The Kaleidoscope man and other short stories- The Hunter

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Deep in the Savanna in one of Kenya’s most expansive park, Tsavo East, we lie crouched under some huge acacia trees. We are not tourists for those who might conceive of such a naive idea. We are not rangers either and our intent is not a noble one. We are not lost, for such might occur to those who are ignorant of the location or the immense size of the park. No, we are not wild animals either at least not entirely. We are something different all together or a blend of all the above possibilities. We are tourists partly because we love the beauty of the savanna and the majesty of the animals which roam these untamed lands. We might be rangers because we wear camouflage uniforms, have walkies talkies and carry arms. As for being wild animals, sadly, we are predators come to kill what should inspire awe and fear. We are, and always have been, hunters.

To call us poachers is to undermine our art for we hunt for the thrill of the kill. A poacher is motivated only by profit, he is crude and unfeeling. He does not respect the beasts he sets to kill neither accord them the respect they deserve in their fallen glory. he is a beast which hunts with abandon and has neither rules nor mercy. A poacher is uncivilized in his ways and sets himself for failure or fall in the hands of both ranger and gun. He finds no mystery in the ways of the bush and is motivated by greed for money and affluence. A poacher is more vile than the vilest of earth creatures. He smears our trade with excrement borne of greed and amateurishness and our contempt for such a creature knows no bound.

My group consists of three members, two men and one lady. There are three groups in our small society. A society which traces its aims from the lords of old when hunting was a game of nobility. A game which set aside great people from the peasants who killed only for food and survival. A past time where skill and courage were horned by a society which required its leaders to be knights and warriors. beautiful times those were, great times indeed. Where a man could pursue passion without the dictates and tyranny of governments behind his heels. Where the hunter was not hunted by indulging in his God give right to hunt down the animals of his beloved motherland. Change has not been kinder on hunters, but determination overcomes any obstacle even though doing so means challenging certain death.


The kaleidoscope man and other short stories- My Name is Aisha

In the dark bowels of a dark Nairobi discotheque, I dance under the glare of multi colored bulbs. I dance not for passion, but for money, cold impersonal cash. They gape at me, these lustful men. They watch every inch of my body which moves every so beautifully, oiled by the sweat of a difficult womanhood. I am naked; every part of my woman hood exposed to the scrutiny of these intoxicated levelers. Life has robbed me of all decency and has not spared me the privilege of feeling shame.  For shame is a preserve of those with means, for in the abyss of despair, shame is cast out and exiled forever. Here, only strife exists; strife which knows neither boundaries nor choice. For a man or woman must do whatever it takes to survive, whether that path is moral or not?

“I want a lap dance.” Shouts one of the patrons.

An ugly man, this one.  Completely bald with a body thick as that of a dirty swine. His clothes look drab, dirty and reeking of a dirty odor. His eyes look intoxicated with a blend of cheap liquor and insatiable lust. His hands look course as sand paper, hands waiting to paw my silky skin with impatience and greed. Hands reminiscent of evil, an evil visited upon me for so long it has become a bearable necessity. There is drool at the corner of his mouth, drool borne of over intoxication and the prospect of mauling a brown young and nubile beauty.

I can feel the disgust rising from the depth of my bowel. I take a deep breath to settle my stomach and stifle down the revulsion that threatens to overpower my determination. I close my eyes momentarily, not to pray, but to find the strength within me to do what I must. Even though I’ve been down this path so many times, it never becomes easier. How can it? How can it? I can feel a lone tear sliding past my beautifully decorated eye lashes, past my flushed cheeks to fall on the tainted floor. A floor where so much innocence has died, killed by the chains of poverty and the lust of uncouth men. I open my eyes, eyes cold as the breeze of Siberia. All warmth drained by exhaustion and disgust, replaced by pain, horror and unfathomable melancholy.

“Nice titties.” Shouts another patron as I pass by him, his mouth remaining open after uttering those accustomed words.

“No cash, no touch.” My usual reply struggles with the loud music to become audible to the silly man, silly because words won’t be enough to dissuade his intents.

“I have money, I can pay.”

“Hey, I get my lap dance first.” Intones the original bidder, agitated by the prospect that his longings might have to wait a moment longer for gratification.

“No arguments, there is enough for every one.” Shouts another as he spreads his arms round to demonstrate the several naked ladies around.

“But this one is mine tonight.” Laughs the ugly bald man as he spreads his legs in anticipation for the dance.

I cast my eyes down to his lap and stare with disinterest at the huge bulge between his dirty thighs. I have seen so many of those, bulges which characterize the brutality of unmannered manhood. I turn around, standing between his parted legs. I can feel his glare on my naked bottom, so surreal is the situation that I could feel his breath catch at the sight of such perfection. Before he can break his trance and reach for me, I sink down to his lap to do what is the trademark of our profession. Well, at least the one carried out at the gloom of seedy strip clubs

“Let me see the cash.”

Like a slave, he reaches within his drab coat and hands me a two hundred shilling note. A meager two hundred, such a low price to let down all my God given dignity. Yet such is the way of this world, a world where pain and suffering must afflict the people begot by love and care. I hold the note tight within my fist, hold it since that’s the only place life allows me to.

“For another hundred you can touch my breasts.”

“Fifty, take it or leave it.”

“Okay.” I stretch my hand to receive this offering, a treaty to give away the sanctity of my woman hood.

I move my buttocks in slow gyrating motions, motions on top of a lap bridled by lust and untempered desire. Some times I move front and back, motions which are more characteristic of coitus than dance. But this is not a venue for dance; this is a venue where sinful men partake of bought pleasures. A place where a man’s sick desires can be satisfied for a measly few notes. I can feel his manhood harden even farther if such a feat is humanly possible. But is it really manhood, when a man results to pay for sex when the same should be a result of courtship. What does it say about such a man? Hasn’t he failed and therefore doesn’t deserve to be seen as one? But what else would he be called? A looser maybe, a pervert of the highest order.

His dirty rough hands creep towards my small perfect breasts. They touch them without care or gentleness, only pawing them roughly like the sick animal he is. I can feel his other hand creeping downwards, exploring how farther he can be allowed to reach before being halted. But this month has been worse than others, and responsibilities have piled up that needs cash urgently. My small girl just reminded me that she needs fees for the next term or face the indignity of being sent back home. The landlady raised the rent and expects it promptly or throw us out like rats or dogs. So I’ll let his rough hand explore the very center of my woman hood, a woman hood fraught with misery and indecency. A womanhood shrouded by hypocrisy of striving for moral mother hood against the immorality of livelihood.

I moan slowly, seductively even. But it’s not a moan of pleasure or desire. It is a ruse, a trap to ensnare the wallet of this vile creature. A strategy to separate this fool from his money; a fool who clearly does not appreciate the opportunities thrown to him by unpredictable fate. So I moan, not for pleasure but pain, not desire but despair and not for love but indifference. I moan for the dreams of old which died never to rise again. I moan for my kid who struggles every day to keep her dreams alive amidst so much struggle and uncertainties. I moan for my lost decency which my parents tried so hard to foster into my tender mind when life was full of happiness and love. I moan for all the ladies out there whose life is one night mare after another. I am just a small pebble in a river of misery, flooded by the tears of a suffering people.

It was only inevitable that I would go home with one of the men, I’m just sad it had to be this dirty bald excuse of a man. He offered me a 500 note to agree to sell my body to quench the thirst of his groin in some seedy lodging in down town Nairobi. Not even the decency of a comfortable room where a lady can freshen up before heading home to tend to one’s child. This man continues to blow his own horn with tales of how blessed he is where it matters and how talented life has made him in the bedroom department. I wish I can tell him to shut up, or better still, make him shut up. But my little girl needs a new uniform, new shoes and school fees for the term. My angel needs her dignity assured if only to avert the likelihood of becoming like me. A whore. A prostitute. A call girl. Malaya in our national language, a word full of shame and disgust. A profession fuelled by the lust of men and blamed on the helpless women who are used, abused and cast aside by society.

Haven Lodge was his lodge of choice. Haven in the English language means a place of escape and peace. But, this was a slaughter house, not for animals but for the humanity of both lady and man. A lady who would sell her body for the basics necessary for survival. For men who would pay a few measly coins to buy flesh of women driven to this recourse by poverty and bad judgment. Here the sheets look dirty probably due to over use by others before us in this same night. The blanket is old and smelly, a testament to the nocturnal activities of the people who frequent this den of iniquity. The bed is infirm and makes ugly loud squeaks like an animal tormented by a predator and denied the mercy of a quick death. The mattress seems non existent after countless nights of over use as man and woman dance in that perpetual dance of passion and pleasure. Only here, pleasure and passion belongs to one party while the other just feels disgust and obligation.

The ugly one sits down on the bed and stares at my young body. A body so tender with age it could be that of one of his daughters. A body kept shapely not by choice but due to the rigor of a difficult life and the stress of humane reflections of the path I have taken. I can see his eyes linger at my beautiful lips, lips whose ability to smile was stolen so long ago by the irony of a mean life. They drop down to a neck so shapely it’s the product of a master sculpture. I can see the fire glow in his glassy eyes as they stare at those twin towers standing proud at a bosom devoid of love or attraction. A fire which burns brighter as they lower to hips broad and African, hips of royalty, when our continent was full of grace, decency and valor. I am a beautiful woman, that, there can be no doubt. I am a queen amidst a nation where women are beautiful and blessed with impressive womanhood. Yet my beauty is also my curse, a beauty which brings men to me like the song of a siren. Men whose intents are never courtship but the quick fulfillment of desire, not from within them but from the loins which guide their every move.

I remove my clothes slowly, not for his sake but due to the revulsion which lingers even now. I look up to find him frantically getting out of his oversized clothes revealing a body which is unattractive and neglected. A body which holds nothing but repulsion and its not surprising that he must result to this kind of action to satisfy his unending lust. A lust fuelled by rejection and hurt; rejection borne of neglect and the continuation of glutton tendencies. His efforts to kiss me are met by experienced evasion, for such a foul mouth can never be granted permission to defile divinity. So he chooses to explore the rest of my body, a sacred body which should be cherished and loved and treated with respect as by the provisions of both bible and Quran. When his done pawing me he lays me on the bed and smolders me with the immensity of his bloated body. Needless to say there is neither subtleness nor care when he enters me, just brute force and the indifference of evil. Thankfully, his boast was just that, boasting. No sooner is he inside me than he releases his seeds of greed inside me. How sad to be such a man, sad even that the plight of a lady like me.

Confused by alcohol and soothed by his bodily release, he falls asleep immediately. Like a dog goes back to its vomit so does a fool repeat his folly. I dress up leisurely, a faint smile finally playing on my sweet lips. I stare at the naked flesh snoring loudly on the burdened bed. I should feel hate for this man who with a few coins uses my body for his own self amusement. But I can feel the despair that emanates from his tired soul. I can feel the depression that threatens to topple him from a high ledge onto the pavement of death and humiliation. He is a defeated man and all that remains is a pitiful shell waiting for merciful death. No, this man already hates himself enough. This is a man without much to live, so best to let fate deal with him as it sees fit. For me all I’ll take from him is the money in his wallet, the phone in his pocket and anything valuable he carries with him. Why? Because I am Aisha. A destitute mother and a prostitute, for such is the way of our trade.




The death of relationships

This post is definitely out of my league, not because its too difficult to write it but because I am not and neither will I ever consider myself to be a doctor Love. But after 4 failed relationships in the last 12 months, i find myself engulfed by a need for introversion in the hope that I can find the root/roots of the problem. This will hopefully mold my character either in choosing future girlfriends or dealing with them when such a choice is made, validated and effected. Or maybe the problem doesn’t lie with me but with the kind of ladies who come into my life. Women who look perfect from initial scrutiny but defective and troublesome on a more microscopic analysis. i don’t blame them though, these beautiful species initially made to make our lives bearable and tolerable. Ladies who should know better than to let insecurities and jealousy guide their actions, for those vices can only tarmac a path towards loss and hurt. If my experiences are anything to go by, and they are as good as those of any other bloke undergoing similar problems with the other sex, the following issues rank highly in my book as the cause of perpetual break ups.

a. Insecurities

This seems to be a curse that follows my women, no matter who or how they are. I’ve tried to see the reason behind this unending stream of insecurity within the women I commit to; an insecurity fueled by paranoid and unsubstantiated claims. In simple words, most women I date seem to be encumbered by a huge baggage of insecurity. I once dated a lady in campus who used to peep through her window all the time just to check whether i had any lady visitor. Woe unto me if she caught a glimpse of a skirt, skirt here being used metaphorically, and she would road runner herself right into my crib before you can offer the guest a place to sit. She would saunter into my crib, hug me tight, call me swits then proceed to give the guest one hell of an appraisal with the simple intention of letting her know “Bitch, try anything and you are dead.” Sad to say that whatever the agenda for the rendezvous was, be it academic or otherwise, would have to wait for another day. Needless to say, we did broke up shortly since in her humble opinion I had way too many women in my crib and that was simply unacceptable to her. But on a more moderate scenario, a man is a man and should be given some space to be that without unnecessary drama and BS from his counter part. Friday is usually a boys hang out and a woman who cant let you meet your boys for a beer or two simply because she’s haunted by the ghost of fictitious girlfriends is on a path towards self destruction. A lady who can’t date a handsome man without being dogged by a sense of insecurity is in my humble opinion either stupid, hypocritical or down right confused. You know what they say people, “If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.”

b. Assumptions

This point would probably find itself sequenced within the prior point but for some issues which are above insecurities and merit singular consideration. There is nothing hurtful as being called a liar when all you have been doing is telling the truth. Even the bible gives significance to this ideal in the commandment “Don’t bear false witness.” If you drum negativity in the mind of a man when all he endeavors to do is fight it, he will embrace it. yes, he will accept the actions you assign him and indulge into them with gusto and malice. Why? because no one likes false accusations from a person who should know better. Picture a scenario where you are bored in the house on a weekend and your lady calls to check up on you. The said woman detects the melancholy in your voice and attitude but rather than sympathize, she chose (I wonder using what criteria) to imagine that this totally bored guy is harboring another lady and therefore the lack of hype. Picture another guy who stuck within the tent of mourning and without any escape to pick the lady’s call, only to get slapped with a bitchy fight later simply because the aforementioned lady refuses to take his world as truth. With time, it simply becomes unrealistic to continue with a relationship which brings nothing but frustration, hurt and anger. The better option, no, the only option becomes walking away and allow that kind of lady to wallow in her self made pit of assumptions which breeds nothing but self pity and unending loneliness.

c. Communications

They say that the best basis for any successful relationship is communication. This is a topic that have received great review and significant discourse in the issue exists in our magazines and over the net. I only intend to highlight some issues which usually lead to a break up if not overcome or dealt with. The first pertains to  assumptions as mentioned earlier, or better still how, to avoid it. It might be better to pose a question, in a civil manner, before you jump to unnecessary conclusions and launch into a tirade of words which can’t be withdrawn once cast out. Words are powerful indeed, use them sparingly and wisely for they have the power to make or destroy. Yet most women have never learnt restrain, in fact most glorify in their ability to spew out words which have not been moderated or tested by the prudence of the mind. If you took the time to inquire gently as to what is fueling your suspicion, you might come to realize that the guy is not upto no good and save your relationship unnecessary troubles. pride is also an important factor to consider in the issue of general communication between couples. Pride which prevents a person from reaching to the other person and apologizing when they have done them wrong. pride which keeps them apart and ruins what was potentially a commitment with a beautiful future. pride comes before a fall says the bible and one should only blame themselves when later all they feel is misery, having let go the  only true source of happiness. He is a fool who has no bread and thinks himself honorable, said Solomon in all his glorified wisdom. before you treasure you’re misguided pride, think of what you’ll have to do without and the future regrets that will threaten to strangle any kind of happiness you might have.


The kaleeidoscope man and other short stories- The Tale of Chui

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I am a son of the great Savannah, sprawling fields that strech as far as the eye can see. I am a born warrior, born of a renowned mother in an area full of predators and hunters. I am Chui son of Shadow, from the clan of the great mountains. This is a tale of great adversity and with it great courage. A story of love so profound it defies even the great challenge of death and doom. Of sacrifice which touches the heart of both man and beast. Of happiness abundant as the grass in the fields when the heavens open and rain comes in majestic unending drops. A story which will bring both happiness and sadness in equal measure, but a story which must be told to immortalize the legend of Chui.

My mother gave birth to me on a rainy morning inside a dark cave at the sides of the great mountains. This was in keeping with the traditions of the clan which have from time immemorial called this their home. There were two of us, male and female. We were so small but my sister was even smaller if such a thing is possible. My eyes were glued shut, and the darkness seemed even darker. But in the uncertainty of this new environment, we sensed comfort and security emanating from our exhausted mother. We could feel her concern for the plight of her newly born cubs, concern which touched and confused as with equal measure. We were young, innocent and naive. Unwary of the great dangers which surrounded us, threats which were large and merciless.

Instinctively we searched for the breast which would sustain our lives in this new world we found ourselves in. As the warm milk easily found our eager stomachs, we knew that somehow, we will learn to survive. Sleep was not far away and the warmth cast by mother was enough to send us to a long and blissful sleep. It is only sad that were so young into this world as to have dreams to accompany us into the world of the unknown. But a day will come when we will wish for those gone days of childhood, of happiness and unending love. But time is perpetual and constant, and childhood must fade into the strife of maturity. Innocence lost in the struggle for survival, in a jungle where its either kill or be killed in order to survive.

Area 51

For those who are keen, or simply ardent fan of my writings; you will have noticed the change in my blog name. No, it’s not a mid life crisis due to the simple supposition that for such to be the case, I’d have to be in mid life. It is also not an expression of sci-fi obsession, to quench the curiosity of those who are in the know as to the actual attribute of the term; area 51. It is however an attitude, a growth perhaps, an expression of the need to improve. I think its time I joined the big leagues, a time of true discovery, a time of crafting a personal identity which can stand the test of time and emerge stronger and better. I have followed great writers through time, sometimes to the point of pure obsession. Why, you may ask? Solomon intoxicated by the great cup of wisdom once wrote that if you walk among great men,some of their wisdom might rub off onto you. By studying these literal deities, observing their writing mannerisms, identifying what makes their style unique and arresting; i hope to join the small elite of writers who gain recognition as having the mojo to truly excel. This forum,  hence forth to be known as Area 51, is a zone where anything will be possible. Sometimes, when the galactic forces align perfectly to inspire literal greatness, posts which amaze and fascinate will be found captured by the guardians which dwell in words and letters. Posts which will demonstrate the true power of learning demonstrated by prowess in expression and creativity. Learning borne by a deeper yearning for recognition and appreciation. Skill manifested by emulation and imitation, not with the intention of copying but for the pursuit of inspiration and cultivated talent.Whether I succeed in this endeavor is not upto me, but is squarely in the hands of the Supreme being. Yet struggle we must, or wither in the anonymity of the mediocre grave yard. A cemetery full of unread words, housed in the coffins of uncelebrated writers. Death caused not in the hands of mean readers but rather in the complicity of demotivated or conceited writers. So one must rid oneself of conceit and pride, and bath to rid the dirt of insecurity and doubt. For only when one clothes thy self with the garments of purpose and modesty can one gain  recognizable talent.

Bake happy hour

Last Friday i got to attend for the first time a meeting of the bloggers association of Kenya. According to the information made privy to me, this was the third such meeting. The venue was Kp lounge at Utalii house near View Park tower. It was an awesome experience to say the least and  I’m glad to say that I was pleasantly surprised. However, i was dismayed to find out that only one or two bloggers who I actually follow turned out for the meeting. This was surprising on two premises. First, I’m an avid blogs readers and i expected to be conversant with most bloggers who are likely to attend such a meet. That was not to be. The place was packed with current bloggers and aspiring ones and it was an honor to share a drink or two with like minded individuals. Secondly, that most of the bloggers seemed to know each other and they were flabbergasted by my claim that i read a lots of blogs and i hadn’t read any of theirs.

My highlight for the evening was getting chatty with one Savvy Kenya. For such an academic lady she’s one cute mama. i have to apologize dear pal for saying that such looks should only be found on the person of a dumb blond. beauty and brains is an uncanny combination which can be quite intimidating for any chap. Looking forward to chatting some more in the next bake meet and miss in at the pain of death if I’m allowed to borrow a phrase from the kings of old. I did meet other bloggers like Kigen, John Karanja, matrix something, Nitzsa or something, Archer Mishale, Kahenya and others. Some bloggers also exhibited side talents when they boogied to the tunes which was a pleasant break from the somber atmosphere. I do hope that next time I get to see other great writers like Biko, Bubbly, Shiko msa, wayward foe, Otieno Hongo, Woolie among others. Thanks savvy for inspiring me to attend the meet and keep the literal fire blazing.

A perilous Journey

My companions today are my old PC, my slightly dirty keyboard and a glass of top secret whisky which sits forlornly on my new coffee table. My dishes look on from their damp dark and sad sink in the kitchen as they wonder deeply at the mystery which surrounds the life of their deeply troubled master. I know they ponder hard at the quagmire which is the life of he who inhabits this simple abode in the heart of the ever silent jacaranda estate. A man whose mystery emanates not from either riches or poverty but due to the uncertainty of both present and future. The past is gone, trampled under the heavy weight of toil and the despair of broken dreams. All we have is the hope that some one out there will open a gate for us and have the guts to make a path in a jungle haunted by failure and bankruptcy. Yet such knights are almost extinct and such virtue as honor, decency and fairness erased by the gloom cast by greed and nepotism. But hope is all a writer has, to loose that is to let go of the very threads on which our meager lives hang.

This is a lonely existence where words become the breath of life which sustains our decaying existence. Decay borne of worry and unappreciation. Death looming in the face of doors slammed to the hopes of struggling writers, as life is yanked from their heart when their vocation is taunted, judged and mostly found wanting. But what criteria does the Bourgeois of the literal world use to judge talent when such judgment is biased and corrupted by indifference and greed. What justice can thrive when the cannons of fairness are swept under the carpets to wither and die in the wake of such blatant inhumanity. The indignity of it is heart wrenching yet redress is a mirage replicated by impunity and the end of chivalry in a filed where such principles should abide in abundance. But we must soldier on regardless of difficulty or obstacles, motivated by the success stories of a few mentors who made it despite all odds. When victory becomes ours, for here the question is not whether rather than when, we must open the doors for those who struggle behind us. For that, when all is said and done, is what true success is all about.