Ticking off my bucket list

I normally don't do resolutions at the closure of the year, probably because I know by the third day of the year, I'll probably have forgoten them, or rather drowned them together with the liver. I therefore prefer not to put myself in a position where am trying to achieve a resolution I can't remember clearly the reasons behind it. I prefer not to make resolutions, at least not the end year kind of resolutions.

This year however, am making my first resolution. To start making resolutions.

Anyway, that is not the main issue today. It's about a few things I've been playing with in my head for a couple of days. Things I should do in the near future.

1. Learn how to drive.

Sometime back, me and my cousin Patrice were driving along Musindi Road. When we got to Ngara girls, my cousin gave me the wheel, he'd been teaching me to drive for a while and I was feeling a little more confident on the wheel. I drove through Southern Blue hotel quite smoothly, took the turn down Nyayo market, (I was all smiley, I had finally learnt how to drive), went straight and took the turn to the gate real smooth, approached the gate, then something happened. I realized the gate was half open. My cousin could could have navigate through the space left but I didn't have that kind of confidence. I freaked. I stretched my foot to reach for the brakes and hit the gas pedal instead. I freaked some more. To make things worse, a group of mechanics who have a garage right adjacent to our flat started screaming directions and warnings from all angles. I freaked even more and pressed the gas pedal some more, I was froze and couldn't move my leg. I crashed my uncle's car outside his gate as he watched from the balcony. Needless to say, he banned me from ever touching the wheel of his car. I have never tried to touch the wheel of anyones car ever since. Am planning to.

The reason am planning on learning how to drive is because I've finally decided to take that road trip I've been meaning to take for the longest time. I want to take a fortnite and drive through the places I've heard the greatest stories from. Drive through Kisumu, pass by Moyale-Ethiopia border, Muliro gardens, watch Luhyas in groups in Kakamega, Samburu and finally take a swim through Lamu one more time. I want to make the stories I've heard from these places through other people mine. I want the stories I've heard from these places to be heard through me too.

2. Take a train ride.

To be honest, this is a new plan. It wasn't with me before last night. Here is what happened.

I got home and really wanted to blog. I like you guys, and although you don't necessarily show it, I think you at least like me too, or the blog. I wanted to put something up for you but I didn't have anything. My vault was empty.

So I called up a friend of mine, I wanted her to throw a couple of pointers my way, especially because she writes too, and as I learnt, reads a lot too. I think we can all agree it makes sense to try her. So she throws a couple, compares relationships with shoes, we try to complement pros and cons across gender and the communication problem, we go on and on, and on, and finally lands on some of the things we would like to do before we die (she is convinced that it is still possible for someone to send you anthrax via post). I already have a bucket list, visit either Rio or Amsterdam or both, attend a rock concert preferably Coldplay, make a fun album (photos of all my friends blacked out), among others. Then I thought about train rides. You board a train from Mombasa and spend a night in every town along the rail line. I thought a train ride across the country should be on my bucket list. Although we didn't come up with something that I could put up for you, we did add something in to my bucket list.

3. Paint a self-portrait.

I stole this idea from Fight Club (the best movie ever made)...........

Narrator: [Tyler steers the car into the opposite lane and accelerates] What are you doing?
Tyler Durden: Guys, what would you wish you'd done before you died?
Ricky: Paint a self-portrait.
The Mechanic: Build a house.
Tyler Durden: [to Narrator] And you?
Narrator: I don't know. Turn the wheel now, come on!
Tyler Durden: You have to know the answer to this question! If you died right now, how would you feel about your life?
Narrator: I don't know, I wouldn't feel anything good about my life, is that what you want to hear me say? Fine. Come on!
Tyler Durden: Not good enough.

Ricky's answer sounded good enough. Painting a self portrait sounded good enough.

I got to start cancelling things of my bucket list, I ain't getting any younger.

Don't send me to hell, I mind if you forget me

Stephanie sounds like a nice girl. I say sounds because I haven't met her in person but her voice tells a story of a girl most people would like to have coffee with. We didn't have coffee last Monday even though we'd planned to, not because I didn't want to but because I move without balance. I let life rush, I miss appointments, I miss out on good people, I forget to watch life, I run. I run faster than my legs can take me and know fewer people than I have met. In the near future, I will make a point of meeting her, and get to know her.

I don't reflect a lot. Let's eat, let's drink, let's make merry for tomorrow we die seems to pretty much sum up my life. It's a good philosophy on paper but in life, it's too fast, it's too true. The last part is too true. At some point we all die. It's not as scary as been forgotten but it's scary as hell, the hell in the Bible I must add. Death in itself is not scary. What lies after is what scares the shit out of me. What if there is a God? What if there is nothing? What if heaven is there or worse still hell which mankind is bound at birth unless Jesus saves our souls? What if the God we believe in is not the one on the other side? *shudders*.........

What if they forget me?

It scares me that out of sight, out of mind could be a reality. My hell. People walking around like I never existed. They'll eat, they'll drink, they'll make merry, for tomorrow they die. They'll eat, they'll drink, they'll make merry like I never existed. They'll date my girlfriend, they'll drink my milk, they'll attend the parties I should have attended, they'll make merry without me. They'll forget, and send me straight to hell. My hell. For me, being forgotten is scarier than burning probably because I don't believe that the fire is real, at least if God is the logical kind.

They'll attend the funeral, eat, drink and toast to a life well lived, pour liquor in my casket, lay flowers on my grave, and cry. They will cry for me because it is an important essence to be taken into consideration after the initial stage of the mourning feeling caused by a dear relatives death, they'll will blame their gods for taking a loved one away from them, they'll pray for safe haven of my soul in the heaven they believe in, they'll talk about me for a week, maybe a month, a year or so. The rituals will come and then the memories will fade. I will be gone, gone with the wind, but I don't want to go.

I want to live forever. Immortal in the hearts of mine, and theirs, those who care today, I want them to care tomorrow. I want them to laugh at the jokes forever (am praying for a life line here), to be immortalized in the memories we share, a chemistry between us that you couldn't bottle in a million years. I'll instigates fights that end up in love, sad days that end up in smiles, struggles with happy endings, I will force memories of me down your throats. I will not let you send me to hell because I mind if you forget.


I will travel when I can and make a friend everywhere. I will sit down with strangers and listen to their stories, eat their food and drink their brews. I will hold on to the friends I got and make a new one every chance I get. I will live forever, because I will make sure someone remembers me. When the reaper knocks, am going to heaven. I will not go to hell. I will not let them forget about me.


I will leave souvenirs, I will find them that which reminds them of me. Custom music cds which remind them of me every time they listen to it, jewelery from the few places I get a chance to travel to, sea shells from the next time I pass by a beach town, I want them to see me in the gifts that I give. I will make sure they remember me. I will leave a footprint in their hearts. I'll give them a memory. I will give all of them a memory.

Ring circus

So Jane was really pressed, she had to go now. The conductor was nice enough to let her go, but the place was kinda open and the sun was already out, about a quarter to 8:00, nobody really expected her to find a blind spot. I could see the curiosity eating the men alive, acting all chilled out, shifting in their seats (darting their eyes outside), but nobody figured out how she just vanished in the thin air. The first guy just couldn't take it anymore, she couldn't be that good at hide and seek, yes hide and seek because this is what we were training for when we were younger, except in real life we hide from cops and bosses as we seek beautiful women and beer offers. Anyway, this chap decides he was pressed too, alights and walks a few meters from the bus and does his thing, but he's not looking where he's aiming, he's still looking for Jane's spot, everyone was marveled by her hiding prowess. A few more men joined in the hunt, still nothing. She was good, considering she was handicapped in this game, I mean we all know that one seeks and all hide and not the other way round. The men’s faces screamed defeat, I included,

‘‘All those of the opinion Jane has won ''The Gikobe'' say Aye''

''Ayeeee'' All men in unison replied.

Finally she was done talking to nature and out of nowhere, she was boarding the bus. Most of us didn't see where she appeared from; these thin air productions are really catching on. One by one we boarded the bus acting like nothing happened but we all knew who the winner and the losers in this game were.

We are not even close to Mtito Andei and I was already tired, bored too. I'd been traveling the whole night and was still on the road. I had left Lamu the previous night, kinda sad though because I can honestly say I loved the place. Maybe it's the ocean, or the food, the people, but I did love it. I think that's why I'd been looking for excuses to stay a little longer, closing the financial year, collecting my baggage assessment letter from the ministry of public works, my release letter, and then there were a few parties derailing my schedule day in, day out. Eventually, something had to give....

So, the last day, it honestly felt like a season finale. Things were happening extremely fast, all the small things that I hadn't done because they were tiny little things compounded to be one big thing. Send the documents I need to send to the headquarters, pick up my bag from Feddys' place, drop some things I had at the office, and some other small things. It rained.

Lamu is not like the rest of this country, we don't know how to work around rain, you can count the number of umbrellas around, and today was the day that God decides to let it pour, poor Lamu. When it rains in Lamu, transport is a major issue; you know we walk on water right? I worked in the mainland and lived on the island. In the afternoon, it looked more like a passing cloud than rain, plus I figured I will cross for an hour or two and then rush back pick up my stuff and board the 9:00 p.m. bus. That was not fates plan. First was the limited number of passengers crossing to the mainland which in Lamu means either of two things, sit pretty and wait, or hire a boat for quite a sizable amount, almost a crate of Tusker at DOD Langata. You probably already know what I opted for.

Eventually, at around 4:00 p.m., I finished the few errands I needed to run, but the mainland wasn't really done with me. Mohammed, the chauffeur of the day (I know it's a bike but hey), he was willing to chauffeur me around, it's the low season anyway, ''kusi'' they call it and passengers are scarce. My friend Kisanya and his new found Miss Maggie were chilling at White house, farewells and all he demanded albeit served in brown bottles. A couple of Tuskers and Mfalmes later, it's 6:00 pm and I got to cross and pick up my bags.

The rain doesn't like me much either, of all the places it would have chosen to find me, it chose the ocean. Wet and cold in Lamu with half an hour before the boat sails, still raining heavily a quick break was necessary and Petleys was welcoming. Matata, his wife Queen, Kofi and Simba were in the house. Matata doesn't like his friends sober and a Tusker was on the table. My phone won't stop ringing, the rain won't stop pounding and the time won't stop moving. I prayed.

I think I prayed, the subconscious kind of prayer where God knows you need his help without you saying a word. Why do I say this, in the next five minutes, the rain stopped falling and my Tusker was empty but unluckily time stops for no man, so I've learnt. Kama had my ticket on his way to the boat as I rushed to collect my baggage, the calls kept coming through, and a couple of meters from the Jetty, I could see they were slowly moving out. I ran, calling out, calling Kama on his phone and flashing my phones display light to signal that I was coming.

Just so you know, it was not entirely my fault given that initially, I thought the boat would be leaving at 8:30 p.m. rather than 7:30 p.m. which happen to be quite a time difference. It was my first time to travel with the night bus and the time can sometimes confuse even the keenest of minds. Secondly, I hadn't seen my receipt which means I wouldn't know exactly what time I was supposed to leave.

The boat did wait for me. It was one of the bigger boats ''boti ya mbao'' rather than the speed boats am used to. Long ride that was.

We had some bad seats, the two seats in the middle of the back bench. The two guys on my right were just normal two guys, nothing extraordinary about these two. Kama sat on my left (I think we changed positions at some point and he moved to my right, his legs needed more space to breath) and to his left which was my extreme was this nice gentleman. A family guy probably, calm, cool, and collected gentleman, at first glance you would refer to him as ''the gentleman to my left''. The gentleman to my left kept his cool as the bus picked up speed, and then without warning, he pulls out a time machine!!

I know you guys don't believe me one bit but I got witnesses. Kama and the two gentlemen to my left will testify to this effect. He took us back to high school bus trips, loaf and soda bus trips. I think it's the manner with which he was least bothered by our peeping that intrigued me. I know I shouldn't be judging the gentleman to my left since I wasn't innocent enough to warrant me the stone throwing. Kama had some cookies and one packet of milk which we were, you know, but you got to understand none of us had had lunch. Not because we were not hungry, but in between my packing, office errands, scheduling that Friday blog post and Kama's unfinished jobs, the day was way too short. I doubt that the gentleman on my left had such a convincing story.

I decided to catch a couple of winks, I was a little tipsy and the running around was quite tiring. Around 0300 hours, Thursday morning in Malindi. When you are on the road, the times don’t give you a lot of navigating space. 15 minutes is almost the universally accepted break time from the butt numbing travels, and we try our best to make the most of it, you can’t wander off too far from your vessel or bus if you please. (Note that at this particular moment I hadn't met Jane). A quick meal of ''mshakiki na mahamri’’, - I only did the mshakiki, Kama decided since there were no chapos -unga ni unga-. The conductor switched our seats and then switched them again. I think this is where I met Jane; I had seen her couple of times in Lamu a cyber café, Kamas’ cyber café. The introductions were done, the niceties and all, and then back to the road.

The point of this story is the lessons from a married woman. As I later found out, Jane is a happily married woman. She got married young and she has been through all the fights that any marriage could ever have, from alleged affairs to extended family feuds; she’s been through them all. Being a bachelor, I got no clue how to handle institutional relationship feuds except from bits and excerpts from other peoples feuds, at least those who are willing to tell it with no bars held. She was willing.

How to treat your woman:

Honesty is overrated she told me. There are some things about you she doesn’t feel like she needs to know. According to her, she expects her man to at least have stray thoughts regardless of whether he’ll act on them or not. She also expects a few ladies to throw themselves at him especially because of the distance between her and him, physical that is (she works in Lamu and her husband works in Nairobi). Information should be weighed against expected reactions, and according to her, women are a jealous species. They don’t trust other women around their men and information insinuating that there is a lady willing to take her place as soon as she leaves the matrimonial compound is to be filtered to a need to know basis. In the same light, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her and a stray day should not be considered as something she needs to know. Do not give her a reason not to trust you.

Men have been known to accuse women of a lot of things, the biggest accusation being that they are money oriented. Contrary to popular belief, financial needs aren’t exactly primary to women although she made sure I understood that love doesn’t pay the rent. Apparently, women’s need vary from one woman to another unlike those of men (it is common knowledge that food, beer and sex will keep any man on a leash). You shouldn’t marry a woman that you do not know, and knowing a woman is not limited to her name and sexual prowess. A woman, any woman needs to know that she comes first and her needs (which you should know) are a priority. She needs to know she can count on you when she’s out of options and that sense of security is what will keep her home, your home that is.

Communication is not limited to her talking and you listening. Talk to your woman the way you talk to your friends every once in a while.

Respect your woman. Do not talk ill or command your woman to do stupid things in front of your friends. Learn how to treat her when you have company.

Jane is of the dying breed from what I gathered. She knows how a woman should treat her man. She is the old school kind of girl, who believes in working things out, always talking about her man in a positive light even though she expects him to f*** up every so often and most of all, she knows a woman can either make a man better or destroy him.

Unluckily for the singles today, this kind of breed is not fashionable anymore. Women of today expect men to change since they have. Their needs have changed and we too need to evolve. The Jane’s of the world are gone.

Maybe we are wrong about God.

''You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you, he never wanted you, in all probability he hates you. It's not the worst that could happen to you'' ~ Tyler Durden.

I was born in a Christian family, which technically makes me a Christian. Technically because except for my Christian name nothing else makes me feel like a Christian, and my hair makes people think I subscribe to Islam, not that I get it, the hair and religion stereotype but there are a lot of things in this world that I don't understand.


The name:

My Christian name is Peter.
According to the dictionery, the meaning copied from the online dictionery is as below.

pe·ter
Verb: Decrease or fade gradually before
coming to an end: "the storm had petered
out".

Noun: A man's penis.

However, that is not the Peter my mum had in mind. She was thinking more on the lines of Jesus' apostle, his right hand man who walked on water, argued with Jesus, betrayed Jesus, and most importantly became the leader of the Apostles after Jesus' ascession to the right hand side of his father in heaven. This is a name that should make me feel important especially because of how deep in religion all the women around me have been.

I don't feel it. I don't feel like Jesus' right hand man.

When growing up, I didn't question much or rather didn't think much about God, the Bible wasn't bookmarked on my phone as it didn't form much of literal material I felt like I needed to read. I rarely went to Church, which to an extent is advantageous since I wasn't really indoctrinated into anything fully. I can think outside the confines of religious dogma because I don't view God as a religious man would, am more on the side of God at the end of our imagination.

Reading the Holy Books can be confusing. The proverbial thin line between love and hate is extremely thin. Okay, not hate per se, but some of the extremes the religious God went to make his people toe the line, the punishments prescribed for those who put their hand on the cookie jar scaringly border on hate. Sigh.

Sexual activities (not mine).

Some of the sexual perversions the Men of God are straight up immoral. Lot and his daughters, David and a soldiers wife, Mohammed and a 12 year old wife.

The laws, the discrimination against others in his creation, favorism of certain people, et al.

You got to understand that, me and God aren't the best of friends. Am not sure how to relate to the guy.

Free will is apparently not free, it causes us to sin, and that happens to be a direct ticket to hell. Maybe this is a truth that we are running away from. I don't know if am the only one who wonders the role of God in the evils that plague the world. Free will and animal instinct will most definately corrupt a soul, how can he blame us for a fault of his doing? You can't throw animals in a cage with limited resources without expecting that they'll most probably eat each other. Sigh.

Or maybe we got it all wrong. Either religion totally got it wrong or God is unfair. Let's talk religion for a minute. Let's talk about it from a broader perspective outside of it's confines for a minute. Religions borrow heavily from each other. Regardless of the physical appearances, their attributes of God tend to be human, temperence, tolerance, generousity, love, every human attribute to its utmost extreme. This does not make him feel extra ordinary to me. His power is limited to our imaginations and his laws are based on our view of morality stretched with consequence equal to the limit our imagination feels the body cannot handle.

Maybe God doesn't have human attributes and whoever we pray to is our own creation. Maybe he is not the God who is morally right, an abundant provider, an extreme punisher, an all loving kind albeit with no sense of humor.
Maybe he is not that white guy with a long beard somewhere in the sky.

Maybe he created and left and we are struggling in explaining his existence the way we deem fit.

Maybe we are wrong about God.

Venus vs Mars

It's a couple minutes past eleven and am almost out of beer. Sleep and I haven't been close for a while but my beat down ipod is good company. With it's broken screen and a habit of throwing me off balance with the arrangement of the tracks, I've learn't to cope.

I think.

At first it was her. She popped in my head again. After a while, she pops in my mind, the good times, the smiles, the laughs, the conversations et al. The good memories.
She smiles easy, she smiles in her voice too, she talks gentle, she inspires music. She walks slow, she's careful with her feet, she watches them a lot, it makes people think she's shy. But I think she's just trying to protect her smile. She knows the world is a cruel place, it will take advantage of her smile, so she guards it, and the world said she's shy.

Then there is me. Lost in my ills, selfish with freedoms, mean with time, stupid old me never learns. It's the little things that matter, the texts that say you crossed my mind, the rock cd that says I know what warms your heart.

My cousin says I have a phobia for commitment. Maybe there is truth in her statement. I don't hold on to anything, good or bad, I let everything slip through my fingers, the good and the bad........ I think.

Nah, I take that back. It's the planning, the routine, the knowing tomorrows, it's the control. You can't surf in calm waters, I need waves. It's the not knowing where am going that makes blood rush, the running into trouble, the spotainity.

Control or lack of it rocks this boat. It's the flips in judgement that control the cruise.

I guess we are both to blame.

Let's make lemonade

I want to talk about all the good times, lessons I have learnt, experiences I've had and some not so graphic escapades with my women. Am a little shy about the sex escapades because most of my ex-girlfriends are still good friends to date, we talk over the phone, we have not broken off our friendship and they sometimes do read my blog and they will probably know am talking about them. I do however like reminding them that I still remember the good times, the walks, the smiles, the drinks et al.

That's a whole lotta digression, if am allowed to use the word. The stories.

Am not much of a loner. I need people around me, the more the merrier. To make this happen, I need to make it worth their while but since you can't throw parties everyday, one is forced to be interesting. I am forced to be interesting. I feel comfortable in a crowd, (probably the reason am going to die a poor man) so I need to entertain them.

I like literature. Actually, I love literature. Reading good stories written by men and women who love to tell their stories and stories of others and tell them so well. I like reading history, stories of men of old, their battles, their solutions to worlds problem, their ''how to love a woman'' manual (the Spartans knew how to love a women, I try to love my women the way the Spartans loved), and so forth. I like history because it has lessons, with history we know how not to live lest we suffer the same consequence. The good morals you take them with you, the bad you thank God you weren't born then. I like to read poetry every once in a while. I like the Bible too and the few bits of the Qur'an that I have read.

If I maybe excused, I will digress for a second.

Have you ever thought about the religious books from a different perspective except a religious one. Am not trying to offend y'all religious folks but don't you think these books are Jewish myths as told by the Romans. The message is great and although their God seems extremely powerful, is it possible that these books are based on stories of two stoners trying to understand the world with a whole bag of weed? Call me crazy but a man being swallowed by a whale then spat out after three days doesn't sound too plausible. But that's just me.

I love good music, especially good old school music. It brings forth good memories, the mistakes you made and never learn't the lessons, the girls you loved then, the people that loved the song, where you lived when the song came out. I have a theory that people who love old school music have had a fun life.

I like movies, I haven't watched one in a while probably because am yet to buy a telly. I think am out-growing T.V, or it's the realization that T.V is killing books, or am just broke.

As I was saying, I like movies. Movies tell you stories the way they are supposed to be told, in detail. Movies have raw emotion, not as raw as live T.V, but good actors and actresses do make you feel the emotion. Good movies make you imagine yourself in the characters situation, epic movies makes you want to live the emotion. Troy is an epic movie.

I love to travel. I have a dream that one day I will own a Jeep and a no limit credit card. In my dream, I jump into my Jeep and drive away. See every corner of this country, sleep in small towns, sample traditional drinks and foods. If am lucky, a beautiful lady will ride shotgun.

Why am I telling you all this? I've come to realize life is bitch. Motivational speakers do try to insist that life is what you make it, they have books teaching you this side of the coin but I call them bullshit mongers. Life is a bitch. We don't get dealt the right cards which means our dreams are just that. Dreams.

I've always loved literature and if I could change one thing in my life, it would be the career I chose. Accounting is not so bad, but am not cut out to be an accountant. Am good with math, but am better at telling stories, and reading those of others. Life on the other hand forces us to need things that we don't need, we go to jobs we hate to finance needs that life subscribes us. We don't like our jobs but the path that our hearts desire happen to be rocky. Thus the death of the arts, our arts, our first loves.

Anyway, let's make some lemonade.

Good girls magnet.........so I've heard

''How many times am I going to forgive you? Huh?''

You just sit there and take it, nod and accept all the charges and promise to change your ways. I don't know if y'all have noticed but women seem happier when they are mad at you. When she's screaming at you, insulting your manhood, fighting to feel superior over you for that particular high-tempered moment, she feels great. And thus my conclusion, women love bad boys because they give them a reason to scream at them very so often.

My friend Mutinda thinks a little different. He likes women around him, and he feels he knows them better, not that am denying this or anything but hey, every man at some point think they've figured women out until the day they find out that they don't. Every man has gone through this stage, some of us for a short period and most of us a little bit longer a period, I fall on the ''some of us'' group. My boy Mutinda falls on the ''most of us'' who still believe that they have ''figured'' women. His theory about women and bad boys is that women love to correct mistakes, they don't feel at ease if they are not cleaning up after someone, they feel that they need to take care of someone. The harder the job, the longer the will stay because apparently, they are not in the business of leaving unfinished works.

You gotta understand that men are extremely simple beings, we don't trust ourselves which means we don't give too much information because in too much information we get ourselves in trouble. We therefore say exactly what we mean to avoid speculation. Women on the hand, although we get it wrong all the time, we try all the best to understand our lovely primates from Venus. Most of us do try, at least those that I know do try. I know most of us are still trying to learn the ''read between the lines'' language, the ''silent language'' and the ''sign language'' but even the Professors are yet to decipher these Venus dialects. We do try, but Mars taught us different, we don't ask for direction. We will try to fix everything without a manual, go everywhere without maps, we don't ask for direction because Mars taught us we only learn by losing our way. We will not ask our lovely ladies to teach us their language, and as soon as we think we've learnt, down goes we.

Mutinda, ''an expert'' in this subject of women believes that they love bad boys because bad boys are a challenge, they give them something Or someone to fix. They feel that if they can fix him, they can have a trophy of their own. If they can take a rugged man, polish him or rather upgrade him, they feel that they have accomplished something.

Good guys seem to have gotten their shit together, they can easily walk without a guide and they clean up after themselves. For a woman, this is child play for her, she needs someone who will give her a headache, whose polishing is going to take some thinking, they like to be challenged.

Lesson of the day, good girls like bad boys. What about the fuss with the bad girls? I will let you know when I know.

A mango tree and a lady to scream at goats.............

I want to retire in a ranch, anywhere in this world but in a ranch. I want my wife to haul insults at my goats like my grandmother does, while I sit under the mango tree a couple of steps from the cowshed and tell stories to my grandchildren. Exagerate the facts about the war against the Al-Shaabab, ''the first attack took place a couple of days after we attacked them'' I would begin. The grenades will turn into bombs, the casualties will increase, hell, I will even be there. I will tell stories the way my grandfather told them every Christmas, under the mango tree.

Some 18 years ago I lost my grandpa. My grandfather couldn't stand hospitals, he believed that when you step in one, you won't come out in one piece. He was paranoid around the white mans' things, they were poisoning the black man to take back his land, he did not trust the white man or his ways, or his things and that included their hospitals. When we took him to hospital, he ran. At 82, he walked for 6 days from Murang'a District Hospital approximately 160 kilometers to his house. We looked for him only to find him at home talking to one of my aunts drinking milk after we were almost out of places to look. A couple of months later after having lived a full life he left for heaven.

I want to sit under the mango tree and tell stories of my childhood, my teenage years, the scares of the second coming of Christ, the war in Somalia, the bomb blast in 98', my first job, how i met your grandmother, stories that tell my grandchildren that I lived a full life.

Am not the most religious freak but I believe in God. When we talk I like to ask him why, with all his wisdom, he created so many dumb people, he doesn't answer though, so I speculate. Heaven I want to go, but not the mythical one, but the real one. To be remembered in good light, to have left a mark in peoples' hearts, by telling great stories, stories that tell people that I lived a great life. I want to be in my grandchildrens' thoughts 18 years after my demise.

Now to get there, I need a lady to insult my goats.

Talk less, listen more and buy her chocolate and flowers

I wrote a pretty awesome blog post on my other blog last night. For those not in the know, I had a pretty rough ride for the past couple of months, literally I mean. I believe bloggers and writers refer to it as a writers block but as I have always insisted, am not a writer nor a blogger but a story teller. That is why my stories tend to evolve a lot, I feel the need to sensitize points, and sometimes my blogger friends don't follow. I am sure at this particular point, most of you have already lost the plot (laughing at y'all in my head, blondes....hehehehehehe.....), so am going to back it up, a little.

I had a loss of words phace, a ''writers block'' if I may, and since I felt the need to keep you around, I decided to start this other blog (Uncle Serge), it's about conversations between me and my 8 year nephew. I posted last night, something about how to deal with women, and the lesson of the day was, talk less, listen more, buy her chocolate and flowers. When I re-read it, I thought about it a lot, because from past experiences these lessons have never really stuck. I know I should talk less, but I go ahead and talk a little more than I should, I will make promises that I might not fulfil and she will hold it against me for the rest of our relationship. I know I should listen more, but I sometimes listen to the cosmos and her voice feels like background music as you day dream, but you don't hear a thing. I don't know much about chocolate and flowers.

Talk less, listen more, buy her chocolate and flowers.

I maybe wrong, but let's test this theory.

Talk less:

As men, we are held to our word. Every word you utter is taken with the strength of your character. We would like to give our women all that they desire, and we try our best, sometimes we get there sometimes we don't. When we tell our women what we would love to do for them, we raise their expectations, we make promises under uncertain conditions, and if the situation goes south, we break it. As much as we wanted to keep the promise we find ourselves breaking it. Since your woman expected you to keep, trust gets scratched. Our words hurt us, if we talk, we commit ourselves and make our lives harder.

Listen more.

Women talk a lot, that's how we know how to treat them. A woman who loves books talks about books, a woman who talks about music is a lover of music, etcetera, etcetera. Women love different, they are choosy and specific, and they tell you every single time you are together. Problem is, they don't tell you in one word. When you listen to your woman, you get to know her, you get to know how to make her happy, how to fulfil her needs, how not to take her on drinking sprees with your friends, and so forth.

Buy her chocolate and flowers. This, I don't remember life teaching me much about it, all maybe I missed a couple of classes. However, based on heresy, women love chocolate and flowers.

The flip side. Men's stories are based on bruises in the battlefield, life isn't fun if we don't get in trouble. We are thirsty of acknowledgement as alpha, we don't get bruised easy. Some people will call it ego, others pride, and others will give it even bigger names woven around with scientific meaning. For me trouble is just fun, I don't need a reason to get in trouble, but most men do it for pride. Between ego and love, we choose ego until we are old enough to know how to follow the rules.

And now, as my nephew grows older, i will watch him get into trouble a little less than I did, because I've learnt.

Operation "Amani Ya Ghafla"

This is going to be short, as short a story as it can possibly be since the moral should not be lost in the details. I will start with the moral of this story if I may, peace in the house. The best gift you can give a man is peace in his house; the sacrifices he makes to accommodate a woman in his house should be reciprocated with peace at home.

This is a true story.

Sometime back, a policewoman was relieved off her duties for wearing the inner wears on the outer and vice versa. You see, in a broader sense, it would be her fault but we can credit a little fault in her mans pursuit of peace at home. This lady, let’s call her Joyce* was married to a very nice fella, let’s call him Paul*. Paul and Joyce had been married for a couple of years and Paul did his level best to keep his woman happy. He had come to accept that he was never right, he did not own the house or his pay slip, if he had a better day than his wife he never bragged about it and he had learnt to shut up even when he was right. He was a perfect husband in his opinion, and if I may throw in my two cents, I believe he gave up too much.

Joyce on the other hand loved chaos, she loved her tantrums so much and a day gone without one was considered a day lost in her books. She would complain whenever Paul went out for a drink with his boys and stayed out late, but staying in never guaranteed peace anyway. She would still find a reason to break glasses. Paul tried his level best to keep his cool, love his woman for better or for worse but peace he craved for, he dreamt big, dreamt because peace in his house was more of a dream and being the good husband that he was, he accepted that. At least until one day, that one day his need for peace overshadowed all else.

Paul was a social drinker, he consulted Mary Jane every once in a while. Those who knew him believed he stayed around for that long because even though they fought a lot, he was allowed to attend the sessions at Mary Jane’s therapy and spa. One Friday evening, he asked in group therapy for advice, peace mission in his house. Stoned heads come together in pursuit of peace.

“Operation Amani Ya Ghafla”

Come Saturday morning, Paul woke up earlier than the norm. He was not going to work, his wife was home too. He decided to make her breakfast in bed, a very noble idea. At this point, he wasn’t really sure if his idea was a mistake but the consequences at this point were outweighed by the benefits. Peace mission it was. He scrambled some eggs, threw in some bacon, spread some bread and made some coffee. The coffee was good, he knew it, he had made it some time back and liked it. The coffee had to work. He laced it with some wisdom, a little peace element, and a whole lot of love. Breakfast in bed it is.

Joyce loved the coffee, she loved it so much that he took a second cup, and a third too. It was relaxing, therapeutic too I must add. She was peaceful, smiling all morning, walking around the house with only her T-shirt on. She didn’t know what was happening but she liked the feeling, a sudden feel of peace had engulfed her.

10:00 a.m., a call on her cell came through, emergency at work. She took a quick shower, changed to her work clothes and rushed to the office. On arrival, her boss summoned her to the office.

Boss: Is everything okay ma’am?

Joyce: Yes Sir.

Boss: Are you sure?

Joyce: Yes sir.

Boss: Any trouble at home, or at work?

Joyce: No Sir.

Boss: Why is your petticoat worn on your skirt?

Joyce: (frozen, she checks herself out) Huh?

Joyce was the self conscious kind. She never made such kind of mistakes; she cared a lot about her appearances and was able, on a normal day, to talk herself out of most situations. But this was not a normal day, and this was not part of most situations.

Boss: Take some time off, and see a doctor. The good kind off doctor.

Cool Dreamer

Serge: Have I ever told you about my art dream.

Mj: A couple of times.

Serge: I talk about it a lot. I think I regret not following it the most.

Mj: What's up with you and art?

Serge: I don't really know......
But it feels like you really own something....
And you get to roll in paint....

Mj: You just want to roll in paint

Serge: Naaah, but rolling in paint is kinda cool.

Mj: It's the rolling in the paint.

Serge: But art is wide, I can be an artist of words, playing with nouns and verbs. Wordsmith.......

Mj: Yeah right...

Serge: You're such a pessimist, you don't think am good at anything...

Mj: Hehehe, it's nothing like that. Six years of therapy with me, I get to know you, I'll probably know you better than your wife if you ever get married, which am in doubt if you ever will marry.

Serge: Judgemental bitch.

Mj: Call me whatever the fuck you want but you know it's true.

Serge: And what makes you such an expert in me?

Mj: How long have you ever gone out with someone, except for me that is?

Serge: Like 3 years

Mj: That was an on off thing, and to be honest you guys almost only talked on the phone. I count that as not more than 9 months. Actually it's like 7 months, coz you once had like an years break.

Serge: It's 3 years in my book.

Mj: Okay whatever, how often do you change your priorities......aactually the question should be, what are your priorities?

Serge: Mj, don't do these...

Mj: My point is, you get bored quite fast. You don't stay in relationship for long, because you like a fire in it, and as soon as it cools down, you want to move on. Your priorities are defined by situations, and they change when the situation changes. You are always on the run, you want to do everything at the same time. Slow down hurricane.....

Serge: Hehehe, you just had to say that, and how is that connected to my art dream?

Mj: You don't see the trend here?

Serge: Not really

Mj: You can't stick to one thing, you are not patient enough to dream one dream. Plus you are more of a dreamer than a doer, you want to paint and you have never even bought a single painting tool.

Serge: There is that.

Mj: You are lazy too...

Serge: that too

Mj: You procrastinate a lot

Serge: Okay, okay, I get it....am a dreamer.

Mj: Not that I mind....

Serge: Yeah, you just like hanging out with me

Mj: Yeah, you're a cool kid.

Serge: There is that.

Coffee and therapy

Serge: Hey

Mj: How's it going?

(silence)

Mj: You know it's never that bad.

(silence)

Mj: Have you tried to write about your memories in Lamu?

The beach parties, the house parties at Matata's or at Kofi's....

Serge: I've tried pretty much,everything.....

You remember Irene's story??

Mj: Yeah, the one on your way from Lamu she's pressed, she stops the bus and all the men pretend like they have to pee and all

Serge: That one

Mj: That would be a good story, especially, the part where she had to pay your fare, that was smooth..

Serge: Yeah, I tried to write about it and came up with slightly over 500 words, I even tried to throw in some flashbacks to make it a little longer but still nada....

Mj: This is bad...

Serge: If you think that is bad, I got to a point where I was contemplating some really mushy stuff.......

(both laughing)

Serge: (still laughing)......I was...(tihihihihi)...contemplating poetry...

(both uncontrollably burst out with laughter)

Mj: Holy shit......(tihihihi)...this is some deep shit I tell you,

Serge: Scary shit I know

Mj: We gotta get you to get to write

(silence)

Mj: What happened with hypotheticals, where you break down these sayings and all? Like ''the wrath of the working class'' in Let's begin with a prayer next time, or the one about art.......you never posted that, why don't you try playing it with it a little and see what you come up with. There might be something there.

Serge: You think??

Mj: Yeah, plus it has a wide range, from music to fine art, to food, you can even throw in that line in that Denzel's movie Man on fire.

Serge: Yeah, where Denzel's friend says, ''A man can be an artist... in anything, food, whatever. It depends on how good he is at it. Creasey's art is death. He's about to paint his masterpiece''

Mj: Makes art really cool, even death can be an art, ''An artist of death''

Serge: What do I know about art?

Mj: Pass the coffee

(I pass the coffee)

Mj: You can write on how you view art, how a good painting makes you feel. Or good music, you know how you love old school music. You can write about old school music, how does old school music make you feel?

Serge: I don't know....what do you mean make me feel?

Mj: When you listen to old school music, how does the music make you feel?

Serge: I think it reminds me things, places....people...a good party, things like that.

Mj: Take like a specific song

Serge: Are we going anywhere with this? Coz I don't want you getting me all over exited for nothing.

Mj: Just go along with it, pick a random song, a song you like.

Serge: Can I pick an artist?

Mj: Yeah, whatever, just pick

Serge: Lucky Dube

Mj: Aha, now what makes you like his music.

Serge: It reminds me of the day my dad snuck out to attend Lucky Dube's concert

Mj: What do you mean sneak out? He's your dad, shouldn't he just say he's going to be late or something?

Serge: When I was around 11, we lived somewhere around Murang'a which meant by 11:00, all pubs were closed and everyone was indoors. At his age, my dad that is, you wouldn't have expected him to even contemplate going to a reggae concert which meant there was no point explaining it to anybody.......so he just went and explained it the following morning.

Mj: That's kinda short.

Serge: You know what the problem with writing is? Material.

Mj: What do you mean material?

Serge: When you start writing, you have a lot of material. Mostly, it's old material, you are just recycling but since it's a new crowd, it feels new because you are telling it to them for the first time. After a while, you realize your stories are dwindling real fast and as a stop gap measure, you try a couple of things, write a hypothetical, borrow a couple of points from different sources, patch them up and try to come with something worth the readers time....play with some ideas

Mj: I've seen that in one or two of your posts....

Serge: When you start writing, you start with the best of them, but when you do that, you set a bar.

Mj: Yeaahh, now I get it

Serge: When you set a bar with the best of your material, anything below that is unacceptable. Problem is, after your first couple of posts, everything else in your treasure box becomes unacceptable.

Mj: Treasure box?

Serge: Yeah, I like giving it names, I thought of calling it treasure island, where you go out digging for treasure and all, then I thought, nah...treasure box sounds better. I keep my scribblings and the thoughts that fly by in my treasure box.

Mj: Empty treasure box......ironic

Serge: Yeah.

Mj: I hear they call it the writers block.

Serge: Yeahh....
I prefer calling it the "storytellers block" Am a storyteller, not a writer. I think that's where my problems begun. I was supposed to tell stories in bars, around bonfires, not write about them.

(silence)

Mj:So what are you going to do?

Serge: neeehh

Mj: Nothing?

Serge: Hey, if you got nothing, you got nothing.

(silence)

Serge: I was thinking about writing something about this girl.

Mj: Mushy stuff?

Serge: Hear me out for a minute....

Okay it's kinda mushy but sexy.......

She's one of those good girls, starry smile kind of girls.

Mj: R n B girls.

Serge: Yeah...

She likes old cars, 69 Impalas....

Mj: That's a good girl, Impala a great car and as they say....''69 was a very good year''

Serge: I wanted to create like a scenario where me and her would take a road trip to nowhere....

(silence)

Serge: We would sleep in small towns, eat local foods and drink their beer.

(silence)

Serge: Then it started being all mushy, and you know I have an image to maintain. Am a bad boy..... I can't be seen out there being mushy and all...

Mj: Yeah, if they only knew

(both laughing)

Serge: Am sure I'll come up with something.

MJ: Yeah, not that anyone expects you to.

Serge: As in?

Mj: As in, who even reads your blog? What? two? Three people, they probably read it as an afterthought.

Serge: Yeah.....

But I think some people read but they don't comment.

Mj: It's cool, it's cool .............you need to believe people read your blog.

Serge: Something like that.

Mj: Something will crop up. Don't worry too much.......

Serge: Thanks, tomorrow...same time.

Mj: Sure, and bring coffee.

A few explanations

Sometimes when you're high, worlds seem to crash a lot although in a nice way, our ideal worlds depending on the virtue of the moment. Whenever you feel the need to be powerful, you create a world where you dispense power the way you think is right, sometimes its dictatorship, sometimes its democracy, deepening on how you feel about the government of the day.

That's the ideal world of the moment. Sometimes the ideal moment is playing mini rugby with your two sons and a hot wife in a good neighborhood, others include war heroes, great lovers, prince charming, bad boys, great musicians, famous writers, and others that make your ego bloat.

When these worlds collide, it changes the direction of the flow. Whenever your worlds start closing in on each other, you try to evade a crash. Normally, you try to navigate the world that you are in to fit into this other world, a little to the left, a little more to the left to get at least an almost fitting merger. Sometimes the worlds match, sometimes they just don't.

I had to explain the change of flows before I walked into this world with my favorite girl. I might put us in a beach, around 8:03 pm on a starry night and Mary Jane teaching us astrology. She'd explain the Leos that don't act like Leos, and why I am not much of an Aries. My favorite girl would play with waters at her feet and her yellow lasso would be slightly soaked. You see this world although a great one and probably my favorite one isn’t my only world. I have worlds that make a better world, sometimes by starting a children’s home, sometimes an NGO reaching out to talented youth. Sometimes my worlds are affluent, sometimes powerful, playful and so forth.

With all these virtual worlds, simple triggers into these worlds can sometimes cause a collision of flows. I might even completely lose a flow when I try too hard to fit two worlds which don't much. Sometimes the balancing works, sometimes works not, and sometimes the crash create an extremely different thought. A total diversion from the world, a hypothetical.

Normally, this occurs when there is a distraction. Somewhere trying to merge the world of Emo girl in the beach and the war hero, yours truly, someone knocks the door. You try to concentrate on whatever the person on the door is explaining to you, try having a decent conversation with the other person and at the same time hold on to the world you're at, or rather pause (ever talked to someone and then they just giggled and asked what you were saying). When you're done dealing with the distraction, you try going back to the world, you were in, fast forward it in your head, rewind a little, look for triggers, but it's gone.

This is where the hypothetical start, like almost learning hypothetical. If you've done something wrong, or rather un-societal as per yours and you think you are about to get caught and in your head you are thinking of the lesson you are supposed to learn. If you're not caught, it means you almost learnt a lesson.

At this point the hypothetical becomes a line of thought. One may decide to break down this line of thought, the almost learning a lesson. If you are almost caught, it means you haven't made a mistake, at least in my book (one may be compelled to explain a little about the book, maybe explain how many cancellations and additions it has had depending on certain situations, and so forth if your catch my drift). It may go on to what culminates to a mistake, how good it feels to make a mistake and so on. Eventually, this hypothetical breaks down an own creation, more like solving a problem that you have created, although a hypothetical one. The good thing is, if you become famous, a hypothetical solution will be used to treat a real problem.

And now, due to the collision of worlds, am not in a position to go back to the world where my favorite girl is lying at the beach. I am also unaware of the world I've collided with and am out of hypothetical. I would kindly ask you to allow me a couple of minutes to recollect my thoughts and get back to you as soon as possible or as soon as my mind come back from Uranus.

Peace.

PS: The photos in this piece have no relation to the post, although I do like the Emo girl and the laughing monkey. They remind me of my favorite girl and the monkeys in  Freethinkers, humanists and just people wanting 2 know more.

Friends and when they were

I once had a friend, Muriithi, back in primary school. We both joined the boy scouts not for the discipline or to live by the ''be prepared'' motto, but because every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, we were allowed to skip classes and practice the drills. We did practice the drills, the football kind with a paper ball made nicely using the few skills learnt from Mr. Kibandi aka 'Kigo'. Kigo, everybody loved him for his taunts on kids, but if you forgot to do his art and craft homework, he wasn't funny anymore. My sister Euna used to do a splendid imitation of him and our evenings were filled with laughter, we loved the guy a little more than we cared to admit, we still laugh when my sister gives life to his taunts back in primary school years.

Muriithi was my best friend because as kids, we never really needed to pretend to be who we were not. When he was sent home for not clearing his school fees, school was boring. I did have other friends but he was funnier, more cunning, and in a funny way like telekinesis kind of way, he would feel when the afternoons or the preps weren't working for me and more often than not, he would be along the same line of thought. Ndung'u, the scouts leader was in the same class as Murithi, a few sign words and it was on, freedom to play as he would come knocking at our door calling out for scouts practice. I think the best time of any day when I was in primary school was when the scouts master came calling when class was in progress.

After clearing primary school, we went in different directions. The first few school holidays that followed, we would hook up for a football game with the likes of Samuel, William, a few more friends and Muriithi. He was a great footballer too, not like William or Samuel who were the best, or rather football was a part of them, in fact before I started watching the EPL in 1997 with my favorite team being Newcastle then, I had being recruited to support Tusker F.C by Samuel. We tried not to drift too far from each other for a while and although we never sent each other letters or some other girly emotional stuff, we did try to keep each other updated on what was going on in our lives every small chance we had. With High school however, we are meant to make new friends, join crews that best define you and all that but there is always a catch. You'll have to compromise a few of your traits to fit in. It is the rule of nature.

In high school, you meet people who have lived lives totally unrelating to yours but there are a few things that bring you together. It maybe the music that you love, the kind of movies or books that you'd miss an important appointment for, among other things. In this new found friendship, you start discovering that behind the lifestyle this new friend has is a person who is more or less like Muriithi, or a compromised version of Muriithi. At this experimental stage of your life, you start discovering new things, but with your new friend (s), and the friends you were closest with start fading away. You don't look for them during the holidays anymore, there is no more catching up over football matches and with time you move on from one friend to another.

After high school, the scenario repeats itself again and it's the high school friends that are fading. At this point, almost 20 years of age, choosing the right kind of friends is not as natural as a 5 year old nursery school going kid where the only qualification was ''will you play with me?''. People, at least most people have an idea of what they want to do with their life, including you. It becomes a more of what can I gain from being a friend of so and so, or what image do I portray if I walk with so and so, among other pros and cons. In fly’s plasticity and with the life we are living moving at an unmanageable pace, everybody leaves their masks on even when they go to sleep. We rarely find them at their most natural to find out who they are, what is their favorite colors, what they would love to do before they die, their strengths and their weaknesses ........because we are plastic too. No one is as honest as their younger version and trust has become way too fragile and rare for one to throw around.

Without even noticing it we are changing too. Our trust level is slowly diminishing with own and other experiences teach us to keep our guard up all the time. We build a protective front, a stronger cage for the susceptible heart. We don't trust strangers, and it takes much longer to turn strangers to friends, not like when me and Muriithi and I made friends using a paper ball, when we trusted playmates we met a couple minutes ago no to trip me to get ahead of me. Times were easier then.

At these points in our life, we try to look for minor signs of deceit, watch consistent routines, consistent views and other hazards to you. We don't look at the pros when making friends but cons, reasons not to trust, possibilities of disappointments. We used to look for pros at some point when we were younger, now look at us. A plastic world we have become, plasticity so deeply rooted it would take more than a miracle to unmask. I pity us, I really do.

The longer a friendship lasts, the stronger it becomes. I wish I knew where Muriithi is today, what happened after High School? I wish we went to the same high school, went to college in the same town and get a single room somewhere near campus where we would pick up university girls and hang a sock to signal a visitor from Venus is entertaining one of us. Maybe that's asking a little too much but at least a high school friend. After a few parties and concerts, we completely lost touch.

Don't get it twisted I do have friends, long term friends for almost 10 years now. I trust them with my life because even though we didn't grow up together, but by the time we met the plasticity was manageable. Even though there were pretentious, we didn't need much impressing as teenagers. But I do envy childhood friends. I am not talking about the kind that faded at some point, but the kind that still holds water. My cousin Ken is one lucky guy, he managed to hold on to more than five childhood friends, and I mean friends since nursery school (elementary school for the new generation).

When did making friends turn into a job?