Dying by Bits

She crossed River Athi, spit at the water and cursed. She watched her thick saliva dance on the water, a dart she only saw in her basic Chemistry lessons when Mr. Thuita dropped a pinch of sodium into a glass of water.

What the fuck was all that education for? After two years in secondary school, which can be summed up to one year for the trips on and off, home, she became a woman. Her chest was inviting, the way the pastor sends invitation cards to village members lost in Nairobi city for a choir instruments harambee.

She had legs, two long and strong legs, a characteristic of beauty in both village and city terms. She had overgrown her short black skirt, but she still insisted spotting it. This made it hang on her like nuts on a madman, revealing yellowness of the legs and red underwear when seated. Last Sunday the vicar bubbled some words when their eyes met, getting lost in the middle of the sermon before his eloquence rescued him.

Mueni was sixteen, ripe sixteen. Her aunty had insisted on taking her to a place called Mlolongo where money flows like beer froth, forming a patch on the table for the barmaid to wipe. Her aunt, Wanza, once told her that she won’t have to collect coins from the ground as there are creatures down in the food chain to do that.

Armed with several English sentences and a strong accent scented Swahili, Mueni let out a loud fart, showing her back to the village, and another one, to say goodbye to the good-for-nothing fellows who had written misery on her book, since day one . The next few strides were filled with energy, power and enthusiasm, the kind of enthusiasm seen on Television screens in the evening as the British accented news anchors fill sitting rooms with body curves and smiles in between tales of killings in Mpeketoni and female genital mutilation in Wajir.

The yellow paper bag housed her fortune. She had an extra pair of pants, black. Her English teacher, Mr. Kimeu had insisted on black colour as it showed very little dust patches. The memory of how she lost her white pair of pants was still clear in her mind. Mr. Kimeu had promised to be gentle in breaking her virginity but ended up forcing himself inside as if he was screwing a whore. The pain was seething, loud, tangible and satanic. The first chance she got to sit up, she stood, ran like a dik dik, cursing the dick, that thing is fucking awful.

The following day she tried to find the bush where the play had been acted to little success.  The teacher had carried her pants away just in case she thought of revealing it to the chief. Not that the chief would take any action, but he would get a chance to extort some coins from Mr. Kimeu in blackmail. The next day in school, Mueni and Mr.Kimeu exchanged guilty glances. He even spared her when he was sending the other students for fees and gave her a five hundred shillings note, to buy something called E-pill and a new pair of panties, specifically black. Apparently, the white pair he took home had the colour of soil and a terrible smell.

Inside the yellow paper there was a pair of scissors (for shaving her pubic hair), the purple dress donation from her best friend, her faded school uniform and three photographs.

In one of the photograph she was smiling to the camera while receiving an award for been the best girl in the national exams two years ago, in Makueni County. The second one had her sick mum clutching the Rosary in her hospital bed, death bed. The doctors said the cancer had spread to her lungs and she would be lucky to survive another week.

It is the third photo which stirred mystery. She had dug it out from her mum’s closet after the burial. It was a perfect black and white shot. Her mum, in heavy heels, was holding to the bosom of a well built man, giggling (or smiling). The man had big eyes, a perfect haircut and he was clad in perfect jeans and a fitting T-shirt. Mueni felt indifferent, an indifference which swung to brief sadness then curiosity. That, perhaps, was the reason why she still treasured the photo. She thought, at least, her mum had happy moments once upon a time.

Her journey to Mlolongo was awesome. The corners at Makongo road swayed her, making her lean on the middle aged man sitting beside her, with the man taking revenge every time the bus slanted on the opposite. She wasn’t sure but she saw something like a protrusion on his trousers. She had seen a man in the circumstances before, Mr. Kimeu. “What do men take us for?”, She thought, “quarries? Holes?”.

Thank God her aunty, Wanza, was waiting for her at the stage. Everything seemed different. She saw the Royal Tavern bar and restaurant which she had heard about in many songs by Wa Maria and other wannabes.

(to be continued)

The madman slashed the buds.....

In the morning they texted, in the evening sexted
Fed each other lunch,
Smiled,
Grinned,
At the Smartphone screens.
On Sundays they knelt for each other at the alabaster,
He thanked heavens for the lassie so classy, good ass
She looked up for the fellow so well built, so shrewd
They waited for that first night in the moonlight,
For the first kiss, on the neck, ears, lips…pure bliss

One day the beautiful sun loaned the moon enough light
And as the Old Shakespeare would say, “In such a night”,
With his back leaned on a tree trunk
A forty five degree angle of depression, straight to the lips
In the emotion of the second they got so drunk, lust, love drunk
Her poetic curves engulfed his toning muscles
The place below her belly went on fire, her chest bulged
Her round big eyes, rounded, big rounds
Silence.

The climax was coming near,
The well had enough water for the night
There was hope. The way South Sudan had hope of liberty
From enchainment from a Bashir, to freedom by a Kiir
Her veins carried blood , her arteries  transported oxygen
Like political sycophants from Mukurueini to Uhuru park
Or hooligans from the chocolate city to Uhuru park, freedom park
To free themselves from shackles of stupidity
Just like that, her common sense sneaked away, her heart became free.

The flowers, lavender flowers of senselessness, lust and infatuation,
Started budding,
Bulging
Shyly protruding.
Bringing out the smell of awe, sighs of woshee and hums of stop it.
But, just like a Machar erupted a Sudan with violence
The way the Isis, the hamas and the Shabaab urinate on peace
The way the people of the queen strut over a Kenya’s tourism,
His phone rang, It was sweetie.
A stark reminder that she was a third world,
She still wondered how third came before first.
Before she could ask, he disentangled, disembarked
In fury he called her a whore, a woe-man.
The madman slashed the buds…….this is the end……
This is the end.

Crying For A Death Bed

Man,

 Isn’t it a bad way to die when a crook with a cock-head hits from back?

Spraying bullets at you,

Or having to at stare this fellow in the face as he shoots you

First at the place between your legs, then your tummy

Waiting for you to move closer to the wall,

Then smears the wall with your head-blood

He gives Fatuma’s husband, that man who loaned you money to take Amina to form one

The same dosage, only rougher, more ruthlessly, violently!!

Mzee Juma was from the Kiosk

He had negotiated with the shopkeeper for one hour to get Unga for his hungry family

Still chanting prayers to Allah when the bullet halved his spine

No time to look back, no time to remember, few minutes to die

He dies holding the 1kg packet of Unga firmly

Hoping his wife will find it and cook some porridge

And get some energy to wail, and, cry for him

Man,

Don’t you find it cooler at the death bed, far much better than the blood bathe

Unable to remember the decades,

With a blurred image of the war in Burma, many worlds ago

Telling your sons not to fight for the plots

Listening to the slowing heart-beat, giving you a few more seconds

Then closing your eyes, dreaming the last dream, the last dream

Family and friends won’t wait for some Lenku to say it is some Raila

Or some president to read a poorly written speech by a university student

With long empty words, empty words, emptier than a bachelor’s fringe.

You see, man,

Matata, the NSIS guy deployed here became a mnazi addict

His trousers smell the pee unwashed for days

And his mouth will scare the mortician, when he dies

Afande and his friends always walk to the shore, to wait for the fishermen

They take kitu kidogo. Everything is theirs, even the fishes in the deep seas

Then they swirl their potbellies to the brothel

Pummel their way to the girls sent by their mums to sleep for Unga

Threaten them. Make violent sex to them. Without a penny!

As baldhead gunmen spray bullets to Mpeketoni, the bank, the hotel and the grotesque police station!

Man,

The TV in the new pub showed an advert which fights crime

Safety is me, safety is you. Nope, safety is them

I hear once the cameras are put up here

Those hell-bent baldheads will get scared and run sea caves

Then the commissioner’s car will be removed that black thing which makes us not to see him

And we will be safe. Peaceful.

Man before then we will die, die and die, till the news reach state house

And the helicopter gets repaired to bring the cameras.

Man, I will go home early, such that when they come to kill me

I will be on bed, fast asleep. Then I will die on my death bed.

Dead Love Story

The string connecting the hearts, tight and perilously thin

Thin, thin and thin, very thin

A cup of instant coffee, not real sievable coffee,

Then scrotal sacs full of testosterone, full,

Livening the affair, the false affair, the imaginary affair

The breasts had hope, of getting suckled, one day

Before then, a big man suckled them, sometimes biting

Causing the tickle, fueling the heart to beat, one more day

One more day, one more time, one more beat.

Mr. and Mrs. Worked hard, the times were boring

It was like walking up a wavy lazy road, hilly lazy road

Sometimes bed times were plain, plain and dead

The kisses were sour, pale and pale.

Dates were pampered, perhaps, to compensate the lack of the  in-thing

The heart eats what it wants, on a bad day; the heart eats what is there

Happiness was in the past, the centuries past

Like the England queen who derives authority from 18^th century super power

But still hopes for a better day

Then one evening in a fourteen-sitter eighteen-sitter matatu

Her heart was touched, twitched by the skin of the lady squeezing in

Palpitation, Confusion, instant inebriation

Smiles, perspicuous adoration, insidious inside

Happy birthday illegitimacy, glad we are Kenyans, not Ugandans

So another lady had the key to her happiness?

Not the fool who screams instructions every night.

Weeks of wet dreams, sound dreams, noisy dreams

Weeks of waiting for the lady to come back from Rio De Janeiro

She had chosen soccer commentator-ship

To live the life of men, she had a key to a lady, anyway

Weeks of staring to the loveless body spread full length on the king size

Weeks of making instant coffee, bad coffee, bleak coffee

Of getting tasteless testicles get drained into her

Weeks of acting, conspicuously, to tell him the love story is dead

It wasn’t love, it was a love story.

PerspectivatingAfrica.: The troubles of a Nairobi hustler

PerspectivatingAfrica.: The troubles of a Nairobi hustler: My definition of a hustler is anybody without a jet, without a big car, whose bills are not paid by the tax payer, the guy living between mi...

The troubles of a Nairobi hustler

My definition of a hustler is anybody without a jet, without a big car, whose bills are not paid by the tax payer, the guy living between mind and mouth, always thinking what to eat, where the rent comes from and how will s/he finance his way to the office.

Adding some salt on the definition, this hustler is anybody who takes the mat to job especially during the corner of the month.

One thing I have come to distaste, as one of the many in this class, or no class, is the rain. A drop of the rain hits the makanga and the fare doubles, pap, asap, chap chap!!

Luck was with me today. No sooner had the bus left the stage than the rains started drizzling. What a sentence!! The use of no sooner rewinds the clock of time and sends me back to standard seven, and a book called one step ahead (or is it one more step?), and, English aid. The colloquial, sounds like queer, expressions and synonyms, antonyms and othernyms.

That aside, rain does drizzle, in Nairobi. The idea is, that small rain scares the brains out of the ladies heads and the touts have known this. At alighting points paper bags, used and new paper bags, double up in price. Our ladies, with the brains already blown by the drizzles, snatch everything waterproof and bag it on the heads.

The boyfriend is never at peace with the rain either. On top of the hiked fare, a text message might come, anytime. "Babes, you know the rains and my hair", guys loathe such messages, but on the side of the neck, or just shingo upande, they send the final MPESA. Now it will be borrowing fare and eating leaves for the rest of the month, due to one drizzling, no, raining, Tuesday morning.

The troubles double when the forwarded message on whatsapp appears, upon switching on the cellular data on the cheap touch screen phone christened smartphone in Kenya. Avoid these places, the bombers are holed up in Eastleigh and Kariobangi, and they plan to bomb a major TRM, Taj mall etc. The message goes on to list all the places you spend your day hustling.

Enough troubles. Perhaps the troubles made some guy die himself somewhere around zimmerman. He went to the VCT and the results were positive, In that place, I am told, positive is not good. Bro Code Sheddysays that there are better ways to spend one's time than going to the VCT.

Sometime back we used to say "serikali tafadhali", i hear now it is the government crying out to some illicit millitia coward group throwing grenades. We will talk about that some day. Good morning Kenya.


(The Article was first published on Bantu Kivai  account may 6, 2014)

0646 hrs, +3, Kenyan Time, Nairobi. Middle class.

I really don't want to be called middle class, ever, never. You see, the Nairobi middle class is a funny group of people, in fact, an imaginary group of people. For simplicity purposes, let's define middle class as that group of people which is not rich and not poor, the guys with an income to afford a house with the wash room inside, the Nairobi middle class.

Pressing further, you will find the middle class guy with a contract of more than five years, has a car, servicing a loan till the end of the contract. I don't have a problem with that, that is okay, that is alright. I might have a little problem with the fact that the car cannot see the road for thirty days, i mean, the car has many leave days.

This brings a very good point. When buying a car, perhaps, it might be very sound to buy a second hand local car. The only thing you should do is evaluate the lifestyle of the owner. If he drives the car from the 28th to the 9th day of the following month it means that the car has an active life of 10 days a month and 120 days a year. Add a bonus of 20 days due to the long holidays and some windfalls here and there.

This means that a car bought three years ago may be newer than a car bought one year ago if not equally old. Despite a longer time in the country, the car has seen fewer kilometers of the road compared to another one owned by a better endowed middle calls, or just middle upper.

Away from that. The spending habits of the Nairobi middle class are ruled by three things; church, neighborhood and club. In the Church the pastor will pray for people to get blessed, buy a good car and so forth. If my middle class friend feels that he has had enough prayers, and fellow middle class friends have got their car prayers answered, he will sign the loan papers for Toyota car, and survive the salary deductions, painfully.

Neighbourhood. It sucks, sulks too, when you have to jump away to avoid the splashes of water on your way to the bus stage. You will be thinking, "nisplashie maji tu nitanunua yangu" then pester your wife for a collabo loan.

Club. A year after college, the unwritten rule is that you should have made enough to afford a bottle of whisky. Just throw a party and you will think everyone was born a Jameson favourite, they will die for that tot. The mood will be "tusker ni ya wazee". Interestingly though, after the Jameson is over, guys will drown the Tusker as if they have grown old all of sudden. Originally Jameson was brewed for twelve years. I think, with the consumption in Kenya, the manufacturers must have suffered a shock. Probably its twelve hours now!!

I avoided the other reason for the stupid nature of consumption by the middle class; their women. This is because this is not only a perennial case but also the fact that I am not yet married. My grandpa told me, "when you grow up, pick a girl and call her wife", point is, i don't want to hurt my chances.

Happy Friday, gosh. Does Kiss 100 still play that song?

0000 hrs. Thika road

Girls, black brown, slim slender, young with fresh flesh zig-zag their way on the platform. Half-dressed, partially undressed, badly dressed, tightly dressed. The oldest is only nineteen, i mean, born in 1995, dreaming of becoming an engineer in future, may be, a pole engineer, if you know what i mean.

They swirl their bodies, swing, spin and twist to reveal, yeah, to reveal what their Mama gave them. This happens to the applause and delight of the middle aged men, men who can sire, men with glasses full of Tusker, White cap and all sorts of the good drink.

The men devour, admire, eat, yes, eat with their eyes, clap, dance and thirst. Thirst for girls who have not yet joined college, girls only dreaming of becoming, of growing up to be this and this. My friend tells me that what the girls are doing is called "catwalk", competing on who emerges the best to be called Miss whatever.

The girls are working hard, in the uncomfortable high heels, back in my village those shoes are called "ndonyee mbande". I don't know how i can get a good translation, but it is something close to 'make a hole that i can plant'.

I am sure later in the day most of the people here, the men and the girls, the drunk middle age women too, will lift their bodies to the second church service, give their tithe and thank God for blessings, and, of course, for good times. The winner of the contest may thank God for granting her mercies to beat such a stiff competition and emerge the winner, to drunkened ululations.

To me, it reminds me what the woman has always been to the man; a social object, a happiness gadget or whatever pretty name you can find. Efforts from good ladies like Magdalene Mumbi Musyoka-Tayiana or even the famous Caroline Mutoko to enlighten the girl child seem to fall to bad ears, deaf ears.

Beauty is a good thing, a very good thing. But what is beauty?

2100hrs, Githurai Market, Nairobi-Kenya

Outside the Family bank Atm the sacks roll. Dirty sacks, soil dirty, mud dirty, filthy dirty, dirty sacks roll and turn. Not potato sacks but sacks with human bodies, pitchy bodies darkened by grease sweat, rarely washed bodies, mildly mobile and frighteningly still.

They are bodies of homeless sons of Mumbi, of Mulungu. Somewhere, in the same country, sons of Nyasaye, of Engoro and of Were sleep in the same conditions, perhaps worse conditions, perhaps blacker, of the blackest black.

They don't care they are Kikuyu, Kamba or Somali. Theirs is a life of slow clock, waiting for nothing, waiting for complete stillness, with the gum making the waiting easier. They don't bicker politically, but they can insult you, insult you badly, carelessly. Perhaps they don't care about a god, any god, whatever god.

To them, the vulture is a more potent enemy, a worse enemy than the radicalized bomber. The next big enemy, i figure out, must be soberness, or sobriety, or just anything which would make them see the world as it is.

Thinking hard i realize, there is peace is the two extremes, the extreme of strong, gated and manned community and the extreme of homeless, gateless and careless community. In these extremes, religion, tribe, colour, creed or academic exploits don't matter.

Stopping to think, or even stopping thinking, i conclude, there might be another Emilly in these sacks. The one here may not have a good voice, but she may be a science genius, and science is done behind closed doors, not like art, which is done on platforms.

Some problems are worse than political Mureithism or Kalonzonology.

Friday musings....Africa is the land of milk and honey, perspectivating......

I will not resign. The Kenyan donkey does not kick, she utters those words.  Good professor Kaimenyi swore that an internal audit will be carried out and culprits, as you'd expect, brought to book. He also said that he takes the laptop tender with honesty and heavy responsibility. I think, heavy responsibility had literal meaning, because from the look of things, it is very heavy for brainy prof.

On the other hand, the house of commons in Kenya, I take the meaning of commons to the exact word, common, has been secreting saliva to drippy levels, for Kaimenyi. The parliament, as the system has forced us to call the house of commons, is full with half-witted fellows who are uninformed uniformly, taking pride in matters oscillating around individuals and staying away from legal issues, their primary role. In short, the house is filled with common, ordinary individuals.

Perhaps they should never work at all. Their work is to sleep that is why whenever they sit they have to be paid sitting allowances. I don't know what will be of Kaimenyi, a man whose name can mean "the one who knows" if tweaked a bit to read Kamanyi in most of the Eastern Bantu languages. With that, i hope he knows.

Counties. A magazine born of devolution, dubbed The Governor, published monthly, had the cover picture of  Kivutha Kibwana, the governor Makueni County. I love Makueni because it is my birth place, my mamaland and a place which offers a very good life college, survival adeptness and that awareness which makes you move your eyes like a chameleon, my biology teacher, big up Mr Kabuff....no no...kabuch.....told me those eyes are called compound.

My governor, however, has shy eyes for the media. He secretly organized an event in Kisau girls in the mid of the week, the type of events which guys who have interacted with the queen's lingua call impromptu, but for my language ineptness i call it a wa! event, my primary school teacher would call it a "suddenly" event, to congratulate the school for an average performance and some Y results. I am no hating, congrats to the girl who topped, but, is a 7 point something performance worth the big man's attention? Anyway, perhaps he knows this, that i why he made sure the media does not get air of the event.

Swiftly across the oceans. A certain Malaysian plane went to thin air. Be glad that it is not a KQ plane because our powerful witch doctors and prophets would be giving clues to all directions, making the search even more complicated. Something else, as a boy growing up in the country i was told that America is so powerful that they have mega cameras rotating in the sky capturing every event in the world, how come they missed the Malaysian plane?

That brings sense to my title. Africa is a great place. You sit and get paid. You corrupt and don't resign. You can celebrate everything anything. The land of milk and honey.

Travelling aside a beautiful lady....good things

For someone who has been glued to a career desk for the better part of the last twelve months, it could only be good luck to get a ride off and out of Nairobi, to the tranquility of the country, to a place where, for the locals, life is punctuated by the journey of the sun, from North to South. How do you explain to a country folk that the upper side where the sun is coming from is the East and that down side is West, tell me, how?

We were traveling as a group, seventy five young men and women, in a sixty five seater bus. Everybody had a seat, quite surprisingly. You need to appreciate the philanthropy of African men, the style of gentleman-ship, where, the man does not offer a seat to the lady who has missed one, but invites the lady o sit on him on that part between the knee and the center. Thanks to this generousity everyone was seated, and there was space for several more people, unsurprisingly, is it?

As a stranger to the majority of mates traveling with me, I had to be quick, quick with my eyes. So within a time of five minutes, the time we spent confirming if everyone was on, my eyes had done several kilometers within a circumference of ten meters. I can say the market was well balanced, the forces of demand and supply met exactly at the center but for some slight imbalance on the outward palatability. Don't worry though, even the central bank of Kenya has to chip in some dollars here and there to keep the forces at bay.

Blessed were the guys offering the extra seats. On a bumpy road, which snailed, grew and graduated to pot-holed weather road, still boasting virginity, virginity occasioned by recent heavy rains in places where the sun is a better friend, they had to count themselves blessed. You see, in such a road, the driver will have to do some unforeseen and abrupt "breaking", resulting to a natural thrust back and forth. As a cushion for the lady, one can only benefit from the unprecedented rubbing, and in such situations, mother nature never disappoints. I leave the imagination for another day.

As the unplanned comrade, I had to do with my phone as the only companion for the first hundred kilometers. As usual, on a Saturday morning, my drinking class of folks are fast asleep, some nursing hang overs which hang them down till Monday. Facebook feed is usually Daily nation and other pages like FT, Business Insider and some bloggers who are always on their feet, posting and re-posting, as if to compete who comes out with it first. I still don't know how they eke out a living. Whatsapp was dead and twitter feed was painfully slow. I resorted to scrolling my phonebook, and, I was amazed by the number of names and numbers I still don't know who they belong to, who took them down, from who, where, why and for what reason. I don't complain, though, I am African.

I grabbed the first opportunity I had. I usually choose my battles very well, and i prettily very well knew that the luxury of  "cuddling" some lady eluded me completely. I chose to sit aside a lady, who was fine, I mean a lady who the great Shakespeare would say that is fair, fair in hair and wear. Ask a Shakespearean scholar and he will tell you those were the best words to put across to a lady in the medieval, otherwise known as, Elizabethan times. I had settled on this particular lady partially because she was stunning, but mostly because the guy sitting aside her all along had been mute. I knew i could do a better job.

The rest is a story for another day. I came to believe that luck is a lady. As i played my final card, I knew I had compensated for the lost time. In as much as i wasn't as blessed as some of my fellow niggers, i was lucky, at most. For guys asking, my final card is letting the lady seek out the phone number first, that's always a prove that one has done a very noble job.

Let's play with the word ''Because''

Because......yeah...because
1) Because You Have Not Failed Enough

Because you are comfortable in your mediocrity; because you choose not to try.

Because it is easier to talk about learning that new (programming?) language as opposed to actually learning it.

Because you think everything is too hard or too complicated so you will just "sit this one out" or maybe you'll "do it tomorrow"!

Because you hate your job but won't get a new one; because it is easy to reject rejection.

Because while you're sitting around failing to try, I am out there trying to fail, challenging myself, learning new things and failing as fast as possible.

Because as I fail, I learn, and then adjust my course to make sure my path is always forward. Like the process of annealing steel, I've been through the fire and pounded into shape. The shape of a sword with polished edges and a razor sharp blade that will cut you in half if you are not equally hardened.

2) Because You Care What Others Think About You

Because you have to fit in.

Because you believe that being different is only cool if you're different in the same way that other people are different.

Because you are afraid to embrace your true self for fear of how the world will see you. You think that because you judge others, this means that those people must, in-turn, be judging you.

Because you care more about the stuff you have as opposed to the things you've done.

Because while you're out spending your money on new outfits, new cars, overpriced meals or nights at the bar, I'll be investing in myself. And while you try to fit in with the world I'll make the world fit in with me.

Because I will recklessly abandon all insecurities and expose my true self to the world. I will become immune to the impact of your opinion and stand naked in a crowd of ideas; comfortable in knowing that while you married the mundane I explored the exceptional.

3) Because You Think You Are Smarter Than You Are

Because you did what everyone else did; you studied what they studied and read what they read.

Because you learned what you had to learn in order to pass their tests and you think that makes you smart.

Because you think learning is only something people do in schools.

Because while you were away at college, I was studying life. Because instead of learning about the world in a classroom I went out and learned it by living.

Because I know more than any piece of paper you could ever frame from a university. Because smart is not what you learn, it's how you live.

Because I might not have a degree but I challenge you to find a topic that I can't talk to you about cohesively.

Because I could pass your tests if I had to, but you couldn't stand for a single second in the face of the tests that life has thrown me. Tests that are not graded on a bell curve or by percentages; tests that are graded by one simple stipulation: survival!

4) Because You Don't Read

Because you read the things you are required to read or nothing at all.

Because you think history is boring and philosophy is stupid.

Because you would rather sit and watch E! or MTV instead of exploring something new, instead of diving head first into the brain of another man in an attempt to better understand the world around you.

Because you refuse to acknowledge that all the power in the world comes from the words of those that lived before us. That anything you desire can be had by searching through the multitude of words that are available to us now more abundantly than ever before.

Because you are probably not reading this article even though you know you should.

Because the people that are reading this already know these things.

Because you can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink.

5) Because You Lack Curiosity

Because you get your news from copy-cat members of the state-controlled media.

Because you are unwilling to ask this simple question... "What if it's all a lie?" and accept the possibility that maybe it is; that just maybe, the methods of mass media are under direct orders to: keep you distracted.

Because you call me a know-it-all but refuse to call yourself a know-nothing-at-all.

Because I thirst for knowledge, regardless the topic.

Because while you're busy playing Candy Crush or Megalopolis, I am reading about string theory and quantum mechanics.

Because while you waste your time with Tosh.o I am learning how to edit video, build websites and design mobile apps.

Because if we were to go heads-up in a debate, I would crush you. I would make it a point to defeat my own argument; from every imaginable angle; in order to understand everything you might be able to use against me.

Because I would dedicate myself to understanding both sides of the argument so thoroughly that I could argue your side for you and win; even after having just handed you a defeat in the same debate.

6) Because You Don't Ask Enough Questions

Because you do not question authority.

Because you don't question yourself.

Because you don't understand the power of properly placed questioning in life, respectful disagreements and standing up for what you know to be right in the face of someone telling you otherwise. Unable to question reality; stuck in a self imposed survival strategy within a matrix-style monotony.

Because I know that you will give me all the information I need to destroy you by letting you talk.

Because I study human behaviors and you ignore everyone but yourself.

Because I watch how you say the things you say just as closely as I listen to what you say; and you say way too much!

Because control comes, not from spewing your ignorance like some incurable case of logorrhea, but from properly structuring the context of your questions.

Because I study the premise of your argument and destroy it from the ground level before you even get a chance to establish your ideas.

7) Because You Can't Handle The Truth

Because you refuse to admit that you don't even know the things you don't know.

Because there isn't an article online that would make up for all the time you have wasted in life.

Because even if I told you everything could be different tomorrow you would wait until then to begin doing anything about it.

Because even when you think I'm not, I'm aware of my surroundings.

Because you think that since I have not acknowledged you, it means that I have not seen you.

Because, you walk around with your head up your ass, oblivious to the world around you. Blissfully ignorant of the reality that sits so close to your face that if you stuck your tongue out, just once, you would taste it and realize how delicious the truth actually is.

Because you would become an instant addict. Unable to pull yourself from the teat of truth. Finally able to understand your lack of understanding, and then you would see; then you would know that the only thing holding you back from doing something truly amazing, is you.

This thing confuses,,,,,,

Look here (sisya vaa)....my friend complains that he is jobless coz he is not connected. The HR professional will always tell you to network network and network, know people, approach people and beg people for a job. They will also teach you how to practice for an interview, how to dress...don't fidget or eat your fingers, so the best you can pretend the better your chances....or so.....

Who is the HR...mostly she will be a baby-boomer, closing in to retirement, or at best a late X generation. A very protective group of people who want to do everything for their kids, a group of people who will go down the history of mankind as destroyers, crusaders of average and promoters of mediocrity. Come on, even if you score a C...a D or in some cases a retake your parent will tell you....'not bad'. They find tranquility in the group and serenity on mob psychology.

In case you are reading this, sitting at home, waiting for that friend of your dad's half-cousin to find a job for you, then, know, i will call you a cabbage. No offence. The world now faces very difference challenges caused by the indifference of our parents. A young man or lady will need desertion to think outside the box, or, in extreme of the terms, without the box.

Until the baby-boomers take away that protection, that security off the backs of their children, then we will see these problems for a very long time. Come on, i have seen cases where a girl is chased away from home by a difficult parent at 17 only to return seven years later with a grown boy, a better face and ready to lift the family out of mental and material poverty, reason, the parents took off from her back!

Even if we were all nephews and nieces to the president, trust me, we would not be all-employed. There is need to create, to panic, to suffer and face it rough till we learn to create, to get something from nothing. The rules are a lie. That path of a BCOM....CPAK and MBA is a hoax. I know it works...to the level of a good car, a good house and some respect, but that will never be enough, not for Africa.

The Africa problem needs African solution. The solution is an intellectual revolution, an education matched on need and a re-definition of success. Success is not that big car, big house or larger than life frame, success is.........Dr. Griffins. It is Steve Biko, Kwame Nkrumah and Patrice of the Congo. Dudes who in their youth days were thinking about mental freedom, mental independence and intellectual break through. Guys who were conceptualizing the idea of metropolis, black power and racial equity. Mark you, the number one perpetrator of racial prejudice is the black man, he thinks he is less.

Africa has been rising, i mean, the capitalistic Africa of extremes, of great poverty and plenty wealth, and it is in this network where money is made then the ambitious poor man is given pennies, and if it is a lady some penis to give up the dream of changing anything. Guys move to gated community, they condescend, patronize and strut, with a wrong definition of success. The bliss escapes them, the way the feeling of the kiss fades away when the dad finds you, when they have to pay for security, to secure themselves from themselves, because they only redeemed themselves and left their other selves in the abyss of refuse, the way the loud pastor and his mistress enjoy Sunday afternoon meal at the Sankara while congregation sleep it away at Uhuru park.

Dirge.

Opinion; Sackings were Long Overdue

I bet the sackings done by the governor were a shock, a surprise and a cause of disbelief. Okay, many people, including me, knew that there were some mega procedural and procurement hitches in tendering in the county. Because, and, maybe, we are used to 'it is my time to eat'', we pardoned the guys to continue with their loot. Personally, I have not given much love to the governor, despite, supporting him in the elections.

I a previous blog, as the race for general elections heated up, i ran candidate by candidate description, and, this is what i said of the great Tom Luusa,''Take one Tom Luusa, for example. If you type his name on the search space yo won't find much about him. A run of governor aspirants in Makueni on the daily nation showed that he was educated in US and Britain, he held senior positions with UNDP, world bank and world vision, majorly as a project manager. Such a profile gets you thinking that this guy is good to put your money on, until you see him some minutes past mid night at club Comfort at Wote(kwa Ngina) hoping from club to club like a newly employed 23-year old guy. He sounds bright and clever when sober, but he lacks in charisma while 'on' several. Someone claimed voting him is like marrying a drunkard'' Read here.

I must admit that i was surprised to see Luusa sacked. He is a man of confidence and many promises. Rumours, before the news, had that tenders had been allocated, I mean, tenders spanning to April 2015. The people to get them had been designated and the youth, you and me, had no place in the Makueni stake. Mark you, internationally, it has been proven that the youth quote low cost in their tenders and end up savings governments and organizations a lot of money.

The move by the governor, at least, to me, was that of making a statement. I am sure Luusa and Muteti had a very big influence in decisions and convincing of other top officials in the county, due to their political nature. Slicing them off has send a very strong message of dedication and commitment to serving the people of Makueni.

I believe, that, the action was long overdue. Much has been swept in the river of graft in the last ten months and while i decry such a loss, I can't help but salute the governor for his defense of the common mwananchi. 

In an open letter I wrote to him, (i still don't know whether he read it), i said, I know that there are rich people in the county heaving demands on you to give them tenders at blotted quotations. You have a choice between serving the majority, the people who voted you, or the influential well-to-do men and women. It is a choice between giving a bursary to a needy soul or a rich student.

I also know that it is not easy being a leader, but it it this dilemma which makes great leaders out of ordinary people. We, the people of Makueni, think that you are able, and capable. It is time for you to prove that you are.

I think Kivutha heard this, and , he has acted on it. I believe that more people will face the sack after the audit report comes out in March, I will be waiting. 

For this Friday, I can toss the glass in the air as cheers to the governor. I hope that this is the way to go. Now we have the statement.