The Diss Missive: A Rebuke of Dance Masquerades in #Kenya

 ~ by Anon E., Mass of Wandrous Wonder.


My immediate reaction, upon receiving a response from my good friend Anon E., to my publishing her thoughts recently, were:

"Chicca has a brilliant mind; but does she know that?"

When I told her this, she responded ever so, erm, shall we call it subtly proud? 

"Brilliant mind - so I've been told. I choose to NEVER compliment myself. Especially after too many people have been telling me about my big dendai."

Then she proceeded to make my morning. As I hope she may yours:

The Diss Missive

Hey Freddy,

This is one of those moments where I'm sending an e-mail using my
phone, crossing my fingers, hoping it'll go through.

Random thought this evening - it's been ages since I danced. 

In
public, with other people, up there, on a dance floor.

Only problem is, I DON'T miss that type of dancing that takes place on
Kenyan floors. 

You know, coitus erectus - damn; that pun.

I miss the 'innocent' dance moves where little touch was required;

 like the dance-offs, amongst Michael Jackson aficionados. 

Plus the
tension accompanied by the transition from upbeat to mellow; 

the
summons to the slow dance.

Now it's all bump-and-grind; come-hither then cum at your-place-or-mine.

Art by l'Artista Kenita

As a
courtship ritual it's too easy; just as are the subsequent hook-ups. 

And...
too plain... too;

 boring.

I miss the intricacies of the dance, the kind that starts first;

fast

 with a
meeting of the eyes. 

Then a mutual appreciation of a beat, leading to
a set of gyrations 

whose dialectics portray the individuality of the
persons involved. 

Unlike now where the dance floor is nothing more
than a place for the id to let loose.

...okay I can't seem to find an appropriate ending to this set of
words. Probably because it's past 10 pm, and my body is wired to shut
down after this hour.

Over and out!

Anon E. Mass of Wandrous Wonder.

Omnia - A poem by The Sun's Roof

One of my brothers from another father, possibly mother too, has been beaten by about as many bugs as have infested the blog owner, yours truly Yule.

I recently read a piece that talks about how an artist - which to me is a way of thinking, of living, of doing - invests his best writing in his/ her truths

 

Because at the end of it all, if as an artist you cannot make them feel, think or do -

not as you felt, thought or did - but as they themselves felt, thought and did in similar situations, then you fail before you take off.

Today, my brother, has failed not one bit.Here's an email I received from him early yesterday morning, about what one can only assume is the art of experience. Or is it the experience of art, drawn from experience?

 

And now, my brother Roof-sun. A poet, a writer, an artist. He also works as an engineer.

                                                                            ****

Her fragrance was Omnia. 

inThync Kenya

For an instance in time she engulfed me in its essence, her essence. 
And I, like many men before me, faltered...but only just so.
Days of hope and heartbreak culminated in one moment of resistance, 

the ultimate stand,
that I be the seducer and she the tempted one.  

At the edge, we danced, of fate, of life, of bliss and torture.
She side-stepped, I pirouetted, dizzy with the fantasies of youth and adulthood but caressed lightly.  

The night wore on, and so did we, languidly teasing each other, a sparring of hearts and wits.
Was it fear, or favour or what lesser men call common sense, that she whispered herself away into the cold night, 
leaving me with memories of longing and ponderings of time: past, present and future? 

Alas, as 'tis said, 'twas not but to be, that this perfect stranger, rakish and unsated, took flight on wings of sobriety, 
forgetting me in the twilight of our shared sins.
My heart now belts a steady nocturne, soulful and sombre, yet exhilirated at the taste of heaven seduced, 
the taste of hell's pleasures on my tongue.

She smelled beautiful.

She smelled like the promise of sex: feral and desperate,
yet barely contained.
A promise that was never made and somehow still broken.

Surrounded by a halo of electricity,
we were attracted to her danger: suicidal moths.
I spent an eternity with her in one night,
the one chosen from many...... Or was I?
Her kisses were dry and her skin cold.
Her smiles seemed empty, practiced and plastic.
Warmth I only found in whole women.
She was a trophy.

My pride was short-lived, a reflection of our shared insanity.
Yet, was she less because I could not claim her, conquer her?
Was she no more a woman, a lover, a friend,
because my pride was thwarted?

Much like the annoying moth?

In my weak moments, I wonder, what could have been?
What would have come out of our sinful union?
Green eyes watched us, as we danced and laughed
and made a mockery of friendship.
I lit that green fire and basked in its glow,
its radiance massaging this fragile heart.

Her fragrance was Omnia.

And, in a twist of longing and fate,
I seduced the green fire and turned it red.

Is this what it is to be a man,
to hold and to hurt and to promise to hold again yet only hurt again?
In the cold of early morning, my demons took flight,
Leaving me scarred and scared.

I saw my self for what I was: crooked and conceited.

This lust is a tantrum,

A mortal's obsession with the one considered angelic.
And angels are but demons and demons angels.

The dust cleanses with its settling and reality burns away the fantasies.
Yet, here I remain, watching, waiting for her return.

****

Relationship 101s [Part II]: Taking Pussy Blogging Offline

I’ll admit that there was a time when Mika’s track Toy Boy was a favourite on my playlist. I'd sing along as he told of being ‘a windup toy in an up down world,’ wallow in self-deprecation as he cried ‘toys are not sentimental,’ asking ‘how could I be for rental,’ before going full-on mental bawling how ‘she’s the meanest hag that has ever been, pulled out my insides with an old safety pin.’

Now, however, I take my formative years in pussy woose manhood, as far as relationships are concerned, as a purple heart - though black and blue could be a more appropriate colour - from the Iraqi insurgent minefield that is the dating world.  

Allow me to paraphrase a conversation I had on Facebook recently regarding being the nice guy to women.

First woman: I want to have a nice close male friend without him having to feel that I am using him just because I am not sleeping with him. Do men have to be so sex-centered as to complain about genuine platonic friendship just because they are not getting sex out of it? Nice guy, my foot!

Second woman: I disagree with the spirit in which this article is written; I can't derive enough from it except the usual jibber jabber. If someone is going to be a friend, BE a friend. Don't expect any medals and trophies because you are a 'friendly guy.' Be human first and foremost. A lot of friendships are not always beneficial to our needs and to our 'peace of mind' , so we cut them off and look for other friendships, not stick around hoping to be given an applause for sticking in the wrong friendship for waaay longer than you should have.

Present me: Speaking as a 'former nice guy,' I'll throw a small spanner into the works. First off, I agree with both of you; now to my addendum. For heterosexuals, a male-female friendship differs greatly from a [fe]male-[fe]male one. The key difference, I suppose, is that the guy's shoulder to lean on (or chic's, if the roles reverse) has the tendency to be misused. This is especially true in cases where the guy/chic hits on the chic/guy, takes her/his rejection on the chin like a boss and cultivates a friendship because he/she was brave enough to take the bold step asking, and is mature enough to look past rejection and see the worth, the value, in the other person. Or is simply deluded/ lame enough to take the rejection as a 'maybe later...'

Now, if, or when, the guy/chic watches as the chic/guy goes through one bad boy/girl after another, after the next, ad nauseum ad infinitum, is the natural feeling not to feel resentment of her/his annoying lack of better judgement? Is it not fair, for them, to compare their sticking by this friend through it all, through all of the friend's flings, and find himself/herself a more worthy object of her/his affection?

And more so when she/he turns around, and, to his/her face says, 'Haki nyinyi wanaume/ wanawake... I'm done with you all.' Would such a reaction be justifiable then?

Second woman: You know what? I agree with you absolutely! I have come across such people as well and as much as we were unwilling participants in their stupidity we experienced it. Mine was just to point out that getting disappointed and feeling resentment as a result of being rejected is a normal human experience. Everyone goes through them; singling oneself out as the 'good guy' because you think you experience it more than usual is shallow to say the least. Case in point, the rant in that article.

 *Ps: the ranting guy comes off more misogynistic than your 'usual guy'...

Present me: So your 'usual guy' isn't free of misogyny, just less of a chauvinist, aye Second woman?  And here I thought I could prance along feeling bigger than the next guy because I care about women in general. On the real, though, I get where you're both coming from with the responses. I read the piece and it connected with good ol' guy Freddy, so I'm not gonna sit here and pretend that I did not enjoy it. Rereading it through your eyes, though, I'll be the first to admit that kaleidoscopes count for a lot. I viewed it through the prisms of past 'friend-zones' gone corrupt, you viewed it through those of male chauvinism meets hypocrisy. Lesson well-learned. And one that I cannot, still, promise not to unlearn. O, what numbers you women have done to this wretched soul!

First woman: Actually, I think the nice guy is a pussy. He doesn't have enough balls to ask her out, so he hangs around for years, whining to everyone but her, that she won’t give him a chance. I mean, if she is really misusing him and taking advantage of him and he seems to be that convinced of this, why doesn't he walk away? I'm sorry... But he is a dumb pussy at that!

Present me: Speaking as a former - I hope – pussy, I'll say this much. At first you say nothing because you're afraid you'll lose the friendship. Which is precisely why a pussy does not walk away (that, and coz unlike a dick, it has no legs either.) So it sits and watches as the candle that is its 'love' try to cook the food that is her affections for it.

However, when it later learns to quit being - for lack of a better expression - such a big pussy, it starts actually saying something when it likes a woman, and becomes only a small pussy when, after the rejection, it still hangs around and hopes for better luck later. Then finally it becomes a small dick, trying to copy the dudes with the big cajones (that bit is very true we do copy you insensitive pricks out there.)  Eventually it becomes a bit of a she-male; a macho man with a big dick prone to moments of (pussiness?)  

Because when it finds the one that matters, it still can't walk away; no matter how hard it wants to shove her away.

Second woman: J J She-male!

First woman: Btw, just so you know, I did like the article. You posted two so I am not even sure I am commenting on the right one. Lol… I am sorry for you and what you've had to go through. To be honest, I am not that sorry, but I empathize with the nice guy. So, I will avoid making it personally about you.

Is it that the nice guy has such a low sense of self worth or is it that nothing else (and by nothing, I mean NOTHING) is going on in his life? "Because when it finds the one
that matters, it still can't walk away…"

What do you do when the person you love won't and will never love you back? Is it worth staying? Is it worth committing to failing endeavours? Or is this just another case of deliberate self harm?

Present me: Part of the brilliance that comes with a pussy's past, in perspective, is a thick hide. There, no catching a feeling in my role as ex-pussy, because as one might imagine, a feeling was thrown at my 'past projects' and like a boomerang, sucker-punched me in the nose. Still haven't learnt to catch a feeling thrown or so perceived yet, so feel free to dig into me. Empathizing with a pussy...let me stop that analogy while it's still politically correct.

On my favourite subject of wrist-cutting masquerading as unconditional love, I'll say this much. Yes, the guy's self-esteem is for shit. It's blind, assumes that to really be seen, it cannot be seen through the guy's eyes, but through hers. Something usually is going on in this pussy's life, it just chooses to prioritize being poked by her over the 99 other problems it has to swallow (ok, those two I couldn't avoid.) And when the pussy learns, I mean truly realises, that its pursuit for 'the one that matters' is futile, she becomes the one that got away, and, at least in this she-male's case, remains truly good friends with her. Again, in true pussy fashion, only if she so chooses!

CONCLUSION

Here's what I think about the idea that guys who "catch feelings" are any less manly than the other guy:

• First off, who came up with this expression 'to catch feelings?' What were they thinking? How exactly are said feelings thrown for them to be caught? Do they boomerang when not caught and "return to sender?" Is there some sorta Major League Feelings out there, and if so, do said feelings get thrown as a curveball or just straight up sucker punch you in the gut?

• While it may seem woosy to 'take things too seriously' or, heaven's forbid, overreact to a situation, a lesson in History will remind us that perhaps we're looking at it the wrong way. The Trojan War, from whence the brilliant idea to infect your computer with seemingly friendly gifts that explode on impact [Trojan Horses] came, began due to an overreaction. Men perished in droves because two men caught feelings over Hellen of Troy. And on the matter of holding grudges, it was once considered rather bold to hold a grudge... see Mau Mau war and Spartacus. So technically, dear wooses, you're in good company.

Grudges, however, are rather mundane and juvenile. To quote William Blake:

"I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I  told it not, my wrath did grow."

THE END.

Relationship 101s [Part I]: Taking Pussy Blogging Offline

There’s a lot to not understand about me. I put a lot of myself out in the open; sometimes inadvisably so, I’ve been told. Hell, half the time I don’t even know why I do what I do. Why I still write posts titulated such as this, despite knowledge of the fact that potential wads of cash – employers, not Nairobi senator Mike Sonko – lurk in mine online shadows.

Why I don’t think I’ll melt if I say pussy, or cock and such; or that I may be smote by more than just an overzealous friend or two for saying that religion oughta be banned for inculcating the very principles that sustain tribalism in Kenya. 

*insert chirping cricket*

I can see you exiting stage-left already, O mighty smiters of the lost souls.

So for the handful of you still reading, this professed atheist (I know, it’s getting old, innit?) and elaborate plagiarist continues to attempt itemizing his self. So polish your plumes to a dandy sheen, as a good friend says, and dig in.

1.      I am a man, contrary to misgivings of the inbox kind. I’m talking gender here, not debates on how uber-agressively inconsiderate manly men should behave. For that argument, scroll down further. To those strange men who do not realize that my Facebook pseudonym refers, quite literally, to “That Troublemaker Guy,” I’m talking to you. So don't call me hun or sweety again.

2.      I have been in love with that girl, coz she told me she was in love with me. The less said about that fallacy, the better. For Pete’s (and my) sake.

3.      I don’t much care for Big-wiggery, translated as the number of followers one has. Follow me if you like, but that’s about it. No expectations from me, none from you either. I do, however, give a lotta damns and dimes about the quality of followers and followings. The real relationships, those tweeps who’d bail you outta real jail at a moment’s tweet if it came down to it. Lessons well learnt by, among others, Martha Karua and Peter Kenneth recently. Oh, and yeah, I do call Twitter Twirra or Twirraville. One of my newfound friends thinks first meetings on Twitter are called Tweetroductions, while the other calls herself a Tweetsation. Accept and move on.^a

4.      I was once the quintessential nice (extended belch) guy. I still relate with and understand that rare abused species. Not rarely abused; rare and abused. I may have evolved into something else, as yet un-labelled or -defined, but the kind that still thinks it ok for a guy to embrace smiley faces on Social Media, as opposed to stupid abbrevs like Lol, and pseudo-onomatopoeias like ‘buhahaha!’ or worse even, ‘tihihi!’

And while I will for the most time walk away from a war of words on the status of my manhood [not that one, the general one] the same way I prefer to evade religious discourse, I do indulge myself in defending my roots. The so called United Woosedom, henceforth fondly referred to as the big girl's blouse closet, that has become of 'our men'.

5.      I do Karaoke/ Open Mic, and scream like a little girl when I’m impressed with a performance, complete with hands down and hinds up. Ok, more like a loud obnoxious prick; but, still. When unimpressed, I whip out my phone and tweet nonsense (when drunk and hardly bothered,) groupie hugs (when drunk and not listening to those on stage,) and pure unadulterated bile at event organizers (when not drunk.)

6.      Safaricom is my operator of choice as much as an ICC suspect is my president of choice. More than occasionally, however, the cockscrew on that patient theory has been tested when the network decides to go hard on this here client, totally ignoring the lube. On those annoying occasions, like many a client, I cheat on Safcom with my less vigorous and somewhat inefficient Zain line.

7.      I am friends with practically ALL my exes. See bullet 4 above. Especially the exes that 'mattered', who incidentally riddled 'past me' with bullet-holes; the so-called ones that got away.

You might think ‘friends’ is an overstatement. Good for you. But here’s what I mean…during my nice guy phase, I have been inspired to write publicly about 3 particular women I was ‘dating’. I use the term loosely, because in one of the 3 cases, it was more of an over-glorified summer romance that lasted all of 17 days. Mainly because she was only in Kenya on holiday, and I bumped into her – erm, no puns – in the tail end [stop that, no giggling either!] of her stay here before she had to go back Down Under [OK I give up].

Perhaps, maybe, that she was 6 years older than me also mattered. OK, and she had a boyfriend, who was visibly not me. Woooosah… Moving on swiftly, I am still friends with her. Sort of; her husband doesn't much like it. She got married pretty recently; and yes, to that boyfriend.

None of the other two lasted longer than 3 months either.

The one, is what beings not quite as linguistically refined as me might call a first love. I call her my introduction to the utter mind and soul fuckeries of human worship. She featured distinctly in the relic that is my first year on Campus, before stamping on what Ihad mistakenly thought to be my icebox, then proceeding to leave the country altogether. You’re allowed one bottie of jokes on past me’s account. And if I see “he has that effect on women” anywhere in that bottle, I’m not picking up the tab on past me’s behalf either.

Incidentally, OOMF [one of my followers] on Twitter and in real life also dated her. And we’re all one big happy family of Friends. Like the show. She’s also planning her wedding. Inn’ life grand?

And to top the list off is the other; my last ex. I wrote about our meeting about a month into the opening of this blog. I was dating her at the time. Fast-forward to the present, and she is happily married, expecting a bundle of joy. She married a good friend of mine; who was a good friend of mine while I dated her. And is an even better friend of mine today, not to mention their both being my business associates. I might even be godfather if I play my cards right!

8.     I also have friends of the female species, who are simply, friends. Not the woman you can’t date because you wouldn't bear to be seen with her so she becomes your friend, more in consideration of her feelings than your reservations about being seen with her. I mean smart, beautiful, women. Not the kind you wanna date but due to poor timing on your end you’re conscripted to the friend zone. Nope. The kind who become ‘your boys’ without you ever forgetting just how woman they really are. The kind your girlfriend’s insecurities might understandably peak around. And the kinds, as in one particularly sad tale, whose boyfriends like forbid to ever speak to you again like ever.

So am I the only lonely man? And have I noticed that 2 of the 3 women I talked about earlier married the guy they dated after (or during) me? No I’m not, and yeah I did. But that’s a story for a whole other day.

See part II

a.       The expression to Accept and Move on, is a phrase that has been added to an expansive array of phrases in Kenyan humour since the recent elections, during which the losing candidate, despite there being concerns that there may have been foul-play involved in President UK’s win, was asked to concede, accept and move on. The expression, in Urban Kenyan Lingo, is now used to mock sore losers. 

Plagiarist Beginnings: In League with Clay's Court, and Other Extraordinary Gentlemen

~

These are the Confessions of a literary 'one hit' wonder man.

Originally uploaded at Memorial Univerity 

~ 

On July 7, 2007, I was fortunate enough to be bored with proceedings at the Carnivore Grounds, sometime between 1 and 2 am. Come to think of it, it was actually 8^th July. I have a thing for dates, and the general correlation of numbers to situations.

Why I remember the date, perhaps? Because it was Saba Saba (7-7), a date immortalized by the number of times it inspired dread in my childhood owing to the magnanimous fimbo ya nyayo that clamped down on dissent annually on the date due to its significance in Multi-party politics? I can recall the many times I scaled walls as a kid to escape the onslaught of General Service Unit (GSU) policemen unleashed by Moi's hounds. Ok, that one's a lie. I wasn't scaling walls to escape them, but rather to watch them manhandle women and children - and a few potato sacks - from within the confines of my gated community, aka the ¼ acre plot we shared with 15 other tenants under Lord Landlady's eagle eyes.

But that ain't it. That's not why I recall 7^th July 2007 so vividly. It's a less nationalistic reason, that being that my birthday falls on 8th August, aka Nane Nane (8-8) – not really – and the chicita I was wooing then was celebrating her birthday on that day. 7^th July. It made for a quite interesting – in my mind – opener to the said woo conversation.

“Your birthday's 7^th July? Mine's 8^th August! We're meant to be together! [sick]”

Anyway, as I said earlier, I was fortunately – in retrospect – sufficiently bored sometime between 1 and 2am at Carni. Which is how I found myself gravitating away from the chicita, who'd been filling my eardrums to percussive inefficiency with the drole humdrum drones of how her soon-to-be ex was such a pig. Somewhat fortuitously, I escaped to the Dormans stall for a mug of coffee, and happened to end up engaging with one of the few chaps I found grabbing a caffeine fix himself. While the details of how or why this conversation began escape me - despite my being a teetotaler then - it would end up serving as quite the encounter.

We got a-talking about the legal profession with my new-found curious amigo amicus curiae, given he was venturing towards legal study, as was I at the time. After quite the exchange of ideas, banter and whatnots, he would then go on to ask me if I read blogs, and suggest a particular one. Being as I was the archetypal young man then, prone never to ask for directions, I omitted the fact that I had no clue what a blog was, content in the knowledge that my amicus omniscientae Google knew what it was. [Ok, that's the end of the terrible amicus inventions.]

The blog he recommended that I read, was thinkersroom, when he was still on Blogger.com. The blogger whose literary fodder was so good (still is, only less frequent) for so long that he was cited severally by International News outlets long before blogging became every [wo]man's accessory. And ignominiously, the same man whose works were subjected to a poor 'publicity stunt' by none other than Clay Muganda, who reprinted his work on his column in the Daily Nation's pages, citing it merely as 'available on the Internet.'

I was reminded of plagiary, and my own not-so-humble beginnings as I read Nyanchwani's blogpost last week, about how men should never be the good guy to women; one MMK (Media Madness Kenya, perchance?) chided and derided him publicly in the comments section about using two pieces of writing without citing them; I stopped myself in my own tracks before I could even consider rising up to judge him. I think it's only fair that I not be so quick to cast stones, given my own glass house being built on its own small foundation of plagiarism.

I. Plagiarised. @Roomthinker. No point justifying it. An explanation, nay – an elaboration of how it happened – I will, however allow myself.

It began when I started, in the second week of July 2007, reading Roomthinker's posts. Boy were they good. I enjoyed them a whole lot. So much so that I started pulling down some of his posts and saving them on my laptop, just in case, for some reason, his blog were to ever go down. As a purveyor of all things literal, that possibility could not be allowed to ever mutate to reality. I was soon in my first year of campus. 2007-2008's PEV happened,and  as I proceeded to my second semester in Varsity, I had a brace of pals – making up the trio of witty, literary musketeers we were – with whom I discoursed everything, from what women know or do not know they want, to what the implications of religion and God's existence – and the lack thereof 'Him' I proposed – meant to life. It was only logical, then, that we would discuss the posts I had saved as copy-pasted word documents on me trusty lappy as well.

A rather unexpected development, however, followed said logic. The posts I had saved on my machine were the only resource I had to share with them of Thinker's work (the Internet, in Moi University Main Campus Eldoret, was a major luxury then, compared to a need for sustenance in the way of supper.) They read the pieces in silence, then congratulated ME for such an affluent degree of sense, reason and wit in equal measure.

I had an option right there. Fess up – technically I hadn't lied yet – to the fact that it was Thinker's work.  Or take the credit for Roomthinker's writings and musings.

Copied from Class Guides

Since we're here discussing plagiary, we can all guess how that option went down.

It doesn't end there though; oh, how I wish.

In 2008, my old lady went to 'rest with the angels' (ironic, that, coming from a professed atheist, no? I tend towards the view that because she believed that's where she'd go, that's where – to her – she is.) My first ever Facebook note was my own lamentation of her passing, and soon I was publishing regularly on Facebook.

I proceeded to post this article lifted off Thinker's blog to my notes, without expressly stipulating that it was 'written by Roomthinker,' or, since I wouldn't actually have known to call him that then, 'initially posted on roomthinker.com by owner.' Immediately, I get a host of comments, especially from womenfolk who liked my writing, telling me how “THIS IS AWESOME!” and I was the “Greatest writer I know!”

Sema conundrum! Especially since the chap who 'introduced me to Thinker,' so to speak, was perhaps the second Facebook friend I added back in 07. Meaning he could read my notes. Cue the cover-up. Edit note settings; exclude @Archermishale from viewing this note!

It was all downhill from there. I did not once say that I wrote the piece, but I did not once correct those who very eloquently thought I had either. At the time, I was writing a lot of Facebook notes, and soon we had moved on to the next good (not “Greatest that ever lived!”) post I actually wrote.

I was also one of a clique of writers, one that has so far produced such success stories as @wagaodongo, @midegaodero and @yenyewe, that was known as Plus254. We had (and still have, somewhat) Facebook groups and pages, campus magazines and at one point even a website, that worked towards building our literary skills collectively. The same piece would go on to be published on our website under one of my past aliases; again, not one word. Having come this far, I figured I might as well be outed by anyone else. I certainly wasn't ready to do it myself.

But unlike Nyanchwani's blogpost, my indiscretions went unnoticed, or at the very least those who noticed weren't as savvy or brazen as the guy who blasted Nyanchwani. Or maybe it was too early in Blogger's days for there to have been an audience big enough to notice, a luxury Clay Muganda's post was not afforded. Neither was Barrack Obama, nor his Deputy Joe Biden, 20 years before him. I like to think that having battled such bigwigs (detest, absolutely, this word and how it's used on Twitter) Thinker had no time to slug it out with juvies.

Today I do not copy anyone's work, and when I base mine extensively on any piece, I am quick to link back to their original work. Thinker included :)

By the time I started out blogging, I'd done academic writing, learnt how to cite works read in writing my journal articles, and basically, matured. I did, however, put up @itsnowrc's post about Nairobi's ChipsFungaz on my blog, a popular post – judging from the close to 7000 hits it's had since. It was well credited, linking back to his site, and I made a point of contacting him randomly on Facebook, informing him that I'd used his piece on my blog. Had he had any reservations, it woulda been pulled down instantly, but as it turns out, he was easy, and I made a new friend to boot.

Why the big effort at elaborating my plagiarism? Well, for a moment as I was writing the piece I did on Mutula's life and death recently, I paralleled the if-by-Mutula fallacy to my own fault start as a writer. Questioned the questionable beginnings based on plagiarism, linking them to Mutula's dark ages, and the rather self-styled writer I now am to his proposed post-Moi renaissance. 

That thought disappeared as fast as it had shown up; after all, my plagiarist foundations did not defend a despot and legally jargonize the rigging of an election, making billions while at it. It only made me seem better than I was at the time; and I got not one cent out of it! At least Clay Muganda got a couple geez outta Thinker's work, though he did go on to lose his column for a while. The Daily Nation's management, including Charles Onyango-Obbo, handled the matter rather diligently, I might add.

So, to the beginners out there. It's easy to fall into the trap of using other people's ideas and claiming them to be your own. In fact, many creatives out there are afraid to let their work be seen, on the off chance that someone will like and copy it. To the first, I say do the easier and ethical thing, and simply credit your sources. Ignoring the misplaced energies spent trying to cover up your theft, it could save you a cereal bowl full of blushes at best; at worst, you could find yourself in a legal conundrum, what with copyright, trademark and patent laws slowly strengthening in Kenya thanks to institutions such as KECOBO, the Kenya Copyright Board, and KIPI, the Kenya Industrial Property Institute.

Borrowed from Pla(y)giarism vs Plagiraism

To the second, I say learn to put yourself out there as an artist. Sure your work may get copied, stolen, reprinted and whatnots. But you know what I do? I take copycats as a compliment. Copycat killers often are big fans of the original killers' work. It's the same here, only that amidst all the copying, stealing and reprinting, someone out there takes notice of what you're doing. 

And you get the call. 

Meanwhile, the copycat has no idea worth selling, and gets tangled up in his own web of lies eventually. 

Sabina's Joy: Experiencing a Hooker's mind...and Bed

In the marriage that wed me to my humanity, my brain usually accepts the typical Kenyan stay at home single mum type of role. Broke, bitter, easy to agitate and open to anything my humanity has to offer. I have to say it's a role it has learned to play with such natural ease, so as you might imagine, impulsiveness comes very naturally to me. I don't think about it. In the words of Prince Nike II, son of His Majesty King Adidas the first, I 'just do it'.

However, as I walk behind Mystique, watching her sultry curves wave to her every step, I suddenly can't help that deer-in-the-headlights gut reaction you get the second before a mugging; when you realize that someone's walking right behind you (an analogy I draw from bitter experience). I muse at the complex simplicity of emotions the past 15 minutes had taken me through. Fear of mistaken identity (and the mob justice that would follow in the way of taunts from my pals on my SJ going ways); relief once I was in; anticipation of what lay ahead; repulsion for the girl who lay legs parted ahead; bemusement at the price of beer; lust, surprisingly, for Mystique...well actually now that I consider it, it shouldn't have been that surprising to discover a well-marketed sales pitch in a brothel. Fast forward through the thrill of actually paying for a room with a  --whore, poko, langa, harlot, kuro, malaya, streetwalker - check whichever name tickles your arrogance-- and we get to the door.


Truth be told, before I got to Sabina Joy, my mind had edited an entire script on Kenyan brothels, set in a dingy neighbourhood with crammy little rooms. I saw layers of used CDs piled  at one corner, strongly pervaded with the kinda putrefaction it takes a compost heap to order Kenyan highlands into fertile submission. I saw women trampse around dressed in next to nothing, cornering every potential client like street hawkers; "Bei ni saw moja customer..."

Nothing had, or perhaps ever could have, prepared me for the impact of the next one hour of experience on a bed with a prostitute. It was a bit like stepping off a state-of-the-art spaceship, and onto the blackened piece of pandora swimming dead in the middle of her eyes.

I have agonized on a way to describe what happened next that would depict the very essence of what it felt like, yet it still feels like I am somehow trapped by that look. The look she gave me as she stood in the middle of the room the very moment I walked in and spoke to her. It was really out of surprise that I uttered those words. Surprise at how quickly she had stripped down to her underfashions, styled in the frugal ways of our very own Ngara's Secrets.


As I studied her solitary figure, crouched in the middle of the room taking her shoes off while her jeans sat on the bed neglected, it occurred to me that I had not even paid her, yet here she was already kicking into gear, her servant body and nonchalant appearance set to their workplace default. What would stop me from paying her once I'd had the conventional shot? That was the precise question I asked. Ok. Maybe not in that wording.


It seemed, for a moment, like the lights went off in her eyes, short-circuited - as she would later reveal - by memories of deals gone sour. She reached for her trousers, and only then did I realize what that thoughtless statement might have sounded like to her. I quickly pulled out a two hundred shillings note and watched the sun come out from behind the clouds that had momentarily clouded her eyes, a curious sparkle replacing the glaze in their brown.


She was now seated on the bed, unwrapping the condom in what I can only imagine was her norm, waiting for me to relieve myself of the abundance of my clothes. So I seat right next to her and ask, "Na hiyo saw mbili ni ya nini?" Mystique explains the rules of the shot to me. It's plain and very simple. Two hundred shillings buys you one position - missionary, I gather - and should you choose any more extravagant positions (say doggy, for instance) you pay an extra two hundred bob. Think of it as a car hire service...the 200 bob would be to rent the car, the extra 200 bob would be kinda like fueling the car. The farther you wanna go, the more rwabays you'd have to spend.

Yet that was not the whole story. If you chose to drive the rental, there was a time limit to it, kinda like a charge per day. Ideally, that two sock buys you around ten minutes, or whatever time it would take you to...well...you get the point.

By this time I had pulled out a cigarette, a bit taken aback at how clean the room actually was. Save for a few daddy long legs and roaches popping in and out of the darker crevices in the room's floor, it was actually rather decent, and far from anything I had pictured on my way in. Pulling a hefty draught from the stick, I mused at the irony of it all, triggered by a conversation I'd recently had with a friend who refers to the brand of cigarettes I smoke as Sigara ya Malaya (SM). 




Having agreed that I would pay her the equivalent of two shots for a drive through her mind, she sits back, still in her drawers, and tells me how she often gets in to trouble with drunks who take their sweet time with the shot, then an hour later decide not to foot the bill. Guys who complain that they came too quickly, so they should be allowed a free encore. Funny thing that. Guys have a thing with directions. We take great care not to ask for them, and Mystique claims that if any of her clients actually did, she could easily guide them through the ten minutes to their fruition.


Campus guys, apparently, had given her a fair deal of trouble. This one time she was desperate to make some cash. It was kinda like a 'last call', the hour when many Kenyan hookers will sleep with any man anywhere and cut their losses after a bad run of business. She'd been drinking with a couple of UoN guys at the SJ pub, and they wanted to leave without taking the shot. So she asks where they're staying, having figured out that they did not want to pay for a room there, and offers to go with them if they pay her 500 bob each.

When they get to Hall 6 (fiction alert), however, and the services are rendered as promised, the guys - now playing on Home ground - decide not to pay her. Cue the conversion of the guy's room into a minibrothel, with Mystique having come up with a plan to make up for lost cash. It was just before Campus exams at UoN began, and it would seem that many of the guys there were on some sort of msusio wa ngono, for as soon as they heard that there was a gal in Hall 6 offering free shots at a hundred bob each, the entire queue for lunch shifted to Kenny's room.


Curious as I was to hear more, however, I tried to remain on course and asked her about @Suenairobi. As I'd pretty much expected, she knew nothing about Nairobi Nights, save for her very own rather interesting version of it. She did however open up about her friends who stole from clients, justifying the fact that they drug customers and rob them clean to make up for days when they themselves got the wrong end of the stick, costing them the serious side of  a thousand bob or two for services rendered. It's all simple logic, really; kinda like Kobil hiking petrol prices when the government raises the fuel levy, and holding them when the levy goes down. Or matatu drivers charging 500% the usual fare when it rains...

As we walked out of the room an hour later, I caught a few glimpses from some of her workmates; they had this "he's a 60-minute man" thing going on in their eyes. I smiled, beat a hasty exit and disappeared into the Nairobi crowds. And loath as I am to admit it lest you think this mug smug, I had chosen to go out of my way to make a prostitute's day. I did. And I will do it again soon...

BEER & CHARACTER - Just another email forward

 I received this email forward and it made my day in more ways than one...My bet is it'll do the same with yours. Few edits hapa kule kama kawaida. Ps: I drink the Arthur...



Did you ever know that the beer you take defines your character?...Well...my brief research has confirmed so and here we go....

This is for the mlevi mwenyewe, the guy that doesn't get drunk. If you see a guy taking Guinness Kubwa kwa club, huyo ni msee wa kunywa vitu zingine za ajaabu akiwa mtaani, the sort of Napoleon, Kane Extra na King King. The guy has landed on Guinness kwa bar coz its the most lethal drink there. It is also claimed it has hidden libido powers; guys are advised to take three Guinnessess before heading home for their conjugal rights. So if you see a guy alone drinking Guinness, just know hes getting lucky tonight.  
   

If it's a chick taking a Guinness, achana na yeye. Those are the types we call wrong  numbers. Those that go to Monte Carlo and Club Chemil for reggae sessions...na anaeza kupiga ngumi if you touch her inappropriately.
  
  

Ahhh, Tusker, easily the most consumed brand in Kenya. Guyz who take tusker enjoy their time, enjoy their beer, and usually down it with nyam chom. They are the sort of people you hear entered a bar and left 36hrs  later walking straight. Are easily identifiable with their huge vitambis / dumboz.


AND there is the other Tusker consumer who doesn't belong there. Will usually order a Tusker when in nice hang out joints to portray the image of being a gentleman. These are the type of  people who frequent backstreet pubs huko Riverroad for their dosage of Keg and some funny poisons before proceeding to the nice joint. Are the sort of guys who get really wasted and start puking after four Tuskers coz that mixture is like oil and water, it's never going to happen.

A chile taking Tusker is just confused, most probably ni chips funga.
  
 

White Cap Lager, Light

Not every Tom, Dick and Harry's beer; it's got class with its name. So don't be surprised if your local doesn't stock it. And if it stocks it, that crate might stay there for months and will be consumed only when other beers are out of stock, and it's 12 midnight when guys are higher than kites. Belongs to the category called reserve beer.


Consumers of this brand want to establish themselves as people who have made it; in most cases, they've actually made it in life. So if you are a struggling mlevi who drinks on credit, this beer is not for you. You may, however, go for the smaller deadlier and cheaper brother, Allsopps.
  
 

The drink that is associated with 'class and sophistication'. Loads of nonsense I must say; people who drink this beer just want to stand out of a crowd, and Sierra beer also falls in this class. These are typically the people who run to every other new offer that hits the market, like the new zain 3 bob calls. If a Steam engine was packed in a trendy green bottle, Tusker malt guyz would have switched alliances faster than you can say 'mayai mboilo'.


So next time you go out, be wary of that chick you're tuning whos drinking Tusker Malt, she's more likely to be sliced. Most guyz drink this stuff to create the impression of a cool guy, but once he hits the usual backstreet bars, utashangaa vile Ka-half ya KC huisha na sip tatu.

  
Yeah, the typical jamaaz beer, and most probably always high all the time. These are dudes and duddetes who lived the mad session jams, were in boarding school bla bla bla, etc etc etc. To sum it up, all confused teenagers and campus students take this beer. And be wary of Pilsner takers...these are the people who are all over the floor dancing some styles whose origins only God Knows; they are the dudes who think they can slice your fiancee with their dance moves, the guys who puke all over the toilets...yeah you get the point.
Only silly and immature people take Pilsner. And the leading distributor of this brand has to be Tacos, a silly and immature nightclub.

For the ladies ambao wako na nyege, who need to get laid that night and soonest as possible, hata kama ni kwa gari, bora hiyo shuma iingie. Guys who take this stuff are on high grade weed or something; research hasn't come up with a logical explanation for  this. New records have been set with this brand by broke ladies who are out to be bought drinks. Sample these statistics.

• Longest duration to consume one bottle. Wait for it.... 8 hours!

• Highest number of girls sharing one bottle: 5 ladies (from Buruburu, he he...Mutulu!)

• Survival tactics: dancing all night, preferably next to loaded jammaz.

                                    drinking with straws, refilling with water, swapping half empty bottles with full ones.        

• Most horrific moments: The waiter taking your bottle while still a quarter way full.

• Merriest statement: Waletee hawa wasichana mbili mbili, ama u want how many?

        

For reserved ladies who'll get wasted slower than their Black Ice counterparts, but will still get laid anyway. Has a survival tactic, though rarely used. And that's refilling it with Ice Berg, you wouldn't notice the difference in those dark pubs you frequent.
  
Finally, if you partake any of the undermentioned concoctions, then you are definitely a kamlevi in the making. Scratch that. A Major Mlevi in the Made!

Napoleon aka naps, napizo, Emperor, Nappy Boy
Kenya King aka king king,
Visa aka ndauo aka maathai
Keg aka cupling
Kane Extra
Ice Berg
Black and White aka greatwall  etc
  
You are the type that goes to clubs only when wasted enough to see double; the type that goes to bars to dance whole night till morning light; the type that gets wasted at backstreets before venturing for lap mwenda in clubs; sportsman is definitely your preferred cancer stick; and often the word "half life" (half a cigarette saved for later) is equated into that cancer stick; you probably know the pickpockets in clubs if you are not one; you probably drink two beers mpaka asubuhi; the type that harasses women on dance floors, the type that pick up fights in bars etc etc. The list goes on and on till Uhuru and Ruto confess. Yes, I'll wait. In short, you are the type that make people not to enjoy their drinks and nights out.
  
So whatever your choice, go on, get wasted, I'll definitely be judging you by the pint you drink.