We Are Bad

I have little faith in mankind.

Unkind.

Vindictive, deceitful, conceited beings,

governed by parochial self-interest.

I blackmail, if I fail, I blacklist,

You.

I look at the list.

What’s in it for me? Either now or in an imaginary hereafter.

I only do good to get laughter

or to get good to me or prevent me from bad.

So very sad.

Quick to write homilies (such as this)

Odes to ourselves.

I am good, I am kind, I am different.

Victims of conspiracies unwritten. Of crimes uncommitted. Of goodness unrepaid.

Yet I backstab. I backbite. I scratch your back. Get off my back. I got your back.

Anything to get ahead.

Not to help my brother but to oppress instead

Mankind. So unkind.

Petty, vindictive, myopic, conceited beings.

That I have little faith in.

That I am a perfect specimen of.

I Don’t Know What Poverty Is

Or how, or why. But know I know where it is. I saw how it looks, and how it smells.

And it stinks. Poverty stinks. People in poverty are smelly.

I hear that all of Africa stinks.

That we all stink. That is probable. Jinxed.

Poverty stinks of sweat, nervous, tired, stale sweat.

It smells of cheap soap, kerosene, smoke, dirt, needs unmet

cheap drinks, sex. Unprotected sex. Regret.

I know what poverty is not. It is not being broke,

a temporary lack of money to treat your honey.

to buy a smoke

Poverty is dark crowded dungeons, to sleep in, cook in,

to live in,

to love in.

Poverty is open sewers, no bathroom, no kitchen, nothing to eat.

hungry, afraid to eat because of the non toilet, un-toilet seat

can only be used at night. No light.

Poverty is hunger, anger, hard work, overwork,

underpaid. It is cheap fun, lethal brews.

be used, abused then abuse

Poverty does not make thieves. It is made by thieves. For thieves.

Poverty is hope. Religion. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Black magic.

Surely there must be a better place. Hope, faith.

Stand, kneel and tithe.

Be good. Obey and wait.

Poverty has no goal.

Yet poverty is a goal. Millenium Development Goals.

Poverty is big. B.I.G

Yet it is an abbreviation. An MDG.

Poverty wants change. Clothes to exchange

Yet only gets spare coins, only change.

And now Climate change

Poverty is disease, suffering and death,

Diarrhoea, malnutrition, cholera

TB, now you’re out of breath

Poverty is you and me. Bribing and being bribed. Voting and not voting.

Reading and writing.

Yet doing nothing.

Poverty is giving an old t-shirt and taking part in a charity ran.

A marathon.

A catharsis.

Poverty is not being poor. The poor eat poor food.

Poverty is not eating.

Poverty is black. That’s what.

Poverty doesn’t make cents. It is senseless.

________________________

I drove into poverty on Sunday evening. Dusk. Perhaps the most depressing time of any week. Sunday dusk. My privileged sons sat unbelted in the back seat, excited at the adventure. Clutching at their toys. My guide stank in the front seat next to me, guiding, at home here. My prized 4WD cutting into the deep of poverty-ville, coming to pick a prized pedigree pet placed, misplaced.

‘Boss, we like the dog, but we just can’t afford her’ my stinking guide explains painfully in good English. Only a few years ago, we were together in Uni, equals competing for grades and babes. Now, we’re both old, one aged by a life too good. Another aged by poverty-ville.

She finished her tour of duty and went back to New York. The Big Apple. Appropriately called ‘tour’ of duty. Couldn’t take the dog with her. In her kindness, gave it to my guide. In her wisdom, she sends 100 dollars every month for the dog’s upkeep. 3 dollars a day.

Misplaced intentions. Good intentions gone bad. Bad intentions

My stinking guide pays a monthly rent of 5 dollars and his monthly expenses on food is 30 dollars he tells me. ‘I don’t want to steal her money’ ‘Her’ in this case, is the dog. I look at Zo, he is still holding his x-mas gift, a remote control car that cost 50 dollars.

We’re there. Last time I was in these parts, I was the hostage of four middle aged armed Kenyans, trying to steal this very car. Scared and helpless with armed criminals. This time, I am armed, illegal firearm with a non-criminal. This, and fancy drink in cup holder giving me false confidence. Confident and helpful. To help a dog misplaced, a man in trouble and a woman, a woman on email, on another tour of duty.

Power windows up. I sip and wait. Painless transfer, posh white puppy jumps into black car. Sniffs me, remembers, wags tail, telling me Hi.

‘Tell our friend I said hi’ stinking guide tells me, as he waves good bye. ‘You can’t get lost’ He adds, ‘Any road will get you out of here’. The last word spat more than spoken, ‘Hiya!’

‘Any road will get you out of Hiya!’

I wonder how true that is.

Please Bury Kenyatta in Shags, Charlie is Sleepy

Last night when Zo started kicking, I just started laughing. And loudly. But when he sat on me, I drew the line; he had crossed the big boundary. I held him by one leg and transported him to his room.
Then of course I realised I was in his room all along. So I put him down and started staring at the ceiling. Now I understand why they tell you to look at the bright side of life. I was looking at the dark and could see nothing. Just blackness. And black is not a colour, its nothing. I think it’s the new heavy curtains, the darkness.

The silence tonight is suspect. No dogs barking. I wondered if a good looking female canine had finally appeared and hushed Tommy Tommy. I hope not, was hoping to catch some of that action live, record it and upload it to a website for people who are so inclined (I am not judging them) then make loads of money. Or could the big guy upstairs have heard my prayers and made the dogs mute and deaf too. He works in mysterious ways. And my happiness is more important than the joy of the owner of the dogs and of that I am certain (so help me god)

Then I heard the clatter. Pots and pans banging. Its a noise you always hear, but suddenly know that you're hearing it. You become aware of it, sudden awareness. Pots and pans banging. Something frying, a young girl crying (kidding, the last part was just for the rhyme, no one was crying) (or dying) (am lying) (trying) then an FM playing songs by dead African 'musiciens'. From the name, they promise to play these songs forever. This new realisation hits me, and I panic. No way am going to listen to this forever!

But my attention soon shifts as I begin to understand the bigger picture. In that silent darkness, everything becomes clearer in my mind. (1) My neighbour has a catering business. (2) They cook the whole night, and sell it the whole day, probably at some govt offices. Nyayo house I suspect, The Senior Officer in Charge of Burying Heads of State. (3) The smell of food attracts, rather, distracts the canines, making them confederate by my compound, hoping to catch a little more than a sniff.

And now am shaking with rage in my bed. No, Zo’s bed. The greedy enterprising highly paid senior government official who is my neighbour is running a side business that produces noise for his neighbours and distracts former wolves (dogs are evolved from wolves I read something like that in Richard Dawkins’ new book). There is something annoying about that whole story, but am not sure what or why. I can’t quite point a finger to it. I try to point a finger, then poke my eye, you see, it’s very dark.

Rage

But rage makes me my attention span shorter than it usually is (I think it’s a sort of defence mechanism, to prevent me from being very angry and bursting a vein, in my brain (rhyme for you there), my mind distracts my mind from the rage…Never mind, it doesn’t matter, mind over matter, actually, mind is not matter) and my mind quickly shifts again.

National Issues

I am now thinking of national and global issues. One particular issue interests me. If all the about 20m Kenyans over 15 years gave me a shilling each, I would be 20 million shillings richer than I am. This thought puts me at ease and makes me smile. And now am sleepy.

bold Is Ocampo a Christian?

Of course this does not answer eschatological discussions about where Kenyatta's soul rests? especially on long weekends. Intercont or Parliament or KICC or Uhuru Park? Or indeed more important questions like what is Moi? When is water? Why now how brown cow? and, why the MoU doesn't say who does the ToR for the MTR in P2 of HPIC's Agenda IV. Is Ocampo saved? Questions that linger in the mind of peace loving citizens (and friendly non-citizens, like Georges and ManMan (we don't know his real name)). It doesn't answer anything. Neither does the picture.

meaningless jpeg of naked doggie

Kangemi: The Cradle Of Mankind

(this scientific treatise is long, take the day off)

Will Ferrelll, Luke Wilson, Vince Vaughn in a movie called Old School, way funny movie. I bought the original DVD from HMV (yah right), I watched it and I laughed so hard and so long, had to be taken to Aga Khan Hospital. Got there, was asked for my smart card, like the nakumatt smart card, so Aga Khan smart cards. They give cards to frequent sickers. The more times you fall sick, the more points. I didn’t have this card. Sidtressss. The Egyptian doctor encouraged me not to despair, ‘just fall sick, anything, we’re not choosy’. Of course by this time I was not laughing anymore.

Back Ache (just a little, nothing serious)

That was the last dream I had before I woke up. I mean the big WAKE up. The one you never go back to sleep till around 5 am. The movie was real though, watch it if you can (is there Braille movies for the unsighted? Like Braille DVDs? If not, shame on you Bush).

Now Am Hungry (its 3.57am, not going to eat)

I was woken up by some bird chirping on that jacaranda tree right outside my (technically its Zo’s) room. I think it’s was having insomnia too, I mean, do birds sing at night for real. Is this some sign? Ill omen? Luck, of the bad variety that I have gotten accustomed to? I decided to google, then got distracted. This internet thing is not good, it’s like a supermarket when you need a small soda asap. I swear, I once went into nakumatt to buy a newspaper. I came out with a kilo of 4 inch nails, a Hungarian microwave, precooked meatballs, a box of multi vitamins, jik and opened a bank account. And a bottle of brandy from South Africa (zii, si hiyo ya shoe lace, kale kadogo). I miss kiosks.


Parker Lewis can’t loose

So am in bed, its 1 am. The bird is singing. Zo gives me two of his best kicks, in the tummy, I take it like a man.

My mind wanders. I am thinking of my recent travels. I was driving though a former place called Kakamega last month. It used to be a town. Now its old buildings, many trees and hawkers. Its smells of mandazi. I notice that the people in this town all came from Kangemi. Probably many many years ago, maybe 1660, when Daniel Moi was only a small boy. They speak exactly the same as the people in Kangemi (I know Rebecca says she lives in Kibera, but I doubt it). A bit faster and without looking at each other. They laugh easily. For instance, you would say, ‘am stressed, then unleash a loud hearty sincere infectious laugh. Only, they don’t say ‘stress’ they say ‘sidtressss’ it’s the local slang. You say ‘Muliro kardens’ instead of ‘Muliro gardens’ etc. Its way cool.

Everyday People, Arrested Development

Am here visiting some development projects. Its an intervention aimed at improving people’s lives (thankfully, imagine if it wasn’t). The work started in one district about 6 years ago, and without adding even a single village, Kibaki increased our coverage to 6 districts. Vihiga district is the most densely populated in the country. I suspect in the whole universe. Land sizes are about as big as my new big plasma TV which is upstairs connected with the Sony 6 disc home theatre system bought in Tokyo during the last visit when I was passing by from another visit to another part of Tokyo. These small pieces of land are best suited for intensive, high value crops and small ruminants. Not the maize and large dairy cows that these farmers used to keep. So am here to discuss with farmers how best they can make use of their TV size farms.

No Hotels

Serious, there are only 2 hotels in this town. (Ok, that was a short paragraph)

Tourist Attraction

There are no tourist attractions. (Another short one) Actually, I had been told that bird watching is big here. I try it. I quickly learn that the birds with long hair, colourful tops and tight jeans have only recently come from Kangemi, and are probably heading back soon. I wonder if that bird tweeting outside migrated from this ex-place? Or from Kangemi?

Shabba Ranks

So they were in Kangemi and migrated to Western province, due to population pressure. A few went to Westlands, Mombasa and one is in Karen and I hear some have moved to south C. They’re big and of strong stock, stand firm, with biceps the size of my car’s tyres, and chest like my old TV. And that’s just the women. Born to breed.

Cold Tempers

I was in this bar watching the 2 people inside watching me. He looked like a retired banker, same bank, same branch for 350 years, retired, was given a wheel barrow and gum boots and a clock. He has a pick up outside, and an old newspaper and a well worn t-shirt from Bank Kenya Ltd. Mild chap. He suspects I am about to dig a borehole and wants to be the first to know. These retirees are spread out, one per pub across the whole ex town. May their souls rest in peace (not now, later, when they die)

(Malaria)

The other chap is the waiter, with a funny temper. He doesn’t raise his voice. Mainly because it’s already a little high considering he is leaning so close to me, I can see his thoughts. He avoids eye contact, but I can tell from his eyes, his biggest fear in life is malaria. Then serikali.

He semi-shouts, ‘si useme pwana. Kwani utakunywa nini. Kama umekuja tu kukaa hapa, hapana pwana’

‘Beer baridi tafadhali’ I do my imitation of the Prince of Wales speaking Swahili.

He proceeds to bring a warm one.

‘Chief, nipee beer baridi, hii ni warm’ I state calmly, suddenly taking a keen interest in the patterns on my hand. I can’t look at this guy. I’ll laugh out loud.

‘Sasa hizi ndio mchezo si pendi. Unaona? Eh? (telling no one in particular, looking at an empty table) Unataka moto ama paridi? Eh? Amua pwana. Niambie mara moja, customer hapa ni wengi, sio wewe pekee ala’

I look around; it’s me and the retired banker only, ‘Beer baridi tafadhali’ I repeat, this time I am imitating Wamalwa. May his soul rest in peace.

He walks away dragging his feet (not Wamalwa, the waiter, if it was Wamalwa, he’d have floated away in a miasma, like a spirit) muttering ‘esh mara paridi, mara moto, hata sisi tumeishi Nairobi pwana. Wacha uwivu yako, ala’. He leans forward and sideways as he walks straight to the bar at an angle theta MC2, the most serious challenge to date of Newton’s laws of motion.

They don’t need smart cards here.

Melancholia

I am not a racist, but this un-town is ugly. I drive south to Kisumu after work. There is no road between Kisumu and the place formerly known as Kakamega, but you’re advised to stick to the grey dots of ex-tarmac. Luckily for me, the Landcruiser didn’t notice this moonscape, it actually thought I was on a good road.

Bats and Butts

Kisumu smells like a bat. Or a gecko. Warm and humid. Here all the women are generally huge and have very big behinds, most drink lager (rather than, say wine in Nairobi for over 35, the rest in Nbi drink viceroy, sorry Izo), they like dancing to live music and are more likely to shout than to eh not shout. For instance, ‘how have you been’ is usually, ‘EI, HAOW HAAAVE YOU BEiN EI?’ don’t spell check; I know what I am doing. And the men are exactly the same as the women. Only that the women are very attractive even though they wear weaves and have oily faces.

And this has nothing to do with tribe. It’s just Kisumu. Once you’re here, you’re like that.

Another thing, women here are not impressed by money. This impresses me, because that’s not my strong suit (ignore that TV mentioned earlier. Btw, did I mention my new hush puppies?). Not that I was trying to impress them, am generally introverted, deep deep inside. I just like how this fact annoys the men. I think they have been immunised by Kisumu men who are generally show offs. And violent. I am liking this town and it is liking me back.

The middle and upper classes here live in 1987. They speak English that dates back to Oliver Cromwell. The PC knows your whole family, this is very valued here.

Again, you should never generalise, everyone is an exception to all these descriptions.

Historically, they migrated from 1969, and are very attached to their origins. They don’t break traffic rules, are very generous, are polygamous and loyal to friends from way back (1987) and committed to ideals (from 1969).

Ok, now am tired, I think I’ll try and sleep.

Falling Standards of Calculus Teaching in Msingi Bora

Wait! Ok, the Secret (book, DVD) promotes positive thinking, if you think it, you’ll attract it, think of your new car, new house, new job, and you’ll get it. However, others say if you think about it, you’ll jinx it, don’t count your chicks before they text and say they’re at the gate of carnivore, please come and pay the cab, then pay entrance. ‘btw, I came with my cousin-sister (only in Kenya) and 6 of my closest friends for life (only in Kenya)’. Then they giggle.

As I am about to sleep, am choosing which to do, dream it, or avoid it. I decide to play safe, dream about the 3rd floor of my new dream house. If I jinx it, at least I will have 2 floors, if it works, well, can’t have a 3rd floor on air.

Life before death

But alas, lahaula. Things fall apart. The centre will not hold. The River Between. When did the rain start beating us? My life in crime, Son of woman, Murogi wa Kagogo. Cheesus! am not dreaming of my dream house! There is a mix-up somewhere, now am dreaming of that annoying bird singing outside, complete with soundtrack. But the little birdie now has a red dot on its chest. A little comforting, that last bit. This image is soothing and puts me to sleep. Smiling.

'I AM HIV POSITIVE'

[OK, AM NOT, READ ON]

WHEN I GET BACK TO NAIROBI OVER THE WEEKEND, AND WANT NOTHING BUT A NICE GOOD QUIET DRINK, YOU MIGHT UNDERSTAND. WHEN I LOOK FORWARD TO TRAVELLING AGAIN, YOU MIGHT UNDERSTAND

I once heard a development partner talking about eh development. We had driven for 300kms in a convoy of 6 new blue plate white 4 by 4’s, windows up, AC on, mineral water bottles and laptops on our hands. Very high speed. 2 persons each in the first 5 cars, then sardines packed in the last. Dust. That’s how we arrive.

The local MP smiled broadly and stood up to receive us. Loud laughter. Warm sodas were on the table. In Africa, you can get a cold soda anywhere, but try getting fertilizer or good seeds. Or a vet.

BEGGARS SALAAMS CLUB

Various people are called to talk. In most of Africa, it’s the same thing in different languages. Most Africans are deeply superstitious. Sometimes it organised superstition like Islam or Christianity, many times it is a lethal hybrid of these religions and witchcraft. Juju. Uchawi. Black magic, black mail, black list. We’re always thanking and begging, either a heavenly god or a donor god. We’re still poor despite all this, we’re all this because we’re poor.

Speaker: Hamjambo wote!

All: (mumble)

Speaker: Hamjambo tena!

All: (mumble)

OR

Leader: god is gooooood?

All: all the time

Leader: all the tiiiiiime?

All: God is good


Blah blah talkers. Then Development Partner was invited to talk. He stands quickly and with confidence. Through a translator, he says he loves this country. We clap.

DOUBLE SPEAK, 1984, GEORGE ORWELL

I stop listening and look around at the crowd. I was with him in another country further south, I know what he will say. This country is unique, and they want to help. The government is bad and the government is good. The people are very vigilant and the people are a little too oblivious to what is happening. His government will kill Aids and will bring rain without thunder or lightening, thunder is too noisy, and lightening frightens even unconceived babies. Aid is good as it is helping people and aid is bad as it is not helping people. We clap.

CONFUCIUS SAY…

He tells these people that aid is tax money from citizens of his country collected by his government, given to a government department, which then gives this money to our government to do development for our people. I look at the warm soda in front of me. The shiny new cars from his country. Drivers are wiping the metallic beasts. The condition for the aid was that we have to buy cars from his country. Tax from their biggest companies who make profits selling sodas and cars to us, is collected and sent back to us. Serious stuff is always boring. I think it is deliberate. Their companies also sell guns, bombs, machetes, knives and paper clips to us.

HEIGHT OF EDUCATION

The MP has to rush. A small plane is waiting to take him to a small hotel in the nearby small town. Then another plane will take him to the capital. Then a big plane will take him to the development partner’s country far far away. The MP’s daughter is graduating in a big university. Everyone is happy for him. We clap.

I AM MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

We ask to see around. We’re taken to a local market, constructed using government money (I hate the word funds, what is funds?). Initial cost was 17 million, 48 million had been spent before the locals protested. The government engineer tells us the building was condemned as unfit for habitation by his office. The MP’s brother’s construction company did the job he tells us. The people nod in unison. They invite us to get in and see how the building can collapse anytime. For some reason, that does not make sense to me, I decline the offer politely and look for a nice shade.

OR AM I? (My bro’s keeper)

We visit an HIV/AIDS support group. It’s basically a group of locals living positively with HIV. They get free AIDS drugs from the government hospital, but have no food. Also, they need to travel weekly to the big hospital to get the drugs, this costs money, and time away from the farm, words are thrown around; CD4 count, viral load, ARVs, tri-immune. I look around the room. They’re about 30 members, men and women and children, they’re smiling, happy. I feel soo soo sad. I can’t listen to this.

I distract myself by thinking I should buy meself one of these new big shiny 4 by 4’s from Development Partner’s country. Shiny, powerful status symbols. My friends will envy me. I might have to give up golf for a year. Mmh, well, we’ll see.

I look around the room. Photos of happier times on the wall. Black and white happier times. The mud wall has been covered with old newspapers. An old newspaper headline announces ‘Minister Ouko’s Badly Charred Body Is Found’. And the old newspapers are covered with formerly white netting. Then black and white photos of happier times on the ex-white netting.

An old fridge stands at the corner. It is now used as a cupboard. An old small broken TV is inside the old fridge.

Am An Alien

Sasa hii ni story ya ushamba. Ok, not really. Listen and decide. Si am in majuu, chambele. Had drinks with pals, nini nini, stories. Lakini haishiki, barley yao ni maji to me. So on way back l’hotel, demon in head tells me to pass by their biggest superstore and grab something strong. Chwade something.

Now, nakumatt, which I mention often, is very confusing to me, I prefer kiosks. This store is at least 3 times the size of the biggest nakumatt there is (Kisumu). and that is just the drinks section. Maybe am exaggerating a little. Hyperbole. 20 minutes up and down, and I begin to get sober deciphering what the various discount offers mean. Argh, a Mexican shop attendant is walking towards me to help. No way. Mimi sio mshamba.

So non-mshamba grabs Budweiser, having heard the name from movies. Bali it’s the king of beers. And the figure attached sounds friendly to my pocket. Roughly ngiri ya Kenya.

Then, ai! Hii nini? I grab what looks like a six pack, lakini the whole shelf follows me. Le Mexican smiles knowingly and helps me to the cashier. And for real, it’s only like 10 dollars. But now I need a pick-up to transport my lager. And how to smuggle 36 Budweisers into hotel mmhh. Anyway, kwa ufupi, Jack Bauer and Pink Panther stunts, am in hotel room with 36 beers onda de bedddd. Which is good, but now, the empties, eh how will I smuggle them out? I start thinking.

Argh, I drink. Thinking makes me want to drink. They even rhyme, think, drink. And then I think of home. And drink.

The pregnant Ghanaian Phd student who cleans my room everyday ot 9.00 in de moning told me it dosnt mettar in dis otel o evn in dis contry whot I drink. Don’t spell check, I know what am doing. ‘Or weah’ she adds after a long brief pause (she spits that last word like a true West African, Or Weah!)

Her hosbond, she tells me, is a Mexican, Phd, woking in a nearby nakumatt-like superstore.

I Had A Dream

At approx 1237, I carried an empty folder and marched straight to my car and passed away. I resurrected at roughly 1452hrs, rubbed my eyes and promptly marched back to my desk.

I omit certain very important details here. Material facts you might say. I was woken up by my own snoring, which apparently had also woken up all the watchmen from all nearby offices. I make a mental note to write a paper on called ‘Positive Effects of Snoring’ or ‘Snoring and Security – the noisy link’. Then we can do a song and a children’s short story. Maybe even t-shirts. The tropical heat at noon affects everyone.

So anyway, I wake up, and I have completely forgotten where I was, or who and why I was. The car’s sun roof was open, so the first thing I saw was a big giant cotton candy moving towards me at a very high velocity (E=MC2). I had heard of death by chocolate, this was death by candy. I screamed.

The killer cotton candy, I figured, was K-tray and Zo’s preferred murder weapon. On Halloween, I wore a mask resembling Jennie’s ancestors and terrified them from 1300 to roughly 1900hrs. I laughed till I developed a six-pack, killer cubes on my tummy, and completely ran out of laughter tears, had to borrow some from the crying glands, but unfortunately, they were empty. Apparently if you don’t cry for more than 20 years, they stop making tears. I didn’t know this. Anyhow, I quickly figured that K-tray and Zo were revenging by killing me.

I turn to run, but am belted (how now brown cow?) so can’t move. And that is when I see the guards. Wekesa and Mutua, from across the road. In his deep kindness, Wekesa smiles and waves. In my stuporous state, this smile that reveals a set of strong brown teeth makes him look like the Count of Dracula, however, when he waves, Wekesa now looks like Idi Amin. And General Idi is pointing a gun at me, Mutua rarely smiles on normal occasions, and I don’t mind. But now he looks like General Matakwei of the Sabaot People’s Defence Force. So 2 dangerous highland nilotes have converged to send me away. 2nd scream. This was a healthier louder one. But these children of Lucifer are unmoved.

Then my processor starts working, and the killer candy can now be clearly seen as just a mass of droplets or frozen crystals suspended in the atmosphere above the surface of the Earth, clouds, moving cumulus clouds. I am a little relieved, but only momentarily. These cannot be normal masses of droplets or frozen crystals suspended in the atmosphere above the surface of the Earth, not from the colour and altitude. Even their attitude is suspect. They’re dark white and only 3 feet from my car’s roof. They’re also faster than Bolt would have run had that baby Cheetah he was toying at Nairobi National park as much as yawned. And now my car is the Titanic, off the coast of Somalia, caught in a big storm, a tempest caused by a meteor, which will shortly end the world, and still 2 Somali pirates (Wekesa and Mutua) are waiting to hijack us. They’re also swaying widely and wildly from side to side, even pirates are not immune to storms. And at a different frequency from my Titanic, so to keep my eye on them, am having to move my head side to side at a slightly higher frequency, which I compute to be MC2. All this whilst maintaining a low pitched scream is no mean feat. I was never good at multi-tasking.

I want to pray, but am unsure which is the guardian saint of storms (caused by meteors that will end the world yet Somali pirates will kill you if you survive the end of the world – which you can’t btw). There are about 4,000 saints, most created by Sean Paul the Pope (a dutty yeah). These are sort of important ex-people who accelerate prayers and can suspend the laws of nature. I was also uncertain whether it would make sense to ask the heavens to take this cup away, yet it must have been carefully planned many years ago for a reason. Unless of course the reason was to make me pray and find the reason, then pray for it to be changed. Also, at an Aloe Vera convention on the ground floor of my office building, just before I got into my car, I heard a beautiful lady advising another to pray for God to open her pores. Just apply Aloe Vera twice daily, then pray to God to open your facial pores she was told. God might be very busy with this very small minute delicate surgery.

And now my Pentium 2 processor is running at 50% and my RAM has loaded the full 8MB. I am now more alert, discerning. I attempt a smile and wave away Wekesa and his pal. Rub my eyes, and perambulate back to my desk. Hallucinogenic effects of working no doubt.