To All Our Loved Ones Wherever They May Be...

To all those whom we have loved, are in love with and to those whom we are yet to love..

Ah, what folly this thing called love, to tug at our heartstrings, to tear away at the very rubric of our sanity.

To turn a grown man into a little boy, with pinpricks of hot tears threatening to gash out in a flood of emotion.

If love be a god, we hold her in the highest esteem. If love be a thing, then it be the most precious thing. But love is not just one thing, it is many things. Love is all around us. The scent from her comely form, the conversation that we delight in followed by the silence that is the sum of our joint existence.

If ever there was an elixir for life. To pour back the fluid of youth into our dry bones. To bring the memories back to vivid life and to take the sting away from the tears. To wash away the dredgery of regret and make hope what it is,..that eternal spring.

Yes indeed, love does conquer all.

LIFE, THE UNIVERSE AND EVERYTHING?

"Anyway, I am not as other private detectives. My methods are holistic and, in a proper sense of the word, chaotic. I operate by investigating the fundamental interconnectedness of all things.

Every particle in the universe affects every other particle, however faintly or obliquely. Everything interconnects with everything. If I could interrogate this table leg in a way that made sense to me, or to the table leg, then it could provide me with the answer to any question about the universe. I could ask anybody I like, chosen entirely by chance, any random question i cared to think of, and their answer, or lack of it, would in some way bear upon the problem to which i am seeking a solution. It is only a question of knowing how to interpret it. Even you, whom I have met entirely by chance probably know things that are vital to my investigation, if only I knew what to ask you, which I don't, and if only I could be bothered to, which I can't."

A whale of a time indeed!...& I'm thoroughly enjoying it. Douglas Adams puts the capital H in humour. Of course, his brand of the funnies is not for everyone. If you can't stand Silly, I-will-bash-my-head-in-if-I-keep-reading-this kind of slapstick humour, then I suggest you keep your feet planted firmly on terror firma and leave the musings of Life, the Universe and Everything to all those crazies that Nancy Njuguna cares for in Gotham's Asylum or was it Nairobi's Mathare¿? I forget.

Well if you are so inclined to take a keen interest in the mechanics (quantum or otherwise) of the co-relation between the wiley coyote, Mzee Kobe and Tom (of the Tom and Jerry fame)in their endless almost futile pursuits, then I suggest you get hold of a Douglas Adams. The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy would be a good place to start.

Nancy, remember, DON'T PANIC!

A ride unto Death...

We have demonised the Kalashnikov. We have loved the Kalashnikov. We have waxed romantic about the Kalashnikov.

We have demonised the land mine.

We have demonised the cluster bomb.

We have demonised the machete in the hands of drug crazed rebel militia.

I dare say not all is fair in love and war.

It is not just in war that we castigate, blame and demonise. In our everyday lives, the beast lurks ever beneath the surface. But we romanticise the Hecklers and Kochs of this world, the Smiths and Wessons that we brandish in full flourish, the Bensons and Hedges’ whose toxin imbued smoke we inhale with so much relish. We love them yet hate them. We Kenyans unlike the very litigious Americans have not embraced the power of the class action suit. This remains one for the dusty tomes, a preserve for barristers in training.

Perhaps when we do turn our collective attention to these instruments of law, we shall exercise them against a very unlikely target. Akio Toyoda’s Toyota. That most giant of corporations, the very epitome of mass production. As ubiquitous in Africa’s dirty wars as the Kalashnikov and machete. Only, not as famous.

This luck of fame or infamy has always surprised me, considering that these improbable instruments of war (from a country with a pacifist constitution no less) come emblazoned with their maker’s moniker for all to see.

Like the proverbial chariot of fire, they ferry their human cargo hither and thither, bringing death and misery wherever they tread.

The Toyota Land Cruiser 70.

The technical.

Sown in half, stripped to its bare essentials and like the black horse of the apocalypse, bringer of death, mounted with a .50 calibre gun usually of the soviet variety, a 4.5 litre V8 diesel and a mass of Kalashnikov totting rebels.

The “TOYOTA” still in its original factory red is clearly visible across the tail gate.

Somalia. Chad. Niger. Mali. Darfur.

Why is it that we have failed to recognise Toyota’s contribution to the sum of Africa’s armed conflict? The evidence, anecdotal and factual is right before our eyes. It is quite possible to find a direct correlationbetween the intensity and spread of an armed conflict and the availability of these technicals.

So, as we go after the Trafiguras of these world, the money launderers who help squirrel away Africa’s fortunes and all other demons of our past, present and future, spare a thought for Toyota, the not so humble Landcruiser and all the spilt blood it has left in its wake.

LIVE AND LET LIVE..

They say that youth is wasted on the young.

I have finally shed that clock of invincibility, where death is a distant notion and the body can handle all that can be thrown at it.

The shedding of that clock is the unintended consequence of my mellowing. Every so often and more so now than ever, the thought of death comes knocking at my mind’s door. Oddly enough, what worries me most is not what I am yet to accomplish (and great things I do have in store for myself) but the number of books I haven’t read.

There I am, lying on my death bed and my biggest regret is that of all those tomes in my library lying unread. Ah, what sorrow! To lie at the fountain of knowledge and watch the waters recede. Poseidon vanquished!

Time, time, time.. To slow it, to reverse it, to hold it still and savour all those moments that I consider memorable; to hold that tome and let the very words leap from the pages in the creation of life as yet unimagined. My refuge, my solace, my escape; the written word.

When it comes to books, I have the mentality of a ten year old. That unbridled excitement to try something new, to unwrap that shiny present, that timid first kiss. Oh yes, I do remember my first kiss, Khadija, just as I do remember my first serious author, Kenyan no less, Meja Mwangi and I’ve never looked back ever since. There have been a few disappointments, women as bad as a story with an unwieldy plot and books as bad as a shallow, self involved damsel. The worst is the kind that after a few pages leaves you as thoroughly disappointed as a bad roll in the hay.

So until that day that death finally has its victory, it shall be wine, food and a good read! No,  I did not forget. Aside from the aforementioned three delights, I shall afford myself the delights of those that are deemed fairer than I.

Pages will turn.

DREAMS

That will o' wisp, that wraith that slips through your fingers but for the briefest moment takes you to Nirvana.

It is an idea, anything more than a whisper and it would vanish.

The ideal we aspire to. Perfection.

It is our Galatea. Stay Aphrodite! Do not breathe life into her just yet. Let me revel in her perfect ivory form.

She is the dream. He is the dream. The dream made manifest. Hand in hand you walk towards that Utopian sunset.

But do not confuse dreams with diabolical desire nor with lust.

Put her atop that pedestal that you may spend eternity in pursuit of Nirvana, that ideal. Perfection.

Now go ahead and close your eyes.

I dare you to dream..

That Sex Tape..

It's not really a tape; well, it's not a tape at all. Just a conglomeration of bits and bytes packed into a little black box which we call a disk, which really isn't a disk; well it's not a disk at all. 

That tape of yore (has it been that long?). Wound around a spool then unwound to bring to the senses a delight of sounds and moving pictures, imperfect though they may have been, a feast they still were. 

She ribs me about my great enjoyment of Samba Mapangala, says that I should listen to it on tape. If she only knew that it sounds much better on vinyl. The irony is that as I write this, I'm listening to Monica's "Kickin' it with you", that oh so lovely ballad from '95 where the tape is much mentioned. 

Slide a tape in to play our song. 

What's in a name you might ask. That question that has now become an age old question. Would it hold as much allure if it went by any other name? The bard said it would "smell just as sweet" but you and I know it just wouldn't be the same. We can't escape that urge to hearken back to the way it was in the past, distant or otherwise, in however little way we can. That is why some names will never change. 

So, go ahead, make that sex tape. Don't lose it in the mail, drop it online, let the world partake of your unbridled sexuality.

Liberté

(Another one from the archives)

On Saturday, I happened to find myself watching the “independence” celebration of the newly minted Republic of South Sudan. Frankly, I’d rather have been elsewhere doing anything but thinking of how flawed this independence of the Southern Sudan is.

Granted, not everyone can be pleased, not every need catered for, not every error corrected, not every sin accounted for; but to invite Omar El Bashir to the event, I find surprising. He who still plots and does murder in Abyei and Kordofan, he who still sows confusion and dissent in the south through Northern Uganda’s worst plague, Joseph Kony and other proxies.

Diplomacy has been much exaggerated in this quest for independence. If it was up to me it would have been a zero sum game, a fight unto the death. A complete break from the North. Place all the oil fields in my pocket with absolutely no revenues to the north. Instead, we see a lot of infighting. Southern tribe pitted against southern tribe. Weaponry being sneaked into the South through Kenya as if our tall cousins are ashamed of their freedom. Come on, stand up and take what belongs to you, grow some cajones and take it like you own it!!

If ever there was the biggest display of half measures, ‘tis the Republic of South Sudan. The biggest collaborator in this tragedy has been the Republic of Kenya. We were the stewards that led them down that all too familiar road, garnished with thin tarmac, built by the dashed hopes of a blinded and cynical population and driven on by a leadership that has been continuously proven to be deficient of morals and too trusting in its own wit which is all too lacking.

The envelope was not pushed too far and thus the world has ended up with a half baked nation that will continue to be a problem for the foreseeable future. This irks me, it does irk me so!

But I speak as an outsider, I have not experienced the horrors that the Southern Sudanese have experienced through all these past years. War, hunger, pestilence. I cannot even begin to put myself in their shoes. I do not know how it feels like to want to be free. Ergo, I acknowledge my deficiency in the rendering of this harsh judgment, a judgment I will still hold on to.

Remember remember..

But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then in lieu of the more common sobriquet to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.

Voila!

In view a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage no mere veneer of vanity is a vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.

The only verdict is vengeance, a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.

Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V.

V for Vendetta, circa 2005.

Now, walk it out..

Alright, alright.. To be fair to Roseanne and all other damsels out there; damsels in distress, fair dames and not to forget my all time faovurite, she who is 5'5' with brown eyes; it really is the girl who does the walk of shame. Hair in dissaray, bra strap showing, shifty eyes, etc. Come on girl, it's not like you are getting off a drug induced high (well, technically you are if you consider endorphins to be your 'drug' of choice), you just did what comes naturally to you.

Consider the previous nights' activities to be fodder for you constribution to to the V-Monologues. If you are that kind of girl, it could spice up the conversation around the water cooler. Personally, I like a girl who keeps it to herself, ok, not entirely, you could drop a hint or two to your closest friends.

So, straighten that skirt, if your bra is loose, take it off, dump it in that bag and let the twins swing it like they mean it. Take the shame out of that walk, because girl, you got yours and we men are behind you all the way. Yes, behind you all the way.

Hey, let me walk you out...

They call it the walk of shame, at least the Americans do. The morning after, when it's all done and dusted, the pipes have been cleaned out, the cobwebs removed and the sea is back to normal after the great parting. The glow is gone, it is post coital bliss no more but the harsh reality of a cold morning and the whole world (ok, not the whole world, just your neighbours) looking down upon you knowingly. Indeed they do know. They know indeed.

Ah, the walk of shame, but why should you be ashamed? You have just engaged in the most natural act you could ever engage in. The scientists say that the only reason you don't wantonly evacuate your bowel is that over time you have learnt to control what is essentially a reflex action. Is sex a reflex action? Yes, I say. You may wonder why I mention sex and taking a damp in the same vain. They are both done behind closed doors. There is a certain level of shame associated with both activities and they are both dirty. Yes, good sex is dirty.

Why have we let stigma be attached to the good name of sex? If it weren't for it, you wouldn't be mulling over these words. It is because of sex that we are who we are, we are all the happier for it, we launch out everyday looking to conquer the world with the impetus of a demi god because of the great shag we had the previous night! We erect (sic) monuments all in the name of sex. Oh yes we do, there are numerous phallic symbols staring at you in the face.

So to all you red blooded, testosterone driven hombres out there, hold your head up high as you walk her out and down the road as we give it up for a very happy man walking.