Announcement

Bring on the trumpets, release the birds, unleash the painted elephants, bring forth the one thousand dancing girls for we have moved virtual spaces. And by we I mean I. I've stabbed blogspot in the back and defected to wordpress. I've been told wordpress is a much better platform for serious writers. And I'm trying to be a serious writer. So, viola. However, I'm not really enjoying wordpress that much. You know, having a scarily simplistic mind and all. So I may just move back. That's if blogspot will have me back. These kind of relationships are tricky.

Anyway, for now I'm at this address - http://justshamit.wordpress.com/

Do visit and let me know if you prefer that to this. Thanks.

Blood and bullets. Bread and butter.

It’s sad to think that we live in a world where there are men whose only problem is dealing with a morning erection and a bladder full of fermenting piss and women whose only problem is the cold throne of a morning toilet seat.

On Sunday night we had an attempted break in at my house. At 1am, I hear scrambling on the roof of the house and, with an old Maasai knife in hand, I cautiously explored a little bit. The sounds wouldn’t stop like they usually do when there are rats running around in the ceiling and the thuds were pretty heavy. So I straight away called my neighbour to check out the house from the vantage point of his second floor bedroom which overlooks our roof. Ten minutes later I get a call back saying that he couldn’t see anyone on the roof but not to go outside because another neighbour had seen two people at the gate and he said they were fooling around with the lock and trying to get in.

It’s about then that my Maasai knife starts to look pretty obsolete in my hand. I mean, it’s not like I’m a ninja. Neither can I dodge bullets Matrix-style if the situation came to shots being fired. And despite popular belief, I’m not actually capable of bouncing bullets off my chest. I know, I’m sorry to break your preconceptions of my immortality and ruin the image of my perfection in your minds. The best I could probably do is run away wailing and screaming and find a nice, sturdy table to hide under. Forever. Anyway, the point is, if they had guns then God and the Devil would probably be fiercely arguing right about now on who gets to keep my soul and torture it for all eternity. Because I’m popular like that.

So my friend calls the cops and he’s pretty influential with the cops who foot patrol our area which means they were surprisingly quick in their arrival. Quick is a relative term. The African “quick” means “painfully, snail-fully, anger inducingly slow” anywhere else in the world. Upon their arrival, they assume control of the situation. Not that there was a situation to control anymore seeing as the thieves had run away by now, probably because they sensed the latent superhuman in me slowly surfacing. And when I say assume control, I mean that they say “let’s sit in the car and patrol the area”. So we did. They came without a car, inevitably, so we took my neighbours car around the area. It’s about 3am now and every time the cops see some people walking on the street they say it’s the thieves. Which is ridiculous. Anyway, we didn’t find anyone so we went back home to sleep the sleep of the uneasy. Every sound after that was accentuated by paranoia.

I started thinking about things after that. I was angry. My mind was boiling with brain bubbles of red rage telling me how dare these thieves try break into our house? Who do they think they are to walk in here and try taking the things that don’t belong to them and put our lives in danger? Then as the rage cooled and whats-as-close-to-my-level-headedness prevailed, I started seeing things in a different light. Perhaps these thugs were left with no choice in life but to rob people to put food on the table for their hungry kids. Maybe they once used to be honest, hardworking and honourable men who were put in the worst of situations. Maybe their world was torn apart in 2008. Maybe they’d lost everything. Maybe they’d tried to find employment but were thwarted at every effort because of their ethnicity, political alliances, lack of education or other factors such as these. Maybe they’d run small businesses which were targeted by corrupt government officials for bribes. Maybe they’d had enough of always being the victim. You must realize, I don’t condone their actions but what would you do if you had starving kids at home and had tried every honest way to feed them?

The state of things in this country is something we must look at under the magnifying glass of liberalism. A layer of understanding must be added to our minds so that we can filter the things we see and experience through it otherwise we become this writhing bacterial infection of callous humanity that spreads hate and intolerance.

The state of things in this country, as I’ve said before, all break down to how ineffectively it’s being led. We have politicians who are in the lucrative business of making thieves of us all. We rob each other to pay the government the bribes, high taxes and all the other excess that comes with living in Kenya. If our very leaders are thieves then that philosophy is definitely going to soak into the people they lead. And if our leaders will not help the people that need help in favour of stuffing their pockets then what hope do we have?

African governments deal their people blood and bullets instead of bread and butter. It remains that politics is the scar on the beautiful face of Africa.

To the thieves out there, yes you tried to rob me and we’ll clash, probably violently, if you try again. You tried to rob me but I understand why. And I’m working for you. I’m trying to change shit for you. I know that doesn’t help you in your current predicament but what else can I say but that I’m trying.

Maxi-Dash 2011: Caught between a rock and a steering wheel

The hills in nature are pretty perfect aren’t they? I mean they’re perfect for both sexes as well. Cosmic gender equality and all that. Think about it. Men like curves and contours. Women like big phallic looking bulges. And some men like big phallic looking bulges while some women like curves and contours. So it works out either way. Now, let’s break it down further. Climbers, they’re the thorny adventurers who want to get their sweaty palms all over these curvy contours and phallic bulges of earth. Passionately grunting, twisting and thrusting against walls, you could even go as far as to say they live to mount these passive structures.

Anyway, enough with the pseudo sexual imagery and analogies.

It was 7pm on Friday evening and I’d just finished football training when I get a tweet saying “How would you like to witness and write about the only climbing competition of its kind in the world?”

Booyaa! Natural excitement and adrenaline is sometimes better than stunning yourself with an electrical charge for kicks. Sometimes. It's all relative to the voltage.

“Can you be ready by 8pm?”

An hour later, we’re in a 4x4, packed with climbing gear, a few bits of food and a few nerve-soothing beers chilling in the cooler, cutting through a strangely, starless night into the veiny backroads of The Great Rift Valley towards the industrious little town of Naivasha.

Ladies and gentlemen, the name of the game is the Maxi-Dash. Here’s the simplified version of how you play. Open number of teams in competition. Two members per team. Five crags in the surrounding area of Nairobi: N’deiya, Hell’s Gate National Park, Frog, Lukenya and Embaribal. Each crag has allocated routes that you have to climb, dust yourself down then drive as fast as legally imposed speed limits allow, to the next site which could be more than a hundred kilometres away. Each climb is awarded a predetermined number of points. Goal of the game? Climb as many routes as you can physically climb within the twelve and a half hour time limit with the intention of beating the rest of the teams.

Chalky fingers, strained. Tired muscles, tensed. Stinging sweat, dripping. Breath, heavy. Mind, as alert as it’ll ever be. It takes a strong body to endure the physical strain and climb multiple rock faces in the space of twelve hours. It takes an even stronger mindset to dull out the pain and maintain focus. Considering that the winners usually win nothing but bragging rights for a year, it’s all done out of passion and pride which shows you that even in this day and age, not everything is about monetary gain. These are individuals who place themselves in intense situations and put pressure on themselves to succeed and I’d think that that philosophy trickles into their day to day lives as well. The duality of their lives as businessmen and women by weekdays and climbers and adventurers by weekends seamlessly merges into one when they’re on the rock negotiating their way up or down with carefully calculated precision.

The team I tagged along with, Nikunj and Ekya, are both experienced climbers. Calm and collected individuals who never let the frustration of the climb get to them. They’ve been in the scene for a long time and know their way around the country and the crags. However, this time they hadn’t trained at all and the self imposed set limit of one drink turned into a couple more the night before the climbing day as interesting conversation unfurled about their experiences and expectations of the event and their philosophies on life. There was much wisdom in their words, not so much in our actions as we sat up late into the night. So after just two and a half hours, we all woke up groggy from the hazy fog of warm sleep and made our way to Hell’s Gate. Lungs filled with morning air, bottles filled with cold water, they begun their climbs at Fischer’s Tower scaling it thrice and making it look easy. I watched. And learned. And captured the souls of the moments with a camera. That would become the order of the day; they’d climb, we’d drive to the next place and I’d take pictures trying to document this fascinating journey. By the end of the day, we’d traversed across sundried and rain-speckled, rough and smooth terrain encountering dying trucks on the escarpment, small thorn fences made by the Maasai, avoiding strict old Maasai elders, lazy cows sitting in the middle of rough roads and witnessing spectacular panoramas. We’d travelled all the way from Hell’s Gate in Naivasha to Frog at the cliffs in the shadow of the Ngong hills to the sleeping stone-beast of Lukenya.

The day ended as they came down from their last climb in the relative darkness of the evening, exhausted from the day’s excursions but buzzing with the anticipation of possible victory and the thrill of having competed. A celebratory beer was drank under the stars as the Lukenya cliffside became all the more ominous silhouetted against the light pollution of a far away Nairobi. From our vantage point, the traffic on Mombasa road sounded like the rapturous applause of a large unseen crowd.

The team, fuelled only by water, chocolates, bananas and crisps the whole day, impressively completed a total of thirteen climbs but unfortunately came in second place. The following is how the points table lined up in the end:

Tobin’s team – 295 points
Nikunj’s team – 290 points
Geraldine’s team – 275 points
Spencer’s team – 200 points

The Maxi-Dash is the only event of its kind in the world and is organized by the Mountain Club of Kenya. For more information do visit their website at http://www.mck.or.ke/ and while you’re at it clicking links, click on this one too: http://www.africapoint.com/savemountkenya.php

A lot of people don’t know about the existence of the Mountain Club which is a shame. Over the past few weeks, I’ve gone on a number of trips with the people I met through this organization. We’re lucky to live in a country with vast mountain ranges, rapid rivers, lush green forests, lakes that make you thirsty just by looking at them, hike and bike trails and flora and fauna fit for a paradise.

The Mountain Club of Kenya is the vehicle to experience this beautiful country through. Don’t miss out on the ride. Because nature is the best teacher, she’ll teach you things you’ll never learn until you get down and dirty. And we all know the wisdom of older women. There I go with the pseudo sexual remarks again.

I’ll leave now.

Click here for pictures of the Maxi-Dash.

The Pavement Psychopath

Greetings Tovarishch,

I am Borris. I am residing inside Shamit’s mind. There are a lot of peoples here and I need to get out sometimes. So here I am. I write.

Comrade Shamit has come back to his homeland of Kenya. This not goot for me. I have very little patience and getting angry all the time. I give you example. Ve vere in town other day and ve valk on the sidevalk and I realize people move very slow. People moving so slow I vant to kick them in their buttocks to get out of my vay. In Soviet Russia, ve vud beat people vith bat until they learn their lesson and valk qvickly.

Oh, shut up Boris, you big brute. It’s me again. Sham, the dominant personality in my head. Most of the time. Apologies, they get out every now and then, the voices in my head. The Russian is annoying but he does have a point doesn’t he? So let’s see, now that he’s made me aware of it, I’m sure I can write something about it.

There are many, many things that irritate me. Many things. I could make a list as long as my arm, leg and other parts of my anatomy about these things. But I won't. One of the main ones is people walking slowly or people walking into me which both happen on a daily basis unless I’m in the hills somewhere. Nairobi city centre, it seems, is a town full of lonely people who want some sort of physical intimacy even if it’s as brief as a male virgins first time. It’s so strange the way bodies are rubbed, who knows whether innocently or not, on each other. Especially in matatus. I wonder, is it the lack of physical human contact that urges people to go out to complete strangers and rub their asses across one’s shoulders? I mean, I’d never rub my ass on someone’s shoulder. Because, you know, I’m polite and all.

Its funny then isn’t it? How Kenyans are about speed on the roads but very slow on the sidewalks.

Another amazing thing is how Kenyan pedestrians have eyes on the backs of their heads for a full circular range of visibility. This I can attest to for one reason that has happened to me a number of times. I’m walking along, trying to build momentum through the frictional fires of human bodies and inevitably I come to a close standstill behind a fat mama or two. I swerve to the right, and just like magic, they take two steps to the right. I drastically swerve to the left, and just like witchcraft, they take two steps to the left. Now, here I am, sweating from the excursion, seething with little fires of anger as the red mist descends. Here I am, interlocked in this furious dance for prime position on the pavement with two old, fat ladies who, on the surface, seem oblivious to my plight. But they know. I know they know. And I know that they know that I know they know. And that perverse pleasure of my pain makes them cackle like broomstick witches.

Another thing that really grinds my gears is how people in matatus wait until the last possible moment before they remove the money from their wallets, pockets or purses to pay the conductor with. Before I walk into a matatu, I always make sure I have the money in my hand. That way, I don’t have to go fishing for it in my pocket in a cramped ride. But here are these people. They enter the matatu, banging your head with a breast here or an ass cheek there. They sit down, get comfortable between people and then just wait. When the conductor finally asks them for their fare, they create irritating disruptions in seated order. Violent hands thrust into pockets and purses, blind fingers fishing for coin and paper. They lean onto me, sweat stinking of what has to be at least seven showerless days and breath smelling of the rotting carcases of animals that were made extinct in their mouths. All this would be avoided if only people had even the smallest bit of foresight and just prepared their fares a minute in advance.

One more thing before my lunch break is over and I have to get back to writing dull forms. Again, in matatus. What the hell is the hurry? You’re sitting in the back seat, I’m in the middle seat and I try getting out and you rush past me like the devils on your tail. Are those three seconds really that important to you? You’re the same person who’s going to get out of the matatu so quickly just to get on the street and walk like a slumping, rohypnol swallowing sloth.

So I smile. Because the alternative would be murder. And murder is bad. Or so I’ve heard. And restrain is good.

Until the rubber band snaps.

The Hills of Chyulu

You’d think climbing a hill is easy wouldn’t you. Well then try to climb a Chyulu hill or two, would you. You’d think climbing a hill is just putting one foot in front of the other. Right. Left. Right? Wrong!

At 7am on Easter Friday, I found myself going to Chyulu hills in a car with total strangers. At 6pm on Easter Monday, I was back home having had a trip that will add a lot of colourful fuel to the fires of good memory.

So, three Germans, a Japanese and three Kenyans walk into the hills. Here’s the summarized version of what followed. Young, volcanic hills were seen, beer was drank, a makeshift grill was made of wire and wood, meat was cooked, potatoes were roasted, large caverns of the great lava tubes were explored in the unique and distinct darkness of the underground, bats were seen, rocks were collected from the deep, a hill was climbed, clouds were breathed in, rain dropped, rainbows lazily arched across the plains, night fell with the temperature, the moon rose with the sounds of animals, shooting stars were fired in the range of the milky way, wood was burned, day broke, a hill was climbed to catch the golden sun-drops in the cups of our camera eyes, an army of red ants attacked our camp in our absence, Kilimanjaro was spotted through the clouds, a small forested area was explored, another hill was climbed hacking our way through shoulder length grass with pangas, snakes were seen slithering, a buffalo emerged from the base of the forest line snorting in anger and fear, down we went, more beer was drunk, cheese, eggs, potatoes and zucchinis were chopped, fried and eaten, stories were told, philosophy was discussed, life was shared in silent moments under the jestful, winking stars. Then, when all the headlamps were off and that beautiful night silence snuck into my ears, I stood by my tent and saw the orange vein of Mombasa road sliding its way through the black skin of the Kenyan night. Morning came again, we ate, packed, left. Then all too soon, just like a good movie, the trip was over and the buildings of Nairobi replaced the hills of Chyulu.

In the air of the tall, silent places of the world, you feel the secrets of timeless nature resonating slowly. If you listen closely, you can hear and feel the old stories through the ambient songs that nature plays with the instrument of the earth. The cackle of a dry branch, the romantic whispers of the morning winds, the colours of the burning sky at dawn and dusk, the moistness of the heavy clouds shepherded in by light winds, the dancing trees, the shimmering of the shy stars. Being out in nature, there’s times you see something so simply beautiful and become overwhelmed within that instant. It’s strangely reminiscent to that moment when you realize that you’re in love. The excess, hardened emotions rusted around your heart melt away and you drop the heavy weapons of satire, sarcasm and social etiquette and blend into the serenity of natural intention.

The light of wondrous quixoticism is ignited and in those brittle moments, for me, all that's missing is someone special to stare at the shadows with.

We know very little about the world we live in. A lot of people say that I’m selfish for wanting to explore all the time. However, there is a simple justification to my travels. Henry David Thoreau once said

“How vain it is to sit down and write when you have not stood up to live.”

As a little bit of a writer and a little bit of an adventurer, I cannot place enough emphasis on how much wisdom these simple words possess probably because I don’t possess the simple words through which to place emphasis with.

Life is for living and giving. But you cannot give wisdom you don’t have and you cannot teach what you have not learned. So I say get up out of your little bubbles of ego and comfort. You can always make that comfortable butt print on your favourite chair again. I say walk through the valleys of nature and swim through the old memories of the earth. Become the geomancer. The prison of the office will forever bind you by the leash of the tie only if you let it.

We all have our free will. Use yours to be free.

You can check out the pictures on my facebook page. If you want. No one's holding a gun to your head. Yet.

Biashara and the Beast

If you’re not rich and connected like a spider web, starting up a business in Kenya is like shooting someone in the face at close range with a high powered shotgun and then meticulously going looking for answers in the red and grey biology of their mushy minds with a pair of rusty, inept tweezers when just asking the right question would have sufficed.

It’s a lot of unnecessary work leading to very little progress.

One of the biggest problems we have is when an arrogant person is put in a position of even the smallest authority (which happens quite a lot) and they, undeniably, look to make life difficult for you. And even if you know that the questions they’re asking and the procedures they’re making you follow are as unnecessary as a goldfish bowl without a goldfish, you can’t really do anything about it because you need a signature or an approval or some mundane little task carried out. It’s that dependence that becomes the magnifying glass to your metaphorical ant and boy oh boy do they want to burn you alive. And if you show any attitude whatsoever, you know you’ve pretty much got as much chance of escaping as you would have if you were left naked in the seventh circle of hell with a horny devil eyeing you with the perverse intentions of an involuntarily celibate rabbit in heat.

Progressive business is mummified in the red tape of bureaucracy.

Then come those three words said with all the affection of a cat with a dysfunctional catheter shoved up its urethra. No, not "I love you" but that famous line uttered by the greedy goblins of business, “Toa kitu kidogo” The amount of chai you’re asked for, you’d be sure they think you own a large tea plantation somewhere. Which wouldn’t be too off. Considering they had a fifty fifty percent chance in thinking that you owned one. Which you probably don’t. So they are a hundred percent wrong in the fifty percent chance they took. So eventually you’ve got to give it to them for the math and for trying. And by it I mean the money.

Corruption is no light matter. Especially when you don’t have heavy pockets. A lot of people in businesses I’ve witnessed pay people off. Whether it’s to pay the cops to stop harassing your business and customers, whether it’s to get certain permits approved or whether it’s to bring shipments of goods into the country faster than they should be.

Corruption is the messy lubrication of modern day business.

The worst thing is in some cases it’s totally unavoidable. If a policeman comes to your workplace and asks for a bribe and you don’t pay him and he takes you to jail for some false accusation and you spend a week in court sorting things out, who is going to run the business that puts the food on your family’s table? What do you do in such a situation? Pay the bribe? Record the policeman's actions with a secret camera? Go to jail and form a syndicate of experienced law breakers and challenge the broken system?

The Beast luxuriously sits back in its lair and licks it's private parts with delight as we work our collective asses off. It knows the problem exists perhaps because it’s championed the motion of corruption in business. We have campaigns that say “Corruption is Evil” and such but it’s almost laughable when members that make up The Beast sit back and watch all this happen almost as if they’re getting some sadistic pleasure out of the suffering of individuals such as myself who are trying to start up small, creative businesses.

To all those entrepreneurs who have successfully started up their businesses and are doing well despite all the odds that are thrown at you in the amphitheatre of Kenyan Business, kudos. Inspiration lies in your perseverance.

Soft moments

In the swirl of thoughts such as these, she walked into his life. That first time he saw her, the seconds seemed elastic, thick and elastic, almost stretching out. Silence awoke in that extended moment bringing with it a clarity he had never felt before. The first thing he noticed about her was her smile, which was strange because he knew that men usually notice the woman’s body first. A cliché, but her smile filled him with warmth, seemingly evaporating every problem he had ever had, another cliché. Her smile was a set of perfect white teeth enveloped by the soft crescents of thick, kissable oyster pink lips slightly curving into the fleshy mounds of her round cheeks. That was all her smile was, teeth and lips and cheeks. And yet, such a captivating sight. Such was her aura, so elegant that in her presence he could not help but smile, paying her the perfect compliment of wanting to make himself better.

Her hair was still wet from the rain outside, the deep black strands of straightened hair matted to her face ending in playful little curls just below her petit shoulders. Her face, in the glistening frame of wet hair was a picture of perfection. Her eyes were hazel brown and spacey, smiling in an innocent wonder, lightly watching everything around her.

Wearing a small sky blue jacket with a sunflower yellow top poking out slightly from under it, she looked like a fresh sunrise landscape. A stark contrast to the world raging outside. Her denim jeans grabbed her thighs so tight they made every man in the place look at her twice, much to the disgust of the wives and girlfriends by their sides. Her belt with its large shiny buckle, just a showpiece, not earning its keep whatsoever.

Women like her, he thought, never paid any attention to men like him. He was a jagged rock to her carved diamond. He was a shadow in the night time. Then when she walked past, the elastic second snapped and everything went back to real time. The red tapestries lazily hung, the rain drops busily rolled, the wallpaper of bottles brightly gleamed, the stereo softly sung, the coffee machine pitifully squealed, the waitress falsely smiled.

And outside, the thunder clapped, applauding all of our glimmering insignificance.

#NairobiTweetup3

There are three things that I promised myself I would do when I got back to Kenya. The first was to make an effort to meet more people. The second was to pursue adventure in the great outdoors in this beautiful country of ours. The third, I cannot disclose here or now. We all have our little skeletonised secrets and I’ll keep mine for quiet company.

Anyway, I heard about the #NairobiTweetup about a month back and I couldn’t attend it due to climbing, crawling, and dying up Mount Kenya at the time. Then I heard about this one and decided to jump in. After all, it was a chance to meet new people and see things from a different perspective. I genuinely believe that networking is not only healthy for business but for individuals to grow as people as well. As a race, we can learn so much from one another if only we give ourselves the chance to open up and talk. I see the world very differently from how you may see it. Your world could be completely different. And I’d like to see it.

Anyway, back to the tweetup.

Mercury bar and lounge at ABC Place was the venue. I love that place, hate the prices. Starting at 3pm, it started at about 4pm. Usual timing here in Kenya. We’re all used to it. So I got there with a mild hangover from the night before and when it did get going, it was wonderful. The ambiance, the smiling faces of the pretty ladies, the friendliness of the entire group, the cold beer, the laid back aura, it was fantastic. We all introduced ourselves with our name, twitter handle and what we do and then the speakers were in the spotlight.

I’ve met Ahmed a couple of times to talk about a possible business venture and every time he comes up with new ideas. Even if we don’t go into business together I’m sure we’ll end up collaborating on a project sometime in the future. Ahmed reminds me of those cowboys in the old westerns. His gun would be his mouth and his ideas would be his brain bullets. He’s got enough charisma to carry a crowd. The thing with him is he’s not only a concept man, he actually puts things into practice and that’s a quality I believe is lacking in a lot of people. Ahmed spoke about his T-shirt business FluidTees and how it was born a little less than a year ago. He spoke about how it’s evolved through social media and how people can use these mediums to grow their businesses.

Next was Kirsty. Kirsty was wonderful to meet. She exudes passion for what she does. You can see it surrounding her. She’s a genuine soul who wants to help change the lives of thousands and she’s doing so through Vision Africa. Kirsty gave us stories about the children that the charity helps and how the kids are creative, clever and keen to learn. If she was nervous about giving the speech (which her blog says she was) then she did not show it at all. She spoke with the articulate power that passion lends to those with vision and hope. She and the Vision Africa website can say what they do better than I can so make sure you visit it at http://www.vision-africa.org/ and follow her on twitter @VisionAfrica for more information. Hopefully we're going to collaborate on setting up a football match with the kids so if anyone wants to jump in on that then do feel free.

The two speakers left us all with thoughts about growth, change and aid resonating in our minds. I learned a lot from just listening to them. I learned that there are many people out there willing to change this world we live in. I learned that there are individuals who sacrifice all the superficial little crap that builds up around our lives just to help other people and that has stayed with me. I learned that through passion and persistence, you can achieve your goals. Being the pessimist I am, I learned that there’s hope for humanity yet. The power of words is ours to harness. We must use it wisely.

The old cliché of every little helps comes to mind here so do your part, no matter how small it is. Or else I’ll hunt you down and probably cut you a little.

Rambo Bambo, Boom Boom

So, you’re going to laugh, and I’m going to hunt you down and kill you slowly, but up until the age of thirteen, I used to wish for magic powers every night before falling asleep. No, I didn’t check for a monster under the bed as well. That stopped when I was ten. Anyway, so it’s safe to say that I was quite obsessed with anything magical. I would even go as far as to say that I used to idolize that “Rambo bambo, boom boom” magician on KBC who would dazzle us with his little, colourful tricks and stories. I was amazed that someone could pull a pigeon out of a hat or make coins disappear. Imagine, whole coins, just gone!

Time passed and I grew older and less idealistic about the possibility of real magic actually existing. So I started reading about the application of practical magic. I read about the greats like Harry Houdini and Robert Houdin and a lot more. Before long, I started teaching myself small tricks with a crap little DIY Magic kit I had got as a present from some kind soul that took pity on my mislead ambitions.

Then I learned the word misdirection.

Every magician in the world trades with the currency of misdirection. A charismatic smile here, a grand gesture there and voila! A tiger appears as if from nowhere! Misdirection is all about controlling what the people see. It’s about distracting our goldfish focus from one thing to another without any real effort being made. The smooth transition of mind manipulation.

Now, every country needs its own circus. Ours comes in the form of our Parliament. And every circus needs its magic acts. Ours come in the form of Ministers of Parliament. Our politicians excel at their jobs as magicians. A wave of a hand and a thousand people die. A snap of a finger there and a hundred thousand people are instantly displaced. A wink of an eye and Ksh840, 000,000 vanishes without a trace. I bet the real trick was to fit all that money into one bag though but we all know certain politicians are good at packing stuff. Although they're usually rolling instead of stuffing.

Misdirection, it’s how our government works. Take a moment to think about it. The ostentatious, gold bearing, gun waving, fashionably inept Artur Brothers. The violence stemmed by the beheadings carried out by the Mungiki sect. All a way to keep the public engaged or scared while the political parties were plotting. And now the Ocampo6, merely scapegoats for politicians and distractions for the masses because they make entertaining news. The magician’s flair. The latest one being the increase in fuel price, the icing on the metaphorical shit cake they feed us.

I can just picture it now. Shadowy figures with gleaming eyes and wide brimmed smiles huddling in the dull rooms of our parliament building, while dark clouds inevitably loom around, whispering things like:

“Create a tangible problem that will affect mirrions so that they take the plessure off us.”

“But how?”

“Erementaly, my dear Wamalwa, Erementaly! We simply raise the fuel prices.”

“Ahh, then blame the problems in the Middle East?”

“Now you’re getting it. They’ll be too busy worrying about how to get home to realize what we’ve got planned.”

So we get engulfed by their magic tricks and we watch while they swindle our intelligence from under our prying noses. It’s not like we have a choice when it comes to matters such as fuel increases. Of course we’re going to worry. Raising the price of fuel has a snowball effect on the whole economy. It’s the catalyst. There was a time when magicians were considered to be the legions of Lucifer himself. And their penalty for practising magic was to be burned at the stake. I don't know about you but I say we should resurrect this ancient method. There’s no doubt that our politicians would give any other government in the world a run for their money when it comes to the art of misdirection. They’re just narcissistic thieves and liars at the end of the day stealing not only our money but also our attention.

And when your attention is stolen by the rohypnol of their perverse psychological prowess, you’re left on your back with your soft underbelly exposed and you’re vulnerable to the rape of your intelligence and wallet.

By the way, nowadays I’m used to coins disappearing. It’s just part of living with the magicians of Kenya.

Political Porn

“Up, down. Up, down, round and round. In, out. Scream and shout. Do it like they do in the movies. Yeah, talk dirty. Tell me things I want to hear. Ooh yeah, that’s it. That’s the way, keep it coming. Now let’s record it. Let’s put it on TV. Let’s print pictures. Don’t worry, no one will find out.”

I’m talking about lies and how they move in our society, you little perverts.

So there’s been a Kenyan media blackout proposed blocking out the Ocampo6 and anything related to them. Now here’s some harsh truth for you. Unfortunately, the blackout will not sell newspapers meaning that newspaper editors will have to make a moral decision and we all know where morals crawl to when it comes to money. The blackout won’t make millions tune into the terrestrial news channels in hope to catch what their favourite villains are up to today. People will sign onto the campaign but its human nature to seek controversy. It’s unfortunate but people thrive on the soap opera of politics to get away from their own lives for a while. It’s entertaining escapism. It’s what we love to hate. And in a twisted way it builds communities. People come together to hate the politicians and their inane methodologies.

We’re all guilty of perpetuating their presence in our society. If there was no demand for it then the media would simply stop covering these topics. But we all watch these walking testicles smear their lies-sperm on news. What’s more is we want to watch this catastrophe unravel because we’re all hypocrites deep down. We cannot fight our nature. We’re attracted to the troubles of other people’s lives.

It’s sadistic voyeurism.

It’s our intellectual masturbation while watching political pornography.

It’s the thrill of fighting and spitting in one corner and defending the other with bloodshed.

Personally, I think I’d rather know what the devil is doing instead of always waiting for an insidious sneak attack. Because that’s what they’ll do. I’m an advocate for the spreading of news though, not bullshit. Now some people are so stupid, when they hear about the building blocks of life, they think “LEGO” and those are the ones that are being targeted by these crafty politicians of ours. These are the people that are taken advantage of. The news should be broadcast; it’s up to the people to take what they want from it. And if the people are stupid enough to keep falling for old played out tricks then there’s absolutely no hope for a stable future.

Here’s a thought. Instead of a blackout, I propose a wipe-out. A complete overhaul of our government. We could do the generic things like march in large protest groups armed with placards. Or we could be creative and send ninjas with disease tipped shurikens to do the job. Or we could be brutal and unleash the UON warriors and Valkyries on them. Either way, we really should do something because this political porn is skull fucking our heads.

A media blackout doesn’t solve the problem. It simply ignores it. What say you?

Cloudy day thoughts

A chance meeting. Eyes lock for elastic seconds. Two subtle smiles. Talk into the wet warm nights. Months pass. Fall in lust. Listen to each other’s music collections. Travel to places made all the more exotic by each other’s company. More months pass. Fall in love. Move in. Become accustomed to each other’s idiosyncrasies. Wake up to watch each other just sleep. Eat each others cooked foods. Save money. Share money. Even more months pass. Arguments begin. Dissonance kicks in. Fights fuelled by bitter love. Say things we don’t mean to hurt hearts. Irreparable sentences. Break up. Storm out. Heartbreak. Jealousy. Then silence. Après the love storm.

Sparing with love, tongues wage wars that words can’t finish. Using the shield of romance and the sword of lust.

I tend to think that understanding the other sex is not for us humankind. Animals understand the other sex better than we ever will. The bottom line for them is procreation. Sex to produce. “I bang you, you bang out babies, we bang again.” Tosha gari.

For us, there’s so much more involved in understanding the opposite sex in a relationship. Games both sexes play with each other. Cheating, lying, break ups. Lust for others. That wandering eye. Ego. Power play over each other. Domination. Romantic notions. Complications of emotion. The ugly green monster of jealousy that resides in the dominant dark parts of the mind. Absence. Distance. Viewpoints. Little irritating qualities.

To understand love we need to have felt it first. To understand how to love, we need to let go of our inhibitions, we need to let go of our past experiences, we need to break free from our pre-programmed perceptions of what the movies, books and others tell us love is. When someone does everything for you and you’re not feeling them anymore, just tell them instead of letting them linger on in the misery of maybe.

We’ll never move forward if we sit in the comfortable depression of the past.

Just some thoughts I wrote, one cloudy day.

#Kushinda

One thing I know about Kenyans is our ability to persevere despite any odds. I’ve seen this time and again. From the creative innovation that comes from our slums in bids for people to merely survive to the dedication that is consistently shown by our runners on the world stage to the back breaking work that millions smilingly go back to day after day without complain. Perseverance, it’s in our blood. Blood that even runs through the veins of the most powerful man on the planet, the president of the United States. But for us, back here in Kenya, perseverance doesn’t always mean a good thing because we have this swarm of politicians who are just as persistent to ruin this wonderful country. And they go at that task like wild dogs humping on a full moon night.

Every morning, these politicians are probably woken up at nine by the dwarves that fan them, with feathers plucked from miserable peacocks, all night long. After detaching themselves from all their sadomasochistic paraphernalia, they probably brush their teeth with bristles made from the silky fur from the underside of the nearly extinct leopard. Then they probably shower for an hour with the freshest, cleanest water that could save thousands from dying of thirst in Northern Province. Then they probably slip into large, warm robes that were expertly crafted from the soft, supple skins of the dead children that they’ve left in their wake. Then they probably sit down at the breakfast table to a meal of epic proportions and devour everything but the table before being carried back upstairs on a large platform by four men holding up each corner like for the Persian princesses of old. Then they probably stuff their fat rolls and skin flaps into tight, fine cut suits to hide their alienesque bodies and put on their energy masks so we don’t see their true faces. Wouldn’t it be weird if Kibaki pulled off his energy mask and was really Baron Silas Greenback? Actually wait, it wouldn’t be that weird because it’s either him or Avram Grant competing for that title. Then they probably drink two shots of expensive liquor and one cup of coffee followed by two shots of expensive liquor again. Then, and only then, are they probably ready to go to what they call work and what I call the overly dramatic soap opera of their lives. Like those horny Spanish ones that come on TV. And if my calculations are correct, a politician that lives in a soap opera is probably dirtier than one that doesn’t. These politicians then sit in their office chairs, each one controlling one body part of The Beast.

Now here’s the thing though. Despite these bile-inducing politicians because let's face it, they're the bulk of our problems. Despite being either pitied or alienated by the rest of the world for being a third world country, despite disputes between ethnic tribes tearing the social fabric of this country apart, despite poverty, despite the angel of death hovering over our city, despite droughts, despite floods, despite the murderous thieves that are our police officers prowling the streets, despite disease in its worst form, despite all this we’re still, as Charlie Sheen so eloquently put it, winning. And I’ll tell you why.

Kenya has one of the best mobile phone infrastructures in the world which is an amazing achievement in itself. And when it comes to creativity and intelligence, I honestly believe that there’s more talent in our slums than in most universities around the world. And although I am not a massive advocate of these roads and flyovers that are being built, I can still understand the vision behind it and that vision, that’s what matters. The urge to be better. Our economy is growing and because of that more can be invested into helping the needy. Not through government but through private organizations. Our people are becoming restless living under this constant oppression. They’re starting to ask questions. Not enough of them, yet. There is a new Kenya being born from the grime. It’s messy and slow, yes. But the thrusts of passionate youthful revolt are helping it along.

We, the wananchi, well some of us anyway, have not been put off and that’s the most important thing. We’ve not been beaten down till we can’t get up anymore. We’re still persevering and just because of that fact, we’re still winning.

Now let's start doing something more. Let's start the #Kushinda movement. This is a call to arms for all artists, bloggers, writers, singers etc. It's time we pool together and harness our abilities to throw artistic spears at The Beast in an attempt to maim it. To weaken it. To eventually bring it down with the ropes of hope.

Let's win.

An excerpt from a short story I wrote a while ago

In the swirl of things,there exists in tempestuous times such deliberate deviousness, such merciless moments of magnificent betrayal of hope where men can do nothing but stand back and marvel at the astronomical machinations of the universe that we so trivially label as fate. In these times, I am tempted to fall victim to the existence of a higher force pulling the strings from the hollow firmaments above. In these times, the shell of our world shrivels away and crumbles around us leaving us staring fearfully into the core of the abyss that is a cold fluid realization, a realization that our actions, however extreme on the spectrum of behaviour, are indeed insignificant in the grand schemata of the swirl of things.

*******

Ever since I committed the sin of naïve youth, I have made vehement claims of my fearlessness towards death. I have learned in an undeserved, long life that those who make such claims are often those who think about and fear death the most, for you cannot be fearless of something without first acknowledging it to great extents. Now being here, breathing in my last breaths, I find that I spent too much time worrying and not enough simply living. This feeling I feel at this moment, it’s like ice rolling over sensitive teeth, that first stab of hot, intense pain followed by its thin, cold, watery fingers stretching to the very roots. This feeling, it tells me that the loneliness of my life was much more overwhelming than anything that death could bring, that death is just the pinnacle of an unlived life. I have made too many mistakes, kept too many people at a distance because of my actions. Alas, salvation seems to be the only route forward from here. They say that if you lay down your confessions on your death bed, and are truly repentant, all is forgiven and you are accepted into the ranks of heaven.

This, to me, has always seemed a childish notion beyond any reason whatsoever and still I write these words in one final attempt to redeem myself in the eyes of a higher force that may or may not exist. Although I fear no one will forgive me, I must try…I must try to save myself for you see, I am a coward and I am fearful of death in great measures. Or rather, I am fearful of the mortality that I will be relegated to if I do not lay claims to my devious doings for I would rather live on and be remembered for my villainy than die out completely.

So this is my confession, this is my golden ticket through the pearly gates of heaven. This is my bitter tasting elixir of immortality. Or, on a darker note, this is the evidence that paves my very entry to the dark, twisted shadows of hell.

CAH Unit Vs. Iron Man Ocampo

Layyyddieeesss and Genttlllemennnn,

Today’s encounter is a Six on One contest which will see the CAH (Crimes Against Humanity) Unit take on Iron Man Ocampo in the steel cage match of the ICC. To the thousands in attendance and the millions watching all over the world, ladies and gentlemen, let’s get ready to get Hagueddddd!

If the CAH Unit win then they go free but if Iron Man Ocampo wins, then they must pray not to let the soap slip out of their corrupt little paws. Now, let’s take a closer look at our contestants, shall we?

Uhuru Kenyatta aka Doobz aka Dopey aka The Red Eyed Wanderer.
Height: Very, very high
Weight class: Middleweight
Special moves: Smokes his victims out. Quite literally.

William Ruto aka The Intimidator aka Will.I.Am.R.U.To?
Height: Usually 6 something but when his head gets bigger then it’s all relative.
Weight class: Heavyweight.
Special moves: Sweet talking his way through the Rift. As deadly as a Venus fly trap. (Yes, a plant analogy, since he’s got a degree in Botany. Also makes me wonder who Uhuru’s dealer is.)

Hussein Ali aka Major Pain
Height: Unspecified. He doesn’t like to ask or answer questions. And I don’t like to get shot.
Weight class: Heavyweight
Special moves: Likes the policy of shoot first, asks questions much, much later.

Henry Kosgey aka The Resigned One aka Konfused Kosgey
Height: Taller than the hair of his moustache, but not taller than a tree in the garden of Ruto’s Botany.
Weight class: Middleweight
Special moves: Perpetual look of confusion draws his opponents/victims in then he probably kicks them in the nuts and runs away screaming.

Francis Muthaura aka The Schemer aka The Really, Really Old Guard
Height: 5 foot something
Weight class: Cruiserweight old age section
Special moves: Usually just simply outlives his opponents.

Joshua Arap Sang aka The Instigator aka Little Voice aka Handshake Break aka The Nairobi Pea
Height: Giving the Dwarves in the Mines of Moria competition for record shortness.
Weight class: Super duper cruiserweight. If it’s windy in the Netherlands, they’re going to have to put him on a string and pull him along like a kite.
Special moves: Floats like a butterfly, stings like when you pee.

And in the other corner, their opponent…

Luis Moreno Ocampo aka the Beast of Buenos Aries aka The Iron Man
Height: As tall as the scales of justice.
Weight class: Right now? As heavy as Kenya.
Special moves: Prosecuting opponents with the precision of a stealth bomber.

This Six on One showdown is a one of a kind encounter. The CAH Unit will throw everything they’ve got (probably Sang) at The Beast of Buenos Aries.

And now, a word from our sponsors. We’ll be back Sangly.

CAH Unit Vs Iron Man Ocampo, tragically sponsored by the lives of 1,300 Kenyans.

CAH Unit training and defence tactics, proudly sponsored by the donations of thousands of blind Kenyan sheep.

The Predators of Dr. Mat Atu

Boom. Bhoom. BHOOM. BHHHOOOM!

The bass line from deep jungle beats fills the air in your head. The “ee ee ooo ahh ahhh” of the generic Hollywood monkey starts to frantically screech away in the distance. Your senses are heightened. Awareness accentuated by pints of adrenaline. You’re ready for anything. Large concrete trees with metal branches and glass leaves stand tall and stretch all around you. The rustling of dry paper, the cackle of dead twigs, the howl of the banshee wind and the murmur of the wildebeest-like crowd surrounds you. Engulfs you. You can smell the lingering scent of dust, sweat and…kuku porno?

The jungle of Nairobi city centre.

The predators come alive with the early dawn. Nature, inversed. They come out in their droves with their yellow stripes making other creatures cower in tangible fear. They hunt in packs until they see their prey. Then it becomes survival of the craftiest. These predators rule the streets without empathy, without fear, probably without insurance and with one purpose only. To eat. They’re always hungry. Always looking for their next meal.

We hear the primal roar of their blaring contemporary music even before we see them. The anticipation breeds in droplets of temple sweat. The twenty shillings in your hand digs into your sweaty palm. Ostentatious designs painted on their dented hides flatter like dominant males in nature looking to court their females or fight away their adversaries. Over time they’ve evolved and they’ve developed special powers. If you look directly at them you may be hypnotized and drawn into the tractor beam of their gritty charm. And once they consume you, once you’re in their uncomfortably warm and moist bellies, you must pay and squeeze your way out. This is where that twenty shillings embedded in your palm comes in handy. Once you’re out again, you’ll want to breathe deep and suck in as much untainted oxygen as you can. I implore you, don’t. Because once they pass you, they fart out silky, black clouds of excreted exhaust fumes.

The predators, they have a symbiotic species attached to them which screamingly seduce their prey into their clutches. These symbionts are commonly known as the Makanga. They’re tiny in stature but massively industrious, street savvy creatures who swim their way around the psychology of the human mind. They have to, that’s how they ensnare their daily victims.

The predators are many. Legend has it that their brains and eyes were carelessly constructed in the depths of a dingy laboratory by a mad scientist who was obsessed with breaking the road safety rules and regulations. They say, in hushed whispers, that inspired by Dr. Frankenstein, he spent his entire life in pursuit of perfecting this predator of the streets and that this bent little old man, they called him Dr. Mat Atu, harnessed such genius and mechanical ability that his creature would rule the rough pathways of the vast jungles of Nairobi forever. No one knows where he went or if he’s even alive. Some say that his creation consumed him when he couldn’t afford to pay the fare. Others say that the hunters assassinated him and that his head hangs as a trophy in their offices.

The hunters lethargically stand with their guns. Their bellies, full of bribes, poking out of their blue uniforms. They’re always on the look out for the predators. Overlapping, rule breaking, music blaring. All the misdemeanours they look to falsely penalize. They stand in the glaring heat of the Nairobi jungle just waiting. Always waiting. Patience is the mark of a good hunter. But the predators are hardly ever caught because four wheels are better than two legs. The hunters go hungry while the predators feast. It’s that hunger that leads to corruption.

As the day turns to night, the predators scurry away into their habitats. Safety in numbers. A few of them linger around. The diseased ones. The broken down ones. The ones alienated from daytime community. The ones that would be caught too easily by the hunters during the daytime. These maimed creatures scour the streets for unsuspecting victims. They move as much as they physically can before retreating or dying out on the roads.

Then Nairobi nights become quiet. Silence ensues. You can breathe once again. The Hollywood monkey is tranquilized for some time. Or it’s too busy playing with its vitaminized faeces. The jungle beats fade into swirls of mild thought. In my head the thoughts are purple. The predators are far away and you can sleep the sleep of the safe. The jungle collapses into slumber.

Rest well because tomorrow the hunt begins again.

UoN vs. The Beast

Picture this: the cloudy sky orange from the hue of burning cars, stones and rocks crawling across roads dying out with the momentum of foolhardy throws, shop windows left in spider-webbed cracks, blood soaked pavements coated with fine layers of fresh dust kicked up by hundreds of stomping boots, the air tainted with the vicious roar of bloodthirsty anger. An untouched statue stands in the middle of it all. It’s a statue of their patron saint. It’s a statue of Kamau.

In the event of this post apocalyptic world, the University of Nairobi students would stand out like the strong warriors of anarchy that they have gained a reputation for. And if reputations are anything to go by then the University of Nairobi rioters along with the USIU valkyries would rule this desolate land with an iron fist (no perverted pun intended). And when the two unite in the physical sexperiment of their material bodies, Mammon, the spawn of Satan, shall be messily thrust out from the warm womb of perdition and his chains made of hope and love shall drop loose and he shall be unleashed upon all of our corroded creation. Earthly hell shall become his dominion and chaos shall reign supreme like it did when Kamau disappeared.

Then, from the distance, would come our law enforcement officers riding in on tired looking, three-legged donkeys. They’d come in shooting their word guns which fire ten bullshit-bullets per second. They’d fire their old tear gas canisters at the crowds but expired tear gas is just a smoke screen for violence to hide behind. Our police force, confused in the wake of doing their jobs, would then scurry back into the holes of their hideous hideouts. Ironic that they won’t be able to face small fires of community when most of them are doomed to the eternal fires of hell for all the bad they’ve perpetrated.

The Warriors and Valkyries would stand strong to fight for what they believe in. When the system that has sworn to protect them fails then it’s time to invoke the metaphysical powers of another being. And that is exactly what they’ve done. In their protest today, through their chants and fight dances and sacrifices and flames, they manifested the collective Spirit of unbridled unity. It’s just a pity that the Spirit has got the attitude of violence and the sickeningly sculpted face of misery, mischief and mayhem.

How much can we take until we push back? Does oppression justify violent retribution? When do we stand as a unit and attack opposition like the Spartan armies of old? Or are we happy in our misery? Content in our capsules?

I don’t know where I stand on the matter of the masses being affected for the benefit of a few but after analyzing the situation I feel that they have the right to do what they did. I would always fight for what I believe in and they’re doing the same. This time it’s legitimate and the only thing that’s tainting it is the reputation that they’ve got from their past exploits of propelling rocks across small distances and replicating what early man did all those hundreds of thousands of years ago by making fire anywhere they pleased.

So maybe they were right to conjure up this creature. Maybe they were right to unleash little hell on Nairobi. A message has been sent and this time it’s not in a damn bottle. Listen up Beast, something stirs in the hearts of the oppressed. Be afraid Beast, be afraid.

On a side note, the world is not for the weak anymore so eat your spinach.

The #KenyansOnTwitter Party

When you're climbing a mountain and you feel like your heart is about to explode, it's usually advisable to think of anything that can distract you from your current predicament. So that's how this topic was born. Halfway up a steep mountain, climbing in the dark, fighting dehydration and pushing away pain. It's just a little bit of fun.

So here we go. If the people I follow on Twitter were at a party in real life, this is how I think it’d go.

Firstly, the party would probably be hosted up at @WestgateMallKe. @Kenya_tweets would be checking everyone’s IDs at the front door making sure that they’re Kenyan and then registering them onto the form. There would be plenty of @coldtusker to go around (the drink, not the guy). @tis_me_pink would be the official photographer at the party giving us the world from her kooky perspective through her spectacular pictures. @cooxie02 would be the quiet, intelligent girl in the corner observing everyone and never speaking out of turn. By the end of the night, she’d probably be the life of the party.

@ahmedsalims would be coming up with a new, innovative way to unite all Kenya. And he’d be wearing a stylish @FluidTees t-shirt while doing it. @kamz26 would be drooling and chasing after @koinangejeff who in turn would be marketing “THE BENCH” and trying to get her on it. We'd hear @Wamathai deliver lashes of creative poetry throughout the night.

The three radio ladies, @PoojaKotedia, @SadiaOfficial and @Evedsouza would be streaming the music from the party straight onto the radio and keeping the audience up-to-date with exciting live commentary. Actually, the commentary would probably be fierce and scathing because they'd probably want to be at the party.

@Buggz79, @donhangani, @crazynairobian and @IamDonatelli would be the boys making everyone at the party laugh with their witty one liners and clever comebacks. They’ll probably have a battle of sorts between themselves to see who wins. The battle would probably be hosted by @Truthslinger and the winner would become a trending topic as a prize.

@theekimutai, @_Ramzzy_ and @iFortknox would be the guys delivering harsh truths to oblivious people through acerbic little lines of wisdom. They would be saying things that get people all riled up but in the end those same people know that these dudes make sense, most of the time.

@ntvkenya and @standardgroup would probably be hovering over the party taking pictures and interviews with the Twitter celebs. @timnjiru would vehemently be asking party goers if they Poken. Vehemently! @safaricom would be off sulking somewhere and apologising to the droves of complaining people and fending them off with a hockey stick.

There would be a melodious ambiance set by the musicians in the house. @zubinews would be singing beautiful songs in that one of a kind voice of hers. Then @justabandwidth would come onto stage and do their thing the way only they can. @ma3theband would then take over and see out the night led by the always bright and bubbly @msupastar.

Finally, @KenyaPower would walk in and the lights would go out.

If Armageddon happens in the next week

Off to climb a mountain.

Hoping Armageddon doesn’t befall middle earth by the time I get back down. Because, you know, that would suck. Also, then there’s only going to be a few of us left to repopulate the earth. Actually, that doesn’t sound too bad. I could remake it in my own vision. Beer for breakfast would become a staple. Cheese omelettes, meaty burgers, garlic fries, chilli chicken strips and crisps with lemon and chilli powder would be the new 5 a day. Everyone would have to get a tattoo to brand them. Anyone caught playing music by Justin Bieber would be publicly castrated with a blunt instrument. All forms of government will be turned into circus shows.

The working week will be set up as follows:

Mondays: People are lazy on a Monday morning so everyone would be expected to come into work only after 2pm and leave by 6pm.

Tuesdays: Full day Tuesday. I don't like Tuesdays and I'd like to punish people for that fact. Because I can. Or rather will be able to. Depending on the whole Armageddon thing.

Wednesdays: Employees would only have to come in for half a day on Wednesdays. 9am to 1pm. Because Wednesdays are midweek and people need their rest to go out in the evening to live, love and laugh.

Thursdays: Due to the heavy drinking on Wednesday nights, Thursday mornings would be rendered unworkable. Employees with hangovers are like condoms with holes. They leak life. So, Thursdays would be 2pm to 6pm.

Fridays: Ah Furahidays. No one would be in the right state to work a full day in anticipation of the weekend so it would be a 9am to 12pm day. Anything more than that would be torture. And I wouldn't want to do that being a benevolent dictator and all.

Weekends: NO WORK ON WEEKENDS.

This will all depend on the Armageddon thing happening whilst I'm on the mountain and me and some others having to procreate after. One problem though. Mate selection is up to the female of the species and I've not been entirely lucky in that department recently. Okay, more than recently.

So, a conundrum has been spun. I'll have to think my way through this one.

See you in a week. Or not.

Suicide by Media

So they say that dolphins are the only other creatures that have sex for pleasure. Now, I bet that there are some of you absolute freaks out there who have subsequently idly wondered what it would be like to have sex with a dolphin. I urge you, don’t. You’ll have animal rights groups coming all over you. And not in a good way. Not that I’ve tried or anything. But wait, think about it. That’s exactly what our politicians do. They hear about someone else enjoying themselves and they go and try to f**k them. Each and every time without fail. Without compromise. Without shame.

I mean, something must have broken these damn politicians. I wonder if something rattles within their skulls when they move. Perhaps it wasn’t printed “Caution: Fragile Brains” in big red letters on their packaging boxes. Or perhaps they were assembled by their just as faulty predecessors.

His story repeats history.

In the comments section of one of my articles, the question of how we can change things was posed. Now I don’t have all the answers and I’m still asking questions but here’s one of my perceptions on this matter of how we can change and what we can do. When I was studying in the UK, I witnessed, as everyone does, how the media are incredibly powerful at keeping politicians in check. One slip of the tongue, one bad decision, one excursion into eccentricity and they’re hounded like the dogs of war they are. The media is a god like entity which punishes those it deems guilty of transgression with lightning bolts of sky television and shitstorms of full page newspaper articles. How exactly does it punish them you ask? Well it definitely doesn’t yank them over its collective thighs and spank them with a paddle on their naked buttocks. Although they’d probably enjoy that, the sadomasochistic bastards that they are. What it does do is reveal every little gritty and damaging detail about the politician and their surreptitious dealings to the public via any medium available. They look to destroy the reputations of politicians and those guilty by association. Granted that the media simply do this for higher viewers and ratings and to sell trashy newspapers but the methodology is quite simple and effective at keeping the beasts that we’ve elected into power on short, electric-shock giving leashes.

Now, I am a person who genuinely believes that a squadron of misanthropic journalists equipped with scuba tanks full of expensive whiskey could probably change this world. How? By finding and presenting the Truth. Not the dumbed down version of the truth, not the truth that has been filtered through the corruption crusted offices of parliament before reaching our newspapers or televisions, not the soap opera truth that makes celebrities of politicians. Just the brutal, ulcer inducing, scrotal sweat releasing, exciting, vindicating Truth. Bila bribery, bila brush ups or modification of any sort.

A lot of you may be saying that our media is not powerful enough to deal with the juggernaut of the government and I agree. Anything that is said in our newspapers has to be very premeditated so as not to spark the ire of the Beast. We all saw what happened to Standard group and KTN back in 2006.

So how do we combat this? If our media is not powerful enough, if legal means will not push politicians into justice, if the masses are too racially and tribally fragmented to stand together against the Beast then what are we to do? If the fight is not a fair one then what do we do? My answer? It’s up to us. The bloggers, the online personas, the street level activists, the celebrities, the pissed off individuals, the disillusioned, the discarded, the unafraid. It’s up to us to create questions. It’s up to us to create awareness. It’s up to us to use mediums such as Facebook, Twitter, blogs, web portals, cell phones, virtual messengers, personal websites, online magazines, independent newspapers to spread the word of injustice that happens on the streets of everyday life. It’s up to us to get the message out to the masses because the day for carrier pigeons is long gone. We underestimate the power of the word. If the Beast is going to crack down on our media then let us all become one giant media house. They can’t get us all. Spread the Truth my little Truth spreaders.

I know I talk about political injustices a lot but I believe we shouldn’t be silent just for the sake of social acceptance or politically induced fear. Anyway, I’ll leave you with an abstract idea I say we should work towards. We should have a national public holiday where we get to align all our politicians along a brick wall, blindfold them and then hurl abuse at them all day long. Something like a firing squad but instead of bullets we’ll be using large amounts of ineloquent profanities. Maybe they will be restrained. But if they behave and just stand there and take it then we won’t have to shackle them which would be more humane. I think public humiliation on such a level would be great motivation for them to start doing their jobs. Or commit suicide. I don’t know, it may work. I suppose we won’t know until we try.

The “Just Right” Porridge

Hi, my name is Sham and I’m a middle class Kenyan. Yes, I’m introducing myself like it’s at an addictions anonymous group of sorts but perhaps that’s exactly what it is. Allow me to elaborate.

We live in a country where old dogs lie and we wilfully let them. We are taken advantage of at every opportunity by our government with the theoretical and practical application of laws that seem sincerely inept in the grander scheme of things. Poverty is abundant while our politicians drive luxurious cars and live in ostentatious manors. And they can do such things because we don’t do anything about it. We’ve become subservient slaves slathered in superficiality and consumerism. It should be up to the youth of this country to try and change these things not only for us but for future generations to come. Note the use of the word “try” because that is all we can hope to do.

Now when these laws are passed, whether it’s an archaic alcohol bill similar to what was done during the National Prohibition Act in the United States in the early 1900’s, or whether it’s something as outraging as banning homosexuality with the threat of immediate arrest or even whether it’s something as economically unfeasible as increasing the parking rates in town to two hundred and fifty shillings, we all suffer viciously.

However, it is the middle class that suffers these injustices the most. The poor are unfortunately already far too poor for these upheavals in laws to affect them much. The rich are already far too rich for anything to challenge their bourgeoisie status’ much. Now don’t lose your cool, I’m not saying the poor do not already suffer mass discrimination. So I won’t waste time stating the obvious. However, the middle classes, the ones who have self sufficient businesses and oil the wheels of economy, those are the ones who make the bottomless pit-like stomach of our government rumble with hunger. The middle class in this country are the “Just Right” porridge bowl for our government to eat and deplete from. In the Goldilocks mythology, our government would be that age old hag who takes things that don’t belong to her. Now some of you may be saying “Is he really comparing our government to sweet, little Goldilocks?” The answer? Yes. Read the original story of The Three Bears and you may understand my reasoning. And I fear I’m being pretty gentle with the analogy.

The middle classes are used and abused by the perversions of a depraved system but rather than do anything about it, we sit in our houses and shops and offices and we complain in the safety of our comfort zones hiding behind shields of turnover. After all, it’s ingrained into our contemporary philosophy that there’s nothing a bribe cannot take care of and nothing a powerful contact cannot fix. We’ve become a generation of complainers who perpetuate corruption by allowing it to continue. And so I say that we’ve become addicted to this lifestyle. Sometimes accepting injustice is almost as bad as performing it.

And who’s challenging this? Surely not the packs of inebriated alpha male youths and women with freshly painted faces that I see every Friday and Saturday night living lives of cultural and moral decadence in return for a fickle social acceptance? Are these the bastions of our generation? And what exactly can be done in a country where the wheels of the legal system turn so slowly that it’s easier to pay people off? How can we win if we take on the system? Through an artistic and peaceable revolution? Through spreading awareness through mediums such as this one? Or through anarchy? Violence, however, has been tried and tested and deemed a faulty method in Kenya. However, our Tunisian and Egyptian compatriots would feel differently. Must we try Gandhi’s methods of civil disobedience by non-violent means? They can arrest one person for not paying the two hundred and fifty shilling parking fee. But can they arrest a hundred thousand people? So, my question is what next? These are the questions we as the youth of a nation need to try creating answers to instead of “oh, where do we go tonight?” I’m not saying don’t live your lives. I’m simply saying lets do something while we live our lives.

Perhaps you’ll classify me a pessimist who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Or maybe you’ll dismiss me as a hypocritical jester in the court of community. Or perhaps I’m simply quixotic of nature. But maybe these are the very ingredients that are needed to make that old hag choke on that “Just Right” bowl of porridge so she thinks twice the next time she takes a mouthful out of what’s rightfully ours.

Stick that in your tribe and poke it.

Right now as I sit and type out these words my laptop clock says it’s eight forty nine at night and all I can hear is the silence between the ticks of the second hand on the great big clock on the wall behind me and I genuinely pray to the Radioactive-Atomic Gods that a weapon of mass saturation has been deployed upon the world outside my room door and that in the residual aftermath of the inevitable mushroom clouded explosion, the human race has been drained of their colours and their skin has turned into a pale shade of ashy grey.

Now that may seem a little out there to you but I genuinely believe it’s the only way we’ll ever get over racism and tribalism. I mean stick with me for a moment if you will. Evolution and genetics was never helping in the first place by creating us all in different colours. Benetton would probably disagree with my whole philosophy here but that’s their prerogative. Interracial relationships help but they’re working far too slowly to speed up the visionary process of making everyone the same colour. Again, if a bomb is too scary a concept then there are other methodologies that we could examine as a human race to make us all chromatically similar.

My personal suggestions include the United Nations providing funding for discovering what we’ll call a Colour Drainer pill. You take two pills before bedtime, have at least eight good hours of black and white dreamed sleep and check your grey self in the morning mirror and viola! If it hasn’t worked then you’ve probably not urinated yet, which you’ll need to do in order to release the toxin-filled colouration from your body. Don’t worry; the packaging will come with a full set of instructions. Another suggestion would be a spray on permanent grey tan available at your friendly neighbourhood drug dispensary or “Colour Chucker Kiosks” that would have been set up by then. The future is a bright place where grey people will walk without fear of being ostracized, criticized or pulverized for the colour of their skin.

Of course, there’ll be the resistance like there always is. Small groups of oh so naïve people who wouldn’t want to give up their birth colours. And they’ll fight and bicker and terrorize the grey masses for having sold out. But what they won’t realize is that they’re the ones breaking the peace. If only we could get them to the grey side. Perhaps a Star Wars themed mass advertising campaign with a grey clad Darth Vader breathing out the immortal words “Welcome to the Grey Side.”?

I don’t know. Maybe that would be taking it too far. I personally like the bomb idea. Far more simple than elaborate subliminal marketing campaigns aimed at small groups of people. I mean, the human raCe is far toO civilized to sneaK commErcial subliminal messages into the minds of the masses aren’t they? I mean who would commit such an atrocity. No no, we’re far too cultured for that. On a side note, Coke is tasty.

Racism exists. We all know it. We all witness it. We all hardly do anything about it. I experienced racism in the UK on many occasions. In the UK I’ve been called names, I’ve been punched around. My friends have had milkshakes and fruits thrown at them in the street from moving cars. I’ve experienced racism right here in Kenya a number of times. It’s usually name-calling here due to the stereotypes that my skin tone comes with. Sometimes I feel that racism in Africa is directly associated to the monetary wealth of most members of a certain race. For long periods of time it used to be white people at the top of the list because they were the richest. The more power more members of the same race have, the more powerful the race as a whole becomes and once power is attained, enemies spring up and once enemies spring up fights begin. It’s a harsh truth. But now we’re in the middle of a messy paradigm shift where each race is like a drug-fuelled, thoroughbred horse at the races competing in a neck straining fight for the finish. The finish being coming first in the war of colour. And in this process we fight, kill, humiliate, alienate and subjugate each other. Personally, I just feel that racism exists because of ignorance and bad upbringing.

There’s no reason to hate anyone. But if I could, I’d definitely put leaders and ex leaders of certain nations in the world into the Big Brother house for eternity. I mean that’s probably the worst thing you can ever subject someone to. No wait, actually the worst thing would be watching that show. Just imagine President Kibaki, Ghadafi, Mugabe, Mubarak, Bush and Co. in the Big Brother house arguing over who ate the last bit of cheese in the refrigerator. Then there would be games such as “Who can stay honest the longest”. Now that I may actually pay to watch. 5bob or so should suffice.

Anyway, I was speaking of colours. We must understand that we all bleed red, think blue, piss yellowish and shit brown. That is, unless there’s something incredibly mutated about you. So how about giving your fellow man a break huh? How about accepting them as the mentally damaged human beings they are instead of judging them by the colour of their skin.

Inner beauty is grey. We must go in search of it.

Idle thoughts on the Ides of March

Tuesday, the Ides of March. I feel like purging. I will. Because I can.

So, I can’t drink copious amounts of mind numbing whiskies, beers, spirits or jet fuels for the fear of brain damage and liver failure.

I can’t ingest, inhale or inject large amounts of psychostimulant or hallucinogenic drugs into my bluish green veins for the fear of salivating overdoses and painful withdrawal symptoms (for when I, inevitably, run out of money).

I can’t smoke tar bars for the fear of lung cancer.

I can’t eat the crap I want to like thick slabs of red meat and sticky cheese burgers and greasy fries and fried freakin’ chicken for fear of clogging up the fragile arteries of my heart.

Because remember, even a passionate heart is already just dying one beat at a time.

I can’t get the job I want because…aw heck, I don’t know…JOB works in mysterious ways.

I can’t get the girl I want for fear that she’ll cry rape and I’ll get mace faced.

I can’t help all the suffering I see on the streets of Nairobi and that just fragments my mind with doses of guilt and appreciation for the comforts I have.

I can’t say the things I want to say about this undeniably corrupt, insidiously anarchic, inherently devious, megalomaniac, dinosaur-aged, warthog’s seminal discharge of a government for the fear of pissing off the wrong people and being thrown out of the country or silenced in ways that would invoke the services of the grim reaper because free speech is not a right in this country but a privilege. We live in a world where our basic rights are stamped on everyday by rules and regulations that have been set up by politicians who are too afraid to come out of the cabinet.

I can’t drive a car without being stopped by fat pigeon-like policemen asking me why I don’t have five hundred shillings to feed them chai with.

I can’t go out there with spiked nun chucks, a gas powered selective fire assault rifle or a honey sprayer and jars of seething bullet ants and commit wholesome amounts of violence for the fear of ending up in a cell made for ten people but in actuality holding about sixty.

Google is taking over my vocabulary and my ability to remember certain words or even how to spell them thus rendering my mind a little more incoherent everyday. We’re all suffering a technologically induced dementia.

I spend way too much time around machines which means I’m becoming less articulate in actual real life conversations with animate objects such as yourselves.

I'm dreading just living on the memories of a dead youth.

I'm trying to change the world with the harnessed power of pessimism. A lot of people don’t see the logic in that but I live in a “If you expect anything, you’re ready for anything” frame of mind. Cautious, I know, but also aware.

And if you wake up and the suns shining and the birds are chirping and the air is fresh and you go on expecting everything good to happen to you the whole day then maybe that bird shit stain on your best suit says differently.

Not that I care much for suits.

Tuesday. I purged. Because I could.

Proud Kenyans should be loud Kenyans

Sometimes I hate being Kenyan Indian. It’s relegated me into permanently being one of those “ka ching!” dollar signs in people’s eyes, you know, like those in the old Hannah Barbera cartoons. Being Kenyan Indian, I can’t even walk into places like Kibera because I stand out like a sober reverend in a prostitute’s parlour. I hate being told I'm part of that rich boy spoilt brat pack of today’s Kenyan Indian generation just because I’m Kenyan Indian. F**king stereotypes have us all living lies. So maybe I should rephrase the first statement I made. I don’t hate being Kenyan Indian; rather I hate the stereotypes it’s attached to and the people that have perpetuated that stereotype by acting in accordance with it. Thanks, morons. Call me judgemental but if you deserve to be judged then I shall be mental about it. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my ethnical heritage; it’s just that I’m Kenyan first. Indian, later. But looks, accents and demeanours can be devilishly deceiving. So I remain an outcast. In my own country and community.

I often ask myself the question “Are you proud to be a Kenyan?” Now it’s not that I regularly talk to myself but…aw heck, let’s face it. I do, vehemently, undeniably, indiscreetly. Anyway, I digress. The answer to the question is simply “I don’t know”. I mean, Kenya just happens to be the place my parents made that unholy union that produced me kicking and screaming baby-language obscenities into this world. So, I’ll do what writers aren’t supposed to do and leave that question unanswered and ask another one to myself and subsequently to you, “Would you die for your country?” See now here is where we draw the distinction between the name of the country and her people. They’re two completely different things. So my answer to that currently would be “Nope but I’d sure as hell die for the people if it was beneficial. Hopefully not a painful death though. No public self immolation, being nailed to a cross on a windy hill or mustard gas chambers. Nothing like that. A bullet to the brain, decapitation or a trauma induced aneurism would do just fine thank you.”

Because let’s just take a minute out and think about this. What is Kenya? Yes, yes, Kenya is a country in East Africa renowned for having the best tea and coffee and producing the best runners in the world. Now, let’s have a closer look, shall we?

Analyzing [Kenya]… Zoom in: 20%
Kenya is a country with a thriving tourist industry which allows it to sustain its infrastructure.

Analyzing [Kenya]… Zoom in: 40%
Kenya is a beautiful country with white sandy beaches and green forests and has an abundance of natural beauty and is home to the legendary Maasai Mara, Mount Kenya and the historical Tsavo game reserve.

Analyzing [Kenya]… Zoom in: 60%
Kenya is an independent country based on the East coast of Africa and has a multitude of ethnic tribes that are all living together in perfect harmony. Kenya also has beautiful sceneries including forests, wildlife and a thriving beach which promotes tourism in the country. Sites include the legendary Tsavo game reserve, Mount Kenya and the one and only Maasai Mara amongst many others.

Analyzing [Kenya]… Zoom in: 80%
Kenya is an independent country based on the East coast of Africa and was the home to the Mau Mau rebellion. The fight for independence from the British was won by the Kenyans after much bloodshed and destruction. Dedan Kimathi, the leader of the revolution is considered by many in contemporary Kenya to be a legend. Kenya is sometimes credited for starting off the movement of fighting for independence from colonial oppressors in Africa.

Analyzing [Kenya]… Zoom in: 100%
Kenya is a country that has a government that feigns independence in the world’s eye. In truth, Kenyans live oppressed under a totalitarian regime of a government hell bent on lining their heavy pockets with the silk of their people’s labour. There’s no need for colonialists when our own leaders are seething germs in the filthy mess that Corruption vomited out. Kenya has notoriously become one of the most corrupt countries in the world because corruption has bred in the government since they won their independence some fifty years ago. Kenya is a country with a multitude of ethnic tribes that are played against each other by power hungry politicians and this often leads towards violent clashes of ethnic cleansing especially towards the elaborate circus show that is our elections. While robotic politicians drive their large, expensive cars, the streets are washed with the sweat of the hard working and the piss of the homeless. Education is sparse and the government does nothing to change it because if the masses are uneducated then they have no one to oppose them. So they keep the poorer masses as subservient slaves to their serpentine whims. The masses become political pawns and come election time they become sacrificed soldiers in a parastatal war. Kenya has become the land where the poor are ethnically aligned, the middle classes have inbuilt conscience suppressors and the rich are too busy being rich. And all this happens because of the political poison that we’ve choked on for over fifty years of being “free”. We live in a Kenya where we pay for our freedom with the currency that is bribery.

I personally think Dedan Kimathi would turn in his unmarked grave if he could see what the Kenya he fought and died for has become.

But then, somewhere along the way and somewhere out there, somewhere amongst the liars and the thieves and the perverts and the alcoholics and the drug ridden paedophiles and the rapists and the potential serial killers and the worker drones and the dangerously educated but unemployed students and the ostentatious rich pricks, somewhere in that human messiness, we find pockets of passionate people who want to genuinely change this world for the better. People who would give their right lung to see even an iota of maintainable change. Those people are subsequently labelled ideological dreamers and relegated to the sidelines of this materialistic society we live in. Liberalism and passion are engulfed in the all too common fires of consumer culture that cheap magazines brainwash us with. Hope becomes just another four letter word while money remains a five lettered one. And these consumers, all they want is more even when it comes to words. The search for the Truth, the right to hope, the will to change has all become a counterculture while little trivialities have become the predominant structure of social conduct.

We simply bend over and take what the salivating government shoves down our throats and up our collective asses. They don’t even have the courtesy to use the lubricant of honesty. We should learn to question the answers they give to our questions.

I don’t mean to be facetious but it’s all I can do to spread the message to the masses. Because, nowadays, even the Truth has to be coated in the stinking razzle-dazzle of bullshit. We should shout out the raw Truth until we deafen them with the cacophony of thirty five million voices. Proud Kenyans should be loud Kenyans.

Beware, the selfish cometh.

Back to blog.

I've decided it's about time for me to start this blog up again. I enjoyed it for a while then lost interest which is strange for an aspiring writer. I suppose it's too much like work and I can't write all the time.

Anyway, I've been back in Kenya for two months and two days now. I'm glad to be back but every now and again I miss the UK terribly. Just the small freedom that living in the UK offers like being able to walk out into town at any time of the night without worrying about security. I miss the trains too. The easiness of transportation. I hate the traffic back here.

So what am I doing back here? The simple answer is I'm rebuilding myself. After the frustration of not being able to find a job for five months in the UK, I needed to get away and look at my life from another angle. So I've decided to move back for now and start up a business here.

It's been difficult so far. Things happen too slowly here. Passion does not seem to be powerful enough a motivator for a lot of people and because of that they don't do things out of pure will. Then there's the bureaucracy and the red tape which mummifies the body of progress. It's all just traffic.

I have to go now but will definitely blow the dust off this blog in a better way once I have some more time.

Be well.