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."

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.

  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?