FROM THE FOOTHILL STATION. 

​When the rain stops and the storm looses its rage,  i’ll write about  the journey and the journey’s end, ill tell you about that morning when the sun rose with a chalice of bile and the other one, the other one of spring flowers and the fields of Ireland i have never been to, I will relive the script, scroll after the other..but for now let me journey on and scribe  about unimportant things because i have time to burn and no sleep.

Oh! pardon me, Hello dear banters? how’ve you been?..good? ok i get it already, i forgot to update you when i turned 27 a few weeks ago, twenty bloody seven! holy mother! anyway, i know i have abandoned this blog for a while reason being, (a). I am nursing a serious writer’s block (b). I’m trying to make a dollar out of 15 cents and none of you pay to read this nonsense so… yea, you catch the drift.First order of business, allow me to run you through a summary of how my life has been faring since we last met on father’s day here on The Banter; My blood pressure is stable and my bladder still works like genuine manufacturer parts so yea, forever young, I suspect i have H-pylori bacteria but from the look of things it has failed in its unrelenting attempts to assasinate me over the years, it appears i am winning, Mashallah! . I dont have a bulging belly (yet) or balding head (depending on the angle you are looking), I (sort of) have’nt moved out of my mother’s yet but in my defence she’d be lost without me so i’ll stay a little longer, I mean, why would a 27 year old young toddler want to move out?, to wither in the cold and burn in the heat?, no son! who will tie his shoe laces and pack his lunch? let us be, they say life begins at 40 so incase someone asks for me? i’m the one in unpaired socks licking a bowl of uji, thank you. I work alot but i haven’t gotten a ‘job’ the way society expects me to because…well, because why? I could get a job and move out to sweat coin for some corporate, i mean, there are many jobs one could do ;Roll up your sleeves and count cash both ways behind glass, pour hot tar on a road under the ravaging sun or sit as a board member of the tsetse fly and trypanasomiasis commission. Yes, there is probably a board meeting in session right now hammering away on matters tsetse fly et al or even the crisis meeting at the Department of Non-ruminants in Naivasha. Our government has been thoughtful enough to structure parastalals based on the digestive systems of animals and here you are wailing that there are no jobs in Kenya, you lazy sloth! dont just sit around,  get your ass up and do something…like what you say? i dont know, maybe artificial insemination or guidance and counselling, the variety is mindblowing if you looked keenly which i am not, i had enough of that “tell me about yourself” and “where do you see yourself in five years” shit. I looked for jobs at places with threatening names like Base Titanium and Guaranty Trust bank (PLC), places with names long and winding that they had to include parts in brackets and uppercase, others that ended abruptly with words like Inc. and Corp., you know you  are about to be employed by a very serious firm when their name ends unceremoniously in a fullstop, no joke i tell you. I am a wild oat living untended, surviving in uncultivated overgrowth and for that reason I let that ship leave the harbour, fashioned a small raft and headed out to fish because i heard that half the world is for sale, the other half has already been bought, so i picked my things and left, not much, a handful in sum and followed the sun.I wake up every morning choking in twines that grew overnight, i cut them and out of them fashion a whip for the day’s battles, thats what you do with your problems, you get them off your neck, look them in the eye long enough untill they blink because men have to write their own stories, they have to bleed, they have to sweat, they have to cry and then they have to get hold of their balls and be men, either that or be remembered for nothing and their memories starved in oblivion. I hope to read more by myself, probably enough to release the book jailed in me, I hope to find flight enough to write with eyes closed from the altittude of a falcon. By design or fate and fueled by the impulsive decision of the drifter in me,  i hopped onto a stale minivan with a chatty crew and fat seatmate encroaching on my side of the seat like an invading platoon, almost required a hip replacement surgery by the time we pulled in at the end. I set up camp in the midsts of somewhere in nowhere i really knew, brief space but it shall fit my dreams alright, I call it The John F Kennedy space center because this,.. this is where we leave for Mars, this is base camp, this is the foothill station…. See you at the top.

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Panic and hide your daughters!

It is fathers day yet again and as usuall on a fine sunday afternoon, i am relaxing in my room or rather man cave drowning in undone laundry and unpaired socks with phone in hand scavenging the interwebs past stories of beheadings in Damascus, shootings in Orlando and less depressing stuff like daily baddies on twitter ( if you are going to google this please dont judge me). I while on aimlessly across instagram’s misplaced captions, arched backs, over exposed cleavages and catastrophic eyebrows, i pass by facebook but my stay there is cut short when a random stranger threatens me that i will die in my sleep if i dont type ‘amen’ under his post, i even find Jesus there and the Lord says if i am his child i should not scroll down but i am a wise man, if my saviour was to join social media then it would be twitter where He is guaranteed of followers. I leave facebook traumatized, partly from the amount of ignorance on that particular app and partly from the poor picture quality in there, i mean, what do you guys use? Pinhole cameras? Do you have “negative films” for those photos you upload? Anyway this world is not my home so I shall move on to twitter and maybe while at it hate on a few tribes for absolutely no reason and retweet Joel Oesteen because.., well, because its sunday, what else is there to be done?
I finish my rounds of the wide wicked web then it hits me sshiit! Its fathers day and i am not yet a father and i panic, hold on! Where was i when the rest of the world was copulating during ovulation!! Oh crap! I look at my callendar and it is 2016, oh hell! 20 bloody 16? Why didnt somebody wake me up?. Then i breath deeply and tell myself to calm down, i summon myself for a brief crisis meeting and we quickly assemble all three of us, me, myself and I, the meeting picks up on a high note and somebody asks for my birth certificate and we start counting 1, 2, 3…21, 22,…25… stop! Stop! Who let things get this far? who was incharge when this happened? What kind of incompetence is this? You means nothing productive was done with all those fertile girls? Who will account for all the wasted resources? Everybody is silent, eyes are popping out and ears are steaming, the speaker (myself) is foaming at the mouth while Me and I are staring and sweating. We then calm down to analyse the situation and realize we walked into an ambush, babies are exploding everywhere like landmines, we are being blind sided by weddings and pregnancies are hovering above like Apache attack helicopters. We are forced to regroup and map out the battle field, the mission is to completely obliterate and neutralize the enemy who is ‘Bachelorhood’ and gain acces to the strategic town of ‘Fatherhood’. By all means we are determined to march our soldiers in a three pronged attack of sea, air and land. The force commander (i) suggested that we avoid the long route through sector two of Marriage because that area is patrolled by a heavily armed militia of stubborn father in laws who are armed with the latest misille technology of expensive dowry backed by an Brigade of soldiers from the ‘inciting aunts’ battallion. There is also the risk of encountering special forces sniper platoon from the 30 Ranger strike force called ‘mother-in-laws’ which might compromise the mission and slow down the movement of troops and supplies. So now the only option is to face the enemy using guerrilla tactics to infiltrate the enemy territtory and capture the city under heavy gunfire. Dear country men, the battle before us has been declared and we shall have to be hostile if we are to access the city of ‘Fatherhood’, by all means we are launching this assault and we are launching it in ernest. Any ovulating enemy shall be met with extreme force because time is lost, the combat field will be descended upon by special forces paratroopers, if battle is to be served upon fertile ovaries then it shall have to be in a form most absolute and profound. Thanks for reading that crap, i really appreciate your tolerance and oh! to the fathers of beautiful daughters with child bearing hips, happy fathers day…naah! I am just kidding, panic and hide your daughters!!!!!

Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.

We grow like Fern

I talked to a friend recently about a storm i have brewing in a rather small tea cup in my head, then they brought up the question of why i have never settled on an 8-5. Ofcourse what follows is denial, that i have been trying to, which is not entirely true. The whole truth and nothing but the truth is that some of us are ferral and love to grow like fern unattended to, we like to sprout in the field where no one cares to twine our vines or mulch up our roots, we love to bake in the sun and turn a pale green, we relish living in the morning dew and filling up with the fog that chaps our skins because that is who we are-wild loners at heart. An 8-5 cultivates you, it turns you leaves and mists you with pesticides, it patronizes you and controlls everything including your bowel movements but in exchange, it is very comfortable to your pockets, coin shows up like clock work in a rythm that grows weary and if you listen to it closely, you will hear negro hymn from the cotton field of Virginia. It guarantees you normalcy but then again, normal is mediocrity in the science of our breed and the cages of the corporate world scare the daylights out of me even though i sometimes desparately feel that perharps having my schedule controlled by someone else for a fee seems like the easy way but then i study the deeper meanings of bondage and servitude and i coil back to the overgrown hedges. I have always had a knack for the pen and a well of a blabbing mind that bleeds beautiful  prose once in a while but remains unpolished since i gave up my passion for reading, it doesnt pay the bills (yet) but it buys my peace of mind and on that note perharps i should pick a book again, its been close to 10 years now since i last picked a novel to read. This story is completely headed nowhere incase you thought it was but you can still drag along with me a beat the hell out of this bushes. Have you ever thought of what happens to talents when left burried in undergrowth? well, they starve and their skins peel and the start smelling of mediocrity with the scent of failure. Ever wondered what happens to dreams when they are not worked on? well, they float in the skies and live in castles in the air and they feed on ambitions and they grow fat and plunge thousands of feet to a certain death. Dear banters, have you polished your talents today? and what is happening to those dreams…nothing? Okay fair enough.

Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.

Ferral mind

If i am to sum up my campus life in one word then the word would be epic. Not because of the vast knowledge i learnt in class, no, i slept and daydreamed through half my classes because thats what i am- a dreamer, the other half i did a mix of absconding and abit of taking notes. That did the trick just as fine as the rest who licked fingers to flip old pages as i imbibed sorghum served at room temparature and pressure. I would love to sit here and tell you how i spent long hours in the library reading books that smelt of economics and stale ink but then i would be lying, i have always lacked spine for studying lengthy theories, i have never had enough glucose to grasp formulas so i bless the Lord for the much i gather in a quick last minute sweep that cleared most landmines. I could tell you of how i sat with a group of friends and philosophised over Pareto efficiency curves and Modigliani theory but i'd be bullshiting you noble people because the only time i sneaked into study groups was when time was nigh, at the eleventh hour like a Jackal scared from a fox hole. We could spend the whole of this night that i sit staring at this light and share with you findings that we came up with my friends during our weekly career guidance support group but that would be further from the truth because the friends i had there were good friends who once kept 12 goats in the hostel, goats whose livers and pancreases are still unaccounted for like the Eurobond, goats whose heads did not add up with limbs and bodies, our very own Anglo leasing but that is a story for another day. The friends i had let me copy their assignments which they had copied from a well known copier of copies, no regrets whatsoever, i have never really cared for what i studied back there, never mind that i am still paying for it because goods once bought can not be returned says the sticker. If they took me back to school, i'd study something you cant copy- Litterature and creative writing because that is the only thing i wish i  bowed my head to study now that i know better, mine is a ferral mind and you cannot domesticate ferral minds, you cannot tame creative insanity. I was sent off into a circus by the now defunct Joint admissions board, a pretty bored board if you ask me, set among clowns and played opera as we bit our toe nails. Four years in business school studying everything else except how to practically run an actual business, which says something is fundamentally messed up (i had a stronger word so just insert it there) with our education system. Every year, highschool leavers are hearded like sheep into university, Thespians are forced to study medicine, artist piped into school of economics and writers go to rot in accounting classes. They zombie on for years and are belched on the other end given powers to read and do all that appartains which means "go ye and live your unfulfilled lives", take your dreams of going to Broadway or Hollywood and burry them in that computer screen with T24s. They dress you in a gown long enough to cover your ambitions of one day going to Oxford to study litterature and creative writing at the school of African studies. They cover your head in a hat big enough to make you forget how you would have loved to conjour up tasty entries on the hot plate of The Venatian Palazzo in Las Vegas now that they are sending you out to treat Coccidiocis and remove retained placenta to feed yourself, i mean with the money you earn as a Vetinary not with the bloody placenta you! That is the story of many of us here at the banter, with passions ill matched with papers because our education system is like a cattle dip, you enter on one narrow end and the stampede pushes you to the plunge and just as you enjoy the unsolicited swim, concrete leads you out to dry and no one cares whether you leave to graze on grass or browse on twigs.

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Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.

Of stray lions, equinox and a mango.

Kenya is a magical country, that is if you took away the equinox heat and replaced it with a double whiskey, two rocks and ginger (shaken not stirred) thank you. Nairobi is the only city in the world where you are likely to get mauled by a wild lion or walk into a woman with a live mango tree in her bag (Which is a very good thing, for tourism, not for the guy being mauled by a lion or the mango). I hope we are still together, please stay with me, i am trying to break down this story without confusing you. Its bad enough to mix oranges and apples and here i am mixing lions and mangoes. Please stay hydrated, its hard concentrating in this our equinox. Now, where was i?.. Lions, Nairobi is the only city in the whole world where you are likely to be run over by a bus or mauled by a lion in eaqual probabilities, if you are on Mombasa road then the odds of being slapped by a governor are as high are those of the likelihood of a lion dislocating your shoulder ( for the first time i am applying algebra in real life, who knew?). You could actually wake up one morning and call in at work to say “sorry i’ll be late today, pssh, y’know, too much lion on the road this morning” i promise you, you will actually get away with it. The real question is why are the Lions straying from the park? The real answer is not that the construction of the by-pass or Standard gauge railways is interfering with the ecosystem, no! if that was the case why haven’t we seen a warthog grazing on that green Kidero grass? and not a single bloody baboon has come out to roam in Langata! The real answer is equinox and attitude,the lions’ attitude and the equinox lattitude (if they dont name a road after me for that wordplay then God is my witness). Lions are cocky, rude and entittled, i am deeply convinced that the just decide like
“Hey Mufasa! whats up with this heat!? i think i’ll grab a cold beer across the fence and while at it scare the shit out of these humans” and that is how they end up on the streets, or perharps they just get tired of eating antellope all year and decide “heck! I’m feeling spicy today Simba, lets grab a Pizza today”, surely of what use is a city lion who can’t have Pizza for a change? Infact any self respecting lion in Nairobi National park should have pizza once in a while or pack their things and go back to shags in Maasai Mara period!. I mean how hard can it be? as a lion you dont need that 1k for the double large on tuesday, you just walk in to any Pizza inn (or hut depending on your brand affiliation) clear your throat, which  by the way will also clear the room and then you serve yourself without queuing, the cashier will not bill you i swear because the average cashier is atleast CPA section 2 qualified which means they were taught in school the IAS ( international accounting standards) that says in part and i quote “…never debit the account of a hungry lion. Capture it (i mean capture the transaction, not the lion, are you kidding!?) under bad debts written off”.
Well, i believe we are now done with this stray lion hullaballoo so i can tell you about the mango, thank you. There are strange things contained in these handbags women carry around. I knew there lay boiled maize in there, i knew there were elephant tusks in there, i have been aware there are bread crumbs and herbal medicine under, i am fully aware that in there could be lying the remains of early man, we all know those bags contain mineral deposits and enough manure to raise the PH of overcultivated soil. What i did not expect to find is a live mango tree in there, it blind-sided me one afternoon walking down Kenyatta avenue, i came face to face with a horticultural marvel- a woman walking down one of Africa’s busiest streets with a two foot mango seedling protruding from her handbag! In my many years as an enthusiast of agriculture and afforestation in general, i have never thought i would come across a mango growing from a young woman’s handbag and she did not look perturbed nor did she swing her hands any less than the non-mango carrying ones…. have a cold glass of mango juice, keep yourself hydrated.

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Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.

Where God rests His feet.

210km on the odometer as the sun sinks west, we pass British army trucks, the ranges are alligned in a single file wearing crests of cloud atop and uncertainity beyond, maybe veiled oblivion behind it. The hills are secretive like that, they are shy and their intentions Stoic. Above hovers a Royal airforce helicopter, destined for basecamp perharps, nobody really cares because the overlands are bewitching. England is thousands of miles away and so is its queen but their service men patron these parts in her service. There when you pass Naromoru, the small township with little ambition than would be expected of it, a tad bit lower glory than you thought you would find there nested at the feet of God. Certainly it dawns on you that God works in the universe, and then he comes back in the evening to sit on his throne and rest his feet on that long stretch of plains at the root of the mountain stretching yonder from Chaka through Naromoru to Nanyuki where Batian's snowy peaks peek at you with undying charm. Of all the places i have ever been, the sight of Mount Kenya has always been the most spiritual, at that temple of beauty where the Aberdare ranges guard the sunset with envy as the great mountain watches in condenscending disapproval. Local folklore says they make a circuit in prayer around the great mountain when rains fail, and on the other side they beseech Ngai, God of the house of Mumbi, He who blessed Gikuyu's loins so he may bring forth kin, they ask Him for rain and by the time the circuit is done, a storm will brew and heavens will wet the earth in abundance. Perharps time passing banter they lace small talk with but i still couldnt help looking at mount Kenya with bowed demeanor, like i was looking at God Himself. Riding shot gun as always, I saw wheat straws and hay and cattle and children headed home from school and the rythm grew old and weary as i faded off to sleep and built mansions on the dreams i trust my empire on… I hope to be back someday, perharps to watch the sunset again or make a forever home and let God rest his feet on my lawn.

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Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.

Mucìabao

So there is this morning i took a cab to Mucìabao in Njabini (apparently pronounced as Jafini, but why Lord?) yes i know not many people find themselves having to go to a place called Njabini and then add salt to injury by plying deeper into the gizard, going off on a tangent to a bush called Kanyenya-inì ha baú, please dont give me that look, i also dont know how i end up in some of these places, places with too many funny vowels. I have found myself in peculiar places but Central Kenya wins the award for the most absurdly named places, tell me, how do you sit your children down and tell them their home of origin is a place called Mucíabao? will they handle the trauma that their ancestral home is Kamunyu? Kamunyu sounds like sounds like overdone potatoes but that aside, that is not why i gathered you here today. Where we we again? Mucíabao? My destination was not the issue, my cab driver was, a very hormonal guy called Njau with cashflow problems, before i buckled up, he had already hustled fuel money. This was not how i typically love to start my day, i love perching on a high fence in the early am watching the sun break its shell, listening to soul and chirping birds. I like to squint into the east horizon, counting money i dont have and flowers i grew that wilted, planning out a ranch i will buy when the numbers finally aspire but here i am ridding shot gun in a cab, cranning my neck so we dont miss a turn. I dont know what was worse here, this cabby’s terrible customer care or his hormonal imbalance but that aside Mucìabao awaits, apparently home to the famous Sasumua dam, beautiful place, makes you forget unpleasant rides in dirty Allions to places you cant pronounce, encounters that add pages to this drifter’s journal.

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Writing is the love of my life but poetry… poetry keeps me sane.