APPEAL FOR ACTION

Fellow bloggers:

Strong to Serve ?

I consider this post a logical and necessary progression from my previous one. I have been a KBW member for slightly less than a year. It behooves me to admit that my interaction with your posts has been nothing but entertaining and thought-provoking. Blogging has become an integral part of my routine, to the extent that I sometimes curse out loud when some of you guys take extended vacations from blogging ...

I also believe that it is possible to get a general feel for someone's personality based on their writing. My honest opinion is that the vast majority of you guys are refreshingly civil, and care about our coutry, despite all our shidaz.

In light of this, I feel obliged to appeal to these amazing qualities for what I believe, will be a worthy and fulfilling cause:


I am proposing that we bring a smile to some of our less fortunate Kenyans this Christmas. I am convinced that we can do something special. It's not the grandiosity of our collective effort that is important - it is the spirit and genuine heart that will prove most fulfilling.


I am kindly proposing a plan of action:


a) Ideas for a cause that we can raise money for - I was thinking about a project that deals with kids, maybe orphans of HIV/AIDS ...

b)A voluntary commitment for a monetary sacrifice

c) For those of us who will be in Kenya in December and available, in the same way we'll meet for nyam chom, may be we could set aside an afternoon and go spend some quality time with some of these kids??



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The POA is rudimentary and will be improved upon by those of you who will commit to do something. I want to establish who's in on the POA and will liaise with the said individuals kando. I would like to believe am not alone on this ...
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I would love to work with interested folks on this. I think the December timeline is feasible and gives us ample time to work with ...

I want to hear from you at the following e-mail address:

joshmwangi@gmail.com

My idea is to create a unified communicating mailing list from where ideas will be collectively exchanged. I am hopeful that we can overcome the inevitable issues of trust and anonymity that are likely to spring u from this. I will gladly work directly with individuals who harbour such concerns.


Thank you for taking the time to read this and look forward to working with you.

ps: I do not need haters on this one. If you are not feeling me on this, tafadhali reserve your comments for my next post ... we need only positive energy for this ...

Conscience: A Clarion Call ...

Our dear Heavenly father …
Thank you for this new day
Thank you for the food that is before us
We pray that you provide for those that were not as fortunate …
Please protect us through out this day
In Jesus name
AMEN.

(Everyone settles down, some for prime rib, others chapatti with nyaki, others ugali-sukumawiki, or plain githeri)

Meanwhile …

KIBERA SLUMS …

Grandmother sits on her stool, casting a forlorn look … surrounded by twelve kids … in a one-roomed mud house. Her back is broken. She has no more tears left. She wants to curse God, she wants to curse the world … and die … and leave this hell of a life … heck … hell might be better for her she thinks…

But she can’t go. Not just yet. The kids need her. Their parents are long dead. Victims of HIV/AIDS. She curses out the kids’ fathers – her own sons. She knows it was them. She knows they brought the disease to her daughters-in-law … she knows they brought her present misery. She curses them … then stops … then starts blaming herself … did I not raise them right? She begs God to forgive her … but her prayer is interrupted by the squabbling kids … they need food … God can wait … she decides …

Meanwhile …

A well fed group of young adults is arguing. A healthy, intellectual argument … in fact a wee bit too healthy. “Fix me another screwdriver” … “Hook me up with another Amstelizi” … The night whiles away … great laughs … flirting, hook-ups … erections and ejaculations … pure pleasure. “Oooh man, last night was GREAAT …” A morning glory materializes …


Back in the slums …

Drunken men. Poor men. Staggering past fly infested children. Stepping on shit. They can’t go home. They have no money. No food for their wives and children. So they also fuck Hos. They fuck and fuck. They fuck raw. They fuck here today, there tomorrow …raw… Then they take the virus home … to their wives … and orphan their kids in the process … fucking muthafuckas … poor grandma … who cares for her? Who?


Another news conference …

Fucking Kimunya with his statistics. ECONOMY UP BY 5.8%. Per capita higher than ever before. Inequality down. Kibaki is working. Raila has a Hummer. And grandma still toils. Fucking muthafuckas. Nobody is working – not Kibaki, not Raila, not you, not me. Fuck us all. Until grandma finds solace …until she finds peace …

.....

Another Healthy, HAIRY debate. This time, a self-conscious chick. She wants an afro. She wants kinky and nappy hair.”Fuck the white man,” she says. I will be free. The white man brought oppression. I will rebel. I will be free. Then she sips a top shelf vodka-martini … and grandma still toils … still suffers … FUCK THAT. Fuck the independence movement … until grandma finds peace … until she finds solace.


And Mwangi keeps yapping. Can’t he shut his fucking mouth? Does he want to save the world? Ha! Ha! Ha! What a dumb ass he is!! We’ve seen many like him before. They come today, tomorrow they are gone.

Fuck that!! I will speak my mind. Insulate yourself if you want. Lock yourself in your fancy house, count your money, smile, sip champagne. Let life go on. But if you read this, if you make the mistake of reading this, you fucka, know this: YOU are fucking guilty. We all are. If God is just, the fire of hell awaits us. Fuck a good heart. It is not enough. Fuck sympathy. We need empathy. We need grandma peaceful … she needs to rest forever with a smile … she has little time …

Fuck Hairy debates.

You want to gripe about the West? Let me give you something REAL to rebel about. Let me tell you how they really fucked Africa over … A concept. Fuck it:

DOMINION!


Fuck dominion. It is the scourge of mankind. We have lost our African way. With every generation, a small piece of our heart goes … our sense of commonality … our togetherness … our love for one another … our hospitality … gone with the fucking wind. Fuck us all …

Fuck dominion. Now it’s al about competition. Every man for himself, God for us all. Money today, money tomorrow, more money, more money … for what? For things! For materials. Better ones, better houses, better cars … materials, materials, fucking things …

Dominion. I will be richer than you fucka. I will be better than you. It permeates all facets of our existence. Brother competes with brother, neighbour against neighbour, nation against nation … to impose their fucking ideology … power, money, greed, narcissism.

And Grandma breathes her last … a cold, tearful, miserable last breath …

But who sees? Only her grandies. They cry. They are alone 4 real now. Who can they tell? Me? I don’t ever fcucking go there … You? We are out socializing … me and you. We ain’t got time for those little fuckas … screw ‘em. The media? Pleeease … they don’t give a crap, either. The gova? GDP, Budget, roads, fucking tourism … all bullshit. We have insulated ourselves against this little world. It touches our hearts when we occasionally see images … some of us cry … but we do not have balls to do much else. We can’t be encumbered by all that misery. So we go out, feast, drink, and next day we have forgotten …life goes on. FUCK US ALL.

Fuck the preachers. Fuck the farmers. Teachers, doctors, mboch’s . All of us. Guilty. All of us.

CONSCIENCE

Is what we have suppressed. Is what we need to regain. Pursue your success. Pursue your money. Be happy. Raise a family. But don’t ignore your conscience. Don’t ignore grandma. Don’t let her dying wish be in vain … “Does anyone care?” she pondered with her last breath …

Do you, fucka? Do you?



Our dear heavenly father
Thank you for this new day
Thank you for the food that is before us
We pray that you provide for those that were not as fortunate …
Please protect us through out this day
In Jesus name
AMEN.



Fuck bitterness.

Dreamweaver ...help !!

I had a very strange dream last night.
I won an award for $ 30,000
But:
To claim my check
I had to complete a Sudoku in 5 minutes
In front of a packed audience!!

Peeps, does this mean anything?

Should I start doing sudoku?
Or should I play the lottery?
Or what ... ?

Of African Women and Hairy Issues ...

Having priory declared my penchant for “vegetation-free” mamas, I guess one could be forgiven for thinking am about to revisit the issue. Pole. Get your mind off the gutters. I am talking about the other hair – the one I shave with no qualms …

I had an exchange with a Kenyan mama yesterday about this easy-to-shave hair. Her attitude was captured succinctly in the following paragraph:

“My hair - my curly, funky, half permed-half natural, short, thin and brown* hair is an extension of my personality, cultural background and most importantly my heritage. It dawns on me that the decisions I make on hairstyles are a reflection of my bondage and freedom even though more often than not it is beyond my control. “How can I remain captive when I have this knowledge? How can you remain captive when you have this knowledge? Is freedom coming tomorrow? I think not, it has been here with us all this while but we have chosen not to take it. Let us allow uhuru to prevail in our lives and let it show by how we chose to wear our hair!”


I think it is better to speak my mind than to boot-lick and wag my tail for mamas. I risk incurring the wrath of some feminists, “defenders-of-the-African hair”, et cetera. As long as we debate each other on the merits of the argument, I will embrace their caning …

My opinion is brutal, but is also honest:

Get over it!!

To politicize an issue as trivial as "that hair" is not only escapist, but also a tad hypocritical. If a mama wants to resist, to really resist the neo-colonial impulses, I hereby prescribe Mwangi’s modus operandi. Please note that it is not exhaustive by any means and is merely proposed as a guide, which the user should feel free to ameliorate...

1. Usinyoe kule kule – If you want to roll ancestral, there is no greater, demonstrable proof than a canopy downtown. You will have to look for a Dinka man though. Kenyan men have moved on … And please usiwai ingia Victoria Secret – unless you work there …
   
2. Kifua kavu – Subject them to gravitational force, whether they sag or are non-existent. That is how we rolled back then. The bar is set high on this resistance movement …
   
3. Sabuni + Lotion = Kwaheri : If these commodities exist in the house, it is because ur jamaa is sooo disgusted by your adherence to protocol # 1 above that he employs them after you leave the house …
   
4. Perfume: Tia zii mami. “Free your pheromones” is the new mantra. It might actually mitigate for the effects of protocol # 1 above …
   
5. Rudi Kenya!!
   
   
   
   CONCLUSION:
   

These are actually not trivial pointers. The message I am putting across is:

You cannot pick your poison. You cannot denigrate women who are conscious about their hair, who want to make it look “good” by whatever means – by accusing them of being encumbered in a “neo-colonial” mindset.

And Jesus said:

“Let he who has no sin cast the first stone …” [somewhere new testament]

Such castigation is, for a lack of better term, academic thuggery!! It is more sentimental than rational, and probably precipitated and catalyzed by Afro academic circles eager to ooze metaplasma on a polarizing topic. This inevitability of a clash of civilizations is upon us: on one hand, the political clash endows us with liberty - liberty to resist complete assimilation, liberty to embrace our nostalgia for a past long gone ... but alas, it is such an irony... on the other hand, a slow, tightening, inexorable wind of change that started when Shaka Zulu was presented a mirror by the mzungu [okay, I kid, I kid]. Its ultimate goal is convergence; it is unyielding, unaffected by prayers, unaffected by pockets of resistance and all-consuming - affecting all facets of our lives; political, monetary, cultural values, religious disposition, language, attitudes, et cetera ...

Maybe it is the destiny of mankind - to be one - and whereas resistance is admirable, I fear it might only be temporary and meaningless over generations to come. Look at how African languages are being lost. You say you want to resist, yet you can’t even speak your mother-tongue!! Yet your capitalism-induced thirst for materials is insatiable. You cannot pick your poison. If you choose to keep your hair unadulterated, please don’t use profound justifications – they don’t make sense. Liberty, my dears, with its attendant choice sets. It really is that simple …it is our greatest neo-colonial gift!!

I stand to be corrected

BYOM – BRING YOUR OWN MEAT!!

Last Sato, I was up early. It was a splendid spring day. But I was famished. A barbeque with some jungus was in the offing that afternoon and I spent the best part of the morning drooling, trying to divert my mind from the impending feast, but was occasionally distracted from my task by the incessant Ashanti drummers who were perched in my stomach. I was in for a kidogo shock …

One lesson to keep in mind when you barbeque with jungus: BYOM (Bring your own Meat). When Kenyans gather for a barbeque, there are two constants: pints and meat; real meat. The grill looks awesome, resplendent with prime rib, a hypnotizing aroma of barbeque sauce … a hungry pack of wananchi, patiently watching the grill, smelling the air, readying their tumbos with a fortifying therapy of their favourite brew. Not with jungus. I washed down the first hot dog with a cool brew to calm the minyoos, and then I settled down to wait for the meat. Lakini wapi?? The hot dogs kept coming, punctuated intermittently by cheeseburgers. Then more hot dogs, and more hot dogs. Wooi, BYOM ndugu zangu …

Another key lesson is: For the duration of the barbeque, you love dogs – seriously. I mean, Kenyans are well aware that mere mongrels do not merit the use of personal pronouns. The use of “he” and “she” is strictly reserved for people. In addition, for us Kenyans, dog fur/saliva do not really go well with meat … or hot dogs for that matter. Not with jungus. We were greeted by Leo and Toughy; the latter possessing a truly ironic name. “She” is partly a kiwete; the front right leg is inside-out. When she walks, “her” gait is akin to a model, I mean, assuming jungus hold mongrel pageants … you get the picture I hope … But Toughy makes up for “her” short-comings with the courage of a lion. “She” is a tiny, tiny dog. Pint sized, smaller than some cats I’ve seen. But she dared challenge a big dog, like the ones in Kenya. It was a spectacle that left Toughy bleeding from the ears and neck, and the owner red-faced. But seriously, fungia vijibwa!!

Finally, be prepared for “weird” questions; especially from old jungu mamas who seemingly have no historical or geographical perspective.


Is it hot in Kenya? (Translates to “Is that why you are so black”)
Do you live close to modern Kenya? (Translates to “Do people still live in the bushes”)
Do you live close to the Maasai? (Translates to “Do you still have “exotic” tribes”)
Do they still hunt? (Wtf! When were they last hunting?)

Luckily I have been around long enough to take such questions with a ka-grain of salt. I am more entertained than irritated by such displays of cultural ignorance. And no, it’s not my fault that they were not “about Africa” in school. As such, it is impossible for me to accept such an apologist mentality. But I’d gladly accommodate these niggling idiosyncrasies if only they wekad some REAL MEAT on that expensive grill.

A REAL REASON TO QUIT BEER ...

The Wrath of Grapes ...

Up until yesterday, I always thought that people “put on” alcohol a lot of blame, mostly undeservedly. Chief among them is the notion that beer “kills brain cells.” This has got to be the biggest pile of bull ever assembled. After all, if that were true, is it wholly unreasonable to expect that the brain cells that cajole us to drink beer would have been long dead?

Secondly, is the notion that drinking beer is a sin. In fact, my church back in Kenya so strictly adheres to this doctrine that we use strawberry juice in place of wine during communion. Am not so sure this goes down well in heaven but then again, it’s the faith that counts … Talking about counting, I had this weird fantasy that drinking beer might count as a sin on judgment day.

Given that:

a) Beer consumption predates the discovery of bread...
b) These days approximately 133 billion litres of beer are consumed annually …

I don’t think angels keep a log of individual consumption. So what if a proxy measurement will be used? Let’s say the size of one’s kitambi. I was thinking that Kenyan men will be doomed on this account but after watching an episode of The Sopranos last night, our spot in paradise is secure. Tony and Bobby are in for a roasting. I mean, those are humongous beer bellies …So once again, this is not a good enough reason to quit …

Thirdly, some chicks are very “demanding.” I have heard a lot of chicks say they’d rather not mess around with a guy who has a “pot.” They should be well advised that “All men have six-packs.” It’s just that some men are modest and choose to conceal theirs … But since I know how persistent chicks can be, forewarned is forearmed. There is song that they always play on radio that can’t leave my mind:

Gal I’ll really try to work it out
Am tired of panting...
I hope that you’ll want me
The way I want you
There’s no excuse
I got this nice-bulge where my six-pack used to be …
Am so old, am so old, sooo old …

So once again, this is a flimsy reason to quit …

BUT this last one has sent me scampering to formulate a withdrawal timeline. If I can have, in my retirement, an erection as monstrous as the hangover I just had this past Sunday, I am likely to die a happy man. The irony is that it might be necessary to abstain from this deliciously pleasurable product of Jesus’ first miracle if am to enjoy my 401-K. It has come to my attention that beer, in the long term can reduce one from a stud to a dud. The problem is, the cumulative effects take time, and can kick in just when you settle into that retirement mansion for a lifetime of loving and being loved. Now that, I cannot cope with. I dug up a lot of stuff online, and science seems to unfortunately, corroborate this position. BEWARE KENYAN MEN!!


I have long considered the process of beer drinking, with friends, to be the second most pleasurable activity after [YOU KNOW WHAT]. Soon though, this is going to be a thing of the past in light of this evidence. But first I have to clear the six-pack of Heineken in the fridge and the Southern Comfort before I can quit . Afterall, Kenyans DO NOT throw away alcohol as ACOLYTE so aptly puts it here.

Of KBW sexcapades ...

I enjoy trying to visualize how KBW bloggers look (only chicks), their ages, and what type of personality they may have based on their writing. I have a feeling it doesn’t work. But my generosity knows no limits. I think my brain maps a direct proportionality between blog content and “potential aesthetic appeal”. In short, I am trying to say that I am yet to visualize a KBW mama who is not sawa … but do I say???

It gets even more interesting. You see, my mind likes making mini-movies. When I visualize a sawa chick, I want it to end there. But my brain does not let me. Like wahenga walivyonena: “Kichwa hakina pazia” (?)

At this juncture, I am mightily embarrassed, yet obliged to announce that I have “gotten laid” by a LOT of mamas on KBW. I did a Dinka on all of them, and I even remember trimming coz a few of them would not reciprocate my Dinka sans a trim …

But that’s neither here nor there. I really wanted to tell you guys how one of these episodes almost got me beheaded on Friday evening…

You see, I did not sleep a wink on Thursday night. It’s not because am a minute man. Nay, on this material night, my brain was inexplicably polygamous. I hamad from nani’s blog to nani’s. … and I swear every single one of them patiad me, and I gleefully pokead …

The problem is: I had to go to work on Friday morning. And so it was that I spent the whole day at work dividing my shamba amongst all the “sons” that I had sired the night before …

The afore-mentioned task was so arduous I could not last my 8-hr shift. At exactly 3pm, I said sayonara to my boss and hit the road. I had to get home soonest possible and get my dose of sleep. Little did I know …

I was jolted from my reverie by a pissed young black lady on the bus, approximately 25 minutes later. Hell hath no fury like a miro woman aggrieved ...

Unfortunately, I’d blacked out and placed my arm around her. Gladly, my profound apology sufficed to assuage her fears. I was not making a pass at her and was glad I did not get a tongue rollicking ...

I blame the KBW mamas. It was all a dream.