Sunday, January 7, 2018

By Design

Why does memory not cling
to the face of a loved one?
Only the concept of them endures,
the feeling they inspire.
Their unique features float adrift
upon an ocean of emotion.

Is it not a trick of nature
To ensure we seek the beloved again
And restore their face to memory?
Or rather to try again
and again

Sunday, December 31, 2017


People tell me I am funny and interesting. Flatterers. They clearly have not met my brother.

He relates well with all kinds of people: old and young, rich and poor.

We understand one another. It enables us to discuss issues in great depth.

We do not always agree though.

I could try to write about him here. I have mentioned him elsewhere.

But you should just meet him yourself to find out.

Wednesday, December 20, 2017

Brethren and Sistren

I am a marginal member of one youth choir in church. Marginal status therein is due to my slackness in attending practices and consequent knowledge of only very few songs in full.

I love this group. Though I have made few friends (substantially) over two years, all my contacts with this mixed group revive my faith in humanity. They are generous, interesting, intelligent, funny, humble achievers, excellent singers.

Though I tire quickly of relationship talk, which is rampant amongst us, I understand that this is the time and setting for just such talk. Out there in the world the pickings are too precarious a lottery. Marriage is high stakes, everything is on the line. (Serious face)

The tendency has been for members to "graduate" upon marriage, leaving the youth choir, whether to the main church choir (highly recommended) or to settled marital bliss.

I always feel bad about my inability to attend practices regularly. This blog would be the ideal platform to pledge undying loyalty going forward, but I am learning to make no promises I can't keep. Sometimes being a man of your word means avoiding words you will not be a man of.

Stick around though. You will be hearing about our exploits.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

They sang my name beautifully

Did they not lustily sing my name, a bevy of beauties arrayed beyond the distant touchline, after I had dashed speedily upon a loose ball, kicking it furiously towards goal, whereupon it flew at and thrashed hotly against the befuddled goalkeeper, and spent what wrath remained from my kick upon the inside of the upright, before rolling to a stop inside the goalpost?

At which sight I did exult mid-flight; still running I pumped my fists victorious, interminable waves of spontaneous laughter erupted from within as teammates closed in on me, we all bouncing up and down like gazelles, our very souls enthralled in celebratory ecstasy as high fives slapped left and right. Sustained bursts of cheering rent the air.

The buoyant uproar died down only very reluctantly under the referee's strident whistle-blowing, and lastly for the sake of the game's resumption the sound of jubilation eventually faded away amidst enduring palpable joy, only to leave the hot afternoon air quiet enough at last for the sultry sopranos of sensuous singing sirens to be heard:

"Tunaye Tony, aaa Tony,
Tunaye Tony, hamtamweza!"

My myopic eyes directed a futile gaze at the distant blur from which the melody emanated, a smile again stretched my lips; laughter again parted said lips as the song was incessantly repeated, striking a harmonious note with my racing heartbeat that pounded away with pride.

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

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.