Bad, bad winds on the rise.....

The regulars at his local were all there. John was trying to make conversation with everyone, including strangers. When people talk about love, I never understand them. They say those we love don’t love us back, the pain of someone that you love loving someone else, or lusting ……. f***ing lusting for someone else as you sit there, helpless, so deep that the thought of walking away wasn’t to be contemplated…… f***ing lusting for someone else in front of your friends, your workmates, in your local pub…. He was gauging how drunk the crowd was, if everyone noticed what he was going through. The agony, tragic….just tragic. He’s never being here before, he was in it too deep. The pain showed, the strength was wearing off, he didn’t know if to fight or walk away.

Jane was talking to the new guy, Matt. He had driven approximately fifty kilometers to see her and it was only fair that she showed a little courtesy. She was laughing at his jokes, soft taps on his shoulder, a couple of times she just stared at him and looked blissful. In her head, she had probably stripped him already, spanked his tushi too. You could tell from how her eyes moved, like she was taking in all of him, the way she licked her lips, this man mesmerized her. Every once in a while, she tried to engage the crowd probably gauging how drunk the crowd was too. Like John, she wanted to see if the crowd had noticed what she was doing.

For john, it was about pride too. He had a reputation he needed to uphold, an image with Jane in it, the bad girl he had tamed, the bad girl everyone wanted to tame. He had promised himself to take care of her, he would even tell his friends that he loved her; he had fallen into her trap. She was the one who was holding all the cards now, the cracks were showing, the sweat was inkling, the conversations strained, his concentration fuzzy, he couldn’t feel his beer. He needed to calm his nerves, a distraction ……..he needed to go, he needed to go now……his ego was fragile, and his defenses were down. He wouldn’t go, he couldn’t go, he couldn’t let her take his place in this pub too. He stayed……he thought he could handle it.

Jane was much more at ease now, she felt the long group conversation had killed the tension, or at least dissolved most of it plus the liquor was kicking in, significantly reducing the number of f***s she gave. She had gone back to talking to Matt, John was talking to some friends he’d just met on why he loves his ‘’summit’’, and how “Tusker” apparently tastes stale. He wasn’t sure if they were sizing him up, or they were interested in his stories, or if it was pity listening…….pity listening……they pitied him. He is not the kind to be pitied…..

Ace was talking about how not to handle a fight, how to choose your battles, how to know a battle that’s already lost, when to walk away from a fight with your pride intact. Big Mo’ was talking about what one is not supposed to know, open secrets. From Johns’ end, they were more of insinuations, they were telling him that they knew, and he should just walk away and save face. The conversations insinuated an understanding, they were men and although they had just met, he considered them his friends too, they understood…….

Matt stepped out to pick a call, quite a long conversation, probably a quick drive. John decided to walk out loud, he was going down but he would at least show a little strength in his limp, he threw a round for all and excused himself, early day tomorrow. Jane tried to hug him goodbye but he feigned conversations with the only other girl in the room, Big Mos’ girl. He waved goodbye and left, he had lost Jane, but he is the one who walked away. He probably knew this day would come, she was a bad girl and bad girls leave. He was a bad boy too, bad boys leave too. He considered this a draw rather than a loss, he walked.

Matt was out for quite a long time, Jane was feeling a little awkward, she wasn’t sure if he had left too. She kept checking her phone, she probably expected an explanation for Matt’s movement, none was forthcoming. Ken, now well positioning himself next to her, was sensing her dilemma. Her options were getting limited by the second, Ken just sat there and let her stew, from across the room, one could see the bliss written all over his face. Jane was at her most vulnerable, John had left and wasn’t coming back and Matt hadn’t guaranteed his return. Jane was a girl most men had eyed, Ken wasn’t too far from his shot at this bad girl. Jane was playing her cards well; she was making conversation with Ken without insinuating anything. Ken played calm too, he was buying time, he knew his chances depended on Matt’s next move. If Matt stayed out too long, he could easily sway this girl, considering how wasted she was, and limited her options were, winds would probably sway them to his bed. Not a bad move, considering he wasn’t friends with either John or Matt, Jane was fair game. He threw a quick round for two, probably spelling his intent to focus all his attention to her. An acceptance of the drink indicated her willingness to respond in kind, an offer to consider him as an option. Things were moving in the right direction for Ken, he had bought time, half an hour maybe. Jane had stopped checking her phone too, a good sign for Ken, he ordered a second drink…..PAUSE……

“…….if I order this drink here, am probably buying her time. If I want to buy myself time, we need to move………”

Ken quickly cancelled the order and suggested they move venues, he paid his bill and just as they are about to leave, Matt walks in. Ken was fast losing his grip now, Jane was more inclined towards Matt, she walked to meet Matt at the door and walked out with him. Ken followed ……….

*This was the last we saw of John who came in with Jane but left alone, or Jane who left with Matt nor Ken who quickly followed them. We are not sure if Jane ended up with Matt or with Ken, we’ll probably never find out. These are not their real names, just some new faces I met at a friend’s local who needed names for the sake of this narrative.   

After the movie unceremoniously ended, Ace, Big Mo and I were talking about the pros and cons of commitments, putting all your eggs in one basket and then watching that person being snatched from you right in front of you. The pain, the shame, the anger, all those feelings of perverted love all rolled up in your head, literally feeling your heart break. Is it really worth all that pain? Considering that the female species in the animal kingdom are the ones who choose a mate and not the male, commitment is more or less like playing Russian roulette with your heart. Statistics say 40% of all married women cheat on their husbands, big number I must say. Maybe it’s the pot calling the kettle black considering the same survey puts husband infidelity at 60%, but why would one choose to commit to one person and then choose to cheat on them? Why don’t we all choose to be honest to each other and choose to spread the love honest, without commitment, without tying strings unto our hearts?

I gotta admit that my morals are a bit flawed when it comes to societal norms, or rather the society is trying to hold on a morality which is only preached and rarely practiced, a dishonest morality. The institution of marriage is a lie, relationships are dishonest. How is one supposed to confidently walk out there, let someone put his finger in her ring, commit in a world full of heartbreakers? 

*Shit like this just breaks my heart. Maybe I should just live as Trey Song says, “for the ladies and the drinks” and let my sunset find me in a sail boat somewhere in Costa Rica, and as Big Sean says “am not just talking shit coz am hi……”.. or just go with the winds and see where they take me…..

Highway to Monday

Sundays’ gone. He had thought of calling a couple of times, he hadn’t yet. He couldn’t do anything right, not his work, his relationships weren’t any better, his friendships were crumbling……… he blamed the distance on his failed relations, it helped a little. He was becoming too tolerant of his ills; indulgences helped him create this facade of a man who had everything held together.

It was a quarter past midnight and insomnia was getting the best of him. He wanted to sleep but his voices wouldn’t stop arguing on what he should have done, self doubt was creeping in, his sense of right and wrong was compromised, his choices came down to the better of two wrongs, two rights rather, his and theirs………. Everything in hindsight. This is what happens when you let your heart rule your head. He wanted it all and lost it all; he wanted a good thing without any responsibilities. He didn’t know if to laugh at his stupidity, or be sad that he was no different from all other selfish suckers out there……. Fuck it!!  

“Empty prayers” was playing in the background, a good song, he could relate.

He turned and checked his phone again, half past one. He sat up and lit a cigarette. He wasn’t sure if he was sad or indifferent, they were more or less the same to him. He felt indifferent to life most of the time, ignorant of the smiles……..empty. He didn’t feel the presence of god, he didn’t feel the presence of a lot of things, people were becoming more and more boring, and their ignorance irked him. He loved his family very much; he owed most of who he was to them, both the good and the bad. They loved him too, he knew that much, he was just sad that they were the ones who understood him the least……….

Quarter to three, and it was her in his mind again, maybe a quick text would suffice……..he thought against it. They had a good thing, he knew she wasn’t coming back but nobody would blame him if every once in a while, he thought of the possibilities, the what if’s……..

His friends. He hadn’t talked to most of them in months. He talked to one or two every once in a while, plus his cuz but that was pretty much everyone. He doesn’t miss home that much sometimes, he grows fond of being alone more every day, scary…..

His mind, he felt it drifting, he was slowly losing it. He could feel his thoughts evolving, he was more and more uncaring of the consequences of his actions, he could here himself blubbering incoherencies, or as he calls them, different lines of thoughts. His paranoia was deeper now, everything looked like a conspiracy, the government, the church, the terrorists, the employer, the women around him…………..This shit gets him angry. It makes him even angrier that nobody else sees the pattern, they can’t see the bigger picture, they can’t see how religion is related to power, or the government in involvement in certain accidents, the government schemed terrorist hits to instill fear in the citizenry and make them demand retaliation……or it’s just his paranoia getting the better of him.

He had lost faith in humanity, the greed, lust, hate, all perversions of love had made humanity stink, the gods lived short of their billing, nothing seemed right in the world, he really wished he believed in something, anything……. Sometimes, it felt more like rebellion against God rather than disbelief, like a dare, if he’s really there he’d be provoked and do something. It’s kinda funny though when you think about it, tragic even when we stop living and dream of a rose garden somewhere in the horizon....even more tragic when it occupies your mind more often than it should.

 

Half past four on his time piece, it’s Monday already. He needed to catch a couple of winks if he was going to be in anyway constructive…… Monday!!! Fucking Mondays!!!..... why does he even turn up to work every morning? He doesn’t even like numbers that much, he doesn’t need the toys, he doesn’t need the pressure, he doesn’t need that much money, why the fuck??.............

Same regular rant every Sunday night, accompanied with the no more alcohol oath, the quitting smoking resolutions, the no more weed announcement, all of which last no more than 24 hours.……

Quarter to five, the cold chill creeping in, almost stinging. He remembered the deadlines, the explanations, the commotion, the beginning of the same cycle which had burnt him out……..SHIT!!!! IT’S MONDAY!!!! Then Napoleon Hill says, " Do not wait; the time will never be ‘just right’. Start where you stand, and work with whatever tools you may have at your command, and better tools will be found as you go along."

The back story

According to y'all, these are the posts you loved the most. Being the nice guy I like to believe I am, I will take the liberty of explaining to you the genesis of the genius and idiocy in these posts, from the most loved, and through the top five of your all-time favorite posts. To be honest, there is a couple of posts I believed y'all would have loved a tad bit more, but I don't know you as well as I thought I did. Anyway, here goes.....

When I wrote In Arsene we trust, I was going through the emotions of love and lies, the trust in a great team that makes me weak on my knees, the hope of re-living through the era of the invincibles, and fighting the knowledge that our past is just that, our past. I talk of how beautiful our football is, I protect the nakedness of my favorite team with it's glory days with tales of grandiosity of it's past but my excuses for them were sounding more and more like broken records. I guess I needed to convince myself that we can go back to the days when Arsenal used to give me that fuzzy warm feeling more than I needed to convince y'all. By the number of hits it's got, I can confidently say, am not the only one who needs reassurance.

Good girls magnet.........so I've heard,  wasn't me thinking out loud. It was the thinking of this cool dude I met when I moved to Molo,  who used to roll with my cousin. After he moved into my neighborhood, every once in a while, we'd hang out, light a joint and bounce ideas of each other or just try to figure out women, love, and life in general. One evening, in between sessions, he told me he had finally figured the whole "girls and bad boys" mystery.  According to him, every time he had tried to play nice, he always ended up single with dry spells running into months but as soon as he unleashed the dogs, women flocked. I know the post sounds kinda feminist, but he swore on personal experiences, those of friends and relatives, and to be honest, he truly believed women like a man they can take care off. I think their (the girls) logic is if they can take care of him long enough, he'll become dependent on her and she'll be in full control, but that's just one of my flawed logic....

Moving on,Don't send me to hell, I mind if you forget me was one of those "in hind-sight" moments. It was more of me wondering if it was within my power to control social cause and effect than it was an "in hindsight moment" when I think about it. It was the couple of things in my house that I can't seem to throw away because of the memories they carry. At the same time, losing religion had me trying to figure out what some of the religious concepts symbolized, especially the heaven and hell control. I guess my minimal understanding of death still haunts my sorry ass. Then there was the call from an old friend who called to say hi, after listening to a an old cd I made her for her birthday.

This was more of an out of the blue kind of story. We were rolling some at the beach with Mr. Lee and he was telling me of his history with drugs, the good, the bad and the ugly. At 70, he had tried almost everything, natural and synthetic. They lived in a small town where people always passed through, they never stayed, rarely stopped. When they did, on the rare occasion, venture into the local gas mart to ask for directions, they were met with kind smiles but not much conversation. It was a good place to raise children. One day after school, he was hanging out with this girl, the kind of girl that gets your name whispered around town, but she was the only pretty girl who'd talk to him. In an effort to please, he had his first cigarette. The first time he smoked a cigarette, at 16, he did it to please a girl. This was one of Mr. Lees' many stories. Retracing was my version of the stories of Mr. Lee.     

Life is short, art long, opportunity fleeting, experience treacherous, judgment difficult. Spin, Run and Choose, I have no idea where this came from, but the direction it took reflects some of the fears I live with.  The fear of living a half baked life, the uncertainty of death both in timing and afterlife possibilities drummed in my skull and the possible outcomes of choosing either of the extreme uncertainties. Without religion, this is supposed to be an easy decision but it isn't. It is the choice between walking away from societal norms which enhances survival or be a lone back packer and live a full life. I know am not supposed to blow my own trumpet (please don't misinterpreting this ^^^), but I believe this is one of the best pieces I have ever written.

 PS: I,ve heard word on some awesome folks with some awesome stuff .You can swing by Kilimanjaro Art | Facebook  on your way from here and see for yourself.

PPS: The photos have nothing to do with the story.....

Tomorrows wonders today .......

There are many ancient beliefs and superstitions that ancient civilizations had we consider comical today. These beliefs have been “revealed” to be natural or scientific phenomenon, but many years ago their exact cause was misunderstood. One such belief was that most maritime disasters today are caused by navigation errors or weather phenomena. In early times, most maritime disasters involving lost ships and crew were the result of sea monster attacks. Ancient mariners believed that if you wandered too far away from the shore your ship could run afoul of large creatures, which would consume it and your crew mates. Another common one involves people today who are left-handed. Today, we know that your left or right-handedness is not a comment on your personality. In some Christian societies people who wrote with their left hand instead of the right hand were possessed by the devil. In Puritan New England parents would often strap their children’s left hand across their chest to prevent them from using their “bad hand” if they exhibited tendencies. Because being possessed was such a dangerous thing in the New England colonies, many people would even whip their children to prevent them from using their left hand.  Another superstition from back in history involves the weather. Today we know that natural disasters are caused by weather and tectonic factors causing natural disasters. In ancient times the commonly held belief was that natural disasters, such as famine, earthquakes or hurricanes were the gods showing their displeasure over people’s behaviors. Many civilizations across the world shared this belief and incorporated it into their religion, such as the Greeks, Native Americans, and Ancient African cultures.   

Today, we have a couple of beliefs that will probably sound ridiculous in 100 years time. One might be the belief that there are inherent differences between people of different tribes or races.  We're already losing this one to some degree.  Another might be that homosexuality is in some way evil or immoral.  I suppose it is possible that one day people will also think we were silly for thinking that men and women are inherently different in terms of mental capacity or emotional natures.  If history is any indicator, understanding of medicine and science should advance to a point to where our technology and treatments would seem extremely elementary.  We are unable to cure or effectively treat a multitude of diseases, and if those can be cured in the future I am certain our methods would seem childish. . Ideas of nations barely existed 400 years ago and there is every chance that people will wonder why we felt so strongly about a nation that some people were willing to die for it.

Looking back is a good model for trying to figure the things in our current culture which will be looked at in the same way by future generations. Figure out what once seemed reasonable but now seems rather outlandish and for predicting. What do I think will sound silly in years to come…….

1. That television and iPhones could have been so addictive that people spent the better part of their days mesmerized by them.
2. That we allowed the oil industry to control the world's financial structure.
3. That sports figures became the dominant "heroes" of society (except Arsenal Football Club heroes whose names will stand the test of time).

4.      That entertainment was considered as a passive activity that people sat and had done to them. Reality television and the idea that we can be entertained by artificial competitions in a variety of increasingly outrageous settings and challenges is going to make us look foolish and puerile.

5.      That one gender is somehow inferior to the other.

6.      That people could totally neglect the health of their bodies and then expects others, known as doctors, to fix all they damage they had done to themselves with that neglect.

7.      That what was reported to them through the news media was taken for truth

8.      That entertainment was glorified as of paramount importance and fame was worshiped.

9.      That beauty was mistaken for goodness

That's a short list, am sure you got a couple of genius ideas you'd throw in..... feel free to.

Vodka, Football and Beautiful Women...... No words

I love words, they make me. When am out of words, it's almost drowning, it makes me feel things only acceptable in relationships, a concept am not good at as they ruin the conquest part which is all it's really about for me, at least the relationship that require constant reminders of how we feel. Then there are the break-ups where you are supposed to hurt and someone has to hug you and tell you ''I'm there for you'' and all that crap.  You can almost conclude that am in a relationship with words, but am going to ask you not to.

Sunday, the 13th of May 2012, we had the most beautiful season finale ever witnessed in the English Premier League. Manchester United, the most decorated team in the EPL were about to lift their 13th premier league title. The 13th league title on the 13th of May would almost be poetic for the Red devils, but they needed their noisy neighbors Manchester city not to win against relegation bound Queens Park Rangers. Arsenal on the other hand needed to win to guarantee them a Champions League spot next season, or for Tottenham Hotspurs and Newcastle United to both loose. Arsenal didn't need Batman as they had Robin so for us it was more of a formality. The Manchesters on the other hand, gave us magic, three minutes of pure magic as Manchester City lost and found glory. It was a story that deserved words.

The two days that took precedent the 13th, we had a work-related retreat, team building if you may. Personally am not a firm believer of these bonding things because bonding without vodka isn't much. People mostly conform in these retreats to impress their bosses coz as much as we like to pretend we are better, we are human, we back-stab, withhold information, backbite and do a whole lot of calculated and unethical deeds to take care of number one unless number one is dependent on others goodwill. And bosses get new blackmailing material to use against the employees. I however enjoyed this particular retreat, probably because there was chicken for lunch (chicken is my new fetish), and there was a lake, it made me miss the beach terribly but I decided to view the lake as a small ocean without a beach which was somehow comforting. There was the vodka too, and a lot of beautiful women albeit after hours.

The thing is, I had a weekend of vodka, football and beautiful women, things that make me glow, things that give life meaning, things I never lack words to describe. I especially lacked the words to describe vodka and friends, which is just sad. I love my vodka whether its mango vodka, in cocktails, in coffee and my all time favorite, straight from the bottle. In forging friendship, arbitrating conflicts, foreplay, fighting boredom, healing broken hearts, making memories, and in all other life endeavors of mine, vodka plays a significant role. I couldn't find words for football either, lessons in three minutes, lessons on how people who work together will win whether it be against complex football defenses, or the problems of modern society (words of Vince Lombardi). The tragedy in my inability to talk directly to the hearts of beautiful women, to those all I wanted to say was, It is enough for me to sit beside them, who are an art mostly pleasant although demanding great skill and knowledge. Being unable to tell people how there are no unbeautiful women, only women who are yet to discover how beautiful they are. I am a bachelor and being a bachelor means walking to and fro the kitchen with only your boxers, sometimes naked even scratching your balls taking a drag. It's eating chemsha 8 days a week; it's knowing the route from the bed to the bathroom by heart, (between the bed and the bathroom is not clear of obstacles - difficulty game). Bachelorhood represents freedom and the ability to talk about vodka football and beautiful women at all times.

I have a writer’s block. Am not sure I can call it that, a writers block, coz am not much of a writer. Am more of a story teller, although my friends kind of use the wrong words to point out. I love to tell stories rather than write them. The facial expressions, the imitations, the tone of the voice. Story telling is supposed to be a one on one thing. You need to read the mood of the crowd, the attention they are giving your story. It pains me to lack words. Robert Collier once said, ''The great successful men of the world have used their imagination? They think ahead and create their mental picture in all its details, filling in here, adding a little there, altering this a bit and that a bit, but steadily building - steadily building." My imagination albeit visual is not built around pictures whether still or otherwise, nor is it audio, it's plain paper and pen. No words means I can't or am not in a position to concentrate on anything else, I scribble a couple of mini-posts, a collection of vanity I call them. I need words like a fat kid needs cake, as 50 Cent keeps saying in one of his badly done tracks. I feel like am losing a part of me whenever I stay too long without playing with words, restless, heartbroken, and lonely even. Words comfort me in more ways than I care to admit, especially calculated words and it drives me insane when I can't play with them regardless of whether y'all get the message or not, especially the ones I put down and am the only one who gets them. I think my lack of words lately is going to land me in a mental institute.

Here is where y'all coming in as friends. I think friends should always encourage friends to get their heads examined, or at least sit down, drink vodka and discuss football and beautiful women. I read somewhere that doctors do not categorize mango vodka as a fruit. But you have to understand that as a lover of vodka, I fail to see the doctors’ logic here because if we classify mango juice as an alternative vitamin source, mango vodka doesn't fall too far off. I'll bring this up with my best friend Jnr. I don't know whether you know this but not many men take the time, every day, to have a blunt, glass of vodka, to talk to their best friend. That's not something most men have.

Due to my current situation, my very painful distance with words, I will share with you something I found somewhere around the World Wide Web. It's something that talks to my inner soul. Two things in fact.

"Vodka is our enemy, so we’ll utterly consume it!” – Russian Proverb

"There cannot be not enough snacks, There can only be not enough vodka.
There can be no silly jokes, There can only be not enough vodka.
There can be no ugly women, There can only be not enough vodka.
There cannot be too much vodka, There can only be not enough vodka.”

-Popular Russian Saying

Write all that you can write

 I've come to realize that I love telling stories; sometimes I like a story so much that I tell it over and over again. That's me, I think am interesting or rather my stories are. This isn’t entirely false considering that a few people believe that I should chase for a column which although sounding like the right thing to do, I don't feel it. Most people who read my blog and a few more who love or pretend to love my blog keep telling me that am wasting my time in the professional am currently making acquaintances with. Maybe it would be a good thing to try; maybe writing is what I was supposed to do with my life, born to write, write all that you can write.

On the other hand, I like small crowds. Small crowds do not demand much. They are content with the few stories that I can come up with. They are not judgmental; they do not tear your humble pieces into shreds for their entertainment. I know I shouldn't be too comfortable because even though it feels like they approve of all my words, they're probably too afraid to crush me a little bit with a pinch of truth because they think it will crush my simulated ego. They won't tell me that my writing sucks when it does if only but to protect me from myself and others, neither do they share it to avoid someone out there reading it and being shocked that someone can write this bad and actually expect to be published. Worse still, they might share and someone out there who doesn't have the same kind of affection for me, who doesn't feel the need not to puncture my belief in self, points out that my writing should be made private as it may cause harm to others and to self especially if, god forbid, someone takes is to heart. But then again, it could be me being paranoid.

It could be the fear of rejection that keeps me away from the big crowds. I know it sounds pathetic but in a way, I don't take rejection very well, never have. I don't scream it on rooftops or insult the other person before other people of interest, or do anything dramatic primarily because flaunting my weaknesses isn't really my thing. It however doesn't mean rejection doesn't cut through me. It feels like a chapter torn in my book or a forever severed by a sharp knife, a story I'll never get to tell, a heartbreak I will never get to go through. I've never being able to handle rejection very well, I just don't go showing it off. I think the fear of rejection would be bad for me on a large scale, if I tried to write for a bigger crowd, with diverse opinions who do not give a rats' ass about how I will take their opinion will crush me. I have read these columns about handling fears and all, but all I see is people who haven't being on the other side who think because they have read a couple of books and watched those motivational movies or listened to those motivational speeches, they can actually relate. I see it differently, like a guy riding around in a Benz and preaching ''kazi ni kazi'' (loosely translated as don't choose a job); while in real sense there are things they wouldn't do to make money even if their life depended on it. Their whole, ''the first step is acceptance'' speech sometimes gets to me and almost makes me want to give em' a congratulatory tap on the back of their head with a sledge hammer for their great service in patronizing and shit monging. I digress.

There is the aspect of time too. The one thing I actually believe is writing more often will improve the quality of my posts. I don't yearn for perfection because am not a fan of anything perfect, because to me perfection equals boring. A perfect piece leaves no room for improvement, no different interpretations from a reader, no a lesson or a story query, no entendres, nothing but a piece that should either be accepted or rejected in whole. A perfect piece does not warm my cuckoos, because it goes against my policy of throwing words out there and waiting for the pieces to fall as they may. Perfection to me is an illness that should be crashed before it destroys us, as it crashes those who yearn and toil to get it. It forces us to create a life based on it while it's absent, societal perfection, moral perfection, perfection, perfection, perfection, in absence but alive and kicking in misplaced facades. Imperfection I prefer because it allows me room to make something better or worse and in this moments of imperfection, once in a while, a masterpiece is born. Time is however a luxury I do not boast, which makes it difficult to improve my little imperfections in search for that elusive masterpiece, something that will be at least go one better than my favorite imperfect pieces (Yes I do, or Love, loyalty and blood.). Time albeit free comes with other costs, opportunity costs, what I'll sacrifice to create time to write more with work, social life, my intention of going back to school and hours flying like they're running from the General Service Unit (for those not in the know, the GSU is a paramilitary unit in Kenya which the government unleashes when they do not agree with the public. Tales of their brutality are so scary such that when they were unleashed on an unruly crowd in one of the slums, even the dogs turned into snitches. One particular dog, let's call him ''Simba'' found himself displaced from his place of residence by a group of fleeing youths. When the GSU arrived kicking and terrorizing anything that moved, one of the askaris whacked Simba a good deal, he stood with his hind limbs and with his fore limbs pointed out where the 'rowdy' youths were taking refuge, Simbas' place of residence).  And when is there time to remember, to sift, to weigh, to estimate, to total? I think Harvey McKay was right when he said “Time is free, but it's priceless. You can't own it, but you can use it. You can't keep it, but you can spend it. Once you've lost it you can never get it back.”, but I don't think he understood that even though we claim to be killing time, it's time that slowly kills us. Time is a luxury most of us can’t afford, a luxury I can’t afford.

Maybe I have just enough time, just enough words, just enough courage to wean myself from my fear of rejection, just enough of everything to chase for a column on a daily, or a magazine. Maybe I should just write without expecting accolades, tell my stories like I tell them on bar stools as if everyone relates. Write as if I was born to write and everything else is just a distraction rather than looking at writing as a distraction or a flight risk with a fear of falling, failing. As I once read in one of the columns, write all you can write and whatever comes out of it, let it be. Write and let the pieces fall as they may.

  

A toast to the women of then...........

Before I start my post today, I need to tell Safaricom Limited that one message is enough to tell me that I have insufficient funds to send a message or make a call. Sending 10 messages to drive it home is just rubbing it on my face. Since this is the only place that I truly have a voice, I should use this forum to complain and hope that y'all share the same sentiments, otherwise am just a bore. But then again, it wouldn't come as a surprise coz my cousin has a way of letting me know that telling the same story over and over is kind of boring. His exact words about the blog were, roughly translated, “you talk too much. You mean to tell me that you sat somewhere alone, and since you don’t have anyone to talk to, you decide to start a blog?” But I digress.

It's Friday and am preparing for a typical loud weekend of indulgence (my typical loud weekend has evolved from club hopping to coffee and vodka and a couple friends) and reflecting. I just realized I have never really thanked the girls that came before for driving me towards vodka. In between emotions from, "It's not me it's you" through "Please take these feelings away from me, Lord God I pray," to "was I drunk this whole time?", a good bottle of vodka comes in handy. I know, I've being there once or twice, or a whole lot of times, but who cares about the numbers. In between reading advice columns, hanging out with your friends as they pamper your ego, telling you how "that bitch didn't deserve you", and drunk dialing, binge drinking is the only thing that we accept as a healer of broken hearts for real men. I say real men because Abraham Lincoln couldn’t be wrong when in his address to the Washington Temperance Society, Springfield, Illinois, on the 22^nd of February 1842, in his words, “If we take habitual drunkards as a class, their heads and their hearts will bear an advantageous comparison with those of any other class.  There seems ever to have been a proneness in the brilliant and warm-blooded to fall in to this vice.  The demon of intemperance ever seems to have delighted in sucking the blood of genius and generosity.” he could only be addressing real men, who drink. If you’re not a fan of Abraham Lincoln, you’ll accept Winston Churchill (one of the most important leaders in modern British and world history) confession that he has taken more from Alcohol than alcohol has taken from him.

Anyway, after the break ups, we live like gamblers, where we start with a beer at 10:00 in the morn without knowledge of where you’ll wake up tomorrow morn. This is after waking up in disastrous situations in the past but still hoping it will end up like that one night you woke up with a perfect 10, like throwing a dice on a high stakes table. We drink from bottles because glasses are for those who sip not those who drink because people who drink aim for the third beer. Not the first one, which the throat receives with almost tearful gratitude; nor the second, that confirms and extends the pleasure of the first. But the third, the one you drink because it's there, because it can't hurt, and because what difference does it make? If I sleep sober or drunk, she still won’t wake up next to her in the morning but with spontaneous acts after the devil harasses us, we seek the company of women or drink more, or joke and talk nonsense, or do some other merry thing. Sometimes we must drink more, sport, recreate ourselves, and even sin a little to spite the devil, so that we leave him no place for troubling our consciences with trifles. We are conquered if we try too conscientiously not to sin at all. So when the devil says to you: do not drink, answer him: I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to. Again, I digress.

After the beers, three or four down the line, someone always comes up with the idea of keeping the spirits in given the widely accepted our bodies are temples. A bottle of vodka or as we like to call it, bottled poetry comes in hand, mostly after realizing double tots albeit chasing the beer quite well, are getting on the budget upside. This is where football talk kicks in. At this stage of the day, mid-afternoon in most cases, the honesty level is on the lower side because we are still disguised in sobriety.

At around three vodka bottles down, the advice start flowing. Someone will blubber about how drinking doesn’t help as they pour you a glass of vodka and explain how they’ve being there. Someone will tell you that you need to go find that new love and not waste anymore of your time thinking of someone no longer with you.  “Don't go wasting your life on the past, think positive and find that new girlfriend who will love only you, and make you happy. From now no more drinking a lot as it will also ruin your life, and no girl wants a boyfriend who drinks too much. So go find that new love and prove to yourself and others that you can be happy again with someone new. Go out today and if you see someone you like who is also single, go talk to her, but not about what’s happened, unless she asks. It’s okay to say you were cheated on, but to go into every detail can put another girl off. So now its your time to be happy again and love again. So don't sit there, get out and look around for a love who will treat you right”.

I think this is the point where we order the fourth bottle of vodka and laugh at the logic of the drunk who thinks that jumping from one relationship to another one while still sober is a good thing, we all know one needs to get wasted over and over again to heal broken hearts. Depending on where we are physically (drinking den of the day) anything goes from trying to woo a decent woman as you slur sweet nothings incomprehensible to either you or the new girl of your dreams sitting alone on the counter. 

We sip some more vodka and go Irish…..

All: Ohhhh, aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di!

Patrice: Once when I was celebratin'.

Aga: I went to bed.

Serge: I had too much to drink.

Caine: I woke up to an ugly head.

Patrice: She turned over.

Aga: And I saw her face.

Serge: I screamed in surprise.

Caine: And I sprayed her with mace!

All: Ohhhh, aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di!

Aga: I jumped round and ran away.

Serge: And put on all my clothes.

Caine: And then I ran from the house.

Patrice: I hit her, I do suppose.

Aga: But, she jumped right after me.

Serge: She got into her car.

Caine: She didn't get there.

Patrice: She looked like Jamie Farr.

All: Ohhhh, aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di!

Serge: Although she was so ugly.

Caine: I took her anyway.

Patrice: I used her to scare children away.

Aga: What the hey?

Serge: Boy, it really worked good.

Caine: I remember that day.

Patrice: That I took her to the dog park.

Aga: And said, what they hey.

All: Ohhhh, aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di!

Caine: I tried to forget it.

Patrice: I tried to drink a lot.

Aga: Because she was so ugly.

Serge: She needed an ink spot.

Caine: Then that day would come again.

Patrice: That I'd meet her.

Aga: I was so scared.

Serge: It looked like someone had beat her.

All: Ohhhh, aye-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di-dee-di! 

  

And in the morning, we’ll wake up and do it all over again…..

"It's well to remember that there are five reasons for drinking: the arrival of a friend, one's present or future thirst, the excellence of the vodka, or any other reason". Break-ups fall under any other reason.

I gotta say that words of Toni Morrison, Martin Luther did me justice when I wrote this piece

Before I forget, y'all should swing by www.facebook.com/LinkArray and say wasup....

 

Taking stock.............

When I first heard Tyler Durden reason out, I never thought it applied to me, at least not then. Am not “very, very, pissed off” but the statement reigns true.

“Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war... our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.”

Sometimes it gets really scary when you lie on your couch and reflect. You can replace the ''couch'' with a bar stool and the result remains as my friend Timothy keeps reminding us. He once sat on that bar stool; sipping his warm Tusker and realized the scary truth we call life. Where he is and where he thought he should be at around this time in his life don't rhyme. The big house, the big car, the beautiful wife, two kids and a dog aren't there, you ain't a big shot anywhere, you aren't filthy rich. You are as Tyler Durden says, ''the all singing, all dancing crap of the world''.  Same story goes for most of us. When I was 10, after every term paper, the top performers were rewarded with half a block of loaf and a half liter of your favorite soda. One was also required to stand in front of the other kids and prophecy their futures, or rather tell them your dreams. I was a top performer and I did have a dream, two dreams in fact. One which was the accepted societal response and my personal dream. To the society, I would grow up to be a pilot, to fly in our skies and transverse this planet of ours. Aeroplanes fascinated me and as I lay on back on the school pitch watching the skies, I dreamt of being there. Whenever I saw a plane, I would wish to be in it.

My personal dream was to own a dog. I've always loved dogs since ''Simba'', the stray dog I brought home when I was 7 to guard my rabbits. He hung around for a couple of months until he decided he wanted a different scene; he was bored and needed some excitement. I came home one evening only to find Simba had moved on. I guess it's true what they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. But I digress.

I think this is where one is supposed to take stock. You watch yourself grow; you laugh at teenage mistakes, the peers that gave you the right and wrong advice neither of which you followed, the women who made you veer from your dreams, the worthy few and the unworthy most who made the best of your memories. At this point, if you're sitting on that bar stool you order another Tusker and for those on the couch pour more vodka in your coffee. Light a cigarette.

''It was the need to fit in”, you justify the mistakes. “No one wants to hang out with a bore. Am a creation of this blood sucking society which is going mad. It walked me this way.''

You smile at how ridiculous you sound, take a drag off your gaff, and smile some more. The reason I smile is probably because I knew the shit am getting myself into by following the crowd because contrary to popular belief, I wasn't dumb. I did a few dumb things, or maybe a lot, can't be really sure but I knew the consequences of my actions. I used to call them calculated mistakes coz before making them, I weighed them against the consequence. I was a tad bit religious, so every once in a while, blaming or rather invoking the name of the devil for my ill-meant deeds and god for not ''not leading me into temptations'' was a card I played. I kept it close in case I needed to use it, but due to its strength in poker, I rarely used it to avoid it’s abuse. I cannot however, with a straight face say I did not know the consequences of my actions and for peer pressure, that was all me. The sneaking out of school, the blowing of school fees on booze and women, the school strikes involvement, the tiny little mistakes that compounded to one big mistake that got me kicked out of school, that was all me. I knew by not applying for University, I won't be selected even if I made the cut (which I did)  but I still didn't apply justifying my stupidity with my distrust for our education system which taught flawed history and missing pieces in our arithmetic.........

 

You take a drag and smile. If you're on your couch, you make more coffee (half coffee, half vodka), if at the bar-stool, a double shot of vodka and a warm Tusker and reflect on how things turned out...... You come home from work, make your coffee, light a joint, pour yourself some vodka, kick off your shoes, put on some music and dream. Alone in the house, you dream of the home you'll never own, the car you'll never drive, the wife you'll never marry.....you dream. Dreams are free, dream away boys and girls, and watch them never coming true. Remind yourself how hopeless humanity has become, vile, needy, broken dreams, a constant reminder of what I've become. A slave to that which I loathe the most.

This is the hard part now, do I regret the mistakes or do I cherish the memories? I've been crazy in this lifetime. I've made some major mistakes. I like the widely accepted, ''if I had to do it all again, I wouldn't change a thing'' theory. It's comforting. When am alone with my thoughts, I try to be honest with myself. In the middle of insomnia and good music, these thoughts do cross my mind. Decisions that shape my life, the self-preservation that shows when we pull down the plasticity the world forces us to wear day in day out, the pretense of a fulfilled dream. The generally accepted way of life that fuels the guzzlers of the elite, the modernized caste system eating into my bones, my muscles clench, my heart burns, my soul dies. Every Monday morning I drag my ass out of bed and convince myself am doing this for me, for mine, but deep inside I know am doing it for them. The soulless bastards that took away my right to live my dream. I'll take back my 'am not “very, very, pissed off”' for now because Mondays bring out that side of me.

 

On the flip side, I’ve made memories which I wouldn’t trade for anything, made friends who’d stand by me regardless of all my flaws and my flawed interpretation of love, lust and indifference. I’ve lived a full life on the first half of my life (the mortality rate isn’t what it used to be) and although what I dreamt I would become and what I am don’t rhyme, the mistakes have been beautiful so far, almost as beautiful as the women who are part of them.

Ps: Taking stock on a bar-stool has the advantage of finding a hot woman taking stock too, and y'all know how that goes.