The Lover || by @MarunduMuturi

Every whisper is heart-breaking beauty,

Each tear a waterfall of raging emotion.




No wrong can she do,


No imperfection in his eyes.




She is the angel that makes gods green,


The maiden men only see yet cannot fathom.




Her sway is the very pulse of the universe,


Her voice is god's own song.




She births dreams in her bosom





And in her breast they are brought to life.

She is the saint and the savior.

And in his enrapturement he is trapped.




Enslaved in his incomprehension,


He basks in his fulfillment of her caprices.




The lover...


Image from Kiss Kulture

The Smoker || by @MarunduMuturi

She brought the cigarette to her lips,

Boldly, delicately,

Like a first kiss promised and ready for delivery.

The grey turned to red,

Her cheeks drawn in in anticipation,

Slowly squeezing life out of the dead stark stick.

Image from DreamsTime

Her hand moved contemplatively to the ash tray

And her finger tips tap-tap-tap-danced for a fleeting.

A fervent romance.

Shaking off the past,

And out of her orifice of riches

Smoke ephemeral, ethereal.

I sat transfixed,

Doubting that the innocuous deviltry before me

Could turn me into a child.

Beautiful in her arrogance,

Smug, assured,

She turned away slightly in half-smile sardonic.

Poised in thought

For a moment she remained,

Soon the fire was back to her lips.

Dark, intense,

Mysterious, alluring,

She looks at nothing and sees everything.

Aloof.

She seeks herself out in darkness,

With red-tipped pen between her fingers,

Her secrets written in smoke.

Nothing said, all said.

I dare not approach her.

The light we shared has ebbed out,

Her cigarette a bitter metaphor.

Apt.

She glances,

Amused and mocking.

Before her sits liquid fire.

To cauterize the wounds within?

I am still drawn to her,

The ashes in my heart potent,

Their smokes bliding me.

I stumble in her wake.

She is smoke,

The present winds cannot her stand.

Is she real?

I don't dream of her, I don't hold her.

The smoker has become

What she sought in refuge, in coolness.

Another passing, fickle.

Beautiful tragedy.

Finished, the butt's tossed aside.

She tosses things aside.

Unself-consciously,

Used to tosssing things aside.

I take one more look.

I walk away.

Noni || by @MarunduMuturi

Wallflower by night,
Temptress, woman by day.

In the quiet of the noise
And in the darkness of the light,

I saw her.
Poised regally.

 
Image from CGhub

 Powerul in her stillness, her silence,
Nary seduced by her wine

Which stood subdued red
And cowardly before her.

The tendrils of her unspoken unwitting seduction
Caressed my inebriated soul.

I was drawn to her.
Inexplicably, inexorably.

Right there
I needed to touch her,

To take her in my embrace
And drown in her intoxicating essence.

I wanted her pain to become mine,
Us to ravish each other with abandon.

I could trace these words on her golden skin,
Make her sweat my ink.

Instead,
I drowned in dreams and drink.

Image from CGhub

 Imaginings of what could have been
Blinding me to the moment.

In the end,
When the silence had killed the noise

The earth stood still.
Yet, I still throbbed, as she still tugged.

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. 

Summer Love: Accidentally Tragic

Fred Wambugu Maina ©. All rights reserved

|

--'`¬¬

The Awakening

Sunrise at the beach, peace seeks war

Battlefront, ravaging calm; wave in, out

All the drama, all the pain; stolen

Bottled and corked; high tide washes away

Sands crushed, spreadeagled; defeated by high seas

Distant lights, into the warm azures fading

Her soul sounds, boat and craft bobbin merrily past

In her heart mo' meets 'jo, Oh! what a noise

Lil' birds call Mr. Morn'; he turns, stretches

Yawns and wipes the stars away; meanwhile McAngelo

Flushes colour anew, 'cross the somber heavens

Impinging the skies, takes liberties with his brush

Chinese junks cross the Dutchman's airway; white, woolen

Setting sail with the water's blues; crunch, splash

Geometry in clockwork; the sun peeps in...land ahoy!

Beach dumped by Ocean; runners rush in for the rebound

Cliffs like monster sea cruises, jutting off the beach

Casting shadows o'er the dark of memories past

They stand hand in hand, wide-eyed, to watch the great beast

His scaffold unfolds, scalar beauty in creation

--'`¬¬

Shipshape

He watches from a distance, a peeping Tan

Smiling to himself, such perfect awe, uncontained

Kodak in hand, waiting for that frozen moment

Quite a feeling, as they smile gracefully at him

They look back, unwitting to his stare,

Assume that they're alone, lost in their world

A single moment, magnified into thousands

He grins an inch wider, they cover their eyes

The sulphur, he thinks; am burning too bright

Damn! his smile fades, cooling their systems

They gaze into each others' minds, he leans forth

Remembers the fumes of heat, indisposed to care

For this is the moment, her face lit up exquisite

Indissolubly linked, really seeing each other

Lights, camera...and time changes; still, robbed

They can persevere, the sun tells himself; click!

--'`¬¬

The Exorcism

He leans in, she locks her eyes

Their lips lock,he reaches behind

Feels her lips curl into a smile

Unwitting; he's taking his ring off!

Exceptional yes, mind-blowing ain't

Oh, what husks the heart doesn't see

His lazy eyelids meet, lashes brush up

O'er her eyes the flesh-patch flutters

Flawless bliss; colourfast, she thinks

Her face flavours, his mind counters:

Fatally flawed, tongue-in-cheek fling

This ain't about emotions: his hand adds

Flood tides engulf her, enhanced

Flames flare up; engrossing, mutual

Yet for different reasons, granted, he's a dick

Thoughts so varied, enigmatic

Dilemma, her heartbreak impending; reality

His guilt unabashed, all for a serpent's kiss

And a series of actions, of decisions made

Of sacrifice, hers; tears meant for him

Vibrantly glorifies him, blindly appreciates her

Mind choking in a dead halo's vice; overrated

Intricate connection; clueless, stuck in the middle

Little moral basis, less legal foundation; depraved

--'`¬¬

The 'Depart'ation

Youthful indiscretions, indeterminate rage; shipwreck

Ingratiating side-glances,indignant retorts; anyone home?

Indiscernible looks, in-grained cliches, paperback love

Wars of attrition, tears of frustration; time of death:...

Tears caught dead in the spotlight; roadkilled,corrupted

Weeping auld lang syne all alone; irony, under the mistletoe

She gave it to him; he, only too happy to break it, crushed

Slipped it back under her door while she wasn't looking

Veritable necrosis of love, tissue; discomfiture

Feelings ground, senses a pulp, lost in a blender

She doubles up, her heart can't take this cover up

An inglorious chapter in her making, ends. Chop-chop

To hold through when it hurts, she coos

To end it before it's too late, he boos

Her heart his hands' guest; if only so unwelcome

Away, ever so; a single gest, to ne'er look back

Cursory heart-rest breached, panic button wrecked

Love tangelo drained; no more magic, not even a wand

Twas merely an extended body search; no room for affect

Clouding bubble bursts, no rainbows; not in her universe

Say goodbye, to the world you thought you lived in

Deftly carved out, chopped up, served to the lycans

Make it go away; tired of living, a peculiar sorrow

The knife whispers softly in her ear; parseltongue

I can, I will...'Let me'...Won't leave you alone

Desperate, she yields; parselmouth smiles, finally

Licensed to dig in; he illustrates, silver sliver

Drip drip, drip drip...and into blissful oblivion

--'`¬¬

Advisory

Don't you get you in her paws, expecting departure unscathed; nay

She leaves, she always does; the bereaved torn up as she does

She is no fillet; chew her up slow, lest she stick to your throat

Love; gotta love her irony, such a mediocre lover she will be

An inscription I once read:

Ways I will have my Heart broken Destroyed!Crushed Shattered like a light bulb under the feet of mischievous children
Carved up to be dipped into a pool of wasabi and soy sauce
Wrung out of every last drop like a dump cloth
Grated like cheese, heart cheese

♂Smit Smitta Smitten♀

☻ﬞﬞ 
☺ﬞﬞ ☻ﬞﬞ 
 ☺ ﬞﬞ  ☻ﬞﬞ ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ

Published 1st January 2011

It’s not often that you get to meet the right person – or at the very least a breathtaking individual – at the most unexpected of moments, but just within the bounds of ordinary circumstance. And if you concur that it’s uncommon for you too, then I have to claim the bragging rights on that one; I hardly ever do.

 

Naturally it’s not the first time I’ve felt at least utterly infatuated; it would however totally suck to be this smitten –like a kitten torn to bits with one hit– over just anyone. Thus I prefer to think that this time, with this particular situation, there’s less smit and more meaning to it all. 
  

It was supposed to be an event for charity and no more really. That was all I went for. Sure I expected there’d be some interesting women; if not in personality or charisma, then as a minimum, for the little matter of the event being a bikini bash. This dynamic brought other qualities –and quantities; abundant I might add – quite literally to the foreground. A fairly testosterone-motivating factor if I’d needed one.

And while my hypothalamus indeed was inspired that night, the hormone that construed to charm my night was only partly funnelled by brain along with that more bowdlerized miniature appendage. For the most part, it was wrestled by an organ I have grown to treat with a confident abhorrence and adoration in equal measure, yet failed to rally the oomph required to panel beat it into submission – my heart. 

♥

Somewhat unfortunately, you see, I’m your quintessential nice guy; a legitimately easy mark for affection. Sure I look intimidating and hostile, even proud at times, but in truth I pack less bite than I do snarl. That night, while I did have a distinctly uncut demeanour about me, there was no denying the fact that I was in favourable social circles. The fact that this kind of clique would hardly ever opt to mingle with louts probably improved my first impression to many. But the real crown jewel that night was an exceptional lass kicking her heels up in the pool, and this societal faction plunged me instantly towards her.

☻

Random is the only description I could find to describe her. Random in the sense that I was neither searching for her, nor seeking anything she embodies and reflects upon me at this particular point in time; if anything, I was trying to avoid it. Nothing screams wanton acquiescence than lying down to have body shots taken off you, but then again I do have my crazy phases, and hardly any male I know can resist a free feminine lick or two. 

I hear the ladies go on and on about how they end up having to do a long stretch of walking on the very day they choose to wear high heels. Perhaps it is after all true; all I know is that figuratively, that was how it worked out for me. 

Quite a bit about her, I have come to find, is actually random. Yet in a manner so delightfully indiscriminate, that from the very second I perceived her jovial warmth and truly infectious little giggle, I was –if nothing else– curious. I made a point, accordingly, of getting some form of contact with her at whatever cost. Let’s say I intentionally brushed up against her accidentally.  
 

Something about her seemed so refreshingly familiar, kinda like going to a foreign country and catching a fleeting glimpse of a Nairobi Java, or a franchise bar from your past homely adventures – you don’t really know if the service will be anywhere near as good, but the thought that you know something about the place is indeed reassuring. 

♦ But, I digress.

So anyway, when the chance presented itself that we acquaint ourselves, I was cautiously hasty to oblige. A quick glance at my rear-view mirror reveals my decision to take a dip at all of 11.30pm in the biting Nairobi weather as the best bargain I made in 2010. And while it was thence that I met her, I will admit that this choice was barely influenced by her. I had not seen her before this hour, and am not sure it would have mattered even so, withdrawn as I actually am in gatherings with so many alien faces. I would come to learn, long after I took the dive, that she’d actually arrived much later for the party. 

‘Better late than never’, cues Hindsight. For that dive was probably as involuntarily brilliant as a fisherman pitching his hook into a regularly productive section of the deep seas, only to haul a lost treasure chest instead. Not a bad alternative if you ask me. 

It does seem that December is truly a Cupidesque time of the year, and I have learnt that I clearly have a bull’s eye on me right around the same time. I would love to give a proper conclusion to such dull prose, plain words truly incomparable to what she conspires to arouse in me –nay, to thrill and titillate me so– every time I see her. Yet even I am curious as to how this story unfolds.

Nonetheless, this is not the occasion for that interest. This just happens to be the hour I whip out a bouquet of kales, sprinkle a topping of maize meal over it and call it a meal.
 

♠♠♠♠♠♠

  

Cheers. And a Happy New Year to y'all and yawz.

☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ  ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻ﬞﬞ☺ﬞﬞ☻

This is what happened

 2 months later