Monday, December 8, 2008

Too far from home

Ironic isn't it?! Why you ask? Here's why, I'm smack dab right back to where most of it began but I couldn't be further if I was catapulted flailing and screaming to the planet formerly known as pluto (Or rather the pluto formerly known as planet!)

I took a walk today. A walk down a dusty road that I have walked down more times than I can remember. A dusty village road that practically raised me.

Past the brook that I fished for tadpoles in - It has dried up
Past the kiosk where I used to buy koo and patco - All it sells now are shrivelled sukumas and tomatoes
Past the church whose name was too long to fit on it's mabati structure - It's now a school
Past the kinyozi which my brother went to religiously every sunday morning - It's now a butchery
Past the butchery where I got delicious mutura every evening on my way home - It is now a photo studio
Past my best friends house where many memories abound - She is halfway across the world
Past me an old lover drove - He didnt recognise me, and I didn't even bother to wave

How can a path so familiar be fraught with so much unfamiliarity?!!

Soundtrack:
Too far from home - Eric Wainaina
Unwritten - Natasha Beddingfield
Step by Step - Urban Knights

Bookshelve:
Ake - Wole soyinka (An autobiography)

Saturday, December 6, 2008

Yipeeeeeeeeee!

It feels abso-effin-lutely beautiful to be back home! I don't give a shit what anyone says but the feeling you get when you get back to kenya no matter how long you've been away is the best feeling there is! If I could swear, I'd swear that for a few moments as the wheels of the plane kissed the landing strip I heard Eric Wainaina belting out the last line of Kenya Only "...Daima mi ni mkenya, mwananchi mzalendooooooooooooooooo..."

It's a wee bit weird though, Kenya hasn't changed much but I've changed a whole lot. I wonder how that will work out..... hmmmm. Off to tea-spot to ruminate on that. Any random lots are welcome.

XoXo

Soundtrack:
Suluwe - Chizi
Village girl - Valerie Kimani

Sunday, November 30, 2008

2 weeks notice

I have never realised how long two weeks really is. 2 weeks, 14 days, 336 hours, 20160 minutes, 1209600 seconds. A really long time. Long enough for a whole lot of shit to happen.

Let me start from the beginning which happens to be halfway through the story at the end of an already begun but beginning to end story. Are you with me? Good, hang on to your jockstraps and g-strings because this a long story from beginning to end.

Cast of characters

Loco: Me
T-Baby: My sistergurl from another not my mother! Beautiful, intelligent woman. The epitome of thee African Gurl. She is the one of the most responsible people I know, and has that aura of quiet maturity that we women all want to have.
S-Luv: My other sistergul from another not my mother. Intelligent, self-controlled, calm collected and angel faced. (But don't let the cute face fool you, we all know she's crazy as hell.... shhhhhh, that's a secret, hehe!)
Dipshit: T-baby's now ex. The name says it all.
Scarface: Irrelevant vulture skunk scavenger who just happened to fall into the story.

Wednesday 19th November:
S-Luv and I go to T-baby's place to chill for a while. Relax, and just collectively insanify. We notice T-baby is tense and stressed. Sometimes I try to picture the expression on Atlas' face as he shoulders the weight of the world, today I see the very same expression etched on T-baby's face. We ask her what's on her mind. It's a long story she says, she'll tell us over lattes and chocolate indulgence on Friday night. We reassure her that we've got her back no matter what. You see, the three of us are gurlfriends. The rare kind of friendship which very few people get to experience in a lifetime. Three gurls from completely different parts of the world with a connection that binds us. But anyway, I digress (readjusting tangent here)

Around 4am in the morning, after we've each gone our different ways, I'm in bed watching sex and the city season 6 for the umpteenth time and I hear a knock on my bedroom door. *Mumbling and grumbling, can't y'all let a sista be?!!* I go open the door and T-baby is standing there, "I need to watch a movie". There are times when whats not being said echos much louder than what rolls off the tongue. The pain on T-baby's face.....

We get in and sex and the city is immediately pushed aside. "What's wrong T-baby, you know you can tell me anything" T-baby starts talking and releases a world of pain. I hold her as she tells me about how fucked up her past relationships have been. I wipe away the tears of a woman who has seen more than her fair share of messed up men from an early age, and who reacted the only way she knew how. I won't go into details. She had left it all behind to come here and heal.

So anyway, she had finally told Dipshit everything that had happened in her past. Instead of being a relatively supportive boyfriend (at that time) dipshit reacted by graphically explaining how disgusted by her he was.

The thing is T-baby has taken a whole lot of shit for and from Dipshit. His past was gorier and uglier than hers, and his past wasn't exactly the past but was presenting itself in the present. T-baby had taken it all in stride and supported him. When the tables were turned and she need just a wee bit of understanding and support from him.......

Dipshit, in line with his Dipshitness has an agression issue. Agression is normal, many non-dipshits deal with it. However the thing that dipshityfies Dipshit is that he choses to take out said agression on T-baby. I don't give a (flying fuck, rats ass, horse's dick, crying crap... Choose one ) what anyone thinks, in my books, any man who dares to raise a finger to a woman does not deserve to be called a man. When T-baby tells me that TWICE, dipshit has done exactly that, I got livid! Fury I had like hell hath no!!!! But I kept my shit together for T-baby's sake.

T-baby poured her soul out until she was drained. I tucked her in. She was leaving for home in 2 weeks. It would be best if she stayed with me till then.

Thursday 20th November:
We get her stuff from her house, an attempt at a discussion with Dipshit becomes potentially explosive. We walk away from it all. That's not what she needs, she has to centre, and calm the fuck down. We grab some chicken and fajitas (comfort food) and I radio head-quaters for reinforcements. S-Luv comes over to my place. Soon enough the three of us are stuffed, chatting and laughing. S-luv takes over as resident agony aunt. Now S-luv has been through her fair share of bullshit (a story for another day) So she empathises.

We talked it over with T-baby, she wanted to give Dipshit a chance to explain. We have already said all we have to say all that is left is to support whatever decision she makes.

Friday 21st November:
After Kofi Annan like mediation, T-Baby goes back to her house. They decide they'll go home, talk it over with their parents then make the final decision after that.

Monday 24th November:
T-Baby has the sneaky suspicion that dipshit is sleeping with Scarface. female intuition. But she has no evidence and he denies it. She lets it slide. But we all know that female intuition is usually on point like two dots on a line! And in this case, she was righter than rain if ever rain was right!

Wenesday 26th November:
*Nokia tune, its T-baby on the celly*
Loco: Aybaybay, how you doin!
T-baby: Where are you
Loco: I'm still trying to finish up with this work so that I can take it to the printers. We're still on for 6.00pm right?
T-baby: Urm, something has come up, can you meet me now?
Loco: (Looking over at bosslady who is breathing fire because we're pushing a deadline) Where are you?
T-baby: Cyberjaya police station.
Loco: WTF?!! Errr, okay, gimme half an hour I'll be there!

I got there to find her sporting a black-eye so horrific it looked like it had a life of it's own. He had punched the beejezuz out of her. T-baby had finally drew the line. She did not shed a single tear. She had calmly gotten a cab and gone the police report to file a report.

I can't even begin to explain how this has affected all of us personally on so many levels. No woman should have to put up with any shit like this from any man. I respect T-baby's strength, her self-control. I'd like to say that if it was me I'd have killed that piece of shyt dipshit. But after I saw what T-baby went through.....
She still smiles through the pain. " So I finally went and got myself a black eye! Hehe!" Thats what she says.

Soundtrack:
Beautiful flower - India Arie
Shine - India Arie

Bookshelf:
Is that the new moon? (an anthology of female poets) - Wendy cope


Sunday, November 16, 2008

Pissed on and pissed off!!

Where the hell does a grown ass_____ (idiot, retard, halfwit, moron, imbecile, cretin, fogothari, kumbaff) - pick one- caveman get off pissing out of a 7th floor window at 3am onto an unsuspecting Loco 2 floors below????!!

Yes Ladies and gents, some (for lack of a better word) idiot, decided that because he can pee standing up he might as well do it out of a window. I was sitted two floors below, in my friends house, innocently working, windows open so that we could enjoy the breeze. I will not bother to explain the laws of gravity, tangent and whatnot.

End result, an absolutely livid Loco and Loco's friend, baying for blood! (Too bad we weren't able to find out who the piss-ant *pun intended* was) lots of disinfectant, rose water, mr clean for windows, dettol and so-forth was used, an epiphany was induced.

To be continued.....

Soundtrack:
I hate you so much right now - Kelis

Wednesday, November 12, 2008

...and then I exhale

For the past three or so weeks I’ve been suffering really bad insomnia. Really bad. I can’t get any sleep till around 7 or 8 in the morning when the sun is already up, and I am awake by around 10am. It’s not the good insomnia where you get to stay awake finishing up the work you have. By 4am or 5am I’m usually so tired I could go crazy (or crazier depending on how you look at it!) After trying every relaxation technique I could think about (camomile tea, hot showers, warm milk, exercise...) I finally gave up and decided that my issues must be psychological.

Last night, in sheer frustration about my lack of sleep I found myself out walking at 4.00am, listening to Norman Brown and reflecting. Four acquaintances of mine have died in the past two weeks, one was a good friend. Two of my acquaintances are in hospital, one is a good friend.

I’ll start with Saqib. Saqib was a wild card. The kind of guy you could always depend on to do the randomest things. The kind of guy who would give me the tequila shot that tipped me from the edge of tipsy to shit drunk. There was never a dull moment when you were with him. He was the life of the group, any group. Last week Wednesday when I was out celebrating Obama’s victory with my friends, I got a text. Saqib had been in a car accident, him and Muneer (who was on the passenger seat) had died on the spot. The life of the group no more, but the memories they left behind are of good times, of lives well lived, footprints left. Memories I and others will cherish, and lives that will be fondly remembered. R.I.P.

Zain was in the car with Saqib. He broke two ribs, punctured a lung, broke a finger, cut his head and was immediately rushed into the operating room. He is stable and recovering. He still has no idea that Saqib and Muneer are dead. No one has the heart to tell him as he recovers from his injuries.

Life is fickle. Way too fickle for me. I should be grateful for the insomnia, that I get extra 2 or 3 hours to savour living.

After I came back from the walk I fell asleep immediately, for 8 hours. Insomnia cured. But then again, it’s some minutes past 5am now, I’m still awake and I see no signs of me falling asleep anytime soon.

Soundtrack:
Dark days - Fat Freddy drops
I believe in love - Aaron 'Krucial' Rimbua
Breathe - telepopmusik

Sunday, November 9, 2008

Coitus (non)interruptus

Inspired by Savvy and A son of his mother, I have decided not to be left behind by the erotica bandwagon, so I jump on by throwing in this piece of eroticaesque lame poetry. I don’t know which is worse the poetry or the content. Here’s to hoping that some myopic, holier-than-thou human will attempt to chastise this entry. I won’t even put a disclaimer; Loco is spoiling for a fight.

Spicy
Like freshly ground pepper
Heat blazing
Thawing, melting
Icy heart to river
Wet, soaked
Flames Licking
Cataclysmic
Frantic tugging
Stretching, filling
Tension
Like a tightly drawn string
Approaching nirvana
Floodgates open
Screams
Explosive
Like Hiroshima gone ballistic
All inside
Tremors
6.2 Richter scale
Twitch
Sigh
Cigarette lit

Soundtrack:
Fever - Ray Charles ft Natalie cole

Monday, November 3, 2008

Dear Music,

Dear music,

Am pissed off! I know you like India Arie, but you could always be in my head too, there’s lots of space here. Seriously, there’s a huge comfy vacuum you could occupy, I’ve been in told it has something to do with the brain or shortage thereof!

Cry and smile and dance with me, like you did with Judith Sephuma. Help me ascend, just like Maxwell did. Am searching for ndawo yami, the place you took Zamajobe, because these glitches that afflicted the Roots seem to be contagious.

Or if that’s too much to ask, could you at least show me where to get some sexual healing, it seemed to do Marvin Gaye a lot of good. You see, I am looking for my lover man, just like Billie Holiday. And if I find him, maybe he could help me count the steps to heaven, I’m not sure they’re seven as Miles Davis insinuates.

Now am flashbacking like Fat Freddy Drops. Ohh, the joys of back in the day. Hehe, Erykah Badu wasn’t the only one who used to hope that the dogs wouldn’t bark when she got home. Yes, things back then were laid back, Najee style, it was pure Norman Brownesque west cost coolin! It felt almost like being in love. I wonder if that’s how Nat King Cole felt. I’m sure that even Raul Midon would confess that that was truly a beautiful state of mind.

But those days are gone. I won’t wallow in the memories of yesterday like Frank Sinatra, even though it’s tough these days, not just for Ayo, but for me too. I won’t look back, I have to move forward, mambo ni Twende. Urm, Eric Wainaina, could you please give me the map you used? You know I like the way you move.... foward... reminiscent of earth, wind and fire.

Anyway, music my love, I have to get going now. I feel floetic headache coming on, and I can hear Urban Knights’ South African jam beckoning me. I just wanted you to know that Dwele isn’t the only one who gets a kick out of you. I do too, despite the fact that I’m a village girl, Valerie Kimani’s neighbour.

Don’t be a stranger, feel free to Jaguar Wright me a dear john anytime. Next time you come to visit, we’ll take a long walk around the park after dark, yes, me, you (music) and the night, Chet Baker will be jealous. I might even invite Jill Scott to come along, and we can imitate George Benson and Al Jarreau’s Breezin’.

Yours with more respect than Aretha Franklin,
Twenty Something Year old (Just like Jamie Cullum),
Child of the earth (I think am related to Hugh Masakhela in some way)
Dee.

PS: Do send my love to your cousin Theatre, tell him that I shall write to him soon.

Thursday, October 30, 2008

The rudiments of writing

I don’t claim to be a writer. Neither do I claim not to be one. However, I do know that there are two basic things that can greatly boost one’s authorship.

1: Language
It matters not what language you write in, mastery of language leads to great writing. Mastery in this case does not necessarily mean being able to cross all t’s and dot all i’s, conjugate and convolute verbs and nouns, or even to spew unheard of vocabulary. It simply means being able to ply language in a fashion that will captivate the reader to want to read that extra word.

2: Logic/ Flow/ Sense
Sorry folks, I am unable to comment on this. Being of the ‘intruded’ sex, I am genetically pre-disposed to lack the basic tenets of the above-mentioned. More oft than not, sense not only escapes me in its entirety, but does so sticking it’s tongue out and singing the old ‘not-so-negro-spritual’ “Shumakia, ka-nyama ka guku...."

I you don’t believe me, please feel free to start an argument with me and see where it leads.

Soundtrack:
Back in the day - Erykah Badu

Monday, October 27, 2008

My new Soccer policy and other mishmash

I have decided that from now on I am going to root for the underdog in all soccer matches.... urm.... Go Wigan!!



I am seriously craving supa-snack (You remember that delicious ornage chocolate we had when we were growin up? Yes that one!) Anybody who gives me relevant information about where to get some will be generously rewarded! (I'll give you half my supa-snack bar)



Today being laundry day, I was forced to wear a pair of camouflage pants I found in the back of my closet, needless to say, I feel ridiculous and look outrageous



I have a sneaky suspicion someone switched my coffee to decaf, could the perpetrator of this heinous act come foward and confess!! I promise, if you come foward you shall be dealt with with leniency!



I know everyone is complaining about gas prices but I on the other hand am being proactive. I'm looking for my broom. (I hear they have really good gas mileage!) I'll jump-start that broom till it flies!!



Lastly, I really miss a certain someone..... Seriously K, this juju!!



Soundtrack:

Kiss from a rose - Seal



Teeheehee:

Yani this had me ROTFLMAO (Internet speak for saying it jolly well had me tickled!)



Sunday, October 26, 2008

Incase you doubted who I am, mimi ni mkenya!

Another really looong post….. :-p

I grew up as a ghetto Barbie if any such term exists (Of course if anyone insinuates that am a Barbie I would vehemently brush off that accusation with my perfectly manicured nails and insist that I am a G!!) As such I had an extremely twisted childhood. This was the case scenario. I lived in the hood in a village somewhere all dust and rivers, however, my very educated parents insisted on queens English, perfect diction and exemplary vocabulary, which in the hood translated into a ‘wengist with confusing speech. Furthermore, my mother, being the proper lady she is, taught me to culture pride and dignity whenever I dealt with the male species, which in the hood translated into me being a snob with an attitude problem.

On the other hand, I went to what one could call an uptown school, and here too there was a wee bit of a problem. You see most of the girls who went to the schools which I attented could be classified as rich spoilt brats, but I hailed from an average income family, you could call it middle class, so I didn’t quite fit into the typical elitist group.

So as clearly outlined above there was a conflict of interest. I was stuck between two worlds and couldn’t quite fit in either. But I got through it and grew up, albeit must admit I gravitated kidogo towards the Barbie side of life. My heart however is still in the village and as I look back am greatful for the village experiences which made me who I am today. Those are the experiences that truly formed my Kenyan childhood.

I can honestly and unabashedly say that I am truly Kenyan because I; drank maziwa ya nyayo, fished for tadis in a mtaro, went for dufo mpararo, played games which had all sorts of weird names like kati, bano and kalongo, climbed trees and chased monkeys, ate raw bananas even when my mum told me not too, then suffered a horrible running stomach for two days straight, attempted to smoke papers, raced with cars made out of wires, grew up having my backside whooped thoroughly every time I did something wrong and even when I didn’t in anticipation of me doing something wrong, sang all sorts of weird catchy jingles like “shumakia” and “John kibogoyo” which I cant quite remember nowadays, went to school in bata shoes and at some point in my life wore bata bullets and sandaks, played “brikicho” half my childhood and still have no idea how to spell or pronounce that word, never address anyone older than me by their names but as mama so and so or, baba so and so, auntie or uncle, always use two personal pronouns consecutively e.g. “Me I” or “Us we” or “Them they”, remember VoK when transmission started and 4.00pm and ended at midnight, used to always rushed home after school to watch cartoons like Danger mouse, smurfs, gargoyles, gummy bears, care bears and captain planet.

To cap it all (drum roll please)…… festivities!!! I remember how festivities always came and went with a bang, the biggest shebang of them all being Christmas. LOL!! Christmas!! I get all nostalgic thinking about how Christmas used to be. To begin with all the Nairobians would troop to shags baggage and all to celebrate the occasion with the rest of the family. Yes, Christmas in Kenya has always been a family affair. On the day itself, every Tom Dick and Harry would pull out their Sunday best for the occasion, chapo would be cooked like there was no tomorrow and the chicken! Wololo! There was not a single chicken which slept at ease on 24th because they all sensed the impending doom. All the kids would have the time of their lives chasing the chicken willy-nilly across the compound on Christmas morning until two or three really nice and fat ones had been caught and those would be stewed to perfection to accompany the chapo, pilau, mukimo and whatever else had been cooked. And who can forget the nyama-choma?!! Those delicious roasted ribs and that mutura which you know you can only find in Kenya and nowhere else.

I could go on and on but I guess it will suffice to say that no matter where I go or how westernized my lifestyle becomes these will always be the experiences that I cherish. And am sure most Kenyans reading this are smiling and nodding, their experiences might not be a carbon copy of mine but at some base level they are similar.

COSMOPOLITAN WOMEN, SEX ON THE BEACH, MEN AND BLOWJOBS!

Ahem, attention ladies and gentlemen, could those of you with straying minds please report to aisle number one for a dose of ‘get your mind out of the gutter!!’ Sex talk shall come later when I am having coffee and cake at secret recipe with my gurls :-p As far as the title goes I refer to the colourful names given to alcoholic cocktails.

We often joke about these names but it was only sometime back I realised what a powerful marketing tool they are. A friend of mine (I shall give him the cliché pseudonym X) and I were discussing cocktails and he was regaling me with the tale of his first encounter with the ‘blowjob’.
Said friend X and his friends had gone out for their normal Friday night ka-round of drinks, soccer conversation and whatever else men do on their Friday night kamkunjis. Now as it just so happened, that night the bar they went to was having a promotion of the cocktail ‘blowjob’ which X had never heard of before. So you can imagine how pleasantly surprised X was when a curvaceous promotion lady wearing a tightly fitting boob tube and a barely there skirt approached him and offered a blowjob.

According to X the conversation went something like this;

Lady: Would you be interested in a blowjob?
X: (Incredulous look on his face) A what??!!
Lady: A blowjob sir, would you like to get a blowjob?
X: (Marvelling at how pleasantly open-minded women at this establishment were) Urm, sure. Why the hell not....
Lady: Okaaay, that will be 5rand sir, how many would you like?
X: (Gleefully analysing the contents of his wallet) I’ll give you 20rand if you make them good!
Lady: Don’t worry sir, only the best!

Of course X (and urm... X junior) was thoroughly disappointed when he parted with his 20rand and was left with 4 glasses of layered coffee liquor instead of....

But the thing is, the name went a long way in promoting the drink. It goes without saying, that men would naturally not turn down blowjobs or slippery nipples be they sexual or otherwise, and women live vicariously through drinking sex on the beach instead of... err... having it!

The names of these cocktails represent a lifestyle we secretly want to live, and for the most part don’t. No matter how disappointing the contents, we will drink a cocktail because of its fancy name. Women wanting to come off as sophisticated and worldly will gulp down cosmos because it makes them feel like part of the cast of sex and the city. Tourists will generously imbibe bahama mamas, mojitos and tropical teasers because these represent the exotic quality they seek.

As for me..... Hehe! Next time you see me in the club you’ll know my poison!!

Of politrickal matters

Disclaimer: This is a reeeeeeeally long post.... Bite me!

Recent encounters and happenstances in my life have led me to see that my utter abhorrence for Kenyan politics is no excuse for my ignorance about said issue. And so, in a quest to remedy this situation (the ignorance, not the repugnance) I have plodded many an e-mile to acquire knowledge on the subject of Kenyan politics.

Mad props to the likes of M and Ory of mzalendo.com, Mars group at marsgroupkenya.org, and other such e-doors that I knocked upon (or barged through) that provided insightful, must-know, information that I believe every Kenyan should have access to. And also to the various bloggers, be they serious, satirical, witty or downright hilarious, who also played a role in helping me understand the ins and outs of Kenyan politics.

Thus far (regardless of how pitifully little I know, and how much more I am still learning, and am yet to learn) I am certain of one or two things.....

Number 1:

Dear Mr/ Mrs/ Ms Politrick... pollituc.... politician,

I no longer just hold you in fine disdain; I now do so with justification and reasoning behind my sentiments. And in case of any uncertainty as to what said sentiments are please let me clarify by assuring you that they vary from antipathy to ‘nauseation ‘(yes I had to coin up a word specifically for you, don’t you just feel special now?)

You have been accorded the enormous task of championing the causes of the people, but thus far you consistently proved that your worth in this society can be equated with that of manure without a bio-gas plant. It seems that every time you open your mouth, it you should only be followed by you rapidly sticking your foot into it, otherwise we are forced to endure your inane and vacuous ramblings.

You have consistently proved that robbing public coffers to feed your already bloated belly is not just your forte, but also your life’s ambition. I cringe at the dawn of each new financial year, as the national budget is read and I find out that you have yet again come up with new ways of robbing the wananchi.

I am young, but despite of my naiveté I don’t see how year after year Kenyan roads are paved solely with intentions instead of tarmac, or how hospitals, that are supposed to be places of healing, continue to languish in deplorable conditions, or how, the economy is supposedly rising and yet this is not felt by the 70 something children in a dilapidated class five classroom being taught by an overworked teacher.

Mr politrick.... (urm, refer to salutation as above) I had hoped you would have been redeemed in my eyes as I gained more insight into your world, but sadly, your already low standing continues to sink into the depths of oblivion.

Number 2:

Dear Mr/ Mrs/ Ms Mwananchi,

How long? How long will we continue to flit and skirt in the periphery of the issues that affect us? How long will we keep discussing these injustices in the comforts of homes and bars?

I reiterate, I am young, but even in my naiveté I believe ‘something’s gotta give’. We as a people have to accept our share of the blame. We keep saying how bad politicians are, but weren’t they once just another you or me? At one point I thought we should stop voting for the ilk we have in power now and start voting for better leaders, but where are these to be found? I’ll tell you where they are to be found. Sitting as aforementioned in homes, bars or other institutions discussing how Kenya needs to change but not willing to be a part of the change.

This cycle has to end! Kumekucha!! It is time for each and every one of us to start taking an active role in changing our country. We can’t keep waiting for the Martin Luthers or Mahatma Gandhis to lead us to the mountaintop. We need to start finding out exactly what the roots of our problem are and work towards mending our country. Speak out in whatever capacity you have. One person’s voice can be feeble and unheard, but who can ignore the voice of a whole country?

Soundtrack: Problems – Modenine Ft Chima ( A. S. I just had to use this one!)

Friday, October 24, 2008

Haiya... Kumbe I had a blog!! Whoddathunk??!!!

It’s been a year since I last blogged... YIKES!!! And to think I thought I could actually do this regularly!! Well, another testament to my lacklustre staying power, innit? Nyhuuuu... me no going to be apologetic!! Teeheehee!!

So much has happened between this year and the last that even in summary it could very well be an epic novel! It shall suffice to say, I have grown up a lot, physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually et al.

Now moving on to other matters of not-so-national-importance...... I have always wondered what it would have been like to live waaaaaay back when! In the days of the peeps we refer to as our ‘ancestors’, the days described in books like Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, or Rebecca Njau’s The Gourd Seed.

Imagine the simplicity of a life without fast-food, endless traffic jams, music by the likes of 50cent (Yenyewe I really do not like this guy!) mobile communication devices, electricity, twin-towers or the planes that crash into them, ak-47s, factories, nike footwear, trash television (Seriously, E- Entertainment?!?!!)..........

I am a firm believer in the saying “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it!” yes, development and what we have now is good, but isn’t ignorance akin to bliss? Call me unappreciative of the wonders of modern society, but given a choice I would gladly go back to those days. I’d be there in a jiffy in all my topless glory fetching water from the river, dancing under the moonlight at bonfires, collecting straw to thatch my ka-hut and proving the worth of the beads around my waist.

And yes, I know that even then it was not the perfect life, but in my personal opinion, better the lion you know than the bullet you don’t!!

Soundtrack:
Ndawo Yami - Zamajobe Sithole