Friday, June 29, 2012

Excerpt from "The Pornographic Conspiracy"

"Here's how the scheme to destroy the family is mapped out: 
  1. Eliminate the sacredness of the marriage covenant from the minds of the masses. 
  2. Make them believe marriage is outdated and blasé 
  3. Inspire hatred against the family unit, manhood and fatherhood 
  4. Institute no-fault divorce and encourage serial divorces 
  5. Incite rampant promiscuity, fornication and adultery 
  6. Make having illegitimate children become a common practice 
  7. Convince society that a child in the womb is not a human being 
  8. Provoke women to have abortions without regard to God or their consciences 
  9. Make true love seem like cheap amusement 
  10. Stimulate the people to confuse sex with love 
  11. Create an environment that encourages unwed single motherhood 
  12. Inspire men to disrespect, dishonour and abuse women 
  13. Design laws that motivate women to commit paternity fraud 
  14. Incite homosexuality, lesbianism, sexual immorality and perversion 
  15. Influence men to effortlessly abandon children they sire 
  16. Most importantly, provoke a fierce relentless gender war 

Is there anybody reading this who can't draw parallels with their own society?"

From the writings of the late Philip Jones, which collection can be found on

Thursday, June 21, 2012

State of the 'Truthers'

Nothing is as it seems in the current order of things. It is a mirage of smoke and mirrors, a succession of false flag attacks and a hotbed of mass misinformation media.

I picture the The Truth Movement to include everyone who knows that mass media hardly broadcasts the plain truth. In my head, many seekers begin their Truth Movement adventure with the realization that 9/11 was an inside job controlled demolition. Enter cognitive dissonance. For me, it has become the litmus test for every politician. All the current lot of US presidential candidates are busy failing that test. But that's just the elementary level, there's more.

 Unfortunately, "9/11 truth" is probably one of very few things on which the diversity of "truthers" agree.

Like so many other organizations, the Truth Movement finds itself pulling in many diverse directions. I suspect it has been infiltrated by deceivers and manipulators. Outright enemies out to discredit it have also sneaked in, agents provocateurs, wolves in sheepskin. And there is no end to unscrupulous snake-oil salesmen who are making a fortune from "exposing the NWO," to say nothing of gullible but honest-hearted observers fueled by paranoia above all else.

Many in search of a solution have narrowed their diagnostic focus exclusively on the economics, or on society's declining morality, or on wrongheaded or diabolical government policies. They do not realize that to see the big picture, all bits of the puzzle have to fit together. Social engineering is a holistic enterprise from its conceptualization to its actualization. All our base are theirs.

The New Age movement has firmly planted its banners in the midst of the movement, coloring the end-time scene with a deceptive spiritual hue. One rightly points to spiritual malaise as the root of the current global troubles, but to introduce doctrines of devils as the solution is "deception by misdirection". Many disillusioned souls will fall for their illusory balm.

Eventually the so-called Truth Movement will share the fate of any factionalized revolutionary movement: collapse into itself due to infighting. Meanwhile, the truth for which they claim to be fighting will only ever feature marginally in their rationale and mostly lie forgotten somewhere. And the enemy will celebrate, unscathed by a divided enemy, happy to let them tear each other's credibility and effectiveness apart.

It breaks my heart.

If only the "truth movement" would unite behind GOD's Word, which happens to be the comprehensive truth! Then might divine results be expected in this spiritual battle we all wage.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

From the Field

Let me summarize this post in the introduction: “Field Work was an interesting tour of Western Province”.
I toured the interior of Western Province in the name of work, traversing the rural hinterland. Some places have no real roads, where most mud huts are grass-thatched, and their owners till the soil by day. Barefoot kids ran behind our motorbike, cheering wildly, which suggests just how remote those areas are.

Entering Western Province, I had high hopes of interacting with a different culture from my own – which I am out of touch with. This “exchange program” was disappointing: the only remnant of culture in this corner of the planet may be their language. Blame it on global villagization. As far as I could see, Western Kenya has become uniform with the rest of Kenya: conformed to the rigors of the money cycle. Just like the rest of the world, Western Kenya aspires to Westernize. It may be time to ask “Why? At what cost?” But it’s too late. Whatever cultural artifacts and rites remain are reserved for seasons and sales, but they have largely lost their communal essence.

I enjoyed and/or suffered many Chinese Motorbike ( aka bodaboda/okada) experiences. The rider would frequently overtake ten-wheeler trailers on narrow dusty all-weather roads at breakneck speeds as I held on to my perch at the back. We would hit potholes and fly over bumps like Motocross champions, so that the motorbike’s suspensions would complain with alarming grinding creaks. A lot of the time I feared for my life as I passed inches wide of a series of gigantic trailer wheels bouncing heavily along the murram. But our rider seemed to know what he was doing, which assurance was a regulating influence on my frightfully frequent bursts of adrenaline. Ultimately, our Chinese Motorbike thrills climaxed in Mount Elgon area. The road was muddy, so we got along by drifting - moving forward by skidding sideways. There was a lot of legwork involved to maintain balance. The wheels spun furiously in search of grip, the bike engine alternately roared and wheezed; the stench of burning engine oil assailed our nostrils. Inevitably we fell in the mud, rider and passenger together, after which we had to carry the motorbike for a bit. Luckily we could laugh about it.

My vegetarian conundrum (elsewhere mentioned) persisted: Green farms everywhere and not a vegetarian meal to be had! It was truly puzzling. One often found oneself relegated to junk food for supper in the name of avoiding flesh. One nearly opens an NGO to champion vegetarians’ equal representation rights.

I took extra effort to identify and play soccer with the locals wherever I went. After a whole day on the back of a Chinese motorbike, which makes the lower back rigid, a fast and vigorous evening game of soccer is just the thing to set one's anatomy straight. That was always exciting. I particularly liked the team at Bungoma’s Kanduyi Stadium.Fun and talented lot.

I took a brief detour into Uganda when I was in Malaba, the border town, because I harbored delusions of international tourism. However I barely went a kilometer into Uganda. But that one deserves a whole other post.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

Slow Motion Agony

Just at the instant when a soccer tackle turns painful, a “slow motion” effect occurs on the victim’s perceptions of real-time events, which effect starts from the demobilizing tackles’ contact and through an awkward fall to the ground. No wonder injuries are replayed in slow motion.

Our opponent was a powerful gang of Moi University (Yala Campus) youths, who approach soccer like University of Nairobi would approach anti-riot police. And they run like maniacs. And they tackle hard. Inspired/instructed to ”miss the ball, but don’t miss the player,” they earned two red cards but this was not enough to quench their fire. They beat us six goals to two.

(Look, we were freaked out to near madness. All the violence and speed disoriented us. We play touch football, we aspire to Spain’s tiki-taka style; not England’s rugby style of soccer. )

A soccer tackle gone bad is a horrible moment of sharp and heightened clarity. The tackle already hurts but I can feel in advance what that upcoming contact with the ground will feel like when it happens. There’s not enough time or space in mid air to do anything much about it, besides to recognize and appreciate the fact for all it’s worth. I may try to dilute certain doom with a roll or may just slam me down on the grass and lie still quick. It is a too-vivid agony of hyper-alertness, for which everything else seems to be on hold for all that is at stake: safety, whole limbs, consciousness and sometimes, life itself. Unfortunately, this world has some people in it who tackle like that.

Happily, most times following these accidents, I rise to my feet, emerge with some bruises and dirt, check for sprains. The game continues; I am less inclined to try to dribble past such maniacs at the next opening. A simple pass to a nearby teammate will have to suffice. If such an opponent gets to close too fast, blast the ball far away. It is always a safe time to play safe.
Some brawlers disguised in soccer wear are not decent enough to care what preservation rights your ankle joint is entitled to. Occasionally, a zealous opponent will corner you, flat out sweep you off your feet with a powerful sweep of his own foot, a take-no-hostages sweep, ruthlessly and spectacularly executed, comprehensively covering the entire span of his STRIKE zone. TRIP! Then it’s slow motion again for you the victim as, first footing, then balance, are lost, but alas! Momentum endures still. Pain, horror, surprise and fear, divided in time between the impact that’s just happened and the crash that’s just about to happen, frozen within a tangibly fluid fragment of aerial suspension not long to last, whose end is pain, and who knows what else?

Through it all, a calm and aloof awareness persists, cool and final: “I may be falling but I’m not dead YET.” This reassuring instinctual certainty makes us think fast, try to control the fall.

Monday, June 18, 2012

Mum versus Steve Austin

Before I learnt that WWE was all just some stage-managed, scripted posturing, and that their ‘special moves in the ring’ were choreographed, I was a big fan. My brother too. Back then we were tiny tots. Unfortunately, we each supported rival fighters.

I liked The Rock, likely because he was the obvious underdog, even though I suspected that his favorite line to shout was an incomplete statement:“If you smeeeeell…. What The Rock is cooking!” So what, if you smell it?

My brother was a fan of Stone Cold Steve Austin, who swaggered in announced by the signature sound of shattering glass. I hated him, because he loved showing the finger and was always quaffing alcohol from cans and being a general lout, throwing emptied beer cans about. Unfortunately for me, Stone Cold Steve Austin regularly whooped The Rock black and blue, which may have laid the foundations for my empathy towards underdogs, which endures to this day.

Snap to a hot afternoon in the car park of Maxwell SDA Church Nairobi. My brother and I were seated in the stuffy car waiting for mum to finish whatever it was she was finishing with other mums. The boredom and impatience drove us into taking up the causes of our respective WWE fighters; chanting their respective slogans over and over again in an attempt to outshout each other. It was ridiculous barbarity. In hindsight, I daresay we were semi-consciously conducting our sibling rivalry behind the mask of wrestler allegiances. That's probably the same reason I prefer Arsenal and he prefers Manchester United.
Point is, mum walks into the car just as my brother has his biceps bunched and he is shouting “STONE COLD STEVE AUSTIN!”

Now there is trouble. “What does that mean?” asks mum sternly.
Lil bro attempts to shrug it off. “Just someone on TV.”

“Someone in wrestling!” I clarify.

“Okay,” says mum, “What does Stone Cold mean?”

My bro and I look at each other and instantly recognize what’s up. This can only end in PUNISHMENT.

“Cold like a stone,” I venture, acting the fool.

“No,” says mum.

“Cold and hard like a stone,” insists Bro, “because he’s strong.” I nod.

Mum: “If you don’t tell me right now what Stone Cold means, you’ ll see fire burning!”

This forced me to contemplate the issue, although I knew the answer. Stone Cold meant the guy couldn’t care less if he broke your neck or murdered your young family. His other nickname was “The Rattlesnake”. But these were insights I could not present to Mum because then it would mean the argument took a step forward into WHY we were supporting such a misfit.

“That’s not fair, we don’t know!” whined Bro.

“I’m still thinking,” I said, buying time.

Mum knew we were lying. Still, bro and I sat looking lugubrious for the remainder of the trip home. Fortunately we didn’t ‘see fire burning,’ either because mum forgot, or because she let it slip.

But the way I figure it today, Mum soundly beat Steve Austin that day, and it was a FLAWLESS VICTORY.

PS: I don’t know why I remember these childhood events. They just come back.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Ready answers

It was one of those evenings when all answers make no sense and the questions are just as illogical. Or maybe I was just tired.

"Why are you avoiding me?" texted the Ex, after nearly a month's hiatus. I had taken the revolutionary step of deleting her number from my phone memory, but my brain memory clung to that number like a - ahem - like a bad ex.

"For the obvious reason," I replied.

Maybe such situations is why prepackaged comprehensive worldviews exist. "Should doubt enter, go with the flow!" "In case of difficulty, read the manual!" Asking too many questions in a fractured order of things can drive you crazy. There are no satisfactory answers, so reach for the prefabricated ones. Exes generally do not entertain each other. Simple is easy.

"We have music pending," came the perfectly logical reason.

"Then I guess I'm not avoiding you."

A fleeting impatient wait. And then, her text: "Forget it."

Classic! Bait, lure and discard. Now I had to pretend to placate her spirits.

Which shorthand ideology best applies, between Life is unfair, or, Stick to the plan?

Friday, June 8, 2012

Karma is also extra-judicial!

Justly do the oppressed cry out
for judgement deems their cry a warning.
Their oppressor best pay heed.

Innocent blood is a stubborn stain,
an accuser never silenced;
impossible to ignore, seeking vindication.

Innocent blood cries out,
ceaselessly demanding justice -
an urgent cry, pleading with tears.

Justice shall respond to nonstop nagging,
and present Himself suddenly
to shedders of innocent blood.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Poet-Try (attempt at humor)

No magazine, newspaper or tabloid will pay to publish this poem (below) in its Featured Author section… heck, not even in small print upside-down near the crossword or amidst classifieds or in any of the many margins. Yes, I asked.

I don’t get it… I mean, the poem rhymes and stuff, doesn’t that count for something? It’s what poems do, right? As for inspiration, the first line is the inscription on a t-shirt of mine, and wasn’t no copyright info on it, but even if there was some tiny small print, that’s like only 10% plagiarism; cut me some slack for goodness’ sake. 90% is the work of my own original brain. And the logic in the message is flawless. The poem is a fountain of knowledge.

Here you go. Rescue my ego. (You see that? …go ….ego?! I rhymed without even trying.)
Alright, now. Prepare to say wow. (You see? It’s evident…I got talent!)
Evident and talent just happen to rhyme by the way.
Screw what other tricks poets use; I’m set like a fuse.
Anyway. Enough brilliance. Here’s the poem which was foolishly and fraudulently rejected by the enemies of progress. (Any lawyers out there think I have a case? Please call me!)


Born to party, forced to work!
What a pity! It is whack!

Parties are fun. Work doth sucketh,
But to taxman contributeth.

Pay tax my brother. Do your bit.
Pay tax my sister, or get him to do it.

Get a day job. Pay as you earn.
“Tax makes you sob,” is what you will learn.

I’ve changed my mind: Party all you want,
Shake your behind. Don’t work if you can’t.

My friend you see, Tax is no increment.
Set yourself free. Avoid employment.

This poem is legendary. It’s writer is awesome.
He spake “Be wary: Avoid boredom.”

Monday, June 4, 2012


On screen, someone is agonizing loudly about something, and rolling on the ground in obvious pain as his hand clutches his midsection. Out of nowhere, a laughing spirit pops into the scene in a spectacular haze of cheap camera tricks, and it’s not clear if anything is that funny but it is laughing hard and eye-balling everyone and everything at the same time, to say nothing of ashy-looking skin, general awkwardness of bearing, and absolute shabbiness of clothing (Spirits don’t have swag.) After laughing and goofing off for a while, it shoots sparks, strobes, rays, lasers and fireballs out of its eyes and these things go and somehow kill the sufferer, whose gut reaction in the circumstances is to reach for own neck and thrash about rather vigorously. The spirit screams a high pitched laugh and disappears. Camera zooms in to the dead person’s bloodied face (Blood? How come?) and the music is supposed to portray that justice has been done because the soloist in the moralizing soundtrack is repeatedly laying stress on the chorus in this the climax of the movie. Viewers must now tolerate a full five minutes of the dead person being exhibited as the camera pans left and right between his eyes as if to search for signs of life. None, he’s the deadest man there ever was. Good. Screen blacks out to a message; “To God be the glory.” Credits roll. Another Nollywood production ends.