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.
Sunday 15 May 2011
Tuesday 10 May 2011
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.
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.
Sunday 8 May 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday 4 May 2011
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.
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.
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