Dreams and Myas' Ass

I just realized that the worst mistake I ever made in my life was not to follow my dream, or any of my dreams between 5 and 16 years of my life. At 5 years old, I wanted to draw, be an accomplished, fiiiiiine ass artist. I would leave me a Picasso legacy, a name bigger than the Bush family name. A Gandhi, Princess Diana, Mother Teresa, Mohammed, Jesus Christ, and yes a PICASSO kind of a name. Karegi is a memorable name but Peter would definitely have to go. Ezekiel, my grandpas’ name, is a strong name, or I could stick with my new found name Sergent. You should know that the above aforementioned name does not represent a rank in the armed forces who carry scary guns and shoot fellow men, It is however associated with a different army, whose armory is well stocked with alcohol, cigarettes, blunts and women. He is addressed as Sergent Karegi of an unknown but sizable platoon of reefer lovers.

About the art dream, at around 5 years of age, and a Picasso size name. I loved those hard covered story books, especially because of the art behind or next to those words. I know they say a picture speaks a thousand words but I violently dispute those findings with every bit of life in my body, heart and soul, yes I do have a soul and this soul is part of this sit down outside the Steadman group, (can't blame us really, we are stoned, really, really stoned and we do not know any other group that does the statistics thingie) demanding for a recount. A picture tells the whole story and most stories have more than 1,000 words, some with 500 pages worth of words, my research shows. I recently witnessed a woman who showed his boyfriend a picture, (I didn't see what was on it though) and asked him to explain. The scenario went something like this:

This chic, beautiful legs my dear friends and when I say beautiful I mean beautiful heavenly pearls of the gates beautiful, curved by the artistic God on Tuesday morning, yes Tuesday because even God hates Mondays. “I need to wake up to these legs God, I don't ask for much God and even the few favors I ask for are brushed off as something I could do myself, but these legs I want”. Those legs require a prayer,

The scenario, this beautiful woman walks in and heads straight towards this guy seeping a beer at the counter and slams a photo in front of him literally knocking down his beer, ''would you mind to explain this to me?'' she screamed.
The guy now literally shaking, trembling to be exact and starts ''Baibe...................''

By the time I left the bar three to four hours later, the words were still coming out of the guys mouth. He had to take a break a few times to breathe a little or jump under the table, find a human shield every time the words sister and bed were put in the same sentence. Considering that pictures like these can fetch quite a sizable number of words, we should therefore add the words ‘an average of’ i.e. a picture speaks an average of 1,000 words. This is because of the 2 words kind of picture, case in point, that guy who was shown a picture of his stepmother naked and screamed, ''fuck me'' right before he became disoriented, and staggered off a balcony and to his untimely death. Poor guy. Long story short, I wanted to be an artist, fine fiiiiiiiine artist. Great dream it was, one of the best dreams of my unimportant little life.

At the age of 11, I wanted to play a musical instrument. I guess it was a result of the country music guitar I had come to love from those Kenny Rodgers tapes my father loved to listen to. A few Lucky Dube tapes got me admiring that drum boom too, music was beautiful true, but the instruments were heavenly. He (my dad) even attended Lucky Dubes’ gig of 96’, that’s how religious he was about the guy. I tried my hands on drums, (read as empty water cans turned upside down), the piano at the church but unluckily no luck with the guitar, maybe once or twice but that doesn't really count because I never learned anything. I gotta say the piano was more fun, probably because I could play different pitches, but I can't say I loved it as much as I would have the strings of that melodious wooden stringed piece if I laid my hands on it. My dream started to evolve when my ears tasted some Dre from the best hip-hop of the 90's chef, Dan Oloo every day from 1200 hrs to 0400 hrs straight from that well stocked kitchen named Metro FM. He was the only man who understood the needs of true Hip Hop lovers and served them with a smile. Being a believer of the new found hero of the music kitchen with delicacies raging from 2pacs California love to X's creep walk through NWA's, Snoop among too many, Aftermath turned my dreams of beats from single melodies to a complete rhythm spiced with a whole lot of rhymes from yours truly. I wanted to be a rapper, and Channel O then airing on KTN didn't mind pushing the dream further by throwing in the visuals. High school helped further with the likes of Foxie, Mashaa, Erico being like-minded persons did us who didn't own a VCR a favor of recording it for us and Saturday nights became more Hip. I wrote me some rhymes and practiced when I was alone in my room. Don't get it twisted, the reason I never let people see me spitting them lines is not that I was shy or didn't believe I was good enough but after listening to the big doggs, I couldn't make the mistake of being weak, I had to practice. I do apologize for not giving you a piece of my Hip Hop dream; it took a turn to an even better dream before the beats could materialize.


Sixteen years of my life had flown past and this is what I needed to do with the rest of my life. Extreme sports. I had watched enough games on T.V. to know wrestling is good, football is beautiful but bikes is where my heart truly lied. I wanted to ride on air and every one of my fans would be screaming ''King of the ring'' as I flipped the bike in mid air, stunts only I the ''King of the ring'' had the guts to even dare to dream. I would be the best, and the best means that even the world’s best would come to watch my shows. This was a fraction of the main dream, which involved midnight, fast cars and empty streets and the best drivers kissing the ring of the best, ''Show some respect to the Don'' kind of way. A fleet of race cars in my garage. Rule the streets, light the ring, engines ruled my dreams.

These dreams appealed to me more for the fame rather than money. Few of us, very few indeed, follow our dreams, and some of us make hobbies out of them as we follow the footsteps of our parents. We read books we don't need, graduated to courses we hate, went to work for bosses we hate, and although in the process we made enough money to feed those that we love, we grew up to be miserable. Our grandparents grew up to be miserable, they raised their kids to be miserable and they raised us to be miserable. We may be making enough money to feed us and spare some to send home but we are not happy and we are afraid to try and follow our dreams because society has taught us that if you let your dream go you may never catch up. Luckily, we can always dream a new dream. I may not draw a masterpiece, drop a platinum record or rule the wheels and rings, but I'll dream and yes, I will follow this dream to wherever it decides to take me.

Just saw you know, I was watching WWE wrestling and Mya was singing happy B-day to Dwayne ''The Rock'' Johnson. That is when it dawned on me, if I had followed at least one of my dreams, maybe, just maybe one of the most beautiful divas of our generation wouldn't mind singing happy birthday to me. Mya's ass in my face is definitely a dream worth missing the boat to work in the morning.