SOMETIMES LIFE HAPPENS

I think the best place is home. My home. I don't mean that as in, home is where the heart is, or all those other idiotic idioms that have no place in this post. I mean that home, my home, is just simply the best place I've ever been to. The best part: The Sunrise and the Sunset. Every day brings different hues brightening up the sky, livening up the horizon, vividly tracing individual cloud linings into a majesty of form and color. I don't know, the imagery does seem very inadequate, but perhaps that's the best I can do. Here it is. A Sunset at my place.

WANNA STUDY, CAN'T

Wanna study, can't. Wanna write, can't. Wanna party, can't. Wanna freak out over something, can't. Lol... Lots of things I can't do at the moment... Hopefully, that will alter in some time (no point in stressing it, right?) :)

Whats the probability that a guy wearing a t-shirt that reads 'It's all fun and games till the cops show up' gets caught by the cops for driving without a license? Read: 1 in 200000. So what's the probability that I would know this guy? Nil. You'd think so. You'd be right? Nope.. You'd be wrong.. LOL!

What's the probability that in one hostel, two people boiling water in an electric kettle can trip a fuse that causes power to fluctuate and cause one certain person's mobile charger to give up the battle against the sudden infusion of juice into its system? Nil? Wrong. There's no way I can do this to yet ANOTHER phone. First one: Lost. Second: Stolen. Third: Didn't luck out either. Why do I always hear people say third time lucky, but it never falls true?

OK. I'm done with writing this crap. Maybe now I can finally get up to studying for a test for a course that I can't sit in for all its utter BORINGNESS! Wow.. I had no idea 'boringness' existed until the red line didn't appear. If you know what I'm talking about. Rii: I miss your zombiefied existence. Your absence has turned ME into one! What to do, yaar, what to do (to be read aloud in OUR accent) :)

ITS MUBARAK BARACK: AND THE THRONE FALLS TO THE BLACKS!!!!

As Barack Obama made history by getting elected the 44^th president of the United States, they yelled. They shouted. They cried. They laughed. They sobbed. And they sung. They clapped hands and hugged as Obama was proclaimed the winner.

I’m not talking about the African- Americans. Nope. I’m talking about the Africans. The Kenyans. Those chaps who take pride in the fact that Obama is a son of Kenya. That Barack Hussein Obama Sr. was the one person in thirty million who sired the first black president of the United States: the seat of top power. It seems to be somewhat of an irony that the first black president of the US isn’t someone whose family has suffered at the hands of the land or whose ancestors were once slaves but one whose whole life wasn’t governed by the concepts and dynamics of racism and whose roots are firmly entrenched in a small country on that vast continent that was once in the hands of the same white folks who applaud the coming of Obama to the highest seat in the land. Irony.

When Kenyan’s got a national holiday for the victory of Barack, the world laughed. You’ve got to love these people, people said. It implied that we are crazy. That our leaders are fools. That our pride is misplaced. After all, what will this one guy who is American to his toenails do for our country? What silly behaviour did our leaders exhibit by giving us a national holiday?

It wasn’t misplaced. And we aren’t fools. We do know and understand the fact that as President, Barack Obama will not treat us any different that he would the rest of the world. For him, for America, we will still be one economy that as yet, thrives on the dollar, and hence, is to be exploited. As usual. We know that. We aren’t fools.

But what we also get is that Barack Obama is 50% Kenyan. We also know that genes count for something. We know that without growing up in Kenya between his people, he exhibits characteristics that are only attributed to his father’s tribe. We know that he is half black, so he knows what we’ve been through. Racial memory counts for something. And we know that for one moment, for one day, we can have hope that we, as Kenyans, can enjoy the concept of freedom. We can enjoy the concept that the democracy that we have lost in our own world is still prevalent in other worlds, and that we can one day hope to assume that democracy. It’s not about Barack Obama. Or maybe it is. Partly. But mostly, it’s about us. And we have to let the world know this. We aren’t fools. We’re a people who believe in the audacity of hope. We believe. And therefore, we celebrate.

MAYA ANGELOU

I've been reading a lot about Maya Angelou after a new friend from my hostel gave me Maya Angelou's six-pack biography. I loved it. I'm still not finished, but I have read the first two books of the series. The first one, I know why the caged bird sings, really captured my heart. I know its considered inspirational, and truth to tell, it WAS inspirational. I Googled up Maya Angelou, and discovered that she's a much more important person in the history of Black America than I previously thought. She's written quite a bit of poetry, but this one is one of my favorites. I hope you'll enjoy it too.

PHENOMENAL WOMAN

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Maya Angelou.

Beautiful, isn't it.

A SERIES OF A SERIES OF CRAP :)

Wow!!!! I just realized that it's been over 2 months since I last posted here. Well, an interesting tidbit for you guys: I've started an anonymous blog.:) It's quite the latest in political parody and the discrediting of some fellows on the world scene: MY WAY!!! Unfortunately, I've heard quite a bit about blog-haters turned stalkers, and since the situation in Kenya is a bit too volatile for anything of this level, I've had to keep it under wraps. But I do hope you Stumble Upon it someday, and get to enjoy it! As a matter of fact, I've had a few hundred hits already and its only been up a few days!:) Yay... Maybe now, Google Adsense will finally work for me!:)

UPDATE:
I've been on a travel rampage. Visited Nairobi for a coupla days (it was Fuckin Cold, then!), and went on to Nakuru, where it was remarkably hot! In Nakuru, spent a day at the Nakuru National Park, and if you're a friend, you've heard about the Rhino story. If you're not.. Too bad. Oh, WTH, I'll tell you anyway! :) Soooo.... I was determined to take a snap with a White Rhino, and if you're any sort of intelligent, you'll be thinking: 'Ye Gads! This gal is CRAAAAZY!!!!' Right.. SO maybe I am. Anyways, I saw three.. One was far off, and the other two (Mother and Child) were in the vicinity. So I get out of the car, and I see them observing me. So I go closer, and tell my mate to take the pic. I pose, she Yells, I Yell and Run For Cover. I jump into the car, and turn around, to see what all the yelling was about. The Rhinos are running in the other direction. Oh Well.. I get the picture. They DON'T want to be in the same frame with me. What can I say. I Offend their sensibilities. Don't believe me? Look at that baleful glare :( Poor Me! Here are a few pic anyways. All in all, I saw a cheetah, plenty of warthogs, buffaloes, flamingos, baboons, gazelles, zebras and giraffe.Righy-O! So I spent a few days in Nakuru, and then went back to Mombasa. In August, I made two trips again... One to Nairobi to attend the wedding reception of one of my fav cousins, and the second was to Nakuru (Not To Take a Photo with the White Rhino this time!) And then back to Mombasa. The scenery along the Nairobi-Nakuru road (of the Great Rift Valley) need hardly be mentioned. SPECTACULAR, as you might have guessed! And then my sis bought a sheep-skin rug for my room. I refuse to have it in there. IT STINKS. It doesn't just stink, it STINKS TO HIGH HELL!!!! Oh well, that was a fight I lost as soon as I got myself back to Nairobi.

Yup... That's it! So now, I'm here, doing MBA at the UoN. At least, that's the short of it. I don't even WANT to get started on the long version: The first rejection, the subsequent re=application, the sub-subsequent approval, and the missing of Orientation. More on the status of the hostel later. But wth, It's been interesting, to say the least.

Next Week: Comparison of UoN With VITU. Wish I had a few snaps to go with this one. :) Perhaps I'll make some up. :)

WHEN YOU KNOW YOU’RE WRONG- CRAP PART II

How many of us argue for the sake of arguing? I do it a lot. I don’t know. I just like the concept of knowing more than there is to know. Does that make sense? It’s not like I have fun annoying other people. Although maybe I do. We all do, right? I was having a chat with a friend the other day and he sort of mentioned that he hates arguing with people who think they’re right and aren’t willing to listen to a different viewpoint whatsoever. He feels, apparently, that if you know you’re right, you’ve got to have the facts to back up the fact that you know you’re right. Facts. Plural. Arguing over something when you’ve only one single solitary piece to stand up for you doesn’t count. Cut the crap. Move on. Tell me. Convince me that you’re right. And then maybe I’ll believe you. Or maybe I’ll come up with a stronger argument to support my case. At the very least, I’ll annoy you merely by disagreeing with the fact that you’re right.

Wow. That was a lot of you’re right. Actually, the concept of having a conversation Is essentially sharing knowledge. We all know that. In our subconscious. If I meet someone, I ask them how they are that day. They’re either well, or they’re fine, or they’re depressed or they’re something or the other. But you get the point. I got some information out of it. Meaningless though it may be. But when a conversation moves on from the interesting boredom of our daily lives, to perhaps world affairs, or politics, or why so and so’s cancer is progressing too fast, then something comes up in us. It’s a sort of competition. It’s a bit like, I want to tell you that I’ve got more knowledge than you do about it. SO I do my best to steer the conversation to my viewpoint, and you try to steer it to yours. Unless, of course, we both agree on something. With me, that’s a bit rare. I love to disagree, just to get an expanded version of a different viewpoint. And then, to annoy you, I’ll tell you that we’re going to have to settle for agreeing to disagree. And then I’ll walk off.

Ten minutes later, I’ll be sitting at a bus stop. Or perhaps a bench somewhere in a public place, and come across someone else. I’ll strike up a conversation. Meaningless talk. And then I’ll use your viewpoint as my own. IF I don’t have a very deep faith in my own viewpoint of course. And they, having to disagree with me, will give me an expanded version of my own view-point. Makes sense so far? So basically, I’ll end up knowing a lot more than I did about something in two hours. From two strangers.

You get it. THIS is why I argue with people I don’t know. I learn. A lot. And they say education is what you get in institutions. OH BOY!

OH GOD, THIS IS CRAP

How do you talk to someone about what you’re feeling at any particular moment and expect them to relate to you? How do you start writing a book when you have no idea what its going to be about? How do you meet the person you want to be with for the rest of your life for the first time in your life? How do you judge someone who’s done a horrible thing harshly and not understand the true concept of judgment? How do you ask someone to lie and cover for your mistake when you have no account of the entirety of the repercussions of that mistake?

I know. So many questions. So many answers. So many choices. So many decisions. I start a discussion with someone and I know they can’t give me the perspective I want. They just can’t. Because what I’m asking from them is something they can’t give, not because they’ve never experienced it but because they’ve never thought it. I can count on one hand the people I know who are conscious of each decision they make, every time they make it. I’m not one of them. I want to be, but I’m not. I’m just a person who does her best to live life on her own terms. I write, I eat, I sleep. I watch movies. I do short walks. Short. I laugh a lot. I think. I never cry. I eat. I’ve mentioned that. And oh yes. I contribute to global warming.

OK. I’m drifting here. My point is: How do you know exactly who you are, what you are? I don’t know. I don’t get myself. How am I supposed to ‘get’ anyone else? I’ve no idea about any of the questions I’ve just asked myself. Perhaps you can help me out a bit.

Sometimes I feel that perhaps I’m not doing my share to make the world a better place. I don’t help little old ladies cross the street. I throw stuff outside the car window. I ignore the poor and the homeless. I’ve never dropped a coin in a guitar box. I mess up my room daily and expect my mum to clean up after me. I get it. I’m not a very good person.

But there’s something I do get. I get that mine is a perfect world, and that I’m supposed to be living perfectly in it. I get that I’m luckier than millions of people out there, because I know where my next meal is coming from. I get that I’m a person with enough brain activity to know that I’m lucky. I get that.

I still don’t get where I’m going with this. Help me out here.

Armed Robbery...

We were robbed yesterday night. Time: 1.26 AM. Details: 3 armed thugs entered the house. Beat my mum and threatened to cut off her arm if she didn’t cooperate and give them money. Hit my father with a rungu. Bashed my uncle’s head with the butt of a gun. Forced our security guard to lie on the floor inside the house after giving him a thorough beating. How they entered: They followed my uncle’s car into the gate, before the security guard could shut it. They got away with plenty of things. I was sleeping in my cousin’s room upstairs, since we were having guests. My mum and dad were in my room. They got into it, and turned everything upside down. They made off with my wallet, two cameras, my memory cards, my laptop bag, and plenty of other miscellaneous things. They also made off with quite a lot of money, and a bit of jewelry from our guests.

What is the world coming to?

Had a darned good time on the safari this weekend! Here's a pic of a wild baboon that attempted some really good poses for us! I just love this pic.. He looked like he wanted to lift my camera a minute ago! Oh well, at least I captured him looking somewhat disappointed! I'll have the whole story sometime this week with lots and lots of pics!:)

Of Influential Teachers, and Lovely People

In our lives, there are two kinds of people. Those who see the potential we have, and those who don't. If one is fortunate, then one has plenty of the former in their lives, as compared to the later. It is these people who inspire us, encourage us to perform to the best of our abilities. It is they who give us the courage to be what WE want to be, and not what others want us to become.
Mrs. Khan was my teacher in Kensec. Before that, she was my tuition teacher when I was in Memon. It was she who built my dreams, who encouraged me to do something few girls had ever attempted, she who saw the person I could be one day. I am thankful that she was there, when I graduated as an electronics engineer. She gave me a hug that day, when I met her for the first time after completing my course. She's never hugged me before.

When she died, the world lost something. So many students, so many people who looked up to her, were lost, left defeated, at the magnitude of the evil that was done to her. It was a time of sorrow, of loss. For me, it still is. I wonder, what happens to those students who never knew her? Do they have such a role model in their lives? I do not know. All I know is that I was lucky to have known someone like her, someone who always believed the best of me.

IN THIS LAND OF THE LIVING

In this land, this land of the living, there are three things worth noting. First. The world is flat. It goes on and on and on. Second. Fire roars, and destroys before you even know it’s touched you. All living beings come into contact with fire at one point or another in their lives. Freaks me out. Three. We love being loved, but we can’t give that love back. It’s like we’re not emotionally capable of doing that. The human mind is weird in that manner. If no-one wants to give love, then no-one can receive it. Weird.

Past, present, future; it all adds up to one thing. Time. We go on and on, and live out our days. But there are days that we relive again and again and again. I’m looking forward to tomorrow with bright eyes, even though I’ve lived it a thousand times. Every time I raise my eyes to see something, I experience that feeling that I’ve seen it before. Not just once. It’s like déjà vu, only a hundred times worse. There are conversations I have that I’ve had five years ago. And five years before that. I look forward to meeting new people, because I’ve met them before. I’ve talked to them, I know the sound of their voice.

When in this land of the living, come to the shore, and touch the water. Scoop it up, and pour it over your face. This water that has seen it all; the wars, the famines, the tears, and the blinking out of the stars that we thought would forever exist. This water that has experienced what I am living through, this water that has washed this face before, but cannot tell me when it last did.

Where is the world that is ours? That is new? That we have not lived in before? Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Is this dust forever going to roam the earth? Is this why I hear these sounds again, why I see these things again? I don’t believe in the concept of coming back; the concept of rebirth. It falls outside reality. I mention this experience, because you’ve felt it too. You know you have. You’re not crazy. I’m not crazy.

Look at me, I stand here, and I weep

Forever etched on this stone lies a little bit of what I used to be. On this stone is a memory that is etched in my brain, as though with glass. It is this stone that is responsible for my foray into the land of the living. A person can never have too many memories, and yet I do. I have too many memories. Memories tied to this stone, memories that remain on this stone, even as it undergoes a daily drenching by this water of this ocean. They are memories of a life that once lived, that had a place in this world, a life that had yet to be fulfilled.

A life that was wiped out of existence long ago. A life that managed to take only the essence of true friendship away, and left everything else behind. On this stone, this rock on this beach are etched memories of two girls, who sat together and played snakes and ladders, holding the board firmly against the wind. On this stone, two small lives talked about the presence of ghosts, and spirits. On this stone, two spirits met and bonded and smiled and laughed. On this rock, two halves of one whole mixed blood, and carved a promise to stay together forever. To this spot, one little girl came for the last time, and solemnly promised to shelter forever those words carved in blood.

I stand next to it. The stone stands, much smaller than it was all those years ago. The sand has moved, the ocean encroaches upon the land. I search in the deepest nook of this rock for those initials signed in blood. N and R. Crooked, back to front. Letters she had painstakingly started carving, as she waited on me. Two days before she was gone, we signed them, rubbed our mixed blood on them. The letters remain, faint in the memory of two little girls who lived so very long ago. One exists, the other one went to the spirits. In death, she proved to me that spirits do exist.

That last time that I sat on this rock, I was seven. I’m twenty-three now. I sit on the rock. I wait and I wait. The tears are flowing. I don’t notice. Story of my life.

WHO DUN IT?

A few weeks ago, as my mum was cooking in the kitchen, she put the potatoes on one side of the counter,next to the window as she went off towards the fridge, gathering the other ingredients for a potato curry. When she came back, two were gone. Who took them?
The next thing that disappeared was a little brush for a litle girl, taken from the first floor room of my little niece. With a silver handle, and a lovely little mirror on one side, it's loss was a mystery. Who took it?
In the rack outside the kitchen, where abound onions and potatoes, and bananas just off the market, things started running off by themselves. Or did someone take them?
Then, as my grand-aunt sat in the living room performing her prayers, there appeared an answer. She's hard of hearing, my grand-aunt, in a slightly comical way. Sometimes, she hears fine, and goes, 'Don't shout in my ears!' Other times, no matter how much one tries to tell her something, she doesn't quite get it, but pretends that she has.
On this day, a very agile monkey appeared, first peeping in through the dining window, and when it deemed that the coast was clear, it joined my grand-aunt in her daily prayer. Sitting by her side, the monkey looked around, settled in comfortably, and watched her pray.
Pandemonium broke out as the monkey was discovered. Unfortunately for it, lots of relatives and house-hold servants turned up, and proceeded to chase it out of the room, a merry chase; with no give from the humans and no take from the monkey. Around and around, and then it was gone.
A few days later, the little niece, Atiya, was bitten by a monkey. Was it the same one, exacting revenge for the sheepishness of its departure? Or was it another, with the more sinister intention of grabbing her purse? We won't know. Atiya was taken for some Rabies Shots, and deemed to be healed in a few days.
The African manner for dealing with monkeys is to flourish a black umbrella at them, as they rightly flee when they see one. I would too, if someone five times my size flourishes an umbrella at me. So a black umbrella was duly installed in the house, and the vegetables restocked.
However, fruit in the gardens is now a dream for fools; the ripening papayas and coconuts are given one bite, then thrown to the ground; where they provide extra fertilizer for the next batch that the monkeys attack.
Sometimes when the umbrella disappears, potatoes, and sometimes an onion or two, are thrown to get them out of range of the house, and over the walls. In this case, they sit on the wall, devour the said potato or onion slowly, with great relish, and slowly leave to disturb the other neighbors.
This is what living in Africa means. Try it.

KENYA'S COPS.

Today morning, at about 8.00 am, when everyone was on their way to work, I was on my way to scout for a job; another day of tracking through projects online, and writing proposals for the ones I felt I felt I was right for. It happened such that I was brooding about the changes that seem to have taken place in this country in the last three months, when I was stopped by a lady officer, who had somehow noticed that the left corner lamp of my car was missing.

'Hili Gari halina taa. Taa likowapi?' She asked in Swahili. This translates into, 'This car has no light. Where's the light?' When you're stopped by a police officer in any part of Kenya, you should know that you're probably going to end up leaving the scene with a lighter pocket, or wallet, as the case may be.

'Taa imeibiwa, mama. Ilichukuliwa huku posta.' I said. 'The light has been stolen, Mam, it was taken at the post office.' There was some kind of irony in that, I thought. To have been stolen at a post office, and maybe posted somewhere. Or perhaps it was taken by some fellow who had the same model. Since you don't find spare parts for these things in Mombasa. Maybe his was stolen as well. It could be a chain link of robberies. In Kenya, who knew?

'Na licensi ikowapi?' She asked. 'Nimeisahau nyumbani. Pole, tafadhali.' I answered. This made her case a bit stronger, in that now the extortion would begin. She had asked for my license and I effectively told her that I had left it at home. Her next words, therefore, were no surprise to one who has become jaded by the system. 'Sasa tufanye nini?' Which means, Now what are we to do?

Well, I couldn't rightly answer that without putting my foot in my mouth. So I waited for her to make the next comment. Just then, her phone started ringing, and she removed it from her pocket to reply. Well, well, what did we have here? It was one of the latest Nokia models, and not affordable on her salary, I surmised. After finishing the call, she looked and me and asked, 'Niandike?' Which stands for, 'Shall I write?' One should realize that this is a double-edged sword.

If you go ahead and say yes, she'll probably write you a ticket, which takes a journey to the judge's chambers and a moderate fine, with all the hassles along the way. On the other hand, if you say no, chances are she'll ask for some money, as a sort of unspoken understanding. Then comes the discreet fold of the big note, and the casual passing over of it, and then you're free to go.

In this case, I had no money on me, so a ticket was infinitely better. So I told her, 'Sawa. Andika tu, mama.' OK, Mam, Go ahead and write. She licked the tip of her pen, in a threatening gesture, and then said, 'Nenda.' Go. I was lucky that she couldn't be bothered to write out the ticket. Or I'd be in court now.

Which is a long start to an otherwise short day.

ONCE A MURPH, ALWAYS A MURPH!

Did I mention that I was a Murph? Well, what happened this weekend merely seems to enhance the fact that I am, in fact, a Murph. As in, I’m a person who is the living, breathing true-to-life proof that Murphy’s Law persists. Since my sister was in a wedding, I volunteered to baby-sit her daughter Alishba, in the process giving up my social life for three days. Three whole days, each of which was exactly twenty four hours; seventy two hours which were more than enough to make me take a firm stand in what I now call the Motherhood is the Toughest Job in the World Cause.

How was I ever so ignorant as to think that taking care of babies is a breeze? How did one small baby manage to create in me an exhaustion that is on par with jetlag? And after the whole weekend, I’ve come to the conclusion that Like Aunt, Like Daughter. She seems to be a Murph too. Which I a pity. This world surely doesn’t need more of us.

Alishba is ten months old. She’s a fast crawler, and her favorite place is her mother’s kitchen, where she can sit on the cool floor and watch her mother cook. She’s pretty loud, and loves shouting out at moments where silence should be observed. She beats up her brother if he even deigns to sit in her chair, and claps in glee when anyone takes her for a car ride. She is, by nature, a cuddler, and sleeps holding the edge of her soft blanket. Having an agile set of fingers, she manages to spot every piece of lint and makes quick work of eating it. In other words, she is exactly as babies ought to be. So what makes her a Murph?

She tried to stand on the bed, using a pillow for support, which decided to slide down to the floor, when she was at her most precarious position, taking her along with it. She bruised her ribs slightly, and is rightly scared of being left alone now. Proof part two. To celebrate a birthday, the cake was placed on the table she was sitting on. Before it could be cut, she accidentally put her foot in it.

I took her along to the wedding reception on Sunday night, to return her to her mother. After I was dressed in my wedding finery, I took her out for a walk, which is when she decided to pee on me. And then she sat in the car, all excited about going out, but it refused to start. At the reception, when the master of ceremonies was giving a speech introducing the bride and groom, she set up a series of loud, excited shouts, causing a lot of people to turn around and stare. She stared back.

Then she turned around, put her hands in my hair, and pulled it open. When I scold her, she smiles like she understands everything I say, and then does it again. She enjoys getting attention, and is like all Murphs; good at getting into messy situations accidentally. Just like her aunt.

25 things I wish to do before I turn 25

It always seems so ambitious to have a list of the things that you want to do before you become ancient. It is a marvel of our youth that we subject ourselves to big dreams, and when they don't materialize, we tend to blame ourselves, never imagining that maybe we set goals that are just too high for the average youth. nonetheless, we do it. I do not mean to sound extremely uninspiring, I just speak the truth.

Nonetheless, here’s my list of things I want to do before I’m 25. Some may be weird, I know, but if you can’t be weird, that you can’t be telling the truth! At least, that’s my philosophy. So here it is:

1) Ride a Motorbike

2) Go bungee-jumping over Victoria falls

3) Eat a triple fudge banana split all on my own

4) Get a pet

5) Google up 3000 different subjects

6) Do a photography course

7) Perform in a drama

8) Write a book on life in college

9) Go camping in the wild

10) Tour Europe

11) Read A Tale of Two Cities

12) Eat Camel Meat

13) Watch Gone with the Wind

14) Drive an SUV

15) Get a job

16) Learn German

17) Volunteer at an orphanage

18) Experience the feel of a snake on my shoulders

19) Go white-water rafting

20) Stay in a seven star hotel

21) Get another piercing

22) Fight for a good cause

23) Complete my MBA

24) Get published in Reader’s Digest

25) Run a half-marathon

I’M OFF TO CATCH THAT MUSE!

Tomorrow, I’m going to Malindi. I’ll laze around, have a nice time by the beach and swim in the sea. My muse will act up, and when I get back, I’ll have plenty of interesting stuff to write up on. In fact, I’ll probably have to take a paper napkin with me, in case it’s the big one. You know, the BIG ONE. Like a book. Like Harry Potter. Only, instead of the small, noisy café with the small baby, I’ll be out by myself in the open, with the sound of the waves in my ears and the feel of the soft, silver sand between my toes. Great incentive to be lazy, but greater incentive to feel inspired by all this bounty. When the doors to the mind open, I’ll be there, with my pen in my hand, and the paper napkin on the sand.

On the other hand, maybe my muse will decide to play cat and mouse, the way it often does at night. I’ll be thinking of a great idea for a story, but when I pick up the pen, the story’s gone; vanished on wings of silvery moonlight. Once lost, it hardly ever comes back. But when it does, I’m in the shower. In these dire straits where the want of a pen is mightier than the need to feel clean, I opt, of course, for the pen. This has led to some encounters I’d rather not write about; suffice it to say; slipping on wet tiles is a pretty good start. My muse laughs.

When in adverse conditions, the muse wakes up and decides to lend a helping hand, as is proved by J. K. Rowling. Unfortunately for most writers, in cases of hardship, the muse decides to abandon them all together. They must then make their living without it. And so something called the Writers Block is born. To get rid of it, one must persuade their muse to return; bribe it, threaten it, grab it; but return it must.

And others just try to get it back by loving it. Hence this trip to Malindi. Enter the sea and the surf. Wish me luck.

OF CHATS, FLIGHTS AND HUMID AIRPORTS

In the entire span of my short life, I have missed five flights, two international ones included. Maybe there’s an art to it, I wouldn’t know. It seems remarkably easy, after the first time you do it. And sometimes, it’s just the first flight that matters, and all the connecting ones are lost too. Sometimes, you land in different cities, and sometimes, your luggage gets left in Nairobi, three connecting flights away. In that case, it never helps to make a fuss; you might just as well go on to your final destination, and include the lost luggage in your nightly prayers. In time, it shall make its way to where it was supposed to be in the first place, and if you’re lucky, it’ll only be slightly wet. If you’ve had the foresight to pack it up with plastic paper to avoid moistness, odds are that you won’t be missing your flight in the first place.

If you have a habit of chatting all the time, as I do, you have to be more careful. Once, I began chatting with a colleague, and the next thing I know, two hours had gone by. Check-in time was over. We rushed over to the check-in counter, but there was no one there, apart from one lady who was shutting the gate. She stared sympathetically, but it was obvious from the shrug of her shoulders that she wouldn’t help out. If this ever happens to you, you know its time for a drastic gesture. A soft sob and a few crocodile tears never go amiss. If you’re a guy, do not attempt this tactic, which will earn you a look that ensures you shall never again repeat this slur against ‘man’kind. You won’t come anywhere near the boarding gate either.

Jumping the security queue can never make you popular, but shutting out the insults directed at you can be done by placing the palms over the ears. When in this scenario, ensure that you are not holding any spare pieces of cabin luggage, which may smack into the eyes, and cause them to water. Of course, this makes one look like they’re sick or drunk, and so one has to endure a closer inspection from the security guards. Chatting can also be counter-productive in that someone may take off with your luggage and check it in as their own, and airport rules, unfortunately, do not allow civilians into their cargo holds to look for lost, or as is the case, stolen, pieces of luggage.

When you reach your destination, four days after you’ve left, make sure that you head to the right section for immigration. Some airports tend to be really big, and the bigger the airport, the greater the chance of getting lost. Of course, when in such a scenario, never ask a janitor for directions. They tend to have a rather strange sense of humor. Follow the sound of escalators, for immigration is never on the same level as point of entry. Sometimes, it’s easier to just go with the mass exodus. However, in all such cases, do ensure that the person in front of you is headed to the same place you are. If you’re a guy, you know you won’t ask. It’s in keeping with the ‘I don’t ask for directions’ syndrome that all men seem to be afflicted with. If you have a long neck and can keep your balance on your toes, then you should know it doesn’t hurt anything but your dignity to peek over and peer into someone’s cabin luggage tag. You might get a few stares, but at least you know you’re home safe.

For people like me, airports are wondrous places, where all sorts of people are gathered, most headed to different places. Whenever I enter an airport, I always try to pick someone who looks approachable to converse with, to find out more about where they’re from, for future references. Not because I’m a stalker, but because I might want to visit someday. I learnt that I should pick someone who’s on my flight if I plan on getting on it. The first time I didn’t, my colleague and I ended up waiting in the Emirates queue for our check-in when we were flying via Kenya Airways. Since we were talking, we only noticed that fact thirty minutes before take-off. Running helter-skelter, we trod on quite a few toes to get ourselves at the right place, only to experience the sympathetic lady bit. Final call for the waterworks, and we managed to get on the plane by the skin on our teeth. Of course, the luggage got lost. What did we expect?

Beware of airports that are undergoing renovations. Once I found myself on a runway, with a mass of other people, all staring down the airbus that looked like it wanted to flatten us for fillet. Fortunately for us, the runway was big enough to accommodate both the plane and us. We managed to get to our homes with no other injury apart from the ringing in our ears. It helped; that ringing. I couldn’t hear my family making fun of my accent, which made for a few days of peace.

Renovations in the interior of the airport also tend to ensure that the air conditioning is switched off, so the first time you go to a country with a tropical climate, find out if its airport is being renovated. You might just faint from the heat, and lie there for hours. Heat makes the energetic lethargic, and the lethargic dead. Hence, make certain that when you narrowly miss the experience of being flattened by the air-bus, you have the presence of mind to carry its fan with you.

After all that has happened on my many near misses of flights, one thing I can say with certainty is that it makes for an interesting life. Give it a try, you’ll really experience living.

WHEN THE HEART WINS

Sometimes when you meet a person, you instinctively know that that person will feature in your life henceforth. It’s like a decision taken that cannot be accounted for by personal choices; neither taste, nor religion nor race. It’s more a subconscious understanding between two people. If I were poetic, I’d say that it was a meeting of the auras that surround us, before it becomes a conscious meeting.

When you read The Fountainhead, you come across this scenario, where Howard Roark meets Dominique’s husband for the first time. He comes prepared to hate Gail Wynand for being his lover’s husband, and yet, that first time the two meet; there is no consciousness of anything apart from the feeling that they’ve known each other forever; that perhaps they were part of the same soul in another life. Past relationships cease to exist in that moment, and Dominique becomes just another person in both their lives.

It is an inherent feature of human beings in this world that we tend to believe in stronger feelings, stronger emotions; love falls upon us like a bolt of lightning, hate is felt into the very essence of our cores, happiness is shouted from the roof in a drunken-like state. As a consequence of this aspect of our existence, we forget about the subtle nuances of emotion that are actually the backdrops of one’s existence, and yet have the furthest impact.

Few are the people who understand the feeling of being softly content, pleasantly happy, and quietly morose; these are the people who have the wisdom and experience to understand that a life that is loud is a life that may be more colorful, and yet it is a life that is missing out on the delicate flavors that embrace the imagery of existence.

Hence, the concept of meeting a person and relating to them in a subconscious manner is an idea alien to most; those who undergo such an experience typically do not recognize the significance of such a moment. It is only later as they think on it that it strikes them; mostly because they cannot recall the exact moment of seeing the other person for the first time; this moment hangs in the air, suspended by the silken threads of consciousness. It is the flash of recognition between two hearts; the brain cannot account for it, yet it attempts to do so in a manner that attempts to bring into perspective this meeting.

In today’s world, where air kisses abound and strong hand-shakes rule the day, the first impression made upon a person is not the last. A person’s character tends to be hidden by the facade one fronts in response to the society’s norms. As people meet in society, they tend to hide what they really are in favor of what others expect them to be. A man of simple tastes will find himself eating caviar even though he hates it, just as he puts on an air of affluence peculiar to him. In this world, it is even more important that one listens to the inner voice in him, so that he can know, and understand when he has met a friend of the soul, someone who he cannot remember his first moment with. Thus is made a friend of the soul.

THE ADVENT OF THE CAMEL IN AFRICAN SUBURBIA

Ever since we’ve moved into this house; which is apparently in a residential area even though its half jungle, we’ve been surrounded by all sorts of animals, mostly of the normal domestic variety such as the goats that wander around eating off most of the lawn outside the walled garden, to the cats that try to get into the kitchen from atop the walls thereby getting themselves electrocuted, to the strange mongrel breeds of dogs that sometimes see fit to keep our security man on the alert.

To a family that has never seen the use of pets of the animal sort in the house, apart from a rat-catcher in the early nineties, which was thrown out for having kittens and eating them; the concept of being an animal magnet is a strange one. When one observes the types of fauna to be found in the vicinity of man, one is almost certain to discount the presence of camels and monkeys. And yet, these are the very animals that seem to have found a home in us.

When we first moved to the new house, it was with some strange feelings of loss. The town house was given up in a hurry; and the move made to pastures greener, or rather, quieter; for the religious inclination of some chaps in the neighborhood led to the Rock Concert from Hell that never quite got over. It was with feelings of glee, however, that the garden was landscaped, and the green thumbs of the gardener given leeway to construct a marvel that would be the envy of all, neighbors and friends.

Outside the walls, smooth, green turf was laid, and cactus plants elaborated the name of my family. These took a period of three months to grow, and a very peaceful three months they were too.

Then one day, four camels walked by, and seeing the cactus plants, thought it was manna from heaven. Chewing contentedly, they managed to finish off almost everything before the gardener managed to chase them away. Late evening, my uncle the budding gardener, got home from work and got a shock. Where were the plants that were his pride and joy? For a moment, he thought he’d taken the wrong turn, and backed up. No, he was on the right path. Coming in, he called for the gardener.

What happened? He asked. After a lot of wishy-washing, the gardener said that the giraffes ate the plants. Come again? Did you say giraffes? Yes, Sir. They were big, they came, and couldn’t be shooed away. ‘You’re sure they were giraffes?’ asked my utterly mystified uncle. Of course! He said. ‘Well, that’s not possible!’ But the gardener insisted, never having seen a camel in his life. So he asked, ‘Explain what they looked like.’ ‘Well. They were brown, huge, with long necks and sleepy eyes.’ ‘Camels?’ ‘Yes Yes, it was camels.’ My uncle was miserable. It doesn’t help that he’s never been able to plant cactus again without the camels getting a sniff of it.

This incident managed to give the camels’ carte blanche to the area. Long after that incident, the camels still make a tour of the area around the house, lazily munching on everything in sight, and sometimes sleeping outside the gates in the nights. Just last week, as we were in the car on my way home, we saw the camels on a running rampage, a majestic sight, were it not on-course of the car. Of course, they veered off at the end moment, leaving our little hearts still erratic. Be as it is, the camels manage to induce a bit of excitement to an area that is the norm of the African version of Suburbia.

DARSHEEL SAFARY AND AAMIR KHAN IN TAARE ZAMEEN PAR

The Howard Roark of Indian Cinema has done it again! It’s been a few weeks since Taare Zameen Par made its debut into this world of mediocrity, and what a glorious debut it was. Splendid, fantastic, emotive, touching, extraordinary; are but a few words that can be used to describe this movie, and even they don’t provide justice to the utter magnificence, the utter beauty of Taare Zameen Par. If you’re an Indian, you know what I’m talking about. If you’re a foreigner, you still have to try and watch it, with sub-titles or without; the meaning of the movie remains unchanged even with the barrier of language.

TZP is a movie about a little boy trying to find his place in the world. He is young, and has his future mapped out by his parents scholastically. After trying to fit in with his class students, he discovers that it is impossible for him to study in the classroom. What follows is a spate of rebelliousness, in which he starts exploring the wonders of life; riding a bus through the city alone, catching fish from the school pond and daydreaming about his place in space. He is ridiculed by his friends and misunderstood by his parents, who eventually send him away to a boarding school so he may learn. Boarding brings a new set of problems, as teachers and students mock him alike for the disorder he most aptly describes as ‘the words are dancing’.

Hence starts a little boy’s journey to the only place where he is safe; his own mind. Luckily for him, he is discovered by his art teacher, who recognizes the signs of the disorder he has, having gone through the same in his childhood. With the teacher’s help, the little boy’s journey comes full-circle, as he rediscovers the good in himself.

Kudos to Darsheel Safary, this little boy who ended up bringing tears to most eyes; his untouched innocence, tremulous smile, guileless eyes; smack dab in the middle of everyday Mumbai has touched the hearts of all the people who watched this movie. Enter Aamir Khan, the Howard Roark of Indian Cinema. As always, Aamir has proved his talent for making movies that show the hidden aspect of human nature. Knowing Aamir’s penchant for perfection, one can understand the magnificence not only of the storyline of TZP, but also the setting. The wonderful sunsets, the early gloamings, the crescent moons over the mountainous landscape; the vividness of the sets, the videography, the different shades and hues used for the making of Taare Zameen Par; all gelled together to make this a movie that ought to win the Oscar for India.

All in all, Taare Zameen Par was a movie and a half; the like of which has not been seen in the Bollywood Industry for a very long time. Long live Darsheel Safary, the wonder-kid of New Cinema in India. And long live Aamir Khan, the maestro of cinema, without whom movies like Taare Zameen Par would be tales that are never told.

MURPHY’S LAW- WHEN IN DOUBT, YOU’VE LEFT IT AT HOME!

Whatever can go wrong, will. Murphy’s Law, somehow, doesn’t seem to apply to people who are smart, ultra-efficient and organized, people who know where they want to go. It applies to the scatter-brained people; those who wake up, and discover that nothing they do today will cause their hair to behave. These are the people who help old ladies cross the street, but miss their tram to work; who take time to don good clothes for an interview and get splashed; who have a good laugh imitating their boss, only to discover him standing behind them.

I have been steam-rollered by Murphy my entire life. From missing flights, to finding myself about to be eaten by a croc, I have discovered Murphy riding on my shoulder. It’s as if he’s guiding you into more mischief. For all but a few of us, Murphy is non-existent. He preys more on the dreamers than the doers. Most doers are people who enjoy living their lives, and are subliminally confident that nothing can go wrong. They waltz through life, absolutely in-charge; tall, smart, arrogant, these are the CEO’s of the world.

And then there are those of us for whom life could not become any more accident-prone if it tried. We are the people who wear a zebra-patterned skirt to a disco, only to discover the dance floor has mixed UV rays falling on it, and glow-in-the-dark takes on a whole new meaning. And the ones who visit a friend for a day, and accidentally show the father that the friend smokes. We climb on trains without tickets, and the ticket collector always turns up to check out tickets. We never fall alone, only in front of twenty people. The elevator never stops when it is packed, but when one is in it alone; it decides to rest for a spell. Your deaf grandma never hears anything you say, but if it’s about her, she’s all ears.

In case you’re wondering if you’re a Murphy, don’t. Murphys always have a sixth sense that they are Murphys. But in case you don’t, then there are three ways to check it out. Ask yourself some questions. Has anyone poured orange juice on your new blue, silk tie? Have you ever had a ladder in your tights when you’re extremely late for that high-fly corporate meeting? Have you ever been in a situation where someone gave you tickets to your favourite piece of performance, but you miss it because you gave your taxi driver the wrong address slip, and didn’t realize it until you got there? How often do you step into a pile of dog shit? Does it rain when you’re wearing Suede? If it does, you’re a Murphy. Congratulations.

People like us, hence, tend to talk to Murphy when we’re alone, or in bed. We ask him, and beg him, not to make an appearance on the days when we have interviews, or exams. Who forgets their pencil on exam day? Who has his memory playing hide-and-seek then? Who does it rain on, when they’ve just done their hair? Whose shoe flies off and hits another? Who loses their glasses, when they’re atop his nose? Murphys’, of course.

When in Murphy land, do what the Murphys would do. RUN and get the Hell Out of There!

SHADOWS IN SUNLIGHT

A stranger, a shadowy figure,

No warmth at all.

Preaching to appreciate

The value of valuable,

Shunning them all.

Dwelling in the past,

Fearing for the future.

Existing not living.

Each word, each promise,

Invisible to the world.

Secrets are safe,

The person not quite.

The self to himself not known.

Doing some, believing another,

The voice is gone.

Careful of your friends,

Trust not this stranger.

Uncaring and cold.

Standing apart from himself,

Wrecked and catching.

Having it all,

Having none.

Begging, pleading. searching.

Finding the bridge,

Daring to cross.

The seasons are changing,

Spring has come.

No one to water.

No one to tend.

Darkness in light, a stranger reborn.


This is a poem written by one of my friends. I think it's lovely. Please do give your comments. :)

THE SINS OF THEIR FATHERS - KENYA’S POLITICAL HISTORY IN A NUTSHELL

When Kenya first became a republic, in the year 1964, a freedom fighter, Jomo Kenyatta, came to the fore, and was declared the first president of Kenya. He sat on the throne from 1963 to 1978. He had been a war veteran, involved in the MauMau uprising, and consequently, had spent a lot of time in prison. He was the pioneer of political leadership in the land, and unfortunately for the Kenyans, managed to wear the mantle of leadership very fixedly upon his shoulders. The ashes of the British Empire in Kenya had not yet begun to settle when the first rumbles of discontent were heard.

Crime was high. Birth rate was high. Poverty levels continued to ascend, as slums began to rise up from previously prospering areas. Why was this great country bowed so low? At the time of independence, the economic status was at par with most of the Asian countries. Ten years later, Kenya was just another third world country. The world was laughing.

What had happened? Ignorance had its uses, and the leaders were rejoicing in this fact. People went about their work, and brought home the bread. They lived quiet lives, and KBC, the voice of Kenya, gave them the updates on the latest political happenings. Schools were built, and literacy rates increased. To be literate was to be smart, and to be smart was to mint money. Then came the questions. Unfortunately, there were no answers. At least, none that made any sort of sense. Except one.

Power corrupts. And absolute power corrupts absolutely.

He continued to leach the country, and line his own pockets. And then he died.

Mzee Jomo Kenyatta was replaced by Daniel Toroitich Arap Moi, the vice president of the time. Moi ruled the land for twenty two years, ten more than he should have. Kenya’s constitution stated that Kenya was to be a single party nation. In effect, this meant that Moi’s party, KANU, was the only party in existence. KANU, abbreviation for Kenya Alliance for National Unity, was headed by the president, and all the Members of Parliament belonged to it. So did the citizens of Kenya. Anyone who was opposed to Moi’s tactics was tortured in the chambers underneath Nyayo House, and then relegated to the land of the bourgeois.

Mr. Raila Odinga was one of the tortured. Is it merely a coincidence then, that Moi chose to back Kibaki’s party? Was he afraid of getting his just desserts? After all, who knows what Mr. Odinga had up his sleeve regarding the ex-president. Be that as it may, all the people that Moi considered his friends were placed upon the top of the political ladder and given plum jobs with excruciatingly high salaries that the Kenyan people were taxed for.

In all fairness, Moi was a good leader at the beginning of his term. But then the coup de etat happened, and turned him into a dictator. In the year 1982, one man tried to overturn the government, and paid his dues. Unfortunately, he also killed freedom in the country.

Democracy is as democracy does.

All good things come to an end. A bill was passed, and the multi-party policy brought into effect. It was the year 1992. Election time duly arrived with Christmas. The Kenyan people wanted a change. Opposition was finally permitted, and many came out of their shells to take advantage of the situation. A multitude of parties came into being. FORD, FORD-K, DP, IPK; these were some of the big ones. They were headed by people who, at the time, had no idea of the repercussions of the multi-party system. Consequently, many candidates, one from each party, decided to contest in the election. Moi received majority votes, and the rest discovered the limitations of greed. Had they banded together, Moi could have been given the boot. However, each had dreamed of the power, and collectively, they had all lost. Moi was back.

The years 1992-1997 showed a discernible increase in the rate of unemployment and crime in the country. On one hand, people were waking up, and could see the effects of corruption on the economy. On the other hand, whoever was wise decided to join up with the Municipal councils and civil duty, so that they could have a share of the profits. This in turn, led to greater amounts of corruption.

When Moi won the election in 1997, he had a minority government. The elections were said to be rigged in his favor, but the peaceful protests eventually petered out, and the political scene shook down and settled into its comfortable lines. The five years which followed made the deepest and most lasting impact on the Kenyan Economy. Moi had become a rich man, as had his cronies. The gap between the rich and the poor widened, and the middle classes all but disappeared.

In the year 2002, the opposition wised up. All the small parties got together and formed coalition called NARC, acronym for National Alliance of the Rainbow Coalition. NARC was headed by Mwai Kibaki, and the coalition members campaigned holding rallies country-wide. They whispered change, and talked of a new constitution, of freedom, of the end of dictatorship. They were embraced by the people of Kenya, and won the elections. The coalition of NARC had been designed by all the leaders of the smaller parties, in such a manner that would guarantee the concept of Power sharing, whereby Mr. Raila Odinga was primed to become the first Prime Minister of the Republic of Kenya.

An MoU was signed to this effect, since trust was still a fragile thing. Unfortunately, things were not meant to be so. Upon becoming president, the first thing that Mr. Kibaki did was to tear up the MoU, effectively crippling the hands of change that ought to have swept the country. The new constitution never made an appearance, and even though the economy started stabilizing, and gradually improving, unrest was brewing in the Parliament House.

In the convening years, Kibaki managed to rule whilst conveniently forgetting the first rule of politics; to lie, but not make it look like you’re lying. Having made grand promises to the Kenyans, he forgot that there would come a time, when the promises he had made would be called upon by the people. A demand for the constitution was made, and no answers were forthcoming as to why it had not been delivered.

Eventually, a new constitution was made and a referendum was carried out to in parliament to approve of it. Those in favor were to vote using the banana as a symbol and those against with an orange. Since the constitution was not a palatable deal for majority of the MPs, this led to the rejection of the bill.

After this, several factions decided to break free of the coalition, and formed their own party, called the ODM, the Orange Democratic Movement. ODM was headed by Mr. Odinga, who made clear that he would run for president in the next election. Preparations were begun, and the campaign started off in 2005.

Gradually, ODM began pulling support from NARC, and many MPs shifted over. Life looked good for ODM, who began their preparations for the run for the presidency. After almost two years, Mwai Kibaki decided to do away with NARC and formed another party called PNU, half a year before elections were to be held, which stands for the Party of National Unity. The vow he had made that he would only lead the country for one term apparently did not count.

And then the time of elections came. And went. And the riots started. And Kenya went into the deepest decline in its history. Who won, and who lost; nobody knows. But that does not matter. What matters is that Kenya lost.

TUK TUKS- WHEN LIFE HAPPENS ON THEM

I sometimes volunteer to sit at the shop, and be a sales-girl when life becomes too mundane for me. In this case, having volunteered for a stint at the shop, I had to leave from home at 2.00 pm, along with Sam, the other sales-girl, so that we could get to the shop and open it by three. This was during the time of the post-election riots, but since we sell bread, which is essential to most of the living in Mombasa, staying at home like sane people do was never an option. We called up one fellow called Richard, who happens to own a tuk-tuk asking him to come and pick us.

In case you’re wondering, a tuk-tuk is a Thai word which means Auto-Rickshaw. In Swahili slang, the word tuk-tuk is substituted for piki-piki. By now, you must be coming to the conclusion that in Swahili, syllables are oft repeated to make the word; which is a rather hasty conclusion to be making of this language, for no other words have repeated syllables.

Richard, unfortunately, had left for his village, and another chap, by the name of Juma, had come to pick us up. After bargaining (unlike India, in Mombasa you have to haggle in terms of denominations of Ksh. 50 only) and agreeing on a sum of hundred bob, we got into the dirty green auto, settled ourselves, and he took off. Kuze is the locality where the shop is based, and it is, fortunately, a fifteen minute ride from Makupa, where we are stationed for our daily life living.

Juma turned out to be a daredevil with a zest for death, and to ensure that our lives maintained the same quality they had when we rode out, we held on to the top of the tuk-tuk, tightening our fingers on the grips. In moments, Juma showed us that along with having a death wish, he also had no remarkable expertise in driving a tuk-tuk! Born with the characteristic arrogance of an F1 driver, with none of the redeeming characteristics, Juma handled the driving with an innate sense of doom, felt by both Sam and I.

After narrowly missing scraping the side of his tuk-tuk with a matatu, we ran into an accident between a matatu and a tuk-tuk, which had managed to block the road. After much maneuvering, Juma decided to let go of the bit between his teeth, and started opting for another way out, which consisted of going the opposite way on a one way street. This led to bigger problems, and after getting into a slanging match with another driver, he turned around and proceeded to another route.

In Mombasa, when weddings occur, the roads are taken over by the wedding party; which puts up tents, chairs, tables and the like on them, and close them off at both sides, effectively preventing vehicles from crossing over. Juma, having lived in Mombasa all his life, happened to think that he knew best, as is a characteristic associated with people who live at the Coast. Taking a turn inside a forbidden lane, he thought that there was a way out, only to find building materials lying strewn across the lane, effectively blocking passage.

After a long wait, we cleared and finally managed to get to the shop at 3.15, one hour after we were supposed to reach there. Juma was paid the hundred bob. The shop opened. The tuk-tuk survived. So did we. I’m not too sure where Juma is now. Wherever he is, I do wish he learnt how to handle a tuk-tuk. They can be deadly.

WHEN I LOOK AT YOU

When I look at you

I see the woman I could become

I see the laughter lines, I see the bright smile

I see the twinkle in those eyes, the smooth walk

I see those hands, soft, graceful,

I look at you, and I see the woman I want to be

When I look at you

I see what I want you to see

I see what I want you to notice

I see your beauty, your grace, your loveliness

I see your eyes, free of shadows, free of pain

I see the love, radiating from your face

When you look at me

You see a woman, broken and bent

You see someone, who has lost the will to live

You see a person, stiff from sitting for twenty one years

You see this woman, who aches to be whole again

You see a cripple, staring at you in envy

When you look at me

You feel what I feel, broken inside

You come up, and you look into my eyes,

You stare into them, and then you understand

You look up at the blue sky, and you laugh

You listen to those waves, pounding, and you grin

You turn around and run into the water, gracefully

You turn back, and you smile

A Time of Reckoning

After everything that has happened in this country, the election of the Speaker for the Parliament and Legislative council was a bit of an anticlimax. The rich ones are still in the fight of the High Seat, and the poor are in the fight for their lives. And yet, the two seem to merge, in that their needs can be considered to be quite similar. If by similar, one can equate life with power. Or food with influence.

It is laughable, really, that the president of a democratic country has lost the respect of his people, his subjects. For what else can one call it, when the members of parliament refuse to pledge allegiance to him. Let us start off with the scenario that took place when a lawyer by the name of Ababu Namwamba was sworn in. He had to make the pledge three times. The first time, he said that we would be a subject of his president, Mr. Raila Odinga, and of the democratic republic of Kenya. Now why he would mention Mr. Odinga, when the president’s name is Mwai Kibaki, is beyond the imagination of any Kenyan whose thought processes are twenty years old. We’re in a democracy now, not a dictatorship, and since Mr. Kibaki has alleviated the freedom of speech, you may do exactly that, wherever you please, be it in the Parliament house.

So what happens there is not exactly beyond our imaginations. After a big hue and cry, said MP was asked to undergo the pledge again. This time, he refrained from mentioning the president completely, and went on to pledge that he would do his best for his country. Another din erupted, as he was now missing parts of the oath that had been laid down by the law for the swearing in ceremony. And then he was asked to repeat, again as is the case. The people of ODM, the opposition were being thoroughly entertained, as opposed to the Presidents minions, who sat there glaring at the ones who dared. And they did dare. Third time around, he pledged to the President, bowed to Mr. Odinga, and continued with it. Since no rules were broken, he was duly sworn in. The trend had begun, though. Eventually, the other MPs who were sworn in omitted the president entirely.

One would have thought that with power, comes respect from the little people. In Kenya, the opposite seems to have occurred. After the big hullabaloo post-elections, matters seemed to have calmed down, and Mr. Raila Odinga even managed to get himself seated upon the Chair of Opposition in Parliament. With little more than his friends to keep him company, he manages to exude a confidence that our president is far from feeling, or if he is, indeed, feeling it, then it has yet to make an appearance on his visage. The power is his, yet where is the respect? Mr. Odinga, on the other hand, seems to have gained the upper hand in this scenario, and garnered the respect and sympathy of not only the citizens of Kenya, but the international big wigs too.

So what if the government is demanding proof of rigging?

One may ask, is it worth it? Is it worth this desecration of life and property? But one will not get an answer. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. In a bid to retain this power, one single man has shaken Kenya’s foundations. Who we were, who we forever will be, is an identity that has been marred by these people; who call themselves Kenyan, and yet do not understand the meaning, the price of being a Kenyan. This land exacts a price on those who live on it, and yet, do not farm their way. Those who eat off the others, and do nothing to deserve the maize that comes their way. Are these the people who should be leading this great country? Perhaps we should incline ourselves to think along those lines.

A seat is, after all, a seat. But when the seat in question is a metaphor of the great power that surrounds it, then it becomes more than a seat. It becomes a status symbol. In the olden days, there was a saying. A leader’s seat should always be hard, made of stone. So that one does not become too comfortable in it. Trials arrive with the winds of change; one must fight fairly, and give in honorably, after defeat is suffered.

Lions are, after all, lions. Call them cats, and it is your loss, as Mr. Odinga rightly said. With lions, you can take that risk, but there is no guarantee that thou shall survive the eventual reckoning in the fight of territory.

I JUST WANT YOU T KNOW WHO I AM

In the early dawn, the sun rose, the rooster crowed

My people woke up, and greeted me with blood

They wiped their eyes of sleep, and followed the river

Of mankind, that swarmed the cities

To quench their thirst, and their appetite

They took their pangas, and mshales

To rid my people of their life’s blood

They burned houses, killed, maimed,

And then they called it ethnic cleansing.

I ask of them, Am I of one tribe?

Am I Kikuyu, or Luo? Kalenjin, or Kamba?

Do I not harbour all of you?

Then they know the answer, and they think I am a fool

Is not my earth red enough, from the previous bloodshed?

Did the loved ones buried in me die in vain?

Those fighters, those lovers; did they not spill

the red in their veins, so you could have a better life?

What makes them think that violence is the answer?

Have they not learnt, from the past?

Have they forgotten what the red stands for, in my flag?

Who will remind them? Who will make that effort?

I pick the leader, the one who will take my children

Through paths not trodden upon; to hope, to salvation

I am the mother, I know best

Then who usurps my authority? Who begs differently?

I once boasted, to other lands, of my children.

Amani, I said, Is in the muscle of their hearts,

Pumped with every beat into their minds, their bodies

Then why this streak of killing and maiming?

Am I now to bow to all those lands?

Lower my neck in shame?

What is a mother to do, when her child goes astray?

Shall she weep? Shall she pray?

Then listen, my little ones. Stay silent, and listen.

Listen to my breath, whispering in your hearts.

Listen to the sound of my tears coursing down

Listen to the breeze, carrying the scents of violence

Listen to your motherland crying

And then you decide.

Decide Peace. Decide Love. Decide Freedom.