Tomorrow is April fools day. Many people are going to be lied to, cheated and duped without having an inkling of what’s going on.
Some newspapers and other media outlets will go an extra mile to come up with ‘shocker’ stories, scintillating headlines and lead stories (that they will call April fools stories on 2nd of April!).
I remember, when I was in high school, some fourth form students played an Aprils fools trick on first formers that literally (nay!) broke my ribs. I laughed myself hoarse. (Form one students used to be called MONOS in some other schools but we used to call them RABBLES at Starehe).
The rabbles were woken up very early that Saturday April First by the form fours. They were told, categorically, that they were to take their mattresses to the school laundry for washing (oh, save me the…!).
In their naivety, they took up their mattresses and bounded towards the school laundry. It was a sight to behold! Mattresses of all colours and sizes could be seen gracing the ‘air’ of the school. Poor boys! They didn’t even realise that they were playing the ‘lead roles’ in the comedy that was being produced by the form four students!!
The laundry man (a Mr. Mugendi), on seeing the sea of humanity bounding towards the laundry building (with mattresses in the air), just shook his head not knowing what to think. He stood at the door and waited for the ‘gullible guys’. When they got to where he was, they set their mattresses down and waited to be told what to do ‘next’.
“We have brought the mattresses,” they said. Mr. Mugendi just looked at them and asked to know the whys and wherefores. On hearing the reason why they had brought their mattresses, he burst into a long, raucous and guttural laughter.
“My boys, it is April fools day. They have made fools of you. We don’t launder mattresses here. I don’t think you do that at your homes, either. Or do you?”
With egg on their faces, the rabbles took up their ‘belongings’ and trudged back to their dorms vowing in their hearts that they would pull someone’s leg come next April fools.
Be careful that no one pulls your leg tomorrow, won’t you?
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Monday, March 31, 2008
Friday, March 28, 2008
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Hope at the End of the Dark Tunnel for Zimbabwe?
Zimbabweans go to the polls this weekend amid so much pressure. What with soaring commodity prices and inflation past the 100,000% mark and still 'heating up'.
President Mugabe called for the reduction of commodity prices yesterday but least can be done about it, as it were. One only wonders why politicians think that the electorate are dunder heads and can not understand what is happening.
We hope that the three contestants for the presidential seat have the interests of the country at heart. If they don't, then the country is headed for harder times.
Mr Mugabe
Dr Simba Makoni
Mr Morgan Tsvangirai
President Mugabe called for the reduction of commodity prices yesterday but least can be done about it, as it were. One only wonders why politicians think that the electorate are dunder heads and can not understand what is happening.
We hope that the three contestants for the presidential seat have the interests of the country at heart. If they don't, then the country is headed for harder times.
Mr Mugabe
Dr Simba Makoni
Mr Morgan Tsvangirai
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
A Man’s World
This is a recollection of my growing up as a boy at Eastlands in Nairobi.
Tears welled in my eyes,
As memories reigned supreme,
Memories less flattering,
Memories that still linger.
I once was,
A small boy of pity,
Helpless, weak,
And depended, for support, on mother.
When the boy next door,
Came brandishing his fist,
I scurried to mother calling,
And only insulted at her side.
I was jeered at,
By other boys,
Who had the energy to waste,
Playing their dirty paper ball!
The slightest,
Bullying and punching,
Broke my heart of glass,
And hot tears streamed my cheeks.
Softie, mother’s boy,
Were their descriptions of me,
Girlish boy, they sneered,
As a sock came hurtling my way.
How vulnerable I was,
How puerile,
Stupid, even,
For a boy to expect a smooth sail.
In the evening, my father chided,
Son, taking a loaded punch,
Swallowing a maiming insult,
Are the ingredients of a man’s world.
Tears welled in my eyes,
As memories reigned supreme,
Memories less flattering,
Memories that still linger.
I once was,
A small boy of pity,
Helpless, weak,
And depended, for support, on mother.
When the boy next door,
Came brandishing his fist,
I scurried to mother calling,
And only insulted at her side.
I was jeered at,
By other boys,
Who had the energy to waste,
Playing their dirty paper ball!
The slightest,
Bullying and punching,
Broke my heart of glass,
And hot tears streamed my cheeks.
Softie, mother’s boy,
Were their descriptions of me,
Girlish boy, they sneered,
As a sock came hurtling my way.
How vulnerable I was,
How puerile,
Stupid, even,
For a boy to expect a smooth sail.
In the evening, my father chided,
Son, taking a loaded punch,
Swallowing a maiming insult,
Are the ingredients of a man’s world.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Are You a Thankful Being?
It beats me when people say one thing while in essence they mean something totally different: they say 'red' when they mean 'black'. This kind of vacillation is very evident especially in matters concerning the weather. When it's cold, they want it hot; when it's hot, they want it freezing! (Blue blistering b…!)
The poem below, which I wrote on 5th of May 1997, was occasioned by this human response to the capricious quality of weather.
God's Country
The sun rises with renewed anger,
With rage, it 'serves' its heat,
To the life below;
People cower,
Plants shrink and droop –
Heat by day, cold by night,
Days turn to months.
Plants, angered by this routine,
Refuse to bear fruit,
Making futile the efforts of man,
To till, level and sow,
On dry ground,
Famine envelops the country
Leaves turn brown and crispy,
Shed they are, wanted no more,
Plants wither and zap! disappear,
People grow thin
And, a ‘sun tan's’ a must.
After months on end,
Clouds sparsely gather,
Becoming a big, black mass,
They growl, declaring war on sun,
Then they spit to the ground,
Their hard-earned spittle.
Plants less with anger,
And full of bloom, sprout,
Giving the country a green,
Expanse of leafy mass,
That promises fruit,
To hungry beings.
People gain weight,
Eating the fruits of their labour;
But then:
Mud spoils their shoes,
Colds cost their pay,
The weather spoils their day,
Is all thanks they have to God.
P.S. I love good poetry. I also love to write poems, in addition to other forms of writing.
The poem below, which I wrote on 5th of May 1997, was occasioned by this human response to the capricious quality of weather.
God's Country
The sun rises with renewed anger,
With rage, it 'serves' its heat,
To the life below;
People cower,
Plants shrink and droop –
Heat by day, cold by night,
Days turn to months.
Plants, angered by this routine,
Refuse to bear fruit,
Making futile the efforts of man,
To till, level and sow,
On dry ground,
Famine envelops the country
Leaves turn brown and crispy,
Shed they are, wanted no more,
Plants wither and zap! disappear,
People grow thin
And, a ‘sun tan's’ a must.
After months on end,
Clouds sparsely gather,
Becoming a big, black mass,
They growl, declaring war on sun,
Then they spit to the ground,
Their hard-earned spittle.
Plants less with anger,
And full of bloom, sprout,
Giving the country a green,
Expanse of leafy mass,
That promises fruit,
To hungry beings.
People gain weight,
Eating the fruits of their labour;
But then:
Mud spoils their shoes,
Colds cost their pay,
The weather spoils their day,
Is all thanks they have to God.
P.S. I love good poetry. I also love to write poems, in addition to other forms of writing.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Sunday Doodles: Of Rides and Crazy Fellows
Have you ever travelled at the back of an open lorry on a rough, bumpy, country road? If you have, then, the poem below 'holds' a similar experience. I promise you, it’s not the best of experiences.
A ride I took on 22nd of December the year 2001 occasioned the poem below. I was travelling to a certain part of Central Kenya (some kilometres from Nyahururu) to attend the wedding ceremony of a friend. The place was Shamata.
To digress, Shamata is well known for two principal things: biting cold and potatoes. When I arrived at Shamata, I looked like a baboon as I had ridden at the back of a lorry. What with dust all over my face, clothes and shoes; swollen hands and a throbbing headache! (And to think I was to attend a wedding…) I hate to remember the experience.
Rough, Bumpy Ride
'twas on 22nd of December,
The year two thousand and one,
When the mother of all bumpy rides,
Called out my three names.
I took my place in the lorry;
Sweet peace inundated my heart,
As I thought of a smooth ride,
A ride to 'potato-infested' Shamata.
Hell broke loose,
When this crazy fellow,
Took the steering wheel,
And slammed on the gas pedal.
I was thrown up and backwards,
I danced sideways, east and west,
My whole body shook,
My blood froze.
My eyes popped out,
As I saw death calling me;
All the while, the crazy fellow,
Drove on in murderous frenzy.
In and out of every pothole,
Was the name of the game;
As I bumped my head,
I said my last prayer:
God you created this crazy guy,
You created me in the same style,
Why should I lose my life,
Because of his madness, why Lord?
God at once said:
I created you, Yes,
But I don't remember,
Telling you to be in this lorry!
With every mile we took,
Dust masked my face,
Red-brown dust,
Made me a human baboon.
As the lorry creaked and wailed,
So did my bones threaten,
Threaten to break,
If the crazy fellow didn't stop.
I cried and called out,
But the engine swallowed my voice,
So, ofcourse, I had no choice,
But to swallow the bitter pill.
At last,
The lorry drew to a stop,
After swallowing miles without number,
Miles I will live to curse.
The 'back' was opened,
And out jumped a baboon,
A baboon in white shirt and checked coat,
A baboon that asked for water.
All who saw me,
Nearly ran for their lives,
And shook their heads at a distance,
Wondering, why a baboon in Shamata.
But all said and nearly done,
I'll live to hate crazy fellows,
I'll live to detest blue lorries,
Which love to create baboons.
P.S.: - The driver of the lorry, an acquaintance of mine, was travelling to Shamata to get a consignment of potatoes to transport to Nairobi. I thought that by taking the lorry I would be saving on fare. But, in essence, I lost so much more than I had hoped to gain.
My two cents worth: Think twice before you plunge into things that you think could save you a certain cost. You could end up regretting!
A ride I took on 22nd of December the year 2001 occasioned the poem below. I was travelling to a certain part of Central Kenya (some kilometres from Nyahururu) to attend the wedding ceremony of a friend. The place was Shamata.
To digress, Shamata is well known for two principal things: biting cold and potatoes. When I arrived at Shamata, I looked like a baboon as I had ridden at the back of a lorry. What with dust all over my face, clothes and shoes; swollen hands and a throbbing headache! (And to think I was to attend a wedding…) I hate to remember the experience.
Rough, Bumpy Ride
'twas on 22nd of December,
The year two thousand and one,
When the mother of all bumpy rides,
Called out my three names.
I took my place in the lorry;
Sweet peace inundated my heart,
As I thought of a smooth ride,
A ride to 'potato-infested' Shamata.
Hell broke loose,
When this crazy fellow,
Took the steering wheel,
And slammed on the gas pedal.
I was thrown up and backwards,
I danced sideways, east and west,
My whole body shook,
My blood froze.
My eyes popped out,
As I saw death calling me;
All the while, the crazy fellow,
Drove on in murderous frenzy.
In and out of every pothole,
Was the name of the game;
As I bumped my head,
I said my last prayer:
God you created this crazy guy,
You created me in the same style,
Why should I lose my life,
Because of his madness, why Lord?
God at once said:
I created you, Yes,
But I don't remember,
Telling you to be in this lorry!
With every mile we took,
Dust masked my face,
Red-brown dust,
Made me a human baboon.
As the lorry creaked and wailed,
So did my bones threaten,
Threaten to break,
If the crazy fellow didn't stop.
I cried and called out,
But the engine swallowed my voice,
So, ofcourse, I had no choice,
But to swallow the bitter pill.
At last,
The lorry drew to a stop,
After swallowing miles without number,
Miles I will live to curse.
The 'back' was opened,
And out jumped a baboon,
A baboon in white shirt and checked coat,
A baboon that asked for water.
All who saw me,
Nearly ran for their lives,
And shook their heads at a distance,
Wondering, why a baboon in Shamata.
But all said and nearly done,
I'll live to hate crazy fellows,
I'll live to detest blue lorries,
Which love to create baboons.
P.S.: - The driver of the lorry, an acquaintance of mine, was travelling to Shamata to get a consignment of potatoes to transport to Nairobi. I thought that by taking the lorry I would be saving on fare. But, in essence, I lost so much more than I had hoped to gain.
My two cents worth: Think twice before you plunge into things that you think could save you a certain cost. You could end up regretting!
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Recollection: Unnecessary Semantics?
The year 2006 was an year that saw the conspicuous emergence of hate words being bandied about between Kenyans and Tanzanians especially online. Blogs were the eveready wind that fanned the flame into a roaring fire.
Both these peoples haughtily flaunted their strong points. They also levelled scathing criticism against each other. Strings of expletives were added to the whole mix, to add colour!
Kenyans paraded their ‘mastery’ of the Queen’s language as their first strong point against their Tanzanian counterparts.
“Tanzanians don’t know English!” was the snap retort of many a Kenyan.
Tanzanians responded by explaining how Kenyans didn’t have any idea what was meant by ‘good’ Kiswahili.
“Nyie wala Kiswahili hamkijui. Mnajifanya na Kiingereza chenu hicho. Lugha ya kikoloni, haifai chochote!” was the snap rejoinder from many a Tanzanian
Kenyans relished every detail of how Tanzanians were deemed lazy. This was not taken kindly. Tempers flared; ‘war cries’ were uttered; disdain and condescension took centre stage in the whole shebang.
But that’s besides my point today.
There’s a time, in the same year, when the President of Tanzania Jakaya Kikwete was caught in the crossfire. This was after his reported discussion of the ‘political instability’ of Kenya with President George Bush.
Tempers flared within and without the Kenyan borders. To many, this seemed to be the height of contempt. The government of Kenya was not left out in the rhetoric that ensued.
I remember that around the same time Jakaya Kikwete was quizzed by a Tanzanian journalist about the Bush – Kikwete discussion that had opened the floodgates of mistrust. He brushed it aside by saying: “Tusifike huko, Tuyaache hayo mambo yalivyo.”
Many questions were asked by all and sundry. I also asked a question that received an answer from New York trying to explain what had happened.
Kumekucha asked his own questions in the form of an amusing tongue-in-cheek post .
What I found ironic about the whole thing, recently, was when Jakaya Kikwete was called upon to help in the mediation process after Kenya had suffered a nasty political and socio-economic blow.
He was very instrumental in the signing of the peace accord that would see the end to the then prevailing “political instability”. Did the “political instability” discussion that he had had with George Bush two years ago come to his mind?
Have a smashing day, dear brethren
Both these peoples haughtily flaunted their strong points. They also levelled scathing criticism against each other. Strings of expletives were added to the whole mix, to add colour!
Kenyans paraded their ‘mastery’ of the Queen’s language as their first strong point against their Tanzanian counterparts.
“Tanzanians don’t know English!” was the snap retort of many a Kenyan.
Tanzanians responded by explaining how Kenyans didn’t have any idea what was meant by ‘good’ Kiswahili.
“Nyie wala Kiswahili hamkijui. Mnajifanya na Kiingereza chenu hicho. Lugha ya kikoloni, haifai chochote!” was the snap rejoinder from many a Tanzanian
Kenyans relished every detail of how Tanzanians were deemed lazy. This was not taken kindly. Tempers flared; ‘war cries’ were uttered; disdain and condescension took centre stage in the whole shebang.
But that’s besides my point today.
There’s a time, in the same year, when the President of Tanzania Jakaya Kikwete was caught in the crossfire. This was after his reported discussion of the ‘political instability’ of Kenya with President George Bush.
Tempers flared within and without the Kenyan borders. To many, this seemed to be the height of contempt. The government of Kenya was not left out in the rhetoric that ensued.
I remember that around the same time Jakaya Kikwete was quizzed by a Tanzanian journalist about the Bush – Kikwete discussion that had opened the floodgates of mistrust. He brushed it aside by saying: “Tusifike huko, Tuyaache hayo mambo yalivyo.”
Many questions were asked by all and sundry. I also asked a question that received an answer from New York trying to explain what had happened.
Kumekucha asked his own questions in the form of an amusing tongue-in-cheek post .
What I found ironic about the whole thing, recently, was when Jakaya Kikwete was called upon to help in the mediation process after Kenya had suffered a nasty political and socio-economic blow.
He was very instrumental in the signing of the peace accord that would see the end to the then prevailing “political instability”. Did the “political instability” discussion that he had had with George Bush two years ago come to his mind?
Have a smashing day, dear brethren
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