Biloetry. A Blog like no other. Showcasing thought provoking poetry and short stories.

TIRED OF HALITOSIS ‘GYPTIANS REMOVE ROTTEN TOOTH

2011-02-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

Resurfacing in chariots from the groves of the dead
… ghostly Pharaohs, ghastly drove their chariots on Mubarak’s—
Totalitarian road…
Like proconsuls—
To the caves of rotten tooth
Expecting a bloody purge that never was
Downtrodden, tired—
Tired of the aching tooth
The revolutionary dentists—
Armed with dental anesthesia, probes, burs…
Pluggers…excavators and the like
In torrents flooded Tahrir square—
In readiness to remove the rotten tooth
Causing a bad case of halitosis for thirty years…

copyrighted@Biloetry 2011
Email bilmathenge@gmail.com

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

2010-08-24T06:32:00.000-07:00

He lay on his back, staring, without registering anything at the whitewashed ceiling. Out of an impulsion to smoke, he adroitly stretched out his hand to get hold of the crumpled up packet of cigarette lying on the table next to his bed. Lifting the packet over his face, he pulled out a stick, and put it between his tobacco stained lips. He thus flung the remaining sticks on the desk. Then, he fumbled inside his pockets for a matchstick. He lit the cigarette and watched the ceiling through the smoke. He grinned and blew the smoke to the ceiling. Suddenly he chocked on the smoke, but managed to overcome the choking. In the meantime, he began to reflect on his childhood memories. But first, he took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, and thus blew a wisp of smoke that curled upwards into the ceiling.

Bartwoski's growing wasn't any extraordinary, or any unique in aspect compared to that of other children his age. It was full of activity,lessons. He all right engaged in rough games. And was always curious about the visages of the world and as being daring enough to explore it, with his own eyes, his soul body, by himself.When he metamorphosed into adolescence, he started to experience viable changes in his body: Soft hair started to grow around his pubic area, his soft voice deepened, his shoulders grew wider; in the least he started to experience wet dreams whenever he dreamed about girls he saw on video clips, or the ones he secretly admired, but had no real confidence to look up at them, or approach them. At four-teen, Bartwosoki had already lost his virginity to a High school girl, two years his senior.

The clear scar on his forehead explains how wild, and rough their games got.

It was Saturday afternoon. It was bright, hot, silent day, the sun did not seem to be moving at all. Out long hours of play, Bartwoski sat on his stoop weighed down by fatigue; at either side of the road there was a group of other boys playing. The gang was scooping things up from the road, and threw it at each other, filling the bright air with curses and jubilant cries. They filled the air, too, with flying weapons:stones, tin cans, coarse gravel, whatever they could have picked up and thrown.Bartwoski, watched in a kind of absent amusement, until he realized that a couple of minutes ago, he was amongst these rowdy Yankees. He buttoned up his shirt, but realized that three buttons had been ripped off, as they tackled each other roughly. Then, something, stone flew out of the air and hit him real hard on the forehead, just above the eye. Immediately one side of his face ran with blood, he fell and rolled on his face down the crunchy gravel. Clutching his forehead, with jolts of pain running through his entire body, he gave out a piercing groan, which was laced with a staccato of curses. "I will report you to my dad, you filthy perverts!" he threatened with little tears welling in his eyes."He will box your thick heads, like some punching bag. Slimy idiots!"

On this account, the other boys arrested by this scepter begun to run away, down the road toward the estate. This are some of the banalities that most boys pass,or will through, as they experiment with life at best, in their desperate attempt at pulling out stunts on their mates, they had seen on a latest Van Dame, Church Norris movie, thanks to bloody Hollywood.

But part of his growing up was a bit stunted, given that he lacked the presence of a mother in his life. His mother wasn't there at all. The good Lord had taken her Home quite early. His mother had died of follicle cancer when he was only ten, so his father was his guiding angel. He was both his mother and father. For Bartwoski, it was a time of strange and dreadful time, a time of challenges, restlessness and consternation. His father, Mr. Fox came home in the wee hours of night stumbling drunk. In the company of a semi-whore, skimpily dressed and reeking off alcohol. Mr. Fox never at all realized how much discomfiture he inflicted on first-born son. But this thought was kinda real hard to dwell upon.

When he was sixteen, his father died as a result of a fatal automobile accident. After his burial, his relatives who were inlined to be dicey, decided to take him to Hope Well Home, a sorta Catholic Orphanage where he would be given special care and treatment. During his stay he met and befriended other boys of his status. In particular, Bartwosk, met this one brother, Baldwin, who was supposed to see him through his catechism lessons. Baldwin was bald shaven, outgoing,six feet tall, and carried himself with an air of responsibility, for he was the aura of his own responsibility.

It was about six p.m. and Bartwoski was bathing alone, in the vast bathrooms. It was calm, and the bright sound was broken in part by the rippling sound of water splashing on the floor. Then he heard vague footsteps coming closer, but he supposed it was someone coming to take some shower. A second passed. Then another. As the water ladled over Bartwoski's body, he felt a certain irresistible urge wash over him, and intently shut his eyes. No sooner had he opened them than the naked figure that was approaching pounced on him, like a pantomime beast, and got hold of his groins. Imperceptibly, he saw the man's thing dangling between his thighs, now hard and erect poised his direction. Suddenly, the man moved closer to him and capped his mouth with his strong hard, and he shut his eyes in great fear on this occasion. In a split second, he felt the man's dick rub against his skin, and this made him prickle.

Baldwin got hold of him, and struggled to wedge it behind his back. Resolutely, Barworski gathered up some strange, but sturdy energy and tried effortlessly to separate himself from this orgy. He flailed his hands, spun around and saw it was bro.Baldwin sodomizing him, without compromising, Baldiwn shoved him mightily against the bathroom's peeling wall. It was real hurting.

"Ba-Baldwin let go of me," he screamed at the top of his lungs, and his voice reverbareted down the entire bathroom.

He had been dreaming.

Bartwoski woke up clammed in sweat. He was stuck on his breathe. Then terror and agony and darkness overtook him, and breath went violently out of him.

Enjoy!

MY FINITUDE; MY THIKA ROAD NIGHTMARES

2010-08-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

When I am inexorably bored, this is what I do. I write. Splash dash scribbling such as this one, to frantically exercise my fragile brain.

Normally, my week inexplicably begins on Fridays and ends today (Thursdays). Where it then routinely start on Fridays.

It’s Friday the 13, and the previous night I had just watched ‘Friday the 13’, you know the gut wrenching movie. God knows how many times, because I think, my love for this particular movie, surpasses the umpteenth time phrase!

Okay. ‘I work’ and stay in Kahawa Wendani, and to say the least; I am apparently I have been entangled by frosty nightmares. No. I have apparently been enjoying steins of dust thrown my way, by the Behemoths constructing Thika Road Highway, and, the dust trail floating in the air, whenever matts skid to a halt, or when they speedily puling out. And am afraid that the ‘Sky Is Falling’. Don’t you think? Because thousands of tons of minuscule dust particles have ostensibly been strewn up the sky. With time, theatrically speaking, these dust particles will join so together, and solidify into one humungous, yet invisible rock. That will cause a meteor shower, one day in this place.

Its midday and am steal in bed, spread-eagled as if felled by a gunshot, staring at the ceiling uncomprehending, without registering anything in my computer like head, exhausted by oversleeping. I feel like remonstrating myself, or slapping myself out of this stupor, as castigation for sloth and irresponsibility. But the aroma of coffee from the carafe of coffee on the table, did the trick. It knocked me out the stupor. I flung my blankets away and crawled out of bed, and I sat down in my chair, and thus begun brainstorming.

I started plotting plans inside my entranced brain. Plans to go out tonight, whilst am so very broke. God forbid. But my apparent thinking activity is terminated by other thoughts threading through the same lane, and I start imaging myself seated inside this miniature lecture hall, at some minor University.

I start, to be sure, seeing myself slouched in my seat, with my rasp concentration pitted against the boisterous mumbling of the lecturer, his lips moving and murmuring words, in Business like staccato, and, the whir of air conditioner. Now my mind’s eyes glance at ‘Tonia’ and I realize how much I miss her. This leads to extrapolation about what would happen to me with her, and anxiety at that thought washed over me. Wink

A sudden chug of engine downstairs filtered into the black well of stupor, and I harked to formulating alternatives. And the chilliness outside, only made the situation really worse.
But I managed to come up with a plan. Today I will be partying in Ruiru with my hommies.

The day aged, and at precisely six, I hopped to the bathroom which has its broken door hanging on its hinges, and the tap broken. I ladled water over my body and soaped up, then intently scrubbed for a while, and then ladled water on myself and rinsed.

Above Kahawa the sun was melting down, falling behind manifold ridges of clouds, filtering the vermillion rays of the expiring sun through their layers. At precisely seven, I shoved off into the world of pop music, pomp and calistos…the best I can do to exorcise Wendani’s demons is through action. Dancing that is!

Enjoy!

CHUCK FORSYTH FINAL TALE

2010-08-08T10:52:00.000-07:00

Out of their own reasons, Forsyth and Avril kept their love at bay for a couple of days, never disclosed their feelings for each other. Forsyth had to now concentrate on his studies the more, by detaching his instincts from Avril, for a while. Because this semester’s Term Paper, is around the corner.

The idea of exams being around the corner really weighed down on him, because this meant; he had to cut down on the number of his sleeping hours. Although he was desperate to let her know his feelings for her; he held his horses. But in his heart; he full well knew that he had found his lost rib, and they relationship was a ‘coup de fourde’…struck by lighting. He had never experienced anything like it before, the surging passion, the desire, and the love he felt for her.

That week, days strictly followed the severe regularity. And they expressed their feeling towards each other only twice. Forsyth had now decided inside his instincts to play by rules, by being mysterious, so her interest would be kept in the check. He now studied with verve and by rote. Similarly, he decided to cut back on his free time out. Forsyth was nothing if not decisive.

Once he had told himself, it’s time to study, he did with one hurt. And with a great wave of gusto.

After that he had endeavored to put this nascent urge out of his mind, he had always the ability to pigeonhole problems until it was the appropriate time to deal with them. And so he managed to get through the next few days without dwelling too much on her.

With four days to go before he finally sat for the Term Paper on the French Revolution, today is the day he’ll actually make out with Avril. As a routine, he woke up at six o’clock and read about the causes of the war, for at least two hours. Afterwards, at nine a.m. made breakfast, did the previous night dishes, and took a terrorizing cold shower. He then embarked on his studies, where he read for about one and a half hours. Over launch time, he warmed the yesternight’s leftover. Then watched a movie for exactly two hours. And left his house at 3:15 a.m. to catch up with his friend, Razor, until four thirty.

At his place, he was now fretting about with anxiety over what to put on. For he wanted to stick by the mantra: first impression matters. After deciding on what to where for today’s grand evening, he felt a sudden rash of satisfaction with himself.
He left for town garbed in well fitting blue stripped jeans that blended well with his tight blue jeans and kidskin loafers, at exactly past five p.m.

Held up on a traffic snarl; he kept thinking to himself the words to say to her. The type of clothes she will be in. Whether she will be in any makeup. How she talks like. Soon his worries and anxiety slowly began dying out, as the traffic jam began to ease away. It was now 6:30.

Forsyth managed to arrive at town, three minutes past seven. The lights of this great city twinkled brightly against the dark sky. Forsyth always liked to be associated with this beautiful glittering city.

After darting across the busy street Avenues, rubbing shoulders with distraught and intolerable drives. After jostling among workaholics flooding out of offices, and passersby. Forsyth finally arrived at Club Hippos, where the poetry performance, as elaborated to her by Avril, was going to take place, starting from eight o’clock. Inside the Club, it was noisy and partly full. People kept streaming in, in one and two’s. Disco balls incessantly, kept throwing lights off against the painted walls. Soft music played from the speakers stashed somewhere in the corners of the bar.

Forsyth roved his eyes around the bar, in search of empty bar stools, and found two at the far end, near the counter. He walked across the bar, and sat on one of the empty bar stools. Momentarily, a bartender came over at his table, holding a crisp white tray on one hand, and looked up at him.

“Nikuletee nini boss?” He inquired.

‘Leta shots mbili za vodka, na soda ndogo ya sprite.” Forsyth ordered

“Sawa.” The bartend went away, and came back with the two shots in the crystal clear glass, and soda placed delicately on the crisp white tray. The bartender opened the soda for Forsyth, which gave off a hissing sound, and left.

Burning with anticipation, Forsyth poured the soda into vodka, which gave off a fizzing splendor at the bottom of the glass. He lifted the glass adroitly to his mouth, and took a satisfying gulp. Now anxiety ran down his spine. Out of volition, he dipped his hand into his left pocked, and ploughed out his phone, and began tapping on it. Furthermore, more people kept pouring in and without time, all the empty tables were taken. The pub now teemed with revelers, of all walks of life. The Disk Jockey on the other hand, was at his best on the decks. And ensured that everyone received a good dose of memorable entertainment. Finally the MC announced over the Mic:
“Ladies and Gentlemen: Welcome to today’s Calistos open mic, which is about to begin in the next three minutes…”

Forsyth took another sip from the glass, and no sooner had he placed the glass down than he heard a sudden vibration of his phone against his hand. It was an sms from Avril: Where you at? Come meet me up, here at the entrance.’ All of a sudden, he’s eyes almost went bloodshot, the moment he finished reading the short message. His heart suddenly began pumping quickly against his chest, as trotted towards the entrance.

At the entrance, he found the two well-built bouncers, wearing on stern faces and black suits, flanking it, exchanging banter with two other revelers. Man. There was no trace of any dame. Only a man in his late—twenties, tall, dressed in a neatly pressed suit, with a crinkly ‘fried’ hair and glossed lips.

Forsyth plunged up his confidence, and beckoned the metrosexual guy. In his perfect English, Forsyth said. “I am looking for a friend. I wonder if you saw her here earlier, before I arrived?”

The man smiled slyly in spite of himself, and the giggled, in a girlish manner. “What is her name?”

“Avril,” Forsyth replied quickly.

“And you must be Forsyth, right. Ok. I am Nixon, but most of my guy friends prefer calling me, Avril.” He giggled as he stretched his hand to meet his.

Forsyth felt a sudden wave of shock down his spine. His eyes wide with fright, his face damp with perspiration, he spun around. But no sooner had he taken a step than he collapsed and fell to the floor…

Enjoy!

CHUCK FORSYTH TALE PART: 1

2010-08-07T11:19:00.000-07:00

His room comprises only of: a four by six bed, a single wooden table and, a plushy plastic chair. P4 desktop computer, an Ampex Sub-woofer, two buckets at the corner, shoe rack near the burglarproof door, suite case under the bed, 6kg meco cooker, a few utensils and sufurias, and other basic commodities, enough to see him through out this month, placed on a two story rack. What is more, this is more than enough for a second year University student.
Let’s call him Forsyth.

Having lost track on the number of times he has been rejected by girls, his age. He wallows in excitement, as life that was once an even keel and rather wonderful these days. He’s in love with a fabulous facebook dame, she with him. Maybe, she can make up for… everyone that hurt him
‘Forsyth, u must kno that the evening will be frizzled 4me without u @ the concert.’ He read a message from Avril, on his Facebook inbox.

Leaning back against the plushy chair, he brought his hand up to his chin, looking thoughtful. And after a fleeting minute, started tapping with sudden gusto on his handset.
‘Nxt week is a bit tough 4me, Avril. I’m due for Nakuru that day, in case u av 4gten. So I will av to reschedule. But swits, I’ll alwyz make an exception 4 u. Yu must kno tht.’ He concluded writing the text message and suddenly sent it. All of us a sudden he felt a rash of excitement down his spine.

He leaned forward intently, and a string of thoughts of this girl, whom she had quite never met, expect on Facebook, started to suddenly thread through his animated head. Avril had taken him by surprise, and he had also been moved by her words, that she often laced with a tinge of exaggeration. Her loving concern, that was only expressed on this social site. No doubt. Although he didn’t want to act like he was so much so interested in her, she was gratifying, in some way, he did.
Still leaning back, Forsyth thought yet again about Avril, and said in spite of himself.

‘I like Avril, and I think she’s a pretty nifty girl, and she’s great for me.’

He aptly now started to focus on her outline, thanks to her profile picture, which was now cast upon vague memory, like a theater newsreel. Avril has a swarthy aspect accentuated as it was, by her lovely face. With low cheekbones and almond eyes, that could make a priest denounce his celibacy. She had put on light makeup, while the snapshot was been taken. Her lips were glossed with a pink lipstick. Her dark hair was pulled back in plain chignon that was singularly schoolmarmish.
Now, Forsyth’s thought drifted into a more sinister premonition.

Avril was lying on his bed, staring into the ceiling, listening to the music that was pumping from the humming computer, before her. And Forsyth without much finesse moved closer to her bare-chested, in a playful twist; his thing hard, pressed against his jeans, and kissed her tenderly. He then kissed her on her nape and started to caress her, aptly. He then navigated his hands on her breasts that made her shudder, and give away sighs of complete pleasure, while stroking his well built chest over her.

As he adroitly moved his hands on her breasts, and kissed her on her navel; she gave out agonizing groans of pleasure. With measured finesse, Forsyth completely undressed her, and himself. And they faced each naked. Then he moved softly one of his tender hands down to the wet, but welcoming curve below.
She averted her eyes, as he opened her legs. She just dreamed a celestial dream, as Forsyth tirelessly and slowly rose and fell on top of her. She did not close her legs out of this sudden lassitude. And their mouths only sighed with, ‘oh yes’ and ‘oh no’, while her body shock and accepted in clairvoyance of orgasm, as they both reached organizing heights of pleasure.

Out of the blues, a strange sound from the computer which was ‘burning’ a movie, threw him out of his unadulterated stupor. Bringing his mind to his apparent engrossment, he took the handset from his lap, and chucked for any new messages. Yes there was a rejoinder from Avril.
‘Aaaw. That’s sweet of you swits. Cant wait to see ya. Mwaaah.’

‘Thax dea.’ See ya @ de conc@t, then.’ He tapped on his phone…smiling slyly to himself…

POETIC LEGIONNAIRES’ (For Taban Lo Liyong)

2010-04-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

The indistinct ‘whump’ ‘whump’ sound
Of the allegorical choppers
now became more distinct & distinct
as the choppers approached the marshalling yard
muffling critics’ lethal diatribe…

As the choppers glide down with their
litote propeller blades whipping up—
Taban’s dead curse (East Africa as being a literary wasteland)—
into the mauve fading sky.
their faces smeared with phlegmatic paint
of irony
one by one the poetic legionnaires’—
come outta the imaginary choppers skids
stepping into the marshalling yard, glum
coated as it were with metonymy, glut
and littered with Wole Soyinka’s poetry
Reading itself.

Influenced by Kap-Kirwok’s, Mochama’s & Jared Angira’s
lines & verses—
Meja Mwangi’s & Kombani’s prose.
the literatis lumbered forward… their swift breathing—
laced with strong smells of diction—
And with unparalleled courage walk past
Taban’s dead curse…their metaphorical great guns
Trained to the whispering limerick wind…

All Rights Reserved.
©Biloetry 2010

LETTER TO APHRODITE AND EROS- BOTH ARE PERCEIVED GREEK GODS OF LOVE

2010-02-23T01:48:00.000-08:00

'Gentleman, please descend to details
Specifically why are you here?' Asked
Aphrodite and Eros
Perfect! Precisely my purpose, I snapped, good gentlemen
I beg your indulgence, is to indulge you
In whetting my piqued curiosity

Umpteenth times, gentlemen, I have wholly failed
To comprehend this sickly illusion known simply as love
And those decorously disillusioned by it
For sure, I already can feel their numerous fierce frowns
Of distaste against my line of logic
And jaundiced jests
Of hostility against my unfashionable views
Shut up! Or we'll stomp the shit outta you
Worse still. Shut the fuck up! Or we gonna
Peel your pelt. Pit your pod
Okay, okay. Chill out. I already feel your internecine hatred
Against me. But I don’t care

For once, Aphrodite, was it a supernatural spell
You did cast upon these virgins?
Bedded in single blessedness, with nothing to do
But grow old
Aphrodite, as a God that bestows and adorns women with sublime beauty
How about the bevy of beautiful single women?
What wrong ever so did they ever do to you?
As they have no men
But sit out their lives groping at omens
And find no men

Tell me, Eros, in a word why much premium
Has been placed upon motley material stuff
And money
In return for sexual favors?
And what about those dablasted wives?
That are anything more than bedroom-grown bother
It appears they have developed a hitch in their crotch
What about those men, Eros, that marry
The eeriest nymphets before they dodder into settlement?

Gentlemen, let me now call a halt
To this hocus pocus
An ingrained palaver
For I only expect an act of a miracle
To get answers out of my hands

All rights reserved
© Biloetry 2010

LOVE SPENDINGS

2010-02-15T09:36:00.000-08:00

strangely,
i often times feel
as if we have been together
for the last two decades, not
merely two years

at night riding our bed, like a willing camel
under the vigil
of the buzzing fluorescent bulb
we become occult depositors proud
of our own flaws
and give up our innermost feelings to
the constant series of caressing and kissing
your fingers playing slowly on my chest
and my hands upon your breast skin soft as petals
of rose, a serious spawn
for stupendous adrenaline rush

when we meet and join deep
in your drowsy satin, we hold our breath
too happy right where we are
swept away by the deepest and powerful feelings
and adrift on the sea of delight

as my whole body seem to enter your soul
our throughts humble with oohs
as we fade out our fatigue
with your body shaking in clairvoyance
of orgasm

i dare not pull away till
i deposit the pent-up rivers
of myself
after which we lie lithe as crocodiles side by side
sapped and spent

© all rights reserved- even the right to tag people on this note
biloetry 2010

IN MEMORY OF DENNIS BRUTUS( THE FALLEN SOUTH AFRCAN PROTEST POET)

2010-01-05T06:46:00.000-08:00

The world; Africa, indeed, has been bereft its
Valiant vessel, now emptied
Of its poetry
Which like distance footsteps dauntless echo
Through the corridors of time
And whose warm, yet delicate ethereal imagination
Will no doubt remain appreciated by all

His voice was low, tremulous and broken
His grey eyes, behind the round rimmed glasses, sybils of future
Glistened with the rheum of years
And his gray hairs streamed terrible in the tempest
His forehead, although little wrinkled
Bared upon it the stamp of myriad of years

He fought with great valour against
The (in)famous apartheid regime; the politics of race
As if it were a third Reich
Orchestrated, as it were, by the rich ermined, pontifical dignitaries

But the anarchists with the fiat
Of royal supremacy restrained
The rebellious sceptre of the Arch- enemy(Brutus)
And his insurmountable and flagrant intransigence
Saw him locked behind bars, as he dauntless
Tried to give his succour to
The downtrodden; the Petit bourgeois

Make no deep perusal
Into his protestation
Rash and regardless
Death has left on him
Only large-scale literary acclaim
***
Rest in peace comrade Dennis Brutus
All Rights Reserved
Biloetry 2010

TWENTY WILL BE TEN AT MIDNIGHT; I MEAN TWENTY TEN

2009-12-31T07:57:00.000-08:00

"Yes, twenty will be ten at midnight," Year said softly to her rheumatic aunt , who was sitting comfortably strapped on her wheelchair awaiting spiders of death to crawl on her.
"You mean Twenty ten, at midnight, right? Century asked plainly" Year nodded her head in response. She's just a ten, she thought . "How does time fly." She was the twenty first Century, born after her deceased bro,Twentieth,well, Twentieth Century. Their father had been Century, and thus had managed to bring forth twenty- one kids, or, twenty first century

For the sake of femininity, Miss Year , or let's just call her Year ; for the sake of simplicity, had been a whore, bimbo nearly all her life. And whoring in the days of yore, unlike today; was a, very, so very lucrative procurement yet sardonic, had also been her way of life. She would have made a name with her adventure.
She was incredibly beautiful woman,with a young face with luminous beauty, and accentuated as it was with a halo of blond hair that fell softly over her shoulders, like a sable shawl. Sure enough, her voluptuous beauty tempted and seduced every other man within her vicinity, even so, even gods can allude to this. Ever so smitten men who; on the whole, didn't have the guts and oomph,
to offer her their overtures were of the thought. 'I''d sure want to take that into bed'. These men felt irretrievably attracted to her, just to look at her, to be near her.

Over the echelons she gave up a number of dreams, but she had Millennium. The man who had saved her from solitude and starvation. The man who had won her gratitude and her heart. The man of impeccable mannerisms and exquisite taste, who rewarded her with security and sable. She knew he loved her, but now when it came into light that her irreplaceable husband was a devout womanizer, she almost wanted to commit suicide on herself, but resolutely dumped him. For many decades she become the public laughing stock.
But Millennium really hadn't worked well on his bed, to live a gurgle of off-springs. Year didn't want to live off other persons favor, and her next step was to venture into prostitution. As a prostitute, Year prostituted her strange talent well. Her prospective ''buyers" were chiefly sovereign gods of Zagata, who were deluded to fall for the ego sop of purchased pleasure; and whose pockets spoke volumes. It was through her profitable job that she recklessly begot her twelve sons: January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December.

Tonight, at midnight, her granddaughter, Twenty will be turning ten, err, Twenty Ten? Ideally, at her age, Twenty still is wrapped within her virginity no doubt. And vulnerable to the idiocy and idiosyncrasies of human species. More so, politicians. For a wild moment she will lose her virginity, the moment this running dog government and its imbecile shenanigans will embark on their avarice, idiosyncrasies, baby and political battle cries, inherent in their system.
Sweet Twenty will lose her virginity as you, i beg your indulgence, indulge in crazy drinking bouts, until you become hazy past midnight. She will lose her virginity, the moment death, like a night burglar will stealingly sneak upon lives of susceptible mortals. Matter of factly, Twenty will break her virginity, in the spur of a moment as you get ambivalent into overdrive. Still, she will break her virginity as the IDPs live in undignified human conditions.

As for men, Twenty will lose still the mystique sheen of her virginity as you, too, lose virility. And as of women, Twenty will lose her virginity,although reluctantly under your influence, as you, too, lose your virginity. Needless to say, she will break her virginity, the time you will embark on facebooking, like a jobless git, the day and night away.

In any case, Twenty will become at least much less vulnerable when she'll approaching eleven. As you join me in ushering Twenty into new age bracket, recap her almost fleeting age, and think of how she will not fall prey to your lure, idiocy, rapacity, idiosyncrasy, unreason, lack of decorum, cunning decoy, flirtations, smugness, mercurial hatred...et al. She's just a ten. Twenty ten, to borrow a pun ,unintended ,from aunt Century...

All Rights Reserved
Biloetry

CHRISTMAS

2009-12-18T08:10:00.000-08:00

Why does Christmas always
Stealingly sneaks upon you like a
Night burglar no doubt
Looms suddenly ahead of you like a
Roadside ad billboard?

In Chicago, Canada, Oslo
And Russia, the streets are covered
In a white blanket of snow
That falls in great fluffy tidings
Of joy

Street shops all over the world
Nairobi, in her tinyness cloaked in between them
Play now Christmas tunes
Coupled as they are with a constellation of Christmas
Lights flickering ever so on and off either from
The bristle fringes of artificial trees, or from
Gaudy baubles
It now will be a matter of days before Santa’s
In their red and white platoons set out in force

Now as Christmas slowly snaps at your heels
Ready to pounce like a pantomime beast
Put your problems on probation
Make a break with your past
Our politicians give your despicable differences
Indifferences a breather
And declare a time of peace
Sure enough, before the festivities end
Think up New Year’s resolutions
How to make amends but with your foes

All rights reserved
Biloetry

THE LORD’S RESISTANCE ARMY

2009-12-10T06:46:00.000-08:00

Some danced, releasing themselves to the music
That pumped from the looted radios and cassette players
Strung around the child soldiers necks among their chain
Of bullets and ammunition pouches
Some sat on the stolen plastic chairs, slumped in thought
With their AK47’s poking at the sky, clutched clumsily between their thighs

Others lay on the ground,
With noses plugged with pus from infected nasal septum
Some lay prostrate with bleeding wounds
And amputated legs from landmines
As all doc’s and paramedics had either gone aground or murdered

There was yodeling whoops as the child soldiers kicking away at
The debris of contraband beer bottles
Cigarette packs and playboy pornography magazines
That formed the sinister reminder of their vanity

General, Joseph Kony
Unthinking of these children
Unconcerned over their future
Exploits but their innocence
At the expense of their dreams

How he bloodily bludgeoned them into this force
The Lord’s resistance Army
Forced them to live their kind land
For this kindles land
Where they were recruited
Showed bloodily how to hold the gun
And push the firing pin
And thus they become hard boiled killers
A rag tag of hopeless child soldiers
Whose lethality’s enhanced by the widespread availability
Of heavy assault weapons

Rebels that no longer have human feelings
But are number within their souls, which
Have become seared by the bloody atrocities
They have practiced
All courtesy of
General, Joseph Kony
The bastard

© biloetry 2009

2009-12-10T05:49:00.000-08:00

OF MUNGIKI FREAKS

Hogwash it is not
Has history not been replete with
Secret societies, secret organizations?
The order of the quest
The Nazis, the Klu Klux Klan
The knights templar, the knights of Malta
The Russell Trust?
By the same token
Has the skull and bones, the scroll and key
Up-do-date, not been secret societies?
In any case
Had the longstanding Russia KGB, that met its premature death
Under the reign of Mikhail Gorbachev, not a secret service?

But I marvel, heave a breath of surprise at this renege Mungiki sect
Is it a replica of the above secret services?
A replica of the Yakuza, Cosa Nostra
Both secret originations bent on general racketeering?
But confounding the confluence of my ideas
I know not

Now tell me in a word
About this Mungiki freaks
Are they Dracula’s, monsters of human nature
In their masochistic tendencies
That operates, like the Hezbollah’s
“On a thick ideology”, to borrow a pun from
Bush the bigot, rapscallion!

Tell me whatever in content
Are their frontal attacks
So mysterious, and so perplexing
In their particulars matter of poetic justice?

Cult stooges! Say you
Destructive and occult in their character
Manifold in their activity
Of character so analogous to
The Yakuzas, Cosa Nostras
I say
But wonder, unlike all other secret societies
That work toward same ultimate goal:
A new world order
What Mungiki freaks work toward

© biloetry 2009

A SEASON OF BLOOD

2009-11-18T10:23:00.000-08:00

On 26th December, 2012, a hell of day to this year’s general elections; Thermo for was his name on the account of his father being called Flask. No. Rev flask, actually, had taken on this day to the neighboring country, Rwanda, that is. Thermo had arrived at this decision after having an intuition so clear and precognitive. No. he had arrived at this decision after having a peculiar dream of war he did not understand. No. he had dreamt about massacres that would be like, those of Jelgava, where the Jewish population of the Jews of the city of Jelgava, Latvia. In any case, he was on the run, instinctively running away from the sudden smell of death; away from an inevitable faction that would, perhaps, be a presage for a civil war. Thus, identity cards would be used in identifying foes.
Five years ago, he lost both his parents to some demons of human nature, in their coldblooded execution of operation ‘rudi nyumbani’, where they had ran into the glints of these beasts machetes. Yes, five years have gone by, like gusts of wind, in a stormy afternoon; gone compellingly with the many days, weeks and months. Oh! How time does fly. True, Thermo really felt deep the loss of her parents, the transitionary forces of life and the vividness of the past. But out of habit, for which Thermo was enslaved to and a creature alike; he had paid his uncle- Grisham an accustomed visit, after the end of the learning peak for that semester. He therefore spent most, of his pastime lying on the sandy beaches of Pangora, swimming and ogling at the lean, pudgy butts of both local ad international tourists on holiday. Thus, his going to Pangora was, perhaps, a buffer against Thermos’s meeting death that lay in wait for him.
It was on a Sunday evening, and as both Mr. and Mrs. Flask ate their supper, their house cloaked in their own anxiety; their minds sucked to the constant subject of widespread killings around their vicinity, general uprooting of non community members. How these fools were canonizing the devil because they felt attracted to him. But to ease the uneasiness that had been hovering above them, they engaged in a harmonizing conversation that fended them off from, the thoughts of the continuing blitz between tribal communities. No sooner had they conversed further than their wooden door was brought down, by two hooligans using two large stones. Four men entered surprisingly into the house.
“Eba.” Muttered the gang leader draped over a mask for concealment.
But this word, seemed foreign, abstruse, absurd and out of this world to, the flask’s. They just marveled at it. Their breath now came in short jerks, like a death rattle, and this was thus, made grave by the machetes these devils were gripping tightly, in their betraying hands. Two had sharp pangas each, sharper than Samurai’s swords. The remaining had badly shaped rungus. Strange, wild creatures, they hung on him to bear him down. They bashed hard their rungus on Rev. Flask head. His blood was thoroughly up. They kicked him, butted him with all their mightiness. At last he downed. He had neither breath nor strength. Then they hovered over his wife who had been all the while, gone on a trance. They removed her underpants without much finesse, and started gang raping her turn after turn. She went on a second trance. After they finished fucking her, torched the house, and left happy men. In the then violence, dialect had become a matter of life and death.
Thermo was born exactly twenty –three years ago. He is, a Zagata international University graduate, and while at University majored in Bachelor of Commerce, but specialized in Accounting option. But this course was his pastime, so he considered it. Writing was his part and parcel, as if he and words had been knotted together. By the same token, writing to him was like water, something he could not do with. If he ever stopped writing, it was like desisting from drinking water. Had I told you, that his relationship with Winnie, now a third year medical student, at same University would now be flawed by one blight. His leaving without, even hinting his cause of action on her. Either way, it would be pointless telling her, for his love for her was slowly starting to ebb out, as sex with her was now beginning to get boring. Anyhow, it was by a streak of good luck that, they finally got to know each other through his cousin Vanessa, two years ago. By then, Thermo was a sophomore, and her chum Winnie, but a fresher. As fresh as a daisy, and as cute as a baby. She was swarthy in aspect, intelligent than her years. In any case, she was beauty itself.
Last year, after being on a foreplay in two years; they both overcome their fear for one another, and thus, their admiration for one another went beyond the platonic love. Conversely, they were both virgins, but Thermo was in the conventional sense, a secondary virgin, after he lost his virginity to their house help- Cecilia. Winnie was the other, if you understand what I mean. Thus, after coming into connection with each other, deep in her drowsy silks; they for the first time felt intimately known to one another. If anything, their love life only got better by the day, the more.
“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” They often told one another.
The following is what Thermo had apparently dreamt about.
On the third, the voting exercise ended and overnight vote counting ensued, and took almost half of the following day. Furthermore, both the civic and parliamentary results were announced, yet presidential results were still pending. Flesh violence had already erupted by evening, in most parts of the country. Roads blocks too, had become death traps, as gangs of paid men attack and killed their suspects on basis of what tribe their IDs showed Relatively, this year’s general elections took nearly three days. The voting started from dawn to dusk, until the last voter cast his vote. Surprisingly, this general election had comparatively, a low voter’s turnout, as opposed to previous elections. Sense had sank into the thick skulls of all gullible, but eligible voters, it seemed. Broadcasters now started encouraging registered voters to show up at the polling stations and cast their votes. Throughout the voting process, there was peaceful and orderly polling in most polling stations. The election commission of Zagata had registered two hundred observers to monitor the 2012 elections, including other one hundred from European Union and United states.
Unlike past elections, balloting machines had been bought to avoid vote rigging. Even so, at the onset of the rigorous campaigns, the opinion polls showed a possible defeat of the incumbent president- MK- Morloch Kabiri, by his archrival, R.O- Rudolph O’Connor. The polls showed Rudolph having a possible lead by 70 percent. Even so, it was Rudolph that was Morloch’s pain in the ass, in 2007 general elections, when he was running for his second term. After Morloch was declared winner of that year’s elections, he was fobbed off with bungling with elections, fiddling with the ballot boxes. Thus, after being sworn in at twilight; in a private ceremony, but in a huff, gave but fillip to widespread violence countrywide that amounted to, balkanization along tribal lines. Comparatively, Rudolph and his henchmen, who constituted of newly elected MPs could not just relent as easily, as they claimed that the elections had been messed up, at his party’s expense that now had the majority- Bolsheviks. They therefore took to the streets, in company of his henchmen and others who showed solidarity with him and paid flunkies alike, who only looted properties at the city’s strongholds, and destroyed property. These damfools, even went to the extent of uprooting the major rail-road connecting Zagata, with neighboring country Yuganda. However, their efforts only came to naught, as the dogs of war under the command of, Mr. President; had littered every nook and cranny. The first duty of any Government is to maintain law and order, the president seemed to be asserting. Thus, after mediation from eminent diplomats, the two political foes formed a coalition Government, which has been the running dog Government since its inception. But, last year but one, this running dog Government went asunder, as imbecile shenanigans had been its Achilles heels.
Today, the presidential results were reported by the commission in four waves. First wave covered about one third of the total voters. Rudolph was leading by 30 percent and Morloch by 21 percent. The second wave reported about 20 percent of the votes. This time round, however, Morloch was leading by a million votes. Then, three smaller waves that reported the remainder of the votes. Ostensibly, it now became clearer than crystal that, Morloch would be next president, for the third time, even after publicly promising to retire after his contentious second term. Sure enough, it became steadily evident that Morloch’s political triumph was a certainty.
“Philanthropists of National Unity (PNU) party leader His Excellency the president- Hon. Morloch Kabiri has been declared winner of this year’s presidential elections, after muscling out his chief opponent, Mr. Rudolph O’Connor, of Odyssey for Democratic Movement (ODM).” The announcer read of his TelePrompTer.
Momentarily, a graphic appeared next to the announcers head, a photograph of Morloch. And this announced only precipitated another round of chronic violence
Grisham, Thermos’s uncle, who had been all the while seated slumped into the sofa, felt himself to be in a state of elation. For the past one week, he had just been seating around drinking White cap, which he bought with the campaign money, that Morloch’s campaigners had deluged them with, for a single vote of theirs. He felt happier than as the candidate of his choice had taken the trophy home, and this was cue for more drinking. He was, in fact, at loss for words. Later that night, one could not fail hearing the distant gunshots rent the air. Also, furious, bewildered, piteous sounds of brutal unflappable people howling a hate they had no means of mastering. Homemade, and bought guns from worn-torn Somalia, had replaced genocidal machetes, rungus and arrows.
It was very strange to everyone to think Zagata as a nation again. The madoadoas- I mean those who belonged to the wrong tribal clan suffered, perhaps, more than most, because all their ideas about men were being broken in pieces and kicked into the dust. At first one could not believe that this hatred and unreason could go on; one could not run before it. But in the end it was plain that they must be run or die. Many more were killed, some left to die.
Grisham, Thermos’s uncle in his last ditch attempt to escape from Western Pangora province, where he lived and worked as a businessman as much as he could remember, was shoot dead by a gang of rowdy youths, after breaking inside his house. They asked him to fetch his ID out for verification.
“Iko wapi ID yako? Toa haraka!”
Grisham plunged his hands into his packets and produced a leather wallet from where he produced his National ID.
“Dog of Qiquyu! Where do ya think you were going, eh?” the gang leader with an ugly, pimpled face yelled into his face, a pistol dangling from his right hand.
“Am… am….”
Without wasting any minute and poising a gun in Grisham’s face pulled the firing pin. A second later, Grisham slumped into the ground like a stringless puppet.
Violence had now stretched from horizon touching the sea to the other resting on the great lake, to another sphere toughing the slopes of the great mountain. Thus, the clear absence of police made it possible for people to settle scores. Thus, when the constabulary of police was dispatched to these turmoil cloaked places, only shoot mercilessly without regard. They just made the place look, like the Jelgava massacres in Germany, as they shoot at any suspecting persons. In the next two weeks, the shallow landscapes of Zagata appeared like a quagmire overspread as they were with trampled dead bodies. In one place a bundle of dead bodies were mound together in their own domicile; in another a heap of charred dead bodies thrown in clumps of shrubs were either eaten by dogs, and maggots beneath. All mnemonics of the faggots’ cold execution. The skies, too, were flaky with lump smoke from burnt homes. In any case, the country was running red and riot.
This, perhaps, would be an involuntarily prelude to the, 2012, December elections. Be very afraid!
© biloetry. blogspot. com

KU AS A HUMDINGER OF GROSS ACTIVITY

2009-11-06T04:04:00.000-08:00

Howdy, peeps. There are only two universities in Kenya- KU, and the rest, and one of the things that make it stand out, is this ongoing event, that was officially opened yesterday by one, but House Speaker- Kenneth Marende, in company of the vice chancellor- Olive Mugenda. Where great talents, are but showcasing the best of their talent. This therefore makes KU, a humdinger of gross activity. How else can it be? Well. Okay. I was born exactly two centuries after the French Revolution; three years before, the 1992, Molo clashes, or rather I was born three years to the Molo clashes. By the same token; I was born five years, before the, 1994, Rwandan genocide, nine years before, the 1998, American Embassy based in Nairobi bombing. Also, I was born eighteen years before last year’s so fucked up, indelible, (in) famous, but much less insensible post-election-violence, but I don’t want to digress.
Friday last was my birthday; in lieu of my d-day, which, I think, brought briskly into my breath four decades long gone. All the while I was imbued with a great sense of euphoria. And despite it being a red-letter day to me, I still had to attend my lectures, failure to which I was to miss out on, a so very pivotal topic. At the same time, I kept on facebooking; as I was agog with curiosity, to check out the outpouring of birthday wishes from some of my facebook peeps. At this very same time, I started doing math inside my head; and began figuring out how I could divvy up, but the remaining time, between ducking my last afte lecture, and having an impromptu visitation of the city. Tacitly, I settled for the latter. Go, go, go, go, Billy, its your birthday, we gonna party; it your birthday… kept recurring and snatched me from my preceding day. But alas, my hang in tao proved mundane. Then I took a nganya at Globe, to Wendani, where I arrived after an interminable one and half hours- thanks to the usual, but nagging Thika road traffic snarl-up. I suppose we sat in this jam for a fleeting thirty minutes.
At Wendani, my former rommie * Dick was in a matter of fact way, in company of his better half to be, and my being here gave me a feeling of an interloper. The inevitable thing about this dude, I think, is that, he falls prey to the delusion of thinking himself a macho. Such a git he is! And this does not necessarily mean that am trying to settle any personal score here, scuttle-butting anyone, but I just said the guy’s is a git. Knock it off! Momentarily, my buddy Jonnie rang me up, asking me to hook him up at Ruiru Campus. I hop over to Ruiru.
By now, ten o’clock, that is, Ruiru Township still is teeming with people, especially revelers, most of them being KU students, and one cannot fail hearing the loud music booming from loudspeakers, a mnemonic of a riotous night. Whoopee! There was immeasurable hoo ha. Blokes and demoiselles’ togged up in partying attire filled the entire place, like confetti. My nude eyes could not fail noticing some lassies, dressed in hot pants and décolleté tops, as they sashayed the night away. Inside the assembly hall that was slated for this night’s activity was basically a humdinger of superfluous fun.
The contestants seemed, only to be giving each other, a run for their money. As time elapsed, the place now got hurly burly; and everything was hunky-dory, expect for a few brawls here and there, among drunk bastards fighting over a KU chic. Wait a sec- a KU chic! Yes, a KU damsel in their attempt to offering their overtures. Hoey. Balderdash. Dash. Even so, I hopped over the hostelry, located just opposite this assembly hall. It was but filled to the rafters; and revelers now were striding out, one by one, as the ka-pub was but out of stock with any brand of alcohol let alone cold-drinks, and this siphon is a clear-cut indicator of how KU dudes, are booze guzzlers. In company of my man, jonnie, who hardly binge on Jonnie Walker, we went to Ruiru Township, as our throats were still, so very dry. Surprisingly, the township had now transformed into some sort of a ghost town, and teemed with a lot less people. I hopped into this shebeen, that was half filled with revelers, and bought two 350 ml of brandy. As we went back, it began to pour down lightly, and saw need of parting away with fifty bob, only to be transported by a motorbike on relatively shorter distance.
Apparently glancing at my watch, it was past midnight, and things were slowly getting to their climax. Anyway, it was the usual synochrous, but sporadic contest. The moment, it stopped raining, I resigned going back home, this time in company of my buddy- one-Denno.
Following day, Sunday, of course, the hangover had at least taken to the hills. Whoopee, this day, it seemed had gone on board, and provided us with another round of absolute fun. I presume Sunday last was a prelude, perhaps, to another eventful, but entertainment, fun packed week. As a culture, this day heralded the starting of the annual, but KU’s culture week. It kicked off with great performances from some renowned gospel musicians, with the likes of upcoming, but talented artistes like, , Eunice Maina, to mention but a few, bringing the house down. Everyone, it seemed, had been seated in time for this free performance. So, therefore, Friday last was, just a prelude yet, for another eventful week, so to speak.
***
For the past four days, Kenyatta University has been, a humdinger of activity, as opposed to a beehive of activity. Better still, the performances on this occasion come fully up to expectations. Those performers –poets, poetesses, musicians, oh boy, the list can only take another page, as well as entertainers, seem to be well aware that we their hearers; can only swallow good stuff, so they are giving us quality time of mellifluous exposition. How else can it be? So far, the grandeur which apparently has engulfed, the entire KU community, is only getting better as the various hotch potched activities unfold by the day. But this is not all, I tell you. True; this grandeur will, get to its climax at the grand finale, at the KICC grounds, on Sunday.
As for now, I can only wait with baited breath for today’s performances; and to see who gets to the grand finale as the event draws to a conclusion.
PS: It’s Friday. Enjoy the party… Whoopee!

All rights reserved
©biloetry 2009

SOMEHOURS IN FRIDAY EVENING

2009-10-19T04:57:00.000-07:00

Per quale ragione (Why) somehours in Friday evening, in lieu of sometimes in Aprile? It is five oh nine P.M., according to my wrist watch. Now, my concentration on the computer, as I pecked away at the keyboard, irrevocably vied with the urge to stride out of the computer lab. As my eyes were trained forward on the fourteen-inch monitor, I realized that, the image of my head was reflected on the screen, by the fading cerise bar of the sunset.
The gripping fact that I had to finish up this assignment today, and the infinite pine for booze put me at a cross-road. It made me fret in anxiety. Doggedly, I intervened between these two protagonists that were in a state of internal faction, by conking up my earphone’s volume as a buffer against their rivalry, it never did the trick. I bowed out uneasily, like the French King Louis Charles XVI after accepting defeat, when Bastille was stormed; hence he and the Royal family were removed from Versailles to Paris, by letting the latter muscle out the former. No I abdicated my former activity of typesetting the assignment, like Tsar Nicholas II, the last Czar of Russia, after the outbreak of the February insurrection, for he feared for his life. But for my case, it was a desire to beer up insurrection, for I feared for my head. I packed up my books in the rucksack and walked out of the lab. I then took a mat to Wendani.
While still in the mathree I called up my chum Phyllis, and tried to convince her to accompany me to Taccos, for it was the only place I wanted to drink the night away at, but she was too adamant to let go of herself, as she was bound up by other commitments. No apology.
After arriving at my room in Wendani; in a matter of five minutes, my roommate-Goggy was in, and had swapped into conversation, with her chamaca Carol, whom he’s head over heels in love with as they lay in bed stroking each others hands. Above all else Heavens knew what else they were to do that evening. My bad. Carol gave me a warm, welcoming embrace and a knowing smile as I took her in my arms, and whispered in her ears.
“What up, bana? Long time, no see.”
“But it is only a couple of days that we have not seen another other,” she said jokingly.

Carol is cute, slender, treated kindly by puberty. Nineteen, but she could’ve passed for seventeen. She wore a crisp white t-shirt over shorts. Smooth, brown legs were showcased by the minimal clothing. Pink polished nails glinted at her toes. Goggy with his red bulging eyes and disheveled afro-like hair put him in place of, a playboy, bad boy- which, however, is blunted by one flaw. He’s a macho, and that therefore makes no bad boy, at all, no wonder Carol feels oddly attached him. Man, if you’re reading this, you know that, I too, owe you one, don’t you??
In the unconventional sense, I am not a vierge, as I lost my mouth’s virginity, the moment I started consuming alcohol, er, I don’t actually remember when. Cranky it sounds, but my head, I think, was uncomfortable with my wrapping of my dank virginity round me. Man, you can’t cure yourself of the habit of loving life. So we drink up new pleasures- clubbing, the big cafe’s, cinemas, watching live European football, Rugby-as it has became the latest gig, shopping sprees dripping with colors., name it. Anyway, what matters is what you cast yourself in, even if people regard it, in some offhand manner.
After another thirty minutes, I had already spruced myself up, and ready to set out. I wore a well fitting blazer over a not-too-tight polo shirt and pressed jeans. I got out of the house shutting the door behind me. Outside darkness had started to close in. I passed past Tacos-Mecca for most KU students that have taken their residence at Wendani, for it is where they congregate on their drinking bouts, like the Moslem pilgrims Marshall together in Mecca, for . This place was now starting to get full with early imbibers, all geared to rollicking the night away. I first sneaked into the first two pubs and only spotted a few drunkards seating comfortably on the bar stool, engaging on an endless conversation, but both pubs seem cloaked in lethargy and signs of a promising Friday were no where to be seen. No. Not here in Wendani. Music pumping from the radio oozed on, as if the musicians had recorded their music in a state of melancholy. In two minds, I somewhat felt, as if hog-tied. And by setting myself free, I took a mathree, to town. Here I go. Here I go. Loop de loop. Here I go. Le de Lu. I alighted outside Tusky’s off Ronald Ngala road.
Night had already gathered and thickened. At this time, it was as if Nairobi city had come to life, like a nocturnal animal. It teemed with many folks, some of whom flooded out of their offices; some were giddy with favor, as if wrapped up in Friday’s malady of upbeat, despite the fact that I wasn’t even end mother. I threaded through this throng of people, ignoring their exuberance, until I reached club Taccos, that boomed with loud, swaying music off Kimathi Street, adjacent the Hilton Hotel. The entrance doors were flanked by two bouncers, their hands crossed in an imposing manner, but out of habit, and with faces that had been in a few brawls. Muscles made too obvious by too-tight black t-shirts and designer jeans. Clubbers passed across the gap they had created between them. I strutted towards them, and they stopped me abruptly as was getting in the inn. I was sandwiched between them, like an omelet between two slices of bread. They asked me to produce, er, my identification card. Nkt.
“Towa ID yako kijana, tokaguwe!”
Reluctantly, I dug into my pockets, and came up with my national ID. I raised it towards these two scumbugs, вязанкаs (faggots), who were now strategizing on spoiling my night. They bent their necks low as they verified it.
“Bado haujafikisha miaka yakuingia dani ya hii club! Toa mpango ndo uwingie,” said one of the bouncers disconcertingly. I felt disgruntled.
I tried to appease them to permit me, but they instead gave me grave looks, as if telling me. You appease us again, we fix you up here and then. I therefore had to part away with a hundred baab. Too bad. I felt aggravated seeing my hard-to-get hundred bob crinkling in my fingers, go into pockets. The club was crowded almost every table taken, harbinger that, indeed, it was a Friday night. The dance was filled with inebriated couple’s held to each other, gyrating to the music. Hip city people filled this clubhouse with pulsating hum.
The light dimmed and music surged from behind two large speakers. Young college-like mamas, most of them my agemates- tall, shapely, stepping on spiked heels, wide-smiling- tossing their smiles as if dispensing candy, whooping. They rotated their butts, thrusting their pelvises, made exaggerated moved of trained dancers, say, Sarakasi dancers, as they danced to the baritone voice of “Gully creeper”. The music took on even more speed. Everyone on the dance floor bounced up danced wildly. Dudes shimmied between their partners legs, lowered to their knees. As bachelors often do, I stood one meter away from the dance floor throwing deprecating glances at the dancing couples, but gleefully watching full, breasts bobble and rotate , with a slug of whisky enjoying, not my so warm cuddle.
Hoarse screams of encouragement from seated drunkards, quaffing beer. When the last chords died, then the music drifted to… “Everybody to the limbo left”….” “Everybody to the limbo right…,” a new crescendo short in the air. It was now five minutes past nine o’clock, and the nightclub had become wild and riotous. I already become bored, as the disc jockey kept replaying the same song over and over again, at the behest of drunken clubbers.
Decidedly, I walked out the clubhouse, and boarded a mathree, again headed for Wendani, not because I don’t know other drinking joints, but for the very reason that I did not want to wither away in this place, it just made me feel outta place. The nganya cut through lit cold streets as if nothing mattered. But to me it matter ‘cose I really wanted to treat myself to some good time. Why the hell had I gone to Taccos in the first place? Why hadn’t I left when the tone of the evening became clear? Dammit. At a spirit parlor in Wendani, that hadn’t closed to night, I bought, 750 ml- blue moon vodka, and went home.
Goggy hadn’t yet gone to his usual Friday rounds. Tonight, he just wanted to hang out with her girl, but since Fridays are his sacrosanct days, he had with him a Safari Cane Mzinga. He was topsy-turvy and loquacious as usual. My appearance was cue for more drinking, it seemed. The next two days, sat and sun, that is, were, of course, were slated for sleeping off the hangover. Приятный неделя хороший люди-nice week good people!!!!!!!...!!!!

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©www.biloetry.blogspot.com
Email:bonnefoyyevs@gmail.com

AN IMPROMPTU SAFARI THROUGH KUJA UWENDE (KU) LIFEYSTYLE

2009-10-16T01:51:00.000-07:00

Why do I write? I so often ask myself this abstract question. Do I write under the influence of thinking, or write under the influence of my pen, because I think using my pen, and write using my head?

Today as I was writing this third-rate article, it was a so very bland Friday morning. It was dank outside and drizzling in, a careless, buttressing manner. Even so, it was difficult for me, to see clearly, the familiar outline of other students prancing about, like lost ghosts, as if casting off the profusion of their confusion, whilst others, as if gripped with the desire to get into the next lecture. All KU’s hustle and bustle, you know. These images seemed, as if sections of a dream were being screened from a sleeping head.
Mulling over this jingle, I wandered back to the landscape of my head, ignoring the booming sound of the lecturer that reverberated across the lecture Hall- NLT 9- No lesbianism talk, as it archly said out of crankiness, by some of KU’s word jugglers, who fall prey to their folly, as the number of female students dominates that of male. As a result, it now gave way to my thinking of writing another subject, which I have decided to make a subject of another day.

Before I began penning down my thoughts, I had to walk a few mental blocks away, afore resuming to the actual writing. Yikes! After finishing strolling through the repertoire of my thinking, fair enough, I still felt unsettled as I hadn’t yet come up with, a chief subject to write about. Despite the fact that thinking is the hardest part in writing, I oddly felt elated by coming into connection with my brain, which was so much so, like coming into union with a damsel, deep in drowsy silks of her body. Yikes!

KU unlike, St Petersburg- capital of the Russian empire, which evokes a host of images –‘palymral of the north’, canals and ‘rivers clad in granite’, palaces, the imperial court and sumptuous lifestyles, late-night soiree, the essence of Russian urbanity, it elicits a swarm of images- exquisite lawns, well manned grass and flowers, travel theatre, affable folks, humongous buildings, non-potholed roads, student’s centre, KM, et cetera, the quintessence of KU’s sophistication. Yes, KU’s like a beehive of activity, and this flurry of activity starts rights at the blue painted grille gate, which seats under a pillar that regally juts above the sky, like the Egyptian’s pyramids, legally showcasing our pride, KU, that is. Just adjacent to this iron-wrought gate, one can not fail seeing smoke pumping from two behemoths excavators exhaust funnels, as they labour through the soft soil beside Thika Road Highway extension. Fascinated, perhaps, by the steering levels and by the slow but powerful response of the clutch, the drivers, I noted as I was coming from Wendai to KU jana, seemed not willing to cut back on the excessive force, they applied on the gear and clutch. The excavators swung around recklessly, as the metal scoop hungered for the earth. This swinging reminded me of demented freshers who, like swinging their butts, so that they can be center for attraction to their male counterparts. Pooh! The scarred blade cut fillets of damp soil from the sloping ground. They curled backwards beneath the treads and were stamped into the ground by the metal links. The uneven ground becomes a forgotten terrain of soil filled galleys and hillocks of pulverized earth- thanks to the so-called vision 20 thate. At the gate also, a horde of hardwork and staunch ridden workers demolish a parameter wall, where the road extension is to pass. In some odd way, these walls seemed to evince certain fortitude, not to say frivolous gaiety, with this beautiful gate and well manned hedges.

Now, what makes KU, a so very, very unique campus, of all time, is the fact that, whenever you walk along the cabro built footpath, you walk inspired by the knowledge that some of Kenya’s most of renowned comedians, and by way of example, the likes of KJ, Nyambane, Muddomo buggy, among others, and many more others in the making, under the umbrella of their respective mentors. To make matters worse, as you stroll along these causeways, either going to the administration block, students’ center, Hostels, KM, Computer center, name it. The very pride that some legendary playwrights walk, or one time walked on these same footpaths such as: Prof Francis Imbuga, Dr. David Mulwa, and acclaimed poetess, namely: Caroline Nderitu, it just as easy gains fully on you, in daily gusts. How else can it be?

In any case, if today the Government was to parcel out fragments of land that lie idle, KU would be an exemption, because it seats on prodigious tracks of land. What more, where on earth apart from KU, can you find a railway line passing through a campus? Anyhow, what I love best about KU is a place known as KM- Kenyatta Market, or K*m* Market, as some scumbugs that, are gripped with a catastrophic sense of vulgarity dub it. So, since am a creature of habit and a slave to the watch, I punctiliously go to this place, at precisely twelve oh five, as all my lectures end before this time. My surreptitious journey starts at Science Complex where most of my lectures take place. I pass outside the Eastern Mess. And as I walk past Kilimanjaro, Mfimbiro hostels, my keen eyes can not help noticing a jungle of packets of cigarettes and regatta of used condoms jettisoned by the not- too- badly -off- inhabitants- of-these- miniature- hostels, whose unreliability is confirmed when an expectant young woman wades past me, with her eyes burning with shame.

As I cross the railway with a tinge of consciousness, I stepped my two feet into KM’s soil. My excitement somewhat, gets aroused as KM augers well with what life has cast on me- relatively low priced food, contraband paraphernalia, blah blah blah. KM holds out the prospect of employment, but what people think of this place is difficult to gauge. By the same token, the image of grandeur is clearly being challenged, as it has a lot of dingy houses. And The rectilinearity of KM’s shopping parlors’ pattern contrast sharply with the seeming hotchpotch inherited by Githurai. Like most substandard places, the place generates its fair share of criticism and commendation, because conmen and peddlers are always in the offing and is so often decried as insalubrious; also it offers cheap commodities that are affordable to most students.

Today, I therefore decided not take lunch at Happy Dolphins Motel, as the smell of rain had already slaked my gargantuan appetite for food. Surprisingly, this place was not equal to the crowd which it attracts and so, something must be done ASAP to cope with the overspill, for how long shall I eat while standing?

I think, when uttering a stream of subvocal epithets, the name Ku, if a some typical kambaa was to said it through the teeth, it simply means KYUU, yaani, K juu, which now turns to be, KU IKO JUU TUU SANAA! Anyway, I don’t beg leave to stop here, for KU is, too, large to be put down in words, unlike other Uni’s.

It is Friday, and my buddies have embarked on their revolting bout of sending me flash backs, which is a hallmark that they have started binging on their frothy drinks, at my local- Tacos ya Wendani. But the brown bottle never works out the magic for me, it can not do the trick, tumblers of Whisky, of course will. I can now hear binging bells jingle. But for that matter, I will not be showing up at Tacos. Some of KU’s lighshirts will be around that place, like a hound of reporters, cadging for drinks for which they can not pay.

Lovely weekend Folks. Phew!!!!!...........................................!!!!!!!

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©Biloetry
Email: Yvesbonnefoy@gmail.com

ARE WE REALLY LIBERATED

2009-06-07T08:46:00.001-07:00

I had every reason to celebrate the just ended Madaraka Day celebrations, where I chose to remain indoors reading THE ICON, a novel by Fredrick Forsyth as my Madaraka special and drunk water and ate nothing. Let's face it, with these hard economic times outdoor fan has but become a romantic hope. In fact, Madaraka Day gave me the right to reflect on the many stories regaled to me by my fallen grandpa, who was a freedom fighter many decades ago.
By extension, Madaraka day is a so very paramount day in the calendar. It this time round fundamentally marked forty six years of self independence, after we disintegrated ourselves from the oppressive and suppressive colonial rule. To say but least, this self independence is nothing short of sheer determination and reckless courage exhibited by our founding fathers, who put this country before their lives and interests. Suffice it to say that, our founding fathers suffered turbulent transitions to independence with long periods of violence before changes in political power. However, these forty six years of self independence are not a smooth sailing in as much as many a despicable things deprives us of the right to call ourselves liberated. They fought long and well, anyway. But did they live us free?
Are we free from ethnical hatred that threatens to tear us asunder? Are we from drifting into internecine feuds? Are we free from love of power and self that has polarized into war formalities such as: ODM, PNU and ODM-K? Are we free from corruption worse than prostitution, which has become so entrenched into every nook and cranny of society? Are we free from lawlessness that has become so contagion like scarlet or swine fever?
As a liberated people are we free from a society synonymous with diseases, poverty, prostitution, insecurity, joblessness, mass underemployment, and assassinations with political motives? But I ask, do we really enjoy good governance, free from slash-and-burn leaders, warmongers and opportunists? By way of thinking, are we liberated from gender based violence? Again are we liberated from commissions that cover up visible miscreants?
Literally, are we sufficient enough, to call ourselves free? Are we free from continued constitutional upheavals, and spiraling of inflation? Are we liberated from indiscriminate killings by the inadept police force? Are we free from traffic, thinking and relationships gridlocks, well regulated arrogance, and illiteracy? Are we free from carries of free pardons and curries of cheap favor and cushy appointments?
To cap it all, are we free from unbearable news brought into our sitting rooms and flashing on our Television sets? But we have ourselves to set free!!!

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Email:chineduchinedu@gmail.com

BIRDS OF DIFFERENT FEATHER DON'T FLOCK TOGETHER

2009-05-30T09:03:00.000-07:00

Many of us were taken by surprise, when news recently had it that the newly elected United states of America president(Barack Obama) WON'T be showing up in Kenya, in his first inaugural visit to Africa as the Head of State of America. His considered decision we can say was at his own disposal.
IT is now the fifth month since Obama took the leadership mantle from his predecessor George Walker Bush. His success was seen as a mere blessing to many with whom he shares ancestral allegiances here in Kenya. A one day holiday was declared to celebrate his outstanding victory in which she defeated his rival McCain by a large gap. People especially here were full of gaiety, which they possessed to a special degree. The ground that time choked with blood and great a many people popped bottles of unrated drinks.
Come his inauguration day, a litany of diplomats including some prominent ministers went uninvited to see him being sworn in on TVs outside where the session was taking. Others also indulged by watching the inauguration on TVs in their hotel rooms. In short, it was a roadside invitation that expounded no sense at all. Money to fret away has always been available for our kings and queens, anyway. However, Obama's decision to skip Kenya in his planned visit has been warped by paroxysms of mixed anger. If truth be told, people should wriggle themselves out the "dream webs" entrapping them. With our leaders stretching both their rotten hands out and looking above with eyes showing their greed and hunger, he has very much less to offer us. Unless our leaders stop existing. Let us not patently lie to ourselves by being claimant to him. He was long claimed by other people.
I, therefore, find his irrefutable decision worthwhile, for how can he (Obama) have a cozy correlation with leaders who are rabid to the welfare of its people, who gave them a short to power and riches. By extension, how can he associate with daytime thieves, who steal away public maize and oil? How do you expect him to mingle with demons of human nature, warmongers, with leaders ethnically jingoistic and bellicose, with people incapable of an emotion of pity and destitute of all feeling of humanity? In short how do you expect him to collaborate with anti-reformers, with people who spend in shocking manner public finances ('the fruit of people sweat') to satisfy their dissolute pleasures and pay agents (foot- soldiers) of their political and criminal intrigues? Never. Not Obama. In fact, such people serve to reduce morally incorruptible leaders to their level of behavior. Suffice it to say that our Kenyan politicians are birds with different feathers, and so is Obama. Therefore they are quite incompatible and cannot flock together.
In any case, the U.S president has the right to choose with whom to cozy. By way reasonable thinking, let us stop asking why he chose Ghana over us. Instead we should be ask ourselves what Ghana does right. Is it because of its stability, or democracy? Yes, start asking yourself some of these questions, and stop these scraps of gossip you have embarked on. In other words, if we choose to perpetuate our talkshops, why Obama strapped us off his list, we are in for more surprise. He has ignored us not for what we are, but for what our leaders have become. Yes, they (our leaders) have been left so that they can break about their own misery!

Email:chineduchinedu@gmail.com

CRUSH THIS MILITIA GROUPS ASAP!!!!

2009-05-30T08:52:00.000-07:00

The conundrum of these self-styled and ethnocentred groups has almost become a household talk. As we a speaking of today there are nearly or more than seven of these militia groups. We have Mungiki who are splittered across the country, sungusungu of Gusii land, Baghdad boys of Kisimu and Taliban in the Nairobi slums of Nairobi. Blah Blah Blah.
Not surprisingly, the Government watches the operations of these villians who wreck havock on its citizenry by attacking on their general socail security, as it is a heady football match. In fact, the Government is a pagoda, because it gives no answers as to what it's doing in disarming and crashing these militia's, but the movement of its head.
To take you aback, in the recent past, during which a stripe of mungiki followers ferociuosly and viciously attacked an unexpectedly the inhabitants of Mathira served to, show us the destructive and hostile side of human nature, and the moral terpitude we are inured to. It, of course, nuaseated with pictures redolent of blood and gore. This militia groups i believe are funded by very so influential persons, who are only interested in their own warfare and that of their community. The group are a powder keg that awaits explotion at the slightest provocation.
Good news, however, just slipped through our listening ears. The president (His excellency Mwai Kibaki) spoke forcefully out about shackling these illegal gangs, as many people have degenerated into living in fears of louts and fear for their lives.
Poverty is inevitably the major thing highly attached to the immergence of these groups . Also a decliclining economic that shuts off the windows of opportunities, to many potential youth somehow gives fillip to the background of formation. Moreover, poverty is enormously linked to high occurences of violence due to, competition for scarce resources. Therefore, it gives birth to a tumultuous populace, who are unable to meet most of their basic needs. With such a population at hand, at any rate they relegate, or devise other ways and means of meeting and satisfying their daily patter of life.
Idleness, in particular is another thing that leds to resurgence of the unmitigated militia groups. Hence that idleness is precipitated by the lack programmes that are vastly spread throught the country. Suffice it to say that the so-called kazi kwa vijana,a labor intensive work programme that is seen as bulwark against youth unemployment. It is quite instrumental for Government, therefore, to strategize on other programme that will tap and reclaim an unempoyed youth, who are spry and proactive. That way it would have reduced the proportion for violence.
However, it's most uncertain to say that, with the current batch of politicians, it will take more than egecentric and self-serving a leader, to achieve the above mentioned. If these gangs existence and operation goes unchecked, we are in for more strife and podgroms. well- i mean these ethnical combatants that are used as foot-soldiers by politicians have immense ego and terminal ambition like growing cancer. They are but slowly and openly extending creeping tendrils of influence and threat and power in every nook and cranny of the country.
Without a second thought, therefore, the government should employ force as its last resort ands resource, to disarm and dismantle these militia groups, for the protection of life, for its business is to see the security of its people. Needless to say, with these grpoups in place there is no clear sense of security, as they are a threat to security.
Failure to address this issue is tantamount to surrendering this country to angry louts and vagabonds whose vision for a future is redolent with blood and gore. This is the crux of the matter.

email: chineduchinedu@gmail.com

OF OUR POLITICAL KINGS AND QUEENS

2009-05-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

The recent news in the political arena with the Mp's planning, to spoil themselves like brats in a millennium Development Goals (MDGs) seminar to be hosted at Mombasa, for that matter lives me bewildered and stricken and came as no surprise at all. If i may ask, whose millennium development goals, anyway? Perhaps, theirs and that of their families. And not for the collective nation! In fact, their sudden plan is as self-righteous, asinine as it is unethical. After all, the life of any other Kenyan has been thralled a many decades by their uncaring rulers, who only engage in political posturing. Where on earth did the current prototype of politicians come from?
Despite the economics and financial fiscal crisis marauding the nation, there is money for our obnoxious leaders to spend on, at the expense of common man facing starvation. This is a clear pointer that our leaders are still wretchedly and wholly blinded to their old game of self- serving. The IDP's whom i have more often than not talked about still languish in camp, and only serve to remind us of the 2007 post election violence emanating from a bungled presidential votes. No less five thousands Kenyans face starvation and live in the most undignified and deplorable human conditions. Can anyone feel and see that our lives are driven rough shod over.
It would rather been worth of applause, however, if they(MP's) had strategize on how to spend that money through purchasing more bags of maize, to feed the dying and downtrodden countrymen, or improved the lives of thousands of shackled IDP's by buying bedding and other necessities. Rather than indulging them in the face of a monster tearing the country asunder. I don't regret to say that they are myopic and intellectually lazy.
By extension, am a disappointed Kenyan and wholeheartedly surprised at our leaders who have proved to be a laughing stock, and repudiate in the face of adversity and engage on trips to indulge themselves in upmarket hotels. But when the starving populace for bread, they are given cake. It's high time our leaders realized that the nation is merely not owned by a batch of less than three hundred people. They ought to stop entreating themselves likes princes on our money! There are better ways to utilise the taxpayers’ money. What more.

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Email: chineduchinedu@gmail.com

OF POETRY

2009-05-23T07:37:00.000-07:00

WHEN TO TRUST POLTICIANS

When every pressing matter at hand
Gets done
And blind corruption
Worse than prostitution
Gets shunned
And well regulated arrogance
Gets burried
Deep down the cold earth
Then give a politician your confidence and trust

When pragmatic danger policies formulated are
And our words by their ears violated not
And dishonest dubious aspersions are cast not
And stop they, hiding behind the parliamentary veneer
Thus wriggle out of their hiding cocoons
Then give a politician your confidence and trust

When the hunger stricken & sick are for catered
The IDPs resettled
And a breath of humanity gets breathed
And your interests mine are placed
Before his or hers
Then give a politician your confidence and trust

When a seed of brotherhood gets planted
And a tree of hope gets watered
And the branches of arrogance, poverty, graft
Are pruned
Hence the deep roots of radical tribalism
Gets uprooted
Then give a politician your confidence and trust

When committed constitutional reviews are embarked on
And idiotic calls for minimal reforms are trashed
And the rule of law is respected
And laws that enjoin these miscreants promulgated are
And the absolute powerful & guilty are executed
Then give a politician your confidence and trust

When these political battles, baby cries
About carpets
Toilets
Power
Positions
And unnecessary calls for snap elections
Are transmuted into solution finding debetes
Then give a politician you trust and confidence

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Emial:chineduchinedu@gmail.com

THE MIGINGO ROW

2009-05-20T09:38:00.000-07:00

Until the Ugandan president Museveni made a so disparaging comment in relation to the Luo over disputed Migingo Island, it did not seem a great deal. His remarks did stir the hornet’s nets indeed. I find his comment rather focused on Kenyans under the guise of wajaluo’s.
Museveni should understand in part that Migingo is not a Luo territory. It’s Kenyan. Therefore, it is unfortunate if an antipathy against the Luo’s, or any other community, clouds his justification. His suggestions, moreover, that Migingo is in Kenyan territory, but the water adjoining it is in Uganda is a figment of imagination, and makes me laugh, and in the same breath shudder. Such a justification is callous, malicious, psychotic and substandard. I believe that, both nations have publicly avowed to let the joint boundary survey team do their work and accept their finding. It therefore behoves either party to make any provocative statements. Apparently, some leaders have taken the initiative, which as result has stroked flames by spitting ill-considered comments instead of waiting for a just solution. But what I find nagging is why should the Government be spending millions of shillings on a small issue, whilst millions face starvation.
Bottom line is that president Kibaki or his presidency should stop these talk-shops with Museveni and act beyond this. In fact, the loose tongue of Museveni should serve to show him that Migingo is suffering neglect. He had better end his bonhomie with his counterpart, but in part save this nation’s territorial integrity. If the president is looking for precedent on how to deal with belligerent neighbours, he should invite former president to state house, or even so SMS him so that he give him credential on the way forward. He must be reminded that he occupies his position to protect the country from both internal and external attacks. He will not have failed if discharged, and the time is now.

* * * * * * *

The recent incident that saw the whole litany of ODM politicians skip a funeral, envinces no surprise at all. Who cares that they never attended that burial; anyway they should stop giving us their string of nonsensical explanations. Funerals are not cocktail or wedding parties, for one to be invited officially. Do they get invitation cards to their funeral hopping they often attend? However, some humane leaders, who showed their solidarity conspicuously with the bereft families, gave the dead victims of the church arson a respectful, although tearful send off.
I salute you all who attended the funeral!

2009-05-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

It has now transpired that news on scandals have become our new way of life. Our politicians should be told aloud and coherently that they ought to stop playing cheap politics with our lives. In a recent case, the ministry of Finance was once again facing the public guillotine. After the provocative sale of Grand Regency by some top, powerful and scrawny men, it shows that a lesson wasn’t well learnt. This time, the Finance
Docket, under the stewardship of DPM Uhuru Kenyatta was on the receiving end with Members of Parliament and the public. This then shows that the Ministry will in continual strife be faced with fiscal crisis the more.
The flaws in the so-called supplementary budget had somewhat spawned of a school of thought in the some circles that sabotage was at work, rather than the intended technical errors. These were but cynical rumors bandied about that lacked evidence whatsoever. In fact, blaming the mess on sabotage was politically expedient and risky. Moreover, in the light of this scam, the mood amongst some staff in treasury is still gleeful as they see a possibility that heads must roll, thus leave open spaces for occupation. Whenever, however, this docket is gripped with crisis, its net effect drives the public to lose faith in treasury.
* * * * * * *

YET ANOTHER SCANDULOUS MONTH!

2009-05-19T09:19:00.000-07:00

Yes, it is yet another scandalous month. As a patriotic citizen, I have more often than not come to the conclusion that we (Taxpayers) are considerably subjected to most caustic and last form of administration. If anything, this Grand Corruption Government sickens us by the day. Can anyone feel the haunting image of these dithering and most scintillating leaders?
On the onset of this particular month, three spell bounding things have so far, so good taken place. However, they were no happenstance. First of all, an unprecedented call for sex boycott was issued by a bevy of female activities. Second of all, a scandal worth 9bn in the ministry of finance did yet hit the headlines again. Thirdly, another maize scam this time round implicating the PM office and his family resurfaced. What a shame! What a blame!
To drive the point home, I found the issue of sex boycott most appalling. It was not newsworthy for a bevy of retrogressive women activist approaching middle age, calling for a nationwide stoppage of marital copulation. Most women whom I know and confide in, however, never welcomed the boycott as it lacked clear guidelines on implementation. And if they were to show they solidarity with them, how then, would they have broached the subject of democracy and leadership to another significant who demands instant and constant gratification. The sex boycott was in another words a bone of contention. Those female activists should be told blatantly that their call was a monumental waste of precious time. Our two principals still depict the grotesque picture of caring less.
Either way, reflecting on the women who participated in that unrest, most of didn’t exhibit any sign of commitment, therefore, potentially unmarriageable and had strings of divorces. This in fact reminds me of my high school eyes just gone.
Whenever and wherever we went for a funky or funkies, as we fervently dubbed our academic trips, one would make sure that was dressed in borrowed outfit ranging from shoes, blazer, and shirt and so on. with studied care. The only thing that most legally owned was, perhaps underpants. When the usual business of socializing with other students, especially came at hand, it was quite difficult for guys to be seen with some uglies who never exhibited good looks, for other students would poke fun in you. Therefore, these uglies opted to remain in their buses. But other third grade boys, who had the verve and nerve to speak to them, were often turned down. These damsels were so rabid over sexual flirtation. If you hog over sex you’ll never get it.
In the wake of the of boycott in the recent past, however, gave fillip to commercial sex workers, and the business for a considerable period of time flopped up. The former denies, but the latter gives. I would rather the one who takes money upfront than that who indulges in some empty political intrigue. I can’t, moreover, help but wonder how many insane women followed these women’s edict. If you did show your camaraderie conspicuously, keep it to your self. Had I been married, it would have been business as usual with my wife despite the fetishes of some female activists seeking attention. In a word, the women did not have the slightest monopoly to dictate how married couples should go their usual and inseparable matrimonial business. Let’s face it.
* * * * * * *

2009-05-10T07:26:00.000-07:00

The forgotten people

My uncle sunk in great lamentation while we watched live broadcast news on Sunday 26th April. I could tell by looking at his sad expression on the face. He had moved in for Easter holiday but has already left. On his visit, one could not fail to fathom. That pleasure! That sentiment! He felt under my dad’s roof, away from the lousy camps, which became his newfound way of life after the disputed post election violence that nearly took the country to the brink of a civil war. That atavistic hatred had somewhat destroyed the whole structure of civilized social life, and left many utterly homeless with my uncle included. Those memories were etched in the minds of many; me included, and only send scalding tears to my eyes. In a word, why were we so belligerent? I believe after the crazy we as a country in some anomalous way earned notoriety for the brutality and incivility against each another. My uncle lost all his pivotal certificates, documents, maize and wheat granaries and a house to the arson. Rendering him a vagrant. A downcast. His only guaranteed document, by way of example is, death certificate.
Well- I mean the thing that disappointed him was the two polikal protagonist (ODM & PNU henchmen) tussling over who between the VP and PM should be leader of Government Business in parliament. Neither of the two deserves that chair. Their ‘cat fight’ had, in fact, become the order of the day and evinced no surprise at all. On the same tone, something unprecedented did happen. The speaker of the House elected to appoint himself as head of HBC. It was an incredible thing to do, as the same time incredulous. How else can it be? As a result, his ingenuity brought the political bickering and stalemate to an instantaneous standstill. He, however, never used Solomonic wisdom. Therefore, his dogmatic style in part makes him mislay one point for failing the litmus test of impartiality. The speaker’s unnecessary appointment in itself was not an achievement. I believe the speaker, as a learned friend knows better or full right who’s head of that chair, and the person can at his disposal appoint his preferred emissary. Those who still claim he chose Solomon’s way only make me heave a sigh at their idiotic remarks. By the way, Solomon never took sides when the two women presented the child before him, with both claiming its legal possession. He instead used his intelligence well in determining the child’s right mother, as he had undergone some intellectual revolution. Had our speaker undergone through a complete Intellectual revolution that, he would have arrived at an ingenious decision. What he did, however, wasn’t appalling whatsoever. And if it were premeditated, I regard it as a diversion, probably doomed to fail, and ruinous to his cause.
Even so, our Religious leaders lent support by the political magnates call for snap elections inspires no hope at all, but despair, and a direct insult on the nation. People have no intention, or rather not ready to vote. In fact, if they did, they would simply outvote all of them. Long have they forgotten that the country is still on the healing process, nursing its inflicted wounds after the violence that some fueled. Don’t they have eyes to see that there’s not an independent electoral commission? They ought to imbibe some sense that IDPs, like my uncle who voted for them, thus gave them a short to supremacy and riches urgently need some urgent resettlement. They are not mere animals to languish under deplorable and undignified living conditions. They, too, have rights clearly spelt out, and enshrined in the unreliable constitution. Our so-called politicians should clearly understand and accept the fact that our motherland does not essentially belong to them. They should unanimously arise to the occasion, however difficult the situation is. Instead they should engage in more fact finding delegations and parliament, than outsmarting each another in public domain. Indeed they should be focused on one grand ambition. Come hell or high water, and save this country going to the dogs, and its downtrodden people. Our ears and eyes are tired of their political battlecries, which only amount to faction within the governing circus.
In any case, people are tired. People want better schools, better education, better roads, better jobs for the millions of unemployed youth, affordable food, fuel, better pay rise, education, accountable leaders, a better constitution, pragmatic and versatile reforms in all government based institutions and vocational training for their children, as opposed to, ever increasing levels of crimes, deplorable and undignified living conditions, extra judicial killings of innocent youth, bad and potholed roads, abject poverty that shuts off the common man from the currents of the day, Homo Corrupticus politicians and so on.
To say but least, here is a poem in regard to our forgotten brothers and sisters. In short all IDPs countrywide.

AN IDP LAMAENTATION

You’re but painstakingly killing me
But with your adopted cunning stratagem
To resettle, to compensate
But me you swore

One pregnant year has passed on so
And Still
I languish in these lousy camps
Outlandish cold has but become my companion
We so confide in one another
And find solace in oneanother altogether
Irretrievably has poverty married me
And in some anomalous way feel
Feel but eternally married
And intimately known to one another

But why do you punish me so?
But with your sweet words
Or is it becoz am a recidivist IDP
Inimical to your interest?
That you have retreated and repudiated
In the face of my bleak plight

In some odd
Unspeakable way
Have embarked on political battlecries
Bickering about carpets, toilets and position
And instead made my right for survival
A romantic hope
If you’re there and do hear me
Please arise to the occasion!

B.M
All rights reserved
©2009

OF POLITICS

2009-05-10T06:35:00.001-07:00

Old Political men & Women will Never Institute
Any Good Rule!!

Over and over again, folks have umpteenth times overemphasized that oldfolks are more likely to institute good rule or governance, owing to their wisdom and experience. Hell no! I beg to differ. By the way, if you are old, you’re by reason of ineptness not entitled to read this article. Old age, in fact, is a burden. Let’s face it.
By simply saying that old age is burden, I not only mean a burden to the one carrying it, but also to the country as whole. Yes, old-stricken leaders- I mean politicians not only are they impotent in political bed, they are also irrationally hychondrical and ever worrywart about their ill health, and cannot bring forth any useful Agenda for the country. Even my aging granny is becoming hychondrical by the day. They instead turn out to be assiduously anti- reformists who detest change, and only engage in crybaby politics the more, as they are only interested in massaging their egos. Also, old political rascals become less so proactive, charismatic, creative and influential. They tend to be lax, for they can no longer withstand the heavy weight of their old epoch, since they are but pillars of salt masquerading as leaders. Well, with such leaders in the reigns of power, of course, what we expect is nothing but absolute failure. In that view, therefore, they are but a heavy burden to the Nation that looks upon them, to devise a new constitution within a hundred or so days. Moreover, in the light of the current crop of politicians that is composed of a league of old stricken, which makes the majority in parliament, ideally, let’s not hope for any pragmatic reforms in the near future, so to speak. And if you still or do hope for reforms, if reform means a gradual, careful, and partial readjustment of existing institutions. You’re, please repeat after me, but building castles in the air. Ask me, and will tell you why! Suffice it to say that, in the good book God only commissioned invigorated, proactive and charismatic young men, as to achieve His course.
Either way, it reminds me of story in Zapata and the Mexican Revolution, a book by John Womack Jr. Almost all the family in the village and most of the other grown but single men had congregated under the arcades behind the church village for a fundamental meeting. Some seventy-five or eighty had come, kinfolk, in-laws, cronies and feudists. When the old man- Jose Merino was about to speak now, the crowd quieted down to hear him. The crowd could see he was too tired not to go straight to the point, and as he spoke they listen quietly and intently. Jose Merino was telling them that he was too old, over seventy, and too worn out that all the elders were too old and worn -out and that job had gotten to be too much for them. To defend the villages land titles and water rights in the fields as well as in the courts required energy they could no longer muster. Traveling back and forth to the state capital in Cuernavac, journeying even to Mexico City, arranging for Lawyers, dealing with hacienda managers and foremen and fieldguards- it was too much for old men. The elders had served the villagers as best they could for years and so has our politicians inadequately and insufficiently served us for decades on end surrounded by their cult infallibility and aura of irresponsibility.
We should, however, in contrast tell them, to go to hell. By packing their belongings as fast they can, heading to their homes where they can sufficiently and slowly crystallize out. For us to have a new constitution, wazaees’ should not be in the reigns, wamechapa. They are rustic, backward and traditional. In a word, they have reached a period that I call ‘political menopause’. To cap it all, for the nation to surge forward, we need young and fresh blood to spring. As they say, unlike oldmen who are virtually dreamers sunk in neglect and incompetence, youngermen are but visionaries who make their dreams a reality. Though provocative be it, to our senile leaders they served this nation as best by resigning. The times are changing so fast the country need more than the wisdom of age.
Do I hear Amen?

B.M
All rights reserved
© 2009