coming out

For a princess turned 18 this May Day 2012
Many are my thoughts and wishes for you.
And as you go through life it’s victories and challenges,
You’ve all the support you’ll ever need.
And when you’ve hard choices to make, God’s given you the “dopest” Ssenga.. she’s more mother than you’ll ever know, more than I could ever put in words. And I love her so so much. Without her, I’d be lost to you and to love. My life would be an empty shell

My child, I pray, not that you will be protected from Life’s trials and strife, but that you’ll triumph at every turn. That you will stand strong and tall even if you stand alone. I ask that you will not despair or give in to loneliness, that you wont know rejection or walk this world’s paths on your own,. that you’ll cling on to hope when all seems lost, that you’ll know love at it’s truest

I wish I could sit you down and brief you ,on what is yet to come, on what to expect; but life is a journey and your story is yours to write. You’re are surrounded by battle hardened warriors, but their story is not mine to tell, their wealth of experience all your for the taking

I read Horton hatches the egg by Dr. Seuss and couldn’t blink back the warm tears of joy at the thought of the Elephant bird, a creature that only Dr Seuss could possibly imagine. At the end of the story surrounded by admiring friends… a creation of love, care and faithfulness in spite of ridicule and doubt.
It reminds me of you and these formative 18 years… if only you knew?!

I’m proud of you my daughter, we all are. Sometimes I see the cheeky little things you do, believing in your own wit. I can’t spank you; not now, and after now, not ever. But I hope you realise your folly soon, that even we went through that phase, and are neither blind nor fooled. That we let things slide for we were once like you and debate on whether to call your bluff. “There’s nothing new under the sun”, The Philosopher said in his ecclesiastical renderings, and I believe so.
I hope you discover soon enough and acknowledge that we as parents are also your friends. That you can be honest with us about prom, plunging necklines, firsts and fantasies and that we will not judge you but advise as we see fit. The mutterings, emotions and things you cant make head of

I’m now reading Mothers and Daughter’s by Dr Bassoff, and in my eyes, my colourful imagination, you…
You mean the world to me and I’m proud, immensely proud of you.

I could go on and on and on for my heart churns love by the ocean, the outpourings thereof would be infinite…but I will stop here for now, and hope that my silent prayer, our hopes and dreams for you will be fulfilled…

And that this my random discharge shall be a landmark in our lives.

I love you, sin cera… without wax…and from the depth of my heart.

Bon anniversaire

Whodunnit

*this post is 2 weeks late for in the running of things I tend to forget.. 23rd of March 2012* Today I saw a young man die! His nose bleeding face scraped upon the tarmac and a motorcycle on his back; left arm lodged firmly under its metallic stand! He didn’t move! Someone from the crowd jumped onto his back with both feet. Another dragged the motorcycle till the young man’s arm came lose, hanging at an awkward angle behind his back before landing with a thud beside his already limp body. The blood from his face left a trail on the tarmac.
Frantically I dialled the emergency number, only to hear the engaged tone. Another of the mob kicked him hard, shifting the body, only for it to return to its original position. Only then did the crowd begin to disperse.. He must have died, I hang up the phone that was now redialling, turned and walked away. Ahead of me, a convoy drove past, escorting one of the dignitaries to the airport perhaps. A flash of anger and then quietness, why was I angry?
It hadn’t even been 5 minutes, the smartly dressed lad in a white tee, his friend in red walking unhurriedly on the cab. I walked briskly past, my bag clutched tightly undeneath my arm. No sooner had I turned the corner than the shout, “Mukwaate!” In response, hands reached out to grab the man, now trying to run away. I recognised him instantly. In his wake an elderly Indian man, his gold chain hanging on his shoulder, unclasped. His hand reached to his face, straightening his spectacles while the other took the chain and clenched it in a fist. He stumbled off the Boda Boda, the motorcycle that had been ferrying him and a friend, heading towards the young would be thief, now being pummeled by the mob. A hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Begrudgingly he turned and followed
Meanwhile, whoever could land a blow or kick did, the force of the mob stopping the traffic and swinging them to the center of the junction. The bumberea swelled significantly, the story being retold in deviance from one onlooker to the other.
I shook my head and walked on, the image of the tattoo slowly fading from my mind, the young man more dead than alive. I didn’t know and didn’t check. Was the mob right? The nearest post was at least 200m in either direction. I recalled my murderous thoughts when I my phone had been snatched. Had he been caught, would I have clobbered him? To death?
Later I passed by, the smudge of blood on the road surface the only sign of what had happened there! A sad reminder of what had happened there. Murder or justice?

I sit inside an old church, eyes to the rafters, above them the iron sheet roof.
Around me the sounds of untreated coughs and children running loose on the cracked cement floor.
The drone of the lay reader slowly lulling me to sleep. I sit upright and shake myself from my stupor, rubbing my eyes and staring into my neighbour’s bible, but reading not the words. I fold my arms across my chest and read the words on the pew infront of me; dedicated to a prominent ancestor of a reknowned family, the furniture a donation by his relatives.
The service drags on, my attention drawn to my thoughts… I can smell the ‘nativeness’ around me, a mixture of smoke from the kitchens, firewood and the local drink.
I actually wore a sweater, but I shiver with cold.. The weather and the emptiness of the sanctuary.
As a visitor from the Capital, they won’t let me sit at the back; ushering me to the dais beside the choir, in full view of the wanainchi.
I think tis a con, this show of respect, making us the visitors from the City a prime target of the auctioneer. Yes, there’s a church auction.. Cabbages, potatoes, beans, chicken, avocado… Food items brought for thanksgiving, sold to raise money. More often than not, these elite donate their buys to the clergy or one of the revered seniors in attendance.
I clap in unison with the drum, the same beat as always- I wave on queue with the rest of us visitors, to the tune of “Tukutendereza!”. But my thoughts are elsewhere.
Somewhere in the middle my old man is called forward to speak, a son of the soil, the local primary school, a choiristor, now a doctor and an elder in his own right. I break out of my daydream in time to hear the priest thank him for a window he donated, wondering how come his name is not on the wall. I prepare for the introduction, to stand, smile and wave, hoping this time he won’t ask us go upfront or speak. I think in vernacular, an emergency speech forming in my mind- surprisingly fluent. Yet I know from experience that that’s lost when my turn comes. The words I know, yet they come out accented, from lack of use of the language. I think. On queue-stand-smile-wave
I sit back down, barely hearing my father’s words. I imagine myself upfront, introducing my family, my wife or my girlfriend. Declaring intention to wed and hearing them break into song and ululation. Asking her to greet the church and hearing her choose her words carefully. A simple name and an expression of her gladness to be in my home village. I picture myself squeezing her arm, and drawing her to me. A kiss would be inappropriate so I edit it quickly out of my reverie, noticing familiar faces in the crowd instead.
My father’s voice resonates in the background, I know what he is saying. That he is glad to be there, and the progress they have made. The joy of fellowship, blah! Blah! Blah! He’ll probably donate another window or bags of cement.
Then he says something about generations, legacy; about handing over and keeping roots and culture. About setting precedents, showing the children them the way to go. About his children, us, coming back and making that speech.
Somehow I listen to all this, attentively, like I had a thought bubble above my head and he’d read things off my mind…
He donates an entire church floor.. I estimate 10 bags of cement, not to many! He’s thinking more of this our country home lately, a sure sign of age knockin..
He sits down and they break into song, the choirs melodies unique, as any village choir.
I walk out to clear my mind, to tweet, text or write… Anything to bring me back.. And my daydream continues unbroken as I sit back in the car. A sign..is she there? Will she be mine? Is this it? The maiden at the well, as of biblical times?

Buttons (probably part 1)

Buttons (probably part 1).

when oceans roll

things..feelings..meanings…

I often write of things that hurt

Sometimes,not always, the murmurs within,

The joys also that life imparts,

And the feelings..

I often think of what might be,

Dreams and goals,of hope to achieve,

Maybe I delve into fantasy..

But never the meanings!

Yet now I write and know not why

The script unfolds of its own accord,

In wine, and in fine-print,I can’t deny,

The truth there-in!

Whodunnit? Mayoral elections 2011

So one guy Baba says his former colleague Pierre,is gonna cheat… Agreeing with Looks,the enemy! Then Pierre’s side kick is caught with thirteen boxes of loot, close to home turf..
Now everyone’s point in at Pierre, but what keeps Baba or Looks from bagging the Loot, paying off the side kick and call in the cops on him?? Just sayin!,, and again, WHODUNNIT??

who cares 1.0

this green backed american currency that i b arely see or touch is causin me so much grief i could shoot someone!!!

so eons after we laughed at bazungu and bubbles and AON..Thanks to al jazeera-it finally comes to Africa…

was beginnin to believe that only occured with good things and technology..HIV and Ebola going against the gradient but clearly there’s always an exception to the rule..so why would the dollar affect my barber’s prices, the charcoal woman and the Obama chapati?(that i can understand seein the only thing American bein the name)

why would sugar, soap and fuel suddenly rise way before Col Qaddafi blows his wells or closes his taps?

so we are goin to ration at my house..new rules!! whoever can not live by em should leave by em… abide or die!

Doodo for sauce..uneaten ugali we shall refry..no music, no visitors no sharing, no milk, no sugar, no salt….

 

so here i am eating rice and tomatoes(tomato sauce too expensive)…

if i do not pick your calls it isnt you..tis everyone

maybe i should let my debtors miss my creditors…besotinge!!

but this dollar! dollar bill!1 eeh???? 

Critical thinkin

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little and yet enjoy a position over those who offer their work and their selves to our judgement. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the defence and discovery of the new. The world is often unkind to new talents, new creations. The new needs friends.
-Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere-

The words of Anton Ego, food critic, in Pixar’s Ratatouille; a computer animated film about a rat that can cook!
Voiced by Peter O’Toole in the film, Ego’s enlightenment should speak for itself, and to many a critic to be more gracious in their judgement of others. For sometimes it is all their is to break or make an artist, a life… Now go watch it yourself! And be kind!

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