Sheeple = Who We Are

Alternative media has lately taken to using the term "sheeple" to reference the overwhelming mass of people. It is a play on the words sheep and people. The intent is fully derogatory, seeing how sheep are the foremost ambassadors of 'group think', and famous for being foolish. And people, as in, people.

I just wonder where alternative media journalists are standing when they exclude themselves from the sheeple they so like to deride. What superior stance can they claim? Is their inside knowledge of the social engineering that is being marshaled against the peoples of the world any basis for such intellectual snobbery?

On the contrary, I blog this here today to lure alternative media down off their high horse with the declaration that we are all sheeple together, every last one of us. I say this from the perspective of one who used to look with disdain upon the "ignorant" masses. Why can't the sheeple not see what is coming? I often wondered with great perplexity. How can people be content to be reduced to regularly sated consumers in such perilous times? The concerns remain valid, but in my cogitations, I was excluding myself from the sheeple, as so many of my blogosphere peers continue to do.

image from xkcd.com

Knowledge truly is useful in these critical end times. Yet it must be balanced with humility; which is really only a realistic realization of one's real position. I may know inside facts about the New World Order, secret societies, moral rot, Hollywood, pop cult-ure, economic collapse, military industrial complex and war, superviruses and superbugs, satellites in the sky, Big Brother surveillance, Lady Gaga and other dark sinister happenings. I might even know that the whole thing combines into a hell of an abominable demon-controlled principalities and powers of darkness enterprise. Knowing all this, humility is the only logical reaction to the question "What can I do about it?"

We are all sheeple together, upto and including humans coopted into this diabolical darkness. The only difference is which shepherd we listen to. If we were not sheeple, then how could we claim the promise oft recited in Psalm 23:1, "The LORD is my Shepherd; I shall not want"?

JOHN 10:1-5

1 Verily, verily, I say unto you, He that entereth not by the door into the sheepfold, but climbeth up some other way, the same is a thief and a robber.

² But he that entereth in by the door is the shepherd of the sheep.
³ To him the porter openeth; and the sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out.
⁴ And when he putteth forth his own sheep, he goeth before them, and the sheep follow him: for they know his voice.
⁵ And a stranger will they not follow, but will flee from him: for they know not the voice of strangers.

Progress? Where?

A blogger will tell you: sometimes blogging is purely therapeutic.

Writing an internet blog is often just like shouting into a black hole in the vacuum that is deep space. It screams futility; it reeks of pointlessness. I mean, the internet is chock-full of people seeking an audience, if we ignore all those guys copy-pasting their assignments at the last minute. It's like everyone is on stage with a mic - and the pews are empty. Speaking of which, my most visited blog post is entitled "Scramble and Partition of Africa," which makes me suspect it's only ever googled and visited by students researching assignments under that title. I wonder if my alternative views of history contribute positively to their grades. Perhaps? No.

Today I rant as always against the myth of progress. It's ridiculous. Everything from politics to economics is going to the dogs all across the world. Even the entertainment is demonically influenced; I mean, how bad can it get? Much worse, because, evidently, the shepherds of the flock are off feasting on the flock alongside the wolves. Unfortunately there's always be a zealous chap somewhere on an elevated podium, actively  propagating the dogma of progress, throwing in a Dark Ages reference for comparison.

But the progress-peddlers won't even allow you space to think, with their promises of change and highfalutin high ideals in manifestos. Sure, innovative inventions periodically enhance the convenience features in our eyesight-ruining health-depleting contraptions. Even so, the political social and economic conditions under which we live can not be called progress by any standard, however retarded the standard.

My heart breaks to hear Christian shurches and radio stations urging Christians to "vote wisely", contrary to increasing evidence that there is no more "oxymoronic" phrase in this day and age. Vote? Wisely? The political ballot is really no choice at all, so I won't be making it.

As it were, I'm in Limuru today and my hands are getting  too cold to type this rant comfortalby, so you're spared for today. BUT! I'll be back!

Quick conclusion: Trust GOD!

PS: It turns out blogging IS therapeutic! I was very angry when I started writing this but now... :)

Pearl. Again.

I was soaking in the nuances of a calm Nairobi Sunday evening when Pearl called. Her voice wavered with emotion, there were no greetings. The urgency of her sad tone struck a discordant chord against the big city’s psychotic buzz of indifference. That had to be fixed. She said she wanted to meet and talk. Such was the undercurrent in her voice that I agreed immediately. Ordinarily I would have hesitated and beat around the bush until she let me off in exasperation, but I owed her that talk anyway. So I instantly agreed to meet her the next day.

Next day
Following a road trip accompanied by reggae music, I was standing still in a busy Nakuru street, waiting for Pearl to show up. Impatience mounted as I beat away the insistent pestering of prospecting bodaboda operators. Stand around in Nakuru and the bodaboda fraternity will lay claim on your person. A mixed crowd of sundry souls walked to and fro past I whose arms were crossed in front of my chest with a bored expression on my absentminded face. At length, my back tired of heavy bags strapped to it. My patience died. My mood deteriorated. Where was she?

Presently, behold! she appears! Upon seeing her, my spirits soared, rocket-like, from ground zero to cumulonimbus nine and beyond. I smiled, against the tide of erstwhile prevailing inclination. The hug felt familiar. She apologized profusely for being late. No big deal, I claimed.

We sat down to talk over lunch at a nice restaurant with great ambience, fast service, nice wall art, and good food. (I would suck at restaurant reviews). It seemed to surprise Pearl that I had turned vegetarian. The last we’d met over lunch, we were finalizing our break-up, and I was ravenously devouring the fried corpse of a chicken. That had been a very long time ago, in my days of excess.

Now there she sat, across the table from me, ever the conversationalist. The ice broke under the weight of my humor; her streams of thought condensed seamlessly into chains of words. I permitted her the free rein to narrate from the abundance of her heart, only interrupting for the occasional clarifying question or comment. And I’m comfortable with that, seeing as talk is not among my big strengths; besides, my honest opinions are for blogging. (When my turn came to tell, I said “Same old me” and brief things to that effect.) But I can discuss abstract themes all day.

Hers was quite the rollercoaster narrative. There were highs and lows, there were laughs and there were almost tears. It nearly turned philosophical altogether, and then I'd have really talked. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much time to converse, as I had broken my homeward journey in half and was anxious to avoid spending the night in Nakuru. We parted at the ever-crowded bus park.

Ironically, for the hour we spent, I did not catch the faintest whiff of why she wanted to talk to me - why specifically me? I did not feature anywhere amidst all the legions of issues she had brought up. But we had a good time, a heart-to-heart, however one-sided it was, so :)

Emissary

Four pm.

I stepped out of the house for the first time that day, heading out to the highlight of my day: soccer practice. An impromptu meeting with Sister of The Ex interrupted my short journey to the bus stop.

“She has had enough time to decide what it is she really wants,” declared Sister of The Ex, without saying who ‘she’ is. I was supposed to get it automatically.

“If I had the choice I would choose her messenger instead.”

She averted her gaze. “You don’t have the choice.”

“Well played!”

“She wants to be friends. NOT pretend-friends.”

“The very fact that she sent you means she wants to be pretend friends.”

“Tony! Don’t be a hard man.”

“Me, a hard man? This is me giving her a break! She needs to take my break seriously.”

“You two are impossible. So? What do I tell her?”

“Let her tell me by herself.”

She paused reflectively. “You won’t even try, will you?”

“That depends. For you, maybe.”

“Please, do us all a favor? Never bring this up again.”

We laughed and parted ways.

I couldn’t help laughing quietly to myself throughout the whole journey to the soccer pitch. With her, it always feels like conversational chess.

Unconventional Tactics

As an amateur soccer player, I have some of my own insight into why Kenyan football has failed to progress on the international scene. It is because of a certain rigidity of tactics at the grassroots level. There is a tyranny of wrong attitude that can be summarized as “We don’t play like that here!” This reminder is always delivered by the resident style-of-play gatekeeper, who is typically the team captain, or one of his burlier inner crew members, if not the coach himself. “Your leg will be broken.” Thus warned, the talented upstart consequently conforms to the prevailing mechanical methods of play to remain relevant.

On the contrary, teams which have the guts to embrace new tactics reap hefty rewards in the league. (Gor Mahia FC by Logarusic? AFC Leopards' "Total Football" by Jan Koops? Yes, by all means yes.)

But I am a lowly amateur, don’t listen to me.

I used to play for my university soccer team (as a veteran benchwarmer for the most part.) Before the match began our team would warm up. Warm-up entailed a series of highly structured moves and sudden claps and noises intended to frighten the opponent into psychological tail-folding. Then we would troop into our half of the pitch, form a circle, briefly discuss tactics, pray quietly and then shout sharply to startle the opponent further. Then the substitutes and benchwarmers like myself would leave the pitch in the most intimidating, self-aggrandizing  manner possible. The match would then begin. When we scored a goal, we gathered at a corner and danced something irreverent, partly in order to also hammer a psychological blow against our opponents.

(Of course we did not hold the University League monopoly on psychological terrorism. A certain rival team loved to shout ALL their internal communications and in-game tactics - in Luo.)

In this post, I’m just trying to reveal that your opponent will not always limit the battle to the battlefield. They will try to defeat you in your mind first, before the battle even begins. Be aware of this; that once they jinx your mind with fear, your vision and execution of tactics is paralyzed by your own knocking knees.

Fear not. Fight the good fight.