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. 

Ode told from the Maroon Road

This                is    not                                  realistic                           of

post                       an      entirely                      reflection                  my         life.

I died last month; precisely 48 days ago. The many things about things and people I’d taken for granted finally caught up with me. Not that they really had to hassle or harry to get to me; I’d been shuffling my feet on a million mile marathon track…running the hundred and ten metre hurdles backwards in an Olympic size pool.

What's the point?

To be honest, life in the hereafter isn’t all that different from what lay before it. How else do you think am blogging about it? Only problem is, it feels a whole lot of bit like am a taxi-driver that’s lost his prefix, yet still has to get home at the end of the day. There’s no jav to be stuck in, kicking it with the pervs in a match made on Facebook. Lonely road I walk now.

I make my way to my home, peek through the windows and stare at the wall; stare at the photos, memories burned with innuendo in their background. I sift through all the litter it’s collected this past thousand hundred and fifty two hours. I had a lovely life, I realize, an unparalleled wife and perfect kids. The kinda perfection only an empty backpack could give; the blessing of bachelorhood.

Looking at my wall, it’s not easy to profile the man I was. I’d been stuck in traffic for the most part; my social life clogged with an impeding lack of motion. Clearly I got off the jav just when the traffic was cocking its piece, looking to pull the trigger. How else would you explain this notification?

Xavier Man’sin, Cyclops Redhead, Wolverine Fisi and 470 other friends posted on your wall.

About 400 others have straight-liked some of these same posts. Hmmm. 30 pokes. Yet I’ve only been gone about a thousand hours. More action in my absence than I had in my restrained presence.

Am making friends too. Power of globalization that; turning the world and what lies underneath it into a tiny village. Pity I  can’t quite click the ‘add as friend’ button; like a spectator in an online console, all I can do is watch. Like an ardent Arsenal fan in the stands I can only hope to cheer when one of the passes I had made in my mind actually meets a willing boot and a goal is scored; I had, after all, about twenty sent friend requests pending.

Curious. So many positive eulogies on my wall. ‘Yule Mbois Mndialala this, Yule M2 that.’ Surely there has to be at least one suppressed ‘Yule M2 no that’ in there. I smile inwardly, and the warmth sparkles for an instant in my intrepidly fallen crest.

I was an A-hole. Full full condition. Looking at one of the posts through a squinted eyeball – I lost the other on my way here – I cannot help but muse at the absurdity that belies the hypocrisy of the security that derives from knowing that the only person who can disprove your theory on how close you were to them is gone. What my ex means to say on that glowing paste on my character and joy of living is this:

Yule Dame Mndias > Yule Mbois Mndias

We were kinda going out. So we only kinda broke up. No really broke up. There was nothing to break. The last vestiges of the thing they claim once pumped channels of emotion through you have already long been crushed into redundant morsels. I can’t hate you, but I can’t stand you either. Don’t expect the immolate* crumbs of your heart to play adhesive tricks on my mind again, coz the rough and dog-eared edges on the pages of my heart can’t take any more chaffing. Cold is the only sense that can make mission now, and since you’re stuck in it now, I guess we’re even.

                                    # XoXo, Bummer

                                    The ham your Karma used

For harm-practice.

Anyway, social routine demands that we respect the dead, lest they haunt our chatlines with a random online status here, and a crazy poke there. If I could I would, pop up while you’re chatting with a big ‘wassup!’ on your IM. It’s only fair. After all, communication is not complete without feedback. Yule M2 likes your post on his wall. Maybe that’d freak the senses back into you, stop you from colouring my wall a pale shade of pointless when am gone.

Time to log off, shift my weight in these planks that surround me.  Good thing my sense of smell died with me, coz it doesn’t look seem it’d be too amused in here. Now am gone, signed out. Go on, mourn; but don't carry on, take an endless time out coz where am at they don let us log back on. Twas fun, Facebook. Let me be.

#Moral: Part 1 of the last ndialala will and testament – don’t post stuff on my wall when am gone. Eulogies –if they must – are to be reserved for one day and one day only, and not turned into an online network face condolence book. This is a reminder; when that day comes, be forewarned! I kill you!

Ahmed the Dead Terrorist

    

Mateso - The Prelude : R.E.S. Pia C. Maboy Tumekosa

The following is a prelude to an exposé that appeared in 2010 on a previous blog I administered, www.Plus254.com. The exposé details the very slow cogs of access to justice in Kenya. This post, however, is very subjective: the facts are presented in the next post. 

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By Maina Fred Wambugu (aka Yule Mbois Mndialala, aka french_freddy): 


Student Journalist, friend, and fellow human. Nairobi, April 5th 2010.

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As a Journalism Undergrad, I have been taught to crave objectivity. Tonight however, my bravery in the face of the adversity Media Studies would have you take subjectivity for is decidedly waned. For I have told many a tale, sung many a song; spun many a web, and posted even more experiences; odes to days I was wasted, and toads of many a love wasted. Urban legends and local myths intertwined in art...

This, however, is the hardest story I have ever had to tell. A story so dear to me, for the pure reason that it happened to someone I have since come to know so well, if only in a span too short. A story so simple, yet so intricately complicated; so near while being so flung afar. And as much as I love them, this one has happy endings trampling over each other; running away, barely turning to look over their shoulders. However you look at it, no matter how much you may rationalize it, so much has been taken away that can never, never will, be replaced.

I urge that whoever has the time, whosoever has the heart; whoever has at some time been hurt, one as all and all with one take heed to my impending disclaimer, and give it all its due respect; for the events I intend to describe in my next post occurred not in a directed script in the alleys of Paris, but in our own very real back yard; happened to someone some of you know, and have happened to countless others you may or may never recognize; happened decades ago, and as recently and fatefully as the morn of Good Friday. All in the backdrop of April Fools' day....hardly a prank and certainly no laughing matter.

A case of consent denied, consciousness stolen and conscience withdrawn, but like a bad check, bounced. A case of joy sought in a strange place, disregarding the look of distress on her face. A case of robbery; the theft of will, and a universal language of pain. Violence or no violence, she was duped by an illusion of trust; blinded somehow by a shadow of friendship and care; comforted by a lethargy so beguiling, yet with an alter ego so loathsome.

But worst of all, the cold stiffness of fact. The fact that she thought she knew them. The fact that she tried to guard her innocence with a friend's hand - in vain. The fact that she evaded that end in all possible ways and means availed to her feeble defenses. That all things considered it could have been you; could have been your sister: your aunt; cousin; your mother. Yey it could. And that despite all this, few will take the time to care, and of those who will, even fewer - the cogs of our own Legal, Justice and Health Systems in some cases involved - will be willing to do something about it; sitting on their laurels, some will go as far as to caw that they could never let it happen to them or theirs.

I put it to them that it could, and they could possibly have no way of stopping it even were it to happen right under their very nose hairs. I put it to you that it is an act so vile that I speak, nay, cry of. My recall bleeds profuse gushes of sorrow, a sorrow so peculiar; so personal yet so detached; so wild, yet without being too untamed. My intellect churns words like a mill, if only to push away the inevitable image of her beaten frame from my mind; that tortured expression...

Yet with every conscious effort to suppress it, ever harder does it spring back to the fore, pounding on my temples like a mallet on a frayed chisel-head, digging right through my scalp to the boil of my gray and the steaming larva of hell her story probes in my mind.

She intends that I name names. I intend to take names and clear hers. And now that the ball is set and rolling, I intend to see heads follow suit. For as their pleasures with her were earthly bound, so should their helpings of Justice and the chef's bill be hefty. Penalty and duty hand in hand; a duty so humane to ensure this does not happen to many more of ours, for sadly, even Batman could never fully throttle the bottlenecks of simplistic egotistical sense in our very own Gotham.

Every time I look up and see her - and I mean really see her - see how she sees a ray from of hope in my commitment to her cause, the giant dragon burning my innards softens. Such is her demeanour, yet I cannot expect her to keep it up too long. So I tell her story to save another, to fight for her demons' redemption before they strangle her, sail her beyond the seas of asphyxiation. You may have gathered what my long hike to never never land has been about; but my soul cannot rest, not even if I dropped still this very instant, if I do not spell it out - so here goes: Mary - I will call her Ciiku - was raped. Not incidental, but tragic; a victim of her own golden heart; fooled to believing that no friend of hers would spring a trap so deceptive and watch unabashed as she fell in, rolling and seething in agony.

Is it enough that she was not brutally wounded? Is it enough that she walked away in one piece? Is it not enough that she went through an ordeal bound to tie her beside trauma for a large chunk of the rest of her existence? And for heaven's sake, does rape only become a serious offence with visible signs of torture?

At this point I need not tell you how many times the words what the hell was I thinking have replayed themselves in her mind. What I do need to say is this. Hold back your judgement. Provide reasoned insight if you will. For while we can erase our preconceived notions, she can never erase an unwarranted feeling of guilt and fault, in the suite of the regret and helplessness now tagged to her being since the wee hours of Friday April 2^nd 2010. So respect her situation...consider her ache and hurt as you put your fingers to your keys, boards and pads alike to comment on her predicament; every comment is a commitment, so balance your subjectivity with rationale, for I shall not ask you to be objective. Not in this class. We are after all human. Only human; and as to err is human, even in judgement, let her not have to couple her bravery in the face of torture with a burden of sustained social stigma in future. 

There may be three or four big choices that shape any life and every person needs to personally make every single one for themselves. These predators thought they had preyed on her ability to choose, thought they had scattered her pieces into a raging storm to forever be lost. Let's be the ones to back her up as she turns the tables; the prey becomes the predator today, for choice is still hers, and she has chosen to make her first: to ensure that they are not afforded the chance to put any other woman in her shoes.

Take into account that many victims - male and female alike - hide behind this sort of trauma; for reasons that we, in our diminished capacities as outsiders to the workings of their minds and the mechanics of their social gears, cannot really claim to comprehend without deceiving ourselves. Not unless we evaluate case specifics. But even if strength fail, boldness at least will deserve praise; in great endeavours, even to have had the will is enough. This is definitely her greatest endeavour yet; let it not, at a young 22, be the greatest her life will ever know. 

Her wrinkled brow betraying the engraved craving to be heard, my duty to her world I hereby honour. The link that is to follow is the story of Ciiku, an Actuarial Sciences student at one of our Public Universities.

Fuck Kenyan Hospitals: Nyahururu, Nairobi, Aga Khan Hospital…

This is not about vengeance. This is hardly about small glories, for there is no glory in what I am about to do. This is about acceptance…moving on…and most importantly, growing a pair.

Last year April 16, at the very first installation of Poets and Writers Online - POWO – I was introduced to the ever so misogynistic concept of pussy blogging. It basically refers to a form of blogging where you the blogger worries about everyone’s opinion but your own…it, quite simply put, is spineless blogging.

School Kenya

 

I am quite the fool

Stuck in a fork

Any turn I go

Is bound to blow

Chuck me a clock

Coz I don ‘twanna be cool.

For the longest time, I have been exactly that. A spineless blogger. Censoring my posts for the sake of conformity. Self-censorship, they say, is the worst kinda censorship.

The gloves, however, are fully off today. In light of Bringing Zack Back Home, celebrating my ma’s 4^th anniversary in exactly a month, my friends – Patricia, Jewels and Ann – who all lost a parent within the past 3 months in Kenyan Hospitals, I grow a spine today. I intend to retain its services for a while longer than just today. So watch this space…spiny post titles will probably tick you the fuck off. But I figure if I don't get to piss someone off, I'm probably not doing a good job blogging, and might as well shut down this site and sail off to Neverland. Just to warn you. For next time, and all.

On July 12^th 2008, something fatefully fucked up ripped through my already dysfunctional family; driving from Karatina, where my sister had been feted for being the best girl in Nyeri district’s secondary examinations (KCSE):

·   My mum and sister got involved in a car accident. My sister survived unscathed. Physically, that is.

·   10 days later, after hours and millions of shillings of Intensive Care, ma died. On my sister’s birthday, in the wee hours of July 22^nd. Yes, the same sister whose graduation it was.

·   10 more days later, after hours of agony for me and my two sisters, and countless hours of conflict with each other and others, we buried ma. August 1^st…precisely 1 week before my 21^st birthday.

Perhaps you now wonder…so why fuck all the hospitals listed?

Here’s why:

·     My mum walked herself into hospital and came out in a body bag 10 days of neglect and malpractice later. She had internal bleeding, sure. When she checked into Nyahururu Private Hospital, she was more concerned about my sister, who had fainted, unable to bear watching the gang of Matatu guys who, after hitting ma’s car had then gone on to yank her out the wreckage and ‘discipline’ her.

·     The doctor who realized ma had internal bleeding scheduled an operation. Intestinal Surgery, or something of the sort. What he forgot to do, allegedly having come from a bar to the operating table, was leave an opening for waste removal. Standard procedure, med students tell me. Cue the infection that killed my ma.

·     At this point, we decided to ambulance her to Nairobi for better treatment, and away from catatonia; a 6 hour ride, due to the state of the roads in Central Province, for it could have taken 3. We get to Nairobi Hospital, and they deny her entry. After giving her a quickie checkup at the lobby, and refusing her admission without something like 600 to 800,000 shillings on the spot. It was around 10pm, either Sunday 13^th or Monday 14^th. 

·     The Aga Khan University Hospital, gracefully admitted her, at around 1 am the following day, after some skillful negotiations by my old man – a retired Kenyan Major, my uncle – a high ranking retired CID officer, my cousins Jon and Nick – both professionals, the latter a Lecturer and Nurse at the Aga Khan University Hospital. I will be eternally grateful to these and others involved for that gesture. Giving ma a peaceful end. 

·     Fuck Aga Khan Hospital! The very next day after ma got admitted, she kept touching her chest, and I kept telling the doctors that she was trying to tell us something. Something, about her chest. The doctor said that she was complaining about the tubes. For 10 days, they operated on her twice or thrice – didn’t do the bill any ill, I'm sure – but never once did a thing about her chest.

·     Post mortem revealed that ma’s organs went into shutdown sometime around 11pm 21^st July 2008 (my sister’s birthday) and that her ribs were broken and had perforated her lungs. She died trying every day for 10 days to tell us about her broken ribs.

Cool Kenya sucks,

Cool Kenya ducks,

Cool Kenya fucks,

And yes; Cool Kenya…

Can suck and fuck a duck.

·     Then the reception has the audacity to simply include procedures going to hundreds of thousands of shillings that were not performed on ma, and lumping them onto the carpet size receipt they prepared along with her body bag.

The first time I walked into the Nairobi Hospital, ma had exhausted all her options trying to prove to herself that what I had, which led me to convulse ever so vigorously and pass out, was not epilepsy. In a fit of last grasp straws, she took me to the Nairobi Hospital for a CT scan, MRI and all that brilliant med techno gizmo stuff. Eventually it proved only what I told her after the first fall…what the doctor at a Nakuru Hospital after one of the most comprehensive blood work in the history of comprehensive blood works corroborated…what the Sister at the Starehe Boys’ Centre and School clinic told her on our first consultation, when I fell rather dramatically during Roll Call…what my uncle at Kenyatta Hospital suspected before he suggested a brilliant Neurologist at Kenyatta…what the neurologist said after a coupla physical tests…

The last time I walked out of the Nairobi Hospital, my mum’s organs were essentially ticking time bombs waiting to explode her to Shangri-La.

The last time I walked past the Nairobi Hospital, last week Tuesday, was almost exactly 4 years to the day I last walked out. Feet dragged me past the Silver Springs Hotel, all the way down past the entrance to what is now to me but a mere symbol of Kenyan pomposity, and the ludicrous lethargy of common thoughtless thought. I walked a mile in those shoes, to a business meeting, and for the first time in four years, felt my mum’s presence in me.

I can hardly say any more right now. Just 3 things. FUCK YOU all!!! Fuck Aga Khan, Fuck Nairobi Hospital, and FuckFuckFuck Nyahururu Private Hospital. 

But mostly fuck me to darned hell and never back. Fuck us all. 

Fuck us for paying you, Kenya, every day - to kill us. Fuck us for donating blood to your blood banks, Kenya, only to never receive it in time; when we need it. Despite needing it. In spite and pure malice of the fucked fact that it is available and goes to waste in 72 hours anyways. 


Fuck us for being too scared to come out and say we were angry for these gross atrocities masquerading as Health Services. And Fuck Kenya…

Because matter-of-factly, if ma were important (read rich) enough – somehow – these same hospitals would have found a way to keep her alive.

In a more objective piece of relativity, I now do not accept exploitation in any way. And neither should you. Argue, like I do, when the matatu guy insists that you should sit in fours on a 3 seater. That is what art and protest means to me. At least it did when I walked off a jav yesterday and refused to pay the conductor when he tried to pull that stunt. Argue, like I just did, when the shopkeeper charges you, this morning, 14 shillings for the same egg you bought at 12 shillings yesterday. The same egg you can buy at 10 shillings elsewhere. If you don’t fight for your rights, however puny they seem, who will? Do not ever expect me to help you exploit me…or others, for that matter.

To conclude, I will quote a certain gentleman, who in chairing his last meeting as president of a Rotary club in Nairobi, said ‘I thank you for reaching within to embrace humanity this past year, and wish you, for the next year, peace through service.’

                                                                    

Let's School Kenya

So we no more fool Kenya

Pull Kenya

Outta pointless Kenyan drool

Full Kenya

Only then will we get Kenya outta stool

I am me by Flora Rudolf Kimie

This post was put up by my 18-year old sister on Saturday, 12 February 2011 at 02:44...it is almost totally unedited, and to me, quite impressive. Going places sis...

 

Many a times we hide from us... I; 4 instance, hide from me in the spirit of tryna make society fit in me instead of me blendin in it as i am...

Truth b told, our heterogeneous society has many dimensions, faces n edges... N we cant always blend in in it... N neither can we camouflage in it, b'litl ourselves as a defense mechanism n expect to survive... Maybe for a while only...

NOW, BACK TO ME.

Not al who knw about me knw me but al thos hu know me def hav an idea of a lil bit of this n that about me.
My name, my tribe, my 'u name it' n al those atha minute details are jus but a preview of me...

Being brought up in a humble and humbling environment like 'Nyahururu'... #pause, that's a town in kenya... play#, appalled by the poor conditions ruling the region, hard life is al i knw...

Mum brought us up in pain and agony. Not that we were an itch-that she cud easily scratch- or a pain in the neck; but because life squashed, squeezed n smashed al of her efforts to giv us a lavish life, frustratin n even depressing her.

In case u r wondering who 'us' refers to, that's Fred, Pauline n Flora. Yaani, us.

I rem spendin several days and even nights without food... And watchin my neighbours with those big yet inwardly compressed tiny teary eyes, hopin they wud invite me for lunch or sth...

If we were lucky enaf, then that wud mean githeri for breakfast, lunch and supper... So if u are feelin me kiasi, u can imagin hw simple foods like chapo, chipo, chico wud make me 'us' feel... I was that kid that once saw jam and wandad wetha that was blood... I was that kid that saw a carpet and stared in amazement, hopin that it wud fly or sth... And yeah, i was that kid that rejoiced wen mamma gamme a coin coz i knew she had always wanted to do that bt couldnt...

We watched mamma as she added up coins to ensure that she had enaf for our school fees. And therefore we knw that we had to work hard to make her proud... And we did just that; taking up all first positions... In mamma's arms we wept, n even questioned God's undying luv. But we didnt giv up... And believe you me, we were a happy family.

With those few coins,,, we managed to squeeze our humble selves in lavish xuls... And that's wea it al began.
For the 1st time it was clear that some 'towns' declined to associate with one that aint even recognized much in our maps. In atha wadz, i dint fit in....

Many constituted themselves into classes quite distinct from mine... N my 'chopnes' din min a thing...
So to make me feel better, i had to remind them n me too -dadi ni sonko-... Blah blah blah... Long story short, that's how i choz to liv in xul... Feel rich inwardly... Maybe tell some so. N that way i convinced me that I was...

Then one day,,, death rudely budged in and took mamma away from me'us. My bestfriend. My only source of motivation. My shield. My shoulder. My lover... Jus like that... For many nights i peered into the dark night blankly. And i sneered. And almost made air gasp for air. Life made no sense at al... For she was my life...

But later on i thot... Mamma wasnt ashamed of being her. Never... So y should i be afraid of being me!!!
Y should i run away from all the beautiful things she taught me???

So here i am... I proudly admit that hard life is stil the only friend i know... As i write this i am in a two-bedroomed apartment; tiny n warmed up by the love of my family...

I don give a damn about my surroundings n how intimidatin they may be coz mark my wads

#TMORO THEY WIL HAV MY NAME STAMPED ON THEM.

I 'WE' am'ARE' me'US'.

Tomorrow... by Princess Poker

a Guest post from a lovely lady I'm privileged to know

When i look ahead,

i can only see the limits between me and the sea,

Some hopes fade,

some beliefs melt away; my night meets my day,

And the sun

cries together with the moon,

My flowers in bloom bow to the unknown,

and i expect what my heart can't predict or see,

The future veiled, the past transgressed,

transfixed i am when i realize, that i don't know my own name,

My identity,

the wind will bring when the humming birds sing,

My hands, tied,

don't breathe anymore,

My blind eyes are still looking

for the promises that only a helpful soul or a forgetful mind can give,

My body...oh, my tormented body wants

...needs to live,

My fate belongs to the stars,

bruised hands touch my tender scars,

Something in me cries, something in me dies,

And tomorrow is more than just another day,

Tomorrow is a new opportunity

to say what makes me tongue-tied,

Tomorrow is all i have to awaken infinity...

Mateso: Aluta Continua

The following is an exposé that appeared last year on Plus254.com. For the prelude to this post, click here. Same writer © All rights reserved.

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By Maina Fred Wambugu (aka Yule Mbois Mndialala) 




The proposed draft may have its pitfalls and inherent flaws, but having battled close to a month to bring justice forth from the abyss within which it clearly resides in our current constitution and its misconstrued implementations, perhaps nobody has a greater incentive to see the old regulations replaced by a new rule of law than Mary Wanjiku, an Actuarial Sciences student in one of our public universities.

Of course Mary is but one of the millions of Kenyans who cannot quite access their fundamental right to justice, but in lieu of the burden she has had to carry around with her since Easter, she has every right to be exasperated with the turtle-race pace at which her marathon towards a just finishing line has progressed. 

On the eve of Good Friday, as published in 'Mateso: R.E.S.Pia C. Maboy Tumekosa', Mary was lured into a trap by two of her friends, and in the aftermaths of a night of wild fun, ended up being raped in Buruburu phase 3. Whether she was a willing party in the binge drinking and raving is a matter of conjecture at this point in time, with the only clear thing being the anguish she has had to deal with - the Nairobi Women's Hospital doctor who allegedly examined her that morning, and without even pointing her to a counselor, told her to "have a nice day"; the Gender department in Buruburu Police Station, who would not budge without receiving a petty 'bribe' to kick-start the investigation process; and last but certainly not least, the delay in the publication of her ordeal, owing much to the slow pace of official investigations.

The Coalition on Violence Against Women - a Kenyan network of individuals and organizations committed to eradicating violence against women - says that violence is not only physical, but psychological and mental. Yet to this day, the suspects are yet to record any official statement or at the very least be interrogated by the police. Meanwhile, Mary is routinely taking an assortment of anti-retro viral medication, still unsure what the full repercussions of that night are going to be on her future. She has twice had to sit in a doctor's examination room, disrobed and in the company of other rape victims as she awaits the medical evaluation required to somewhat fortify her case, as the culprits continue to go to work and conduct their affairs as though nothing had happened.

The scales of Justice appear firmly tipped against women's right to have their dignity respected.

Every person has inherent dignity and the right to have that dignity respected and protected. At least that is what the draft constitution would have you legally entitled to. On Thursday 1st April, Mary would have felt undignified by a suggestion that the following morning's events would occur to anyone she knew, let alone herself. The fact that the act committed against her was instigated by her ex-boyfriend and his pal only serves to amplify the mistrust she now undoubtedly carries with her, and the pain she subsequently feels. However, in light of justice thus far denied, perhaps playing devil's advocate may be more instructive than damaging in an attempt to comprehend her ordeal as it stands.

The fact remains that she went out with them out of her own will. She did not leave at any point, nor did she make any indications that she was being forced to consume alcohol. She did not ask any female companions to join them, even when she was quite clearly outnumbered by the guys. She then proceeded to get inebriated and eventually went to Buruburu, where the two had allegedly conspired to have sex with her under the influence of alcohol. Mary had been in a sexual relationship with Lenny*, and consented to having sex with him. While she claims the sexual interaction with Lenny's best friend was not consented to, she was not restrained, nor did she scream during the encounter. Upon leaving their house afterward, she did not tell anyone of the people in the vicinity about what had happened, and went directly to Hurlingham Medicare Plaza. Any evidence thus far collected would prove either inconclusive, circumstantial or ineligible in a Kenyan Court of law, on the current constitution. Many would consider details held to be hearsay, and with the heavy dose of negligence by official investigators, conclude that there is no case.

Mitigating circumstances however do arise. Several witnesses have come forward since - though as yet not to the police - claiming that the two have been involved in similar cases before. Interviews with students at the Kenya School of Professional Studies and a couple from the Nairobi University indicate that they have been marked as 'bad boys' for their habit of getting girls drunk and having their way with them. There may yet be a case to build for Mary, and it should be our collective hope that such behavior is dealt with in the strongest possible means by the law, to curb cases of Gender-Based violence in Kenya. 

Attorney General (AG) Amos Wako acknowledged in 1999 that,

''[v]iolence against women pervades all social and ethnic groups. It is a societal crisis that requires concerted action to stem its scourge... Culture does influence the relationship between the various groups in society and...some cultural practices, beliefs and traditions have had the tendency to relegate women to a second class status in society thereby not only violating their rights as human beings [but] leading to discrimination against women. Some...customs and cultural practices have found their way not only into law but...[are used] as justification for violence against women.''

Yet, despite its moral and legal obligations, the government has not reformed Kenya's laws to make all acts of violence against women criminal offenses, nor has it addressed the discriminatory practices of the police force, prisons services and court system. Perhaps with a new constitution, the likes of Mary who were raped during the 2007/2008 Post Election Violence may be closer to receiving justice against their oppressors.

Lady Justice continues to cast a glum stare on victims of rape and Gender-Based violence.

But before then, the judicial system and legal structure must endeavor to do more than just expect rapists to get caught red-handed for the cases against them to have a just result. 

*Not the suspect's real name

The Pawns of Reality

 

Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn’t go away. It’s a part of growing up, learning things the hard way if you like. It’s a lesson for which you may need to endure endless hours of boring lectures, with no real measurable degree of finality to its insanity. Even then, only a working knowledge of this phenomenon can be hoped for, and hardly any expertise.

Many a times have I gone for the easier common course of classic denial, but ironically, that many a times I have come to realize the very same lesson I so tried to evade. Reality: that in-your-face cold-bloodedness of fact which you can only succeed in trying in vain to escape. I remember sitting up all night that cruel morning, labouring to convince myself that it hadn’t really happened. Busy trying to force my mind to disregard the plain logic my eyes had unmistakably witnessed; what my ears had infallibly heard; the insurmountable pain that had riddled my every fibre long before the truth was finally shoved down my throat, ripping my gut apart.

Despite all the evidence having been registered somewhere within my being, I still would not allow myself to believe that she was gone. I found myself conversing reclusively with my own psyche. Like a Machiavellian lawyer, I was ready to turn my back on all the proof of my loss, relentless in my effort to let her live on in my saddened intellect’s deception. The only problem though, was that this – unlike many little lies I have told myself before – was one lie everyone else could see right through. A lie that only I could fall victim to, and do so willingly, if only for a day or two more of her presence, a lack thereof that I could not even begin to fathom.

To everyone who was abreast with my forlorn figure and the knowledge of her sudden progression to non-existence, my headstrong commitment to forge on without ever flinching met mixed reaction. Within the week or two before her epitaph on her headstone was finally inscribed and cast - for all intents and purposes - into a wilderness, some thought my apparent nonchalance improper. Others yet commended my display of bravery for the sake of my siblings. But when you don’t have too much in the way of options, you tend to stick to your guns. I refused to conform, refused to do what I ‘should’ have been doing. Only much later did I come to understand that there was no should  , no script, to grieving a mother.

One thing remained as sure as the very death that had robbed me of her; sooner or later reality would hit home...and hit it did. In fact, it didn’t quite hit home, much as it tore it down and blew every bit of it away. I’ve heard it said that grief looks different on everybody, and I certainly didn’t make it look too good. I know, it shouldn’t have, but in my effort to stand firm, I actually pushed beyond my limits, zooming past the stages of acceptance in an inebriated blur, only to awake to the buzz of sober defiance every next dawn.

It’s hard to understand why it’s always the good ones that seem to go first, and to a great degree, the harsh reality of reality itself drove me to justify doing the wrong thing. After all, the villain always ends up smiling doesn’t he? That’s the sad thing with justifications – their repercussions do not ever occur to us beforehand, and in the off chance that they do, we tend to be at the ready, bat in hand, itching to go down swinging at them.

Friends, however, can be a timely lifeline in the most abyssal of oceanic trenches we find ourselves drowning in when fate turns a deaf ear to our pleas. I came to learn that even the youngest – in some cases even the most immature – of friendships can be what little resource our existence requires to cope with the darkness of reality. I now see that whereas all the hope I could ever grasp at could only really bring me as close to her as a photo could allow, the one resort that keeps me coming back to life is her virtue; the personality she managed to lend me in fortification of my own.

Days when I loaded my gun and cocked it ready to blow my despairing inexistence away, her hand would jam on the trigger; her memory would jilt me awake when I tried to fade away in sleep; and every moment I felt like taking leave from the drones of life, her own determination for it would shame me into taking that extra step. Now I have finally found the will to move on, dug myself out of my own grave; for her memory points out who I am, who she always meant for me to become. I choose to be here, for this – unlike the series of coincidences and plans, sorrows and tragedies, skill and luck my life has borne – this I can actually control. This is, after all, my reality.

And while there are ephemeral moments when I feel the urge to summon my life’s chess-master and question him on the absurdities of it all – and by question I mean torture to the point of death – this realization has helped restore an aspect of feigned sanity back into my life. Eventually, there is wisdom in avoiding a quarrel between our past and our present, lest we lose the bearing on our future. I very nearly did, having had to deal with irritatingly incessant clichés in the way of emotional acumen from my unwitting hearties.

I found myself thinking, every time one of those was bandied around towards me in what I can only imagine was empathy:

Everything happens for a reason...

'Gimme one good one that applies here...'

She’s in a better place...

'Really? What better place could you possibly have in mind?'

Thing is, everyone who believes in an afterlife hopes to be headed towards Shangri-La, yet not one of them wants to hear that their date with the hereafter has been brought forward to, say, next week. So, she’s in a better place? Spare me the brouhaha, because frankly you’d be at pains akin to childbirth just trying to imagine the peculiarities of the extent to which such sentiments lack meaning to me. The ironic beauty of being barely on the other side of this battered bridge is that my relation with others in similar fate in my later years will be guided by hindsight, and the insight that we share only a grand plan – a theorem – of reality. Its practical applications and implications in our lives, however, are pretty much situational.

Life is only 10 percent what we make it. The other 90 is all about how we take it.


RIP Ma,