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!

The One-hit Wonder I Used to Be

Back in those days when I was still the same size as our goat and when our cockerel had fallen in love with pecking my little ears after chasing me the whole front and backyard I used to be a clever little boy. I used to be the best in my class. I even set a record where one exam I got eight straight A's in my exams, scoring 800 out of 800 marks. I was good I tell you. I remember those days and wonder if I become a fool as I approach my grave, I really do. I wonder what happened to that magic I used to have. I was known more than Okonkwo was in those nine villages of Umuofia. I was known in our district as the only boy who could get nothing but straight A's if he saw that as necessary. But that, like I said, was a long time ago.

Last week I attended a Closing Day meeting at my little brother's school. He certainly did not follow my footsteps and surely only he knows what he is following. He has been performing so poorly that he has changed schools more than any one of us in our family. So in the meeting, as they called the names of those who had performed best, and the most improved I was carried back to those meetings we usually had in high school. And I remembered just how Mama felt when they were calling the best performed students and I was not among them, like it used to be when I was in primary school. She, my mama, had great hopes in me. What made me recall those days most is the fact that my mama is usually so emotional. You should see her, for instance, watch her favourite soaps. She is usually totally involved. I do not like watching a movie in front of her because half the time I watch her, and I understand what is going on in the screen all the same. This is not to mean that my mother and I share common tastes in movies; soaps are not my type – but that is the way it is. So I used to wonder how she felt as we sat on those pews in the hall and they called the names of those fellows who had decided that books were their everything. Mama used to get the butterflies, if you can get them at such a situation, when a name like mine was mentioned, expecting me to be the most improved or something, no matter the class they were calling. I would steal glances secretly to watch her reactions, which like I said are usually overt, only to find her doing the same after which I would withdraw them faster than a Kenyan can run.

I only came back to that meeting after I realised that I should not have been feeling so bad about my brother whereas I was something like a one-hit wonder. . .