They call the Third World the lazy man’s purview; the sluggishly slothful and languorous prefecture. In this realm people are sleepy, dreamy, torpid, lethargic, and therefore indigent—totally penniless, needy, destitute, poverty-stricken, disfavored, and impoverished. In this demesne, as they call it, there are hardly any discoveries, inventions, and innovations. Africa is the trailblazer. Some still call it “the dark continent” for the light that flickers under the tunnel is not that of hope, but an approaching train. And because countless keep waiting in the way of the train, millions die and many more remain decapitated by the day.
“It’s amazing how you all sit there and watch yourselves die,” the man next to me said. “Get up and do something about it.”
Brawny, fully bald-headed, with intense, steely eyes, he was as cold as they come. When I first discovered I was going to spend my New Year’s Eve next to him on a non-stop JetBlue flight from Los Angeles to Boston I was angst-ridden. I associate marble-shaven Caucasians with iconoclastic skin-heads, most of who are racist.
“My name is Walter,” he extended his hand as soon as I settled in my seat.
I told him mine with a precautious smile.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“Zambia.”
“Zambia!” he exclaimed, “Kaunda’s country.”
“Yes,” I said, “Now Sata’s.”
“But of course,” he responded. “You just elected King Cobra as your president.”
My face lit up at the mention of Sata’s moniker. Walter smiled, and in those cold eyes I saw an amenable fellow, one of those American highbrows who shuttle between Africa and the U.S.
“I spent three years in Zambia in the 1980s,” he continued. “I wined and dined with Luke Mwananshiku, Willa Mungomba, Dr. Siteke Mwale, and many other highly intelligent Zambians.” He lowered his voice. “I was part of the IMF group that came to rip you guys off.” He smirked. “Your government put me in a million dollar mansion overlooking a shanty called Kalingalinga. From my patio I saw it all—the rich and the poor, the ailing, the dead, and the healthy.”
“Are you still with the IMF?” I asked.
“I have since moved to yet another group with similar intentions. In the next few months my colleagues and I will be in Lusaka to hypnotize the cobra. I work for the broker that has acquired a chunk of your debt. Your government owes not the World Bank, but us millions of dollars. We’ll be in Lusaka to offer your president a couple of millions and fly back with a check twenty times greater.”
“No, you won’t,” I said. “King Cobra is incorruptible. He is …”
He was laughing. “Says who? Give me an African president, just one, who has not fallen for the carrot and stick.”
Quett Masire’s name popped up.
“Oh, him, well, we never got to him because he turned down the IMF and the World Bank. It was perhaps the smartest thing for him to do.”
At midnight we were airborne. The captain wished us a happy 2012 and urged us to watch the fireworks across Los Angeles.
“Isn’t that beautiful,” Walter said looking down.
From my middle seat, I took a glance and nodded admirably.
“That’s white man’s country,” he said. “We came here on Mayflower and turned Indian land into a paradise and now the most powerful nation on earth. We discovered the bulb, and built this aircraft to fly us to pleasure resorts like Lake Zambia.”
I grinned. “There is no Lake Zambia.”
He curled his lips into a smug smile. “That’s what we call your country. You guys are as stagnant as the water in the lake. We come in with our large boats and fish your minerals and your wildlife and leave morsels—crumbs. That’s your staple food, crumbs. That corn-meal you eat, that’s crumbs, the small Tilapia fish you call Kapenta is crumbs. We the Bwanas (whites) take the cat fish. I am the Bwana and you are the Muntu. I get what I want and you get what you deserve, crumbs. That’s what lazy people get—Zambians, Africans, the entire Third World.”
The smile vanished from my face.
“I see you are getting pissed off,” Walter said and lowered his voice. “You are thinking this Bwana is a racist. That’s how most Zambians respond when I tell them the truth. They go ballistic. Okay. Let’s for a moment put our skin pigmentations, this black and white crap, aside. Tell me, my friend, what is the difference between you and me?”
“There’s no difference.”
“Absolutely none,” he exclaimed. “Scientists in the Human Genome Project have proved that. It took them thirteen years to determine the complete sequence of the three billion DNA subunits. After they
were all done it was clear that 99.9% nucleotide bases were exactly the same in you and me. We are the same people. All white, Asian, Latino, and black people on this aircraft are the same.”
I gladly nodded.
“And yet I feel superior,” he smiled fatalistically. “Every white person on this plane feels superior to a black person. The white guy who picks up garbage, the homeless white trash on drugs, feels superior to you no matter his status or education. I can pick up a nincompoop from the New York streets, clean him up, and take him to Lusaka and you all be crowding around him chanting muzungu, muzungu and yet he’s a riffraff. Tell me why my angry friend.”
For a moment I was wordless.
“Please don’t blame it on slavery like the African Americans do, or colonialism, or some psychological impact or some kind of stigmatization. And don’t give me the brainwash poppycock. Give me a better answer.”
I was thinking.
He continued. “Excuse what I am about to say. Please do not take offense.”
I felt a slap of blood rush to my head and prepared for the worst.
“You my friend flying with me and all your kind are lazy,” he said. “When you rest your head on the pillow you don’t dream big. You and other so-called African intellectuals are damn lazy, each one of you. It is you, and not those poor starving people, who is the reason Africa is in such a deplorable state.”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” I protested.
He was implacable. “Oh yes it is and I will say it again, you are lazy. Poor and uneducated Africans are the most hardworking people on earth. I saw them in the Lusaka markets and on the street selling merchandise. I saw them in villages toiling away. I saw women on Kafue Road crushing stones for sell and I wept. I said to myself where are the Zambian intellectuals? Are the Zambian engineers so imperceptive they cannot invent a simple stone crusher, or a simple water filter to purify well water for those poor villagers? Are you telling me that after thirty-seven years of independence your university school of engineering has not produced a scientist or an engineer who can make simple small machines for mass use? What is the school there for?”
I held my breath.
“Do you know where I found your intellectuals? They were in bars quaffing. They were at the Lusaka Golf Club, Lusaka Central Club, Lusaka Playhouse, and Lusaka Flying Club. I saw with my own eyes a bunch of alcoholic graduates. Zambian intellectuals work from eight to five and spend the evening drinking. We don’t. We reserve the evening for brainstorming.”
He looked me in the eye.
“And you flying to Boston and all of you Zambians in the Diaspora are just as lazy and apathetic to your country. You don’t care about your country and yet your very own parents, brothers and sisters are in Mtendere, Chawama, and in villages, all of them living in squalor. Many have died or are dying of neglect by you. They are dying of AIDS because you cannot come up with your own cure. You are here calling yourselves graduates, researchers and scientists and are fast at articulating your credentials once asked—oh, I have a PhD in this and that—PhD my foot!”
I was deflated.
“Wake up you all!” he exclaimed, attracting the attention of nearby passengers. “You should be busy lifting ideas, formulae, recipes, and diagrams from American manufacturing factories and sending them to your own factories. All those research findings and dissertation papers you compile should be your country’s treasure. Why do you think the Asians are a force to reckon with? They stole our ideas and turned them into their own. Look at Japan, China, India, just look at them.”
He paused. “The Bwana has spoken,” he said and grinned. “As long as you are dependent on my plane, I shall feel superior and you my friend shall remain inferior, how about that? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians, even Latinos are a notch better. You Africans are at the bottom of the totem pole.”
He tempered his voice. “Get over this white skin syndrome and begin to feel confident. Become innovative and make your own stuff for god’s sake.”
At 8 a.m. the plane touched down at Boston’s Logan International Airport. Walter reached for my hand.
“I know I was too strong, but I don’t give it a damn. I have been to Zambia and have seen too much poverty.” He pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something. “Here, read this. It was written by a friend.”
He had written only the title: “Lords of Poverty.”
Thunderstruck, I had a sinking feeling. I watched Walter walk through the airport doors to a waiting car. He had left a huge dust devil twirling in my mind, stirring up sad memories of home. I could see Zambia’s literati—the cognoscente, intelligentsia, academics, highbrows, and scholars in the places he had mentioned guzzling and talking irrelevancies. I remembered some who have since passed—how they got the highest grades in mathematics and the sciences and attained the highest education on the planet. They had been to Harvard, Oxford, Yale, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), only to leave us with not a single invention or discovery. I knew some by name and drunk with them at the Lusaka Playhouse and Central Sports.
Walter is right. It is true that since independence we have failed to nurture creativity and collective orientations. We as a nation lack a workhorse mentality and behave like 13 million civil servants dependent on a government pay cheque. We believe that development is generated 8-to-5 behind a desk wearing a tie with our degrees hanging on the wall. Such a working environment does not offer the opportunity for fellowship, the excitement of competition, and the spectacle of innovative rituals.
But the intelligentsia is not solely, or even mainly, to blame. The larger failure is due to political circumstances over which they have had little control. The past governments failed to create an environment of possibility that fosters camaraderie, rewards innovative ideas and encourages resilience. KK, Chiluba, Mwanawasa, and Banda embraced orthodox ideas and therefore failed to offer many opportunities for drawing outside the line.
I believe King Cobra’s reset has been cast in the same faculties as those of his predecessors. If today I told him that we can build our own car, he would throw me out.
“Naupena? Fuma apa.” (Are you mad? Get out of here)
Knowing well that King Cobra will not embody innovation at Walter’s level let’s begin to look for a technologically active-positive leader who can succeed him after a term or two. That way we can make our own stone crushers, water filters, water pumps, razor blades, and harvesters. Let’s dream big and make tractors, cars, and planes, or, like Walter said, forever remain inferior.
A fundamental transformation of our country from what is essentially non-innovative to a strategic superior African country requires a bold risk-taking educated leader with a triumphalist attitude and we have one in YOU. Don’t be highly strung and feel insulted by Walter. Take a moment and think about our country. Our journey from 1964 has been marked by tears. It has been an emotionally overwhelming experience. Each one of us has lost a loved one to poverty, hunger, and disease. The number of graves is catching up with the population. It’s time to change our political culture. It’s time for Zambian intellectuals to cultivate an active-positive progressive movement that will change our lives forever. Don’t be afraid or dispirited, rise to the challenge and salvage the remaining few of your beloved ones.

Below are  4 ignored “small things” while moving from Photoshop to HTML to code.

1) Border  underline

The use of font style underline to achieve a border underline not only separates boys from men, it also affects the whole symmetry of the website. Space is the most important element in my opinion when it comes to web design. Move the line-height by a pixel up or down and your website is either a hot girl or an ugly one. If so much is decided by a pixel in line height, imagine an entire border line?

2) Rounded Corners

Rounded corners create a different feeling from Sharp corners. A while back it used to be quite some work setting rounded corners on divs, but, with CSS3′s border-radius, laziness has lost excuse

3) Fontface

Incase you didn’t know this, FONTS ARE A BIG DEAL! In terms of user experience, fonts play a major role on how the user will interact with your website and together with shapes help set the entire MOOD of the website. Infact, choosing to ignore custom fonts is just like ignoring shapes. Same damage.

4) UL styling

So you are finished writing your markup, everything looks fine and functional. Your designer however trying to impress the client added grenades, tiny rockets beside the list instead of just sticking to the usual bullets!! CSS doesn’t offer internal imagery that comes close to that, so you have to crop the image and define it’s styles specially and this affects the margins!! ARGH!!! So you decide to ingore the bloody UL images. After all, they don’t mean so much now do they?! YES! They do. Small errors like those become habit and that’s not good.

My analysis

Young Children sprawling in Nairobi

You will normally spot this kids around major shopping outlets like Nakumatt. They are very strategic in their advances, they will approach you when you are with a lady friend, laughing, or, whispering something to her ear. They know for certain that you want to keep that moment going and you are likely to give them some money hastily to stop them from ruining your moves.

I never give such kids money! My reasons?

1. The kids are way too jumpy to be hungry! They dash from your left to your right side in amazing speed, pull your hand, hang onto your legs and many other acrobatics that require the body to have plenty of energy to perform. They are lying to you. They had breakfast, lunch and supper, if you give them that money, they probably take it to their boss at the end of the day and get a commission. Same as you in your pathetic job! yet you decided to spare some money, thinking you are doing some good for this world.
2. The children always run away from police. Why do they have to run? What are they hiding?
3. Like my good friend Linda asks, what is a six year old doing outside in the middle of the night? What sort of parent would allow that?

Blind beggars who corner you while you devour your chapati madondo in a restaurant or hotel.

I am tempted to speak of beggars who time you during lunch while you devour your “kuku steaky” with Ugali with similar harshness. Problem is, this guys are normally genuinely blind! You will never be approached in a hotel by a beggar with sun glasses. No, they know how to work your guilt! They expose their damaged eyes so that if you turn them away, and continue enjoying your juicy steak, you will qualify as a Hitler re-born! Someone incapable of mercy. My advice is, help this guys, or, invite them to join you for a meal. After all, they are human, just like you.

Beggars who approach your place of work with petition papers.

This are the most dangerous and I personally do not waste any of my time reading the papers. I realize that there might be a few genuine petition papers, but, the people who give the beggars this papers should search for alternative methods of donation because the transparency of that system has been overrun by con men and thieves. Most of this beggars pretend to be deaf and dumb. They enter your office and place the petition papers on your desk for you to read, while leaving, they grab the papers and your mobile phone or anything else of value that might have been on your desk. They then thank you, give you Gods blessings and head to their brokers to sell the kill. If you happen to catch them in the act, please don’t beat them to death, lynch them or anything else tantamount! I do not support such methods. Please report the matter to the nearest police station.

Civilians who claim to have been robbed or just lack bus fare for some reason.

My advice, don’t give them anything! This has become a business. Sorry! Walk all the way home. While in college I didn’t have bus fare. I walked more than 10km everyday. If I could do it, you can too. Get your walk on..

Beggars who carry a plastic bag with their intestines and other body organs inside.

I will let you decide what to do on this one, but, I never give them money for 2 reasons

1. I don’t feel like my 50 bob will help in anything. You need serious help. Go to a doctor or an N.G.O. I am sure there are able bodied organizations that are willing to help.
2. Its just wrong carrying and showing your internal organs to people.

Beggars playing musical instruments

Give them, just think of it as paying for the act

Having just returned to mtaa after a long absence, I went to visit my old friend Gullit to check on how he was doing. I visited his house but he wasn’t there, I checked his mums but she hadnt seen Gullit since the previous night. While exiting, I met Gullit outside the door on his way in. We exchanged our Hi’s and umepotea sana before we dived straight into the kutoanishwa where he bluntly sought to hustle money from me. I told him I was going through a rough period myself but I could buy him lunch as we discuss who just got shot or who got lynched by the mob in Dandora and so on. En route to the Halima’s kibanda for some pilau, I asked him how life was. He told me he had just come back from a construction site where he was seeking employment as a casual labourer but it hadn’t gone so well, he explained that getting a job, even as a casual labourer had become more difficult than climbing Mt Kenya since there were so many people in need of jobs. In his words “Sasa Marto mi ntaduu nini? Ule msee alikua mbele yangu kwa line ya Mjengo alikua size yangu kimuili lakini ako fluent in French and Korean” Which translated to English “What am I supposed to do Martin? The guy infront of me at the qeue for the construction job was just well built like me but he was also fluent in French and Korean.” I didn’d quite understand how that was an advantage in a construction job. “Maybe they hired him so that when the building collapses like they all are doing nowadays, the guy can scream for help in 3 languages.” We laughed heartily as we entered Halima’s Pilau den.

I was a frequent customer at Halima’s back in the day so when she saw me she approached me to say hi with a smile that could fit 2 migingo islands inside. I couldn’t embrace her since I was unsure of how that would play in muslim law but I slapped my hand against hers hard enough to show that she had been missed. Before I could even say a word, she hastily explained that I was the only person who deserved a free meal that day but I wasn’t that lucky because of skyrocketing maize flour prices and what not.. I joked about it a little bit trying to reverse her stand but her smile disappeared, her tone changed and she made it clear that if I wasn’t a paying customer I should be on my way. Seeing this, I asked Gullit to sit down and order whatever he wanted! It was on me. After sensing that I was loaded, Halima’s bright smile re-appeared and she ordered one of her waiters to wash our hands. The ghetto being the ghetto, the menu is a black board on the wall and not a fancy booklet on every table. I discussed that with Gullit and AGAIN he attributed it to the high cost of living, skyrocketing prices, bei ya unga. I was getting a bit irritated by this excuse so I let the discussion stretch a little as I asked Gullit to explain how the menu style in the ghetto had to do with anything?? “Marto, sku izi ata mse wa noa kisu analia mafuta ya petroli imepanda.” in English “Martin, nowadays even the local knife sharpener complains that fuel prices have risen.” Again, I asked him what that had to do with anything. He looked at me straight in the eye, almost about to speak his heart out, when the waiter interrupted by requesting to wash our hands. Gullit spread out his arms to have his hands washed and while doing that, he said “Ebu oga mikono wewe, osha uzungu ikutoke.” English “just wash your hands man, wash your western mindset away.” We enjoyed pilau and all along I kept asking myself “why would the knife sharpener complain of rise in fuel prices??” I dont get it, but, if it was in Kiambu where I live, I would understand anyone complaining of rise in fuel prices since people there drink, get drunk and go blind on many fuel products, but hey, maybe I am westernized! OR! Maybe Kenyans should keep complaining instead of thinking of a way forward!! I know that life is difficult in Nairobi and yes, the prices are ridiculously high. But, that shouldn’t alter our respect, discipline and focus in life. I don’t believe proper mannerisms are western ways. I believe they are “ways” just like all other evil ways that we can choose to uphold or ignore. Tuwacheni siasa ya ganji kila saa! English: Let us stop money politics all the time!

When I was a young boy, my mum urged me to study very hard so that I could be a somebody when I grow up. I had a fairly small body, she used to warn that if I didn’t study hard, I would spend my adult life pushing\pulling  a mkokoteni (cart) just like all the other pupils who wouldn’t pay attention in class. Nowadays, a mkokoteni costs 10,000. It’s sort of a luxury. Mothers urging they’re sons to study have edited they’re speeches. Nowadays their sentences are a little bit open ended. “My son, study real hard or else…!!!!” But even so, I am sure your mothers want sons and daughters with insight and direction, even if it’s a heavy loaded mkokoteni they are “driving”

Its one week remaining to East Africa Cup 2011 kick off this year, young people all over East and Central Africa are energized about the “road to Moshi”. Participants from Zambia, Zimbabwe, Burundi, Southern Sudan, Uganda, Rwanda, Kenya and Host Tanzania are excited about participating in Africa largest youth sport and development event. From the 16th of June all roads will be leading to Moshi in Tanzania, not to climb striking Mt Kilimanjaro but to celebrate people who use sport in their community throughout the year. 

To stress that East Africa cup is more than just sports, before the tournaments kicks off on the 22nd of June, leaders will be taking part in different trainings ranging from Kicking Aids Out from 17th to 20st focusing on potential leader level II, leader level II, and master trainers, 18th to 20th referees, 18th and 19th EACCES meeting (East Africa Cup Community Coach Education Systems), BBC world service trust will be delivering trainings on Journalism and media skills from 20th to 25th. Other training focusing on the participants will run concurrently with the tournament i.e. leadership, first aid and sports injuries, cartoon seminars, conflict resolution, HIV/AIDS, culture and coaching. Is this not unique approach!

Another milestone in this year’s event is the introduction of volley ball and sitting volley ball which will be additional to football and reflects EAC desire to connect more with many young people all over East Africa and the whole world.

On the 23rd ICES (International Community Coach Education Standards) webinar will be hosted by East Africa Cup aimed at exploring the role that competition plays in effective sport and development programmes and the implications for coach education in this field. The speakers on this webinar will address the question of whether promoting competitiveness and competition either supports of detracts from development goals. 

This is just a tip of the ice berg, we have a lot happening in this year’s event, you just can’t afford to miss, but if you happen to, we shall be live on twitter, facebook, blog, and also different journalist from different media houses will be broadcasting live news. 

We just cant wait….

Follow us on http://www.facebook.com/eastafricacup, http://twitter.com/#!/eastafricacup and http://www.eacup.org for more updates.

Legit homeless chokoras carry big sacks and walk around collecting plastic cans to sell for a few shillings, they also run petty errands like taking out trash for some rich folks. Every once in a while, life confuses them and they do something stupid like steal some shoes from some door step and they get lynched for that.

Glue sniffing chokoras are the bad breed! We should be ashamed of ourselves for lynching the hardworking kind. Because of our actions, the number of the glue sniffing chokoras has increased and the decent ones has gone down. Glue must also be the worst drug out there! I say, glue is more dangerous than cocaine, more dangerous than heroine and marijuana and all the others. Infact, the only drug at par with glue or maybe close to glue is a cigarette. But that’s discussion for another day… Back to the glue sniffing chokoras…

Glue sniffing chokoras are the kind that would sneak up on you from behind with a pile of shit on one hand and a bottle of glue on the other. They then try extorting money from you threatening to throw the pile of poop on you should you attempt anything stupid. A typical chokora hold up would go down like this..

Chokora: Niajeeeeee budaaaaaaa  retaaaa doh yooooote ama ukureeeeee ii maviiiii reoooo  HAIYAEEEEEEE! (No commas or fullstop)

the Buda: What is this madness?

Chokora: HAIYAEEEEEE….. weeee unacheza na mimiiiiiiiii? hujui mi ukura mavi arafu nacelebrate!

At this point the buda pays up or else he ends up walking home since no matatu would allow him in smelling like shit! Chokora’s shit at that! But, not all chokoras are bad, not at all. While growing up, most of my friends were chokoras. They taught me things I couldn’t learn from ordinary raia. e.g kudandia lorry za mchanga. But, that’s not hard, it’s not even a cool thing. Nowadays, even rich folks kids can alight from a matatu without breaking a sweat. But, only chokoras can do a “tap-tap” hanging behind a lorry on Thika rd. And me of course . Anyone else try that. You’re dead!

Disclaimer: I won’t translate any of this words, if you didn’t understand some or most of them, it would take ages for you to get the fun out of them.

My mum has always been a dreamer. Despite having very few things to inspire her, she has always dreamt of a great life both for her and her children. On this occasion, she kind of went a bit overboard! But, being her son, I had no alternative but to support her.

She invited me for breakfast on a Saturday morning on phone and requested me to bring my laptop with me. I was curious of her intentions since she had repeatedly lectured me on carrying “that thing” around without the receipt to show that it’s legally mine. She was also paranoid of thieves storming into her house because of my laptop bag. I had continuously laughed it off and joked that crooks couldn’t possibly know what hp meant whether on a bag or staring them in the eye. She didn’t understand what hp meant either so it was least amusing.

I went over as requested and after breakfast I asked her why she had asked for the laptop. She explained that there was a rumour around her “chama” that there was a vacant seat for a treasurer at the NHIF. She also explained to me that she felt deep inside that this job was meant for her. “NHIF, like the government thing?” I asked. “The God I serve doesn’t respect building sizes, nothing is impossible to him.” She said. I was silent for a moment. I remembered how she had tried getting a visa to the US a few years back, and how destroyed she was when it was denied. I didn’t want to discourage her, but, at the same time I understood how hard it was to walk into a government job, especially through the front door. I smiled and said “Amen.” “But mum, why the laptop?” I asked. She explained to me that the basic requirements were: age above 30 yrs, speaks English and basic computer skills. She needed me to give her a crash course on “THE COMPUTER.”

“This is the power button, when you press that once, the machine is activated.” She nodded in seriousness. My machine was low on RAM so it dragged before connecting to the hard disk. I thought I should explain (or at least try to) this to her. So I said “My machine is a bit slow but it will load in a few minutes” She responded by saying “It’s ok It’s ok. Am also new to this so the slower the better” I looked at her and lost all my hope. I was just about to correct her on that theory when she stood up and walked out of the room. She returned minutes later with a notebook and a pen. She didn’t even look me in the eye, she focused on the screen. She really wanted that job I guess..

After about an hour. I decided to call it a day. I shut down my laptop and looked at her reading her notes. I asked her for the book, I was just curious to see what she had written down. She handed it to me. What I saw almost made me stagger. All her notes were in Kikuyu language. Our native language… I asked her to repeat the basic requirements again. I made her stop at the “speaks English” part and asked her if she could speak any English. She laughed and in English responded by saying. “but of course, I am speak English” That did not hit me as funny! I asked her to be a bit serious and powered my laptop again, downloaded byki express English tutorials online and made her study that for another 2hrs.

The following day was the big interview day. I went over to wish her luck. She met me at the door and handed me her CV to proof read. You know, in case I doubted her English skills… The CV was pretty ok, no fabrications and the photocopy of a recommendation letter from the Pastor was pinned behind it. While reading the CV however, I noted that the 3 referees listed were Me, my dad and my brother-in-law. I looked at her and decided to let that one slide. See, I knew that only a miracle would get her this job. Unless her competition was papa shirandula and jalas of course . I walked out with her and we boarded a matatu to town. On the matatu, I asked her to pretend that I was the interviewer. I greeted her “Good morning madam, how are you?” She looked at me and laughed serious. I laughed too but then stressed how important this exercise was. I asked her again, “Good morning madam, how are you today?” “Fine am thank you” she said. I could only wish her luck from there. All else was beyond me.

On a warm summer evening, Tor ådne, Johan and I set out on a fishing trip. Ideally, the trip was supposed to be just a fishing trip. So, I rode the boat practising for my future car. I was the Captain! Captain of a boat that moves at 20km\hr!! But, forget the boat and it’s ridiculous speed. Let’s focus on my two friends Tor ådne and Johan. This two are the craziest! craziest! craziest! people I have ever met in my life! And, I say this with no exaggeration whatsoever. Allow me to explain… Our fishing trip was meant to be fun and relaxing, a short trip. The boat I was driving belonged to the school so we were to be very careful of how we used it. We had few litres of diesel and though the boat does’nt consume that much, we were adviced not to travel a long distance. That rule was the same one that my new found friends were so eager to break! Johan – the chief mastermind, somehow convinced Tor ådne and I to join him on a boat trip to Bergen, which was like 30 Kilometres away. I agreed because I was excited to drive a boat for the first time in my life! Take away the bicycle and that’s more like the first thing I have driven in my life.

The trip was exciting at first. The weather was sunny and the sky was clear, we stopped after a few kilometers to fish. We caught 3 big fish, cut their heads and fed them to the hungry birds. We were having so much fun! Then we sailed deeper into the sea, really deep. Many kilometers away from the coastline, that is where it started getting a bit crazy, the boat felt like it was moving slower at full speed.. The clouds seemed to gang up in hostility… darkness encroached.. the water too was hostile! It looked like it was bullying us or something. I don’t have the perfect words to explain it, but all I can say is that, it got very very scary! It started to rain. Only Johan had the appropriate clothing for cover from the rain. Tor ådne and I wore normal clothing and a jacket. Being african, I had an extra sweater but Tor ådne only had a T-shirt and a jacket. It rained long and hard. My hands were freezing stiff and the water was heavy and hostile, at some point, I lost control of the boat and we almost capsized into the deep sea. It is at this point that Johan volunteered to drive but I wouldn’t hear of it! besides, my hand was frozen stiff on the steering thingie anyway! We were starting to get worried, we had sailed for hours but we hadn’t reached Bergen yet! We questioned our sense of direction.. Tor ådne and I threw worried glances at Johan questioning his decision to bring us out here. We wished to arrive like sailors who had been stuck in the waters for years. Several speeding boats had passed us and we envied their speed.. We had passed 3 bridges and still no sign of the city.. we argued whether to turn back but the idea was deadly since the sea was hostile and it would take even longer to go back. At some point, I thought about home, Africa. I missed the sun and the smiles.. I wished for some chapati madondo.. I wished to sit at the local fundi wa baiskeli joint laughing heartily with the makangas… Stuck in the sea… I longed for Africa.

In a miracle of sorts, we took a left down the third bridge and hidden in clouds were tiny houses on hills. BERGEN!! We rejoiced and sang swahili and Norwegian songs. We had overcome the raging storm and made it to BERGEN. One of us was frozen stiff! I will not reveal who it was to avoid embarassment

We docked close to the Sentrum in Bergen and illegally parked our boat somewhere… Cold, wet and freezing we took a bus back to the school. We went back the following day to retreive the boat. The trip back home was fairly smooth, we only stopped at some island to pee and some other petty adventures. But, in the 3 weeks I have spent in Norway, this foreign land. This is the best adventure I have had .

Lots of thanks to Runar who drove us back to Bergen as we searched for the boat having forgotten where we had parked it the previous night.

I apologize for the silence.

I somehow managed to bypass the kenyan police all the way to Europe. I am now in Norway, a city called Bergen in the west coast. it is beautiful here, the people are friendly and rich. The mama mboga in Norway drives a yatch during lunch break. The kind of yatch you see in a Jay-z music video. I consider this post a long tweet thus the title. I shall write a more informative post in regard to my round mwenda after I settle down

glossary: Mama Mboga – Vegetables vendor, Watu wa Mungu – people of God, Round Mwenda – Crazy travels.

Now! I am not the best designer out there, but comparing my version and the one at http://www.africanscifi.com/ there are a number of improvements. for instance,

1. Most of the images are now text meaning the site loads faster and get’s picked by search engines.
2. The images have alternative texts which also improves SEO.
3. The site uses an external CSS style sheet that can serve hundreds of HTML pages. Meaning, if you have to edit a style, you do not amend all the 100 pages but the single CSS sheet.
4. The site has meta tags which richly influence SEO.

There are many other improvements. Also, if I had the exact fonts from the author, I would replicate it to a perfect fit. But, I have used custom fonts that are similar to the author’s to show that custom fonts work.

My version has a few bugs here and there that can be fixed but it is fit to say that it works well on all browsers including the notorious IE6. However, someone out there can share on how opacity can be achieved on IE6.

I just hope there is something to learn from this