The Lost Mzungu and other Short Stories- The tale of Catherine

Pg 1, 2 n 3

I must be in a happier place right now, or it would all have been in vain. Rest is a beautiful thing sometimes, and eternal rest cannot be bad in this regard. To bring clarity and not cause much confusion to you, my dear reader, is that I recently passed away. I fell sick and in line with the norm of this world, passed away. But I’m not whining nor do I wish that I can come back to this world of the living, for it is not a perfect world. But I was perfect, made so by my devotion of God and the divine realization that only that truly mattered. For we were made of a perfect God, and it is only by going back to him that we gain back our perfection; lost so long ago when we became of this world.

My name when i breathed was Catherine, but i do not know yet how they’ll call me in heaven. I hope I can still keep this name, even though it is one created of mortality. It is not necessarily a beautiful name, but its one that immortalizes my experience with those I had held dear. And what is more beautiful than love, and what I wouldn’t do to remember that love forever. I hope even at this juncture, that those I love will have the strength to go one; and i pray that grief does not derail them from the path i strive so hard to steer them.

To many i passed on too young, only 43 years old. Perhaps they are right, led to believe so by their earthly tendencies. But does age truly matter? For we must all pass in the fullness of time, and old and youth does not deter that eventuality. For this world is just an arena, a chance for us to overcome a heritage of sin. In my opinion, the time I had in this world was enough. i know this because unlike many, I knew the truth as clearly as the light emanating from the side of a pure crystal. The purpose of life so simple, and one’s success but the unrelenting pursuit of that single purpose.

I was born in a small village in a beautiful land called Kenya, a place called Miberethi in my native language Kikuyu. Loosely translated, the name means pipes and the name was occasioned by the presence of several water pipes in that area. I was the fourth child in a family of seven kids; a large family by all means. And if my eulogy is anything to go by, I was a good child by any standards. The person charged with the task of writing the eulogy might have been compelled by tradition to write that, but it does not matter since his intention ran similar to the truth in this case.

I started my primary education when I was a young girl, and worked hard in order to gain academic success and get a good foundation in life. My father was particularly supportive of our school efforts, always checking our work every night to ensure that we not only finish our homework but do it well. Such devotion was not common and portrayed a kind of care that was touching and inspirational. In fact, though I was not to know it for a long time; it would help shape me to become a good mother who will inspire my children to greater academic heights.

Life during my child hood was not about school only and my folks always strove to ensure that we learn to appreciate the value of hard work. Since our home is based on the highlands of central province, agriculture becomes a vital aspect of any homestead and ours was no exception. My mom had several cows and goats and we were expected to help out with feeding these animals. Needless to say, it was always a disappointment when we had to spend so much time after school gathering food for them when we should be busy playing with  the neighbor’s kids.

There were several games I liked back then, when life was full of innocence and simple pleasures. There was a game of catch very popular with boys and girls, and we would spend hours playing it whether at home or during school breaks. The game involved a small ball made of several leaves wrapped in a polythene bag and usually played by three people at a time. Two people would stand at both ends while a third would be in the middle, between the two players. The objective of the middle player would be to duck the ball aimed at them by the two players. The middle player would strike out if hit by the ball and be replaced by another player in a pre agreed manner.

Other games that shared my favor were ‘bladder’, hide and seek and playing house. Bladder is a common game in Kenya and is usually preferred by young girls, hide and seek on the other hand was a favorite across the gender divide. I was a master at bladder, more so because I was blessed with a tall height; an advantage usually frowned upon by my peers. Bladder was a game played by a large elastic bad stretched by two girls with the main player standing in the middle of the stretched bladder. The player would then jump up and vacate the bladder with her legs settling on different sides of the bladder and the height would be raised until the player cannot achieve that feat. Those were beautiful times indeed and those memories, though distant, are worth more than any worldly gold.


Flirting good for relationships (written some 3 months back)

A relationship is a complex institution, driven by complicated factors that either aid its development or facilitate its demise. There are those who base commitment on love, driven to believe that emotional attraction is enough to hold them together. Others are more superficial, taking pleasure in the beauty possessed by their counterparts. Others are more physical, held together by a glue born of animalistic desire, pursuing a common goal in the achievement of physical pleasure. yet sometimes the distinction is too obscure to notice, and a combination of these factors are vital for success. Nonetheless, the world of the couples is not always rosy and there are factors that bring quarrels and breakage of this tender bonds. One of the classical cause of spausal trouble is infidelity, cheating in lay man terms. Others include neglect, its causes diverse and almost unavoidable. Even more so, ordinary lying is a major culprit. And love, that eternal word plays a major role in keeping two souls together, for after attraction wears off, it might be the only bond in an empty world. Boredom is a common cause of straying, in fact an essential player in the pool of factors contributing to breakage. Nonetheless, anger is usually a result of jealousy, and couples should learn to reign in on it if they are to keep their relationship intact. My point in all this is the fact that i believe flirting, when kept moderate is a healthy factor in keeping the fire, emotional and physical burning in a relationship. So what motivated my need to write this article? watching couples grapple with the jealousy of watching their counterparts engrossed in steamy close contact dancing with other people in the club. A friend of mine once asked me whether it was appropriate for my date to dance, in such provocative manner with other men. i wondered the same too, but saw it fit to restrain my action until I had adequate time to reflect. Several questions came to mind. first, her actions elicited in me jealousy, something i take to mean that i cared for her. In this regard, such acts of blatant flirtation acted as an avenue to further arouse my emotions and remind me that i still care. 2. i was dancing the same with several beautiful ladies, i enjoyed it realy, and hence saw no need to deny her acts that i myself was involved in. In this regard, my flirtation enabled me to allow her the same, pushing me to show consideration and hence act in an unconditional manner. 3. sitting next to this ladies had caused her to become possessive, leading her to act in an intimate way, something that might not have occurred otherwise. Therefore, my flirtation causes her to become intimate and hence enable our union to become emotionally and physically close. Her flirtation also causes you as her man to keep her close as a way of reducing it, again working to foster closeness. In addition, these acts might remind her you care since many people over time fail to act in a way that shows her that. 4. Moreover, the thrill of being so sexually close to other people as you move together with the beautiful rhythm causes arousal in both parties, and since this desire cannot be released with the flirting partners, it can only be redirected on each other later. therefore, flirting in this case improves sexual relations and inturn improve the over all relationship. 5. furthermore, the people, ladies questioning the rightness of such acts in the presence of one’s spouce, are doing the very same, flirting and dirty dancing with other men. Since these are women with their men elsewhere, it simply means that their involvement in such acts cannot be right if they condemn it in others. But since they dnt see a problem in their own behavior, it means there really is no problem at a all and people should give their partners some space to flirt and interact with others. However, they should not go overboard and act in behavior that can be seen as crossing the line and cheating on their partners. In conclusion, i Belive that though letting your partner flirt with others causes jealousy and insecurity, it is in your best and long term interest to let it happen. Working to prevent it might lead to ultimate loss, being dumped.

A deeper love, a swine love

My doctor told me the other day that I should avoid red meat, and I was amused by his presupposition that I do take the bloody meal. To cut a long story short, I don’t, or I rarely do anyway. I might spin a holistic tale as to why I don’t indulge in a pastime that is clearly a favorite of several Kenya men, but I have only one reason: my teeth hurt like hell when I do. So I take a piece or two when I see hungry pips gluttonously devour these tasty flesh, choosing to foregone the expected relish and satiety for the sake of bodily peace, for aching teeth can be a swift vehicle to hell and back.

As human beings we are always faced with several choices/alternatives on how best to satisfy our needs, wants and fetish. So to cure my cannibalistic tendencies, inherited from our hungry ancestors, I choose to take pork as an alternative to red meat. Let me digress a little and tell you why I find myself writing a piece on swine, despite my current writers block. Last week I went to see a physician due severe constant discomfort on my tummy. After several tests, most of them clearly unnecessary, the doctor proudly proclaimed that he had diagnosed my ailment. “Eureka,” went the doc “I have found it.” Okay maybe I’m hyperboling it a bit, but I can’t help and try to bamboozle you my reader, by bombarding you with slightly conceited words from the queen’s language. But then again, after two decades of using the language, previously imported here on a ship (laughter at this point), we should be pretty good with it; better even than the damned Brits and their nosy pronunciation of words. Anyway, I have amoeba and the doctor suspects that it might be caused by my over consumption of swine flesh; and I grudgingly accepted to stay off my lifeline for a while even though I can feel my life force diminishing every minute.

I love pork, the softness of this delicacy as it fragments while ground by my unrelenting teeth is to die for, excuse my use of teenage idiom. I love it fried, deep fried and especially roasted. I love it with kachumbari and without, with ugali or chapo, with sukuma by the side or without. I watch a pig going bout its business and in a cartoon fashion, I see a large chunk of delicious meat walking on, ready to be devoured and digested. I read the animal farm and while my mind should be digesting the plot analysis, I’m longing to face those damned pig that are better than others and see whether they taste better too. And I harbor a dream to ran a pig farm, and every weekend choose the fattest pig and slaughter it; and together with my friends fall upon it with a wrath from hell, leaving only bones as testament of our melee. And in this feasting orgy will be invited other ardent swine lovers in order of their seniority. Some of this individuals who have distinguished themselves as being worthy of mention, in the tracking and perpetual eating of our beloved swine are: Grace being the Vice chairlady, ivy as the Treasurer, Antony (though not a taker, is always discovering new joints and facilitating acquisition of the blessed meat) will be organizing sec, and Po will be secretary; keeping records to be used against defectors in the future.




Writers block

I came upon this word while perusing several blogs, which is how i keep myself entertained in this age of tv dullness. And yes, i am currently facing such a catastrophe, a block that leaves a tight grip upon my creativity. But in order to keep my readers entertained and informed, i have striven to find other materials by other writers which might be of interest to you.  So bear with me, as i try hard to combat this crisis and let the juices of creativity flow again. So this is an appeal to other writers, bubbly, yella, biko, tomasi, nyambura, what do you do when the block lays siege to your mind. What hot line does one call in order to seek help, for it is a sad day when a writer looses his mojo, his drive to be what the lord made him to be. But sooner that later, we will victor upon this forces of evil, and emerge as victorious in the name of literal enlightenment. And even better, sweeter will be our victory; for obstacles can only sharpen our resolve to become the best. I have made my cry for help, who will answer? And time is of the essence here, so if you are a literal night, armed with the tools of mind unlocking, hurry, before its too late.

The Burning Land by Peter E. Njoroge

The Burning Land by Peter E. Njoroge


Kenya is our country and as a country we have gone through the struggles that characterize any emerging democracy. Colonized by the British, we struggled violently in order to achieve self governance and call our selves independent. Yet after all that time has passed, we need to reflect and ask ourselves, “Are we truly liberated or are we living in a mirage created by a small political elite bent on perpetual dominance of the larger mass through disillusionment?” The answer to that can be found in many literal discourses by great authors like Ngugi wa Thiong’o. Yet several decades later Kenyans are still fighting for the rewards that they fought for during the struggle for independence.

This same phenomenon is not just a preserve of our nation but a reflection of the conditions all over Africa as a whole. This was clearly illustrated by the Nigerian writer, Chinua Achebe, in his book “A man of the people” whereby people are still waiting for a share of the national cake. My book will seek to capture, through a mixture of facts and literal fiction, the struggle that still continues as the people fight to earn their genuine freedom. In addition, this book will also show that sometimes the people may not really know who the enemy is as they are products of great political manipulation and brain washing.

And as a culmination of greed, disillusionment and greatly entrenched tribalism, our county burned. While many may try to pin this catastrophe on a disputed election, nothing can justify the blatant disregard for human rights and gruesome murder and the persons involved must be brought to justice. I understand that from the onset, this task will not be easy. All I ask is your patience, guidance and understanding and I hope that when this book is done, it will be a book that this country can be proud of. And I will consider it a success if it can remind the people that burning their brethren will cause nothing but poverty for all involved.


Chapter 1

Most people would consider me a nobody and perhaps their perception would be close to the truth. Yet this thinking can only be considered true in this country, where a person’s worth is usually measured in terms of money and wealth. Some of you might argue that leaders are considered to be people of status and hence they too have achieved greatness. But those that indulge in such logic would not blame me for calling them blind, for which person in Kenya doesn’t know that it takes money to become a leader? For so long, the youth have labored to drive growth while the rewards just fatten the pockets of the older generation who continue to exploit the young to further their agendas.

For too long, the youth of this country continue to swallow verbal garbage as our grand fathers continue to brainwash us that we are leaders of tomorrow. Something has to give, a revolution is brewing and I don’t think anyone will be able to stop it. Our affable Prime Minister once said that even an army cannot stand in the way of an idea whose time has come. My question to the prime mister is, “Will you aid this idea whose time has come or will you put your self interest first and stand in its way?” But it doesn’t matter. With your aid or not, it will come to pass and the first sign was the election of Mbuvi, popularly known as Sonko, as the new Makadara MP. It must have been a shock to the political elite when the younger man, running on a smaller party, thrashed the political big wigs and showed that the youth are determined to take over.

These are just some of the many thoughts passing through my brain randomly as I read my paper on this Hague issue. To tell the truth, I don’t think much will come from this entire hullabaloo and it might be better to just drop the whole thing all together and seek reconciliation. But how do you ask people who lost so much in the night Kenya burnt, when human lives were reduced to less than the dignity accorded dogs? No, something has to give and the wheels of justice can only be turned fully by a revolution establishing a new and better order.

I am in a building, it’s so dark. I can feel the rush of fear course through my blood, cold and chilling. I can feel the presence of other people yet in the darkness, i cannot see them. I have never felt fear like this, so encompassing like a big hand tightening round your neck. There is another presence and i fear that it is not human. it has a dark aura around it, a lethal certainty as if it grows where humans wither with fear. It comes closer as if to examine the victims trapped in this dark abode, and a small cold sweat breaks out even though no heat exists here.

I recognize it for what it is the shadow of death. The reaper of life, extinguisher of light. I am no longer afraid of him for it is not in his power to take my life from him. No, that privilege belongs to the human demons camped outside plotting our painful death. i know this because I can hear them shout to us, taunting us with war cries and shouts of cannibalistic glee. They boast of how they will roast us alive, vividly intoxication with the prospect of mass murder. I smell the odor of gasoline and I know, that the end has come. “I am not ready lord, oh please not so soon.” A young voice pierces through the darkness and gloom. The cry of one whose dreams are about to be cut short, never to see the fruits of one’s investment into life.

I close my eyes as the building catches fire and i make a silent prayer unto God. I feel the fingers of the flames take hold of my clothes, burning bright with the fury of hell. I feel the heat scorch my skin and i scream in pain as the fire becomes one with my skin. I wake up suddenly roused by the sounds of someone screaming. It takes me sometimes to realize that the scream came from my lips, and i can still feel the fear that still lingers deep in my being. But i take solace that I have had the dream so many times in the recent past it has become a large part of my sleeping and waking up. Soon I will go back to bed and the nightmares will continue unabated, a living hell that I must face every night.

In another part of the capital another group is meeting under the cover of darkness. A clandestine rendezvous the kind that only Ludlum could weave and only master plotters could emulate. Big cars swiftly entering the open gate, left open today to facilitate the quick entrance into the vast leafy compound. Residents of this country have been known to get curious at the sight of big cars and a congestion of such cars at the gate would have attracted unwanted curiosity. These people had a lot to loose and hence they anonymity in these meetings was not only vital but compulsory.

Another peculiar thing with these nightly visitors today was the fact that their vehicles had only a single occupant and their drivers were not allowed to accompany them tonight. The driven today had turned chauffeur a testament perhaps of the solemn mission that they meet to plot. What necessitated such drastic action was the fact that all their drivers are security men issued by them by the government they serve and hence they could not trust them with such an important secret. They are all men a fact that they seem to hold as a sign of the general weakness on the part of their female counterparts.

They know they are real men whose authority can only be questioned at the demise of such minor mortals with such audacities. They are eight of them and only one of them is not a politician. Yet at his presence they shrink as if their authority paling in his commanding presence. He towers over them as he welcomes them into his home, a prince of both light and darkness. They fear him these mighty men, terrified in his aura of power. But they had to come all of them for a time nears when doing nothing might mean certain doom and its only a primal terror at what lies ahead that prevents them from turning back and fleeing back to their waiting vehicles.

They all know each other and hence introductions are never necessary, comrades in a fight against a common enemy. Some of them are here not by choice but to further the agenda of their host, knowing fully well that refusing to will be met with swift and brutal retribution. They are mere pawns in a larger a game, one I’m not sure they fully understand. but as scared as they are of the possible repercussions of their involvement in this plot, the alternative is more bleak and terrifying and hence they obey their master.

In an effort to make them relax a bit, their host pours them each a strong drink of whiskey. They’ll need it, these guardians of society; keepers of the opportunities this country has for its people. But even such a simple act is full of disdain for while attempting to show them humanity; he does not consult them of what they wish to take. And its not that he is lacking in other brands for his cellar is full of all forms of soft and strong drinks. No, it is just a subtle reminder that they must cooperate: willingly or otherwise.

As the meeting of these Kenyan titans continues solemnly in the dining room of their great host, another Kenyan is languishing in a typical Kenyan prison. This man, named by his old parents Waititu when he was born 35 years ago is completely unaware of this meeting. Perhaps had he been aware of it, the only emotion that would elicit is pity for these men. Unlike them, his complete anonymity is a shield against those who would want to haul him to court to account for all the violence he has committed in his past.

He learned earlier on that greatness in the public sphere will do you good so long as you are on the right side of the law. For those who have had to step out of the confines of the law in order to acquire greatness, justice always catches up with them. People like brother Patni, he of the Goldenberg fame bears testament to this adage. Once hailed as a great man, a billionaire in a land where majority leave below poverty line.

But our people have a saying, “he who climbs up a ladder must ultimately come down.” it comes as no surprise that some have cleverly interjected that those going up should treat the people they pass well since these are the same people they will find on their inevitable way down. So Brother Patni, formerly Kamlesh patni had risen up by defrauding the state of billions of shilling through what came to be known as the gold hoax. Now since when did Kenya have gold supplies totaling to billions of shillings? These people must really take Kenyans to be fools in order to pull out something of this nature.

Going back to our jailbird, he was undaunted by the prospect of spending a few days in jail. In fact, it would have amused his keepers to learn that he had long a go learnt to view it as his adopted home. He had been in and out of jail that he practically spent more time in one than he spent in his three homes. Waititu had a special occupation, special because there are not many people who had the stomach to do what he did for a living. He did not necessarily take pride in what he did; he simply looked at it as a job that needed doing when his superiors deemed it fit to. Commander Waititu formerly Waititu James was and still is a Mungiki executioner; a hit squad leader.

He was presently in jail because the powers that be had deemed it necessary to order a sweep of Mungiki operatives. As usual, the police always knew where to get him and he never, not once, attempted to evade their capture. There was a simple philosophy to this, at least according to him. Leaders have a tendency to do all they can to evade capture so by doing the opposite, the authorities always assume him to be no one of importance. Another strategy that he used to enhance his anonymous status is to indulge in activities usually reserved for lesser operatives including collecting money at various stages.

Sometimes when he’s sitting in his favorite corner resting his back on the prison wall, he would wonder about the relatives of the people he had killed. But even he wasn’t as conceited or in human as to really use the term killed. he better than anyone knew it for what it was, butchering. He closed his eyes tight as he remembered the anguished cry of the matatu driver in Kinoo as the serrated saw cut through his neck slowly, with malice and abandon. He could still feel the warm blood from the dying man as it rolled down his arms continuing its sad journey to quench the dry soil beneath. He still feels the aura of death as the life departs from the tortured body, free to return to whence it had come.

“Waititu” someone shouts his name and shatters his journey into the past. A uniformed policeman stands on the door and summons him using one finger as if he was too inconsequential for him to waste too much effort on. He doesn’t mind, such small acts leave him beaming with satisfaction knowing well that his cover is unlikely to be blown. He steps beyond the door and finds his brother standing there, always with the same look on his face. A look of pained tolerance, as if questioning the sheer audacity of fate to give him such a brother. But blood is thicker than water, and it was safer for his blood brother to come for him rather than one of his oath brothers. A one thousand note was quickly exchanged and by the look on the policemen’s face, it was clear that it will end up at the bar man’s counter.

In a small village in Kapsabet, deep into the Rift valley province stands a humble hut. Humble because though recently erected, the medium used to construct the house was mud; a sign perhaps of the simple nature of the occupant. The hut did not stand alone for the compound had other similar huts loitered all over the compound. This family was one of the oldest families in the village and it was well known for its ability to sire great warriors for generations past. The old man, known to many as kiprop was always telling any who would listen stories of how great his family has always been.

In fact, it was only yesterday that he entertained some local missionaries with tales of blood long spilt when Morans had invaded their land in the hope of acquiring new grazing grass. Needless to say, the old man shocked the poor missionaries with his unrepentant nature and his longing for youth so as to go back into battle.  But this story is not about kiprop, though it would be interesting to go back to the past and really validate his claims about his family’s prowess. Our focus is on his grandson, Kip short for Kipruto named after the great old man himself.

There was a time Kip loved to sit by his grandfather’s feet and listen to the tales slowly recounted by his aged mentor. He used to close his eyes and imagine himself as a great warrior, brandishing a spear with bows and arrow as he faced his enemies. He would feel the exhilaration as his arrows pierced the hearts of the enemies, scream as his spear tore into the flesh of his foes. The fantasy always appeared to be so real, perhaps too powerful as to shape his own sense of reality. In trying to relive his glory days, the old man unwittingly fashioned the will of a young boy to long for nothing else but the chance to spill blood of his fellow country men.

But now the young man labors in the land of his father, working hard as he plants the maize seeds trying hard to beat the inevitable storm. But perhaps what he fears most is not the rain that threatens to come down with the fury of heaven, but rather the storm that rages deep in his soul: a storm that refuses to fade. Memories continue to plague his consciousness, pursuing him into the black of night in nightmares that leave him haunted and scared.

He remembers the words of his pastor, the good old reverend down at his local church. “God forgives those who come to him in repentance, and takes away our heavy burdens when we seek him.” But he does not think that he is worthy of such love, nor does he believe in his heart that anyone or even God can forgive him. He has been talking often with the reverend, seeking perhaps reassurance that absolution is possible. But most times, he only wishes that God can be merciful enough to take away his life; to give him eternal rest from his personal hell.

But without the courage to take his own life, he must learn to live again. He does not know how yet but he feels that a way might be cleared for him. That amidst confusion, clarity might be born again and that he might be given another chance to redeem himself. He wonders about the rest of them, whether they suffer as he does. And at times, he perceives that perhaps he is a weak warrior, a shame to his community and brethren. But he always dismisses that thought for he knows, murdering innocent people cannot constitute greatness.

Back in the capital, the president sits in his office at State house. He is tired of it all, and wishes that he’d followed his better judgment and stepped down after his first term. His limbs feel so tired and the task of lifting his pen to sign the new bill felt like a herculean task to the tired politician. He was tired of the way politics seemed to be dominating every aspect of his beloved nation, detesting the powerlessness he felt in his failure to stop or influence the situation. Sometimes like today, he smiles at the fallacy attached to the power of his office. Many in the country lament at the imperial superiority of the presidency, but the incumbent knows better. For such monumental powers can only be used only in taking up a dictatorial stance, a feat that is unlikely in his democratic style of leadership.

The president decides that the bill can wait since there is still too much controversy on this particular piece of legislation. He is astonished that parliament can pass a bill seeking to reintroduce price controls, a move he feels might erode the gains he has worked so hard to achieve. As an economist his view on the issue is contrary to those of the lawmakers, and pressure has been mounting from the business community to veto the bill. He singles out a call received the previous day from his long time friend urging him to discard that legislation and term it undemocratic and retrogressive. He knows that that particular call originated not from the will of his close confidant, but from powerful figures in the corporate sector, local and foreign.

His Excellency Duncan Njenga felt that the responsibilities vested upon him would be better wielded by a younger and dynamic man. But he laments that this choice was not his to make and hence his present position as the most powerful Kenyan. He remembers fondly the elation he felt before the 2007 election as he prepared to vacate this high office and settle for a more relaxed life, playing golf and touring the world. But the powers that be had willed that such an action might cause a real threat to their interests and had willed that the president must seek another term. This despite an earlier memorandum to hand over the reigns of power after serving one term. He had hated that feeling of helplessness, an instinctive desire to fight against such blatant manipulation. But these were his friends, hypocritical or not, and loosing them meant loosing all that he held dear. So the president finds solace in the proverb “A guest is a river” and knows that the time for freedom is near.

He wonders about the anxiety being experienced in his circles, people worried about what the uncertain future hold for them. He has been a good politician and business man, avoiding dubious dealings and he knows his future is secure. Other times he allows his mind to contemplate the issue of his succession, evaluating who is best suited to continue with his policies. But most importantly, he recognizes the need for unity and is strategizing on how his succession can inspire unity in a divided nation.

He switches the TV on to watch the news driven by curiosity to get some more news on one of the politician who has decided to go to The Hague on his own accord. The news anchor is speculating on the outcome of that visit with some political analyst speculating that the politician wants to cut a deal with the ICC prosecutor. He is not stupid and knows that the prosecutor would not mind giving the politician an immunity deal in exchange for evidence implicating bigger politicians. He smiles as he reflects on the term given to such politicians “bigger fish”, referring to himself and his counterpart the prime minister. But he is not worried; he had no direct role on the sad affairs following the disputed election results.

He would have preferred a local mechanism to deal with this sordid affair, but the legislator had thwarted all his efforts to establish a local tribunal. He lamented the fact that the learned lawmakers had decided to make Kenya an international media circus by choosing a legal process that is likely to drag on for many years. But it was no longer his call, and all he was now was a spectator like the rest of the country. He was looking forward for a round of golf tomorrow with his friends and he couldn’t wait for the night to pass quickly. His doctor was complaining that he needed to increase his exercises and to humor him, he had decided to increase the frequency in playing golf. He figured that this was enough exercise and should wad off the possibilities of a heart attack, at least temporarily. For now, he heads to bed and hopes that all will turn out well for him and his allies.

5 Characteristics That Make A Strong Woman Sexy

5 Characteristics That Make A Strong Woman Sexy

February 2, 2011 11:00 AM by Rich Santos

I used to joke that I wanted to date a weak woman — a woman who couldn’t make her mind up and liked being told what to do. I’d always get my way, see my friends often, and have complete control the TV remote.

In reality, weak women are not attractive. I guess I’ve been surrounded by strong women my whole life: my grandmother was a matriarch of the family with only a high school education. She was the ultimate “mother” figure-strongly opinionated, clever, funny, and tender.

My mom attended University of Maryland Medical School with a pioneer class including very few women. My older sister won two national championships at University of Virginia in lacrosse, and my little sister was Vice President of her PR company before I got my first promotion.

One night at a family dinner, my cousin quipped that my brother-in-law who had recently married in to our family, joined a “slightly matriarchal” family.

It’s true: in my family things seem to be run by the women. Just before we sat down to dinner, my aunt was complaining that my uncle had a habit of disappearing at the worst time — in this case right before we were about to sit down to dinner. The women in our family literally shepherd the men.

Since our “matriarchal” conversation, I composed a list of what makes a strong woman. Take a look:

I believe everyone is blessed with some form of intelligence-whether it’s “traditional” book smarts, or athletic intelligence (the ability to understand angles and physical movement, space), creative smarts, or “street smarts” — in the dating world, a sharp woman knows when a guy is playing her, and/or expects more from a guy.

It’s sometimes easier to lie than it is to be honest about everything. Honesty is the number one thing I look for in a woman. It’s endearing, and it makes it easier for me to trust her.

There are many forms of ambition — a lawyer works hard, but so does a stay-at-home mom (believe me, I’ve seen how hard my sister works). Drive and hard work are admirable…and two things I wish I did better.

Passion goes along with ambition, but it also adds to personality. The women in my family are a toxic mix of Italian and Irish and it makes them passionate about their points of view and the things they love. If a woman doesn’t have a passionate love for a type of music or food, it makes her appear to have a weak personality. Passion is also linked to loyalty.

The Power to Say “No”
When the ex comes back that she shouldn’t be with, she can say “no.” She can say “no” to bad influences. She does whatever she wants to do whenever she wants to do it, and it’s her decision and no one else’s.

Do you agree with my list above? What do you think makes a strong woman? Who in your life is a strong woman?

Knowing me part 2 – rated over 21

I joined Nursery school at the age of 4 years,  and  learnt to hate school as soon as my small feet touched the ground of education, a path which many can attest to the fact that education ruins an otherwise brilliant mind. For what is worth I quickly realized that there wasn’t much competition in this school, and I didn’t have to make much effort to be top of the class. I found the teaching content frustrating, wondering why the teachers had to keep on making us draw this abstract doodles in the form of encouraging writing. I’d expected them to immediately teach us higher hierarchy numbers since I’d already mastered all the other lower numbers and the whole alphabet before i joined nursery. See my point hmmm, I was brilliant before I allowed my parents to take me to that dingy European style elementary school where the path towards mental ruin began.

Before I talk about some of the things that made this experience bearable, nay, even enjoyable; lets talk about those nurses with sadistic tendencies to inflict pain to innocent children in the name of immunization and treatment. Back them the ministry used to send a team of nurses every term to immunize us and treat us for any ailment, and there were several of those back in those days of untempered youth. I believe iIwas cursed back then, for there never came a time when the evil nurses (who i suspect were sent by the good devil to torment me) came to school, when I didn’t have an ailment that needs curing. So I decided, even at that tender age, that a man must up rise against a regime of systematic human rights violations. Or in this case, a poor kid with needle phobia hence the “anti phobic kid discrimination policy” came into effect. you don’t believe me, simply take a literal walk through parliamentary archives. So once i spotted their van sneak into the school compound, peter removes his can of spinach, takes a big bite and like lightning, runs faster than Bolt or even that Boit fellow in the radio, and leaves the class stunned. needless to say, the teacher and the other nurses follows suit in a manner similar to that loud lady in the movie “Kung fu hustle.” And no matter how fast i ran, or how many holes I tried to crawl into, they always caught up with me and a big scary needle would go inside the flesh of my young ass.

One of the better highlights of Nursery school was being elevated to big guys class pardon my direct translation from my mother tongue, but it was pretty cool hanging with the big boys while my age mates spent hours doodling and reciting letters. forget school for now but life at this age was awesome, and our spirits were still free, unencumbered by the limits to freedom that come with age and puberty. I wasn’t afraid of anything round this time, not women, or pain, or death. i was free, happy and couldn’t ever picture a different scenario. What perplexes me is the fact that i can’t remember the name of this chic i used to adore then.  She was chubby, i bet she grew up to be some deliciously bootylicious mama. I think this episode had a strong bearing on my taste of women in the ensuing years. I found that all women i went after shared a common trait, they were all bootlylicious, and that became the single stand through which the first elimination was based. But I’m running far ahead of this long story, I just wonder whatever happened to that chic. i bet she got married and has 10 babies, or there about, and is living happily ever after.

This is the time when boys and girls did everything together, and women hadn’t learnt what attitude and petty pride was all about. from football to hide and sick, to playing house. House was a favorite play in our neighborhood, and needless to say i was always picked to play dad. We used to make cookers resembling charcoal cookers and use them to roast, and sometimes fly all manner of fruits and insects. My favorite delicacy was roasted locust, every inch of it was delicious. The flesh would disintegrate slowly within the grip of our eager teeth leaving behind yumminess in its purest of form. memories, my mouth salivates just thinking about those dear locusts. I remember that this is the time we started experimenting on our sexuality, behind the house and amidst the maize plantations. At first i have to confess that the female physique was a bit mysterious, what with the lack of the hanging shrong. But i took my time to study it, figuring out that the shrong must go inside what looked like the logical place to go into; in the area corresponding the shrong’s location in the female body. The truth is that is a lie, because i did know where the damn thing went, but as to how i did, that is a story left for another life.

Needless to say at about 4 and 5 years old, trying to make love was an effort in futility, for the female figure isn’t made to accept such intrusions at such an age. Even if that intrusion comes from small boys with an over exaggerated curiosity and a libido to match a horny teenager. But we must have been aware about the beauty of intimacy between couples, for when we played house, the father and mother always had to make love, or fake the act of making love. Sometimes, when there were less males, and this was most of the times, a guy would have to choose two wives and what would ensue later on, in the cover of tall maize plants, on top of some banana leaves, is a troubled threesome. PS: Do not judge us as having been immoral at such a tender age, we were young and curious, with no one to tell us that there was a time for every thing. But we stopped with our tender escapades when some relas, aware of the perverseness that their young kids are indulging in, traced our orgy hall (which happened to be the empty building behind our house) and gave us a beating deserved only by stray dogs and those tiny creatures which feed on chickens. needless to point out that with the warning that we received, the thought of such acts brought pure terror to our young brains and hence light was again restored to our hearts. It would be over a decade later that such thoughts will sneak back to our minds, forced to our resisting personalities by the fierceness of teenage hood and the sheer voluptuousness that is the high school girl’s figure.