tHiNkEr’S rOoM

I think sufficient time has passed without my touching the topic of politics, sufficient time that has allowed me to drop the ‘political satire’ lapel badge that I seemed to have acquired.

Sufficient time for me to get my hands dirty again in this murky matter.

Veni

Kenyans have had three presidents so far, and judging by popular opinion, these are quite enough for us. All three presidents have exhibited symptoms strikingly like those of a small boy that has found himself locked in a toy shop adjoining a sweet shop and away from the eye of authority. For the office of president of Kenya is vested with considerable powers, and all three occupants of the office have not been shy to try these out.

Unlike God, who promised not to lose his temper and get rid of anything and anyone after that business with Noah and the floods, the President has placed no such restrictions in his path and promises nothing. And when he does promise, he has the tendency to forget what he has just promised.

The president can, did, and does stop his convoy (replete with the latest and largest machines whose ancestry can be traced to Karl Benz), step out of his bulletproof, air conditioned limousine and proceed to issue decrees that send junior officials running as hard as they can to effect the decrees. For his word is the law.

As far as Kenyans are concerned, the term ‘humble president’ is bedfellows with other terms like ‘square circle’ and ‘public secret’. When I was a small boy music teachers had a challenging time explaining how patriotic songs frequently and repeatedly contained references to a living president.

Anxious for his people never to suffer the agony of not having his reassuring benevolent countenance nearby, each president wasted little time in putting said countenances on all the legal tender and directing that all business have a portrait of him hanging somewhere prominent within their premises.

Then, with the weary satisfaction of work well done, they rewarded themselves and the country at large with a public holiday, fittingly named after them.

Being a childhood friend of the president, a schoolmate of the president, hailing from the same village as the president, being of the same tribe as the president or being a golfing buddy of the president entitled you to plum positions in his administration. If you were in this category the only criterion to assuming your office was possession of a pulse. Ability to read and write is not essential.

Being related to the president was also a big bonus for those seeking public office. Even those relatives that were cousins so far removed as to be out of sight and on the other hemisphere managed to end up somewhere either articulating or implementing government policy.

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If the proverbial genie were to offer me five wishes right now my answer without hesitation would be the following:

1) To be associated with this logo

2) To wear this jersey

3) To be this man

Tana Umaga, captain of the All Blacks

4) To do the haka before quaking opposition at the IRB World Cup finals

5) World peace, yada yada yada

My love affair with rugby, curiously enough, came about purely by accident. Prior to Form 3 my love for the game was restricted to singing along to the impressive repertoire of unbelievably dirty rugby songs (of which my firm grasp has never waned). I know limericks and cheering songs that would turn the air blue.

Setting foot on the pitch itself, however, was another matter altogether.

Until the day during sports when a certain gentleman, clearly bent on terminating my lineage, prematurely tackled me. Or, to be more accurate, attempted to plant my head and shoulders beneath the surface of the pitch. All that I can say is after that tackle there are some 5 minutes of my life that I cannot account for. I came to with 20 odd people looking down at me as i attempted to convince my lungs to resume duty. They were in fact drawing lots for what I was wearing. Steve my son, I owe you one!

As my lungs resumed their duties, I spat grass, weeds and pebbles from my mouth, retrieved the assorted pieces of my t-shirt and tried to remember whether i was a bipedal or quadrupedal creature, I came to the very philosophical conclusion that I had experienced the absolute worst experience that can ever happen to you during the game (aside from having your cojones grabbed by your opposite number in the confusion of a scrum or a maul).

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Well I have today’s guest slot so here goes! Didnt have any rants or extracts from parents’ magazine so this is all I could do. I had to share my personal profile..njoy!

This is Eclipse, at a glance (of this page)

Currently, I am waiting to enjoy my 3rd major salary and as usual waste it on…

Previously, I was drinking cheap liquor and chasing women at the headquarters of all evil things……yes! Campus!

Academically, I am a graduate of the University of *********, been through ***** high school and ****** Primary School.

Naturally, I am a hater, sadist, bigmouth inspired by simplicity, relevance and originality.

Leisurely, I like eating, hating, being useful and basically anything ending with the suffix *ing.

Favorably, black is my color, small bodied chiks(laptops) WHO CAN COOK. I think small puppies are pretty harmless and sweet to watch(after feeding them hot or heavily peppered meat).

Outstandingly, my bright ear-to-ear smile is my asset. It has lit up many lives and dark alleys in my life. did i mention my big mouth?

Personally, I am passionate of my work, resourceful, a team player and have a knack for quality and originality. I hate fakes!

Inspirationally, who else….M! for his rudeness(remember feeding those chiks with fish n loaves?), creativity, and foul/big/unfiltered mouth. Oh yes!.do you remember a comedy called Becker…yeah that annoying doctor? Another role model!

Professionally, computers and more computers…

Honestly, I usually don’t give a shit!

Proudly, tall and dark…handsome is relative!

Fondly, when I got my first *******************

Summarily, I am different, thoughtfully, deep (in more than one way) and simple in deed.

And Sincerely, you are welcome to know me better (ladies ONLY).

Blogga what? Blogga Please

By Mutumia

My name is Mutumia and I am a blogger. Now I say this with two parts pride (soundtrack “I am Unbwogable”); one part guilty admission (sound track “Whodda thunk it?”) and at least three parts shame-on-me (sound track “It’s me oh Lord, standing in the need of prayer”)… Yes I know that’s five parts- what??? But as I was saying, it’s a funny thing about blogging as I find myself now quite entrenched in the routine of blogging (shameless self promotional plug here). And while I’m still new to this whole posting a blog thing, I had been a lurker for a long time, then shifted from stealth mode to opaque mode where I used to comment as “Ann Otieno Nimas” (Ann O. Nimas) and finally- y’know it was downhill all the way from there…

Anyway, I digress. Now, I love blogging as it exposes you to

1) An opportunity to fill in all your knowledge gaps: You know all those stray thoughts that flit through your mind — e.g. “I wanted to write something deep for M’s spot but my finger hurts- maybe I can go to Wal-Mart and get something for it- and I wonder if today is the day that I’ll get my puncture - and why isn’t my neighbour’s kid’s band doing practice, and I wonder if when they’re rich and famous, I can say that I used to listen to them way back when and score a ticket to their show and impress my young and impressionable toy boy - who I will be telling stories about Shokolokobangoshe”

*stop! Freeze!*

If I were to blog about Shokolokobangoshe— like who the heck was she, someone will fill me in. Or if I blog about neighbour’s kid’s band being quite awful, there’ll be someone who’ll give me tips on how to block out said music. Y’know?

*Looking at M. who’s making circular motions with his hand telling me to speed it along*

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My neck, My back, My RANT

By Sidaki

I’m in a rather nasty mood today and seeing as how I am a good guy, I will spread the feeling around. I must warn you not to expect any clever witicisms or thought provoking phrases, I’ll leave that to M. You may not agree with what you read but tolerate me for a while. After all, it is a rant.

1. News!

You see, I’m from the old school, just like Yasmin. I remember the days when news was news. No interludes where the news caster stops to drink a glass of water, or worse yet, feels that I am interested in his take on the day’s news. Those were the good old days when the news-caster would wear a dark suit and a tie and sit in the heat of the studio lights and read what was in front of him (from a foolscap) like a professional.

Not these new age trollops who read the news from a screen, appearing intelligent the whole while trying to hide the fact that they are completely ignorant of what they are talking about. To make it worse, they start talking to each other! Exchanging what they fondly believe to be jokes.

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Scaling Fences

By Guessaurus

Def: n A structure serving as an enclosure, a barrier, or a boundary, usually made of posts or stakes joined together by boards, wire, or rails

Everybody knows what a fence is; everybody has had to scale one, to be behind one and to be outside one. Fences are built to keep people in, and they are built to keep people out! Undesirables are kept out and in.

In prison I would assume everybody wants to be on the outside (not had any personal experience there), same in boarding school (had loads of experience here). In Morocco people die trying to scale one to get to this side (Europe), but they being the undesirables are killed by the guards who are trying to keep them out!
Like marriage, there are people who would scale heights to get in, and there are others who would burn bridges to get out!

So you are in wanting to get out, or out wanting to get in. I, on the other hand am building my own classification of humans – that of the fence persuasion.

Def. 2: Idiom: Undecided as to which of two sides to support; uncommitted or neutral

See, I knew in a roundabout kinda way we would get to the point, just too many damned fences to scale before we got here

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My Dirty Little Secret

By Yasmin

The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another, and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it. J.M. Barrie, novelist and playwright (1860-1937)

It was never meant to be this way. The fairy tales go “girl meets boy, boy loves girl or whatever it is that happens nowadays and they have children then live happily ever after.

It was never meant to read like my script.

Man meets girl. Man loves girl…

You see I loved this man and he loved me back like no one of his species had ever done. He accepted me with my quirkiness and me him and we spent lots of time combining our ideas on the ideal world. He fit so well into my grooves and made the road race called life worth the while.

Problem was he came with baggage.

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Primary School Reminiscences: The Busting of Benson

By Chrenyan

Much has been said in other blogs about that bane of yesteryear’s Kenyan primary school student, the cane. It is my turn to weigh in with a couple of yarns from my own brief time in primary school about just what used to happen during a caning. The following tale is adapted from a real life occurrence that took place in 1993, with changes made to protect identities and to entertain the reader.

The scene is a primary school situated in what is called one of Nairobi’s leafy suburbs. Our story revolves around a young student we shall call Benson. Benson was a long, thin fellow with large eyes and a face that was capable of assuming a most lugubrious attitude in the face of Authority. He was, for the most part, a thoroughly agreeable fellow. But the chief characteristic of Benson’s character was its duality. Benson was riotous when Authority was absent and was transformed into a docile, timid schoolboy the minute a teacher walked in. His changeability was a source of great puzzlement for me when he joined the class in Standard Seven. But as I have since discovered, there is (or has been) a bit of the Benson in all of us. I digress. (more…)