Friday, November 24, 2017

Romantic Love

My beloved is a gilded graveyard
Wherein are buried alive my insecurities
Not quite dead yet but out of sight
For the time being

A game of mutual deception
Far from reality we play in all earnest
Through the cracked facade softly gleams candlelight.
Sweet nothings echo in the semidarkness
And strummed strains of slow music.

Bound in throes of passionate addiction
Lies one hapless voluntary victim
The dealer doles out the drug sadistic
Tottering on the brink of overdose

At a chance event the tables turn
the needle rolls to the other side
And the victim turned inquisitor
With relish dishes out just desserts

May fortune long postpone the day
The maddening liquor runs out on us
Lord soften the blow when inevitable dawn
Uncovers the limits of candlelight

Friday, October 13, 2017

By Default

There you are
in the back of my mind.
Though officially a write-off,
Disqualified, untouchable,
Yet you remain the constant:
the persistent standard,
Against which my consolation prizes
must be compared;
Against whom they unknowingly

Dishonorable Discharge

What do i tell you, how do I begin? My heart is heavy.

Much will be left unsaid, for this is neither the time nor the place.

Nor shall future occasion arise for sweet nothings, for this is the end.

Love was sweet madness. It swept me headlong into waves of excitement. The ragged cliff of sanity against which I have crashed has inflicted a wound that is impossible to withstand.

To what purpose did I draw solace from your arms, inspiration from your gaze, pleasure from your voice?

"Love" had nothing to do with it: for all its thrilling delusions the end of love is a kick in the jaws, a belly full of one's own teeth.

Was I not better off as I was, alone, a thing disregarded by all, quiet and unassuming, minding my business, secure in obscurity, before you appeared?

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Book Review: The Polygamous Sex

This blog's mere existence suggests that I am socially maladjusted, nor does my reviewing of books by controversial authors like Esther Vilar debunk that myth.

And now, having thus smoothly introduced this blogpost (that was not selfconscious or awkward at all!) here is my long overdue promised review of The Polygamous Sex by Esther Vilar.

Simply, it is not a very heartwarming book. Certainly not motivational. The tagline is "a man's right to the other woman." That hotly behind "The Polygamous Sex." Cover art? Man dragging multiple women behind him by their hair! What is Esther Vilar trying to do here?

Foolhardy me, I open the book nonetheless. The premise is that men predominantly marry dependents (less intelligent, younger, weaker women than themselves) and then seek sex partners (intellectual equals) outside the marriage. The problem is that the men are not consciously aware of the nature of the initial blunder, or their motivations in the subsequent blunder, therefore often the same error is repeated. The women play along because it works well enough for them; indeed modern society runs on and perpetuates this script.

For example you have probably heard a Nairobi slay queen say her man must be more intelligent than she is. This ensures a fatal intellectual mismatch for the relationship. After the initial novelty wears thin he will begin to run around behind her back in search of an intellectually fulfilling conversation. Cue cries of "Emotional Infidelity!" I am oversimplifying here.

It is an easy premise to dismiss at face value, but she presents it early, and spends the rest of the book exhibiting the truth of this in a comprehensive spectrum of varied relationships. And it is like reading all the minutiae of a train crash in slow motion. Simultaneously outrageous and oddly gra tifying.

Many are the times I turned from the book in disgust at myself only to remember that the book is not written against me specifically. It is that effective at opening up a man's mind to himself. Vilar has the mind of a man figured out and she is not sorry. The book tells you exactly why a man will seek additional lovers in a way that makes you commiserate with the poor man. He is just seeking an (one) intellectual equal, but he ends up amassing a herd of helpless, blonde damsels in distress who he can't love like he really wants to coz he's gotta play dad and they are too happy to play daughters (pardon my oversimplification of the case). At some point early in the book I said "whoa, looks like Vilar's got an incest fetish" but further reading revealed that suspicion to be my mind backfiring on itself.

Now the copy of the book that I read was ruined by bursts of parenthetical italicized commentary scattered at various points in the text by one KJ. Now clarifying Vilar's words, now objecting, now correcting her, now opining contrarily... Why didn't KJ do the right thing by avoiding the interruption of a very important literary work? Why didn't KJ write a separate dissenting blog post instead, to preserve the flow of ideas in the book? We will never know. I for one did not appreciate that ill-masked attempt to upstage Esther Vilar. I inwardly resent having to acknowledge said KJ here, that idle busybody.

And now in closing, consequences. The blasted book shed an unexpected light on my relationship. If it is to be believed, our love affair is doomed; it only seems like love because neither of us has finished idealizing the other, and our fatal flaw is our intellectually unequal partnership. The damned book made me realize it. I was sad about it for almost three days, seeing no way around it but immediate breakup. But other concerns overtook my mind and then I was okay for months, having forgotten, but now I am sad again because writing this infernal review has reminded me.

Let me call her.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Shall not the oppressor cease?

The provocations we see in Kenya today (they can not be otherwise characterized) bode ill for Kenyans. The powers that be have discarded any pretense of goodwill.  They dare their opponent to war, they have "horses, chariots, armed men" beyond number, and plenty of wrath with which to enforce their will.

As evidenced by the repressive brutality against university of Nairobi students on 28th September 2017, their manifest modus operandi is to stamp out all dissent whether legal or illegal, irrespective of whether the stamping itself is legal or illegal, proportional or not.

They will also sweep these black events under the carpet in their haste to proceed with business as usual. They expect, without explicitly stating it, that the message has been sent, and will stick in the memory, though the official record will not mention it, neither will any public official go on record to deny or affirm it. But their will be reiterations of the message as frequently and as emphatically as they will deem fit. Care will be taken only to ensure that it is not spelt out in crude words, but in blood and theft and molestation.

And thus in effect goes the message soon to be widely felt rather than heard:

Let all communities from now henceforth submit to a garrison in their midst.

The garrisons will clobber whom they will, seize property on whim and rape whomsoever their lusts can seize.

The garrisons will not cease until all faces are uniformly subdued in quiet desperation, and even then, they will not cease.

Many "heroes" will die.

Their grip on power will not slacken.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017


Social media has left a digital trail behind each of its adherents, of their interactional footprints. Everything you ever liked, uploaded, posted or shared, whether or not it was thereafter unliked or deleted, left an electronic mark that ties you to it. It need not call for a forensic expert; any stalker will suffice. "The Internet never forgets!"

Therefore as I review my postings on the plethora of social media platforms I am subscribed to, I am compelled to cringe inwardly and outwardly. For if I were to be judged by mere mortals on some of the more frivolous content I have authored here and elsewhere, I myself would have to preemptively plead a loud shout of "GUILTY OF ALL CHARGES! PROCEED TO JUDGEMENT!" in order to abbreviate the agony of having all that foolishness scrutinized again.

But a more comprehensive record than our social media footprints is written in heaven's book of records. Every thought, every word, every deed, with their consequences good and bad, is written, with terrible exactness, by unseen angels. It is a depiction of our character more vivid than any high definition selfie.  How much more cringeworthy is that record!

LORD have mercy.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017

My Pride and Joy

Gentle and earnest, queen uncrowned,
You adorn my presence.
Calm and quiet, words well measured,
your pleasant voice thrills my soul.
Wise and prudent, yet a humble student,
I would love to enter your mind:
to know the software of your heart,
that so seamlessly syncs with mine;
To examine your delicate voice box
which tenderly caresses my soul.
your Brown Eyes calm my fears,
you excite my passions,
You lift my spirits,
My pride and joy.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Traitors and their Fake Accents

Kenyan media have decided that all the black events surrounding Kenya's 2017 election mean nothing, whether viewed in isolation or as one big picture. For the most part they have reduced the few incidents they deem worthy of broadcast to absurd isolation. "Just some rotten luck for these guys." Fearful of repercussions, they are reduced to spineless fencesitters content to peddle the illusion of normalcy, to engage our thoughts with frivolous programming, shrouding our minds in noisy darkness and distraction, tiring our hearts while we look to them for illumination.

And they still find time to squeeze in soap operas, comedies and cartoons between newscasts. Live, love, laugh. As usual.

The verdict on the street is well known by all. But you won't hear it on the TV. That screen is hallowed ground;  it is the venerated temple of cowardly sellouts and eloquent traitors, the plain truth dare not tread where masters of spin can easily lay hold of it.

Friday, May 26, 2017

Brown Eyes

My predecessors came along and departed.

And then they left you in their wake for others.

To seek new conquests.

To let others conquer.

I thought me special, benevolent, different than the rest.

I thought to be The One for you.

My wise reign would never end.

Did I not give you my word?

Yet you held your tongue.

But belated enlightenment yielded unsolicited meaning.

Without which I almost became very special indeed:

The One that didn't get away from you.

What made me think I would endure the test of time?

Why should I have broken tradition?

Who did I think I was?

Lest I mistake myself for the fool you take me for

for I go mad grappling with the distinction.

Answer me this only, just this one thing.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

The entitlement is STRONG

Your murky past lay quiet in the dark fog as I ravished you forgetting myself.

Suddenly out of erstwhile placid if dim mists burst forth furious fire breathing monsters, laying waste to my pride, scattering my focused ardour, interrupting my heedless lust, mauling my ego to shreds.

My manhood shrivelled amidst the fiery blast. I did reel dazed.

And you dare protest that my love for you should salve scalds thus recieved.

And you dare expect said love to blind me to the eyesore it inflicted.

"As you were," you dare order.

It's just one demand too many, a little bit too much.