Jogoo ama Kwetu...Kenya ni ya nani? #WLL6 #KenyaNiKwetu

Cockerel, if you must, but let's prefer cocks, innuendos notwithsitting. Or shitting. Jogoo. The cock. Yes you, Jogoo. The cock that never crows. The crow that cawed but never clawed; worked it's beak without ever getting it's talons dirty.

"...I have always considered it dangerous to underestimate the influence of both institutions amongst the people, and for this reason i have repeatedly urged caution in dealing with them."

Nelson Mandela, on The Church and The Government

Conversations with Myself

Let's prefer, next, because we must, a time when the cock that is comradeship was big, with thick virile pumping veins, and a penetrative artery. When the cock was mature, and comrade, the word, meant something. Something that had value...added value...was value...and was valued.


Borrowed from Sodahead

Something anathema to student politics of stones thrown and land burned. When 'Comraaaaaade.....Pawaaaaah!' felt like a call to arms; a call to rally against the vast machinery of oppression in a pan-African sense; not a call to simplistic pugilist 'activism', hell-bent on little but the self-serving interests of a set of institutions that thrive on double-talking brouhaha and thousand yard stares into the muck that is their own bloody modus oper-fucking-anus.

Borrowed from Mutuamatheka

Something anathema to per cent ages, and per shilling billing pages. Something that did not defend political anachronisms in the August House, or condone - fend for, even - the KANU cockerel's impunity excessively.

The cock that laid insight everywhere in sight, without incite in their foresight.

The cock that thought guided by forethought independence, fueled by hind-thought brought on by nostalgia.

A nostalgia for freedom. Not only from shackles...but also, simply, the freedom to be. To exist, existentially in coexistence. To live, within and without...

Kuku Pono

Something that would never allow murderous scheming kuku ponos to just be, in cahoots with capitalistic heist moguls; these lip service under-serving bastards with no room for conscience in their bloated undeserving egos. Something, that would fight despots, tyrants and sanctioned killers with the very brimstone buffet they served up to a nation tender-breasted...our motherland.

Not simply sit back. Not watch simply, and simply watch. It was something of an arising...an awakening of brawn and bone...a renaissance of intellect; the rebirth of cocky balls so long dormant that they'd become recessive.

Today, jogoo is in premature ejaculations of initiative; it is in burnt out tread-less wheels of justice and civil inertia masquerading as activism; it is in the thread-less cogs of cognition that is the Union of Neanderthals, quick to scream bloody murder for a quick looting cloaked as Right To Protest. It is in pointless, shamelessly pantless, cruelly misplaced violence; it is in watching, silently on a bar stool - or worse still, not so silently - as the Mozarts of a battle so fresh in our minds parade their ignorance on our silver and white screens.


Kenya Believes...IN WHAT EXACTLY?!! Scroll for details

From In Love with The Slave Master

It is, in essence, playing along to the very symphony that cost use mere statistic in lives and displaced lodging...in hushing our tones - nay, our thoughts and action too! - to avoid persecutions and prosecutions in the dungeons of a tired system fertilizing our lives with regular dose of in vitro bullshit.

It is, this jogooism of the day, pussy blogging brought offline. It is, without one doubt, the art of lending capital punishment to the emancipated few, and enhancing the penetration of deep penetration, into a shit hole too deep to claw out of.

Yet the very same fattened crows we have feeding off our eyeballs now, we will see then. At the ballot. Ignorance will then vote in arrogance...and more ignorance. Greed, for a simple dollar bill, votes in greed...for a couple billion pocket change more. Graduated arrogance turned goon-for-hire, serves and votes in ingratiated arrogance. And the very same murderous village villains from a war gone freshly by...voting in the very same stately stench that conspired to prick our women, steal an election, and kill a people. In the couple thousands...

Some of them, proudly Eye-'E'-Be-Seen into your voting booth, belong in the guillotines of our A4-sized justice department. Yet now, on the eve of these evil clowns' constitutional 'beheading', we hand them a lifeline. Call it a 'last request'. They choose the Presidency, right at the eleventh hour pending a lethal injection of Right, and we - apparently unperturbed by the rectal diphtheria of our own bull shit, lend them our ears. Our years. Sling them plaudits, and not pleas for rope around their necks of impunity.