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Category Archives: Inspiration Hunts

We Are Moving the Worms and the Bananas


Every once in a while when I can get off my lazy ass and finish the tens and tonnes of research snippets I have strewn all over, we sit by the camp fire and exchange stories of yore. We shake our heads at our politics, our apathy, our blindness, the friendzone, and bananas. A lot of the time, we celebrate utter badassery and nongiveafuckery. We do this because heroes need to be celebrated, because if a guy takes a bullet to the groin and still drags a bleeding pair of testicles to deliver a message to HQ, songs deserve to be written about him. That man is a citizen of the world, no matter what his passport says.

We talk about the weird eccentrics who look social norms in the eye and go ‘Fuck that! Imma be weird!’ and they dye their hair, shave one eyebrow, eat moles, wear two watches, and make carrying bones stylish again. Ever heard about the guy who milked an elephant? Or the one we feted as a long-lost freedom fighter?

On other days we go and on about animals that might not be aware of our hubris that we are superior beings. We do this because conservation, we are nature’s spouses, and if we do not take care of her she will not seek a divorce, she will go all ape shit on us. Do you want to wake up with a knife in the throat just because you dehorned rhinos and maimed lions? I know I don’t…

We sit and imbibe as we share lists, get to know each other, learn a few things and support civilization. We do this because it’s never that serious, even when it is. We laugh when we shouldn’t, and suddenly become philosophical in the middle of jokes. We have been at home here for three years and the lethargy is showing: no one has brought new firewood for a while, the pile of trash is now a little mountain, the pet dogs are skinnier than me, and we keep growing, huddling over a small bonfire. Our inner children no longer play and laugh in the shadows created in the background, and catch a cold when the midnight breeze bends the flames. We are growing up, and someone needs to put a stop to this.

alaskan campfire

There are so many stories we can’t tell in this little camp. Our neighbors are odieros, and everyone here is so well behaved. We can’t make noise, we can’t scream epithets properly, and there are nosy neighbors who will not let the rhinos remain horny. There is the local stray that bit someone and now she has rabies, and the local madman who stole one of the little stories we share here. He chopped up our stories and mutilated them, hid them far far in the forest hoping we will not hear their dying screams as he replaces their eyes and drives nails through their fingertips. But we have big ears, so we send a drone or two, call them out, tell them that when you steal a mannequin, improve it at least. No need torturing poor stories and hanging them from spikes like they have done you wrong.

It is because this camp is free, and you know what they say about free things, no one really cares about them. Before long the government forgets about the slum upgrading and the free garbage collection ends, potholes appear everywhere, former street kids revert to being current street kids, the police land rover runs out of fuel, such and such. It is only a matter of time before a flying toilet crash lands on someone, and we will have none of that shit here. Crude pun wholly coincidental.

A bigger, better camp is due – a nirvana of sorts – where we can throw more lists, dig up more hidden facts, scour Kenyan history together and eat lots and lots of the little yellow heavens. In that camp we can light a bigger fire, cause more havoc, maybe roast a swine or two, or a goat for those among you whose prophets of choice deem swine unclean. There we can call each other names and pretend we know how the world should run, even when the biggest thing we’ve ever run is this little camp. Our neighbors there are far, they make far more noise than we do currently so we need to sing songs of protest, and love, and desperation, until we outdo them or we lose our voices. YOLO, the kids say nowadays… Unless you are a feline then YOLNT!

Sasa ni kuhama, twende twende! Fold up your shuka and hold on to your poison, let us surge to www.owaahh.com.Please carry a few cockroaches from here, someone. Our new camp will need a few insects. Leave the bananas, we have more than enough where we are going. Forward ho!

Stop by the BAKE Website and vote! vote! Vote. One can never vote too many times, just so you know.

Dramatization...

Dramatization…

Owaahh.

 
3 Comments

Posted by on March 13, 2014 in Adventures, Inspiration Hunts

 

Quit, You’ll Never Catch the Phantom Pooper or see Cats Shag


Nobody I know has ever seen cats fuck. Once, as a child, I thought I saw our pet cat at it with a stray but it ‘all happened so fast’ I am unsure whether it wasn’t a product of my at times hyperactive imagination. It seems a phenomenon only known to nature and the participating felines. 

You will hear them moan at night though. They congregate outside your window in the deep of the night. And they moan. So loud sometimes that you think it’s a band of crying infants. But you almost never ever see them do it. By the time the flashlight beam hits their romp, probably a groupie, the female is nowhere to be seen. The male glares at you, embarrassed. Planning your death. You cockblocker! For half a minute you two stare each other down until he decides you are not worth it and runs off to restart the courtship you just ruined.
If indeed my informal analysis result that no one has ever seen cats at it is credible, is there something we don’t know?
They come together to come. You feed them yes, but you are not invited. not to this party anyway. Walk away and pretend you didn’t just see the snail trails being left on your couch. Just turn and go. You are not invited to these orgies, all you are expected to be is silent and permissive. Ask no questions, make no testimonies, and all 
shall be well with your soul. Life, I mean.
But at the back of mind you know what’s going on, the noises are graphic, as is the evidence of claws where erotic scratches were made yesternight. You know it, your neighbor who gave you the kitten knows it. The dog knows it too, and he is traumatized. All of you are witnesses to a horrendous crime of nature and victims of not-so-subtle threats by a guy with whiskers.

I engaged an invisible friend into a conversation about recently.

YOLO!

Unless you are a cat, of course.

Hehe, are you?

Maybe, Maybe not. The theory of parallel universes gives space for such a possibility as me having fur, whiskers, and a soft threatening purr.

Depends on where those whiskers are!

Why? Does that change my species or just what specific feline I am?

Makes you an interbreed.

Sounds like a bore, an interbreed. Have you ever seen cats fuck?

I have not, why?

Because, they are mammals. They must shag sometimes. But almost no one has ever seen it happen.

True, nobody knows.

I think cats kill off all the witnesses.

Or turn them into other cats?

Or clean out their memories.


The threats are delivered by those intriguing cat eyes. They scare the hell out of you and incase your light is ever faster than a female feline fleeing from a fuck feast, your fate is no longer yours. Those cats will most definitely murder you. Or wipe out your memory. Or eat your children. Or make you clean after the kittens that result after the romp. You are a slave. Your master is much smaller than you, much weaker than you, owns less than you do, has nothing on you except eight lives more. You are a pawn in the cat’s procreation activities and it owns you. As your master it makes you pay for everything, including the STIs it might contract during the mating seasons. Feed me, it meows. Feed me and don’t you forget who your pimp be! Also, I pooped earlier and threw up behind the couch, your favorite couch, would you be a darling as to clean those excreta up? No? How about if I promise to kill you, and the dog? Yes? Good boy, good. Meow.
You see things. You hear things. You elect things. You vomit things. You complain things. You Witness things. You should never talk about them, if history is any lead. 
Your cat is planning to kill you. That has never been in question.

cat-standing

Talking about things one does not see until the next morning, thieves broke into the supermarket on the ground floor of my apartment building the other day. Three thieves, scrawny young men, or at least as I imagine it.

Our robber antagonists were after the money of course, the millions stored in a safe within the premises. They chose Sunday, the day in the week when all the cash collected over the weekend is stored in the safe. So our thieves were sharp, and lucky. A thief thieves, right? But these guys were not done just yet…

After cleaning the safe, they went downstairs and raided the cake and pastries aisles. They ransacked all the food aisles, leaving behind a telling tale of a man in a nipple factory. They helped themselves to delicacies galore, carrying very little and eating most of it there and then. Of course they drank soda and juice, almost half a bottle of each. Only one soda was missing from the fridge. It seems that ice cold drinks are not a thief’s drink of choice.

I can see why. Imagine trying to combine a heightened adrenaline rush with the feeling of an ice cold drink. Brain Freeze! Unless of course they drank the cold sodas and then replaced them with the others on the aisles. So the supermarket would have enough cold stock in the morning. When gentlemen were thieves.

Anyway, they ate. Stole and ate. Pooped too.

There was a mound of shit in the office the next morning. Several hours old, already past rigor mortis. And stinking. Stinking as the distinctive smell of a well-preserved colon of pooh can be. It was right there in the open. Just one mound, apparently only one guy had the urge to take a dump in the middle of a heist.

I know it smelt because when I heard the story two days later and (still) went to shop there, I could still smell it. I think it was in my  head, but I smelt it all right.

I looked at the manager with a pitiful face. His, not mine. I wondered what he must have gone through the morning after. Even after you have wiped away the physical evidence, and sprayed several cans of air freshner (because it is a supermarket, I imagine you spare no expense), you still know that it was there. So, you have to work inside there long before your brain has enough distractions to forget that there was excreta atop your table or floor some hours prior. Yet you must, like a general who strolls into a war zone the day after the armistice. Or a president visiting ground zero. If they bomb the president’s house while he is away, he has to visit as soon as that shit is in control-pun wholly intended-to convince the populace that he is hurt but not conquered. That work must continue.

Well, there are objective thieves, and then others poop in your office. Poop as a weapon of psychological intimidation. Like when we replaced the loaves of bread in our school dining hall with poop. We, because when it came to paying for the damages caused during the strike, we all had to pay for it. Poopers and non-poopers. The distinction was never made. 

What damage can a comprehensive mound of excreta do to a stainless steel sufuria? Or rather, what damage that a good disinfect, a prayer, more disinfectant, and handing said sufuria to a neighbor, not do?

They never bought new sufurias. The phantom poopers were never caught. They left a ‘series of smelly situations’ and got away with it; we paid the price. 

Neither were our three thieves of whom only one felt the dire need to take a dump right there in the supermarket manager’s office. Imagine the giggle. How genius the idea instigator felt.

“Man, we should raise the stakes and poop somewhere in this supermarket.”

“(Giggling) IKR? Waaaah! We so should. Thief #3, do you feel like taking a dump?”

“Guys, how do I always end up being the kinetic energy for your insanities”

“Don’t be a party pooper #3, you lost at truth or dare last night, remember?

“Consider this a dare.”

“But what if I don’t feel like dumping right now?”

“Its okay, we can wait a few hours, eat a few more cakes, maybe make alien messages with the rice.”

“Until the urge comes of course, there’s tissue here too by the way”

“Please guys, let’s not poop in the supermarket, what if they do those CSI things and my pooping ass is hauled in jail where big burly guys with lice colonies make me a pipe shitter?”

“CSI shit don’t work in here. Plus we’ll pour salt on it to burn off your DNA…”

“Okay, just let me choose the spot, okay?”

There was the other time we filed to one of the bathrooms to study a mound that had been left on the edge of the toilet bowl. It wasn’t a normal mound.

Picture a log of wood. A very wide and large log, like one you would use for a support column. Placed from the edge of the toilet bowl towards the door, as I reconstructed the grime scene then. It doesn’t make sense for the log to be placed from the door towards the bowl, there is no logical explanation for that. For the former, however, Newton must’ve been on point! A propulsion! The very very very large and wide log being dumped propelled its owner in such a way that he took off like a witch on a broomstick. Or Quidditch players.

The mere circumference attracted an audience. It was a concerned audience; so much so that had the  logistics of forcibly helping the victim, we would have subjected each other to a stinky strip search. The phantom pooper who might have needed reconstructive surgery was never found.

 

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Disaster? Cue the Looting, This is Kenya


When I saw images of Abdul Hajj, I automatically knew he was not a Kenyan cop. There was something about him that told of affluence, a man who gyms in a proper facility and eats well. Later, I bounced on an image of the cop (the unlucky thief) currently being prosecuted for looting from the dead at Westgate. It is because we pay our police so badly, I thought to myself in a moment of temporary insanity. Then, when we all knew that KDF had almost exclusive access to the mall for days, stories of looting reappeared. This time, the possible looters were not poorly paid officers but elite forces that are among the best paid employees in the country. So I hang my head in shame and sighed. We are doomed.

It is not as much as what was stolen but by whom. The police, underpaid and neglected, have a ‘social license’ similar to that we give politicians who bribe us for our votes. We think it is an abhorrence, but we have learnt to live with it. If you commit a traffic offence, for example, and are arrested, anyone will tell you not to open your wallet in the arresting officer’s field of vision. One lady did exactly that and the officer snatched the bundle of brown notes, totaling 5,ooo bob, and let her free. And so it goes.

We have so institutionalized looting that we see nothing new about it. That’s why my sentiments on Westgate looting point towards the underlying and nagging idea that with exclusive access, the military officers might have hauled away luxury watches and other valuables. Our astute forces, well paid, and provided for as much as they would want, most of it untaxed and exclusive, might have conducted one of the most blatant thefts in the history of our society. It is too soon to claim the end of the AFCO tax breaks triggered the looting, so, why would those we pay well enough to do violence on our behalf steal from us like those from whom we expect similar services but pay poorly? Does it even have anything to do with the salary and allowances or is it deeper, engrained in our hastily clobbered national genotype?

In Its Our Turn to Eat, the case is made through the Anglo leasing story that being in a position of power in Kenya is chance to loot. If you don’t do it, someone else will, goes the story. We tend to associate politicians with five year mandates with this social license to raid public coffers and behave plainly like assholes in their interactions with us common folk. We allow that, because they are elected or nominated, and are thus in a God-given electorate-legitimized position to thief for themselves and their ilk. Maybe some crumbs will fall our way, we think.

It does little to our collective national psyche and legendary apathy, and will probably be forgotten in no time, but it raises questions of a deep moral angling. Is it that we have become so used to looting, whether as participants or victims, that we can only be shocked now if it is done by those we thought above such a trivial offence? Didn’t the crowd that had to be repulsed using teargas want to access the mall even before it was secured? They had an epiphany of what the disciplined forces, bar none, would do when left alone in a upper class mall where all hell had broken lose? It seems they did.

Almost all disasters are followed by looting of some degree, so much so that one academic called it the ‘cliché of disaster journalism.’ In most cases, it is simple citizens first looting for basic stuff such as food and water (before eventually hauling luxury items, going up the Maslow pyramid) but in Kenya, the protectors are quite adept at it. Instead of appearing as astute members of the disciplined forces, as perhaps we all think of military officers, policemen tend to appear as low socio-economic players.

It happened before at JKIA and has probably happened many times prior. It is just that now that we all have and want good stuff, we are talking about it. Living in a consumerist society, you want to know that at least your valuables will outlive you, and go into your estate should you die during a terrorist siege or a traffic accident. But that comfort, friend, is denied. We will loot. We will loot from you everything on your corpse before your soul reaches the roof. Hell, if you are not dead enough to let go of your iPhone, we will help you either journey yonder or wait like vultures, until your lungs heave that last one, and away we go with all your bling and cash. Maybe your family will get your wallet. Such is not assured.

What ails our national morality then? In the cliché mentioned prior, most cases tend to be instances of horrific disasters such as Hurricanes and earthquakes. There is a desperate need to get basic utilities and, for those whose inner animal has an automatic switch, acquire nice things. Yet there is hardly ever looting in Japan.

It became a phenomenon after the earthquake and Fukushima nuclear reactor aftermath. The Japanese do not loot, and if they do, not at the scale seen in other scenes globally, even in richer societies. In most discussions of this phenomenon, most contributors argue that the Japanese culture of shame, community, and respect, has something to do with it. The consumerist culture has not managed to kill of this national conscience, and the deep respect for one another stretches to a moment of desperation. Where other countries take years to recover from a disaster, Japan’s system is efficient because it is built on a system of restraint, if not trust.

One can imagine the temptation, the fact that you are standing in front of a shop with things you have only seen on displays. There is no one to catch you, or a bigger crime (than the one you are about to commit) is being committed. Who will worry about the dead man’s phone anyway? Or how much cash he had on his person when the hooded terrorist shot him point blank? The dead do not need the money, their dependents are probably rich enough to survive without it, you think. But you do. Who will ever catch you anyway? If the police do, you will only have to forfeit a portion of it and voila, the handcuffs of justice will magically disappear. Hell, you will even get an armed escort home that day. Such is. Such is.

Our culture of looting and plundering is not epitomized by Westgate but by our reaction to it. It is the deeper sense of apathy where we figure most of the shops were insured and thus, it does not matter that their valuables were lost in a crime scene. A crime scene with layer upon layer of cordons, and a retinue of our protectors. Our protectors got rich that day, maybe they will not be too hungry when they arrest us tomorrow.

But looting feeds avarice, another of our national treasures, which in turn breeds the kind of hunger that addicts of morphine get on subsequent doses. That is why majority of the onlookers at Kenyan crime scenes are there. It is not to ask after the dead and injured but to await the slightest opportunity to carry a trophy. Drive on any road and if you come upon an accident, study closely how first responders pocket valuables while pulling people from the wreckage. Such is.

There is an actual criteria for when looting is morally permissible. In such cases as where there is actual desperation. The argument there is that in an interdependent society such as ours, everybody plays a part, however minute, to the production in and progress of society. This position thus means that in case a fair exchange of goods is not possible because of the circumstances, such as breakdown of social order after a disaster, then one is in his human right to seek basic needs from those who have. It would be, another argues, selfish of us as human beings to judge those desperately seeking to survive. Our very existence as a species would be at risk.

But there was no breakdown of social order per se at Westgate or JKIA. There was perhaps, too much order. Normal ad hoc looters do not come carrying grenades and other explosives to open safes and access ATMs. Neither do they, at least the first wave, go after the cash registers and other movable currencies. Yet that is exactly what happened at Westgate, and before at JKIA (there were no explosives here though). Systematically, responders took time off their busy schedule of protecting us to help themselves to items on the aisles and the mannequins. The clinical organization meant that even shop owners who had luckily managed to lock up their shops still suffered the same fate as those who left them wide open.

Those looting were not poor and desperate, as we would be if, say, a Hurricane were to miraculously hit Nairobi. They were in no danger of imminent hunger if they did not wear the gold chains and watches from the shops. In fact, brave Kenyans filled their cars and set camp to feed responders. There was more food where that came from, that’s for sure. All, except maybe the community policing units, receive a constant monthly salary and allowances that was still assured when and if they survived their mission there. There was no social order to warrant breaking into ATMs, or even justify it. Yet the hapless gaffe-prone Interior Cabinet Secretary will proudly downplay the significance of the crime by saying only ‘two or three shops were looted.’

In this god forsaken land we were born in, numbers shock us but hardly ever enough to make an actual difference. 1, 100 people died during the 2007/8 massacres. 40 officers died in Baragoi. Over 100 civilians died in Tana River. Another 40 died in a single bus accident. More die each day. The death toll in the Northern Frontier is so high that it does not make headline news anymore. Wajir was bombed the day after Westgate was (sic!) retaken (and bombed, for some reason). Isn’t it ironical that we should derive a lesson as ‘the death of one is a tragedy, the death of a million is a statistic’ from a diabolical dictator who massacred his people with the gun and famine? Shouldn’t it embarrass our very core as an ‘inter-religious’ but constitutionally secular (ignore the allusions of faith) in the Preamble country?

A US official recently told Museveni that his military officers are ‘good soldiers but thieves.’ Then reports appeared pointing towards Kenya’s complicity in the charcoal trade in Kismayu, the very jewel we won from its murderous rulers just last year. Do you know what that would mean if it is true that our military has been facilitating illegal business in Somalia? That we actually funded the Westgate 5 (or 15 or 20, no one seems to know how many hostiles held us in panic for over 72 hours) and all that they did. We rubber-stamped our own death by spreading the tentacles of our selfish ambition to enrich ourselves at whatever cost. Sealed our fate so our wallets could be heavier. The children will never know their education was funded with blood money. The wives will never know the red on the flower petals is blood from victims of our greed. Even if they do, they will not care much. It was not anyone they knew, they will argue, and if we had not done it, the next person would have. So why not us? Also, we prayed for forgiveness and filled the offertory.

Some might argue that from a Hobbesian perspective, looting is a way through which those who-have-not seek to bridge the class gap with those who have-yachts. But the injured driver who loses his valuables to his helpers is a man hustling as any other. Start a fire in a slum and see whether the looting of other residents has anything to do with class warfare. It is pure human greed, nothing else.

The ethics of looting depend on the facts of the subject. After 9/11, for example, firemen took water from nearby stores to rinse their eyes. When a hungry man steals from a store, then there is a moral case to let that man eat; and to make sure that he has a living so he does not have to break social norms again. In the Argentina food riots of 1989, poor women walked into stores and stole food and other basic supplies. There were no cases of looting of non-essentials and the cash registers until later when other mobs followed. But Kenya’s two recent cases are interesting and disturbing.

The looters are not desperate hungry mobs, at least not in an ad hoc sense of the word. They are organized units with a clear mandate and training to handle emergencies. Their very job description is built on the fact that their role in society is sacred. The salaries are low, the hours depressing, the populace thankless (unless it is in one of those rare occasions of national reflection), and all but hope is lost. That is still no defense for such an abhorring crime as grave robbing.

So, Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Since it is their work to do that to us, to hurl us in jail if we (are caught) loot, to protect us from external threats by doing violence on our behalf, who will do it to them? In the next disaster, as one surely will come, are we to helplessly stand by as our businesses are ransacked simply because these are ‘the untouchables.’ One of the victims succinctly saidThis is Kenya. Let’s just face it, what’s lost is lost.”

It is plunder, mate, and these are times of war and uncertainty. Accept and move on. In fact, grab something from that glass window or aisle and move on with it. 

Edit, 2nd October 2013 1710hrs

Prompted by panoramicdon’s comment below, I remembered that indeed the TJRC report is teeming with testimonies of looting by our ‘esteemed’ forces. A cursory reading of the relevant volumes points towards a tradition of looting as a military strategy, a strategy of yore, the medieval days of pirates and plunder. Even sadder, looting is connected to other crimes such as rape and murder. But no commissions, if any, have ever been formed to investigate the suffering the NEP and Mt. Elgon residents went through. We are an unequal society, dear reader, and you are not invited to the looting.

 

 

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Extra Blessings: A Treatise on the Third Nipple


For thousands of years, mammalian males have been accused of their obsession with the nipples. Or rather breasts. Thousands of years ago men spent time carving such shapes into the cave walls, and thousands of years later a man hunting for writing inspiration etches a similar, albeit more wordy, thingy on the same. Oh how evolution changes us not.

There are those blessed with a third nipple, a supernumerary nipple about which some drunk deity laughs his ass off whenever he thinks of how men must suffer. A rookie deity who experimented too much when the master was not looking. His evil laugh, emanating from the bowels as he sits on a bar stool in Olympus looking for happy thoughts. He thinks of that supernumerary nipple, that third nipple whose presence can change a steamy quickie into a scientific discussion about the merits and demerits, and likely causes of.

Yours truly has never encountered the supernumerary nipple on a member of the opposite sex…at least not yet. Being a heterosexual male then, and having only seen said nipple on a fellow male, compounds everything. It was a long time ago, in high school, when a fellow student walking around sans shirt or shame happened to have one nipple too many. One was curious; it is not always that people openly confess to being in possession of excess blessings. Often, as is the norm, one is advised early in life to, quote unquote, hide that shit!

The awkward discussion after was informed by a sense of innocence about the sexuality constitution and the implied Bro Code. One never touched it, but one did wonder whether it did work like a run-of-the-mill nipple. One did ask whether he could feel it though, but the owner was selfish, or figured that an awkward silence would follow one’s ‘scientific experiment.’ But then one wonders, how many people does one encounter everyday who are hiding a third Pointy of God underneath their blouses, bras, funny clothes with no name yet, and personalities? How many of one’s friends secretly spot a third nipple that they can never talk about? Because others might be jealous…

Still though, to be human is to be curious. The observer must wonder, does it work? Is it responsive to changes in say, temperature? Or touch? If another touches it, does it, uuuuuurrrrmmm, follow the touching surface? If one owns one, can it be included in an encounter of whips and nipple rings? Is it safe to eat? The answers to such questions are complex and oft, baffling.

Why would a Google search of supernumerary nipples yield so much vitriol about the oddity? An innocent gift from a generous, nipple-rich deity? With medical journals referring to it as a ‘congenital malformation.’ Such negativity. A good scientist did take the time to tell us that not all third nipples are third nipples. They form along something called the embryonic milk line that oddly sounds like a milk plant run by embryos-get them early and helpless huh, capitalism? Some third nipples are the real deal, nipple with glandular breast tissue, areola and the everything! Imagine that, two is already a handful, or mouthful, depending on the tool of choice, but three? Three can make one a believer in a higher power who gifts to those who use what they have been given well.

But on the structural integrity of nature’s gorgeous architecture, perhaps the deities should have decided on a single structure for all nipples. Something like how it is the norm to have the eyes above the nose. So whenever you look at someone, you know what to expect.

To feel around another’s nipples without first seeing them is to play Russian Roulette with one’s sanity. Believe it. Try it. It is akin to opening a gift on one’s birthday, that moment of uncertainty where one thinks of the many possibilities of what could fit in such a small, or big bra…box, in context.

Could it be a sunken valley? A plateau maybe? A small hill on a mountain complete with a hillcrest? A mountain? A mushroom? How does it stand relative to gravity? What oddity has nature blessed this person with? If we open this box, will we find two nipples, first, and if yes, of what structure? Oh wait, three? Forget about the structure; forget about the wine, we now have a conversation starter.nipple

It is no longer politically correct to ask why men have nipples because they are not really nipples, and yes, you may play with them honey. They are ticklish; perhaps a sign of that chromosomal X, but one does not know why one still has them. No, they are not proof that evolution as a process has gone to the dogs, and no, you may not ask me whether all men are actually women with pointy genitals.

But please let one play with yours, because what the good deities saw it fit to make vestigial in one, they made very alluring in you. The very essence upon which life is sucked, literally, the pinnacle that makes a mere mound of fat become the ruin of many a man, and woman. That one place where direction can be obtained, the pointed end of a plump and perky hill on a mountain. If you have another, allow one. At least, for all religions do teach altruism, and within that volcano lies the lavas of the very essence of life. Delectable.

Based on mentioned medical description, when third nipples are cool again, as one imagines they once were, please remember that a patch of hair is not an extra nipple. It might look like one and probably excite your bedroom shenanigans but it is not something you should be proud of. Shave it.

If you have an actual third nipple though, come sit with one. Let’s engage in banter about it even, about whether it can be described as one of ‘little hard dagger-points’ or throbbing, does it throb and become taut? Forgive one when one introduces you to others as ‘this is one’s friend Sue and Sue (So and So is colorless) and she has a third nipple.’ Because unless it is a sign of some other disease for which the symptoms are halitosis and very stinky flatulence, friends a third nipple shall get thee.

 
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Posted by on August 16, 2013 in Inspiration Hunts, Morbid, Random, Review, Sexuality

 

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3 Proofs that the Kenya Government believes in Magic


Do you know how difficult it is to dupe the government into buying fake things? The government has entire institutions dedicated to detecting fake things, police to investigate any fraud, and killer gangs to settle scores…and of course, your taxes to play around with… Apparently, its not harder than convincing your two-year-old that you have stolen her nose.

#3 Mahindras with Low Self-Esteem

MahindraBrave

What we asked for…

You probably remember Mahindra’s from the series Renegade, the police officer with a pony tail called Bobby Sixkiller had one. Apparently, that was all the KE police needed to know they needed one, make that more than 1, 000 units.

Chamanlal Kamani figured out something every Kenyan knows at birth, the government is all-seeing and all-powerful…ish. Through his company, Kamson’s motors, he tendered to supply 1, 000 units plus of Mahindra Jeeps at the cost of Shs. 1 million each to the Kenya Police…for cars that would not be charged duty, and were cheaper in local showrooms. It turns out that the government would have been better buying several flying brooms and pointed hats than buying the jeeps. Since you do not see any of the more than 1, 000 unit that were bought, well, at least now you know. Or they were sold off, who cares anyway.

what we got.

what we got.

…and if you clicked on the link above then you know the Kamani’s didn’t stop with the faulty Mahindras, they are the guys behind Anglo Leasing, CID forensic laboratory, and a few other scandals we wear on our lapels with pride.

Or was Bobby Sixkiller’s car a Hummer? Its not like we are experts or something…

#2 Bomb Detection through Sheer Will Power

What we asked for...

What we asked for…

Remember that one time you were carrying a bomb in your bag, ostensibly for work or some party, and then the police stopped you and magically known you were carrying a bomb? Then the big obese officer went directly for the bag and now is why you are in Guantanamo? No? Well, neither do I…but you remember how you would grab a butterfly or moth at its pupal stage and then make it do silly stuff? Like pointing towards where Nairobi is? Given that it could only wiggle in four directions, there was a one in 4 chance it would point to the right direction, right?

What we got... Alternative Caption...the belt doesn't look so bad, maybe it was a bargain...

What we got…
Alternative Caption…the belt doesn’t look so bad, maybe it was a bargain…

The government of Kenya has a magic wand that uses the same logic and not only that, it much works in the same way as Moses’s staff, wiggling around until it points towards the place where the would-be terrorist is hiding a bomb, or drugs, or a gun, or used condoms. This small Hogwart’s-stick-of-an-antennae can do pretty much anything if you have the right card. I am not joking, it uses cards which specify what you are looking for, and then you grab onto it as it seemingly pulls you towards the would-be offender.

Here it is in action (warning, the video below contains proof of magic, if you are a non-believer, please skip it).

The ‘maker of that magic wand‘ is already in court for lying to gullible governments which did not have any experts and it would seem, common sense, or Google even, to ascertain whether they really work…and where the other 2 entries are from 1995 and 1997 respectively, the video above is from April 2013, last month (*cough*cough*)

Since there is no scientific evidence of how the magic wand works, we can only guess that it is proof of what you can achieve with sheer will power.

 #1 TRANSFORM, or Jesus’  First Miracle

What we asked for...

What we asked for…

The ultimate proof that the government believes in magic and if we are Christian, then that Jesus did indeed turn water into such good wine that the groom woke up next to all the bridesmaids.

In 1997, the government, okay, to be fair, the City council of Nairobi, decided to procure chlorine for its three treatment plants. The tender went to a Kenyan called Kimani Kongo who decided that he knew something more effective at disinfecting water for the capital city…guess what he supplied?

You know this one…

Trust me, you do…

Think…if you won a tender to supply chlorine, and you intended to supply something cheaper, a joke maybe, but something powdery, what would you supply?

I am waiting…

Why are you acting like you haven’t been to school?

You know it…

Didn’t the teacher’s chalk disinfect your illiteracy?

Here is a hint, the answer is the sentence above.

CHALK!

Yes, he supplied the city godfathers with enough chalk to disinfect the entire water system, or, maybe, he intended it as a practical joke to show them they needed to go back to school.

Meanwhile, in Kimani Kongo's lab...

Meanwhile, in Kimani Kongo’s lab…

What did he do with the Kshs. 70 million they paid him? A good patriotic Kenyan this one, he bought a home in Muthaiga and a Mercedes Benz, returning most of the money to the economy…and of course he was a politician, accused of murder and grabbing land and houses in Woodley Estate, but none are as symbolic as chalk dust. 

Since the CCN paid him for the chalk dust (despite the blatant denial by the responding minister in the link to the Hansard record above), we can only assume that he told them that the water to be disinfected was the primer of sorts. That ‘dormant chorine that changes when you put it in water and pray” is better than all other colors of chlorine…but at least it was just the once...that we know of…

Hogwarts

Hogwarts

Seeing that we haven’t gotten any ‘dissolved’ chalk dust in our water systems since, and there has been no massive dumping of chalk, we can only assume it is what was used to color the City Council headquarters.

Owaahh, 2013.

 

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A Good Kenyan is these: A Suggested Checklist


    A few weeks ago in an online discussion about the forgotten, neglected, unnecessary history of the Mau Mau, a very good Kenyan was kind enough to correct my oversight by telling me thus “…twitpic a photo of your PhD in History so we can believe you.” With that, I closed my Twitter account and threw my Minion, gadget extraordinaire, at the wall for committing the crime of not staying in my educational lane….and it is to that well-meaning Kenyan, a charming and charitable fella who took the time to pack a life lesson in less than 140 characters that I dedicate this..

     A Good Kenyan, trained in a certain trade, should keep within all set limits and lanes of only that trade. In fact, such a Kenyan should leave governing to the governors, and politicking to the misguided ones who do not care much for their lives. Such a well-meaning fella must never refer to anything beyond that which he has been trained for, and can provide proof of graduation from an institution, as an area of expertise. In fact, if you do not have a higher degree in say, political science, you should know better than to comment about the political process. Similarly, law should be left to lawyers with their ‘thereins and jurisprudences.’ All pure, and applied sciences graduates also need keep to their respective science, what is a chemist doing commenting about biochemistry anyway? Where is her ‘bio’ so we can take her seriously? In fact, on a topic of men, where are her relevant genitalia?…and, anyone trained in animal husbandry must never tire of fulfilling said spousal duties.

     A Good Kenyan who seeks to be taken seriously must always either keep to the moral values that he preaches, because the messenger is the message, or produce proof of instruction from a credible, accredited, institution, even if only for a weeklong training. The ‘African’ logic on which these criteria are based is ‘you have a point, yes, but are you:

  1. Instructed in the relevant discipline to offer such an arguably strong and clearly accurate point.
  2.  If the answer to (1) above is yes, are you educated up to, and including, such a level necessary to offer such an opinion?
  3.  If no to (1), please take a seat and eat your crayons, you are retarded and should only be seen, not heard, unless you are ugly, then please go be ugly elsewhere.
  4. If no to (2) above, please keep within the confines of what the educational system told you to be true. Do not question your teacher, or Malkiat Singh, or KIE, or KNEC, or KNUT, or KUPPET, or the BOG, or the PTA, or the PCEA…oh wait, a denomination.

190553_343071289149522_498206944_n

A Good Kenyan, after a 0-16 years in this educational system that would make the deities induction program managers jealous, is trained to think and become an expert in only that which he has written a peer-reviewed, peer-validated, scientific dissertation. Any in the liberal arts do not count, in fact, the liberal arts are nothing but smoke, another one of our misguided investments when we could have been investing in science and engineering and competing with the Asian tigers. We coulda been the African Lions, we coulda been cheetahs, we coulda been giants!

     A Good Kenyan, in limiting his own opinion to that which he has firsthand knowledge in as printed in the media or textbooks, and by a black Kenyan no less, must make it his job to remind others should they stray from their designated lanes. Please, do not speak to me about religion if you are not a theologian, diviner, with a long title of what should be sequential offices meshed into one. Yes, papers, good friend, proof of education. That will take you places, the better if you have been to Harvard a week or so, or if you have MA, or MSc, or higher. 

     A Good Kenyan must only listen to experts and never anyone else even when a child of five, woken up early enough, can offer the same opinion for a much cheaper price (a lollipop should suffice). Even worse, such a child of five would offer the point in a language too simple to be as sophisticated as the language we need to believe an opinion to be true. However, any Kenyan who purports to wow us with their vast vocabulary, be they the scribe Philip Ochieng’ who surely cannot have a point amidst all that buffoonery, or the young budding Waga Odongo who also surely, must only be hiding behind a cloak of a good dictionary, must be notified of our busy schedule that does not allow us to look out for any deeper meaning of words, or prose, or poetry…and what is Gathara doing writing prose anyway, isn’t he a cartoonist? Shouldn’t cartoonists…cartoon or something?

      A Good Kenyan must never join the civil society, and should he misguidedly choose do so, and seek to tell us that we are not being governed well, then we have a public duty to insult him as a ‘stooge of the West, funded by the colonialist.’ This duty must be embodied in the spirit of the Preamble to our constitution, next to our assertion of how much we have loved our not-romanticized freedom fighters. Our government is funded by the West too? Well, that is different, we are with China now. No, wait, we are only still with the West because we will be with China soon. China likes us, China loves us, China only wants us to be happy, China will not ask not to kill each other, China will not come with any more demands other than that we give their companies tenders and host their overpopulation…oh, and not recognize Tibet or Taiwan, or some other T-non-important country, and probably not allow the Dalai Lama to visit. The West is bad, even nature knows, isn’t that where the sun sets anyway? Such vile people! The East, where the morning sun comes from, is the future, you can feel its love if you orient the window of your fabricated suburban gated-community house just right, or if your landlord was kind enough to have done so with the loan money.

     A Good Kenyan should only hazard to contribute to topics in which he or she has a moral, contextual, education, religious, personal, and political interest, and training. All such qualifications must be corroborated for the contribution to matter. For example, in assessing the quality of this piece, shouldn’t the question be, ‘is the scribe a Good Kenyan himself?’ because here, one who speaks badly about the Mau Mau is automatically a Homeguard which, it turns out, is a bad thing. Weren’t the homeguards and chiefs the only learned people to whom we trusted our independence and arable lands? Haven’t they treated us well for the last five decades, like good lords of the manor, and feudal princes, by giving us jobs and letting us stay with our meager, worthless lives?

      A Good Kenyan must always demand that for a comment to be critically assessed, the commenter must have a personal bearing on the matter, interest in humanity does not count, and should never. In fact, anyone who says homosexuality should be decriminalized should be immediately disowned and branded a homosexual, because sexuality determines where you stand on the topic. Catholic priests, for example, should always be regarded as experts on contraception and safe sex, especially in their progressive ideas on condom-usage and moral uprightness….and of course, how to show young trusting males what happens behind the crucifix, the position in the tomb, the real Shroud of Turin.

An expert in swimming, but only in dirty rivers, and even then, only when nude. Get me someone who can swim in shorts, then we can discuss the Olympics.

An expert in swimming, but only in dirty rivers, and even then, only when nude. Get me someone who can swim in shorts, then we can discuss the Olympics.

     A Good Kenyan must never be critical of his government, unless it is fashionable at the time to do so. Such a Good Kenyan must never join a protest for which he has no familial links to, and should he find himself in a worker’s strike, then he is obligated only to learn the first line of the Solidarity Song, and hold hands while the worker’s ruin frisks all the protestors to make sure they are actually poor and indeed of a collective bargain to buy their trade union leader a new car. There are lanes that should never be crossed if we are going to achieve our many visions, such as that of being where Sweden is now in 2068, never mind that Sweden will have had 51 years to be somewhere else by then. Who cares anyway, Sweden can change addresses for all we care…

        A Good Kenyan, blessed with an education by a loving, caring, and honest government, must never ever deviate from said set path. A Good Kenyan must be a Good Kenyan, never bad, even when bad, should always be seen as a Good Kenyan. Any politician who hugs an adversary is to be immediately disowned for betraying the cause, and the community, and the socioeconomic grouping. In fact, were I the Lord of the Manor, Crown Prince of all Arable Lands, Landlord of the Nation, Mistaken Warlord, Prosecuted Prophesied Prophecy, Appointed Representative of the Omnipotent One,  I would declare that my government, in light of its role in protecting free market interests, is rounding up and shooting all petty thieves and freelance assassins. ‘Only the government should steal from and kill the people’, is the number one rule in this free market economy, and if a private citizen must steal, then he must steal enough to pay his dues to the government, and then atone for his sins by joining government.

If he kills, he must either own enough acres that would go to waste were he to be jailed for life or hanged to leave a hole in the economy, or make sure that the death somehow benefits the common good, national security, or the dalliances of the King or his men/women.

The government does not hate competition, as those unqualified armchair analysts might want a Good Kenyan to believe, instead, we believe that private citizens should work hard, pay taxes, love their families, copulate with their spouses, and most importantly, register to vote. It is not necessary to vote, we will do that for you….because we love you.

      A Good Kenyan must remember the cardinal rule, to be etched on the big Kshs 1 billion monument the British government is going to build for our freedom fighters, for pressing the testicles of our freedom fighters, and raping our grandmothers , that a Kenyan is defined by pedigree first, education second, unachievable dreams third, and the stupidity of ‘free thinking’ last.

     Any Good Kenyan who attempts to write satire must warn us that it is indeed satire because we are but mere Muggles, untrained in how to think for ourselves after reading the piece. Surely you cannot expect us to go find Platform 9¾ for we have not been instructed in wizardry. We are trusting people, trusting our mothers to guide us in how we should relate to deities, our teachers to impart knowledge that now determines who we are, politicians to govern and steal, as they should, the media to be upright and accurate, and such. So, we will get offended if we read through thousands of words only to discover you meant the exact opposite.

 

 

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Hate speech on Social Media: A Case of Misplaced Locus of Responsibility


Social media only features on our daily plate of bad places to hate on each other because it is sexy. It is sexy for the government to be seen as working to inculcate (not restore, we have never been united) true national cohesion and the warm fuzzy feeling of hating each other beyond  tribe and gender. Social media offers the older bureaucrats a chance to show the younger online generation whose boss. The sad thing is that in our peace lobotomy, we have validated it. We feel that the limits of the Bill of Rights apply to situations where we have a responsibility to be responsible. Incitement does not shift the locus of responsibility from the actor unless he or she is a young child or has a mental disability. The end decision of whether to hate your fellow man lies with you and your environment (and if you are religious, your respective deity).

African governments are scared of social media. Social media brought down Hosni Mubarak in less than three weeks despite his desperate attempts to block its use. So now African governments, beginning in Malawi, Zambia, and now Kenya, are now seeking to follow the China model, with less glamour and innovation (The Chinese have the decency to provide Baidu and other alternatives  to control ‘subversion’).

You don't say?

You don’t say?

Hate speech assumes that the reader does not have a responsibility to decide whether to pick up a machete and slaughter his neighbor and burn a church full of people. It assumes that you, as the reader, do not have a choice to decide to stop reading this and close the tab. I owe you a responsibility to be politically correct and to be sensitive to what might read like revolutionary material. You owe me as much responsibility for understanding this, for example, as I owe you for choosing these words. They would be ineffective if you could not understand them, contextually.

In the ‘Mau Mau’ War, hate speech took the form of propaganda pamphlets that were distributed by both sides, and included many forms of expression, including the content of oaths and war songs, this evolved into the implied hate speeches that drove the intrigues of the first government under Kenyatta the Elder, and was perfected under Moi. We lost the script when society kept quiet as Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Koigi wa Wamwere, Wahome Mutahi and others were detained for ‘sedition’ and other such ridiculous crimes. To the people, the state was not to be questioned, peace and sustainability (read self-preservation) were king, the same thing we are going through right now. Until the Second Liberation took place and we all temporarily realized that the ones who say ‘bad things’ need protection. Our view is largely libertarian and communitarian. Libertarians believe that the right to free speech may be limited only for compelling reasons such as fighting words. Communitarians believe in the community’s ‘well-being.’

We all know what happens when we let the government, or anyone in a position of power, infringe on the rights of a few people. At first, it is all bliss and calls of ‘JAIL THE TRAITORS OF OUR COSMETIC PEACE AND NATIONAL COHESION!’ ‘JAIL THOSE MYOPIC BACKWARD PEOPLE WHO ARE ONLY TELLING US WHAT WE THINK OF IN THE COMFORT OF OUR OWN HOMES AND MINDS.’ Before long, all is lost, and now a typographic error that accidentally connects someone’s name with the word ‘stupid or incompetent’ qualifies as a capital offence. Is this it? This cannot happen? It already is at an advanced stage. The press is now too tainted by corporate influence to matter, the civil societies are no longer civil or focused on society, the government is just being well, the government (the garb has changed, the body is still the same despite going on mandatory ‘cabinet lift and devolution’ cosmetics). We have so much coffee we should be waking up to but we are busy uprooting it to build gated communities. Voltaire said that if you want to know who controls you, just check whom you are not allowed to criticize.

Grumpy cat needs no caption.

Grumpy cat needs no caption.

Are we saying that it is okay to think this things at home and probably kill your neighbor while at it, but never ever post it online? It is the same misguided logic that has validated misogyny in rap culture; the idea that the representation owes more to the source than the source does the idea. We have a personal responsibility in how we relate to the rest of society. However, numerous studies in cognitive influence have shown that we all tend to move towards what the environment offers. We need to move from what is the influence of social media on Kenyan culture to what is the role of Kenyan culture in influencing and shaping social media. We are so afraid of ourselves that we are willing to risk making hardcore criminals of everyday Kenyans who need therapy in diversity and forgiveness.

When a blogger’  was hauled in the courts for allegedly mentioning ‘specific names with specific allegations’, we all kept quiet and validated it despite the subliminal warning. The King’s courtiers know how powerful a tool it can be  and will now use it to gain mileage and traffic

In the letter alluded to in the link above, the NCIC supposedly wrote “You have been posting threatening messages on your face book account which are intended to cause hatred/violence among communities in Kenya.”  A lethargic NCIC  is now considering going after those using ‘sign language and symbols’ to “..spread offensive remarks that could lead to violence..” The operational word there is ‘could’,  because that is what our peace lobotomy has come to. It also means that before long, someone will be standing on the dock answering to charges of showing another the middle finger. Who knows, maybe someday we will jail the dead victim too.hate-speech

Being responsible is two-way. It does not only mean reporting those you do not agree with-however myopic, backward, stupid, and wrong it might be-it also means controlling what you read online. The mark of the free mind is whether yone can read without being influenced. You do know that no one is coercing you to ‘Read More’ or hit ‘Share’ or ‘RT’? Better still, no one is holding a gun to your head to prevent you from blocking anyone who posts things you do not agree with. Actually, that is precisely the reason those buttons exist. Ours is partly due to the fact that we are all Moi Orphans, education-wise, and we feel like we now have too much freedom. Social media offers us all an outlet, but it is just that, an outlet. The real hate speech is in our minds, in our homes, in how we secretly think of each other.

We need not look further than the people whose government structure and social habits we have so blatantly aped. The US Supreme Court in R.A.V. v. City of St. Paul (1992) ruled in favor of the youth who had burned the cross-sign of the KKK on a front lawn of a black family. It ruled that by prosecuting him on a law that limited free speech rights, the state of Minnesota had violated his rights. The implication? The court did not rule on the act, which was criminal and should have fallen on the class of ‘willful destruction of property’ but ruled that the law cannot focus on motivation, the thinking that results in criminal behavior.

The truth about hate speech

The truth about ‘hate speech’ on social media

While we have hurled about 10 people in court for hate speech on social media, whatever that is, we have prosecuted one person for the (modest estimate) of 1, 100 deaths in 2007/8? …and I really want to point out our validation in the recent elections, but I know you are already thinking it. Had we already punished any of the people who committed the 2007/8 genocide, because that is what it was, perhaps we could have asked them if they were ‘driven to kill by hate speech’ or they are just downright brutal and senseless murderers who are still walking free. In no time, we will not breathe online on any social policies that are poorly implemented for fear of being on the wrong side of political correctness. Make no mistake, if this were the 1980s, we are on the government side, cheering on while it starts by plucking out, with our help, people whose only crime is perceived stupidity, as it rubs its hands and prepares to tell us how much we don’t need these freedoms we enjoy.

The joke is that most of the people spewing hate speech on social media are actually Kenyans in the Diaspora . What are we going to do, wait for them to disembark from JKIA and haul them before our lethargic justice system? Are we going to block them? We should, but are we helping anyone? Won’t they just adopt other pseudonyms and call us names? Most of these people live in countries where ‘hate speech’ is not what we think it is, expression is everything. The governments of most of those countries have followed a different model, choosing instead to be efficient in how they deliver services to the people, focusing less on cosmetic surgeries, and investing into efficient propaganda machinery.

Keep calm.

Keep calm.

Free thought/speech is not love, it is not about feeling the warm fuzzy feeling inside for your neighbor or brother. Free thought is not about supporting the government or the opposition, or simply opening your mouth to avoid halitosis. It includes these, but it is not all about them. Hate is as much a part of free expression as love is. Hate cannot be washed away by shocking the ‘hater’ into silence by jailing a few ‘like-minded’ individuals. Hate is taught, it is acquired from our environment, our educational process, our social and political history and structures.

So, go ahead dear reader, think about killing someone, and hating them, and hating the politicians they support and the way they conduct their everyday lives, hate on their cultures and the way they breath but do not post it. That is the new Kenya for you, think it, but do not say it (you can do it though, we do not care much about that).

 Owaahh

 

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