Escape report and Holidays chatter

Today I am in the mood for a little sharing and caring. And since many nice people, you included, have so cordially welcomed me into their lives, some even revealing their deepest, darkest secrets, I think it's time I give back to a community that's already given me so much. So with that said, let’s get started with a short brief on my escape from Nairobi.

As most of you must surely expect, as soon as I landed in Nakuru, I skipped directly to my travelling commandment number 3: “Thou shalt proceed immediately to a quiet part of town, find the bar where you’re most likely to contract nasal rashes, and drink yourself into a stupor”. I sure did, but Jomo Kenyatta’s favourite town disappointed me yet again, this time because it got all rainy and the pub I was in had a leaking roof and the drainage in the area was flooded and I hade to wade to my car as I left, driving off into the dark of the night in soaked shoes. What a sight.

The next day, I learned from my mistakes and checked into to the town a little earlier, grabbing a quick bite of Ethiopian food at some fancy restaurant before moving to a somewhat seedy pub within the town. Taidy’s. It is the kind of pub that hurts your feelings when you see it in the light of day, when you suddenly realize that some of the tiles on the floor are missing. You know some of the people there – most of them would ask you to buy them a drink as soon as look at you, and you are gladly bound to ask them first as soon as they say hi, to just return the favour and keep them at bay. Smoke hangs thick in the air and low to the ground. It gets into everything you own, and stays with you like a hangover. It's was not a classy place. One of my friends always remarks that Nakuru has superb bars, but girls it lacks. Get the picture? It is really not much of a club, but I cared less and I’ve had a good time in worse places anyway.

As the night progressed, being all too familiar with my lack of mental aggregation in a drunk en state I disposed all my valuables in my car since I had once lost my favourite phone in a bar run or a cop (citizens on patrol) night in Nairobi as some would call it . This was several hours before I disposed my Ethiopian meal in the main bar, then subsequently myself in that order. For all my ludicrous efforts, I earned a personal lecture a few days later from one of the managers, explaining how that sort of inebriated behaviour was inappropriate and would not be tolerated. What cheek!

Moving on, it’s that time of the year again. Can't you just smell it in the air? You can't escape it. It's coming extremely soon to a place near you, and nothing we do or say can prevent its thunderous march of consumeristic and pleasurable destruction. Christmas is coming! That time of year when the road accident rate in Kenya goes way over the top, and the money in my wallet and bank account drops to arid levels. This is the time of year that everyone loses their minds. Completely lost in an appalling maze of shoppers and overwhelmed by a barrage of marketing gibberish, one can barely pause and realize that this neither the season nor time to be jolly.

I've always been a big fan of Christmas, despite learning about Santa Claus at the age of sixteen (am from shaggz remember?), way after many Western kids realized he didn't exist at age 8 or so… and I always stare in awe when I see red and green together in harmony either online or on TV. However, with the passage of time, I do not look forward to Christmas as much anymore, and I guess it is because I can get all the little pleasures that used to come with Christmas at will any time of year, or I am just plain old fashioned and grown up now.

But aside from all the nonsense and grief that this time of year brings to our doors and households, the one thing about this Christmas that just may very well be worthwhile is the Kwani Litfest. This according to the official Kwani Litfest blog, is ‘a celebration of the word and the world of literature opens in Nairobi in December.....ends in Lamu with a Sort-of-Half-Moon reading fest on a fire-lit beach’. I personally cannot see a better way to spice up your Christmas activities, other than drinking and ogling at the neighbourhood idlers.

You may also want to take a trip to one of Nairobi’s shopping malls during Christmas and witness the Consumer wastage there. You’ll probably be seeking to replenish your stock of holiday supplies: booze, crisps and popcorn for the couch lovers and other laconic items I am not at will to mention now. I can bet a whole month’s pay that as you walk in to the mall, you’ll be appalled at the sight of urban consumer wastage in progress.

As you drive in your blood pressure will probably rise to frightening echelons as you jostle for a parking space amongst the countless overweight and lightly dressed suburbanite Nairobi women, and overbearing and impatient looking men: driving at a snail's pace because the mall is all they have left in their sad and pathetic lives; all of you vying for that prized shopping mall possession: the closed parking spot nearest to the food court. Finally, after like 20 minutes of driving in circles you get a parking space.

The crowds in the malls are appallingly shameless. Half naked bimbos, both male and female, all line up ‘to have a good time’. Your senses will probably shatter. Everywhere you turn, wave upon wave of shoppers will flood your vision. Nakumatts, Uchumis, and Chandaranas all packed to the brim with hungry shoppers. You will just wish you could get out of that place in a hurry, but the thought of looking for parking elsewhere puts you off. Believe it or not, this is the true meaning of Christmas: Wallowing in an alcohol-fuelled depression, falling asleep on the couch and elbowing through rabid shoppers to get what you want.

Merry Christmas and er... have fun!

Escape from Nairobi

It will probably be nearly two o'clock in the morning when I go to sleep tonight, with a hope of waking up at six-thirty when the car-alarms set off by the night-watchmen washing the resident’s cars and the sun wake me up; that will just be over four hours of sleep, probably just enough time for two dreams: probably one about how broke I am and that usual one where I rampage through a Nakumatt with a Caterpillar earthmover. And then I shall awake, bolt-upright in bed surrounded by the vagaries of my wasted urban life.

I will pack my car and strike out westward, leaving the rainy, wet and misty Nairobi behind me like a restaurant with an unpaid tab - except I'll be back! The stench of consumer activity in Nairobi is just too much. It'll probably tone down when the City Council have fixed the drainage, the rains stop and the kids get past their first few weeks of madness and caffeine and settle into the boring December vacation and Christmas routine. The city is already crowded without displacing thousands of hawkers and the various workers, televisions are choked with commercials for shit we don't need, and the beer gets warm before it reaches me from the main bar at Hooters these days. It's time to head to the Rift Valley for a week of fresh air.

I'm sick of waiting for a dream to come true; the time is nigh to get real, grab my tools and build something. Farm. Most of the Asians I know sleep the afternoons away, and I envy them - I haven't had a nap since I joined primary school. There is too much to do. There are too many websites to visit, too much work to be done in the office. I think Kenya is a country full of people who sleep too much and those who haven't slept in years. The middle ground is balanced on the tip of a politician’s walking stick, and just when I get comfortable the alarm clock goes off and poof! I run screaming (literally!) back into another day at work. So it's time to build and farm; it's time to tear my eyes away from my inbox and take an active role once again.

I will leave Nairobi tomorrow.

I will drive through the fog in Limuru into the valleys, gorges and tiny mountains of the Rift Valley. I will look longingly into those hills that call my name when the temperature is high, drive along those long strings of isolated villages where the names haven't changed since the we arrived from the Congo/Sudan many years ago... I will drive straight through the morning, stop for fuel, water, yoghurt and maybe a fruit at Delamere’s, probably in the middle of a falling rain. The odometer will probably get busy after that. I just hope that my car heater and air conditioner do not go out. I hope I do not fall asleep at the wheel on the highway and actually travel backwards through time - the numbers and letters on signs along the road get smaller, there will be more water in the bottle, more packets of strawberry yoghurt in the back seat then wake up thinking I had hallucinated the whole trip!

The road sometimes plays tricks on me.

Maybe there will be no strawberry yoghurt; or maybe they will be poisoned. Many hours on a bad road do strange things to your mind, strange, vile things that are downright funny with someone else…but I will be alone listening to music with no heater and a dead air conditioner, a few hundred kilometres behind me and more packets of strawberry yoghurt than I remembered were there an hour earlier. It will be disconcerting.

But the heavy commercial tractor trailers speeding westbound for Uganda, Rwanda, Burundi and the DRC with huge containers loaded with cargo while the drivers battle with the brakes and steering wheels amidst the high speed and animal fear will be real.

The police stake out the highways a lot nowadays, especially after Naivasha. I will be just a speeding driver, not a criminal mastermind on the run, but after Naivasha I am sure there will be a roadblock every fifty kilometres with another squad with white helmets and a speed gun. They have Nissan X-Trails that can weave through the traffic and hills like sharks if you try to run, and they can hunt down the fastest and the meanest drivers on the road.

After a long day in Nakuru, the night will set in and wear on and the other drivers will fall asleep, most in their beds and some in cars. Truckers will keep on the left lanes lanes, their glowing headlamps moving like galaxies through the darkness, rushing for a rest and a night of fun in Salgaa. The universe is expanding (regardless of Pluto’s demotion), they say, expanding into something, into itself, always moving like the planets and moons and people are sick of empty space, like it's searching for something more; searching, like those of us still awake in those hundred-kilometre stretches between towns on the bumpy highways that unravel towards Western Kenya. The other drivers will move with the same hurried desperation that I will feel in my numb urban soul, that reckless lust to run full speed through the night and cut dramatic figures across the lanes on a one-way ride to nowhere.

I had not planned this trip, no direction in life for many people right now anyway, feeling guided along a crooked path with big potholes cutting through the Mau forest, wandering across the Njoro plains, somewhere, anywhere but back; any direction, so long as it's into the dark. Maybe I'll find something out there; maybe I'll build something that'll last through the next night and the next hundred years, a dream come to life in my hands as real as my steering wheel.

Time will tell. I will be 400 kilometres in, and there will be a few hundred more before I return to Nairobi. I'll find something. Somewhere. And have one helluvan adventure on the way.

etc etc

Not much to report to you fine readers.

The last few weeks have been the type of dull, unmemorable ones that don’t even merit any drinking or special mention. So slow and worthless were they that one of the top news headlines this week was to do with an election battle many months to come and some childish assassination claims.

Please Lord, make something interesting happen – and I don’t mean another invasion in Mathare or Kuresoi. Tribal clashes are just pathetic, what with people being used to perpetuate other people’s ideologies?

In other news, I have been generally groped up the backside by tons of work these past few weeks, despite being a slow time. Why is that as Christmas fast approaches, someone is busy giving me a lot to do?

Before I forget, I went to the bank for the first time in a long time; after all I slowed down on the drinking and reduced my ATM limit. I was shocked to see a security camera peering at the customers queuing for cash like some sort of stupid watchie. Was someone on the other end watching us? Many people have probably been busted by the Ass-Scratch Police, the Counter Nose-Picking Squad. There was also a possibility that there was a crack unit in the backrooms in charge of Inappropriate Groping for those who can perform one-man orgies as they line up for cash.

I thought these security cameras were meant to help the police track down robbers and not to entertain some bleary eyed official in the bank’s backrooms? Or they intend to raise the alarm on suspicious looking characters like me as we may have concealed some weapons? There is no way having a camera glaring at the queue would help, have one at the counters or somewhere where they can have a good glimpse of the robbers, not almost 50 customers at one go.

Open Letter to the £@%”$ Who Hit My Car

And then ran off like a scared wet chicken.

Dear Sir or Madam,

I hope you get to read this letter and it finds you in the greatest of health, because when I find you, your slow, torturous descent into the depths of physical and mental suffering at my hands will be all the more dramatic.

By scoogling my car in the parking, and leaving the scene and the office area without so much as an unsigned note apologizing for your apparent and disgusting cowardice, you have accomplished what years of reading and drafting all these reports, drinking out of smoky and dreary pubs, and kissing my bosses’ asses had yet to succeed at: My last flicker of faith in the inherent goodness of personkind (not mankind, coz you could be a woman for all we know) has been extinguished. Congratulations.

You must be well aware that a man's car is his chariot, his freedom and his initial projection of the self to the world, and, for me, one of the few things aside from my family and this computer that is of any importance to me. You might as well have walked up to me on the street, a total stranger, kicked me square in the crotch and ran.

So, how does one properly return such a noble deed? I have a plan. It would be foolish and far too easy to simply sue your sorry ass or ask you to repair my car then exchange a few smiles and niceties then move on. No, in this case, Lady Justice will be satisfied with nothing less than the slow torturing and battering of your spirit and self esteem.

I shall work on you till you curse all the evil forces that collaborated to bring you into my life. Since you are apparently my colleague as our parking is reserved, I will hunt down your car, look for the corresponding scratch marks or fresh paint and all hell will break loose then. I shall spam your e-mail from my old computer turned schematic server, hack your IP and then slowly disable then crash your computer, all with simple clicks of a mouse. I shall create out of office agents to constantly respond to all e-mails on your behalf, along the lines of:

I will be out of the office for the next 2 weeks for medical reasons. When I return, please refer to me as 'Njeri' instead of 'Njoroge'.

You know the drill. I could even impersonate you and play a few games with that special someone, or sign you up on about a thousand or so newsletters from a cross section of websites.

You will hate your work, or the little bit you’ll get done over the next few weeks, and hate yourself, and dread coming to work everyday because of the small ‘accidents’ you’ll be involved in, starting with the conveniently placed banana peels to sweep you away or the pins (ouch!) or slime on your seat. Your car will receive a new coat of glue and splashed paint, and you'll get constant puctures as a bonus. Damn, come to think of it, I could even get you a free carton trailer with tins and beer bottles to rattle you home late one evening!

The beauty of it is that you will not know why. I will probably forget it after a week, and then someone will mention your name and poof!!! I shall start all over again. Perhaps for good measure, I should look up the civil servants who deemed you fit for Kenyan roads and play a few games with them on the phone and top it up with a few crybaby letters from you as well.

As for your sorry self, please take good care of yourself, as your imminent suffering will be made all the more pleasurable for me if you're the pinnacle of good health when I begin. Indemnifying me is almost too good for you jackass.

Vengefully yours,

StackOfStiffys

My measly sins

My Deadly Sins

Lust: 80%

Envy: 40%

Greed: 20%

Pride: 20%

Wrath: 20%

Sloth: 20%

Gluttony: 0%

Chance I'll Go to Hell: 34%

You'll die from overexertion. *wink*

How Sinful Are You?

Real Madrid 2, Barcelona 0

Now how's that? Seems my good old vintage Real is ebbing back into shape, if tonight's display in Barcelona's demolition in the 'El Clasico' is anything to go by.

Today was a big day for soccer, and some TV channels, sponsors and other interested parties probably made millions. The top 2 club soccer matches in terms of TV audience and competitive edge are, yeah, you guessed right: Real Madrid vs. Barcelona and Manchester United vs. Liverpool. They were both played today. I think Arsenal has over the years become more of Man U's rival more than Liverpool, even Chelsea, but this is what the pundits say.

The third, just in case you wanna know, is River Plate vs. Boca Juniors all the way down in Argentina. You may argue that the English duels attract more crowds, but you just underestimate the size of the Latino fan base. The English league makes more money coz of adept channeling strategies, but La Liga is watched by more.

It is even only in recent years that there have been more talented players accepting to play for clubs in in England.

October holiday galore

At the rate at which we are going, you’d probably be forgiven if you thought it is January 2007. After all, we have had quite a number of holidays so far this October, and there are more on the way.

Hope you had a happy Kenyatta Day, and are now enjoying the fruits of independence dear readers. What a glorious day of remembrance it was, perched on my favourite seat in the pub, debating the virtues and vices of a Narc administration gone wrong, of a country’s hopes and dreams bungled over the years. Sometimes, I sit here and wonder where those 43 years have gone, watching this fledgling nation’s fortunes wane over the years and we are now international beggars of repute. Who would have thought, all those years ago, that a promising band of new leaders would have started this sorry state of affairs and misrule? How much more ironic could it be, that a batch of mau mau "rebels" who fought for independence, could have probably charted a better path for Kenya had they not been pushed aside by the educated politicians we call the ‘founding fathers’? Oops, I almost forgot, Kenyatta day is a holiday for patriots who appreciate their independence heroes, and as we all know, patriots never question the motives nor the decisions of those in charge.

So with a bottle of Tusker on my fist, fresh from Ruaraka the home of the top taxpayers in Kenya: Exactly from whom are we celebrating this independence? I mean, as a Kenyan in this dark day and age, I've found myself anything but independent. Sure, I sit in the safe boundaries of this country, getting paid real Kenyan money to offer my services to an employer who appreciates my input, but Kenyan politicians have recently demonstrated to all and sundry that they are out of touch with the reality in the country. Fuck, I drove an imported (and used) Japanese vehicle to the bar, fuelled by Saudi Arabian oil, and I'm wearing a used American shirt sewn together by young Third World Asian hands. My used shoes were stitched together in the Philippines, the glass I'm drinking from was wrought in France, and the musicians prancing across the television screen have American names. Believe it or not, the very streets you walk on in Nairobi have been designed abroad for colossal amounts of money. Could it be possible, in all this vanity and self-worship, that a day dedicated to an event that took place many years ago is just a sham? Perhaps in the same manner that a King depends upon the taxes of his rulers to live his life of luxury, that we sit on this throne funded not by our own taxes but by the efforts of seemingly trivial loans from several foreign coffers? Consider this tonight; when you sit in front of your TV and watch the news (without Swaleh Mdoe to tickle your funny bone) to find out what Kibaki was up to, we depend upon:

• The World Bank and the Interfering Mother Fuckers (IMF) for loans to fund our spending;
• The Western world for our used clothing;
• The Internet for cracked computer software;
• Europe for our cell phones;
• Japan and Germany for automotive engineering;
• South Africa for eggs;
• Pakistan for rice;
• Tanzania for electricity poles;
• The USA and the UK for approvals;
• The Middle East for our petroleum (and those masochistic oil company cartels to boot);
• Scandinavia for premium liquors; and
• Uganda and Tanzania for bullshit political support and general jackassery.

Once upon a time, a mob of pissed-off patriots had had enough shit from their oppressors and packed up for the bush to fight for a better way. A new way. And a New Kenya. On this Kenyatta Day weekend, you should remember exactly what that New Kenya has become: a charade of political clowns and executive pimps, whoring your patriotic asses out for the fat shilling in the offshore bank account. The government tells you the lies, the media relays the lies, and you, the gullible Kenyan, lives the lies. The Narc dream, the vision, the role of our leaders to spur exponential economic growth and the elimination of poverty and tribalism is a vast illusion. No, Central province, the motorcade finally crossed River Chania, there was no Mumbi nor Gikuyu, and your President is a lying bastard. No, Western Kenya, there will probably never be a Luhya president. No Kalenjinland, William Ruto does not think about you even once, he just needs power to enrich himself, and he’ll never be president anyway. No, Maasailand, 'your' land will never be returned, so stop bitching and move on with life.

So I beg you, on this weekend commemorating the imprisonment and deaths of our independence heroes, to look up from your feet and the newspapers, and pay attention to what is actually happening. You're not celebrating independence from anything, not your past of letting Kenyans die of Malaria as drugs rotted away in Nairobi godowns and Ministers drove multimillion limousines, your legacy of igniting and ignoring tribal genocides as we approach elections, the reputation of your leaders for exploiting the voters. You're not celebrating your right to sniff pussy in K-Street, your ability masturbate in the sovereign abodes of your household and to own your own land. You're not celebrating your freedom from international oil pricing, the effect the Central Bank’s controls have had on the fate of our agricultural exports, or what the KRA is going to do to your economy. And you're certainly not celebrating what those mau mau fighters had in mind when they armed themselves and went into the bush to push out the mbeberu.

You're celebrating their ignorance.

Ignorance of what Kenya would become, ignorance of all those dead Kenyans across the Rift Valley, ignorance of where your tax money is going or what those MPs are doing or who's raping who as the police watched. Ignorance of exactly what that flag you squirm to attention when it is hoisted and lowered signifies.

And your own ignorance that right now, that in your own country, a Kenyan is dying from a curable disease, another child goes without an education and a homestead is burning.

An elected official probably lit the match. A highly paid appointed spokesperson briefed the gathered press. A police officer held you back from the side of the road. A cameraman was robbed of his film. An editor, a total stranger, warped the words you read. An unfamiliar face on the TV read them to you in that assuring voice, with Swaleh Mdoe chained and en route to a probable deportation. And you believed them.

You believed every word they told you.

So why don't you believe me?

Ponder this: The Asian community controls about 70% of the Kenyan economy, their vote does not count in elections (except in some wards in Westlands and Kisumu!) and yet yesterday they were celebrating Diwali, their new year and yet this was not a Public Holiday. Our Muslim brethren on the other hand, control a smaller portion of the economy, mainly at the coast and the vast nothingness that is the North Eastern Province, and when they break their fast, it is a Public Holiday (as shall be on Tuesday 24 October). Christians on the other hand, make up the masses, their politicians double up as their tribal chieftains and the richest people on the land (coincidence? Nah), their vote counts, they control the smallest portion of the economy, mainly through the chieftains and yet you and me engage in a lot of chest thumping over freeing the land from the colonialists, while the benefits are clearly ending up elsewhere!

The only entity of which you're operating independently is the truth.

Celebrate that, fellow brainwashed Kenyans.

The 24 sexiest Kenyans……

I happened to overhear a discussion in a cybercafé over the weekend between two trendy, sublimal and urbane ladies who were chatting with some guy online. The gist of the conversation was to the effect that the October 2006 issue of True Love magazine carried photos of 24 sexy Kenyans, and wow wasn’t it great, at least they could now pursue Tom Mboya. Naturally, curiosity got the better of me and I got itchy. I could not even settle down anymore and had to shoot off an e-mail off to some lady to please bring her copy to the office on Monday! So yesterday I rushed to the office and read it all, and to say the least I felt let down. All my excitement waned and I felt belittled to say the least.

The general dictionary definition of the word sexy is ‘arousing or tending to arouse sexual desire or interest’. Off the cuff, this term is generically concerned with sex, although there could be the meaning of being excitingly appealing like ‘a sexy new plasma TV’. However, I understand that this magazine is targeted at the ladies and this list appears to have created some murmurs judging by my colleagues here, mostly of approval although, as usual there are a few naysayers, yours truly included.

To the publishers of True Love: Nice crusade you've got going on in your latest issue. You know, I never say anything about someone until I've had the balls to say it: Now this listing probably creates additional revenue for you, but it also takes up my valuable time as I have to write messages like this, and your readers probably get ticked off over wasted money and effort, unless they live in the same hallway of yesteryear like you.

Here is my take on some individuals on the list, and I welcome your views as well. I have mentioned some of the 24 (not Jack Bauer’s 24, sorry to disappoint you) and proceed to give my take on the individual and you can correct me if I am wrong (please) or share all the juicy details you have stashed up s’where, or just tell me what a scoundrel I am!

Tedd Josiah: He who of the Blue Framez Cinema fame and brought Vipi to our visual tubes, and the same guy who awarded himself Kisima Awards when he was the organizer, is now one of the sexiest Kenyans around. Putting Tedd Josiah at the beginning of a list of sexy Kenyans is a symptom of the start of another useless listing. Reality shows us on a daily basis that schemes designed to fool Kenyans out of their hard earned cash are on the rise and will only increase, so am surprised that the publishers of True Love have resorted to this. This is not the serious work of an entertainment writer. Tedd Josiah may be one of Kenya’s most successful music producers (remember Audiovault, Sync Sound and now Blue Framez??) But I have my doubts whether he is one of the sexiest. I’ll let the ladies point me in the right direction, coz am probably headed in the opposite, well groomed he is, but is he sexy?

Emma Too: I know most of you are probably giving yourselves the thumbs up that at least she is here. Well, please check your calendar and you’ll notice that this is the year 2006, and she has been around for a lot longer than you believe. When she first appeared on the scene, she was one helluva looker alright, and downright sexay, but in 2006? Please. They’ve listed her as a Landscape Surveyor, and I must admit I do not know what profession that is, star counting? Recording cloud speeds? You tell me.

Waweru Njoroge: No comment. OK one line: Dear Waweru: Don’t feel proud mister, you are supposed to have a job, go to work, go home, spank your pet cat, then go to bed, not tell us you are self-employed and a consultant whilst you got sacked.

Misiko Andere: This is that chubby faced lady who presents Art Scene on KTN. Looking at her picture on True Love, I noticed that she has a tattoo of a dolphin on her …wait for this…left leg! On the shin to be exact. I know you are saying that being sexy is one thing, and being good looking is another, well I agree, but there is no way you are to be labelled sexy if you are ugly and chubby, unless you give everyone a demo. Nuff said.

Angela Angwenyi: This is probably her payoff for winning the Kenya Night series ( I hear she never got her cash prize), but they also tricked her to wear a black and red turban and she’ll look like India Arie. Big mistake.

Tom Mboya: Wipe of the smile from you face young man, and understand that in order to be relevant to all viewers, you need to be consistent with the pronunciation of English consonants. Financials are pronounced [/fɪˈnænʃəl, faɪ-/ Pronunciation Keyfi-nan-shuhls] and not [fee-nan-shuhls] man, and stop relaxing your hair; it has a bad effect on the otherwise superb studio lighting at prime time. One evening I watched you seated next to Sophie Ikenye and you seemed more petite than her!

Lorna Irungu: I have to ask you to forgive my language on this one, or you stop reading. In my 28 years on this earth I have never felt such true emotion being expressed in any form like the time there was a detailed discussion on some lurid pictures that were doing the rounds on the net. Some guys were very convinced it was her, and were like why did she go to some white guy's place if she had a good idea what men are about and what they like. She’s probably mastered the art of sleeping with her eyes open by now. She looks downright ugly and fat in the magazine, and although she still retains that killer smile that got many guys talking in the early 90s, she has no business being on a list of sexy people in 2006. Sure Lorna, we’ve all seen young ladies like you in Nairobi that got their way in everything but you are no longer good enough to get into anybody’s A-list, least of all bed, but it still seems you still think you got game.

Esther Arunga: That’s DJ CK’s newest teen &^%$£, and she sounds good and sexy on radio alright, but she looks a whole lot different, like something out of kids array of toys. In shaggz.

Ojay Hakim: That’s a fashion designer in Nairobi according to the caption. He looks too fatherly, and I guess this is a feeble attempt to appeal to elderly readers. Well, that’s all good, but for your information, elderly readers would probably want to see the likes of a fresh form four leaver with freshness all over him, not some measly moustachioed jackaroo being called sexy.

Debbie Asila: Now this is one I don’t understand. Here is a Beyonce wannabe, complete with a grumpy weave (that covers her forehead and has some braids at the back, yuck,) being masqueraded as sexy.

Regina Re: Now this is one woman who has a commanding presence, and I do not really know if she’s got sex appeal guys. I think she just has those magnetic effects on an audience that cannot necessarily be interpreted to be sexy. If she’s on this list, then Cathrine Kasavuli should be on it as well.

Others on the list are: Caroline Wainaina, John Alan Namu, Thaddeus Jude, Lillian Muli, Morris Odumbe, Doris Anjalo, Ian Ochuka, Florence Machio, Marcus, Michael Oyier, Nameless, Hussein Mohammed and Susan Kaittany.

Notable Absentees: DJ CK(!), Julie Gichuru Butt, Swaleh Mdoe, Leo Faya, and please add your own!

Some of the individuals named above deserve it, but my point here is that a publication risks a lot in engaging in rating how sexy Kenyans are. Rate the musicians, politicians, sportsmen and women and call it that, but saying Kenyans? No way. All the people we meet on the streets are Kenyans and sexy in their own way. I am sure you’ve all seen someone who’s sexy, and you still see them everyday, and they are not on that list.

Some of you bloggers and avid readers (who’ve waited for this lame post, sorry Unyc, Pekiro Princess, Quintessence for the disappointment, I’ll share my September travels shortly) are probably wondering what business I have reading a women’s magazine, but that is all good, sometimes junk gets to you in one way or another just like spam (I spammed those ladies conversation anyhow) . This post is not intended to ridicule or belittle anyone. Instead, it should be a timely reminder to the publishers on how lame they are and those on the list who, in my own personal opinion are not sexy and have no business being on the list, and accepted to be.

A new post coming up....

Hey! After a two week hiatus I am working on a new posting that will probably knock you out... it is killing me as I draft it, God help me.

In the meantime, please boggle your mind with this article, then check out this clock and sign off by saluting my cellular service provider for this notable achievement and then wait for the the post.

Cupping Java House Coffee. Enter Woman.

I just love coffee. Plain old fashioned coffee made from ground coffee beans with no milk and a dash of sugar.

One day soon after I started working, I decided to try Java House coffee. A number of friends were full of the coffee on offer there. This was after having to imbibe in weak coffee in campus, made from boiling water passed through a sieve with coffee beans. I will not bore you to death with remarks on the taste here, but I took it for a number of years, and I actually still miss it.

This being a big day for me, I brushed my teeth and rinsed my mouth overly, no need to pass ill judgement on celebrated coffee, whilst you actually had toothpaste in your taste buds. I took a shower, used no shower gel, dried myself and oiled myself with no-perfumed Vaseline and sauntered out of the house without wearing any cologne, feeling light spirited and headed for the Java House on Mama Ngina Street. I used to stay deep inside Ruaraka, and had to walk about two kilometres to Thika Road to catch a mathree to town, so I set-off on my grand mission.

The day had bloomed like a lofty flowery plant from Mount Kenya, petals of hours torn free by the wind to seek cool water and shadow within which they might be forgotten. As I walked along the asphalt track, memories of days gone by shimmered with the slight heat peppered by a cool breeze, blurring details of the long walk and picturesque view of the GSU Headquarters into an impressionistic canvas upon which everything else was distorted when one looked too closely.

The black pieces of garbage disposal bags stuck on growth along the banks of Ruai River, the balustrade of the narrow bridge bound together by bolts and nuts, arrhythmic strands of birds chirping along the way, a few Colobus monkeys jumped from one tree to another, as some tinier genres of monkeys streaked along the GSU headquarters wire fence, dancing rhythmically as they did so. I passed the gate of the mysterious building, rumoured to be an NSIS officers’ mess, but was soon after opened as Hotel La Mada. I could imagine myself drinking weak coffee in campus, as I savoured the taste, eyes closed, just for a few moment of caffeine bliss to sink in, then back to books. The limbo between voluminous Finance books and coffee drinks shifted with the sun, sometimes noticed, sometimes eternal, as the rays pieced through the leaves of the trees outside my room in the hall of residence. The difference was inconsequential.

It was approaching 4 PM, and I got to the highway, had an uneventful ride to the city centre in the boom twaff No. 44 superide mathree and alighted at Tom Mboya street, near the post office. I had the urge to stroll into one of the noisy exhibitions and buy a few pirated movies look at some clothes on offer, but the urge to taste the famed coffee urged me on. I walked to Mama Ngina street, and paused briefly at the entrance to Java House. Will I be thrown out? Is there a dress code? Is it expensive? The thoughts flew through my mind, and I decided to just take the risk and get in, not go home as I had done before when I developed cold feet outside a club, I was too shy to walk in there.

Choosing the coffee was one difficult task once the friendly lady thrust the menu at my chubby scared face. She must have known instantly that it was my first time, and I was lucky that this was a coffee shop, not a pub or a brothel. I told her I wanted plain coffee, and she suggested the house coffee, without milk. “Any accompaniments?” she asked, and I declined, as I wanted to cup this coffee without prejudice and pass judgement fairly. As I waited for the coffee to be brought, I looked around and some people were reading newspapers, some were chatting while some were in serious discussion, probably a business deal and someone was reading a book.

I noticed the woman once my coffee was brought and I looked up to acknowledge the waiter. Buxom. Large eyes. More flesh than she needed. And the sort of smile that derailed conversations, wrecking trains of thought. Starting of on my coffee, I gave her no more thought than she deserved. Her eyes sought my own. Fragments of the road I walked on half an hour ago were coming back, and they had grown sharp. Faces without names. Backs gleaming. Ecstatic grimaces. Dark liquid waiting in my cup. Focus recedes. My mind starts drifting.

Flash and blindness. Evening sets in. Shadows have probably stopped moving outside. Stitching the night closed with the thread of explanation, two silhouettes mapping the path from pillowcase to comforter, the eternity separating me from solace.

Strange girl arises, her face discerning a contentment of sorts, reminds one of a faded moon in the night of memory. I hear the rabbit scream of the cappuccino machine. Cream mist hides the alchemist as I turn over to look at the counter. Probably.

Throat relaxed, smooth Kisii soapstone, a statue leaning on sharp elbows, claws extended. Passionate kisses, sweaty bodies in the dark of the night. Frosted windows and the lights keep flashing, spectrum keeping time with a slowing pulse. Vodka expands upon contact, forming a pool beside the bed. She has no such luck. Leaning over the side, she can see everything. Hair covered in beaded Maasai headdress, dreadlocks emerge from the side like dark twines of wild climbers in Mau forest. Iris the color of old bruises. Reaching down toward herself, a finger breaks the surface. The image ripples, distorts before she has the chance to recognize the face.

"Excuse me."

I looked away from the past to the present, chasing the voice. The woman was standing beside my table, tucking her golden necklace back into her inviting bosom. I look back at my untouched coffee, then back at her. I feel sixteen again. Her smile was hesitant, hopeful.

Like that of a nurse with a patient regaining consciousness.

"I'm sorry, but I'm supposed to be meeting somebody here, somebody I haven't met before. Are you James?"

Seconds fractured and broke apart, the smallest pieces of which I took to consider my response.

Could I be another man? For an hour? For a night?

Possibilities unfurled, paths carved by words and careful sentences.

I could start over here, pick up where another man never had the opportunity to leave off. I could pretend I knew things I had yet to learn. Middle names. Nairobi suburbs and neighbourhoods. Small countryside towns and the ages of siblings. I could pretend I did not know the things I have learned, speaking without fear of seduction or offence, acting a part unrehearsed. Long walks in Uhuru Park. Courtship. Gold and diamonds. Bells. Children.

Peering back into her eyes, I saw a hope independent of my face. The dream of a romantic, seeking the first star, dropping small leaves as she stripped bare a sapling on some dusty countryside path.

No matter how the story might be written, the ending is always the same.

"No," I replied with a wicked thought otherwise. Orgasms and despondency flitted across my vision, translucent spots after glimpsing bright light. "Should he fail to meet your appointment, however, I should be flattered to assume his place.", I added. The light behind her gaze dimmed somewhat, falling with the corners of her mouth.

"That's okay," she murmured. "Thanks." And away she went, returning to the chair from which she had risen.

I stared at the table, gulped the contents of my cup, my coffee cupping mission all but forgotten. The taste of the coffee was just plain, slouched in regret, lost opportunities. “I shall come back another day to cup the Java House Coffee….” I told myself. Occasional glances went unnoticed. Waitresses went about their business, serving coffee, eggs, Mexican beans and more. Gathering my courage in resignation, I asked for my bill, I saw the woman sitting by the window, watching. Waiting. I slipped the waitress a hundred shilling note and left.

This is romance, I thought as I walked out the door, the unwrapped gift of a promise, empty in expectant hands.

An unremarkable lady alone, hoping otherwise. This is the wound that always bleeds, the truth we look away from, stumbling about in the dark room. Why is it we only identify knives by touch?

Suppressing every instinct, I did not turn back.

An encounter with a House of Yahweh adherent

The world has just ended. Or it is just about to.

This is not another of those sour predictions of the world ending that you hear about every now and then. No. This is just a short review of the recent happenings in the Rift Valley. Nakuru to be precise. Why would somebody predict that the world will end on 12 September 2006? That there will be a nuclear war and that is not the end. This is the post Yahweh.com:

“You need to put this date on your bathroom mirror. You also need to make preparations for the dark days ahead, which will affect every person on earth.... ”

I got to do a bit of an online background check after I read in the paper and in the news that there is a sect, very busy in Njoro, Mauche and Molo areas in Nakuru asking its members to sell their property and prepare for end times.

End times my God.

Members of the sect are right now holed up in some chamber in Njoro, praying away and waiting for the apocalypse to strike. Some have probably shat on their pants; some are grovelling and gnawing in fear, waiting for the final obliteration of our planet. From my frequent online sojourns, the last time this earth was under any sort of obliteration threat was from an asteroid that was 250,000 kilometres away, and that from the same people who downgraded Pluto from planetary status. Never mind.

So why would a sect leader announce that end times are here and throw a region into a panic?

Like Albert Einstein said, science without religion is lame, but religion without science is blind. These religious types just bore me to the core. What would somebody run their mouths on other people’s bizness? So and so is not very nice, watch out. Doing this is wrong in God’s eyes, it is wrong for you to desire what is not yours, oh, please donate and help build God’s ministry we need to grow this church bla bla bra (pun intended).

There was this joke I once read and thought it was a sheer mimicry of religion and a silent neigh in the sunrise of Christianity, but it cracked my sick mind nevertheless. Some kids were apparently asked by their teacher what the stretchiest (is that an English word?) substance in the world was. To her utter amazement, one of the kids raised his hand and answered ‘human skin’. Now, ladies and gentlemen, you are probably as astounded as I am. What? Some of you are probably feeling pain or some sort of itchiness just because some kid said the stretchiest substance on earth is the human skin. “Why?” asked the teacher. “Because I read in the Bible that Jesus tied his ass to a tree and walked five kilometres to Jerusalem.” was the kid's answer. Whew!

Well, I took it that the kid was innocent in a dirty way, but still thought some sick minded guy wrote it just to poke fun at Christiaity. I am a Catholic myself, although I have not seen the inside of a Catholic since my high school chapel in March 1996, before I got suspended for a whole term and chased from the school like I was a rabid rodent. But that is a story for another time. Now, I want to recount one of my religious dig-ins in the past. I didn't understand church very much in my childhood, and I don't really understand it much now, not just church but pretty much religion in general but before anyone start trying to go overboard and blow some crap up around me because their religion said to, let it be known that I probably know two cents more than what anyone knows about religion and history, bows down to or who they are giving ten percent of their earnings to. I was raised Catholic and any time some Bible thumper asks, I say I'm Catholic but, I'm currently in a mild state of confusion when it comes to religion and I presently find myself in between religions, especially with all the negative energy that comes from all of the new churches mushrooming all over Kenya.

There was this time when I was busy with some farming assignment back home (I come from Molo by the way, so this sect has touched a raw nerve), and was looking for some guy to plough my land. As I waited for this guy and his tractor at the roadside in my one-muddy-run-down-street home town in shaggz, a former classmate from old days walked up to me and we started chatting. He told me he’d been okay and was travelling to Nairobi and was waiting for a lift. He asked me to keep him company near the stage with him as he shone his shoes and I obliged, and we walked to a shoe shiner’s stand and he sat down.

All went quiet and we realised we had interrupted some debate, so I asked these guys what was happening? Apparently some old man (let’s call him S) who repaired padlocks next to the shoe shiner had been taking them on, you guessed right, why the House of Yahweh was the church to be, and all other churches were nought in the name of Yahweh. There is no God, only Yahweh, and his son Jesus Christ! I told them to leave him alone; he’d probably taken some busaa that day on his way to work.

The old man belligerently asked me what church I belonged to, and I said I was a Catholic. One of the guys standing around chuckled, he probably sensed trouble. I asked the old man what church he belonged to. He responded that he was a Christian, which is rather like being asked where you live, and you respond Africa, and you are right here! So I decided to narrow it down. I figured I'd start with the largest branch, so I asked him if he was Catholic or Protestant.

That set off his short fuse right there, and he wiggled in his seat, that old and wiry old man. He scolded me stammeringly for using the label "Protestant" (in his words an unholy phrase uttered by the Pope to demean innocent people) and told me that Catholics worshiped of the Virgin Mary, not Jesus Christ or Yahweh. I tried to keep from smiling as I pointed out the giant crucifixes that adorn virtually every Catholic Church, as well as the image of Jesus Christ that hangs over most alters in said churches. And the references to God in the Bible and scriptures, sermons and other writings of the Catholic Church.

S enlightened me, informing me that they were all part of an elaborate cover up to turn people from the one true faith, and trick them into being thrown into the boiling lake of fire to burn for eternity. How about that? Here I was just trying to defend my church, despite all those child abuse accusations cropping up around the world when it turns out that we apparently have some kind of hellish fetish too. This communal barbeque would be achieved, S claimed, through worship of the false idol, the Virgin Mary.

Upon hearing those words, I felt as though I had been awakened from a sound slumber in the deepest darkness and suddenly thrust wide awake into shining bright light. Yes, I felt tired, annoyed, and I wanted to go back to bed, not even to wait for the ploughing guy and his tractor. I asked S why Jesus Christ would be so pissed off about us being nice to his mother. He muttered something about idolatry, and then went back to bashing Catholics. He explained to me how Catholics had written their own Bible which was based solely on lies. S taught me that the Catholics had used that false power gathered with their unholy Bible to scare people into obedience. Using this power, Catholics had been behind every atrocity and major war for the last thousand years. With a cry of cynic passion, S informed me that the Catholic Church was the sole cause of the Nazi holocaust.

I was a little confused by this statement. I suggested that maybe S was thinking of something else, surely not the Holocaust! S assured me he meant the Holocaust. According to him, the Catholic Church paid Hitler to begin the war, while they (the Catholic Church) secretly seized Jews and killed them. Now the reason I was confused here, is because there appeared to be a few holes in this story. It can be argued that in the past the Catholic Church may have been responsible for some of the anti-Semitism that built up before the 2^nd World War, but the actions of Catholics during the war itself seemed to be pretty reasonable. I told S that the Pope in power at the time maintained a stance of neutrality mostly to avoid military retaliation from Italy and Germany. Other high ranking members of the Catholic clergy did openly protest, however. It's also a well known fact that Catholics hid Jews during the holocaust period. Fortunately, S was able to denounce these apparent falsehoods. The Catholic Church got control of every single history book on the face of the planet, and rewrote them all.

At this point my head was starting to hurt (it being filled anew with words of divine truth and all) so I decided to go back to my original question. What religion did he belong to? S once again insisted that he was Christian. I pointed out that there were many different branches: Methodists, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Anglicans, and Jehovah's Witnesses, to name a few. S interrupted me with a hearty "Those stupid Lutherans". Apparently they worship the Virgin Mary, too. Calming down a little bit, S told me that since I was a Catholic, I was a liar, claiming I was defending the cruellest, most bloodthirsty, most sadistic cult on the face of the planet. I asked him what church he attended then, if he was a Christian. He responded that he was a member of the House of Yahweh sect, and did not attend any church though, they went to a shrine. I asked him where exactly it was; I was from around there and did not know where it was. He said that for now, they worshipped at an open field about five kilometres away, but that was for a short while, they will build a better shrine (he avoided the use of the word Church by the way) for Yahweh.

My friends’ shoes were done and they glittered like the back of a dung-beetle. Seeing no point in pushing further with that elderly lunatic and his sordid religious beliefs, I told him we were enlightened, and took our leave and went forth to spread the word.

Do you have a Nakumatt Smart Card?

It sometimes gets very cold in Nairobi at around this time of year.

I mean it, the kind of bone slicing cold that jams your feelings so far up into your spine that at times it would be absolutely reasonable to believe that as a man, you have become the benefactor of a free gender reassignment procedure.

So, when one finds themselves on their own and on the outside of society at the spry age of nineteen, working as a tout in a dingy matatu can fairly beat out being the master of your own destiny, half frozen to death inside the mat, asking the passengers for their fare and haggling with them over change, constantly looking over your shoulder at the street ahead , expecting the cops to swoop on you, or incidentally looking out for other cars that ply the same route as your ‘squad’ lest they overtake you. You also have to look out for passengers on the wayside, and keep shouting ‘beba!’ whenever the driver slows down or hoots, to the irritation of some of the passengers.

That's right readers; I did my time in the matatu industry as a tout! Three long days, doting over passengers with young kids, ogling at some hot chicks (and I carried a number of them for free), to the disgust of the tall bearded driver who never brushed his teeth! I bribed almost all the policemen on the way, got arrested twice (to and fro!) in one day for giving out a 50 bob at a 2 sock police roadblock, and almost got slapped once (but got kicked instead after I ducked) by a policeman. I refused to wash the matatu, much to the chagrin of the driver who said that is the conductor’s job. We used to do a long haul, from Nakuru to Kisumu and we carried all sorts of stuff and different genres of people.

There were no Michuki rules then, as this was they year of our lord 1997 and the matatu was a 33-seater minibus and we once carried close to 70 (I lost count along the way). I fought with fellow touts at the various stops on the way over ‘tips’ for swinging us passengers, shouted at fuel pump attendants at times when we were in hurry (either fast approaching darkness or rain) and did some not so honourable things to the passengers. -- "just drop us here, tumefika, wewe unatupitisha!!! " – That time the dere is cruising downhill at 100 kph and someone wants to alight. If it was some young guy, you shout at him to walk back a kilometre to his stop, the elderly and respectable or some young ‘fly’ mamas, you give them 10 bob to catch a ride back and say sorry and then force a smile.

I hate to break it to you, but when your beloved Chirau Mwakwere and ole Kamwaro etc orders a crackdown on public service vehicles like the one that is currently on, I feel the pinch. I feel pain. After all I was part of this litany of sorts after high school when a friend of mine had the misfortune of having the driver and tout run away with his cash and the matatu keys, leaving the matatu stranded in Kisumu City at the mercy of vandals for two days. Luckily, the police towed it to Kondele on time to save the tyres and a few seats, but the windscreen and batteries were not so lucky. We had to find our way there and luckily, he got another driver after fixing the matatu but no ‘trustworthy’ tout as he put it. He blamed the previous tout for inciting the former dere to run away, and called him a ‘hothead’ (if that’s what he meant as he spoke in vernacular). So while awaiting the arrival of his cousin’s son to come and take charge I jumped aboard for an agonising three days on the cross. (RIP, Wahome ‘Whispers’ Mutahi)

Now that you are certainty wondering what the purpose of this long-winded digression is, which is to state I understand the importance of upselling, using skill and product knowledge to maximize the shilling amount of a consumers purchase. It seems that in the past few years, supermarkets and other retail outlets have turned to so called "rewards schemes", offering savings to those who are willing to burden their wallets with special propriety cards, in effect making them eligible for deals that are restricted like literacy in caste-era India, or political leadership in Kenya today. Now this practice has grown until it became an affliction, and the rear right pocket of every suburbanite male will soon (if not already) bulge like an inflated lymph node, and the purses of every female shall became a support to more petroleum-based material than a small middle eastern oil state, as a proof of a world in which all the doors in all the world are opened by way of a branded plastic card.

There are those among you who may be asking yourselves at this point something to the effect of, “but this has been going on for years, why has this issue become instantaneously so pertinent? Why at this time is StackOfStiffys’ hatred at its apex? Well, I'll tell you.

For my part in all this... I have fought. I have rebelled against this ridiculous commercial fad, I have been on the front line, breaking through enemy barrages of "but if you sign up now, you'll get a free gift when you have 200 points, or redeem each point for 2 shillings" and mortar rounds of "but you can earn 10% discount at AA, on your insurance premiums at Lion, a drink or meal at Kengeles or even accommodation at Safari Park", and in this chaos I never made it out of the damned Nakumatt store on time on my way to where I was going when I was just trying to get an energy drink and some water, or some groceries for the house. And I humbly admit my falterings, the pitched battle of the declined smart card when buying tyres and rims the other day, missed opportunity to earn thousands of points {that could be converted to school fees (read drinking money)} when I was buying furniture the other day, this computer desk included. I am not a perfect man, but I am a man of conviction, and I fought as hard and long as I could, and am still fighting.

The other day, I went to Tamasha for drink and some good tunes with a few friends after being away for close to a whole year and had to part with a cool 2 sock, while they got in free. Why? I did not have a membership card like them, and the hefty bouncer would have none of my pleading for free entrance. The same happened to me at Kengeles Lavington on one of those c.o.p. (citizens on patrol, euphemism for an all night out where you tour bars from Dagoretti corner to Thika Road and round of at Jam Rescue in Eastlands on your way back home, (I did 12 bars once, with 2 or 3 drinks at each)} nights.

But what, what among all things became the straw that broke the proverbial rhino's back? Dear readers, I would not lead you astray, nor bear to you false witness; and so, believe me when I speak these words: Yesterday, as I went to Nakumatt Ngong road to buy a heater to warm the house in this colds season, and as I walked into the cool and air-conditioned ‘superstore’ , crawling over the assortment of goods on display to ask for a heater, the kind lady who happened to be the store or floor attendant kindly asked me to follow her and said "Don't worry about it, I'll show you where it is" And I turned and followed with a small forgotten feeling of compassion for mankind creeping back into the creases of my wrinkled fat face, and started climbing the stairs, and then it happened: the lady had began speaking again, this time in a musical voice and her words floated toward my ears melting the air as they came, reached me, and began the explosive chemical reaction in my problematic brain…

"By the way sir, do you have our Smart Card?"

What could I do... for air... for the most abundant resource in our world alongside water, which all the water bottlers have so commercialized and poisoned long ago…they would defile even our breathing essence... all for 2 shillings in exchange for a point or ten percent off your next purchase at a member outlet like Safari Park Hotel (who sleeps there anyway?).

I don't know now if this is the beginning or the end of this, I only know the right thing to do.

Burn them.

Burn them all.

Burn all the Nakumatt smart cards you have. All the Uchumi R&Rs, all the Tamasha membership cards, Sohos VIP cards (these shall be painful I bet!), Kengeles bonus-you-pay-less-when-you-drink-more cards, you name it. For these loyalty, membership and reward schemes are just ploys to make us buy goods at inflated prices.

And if we are lucky (hope am not being blasphemous in the eyes of the religious types amongst the readers) and ascend to the holy place called Heaven, we will stand at the pearly gates, covered in the black ash of the Smart or otherwise Cards we shall have burned, and we will look upon the grand visage of St. Peter and he will look down onto us and as our gazes lock, he will nod, and we will produce the last charred plastic idol, and as it crumbles into nothingness, his left hand will find a shoulder, while his right hand waves open the gates with a motion so slight, not a molecule of compressed air will be displaced.

Sleazy attack on Capital FM breakfast show

A bunch guys on an idle banter on a blog think they have a say on the quality of Kenyan breakfast shows, some of which they do not even listen to? See: this and this one also and tell them what you all think. I have told them what I think of them and my 2 cents worth.......!

Like I told them, I feel sorry for Seanice and her capital in the morning crew. A handful of guys doing a good job earning their bread within all legal means yet they still have to deal with the unpleasantries of people who don’t like their show and yet they don’t even listen? It seems so simple: if you don’t like it don’t listen, be smart. Capital FM has been around long enough for some of us to say it’s not a passing fad. Seanice and Leo shouldn’t bother trying to explain themselves to people who just don’t get it (nor listen!). Maybe Capital FM isn’t for everybody, but it’s for me.

Drunk driving, Kenyan MPs, and our laws....

The problem with having sex with a cow is that you have to have to jump down from your stool to run around the front to give it a kiss.

I came across this line the other day and I naturally laughed my head off. However, I pondered it and I guessed our MPs right here in Kenya could do just that!

Look at it this way, those guys earn sleazy amount to idle and beat the pig in the Chamber in National Assembly! National affairs are reduced to idle matters by our petulant legislators right here in Nairobi.

With all the problems the country is facing and the troublesome things happening around the world, Israel raping Lebanon as the US claps it hands in glee and refers to it as 'shit', George W Bush expressing his profanities and the German Chancellor, Ken Lay faking his own death and people still not accepting Jesus into their hearts, we are close to facing another bleaky future at the hands of the Kenya goverment.

I'm an easy going kind of guy and I care less about the majority of things, situations and people around me. The only thing I care about is my family, friends, making a few guys laugh occasionally and alcohol.

Yeah, that's right, I said it, alcohol.

People who drink to drown their sorrow should be told that sorrow knows how to swim - Ann Landers.

Which takes me to my point, drunk driving.

A horrible, deadly criminal action of which I am guilty as charged. You see, I am incredibly lucky, and have survived some amazing predicaments, not the least of which was circumcision in the deep of the Mau Forest on a rainy night, more than a couple vicious fights, and who knows how many incurable diseases. I have a job to be envied, a kind patient and loving woman, and a resilient mother.

What's my point? Instead of enacting laws to weed out social wimps like me and outlaw drink driving, our legislators fall asleep in parliament! We do not even have a road to take us to the Rift Valley in time nor in comfort anymore. But because these crazy numskull douches feel that they know what's best for the rest of us, they've decided to approve bills that will not only pretty much send shivers down everyones spines at the mention oth word 'sex' but also another to deny us our retirement savings until we are wheezing incoherently.

I'm sure Osama is in his cave, chasing a squirrel, thinking how well his money is being laundered at Charterhouse Bank because of all the naive people who run the GoK. I have put my alcohol in check but what about others? And the roads budget? And the perennial drought? But what do they do? The run around politicking and massaging their egos all day with nothing to show for it.

This is the greatest country in the world and I wouldn't want to live any other place but what these geezers are trying to do to us as an entire population, as Kenyans, as free thinking human beings, while crazy militia are in the Middle East and Somalia living in the sand without enough armor on their Uzi's is just Crazy Crap!

I ask you to log on mzalendo.com and shame these guys away!