Brother

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Cringeworthy

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.

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.

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.

Wife Material

Despite her being a gentle soul, agreeable and generous, she remains unwed to this day. Not because she has any faults as such but because she insists on doing things right.

Do you desire to sleep with her, and she with you? Then marry her first.

Does her instinct tell her you two will not be happy together? Then forget about her.

She is pleasant to be around, warm and attentive; one to avoid loud confrontations. Her mind is an open book, for she speaks her mind graciously, ernestly, gently, with never a word out of place.

Her eyes gleam with an infectious and a pure happiness that bubbles up from inside her. Her smile is bright and her laugh genuine. Hers is the pure essence of a clear conscience, contentment undefiled by resentments, a quiet spirit, a beautiful thing.

A trustworthy lady, she keeps confidences and forgets slights quickly, her heart's door ever open to reconciliation and closed to grudges.

A brave warrior of truth, she stands up for what she believes. Although her gentle voice bears no menace, her sure words are usually wise or encouraging, yet she will never undermine her stance with compromise.

Her name is Joy, a delight indeed in store for whoever she so patiently waits for.

Epicenter

Lately at work I find myself literally surrounded in all directions by female colleagues of all shapes sizes and stations in life.

Sometimes the glut of oestrogen is suffocating. One hapless woman shows up early to work with a bad mood left over from the domestic battlefront, and every other woman syncs into that exact mood quickly. Next thing I know I'm a front seat observer at a third rate drama-thriller poorly disguised as a professional workplace environment.

Sometimes I become the center of attention. It doesn't help that my quirks are so eccentric that many things I find myself doing absentmindedly make ME laugh. I'm only now getting used to myself. Their favorite pastime is ganging up to tell me I should marry. Nowadays I just agree and ask for their little sisters' numbers.

A part of me understands though. The girls need an outlet for their girlishness. They can't share gossip forever. I'm a sitting target in their midst, a sounding board for how far their minds have deviated from practical sanity. But the femmes enjoy trying to annoy/provoke me purely for its own sake. I've never understood that bit. One wishes I had been born her small brother and takes every opportunity to harangue me about all my life choices and yet she is no saint. Even the mousy homely one among them plucks up enough courage to interfere with my settled peace of mind whenever her fancies grip her. Another one went so far as to throw tantrums when I refused to comply with her frivolous attention-grabbing gimmicks, got frustrated at length, forgot her wits, attempted to drag me in my seat from my desk.

There are a few other guys around but they are not thus maltreated. They say its my fault I'm playful and accomodating. I should try being fierce and angry. They tell me I could be sleeping with these women colleagues if I wanted. I tell them I will never do that again.

There is a line these ladies do not cross with me, despite all the liberties they take. I was oblivious to this fact until another female colleague told me "When you enter the room these people behave." They think I am their agreeable brother.

Long distance relationship

She's too far away.
Your meetings are never long enough.
Body language is lost in cellular transmission.
Can you trust her? Others see in her just the same thing that attracted you.
Can she trust you? She knows other women are nearer to you.
Suspicion pops up all over the place like a game of whack-a-mole.
Too long a short silence triggers insecurity.
Absence makes the heart grow sicker.
Being alone (single, for-real single instead of long-distance-relationship single) starts to seem easier.
You physically ache inside.
Perfectly unreasonable resentments undermine mutual professions of love.
You start to doubt whether the wait... is worth the wait.
The gulf between peaks of companionship and troughs of separation is mind-boggling, depressing in itself...

Guya

My mother's mother passed away on Valentine's Day 2017.

She was the family matriarch, her husband having died even before I was born.

Her ten children, my mother, uncles and aunts, are a close-knit group, each a purposeful self-driven individual. They learnt important life skills from their strict parents, who achieved great exploits in their days, and became respected members of society in their own right through sheer hard work.

We her grandchildren have largely been raised by her children in the same manner. A strong emphasis on hard work, discipline and spiritual life pervades the larger extended family as well, but grandma's particular flavor of it was distinct and unmistakable. She ran her household with a firm resolve and a gentle demeanor.

As her years wound to a close I began to see her more, but not often enough to become a regular. She seized every opportunity to advice and exhort me. Told me once or twice to find a good girl and get married early, in her direct simple way utterly devoid of ill will or harshness. If grandma had something she meant to say, she said it effectively.

I was pained to see her weakened by drugs while she was hospitalized. Never had it occurred to us that grandma, an ever-present rock, a strong lady, would be so vulnerable. But I am consoled by the fact that she ended her days surrounded by loved ones who had benefitted from her motherly love and care.

I will count myself blessed if I get a wife like grandma was to grandpa. My children will be blessed if they have a mother just like grandma. Knowing my mother, I pray that my children live to see and experience the blessing that they will call grandma. Because mum is grandma's daughter indeed. Even little sister, named after grandma, is mum's daughter indeed.

I thank GOD that I got to know grandma. I am honored to be able to trace my roots to her. May her legacy of wisdom and love transmit to all her generations, is my prayer. May I be a conduit of her principles to my children, and they to their children, is my prayer.

Goodbye mama.

Sidetrack Detection made Simple

When the going gets smooth, that's how you know you've lost your way.

The day you feel you've made it and can now sit down to eat drink and make merry, that is the day your life loses purpose, the day you deserve to die.

Every day has got enough trouble in it.

The right path, the one you should be on, is never an easy breezy downhill coast. It's hard and steep, but that's why you get better. It strengthens you.

Iron sharpens iron. With more success comes aptitude for greater challenges. That is the essence of growth.

Enjoy the growth itself. Seek the pain it brings.

All other amusements are dishonorable distractions at best.

More rambling

The heading says it all. Turn back ye chickenhearted.

In childhood I had lofty dreams of grandeur which evolved in time into delusions. But as the madness relaxes its grip on my mind, I have found that going through life as an ordinary guy on the street is surprisingly bearable. The secret is to like oneself, and to stop competing with others, to let go of the past and its dead dreams and live the present fully in the direction of the future you want for yourself.

Oh no now I sound like one of thise snake oil salesmen peddling "inspirational" literature.

Minding my own business, I find I have a great deal to mind, and just enough trouble along with it. It looks ordinary to an outsider looking in, but that outsider oughtta go mind their own business too.

What am I even saying exactly. Somebody paraphrase.

It gets better

This one life you get, it will never be perfect in this life.

If you wait for it to be perfect so that you can be happy, you will never be happy.

Problems will always be there.

So be happy anyway.

You won't be happy very long; still, seize those fleeting moments of happiness with both hands, hug them tight and set them free.

Solve today's problem so that tomorrow's problem finds you ready.

It will be a slightly better problem than today's. Bigger. Faster. Stronger.

It is already standing in line, ringside, as you pussyfoot around today's problem. If you continue to delay today's battle because of your stranglehold on yesterday's trophy, both problems, today's and tomorrow's, will tag-team you mercilessly when the referee's back is turned. A combo move, and then all that will remain is for your limp leg to be bent at the knee for the now-alert referee to tap the three-count on your knocked-out sorry ass.

So just be happy: it (the problem) gets better. Your solutions are your life, improving with the problem or stagnating with it. A valiant death is better than a shameful surrender, therefore fight today's problem with courage, and be happy.

As long as you are fighting, your problem is really your friend disguised as your enemy. The minute you stop fighting your problem, it takes its own hype seriously.

Be happy. Solve the problem. It gets better!

A great heap of 'Ben Hur' spoilers

Having watched both versions of Ben Hur, I hereby opine.

Spoilers ahead, be warned. Seriously, if you have not watched both versions, go away. You do not qualify to read this article.

For the rest of us, we the elders, we will be both thrilled and also a bit saddened by the remake.

Whereas the first movie was not as much of a visual feast, its strength was in the depth of the characters and their development through the plot. The actors carried the story, and the screenplay had a rustic charm to it.

The latest epic cuts away at the melodrama and emphasises action. It is an easier movie to follow for this generation, but we elders will delight in its brusque pace and varied, vivid drama.

My main grievance with it was an opportunity the remake opted out of in their editing of the plot. Granted the remake vividly portrays the perils of galley slavery and of the circus and of army life and of preaching the gospel. Pretty convincing. But they had the master of the galley die, rather than be saved by Ben Hur (who else) and subsequently adopting him and taking part in a victorious Roman triumph through the streets of Rome. A grand procession. They pulled it off regally in the first movie. But the second does away with that whole arc of the story, that landmark scene, simply striking it off the plot as if it never happened and dunking a key character in the Sea never to resurface. Government please reestablish finishing schools for the public good. Bypassing a Roman triumph, huh. "Nothing to see here, let's go on with the story," huh. Who does that? All the enemies of art, literature, poetry and film could not have conjured up a more sinister design.

Alright that part with Pontius Pilate marching his army into Jerusalem adds a ton of clarity, with the armored Roman ranks chanting and singing rude songs as they went, and the locals angrily staring from the safety of their roofs, none willing to acknowledge the invading foreign occupier with more than a quiet, hateful stare, that was tense. And that hothead Zealot with a bow and arrow (in the second) was a forceful character, possessed with his mission, a bigger threat to Pontius Pilate's life than a few loose roofing tiles simply obeying the laws of gravity (in the first). That procession had an entirely different attitude, however, to a Roman triumph, the emperor's lavish party for the Roman army and people.

A plus, the character of Jesus plays a more prominent role in the second film's events and the Biblical records being woven together poignantly. At the end of the movie, Jesus is the hero. That's a major plus in my opinion.

Also, the character depicted by the wife of Ben Hur portrays the ideal Christian wife.

But who do you know who blatantly ignores a chance to recreate and depict a Roman triumph? Did the film budget really call for such brutality?

But I recommend the movie. Both versions. Try stay awake through the first before you lose your mind chasing the second, and if you succeed in this marathon challenge, lunch will be on me.