Prayer breakfast, deceit

Today I drove my dad to a National Prayer breakfast. This is an event usually attended by dignitaries from within and abroad. Ambassadors, international business men, locally established tycoons and filthy rich politicians. Even the president himself never misses this occasion. Here he meets the people who call the shots in the economy, the people he must stoop to if he wants to lead a financially stable and peacefully country.

You might be wondering whether I am my dad’s driver. No, I am not. This is the only golden opportunity I have ever got to, to coming close to the powerful and mighty. I had to come, there is no way I could miss this so I gave his driver a technical leave. A leave I am sure he signed gushing unspoken curses.

According to the invitation card, dad’s only job was to prepare a 5 minutes prayer. The contents of which were to include a prayer for the nation, the presidency and the people in that order, a prayer for a stable economy, prosperity and peace among the people in that order. A guideline whose contents according to my interpretation were probably written by a lay person filled with wants and demands from the supernatural being. Nothing mentioning thanks giving. In all the jargon and vocabulary used how could he forget all the similes for thanksgiving? Appreciation, gratitude, approval, blessing, Asante… I wonder!

I Blame The Opposition For Terror Attacks

The mind’s liberty for thought is so amazing. Human reasoning spans way beyond all that can be spoken and in many instances it just lacks the right words to accurately illustrate its thoughts. Many bright ideas and forecasts remain suppressed for the fear of being ridiculed by those who do not see things as one see them and this does not mean that one wrong. 

Early 2013 a bold thinker came up conspiracy ‘tyranny of numbers’ and every dick and harry thought the political analyst had reached his optimal level of insanity. For the need to know more and have a clear insight into his mind sequence and thought logic many television stations and print media booked him for interviews. Others for a good course, knowledge, yet a few, short of reason presented his ‘tyranny of numbers’ for a comic gimmick. Fast forward to March 4^th, 2013 his conspiracy became a reality. Should I be a chancellor, this genius deserves an honorary degree in public-mind-reading. 

At the moment I might be defending a villain in the eyes of many, the kind who take too long to accept reality, but I am only doing this because I have just learned of another genius awaiting his crown. A silent activist, I today bring to your attention a conspiracy that has just already been rolled out and if not taken seriously will leave a permanent mark in Kenyan history. 

I say the current opposition under the patronage of America is responsible for the current insecurity in our beloved country, Kenya. Not the victim Al-shaabab. Call me all names but do not close your eyes, instead open your mind for a minute of reason as you read on. 

Things Really Change

Each and every day things change, in small bits or even total transformations. Twenty plus years ago I was a toddler and knew nothing apart from crying and giggling. Mom was my favorite person, obviously because of her breast milk and constant pampering, and then dad bought more presents and earned his space too in my heart. Today I am grown and my chin is smooth no more. I now have to shave twice a week and sure enough, it sucks. They are no more (and I haven’t said I am not complaining) and their attention is being shifted elsewhere. Weirdly, mostly to this girl who is not my kin, not my tribe and I have only known her for a while. Just because she’s got a fine ass, talks like an angel and now does all the pampering. I love my siblings too, especially the younger ones.  

In the morning I look at myself in the mirror and my six-pack and the tu-little muscles accumulation in my chest and arms makes me feel strong. The belief that I had to depend or seek permission from someone before doing anything is slowly vanishing and I find delight in independence, in mystery.

Valentine for my love, Anita

Valentine is fast approaching and in a few days’ time streets and restaurants will be donned in red.  The anticipation is unmentionable and anxiety is slowly hitting the nooks. My lady friend Anita is a stressed lady in the office today. She has not decided on which dress to wear on this very day she holds in high regard. She tells me she’s been to Woolworths, Prada and Ankarasha stores and still has not settled on one specific dress. It is not the prices that has not made her settle on any yet, she has money, it is about finding the right texture, material, the right tone of color, the length of the dress and the design it bears. Anita takes cloth line labels very seriously and considering the occasion, it has to be a popular one. It must be associated with a celebrity. A Gaga, Kardashian or at the lowest possible a Lupita’s resent wear.

Anita’s previous Valentine didn’t go so well. She was a clandestine to a legislator who for obvious reasons didn’t show up at their usual hotel after being cornered by his wife (and forced) into a matrimonial duty, as un-regrettably later explained. On that fateful night Anita was forced to sleep alone (in her valentines dress) in a wide erotically spread bed praying and hopping that her love eventually shows up. Even in the middle of the night, or at worst in the morning before she would have to be forced to walk (alone) in a red dress on her way back home. 

I Am A Creative Writer

I am a creative writer. I write about imaginary things and events, nothing real, things that only live and exist in my head. The events are not real and the characters may (sometimes) have supernatural powers like read other people minds, fly or even die and resurrect again. As a creative writer I make snakes walk and dance, I make pastors fall in love with their congregants and even make relatives give birth to geniuses out of abominable relationships. I am a creative writer (and) so everything I write about is not real and exists only in my world. This is to say you cannot make me accountable for my imaginary characters. How can you accuse me of defaming you, lying on the same bed with your arch rival or conniving to have you poisoned just because my character exhibited traits same as yours. Real characters cannot accuse imaginary ones. Imagine a dead man coming on to complain about the man who inherited his wife.

In the case number 492BC, I hereby present before you, your honor, complains of one dead man Mr. Archer. Your honor, Mr. Archer, a dead man, is a very grieved spirit today. Mr. Archer, a dead man, has in several unusual circumstances been forced to humiliation, embarrassment and (spiritual) disgrace by the (ill mannered) defendant who has today, before this honorable court admitted to sleeping with his wife and engaging in intimate sexual intercourse with his wife in their matrimonial bed, the same bed they bore their two children Faith and Solomon. Mr. Archer, a dead man, is irritated further by the fact that this has been made a norm and this (infidel) defendant wakes up in the mid morning sun and greets his neighbors jovially instead sneaking unnoticed, like normal adulterers do.