri.

Nicholas Gichu

To Nicko Kiddo - " Alls fair in.......

2005-08-12T10:57:00.000+03:00

I (handsome me on the left)am incensed. But I have learnt to keep my cool. A certain ‘chest thumping’ (tried in vain to find a picture of a baby gorilla doing that) has declared Blog War II. He has decided to launch attacks through the comment sections of KBW. He no doubt thinks its ‘Gorilla’ warfare. He has refused to show his face. I do not envy this young man for he has bitten off more than he can chew – my dentures vs. his milk teeth? Obviously no match!
This foot soldier (pictured on the right)has dreams of taking on a veteran general, decorated both by experience and age. I assure all of you that this general will not be cowed.

Go ahead kiddo dig your trenches and line up your toy soldiers and I will have you all for breakfast. I will chew you and spit you out- my dentures can handle that. That is the truth and “you can’t handle the truth!!!”- (Said with the voice of Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men.)

Truth is, I was once where you are now, young and blind to the real world. I can relate to your Matrix type thinking but if you think you are Neo then I am the Oracle and I have tonnes to teach you boy. And I know you think you are ONE… (I am betting you think Guess is Trinity!) I will unplug you for life!!!

Insecurity is a word that I am now not familiar with- I remember back when I was your age and the day to day challenges that came my way. Your challenges are very different these days. I have often heard and seen (my eyes and ears are fully functional) your type :
a. Arguing about which mathree has louder music (I know you are convinced it is actually music.)Or is painted with more colours!!
b. Wearing dreads because it makes you feel rebellious - sometimes artistic.
c. Referring to where you live as the ‘Hood’.
d. Talking like 50 Cent is one of your…. what’s the word -“homies”.

Please be informed that you taking me on is like TETU district taking on mother CHINA.
Finally, I know Guess is a fine styled up lady. She wrote some nice things about you in her post. Since I also know she is of unquestionable integrity, I am puzzled at what threats you and the Nyeri chapter of the mob used to have her paint you in such glorious colour.
Before you gorilla thump your spider chest and crack some ribs- take off that mask and take a good look at yourself in the mirror( climb up on a stool) then take your webby self back to your clinic and continue playing the tooth fairy.

HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT.

General Smurf.

What is 'KOROGA'?

2005-08-10T13:06:00.000+03:00

Pradeep (read that with an Indian accent, bobbing and swaying head on neck without moving the neck) a longtime friend and his family invited me for my first Koroga and I immediately fell in love. (With the Koroga- not with Pradeep!) This is how it happened.

I was struggling with rebuilding a car I had just bought and was terribly upset when I drove into my mechanics ‘workshop’ in South ‘C’. Wahome, the owner of the shop welcomed me with this statement:
“Pore sana ndugu yagu lakini Krangasaft hii ramiza uperekee muhidi.”

As it was about noon and I knew most engineering workshops close at 1 o’clock I quickly called Pradeep and asked him not to close- I lied to him that I was caught up in traffic. He agreed and I headed straight out to Baricho road.
On arrival I found the whole family, Pradeep,Sundeep and the dad-Grudeep Shah. ( I know the names the names sound funny but I assure you- they are real people. The workshops heavy steel doors were closed and they were all visibly annoyed at me for delaying them.

“Rafiki.. shauri gani veve nafanya sisi na ngoja zaidi?” Daddy Grudeep asked with the bobbing of the head.

“Ni shauri ya traffic mzee.” That bobbing always amused me and I caught myself just in time before I started imitating him. Grudeep was a happy old man, he was always smiling and liked to refer to himself as a kikuyu muindi.He instructed me to leave my crankshaft with Mutiso and come to collect on Monday morning.
“Shauri veve nachelewa veve naenda Koroga na sisi nei?” This was posed as a question but I had known him too many years to mistake it for that.

I parked my car, jumped into the back seat and made myself comfortable in their van. As Pradeep drove through the Nairobi streets he turned up the volume of stereo and ‘hindi’ music erupted through the speakers. I pretended to enjoy the music.

Our first stop was South ‘B’ where we purchased 2 kienyeji chicken. The Shah’s were regulars here it appeared, because the chicken were quickly slaughtered, halved, quartered, cubed and packed in two plastic bags all in under 10 minutes!

I had thought we were going very far but we crossed Mombassa road and went to Kenya Motor Sports Club. We had barely sat down when a couple of waiters descended on our Makuti banda delivering a jiko a wok, butter and an assortment of dried spices.

Grudeep put the wok on the jiko and a slab of butter (yes the WHOLE 250grammes) followed. The onions were thrown in when the butter had heated up and fried until they were crispy brown. Next he threw in the tomatoes- already cut up and mixed spices to the already heavenly smelling concoction. As Grudeep threw in the chicken pieces he explained why it was important to use ‘road runner chicken’ and not broilers. He said broilers are too soft and cook to fast. The aim of the Koroga is to spend time together tell jokes politick and just enjoy a drink and the outdoors. More onions went in and more spice and yes- a lot more chillies!! Water was added when it started sticking to the bottom and at intervals Pradeep Grudeep and Sundeep would take turns at stirring (or korogaring) the mix. Stir (Koroga) -add water- taste- Stir (Koroga)- add water- Stir- taste- add water – Koroga. After a couple of hours of this and low heat you obtain a delightful chicken Koroga. Served with bread or roti or ugali it is splendid.

That my friends is Koroga.

QUATRO CHARGE

I am waiting for pictures of the Quatro Charge from a friend so I can show all of you in pictures. But in short: The Quatro Charge is an annual event where big boys and recently big girls come to participate in an obstacle challenge for 4x4 vehicles in some very ungodly terrain. The challenge is a bit like the Rhino Charge without the distances and less rigorous and shorter obstacles. Some of the obstacles are man made others are natural-eg river crossings steep inclines and so forth. It is a spectator event, which is family friendly. Many serious charge fanatics use this to gauge the performance of their vehicles before the Rhino Charge.Spectators can try attempt the challenge- although it is advisable not to use you office to work car for this. Rob Collinge of Robs Magic suspensions was the organizer.

More to follow.

OLD AS I FEEL !

2005-08-09T08:45:00.000+03:00

On Sunday I was sitting at Tamasha in Hurlingham having drinks before going out to Athi River to watch the Quatro Charge (Yes I have pictures and will post them shortly). I had just had a haircut at 'Kinuthias Super Cut'. Kinuthia is my barber and has been giving me a haircut for the last 18 years. (He is the only man allowed to touch my hair!) It's as quiet as you would expect for a Sunday morning. There is music playing and a number of early risers, together with a few patrons who look like they didn't get home the previous night, are cuddling steaming bowls of soup in an attempt to keep warm.

I have been kept waiting for over an hour by my good friend Willy- who by the way is never on time. We had planned the night before that we would do a 'Koroga' at the charge. I had risen good and early; proceeded straight to Nakumatt bought some chicken and other ingredients as per our agreement ;I then let Kinuthia do what he does best on my head.

Then some dumb DJ plays a song that meant so much to me many many years ago. He plays Cat Stevens 'Father and Son' but redone with -Ronan Keating of Boyzone. Its not as good as the original but the lyrics are the same. I look around me and realize how old I actually am! A forty one year old man sitting at a bar, surrounded by people close enough to his eldest daughters age, waiting for an equally old friend who is probably having problems getting out of bed because of his joints.

Here is the song:

Father and Son

It's not time to make a change
Just relax, take it easy
You're still young, that's not your fault
There's so much you have to know
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy

I was once like you are now
And I know that it's not easy
To be calm when you've found
Something going on
But take your time, think a lot
Think of everything you've got
For you will still be here tomorrow
But your dreams may not

How can I try to explain?
When I do he turns away again
It's always been the same, same old story
From the moment I could talk
I was ordered to listen
Now there's a way
And I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go

It's not time to make a change
Just sit down, take it slowly
You're still young, that's not your fault
There's so much you have to go through
Find a girl, settle down
If you want you can marry
Look at me, I am old, but I'm happy

All the times that I've cried
Keeping all the things I knew inside
It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it
If they were right I'd agree
But it's them they know, not me
Now there's a way
And I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go
Original Song by Cat Stevens (Yussuf Islam)- Tea for the Tillerman

Now I feel OLD.

Warning:
Any attempts to refer to me as Blog Grandad or Papa Blue will be met with fury and I shall not be held responsible for my actions thereafter! ( Nick read this as a promise not a threat!)

HOW

2005-08-05T11:05:00.000+03:00

Do you ask yourself how the Sun shines so warm?
Or how flowers swaying in the wind are so bright
How clouds paint pictures without a brush
And rivers and trees make music that is so right

Do you ask yourself how mountains are so high?
Or that scenery is so breathtaking just before night
How bird’s fly and eagles soar with so little effort
And rivers and trees make music that is so right

Do you ask yourself how the sea and sky are so blue?
Or sand on the beach so fine; how fish swim in schools so tight
How waves rise and fall everyday without end
And rivers and trees make music that is so right

Do you ask yourself how the forest is so green?
Or how rain sometimes falls so soft from such height
How moonshine brings feelings of love and romance
And rivers and trees make music that is so right

Do you ask yourself how fruits are so sweet?
Or how snowflakes are perfectly formed and so white
How dreams we dream at times fill us with such joy
And rivers and trees make music that is so right.
Do you?

By now the majority of you have discovered the truth. I have a personality disorder. In me live two very distinctly different human beings. My Kikuyu half is Dr Jekyll and the other half Mr. Hyde. Dr Jekyll is usually in control of this person called Kenyan Kukekamba and as you have surely noticed he is polite, well schooled, well mannered, sensitive to his friends, relatives and even people he has just met.

On the other hand the Mkamba is a loud, abrasive, full of himself, sexually minded flattering Kikuyu basher who thinks with the brain in his small head- (yes… the one between his legs) He is not a bad person but he views life through X-rated spectacles and this at times is quite perturbing.

The Blue poet has gone into hiding not because of Nick or Msanii_xl and other silent members of the mob, but because Dr Jekyll has willed him away.

You are probably asking yourself “what brings out this wicked man from the otherwise tempered Kukekamba?” The truth is that this currently horrible cold weather and a couple of double Famous Grouse usually do the trick. When situations get out of hand, as they have over the last couple of weeks- the drink (when one must be had) of choice becomes Tusker Malt Lager and a more direct route from the office to the house. During these sober moments the Kikuyu in me is at peace with the world and is most creative.

OPINION POLL

Should the Blue Poet be allowed to rear his head in Blogworld or remain banished?

Blue Poet in Hiding

2005-08-03T12:17:00.000+03:00

Location: Somewhere in the Timbaroa Forest

Date: Wednesday August 3, 2005

Time: 0300Hrs

Temperature: 8 degrees Celsius and dropping

Dear Ladies,

The events of the last few days have forced me to flee the comforts of my Thika office and as a result I am now holed up in a friends cabin in Timbaroa. As you can imagine the weather is extremely cold and I am having difficulty in typing out this message from the small keys of my laptop.

I would like to apologize for being unable to post the second part of my series, which I am sure you were all eagerly waiting for. When I explain the circumstances that have led to this I am sure you will agree with me that my decision hold off for while, is the best course of action.

A good and dear Kikuyu friend, who for his own safety I shall not name, managed to record a conversation between several high profile bloggers engaged in plotting my elimination. Yesterday’s piece- I shall not be deterred – touched many raw nerves in my half community. I have listened to the tape over and over again trying to narrow down the identity of these people but save for one I am at loss as to the identity of the other three voices. I am sending a copy of the tape to each of you by mail- please help if you can.
I have made a transcript of the areas that scared me the most. It is my sincere hope that should they succeed in eliminating me that you will all know that I was speaking the truth. I am personally convinced that you ladies deserve men that are sensitive to you feelings and know how to turn you. You need men who are able to take you to new sexual heights, men who are not scared to excite you and take you to the limit. That ladies, is my dream. A dream I was ready to fight for. But now looks like I may have to die for or be forever banished in this forest.

In the background Mike Ruas song is playing :‘Kahora maurimu… niukite muno….
DL: Come slowly teacher.. you have come too much.

Voice# 1: Andu aitu, ninyitiri thimu kuma Mureithi na ajira nimarahotire kuaria na ‘the Njako’. Areda dorra mirioni ithano atuninire kamuikaba karia.

DL: My people, I got a call from Mureithi and he tells me they managed to get hold of ‘The Jackal’. He wants 5 million dollars to finish the Mkamba.

Voice#2: Very good. Kamudu kau nuhindi karabiririe kubrogg natarora airetu othe matiraima haria karii!! Ndiratarire ndirona ena airitu 7 regura… ni uru muno.. nitukabatwi.

DL: Very good. This has just started blogging and the girls are not leaving his spot. I counted 7 regular.. its very bad.. lets kill him.

Voice#3(Nick?): Nii nidiraririe na adu a censorchip na diramareha! Murata witu Ngunjiri niegusend a kavirus siteini yake. Twe hamwe uhoro wa njako… nitwiki kaharambee.

DL: Nicks Voice? : Me I spoke to the censorship people and I Paid them! Our friend Ngunjiri will send a virus to his spot. I am with you about the Jackal… lets hold a harambee .

Voice#4:Nitunine kabru kao!!!

DL: Lets finish this Blue?

As you can see ladies I am threatened. There is a way that you can each help me. Please share you experiences on Kikuyu men and Kamba men. This should let some pressure off me and show these merciless kyuks that I speak only the truth.

Yours truly,

Blue.

I Shall not be Detered!!!!!

2005-08-02T10:29:00.000+03:00

BREAKING NEWS

Kikuyu guys all over the world have started a campaign to silence, ban and boycott reading or commenting on the slanted, immature derogatory and fictitious stories that are appearing on KBW. They have vowed to protect their dignity from the unwarranted attacks of the madman formerly known as the ‘Kenyan kukekamba’. Three meetings were held simultaneously in London, Dallas Fort-Worth and at Njuguna’s on Waiyaki Way Nairobi to map out ways of dealing with this serious threat. Sources at the Nairobi meeting indicate that the meeting was unanimous about the need to urgently address the situation. At the conclusion of the frantic calls between London, DFW and Nairobi several resolutions were passed.

A. Inform the Mount Kenya Mob and obtain contacts of a hit man.
B. Seek assistance of the UK Home Office to have the Blue Poets Visa to the UK revoked.
C. Convince the FBI that the Blue Poet is a known associate to terrorist groups.
D. To give silent treatment to the Kikuyu ladies on KBW who are commenting and encouraging the Blue Poet.
E. To start their own Kamba bashing series.

The Nairobi meeting was jolted by the arrival of Njoroge Wadutu who runs the SpyGrass Dectetif Angesy. Mr. Wadutu produced these three drafts of the Blue Poets post which is due for posting on Wednesday the 3rd August 2005.

1. *****Kinuthia pushed Wangu against the Mugumo tree and put his hands up her blouse. His hard hands squeezed her breasts as one does when checking the pressure on a bicycle tire. His thumb and forefinger moved to her nipple roughly tweaking it……….

Nituthii cube yakua uhe- muthee na maitu niimathiiri mahoya
DT: Lets go to my cube you give me- mom and dad have gone for prayers.
(line courtesy of farmgal )

2. ****“ A Kikuyus idea of a date with his girl is taking her for an afternoon of Nyama Choma and an evening of Mugithi at Rim Club and listening to Mike Rua of the ‘One Man Guitar’ fame.

3. *****Umekura Nyama shoma ikiwa na firi firi, umekunywa leds, Hatiri kuariria ….Shuma lazima irare Ndani!
DT: You have eaten Nyama Choma with chilly, you have drunk reds, there’s no discussion the chuma must sleep inside!

The sources also overheard the following statement:

"Kamuikaba gaka karatuthukiiria riitua numuhaka to deal naku"
DL "This Kamukamba spoiling our name must be dealt with".

WHAT KAMBA MEN DON'T DO

2005-08-01T12:26:00.000+03:00

I am half Kamba. Being one and also having a Kikuyu half enables me to subjectively analyze each half with the benefit of proximity…i.e. my Kikuyu half has been watching the Kamba half in action since I first knew about the birds and the bees. I can thus speak authoritatively on Kamba males.
Yes!!! to all you girls asking. It is a fact! It is not a rumour that Kambas are renowned lovers (ask any female and she will be blushing when she remembers Mutiso or Kimeli from back in the day)

The art of loving is passed from generation to generation but only through the Kamba female. The Kamba male is blessed with the trait of understanding and as such is a quick learner. In addition Kamba males are not afraid to discuss their sexual feelings with their partners. Making love for Kambas is both physical and audio (I will develop this later in part 7 of this series). :) If any of you have ever had Kamba neighbors and thin walls, you will attest to this- during the act there is conversation- the man is always asking; the woman directing, the man questioning; the woman answering,interspersed with sounds of pleasure , moans compliments etc.. Making love is an interactive activity. In order for us to understand the Kamba psyche we should first look at what others do and compare it to Kaos. Let us take Kikuyus (as I am half ) in a rural setting for simplicity- If any Kikuyu male is feeling like I am ‘hating’… I suggest you stop reading right now!!

****Please note that Kinuthia, Wangu, Mutiso and Mweni(These Kaos will feature from part 5 of this series) are fictional characters and any similarity in name or persona to fellow bloggers is not intentional.

Phase 1. Solicitation

Mwangi meets Wangu and after a brief exchange of niceties he begins to solicit for some: the conversation goes something like this: ( DT in italics stands for Direct Translation)
Mwangi: nduraga guhoyaga naduri wa he… umuthe numuhaka uhe!!
DT: I have always been begging you and you have never given me. Today you must give me.
Wangu: Kari umuhaka guhe? Ndakuirire weterere nginya Dethemba!
DT: Is it a must I give you? I told you to wait for December!
Please note that Mwangi is forceful and demanding while Wangu attempts to ridicule him and gives him a date very distant in the future. This is an important kikuyu trait. Observers have noted that if Wangu was treated half decently she could be very different. At this time she is merely responding to Mwangis crude overtures in the language that he understands.

A few months later Wangu gives in to Mwangi’s advances and the conversation goes like this:

Mwangi: Ma ya Ngai umuthe Wangu ndirakurekera Niikuhe kana Ndurahe!
DT : As God is my witness today Wangu I will not let it pass! Are you giving me or not?
Wangu: Haya.. tucemanie haria Mugumoini tha imwe huaini. Ndikwenda tuunu nimudu.
DT : Okay.. lets meet at the Mugumo tree at seven. I don't want anyone to see us.

Wednesday- Kikuyu foreplay

Sensuality Barometer By The Blue Poet

2005-07-29T12:16:00.000+03:00

My brother read my post ‘For the Kamba in Me’ and I think he was horrified. I can picture him reading my post and muttering to himself,” Big bro has lost his marbles! “ Well l have not lost them, at least not all of them- yet. He then coined a name for me- The Blue Poet. That I like - somewhat because the colour blue is a nice colour and brings to mind many things (and yes pornography is one of them).

To more serious matters now. I put a tag at the end of the poem but in hindsight I feel I should have used the word Sensuality instead of Sexuality. Sexuality refers to (in the context of my post) the concern with or interest in sexual activity. What I had in mind was the quality or state of being sensual. I was more interested in seeing how my fellow bloggers reacted to stimulation (yes sexual!)

I will now proceed to rate all of you who visited my blog on a scale of 2 to 12 (don't ask why 2 instead of 1.) I know you will all hate me but the truth must be told…. And here it is for the world to see! Sorry folks. There is a lot of room for improvement!!!!

As I am the poet and the author of the poem I award myself --- 10 points

Nick and Guess tie for second place with ---- 8 points

Medusa and Farmgal are a close third with --- 7 ½ points

Kipepeo comes in a close fourth with ----- 7 points

Prousette, Wanduma, Shiro and Mshairi get ----- 6 points

Msanii_xl ------ 2.85 points

LATE COMERS
Aikey---------------------------------------6.86 points
Ms K----------------------------------------8.01 points

Bloggers who visited and didn’t comment were awarded ------ 2 points

Key: White – not sensual ------------- 2 points
Green- Timid/shy ------------- 3 points
Purple- Interested -------------- 5-6 points
Blue - Warming up ------------ 7-8 points
Yellow – Steaming up ------------- 9- 9 1/2
Red- Kambas and French -------- 10-12 points

Ratings are continuous so please log on for the latest. Feel free to comment and improve you rating!!!!

Kudos to my blog friend Nick for showing me the way to easily post photos. Thanx Nick ehhh...Sorry for your rating!!!

For the Kamba in Me

2005-07-26T14:44:00.000+03:00

Mellow music dancing rubbing
Cuddling romance perfume cologne mingling
Holding talking laughing smiling teasing
Arousing slow tempting snuggling touching fondling
Shoes shirts buttons zips belts discard
Flesh body touching soft hair chest fingers

Sharp fast
Quick excited breaths
Pounding racing leaping heart
Hands here there everywhere
Wet hot mouths moving roaming searching
Kissing licking nibbling famished ravenous

Breasts full taut pointing wanting inviting
Sensitive fingers caressing kneading hands
Sweet heavenly sensation higher rising higher
Needing wanting longing waiting sweating
Pleasing gratifying stirring

Hard firm solid intense strong powerful throbbing sweet agonizing
Thrusting plunging deep rising shallow rhythmic regular
Anticipation expectation hope holding off eager wait
Words terms endearment baby please faster stop almost
There good nice again together more unified don't stop that’s it

Bursting pleasure building release swinging arching tension
Warm… glowing colours … slow pure…circles
Pulsating joy, which is limitless in peace quiet moments
Waves on the beach…. tranquil sea rising and falling
Feathers ever so soft flying floating in the air
Nerves full of feeling tingling falling
Laughter suppressed calmness settling
Smiles thoughts memories
Tender dreams
Rest

I was tempted to write this in celebration of an act that is held dear by most people. Some of you may think it is crude, unfit for publication or downright degrading. I feel that the way you react to it will be a true reflection of your sexuality or lack of.

what drives the poem

2005-07-25T17:03:00.000+03:00

For me poetry is about feeling. It’s about those issues that I grapple with everyday. Some of the things that inspire me maybe as simple as a song that I used to listen to way back or may be triggered by someone’s name or a smile. What’s hardest is when this happens and I am driving in traffic and I can’t stop because I will be late for work and words keep pounding in my head. Or in the middle of the night when I cant summon the energy to get out of bed and do some writing. I feel bad in the morning when I can only grasp shreds of some profound feeling that I had in the wee hours. I keep telling myself that I must by one of those Dictaphone thingamajigs but I have never gotten round to doing so. This would be cool so that when I get to where I am going or become full awake, I can just rewind and put all the sentences together and hope that I can make sense of the confusion.

Recently one of the people who reads my poetry (and I am flattered by all of you who think that I write half decently) asked me why they were all so sad. Then I didn’t have an answer but I have been thinking about this for the last couple of weeks and I think I now have a somewhat wholesome answer.

Up to two three years ago I never wrote anything and never read poetry. Since I started reading I have become amazed at what is out there (here)! Not from the famous poets but from ordinary people living ordinary lives that I can relate to. The amount of talent that is out there is unbelievable. Everyday I am blown away by what my fellow Kenyans feel and how well they put it across. I honestly feel that they have inspired me most. Most of what I read (and really feel) and what I write is based on human emotions. It is therefore correct to say that I am most at ease writing about what I am feeling or have felt. Since most of my poems are sad doesn’t mean that I am sad person. Far from that it- I am one of the happiest fun loving people that I know!! That said, I feel that in terms of memory- sorrow, hurt and pain are the ones remembered longest. Good times come and go, as do sad moments but sorrow is so much deeper and lasts so much longer. We feel it more.

When your relationship is on the brink and you are about to break up with a companion it is the hurt that drives you. Even if you’ve spent years together the happy times will always pale next to the sad ones. I think this is because human beings are sensitive to each other more than to anything else.

As long as we continue to live people will always write about sadness- maybe as an act of trying to warn others of lifes challenges and to pass on the knowledge that no situation is permanent. The knowledge that the sun will always rise tomorrow and there is always hope for joy and laughter no matter how shortlived.

I promised myself that I would try a little harder to write about the things that make me smile everyday and those that make go to bed with a warm feeling every night.

SMILE.

A Cry of Hope?

2005-07-22T16:39:00.000+03:00

Today I feel the loss
That I will feel everyday from now on
A cherished friend lost in the woods of words
Out of no fault of our own but in the complexity
Of fears; the unknown loomed larger than life
Extinguishing the flame of promise

There are not enough tears
The heart could not ache worse
As I sit here still watching those letters
Forming words that burn in my mind
Punching holes in the boat that is drifting
Further and further away

It would be easy to point fingers and say
Had it not been for the intensity
Had it not been for the memories of pain
Tomorrow could have become what yesterday falsely promised

Selfishly I feel my hurt is worse than yours
All the emotion canned inside me
Life is coldly unfair; harshly unreasonable
Showing glimpses of dreams then it says no
Isn’t it insane that what is good is not always best?

I choose to whisper through the rain of tears
Calling out your name sure that you long for my voice
Afraid though that I might open old wounds healed by pain
Yet I cling to the hope that I will hear yours
To rekindle that ember that will always glow

I will keep it aglow foolishly in the belief that
A feeling so good cannot be wasted or wrong
Knowing that you feel as I
Both of us whimpering
Moaning for that day
That our twin sparks will ignite another moment
That I miss ohhh so much

Joyous Solitude

2005-07-22T14:48:00.000+03:00

The Silence is
Deep, gentle, caressing your spirit
Rinsing away your worries ushering in
Calm like a soft breeze through trees.
Adrift you move feeling freedom in you wings

The peace you feel
Of being alone; at one
With all things beautiful, magical;
You cry that painless tear of joy
Afloat in the ecstasy of serenity

The stability makes
Firm and immovable your soul
Like the centre of a gyroscope
Surrounded by the tossing turning
The turmoil of everyday

The book you read
At your hearts own pace
Sometimes lost in it; at times your mind
Roams away from it; to other things
Not so simple and back to the book
To the solitude that keeps you sane.

Someone,who at this present time shall remain anonymous, asked me to write and post a poem on solitude. I have deep feelings for quiet moments and I hope we can all relate to this.

Them and My Life

2005-07-19T16:31:00.000+03:00

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Peddlers of lost causes prophets of doom
They are no match for my vision
Coordinates locked I will not waver
I will see through that dream
Coz its mine and I don't need anyone else’s

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

They know not what drives me what lights me up
Clueless to how much more throttle
This vehicle of my life has to offer
They think they know me till
I step on the gas leaving them in my dust

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Cruising through life in my blood red cabriolet
Carefree wind in my face, Tusker between my legs
Waiting for the next curve sure that I will take it
Loving the thrill closing in on my dream

There they go again
Telling me I cannot
Will not make those choices that are mine
Pouring scorn thick and hot on me

Smiling at me the sun always is
Basking me in its rays of hope
Beckoning me to live that dream
How best I know without a care in my mind

This poem feels like a song. I used to listen to Billy Joel way back and i heard his song 'My life' on the radio driving to work.It brought a rush of memories and gave birth to this.

Kwani03- PART TWO of THREE

2005-07-18T13:25:00.000+03:00

The theme for the launch was the 60s and the music was great. James Browns - Sex Machine, The Jackson Fives- ABC etc. etc. Marvelous stuff. There were a few people dressed appropriately- I wasn’t one of them. A couple of fabulous ladies dressed in large afro wigs, oversized sunglasses and colours that could have shocked any Kamba out of his psychedelic self. We were not out of place as most of the people were either unaware of the theme or didn’t make an effort to participate. I am not sure if, had I known earlier, I would have made a conscious effort to dress up.

So there we are at Simba Saloon, my wife, my cousin and I. My cousin is trying to comprehend why people read or write poetry. He tells us that the last time he read a serious book was back in school and he hated every moment of those years. He says he believes in making money not wasting time reading. I tell him that I agree with him on the importance of making money and succeeding, but insist that reading for oneself is good and growth is infinite and more rewarding than those days back in school. As this line of discussion appears to be quickly deteriorating into an argument that I know I cannot possibly win through intelligent reasoning, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

The place is getting packed quickly and as I leave my seat some dread locked, spaced out kijana comes for the seat. I decide to let my cousin do his macho thing and make sure that my seat is there when I get back. I can almost lip read the exchange of polite obscenities between them and I smile at my wife’s obvious amusement. On the way to the toilets I bump into none other than Binyavanga signing copies of Kwani03. He looks up and I say hello and he asks from where he knows me. I’d never thought that my brother and I resembled each other but Binya was convinced that he knew me. I finally accept this and as I explain that I was Waduma’s brother his face brightened and he tells me that he expects to be in the states during the wedding (Waduma’s) sometime in March next year. He thanks me for supporting Kwani and I tell him that I will be looking out for him a little later so that I can get picture of him and my wife. At this stage I am thinking of how much I will impress Waduma with that photo! An overenthusiastic fan interrupts us and I hurriedly excuse myself for I feel like my bladder is about to burst.

As I weave my way through the human traffic, KJ comes back on stage and is about to start reading Blood and 100% Human Hair by Martin Kimani Mbugua. Damn! I curse. To me this is the highlight because I am proud to know this author personally. I stand against one of the columns willing away my piss and trying to concentrate on KJs booming voice. The story is, as I expected, quite good and most of Simba Saloon is quiet…. transfixed by KJ and transported to Kenyatta Market. I say most people were quiet expect for a table of some 10 people whose appreciation of Kenyan literary works was equal to my understanding of quantum physics. My guess is that they were here by mistake- probably attracted here by the free drinks at the cocktail. Maybe they’d had a few too many there. They played the Kenyan role of overdrinking and lack of concern for others to Oscar standards. They are loud, laughing at some privately shared jokes. They casually ignore all the threatening, demeaning and pathetic looks all the surrounding tables are giving them. I feel I could personally throw the lot out of the Carnivore.

Back to Charles Kiarie (KJ). He is an okay reader; he could have improved on his intonation and clarity in order to bring out the realism of this piece. (When I read the piece later I was even more convinced about that. I could almost smell the nyama choma the hair pomade, burning braids and the trench. I could hear the women clamoring for customers. The fight between Gikuyu and the Luo woman was classic. I could vividly see the alleys cramped with salons, barbershops and boutiques.) KJ finishes and the whole room applauds. The table of the “terrible 10” briefly look to the stage and clap, feigning delight. ‘Brilliant’, they say, ‘Brilliant!’ I run to the toilet pressing myself to keep the piss in and make it to the urinal. There I am, running in place, trying to unzip my trousers to relieve the struggling organ. Finally its out and I feel the sweet release as I throw my head back in pleasure. (Sorry ladies, only men understand this feeling- it’s indescribable!)

Out of the toilet and back to the show. I stop by the bar to buy a pack of cigarettes and I find Judy Kibinge talking to a gentleman at the counter. I love her eyes. I pull out my camera so as to get a photo to send to Waduma (my excuse) and it doesn’t come out very well but at least I got it. She hurries off to the stage before I have the chance to say hello and remind her of who I am. It is upsetting being the elder brother and having to introduce yourself, ‘Hey how you been? Remember me I am the Kenyankukekamba -brother to Waduma?’ ‘We had drinks with you, Kima and Waduma at Chez L’ami a couple of months ago?’ Anyway I didn’t have the chance. A gentleman is reading us his poem on Pattni in a coy Indian accent. Excellent stuff. Next Judy is on stage and is preparing us for the David Munyakei Clip. We all give a fitting applause to David- Kenyas own unsung hero in the Goldenberg Scandal. She reads as the clip rolls. Its amazing and I cant find words to express it. One needs to see the clip to appreciate what this man has done for our country and is still suffering for it. WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING FOR DAVID.

End of Part TWO………

Part THREE may follow.

Kwani? An explosion of Kenyan Works

2005-07-15T15:28:00.000+03:00

36 HRS TO LAUNCH

I am in Nairobi. I had not heard a thing about the Kwani 111 launch. Don’t get me wrong I read the papers, watch my average share of television and listen to the radio on my way to work. On occasion I attend the recitals and readings that Kwani holds at Kengeles on a Tuesday every month. For some reason the launch at Simba Saloon passed me. On Wednesday morning my brother, Wanduma, who also posts on this blog and happens to be a couple of thousand kilometres away in Washington or New York (he moves quite a bit) sends me an invite for the launch and cocktail. I am once again impressed with the way he maintains contact with friends here at home. Having a few of my own friends who always complain that we Kenyans don't read and write, I called a few to find out what their plans were for a cold Thursday evening. Most had other plans or were planning on staying indoors- keep warm spend some quality time with the family- you know the kind of excuses!

By the end of the day I have resigned myself to the fact that only my dear wife will accompany me to the launch. This is of course if I can somehow manage to convince, cajole or bribe her to change her routine that she follows religiously:1. Arrive home at about 6pm shower. 2. Have tea and watch news. 3. Supper and small talk with hubby and girls. 4. Stretch out on the sofa and relax 5. In bed by 10pm. 6. Asleep by 11pm. My evenings are more or less the same except for those days that I indulge myself in a few 'double famous'.

So I get home Wednesday and engage in a mixture of pleading asking and demanding for my wife’s company to the launch. I have been married 15 years so I do not hesitate to say that I have mastered the technique of getting my way. Although sometimes I wonder whether knows before hand and just plays with me, enjoying her moment of strength. Anyway, she finally agrees to accompany me but not before I have promised to by her a perfume called SENSI or some name like that. I am relieved for I feel I got off easy on this one.

LAUNCH DAY

I spend most of the day in government offices trying to cut through the usual red tape. From the clerks to the big boys, everyone is asking: “si ununue ka chai ama lunch”? It most frustrating trying to explain to them that as a matter of principle I do not pay people, who are already salaried, to do their jobs. The clerks think that I am arrogant and their bosses think I must know someone more senior than them. How else can my aloofness and attitude be explained? Eventually I get what I want and leave the offices in a huff.

On my way to where I have parked my car I run into my cousin Kibati. I ask him in passing to join me for the Kwani launch later in the evening. He stares at me awkwardly and laughs. Poetry and readings? “Who the hell listens to such”? Trying not to hurt my feelings he agrees to meet me there.

I arrive at the carnivore, wife in tow - I am sure that sounds crude but yes wife in tow and tons of excitement and expectation on my part. My cousin is already there and has secured a table positioned very wisely close enough to the stage and far enough from the speakers. He introduces the Pilsner in front of him as his date and offers us seats. In the back the cocktail is going on. I sneak a look into the tent and spot the large imposing frame of Binyavanga Wainaina in his trademark dreadlocks and a golden yellow African outfit. The only other person I have met is Judy Kibinge who I have always thought to have dreamy eyes and an enchanting laugh.

I rejoin my team and the wife proceeds to order dinner for herself. My cousin and I decline, as we are more interested in the wine list than the menu. There are about 25 people in the Simba Saloon and probably another 20 in the cocktail tent. At about 9 pm it starts to fill quite quickly, people are coming in from tent and others are paying the 300 shillings entrance and soon we have about a hundred people maybe two hundred.

The drums roll and the show begins. A single man in front of a set of Bongo drums introduces the first poet. It’s a great poem and the words “This poem is a dance” are captivating. A dancer joins him on stage and together they rhythm and dance. The person reciting the poem is offstage and his voice is strong and powerful. I am not sure but I think it was KJ- he of Red Korna and Redycullus (sp). The whole house enjoyed that tremendously.

This is part One if you have found it interesting please comment and I may post part Two. Encouragement needed. << # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

I feel like crap and recall crap-days from the past

2005-07-13T17:10:00.000+03:00
So check this out, I am at the third client this week, bored to crap, because I have been giving the same presentation over and over again. I talk about paradigm shifts, I suggest that we level-set our understanding, I urge them to go out and gain mind-share and finish by laying out for them a strategic vision with tactical and actionable steps.

The odd thing is that based on this, and few weeks of expert needling, they are going to pay an sickening amount of money for a solution that will in all likelihood do nothing to budge the paradigm. I mean there is a chance that it might help them, but really I cannot be sure. Honestly. What I am sure of is that if they buy, my firm makes the numbers, a whole lot of people remain employed, and I look good. Employed, meant employed-at-my-firm, not at the client, because what I haven’t mentioned yet is that the good folks in the room signing off on this project will be the ones let go to make room for the new system. It’s progress, but I don’t buy it. Over the last ten years, I have helped sell dozens of killer apps that just sat on shelves after people hit the streets. So what is the right thing to do?

My arms are tired from all the waving, pointing and chopping the air to punctuate my points, but I struggle on to my grand finale.

“That my friends is the Holy Grail!”, I say, hands raised high, cupping my point. My eyes hover slowly across the room, coming to rest at the spot just above my outstretched hands. Now picture a whole room of white corporate types, eyeballs fixated on my cup. Oh yeah, and there is token black dude in the back corner. I know how he feels. I know he knows how I feel. I know he knows I know how he feels, and as a result we have been unable to hold each others gaze throughout my presentation.

He just sits there judging me. He is wondering how I got the gig; in my funny accent pounding notions into concepts, thrusting gists into view, while making impressions on perceptions, in order to compose a proposal out of ideas, and model theories out of pure thought. Nah, he’s on to me.

I feel like such a fraud, standing here in my suit, holding my arms in the air, trying so hard to finish at a high point. Please let me digress for a quick second, and point out that my suit is nice. I have always dreaded myself in a suit - picturing my dad and all the other civil servants at the bus stop in Buru Buru waiting to be squeezed brusquely into a mathree on rainy mornings. You know the look; ill fitting, crumpled from so many packed mathree rides and with a faint whiff of last evenings swallow and nyaks. God, I swore to never wear a suit. I expected to go to Kenya Poly like my cousin and become an engineer. Full stop.

Now here I am peddling words for a living. No, not a journalist or even a decent novel writer, but a consultant working jargon till it is worn and jumping on the next business management bandwagon, as soon as it comes into view. Sure, my white-papers have been well received and published, but so what…it’s still all an empty game. All just false analogies, shell games, and trick questions; a sucker doping suckers.

Anyway, what killed my mood is that I made one of those dreaded cultural reference miscues, again. You know, I know to avoid talking sheng when I go home so as to avoid dating myself, or worse looking like a fool. But working in corporate America, I catch myself trying too hard sometimes.

Like this morning, my co-workers were complimenting my hard work on behalf of the company and the new revolutionary management technique we were pitching, and one of the said cheerily, “Looks like you drank the Kool-Aid!”

Instead of responding cheerily with, “Nice one Chet!”, I misunderstood and went ahead to explain that I never drank Kool-Aid, and grew up drinking Treetops. They burst out laughing. So much hilarity over a little cultural foible.

“Shit”, I thought, and silently questioned whether some of their delight may have been taken from some racist connotation implied in the name of my favorite childhood drink.

So, every day I have to be on the alert. Watch what I say. Avoid making mistakes like drinking coffee through the little stirrers. Why are do they stir their coffee with little straws? It all leaves me confused and paranoid. I know how I look. I am that little Kenyan guy with the watchful eyes.

I end up not trusting anyone, double-checking everything, and ending with a reputation for being anal and attentive. This is not always a good thing. Beware when they ask about your attention to detail, eh. Don’t go overboard! It’s kind of a trick question. Okay, I am a little paranoid, but I treat every question as if it were a trick question. I was ruined by doing all those multiple choice questions, and I never recovered from seeing my first ‘(d) None of the above’. Oh, I can’t tell you the horror! None of the above!! I mean, it used to make me crap my pants. I would going along so well, nailing every question like a fucking carpenter, and then ‘wham’, they would pull a fucking ‘none of the above’! I would be off my game for the rest of the test. I hated teachers who did that. I mean wasn’t it the height of laziness, or at least just damn wrong.

It wasn’t fair, I would cry. You have the answer and you won’t just share it with us! I drove myself mad. So, being a bit of a swot, I started writing in the answer. Yaani, I would add ‘(e) 14.374…and add an extra decimal point to prove my point, and then shade in my crooked little ellipse. It was my way of getting back! Unfortunately it worked and my standard 7 math teacher, Sa Peter, starting hating me. I preferred my previous math teachers, Sa James who taught standard six and Miss Alice who taught standard five.

He would walk back into class, his half-cowboy boots making a loud ‘toc, toc, toc’ on the floor.

‘Times up! Drop your pensos and hand forward your pepas!”.

He would then fish out my paper and look for any of my extra answers to mark up with a big red ‘X’. My paranoia now was easily matched by stubbornness then. So, I continued to enter my correct answers, and he got more pissed off.

During one test I was overjoyed to find a question that had no correct answer among the given multiple choices! This happened very rarely, and when it did the whole class got a free point for the question. I knew Govinda, the Sikh swot, and Aggrey, the perennial number three were scoring better and better in their math tests and I could not afford them getting a free point. In any case they had probably seen the same mistake as I did…but just in case, I was going to have Sa Peter fix it. Perhaps he could put a new set of multiple-choices on the blackboard.

Back in the conference room, a chair creaks as someone shifts in their chair to relieve cramping cheek. Damn, I held the chalice-in-the-air pose a little to long! I turn back to face the room, staring directly at my fellow interloper in the back and finish with,

“The net-net is that what you need to do is disambiguate your data in order to create a more intuitive knowledgebase. Thank you. Does anyone have any questions?...No? Thanks again.” There is a pattering of applause as I take my seat and the next presenter, my compadre from the back corner, nervously passes out a thick sheaf of handouts.

After reviewing my test silently twice, I walked to the front of the class. As soon as I got up I saw Govinda and Aggrey exchange glances. I knew they were lip reading but there was no way to block their view.

Sa James would not agree with me. He said the answer was there! I showed him my calculation, but he just shook his head and said it was wrong. How annoying! He smiled and said ‘Sit down, Muthee’.

‘No!’, I said, way too loudly and way too angrily to be talking to a teacher. I was done. I lost 5 points on the test for ‘disrespecting the teacher’, 5 points for ‘disrupting the class’, and gained 1 point for the bad question. I had been right. It was Pyrrhic victory I told myself, but what I didn’t know was that it wasn’t over.

I don’t fully understand how an adult could get all worked up like that and get into a pissing match with a kid, but it got to a point at the end of second term, before our CPE mocks that he presented us with a paper in which all fifty question had an ‘(d) none-of-the-above choice. All fifty! There was an audible gasp when the class turned over the questions to start the test. In fact, some kids started crying.

Of course, I was one of those crying kids, but I read each question and all their multiple choice answers, blurry through the tears, and shaded each one correct.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

WHY LEMONS?

2005-07-12T11:50:00.000+03:00
Tell me, someone, please tell me why I am here.
What is that purpose mine that I seek
These distractions are so loud; please whisper to me the secret
The directions so I find my way
My candle flickers in the storm making uneasy shadows that confuse me
Light me a path with your lantern so I may see where I go
I fear I might be lost.
Can you hear me?

Tell me again, old friend, tell me why I am here.
Am I here really just to cheer, to applaud those that stand out?
To see pictures of them in Time, Forbes and Newsweek.
Patience that’s what you say, relax your time will come
How, pray tell me, will I know the knock- will it be loud?
Please tell me that I will hear it.
Are you there?

While I refuse to be part of the furniture wanting to be recognised
Like millions everywhere I know not what to say; what to do
Is there that niche for me here or am I in it with those millions
I long to leave that mark for which I will be remembered?
That cant be too much to ask for
Is anyone there?

Tell me, my love, please tell me why I am here.
What do I tell our children when they ask what I don’t know
Do I tell them we are here because we are here or do I tell them?
The birds were made for song and the flowers pretty
The bees for honey and the fruits for food the clouds for rain.
That is the question I fear most.
Are you with me?

Tell me, dear God, please tell me why I am here
What must I do to be told the truth
It wasn’t by accident that you put me here- or was it?
A life lived well you want,
But surely there’s got to be something to show
I am not asking for the burning bush
But only you have the answers that I need.
How do I make the most of all these lemons
When you know I hate lemonade?
I know you hear me.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

OF TERRORISTS AND LEADERS

2005-07-11T11:19:00.000+03:00
How does one moderate his dislike for extremists and all that they supposedly stand for? I hold my breath waiting for someone to explain to me in plain and simple English (or any other language for that matter) how the killing of innocent people can right whatever wrongs they feel have been committed against them. How is it even conceivable that one human being can have so much hate directed against a person he or she has never even met? I do not profess to have any answers but on my part, the blame lies squarely on the leadership. It is leadership that consistently fails us in the pursuit for social harmony and a peaceful coexistence. Yes!! It is my conviction that terrorists should be shot and the liberties of suspected fanatics should be restricted. To hell with their civil rights!

I stand to be corrected but I believe that the message in all humanities “Holy Books” and teachings, almost without exception, preach universal harmony and peace. It is the twisted interpretations of leaders that constantly pit us against each other. These leaders that we all allow to be our guides and believe are our links to the ‘thereafter’ are the real criminals. They continually teach hatred for one simple reason. They have knowledge that if you create a channel for sentiment and manage to focus it, your followers will be blind to your faults and weaknesses. There are few sentiments as strong as hatred. Just as the soldier does not make the evil regime, extremism is not the making of the terrorist.

The targets for revenge should not be women and children and the innocent. If that is done then the avenger is no better than the terrorist. Bombs and missiles need not be unleashed on villages and towns in Afghanistan and Iran but instead we need to see a concerted effort to deny the leaders of fanatical groupings the tools spread this hatred.
The radio and television stations that claim to be neutral but are openly pro hate and provide airtime to these leaders should be put off air permanently:- bomb them if need be. Places of worship need to remain just that. The pulpits and the Mosques have been desecrated by those who are supposed to protect them. Way too much space has been given hell raisers and hate mongers.

In light of recent events this may seem targeted at our Muslim brothers. But it is not. I am against all violence perpetrated against those with an unequal ability to defend themselves. Whether it be tribal conflict in Rwanda, regional fighting in Sudan, terrorists in Israel, Israeli troops in the West Bank or terrorists in the streets of London. These leaders have got to be stopped.

Hate me! But that is the way I feel.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

Photos

2005-07-07T13:10:00.000+03:00
I must confess. I feel like a complete dunce, dork or whatever you would care to call a halfwit like me. I have been trying to share some pictures with all of you for the past week- things weren't coming along as i would have liked them... however I have managed to put together an album on the link below.

http://lndolo.photosite.com/Album1/

yours most densely,

Kenyankukekamba
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

Music Time Warp

2005-07-07T09:37:00.000+03:00
I like music. I really do… sometimes however, I feel like I am stuck in a time warp. I can’t seem to get the late 70’s and 80’s music out of my head. My daughters like to call it dinosaur music.
I have put together some verses from different songs I used to sing along to. They are forever imprinted in my mind. Some of you younger people may have heard them remixed or redone. Am I alone in this dimension??? Comment and tell me who you think did the songs below. It was all a long time ago.... may have gotten some lines wrong .. correct me.

All the times that I’ve cried
Keeping all the things I knew inside
Its hard but its harder to ignore it
If they were right I’d agree
But its them they know no not me

*********************************

Well baby you can cry all night
But that will never change the way that I feel
The snow is really piling up outside
I wish I didn’t have to leave you here
..... I tried to show you just how much I cared
But you've been cold.. to me so long
Im crying icicles instead of tears.
****************************

You’ll never find your gold on a sandy beach
You’ll never drill for oil on a city street
I know you are looking for a ruby in a mountain of rocks

*******************************

When I look in your eyes are those tears that I see?
Are they over me,
I am not worth it you see
For I’m the kind of guy
Who’s always on the road
And wherever I lay my hat
That’s my home

*********************

There she stood in the doorway
She had a Mercedes Benz
She had a lot of pretty pretty boys
She called friends
How they danced in the courtyard
Sweet summer sweat
Some danced to remember, some danced to forget

**********************

Every time that I look in the mirror
All these lines on my face getting clearer
The past is gone like dusk to dawn
Dream on dream on
Dream until your dreams come true
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

HAVE HOPE.... NEVER GIVE UP

2005-07-05T16:41:00.000+03:00
NEED COMPASS

My fingers are itching to go and I feel a sense of anticipation of the release I am about to get. Sort of like the feeling you get when it dawns on you that your attempt to give up smoking has failed dismally and you are about to light up for the first time in three days!!! That kind of feeling. Over the last couple of weeks I haven’t written much of anything save for a couple of comments on a few blogs. I was touched by the desperation I read on a blog recently that reminded me of the people I know that have contemplated suicide. Suicide is too final. I urge all to take care hang in there.

HEavy
My heart is
As I surrender to
The pressures of today
Hoping that tomorrow will be easier
Knowing that I cannot wish my problems away
Blinded by my tears of hopelessness I look for a way out of this mess

I see them all, some big, some fading
Some are grown others just born
Maturing quickly to haunt me; unrelenting
They are mine; these problems
How am I expected to handle them alone?

IN the timeline of life I see my future
Paraded before me is what could have been
I saw that problems starting out larger than life
With each passing day they grow smaller
They joys of success of grandchildren and a richness of life

AS my soul floats away leaving my body in the bath crimson strings in water
Slowly but surely emptying this sad life into the tub Leaving
An empty shell that held so much promise
So many lost chances
I missed a lot
Should’ve waited
Persevered
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

2005-07-01T11:21:00.000+03:00

MORE VIEWS
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

2005-07-01T11:19:00.000+03:00

VIEW FROM THE TOP
The escarpement and other places
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

2005-06-30T16:38:00.000+03:00

TRIP TO NYANZA
The escarpement and other places
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

The Stain of Loving

2005-06-30T14:31:00.000+03:00
Bittersweet has always been the taste of love
The ache and the glow are equal partners
Love ought to be measured by the good feelings rather than by the hurt.

Love is related to hurt and they spend a lot of time together
It is said that while Love is the stronger of the two
Pain is never far off, forever within earshot
It will manifest itself in jealousy falsehoods and mistrust

Love is like that overripe fruit dripping with sweetness
That no matter how hard you try it will drip from the corners of your mouth
And soil the new shirt you wear; leaving the stain.

Armed with experiences of other people we forge ahead in life
Looking for love…. Mostly in the wrong places
When found it holds promise but still proves elusive to tame
Hurting ourselves is a lesson that teaches us that love is the healer

In attempting to harness the glow ; it will suffocate
Transferring its life energy to the cousin making it
Grow stronger, weaving a shield around your heart.

Take courage, bite into the fruit with wild abandon
Celebrate the sweetness with the knowledge
That the fabric of life is a collection that cannot be complete
Without a little stain of loving. A little stain of pain.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

Between Cliff and Truck

2005-06-29T12:49:00.000+03:00
My job requires that I travel our beautiful country quite a bit. I want to relate an encounter that I had last week on my way to Isebania along the Kenya- Tanzania border. I am still thoroughly freaked out. Here goes.....

Sunday 12 noon or thereabouts. The weather is warm and I have just left Nairobi. I am headed towards Narok on the old Nairobi Nakuru road that weaves through the escarpment. The view is always breathtaking even though I drive down this road at least once a month.

My sunroof is open and I am singing along to Bob Marleys' Redemption Songs on an i-pod that I borrowed(stole?) from my daughter. My Toyota is doing a comfortable 60kph round the bends and the oncoming traffic is light. I roll my window and light a Sportsman...and sing "emancipate yourself from mental slavery.." From my seat I can see the floor of the Rift Valley, probably about a kilometre down the steep cliff. Such awesome scenery. The bends straighten out and before me there is about 50o metres of straight downhill descent. In the distance a truck carrying a container is labouring up the hill. A red passenger vehicle overtakes the truck I gauge the distance and my speed and decide there is no cause for alarm. The red car is "nokia 3310".. Thats what Mitsubishi VRG are refered to as because they are so common. The car is moving quite fast and and all of a sudden from corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of an eagle diving tords the tarmack. It picks something from the road and pulls upwards. The timing is slightly off and the red Nokia almost hits the eagle. The large bird seems to be moving backwards as it smashes into my side mirror. Blood and some sort of liquid are thrown into my open window. something lands writhing in my lap!! I slam my foot on the brake ... in the split second I realise there is the cliff on my left a truck to my right. I look at my lap and find a snake!!!
In a nanosecond I am out of the car, leaving it in the middle of the road and perched on a rock with my heart trying to break out of my ribcage.
I had left my cigarettes in the car and was shaking all over. After a couple of minutes I gather enough courage to get my car off the road. I approach it cautiously, not sure where the snake is.
To my suprise I find half a snake, tail side to be exact, lying at my front tyre. Still shaking I move my car off the road and open all four doors. I proceed to search the car for a whole hour before I am convinced that the other part of the snake is not inside.

Please note that the pictures at the escarpment were taken on the return journey.. there is no way I could have held the camera in a steady manner.

ANY COMMENTS???
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

NEED COMPASS: June 2005

2005-06-27T14:50:00.000+03:00
NEED COMPASS: June 2005

HELP
Anybody out there who can help me post some photos on my blog.

HELP
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

Limbo

2005-06-22T20:59:00.000+03:00
I open my eyes and the light is too bright. My stomach feels like a pit and I have a headache on the left side of my head, and bladder’s pressing. It starts somewhere behind my left eye, ow. The taste in my mouth is nasty, of day-after alcohol. I am not ready, so I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.
I wake up a little later. Head still hurts, stomach, still queezy, but my bladder feels ok. I feel around the bed…you know, just in case.

It has happened once before. Visiting a friend in Nairobi, I had a night worse than last night and in the middle of the night was fortunate enough to find the bathroom. In the morning I felt relieved, but it turns out I hadn’t left the couch.

I drag myself to the bathroom. The light in the window has changed to a hazy halflight. One of the bulbs in the room burns out and slight acrid smell lingers. I do the routine; pee, dump, shower, and brush teeth. I pop an Advil.

Walk to the kitchen; fix some instant coffee and an oily egg breakfast. Dump a little too much oil in the pan let it heat. Crack a couple of eggs and as I watch the lively blobs, turn white, bubble and stiffen I remember to call Wahu, Awino and Kip.

I call and leave a message on Wahu’s machine. Last night was pretty tame. A couple of quick drinks when we got to the club, and then just water and dancing for the rest of the night. I was the designated driver after all. I had picked up Awino and Kip and met Wahu at the club. On the way back they had ridden with Wahu because they lived closer to her. I thought Wahu was okay, but was she? Anyway they’re probably still asleep anyway.

I slide the eggs off the pan onto a plate and let the oil drip onto the eggs. They are slick and I just swallow them, washing them and the oil down with the coffee. Between the dump, the Advil and the ‘hangover special’ I now feel completely revived.

I take a drive, for what I don’t know, but I do. The sky is overcast but it is still bright and hazy, so I dig around the car for some shades. I find my brother’s old aviators! Incredible, I didn’t even know I still had them. He gave them to me once when he was home from the Kenya Air force. He looked like the guys I saw in the movies. I wanted nothing more than to be like him. Totally Officer and a Gentleman. Between him and the movies, I decided I was headed for America. And now that I was here, I smoked Marlboros like he did, I got a leather bomber jacket like he used to wear…and a pair of cowboy boots – Justin’s, just like his. I put the glasses on and I felt good.

I called my girlfriend; she was in California, 3 hours behind. Mweni was just getting up and was not in a good mood. She said she missed me. I missed her too. She said she wished she was with me and I too wished that she was with me. I felt much better after talking to her, even though she cried. Mweni doesn’t usually cry, but I understood. Being away from each other was difficult for me too.

Wahu still hasn’t called me back. I wonder if they are okay. Growing up so many friends had died in road accidents; usually returning from a party or club. I knew four kids personally and too many through others to count. Not many parents in my neighborhood had cars, so we always road with the richer kids. We sometimes took the bus to the club and walked the last half mile. It wasn’t cool, but when there was no ride, we had to. Robert the minister’s son had died coming from the club. His two passengers survived. Dan the Ugandan was killed in his friend’s sports car. Mary and Ann were the only two who died when the car they were riding in rolled a mile away from the club. There were seven people crammed in their car that night.

Car accidents were a major killer and alcohol its main accomplice. Fifty people in a bus would die in one accident and matatu deaths were regular occurrences. It seemed like the norm. Poverty led to bad, roads. Bad roads to bad cars, and bad cars to more accidents. Poverty led to reckless drinking; reckless drinking to reckless driving and more deaths. Poverty led to desperate youths. Desperate youths led to violent criminals. Violent criminals brought more death. For many people, life in Nairobi was lived at the gates of death. The only escape it seemed was alcohol, but alcohol would often lead to death. And then AIDS came to town, with a scythe to cut down those that were left standing.

Bars were the most booming business in town. The only institution that rivaled the bar was church. My neighborhood had more churches than schools, or banks. Every denomination was represented and new ones were started every Sunday. They didn’t offer an escape, they offered to save. And so at some point we all got saved. But the salvation they offered was in the after-life. We needed salvation down here, and many made the calculation that some of it could be drawn on the account early; after all, those who had faith would also be blessed with success.

I went to the Catholic Church and believed that I had to wait for my blessings in the kingdom after life. If you were good, you earned an eternity in the kingdom, in bright light, in the presence of God. If you were bad, eternity, in hell, fire and sulfur, but worst of all, they said, was the absence of God. Eternity was too hard for my young mind to grasp so I fixated on limbo. Absence of God, suffering, but most importantly with an end. That seemed bearable or rather imaginable. I imagined that there would daily canings, and people would come and yell at you for being bad. I could endure that I thought. After all I had endured that from my Dad all my life. Aiming for heaven was too hard. The rules were tough, ambiguous and they just felt foreign. I looked around and saw good people do clearly bad things and not even feel bad about it. It was too easy to see inconsistency. You know there’s a point where spotting hypocrisy around you gets easier than deciphering the teachings in the book. You know what I mean?

Many of the priests and pastors were foreigners; here to teach us. That felt odd. Why did we have to learn their rules? What if we didn’t feel like it? Our priest was called Father Stephen, but he told us to call him Father Steve. I couldn’t look at him and not picture the story of Saint Steven being stoned to death. It made me think of Father Steven as a saint. Of all the things that disconnected with me though, were his hands. When I shook his hand, it was soft. Not soft like a woman’s hand is, but soft like a pillowy cushion that hisses when you sit on it. Neither my parent’s hands, nor my grandparents – who were closer to his age – felt like that. My grandmother’s hands were tough from breaking firewood and digging up her garden with a panga. He didn’t smile much either. He had left America and spent the last 30 yrs in Africa. He had already earned his place in the Kingdom. I however was aiming for limbo, but I was going to America first.

So over a number of years after high school, many of us ended up spread across the world. Like a bead pod exploding in the sun. We landed wherever we could. I was in Houston, in the hot American south. Wahu, Kip and Awino and were like me in various stages of education. I had dropped out of school for a semester and was determined to return in January. I had saved enough money now to pay for the year that I had left. My girlfriend and I had timed it so we would graduate at the same time and return to Kenya. Five years in this country were more than enough.

The weather has gotten colder and I feel it through the thin shirt I am wearing. It is an old shirt of my fathers that I wear when I am feeling sentimental. My mother sewed it for him when I was a kid. In fact she sewed us all her men, identical shirts. My brother and I soon grew out of ours, and my dad stopped wearing his. As I was packing for the states I saw it hanging in his closet and I stuffed in my bag on impulse. It was made of a dark blue light-weight rayon material that was fashionable at the time. I had picked out the shiny gold buttons with my mum. The dark colored artificial fiber never faded through the years.

I called Wahu again, this time I couldn’t hide the worry in my voice. I told her Awino had left her jacket in my car and Kip his CDs.

I am back in my apartment and it feels much darker and colder now. My heart is heavy. Something is terribly wrong. By my feet a small beetle-like creature is scurrying across the carpet. Startled I raise my feet to avoid it and look for others. Using an envelope from the table I scoop it up and fold the envelope so I can study it through the plastic address pane. It doesn’t look familiar at all. I get on my hands and knees to look under the bed and table looking for a hole or trail. Off to one side are two long insect legs and a head. I must have smashed a long legged insect with a magazine a few days ago. Something else must have gotten to remains. On the other side is dried up shell of a spider I remember taking out with a paperback last week. It looks undisturbed. My skin begins to crawl as I locate more dead insect parts, and I remember each encounter that dispatched it to its current state. The space under the bed had a dry scaly smell. Afraid of finding a nest of eggs, I stop looking and pick up the phone to call one more time.

I haven’t spoke to a soul today except for my girlfriend. No one else has called me. Wahu or at least Awino and Kip should at least have called.

“Are you sure you won’t ride with us?” Awino asked yesterday as I walked to my car. I remember now. Kip was already in the car. He seemed annoyed. I was annoyed too that they had decided to ride with Wahu.

“Murage! Just leave the car, you can get it tomorrow.”

“No just go. I am okay. Just go ahead I will follow you.”

I was getting hungry. There was a waffle house somewhere on the way home. I picked out the familiar tail lights in the traffic and settled in behind them. I hadn’t eaten all day and that last shot towards the end of the night was a bad idea. It was wreaking havoc on my stomach. I really need to eat, so I pulled out to go around them and lead the way to the restaurant.

I was jolted by the memory. That last shot! The blinding lights as I pulled alongside them. The looks on their faces at that last instant.

The insect in the envelope gave a few last scratchy kicks and then stopped. The light outside the window flickered and dimmed.

I put the phone to my ear and there was no tone. I realized that hadn’t talked to anyone in ages. There was no one around I was alone. The smell of the insect parts was stronger now and I felt sick. I poured the beetle onto my palm and it did not move.

I didn’t want to be here anymore, but where would I go?

Waves of feelings; First anxiety, then worry. They wash over me at the same time and instead of joining forces to create a new wave they would overlap, and each line would break over me individually. The effect was a lattice work of thin wire dragged across a raw exposed nerve.

My mum presented all three shirts to us one Christmas. “Sizes: big, bigger, biggest!”, she exclaimed. I soon outgrew the ‘big’. Wearing the ‘biggest’ one was like armor. A shield against the world, without which I would have been worn down to nothingness. The aviators protected my eyes against the hazy light and allowed me to look out into the world feeling like I saw my brother. Strong, all knowing, I even adopted his cock-sure gait.

We were never a very expressive family. It just wasn’t the African way. But it was more than just that. I watched other families hugging and kissing. Sometimes on the lips! It just wasn’t our way.

So, living away from home makes you figure out how to continue this. The only way was to condense and package your feelings into manageable packets. Emotions were reduced, as much as possible to a point. Difficult emotions like missing someone, or past hurts were folded down to a reed switch. The swish through the air telegraphing the impending sting as the reed cut into your center. The good thing about that was that you could brace yourself and absorb the sting. In a few minutes the sting would wear away. You would be whole again, back to school or work in this non-stop America.

One of my favorite memories of childhood was a ten cent piece of candy called a Patco. This was essentially powdered sugar pressed to a small disc. The neighborhood kiosks that sold everything from newspapers to milk would have display the plastic tubs in the window with an assortment of sweets. The patcos were in the cloudy white tub.

Patcos had a chalky texture and dissolved in your mouth. It was a guaranteed kick. The pleasure delivered quickly. Good memories were patcos that soothed away the bad times. Thinking of my Mum, was a patco exploding like a fireworks. The sweetness was all encompassing and faded slowly, like balm soothing for days. And even eight thousand miles away, we would talk regularly but not for long. Often I just wanted to hear, my mothers voice or my fathers voice and that was enough.

“How are you doing?”
“How are your classes?”
“Are you going to take the early retirement offer?”

The government had been ‘asked’ to trim the civil service. 40% will be asked to leave. Oh, how that burned! My stay in this God forsaken country was getting to me. I needed to get back and hoe my piece. My life had become a series of pushed brooms, packed boxes, bathed pensioners, and only partly-opened books. It wasn’t fast cars and concerts. It so was not like music videos. Ah, but that didn’t matter now.

The dull light flashed again in my eyes and this time the reed rained uninterrupted. I was trying to summon up a patco to cover the pain. What had I done? Wave followed by wave. Now each memory was a packet of pain delivered in doses for elephants. The fatal change of lanes had put me directly in the path of a speeding tanker. The jackknifing tank landed on Wahu’s car. I watched the fireball even though my fate was instant.

There is no telling how long my clumsy tricks will give me brief relief. How long? When time no longer matters, it no longer matters how much of it has passed. These empty hoaxes are just fragments of a failing reverie whose unfailing cargo is grief. It makes no sense the light, the dark, the infernal smell. I just wait.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

THOUGHTS

2005-06-08T13:28:00.000+03:00
WHY I CAN ONLY CRY

Why shouldn’t I cry????

In this Darkness, how does one find what is true?
What is expected, which way to go?
Isn’t it sad that we all believe in something powerful pure and good
Yet we just watch as we Kill and maim and children starve
Can’t we find a way of relief, to end the pain, the torture and cause laughter?
To brighten the days and put smiles on those faces

At birth brightness- pure and love are all around;
Then it comes slowly year after year
As we grow older it swallows up the joy of living;
This darkness brings with it the despair of all our unfulfilled dreams.
It should matter not where one was born;
What religion one is taught?
Deep down we all know that a laugh is a laugh,
Pain is pain for all the worlds’ races.

HE watches over us,
Allowing us daily to confuse ourselves with our free will
Whilst others in Churches, Mosques and other places holy
Follow teachings that relate to those long gone;
Writings that are interpreted in many a differing way
Fanatics from each group; force others to sing praises.

Others will kidnap and execute;
Blow up buildings; kill the innocent- all in HIS name.
They all profess doing it for HIM and for that a reservation is theirs in heaven.
We glorify those that do these evil deeds;
Showering them with attention- nightly on television these scenes are hurled at us.
Yet there are pockets of good;
Caged all over the world like clearings in a jungle-
Shouldn’t it be evil and not good that we keep in these cages?

Surely there has to be some reason why the light dims and leaves us only with fear;
The Maker surely must have a grand plan to bring back the light; the fun
They tell us to have faith
That His ways are mysterious
But still; The Grim Reapers he waits - hiding in shadows,
His weapon ready and sharp
Laughing as he paces.

Why, tell me, why shouldn’t I cry?
Lucas N. Ndolo 2004
THE SUNSET AND THE SONG

Amber with a golden hue, that moment that transfixes my feelings
Weaving memories with senses; entwining the past and the present
Moving my mind into that realm where I can stargaze in the day….
Where harsh sounds are softened and the breeze is filled with scent…
The scent of flowers remembered and tunes of sweet songs long forgotten.

Suddenly I am elated; for another verse has come to mind
Snippets of lyrics are laced with snapshots of places and people I vaguely recall.
With a heavy heart and a broken song that repeats itself I watch the sun
Sinking ever so slowly as if in slow motion waiting for someone to press pause…

Though I’m sad; singing the new lyrics lifts my spirits today
Foolishly I long for this moment to last a while longer and I want to run….
To chase after the sun, knowing very well that the horizon will win like it did yesterday.
I wonder whether tomorrow will bring forth these very same feelings

Was that the chorus I wonder as the sun winks and darkness starts to creep in from
Behind the horizon; or was another song trapped in the memories of yesteryear?

L.N. Ndolo 2004

THE AUDIENCE OF ONE

Well used is the road that I walk;
For all humanity walks it.
The paths branching from the road are many
The forest keeps moving quickly;
Slowing down for no one.
I live with the choices that I make;
The audience of one nods…

The forest that is life jogs past me on either side,
I am awed by the splendour of the things that I see.
The future I see rushing towards me,
Bringing forth new species.
Like each tree and each plant the experiences are varied.
Some of these will make me weep,
Some will make me rejoice
The audience of one claps…

The birds and animals play the score
As directed by an invisible conductor
Who also plants the trees,
Sweetens the fruits and ensures that all is in harmony
He puts you on the path at youth
Watches as you fumble through the forest;
Hurting yourself occasionally and
Many a time taking the wrong path.
The audience of one sympathizes……

The forest is slowing down now
The paths branching off the road are fewer
Choices are fewer and clearer;
There is very little that is new under the sun
As it sets a bright light appears at the distance
I wonder what lies at the end.
Only the conductor knows what is coming.
The audience of one smiles……..

Most of us can only guess what awaits us
While others use the road proclaiming faith
For others destiny and fate is what they believe in
The movie of life draws to a closeThe audience of one sighs………..
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>

EVERYDAY BLUES

2005-06-08T12:38:00.000+03:00
In the dark hollow room that forms his entire residence, a ray of morning pierced the flimsy curtains hanging from nails on either end of the window. Though the view was not breathtaking at all, one could see far and wide almost to the mountains that labouringly held up the sky. The visual sense of distance and emptiness had somehow rubbed off on him. He felt the same feeling, each morning, each month of the past year. Days ticked away and the line between day and night became blurred. His tired sleepy eyes squinted in their sockets as they tried to adjust to the brightness. He coughed himself awake. Each cough producing that all too familiar ache in his chest. Bringing forth that revolting dark yellow stained phlegm from his lungs. Looking at the window he wondered whether he would have the courage today.

As Junto lay on his threadbare mattress he reached under his bed trying to find that overstocked ashtray that contained the four packs of cigarettes he had bought yesterday. His fingers finding shoes, empty cigarette packets, and socks; collections of dirty unwanted items hidden away for no particular reason. When he eventually found the ashtray he carefully sieved through the eighty odd butts in the tray looking for the few that he hadn’t smoked to the filter. With his shaking hands he struggled to light one of them, his body crying out with the craving for nicotine. He took a deep drag and let the warm smoke fill his waiting lungs. He was awake, hungry and still sleepy.

The room was sparsely furnished. A dining seat was his bedside table. The clothes he had removed to go to bed were draped on it. On the table in the middle of the room lay old newspapers, another filled ashtray and a couple of bottles of beer in different stages of emptiness. A bottle of Vodka completed the picture of the mess. The bed he had slept in was also unkempt; there were two sheets and a duvet on it. It looked like it hadn’t been made in weeks although it was actually months. There was a stack of dirty sheets and other laundry at one corner of the room patiently waiting for that cleaning lady to come as she did every Friday. Junto wondered to himself whether it was Sunday or Thursday.

The television at the foot of the bed continued its monologue of world news. It was as tired as he was and if it could talk it would have pleaded to be switched off for a couple of hours. The only time it was ever off was during those frequent power failures that Africa appears to have more than its normal share of. He watched it for a few seconds and concluded that there was nothing new. There were several items that the producers of SKY NEWS thought would attract the attention of the bored English public. The closing down of a coal mine will mean 500 people lose their jobs. The healthcare system was inefficient because it takes an average of 8 weeks to schedule a free operation. The hunting ban is dividing the English.

Hearing about the coalminers losing their jobs catalyzed Junto’s mind to remember what he desperately wanted to forget. Fourteen months ago and the day seemed like yesterday. With nostalgia he remembered his home in the leafy Lavington area. The thought of those tree lined roads brought back tearless agony. Junto wished he could cry but he knew over the months there was nothing left to cry. Junto closed his eyes and saw his 2 litre midnight black VW Passat parked in the drive and Giselle’s yellow Honda neatly tucked away in the garage. The single story white Hacienda style house nestled in a thicket of old trees and shrubs. It had taken them sleepless nights designing and redesigning until it eventually stood majestically over all the other properties in the neighbourhood. The years of building had been hard, but they both worked hard and saved what they could, putting every last shilling into bags of cement and twisted steel bars. Bringing up the children had posed additional challenges and seeing them all grown up should have been his pride and joy.

He heaved his heavy tired body out of bed and sat up yawned and made his way to the sink at the far corner. He turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water. It felt so refreshing he did it once more. As he raised his face over the sink and used the hand towel to dry his face he looked at the reflection staring back at him. His breath was foul; it smelt of stale beer and cigarettes. The tube of toothpaste had been empty for three days now and he reminded himself to buy one at the kiosk downstairs. Subconsciously he knew he would only remember tomorrow morning when he washed his face again. The vodka on the table would come handy once again. His eyes had dark circles around them dark enough to see even though his complexion was dark. His balding head looked big because of the way his ears stuck out… his hair or what was left of it had patches of grey scattered untidily. And to think that he had always wanted to age gracefully!!!

Junto looked round his single room; though he was past feeling sorry for himself, it was pathetic to live like this. He stumbled towards the window hoping to get recharged by the sunshine that was wrestling with his imitation of a curtain. As he passed the table he reached for the bottle of Smirnoff and took a quick swig. He swirled the alcohol in his mouth and swallowed. He took another gulp and as he opened the window and let in the cool morning breeze into the room. The mixture of smoke and smells quickly drifted out the room as if escaping from a prison. The flats across the road were awakening. Babies were crying children running to play outside and their parents yelling words of caution after them. There were flats to the left, to the right- beneath him flats and flats all over. Living up here above everyone else made Junto feel safe. He was away from those awkward sideways glances that almost everyone threw in his direction. He was famous… He was not sure that that was the right word because it sounded like a good thing and his situation was far from good.

His boys Moses and Joseph were 14 and 16 now. He was sure they hadn’t forgotten their father even though they felt the shame.. the shame of being taunted in school day in and day out about their father. They were nearly grown men now, soon they would be able to judge him and decide whether what he had done was really all that bad. They would soon have their families and may get the same choices he did… would they behave any differently?

Hopes and dreams dashed because of a friend; a person he would have entrusted his life with. Junto sneered as he remembered that fateful Monday morning.
<< # Kenyan Blogs ? >>