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.
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
#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.
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.
*******
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.
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, 29 March 2011
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.
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.
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