THE END TIMES ARE NIGH

“If Hillary can’t satisfy her husband, how can she satisfy America?” - D. Trump Retweet. 

This is a retweet from a man seeking to ascend the highest office in the land of the free and home of the brave. And yet still, this is not the worst he has agreed with by association or utterance. We had all along thought that buffoonery was a preserve of illiterate or absurd third world dictators until Trump happened. His supporters defend him by saying he is just telling the truth that everyone else is afraid to voice but we know that Truth without love is brutality.

America's Genesis 41:30

Fate should have it that every election cycle, after the Democratic Party has put a god sent president in the oval office, the GOP looks among its ranks and selects a quasi-idiot to water down the gains. 

After Bill Clinton's 8 years came Bush's 8. 
After Obama's 8 years, where against all odds he has ensured (almost single handed) that the state of the union remains strong, 

the Republicans are going for the greatest joke the human race has ever produced to seek that office. 



To be fair to them though, this time round the party is on auto-pilot; even the GOP supremos have no idea which cave this fly-by-night gold lover has emerged from. His whole manifesto on how to make America great again is oiled by two elements: Fear and hate. Fear can lead one to do the unthinkable and the American people are at their worst time in as far as fear is concerned. Being the capitalist he is, Trump has capitalized on this single emotion to elicit hate and he is fueling this fire like there's no tomorrow. 

The Bible Belt States just almost handed him the Republican nomination on Super Tuesday and this for a man with no morals whatsoever. Women have been made to fear Muslims and Mexicans to the point that being disrespected on cable TV has become a non-issue to them.

Again, fate should have it that the greatest racist and sexist to have sought public office since Hitler, should seek that office right on the heels of it being vacated by the first African American occupier whose accomplishments and genius the Republican party has purposed to rubbish at every turn. As if that is not absurd enough, his opponent by all intent and purpose will for the first time in American history be a woman.

If the GOP wants to Make America Regret Again (let's face it, the Bush years were a disaster), it couldn't have gone for a worse candidate.

Small Intellect Growing Smaller

On May 19 1860, the New York Herald decried Lincoln’s nomination: “The conduct of the Republican Party in this nomination is a remarkable indication of small intellect, growing smaller.  They pass over … statesmen and able men, and they take up a fourth rate lecturer, who cannot speak good grammar.” 

They couldn’t have been more wrong. Those accustomed to American history know that Abe Lincoln went ahead and become one of the greatest presidents the US will ever have. He was an outsider who against all odds took a stab at the status quo and wrote his name in the annals of history.

2016 and the Republican Party is at it again and this time, the not-so-true-then prophesy by the New York Herald might just be true. Their whole nomination process is turning out to be a remarkable indication of small intellect, growing smaller. They’ve chosen to pass over … statesmen and able men, (and God knows there’s a paucity of these in the Republican Party), and they take up a self-righteous fire breathing shylock who cannot even keep his hair neat.

Divisive, Stupid and Wrong

Unlike in past elections where first world leaders keep off each other’s elections and don’t publicly share their opinion on the candidates because diplomacy dictates that they must work with whoever the people elect, mixed reactions have been voiced concerning Trump. Most of them think he is a time bomb waiting to detonate and they are not afraid to be quoted on that. The British House of Commons took time off their schedule and dedicated a whole session serving the gold maniac a dose of his medicine. Surprisingly, Trump receives accolade from one very unlikely quarter. Russia’s Vladimir Putin thinks Trump is a 'very colourful and talented man'. Is Putin really genuine in his new found sentiments concerning a would be President of the United States who would not think twice about pressing the launch button of a nuclear warhead on a bad hair day? (And for Trump, every day is a bad hair day). Putin knows too well that for Russia to be the eventual winner of the decade’s long cold war, Will Durant’s words must come to pass: A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within, and who best to take America down this path than President Donald Trump!

As surreal as this sounds, the fate of the free world and the world in general might now be resting on the shoulders of one brave woman and she will be depending on the Democratic Party (plus Independents and brave Republicans who can smell bullshit when it’s still light years away) to avert a cataclysmic eventuality. The world has seen its fair share of dictators but none of them have had the privilege of having the launch codes of the greatest arsenal known to man at their bedside drawer. Trump combines oligarchy, kleptocracy and lunarcracy (government of the insane by the insane) in a way only Hitler could and in a world where warfare technology has almost come full circle, we have every reason to be concerned. God help us all if, when worse comes to worst, we shall have to look eastwards to Vladimir Putin to nobly save or meanly lose the last best hope for mankind. 

The Night before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and Sue Anne Marie sat at her husband’s bedside and toyed with her wedding ring absent mindedly. The speakers in the room hymned Bonny M’s jingle bells in a soft yet magnetic tune. Her emotions were a blend of fear and anger. She directed her anger towards Bonny M. How could the bells continue to jingle? How could Christmas remain merry while the love of her life lay before her helpless? Fighting for his dear life? She refocused the anger back at him… he should have listened to her…then at herself… she should have been more firm. Her mind did not spare her the torture. Her body had been through enough in one night.

“Honey, let me have those keys please.” Sue Anne Marie had told him on realizing that he almost toppled over the Christmas mascot at Safari Park.

“Sam dear,” those close to her called her Sam, “we’ve already gone through this many times before. You can’t take on B until the one month mandatory test drive is over.” The BMW in question was a week old in the family and apparently, it was “bad omen” if she were to drive it before he had spent a whole month behind its wheels. Ken was stubborn. She knew he would not relent on his quest to have the BMW to himself for a whole month. He should have listened to her. 

She took a long glance at him. Still. Motionless. See-sawing between life and death. He had been full of life and vigour just hours ago. There was no telling whether he was still in there or not, wrestling for his life. Defying death. Her only hope and assurance lay in the machines nearby. As long as the screen showed a continuous graph of waves, as long as the beeping sound was distinct and digital, then her man was still in there.

She was all alone with him. She had avoided calling family and friends. She did not want to ruin the Christmas Eve for everybody… Her bag! Where was her handbag? Every form of identity and contacts she had were in that handbag. She would ask the doctor whether their personal belongings had accompanied them to the hospital… The doctor! Where on earth was he? Where in the world were all the nurses? Were they not supposed to be in the room with her? Watching over? Just in case? She strolled out to find the doctor. She was one big mass of confusion. It was the worst moment to be all alone…

The BMW had sped off down Thika highway at a thrilling speed.  The test driver had to be convinced that his baby could do the speeds they said she could do. Every other motorist was in a hurry. It would be unfair to be stranded on the highway on Christmas Eve. There were parties to go to and juggle through, more beer to be consumed waiting elsewhere, relatives calling to ask why you hadn’t arrived yet. The night before Christmas was supposed to be a silent night. Modern technology and indulgencies had made it the second rowdiest night after New Year’s Eve. It had only been ten when they left Safari Park but he had already consumed one too many. She should have been more firm with him…

The hospital was graveyard silent. Many had defied the urge to be sick on Christmas Eve. The few present were too sick to cause any activity. Too sick to move. Too injured to express their pain. The few relatives who were around religiously camped at their loved ones bedsides with the devotion of a monk in a monastery. Engaging in small talk was the last thing on their minds. Sue Anne Marie stood in the corridor of the vast ICU unit. She was still deep in thought. There she was in the middle of the greatest battle ground on earth. The place where life was won and lost on a daily basis. Her soldier was in that battle field. Fighting the silent war. The war of the spirits. She walked past room 12B. The beep had just become continuous and the wavy graph on the monitor had become a horizontal line. A soldier was down. Death had just claimed a victory. Even in a night as holy as the night before Christmas, the angel of death still made rounds. There was no entente in this battleground. Death art thou a villain! Sue Anne Marie concluded her thought and rushed back to her husband’s room. He wasn’t going to fight alone. She would help him defeat death…

The lorry would have flattened their car to a pulp. His two weeks old wife would not have survived the impact from her side. Both drivers were doing need for speed. Ken was negotiating the GSU roundabout while the lorry driver was seeking an entry from the outer ring road. Their friends were waiting. He had promised his boys that they would be at the Carnivore in less than thirty minutes. How else would they know that he had a new BMW. At Safari Park, he had taken several shots of Johnnie Walker’s blue label mostly on the rocks but once in a while neat. She should not have allowed him to drive. He should have listened to her...

She held his arm and tried squeezing it. No response. The strong masculine arms that had swept her off the floor on her wedding night could now not return a feeble squeeze. She would have given the whole world to make him know that he was not alone. That everything would be ok at the end. That he would be up and running soon to complete his compulsory one month test drive. She wondered where they had towed his BMW to. She had reason to believe that it would be the first thing he would ask about on regaining consciousness. She promised herself not to get jealous just in case. She could live with that. Sue Anne Marie could live with anything as long as her man was out of that bed. Alive and well. She will then be more firm with his indulgencies. She should have been more firm...

In a flash, he had placed his left hand on her tummy, murmured some I love you both honey and swerved violently to his side. She arched forward then the safety belt pulled her back to her sit. She lost consciousness. The lorry zoomed past; unscathed.

She and ken had dated for the past three years. They had met each other when she was an intern with a leading audit firm and he an ambitious section manager on a vigorous bid to make partner. It was his stubbornness and intelligence that had won her heart. Despite the corporate image and the thick skin developed due to cut throat competition, he still managed to be a gentleman and knew how to treat a lady. He was a hands on guy. He had heavily influenced the architecture of their house that was coming up in Runda. He had been involved totally in their wedding plans and had even picked the shape of their cake single handedly. He loved perfection. He was perfect for her…

The accident had left her unharmed. She must have passed out from panic. They had placed her in the general ward for tests and observation and taken him to the ICU for life support. He was the first person she had insisted on seeing when she regained consciousness. The nurse had insisted on her taking a rest for the night before worrying about him. She had threatened to comb the whole hospital in search of her love if they did not take her to him. The doctor had known better than to argue. She was also stubborn.

The doctor roused her from her thoughts unceremoniously. She was still tightly gripping his hand. Hoping to sense some motion in him.

“You need to get some sleep Sue” the young doctor advised. He was their family physician. “It’s been a long night.”

How could she go to sleep and leave him in that condition? How could she find sleep not knowing whether she would wake up on Christmas morning a widow? No, she would not sleep.

“I’m ok Jack.” She dismissed the sleep suggestion. “How’s he?”

“We’ve run some tests and more are to follow in the morning. Ken suffered a spinal cord disjunction just below the neck. His chances of survival are very high no doubt about that but he might have to live on a wheelchair for the rest of his life.”

Sue Anne Marie was in tears all this time. She could not tell whether she was crying from the joy of being told that he would live or from the pain of knowing that he would be disabled for the remainder of his life. She mumbled some question.

“Why for the rest of his life Jack? Why not a week, maybe a month? Why forever?” she was not ready to loose her man to disability if there was a way out. There were kids to be made and raised. Careers to be advanced. A lifetime on a chair? Hell no.

“The nerves affected controls movement of the lower limbs. As at now, he has suffered total limb impairment. The section can however go through a natural self healing process over time. It will all depend on how badly a patient wants to walk again. There are those who through sheer willpower are able to initiate the repair process faster while others fail and are wheeled for life.

“Isn’t there anything anyone can do to aid the process? Surgery in the West maybe?”

“Nothing that I say to you right now is conclusive Sue. We will need to do more tests. See how he responds to treatment. The spinal cord is one of the body parts that’s best left alone.” You shouldn’t have allowed him to drive while drunk. He wanted to add but on second thought he decided not to. He had attended the same high school with ken and knew that he could be stubborn.

He looked at him lying there helpless and his eyes welled with tears. He bit his lower lip and looked away to suppress an outburst. Many years ago in school, Ken had told him that if he went ahead and became a doctor, he would make him his family doctor. While joking about his good health, he had added that he would end up writing fat cheques to Jack for services and advice he would never use. That had been a long time ago. Who would have thought then that this day would come to pass at a time like this: the night before Christmas? A tear dropped to the floor. He blew his nose like one who had been crying all night. There was nothing to hide from Sue Anne Marie.

“He’s one hell of a buddy.” He told her.

“He’s one hell of a hubby” she replied.

He reached over and touched Ken’s forehead. Then he touched Sue Anne Marie’s shoulder and said.

“Ken will get out of this. I’ll do everything possible to get him back on his feet ASAP. A combination of medicine and miracle has been known to work in the past. I’ll need you to be strong for him.” He rubbed her shoulder and walked towards the door. He believed in his words. She believed in them too. At the door, Jack stopped and turned.

“BTW, the babies are doing fine.”

“Wha-” she was about to ask what babies but decided otherwise. Jack did not wait for a reaction. How could she not know?

Was her path crossing with that of providence? On helping with the design of their new house, Ken had insisted on the design being accommodative of people with disability. There was no way he would have known that she was pregnant before she did yet just before the accident, he had placed his hand on her tummy and said I love you both honey. She had thought he meant her and his BMW then.

She took his arm and placed it on her belly. She felt a slight motion in him. She knew he would be well soon. They would pray for that miracle fervently.

Daybreak was already changing shifts with the night when she fell asleep beside him, his hand still on her tummy. In a way, her fear had given way to hope. She sensed and believed that everything would end up okay. There were better days ahead. Everything was dead silent except for the reassuring beeps from the life support machines. It was the longest night before Christmas this…

*****

Happy Holidays. indulge responsibly.

Finding eX

Gerrarrahia!

So my neighbour had a heated argument with his hot girlfriend a week ago (well, it’s now some time back because this blog post was envisioned and first drafted sometime back ). The kind of argument that ends with tomorrow I don’t want to find you here...Take your stuff and gerrarrahia kinda argument. The kind that brings to light the inadequacy of his member (na sio ile member ya Equity Ikuate.)The kind that makes you mute your TV or radio and capture every word. It was quite an argument. The kind that makes you forget Obama was here, the Pope is coming and that a billionaire jackass is running for president in the US. Yes, that kind of argument. One that makes you forget important news items like the fact that there is no god like Jehovah... anymore and that pastor Nganga should get a full refund from his English teachers and use the cash to buy himself a real reo accent from Capirro. It was huge. Every equation in that argument that involved CHILLS rturned a zero...

Next morning, my neighbour wakes up from the couch, showers, brushes his teeth, fixes himself a nice cup of coffee, suits up and goes to work. (I don’t live with them so I’m just assuming this was the chronological order of events.) The hot girlfriend wakes up several hours after the cold has gone back to Limuru. She showers, shaves, brushes her teeth, looks at her boobs in the mirror, draws back her eye brows, Syokimanga’s her whole face and head and then sits down to her breakfast. . (I don’t visit their place after the boyfriend has gone to work so I’m just assuming this was the chronological order of events.) As ordered, she packs her suitcase and gets ready to gerrarrathea..................................

AfterMATH

Boyfriend comes back in the evening. Finds everything intact except that there is a slight rearrangement of stuff. There are hammer marks all over his electronic devices. The hot girlfriend must have tried to fix any wear and tear before leaving. He fumes and froths on the sides of his mouth and then lets out a war cry. The good neighbours gather to offer solace, advise, expertise and most important to see what the hot girlfriend did so that they can later tweet and blog about it under the hashtag #NeibahoodManenoz. If you ask me (and with all juu respect), they are all idiots these his good neighbours. They would have gone to luhya hell had jehovah not died so suddenly and mysteriously...

“At least she did not steal anything valuable.” Retorts one good neighbour. We all exchange silent gazes. The kind of gazes that affirm we all think she is the poster girl of the idiots establishment but nobody has the balls to say it loud because she is also hot. Using a hammer to create moon crater mosaic on electronics and furniture is definitely better than stealing. I can see the good neighbour from third floor thinking.

“Sasa utafanyaje?” There is always that good neighbour who asks rhetorical questions. This one was not hot and I saw my other good neighbours trip over each other in a bid to provide a Majibu za Makanga/walevi  kinda answers.

“ataita kesha waimbe kumbaya my lord....idiot!”

“Unataka aite Sonko Rescue Team? ....mscheeew!” Only hot girls are allowed to deposit their grey matter with a bank of their choice and walk around with nothing between their ears if they so wish. Only hot girls...

 “Sitaki maswali ya ufala mimi. “ The victim exploded. “Huyo ma-*insert word that rhymes with the Swahili name for a continent above Africa* amebeba documents zangu afanyie nini?”

In her bid to leave in a hurry before the boyfriend returned home, the hot girlfriend had mistakenly taken with her all his important papers that separate man from beast. His birth, KCPE, KCSE, KCUE, good conduct, KRA pin certificates. She had also taken his Kenyan passport, his original ID card, an assortment of ATM and credit cards...Any document that had the word certificate or important written all over it was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do!” Our neighbour concluded.

Nebuchadnezzar 

Another good neighbour offered his condolences. If it was him, the girlfriend would have brought the documents intact the following morning and paid for all the unsolicited repair work she had done with the hammer. Not because he would have called her and asked her to return the documents.  She would have returned them voluntarily and while at eat make a meal out of an acre or two of Kidero’s green grass. The good neighbour told us that ukambani was not only famous for Maendeleo chap chap. He told us that if you wanted Recovery chap chap, then Kitui was the place to be.

Since there is always such a neighbour who tries to peddle the power of dark magic in such an occasion, nobody took him seriously.

If Recovery chap chap was a reliable method, that green patch where mzee's mausoleum is, Uhuru park and many other green patches surrounding all the 47 county halls would be gone by now...

It was getting late and all the help we could offer in terms of giving an ear while offering absolutely no solution was exhausted. Two by two, we started going back to our boring lives. My next door neighbour, Olang, whom I have always suspected to be a smart arse was holding a piece of paper as we walked up the stairs. It was a photocopy of the victimized neighbour’s KCSE certificate. He had a D- in mathematics. So my neighbour Olang asks me solemnly (I now know he was telling and not asking)...If our neighbour Kariuki couldn’t find that X back in high school, what makes him think he can find this eX? I’m sure the Nyumba Kumi Initiative’s code of conduct states somewhere that a neighbour who portrays no sense of humour must be treated with suspicion and reported immediately but I reckon that Olang understands. The distance between the joke and my house door was negligible so there was not enough time left for me to do the math. At the time of going to press, our good neighbour, Kariuki is still busy trying to find eX...  

IN YOur MOther's ACcount: IT's SOmething FAther's USually SAy.

It has been evident throughout generations all across the world that politics makes little sense. You would equally be losing a lot of sleep and much needed brain cells trying to make sense out of an institution that makes no sense. I have since learnt to consider political players as overpaid comedians who chose fancy titles to accompany their names and the secret to survival in these murky waters is how fast you can apply abrakadabra. Before I start creating the illusion that I am much smarter than I look, let me get to the point. Uhm, before I get to the point, I would like us to drive this hashtag #SomeoneTellKellysMum to the top ten trending topics in Kenya this week. I will tell you why shortly.

Before I tell you why we need to make #SomeoneTellKellysMum trend, I will tell you a brief story of an experience I had with my father many years ago when I was a teenager trying to help in the family business as I awaited to join college. I’m not on a mission to complicate these issues and bore you to death so try stay with me please and I will knit all these lose ends I am introducing together to an amicable conclusion...

The reason why I want to share the brief experience I had with my father as a teenager was inspired by a twitter exchange that happened on Sunday between an honourable SORK and a tweep named Kelly. Ok SORK is borrowed from the same line as POTUS i.e Senator Of the Republic of Kenya. Here is an excerpt of the tweeversation: 

The honourable SORK was making a very serious contribution to the dilemma of how Kenyans can reclaim looted public property then the young Kelly chap interjects with a query of his own. Kenyans went ham about it and there were a million plus change interpretations to this little exchange between SORK and lil Kelly. Here is my take on the whole saga and I will relate it to a similar one I had with my dad those many years back.

You see, my dad used to be a land broker (let’s use the word real estate agent. Sounds more legit). A real estate agent identifies land that needs to be sold and finds a buyer for it or vice versa. The real estate agent adds a mark up to the price of the land to act as his commission. If say you want to sale your ka plot for Ksh. 1Million, a real estate agent will look for a buyer who is willing to buy it for Ksh. 1.43Million. If he is lucky, he can even get one who is willing to pay Ksh. 1.5M or Ksh1.7M or even 2 MILLION! After all, the business of land is purely a willing buyer-willing seller affair. Donge? So when my father finds a buyer willing to pay say Ksh. 1.7M, he will not go to the seller and tell him I have found a buyer willing to pay you Ksh. 1.7M. He will just tell him I have found a buyer. Infact if it was his friend Kariuki who had found this buyer willing to pay Ksh. 1.7M, Kariuki would go to the seller and say that he has found a serious buyer. Kariuki unlike my dad will not stop there, he will tell the seller that the buyer is only willing to offer Ksh. 900,000. You see, Kariuki has been in this land business for long and he knows how to drive a hard bargain. He knows when it is the buyer or the seller who is held between a rock and a hard place. He knows at the end of the day that other than the Ksh. 700,000 he has managed to broker from the buyer, he will also need the Ksh. 100,000 spill off from the seller to go buy for himself and his lady friends first generation brew. 

Since this story was not about the tyranny of numbers nor Kariuki and neither was it about my dad and how they connect willing buyers and willing sellers, I will summarize it thus. In such deals, the real estate agent’s prowess lies in not allowing the willing buyer to meet the willing seller because they will talk and realize they are being swindled WILLINGLY. If you were to ask me, there is nothing real about the real estate business, but what do I know?...

So there is this time that my dad had helped a buyer get a prime piece of land and he had made some good money. This money was god sent since my dad had gone for long without having brokered any land and his loans were in arrears and he was heavily in debt. Since it was family business, I was in charge of accounts. While in the process of balancing the accounts, I realized I could not locate the huge commission my dad had made from the prime land deal so I walked to where he was enjoying second generation brew with his friends. To my shock, I found them taking first generation brew but then I thought, maybe it was because he had made a really good commission like Kariuki. Since in those days the Mututho laws were still new and everyone was eager to implement them, I could not walk into the bar as  a teenager so I shouted to him from the doorsteps,

“ Dad, where is the money of the sold Tuskis Embakasi?”

At that time, dad was in the middle of a very heated debate and even without looking my way, he shouted back,

“In your mother’s account.”

He immediately went back to his heated conversation and I went and asked mother for her bank statement so that I could continue with the family business accounts audit. Clever dad, he had deposit the lump sum in my mother’s account to prevent the banks from recovering their arrears which could have wiped out his whole honey pot...

So when lil Kelly and the honourable SORK had a similar exchange, it took me back to the similar exchange I had with my dad and I could not understand why KOT went ham over such a small matter. I think the questions that we could have asked were simple:

1.      Was the Tokyo Embassy land floated for sale by a willing seller?

2.      Was a willing buyer identified?

3.      Did the willing buyer accept the quote he got from the real estate agents?

Since there is a pending case in court concerning the said prime land, it seems there was a problem between the willing seller, willing buyer and the real estate agents. We are a country that is governed by the rule of law and our court system is evidence based (there I go again trying to seem smarter than I look). The follow up questions from the tweet exchange begs thus:

1.      Is lil Kelly and the SORK related?

2.      Was lil Kelly just like me those many years ago trying to do some family audit and wanted to know where the commission had been deposited?

3.      Have the courts acted on the new evidence and asked for audited accounts of lil Kelly’s mum?

Just like lil’ me those many years ago when I could have called my dad aside and inquired about family matters privately, lil Kelly might have wanted to ask the SORK about the money maybe in an SMS but since he is hooked to twitter, he mistakenly asked the question in the open when the SORK was in a deep deep conversation of great national importance. But what do I know? I’ve been told before that I tend to think too much. Or maybe I just tend to think too little. I’m yet to figure out which is which but in the interest of the willing buyer who thinks he got a raw deal in the Tokyo Embassy land purchase, why can’t KOT help and have #SomeoneTellKellysMum to produce her audited accounts and prove whether the commission from the sale was deposited there or not?

KIBERA: Beneath the Billowing Smoke.

I have a way with words but this one has left me completely sobered. The sad thing is that this man seems genuinely serious in what he says and some of the comments there in are an endorsement of his very utterances. He doesn't look like your average joe and he has no telltale signs of being drunk or on drugs. This whole debacle is beyond condemnation. Kibera needs our love and support now more than ever. We have bashed, we have belittled, we have insulted, we have walked the holier than though road. Maybe it's time we sort to understand the underlying principles behind their actions and reasoning. Maybe it’s time we understood what binds them. Why would one chose to wallow in poverty for politics sake? Why would you harbour so much hate for someone that you would not even allow them to use the tax they collect from you to better your life. It’s a moral dilemma that requires all of us to hush out the noise so that we can listen to the silent cries. Kibera has been through decades of mental enslavement (whether self engineered or systematically indoctrinated) and we shall not change that overnight while mounted on our high horses.

The mind is a powerful organ, what you believe, you become. Kibera has adopted a set of beliefs and we are trying to preach our own set of beliefs, it won’t work. You can emancipate the body but until the mind becomes a part of the emancipation, it becomes an effort in futility.There’s need for more showing and less telling. They need not feel cornered or left out in the cold. Without using big words just for the sake of using them, a genuine paradigm shift must take place in Kibera. The real enemies of Kibera are not those allocating cash for necessary projects in Kibera. The real enemies of Kibera are those making incitements from the comfort of their office desks and press conference lounges, those tweeting and walling support for the barbaric acts from their expensive gadgets and when the smoke dies down and the dragon exhausts it breath of fire, it is not they that will run the risk of having a flying toilet land on their path. Their MP Shahs and Aga Khans will still be there awaiting to receive them when they check in sick or for a routine check up.

 It is said that one day the poor will have nothing left to eat but the rich and if not reversed, Kibera is approaching that day real fast. It’s human nature to bash that which we don’t understand and true to it, we cannot bring ourselves to understand why Kibera has decided to self destruct but hey who has tried love? Love and genuine love devoid of judgement brings understanding. We have seen great talent and moments of human triumphs come out of Kibera. Let’s focus on those small acts of triumphs and help Kibera change one day at a time. There can be only one permanent revolution — a moral one; the regeneration of the inner man – Leo Tolstoy.  #KiberaNeedsLove 

DAYS OF MY LIFE: What’s in a Title?

KIDS SAY THE DUMBEST THINGS

Maybe it was my bushy face or maybe it was my receding hairline that inspired the little rascal to add me in the not so coveted scroll of his ancestors. Or maybe the little bugger is seriously retarded and blurbs out whatever comes to his mind...

I got the shock of my life the other day when, while walking in my neighbourhood, I came across two kids playing in a pool of muddy water. Like the good Samaritan that I believe I am (It still takes a village to raise a kid, right?), I asked them to stop playing in the muddy water. They were like three or four years old give or take. A boy and a girl.

“guka?” called out the boy.

guKA! GUKA!!! Say what? Where did that come from!  My heart must have skipped a beat or two. I thought I must have heard him wrong so I winced my face, (o_O), to try and figure out if my ears had played a trick on me. The little girl, God bless her, although confirming that what I heard was right came to my rescue.

“sio guka. Ni uncle.”

Fewks! I exhaled. Another proof that girls are brighter and better judges of character age than boys.

So I left the two young ones to their play and went on my way. I thought about this new acquired title for the next 200 meters or so then I brushed it to the back of my mind. After all, I was not convinced how many plates of ugali it would add to my table at the end of the day if I continued belabouring on it.

BIG DEAL 

Technically I am a grandparent. I don’t think it is any consolation that the grandparenthood is by association or inference. You see, my first cousin has a son who recently got a kid. So if that makes my cousin a grandmother, then I guess it makes me a grandfather (because it would be foolish to start inventing new terms like grandcousin in this the 21^st century). A grandfather once removed (or whatever it is that royal families call it when they want to indicate distant linkages) is more like it.

You would think it is not a big deal until you get to hear someone mouth the word. It’s quite a bigger deal if you are in your early thirties and your boys have not even had the opportunity to swim the marathon of life and successfully hit the jackpot. It doesn’t add up to be acquiring the prefix title ‘grand’ before you even wallow in the miasma of fatherhood, does it?

I have my own reasons for being hesitant to accept the title so soon. We have a multimillion investment guru in this city who doubles up as a heart throb DJ at Capirro FM and is still regarded as one of Nairobi’s most eligible senior bachelors in his 70s (citation needed) and here I am being branded a guka for asking the kid not to play in the mud! Hell, our Excellency the president is still regarded affectionately as ‘kamwana’ by his supporters and he is now in his fifties.

THE TALK

I know I have some few years until my grandniece starts talking. 

Hopefully, we shall sit down and have the talk. The protocol talk. How does she address me? Am I comfortable being referred to as guka or not? Shall we be on first name basis or what?

As far back as I can remember, both my grandparents had white hair and were already respected elders in their villages by the time my cousins and I were calling them grandies? As far as I am concerned, I still have another 30 years give or take before the title comfortably sits with me. Until then, how about the universally accredited title of uncle or just plainly as Mwas, Mike, MMG, Mwangi or Gituro.

Like everything else which is wrong with the society and the world, I blame this confusion on politics and global warming. 

MATCH DAY: London Calls... Again

90 minutes of boredom plus added time. That’s all the Happy One needed to sit pretty secure at the helm of the richest premier league in the world last Saturday. To be honest, the only thing worth writing home about that match was that Oscar assist that yielded the goal and sent Manchester United on a wild goose chase for the remainder of the night. Maybe it’s because I was glued to our own labour at the Wembley.

I did keep my promise to the Devils (albeit until the 75^th minute. After that, I knew a draw would only spell doom and gloom for we Gooners). I found myself celebrating with them on the bonoko goal they thought they had scored early into the game. I myself (oh bite me! This is not an English essay assignment)...I myself was surprised at how genuinely I wanted the Devils to take the three points. I foolishly believed that my beloved Arsenal had a chance at the big one if the Devils held the Blues progress but alas, who has ever trusted the devil and come out victorious anyway?

I had taken the foolishness a notch higher and thought that my beloved Arsenal would follow in the heels of the Man U win and also scoop three whole points from the blues come Sunday.  To bring the blue carcass home, the little mongrels at mid and bottom table would also take points (or a point) here and there and deny Mourinho the Happiness he came looking for in the Queens land.

Well, I am well reminded and corrected that Mourinho is not your average SAF or Wenger or Pellegrini or Brendan Rogers. He does not simply whip his horse all the way to the home stretch and then let the second or third jockey cross the finish line first.

 I am also well reminded, albeit incorrectly that the opium I was high on when writing the previous post SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE must have gotten to the wrong part of my brain. Blame the opium on my producer and fellow Gooner, baba T.

Well, I also blame it on love. You see, love makes you do foolish things. It clogs your judgement and prevents you from thinking straight. My love for Arsenal led me to all that error of judgement last week. It made me hop into bed with our enemy and yielded no results.

This post is a reality check. It will be devoid of influences from Love and Other Drugs.

Tyranny of Numbers

Numbers rarely lie. If I’m to invoke the little statistics knowledge between my ears, then the custodians of the trophy must already be in the market place looking for some blue ribbons and the engraver is already perfecting the curve on the C.  They need 6 points from 6 remaining matches to be crowned. That means Mourinho can pick a point from each of the matches and still mount the top podium. He can close the chapter with two consecutive wins then sleep through the other four. Whichever way you want to look at it, the odds are greatly in his favour.

My goon loyalty is in no question but I’m not expecting much at the Emirates on Sunday. The prof. Is quite optimistic with his current victory run but hey, it is home bound Chelsea we are talking about. The Happy One will bulldoze through, no doubt about it. 

I wish I was a magician but that’s not what I promised at the top on this post. I promised to be a realist. If I were to put any money anywhere, I would not put it where my mouth will be on Sunday, I would put it where Mourinho is...

The Pride Battle

Having waved the EPL trophy bye-bye, the pride battle now remains between us and the Devils. A battle for position two. There is no fundamental difference between finishing at position two or three but if you are a Gooner or a Devil, you know it means the world to finish on top of each other (stay out of the gutter please). 

 

The gods of football were well aware of this and they ensured that this pride battle would be decided the second last match when the two rivals meet. They already have the first half from Emirates. We really need to whip them at Trafford...

History Beckons at the Wembley

It was not a walk in the park as had earlier predicted but thanks to our golden boy Sanchez, we shall be going for a place in history at the Wembley. It took 120 minutes to dismiss Reading but that’s now water under the bridge. 

 I’m sure baba George, the Duke of Cambridge, will be in the VIP stands to cheer his club to victory but it will require more than royalty to stop the Gunners from  a successful FA defence. #ThisThingWeAreTaking.  I would have preferred Liverpool as these smaller teams can be a real pain in the nether but hey, Aston Villa, bring it on...

ION

One of these fine days, there will be more cameras directed towards the dugout area than towards the pitch. There seems to be more drama from the big five managers when they meet than from their teams...

Keep your midget hands of my Ralph Suit

Come here you portuguese dwarf

Get your tall french @$& outta here

there! Nimegusa.

#%%^&&*3#$@ @ #$#$%^&

Knock it off you two