Friday, February 13, 2015

The Poor Valentine - An [unstructured] #EndPovertyInKenya entry

Look up, dear Valentina. That means you too, Valentino.


Those nails have seen enough polish. Get them to work. That screen, with the Persies and Drogbas and Toures inn’ going nowhere. You bought that recording gizmo that DSTV offers, did you not? Use it. 


Go to church. Pray for a miracle. Thank God for that new car.


Consume. Thank the creator for allowing it.


Poverty begins in the mind. It springs forth, off my father’s lack of forethought. It comes from his disregard of his duty to build upon my forefather’s simple ways, his subsistence from farm production.


Poverty is in the ‘mine’; in your own mine. I want. I must have. I should do’s and don’ts, because they asked it of me. But it does not end there.


It seeks pigeonholes. It wants company, assertion, reiteration…noise.


It does not want silence. It is afraid it will see right through itself. It worries that it will wonder why it spends a small company’s annual budget – nay, its entire 5 year plan – on a palatial room in a well-marketed castle for a dead saint.


What else could 2.4 million Kenya shillings produce?


And there’s a million voices…


Poverty is in the experience, in the lack; in the lack of experience, the wastage of luck… It is not original.

I want to be original; to be creative and be part of the solution. Don’t you? Of course you do. You have been asked, time and again, to be that guy; that girl.

But how…?

How do you create original solutions to a self-perpetuating problem? How do you, when that self-recycling problem raised you? Molded your every thought, every experience and word…your very voice? Molded you in its own mould, molded you against that mould?


How do you tell others not to be poor, when your perception of poverty varies so often? When their happiness and your own misconceive each other, do not converge to build better for each other?

The answer is so simple, to me, right now. Mind matters. Darkness matters, as much as the light guiding us out does. The journey, all with one accord, must matter. Divergent thought, critical, matters.

Can we not teach our children to know themselves, accept others, and tolerate only that which they must, to get where they need to be? Can we not show them that access to resources, to information, to people, matters more than that vision board with the flashing wedding lights?

I believe that we have no option but to do just that. We have no option but to walk, we who can and believe we know how to. We will amuse some. Others will ignore us. We will face challenges.

Above all, we will remember that challenges are opportunities waiting to be reached for. We will constantly eat new experiences, meet new meats, and grow our reach.

We will grab the opportunities by their throat, choke our poverty into oblivion.

Only then, shall one ably willing generation: #EndPovertyInKenya.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick |



“Women always talking ‘bout what men, do, we don’t ever talk about what
women do…at least till now.”

- Ying Yang Twins, NAGGING.
Yuh heard

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you said?


Give. me. a fucking break. I will now pretend you felt the sense to see that as the exclamation - from within your own little hell’s kitchen - which it truly is.


I have been watching you, skunk. Regarding your every move with suspicion, as you waltz from convention to the next, heels held at the ready to poke out the next mansplaining eye you meet.


And you meet them.


Everywhere you look, you see them. You actively seek them out, your funky 3-week soggy sock attitude stinking up every space you crawl into, every hole you skunk through. It’s lonely on your side of the bed, and you take it out on every little wanker with his dick out between his hands.


Because he is OBVIOUSLY creaming for your loins. How could he not be? Look at you and all that you 'guts going on'. Look at him as he sits and gropes and gapes at your *big brain*.


Who the fuck told Kenyan "feminists" that they could sit around and mutually masturbate, in their little regurgitating rooms, fixing their makeup just right, and proclaim a ‘crisis for the mens’ every two bloody cycles menstrual flows seconds?


"I know you're lying coz your lips are moving..."

- Meghan Trainor, Lips Are Movin'


Who, dear little winner with the silenced little weiner, whack-slapped your little brain so far up her ass that you lap up and spit out everything she says up like the little mongrel she has made you?


Who the fuck made cuckolding mainstream?



I went for the Storymoja Hay Festival last year. A mensed up bloody mess of a thing it has become lately, yet perfectly so. It is a representation of a little cosmetic cosmos we like to call a second or third cumming of the liberal Kenya. It lives in small dark "enlightened" crevices it calls *spaces* in Nairobi, arrogantly proclaiming its ignorance whenever a chance presents itself.


Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?”

Continues here: click at your own fucking peril

Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick ||




Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?” 


It was moderated by the consummate prick that is Oyunga Pala, supposedly in conversation with his little big dickmate Biko Zulu, but eventually groped by the now infamous Tony Mochama.We both know you came to drool at Biko, little girl. So sad you were that he did not show, you pulled off your panties and put the roof on fire. But did not squirt it off at the end, when it really was the least you coulda done.


I will not sit here and talk about what has been extensively cataloged by every feminist blog between here and kingdom chick-bean-flicking cum. As an audience member, I did that. Internal monologues between me and myself, and later with one puny cocked weasel Yule Mbois Mndialala who thinks himself some sort of autonomous wankster god on Facebook.


The session turned out quite as I had expected. In these Kenyan *spaces,* the right to doublethink has categorically been displayed as a privilege the *mens* should – make that capital, underlined, bold *Must* – check. It is whipped out in such fancy colours that you, the menses, actually do. You do check these privileges your dick gave you over her pussy.


Women have been silent for so long in Kenya, the second they grow a pair of brain cells, they feel they own the privileged right to whip it out and shut you up with it.



Who said that victims cannot be graceful victors? All I see in these streets are victims walking around either moaning about their victimized little minds, or masquerading as victors to manifest their victim mentality in every puny argument their weak ideas present:



‘manslamming’this, 



‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 


‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

[Caution: spoken with a loud curling Kilimani twang, or else...] 


What is it with you little bitches and your manventions? Ok, I get that you need to vent your manly frustrations, but really? You gave yourselves a label, so we need one too? Don’t we already have enough in our liquor cabinets?


Don’t you see that these one-size-fits-alls will be your undoing?


Tell me, dear little femininely shamed slut of a feminist, how when a man drinks himself silly and has his way with your tired but equally drunk hung-out-together-all-night ass, it is rape. It becomes rape when you wake up, remember your inhibitions were more than slightly off their ticking rockers, and so you could not have been in any position to give his drunken ass consent.


I will wait for you to swallow that.


As a matter of fact, I will rephrase it for your weak little bitch-fitting brain-denying cunt: he was high, his cognition holds up; you were high, yours does not. How can you turn around and look me in the eye, away from your place of invisibility, as you sing that doublethink back into my ear?


Do you even realize how vile that parseltongue is to me?



At the Future of Men rolling in the Hay session, you and your ilk stormed the house.


Check.


You were pricked by Tony and the like.


Check.


You stormed out.


Double twice check.


So you proceeded to whip your imagined dicks off onto the mic, and refused to back down when it was your turn to. Order, dear little vadge-badge, applies to you too.


If you grab the mic off my hands because your fragile little angina tells your vagina that it needs to bring its monologue out into the public, and so fuck me as I wait for my turn to speak:



*you are that little mansplaining, manspreading, manslamming prick you so love to detest.*



Start acting aware of your surroundings. Get away from your phone’s little screen and tembea fucking Kenya. Otherwise you will get plowed down by people who are also unaware of their surroundings. And for the life of your (un)born sons and daughters, little bitch, get a life and live it.


Screaming bloody murder and oh “not all men” means all men, but “no means no”?


Will you stop and get a hold of your export brains before they fall completely out off your imported bra?


In closing, here are the immortal words of T.O.K., the same ones you danced your skinny ass off to before it grew fatty cellulite and made you a fat angry bitch:



No way, Jose, we nuh go ever stay, a gurl fi know she haffi give it up

before we pay…
Coz if she don’t play, then we don’t pay!


Think about that too, every time we pay your way for a lay. Because if I have to hear you claim to have more sensible investments than we do, coz you got land and shit? You and your funny nanny of a fanny will see how gaskets truly blow.


Yelling how there's a mansis up in every nigga-fucking large hall that lets you pander your Bull. How there are no men left up in this bitch.


Bring it! What? We right here, We're not going anywhere.We right here, This is ours and we don't share... We right here, Bring your crew coz we don't care...

- DMX, We Right Here


If you can't find a good one, so you wanna whip up your own little mangina to Lorde over, get the fuck outta my way. I am human. You can take that broken groupthinking gender kaleidoscope and shove it where my sunny little dick will never shine.


And now, in true closing, I will quote my friend Smitta Smitten, the one y’all tried to smite – all hail, ye mighty smiters –


“oh dear, better legal gold than legal lead…n both are better than legally dead!”


Now go manfist your Audre-manifesting self or some shit. I'm out.



Signed,

Marquis de Sadness 

Member of the World Fuck You Media

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Ghururi Ya Mutula Verdict: It’s ok NOT to mourn him - Pt 1


Nairobi. 30th April, 2013 |

I wrote this post in the dead of the night, perhaps hoping that I could publish it in said ungodly hours. Partly because my significant other, aka consort, disclosed to me how she thought my blog was becoming rather “sudden” lately. Translation: it has gone Ghafla. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that mheshimiwa Senior Counsel (SC) Mutula Kilonzo’s hardly gone cold yet, which in Kenyan and African circles decrees that thou shalt not speak ill of him. Let alone suggest that he not be mourned. 

It also might explain why I opted out of entitling this piece “How to write about fallen heroes [though scumbags would be the actual term I circumvent in this case, depending on whose story you’re reading.] 

Which is precisely what I want to get into today: the scumbag/ hero that was Mutula Kilonzo, a concept otherwise referred to in political discourse as an “if-by-whiskey.” This is the subjectivist fallacy – meaning a claim that something is true for one person but not the other – supposing that a response to an inquiry is contingent on how it is made; is it made using strong negative connotations, or using strong positive undertones? That is to say, ‘was Mutula Kilonzo a scumbag?’ or ‘was Mutula Kilonzo a hero/saint?’ This is the same ideology that would have you pointed at the MAUMAU* or South Africa’s ANC (African National Congress) as terrorists on the one hand, and freedom fighters on the other. Ditto the Taliban, the Afghan Mujahedeen, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia…oh, sod it! the Middle East.

The same creed can be applied in doublespeak, thereby seeming to assert both faces of the matter at hand, and acting on the listener’s subjectivity to concur with whichever part he or she supports. In essence, when well-executed, the if-by-whiskey allows skilled politicians to take a position without taking it. Listen to Obama often and you’ll pick up on this nifty little trick.

In its original context, the if-by-whiskey draws this name from a speech delivered during a trial in 50s America, as to whether alcoholic beverages should continue to be forbidden or legalized. In essence, it was a reversal of Kenya’s Mututho Laws, seeing as liquor was illegal, and the lawyer who made the speech was looking to have it authorized:

My friends, I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject at this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey:
If when you say whiskey you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster, that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degradation, and despair, and shame and helplessness, then certainly I am against it.
But, if when you say whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty, crispy morning; if you mean the drink which enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm; to build highways and hospitals and schools; then I am certainly for it.
This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.
-         Noah “Soggy” Sweat, Jr., lawyer, State of Mississippi
Now, let’s ignore the obvious political incorrectness of some bits and pieces of the speech – it was, after all, 1952; blacks and women still had no tangible rights in the good old US of A. The 19th Amendment to the US constitution, establishing women’s suffrage in 1920, was still in its youth, and it would be another 13 years before the Voting Rights Act outlawed the prejudiced practices accountable for the pervasive disenfranchisement of ‘niggers.’ All that overlooked, was that a great speech or what? It had everything so well orchestrated and maneuvered that I could picture the jury nodding in agreement. As were you, possibly, and I, certainly.

Remember how I mentioned the listener’s subjectivity, though? Well it would seem that “when [the jury] said whiskey [they meant] the devil’s brew . . . that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteous[ness]” and not “the ale that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on [good fellows’] lips.” It would be a long 14 year wait before this legislation came to pass.

I hear you want to think, “Why the extended analogy?” Well, here’s why:

i.                    It’s an analogy from the legal canons, for one, one that fits SC Mutula’s first love, one that he so thrived in.
ii.                  It allows me to make use of my “if-by-Mutula” relativist fallacy.
Now if-by-Mutula you mean ‘the dead object that does not agree with my living spirits,’ the University of Nairobi lawyer who persecuted innocent ‘student leaders who served a decade or so ago at the height of Moi's KANU rule,’ arguing that they should be suspended for 55 years; if-by-Mutula you mean the scumbag who ‘spent the better part of his illustrious career entrenching the skunk that today pervades so many sectors in the Governance of Kenya,’ minting his firm billions while at it, or the ‘late newcomer in the reform process who was part of the brains that negotiated a heavily imbalanced power-sharing accord leading to a rancorous Grand Coalition Government in which he was rewarded with a ministerial position;’ if-by-Mutula you mean the man who ‘was very much a pro-establishment intellectual care-giver,’ the man who, had he ‘chosen to advance the rule of law and positive jurisprudence on certain cases in this country’s history, Kenya would have made massive leaps in the manner those in government handle public properties and human rights,’ then ‘in all fairness, let those who mourn him wipe their tears in somber ululations, but let those of us denied the luxury of shedding crocodile tears by knowledge and appreciation of the checkered past of the fallen legislator toss champagne (if you can afford it) and breathe a sigh of democratic relief, knowing so well that nature has rebalanced the earth.’ 

If-by-Mutula you refer to this despicable man, then ‘as to whether he deserves to be remembered as a reformist, I leave such niceties to his pack of irrational mourners, and people who lack the core to put his past in the political context it belongs,’ because ‘this is a sad week with spasms of celebration by true revolutionaries, and as they say at the University, "a comrade is always right"!’ If this be your Mutula, then like my Alma mater comrade and Facebook friend Dikembe Disembe, quoted extensively in the last two paragraphs, ‘I will not mourn Mutula Kilonzo. Period.’ I acknowledge that ‘it is indeed shocking that I remain indifferent even as the "country as a whole" is engaged in mourning,’ and I will accept the insults ensuing from the partisanship inspired by my labeling him thus

Continue to part II

* MAUMAU - Mzungu Aende Ulaya, Mwafrika Apate Uhuru, literally translates from Swahili to White Man Goes [back] Abroad, African Gains Independence. Note how MAUMAU sounds waaaay cooler than WMGAAGI. It was the freedom fighter/terrorist organization that fiercely opposed British rule in Kenya.

Ghururi Ya Mutula Verdict: It’s ok NOT to mourn him - Pt 2

Continues from part I

But if-by-Mutula you mean ‘the consummate Wanjikus' Katiba (Kenya’s constitution) and rights advocate and defender of recent years,’ a man whose mantra can be equated to “thou shalt not kill nor sit in the council of conspirators planning the death of another man;” if-by-Mutula you mean the defender of the justice system so rigorous he believed that ‘our duty is not to do justice; the fundamental duty of a criminal defense lawyer is to zealously represent his client within the bounds of the law, and to defend the justice system which is hinged on the principle that no man shall be found guilty of a criminal offense unless the prosecutor proves his case beyond any reasonable doubt;’ the man who believed that ‘to do otherwise would be to invite anarchy in the justice system,’ because ‘many innocent people may be condemned to death or imprisonment if the standard of proof was to be lowered below "any reasonable doubt," and would advice that ‘in contrast, the duty of a prosecutor is not to simply prosecute, but to do justice.’ 

 If-by-Mutula you mean the ‘vintage’ legal mind ‘under whose able tutelage’ his daughter, Kethi Kilonzo, ‘many years later had the audacity to stand in court and pursue what her father opposed in 1992 and 1997: the petitioners' case to have the results of a presidential election annulled on the basis of "glaring electoral malpractices";’ one in whom the law coursed his veins so much that ‘as a defense lawyer in a criminal case he would, as required, discredit the witnesses, facts, assertions, evidence, or whatever the prosecutor presents against his client, "within the bounds of the law", even though he may know or believe it to be truthful or accurate,’ and dutifully ‘present any viable defense, no matter his personal feelings about its true merit;’ if-by-Mutula you mean the defense lawyer who would we never knowingly present false testimony, but would use true testimony to whatever benefit he could for his client, no matter how horrific the crime or evil the defendant,’ because ‘factual guilt plays no role whatsoever in the duty of a defense lawyer to zealously defend his client, and there should never be a moral dilemma once a lawyer assumes the duty to defend.’ 

If-by-Mutula you talk of the defense lawyer whose ‘brief was to use whatever tools were available under the law to obtain an acquittal, dismissal or the best possible outcome, whether based upon fact or law, whether capitalizing on a tactical error by the prosecution or advantage offered to the defense,’ and whose ‘function as such was not to judge, or impose his sensibilities or morality, but to defend his client,’ because ‘that is as it should always be if the justice system is to have any credibility,’ then by all means, like this separation of law from moral dilemma quoted extensively from Wanjiku Revolution Kenya’s post, I too ‘hope that as we prepare to inter the bones of Snr. Counsel Mutula Kilonzo, we will understand his roles during the KANU days and in the recent years. That he was simply a good lawyer, who did his duty according to his education and training. And so may the Lord rest his soul in eternal peace!’

Yet like @WanjikuRevolt goes on to ask, ‘how can we reconcile ourselves with Mutula the tax evader who earned over 1 billion from a single case representing a Wanjiku tax-/pensions-funded institution?’ 

And right here is where the entire fallacy falls apart. In the past 15 months, Kenya has seen 4 high-profile politicians perish, among them John Michuki, Njenga Karume, former Vice President (VP) George Saitoti, and now Mutula Kilonzo. The first two died naturally, a cardiac arrest and cancer respectively cancelling them out rather quietly. The last two, however, died rather mysteriously, with the former VP – then Internal Security Minister – and his then assistant minister Orwa Ojode, crashing and burning in a contentious helicopter ‘accident.’

Now a lot has been said about these four men, and particularly about how they acquired their vast wealth; I will not delve into that. Even more has been said about their double-edged political personalities, pro-status quo before the end of Moi’s era, yet somewhat effective and ineffectual in almost equal measure during Master Kibaki’s reign. I will avoid getting sucked into that easy wormhole just as well. What is more interesting to me is the plight of the Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) and their equally very dead compatriots; that these 4 ‘Good, Bad & Ugly’ men have been more equal in mourning than the 1000+ who died in the 2007/08 Post Election Violence (PEV); that they deserved multi page-spreading obituaries and state-funded ads reminding us that they have died.  Never mind the little ignominious detail that the families which survived them have more money to better lick their wounds with than the 600k+ who survived PEV, but died as citizens to be reborn as refugees in their own land (IDPs). 

A sickening development I noticed on my Social Media timelines was the prevalence of universal condolence messages to Mutula’s bereaved from Kambas and Luos, while Kikuyus and their consorts seemed universally cynical. I feel the need to remind you of your lanes, people. You belong in that lower echelon of many that died during the PEV and went by unnoticed. Not in the upper stratum of creamed crops whose death becomes a national event and tragedy.

One death is a tragedy; the death of a million is a statistic
                             –       Joseph Stalin 

The Kikuyu and the Kamba have, in my mind, coexisted rather well in the past, and it was only in the run-in to the elections that there emerged differences. How reconcilable is yet to be seen, but it was rather telling that old Kikuyu people I know, for the first time in my life, shared the little-known ‘fact’ that the Kamba were the most ruthless Home Guards during the colonial Emergency period. That may well be so, and the fact that the Kamba collaborated with the British is hardly a secret. Neither is the fact that some of the most rewarded collaborators were from the Kikuyu community. That it was used as a deriding fact to demonstrate the general population of our Kamba people’s affinity to “collaborate with the oppressors,” or cross over to the dark side, if you like, was rather telling of my people’s contentment to subsist upon a microcosm of the crutches of the very same dirty tribal linen that so paralyses them.

When the news, quickly captured in images distributed transversally on Social Media, that Kalonzo Musyoka had broken down as he relayed the news of Mutula Kilonzo’s death to the people gathered at the funeral he was attending when he received the news, the first responders disparaging his act as a campaign maneuver were from my tribe. Now I’m not one to rush into the defense of ANY politician’s intentions, and certainly not one as convoluted by double standards as the former Vice President. I am equally not one, however, to let tribal bigotry – however nuanced – simply slide.

Mutula Kilonzo admittedly separated ethics and emotion from his practice of law in life; in death, we should not be expected to be ethical or emotional in our analysis of his passing either. But we should be logical. No one man is all good or all bad: he defended the despotic Moi and made a trailer-load of money while at it, but was instrumental in the constitutional reforms, and depending on who you choose to believe, was a humanitarian – a Rotarian – with the reform agenda etched deeper in his heart than any of our remaining crop of August House(s) bosses. 

Not only is it ok, however, NOT to mourn him. It is also in one fell swoop ethical, legal and hardly a moral dilemma NOT to. It's a choice, like everything else.