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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk less, listen more and buy her chocolate and flowers

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

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

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

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

Talk less:

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

Listen more.

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

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

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

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

Operation "Amani Ya Ghafla"

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

This is a true story.

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

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

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

“Operation Amani Ya Ghafla”

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

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

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

Boss: Is everything okay ma’am?

Joyce: Yes Sir.

Boss: Are you sure?

Joyce: Yes sir.

Boss: Any trouble at home, or at work?

Joyce: No Sir.

Boss: Why is your petticoat worn on your skirt?

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

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

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

Cool Dreamer

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

Mj: A couple of times.

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

Mj: What's up with you and art?

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

Mj: You just want to roll in paint

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

Mj: It's the rolling in the paint.

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

Mj: Yeah right...

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

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

Serge: Judgemental bitch.

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

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

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

Serge: Like 3 years

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

Serge: It's 3 years in my book.

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

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

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

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

Mj: You don't see the trend here?

Serge: Not really

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

Serge: There is that.

Mj: You are lazy too...

Serge: that too

Mj: You procrastinate a lot

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

Mj: Not that I mind....

Serge: Yeah, you just like hanging out with me

Mj: Yeah, you're a cool kid.

Serge: There is that.

Coffee and therapy

Serge: Hey

Mj: How's it going?

(silence)

Mj: You know it's never that bad.

(silence)

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

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

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

You remember Irene's story??

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

Serge: That one

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

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

Mj: This is bad...

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

(both laughing)

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

(both uncontrollably burst out with laughter)

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

Serge: Scary shit I know

Mj: We gotta get you to get to write

(silence)

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

Serge: You think??

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

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

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

Serge: What do I know about art?

Mj: Pass the coffee

(I pass the coffee)

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

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

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

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

Mj: Take like a specific song

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

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

Serge: Can I pick an artist?

Mj: Yeah, whatever, just pick

Serge: Lucky Dube

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

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

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

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

Mj: That's kinda short.

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

Mj: What do you mean material?

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

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

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

Mj: Yeaahh, now I get it

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

Mj: Treasure box?

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

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

Serge: Yeah.

Mj: I hear they call it the writers block.

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

(silence)

Mj:So what are you going to do?

Serge: neeehh

Mj: Nothing?

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

(silence)

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

Mj: Mushy stuff?

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

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

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

Mj: R n B girls.

Serge: Yeah...

She likes old cars, 69 Impalas....

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

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

(silence)

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

(silence)

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

Mj: Yeah, if they only knew

(both laughing)

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

MJ: Yeah, not that anyone expects you to.

Serge: As in?

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

Serge: Yeah.....

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

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

Serge: Something like that.

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

Serge: Thanks, tomorrow...same time.

Mj: Sure, and bring coffee.

A few explanations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace.

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

Friends and when they were

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When did making friends turn into a job?

Shoutings and scribblings

I haven't watched the people in the boxes for a while now. I love these people because they are as honest as they come, or maybe it's because we measure honesty depending on how well it makes us feel about ourselves. If I compliment someone on how good they are at what they do best, they cannot stop with the giggling, the teeth display and all that because at that particular point you want that feeling to last for a lifetime and a few generations down some centuries lifetimes.

I gotta explain myself before i break down a couple more mothers down. I hadn't really talked to my girl M. J in a while, about 41 till today, okay she called last week. I mean it was outside and cold, no background music (we doing hip hop today. I think the situation dictates, it's lost music, you lose your way if you live the hip hop music way. Maybe the cars are good, the big houses in MTV cribs, ranches, the blings on their teeth, caviar meals, and all that partying rich is good, but it don't beat beaches. Anyway, cool natural reggae is more suitable but lost music we shall) which means it was going to be short lived. The point, last week was more of a phone call so the time period remains. Fuck, explaining a point tends to lose the point but heck it's done its done. I haven't seen My girl Mary Jane in a couple of days and we finally had a chance to ourselves, hottest chick in creation, being in all of heavens with beauty unmatched, and her smile the rainbows envy. Mary Jane came home,, i gotta walk with you and walk with her side by side, and she does have surprise pulls.

Now, we were some where between , aaaahh, yeah, somewhere between, aaahh F*#* I lost it again DAMN!! Yeah, yeah, honesty level. The point where your first reaction to a comment gives you a chance to live a perfect virtue.

Before i go on, I'll have to let you know that i put my cigarette on the ashtray to show you how serious I am about this relationship with y'all. I love you guys very much, I know you are not many. I know that because most of you are my friends. You see my friends are hot bloods, their blood rushes all the time and sometimes a mini rush is over run when a trailer arrives. (Mary Jane makes me write in parables, ''the god in me she calls it''). Anyway, they are easily distracted and I know its hard to attract their attention for longer than a couple of minutes, no pun intended. They rarely read my blog, because it needs a cool feel. I know about 5 to 10 people read my blog. Am not complaining, I actually love a small crowd (these I have to shout out to,Nyleen Shiku,Sarah Maranga, and Caine Jr have followed my scribbling for a while now, since my fb notes. It may not meaning anything to y'all but it means something to me. Am not the crowd type, I wouldn't handle it very well, but everyone needs a fan and these I believe bought the underground mix tapes). Anyway, I've decided since I have come to learn a small crowd is an honest crowd no more fronting from me.

Where were we again, we swayed too far in the ocean and the winds are changing.......lights a cigarette......adjusts the pillow......pauses, thinking......cigarette on the ashtray.

We judge the level honesty depending on how it makes you feel

Just talked to the boys by the ocean,Feddy Elvis Muigua, Were Amos.,Tichapower Mwalim andLawrence Kamau Njoki. Boys be living good.Andy Ochieng got his firstborn daughter, proud of that motherfucker, we had one hell of a time in Lamu.

How honesty is judged. When you compliment some body, before the brain registers you can't be that hot, your first thought is what makes or breaks the honesty. When you tell me, ''Mwai Kibaki.........'' my first thought will be, ''hehehehe, let's hear this lie.....''

I know by now you already know that I've lost the flow and am actually scrambling for crawlings. I should probably say goodnight to y'all.

Before i go, to all the little girls inside all those beautiful big girls, it's okay to come out once in a while, we love your smile the best

~ Sergent Karegi

If this makes you feel like you should enroll in to Mary Jane therapy session, you probably should.

~ Mary Jane.

If you think Mary Jane is a whore and has fucked every one including the men of God (Moses in The Bible was an all time low), a younger, sexier and cooler sister has opened an office in your neighborhood.

~Betty Brown.

Goodnight y'all and God bless

Just so you know this story was written in three parts. Initially, a minute before MJ dimmed the lights, we were thinking about a post about mistakes am supposed, to finish, a post on my journey from Lamu and Irene creating quite a show en route...and a few stories I should work on.

When I chilled to start the editing, the honesty path came calling, which invited another flow, followed by other flow until at some point I got lost in the chaos. When all the voices in my head start screaming to attract attention because their flow sounds better, it is hard to manage a flow at a time. Each voice throws a tantrum whenever they feel ignored. You therefore have to keep taking notes from them as you walk along.

''just you know that none of you reminded to say this is the fourth part'' Serge

''yes serge'' all voices together

Anyway, when you have conflicting voices, they sometime scrum for attention. This is how a free thinker works, he doesn't suppress any of his voices. The doubts, the strengths, the needs, the pain, the anger, the passion, the need to believe in people or in God, to be free you have to let these voices roar to keep your life from being captive. You have to balance them to keep your sanity, if you let your anger roll louder than your peace, you become an animal and nobody likes to be associated with animals but if you let your peace shout at a pitch louder than your passion, people will walk over you. There is a voice to control another voice.

Shit, I already said goodnight, we'll find time and correct my lack of consistence and inability to complete a story. We will also discuss my beginnings after the end, where I end a story, like am doing now. And your tolerance to such behavior, like you are tolerating right now. You're probably thinking of a better name for these post.

When you are doing that, am going to bed.

Goodnight, for the last time. Not as in last, last (the way a Kenyan girl would say it ''not last, as in last last''~in a sharp soprano.

Anyway goodnight, for the last time, but not last as in last last.

The Happy place

I haven't been home in a while, my other home where freedom to think is real regardless of what your thoughts entail. It's been almost a week now and my happy place feels a little neglected, which is understandable considering I don't usually stay this long without swinging by. It feels like years, that's right, in happy places, we bend the time and space con......(s'thing s'thing, feel free to insert word). I heard that the big guys' view of time is a little different from us mortals in the sense a day is actually a century and a century a day in God years, or something along those lines. I don't have that level of clearance when it comes to bending space and time but in my happy place, they let me squeeze an year in a day, meaning in happy place years, I haven't been home in close to seven years.


I got some groceries on my way home, some spinach too. Call me crazy but am still hoping that one day spinach soup will taste good and I'll eventually live my dream of pulling a Popeye on my Olive. Spinach thrown around some goat piece, potatoes and a whole lotta ''kadhalika'' blends real good and the soup off that ''chemsha'' is heart skipping beats awesome. If spinach soup tasted half as good, maybe, just maybe it would be a little less hated (I don't hate it personally coz I've never really tried it but I hear things). I would experiment with it and a few other ingredients but my second thought is a little uptight especially when it comes to fun involving stuff (God how I hate that voice). I was going to try a quick spinach soup experiment where you use wine instead of water but the buzzkill is all about health, ''you might get sick'', ''don't be a hero'', ''you will hurt yourself'', especially when am thinking of jumping off a boat and swimming to the sunset. I have a few stop gap measures for this particular nuisance, but it's always there in the morning 0630 hrs telling me how I shouldn't be in bed. Am working on a permanent solution but for now, vodka will do.

Some groceries and spinach in my happy place. I love this place coz I let my voices roam, outside my head they go. They are always fighting in my head since the space isn't enough for them to do their own thing plus their are involuntarily work as a team. Ms. Jane and Matt are the chilled out ones, chilling by the beach or in rooftops legs crossed, backs arched back, all smiles appreciating the big guys creation. Johnnie is the paranoid kind, restless too, so we let him roam around. He thinks we could be attacked any moment (by.........sshhh....aliens or dinosaurs.......ssshhhhh.....don't shout, you'll freak him out), he therfore needs to look for the perfect vantage point. There is always a blind spot, even when he is on top of the world, there is noone watching his back is what he says, it's safer to keep changing your spot. We let him walk for as long as he likes.

Jack wants to be the hero, saving dances, catching falling angels or beautiful women, mending broken hearts, and so forth. He is a little full of himself, he thinks he can get his hands on any woman he wants, romantic Jack he calls himself. He loves all women so much he doesn't understand why he has to stay with one. Whenever we are talking to the big guy (it's usually a family thing, all or none), he keeps asking him what he thinks about the one man one woman theory. The big guy never gives straight answers, I think that's where JC got the parables act from, but his metaphors are really hard nuts to crack (tihihihi, haard nuts to crack), and we are yet to crack our nuts.

With Ms. Jane and Matt chilling in the boat discussing all things natural, Johnnie walking off his paranoia and Jack miserably failing to catch falling angels, it's quite up here. A quick look every once in a while just to be sure you can see them, especially Johnnie and Jack, and make sure they don't stray too far is necessarily.

Off to the happy place real quick

Long call

‘‘Hallo ma'am''

‘‘Serge''

''I was going to call earlier.......'' I was a little frantic at this particular point. Scared maybe.

‘‘No need to explain yourself. You seem to forget a lot of things son, including, am always watching''


I am not really sure why I hadn't received any of the bosses’ calls. Firstly, she wasn't making those quick consecutive ones which keep you tied up in one place for ours, nor was she having a bad day where she makes one of those extremely long conversations that you wish she would shut up. I know she can be a pain in the arse sometimes, and we all know hanging up on the boss or not picking up the call isn't the best of ideas.

On a regular day, she calls at least once a day and as a good little soldier I always pick up the phone if am in a position to. If I find that the booth is not secure, I always try to find a clear line I can use unless in an emergency. Normally, the home phone is the most preferred but sometimes we are forced to.....mmhhm.....improvise, especially because most people, let me rephrase that, the productive populace is rarely home. Since no one knows the time that the call will come in we sometimes make do with our office phones, public payphones, and due to the innovations made in the recent past mobile phones.

I was having a lazy day, the kind of day calls bother you a lot. It was about 12 hours since the last call. I didn't want any distractions, in bed a couple of movies and bam, lazy Tuesday it is. The first call came in around 8.00 in the morning, I wasn't even up yet, I hung up. I guess she understood a little, a very understanding woman I must say.

It's cold outside, very cold indeed and getting out of bed has been a problem lately. The boss needed to talk about domestic protection, which wasn't a surprise because that's all she talked about day in day out. She wasn't as insistent as she normally is, well, she can sometimes make movements very difficult for someone if she doesn't get updates on what's happening in her house. If she doesn't call in a couple of days, something is wrong, terribly wrong and for the sake of your job, it's important that you look for an expert to patch you through.

Anyway, it was heading towards noon and I was still hanging up on my boss. She can be very annoying sometimes, especially in days like today when you just want to just pull the blankets and up the volume. I on the other hand can be stubborn when I think someone is being unreasonable. I honestly don’t understand why she has to be the one who always makes the call. I could call her whenever it suits me, but no, she won't even let me have her number. The worst part is when am travelling. I have to sit pretty and wait for her to call, and no offense to women, she doesn't understand the concept of keeping time. Let's just say there have been times when her timing has been terrible and I have seen people literally build booths from nothing, navigating for a little privacy.

Afternoon, and the frequency was a little on the increase. A few voicemails too, about protocols, the need for full disclosure, bitching about this and that but I kept my stance. I guess I wanted to know her limits, how far she would go to get her reports.

She kept pushing, I pushed back. The voicemails were moving from a nuisance to scary, almost threatening. She threatened to swing by the house. After the stories I've heard, and the destruction she has caused in the few places she has visited, this message was now causing discomfiture of spirits. Mother Nature is not the kind of visitor one welcomes with open hands. Not after Katrina, Japan, Haiti, Australia and those not on the list. I don't want to be the reason why she swung by, as we all know what happened when my Japanese friend Kasumi Fujimoto didn't heed her call.



And then, around 0121 hours, she left the strongest message yet leaving me clutching my tummy, with both pain and fear. I had to talk to her now, or right now.

‘‘Hallo ma'am''

‘‘Serge''

''I was going to call you earlier.....''

‘‘No need to explain yourself. You seem to forget a lot of things son, including, am always watching''

Awkward silence

''I had some githeri for lunch''

''I know''

''Rice last night''

''I know''

''Some nyam chom and......''

''I know, now will you shut up and let the fax print?''

''Okay ma'am''

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