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.