Wise fools will do their thing

It’s never said loudly but it’s mused in the dead of a silent cheating heart that often gathers in self congratulating committees that to go get it and not lose that which is lied to is an act of high smarts, especially when that which is lied to decides to act as though it were eternally incapable of any rudimentary arithmetic but instead joins the easy joy-filled orchestra of guaranteed dunce sightings on nights both lit by bright moons and covered in the pitch darkness of sombre weeping clouds. Oh the wisdom of the fool and the foolishness of the wise one! It never were nor could it have been that one plus another one always made two. But fools always regale in their wisdom and the wise weep and bleed eternally under the pains of their foolishness.

And the wise fool will do their thing…and the foolish sage will suffer and possibly die under the weight of hope.

Long live wise fool: Rest In Peace foolish sage.

On Earth. For now. Amen.

Brave Citizens Governed by Cowards

Today, the cowards in power didn’t know what to do when the courageous youth they’ve hired as interns assured them that they’d keep confidential only the good deeds of the Government of Kenya.

They assured the power honchos that they’ll be working for and learning from their time with the diverse public institutions while hoping to be of positive influence in the service to the public.

But hell No!, The youth declared today: They will never promise to look the other way when it comes to official corruption and that they will be avid whistleblowers no matter the consequence to their careers already sinfully delayed by the same corrupt mongrels entreating them about the Importance of the Official Secrecy Act.

We must wonder how come there’re so many brave and uptight citizens alive in Kenya today that are being loaded over by a so small number of cowards in power!

It will take score years to quantify the cubic meters of fart and shit the GOK officials released to the universe today because of the simple and crisp assurance from the young people they hired with the obnoxious, arrogant hope that they’d hired new slaves when indeed they’d opened their armory to pissed of citizens already armed with advanced anti- bullshit detection and response systems.

And how so encouraging that the destruction of the cowards in power shall always be self inflicted.

Me I am hopeful and I love what the near future holds for Kenya.

The days of bullshit as governance and the state are numbered.

The day of slaughter of Kenya’s fattened bandits is nigh.

And the knives won’t even need to be as sharp for them to work.

No if but when…

It’s Good that Patriarchy is Losing

It has already lost one of its testicles.

And all its arguments.

And the ground upon which it’s anchored shifting fast, disappearing never to return.

It has no option but to transform and disappear.

Otherwise the days of the remaining testicle are also numbered.

It took millennia to crush and throw away the right testicle into the pit of eternal damnation and rot.

It will take way shorter to disappear the left testicle.

Transform or perish.

Transform or lose everything.

The cave ain’t coming back.

And the title deed?

It’s days are numbered too.

It’s good that patriarchy is losing.

To hell with it.

A Kenyan Revolution? We Must Wait Longer. Unfortunately

What is common in all revolutions is the existence of threats to citizen’s dignity and humanity and the willingness of citizens, in their numbers, to do something about it. Not blueprints, nor clarity on steps and milestones; nor any definitive leadership; nor hard consensus about how the revolution’s results could look like.

It’s fury first, and then urgency to act followed by a series of actions aimed at neutralizing the the threat and its source. Revolutions don’t even begin as revolutions.

Revolution is not the realm of managerialism, gentrification and Project Cycle Management. It’s not a neat affair, fuelled by energy or isotonic drinks. Neither is revolution defined by auras of deodorant and exquisite parades of a nation’s notables.

Revolution is never announced. When its moment comes, it sweeps the land and its leaders emerge organically to consolidate its energy into a force that creates new realities to correct the overthrown system.

A Kenyan revolution? We must wait. Unfortunately.

Because the endemic socialisation of seeking private remedies to public threats and indignities caused by the state is still strong and intact. It’s beloved and occupying.

That’s why your uncles and aunties are angrier with you for not sending them money in time for their next hospital visit than they are with the kleptocracy overseeing the death of the public health system. That’s why you’re probably struggling to please them more than you’re trying to find a way to strangle a lonesome looter at the Intercon, Stanley, Norfolk, Serena or Panafric urinals where they safely frequent – same places where some of your ‘community patronage and salvation’ breakfast meetings take place.

We, the self-declared change-makers of Kenya must live, for a long time to come, with our strategic plan/annual report/capacity building/position paper/concept paper/op-ed/social media/workshop/seminar/conference/retreat/NGO/CBO/donor/network and occasional-half-hearted-fearfully planned public protest revolution for a long time to come. And sadly, the bandits in power know that these are our only ‘revolutionary’ spaces and they know how to indulge us.

Our public fury, rage, urgency and agency are all anaesthetised, some euthanised by permanent mental and intravenous injections of a self help, mchango ethos for public problems and threats designed, executed and maintained by the ruling bandits.

So we like remembering Mau Mau and other heroes of our liberation struggles but continue to hide from drawing meaningful inspiration from their courage and rage. We refuse to adapt their tactics and enrich them with present opportunities to topple a small bunch of thieves ruining our country. We detain their memory again, as artefacts and add slabs to their graves by paralysing ourselves to preservation, postponement and voluntary foolishness that somehow Bunge or DCI or Mahakama or EACC or ODPP or Uhuru or Raila or, or, or will be our liberators.

Why are we still asking Uhuru Kenyatta and the intergenerational organised criminal system he manages for solutions to the many national problems and crises they’ve built since so-called independence?

Look at us…

That Night

That night when we found love from our wounds

The night when our tears birthed hope

Under the yellow moon that gently lit that pond

The pond into which we held and tossed in a pebble together

From one little rupture on the soft silky golden waters

I remember the ripples that formed and spread and enchanted our eyes

How they smoothed our souls and warmed our young bodies

Smiling at us from the center of the pond to the edges

Little, soft, too strong and numerous for the little pond to take in

I remember how our eyes smiled

How our lips met hungrily

And kissed urgently to satiate a waiting of a thousand years

How our bodies heaved and craved for each other

How we desired what we had only heard of but didn’t quite know what it was

I remember how we silently made our vows and prayed about them

Our wounds healed

Our tears inked the love we’d stumbled upon in our guts and hearts and minds

I remember how we held and walked in the night as if to find more secrets

As if leaving a holy site we’d just anointed

It was time to part

I remember the resistance

The wishes

And just like that

Our love and journey together had started

That night I will never forget

When we found love from our wounds

When our tears wedded us

And the yellow moon and still waters of the pond witnessed and smiled

And the ripples the choir that sang and danced and cheered

That night was a special night

That night is special

I miss that night

That night is all we needed

That night is all we had

Keep resting and smiling and dancing

That night is all that matters

Rain Therapy

Today it rained heavily my end of the city.

Looking outside I marveled at the nourished raindrops. A sense of nostalgia about the rainy days of my childhood set in and quickly overwhelmed me.

I wanted that downpour on me. And it was urgent.

So I decided to get out, embrace the rain, kiss it, hug it and get wet and totally drenched.

I dressed down to my shirt and track pants, then stepped out excitedly and strolled into the rain. No inhibition. No turning back.

The nourished rain drops, interspersed with feebler companions greeted me in a decisive frenzy of direct hits and passing smooshes.

The larger drops hit me like forgiven stones recently turned into water in their new sin-free life. The feebler ones touched my clothes, face and hands like tiny angels guarding the water stones for triumph on occasion of sin.

Initially the hits on me were loud, rowdy and bouncy. Within seconds, I was all wet, shirt and pants clinging onto my body in an indecisive copulation of shock and excitement. The hits changed tone and manner and they now fingered my body like a distracted lover.

I stood in the middle of the small field outside and let the raindrops have me and soak me all they wanted, how they liked.

Oh the strokes. The nourished ones hit me with oomph. The feebler ones caressed me with gentle sprays of wetness that appeared to merge and disappear to irrigate and resurrect any dying cells and nerves deep inside me.

Or may be the feeble raindrops were just tricking me into forgetting their hopelessness and failure in delivering the kind of strokes that would leave me gasping in awe and pleasure. But their gentle manner actually worked.

My body quickly noticed and danced in tipsy swings from its warmth a moment past to the cold hugs, kisses and strokes from my beloved raindrops.

In the rain, the child in me took over. The rain drenching me triggered ticklish sensations from head to toe. I soaked it in gracefully and relished in the delirium spreading all over my inner cosmos.

These sensations got me laughing freely as I started strolling across and around the little field to interact with more diverse raindrops and experience a more pluralistic drenching and stroking.

I laughed at my foolishness of thinking that I could collect all the rain in the palms of my hands and create a lake to water the seed of revolution.

I was lost in the bliss of being rained on. I did not notice neighbors wondering if their fellow earthling had an issue of an undisclosed type.

My present joy hypnotized me. My childhood soul with all its memories of being rained on from school filled me. I am a child of the nourished rains of Kericho and the kinkier ones of Koru Farm in Kunyak.

Spending ten minutes under the spell of the kisses of a heavy downpour was the best way to end my day.

The wetness, the internal warmth of my body and heart and the cold caresses of nature outside. The spread of these sweet sensations all over my soul and body, the which I have no words for.

My teary laughter in the rain remembering my childhood, and the blending of the tears and the raindrops, streaming down my cheeks to find the edges of my lips and tempting my tongue to a tasting festival.

I walked back to the house feeling refreshed, cleansed and happier.

Rain therapy. That was my evening.