The Old Man is Now Gone

My stepfather, in his wisdom

Claimed that though he had tried,

He had totally failed to see the difference

Between myself and any cow.

And so as a child

I was a desirable object of pleasure,

In which he had found considerable pleasure

To inflict pain.

He'd pinch me until

I looked like a tiger; thighs, arms and all.

Pull my ears till they were red hot.

My nose too was pulled

I thought he envied Pinocchio.

But those days are all gone,

And gone too is the old man.

I now manage a dairy farm

As if to ridicule his wisdom.

The Misery and the Cemetery

I'm weak

Haven't spoken to anyone a week.

Of suicide I contemplate

My body, energy won't generate.

Instead of living this misery

I'm thinking it's quieter in the cemetery.

No hard work to earn a living,

Matter of fact – no living or breathing!

No parents to disappoint

Or girlfriends to miss their appointments;

No thoughts about the future;

No guilt of the past and worry of the future;

No religions to misguide me,

Or neighbour to watch how I prevail

Or how I fail!

No wives to marry then constantly watch

Or kids to look after.

I'm thinking it's about time –

It's about my prime

To meet my creator

If in the cemetery he too has found solace.

Change Your Skype Name (Display Name) on Ubuntu

First, you cannot change your username, just like you cannot change your Yahoo! ID; you'd have to create a new account by first signing out and then signing in and clicking on the “don't have skype username” or something of the sort.

Open your skype account and click on your name, that is the display name (this is the same name others see). When you do that, a small box, as the one you update statuses on FB appears and just below that there is “Edit Profile”. Click on that and edit anthing, including your name, birthday, etc.

When Kenya Teachers Were Licensed to Kill

When I was almost done with my primary school Mama decided I had to change schools, what we used to call transfer, and what was I to do? Those were the days when I was supposed to be seen and not heard. I had a bad feeling about it. I was moving to a public school from a semi-prestigious private one, where we used to be ferried to school using a school bus. In this one, a school bus was a thing they used to watch private school kids board in the mornings and alight in the evenings. Well, she had her reasons. I was nervous. I was going to start making friends all over again, and it was not that easy for me, being the smart alec that I was. Back then I did not know why it was so hard for me to make friends but now I do. I did not realise that when you were smart and showed it it offended people. I guess I knew one thing: if you've got it, flaunt it.

When I entered class the first day I did not have trouble making friends but of course I lost some sooner rather than later when they discovered I was smart. The first two lessons before the short break were fine. I immediately fell in love with the teachers for English and the one taking us for Swahili. After break one of those boys who had managed to remain friends with me told me that the teacher for geography, who was coming next, was one to watch out for. He confided in me how mad he thought he was because according to him, all he did was flog. So when break was over we rushed back to class and waited. The man, for he was male, had the class sound like a tomb, you know, so silent. He was huge and should have been headteacher for not a soul that roamed in that school was not afraid of him, including the headteacher. People swore he used to smoke pot, or kanya, like they called it.

When he entered class everybody stood up and said “good morning, sir”, a thing that they had not done during the previous lessons that morning. I did not do so, not out of my ill-manners but I had not seen it done before and I only stood up as the others were sitting. In that way, I was the only one left standing. I was so embarrassed and as I prepared to sit he told me not to. In fact he said “keep standing”, and stood I did. He explored me form the north pole to the south pole and made gestures as he did. No one dared smile. It was a tomb in there. He must have guessed that I was from a better school and that he was ready to test. He asked me, “Where do you find River Zambezi?”

I begged his pardon. He became impatient. To me I heard something between Zambia and Zimbabwe. He repeated the question impatiently: Where is the River Zambezi?

I had loved geography since I had first heard of it. There were times at home when I would just sit and study my atlas, prompting my dad to give me hours of lectures about the use of a brain, for he claimed that I never used mine because how could I sit and look at the atlas for more than one hour? I used to fantasise about those places drawn there surrounded by deep blue seas and wish that I could close my eyes and fly there. The very tiny islands and archipelago usually caught my attention the more. I would wonder what people there looked like, whether there were rivers, or mountains; then wonder if there was someone in one of them who was also staring at hiser atlas at Africa and wonder the same. I used to wish I had friends that I could visit in every one of those islands. Sometimes I used to tell myself that there were islands that were not discovered and it was my job to do so one day and live in one of my own.

It was too bad I had fallen to reminiscing those days when I was a little kid and the teacher was becoming as mad as a bull. He repeated the question, saying each syllable as if it was a rock dropping into a still pool and making that unique sound that sounded like an Arab practising to say the letter w. Even as I remembered those days, I could not figure out where such a river was. I knew the River Mississippi because when I first saw the name it took my interest wondering if anyone could ever spell it; which took me three days to get it right, and still on the fourth I was not so sure I could spell it the following day. I also knew a river called Amazon because as an African, I thought I knew enough of Africa so I used to watch foreign lands, and the tiny islands that seemed just nowhere. I say watch because that is what I used to do. What do you call it when a person stares at a thing for more than an hour? We had no TV and this might have accelerated my habit with the atlas.

After what must have seemed like a century to the geography teacher I opened my mouth and what I said was not my idea of being a smart alec but clearly he was not pleased with it:

I told him that I had never gone beyond my hometown and that the only river I had seen was a little spring that ran from the Ngong Hills towards the coast, and that was what my father had told me about it; and that it was not known by the name he had just mentioned, and that if it was, then I had not heard anyone referring to it by that name.

All that time the class had been quiet and just waiting for the man to rain blows on anyone at the moment. They burst out laughing, a thing unheard of in his classes to which if he was a bull in a rodeo, was a man wearing red. The class was right for the moment after the laughing I saw more stars than might exist in the sky, and islands I used to imagine were appearing and disappearing before my very eyes. Then after he left me, everybody in that class was told to go outside the class and lie on the veranda and thereafter they were flogged in a way a beast of burden would protest to. I was left in class wondering what would happen to me when we got out of class. I was smelling vengeance on everybody as they entered the class. The teacher did not even enter the class after flogging the last student literally to death. He said that the next time he entered class we had better have figured out where that river was, and exactly where.

When he was safely out of hearing distance everyone burst again into laughter, only this time they still had sorrow in their eyes. But they said they were not mad at me and they just questioned my guts. They told me that no one had ever cracked a joke in his class, a thing that surprised me for mine was as sincere an answer as anyone would give. I had never seen, except on the atlas, (and it was so unfortunate I had never given Africa my attention) any other river except that stream that was now turning into an antagonist.

***

Those were the days when teachers, the police, among a few others were licensed to kill. They enjoyed their job so much, and had every reason to for those days teachers were the most respected people in whichever village they emerged. One of their tools of trade was anything that could inflict the most pain on students. They could be seen walking with their sticks or gas pipes on their shoulders. Teachers in the staffroom envied each other's sticks and pipes. They could be heard literally begging those with the best to lend them just for a single lesson, and the one being begged giving instructions on how to handle it so as to cause the most pain, and not to break it. Those were the days when teachers walked with their heads high, though they were not paid as much as they are now. Teaching was every students dream profession, especially the naughty ones who could not wait to inflict as much pain as was inflicted on their hind quarters.

To make your greencard passport photo 600 x 600 pixels on Ubuntu/Linux using Gimp

Do you use the good ol' Ubuntu? Have you tried to make your photo 600 by 600 pixels (you and I know what it's for!) without success? I have made a simple video, unfortunately it has no sound, but unless you are dumb you will follow the easy steps. You will need to install Gimp image editor from your software centre for Ubuntu. Just type “Gimp” and when it comes you know what to do. Gimp is the equivalent of Photoshop (may be they are not even equals). I find Gimp easier to work with. This is my first tutorial, and I hope it helps you.

1. First know what photo you're going to use, a photo that can make a passport photo. This means that when you take your passport photo you should not first crop it elsewhere, or using any other program (like Shotwell image viewer). Just leave it as it is. Also, make sure your background is plain, and that there are no objects behind you. It is always advisable to make a copy of that. You can place the copy in the desktop or wherever is convenient for you. Right click on your photo so that you specify what program you want to open with. I am using Ubuntu 11.04 Natty N. so on the options that come, “Open With . . .” comes second. Hover your pointer over it (“open with”) so that the options on the arrow can be shown. If you installed Gimp already then you should be able to see it. So 'open with' Gimp. Wait until it loads and your photo appears. It will open two windows, one named “toolbox”, and the other containing the name of you photo. Remember we said that you should not have cropped this photo before. Here we are not resizing but we are doing the real cropping which will give you that 600 by 600.
2. On the Gimp “toolbox” window on the third row of those small icons representing the different tools, you will see the “crop tool”. I am using Gimp 2.0 so if it is not on the third row in any other version just hover you pointer over the icons until it shows you the crop tool. Click on the crop tool and move to your photo. Click on any point in the workspace of your photo that you would like to start. It can be anywhere inside the window containing you photo. The most important thing is to make a square 600 X 600 which you can later drag to cover any features of your photo that you need. So click on a starting point. Then, holding down the right button, drag your pointer to size your rectangle while reading the bottom of that window, where the pixels are shown. (The video shows me doing that so it should not be a problem). On the left of that you see two figures separated by a comma (,) moving with px after those figures, e.g. 345, 765 px. That is not what you should check. On the right of the same figures it says Rectangle: 700 x 427 (0.176:1), something of the sort. Now that is what you check for. Size and resize your rectangle until you make it a “rectangle” of 600 x 600, that is until it shows that it is Rectangle: 600 x 600 (1.00:1). (These figures are not visible the moment you release your mouse but to see them you just go to the edges of your rectangle and click on the lines.) It then tells you to “Enter” to crop.
3. Do that and after your photo is cropped right click and choose file and then “Save As . . .” not “save”. After that choose “Save” on both windows that appear, including the second which asks to save in JPEG. There you go! And photos cropped in this way rarely cross 80 KB so do not worry about the size. After saving, right click and select “properties” down at the bottom. The window opens on “basic” at the top. On Basic, you see the basic properties of your photo including its size, and on the “Image” option, you see the size and all . I hope this helps.

A Very Modest Proposal to the Government

Kenya is a country in East Africa that has, like many other democracies, faced its hard times. We have had a dictator, Moi; a founding father that was never much appreciated, Kenyatta, and I also hold the same opinion that yes he was a founding father but the very people who made him what he was continued to suffer after he was president. He amassed wealth that you can only imagine. His family is rumoured to own land the equivalent of some provinces in Kenya, and it is not only him but many others. The Mau Mau, who fought for that independence, continued, and still do, to languish in poverty. And we have had a modern day hero, Kibaki. The Kenyan economy has grown significantly under Kibaki's watch. We now boast of having one of the best banks in the world, Equity, which, if you do not know, serves over six million customers making it one of its kind south of the desert. Back when I was still the same size as our goat I never knew what a bank is, and that was the Moi days. Banks were for the filthy rich. Interests charged then were enough to exhaust your money in two days, if you belonged to a background like mine and my whole family tree. Mama told me that it was even prohibited for poor people to go near a bank for they were mistaken to be bank robbers, and yes there were many in those days. Nowadays, everybody owns a ATM card, thanks to Equity. Safaricom's M-Pesa was a thriller, so to say. It thrilled the world coming from a third world country to beat Western Union in terms of transactions. Kenya is literally a paradise, though we are not there yet. The roads that were tarmacked during colonial days and the Kenyatta days served Moi's twenty-four year rule. When Kibaki came in, Kenyans realised that uh! Roads are supposed to be tarmacked! We have overpasses and underpasses that we thought were supposed to exist only in South Africa. All I am saying is that the current government under the watch of the one and only, has made gigantic progress.

But, in the same government, I am made to understand that the Parliament, the Judiciary, and the Executive; form the government. I wonder why the general population, which to me is so vital, is not included. So, this government has some people who continuously eat our money. Then later on they come with excuses, or fake budgets on how they spent that money. What has prompted me to speak my mind is the recent scandal about the Kazi kwa Vijana money. That Swahili phrase stands for an initiative that was started to employ (kazi means employment) the youth (vijana), and “kwa” means “to”. One honourable member, like they like being referred to, though they cannot pronounce “honourable” itself correctly – and I guess they are honourable too in their deeds of stealing Kenyan money. Well, one of those fellows said that they spent 700 or 900 million (I forget the figure, not being used to hearing such money being mentioned, leave alone spent); that they spent that amount to fuel government vehicles that went around the country inspecting the initiative, which I must say was a phantom project. I heard that in the news and I said, Christ!

The reason I was surprised is that I have never heard of fuel/gas costing that much. It means that they imported all the oil in Nigeria. That was too much. And at the time Kenya was experiencing the drought of the century, they were too busy inspecting their “projects”. Sometimes I wish that when they were all in parliament an earthquake sent from heaven hits just that house and they all perish. We would mourn them for real. Condolences from world leaders who are friends of Kenya would flow in and we would have a month of national mourning. Our flags would fly at quarter mast. But the happiest thing about that would be that we would get to elect a new government, in all senses of this term, which we hope would be more responsible. Though I praised Kibaki before, so many scams have come and been let go in his era. I wish he had that charisma of his plus an iron, no, iron is too hard. Aluminium is fine. If he had such a hand and convicted those involved in the scams himself we would be a prosperous country. Africa does not need a democracy like the one practised in Kenya. Kenya is way too democratic. We need an iron fist for other politicians to fear because they are the ones that ruin our great country. If only Kibaki had a little bit of what we see in the first lady, no one would be corrupt.

I am African and so when I tell a story I might “wander” off but it is with intentions. My aim was to give the government a proposal which I am quite sure they will like. When Uhuru Kenyatta was going to read his first budget, he used a VW Passat, which according to the experts consumes less than its Benz counterpart. That was good. Then the budget after that he walked. That was good. The only question that remains is if he still walks around when it is necessary to do so, or if he got rid of his Benzes and bought Passats. By the way you can never meet politicians in Nairobi because they are always ferried in Benzes with deafening sirens, they are always in a hurry to go steal our money whenever the IMF sends some. Actually, my proposal is that the government bans those type of cars in Kenya, except for private individuals who are not in politics, and opens a school of riding where they are taught how to ride bicycles and motorcycles. They can use these to move around Nairobi because ironically, that is just as far as they usually move, even if their constituencies are thousands of miles away. This will be a great favour to our economy because bikes and motorbikes are cheap to maintain, plus they can never spend close to a billion on fuel even if they were transporting our honourable ministers to the moon for they do love exotic tours. This move would also reduce traffic incidents because these bikes would not have sirens. That would mean more peace in our roads where all would be equal. After that Kenya will prosper. Britain has prospered as it has because it had monarchs who were dictatorial. These laid down the foundations for their future. Kenya can do the same.

Fart Deferred

What happens when a fart's deferred?!

Are you kidding? Everybody knows!

The gas goes back

To the stomach,

It feels swollen.

Then, rumbling occurs,

Everybody hears it.

A silly look in your face,

You act like it wasn't you.

You move uneasily in your seat.

It's best to just let go –

Afraid of the sound?

Just don't let it explode!

My tea's gone cold I'm wondering why I..
got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window..
and I can't see at all
And even if I could it'll all be gray,
but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it's not so bad,
it's not so bad..


From the Song "Thank You" By Dido

An unfinished mud hut

Walking in rural Africa

I saw an unfinished mud hut.

I laughed softly.

Question myself I couldn't resist:

What could they have run out of?

Could it be mud?

No.

We had lots of mud everywhere,

The road was practically mud

Drove any driver mad!

May be it's sticks?

Sticks? But they are the essence;

What Africa is made of – sticks!

Or may be grass to thatch?

I really could not tell.

But when I looked more

I saw it:

Neglect!

From the government!

Tears flowed from my eyes.

When you're independent for decades

And nothing comes from it,

That breaks you down

Even mud will be scarce!

The very sticks

That make our fragile continent

Are nowhere to use!

But you know?

That unfinished hut . . .

Is Africa!

The cold room

Pa looks at the newspaper
I flip the pages of my novel,
No one is reading a thing.
A minute later he flips the channels
And I start typing a text,
No one is doing a thing.
One minute he grunts
As if to clear his throat;
I look at the ceiling
Seeing nothing at all.
The clock says past twelve –
No one says a thing.

We steal looks at each other
No one says a thing.
Though it's hot outside
The room is cold;
Our hearts are cold.
Mine is colder
The past starts haunting me
– again.

Loneliness

Mary

I watch the candle drip and

with every drop I

feel you,

feel your hands around me.

I listen to the crickets chirping and

with every chirp I

hear your heart,

your heart beat against my face.

I hear a dog howl outside

and with every howl I

smell your skin,

smell your skin against me.

The candle goes out,

the chirping dies away,

the howling dog tires -

but your hands are around me,

and your heart beats against my face,

and I still smell your skin against me,

though miles separate us.

The Stumps

For Mary

Sitting in the trees

Reminds me

of days spent with you

Tranquil and joyful.

Their whistling in the wind

Reminds me

of your sweet voice

So so melodious.

The dropping leaves

Remind me

of how high you take me

And leave me sailing down.

The thick tree trunks

Remind me

of how our love

I want to last.

And the stumps

The stumps, um, well,

The stumps. They remind me

That every journey

Has a last step.

Distances

For Mary

Distance separates me and you,

yet your love lingers like the morning dew.

I think of you thinking of me,

then I think of you thinking of we -

and it makes me just want to SCREAM!

Later at night you're in a dream,

A dream in which

I were a leech.

Just stuck and suck

On you, heaven and back.

Beautiful one,

will you marry me when you come?

Is God Muslim or Christian?

About religion I have decided to sit on the fence. I am going to judge you, quite contrary to what your holy scriptures advise me so please if you hate to be judged please do not read further. Christians take advantage of that verse of the Bible that says that we are all sinners, or something to the effect of all have fallen short of the glory of the Lord. Every time they trip they flip the pages of that Book and get you that exact verse. I am not the greatest theologian in the world. As a matter of fact I do not even attend any church. But why should I if we are all sinners? Who will go to Heaven if we are all sinners? Is it those with the least sin? I do not know but that is the way with Islam. There will be, or there is, a scale to weigh your sins your good deeds. As you realise, the Islamic way is more efficient because it not only acknowledges that we cannot live without sin like some religions like to claim, but that heaven is assured – the only thing they will do is to weigh your evil deeds against your holy ones. But Christianity leaves the followers confused: so, if we are sinners how shall we get to heaven?

I have also observed how Christians are always very quick to judge others, despite themselves being in so many denominations that you wonder which train is Heaven-bound. Christians are quick to judge Muslims. They call them all sorts of names just because of a few elements like Osama and Gadaffi. Doesn't the Bible restrain Christians from this – judging, insulting. People have never actually asked about Islam. If you happened to attend Jumaa prayers you would see what I am talking about. Instead of talks about grenades and bombs and suicide attacks, you are taken through the Quran hadiths (stories), some of which are similar to Bible stories and you enjoy just as much as you would a good sermon in any church. You always leave the Masjid smiling. There was this Friday the Imam gave a very good sermon which I am willing to share with you. It might not be told in the same exact way but I will try to show you what is taught in the mosque:

There was this young man who was travelling to a faraway place (it's funny that in those days they always travelled to faraway places!). Well, our young man was walking from Egypt up the Nile. After walking many hours he got hungry and he was out of food, having eaten on the way. So as he walked on the banks of the Nile he saw an apple on the sand just next to the river. He picked it up and being a Muslim, a strong believer, his instinct told him that he could not eat the apple because it did not belong to him. He knew it must have been carried downstream and so he carried the apple upstream until he got to the apple farm, which was not far away from where he had got the apple. By luck he found the workers closing and their master, who always came to see them off and see what had been done during the day, was there. He approached him, greeted him and told him what had happened: That he had found the apple and though he was very hungry had felt that it was not right for him to eat it without the owner knowing. The master was very astonished at the young man's honesty. He told him that since he was hungry he could have the apple and still as many as he would wish. The young man was very thankful after eating his fill. The master of the farm told him to spend the night at his place, in other words he hosted him at his big beautiful home. After dinner the master asked a favour from our young man and our man was only so obliged to be of any help. He said he would help if it was in his ability. The master told him that he had a daughter, who he described as not very beautiful, who he wanted that young man to marry, if Said, for Said was his name, was not married, and was not in any relationship that could lead to marriage. Said thought it over and since he had not loved anyone before and that his guest was asking a favour in return of his being hosted and fed and given a place to sleep, he accepted and once again thanked the man for his hospitality and kindness. The master warned him that she was not beautiful at all but Said was so full of gratitude that he cared not for her beauty but to show back what had been shown to him. The master told him that he would be shown her in the morning. They went to sleep after Said accepted he would marry her that he had not seen.

Said was not worried about how ugly she was. That night he wondered at the kindness shown by this man. He secretly wished he'd be just like him. He wished everyone was just like him. When morning came they woke up and went to breakfast. After breakfast Said was taken to see the lady. When her door opened Said gasped at her beauty. He had travelled Egypt from East to West, North to South but he had not seen such a beauty. He hugged his new father-in-law and thanked him tearfully. His father-in-law told him that he had shown a virtue that many wouldn't when he'd brought the apple and asked the owner. He further told him that because of that he had also trusted that he could be the only one who could truly love and care for his daughter.

The moral of that story was straightforward. Let's leave that at that.

I have observed that my neighbour, a staunch Christian, apparently is nothing close to what Christianity teaches her. She has this other neighbour who does not attend anybody's church. That neighbour has two stupid dogs and as is always the case with all dogs, they never relieve themselves at HOME – they do it AWAY, football-y speaking. So they have this habit of doing it every morning at their neighbour's (the first's) front yard. A few days ago she picked all the crap and threw it back to that neighbour's front yard. I am not the Pope but are you not supposed to turn the other cheek? Christians never live an hundred percent Christian lives and they know it. And they also know that you cannot go to heaven with the slightest mistake. It says in a song they like to sing that all sins are equal – there is no small or great sin. Nobody can claim to live a hundred percent holy life, even the hermits. I just do not know where we are headed, who to follow. I am indeed confused. May be God is not even a Christian or a Muslim. May be He is just one and who does not care where you worship from. May be we do not even know what He wants from us.

Garlic Breath? Uh-uh. Garlic Gas!

What is garlic? Our friend wikipedia tells us that “allium sativum, commonly known as garlic, is a species in the onion genus, Allium [and that it has] close relatives [who] include the onion, shallot, leek, chive, and rakkyo.” That is wikipedia. What I know about close relatives of garlic eating folks is different. People all over the world like garlic especially due to its medicinal value. What most people fear about it, or hate about garlic is . . . you guessed it – garlic breath. They say that when you start taking garlic cloves daily you start reeking. This happens from your pores, when you sweat, and more from your mouth and nose, when you breathe, leading you to have the hated garlic breath. That kind of breath is hated so much that even in Islam, where many Muslims love garlic, you are not supposed to attend salat (prayers) after eating garlic.

I have the habit of “self treatment” where I only visit the doctor if the illness does not go away after that self treatment. I am not a doctor – the MD or the witch types – but I think I am a digerati with a self awarded PhD. I love the internet and so when I have a small problem I just ask my other friend Google the best treatment and my friend usually knows just too much.

Last week I googled and found out that garlic treats a lot of things. I decided to be taking raw cloves on a daily basis. This coupled with the fact that garlic is used every day in our family meals has led me to a discovery: that what people fear/hate of garlic is just a tip of the iceberg. Since I started eating raw garlic, which I have found has a very ironic taste compared to what some attribute to it, my whole behind “sleeps outside”, to say it the African way. In plain English, I no longer cover myself up completely with the blankets like I usually did. Garlic breath is the best a man can smell, or a woman. But garlic gas!

Before I discovered this I had what they call a Dutch Oven. I almost suffocated. I ran out the room and met Mama on the hallway and she did not have to ask what had happened. Garlic gas was trailing behind me like the smoke off a jalopy. I did not go back to my room until after one hour. Later on Mama called me and told me to go easy on garlic, without me telling her a word of it.

If you take garlic, you will no doubt get the gas, and you do not even wonder what may be causing it because the moment it escapes you know what it is. Smells something close to rotten eggs or hydrogen sulphide, if I remember my chemistry well, and why not?! They say it is full of some form of sulphur, which contains all the magic about garlic.

Now, I had no problem with garlic breath, being the bachelor that I am, but I definitely have the problem of trying not to cover my behind when I live in an area high above sea-level meaning it is an area that is very cold. I also have a problem with the Dutch Ovens. They describe Dutch Ovens as the type that you would like to push your partner in to enjoy but if you gave your partner a Dutch Oven of garlic origin, or rather a garlic oven of Dutch origin, she divorces you before sunrise.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

No. Summers in Africa are hot as hell:

Rough dusty winds our thatched huts shake

While heaven's bloodshot eye on boiling our brains concentrates;

That's the reason we are technologically Third rate.

Shall I then compare thee to a winter's day?

What is winter? Not in Africa have I heard of that;

Two ironic seasons do we have:

One hot as hell, the other

Wet as hell (like Noah's day).

I shall thence leave the weather to the gods,

I shan't deal with the African weather, my love.

Thou art to me most precious

Than the rarest of precious metals.

David Rudisha, I Believe

We believe in Rudisha, the almighty,

The ambassador of ambassadors

The father of gold medals

And the speediest man on the track.

The brother to Usain Bolt

Pope John Paul III of all Kenyan athletes

Tall and powerful,

black the Kenyan way.

Humble and go-getting

The only one who wins gold when he wants.

He might have been crucified a few times

But he does rise after his three days.

Proved it in Daegu.

Even Kiwi ™ liked the way his shoes shine

Only one the President wishes he'd shake hands with

The Ambassador of Hope,

Of Peace.

The manager of all South African gold mines.

Chip of the old block.

From Berlin to Rieti.

The lion killer,

He shall kill both the living and the dead.

Abubaker's worst enemy.

Enemy of the people, sitteth on the right hand always

I believe in Rudisha, the whole Kenyan team

And the community that he hails from

called Kenya.

Let's Emancipate Ourselves from Mental Slavery

I am a very disappointed Kenyan. Disappointed in the sense of no appointment. My resumes are lying in every dustbin in offices around Kenya. I have been applying for almost any job that can 'fall under my jurisdiction'. My CV must be the most read around those swinging-office-chair offices in our beloved nation. Even in places that ask for qualifications that I have the upper hand in, I have received no feedback. I am indeed disappointed. I have gotten to the point of being suicidal. I have applied for a part-time writer, full-time writer, teacher, clerk, name them.

There is one problem that I have been facing as an individual, and I guess many like me face. In a Third World nation like Kenya. The employers would rather employ expatriates and leave their own citizenry suffering with unemployment. That is just one of the things they look for. Those of us who were not lucky enough to be born outside this country then never get the jobs. Another thing is Work Experience. This term sounds to my ears, and to many others, like any of Hitler's speeches to any Jew. Employers in Kenya are just so ridiculous. They probably think that at the University there is a course-unit called Experience. Some employers are so ridiculous as to ask for even more than ten-years' experience. If I had to have ten-years' experience I would be unemployable because I would actually ask for a lot of money from that fellow. Such employers who ask for that experience are not realistic. Where in the hell would you have been to be walking with ten-years' experience? What about those who graduate every year?

This leaves the young graduates with nothing to do except get employed under the worst conditions, since they lack that very important course-unit in their transcript called Experience. These are the same people who end up robbing your money since only experience disqualified them from getting that job. A youth is dangerous enough (see what happened in the Middle East). An educated youth is one you do not want to talk about. I have a proposal for the government: could they please establish an institution where one can go for further studies to do Experience. Everyday that I browse the web, the print media for jobs, I always end up smiling. Because I am always very qualified indeed but the ten-years' experience is what I usually lack. Now, if there is no institution for teaching experience then where in the hell will I get it? The most amusing part of those job adverts is that no matter the post they are employing in you will get the experience part.

In the developed world, fresh graduates do not go through what their counterparts in the developing world go through. This leads to brain drain. The very restless inexperienced job seekers cross the seas to go to those places that do not employ on experience but on qualification. Anyone with the academic papers qualifies for a job, experience is just one way that Third World employers use as an excuse for nepotism. If my uncle got fired in a certain department, I advertise for a job that only he can qualify. Likewise, those who might have applied and do not get that job are always left thinking that may be it was the experience part that let me down, or may be it was this and that.

Another funny thing about employers in the Third World is how they consider your education background, no matter the job. The “minimum qualifications” like they usually call them are nothing close to minimum. A teacher of English and Literature minimum qualifications may be as follows (as posted in the advert):

• Should have lived in a native speaking country.
• At least seven-years' work experience in a similar environment.
• Should speak with at least a neutral accent, if cannot speak with a native one.
• A bachelors degree in education with certificates in ESL or TESOL or TEFL.
• A post-graduate diploma in any other related course will be an added advantage.
• Should have knowledge of the British curriculum.
• etc. etc.

Those are just the “minimum qualifications” FYI. I guess they always call them so because if they had to write the “maximum qualifications” it would fill a whole Third World newspaper page, which costs money. Sometimes I look at those qualifications and wonder if there are people who qualify for those posts. And why the hell should I have knowledge of the British curriculum? I live in the Third World for Chrissakes! A bachelors degree with education is just enough to be a teacher. I do not want to be the most qualified teacher in the world! And what hurts is that they sometimes include this very neo-colonialist post script after the “minimum qualifications”:

If you are a native speaker of English (British, American, Australian, Canadian, White South African) you qualify automatically, as long as you have any relevant certificate in teaching.

When will the Third World “emancipate [them]selves from mental slavery”? When will we learn to love our own? I might be more qualified than that dude in the streets of London who only has a certificate in “any relevant field” but I will not get the job because they prefer foreign. Foreign is good.

I need a job soon. Otherwise I am feeling very suicidal. I spent a fortune on my education and I feel like it was all wasted. Though I have not yet graduated, the graduation ceremony being in November, I feel like I should be employed already!

Cry of the fatherless son

I will not mourn my father's death

I won't even be struck by his death.

I will not contribute a coin to buy his coffin,

Or for the funeral which I won't even attend.

As is the custom,

I won't name my first son after him.

My children won't ever see photos of him.

I will not tell them tales

that my father supposedly told me.

His name in my house will never ring a bell,

Neither will he ring my doorbell -

For if he does I will let my dogs loose on him,

no matter how old and frail he'll be.

His name in my house shall be forbidden.

But how could I mourn your death?

How would your death strike me?

How could I contribute to your funeral?

Or attend your funeral?

As is custom,

how should I name my son after you?

And how would my children see your photos?

What tales did you tell me,

so I can tell them?

How could your name even ring a bell,

Or you ring my doorbell?

How would I let my dogs loose on you,

An old stranger that I haven't

My eyes set on?

Forgive me, father

That's as bad a son as you brought here.

This poem was inspired by the story of a young boy I met. I had asked a question about his father, said he had no father, I asked if he had passed on. He cried and told me that he never knew him.

Uganda is Definitely the Pearl of Africa

I have learnt that the first thing any African is asked when he travels abroad is 'How is Africa?' Ask any

African abroad and they will tell you that they have been asked this question one time too many. One of my lecturers who had been studying in the UK was asked quite a ludicrous one: 'How is Africa, is Idi Amin still president?' That was many years after the bastard had died in exile, never having been 'Africa's president'. There is still another one that I heard they might ask you, especially if the one asking had a racist mind, is: 'Is it true you guys still live in trees?' and the one usually asking looks so innocent that you might swear he didn't know what he was asking. But Africans are very witty and they have developed answers to such questions like: 'Yeah, of course we live in trees, and your High Commissioner lives in the tallest tree in the capitol.'

I am not racist, and never will be. I just love how racists think, that's all. However, Africa is quite a big place and no African can answer the question 'how is Africa?' What happens in Kenya does not necessarily happen in Uganda, or Senegal. Africa, if some people have never noticed is the second largest continent on the planet. African cultures are vastly different but there are things that never change no matter wherever you are in the world, like women being looked down upon.

I am Kenyan and I have had the privilege to live in Uganda, our neighbour to the West. I just want to illustrate that Africa is not that one big chiefdom some people think it is. When I first arrived in Kampala, the capital city of that neighbour of ours, it was nine in the morning, I experienced the differences at 'first sight'. I had been asleep all the way and I only woke up when the bus parked at its station. The first thing I saw in Kampala, or rather noticed, were the 'taxis', known as matatu in Kenya. Unlike in Kenyan matatu which are all graffiti that you can never know the original colour of the matatu, their Ugandan 'counterparts' were all a sick white, with a blue-striped line all around the body to show that they are PSV. What is more is that the taxi park was right in the city, and Kampala is located in a hilly area so where my bus had parked was a place overlooking a great part of Kampala and of course the taxi park. So from above their old roofs, the taxis', looked like some dirty white bathroom tiles. This should not give anyone a feeling against Kampala, it is a great city, the CBD is like any other in the world, with some very cool environment. But what really caught my attention was that the taxi park was so tightly parked, and no chaos present. In such a place you would expect people scratching each other's taxis but it was not happening there. The drivers inside the taxi park are among the most skilled in the world, and are all male – I wonder why. But women are generally regarded as not very good drivers. I have seen it myself when they are parking. She looks left, right, left, right, front, back, gets out of the car to estimate the space, gets in the car, accidentally honks and looks if anyone was offended so she can get out again and say sorry, then back to the car until an impatient male comes and honks at her and here she gets the guts to sloooooooooowly park.

Another striking difference is the number of motorbikes, or boda boda as they are known here. Kampala has so many motorbikes you might think there is a factory set aside for populating this city with them. The irony of this is that they are actually imported. In high school there I remember my Kenyan friend joking that if all these boda boda were sold, Uganda would make four more international airports other than having one at Entebbe.

Yet another difference is the number of food kiosks, or sheds like they should be called. They are so many in the city that you might wonder what the Ministry of Health and Sanitation does. In Kenya these are regarded correctly as places of poor sanitation and therefore not allowed anywhere near the city. You might find them in smaller cities where the city councils there are dead asleep. Having arrived at nine in the morning, I noticed that the sheds were fully-packed. Men and women, but mostly men, enter these sheds as frequent as bees into a hive. The men eat 'heavily' like they say, and at that time of the morning. In Kenya, asking for a meal, not breakfast, before noon is asking a rhetoric question. No food is ever ready before noon, Kenyans generally take bread in the morning and bacon and other related things if they are privileged. This morning usually ends at 11:59. in Kampala, on the other hand, as soon as it is light, food is ready. Men eat heavily and prepare for work at that time of the morning.

I also noticed a great difference in the food. If you asked for ugali with milk – whether fresh or fermented - people would stare at you. To the, it would be like asking for bread and water. In Kenya, however, this is a great delicacy. There are great differences in food for certain. There is a small round fruit in the family of what Kenyans call sodom apples, I wonder where they got that from. The sodom apples are yellow when ripe and green when not. Their trees are usually not tall, but are very thorny. The juice of the sodom apple is used in curing diseases that I cannot recall now, but the same juice is poisonous to the eye, it can make you lose sight within hours. Now the Ugandans eat that fruit in the family I have mentioned, and they call it eggplant, whereas eggplant is a bigger fruit that is purple in colour. But to tell the truth, all these are related because their trees are similar, except that only the sodom apple tree is thorny. They eat this and many more. Locusts are a delicacy. (please read Locusts). They also cook any food they want in banana leaves and such is called luwombo.

There is one fruit worth talking about. It is officially called the jackfruit and it is funny that you will find it in the Oxford Advanced Learner's Dictionary (8th edition). There it is defined as 'a large tropical fruit' but I feel they did not define it to the fullest. They should have said that: 'It is an ugly, large, shapeless, pimpled, milky fruit that is only found in Uganda in which a new eater of the same does not know what to eat and what not to, and that leaves you regretting why you tried it in the first place.' It is indeed a fruit like no other, I wonder what the great God was thinking as he created this very curious thing they have called a fruit. It's rind is just the perfect comb for the African hair and it is funny that only some very poor locals use it, whereas it would save Uganda the need for imported plastic combs. When dissected, a very strong white gum oozes from those cuts, and from between the strong fibre that protects the edible parts. At first you do not know what to eat, and how to eat it. Many freshers in the eating institution of the jackfruit take it straight to the mouth. This shouldn't be how to eat it because that gum can seal your mouth for a whole week. Instead, you use your fingers to pluck the edible flesh from between the strong fibres inside. These pieces are usually distinct in the sense of separate so that they look like smaller fruits in the larger one. This should only happen when the strong white gum has been rubbed off with a serviette or any equivalent. You take the whole piece you have plucked to your mouth. You use your mouth art to weed the undesirables out, so to say; we still have a large seed inside every bit of flesh, and around each seed is some kind of husk to the seed. Chew and swallow the rest. That's all. That first experience is just like any other. Once you fall in love with the jackfruit you just don't stop.

Another thing about Uganda is that it is a drinking nation, alcoholically speaking. Rumour has it that it is the 'most drunk' country in Africa. Everyone from small kids and women drink, that is everyone who wants to. In Kenya, women who drink are the very rich and shameless and you do not even spot them, they go to bars that we can only watch from a distances, all rich people. The poor women who drink in Kenya are whores, forgive the expression. These do not mind what you say about them. Beer in Kenya can only be taken comfortably by the men. In Uganda, and I observed this in a certain ghetto called Kisenyi that I used to live in, women have places that they meet and drink their Bells, Niles, and Clubs. And surprisingly, the number of bars in this drinking nation is so low that you may doubt this fact, but that is because unlike anywhere in the world, Ugandans sell their beer just like they sell any other fizzy drinks – in any shop. Truly I cannot remember ever seeing the pubs I see so frequently in Kenya. The boda boda fellows drink as they ride, and no one gives less of a … than their cops, that is about drinking and riding, and driving. These fellows prefer sachets of spirits because with these you just hold with your teeth and leave your hands to deal with the bike. Do not be afraid of getting a boda boda from the smell of the fellow, these, too, are other masters of the road. Accidents happen anywhere, even in places with the highest sobriety.

In old dear Uganda people can drink while riding their motorbikes but they DO NOT eat while walking. This is one respected rule, from their culture. If you ever spot a fellow doing so, he might be a foreigner, especially a Kenyan who do not have any problem with that. I was quite an outcast for some time before I learnt that I was not supposed to do so. Even while the effects of modernisation are still felt in Uganda, their culture are strongly guarded. They still have a kingdom that is over 800 years old called the Buganda kingdom. The Baganda are the inhabitants if the central part of Uganda where Kampala is. Ugandans from this kingdom and some others that I might not have noticed do not eat while talking, or rather talk while eating. If you find such a Ugandan do not speak until he has swallowed his last. If you say 'hello', he answers after whatever time he has used to eat his food, which truthfully speaking, is too much compared to what Kenyans eat. Likewise, if you have a Ugandan friend from this other kingdoms, and he happens to visit you while you are eating, you might wonder what is wrong with him because he will sit and not talk waiting to greet you at the end of your meal.

These facts about Uganda justify why Uganda is the pearl of Africa, and also that there are such significant differences between the various cultures in Africa that you should not ask me 'How is Africa?' when we meet in your world.

Listen, naïve one!

My little young naïve sister

Is no doubt very naïve

Says she is terribly afraid of Aids

Thinks she to herself:

I can only get it from

A Mister.

But listen naïve one, 'fore

You make a stupid move:

Be very afraid of Aids, indeed;

Some are BORN with Aids, some

Achieve Aids, while

Some have Aids

Thrust upon 'em!

Dreams

I do dream militant dreams

of taking over Kenya

and showing these African politicians

how it should be

done

I do dream radical dreams

of blowing everyone away with my perceptive powers

of proper governance and political responsibility

I even think I'll be the one

to stop rot and corruption in public offices

indeed I dream of uniting Kenyans and killing nepotism

But then I wake up and dig

that if I dream natural

dreams of being a natural

citizen doing what a citizen

does when s/he's natural

I will have a REVOLUTION!

Father, Do You Remember?

Let not time

make us forget

our past.

You I called 'father'

gave me nights full of

misery.

I was but a little boy,

innocent to the core,

but who knew no joy.

No wrongs unnoticed,

rights went unrewarded -

yet we seem to forget it.

No. We cannot.

We should not forget

the nights I sat up crying.

The days I ran from home

too weary to withstand

constant beatings with no cause.

But why?

I was but a little boy.

Ever remember that, Father?

I was innocent

though illegitimate.

I was a little angel.

Let not the sunups

and sundowns fool us

to forget that past.

Father, do you remember

all the hell you caused for me

though your throat never knew any drink?

Fable: The Importance of Family

Once upon a time there was a boy, who like many other boys his age liked to look at the world map and wish he would go to all those places painted green on the map. He also wished he would sail all those places painted blue and discover all the beautiful islands that he saw. He did not only wish but dreamt of being in all those places meeting different people and places. He would spend many hours every day looking at his atlas, which, if you must know, was bought after vigorous saving by his poor parents. During one of his daydreams, a voice spoke to him and said:

“Obi,” for Obi was his name, “Obi, would you like to visit all those places on the map?”

He was so scared at first to hear a voice speak to him without anyone being present. The same voice repeated the same words with the same tone and Obi, being too excited about the idea of being able to see the whole world, answered excitedly.

“Please, I would like to see all those places with my own eyes. I would give anything! By the way, who is speaking to me? Am I dreaming?”

“No, you aren't dreaming. It is I, the god of your people.”

“Please God give me anything . . . wings. I will do anything . . .!”

“All right, All right. No need for that excitement. I can give you wings to fly. But there is one condition here. Did you say you would do anything?”

“Yes, Sir! Anything!”

“All right. I will give you very powerful wings that will enable you to fly the whole world. You will not get tired and so you will cross any sea without the need for rest or sleep. Moreover, you will be invisible, so no one will spot you and try to harm you.”

By this time Obi was too excited he was literally crying. He could not believe it. Then the god said a thing that killed this excitement.

“For this to happen, you will never see your family again. And this is forever. It is not reversible. Think about it. I will see you tomorrow.”

Just as Obi was about to speak the god 'disappeared', quick as he had come. Obi was now lost in clouds of thought. He thought about his family. They were not the happiest family one could have. What's more, they always seemed to enjoy picking on him.

Later that night he could not afford appetite for supper. His mother scolded him for not eating and his father observed that he was spending more time on the atlas than on anything else and took it away. This made him feel sad. He was never the adored little boy his younger brother was. He was not the beloved daughter that his elder sister was. He was just a little poor boy to be picked on, he felt. That night he could barely sleep. He tossed and turned in bed while his mind thought of all the wonderful places he would fly to. He made up his mind that he would not miss his family that much after all. He also felt that his absence would not be noticed since to him it seemed that everybody enjoyed picking on him.

When morning came Obi left home to a quiet place where he thought convenient enough for him and God. No sooner had he arrived than God asked him if he had made up his mind. Obi replied in the affirmative. God told him to think it over and over again and still Obi insisted that he had had enough of his family. God, without ever showing himself, gave him wings. Obi tried them and he felt as if he had been flying his whole life. He thanked the god and flew away. Like he had been promised, he did not feel tired. He flew round his country first and then to some of the places he had seen on the map. He flew to the highest mountains and lowest valleys on earth. That was his first day. At night he took refuge among the stocks in a certain dumping site, for he could no longer be accepted as a human being. The following morning he flew over the oceans and saw the activity that usually could only be seen from his advantage of flying. In the evening he slept in an empty room. He felt so sad. He missed his family too much. The third day he did not fly. He had not even seen a fragment of all the places he had usually imagined and here he was, too bored to explore. Then the god came to him and told him:

“I usually keep my word, but for you I will change. Go back home. Family is more important than anything.”

The Public Toilet Disaster

Do you know what a hen feels when it is about to lay an egg, and the place is not convenient for it? You probably don't unless you have 'hens in your family'. My closest friend, who I refuse to name for security reasons, had just arrived in Nairobi, the Green City in the Sun, or the Safari Capital of the World etc., like it is passionately called around the world. It was his first time, and he was not here to see that famous city that has what no other city has: a National Park literally inside, in the CBD; he wasn't here to watch the animals either. His fate was so very like many other rural kids, so to say, who feel like town life is just what they really need to get on with their lives. So he had toiled for that three hundred shillings to make that journey to this great city. Many back home had looked as if they were burying him for many who venture that city do not return home, life being so different from home.

Well, my friend had arrived and he realised his mistake. He had not visited the toilet back home, and here he was, armed with nothing but a piece of paper which he was supposed to use as directions to a very distant cousin of his who also lived in the city but who was too busy to meet anyone, he had said. As he read the directions and looked at the names of streets he felt it. You guessed it! He felt what a hen feels when it is just about to lay the egg and cannot find the right place. The hen, if you don't have one, becomes as restless as the devil was when he was planning to go and tempt Jesus in the wilderness (it was not just a 'lemmie go' thing. The Devil had to prepare.). So my hen, sorry, friend started feeling that sensation that no matter what he did he had to go. He could not muster the courage to ask for the gents for yokels, when they get to town, act like they have lived in town all their lives. He started walking the kind of walk that makes sure you do not space your legs more than is necessary. The green stuff, to be politically correct, was just an inch away from this world. He walked and walked and with every step felt that stuff was coming. He wasn't sure that he would not let go on the next cop who stopped him to ask why he looked suspicious. He walked and walked, fast as his country legs could, and they really did for upcountry folks are used to walking great miles, due to the abundance of the lack of any type of vehicles there.

He crossed one street and another. One avenue to the other. One alley to the other. Then he saw it. About a hundred metres away, he saw a sign that read: Iko Public Toilet. City Council of Nairobi. But due to what he was carrying and so eager to drop at the same time, he broke into a run. He cared not for the traffic – the drivers could care for themselves, he thought. In Kenya it is not uncommon to see the athletes jogging in and out of the city but this yokel's way of running caught the attention of a young officer who was walking aimlessly looking for offenders. He followed at the same speed and shouted at the young man to stop but he was nowhere near heeding the advice of that cop. He ran on. He had about ten metres and a street to cross. This is where he planned to beat Usain Bolt. In other words, he took the U.B. challenge. He had not been taught to look left, right, and left again where he came from, which was not a loss for like I said there were no vehicles where he came from, and certainly he did not know such a rule as he approached that busy street at full speed. He ran through and left honking like was made during the bomb blast but by God's mercy he crossed the street safely.

The young officer took him for a mad man, and he waited until it was safe enough to cross and when he did he could not spot the young man running. He made for the toilets, which could have been the only place the young man would have disappeared to. When he reached the 'reception' (Nairobi toilets have them to prevent Kenyans from misusing the toilets, especially stealing the bowls – Kenyans steal anything stealable) the receptionist that instant discovered what he was running after. He pointed to the gents and our curious officer followed. What he heard was the foulest noise of all noises, for my friend had eaten 'enough' for the journey like he had been advised by his yokel family and friends, and so enough was coming out in the form of the three states of matter. The officer understood and left my friend who when he was finished asked the same officer for directions. He had not even seen or heard who was after him and the officer kindly showed him the buses to his destination.

My Twilight ( - Unfinished Poem)

'T has been a long one, my journey.

I feel I’m about to meet my creator.

I have no more promises to keep

But guilt of what I've done is deep.

But why blame me?

They say no one is perfect.

Priests with young little boys …

Politicians with young little girls …

But I’m not afraid of meeting him

Everyone will one day.

Only question is

Has your life been worth living?

May be it has, may be not

But as for me I do not

My Slight Mishaps Caused by Technology

The moment somebody says “TECHNOLOGY” most of us rush to think of computers and other computer-related inventions or innovations. We are only partially right if we take this path of thinking. My little Collins English Gem Dictionary ( which must have been published in the 19^th Century because it was used by my uncle in his high school, and besides all the pages are yellow, not to mention that it smells like what the original Bible manuscripts must have smelled when they were found in whichever caves they claim); well, my Gem defines technology as the “application of practical, mechanical sciences to industry [and] commerce”. So technology does not always refer to anything electrical, as everyone of us rushes to think. If you invent a new way to break wind, well, it might be referred to as technology!

Now, everybody is so grateful that the Homo sapiens of these days has used his brain so much and that is why we do not have to part the waters of The Red Sea every time we cross that narrow canal but rather we can use a ship, or plane to fly over the same. Indeed many have blamed Jesus for having had to go through great costs to “perform his miracles” whereas if he was really as great as they say in the good book, they argue, he should have “appli[ied] … practical, mechanical sciences to [his] industry [of preaching]. For instance, they continue to argue, if he could have made a very big oven out of his great might as is told in that good book then he should not have taken away those two fish and five loaves of bread from whoever they rightfully belonged. Neither should he have risked his life walking over waves without a surfboard. Further still, he would not have been crucified quite against his wish (remember he had feared it as is said in that book and that he even had to spend nights praying) but would have had made one Kaleshnikov which would have been enough to scare away those Jews, or those who wanted to stone the adulterous woman – here, Jesus, due to lack of any weapon, bent down and started scribbling on the ground with his finger. But it appears that Jesus was not a fan of technology because he should have been the inventor of so many things. Take the mobile phone for instance. The other day I laughed when somebody joked about the telephone (mobile phone) in Jesus' time – that calls like the following would be made:

JC: Hey, Peter, where are you guys right now?

Peter: We are in Bethlehem.

JC: Bethlehem? What the hell are you doing in Bethlehem?

Peter: Oh, don't you know? We have a bash!

JC: Whose bash?

Peter: Judas' birthday bash.

JC: Oh, that asshole never tells me a thing. I'll be with you in ten minutes.

To leave Jesus alone, for although he was not a technophile he had brains that are unmatched to this day, (it says in the good book), I will go straight ahead to say why I chose to talk about this topic. I, too, love technology but when it beats me I'm so frustrated because I'm just a youth and a lot more should be on its way. My first encounter with a TURNSTILE was in a supermarket in Kampala (the one right inside the Old Taxi Park – I forgot its name). I am neither a yokel nor a townie but when I first approached it I was afraid because it seemed to me just strategically located to knock some very precious cargo that men carry around with them. I hesitated at first until somebody went past it without it inflicting that damage I had so feared. I followed suit and sighed with relief when I realised that the thing was just as harmless as a little girl. I did my window-shopping since belonging to a certain class I was too broke to buy stuff anyway. I must not have noticed any sign saying where we should exit from and besides I was too excited about my little metallic friend and I approached with as less caution as I could afford just so I could show any watcher that I was used to turnstiles and their cousins. I am African, too, and reading signs and instructions are not really part of our cultures. What I had feared so much before I passed through the turnstile happened. I groaned in pain and pretended that it was just an irritation because 'why do they have to make us go all round the shop to get out'? The turnstile did not give in to my feather weight even after trying to push so I decided to show any watcher that I was athletic enough and I did a little skip or high jump of that turnstile which turned to be quite a sight. Whoever watched had a look I haven't understood to date but for which I care naught for.

My second experience was in that great city of Nairobi. I do not know what it is with me and cities and guess what … ? anything that turns or revolves: The REVOLVING DOOR. I had just popped out of a minibank to withdraw money from the ATM. The queue I was in was long and just when my turn came the machine stopped working. I got out of the minibank immediately and left even though there were other queues that I should have joined. I get pissed off quickly and I guess that is why. Not knowing the city quite well I could not find any other ATM easily so I decided to go back to the same ATM. I had not seen a door, at least not a revolving one, when I first entered the minibank and so I pulled the handle of what I saw. It turned out to be a revolving door and that I was pulling it in the wrong direction for another man of a huge disposition was just getting out of the bank. Just as I had stuck my rather not small head inside he pushed the door the other way and nearly broke my neck. I could not help but yelp with pain and make quite a spectacle of myself. He apologised and tried to train me on how to use revolving doors without such mishaps, which pissed me off than when he nearly broke my neck because I at least knew how to use a revolving door. It just wasn't there the first time I had entered! I learned my mistake later: that the minibank was next to its mother bank and so with their sharing logos and colours, it was hard to know where you had first entered. In other words, the mother bank had a revolving door while the minibank didn't. It's just that I had not noticed the mother bank and when they were breaking my neck I was actually supposed to be getting into my minibank!

Kiswahili Kitukuzwe!!

Mimi kama Mkenya nimechoshwa na Wabunge wetu wanavokiua Kiswahili katika Bunge. Ningeomba Serikali iwalipie somo hili ili waache kutuaibisha au ikomeshe upeperushaji wa moja kwa moja, au hata wa baadaye wa vipindi ambavyo vinatuaibisha kama nchi. Kenya ni nchi moja ijulikanayo kwa lugha hii tuipendayo lakini ukifika huku nchini unapata asilimia ndogo sana yakijua. Jiulize watu wa nje hujiulizaje wanaposikia Wakenya walivo wataalamu kwa lugha ya Kiingereza wakati lugha yao ya taifa hawaijui. Najua kwamba umuhimu wa mazungumzo au mawasiliano ni kuelewana ('bora tuelewane') lakini angalia jinsi nchi kama Uingereza zinalinda lugha zao. Cha kushangaza ni kuwa Makao ya Bunge yanaonyeshwa moja kwa moja kwenye runinga zetu na Wabunge wasiokijua, Mwenyezi Mungu awasaidie, ndio wanakimbia kukizungumza. Wabunge wetu mwatukera! Kiswahili ni lugha ya taifa nchini Kenya lakini mwajifanya kutokijua, na wengine wenu hamjifanyi kwani hamkijui ng'o! Kunao ambao wanafurahia kukiporomosha Kiingereza ili kuwaacha watazamaji na wabunge wenzao na mshangao lakini kwani hamjui kwamba mwacha mila ni mtumwa? (charity begins at home). Wabunge wanafaa kutozwa faini kubwa wakikosea Kiswahili. Spika Maalim anafaa apelekwe shuleni. Waziri Mkuu pamoja na rais, nyie twawapenda lakini tafadhali acheni kukiua Kiswahili. Rais Kenyatta alikipenda Kiswahili na ndio maana Wakenya wa siku zile hawakuongea jinsi tunavoongea. Wasanii wa siku zile waliimba kwa Kiswahili kitamu. Mtu akifanya kosa katika Kiswahili twacheka sana, ilhali akikosea neno moja tu la Kiingereza twamshangaa kweli. Huu, kama anavouliza Mbotela, ni uungwana? Eti heri kumpenda mtu mliyekutana hivi majuzi, kuliko wa familia yenu. Huu ni upumbavu. Nikirudi kwa Wabunge, wasiokijua Kiswahili wanafaa watimuliwe, na upumbavu wanaouita Sheng unafaa uzikwe katika kaburi la sahau. Kiswahili ni mama na baba. Kiingereza ni jirani tu!

Nina ombi moja tu kwa Wabunge wetu: Kama hamkijui Kiswahili jifunzeni kabla ya kujiabisha mbele yetu. KBC na nyumba zingine za utangazaji zapeperusha duniani kote. Mtakosa kura zetu kwa sababu hiyo tu!