The distance between us is a crutch
a convenient excuse
something we can blame
for our vacuous inner life
for our ominous silences
for our unrewarding reunions
necessarily brief
Ever we remain apart
aware in our secret depths
that true oneness is impossible
even without the outwardly resented
constantly decried
(though jealously cherished)
long distance between us
Our only link
Supersonic my thoughts fly to you
Paying no heed to the vast expanse
That presumes to part us
Defiant our hearts seal the breach
inflicted by solitude's affront
Beseiged by brutal loneliness
Inelastic however my arms remain
Which fain would match the feats
mastered by flights of fancy
Oh for arms as long as the law!
A pimp merchandizes the bodies of whores. Beatings and insults maintain the necessary inferiority complex that keeps her beholden to him. Lies and mindgames keep her in awe of him, and even more fearful of leaving him, because how will she survive these streets without him? Never mind that she actually feeds them both, the fact that he takes all her money and gives her a fraction of it leaves her thinking she needs him. The occasional drug fix instils dependency through a soul-destroying addiction which only the pimp can supply. At the end of her beauty and usefulness, when she is worn down by daily rough usage at the hands of the tricks whose money she takes and hands over to the pimp, and when the drugs have reduced her brains to porridge, she is discarded by the pimp if she is lucky enough not to have already died on the job or at his hands.
Capitalism pimps out the minds of people. We work to sustain an economic system which exists to exploit us. The best part of our labor and mental capacity is funnelled into narrow and repetitive routines which maximize investor profits. For all this sacrifice of our time, our productive lives, hemmed in by austere corporate policies the whole while, we earn salaries in exchange with which we may Go Out And Consume, sustaining the system, hoping against hope to eventually earn that deserved promotion that will perch us high in the stratosphere above the worries of the non-selfactualized masses who will stare wistfully up at us as they hang on our every word, giving us a heady rush of power. But most of us won't get quite that high up the pyramid. So we die on the job, or our productivity declines and we retire; meanwhile the machine on the intake end sucks in another fresh-faced starry-eyed aspirant of the verdant heights.
The pope pimps out souls. Making claim to the souls of men he boasts a monopoly of the keys to heaven and hell, thus all should be found in his good books or else eternal fiery tortures greedily await. Many unhappy with their lot in this life comply with his edicts and enrich his coffers for a stake in eternal felicitude insured by the old white man. Inevitably the pope's customers die, earning their chance to verify his claims to mastery over the spirit world, and to test just how far his dearly purchased Get Out Of Jail Free Card will go in those realms. Just too bad if no route be found by which to return to the land of the living and claim a refund from the self-appointed pimp of the underworld.
It was hard to accept that Daddy was dead.
Mum was devastated.
Oh man, we prayed fervently, little brother and I, for GOD to bring him back to life. We were serious.
And then we waited expectantly for him to walk in through the door as usual, with his exuberant booming bass reverberating throughout the house as the carried us aloft in his strong arms and hands that tickled. But no such miracle occurred.
And then one day his car came trundling towards the house. We ran out to meet it, little brother and I, our hearts in our mouths, palms skyward in jubilation, thinking GOD had answered our desperate prayers.
But from within the car emerged one of his former colleagues, newly assigned his company car.
We instantly hated that stranger for not being Daddy, though he came to offer condolences for his loss.
Even little sister, at the time a blissfully ignorant, inarticulate toddler, eventually caught on to the extended absence of a strong, familiar presence. She then cried for days.
The years passed and reality sank inescapably, the hard reality of his continued absence, the oppressive expectation that we would never see him again. The best we could hope for was to eventually come to terms with that Daddy-shaped gap that would never be filled.
To this day his ghost in my dreams is cause for rejoicing. I eagerly pursue it with urgent questions demanding answers, half glad to be reunited at last, though it evades me studiously. Usually people run from ghosts, but this is one ghost I have never forgiven for having the guts to die on me.
Of course I should know better. It was not his fault.
Goodbye Daddy.
Many people, everywhere,
on the prowl for hugs and handshakes.
Small-talk conveyor belts
compelled to supply you.
Some vague restriction
prevents a mutual reckoning
honest and terminal.
A weighty obligation
to sustain cordiality
animates synthetic smiles all around.
Everywhere.
Everywhere.
You add to good looks a clean heart.
It shines through, you can't help it.
You are beautiful inside.
Your mind is a verdant pasture
Fruitful and calm
Your spirit refreshes like water
Pleasant company
You are positive and radiant
Uplifting conversation
The things you say
speech in due season
The way you say things
An absolute delight
In the course of life you suddenly meet
A yawning chasm,
from which no light escapes,
But all things swirl in a turbulent vortex -
a downward spiral to perdition.
None dare whisper a word of warning.
The deafening scream of quiet despair,
a hateful choking stench,
in saying it all, struggles to muffle
the frenetic psychosis accompanying
such irreversible plunges.
Chirpy jingles wanly sound,
morale-boosting work songs proliferate,
sudden outbursts distract the wary,
striped in panic and uncertainty.
Foul decay whitewashed with lies
smiles that do not reach the eyes.
Anyway in the belly of the beast
lamentations are ignored -
Why think about it too hard?
Strive to pass without incident.
Let the headlines trumpet the winners.
Hold steady now, keep your head.
The multitude's grasping ambition rallies
Human nature supplies momentum.
We dive headlong into its black heart,
Anxious to make it or die en route.
A cold indifferent roar greets us
an icy blast of contempt and hate
belched from our downward destination
concealed by indiscernible darkness.
Yet we unfazed in pursuit of Happiness
will know her when we find her,
for whom with zeal we lend our arms to the oar
and our backs to the whip...
Stop.
Look above, think beyond,
Make your ardous journey
to that land of answers
across, not inside, the abyss.
The World Cup is with us again. I am underwhelmed as usual. This was supposed to be fun, in the particularly narrow sense of having lots of football to watch. That part isn't so bad. The rest of it... where to start?
The thing which gives me the most grief is the poor ratio of hype to significance in the venture. The hype was and still is disproportionate. After the hangover has lifted, the smoke has cleared and the streets are swept, all that will have happened is a series of football games. Good for a fling, and just as brief. But the flock of marketers jumping on the World Cup gravy train rather detracts from the football.
Probably if my country was in it I could have pride to justify zeal, but most of the egos out here are headbutting for teams they have no inkling of connection to. Just because someone decided to support a fancied foreign team, they find enough grounds therein to sink their emotional lot in its fortunes at a remote tournament. He will even argue with friends and fight strangers for this team. Likely even bet a princely stake, a ruinous amount.
Inevitably someone's favorite team gets eliminated - we were never all gonna get to the final, see. (I always get triggered when the host country gets eliminated a good while before the final. Awkward for the survivors' visiting fans huh.) It's like gambling: everybody cries so that one person can smile very broadly. It's probably a good thing we didn't qualify and spend all that time and money only to go and get humiliated on a global stage. And then assemble at the airport to aim rotten eggs at the team bus. Or, more typically, throw a major tantrum on radio and TV talk shows.
By all means buy and wear the foreign country's jersey, who cares really what you brand yourself with, or where you come from, or what sense it makes. Sport is supposed to be fun anyway. It gets more thrilling when there are stakes involved, something to be won or lost. I play football, I should know.
There comes a time however when a line is crossed and the stakes are just too high for this life and the only real winner is the corporate sponsor orchestrating the scam to peddle merchandise. And, of course, that one winning country.
I admit that the tone of this blog has been negative. My sincerest apologies.
I have been burning negative emotions online. It is a bit like burning tyres in a crowded street.
Some will see the smoke from afar. Some will walk unawares into an acrid cloud of black smoke.
I thought garbage is better off burnt outside than kept inside.
My eyes made out your form
the adorning garments
the face that crowned it all
the projected artifice
But I never once saw you
My mind processing the sight
filled the shell with fantasy
loaded meaning on your words
Assigned you my co-star
In a rom-com chick-flick
painted you in its own image
But I never really saw you
Remember that one time you thought you were soon leaving for greener pastures?
Remember how happy you were, how carefree?
You were floating way above cloud nine. Nothing got to you, no one could say anything to you.
It wasn't so much where you were going that broadened your smile. GOD knows you were apprehensive, even unexcited about that new prospect.
Just the idea that you were on the brink of leaving gave you a new lease of life. You looked forward to your last day, you fantasized on their surprise when you would tell them. You practised the short statement with which you would deliver the letter of resignation that you had already spent ages wondering exactly how to phrase.
Unhappily, the slightly less disagreeable prospect that was the wellspring of such vibrant hope vanished into limbo, crushing your soul, and you hung your head and moped about in low spirits for days on end like a whelp suddenly orphaned. What got you down was the recognition that the trap you were in was worthy of escape, just as the mirage of an open door dissolved into hot air.
Did you forget how good the mere prospect of leaving for a slightly better trap made you feel?
One mourns for a lost idea
As for a neglected lover.
Better to suffer writer's block,
and remain a lifelong blockhead,
than, having had a brainwave,
to subsequently forget
before paper preserves it.
Harsh self-reproach prevails
For once having tasked Imagination
Only for memory in an idle moment
Distracted by a passing fancy
To loose its grasp
on hard-wrought genius
pursued afresh in vain.
One mourns for an idea
Entombed in the sands of time
Buried forever in amnesia.
All hail pen and paper!
Jailhouse of flighty ideas.
Five out of seven days of the week begin with a long walk along Mombasa Road which allows me to fret about life (philosophize) and plan ahead (daydream) at a fast pace while oncoming traffic speeds past inches away. Naturally I get to work well warmed up.
There is an open plan layout at the office. Very few doors, with bullpen-style cubicles, workstations everywhere. Less obvious to an outsider is the heirarchy, the bureaucracy of departments and stations and regions, the sheer politics lurking just beneath the surface of the brand.
Tempted as I am to characterize my workmates as hardworking robots, I must confess that they are a varied and interesting lot, actual living personalities, once you somehow peel their eyes off their monitor screens. But I won't say I like everybody I work with, or that I am popular around these parts either.
I avoid cliques (or perhaps I repel crowds!) and try to establish professional rapport with individual colleagues on a person to person basis. However the ubiquitous complaint that arises in my wake everywhere else in my life has sounded here: that I am too solitary, reserved and standoffish. What's new?
Work has been pretty hectic of late. Let's just say the tail is furiously wagging the dog. Even so I remain sufficiently incentivized by the pay to thank for GOD every day I spend here.
I also know Future Me will be bitter at Present Me about the opportunity cost of a bird in hand.
From our earliest beginnings I perceived instinctually that you would always be the star of the show, myself your supporting cast at best.
Your innate vivacity, your knack for the melodramatic, your effortless allure, your quick, often biting wit and sharp mind made me, an introverted, overanalytical, awkward, stiff, caustic, half-baked nerd stubbornly riding the crest of an exhausted wave of bygone glories, feel like a relative robot-mannequin by your side. I resented your active strength and social magnetism which exposed my passive weakness and solitary antisocial unpopularity. I could never summon up enough guts to dominate you, which for some reason I thought was important if anything was going to happen - we both know that we both knew what was at stake. The opportunity was begging for taking.
But I would have been asking you to dim your brilliance and tone down your vibrancy just to accommodate my myopic juvenile insecurities. Yet even then I knew that it would have been too much of an ask to attempt, and I did not have enough balls to ask it anyway (thank heavens). So I resentfully cleared the way for others in the spirit of "Those who say it can't be done should get out of the way of those who are doing it." Passively. And so I took a front row seat and shortly vacated it unable to stomach the sight.
Right now, knowing I have no right soever, I can't help but protest the singular waste of talent you represent.
At the ripe old age of almost thirty I finally erected a simba at home.
Culturally around here boys are expected to erect their own little structures in their parents' compound well in advance of moving out to occupy their own compounds. The young man (for the boy will grow) operates therein until he marries, after which he is encouraged to establish a house on his own compound preferably somewhere nearby.
Enough background.
By Easter the structure was complete and habitable. It came two decades late - an extra twenty years of me occupying a bedroom in the main house. My bad.
I travelled to the village by night to inaugurate the long overdue structure. .
Mother meanwhile conjured up a feast and assembled a team from church to pray and offer advice. Such fanfare is not standard procedure for such things, but I was not about to complain. Mother, an excellent host, does not let such events pass quietly in hunger.
While the women cooked, the invited sages sat in a circle in the newly built structure and the rounds of advice came hard and fast.
"This is just a house," said one, "It is still lacking an important element before it can be considered a home. Somebody must come and join you in here permanently."
"Find a woman who is beautiful, hard working and GOD fearing. Don't rush. Take your time, look around."
"This house is not yours really. When she comes she will be called the woman of the house, you will just be sleeping here!"
Grandma's words were for my ears only.
Things continued in this tenor. I listened attentively and avoided mentioning certain misgivings I have lately developed about the prospect of marriage today generally, and my suitability for it in particular.
Eventually everybody had said their bit and we ended like we began - with a word of prayer.
And then a feast was laid out for us.
*********
A cricket kept me awake the whole of the second night with its morbidly monotonous love song. I searched for it everywhere but couldn't find it.
*******
In first place in the race to be crowned Woman of the House, and leading by some distance, is Brown Eyes. Barring her withdrawal from the race, or disqualification on some technicality, all indications are that she is poised for victory. But long is the marathon, and in its early stages yet. Stamina is her test.
The extended family enthusiastically responded when cousin Guya, named after late Grandma, invited us to her wedding, almost exactly a year after the death of the beloved lady she was named after.
(I should start with the dinner we all enjoyed on the eve of the wedding, and a late night saga that ensued with certain cousins, but those details will be withheld.)
After fetching the bride from her hideout in Donholm, Umoja SDA church was the place to be. We headed there through interminable Outer Ring Road traffic, impenetrable even on a Sunday, which delayed the intended 10am starting time. (While crawling through the traffic I had the pleasure of viewing Nairobi ladies in their "Sunday best" rushing off to churches. A beautiful sight indeed, and they were everywhere.) I have yet to attend a wedding which began dead on time, but I also generally avoid weddings I do not absolutely have to attend.
Got there to the initial shock of familiar faces (relatives) everywhere which shock eventually wore out when I detected strangers in the midst. Now if you think Nairobi ladies in their Sunday best are strikingly beautiful, then you should see Nairobi ladies at a wedding.
But I digress. Armed with my little digital camera, which could disappear if I wrapped my fist around it, I baptised myself Freelance Photographer and went about capturing photos of favorite people. The professional guys with zoom lenses the size of my head made me feel like an upstart but I was not deterred, having three cousins and a sister in the bridal party. So I jostled for space right along with the most extravagant of them.
And now humor me as I delve into improbable theories fathered by idly musing as my "sisters" marched slowly down the aisle in advance of Guya the highlight of the day. Who came up with the idea of nubile forerunners, eligible bachelorettes, thus displaying their beauty to crowds? What is the rationale behind that? Is it an enticement for the boy child? Is it their warm up for their own big day? Is it build up anticipation for the bride's appearance?
They smiled, they swayed and stepped to the beat. Their corresponding groomsman marched towards them to meet them halfway. They paired off and headed to the pulpit.
At length the rigmarole of marching prospective brides and grooms, and a former bride and groom (a.k.a best man and best maid), and even the wedding matrons, was dispensed with and the lady of the hour stepped out of her vehicle to take her place in the spotlight: the church entrance. Flanked by her proud parents, with wedding music chiming sweetly, she too marched down the aisle to meet her groom and his parents halfway. He unveiled her under pastoral supervision, after which the whole team advanced unhurriedly towards the pulpit.
You know how it goes. A choir sang. A funny preacher gave the couple marital advice and harangued others present to marry in church. The couple took vows, signed certificates, as choirs sang, and then the MC sent us away to the reception. A return march of married couple, best couple, parents, bridal party, matrons, fans, etc, from pulpit to exit, concluded that chapter, with us wannabe Photographers lining the aisle.
There was a hubbub outside as we non-car-owning attendees tried to charm our way into a free ride to the reception. My strategy was to stand around lugubriously until someone had mercy on me. It worked eventually on one uncle, who lumped me and three other sundry stragglers into the back seat of a Pajero.
Outer Ring Road traffic once again delayed matters as a procession of ribboned vehicles headed to Sir Yusuf Ali on Thika Road.
Lunch was served as extremely danceworthy music played, but a full plate anchored me in my seat. I also kept the company of a lively young lady, an absent cousin's girlfriend, who was full of stories and thought I was funny and discouraged me from abandoning food for dance. I also ran into a short, lovely mutual friend who knew the groom and I knew the bride, small world. Speeches began but I was understandably distracted, though I certainly caught the bride's mother's. And then there was time to catch up with long lost relatives and to familiarize oneself with remote relatives as cake was served. Shortly after, the obligatory vote of thanks was hammered out, and everybody could go home, or ask about the after party.
Luckily very few people asked me when I am getting married. 2021, I told them.
I also realized just how important it is for me to start being seen at such events in the company of a lady, even if a hired escort, if only to deflect loved ones' concerns over my long running militant singledom. So if you are a lady - any lady - reading this and are open to the idea of pretending to be my serious girlfriend at major family functions, which are not many, post your application in Comments.
Fate was kind to me. Just as I leave who pops up but Guya herself and her husband John. I hugged her and told her she had done well to set a really high benchmark for the rest of us cousins. Now nothing less than a church wedding will do.
Well done cuz.
The announcement invited all youth to invite their friends, assemble at Bata Hilton at 9:00 am Sunday and then proceed as a group to Karura Forest.
We who kept time spent two hours waiting for the others. In that time between small talk with my mates I played with two energetic kids, a brother and a sister, who came along.
Eventual turnout was lower than expected. And rhe ladies largely absconded, resulting in poor gender balance.
Off we trooped to the bus stop for the journey to Karura by matatu. Alighted near UN, walked a well manicured path to the Forest entrance, engaged the security guard with banter as she checked our bags for possible pollutants, invaded the forest.
Upon arrival an initial aimlessness afflicted us as we gathered our wits. Shortly two or three hired bicycles surfaced. We took turns fighting to be next and pedalling them up and down the hills and around the track. The sun's hot rays did regulate our fervour or else I would have covered many miles.
Eventually we assembled under the shade of trees where we introduced ourselves to one another using an innovatove memory game. Afterwards everybody was required to self-report on their strengths and weaknesses. It was revealing to say the least, how most people are keenly aware of their best and worst traits of character.
And then we played more team-building type games involving blindfolds, obstacles and crossing a lake of fire, but hunger prevailed, so we cut that short so the youthful facilitator could rush through the moral of the story: something about faith and teamwork. He conveniently glossed over the emerging reality that Kenyans will always cheat to win given half a chance and there is no prospect for electoral reform on the horizon. At least that is the main thing I came away with.
Lunch! Rice, beans, chapati, vegetable salad and a refreshing slice of watermelon. Writing that made me hungry just now, it was well made and well served. After lunch we had a brief devotion, and then a few more jumping and clapping games, for which patience was wearing thin.
Then at last followed the real highlight of my day, a major reason for which I left bed by 7 on a Sunday morning and travelled halfway across town: football. Us men split into two teams in full afternoon solar glare to chase that inflated leather up and down. I tried to score but made off with two assists, a kicked chest and a sore back. Meanwhile the ladies were playing kati and skipping ropes like little girls. We would have appreciated a cheering squad better, but alright.
And then we drank water, prayed, left for our homes; a Sunday well spent.
You stood to be sworn in alone,
Your champions proud beside you,
And round about you in all directions
stood the People;
To hail you their own:
The People's President.
Task:
"Go home, listen to these six Ed Sheeran songs and get back to me."
Answer:
I listened to some of the music, mainly because it is you that asked.
I can see why you recommend him.
However my main grievance is the lovesick sentimentalism rampant in his songs. The last thing a man alone at night after a day's work and an evening's football needs to be listening to is lovesick sentimentalism.
Hunger and exhaustion shall not be further compounded with intensely emotional romantic music so long as you are absent.
This assignment will strictly be resumed in your presence if I am so inclined.
Let livelier music animate my humble abode's ambience until then.
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
Forever.
