Today’s guest is the outspoken Eclipse rising to a challenge raised here

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).

Today’s guest is Mutumia

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*

2) OK…. Now the good thing about blogging is that you can also blog anonymously (yay!) which is between very good and very, very good. Why you ask? I’m glad you asked. It’s real easy to build that camaraderie online- sometimes much faster/ easier than in the real world- y’know ‘cause in real life it takes a while for the people to learn that Mutumia XP is not quite Mutumia XP-Demo version. The Demo version (that’s usually the one that people meet) is the one that the software engineers have worked all the glitches out of. It never needs re-booting, never hangs up [insert techie proficiency details here] but then, after you take Demo version home and install Mozilla. Let the games begin. Crashing galore. Weird fonts that cannot be uninstalled. Yup- kinda like that. But with blogging- you’re always on the demo version so that’s pretty cool.

3. And you can share stuff that matters to you (sorta kinda) – like for example- KBW is a bit top-heavy on the football stuff as the mchongoano goes something like “Mathako anapenda Arsenal mpaka akiwa na ball alimeza uzi wa red ndiyo uzaliwe na team jersey” Da hell! And I’ll also be upfront and confess that I am not a football fan (or if I was to be all snooty and high handed, I’d say soccer, but I’ll refrain as I’m on treacherous ground here. I am as they say out-Man’d – geddit? Cause of ManU— play on words…haidhuru, tuendelee).

Don’t get me wrong- I have tried the whole soccer thing. I mean, this is despite having gone out with a jamaa way back when who was to Football what Kamotho was to KANU. He pendad soccer football to the extent that whenever Harambee Stars were knocked out of the CaffCaff (or whatever) Cup, he would follow the progress of the Indomitable Lions. The brother knew the three full names of the Official Malian Witchdoctor (Aguib Sosso) and his deputy (Adama Kone) for crying out loud! Now that’s a fan—but I digress (again).

What I was saying is that you can find a pool of people who share your love for [insert peccadillo here]. Y’know kinda like I love, love, love Kenyan Game shows. My favourite? Glad you asked. Omo Pick a Box. Now that was a 2 in one deal-(SitCom and Game Show) and it was chock full of burst-a-gut laughter e.g. when the host was asking some jamaaz…

Host: Who is referred to as the King of Pop?
Mbonyezi Kidude 1: Nebuchadnezzar!
Host: No.
MK2: Haile Selassie
(looking visibly vexed)
Host: No. We are looking for a musician.
MK3: Blondie-Blondie.
(looking like she’s ready to start throwing boxes of Omo at her Manager for getting her the gig)
Host: Ati nani?
MK3: Blondie-Blondie- Alikuwa kwa URTNA- haumkumbuki? Ni mcheza ngoma za reggae halisi.
Host: Alpha Blondie?
MK3: Ndiyo- I want the money.
Host: But you didn’t get the question right- the answer is Michael Jackson!!!

Woiye. Then the poor squeeze the same night had the following convo to another bunch of contestants:

Host: Who was Ralph Bunche?
MK1: Ule mtu wa Hutchings Biemer?
Host: No.
(Turning to the second contestant)
Host: Contestant number 2, the question is “Who was Ralph Bunche?
MK2: (looking at her cross eyed ‘cause of being put on the spot). The box
Host: Sir- you have to answer the question correctly first.
MK2: Oh sorry- the money.

St this point, girlfriend just called it a night and I think she hurled flung generously distributed the money to the crowd… Now that’s a gameshow y’all.

Yup— let your inner blogger out.

He he— for all of you who read till the end waiting fro some M-ish insight – men You’ve been just been punk’d. Yes poleni ndugu zanguni chant along with me

Milka Bonyo, Bonyo were Mos Mos Mos Mama Milka…
I logged for M and got a Mutumia
Mos Mos Mos Mama Milka

Today’s guest is Sidaki, who blogs apparently on the cycle of every eclipse. It’s a bit on the short side, but I’m led to believe it is a teaser ….

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.

And which third rate PR firm told KTN Weekend Prime that I like the person reading me news to be standing and walking around?! Why is the guy dressed casually? Why the hell is he pocketing? Where the hell is he walking to? Someone give that man a tie and a suit and stick him behind a desk.

And who told these news-casters that I’m actually interested in that air-headed, asinine dribble that they call an opinion?! Read the fucking news. Period. Save your opinions for your colleagues or someone who does not know better. Idiot!

And how come news is always 40 minutes long? Is it that the same amount of stuff happens every day? Wouldn’t I be pleased if one day I tuned in to news and the idiot in the box told me something like ‘Today there really wasn’t much news. Actually, nothing much happened. Catch it in tomorrow’s paper. Goodnight.’ Wouldn’t that be brilliant?
However, they would rather fill in the news with public interest stories that could put you in a coma. A whole TV crew will actually camp somewhere to tape a man being mugged to show in the news where they will complain that Nairobians do not help their fellows!

2. Tuju!

Anyone from Luo Nyanza out there? The next time you people are stoning Tuju, will at least one of you hit him? How does he tell us that he does not suck up to Raila and then confess that he needs his permission to hold a peaceful rally in Kisumu? Just one stone on target would be enough.

Why is it that these politicians assume immediately that the people stoning them have been coerced to do so by someone else? Are you so narcissistic that you refuse to believe that a person can, of his own voilition, throw a stone at you? Could it not be that some people are convinced that you could do with a good knock on the head?

3. Miscellaneous!

And these chicks with hair as short as mine who keep brushing away invisible locks of hair from their faces. Style up. You are creeping me out. Here I am trying to have a conversation with you but every few seconds you go and piss me off!

Today’s guest is the one and only Guessaurus. ‘Nuff sed.

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:)

Being a human in this day is a challenge, we all aim to maintain our standards, culture and values while still keeping in tune with the 21st Century. You can accommodate both the old and the new together, but there will always be some arse trying to tell you how to do things, when to do them, we don’t do them this way, you are eroding your culture, you are too old-fashioned, mum does it like this (said in a whiny 4yr old voice) etc. Like someone I know would say “Where is your mum so I can spank her one before showing her how it should be done”

I refuse to be railroaded into the notion that I have to please both old timers and new comers – but its not that easy. Different strokes for different folks and all that. So I end up wanting to erect a really high fence, and sit there watching the warring factions, telling myself I will come down when the fires have died down.

Of course you can never succeed in being a spectator in your own life. Hence, when you come across a fence, you have to either jump over it, pull the wires apart and crawl to the other side (but if its electrified, you might end up looking like M when he was separated from his luggage and couldn’t find his afro-comb:)) )or scale it.

So in an ideal world (or on the fence whence I am sitting) I would watch people contradict themselves over and over, ruffle a feather here and there, get into all sorts of muddle based on societal expectations and the do’s and don’ts of the genders. I would happily laugh with the knowledge that I am not a party to that, and that I could watch but not touch, so to speak. I wouldn’t be tainted by their (mis)deeds and would never have to worry that my actions, whichever ones I can manage without falling on my face and by perfecting the balancing act, wouldn’t have any consequences to anyone else but me.

On my fence, there would be people invited who can manage to stand on one foot high up from the ground and laugh heartily without falling over; people who realise a catch 22 when they see one. People who know that the world is changing, different times call for different actions, and reactions. What your grandfather did for a living is all noble and shit, but it might not work for you if you want to do it. How your mother cooks and cleans is all good, we are all proud of the son/daughter she bore and raised well, but damnit if I have to bend that far to emulate her – might be a reason why you still don’t live at home, I might be wont to point?

We are all complex beings, and with that comes our ability to think independent thoughts (I swear that is what it said on the wrapping paper when I was ‘born’, or so I was told coz I couldn’t read then, and now the paper may be lying somewhere, all yellowed and wrinkled and nibbled off by some rodent or other, or some identifiable flying object, but so much time has passed that no one knows where it is, or whether it is) and our inherent (speak for yourself) ability to identify and use common sense, with or without the benefit of a good education, a good upbringing, or a good woman behind us, should teach us when to fight and when to take flight, when to stop and stare and when to leg it, when to speak and when to shut up.

It should, I am reliably informed by my right frontal lobe, help us understand that perfection is not a gadget bought from the Argos catalogue, nor is it a fashion accessory or a daily survival necessity. We each have our best points, and our worst points. We all know that if the roles were reversed, we wouldn’t date a different gender version of ourselves. Why? Allow me to inform you that it is because we each recognise our own shortcomings and quirkiness and would probably not tolerate it in a partner, so what in the heck are you doing expecting another person to accept it off you?

So before class is over, and before I open up a recruitment drive for people to join me on my fence-sitting foolery, I would like each and every one of you to look at yourselves (preferably in the mirror, if you cant manage to see yourself without looking at yourself) and repeat after me: “I am fearfully and wonderfully made”. Done? Good. Now, get out of here and don’t you keep running around berating others for being different and doing things that do not ‘conform’ to your ideals, or the society’s, the tribe, the country, the continent, the gender, the home, the culture, the whatever else it is that you have a big box in the closet waiting to be filled with. Ride the tide, go with the flow, get with the program and whatever other clichéd sayings that mean live and let live (or die, as it were)

Because like you, they too are fearfully and wonderfully made.

Now M help me up this fence

Listening to: What kind of man would I be? Mint Condition

Today’s guest is Yasmine. She’s already blogs, but under another name altogether.

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.

Not undeclared STD’s or a harem of wives I had not been informed of. Nothing like having the night running habit firmly ingrained into his nocturnal timetable.

Children.

I was going to be “Insta-Mom” minus the title. I was going to be the evil one for a long time to come.

You see women (me included) have this notion in their heads that the man they marry will love them and only forever and even if they passed on would never look at another woman with the same eyes again. Fairy tales have not been fair either.

Have you ever heard of one which portrays a step mother in a positive light?

There are thousands of examples, not to mention books on how to be a good mother, lover, wife, friend, leader, but you attempt to be a step mom, you are on your own. Trust me; no one will lift even a hair to make your work easier. No one will give you a helping hand even when you need it most.

No one will feel you when you tell them of your step child’s sloppiness yet when you have a new baby, friends and relatives would listen attentively making appropriate comments when you describe the little one’s bowel movements in graphic detail, diagrams included.

So I was and have been on my own ever since. I have three wonderful children to whom I bear the title mom. I am the one they run to for comfort and the first one to get a hug when we all gather together at the end of the day.

It was not always this way. It has been a vertical climb with the abyss down at the bottom not being an alternative I even contemplate as a destination. It has been wonderful and excruciatingly difficult.

I belong to the old school of parenting which firmly believes and lives by the mantra I am the adult and have the sole veto power in the house because I pay the bills. Therefore any one who even remotely contemplates challenging my authority at any time should be armed with the ability to pick the tabs as they come and while at it set up a parallel institution of his/her own.
The old school believes too that childhood is a time to play and does not entertain habits that encourage small behinds to indent craters on couches for four hours at a time in the name of plays that involve terms like ‘playstation’.

We believe that the fear of the rod is the beginning of all wisdom as it will keep you on the straight and narrow before you grasp the concept of right and wrong. By then you shall surely be old enough to tell your bananas from your oranges and all the fruits in between.

Little hands too make work lighter and should be trained to be useful as soon as physically possible to avoid louts and leeches who shall overstay their welcome in the house of birth. The said louts could be foreseen coming home at the age of forty to see what mama cooked for dinner not only to eat as they cannot cook but to do their laundry as well.

With this foundation in place I set off to the task of parenting without the labor pains. The children were fine and daddy too though it was rather an adjustment for them having to cope with a power house of energy in an unbelievably small frame.

The relatives made it a business of their own to poke their noses where they could not fit.
The delegations would come to the house and sit in the living room making clucking noises and even shedding a tear or two, re-arranging furniture and generally hyphenating crocodile and tears once again. I was left wondering the purpose of the visits as I am reliably informed that the characters I witnessed in action were the most unfriendly suckers you could ever meet anywhere this side of planet earth.

Parenting of any child, biological or otherwise, is a step of faith. The odds are enormous, the process tasking and exacting in resources both physical and fiscal. Step parenting is twice as hard as you do not have the good will from the society at large. Any action on your part is set to be misinterpreted as by default you are guilty until proven otherwise.

You are expected to meet the children’s needs but woe unto you if you are ever caught exerting your authority. The negative labels will be stuck on your face and no one will ever listen to your side of the story.

I look back now and thank the people who stood by me. I have heard horrendous stories about mothers in law but I met one who should be an example to me in future. She accepted me with open arms and told me all women are different in the way they handle their households. That, there was no reason for me to be judged on the same bar as the other woman. That she was wonderful as only dead people can be, but she was human too and had her faults. Music to my ears!

So do I tell anyone that I am a step mom? Never.

Because as soon as I do, my head seems to grow sharp black horns and sympathy as well as visible discomfort sets in.

My interlocutors then proceed to make stupid comments like

“Do you love them like your own?’’

It is like asking me how much I love the man I live with and unless you are a marriage counselor or the pastor that is a no-no.

I love everyone differently. That goes too for my children. If only we could stay with the same forgiving heart as children, the world would be a much better place.

That’s my secret. I’m a step mom and loving every single second of it. Do not mention it to anyone.

Today’s guest chooses to call himself Chrenyan and is indeed one of my best friends. He’s not started blogging and I’m working tirelessly to get him to do just that.

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.

One day the long arm of the law caught up with young Benson, as it inevitably does with almost all schoolboys (and a markedly smaller percentage of schoolgirls). A short teacher by the name of Mr. W walked in one morning and Benson was a shade too slow in effecting the marvelous Mr. Hyde-to-Dr. Jekyll variant of his transformations. Alas! The poor lad was taken in the very act of “talking in class”. Perhaps the size of the teacher was the unhappy circumstance that impeded Benson’s reflexes, and things would have gone differently had a more visible instructor chanced to walk in. How small are the things upon which the catastrophes of life may hinge!

Now, emotions in the class were a pretty mix at this juncture I can tell you. Chief among them at this early stage was a feeling of relief that one had not himself (or herself) been caught. But this emotion was being superseded with each passing second by a feeling of anticipation – nay, let me be honest – eagerness at the spectacle that was about to unfold. Witness the hapless culprit slouching to the front of class, hunched of shoulder, large of eye and doleful of mien! Behold his shuffling, hesitant step! Cast your eye upon the brief instructor, now involved in relieving his upper body of the encumbrances of his coat, and his upper arms of the encumbrances of his shirtsleeves! There may have been no drum-rolls, no eerie, chilling music. But for us 12-13 year olds, it was edge-of-the-seat stuff. The tension in the air was palpable.

Benson arrived at the front of the class in the longest time he could have taken without incurring the further wrath of the teacher. The mournful look on his face would have softened me, had I been the dispenser of justice. The boy’s face oozed penitence and regret from every pore. But Mr. W, apparently, was made of sterner stuff. Availing himself of a stout hosepipe reinforced within by a thick piece of (what I believe to be) broomstick, he commanded Benson to touch his toes.

By now the watching class was in a state of excitement that was bordering on the manic. It is just as well that no-one lost his self-awareness and voiced his anticipation out loud. Small mental hands were rubbing themselves together in young minds all over the room. One was not often commanded to touch one’s toes during caning. This directive, indifferently delivered by the teacher, received with delicious awe by the class, and regarded with disbelief, trepidation and finally horror by the sorry student was another fact to carefully file away and embellish the story with when telling it at the lunch-break.

It is at this point that the story takes a rather bizarre turn. The aforementioned instructor now commenced to rub his cane upon the area of the unfortunate student’s exposed posterior with sure, circular strokes. What horrible, awful feelings of expectation this must have induced in Benson only he (Benson) can relate. It must have been torture. The teacher’s reasons for doing this cannot be accurately related either. Perhaps he was doing it in much the same way that a carpenter will give a nail a few practice taps with his hammer, thus ensuring his aim is true before he delivers the final blows. I cannot say. As for us, where before our breathing had been feverish, it now ceased altogether. Where we had been sitting on the edge of our seats, some of us now stood up. We would of course discover this later when we found to our surprise that we had to sit down as Benson made his way to his seat.

The cane ascended. Benson must have known that the end (or, more accurately, the beginning) was near. There was a short pause, a sudden rush of air and then a sharp crack! reverberated round the class. The effect on poor Benson was electric. I am yet to see the student that can remain touching his toes when he has recently received a smart cane to the backside. Benson’s figure, previously in the shape of a 7, now rapidly reached the vertical and described a 1 and indeed even passed the perpendicular and assumed the shape of a bow, with he himself on tiptoe and his hands clutching his rear while his fingers alternately dug into and massaged his bottom. This went on for some time as he attempted to assuage his aroused nerve endings. Then down would come the cane. Up would come Benson, with jack-in-the-box regularity. It was a lesson in cause and effect, even if we were too young to understand it at the time.

Perhaps the reader would expect that as a class, we commiserated with our dear brother in his pain. We should have at least been feeling relieved that we were not the ones receiving this punishment. But I am ashamed to say that we were not. In fact, hardly could reality be further from the truth. I am ashamed to say that faces averted (or hidden behind textbooks), we laughed as long and as hard as we were silently able. Just when one would stop laughing, one would catch another’s eye and the silent guffaws would begin again. I have on more than one occasion watched a friend of mine laugh until the tears came to his eyes at the goings-on at the front of class.

Suffice it to say that Benson received a grand total of three strokes, by which time the teacher felt justice had been done, and the error punished. And so another story passed into the folklore of our Standard Seven class…