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
Friday
Joyous Solitude
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.
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.
Tuesday
Them and My Life
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.
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.
Monday
Kwani03- PART TWO of THREE
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.
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.
Friday
Kwani? An explosion of Kenyan Works
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.
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.
Wednesday
I feel like crap and recall crap-days from the past
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.
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.
Tuesday
WHY LEMONS?
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.
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.
Monday
OF TERRORISTS AND LEADERS
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.
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.
Thursday
Photos
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
http://lndolo.photosite.com/Album1/
yours most densely,
Kenyankukekamba
Music Time Warp
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
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
Tuesday
HAVE HOPE.... NEVER GIVE UP
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
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
Friday
Thursday
The Stain of Loving
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.
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.
Wednesday
Between Cliff and Truck
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.
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???
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???
Monday
Wednesday
Limbo
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.
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.
THOUGHTS
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………..
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………..
EVERYDAY BLUES
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.
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.
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