I’ve been mulling over setting up a book club for a while now. I did almost set up one last year that was meant to meet every few months to discuss a book that we’d all read. It didn’t quite take off. Some of the people I’d invited to join the book club didn’t like my first book choice, some couldn’t afford buying the book and others were too busy then to finish reading the book on time.

I’ve decided to give it another try and this time I’ll start small and online. Instead of picking a book that everyone would read, the members of the book club would share their thoughts [with each other] about books they’ve read or are reading via email. With time, maybe, the book club will morph to include an offline meetup but in the meantime it will be online based.

Are you interested in joining?

Death met life and they smiled,
Each had a tale to tell,
Each had a trophy to display,
Each had a story,
So they sat and began to narrate.

I came to them with gift and song,
I came to them in time of love,
I came to them even when you did,
I gave and I gave,
Still, I wanted to give more,
But they seemed to want you more,
I thought I was light,
And you, darkness,
I truly believed I was,
What you could never be, and,
For that,
I held my head high,
I was wrong.

I came to them with insult and tears,
I came to them in time of hate,
I came to them in time of hate,
I came to them even when you did,
I took and I took,
I wanted to take more,
Yet they seemed to want me more,
I knew I was darkness,
And you, light,
I knew I was,
What you could never be, and,
For that,
I held my head high,
I was wrong.

Death met life and they wept,
Each had made a foe,
Each had lost a friend,
Each was a fugitive,
So they sat and began to tell.
I was summer,
You were winter,
We were a cycle,
We were seasons,
I the beginning,
You the end,
We were proper,
I would curtsy,
You would shove,
It was our system,
But it wasn’t theirs,
They wanted us improper,
They wanted us undone,
They had their system.

Now we sit and we watch,
For we have become life,
And they,
They are death.
Posted by Just Taidi at 6:46 AM 0 comments
Labels: death life man seasons killing murder abortion rape
Chronic Giver

They told me to give,
That I sure would receive,
And I gave,
I gave my shirt,
Gave my coat too,
Right cheek,
Left cheek too,
My only slightly tortured soul,
My body to be burnt too,
I gave,
Oh I gave.

They said,
Tenfold, a hundredfold,
It had to be believable though,
So there was no mention of,
Thousand and millionfold,
Even they knew that,
That would be a bit of a stretch,
Still I gave,
My feet’s due,
Palms’ too,
Thigh’s warmth,
Breasts’ too,
My only slightly bold voice,
My pierced eyes too,
I gave,
Oh I gave.

But they wanted more,
They wanted so much more,
It’s better to give,
Than to receive,
They said,
So I gave my laughter,
Kept my tears though,
Gave my skin,
Not my wounds though,
Gave my heart,
Not it’s pain though,
They had said to give,
But only that which is good,
And I gave,
Oh I gave.

Still, they wanted more,
So, I gave,
I gave myself,
The achievements,
The accolades,
The trophies and the medals,
But no, not the struggles,
They didn’t want those,
Those were mine to hold,
They said to give only the best of my harvest,
And I gave,
Yes I gave.

So now,
There’s a pen and paper,
Where I used to be,
A story where I stood,
A hope that they shall remember,
Remember to say;
She who gave, received,
Because those who said, gave.

And even as a story,
Even as pen and paper,
I shall give,
I still shall give.

In his spare time, in between bursts of writing and blogging, he uses his aliases to save broken ladies from their own insecurities, which is a display of either typical chauvinism or selfless heroism – depending on where you stand.

@MarcusOlang

We had a few questions for him and this is what he had to say :-

1. What was your first phone?
Nokia 3310. The number of times I dropped this phone on that cemented floor, tjo. Also, in water. Still lived. You have to respect this phone.

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?
It may be a bit of a curious choice, but Facebook. And here’s why: It’s a brilliant place to cultivate conversation. Think of it this way: Remember that Twitter conversation you wanted to refer to, but the tweets are buried too far down your Timeline? Exactly.

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?
Getting Members of Parliament/Senators/Governors/[insert title here] fired for unparalleled & incessant stupidity.

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well.
Bosso ke mang?

• Mang ke bosso

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?
Amend the clause making me president for a day to make me president for a year. Then clean house. (Probably get shot on Day 364, but meh. The job needs to get done.)

6. Whats your favourite book & movie?
Favourite book has to be James Patterson’s “Pop Goes the Weasel”. It reminds me of a special girl.
Moving right along…
Favourite movie would be a tie between “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of The Black Pearl” (That was Jack Sparrow at his finest) and Joe Wright’s “Hanna”.

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?
Three people: BBC’s Moira Stuart, Dineo Ranaka Club 808 host and formerly of Y FM and the legendary Rick Dees.

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?
Psychology. The human mind fascinates me.

9.If you had a superpower, what would it be?
Easy: Reading minds, and its sister, power of inception.

10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 5 things would you want to have?

• Food.
• Shelter.
• Clothing.
• Internet connectivity.
• Genie in a bottle.

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?
1996 Mercedes Benz C220. Calm. Class. Confidence.

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?
Janelle Monae’s band. Why? It’s friggin’ Janelle Monae, that’s why.

13. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.
I loved a girl. Until I realised I could love her no more. Now I love many girls.
I lie. Actually, she friendzoned me, scarred me for life, which is why I now advise prospects to engage with caution. Selfish interests.
And now I don’t know why I confessed to that.
Meh.

It was an ordinary bus that she made her get-away in. An ordinary, red bus with cramped seating and dusty flooring.  That was a little disappointing. Whenever she envisioned this scene, the bus had always seemed a bit surreal. It had never occurred to her that she would be working on a tight budget and would not even blink at having to squeeze into an economy-class bus. An old man shuffled in and took the seat next to her, muttering to himself. She tried to edge away from him as far as she could but the seat was too small to allow much movement. ‘Thank God for small mercies though,’… she thought as she eased open the window next to her seat. A humid breeze fluttered in and for just that one moment she believed that this was perfection.

Running away was not what she called what she was doing at the moment. Running sounded cowardly, inept; a preserve for murderers and fugitives. She preferred to think of herself as leaving before the world left her. One lesson she had come to learn earlier on was that people always left. Even life had a way of going and leaving in its wake, a trail of misery and dredges of unbearable problems. And so she had decided to leave her old life behind before her youth passed and she was left trapped in the grimy old town that had been the only home that she had ever known. In her thinking, it was better to live fast and die young than die a slow painful death that took 80 years in that grimy old town where everyone knew everything about you; down to the last detail of which midwife had attended your mother at birth.

The intimacy of it all drove her crazy; she craved the blessed anonymity that a large city could offer; just once she wanted to walk down a street and not bump into someone who wanted her to pass all her love to her ailing grandmother; she wanted to walk into a shop and buy groceries without having to explain which new recipe her mamma wanted to try out next; just once she wanted to be a mere face in the crowd. For someone who had been brought up amid niceties, she hated small talk; loathed the people she couldn’t snub when she walked down the street. Perhaps it was because the familiar faces unfailingly reminded her of her inevitable fate if she made the same decisions that her parents and their parents before them had made.

Her parents. The thought of them unexpectedly drew a twinge of raw guilt from somewhere deep within; a place which had housed her conscience; a conscience which in turn, she thought had died a long time ago.  The thought of leaving them bewildered with no clue as to her whereabouts or as to her reason of leaving almost tormented her but she shrugged it off. She was good at shrugging things off, her slowly awakening conscience commented. ‘No,’ she admonished it; she was merely practical and did not let foolish sentimentality get in the way of her dreams. Her parents were good people. They were simple, unremarkable good people.

Her father was the only mechanic in town and was in charge of fixing up the trucks that carried agricultural produce from the many farms around her home to the large city factories. It was the only auto-repair shop in town. Commercial competition wasn’t exactly conducive to good neighbourliness and no one wanted to sully their name by being a bad neighbor. Her mother in turn was a housewife who dabbled in Sunday school teaching. She was a socialite in the eyes of their neighbours. “Some socialite,” the devil on her shoulder snorted.

She was the only child and had been exposed to books and films at an early age. However, instead of training her to be the civilized marriageable young woman they had hoped, it had showed her a life different from the one she knew. It had showed her the possibilities; the adventures that existed beyond their town; simply put she wanted to be remarkable. Her thoughts turned to the letter she had left them on her pillow. It was poetic; for she was poetic at heart and read; “It was either this or suicide. Don’t come looking for me. Goodbye” She thought it expressed her sentiments eloquently without sounding like a broken record. She did not want her parents to think that this was just another bout of teenage angst. Heaven knew she had already had enough of those. It was the reason her parents did not want her to attend college in the city. Their vision for her was attending a local college and earning a diploma in business management. To them, that was the epitome of progression. They often remarked how lucky her husband would be.  From the host of dumb boys her age, she doubted that she wanted to make any of them the ‘lucky’ object of her affections; now or in the future. Her parents had thought her difficult because she failed to accept the status quo. They had even grounded her last month for being disrespectful. The thought of that argument strengthened her resolve. She had definitely made the right decision.

Suddenly, the ordinary bus lurched violently. It wasn’t one of those one-off lurches that scare passengers into abusing the driver’s carelessness. This was a protracted lurch that sent the world spinning out of control. Screams pierced her eardrums as the window next to her shattered to pieces and went flying all over her. She felt her head hit the ceiling of the bus and as if on cue, a warm wetness spread on her forehead. Something was clamping her chest and torso. She felt snapping from within her body but she couldn’t be too sure. Her vision was fading fast and a brilliant whiteness was enveloping her, overcoming her will to stay alive and lucid. So this was how death felt. She wondered why she was struggling because the other side seemed so much more comfortable to cross over to. She wanted to shut out the screams, the excruciating pain in her chest, the glass in her eyes and mouth; she wanted to leave behind her shattered bleeding skull.

Her last thought was that she would have no gravestone; she would probably rot as an anonymous body in some municipal mortuary. As her life ebbed away, she conjured up an image of which epitaph she would have liked to have at her gravestone. It was scrawled in a diary inside the backpack she had been holding just a minute ago. A backpack that held secret admission and acceptance letters to the university in the city as well as secret scholarship applications. Inside a diary that no one would ever find was written: “Here lies a girl; who dared to defy life.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Edu reminded her wearily as he sipped his beer. His bleary eyes remained fixed on the Indian Ocean. Its usually deep blue waters were a churning grey as a storm cloud in the horizon fast approached the mainland.

Well, you’re not supposed to be here either…working day and all, Sera replied as she strolled up to him. 

He chose to say nothing.  He had been hoping he’d get away from her for just a couple of hours, have a few beers and some much needed shut eye. The irony of it all was not lost on him. There was a time when he would have happily chopped off his arm to spend more time with her.

You do know what they say about day drinking, don’t you?

“You want one?” he offered.

She pouted. Now you’re just being mean.

“Sorry,” he said, running a hand over his clean shaven head. He still hated upsetting Sera even when she was being infuriating-which was often. “I’m just a little tired.”

She flopped down next to him. You’ve been saying that a lot lately.

“That I’m tired?”

That you’re sorry.

“I know.”

Sera’s gaze shifted towards the newspaper which he was using as a place mat for his cans.

POLICE QUESTION PROMINENT TV NEWS PRODUCER. The headline screamed.

Poor guy.

Edu grimaced, taking a swig from his Tusker can. Poor guy indeed, he thought to himself. As far as he was concerned, Jared was a pompous ass and being rattled by the cops would do his character some much needed good.

I get it; you never liked him. But they’re unfairly giving him a hard time when the killer never left the building, she glanced up at him. You’ll get away with it you know. No one knows you existed in my world.

“Ahhh, the perks of secret love,” he drawled bitterly. “What we had, was it ever real?”

Of course it was.

“And yet when it came down to making a choice, you chose him,” he pointed out.

She bit her lower lip; something Sera did when nervous or anxious.

I didn’t. I said I wasn’t ready to let him go just yet. I thought you’d understand where I was coming from.

“Are you serious?” he asked furiously. “From the moment we met, you kept telling me you’re just waiting for the right time to break up with him. I stayed because I knew you’d do it soon.”

Sera sighed. You always had to be so serious about everything.

He blinked at her in disbelief.

“Jared and I are in business together and he’s like part of our family. I’ll have to break it off carefully,”  She’d said.

They had been quite a pair, he mused. To the world, Edu was the reclusive owner of a successful start up company. The nice guy who lived a floor above her: always the designated driver, always polite to the neighbours, the help and always in the background. As for Sera…well, Sera was something else entirely.

She was a beauty; with her smooth dusky skin, lithe frame and dark eyes full of mischief and mirth. But it was more than that. Sera was full of so much energy and excitement it radiated off  her, lighting up any room she walked into…the life of any given party. The second Edu met her, he knew he wanted to be close to her and revel in the magic that was her presence. So for one year they secretly dated. For one year he experienced an intense, extravagant love tinged with a longing that gnawed at his soul.

Then last Saturday night, they had their worst fight ever. He had been waiting in her apartment when she walked in late. They were to have take out Ethiopian dinner then watch a movie at her place. Sera forgot this and went to a party with Jared. She tried to sweet talk Edu into accepting her apology and letting it go, but he’d had enough. They had an ugly exchange of words. Then came his ultimatum, her final stand and him demanding to know why she was being such a selfish bitch. By the time the dust finally settled, Sera was dead.

The memories were loud and jagged. Some, he had trouble accepting as real: the feel of his fingers around her neck, the panicked look in her eyes, Sera’s thrashing body as her nails clawed desperately at his hands. Then there was the terrible stillness, the lifeless eyes, him mechanically picking her up, laying her out on her bed, arranging her body just so and gently tucking  in her comfort blanket around  her curled up body as though Sera was only sleeping. But worst of all, was the sickening horror and self loathing he felt after he stole back to his apartment.

He mentally shook himself and the memories slithered away. It was then he noticed that a beach boy had stopped several feet away and was gaping at him.

Give him your winning smile, dear.

Edu waved. “Vipi boss,” he called cheerfully.

The beach boy shook his head and hurried off.

I think you scared him off.

“Am I going mad?” he whispered.

What do you think?

He leaned against the palm tree’s trunk and closed his eyes.  He was tired and his thoughts were like broken pieces of a mirror caught up in a whirlwind. She was just in his head, he chanted to himself. And if he could get a good night’s rest-

Just ‘cause it’s in your head doesn’t make it unreal you know.

The first time -after her death- Sera paid him a visit, Edu had woken up with a start from a nightmare only to find her seated cross legged at the foot of his bed watching him. Her appearance was solid, nothing like Casper the friendly ghost. She was like the real, in-the-flesh Sera except she now had a hoarse voice, purplish bruise marks around her neck and was eternally wearing the same little black dress she wore that night.

Edu had never believed in ghosts. Nana, his mother’s elderly house help, had tried to make him a believer as a child with her fantastical tales of the spooks that lived and thrived in Mombasa. He had instead found the stories hilariously entertaining and begged her for more much to her chagrin.

A part of him had been terrified by Sera’s appearance but another part-that secret part he did not want to acknowledge- had been grateful he now had the chance to ask her for forgiveness and show her how truly sorry he was.

Then her visits became frequent and with each visit, Edu was left more jaded, hollow and desolate within. Even more disconcerting was the encroaching shadow he sensed swirling and wrapping itself around his mind…distorting…needling…cooing…

 “What’s on your mind?” he asked, taking in her wistful face.

I was just getting started…so many places to go to…so many things to be… and it was going to be epic.

“I know.”

Now…I’m here…stuck.

Edu sensed a vicious edge to her words. Odd, as Sera had never been an angry person. Then again, Sera had admitted to him a couple of nights ago that she was alone on the other side. She did not know why this was so, but it scared her to be in such an unfamiliar place alone. So she came to him for company. He had never known Sera to be easily scared, lonely or that honest either.

“I’m sorry.”

You’ve really got to stop saying that.

“I know.”

Don’t feel so bad, she paused smiling. At least you and I get to be together forever just like you wanted.

“I wish I could take it back.”

What? You killing me?

“My falling in love with you. That’s when it all went to hell,” he said with sudden absolute clarity.

You can’t mean that. We were good together weren’t we?

His voice tightened.  “That’s the thing, Sera. I’m trying really hard to remember the last time we were last happy together. But I can’t remember.”

 I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please believe that.

She abruptly got up, skipped towards the shore and twirled, closing her eyes as a gust of wind blew in.

Sera paused and held out her hand. Come. Let’s go for a swim.

He frowned.  “The water’s too rough. Besides, you know I’m not that good a swimmer.”

I know. You’ll be fine though.

“I will drown.”

Don’t be such a buzz kill.

“You go on and enjoy your crazy swim, Sera.”

Tell you what, we go for a quick swim and I’ll finally let you sleep.

Edu considered. The tide made him uneasy and yet the thought of his head hitting a pillow and peacefully drifting off was sheer bliss.

“Promise?”

She flashed him a wicked grin. Hand over heart, my dear.

“OK,” he said as he unsteadily got up to his feet. “Just for a few minutes,” he whispered as he followed her into the raging ocean.

We had a few questions for her and this is what she had to say :

1. What was your first phone?

A Brick…yaaani a Nokia 3310

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?

TWITTER – Even though of late tweeps are DRUNK on HATERADE, there are a few really funny people and parody accounts!

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years

In the final stages of my world domination plan.

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well

BOXERS OR BRIEFS????

• Depends on the occasion.

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?

Flog all drivers who overlap in public.

6. What’s your favourite book& movie?

The Last Samurai’s my favorite movie. Book would have to be “The Hobbit”!

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?

My listeners, my sisters and my late mum. They strengthen me! As for “what”…my inability to stop talking!

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?

Mechanic. It’s the overalls that get me   (No kinky thoughts please!)

9. If you had a superpower, what would it be?

Reading minds. It’s less “hands on” so no injuries!

10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 5 things would you want to have?

• Phone
• iPod
• Water
• White wine
• Chocolate
• Notebook
• A man (wink wink)
• Crisps

haaaang on, you said 5 huh? Shrug

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?

I wouldn’t wanna be a car…let’s talk “blackies” instead…

Roadster aka Black Mamba aka blackie

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?

ELANI. Coz I find Chweezy hella hot….and they make AWESOME music – Really, it’s about the music!

Elani

13. What do you think is the future of spoken word/performance poetry in Kenya?

The future is hella bright! I love how performances are becoming more professional. Poets are running their art like a business and investing TIME and EFFORT into their performances.

14. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.

One of my names is FELICIA (yeah yeah make all the jokes you want!)

Aidan Hartley is a product of the British Empire. He is of the same stock as so many people around the world; Kenyans, Indians, Australians. He comes from a family of settlers with a father who gave his life to Africa. This is not his story as much as that of all the people who have made him and his family what they are.

The beauty of this book is the way in which Hartley discovers himself and that other Hartley-Aidan’s father-as he follows the story of a man who was his father’s best friend. He goes out on a limb seeking to understand this man about whom he is father rarely spoke and finds out a lot about his family and the nature of the British Empire.

Aidan makes for an interesting character to read about. A correspondent for Reuters in a period when many terrifying and exciting things were happening in Africa, he serves up a fresh and different view of various events. The world of news making is thrilling and dangerous and puts you at the edge of your seat. This, one thinks to oneself, this is what the people who bring us news go through.

The greats of newsmakers in Kenya-the country Hartley was born in and returned to work in-are brought to life in the pages of this book. Mo Amin, Brian Tetley, Hos Maina; the men who haunted the corridors of Chester House’s Press Centre and put Kenya and the rest of the region on the international news map. Hartley paints an interesting picture of the nature of reporting, the cost to the person of the by-line they so dearly crave. Near-death, sexual adventures, drinking binges and great stories.

The Zanzibar Chest that lends the book its title provides an interesting tale within a tale. A sort of biography within an autobiography, it chronicles the life and travails of a man called Davey. A man closer to the people of Aden than those of England, he gets sucked into the Empire and works for it the best way he knows how. His life is exciting but is cut short in a sad occurrence that leads to the older Hartley being wrapped up in an incident that alters the lives of all involved.

This book was not written for Africa, that’s for sure. It could be said that autobiographies are a telling of life as it was for the writer and so it’s not written for a particular audience. That would be an untruth because this book is clearly written with a certain person in mind. The Western person seeking to understand what exactly The Dark Continent is about. Some parts make for hard reading.

The human elements of this book; finding out about his father, retracing the paths taken by Davey make for a gripping read. This is a glimpse at a world that is now gone where honour and loyalties counted for something. Having a father who so greatly influenced the history of a people in another part of the world is no mean legacy and Hartley tells his father’s story with great insight and empathy.

And now for the parts that make for hard reading. Hartley was a war correspondent; it’s not hard to imagine what harrowing stories he covered. He conjures very haunting images of the carnage, death, and confusion that is the stuff of war. His telling of the events around the genocide are jarring and depressing; Hartley lets us in on a secret: the images you see and the articles you read do not come close to letting you know what a toll war takes on those that bear witness to it.

It has often been argued that Western reporters aren’t keen on a good story from Africa preferring instead the stories of gore and hunger that the continent supplies with alarming frequency. This book does little to disabuse those of this opinion; if anything, it cements that perception. On the other hand, it provides insight into the minds of the white person in Africa. Born in Africa and educated in England, Hartley enables the reader to gain some understanding of what it means to owe one’s allegiance to people who are not originally of the land. When he writes of the taking over of their farm by the government run by Julius Nyerere, history seems to be re-written. So used one gets to reading history written by those that made it or their agents-how different when The Other writes it.

In all this, Hartley weaves a tale that tackles friendship, love, betrayal, murder and the decimation of families and communities. He strips away the glamour of the foreign posting and shows us what it truly means. He lays bare the deeply personal tales of his family and himself with an honesty that is moving. An homage to a forgotten Africa, a dissection of Africa as is, a memorable book.

Today yesterday tomorrow,
Diplomacy is, was, will be hollow;
Say it like it is
What’s with the “excuse me please?”

Do you, in the boxing match hold back your punch?
Or do you fail to fully exhale? Coat words with honey?
No! Claim back your money!

Is the smell of the dead
covered by a flower spread?
The rupture of seething rage,
smothered by smiles so strange?

Let it be known,
They will reap as they have sown;
Pleasantries, gestures, bowing to false masters

Do you think we won’t see, who the winner will truly be?
Hiding behind diplomacy,
You sell the pride that belongs to me!

He was the 1st runners up in the hit  reality show Tusker Project Fame and most importantly he the father of a beautiful daughter called Celine and a part time musician.

We had a few questions for him as we watched the auditions for Tusker Project Fame 5 and this is what he had to say

   Just watching beautiful ladies and within seconds having  them on my lap

When I was young, a snake came to my house. I took a stick and killed it. My father at the peak of pride said I am now a like a son. A promotion, I concluded.

Some people came and said girls should also go to school. So I went. I studied hard and I was the first in the school. The chief said I should have been a boy. An accolade, presume.

On the day of my graduation I cooked a feast. I planned a party for my guests and entertained them very well. My uncle whispered, “We must be careful with this one and find her a husband before she becomes a man!” A threat I guess.

Later a law imposed something about gender percentages. I went for the interview and without looking at my papers, I got the job. Affirmative action I think.

Little or no make up said the office etiquette handbook. I must also watch the size of my handbag, the height of my heels and my trips to the very small ladies room. I must also be careful not to get pregnant. Time away from work is frowned upon. Office policy, I decided.

At a presentation I disagreed with my colleague. He did not like to be corrected. Or he did not like a woman correcting him. “She is too aggressive, not womanly at all!” “Office politics.” I said.

10 months later things were going well. My uncle had found me a husband. He was a business man. He did not like me earning more than him. He did not remember marrying a man. A miscommunication, I thought

My office suit started getting a little tight. The doctor said I am finally a real woman. My boss will not like it. My husband will drink and have parties. My father is old so I should have a son. Culture I am sure.

I paid for my bill and arranged for the baby things. I also organized a party. My husband was not happy. “These women have been given too much freedom. They now want to be men!” Marriage problems said that magazine.

After my son arrived, I went out and got another job. I was happy and bought my husband his favorite whiskey. He was not happy and slapped me. My older sister said it is shameful to leave or be left by a husband. Society. Yes that’s it!

I went to bed that night. After he rolled off me and into sleep. I crept into my son’s room. I sat down and prayed for my little boy and for me. Some consolation, probably.

“There is a great power in being made to feel small and insignificant. And that is the incalculable potential to be just the opposite”. A good quote for sure.

I feel eccentric excitement
When I hear Literature
As if I dine with Zeus or Aphrodite
As I delight in poetry.

I feel eccentric excitement
When I read Literature
As if I run in poetic rhythms
As I internalize Villa or Cumming.

I feel eccentric excitement
When I recall Literature
As I witness the Fall of Troy
As I vividly see supernatural scenes.

I feel eccentric excitement
When I say Literature
As if the rising action unfolds
As my eyes curse the cold climax.

I feel eccentric excitement
When I discuss Literature
As if the day never ends
As I recast the wonders with words.

Family is the one thing many of us feel we can depend wholly on. What happens, then, when that family falls apart at the seams and is revealed to be a world away from what we think it to be? I Know This Much Is True tackles the breakdown of a family and its redemption over the lifetimes of three generations of a family. Spanning the twentieth century, it investigates the themes of love, loss and belonging in a poignant and unforgettable way.

An American novel at its best, it transcends the country with distinctly human themes. In Dominick Birdsey, our hero (and sometimes anti-hero), Lamb presents a memorable character who wrestles with the issues that are particular to him and cause him anguish. A twin brother who has spent a significant portion of his life in mental institutions puts a pall on all his interactions despite his best intentions. In so many ways, Dominick’s life presents the truism in the assertion that the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

But this book is not all gloom and doom. The brother, Thomas, is a revelation. With his insights into what it means to be human, he educates Dominick in a way that only he can. And what an education-the reader is swept up in the self-discovery which floods over Dominick as the book progresses. Life in all its glory and sadness is investigated with a lot of colour.

Dominick, when we meet him, is like a man one knows and thinks of fondly. His mother is well on her way to the grave and his diabetic stepfather is alienated from his sons. Lamb captures the isolation so common to those who have close relatives who are mentally ill; he explores the various feelings of ambivalence that are singular to that experience. This is not cancer or diabetes-it is a displacement of the person one knows and loves. Thomas tugs at the reader’s heartstrings but also grates in a way that causes one to sympathise with some of Dominick’s actions. The latter isn’t a bad man but Thomas doesn’t make life easy.

As Dominick, the book’s narrator, recounts the tales of their lives and his brother’s descent into insanity; one gets a glimpse of his life. Closed off from the world, he is the quintessential Tough Guy-all grit, no softness. This quality of his is beautifully built up by Lamb and put in relief as he starts to delve into his past and all the experiences that make him and his family what they are. Constant flashbacks to his childhood provide the reader with insight into what growing up in his peculiar circumstances meant for him but even more for his brother.

This story, at a hefty 897 pages, is practically impossible to put down. I know; I tried and failed. The hours of sleep lost are well worth it. Lamb flits from the 1990 America to 1900 Italy and back as he weaves the illustrious tale of Dominick’s ancestors and the family he grew up in. This he does with deft skill, interspersing the tale with the telling revelations of the grandfather after whom he is named. A difficult man, he gives the grandson he did not live to meet an inheritance that frees him from his life as presently constituted.

This story can quite honestly be said to tear out the reader’s heart and put it back in a new way. Some of life’s hardest questions are dealt with in the musings and experiences of the characters in the book. It takes these issues on with kindness and a sensitivity that is gripping. Race, equality, war and the decline of family as seen in Dominick’s life take on a new and interesting meaning. He discovers things about himself that put his life and the existence of his family in perspective.

The surprises that hit the reader may sometimes beggar belief but they don’t make them any less interesting. What I found monumental was how Dominick’s act of making peace with himself, his past and his family was intensely liberating. Lamb doesn’t whitewash the battle that goes on in the heart, mind and life of our protagonist but rather presents a man who, freed from lifelong clutches of anger and hurt, triumphs in a wonderful way. Humanity as played out on the scale of this one man’s life makes for a gripping read.

Patricia Wangechi Kihoro

Patricia Wangechi Kihoro is a singer, actress, radio news anchor and sporadic blogger living and working in Nairobi. She loves to take pictures, long drives and is slowly making Bikram yoga a way of life. Slowly.

She dreams in HD, although she recently learnt that her dreams are actually astral travels, which she is trying to be more conscious and in control of.

She blogs here and here.

1. What was your first phone?

A Motorola T190. My dad bought it for me right after I finished high school in 2002. It was tiny, had a see through facing and I loved it. The first phone I bought myself was a Nokia 3250 in 2006. I saved up for that phone and had it for 4 years.

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?

I like Twitter because it’s more words. I like words. I like Facebook because there’s tons of pictures on there. I like pictures.

I sort of drift between the two.

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

I don’t know. My life hasn’t really turned out the way I had hoped it would so I tend to desist from such thoughts. I do hope to be in love, living by a beach somewhere, singing my heart out, taking pictures and with a couple of kids though.

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well.

If you were a super hero, what would your hero alias be and what would be your power/skill?

• It would be a Symbol, {  } and the power would be invisibility

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?

Funny you should ask. This is something I have been fantasizing about since I was about 5. I have always been fixated on the idea that I would evacuate the country, totally remodel it into a fantastic place to live, with a sophisticated infrastructural system, shiny new buildings, amenities that were actually useful, and make it so that every single person in the country had food, a great place to live, and something to sustain their lifestyle. The image I had in my head at 5 is still the same today.

6. What’s your favourite book& movie?

So far, Book, Kafka By The Shore by Haruki Murakami. I only just read it a couple of months ago but I almost cried when I was done. I felt like I had lost a couple of good friends, the main characters. I’ve read through another Haruki book, and I’m on to another now, and will probably devour all his books before I can read another by a different author. I tried to but Haruki has me hooked.

Movie, I don’t know. I recently watched ‘The English Patient’ and was incredibly moved. Inception also blew me away. I like mind stuff. A psychology degree can do that to someone. (See how I casually threw that in there.)  And then there’s The Sound of Music. I like silly movies, chic flicks, touching films, and exciting films….you get my drift? Anything goes.

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?

Not sure. I feel like I always kind of, just went with the flow of things, and did what I felt was right to do at the time.

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?

I wouldn’t change jobs, just add on to what I do now. I would love to be a Top Gear host. I love driving. I dig cars. And Jeremy Clarkson is cool peeps to hang with. Also, I would love to be an incognito Hotel and Resort Critic.

9. If you had a superpower, what would it be?

Hearing people’s thoughts at will. And then messing with them.

 10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 5 things would you want to have?

• A man I love who loves me back.
• A shitload of books and magazines.
• A petabyte of music, series, movies loaded onto a laptop to watch them on.
• A plane to fly back home in. (That I would fly myself).
• My camera.

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?

A 1999, Land Rover Discovery in Cherry Red with a Black interior running on diesel. It’s sturdy, unpretentious, can go anywhere, not too expensive to run, and still looks pretty.

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?

Ben L’Oncle Soul’s band. Ben and his crew are French. They are plain eye candy, total eargasms, and a ton of silly fun. I’m sure Ben and I would also make lovely babies.

13. What sort of mindset does one need to have in order to survive and get ahead in the entertainment world?

Be ridiculously open minded, flexible, don’t take things too seriously and remember to find the fun and love in what it is you are doing. That way, it’s never a struggle because whether or not it supports you financially, it will never disappoint you.

14. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.

I once woke up during abdominal surgery, and had to endure it while conscious because as much as my brain was awake, my body was still paralyzed, so I had no way to alert the surgeons. I listened to their conversation, felt them do their thing, and talked myself through the pain and fear to the end. Fortunately, I haven’t needed surgery again and I hope I never will.

As we celebrate Labour Day, this is quite the apt book to review.  It deals with the events that surround the strike called after World War 2 by railway workers in what was then French West Africa. In a lot of senses, it’s a tribute to a time that is lost but also to the enduring nature of people and the strength derived from camaraderie.

As the book starts, it may seem that the goal of the men who go on strike is conditions that are the same as those of the white railway workers but as time progresses, the truly overarching goal emerges-equality. Equal pay for equal work, so to speak.  The curious conditions of these men-illiteracy, an ignorance of the greater world- make their goal singularly self-driven. For most of them, not having been exposed to Marx or any of the other greats in Communist thought does not subtract from their motivations and goals.

In a world that glorifies capitalism and searches around the globe for a word that encapsulates the contrary desire (think of ubuntu), the main characters in this book serve as a reminder of what exactly can be achieved if people band together. The lives of the people in this book are not an unending idyll; if anything, they are at times so miserable as to enable one to understand what it is that is going through the minds and hearts of people when they break a strike.

This is a timely revelation especially with the spate of strikes and go-slows that have affected Kenya. At the time of the writing of the book, the railway was the very lifeblood of the colony and for it to be out of operation for any reason was a matter of great significance. In this century it is hard to imagine a time when a form of transportation such as trains are would wield so much power that a strike by those that work on it would cause the upheaval described in the book. There are parallels, though, with the lives of many people when such important personnel as nurses and doctors go on strike.

Sembene also introduces the charismatic character in a very interesting way. Though he bestrides the book and his reading and ideology fill the thoughts of the men on strike, we do not meet him till we are more than halfway through the book. I found this a very entertaining thing; suspense in such a way as to force one to keep reading. What one discovers is well worth the read.

Though it is set in a time when the white man was so deeply involved in the oppression of the black man, the book doesn’t seek to whitewash the benefits accrued by the natives because of their interactions with the white man-education, health being counted among these. The flip side of the white man’s presence isn’t underestimated, either; the racism, violence and indignity meted on the men are hard to ignore.

When people speak of the past, the time when Africans worked so hard to gain independence, they seem to forget the role of those that kept their own down. Sembene paints a telling picture of the raft of individuals who wield the cudgel and the tongue against fellow Africans. The come in all forms-Imams, priests, brothers, sisters. These are people so desperate to be accepted by those they think of as superior that they seem unaware of the ills visited on their very kin.

The conflict borne of desperation is difficult to read about. People who are generally honourable, dignified and full of pride are driven to a state that resembles madness as their conditions become more and more miserable. They kill and maim as they try to maintain what little of their humanity they can salvage. And yet there are moments when they redeem themselves in ways that restore one’s faith in human dignity. The young man who is offered a bribe to cause chaos and confusion in the ranks, for example. He is inspiring as he rejects the very things he wants because the price that sowing discord will exact on him and his comrades is too high to accept.

The women in this book play pivotal role in the book. They move from the margin of the strike to the very centre as the situation demands. Forced to provide for their families, they rise to the occasion in a way that is instructive. They are willing to do anything to keep their families together no matter the cost to their persons. The role of women changes with every generation and this book shows clearly how those changes do not change the very core of the woman. Sembene portrays women as people with strength, skill and perseverance that is clothed in song and all manner of adventures and misadventures.

As the book draws to a close, the workers engage in desperate measures to achieve their goals. One might say, having got to that point, that it is far from unexpected. These people, who have tried all manner of mainstream methods to have their voices heard, resort to acts of subversion. The last chapters are gripping for the dramatic occurrences and they make for intriguing reading. Are these, one asks themselves, the length to which people will go to get what they believe is theirs?

Sembene is known in non-literary circles for his films and the cinematic quality of this book cannot be exaggerated. With the flow of the book, it is as easy to run a reel in one’s head as it is to savour each word. There isn’t’ a clean-cut answer to the issues that affect the workers and their families but the means by which they work through them render an engaging quality to this book.

Publisher: Heinemann
Year published: 1970 (first published in French as Le bouts de bois de Dieu in 1960)

Zama spends most of her work week working as a customer operations management consultant mostly in the telecommunications and public services industries in South Africa. She is also one of the founding directors for Youth Lab, a newly-formed think tank focused on creating platforms for youth-led socio-economic, policy and political discussions. Between studying towards Honours in Public Administration at the University of Stellenbosch, and writing for Mail and Guardian’s Thought Leader, and freelancing; she tweets under the handle @JoziGoddess. She is also politically active and the organisational development executive for the youth political branch in her area.

We had a few questions for her and this is what she to say.

1. What was your first phone?

Goodness! The only thing I remember is that it was a silver motorrola that had the most basic internet browsing capabilities at exhorbitant rates.

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?

Twitter. It’s better suited to my personality and how my brain functions. Random thoughts that I document as I move through my day and its impersonal enough for people to engage with your ideas without making value judgements on who you are or who they expect you to be because they know you.

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years

I see myself playing a stronger political role in South Africa, especially in policy development and monitoring and evaluation of implementation. I am very passionate about women and sustainable development and I hope by then I will have enough power to push discussions and actions in those areas. I also hope that I’ll be doing my PhD in Development Economics then, and maybe having written my first book already? We’ll see.

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well

What are your plans in getting young people from the continent working more closely together in the creative arts?

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?

I would put South Africa’s key economic and development ministries in one room and show them just how their siloed planning is sabitaging them. If I were chairperson of the AU, I’d do the same exercise with Africa’s presidents. We all have these wonderful ideas but lack of cohesive planning is killing our continent. We have all these people in the same boat rowing at their individual paces and our boat is therefore not moving in any particular direction.

6. Whats your favourite book & movie?

My favourite book is To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Atticus Finch has always been one of my true heroes. I have always hoped that I would be a woman strong enough to stand up for what is right regardless of social consequence for myself.
Movie: Forest Gump. There’s a childlike quality about the main character that I wish we could all hold on to as we grow older. He never takes things personally and he always understands that people always do the best with their individual level of cosciousness and that has nothing to do with him.

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?

Love.

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?

I would move into a public service role most likely in the National Planning Commission or a ministry that plays an important role in economic development of South Africa. I believe that young people must play a more active role in understanding how their countries work, and directing the definition of public policy and the implementation thereof. Otherwise how will we become better leaders?

9.If you had a superpower, what would it be?

The power to make people believe in themselves. I’d work my magic on myself too!

10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 5 things would you want to have?

My iPhone (I’m cheating here!)
A thick notebook
A pen
Sunscreen
A book about meditation

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?

I’d be a BMW M3. I have always had a serious crush on this model of BMWs. They are just the sexiest things.

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?

This is easy: Two Door Cinema Club. it’s an Irish band that does Indie Rock music. The lyrics are positive and uplifting, the kind of lyrics you wish more kids would grow up listening to. Their basic message is that everyone can be all they want to be. Yet the music does not drip in cheesy lyrics, just an authentic message that more people should hear and believe.

13. What drives you?

Love. I’m very passionate about the things I love, and that passion drives me to no end. When I love, I become a selfless worrier, I fight, I cry, I work long hours, I get mad, I become demanding, I push, I encourage for what I love.

14. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.

The first degree I enrolled in after high school was a BSC in Mining Geology. After working in mines across South Africa during my vacation, I ran out of there kicking and screaming. This is how I discovered that loving what you do is so important and since then I’ve worked very hard to mentor young women especially to find their passions and be committed to their truths. Love is everything.

I cannot walk past a bookshop. Worse, once in, I will more than likely find something I like especially if it is a second hand book store. To relieve the budgetary strain, I started avoiding bookshops, streets with bookshops, friends who might take me to bookshops.

Amazon has since put paid to that as well. I am bloated with literature. I have no less than 5 half-read books on my night stand and more than a dozen on my e-reader. Add to this the distraction that twitter has become… The concentration I need to fully immerse myself in a book seems to be getting harder to come by.

Take this post for instance, it was supposed to be about a memorable trip to a bookshop but has turned into whatever this is. Sigh. Concentrate.

Anyway, it was one of those rare occasions when I go to a bookshop purposefully. I knew the book I wanted (I had espied it on a previous visit) and I knew its price. I also knew there was but one copy. This last bit worried me but I took heart in the belief that most people here are not keen readers of my favourite genre.

The book was in the SF and Fantasy section. Why is that by the way? Why would you put a hard SF in the fantasy section? Do they even know what cyber punk is? Soft SF? Alternative history? I am sure they do this just to piss us off. There must be nothing more hilarious than an SF fan ranting about how a light saber is different from a fucking magic sword. Shit, I did it again. Concentrate.

So yes, I walked straight to the SF and Fantasy (woosah) section and looked through the titles for what I was looking for. It was missing! Gone! I went straight to the counter, forcing a calm I did not feel, and asked whether the book was still in stock.

“We have one copy. We have had it for weeks.”

Relief! The book was still in the store. Obvious conclusion, one of the patrons had it and was yet to pay for it. This was a media store and even as large and as varied as it was, I had never seen more than 10 people at the book section at any single time. I saw him.

He was in the Drama/Thriller section. The book was in his hands. Open. I kid you not, I nearly left the store but what’s this? He was walking back to the Fantasy section. The look on his face indicated that perhaps the few passages he was reading were not to his liking. I felt light. Perhaps I even felt elated. I floated back to the Fantasy section trying to look unconcerned, just another shopper looking for something to read. He placed the book back on the shelf.

Do you know what planck time is? It is the shortest measurable, observable time. Turns out the universe is digital after all. Amazing right? Damn, digressed again. I snatched that book off that shelf in a planck instant. He turned to look at me and by the look on his face, he could not understand the triumph he clearly saw on mine. Ah well, there will always those who don’t understand.

The Book: Black Man by Richard Morgan. It was as amazing as anticipated.

The Bookstore: Numetro Junction before Silverbird bought it.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

These lines from Langston Hughes’ poem “Dream Deferred” lend this book its title and lay the groundwork of a play that, 54 years after Hansberry had it published, still echoes true in a world that is different from the one in which she wrote it.

The play opens at the residence of the Youngers; a Black family that lives in the South side of Chicago and awaits a cheque with anticipation that would be palpable on stage. Their breadwinner having passed away, this cheque is the next step in life for a family that escaped the South; his life insurance cheque. For Mama, it is a mean replacement for the man she lived with for many years while for each of the other adults in the family, this cheque presents a chance for them to fulfil their dreams. The Youngers live in a small apartment in conditions that are appalling and it’s no wonder that they all seem to have invested so much of themselves in a piece of paper. The cheque comes to represent, on some level, the older Mr Younger embodied. A sort of sacrament for the fulfilment of his family.

Money is definitely a significant issue in this play. Making it, spending it, squandering it, anticipating it. In a time when the global economy is a shambles, it’s certainly relevant. The Youngers’ talk of money would be vulgar in the eyes of the elite but it will be very familiar to those people who sense that their life has transformed into a struggle to survive, let alone progress. The promise of money that lingers in this play is particularly poignant as it progresses. At once a tool for hope and despair, Hansberry managed to paint a picture that encapsulates all the various ways in which it comes to represent so many different things to each of the members of the household.

Race also hangs heavily on the people in the book. While we in Africa do not live in a world that discriminates against us on the basis of colour, race as Hansberry writes of it is a placeholder for all the other sources of inequality that pervade the world. Religion, wealth, political leanings-these can all be substituted with race in this play to present a highly readable and relatable play. Here we see the politics of hair that show us a world that gave rise to the Afro-it’s not hair, it’s politics-and Walter’s speeches show us what it means to be a Black man in America. This is race before the furore of the death of Trayvon Martin, race before Obama or the passing of various Civil Rights laws. This is marginalisation that is riveting for its familiarity.

Race and money coalesce to present us with a picture of what it means to strive and what breaking away does to those who manage to escape from poverty. The ‘uppity’ black man is encapsulated by George, a young man who views all things Black with disdain. He is the true embodiment of the feeling of the oppressed that might is right. Hansberry juxtaposed him beautifully against the lone African character in the play. Eager to lead his country to freedom, the hope he has contrasts sharply with the hopelessness felt by Walter, the younger Mr Younger. The Black experience is not a linear experience. In one house-for that is the only place in which this play occurs-all the various permutations of what exactly it means to be Black are queried and spoken of in the language of the man on the street and that of those we have grown to know as the  Black Panthers.

Reading this play in a country like Kenya, it is particularly jarring how much Hansberry saw into the future. As Asagai, the lone African character, speaks to the Americans you can hear his lofty positions. His country may be part of the Empire but he has pride. In a searing monologue, he looks into the future and foresees the fate of Lumumba and the tragedies that were visited upon the people on the continent in the wake of independence. This issue puts hope in perspective; should it be unfettered or would limiting it be a denial of the very freedom of the people?

The women in this play present a microcosm of society. Women are treated as second class citizens in society and sustain this in their own lives. Hansberry shows that it might be true that women are their own enemies but this play also shows the sisterhood of women in a very beautiful way. Banding together to develop themselves and their own, they do it in a way that is uniquely female. Ruth Younger’s predicaments distill those of so many women and the solutions that are developed in the time of the play are a model of female strength rarely seen on stage. This doesn’t mean that men are relegated to the back burner. Rather, they are shown in all their complexity with the strength and influence of women a significant theme.

Hansberry wrote a play that celebrated feminism before it had a name. There is a direct line that links the thoughts of the three women in the Younger household. Women who are vastly different-one Southern, one a domestic worker, another young and educated-show the true nature of feminism. Set in a country that went on to treat the feminist ideal as a White ideal, it is a reminder to the world that the development of self and the liberation of the mind and body are human and to limit the experiences of any one gender is to subtract from humanity.

Set in a changing world, this play retains its freshness for that very reason. Even as things change, they truly remain the same. Ambition and aspiration are common denominators of the human experience. Written when Ghana was the only independent ex-colony in Africa, its telling of the desire for freedom rings true today in the wake of the Arab Spring and with the recent coups in some parts of Africa.

So many things about this play reverberate in a world vastly different from that in which Hansberry lived and died. Women, Black people and the residents of the African continent have made significant gains but so much is yet to be done and achieved. The soaring end of this play is hope as we have not been taught to expect. Not ‘happily ever after’ but living to die another day. At times heart-rending and entertaining, this is a classic play.

PS Phoenix Players are currently staging ‘A Raisin in the Sun’; a chance to see the play come alive.

Publisher: Vintage Books
Year published: 1994

James Mwai

The app allows users to easily and quickly find important businesses and services in their surrounding or any other location using their Nokia phones. AroundMe recently won 75,000 Euros in Nokia’s create4millions global competition.

We had a few questions for him and this is what he had to say:

1. What was your first phone?  

Motorola. I can’t remember the model but it I remember it had an extendable antenna.

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?
Twitter. It’s easier to stay updated with my areas of interest than Facebook. Plus it’s more fun.

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years:
Running my own software firm. I want to have changed the lives of many people for the better.

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well       

Yes. How much am I getting paid for this?

One Million Dollars*

(*Zimbabwe Dollars)

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?

Fire the entire cabinet and appoint my friends. Throw a party state house has never seen.

6. Whats your favourite book& movie? 
I am not widely read as I mostly just read programming books but I love science fiction and fantasy. My favorite book is The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and my favourite Film is The Lord of the Rings.

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?  
Wangari Maathai: I worked with her for some time and she taught me the power of resilience and never giving up on what you are aiming for in life.

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?
A magician. I have seen lots of magic videos and I would like to be that cool as well.

9.If you had a superpower, what would it be?   
The ability to teleport from one place to another.

10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 5 things would you want to have?

• Unlimited music
• My laptop
• A camera
• A notebook and a pen
• Unlimited food.

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?        
A self-driving car. They can’t get here soon enough.

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?   

Coldplay. It’s one of my favourite bands.

13. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.   

If someone tickles me, I laugh in retrograde. Instead of saying “ha” I say “ah”.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”

~ Chief Tecumseh (Poem from Act of Valor the Movie)

Reposted from movemequotes.com

“Shut up and put it in a blog!” I have often wanted to tell myself that. No, it is not because I write slightly longer tweets, longer than 140 characters, but because I feel that our conversations are undocumented. It is not that we are not having conversations. We do, all the time. Unfortunately, all these conversations are buried somewhere in the privacy of coffee shops and the overloaded twitter streams. There is really never a tomorrow for them. After the #SomeoneTellCNN debacle, a friend asked me why we are complaining about ‘stories untold’, yet we never really tell our stories. “Don’t you people have blogs?” he asked before I could slide in an excuse of how our publishers are to blame. And you know what? He was right. There is something we are lacking, something that only a few blogs, like this one here (Diasporadical) have going. If someone were to scout the interwebs, not for news pieces, but for social and political commentaries in Kenya, I doubt they would find many. Maybe I am the one who does not know where to look.

A writer I was reading over the weekend tackled the issue of gutless writers of this age, and it resonated. He spoke of the lack of a political dimension in the works of fiction being produced. He was speaking about the American literature sphere, but just like them, we have very many writers in Kenya, but many of us do not write. A certain twitter I follow likes to put this message out there: ‘Writers write.’ What else do they do if they do not write? But the gutless of us will rarely write, especially on social/ political commentaries. We steer clear of this.  When issues arise, where there is a clash of interests, even the most opinionated do not talk about it. I understand that things often get messy, and there are snakes you do not want to rattle, but I know I am not alone when I say that the conversation on blogs is dying, and/or it is leaning towards some subjects and steering clear of the most important.

I might not be the biggest fan of Clay Muganda, but his writing, I find fearless. I have often wondered how many lawsuits he has collected in his writing career. I don’t know if there is a shift of interest, where writers are no longer interested in matters of politics and social commentaries. Maybe I am just being a paranoid reader.

We all know that mass media shapes opinion, and it isn’t a secret that it has already prostituted itself. If you have a sharp eye for cracks, you have noticed that most of the opinion pieces in our mainstream media drive an agenda. It is commoditized opinion. Even most of the articles and talk shows we are watching on TV are purely a case of promotional work, where opinion is subject to the products or the politicians which these shows and columns represent.

There is thus a vacuum that needs to be filled. Unfortunately, many of those who would fill in this cavity aren’t as gutsy. We tremble a lot. We would rather just not be concerned. I know you want to tell me that ‘it depends’ with the kind of work one puts out there. But if we were to learn from history, writers have been vocal about things affecting societies of their times, regardless of their genres. In some areas, they go ahead and even hold debates.

Here, we are not that engaged with our society. A few are, and many among them are driving paid-for-agenda.

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Find her on twitter

We had a few questions for him & this is what he had to say.

1. What was your first phone?

Sony Ericson T100

2. What do you prefer? Facebook or Twitter? Why?

Twitter. When I got into twitter first using @kunavijana I did not find it exciting. I was a facebook addict. I was practically living on the FB timeline. Then @vancemuriu happened and I followed and got followed by interesting people. I have never looked back. Twitter has more serious people than FB. For instance, I have sold so many cars, rented cars out/ offered transport services to many tweeps. Inquiries more often than not convert to sales, unlike on on Facebook where all you get are inquiries. Out of every 20 inquiries, 2 materialize on Facebook. On twitter, for every 5, 2 materialize.

Something else with twitter, there is no time to beat around the bush; you just say what needs to be said, thanks to the 140 characters. On Facebook, you will have to read so many irrelevant things to get to the point. Again, it is through twitter that wanadamu (@wehaveblood) and other initiatives have been successfully launched and executed.

3. Where do you see yourself in 5 years

In 5 years, My ndevus will be kedo 20 since they are currently 13. I will hopefully have gotten to where I want to be business-wise and be running successful ventures across the globe. I also intend to a start a personal mentoring network where I empower the less fortunate to make things happen. I will be retired maybe married with Kids. That is kama hitilafu za kimitambo hazitatokea

4. Any question for us? We’ll publish our answer as well

If you had two 5 litre empty containers, which one would fill up first if all factors remained constant except the distance from the tap? Is it the one nearest to or farthest from the tap? (10 marks)

• We”d take the one that’s farthest from the tap. We love doing things the hard way .

5. What would you do if you were president for a day?

If I was president for a day I would make 3 changes.

a)    Today, many accidents on Kenyan roads are caused by careless drivers and poor training. It is not possible to control a vehicle in the eventuality of mechanical failures like brakes fail while driving at a speed of 80km/h, while in driving school, the driver was never taught at speeds exceeding 20km/h. I would change some driving schools policies which I believe will reduce the number of accidents in Kenya.

b)    I would get the education system overhauled. I believe the current structure is limiting, as opposed to a more open and interactive format, which kills dreams by making it impossible to turn them into reality, thanks to the continued direct/indirect defeatist attitude fed to us.

c)     I would somehow ensure that the members of parliament in my government are the ones who would serve the people, and fire non-performers. What we currently have are MPs who earn huge salaries. I might even consider scraping the large salaries and benefits scheme, leaving it to the minimum gross and a few benefits, which would mean that people getting to parliament are there to do more work and help the society than looking to line their pockets.

6. Whats your favourite book & movie?

Favourite book: ‘Losing My Virginity by Richard Branson’

Favorite Movie: I’d have to go with Unstoppable. It is the only movie I have watched more than once and I clapped the first time I watched it. I know it is shady but I enjoyed it that much.

7. Who/What inspired you to do what you do now?

I’d have to say my belief that we as humans are capable of doing so much with limited resources and unlimited freedom to express what we are. Since I could never get the freedom part in a job, I chose to go it alone, seeing as that was the best way to test the ‘limited resources’ aspect while doing what I loved most, while inspiring people and earning a living while at it.

8. If you were to change jobs, what profession would you get into? Why?

Change jobs.., that is a hard one since I have never been employed but I’d go for either a lawyer since I know how to make things happen through words. Or an ambulance driver. The Nakuru cops can tell you why.

9.If you had a superpower, what would it be?

I would wave a magic wand to increase my day beyond the standard 24 hours. 24 hours just isn’t enough given that I already sleep for 3 hours!

10. If you were deserted on an abandoned island what 3 things would you want to have?

i) My laptop

ii) Unlimited internet

iii) Water

11. If you were a car, what car would you like to be? Why?

A fridge magnet as @archermishale likes to call them, aka a Vitz. It gets the job done in the most efficient manner and it is the most ladies preferred choice.

12. If you could be in any band in the world, which one would you like to be in? Why?

Simple Plan. Since they do most songs that I relate to. I think I could ace their performances as I would be performing out of experience. Kwanza that song ‘your love in a lie …..’ *grabs water bottle as mic*

13. Share something interesting about yourself with our readers.

You will never find me in a tie, with a watch or carrying a wallet. I love manual cars. I sleep 3 hours in a day and I have to literally load when I wake up. I do not drink alcohol or smoke. They say I am a workaholic. I have very bad eating habits. I ain’t careless, I just care less about people who do not add value or spend the whole day complaining without taking any action where possible.

It’s taken for granted that one will grow old and lose a sense of idealism. Grow jaded, one may say. We have grown to accept that aid doesn’t work and compassion fatigue is real. Maybe it shouldn’t be so, Yunus argues. From the Banker to the Poor comes ‘Creating a World Without Poverty’; a thesis that seeks to reconcile the world order with the goal of putting an end to poverty.

Yunus posits that the panacea to poverty is a new business paradigm. Social business, he calls it. As you read his description of it, the idealist in you (who, it turns out, didn’t leave) starts to perk up. And with good cause. He delivers an idea that bears an elegant simplicity. It is important, in his opinion, to rethink the way business is carried out and social business may just be the way to solve society’s issues.

A common feature of big business everywhere is the world is the idea of the ‘double bottom line’-the notion that a company should be able to make profit while making a social difference. As attractive as that may sound this book presents it as an idyll that is well nigh impossible. Capitalism in and of itself can be the engine that drives change without pushing for this double bottom line. Yunus started Grameen Bank after a stint teaching economics at university level in the United States and in his native Bangladesh. This is no light assertion from a man who has an advanced understanding of the economic system that most of the world is pivoted on.

Poverty, Yunus argued when he and Grameen Bank received the Nobel Prize for Peace in 2006, is a threat to peace. A prescient book, it foresaw the events of the Arab Spring and the Occupy Movement. A key factor mentioned in all of these protests is the state of the economy-its workings and failings-and the need to overturn the system. Climate change, overconsumption and the marginalization of those that constitute half of the world’s people are the fruits of the greed that is the tree of capitalism. Humanity desires the best for each other, this book counters, and offers up a way in which the goodness of people can be reconciled with the mechanics of capitalism. While it acknowledges that capitalism and globalization may be the mechanisms that have set up these condition this book’s thrust is that they can be turned on its head to fix these issues. Enter social business.

A key premise of social business is the co-operation that is possible between corporations and those interested in an end to poverty. This is not a fancy foundation, though-a description of the workings of this new business model makes that quite clear. The business is different from other profit making businesses in that its stated goal is to lift people out of poverty through the provision of socially-conscious products and services sold in the market. An idea that quite easily lends itself to abstraction, Yunus holds up Grameen Danone (a social business started by Grameen Bank) as an exemplar model of how it works as well as the challenges that may be encountered on business and legislative levels.

Social business is revolutionary idea. The needs of a community can be served in the framework of capitalism, it seems. Aid, as Dambisa Moyo and others have argued in the recent past, does not empower the people and Yunus pushes for a shift from donations to investment. The business of aid is largely immoral not just in the way it works but also in its ability to take away some of the very humanity of both aid workers and those for whom the aid is intended. Technology and the mainstreaming of gender are key factors in the workings of social business and this book manages to situate these issues in a way that shows how they can be exploited to bring people out of poverty.

This book espouses the ethos of Grameen Bank: The poor can be trusted with money and capitalism can be the engine that powers them out of poverty. This is a departure from the commonly accepted idea that capitalism locks out the poor and a brave new egalitarian world is needed. He diagnoses some of the matters that seem to negate the work of the micro finance sector amongst which are interest rates that are usurious to say the least. In a hard-hitting analysis of micro finance institutions (MFIs), he presents a balanced view of what ails them. This is a refreshing aspect of this book; the ability to hold up a mirror to his core mission and point out just how good intentions don’t always seem to translate into great execution.

Yunus insists on the need to stay true to the microcredit ethos and suggests the radical overhaul of the workings of MFIs to better allow them to succeed. The role of MFIs, he insists, is to lift people out of poverty. To not achieve this goal will be to fail the poor. This is a chilling way to think of it especially in a world where the European debt crisis assails us on a daily basis with tales of woe. While acknowledging the many permutations of poverty across the globe, Yunus presents a set of measures that put the need to take people out of poverty in relief.

Bangladesh reads a lot like Africa. Widespread poverty, government systems that fail to serve the entire populace and a large population that faces natural disasters often. The descriptions of poverty in this book are more poignant for their familiarity. These are not the stories one reads in magazines about far-off places. In a place like Kenya, a continent like Africa, this is what life is for many. It’s not all gloom and doom, though; for all the heart-wrenching descriptions of poverty, this book offers a highly readable sliver of hope.

This book acknowledges the utopian quality of a business that will be a break from the usual; one that demands so much from people’s imaginations. People need to buy into the notion of social business and a successful uptake of this idea will eventually lead to the linking of business with poverty reduction in a way that is beneficial to all the bodies involved. An incisive read, it sells an idea whose time, it seems, is now. Huxley once wrote of a brave new world well on its path to implosion; Yunus might just have written the blueprint for one that thrives.

Publisher: Public Affairs

Year published: 2007

ISBN: 978-1-58648-667-9

Price: Kshs. 2,500

Involuntary.
My descent to this world.
I kicked and screamed!
Defiance against my expulsion.
I am light but with darkness,
Creator-Destroyer.
Now royalty relegated to slave.

My mind, a living control room
Where signals are sent out to the universe.
I received feedback. Once.
Then my stay here lulled me to a dreamless sleep
Where freedom is a right,
Slavery the reality.

Sleeping beauty awaits no prince.
I’ve awoken to paint
Liberating words with one hand
And slay with the other Jabberwockies
That freely roam the earth.

Voluntary.
My living in this world.
I kick and scream.
Defiance against my exclusion.
Do not say I do not matter
That I’m merely a statistic
No strength or power
Because I am one. Alone.

How ridiculous for man to think he matters.
How ridiculous for him to think he does not.

I went about finding myself
And I stumbled upon you
Guard down
Eyes wide shut
Limbic system overdrive
Heartbeat leaped
Then I paused.
You held my hand and smiled
And I sighed
Opened my eyes
Hole in my soul forced shut
Rational thought kicked in
And I smiled back.