tHiNkEr’S rOoM

Nakumatt are not kidding when they say "You need it? We got it".

Was taking the lovely wife shopping and was amazed to find this offered for sale on the shelves

Just what on earth are those?

According to google analytics, some of you are in the process of looking for some interesting things before you land here

Yikes!!

Kibaki: Bloody bure! So, Raila, we’re going to that place, yes, that one, not the other one. That one. No, not THAT one. That one. To plant those things. With the trunks.
Raila: Elephants?
Kibaki: Yes. No. What was the question again?
Wekesa: To the Mau. To plant trees
Kibaki: Yes, that one
Raila: For shizzle my nizzle
Kibaki: (Sotto voice) Psyche!!!
Raila: (Suspiciously) What was that?
Kibaki: Pink elephants are riding my bicycle.
Mwakwere: Is the Mau in coast?
Ruto: Is this meeting catered? I want some roasted maize
Raila: What’s this about Al Faisal?
Kajwang: Way ahead of you there. We intend to deport him. We can’t just teleport him
Mwakwere: I can help you there. Jamaica is no in coast (is it?) but I know the country code 1-876
Kimunya: Err … therefore
Kenneth: You probably want to deport him to Libya.
Mwakwere: With a country code you can teleport anywhere in the world using any network. I thought everyone knew that?
[Stunned silence]
Mwiria: Anyway, moving on!
Kiraitu: Yes. It will be like raping a woman who is already wirring. Pff. Pffft. Grekkjjjwe! hHHerewr7688! ^&*
Charity: (Shouting) This is clearly in disorder. I mean not in order!
Kalonzo: Stop talking before me! Can’t you see I’m handsome?
Wetangula: People please. Now, Mwakwere, you and your ferries are a cause for concern-
Mwakwere: (Shouting) What do you mean me and my fairies? What have you heard?
Raila: (Holding head) He means those big boats that go chuff chuff chuff in the water
Mwakwere: Oh
Kibaki: Order gentlemen. The Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria set off. Can we all be focused? Uranium 238.
Ongeri: If I may school my learned friends …
Kajwang: Has anyone noticed Ongeri has new shoes?
Ongeri: (Irritably) There is no connection between my new shoes and missing school funds!
Saitoti: Garment is firmly in control with the Al Faisal situation
Nyongo: Garment? Was a ministry of fabrics and attire created overnight? The word is government. GOVERNMENT
Saitoti: (Puzzled) But that’s what I said. Garment.
Nyong: Government
Saitoti: Garment
Nyongo: GOVERNMENT
Saitoti: Garment
Nyongo: Go-
Saitoti: Go-
Nyongo: ver-
Saitoti: ver-
Nyongo: ment
Saitoti: ment
Nyongo: Government
Saitoti: Garment
[Collective Groan]
Kalonzo: I hear Kijana Wamalwa’s brother wants to be President
Wetangula: (Standing) Yes. In fact so do I!
Kalonzo: (Modestly) But i am the most handsome here! And i even take care of my hair. Hilary Clinton wanted to copy my hairstyle but I said no.
Oburu: Treasury is getting tired of buying mirrors for the office of the vice president.
Kenneth: Some of us are diversifying our income by setting up a small business with green, green grass
Oburu: That is a lie. I never inhaled!
Mwakwere: Do people from coast inhale?
Michuki: I shall amend the law on pollution shortly to include you and Kalonzo!
[Esther Murigi walks in. A loud wolf whistle pierces the air]
Kalonzo: (Dashes to the nearest mike) I’mma let you finish but Kalonzo is one of the most handsome people of all time
Kibaki: Can we wrap this up? Wrestling is about to start on TV
Mwakwere: Are there TVs in coast?
Michuki: Some of you here are not taking the environment seriously. I’m informed reliably that Poghisio even has ducks in his swimming pool?
Pogishio: Is it a crime? I like ducks. They taste like chicken
Muthaura: On a point of order I would request all ministers to collect their lunch passes from the office on the mezzanine floor -
Ruto: Did someone say maize?
Kiunjuri: Let me remind Professor Ongeri we have not forgotten the plight of tishas …
Nyongo: Who?
Kiunjuri: Tishas
Kenneth: He means teachers I think
Kalonzo: (Singing) Got honey,
and you know it,
take it out of your pocket and eat it and eat it,
this way, and that way
Marende: Order! If a member is feeling sufficiently philanthropic to sing T-Pain tunelessly, let him notify the house
Kalonzo: But i’m handsome!
Haji: I’d like to challenge Saitoti to explain why Somalis are being harassed
Oburu: Why? Are you Somali?
Haji: (Indigantly) No! Of course not. Everyone knows I’m right handed
Wekesa: Has anyone seen my strawberr? I placed a call a few minutes ago and I can’t find it
Kenneth: You mean blackberry?
Wekesa: No. My phone is not one of those ripoffs. It’s a Strawberry. I bought it after the Samsing was stolen
Alfred Mutua: I … er … have some VCDs i’m selling in the car if anyone is interested?
Odinga: Brilliant. Do you have Lion King?
Alfred Mutua: Er … that’s not quite what i have. I was thinking more local content …
Kibaki: Professional View? News?
Alfred Mutua: Er … even more local … er … more like local … er … talent … ha ha … er … loal performers engaged in … er … performances
Mwakwere: (Quickly) Do you take MPesa?

PIC OF THE DAY

OLD GOLD

• Cabinet Tales I
• Cabinet Tales II
• Cabinet Tales III
• Cabinet Tales IV
• Cabinet Tales V

Due to some misunderstanding over instructions to do with apples, under the influence of a snake, man and woman have been consigned to a lifetime of toil. This has changed from hard days of ploughing through soil at the field to hard days of ploughing through the in tray.

Whichever Good Book you follow, be it The Bible, The Quran, The Talmud or The Hobbit, all of them have some reference to man being compelled to work hard if he expected to eat.

In this regard, a powerful ally exists in the form of the good lady whose official job position and KPIs have some references to her making tea for the consumption of the general office populace. In Nairobi, any tea lady worth her salt will diversify her portfolio and in no time will have a thriving business supplying captains of industry and go-getters with biscuits, ground nuts, samosas, bread, cake and other assorted snacks.

But despite her best efforts, after 11 o’clock the effect of her wares begins to wear out, and the working nation becomes listless and distracted, feeling an acute sense of something missing amidships. This hollow feeling intensifies and at 12:30 the weakest in the herd mumble something about stepping out for a quiet smoke or stretch of the legs and this begins the stampede for afternoon sustenance, better known as lunch.

When it comes to lunch, the primary deciding factor is the fiscal resources that can be commanded. Most of us are surprised and horrified that after what seems like ten minutes since the salary appeared at the bank, extra month has been tacked on to the salary.

As a matter of fact, as a general rule, by the middle of the second week proprietors of eating establishments with brick walls and running water nervously lick their lips in apprehension as lunch hour approaches.

After zealously reducing one’s salary to manageable levels (too much unfortunately) the eating establishment of choice is rather off the beaten path, literally and otherwise. Invariably this is a building constructed with corrugated iron sheets smelling powerfully of smoke. From inside come the happy shouts of comrades exchanging stories and grunts of effort from others with no time for anything but their meal. From outside carbon credits are consumed ferociously using roaring firewood and charcoal fires.

At the door there will be an ingenious arrangement consisting of a steel drum or barrel full of water suspended from a nail in the wall with a tap in the bottom. This novel arrangement serves as the plumbing for washing one’s hands.

The range of dishes lacks the variety to necessitate customer menus. The menu is therefore invariably written on a blackboard with the prices alongside. At a glance, the gourmet having effected an entry can adjust his tastes to his budget.

Among the choices are beef, chicken, liver and fish. The staple food, ugali, is the principal accompaniment. Generally, you can have your beef, chicken, liver or fish with anything, as long as it is ugali. I’m reminded of the time I asked a waitress for rice and she gave a gasp of surprise and retreated to consult with colleagues and ultimately with management.

Once you have reconciled the prices with the contents of your wallet, you shout your order to Maggie, the breathlessly enthusiastic waitress and take a free seat. You will find these places impossibly crowded, but there’s always a free seat somewhere. Generally, these establishments lack the office of the matire’d

Maggie will eventually appear with your meal, languidly arranging you vegetables with her bare hand as she approaches, hailing you with a happy shout. In a stroke of genius, to avoid the hassle of breakages, all the crockery and cutlery is stainless steel. She will deposit your meal on the table, sweep the leftovers from said table with bare hand onto a tray and move your plate in front of you, her thumb dipping into the stew in the process.

Those partial to fish will watch through the window as Omosh, the beefy man tasked with frying fish, goes about his work with gusto directly outside the establishment. Clad in vest, shorts and tyre sandals, the happy whistle of a man enjoying his work whooshing from his pursed lips, Omosh will twirl the fish slice like an orchestra conductor, sweat dripping off his face and arms and onto the soil and fish.

Omosh will then perform the task that he has been doing for eons and toss the ready fish through the window to be caught deftly by waiting waitresses on a steel plate. She will then grab a handful of vegetables from a large bowl, deftly deposit it next to the fish and then grab a dish of ugali and proceeded to a customer. Once in a while gravity may interfere with the system and a fish will come to earth. It’s best not to know where this fish ends up, but one is advised to keep both eyes open from order to delivery.

“Maggie”, I said to her one day. “There’s a fly in my soup”. Maggie laughed happily, clapped me heavily in the back leaving a large, oily and fishy hand print and departed, shaking her head and wagging her finger at me.

Needless to say the food is delicious. Gordon Ramsay and Jamie Oliver would have a rough time trying to appease us connoisseurs. You will lick your fingers, lick your lips and finally lick the bowl. Compliments to the chef are expressed by hailing Omosh loudly from his cooking station with thumbs up. Omosh will wipe his brow with the back of his hand and smile and as a bead of sweat drips from the tip of his nose into the sizzling oil, he will smile happily.

Doing a straw poll with some of my peers in the industry, I discovered to my surprise that most of them approach the task of recruitment and interviews with horror. One of my colleagues actually grabbed the top of his head and gnashed his teeth as the word ‘interviews’ slipped from my lips.

I can’t entirely say that I blame them. Interviews in this day and age are a highly traumatic exercise for both interviewer and interviewee, as well as support personnel such as receptionists. It takes strong men and women of iron will and dispensation to carry out the interview process quarter after quarter and come away unscathed.

All of us have gone through the interview process.

It all begins with the hallowed document called the Curriculum Vitae. Like flies to week old beef, every office invariably finds itself flooded with these documents. Most are unsolicited. Secretaries watch the approaching mail room personnel with trepidation when they see several A4 envelopes in their possession.

They start off innocently enough. There is usually a cover letter introducing the author of the CV, and alerting the organization that due to some unfortunate oversight, they have yet to identify their acute need for the skills of the individual whose qualifications are attached. The letter reassuringly proceeds to let the reader know that it is not too late and the unfortunate state of affairs will shortly be corrected if the attached CV was perused and the author interviewed and recruited.

At this point the CV is detached and read.

This too starts off innocently, giving the name, contact details and some elementary qualifications and abilities, such as ‘reading, riting and rithmetic’. Just to make sure no assumptions are made, candidates also volunteer surprising details like binocular vision and opposable thumbs.

Next to The Lord of the Rings Trilogy and the assorted works of Enid Blyton, the qualifications and skill section make the CV one of the greatest pieces of fiction ever written. I keep a selection in a drawer for slow days when I need a light entertainment read. People can, and without shame, do say anything on their CVs. Modesty and reality somehow are relegated to the back burner after typing the phrase ‘Curriculum Vitae’.

I am reminded of one in which the author unblushingly mentioned being present at our independence celebrations in 1964. This fact however was incompatible with his stated date of birth on the attached copy of his ID card. If it was to be believed, he must have attended the celebrations as a vague idea in his prospective father’s head.

Authors generally give their actual qualifications and abilities a friendly nudge to stand out better in the spotlight. I have lost count of the number of self processed database administrators who subsequently displayed a spectacular ignorance of databases upon further prodding, or those proud of their 70 words per minute subsequently inquiring where the letter ‘x’ was on the keyboard.
Some authors are not shy to invent technologies and techniques as they breathlessly prepare their CVs. I like to think of myself as keeping current in the industry, but more often than not a prospective candidate modestly professes advanced skill in techniques and technologies that vendors have yet to invent and produce, let alone market.

I recall with wonder telephoning one lady on the strength of her CV that informed me she was proficient in the use of Microsoft Windows 3000, an operating system I feel sure Microsoft themselves had not heard of. No, she assured me, there was no typing error. She has been using Windows 3000 for several years.

I have since learnt that whenever CVs are solicited in connection with a job opening, they are generally helpfully altered to make them more compatible with the requirements. I made this surprising revelation after I had advertised an opening on my team, and made a small typo in the advertisement. Out of the 14 or so CVs I received by lunch time, 5 of them had the same typo in the section for skills.

After the qualification and skills is a section where candidates articulate additional value that they will add to the organization.

The CV will invariably reassure the reader that the author is a team player, and works well under pressure. I have made a personal commitment to hire the candidate who states in black and white they are neither of the above.

Job applicants also have no doubt that they have good communication and interpersonal skills, and I am yet to come across any who feels otherwise.
And finally referees are put down. These are generally
• Principal of the last college they were in
• Lecturer at said college
• An uncle or aunt, preferably with a different surname from the applicant’s

After digesting this, there comes the process of short listing and interviewing, which we will discuss another day.

Sorry lads, I could not resist.

Liverpool’s disastrous run can perhaps be understood following the unveiling of their new kit…

Human beings in all their wisdom, eccentricities and brilliance are at the end of the day very strange beings that behave very strangely, both while alone as well as in the society of their fellows.

In the middle ages we had the age of chivalry – knights, armour and jousting. Not too long ago we had the age of duels – guns, swords and fighting. Today we have driving.

At first glance driving seems like a pretty straightforward exercise. Get in car, move car from A to B and get out of car. Foolishly lulled into a false sense of security, you enroll in driving school and are introduced to a concept known as the Highway Code. This is a set of guidelines, complete with signs that guide your activities on the road. You apply yourself to these with zest.

Driving the actual car is never much of a problem. Of course there is the initial bit of bother a few minutes into your first experience when you break so hard the instructor checks the consistency of the windscreen with his forehead, expressing his conviction that your parentage on the paternal side is unsure.

There is also the tricky business of the clutch, where 11 times out of 10; you stall the car without even trying. It eventually becomes a pleasant surprise to move the car more than a few metres without stalling it.

The examination is a mere formality, due to the fact that driving a car is a trivial exercise. But just to make sure, there is usually a memorandum of understanding between the examining authority and the driving school that results in impressive pass rates.

The real world, having waited politely outside, cap in hand, now comes barreling in with the subtlety of those bulls that run through streets in pain.

You learn very quickly that there is a time period smaller still than the micro second. This is defined as the Nairobit©, and it is the time interval between the light turning orange and the outraged driver behind you hooting. This is a very small time interval indeed.

You will also find that the Highway Code you were instructed with went out of production and out of application some 40 years ago. No one follows those rules. No one recalls those rules. There are signs and symbols on the road that have no corresponding entries in the Highway Code. On raising this topic last week I was asked earnestly if the Highway Code was some species of frog.

You will find that the driving schools have failed to keep up with innovations in road construction technology. How else can you explain a road like Moi Avenue that generally has three lanes and then suddenly only has two. Not a warning. Just before the Muindi Mbingu junction the three lanes suddenly become two. Words cannot express the range of emotions that go through one when a lane suddenly disappears and the three of you drivers have a Nairobit© (see above) to figure out how to allocate the remaining two.

You will find that traffic lights, God bless ‘em, are largely vestigial instruments. The traffic light on the Kenyan road is the equivalent of the tail bone on the human body. Drivers treat them largely as well meaning but buffoonish suggestions rather than the law. Although in their defence drivers are so used to seeing traffic police at junctions, consistently contradicting them, that if the police were removed drivers fail to see the lights at all. Anyone that does not understand Pavlov’s dog would do well to spend a few days with a driver here.

Another source of angst is fellow road users. The general rule of law is that you and you alone are a sane, talented and handsome driver, while everyone else is the spawn of Beelzebub, incapable of a single wise decision while at the wheel.

The horn, you will find, is an essential tool for a driver. There is an initial panic as you realize you have no clue how to make use of this instrument. But eventually you learn the ropes. A horn can perform the following functions

· Notify other drivers and road users to beware

· Hail your friend Jeff and ask after his weekend

· Congratulate Jimmy on the new baby

· Alert those fools up front you have no intention of using your brakes

· Tell Carol that new hairdo looks like a dead cat on her head

The horn can perform all those, and many other communication functions. It is in fact possible on a particularly slow traffic day to conduct entire conversations using that device. Wireless communications indeed.

Then there is the roundabout. Its chief purpose appears to be for one driver to waste the time and grey the hairs of three others, all the while testing the functionality of the horn.

Then there is of, course, other drivers. But that we can discuss another day

Nomenclature