My Musings

The rain drums on. It comes down in sheets, hammering windows with fluctuating fury as gusts of wind come and go. I’m situated in a leather seat in a glitzy pub. 

One of those establishments that are small enough to fill/sell-out, and still maintain a unique ambiance. I have a snifter in one hand, and a book in the other. 

Directly opposite is a mural of a nondescript man staring at me blankly. I’m drawn to the mural because I’m growing listless by the minute. I’ve been waiting on someone going on for 30 minutes. 

Gradually, I find myself, drifting to the music, 1950's American Jazz crooned by a raspy melodious male voice. The stiff drink, the music and the book fail at stoking my spirits. I have barely ploughed through a chapter of the book, but I know I’m done. 

My concentration is fragmented. Averse to dog-eared book pages, I sear my current page in my mind, and put the book down. I swivel my frame, and turn my attention to the wall high windows laden with rainwater trickling down lazily on the outside. The window beckons to me. In answer, I walk to it. 
The window overlooks a construction site that is a hive of industry. Three floors up looking down, the men toiling away appear minuscule. A few wheelbarrows are trundled to and fro transporting an assortment of materials. 
The men steering the wheelbarrows look beaten. Their spirits appear whipped either by the rain or the work. 
They trudge across the construction site listlessly, almost moving on instinct. For protection against the rain that pours relentlessly, they have on what appears to be transparent raincoats. 

The contract must be running behind time for the men to be subjected to toiling under such dreary weather. I’m interrupted from my observation by the trill of my phone. My prospect has arrived. I’m here to make a pitch. 
To put my nose to the grindstone just like the construction site laborers, albeit with unmatched comfort.

Spells and Treats

Hospitals invariably remind me of my mortality, of the fickleness of life. We run through a spell of good health, and somehow take this good fortune for granted. Until maladies come knocking. Maladies come laden with information. 

They remind us of good diets, the bad taste of medicine and how prayerful we should be. When a malady calls, it's no time for half measures. Not when pathogens have infested my body and I can almost feel them doing cartwheels in me. 

I feel doubly ill because I'm peculiarly hot in July weather until I get to the hospital waiting area and see faces of other would be patients. I sober up real quick. I feel like a sissy. I almost want to turn back and leave, go get some painkiller. Or head home to brew some ginger concoction and call it a day.

At length, I stifle the thought of retreating. Seeing as I'm already here, I might as well see a doctor. After jumping through procedural hoops, 30 minutes later I’m attended to by a doctor. 
Thing is you never appreciate doctors enough until some disease gets the better of you. When you feel like some external force has annexed your body and is doing battle with your soul. 

During such times, the mere sight of a doctor in his white garb and a stethoscope draped on a shoulder instills hope. You feel like you've halved your journey to recovery. 

If you concentrate hard enough, you will feel the pathogens breaking rank, scampering, running for the hills.

Can you tell I'm single?

One of the most insanely frustrating things about women is their constant need for reassurance. No, you're not fat. If you were fat you wouldn't be able to fit into that size 2 dress. And yes, you look good. Guys wouldn't be giving you free shit if you were ugly.
So here it is for the last time...You're not fat! You're not ugly! You know it and I know it so stop asking.

What makes you think I care about the kind of day that your sister's co-worker's dog had? Your sister is nice enough, but I don't know her co-worker and I certainly don't know her dog. So why the fuck are you telling me this story? I don't care! If you have something worth talking about, then I'll enjoy engaging you in meaningful conversation. 
But before you start talking to me about some of the insane frivolous shit that you talk to your girlfriends about, first ask yourself "Does this have a point?". Because if it doesn't I'm just going to smile, and nod, and zone out and you'll get mad because I'm not listening to your retarded shit!

So men are pigs because they stare at your boobs. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you're wearing a skin tight low cut shirt that has 'Bebe' printed across your boobs... one 'Be' per boob. It's totally unfair that you have to put up with guys staring at you all the time just because you like to look sexy. And boo hoo, it's so hard for you to meet a nice guy. 
Well actually it isn't, because the shoulder you are crying on belongs to a nice guy. He's the one that puts up with all your stupid shit. And yet you somehow end up with all the assholes... Could it be because you're holding out for a six foot tall alpha-male with a trust fund?

Yeah, so you finally sold a freezer to an Eskimo. Congratulations on being a hot sales rep. We're all very proud of you for having a nice ass while the rest of us actually have to work for a living. And we're all so excited to see your new diamond jewelry. Your ability to date another rich fucktard that will shower you with expensive bobbles is commendable. And I'll be so surprised and sorry for you when he dumps you for the next hot girl because I really thought that materialistic trophy bagger was in love with you. 

But I'm happy to hear that you wrecked your fifth car while multi-tasking between your cell phone and doing your make up in the mirror. Your dedication to enforcing the stereotype of women drivers is nothing short of awe inspiring. 

Disclaimer: the contents of the note do not in any way mirror events in my life, past or present. 

John Doe Money Problems

John Doe finds himself with more month than money. He is infinitely hemorrhaging cash. He lives in the fast lane.

His attempts to stem the flow have yielded dismal results. His state of affairs is coming to a head. Pensively, he cups his chin in one hand, elbow perched on his knee and mulls over his predicament.

At face value, no one can smell a whiff of his pickle. He labours hard to keep up appearances but keeping up appearances costs money, money he doesn’t have. Deep down, he knows he needs to take action at present. But pride has infested him to the core, even infiltrating his rationale.

He kicks the can down the road. Save decision making for another day. Today, he lives a little. He is perfecting procrastination. He knows very well this is not fate.

It is a situation of his own making. Yet he lets it keep unwinding like a ball of string. He has a date with doom. He can smell it, but can’t snuff it out. Doom he can rein in. But he lets it simmer. In a rare moment of clarity, he realizes he is at a crossroads in life.

He knows that if he stays on this path, he’ll plummet into an abyss of no return. His will, is weak. He is loosing this battle. He reckons he needs someone. He needs help. A shrink, a pastor, a soothsayer ....anybody.

Recently, I attended a financial literacy seminar. One of those shindigs where you turn up raring to soak up transformative wisdom. Some 30-odd attendees were milling about the room exchanging small talk when I arrived. A well patronized event. I sat at the back of the room pen and pad in hand, drenched in expectation.

The presenters never really told us anything we haven't heard before. They were preaching to the choir. Unfortunately, we are too set in our ways. As soon as the din from all the advise dies, we slide back to our routines. Surrender to our urge to splurge. Pursue immediate gratification at the expense of tomorrow.

To navigate yourself to wealth takes more than words. You. Need. To. Act. You have to do it for self. Put in that work. Make sacrifices. There is no short cut. No magic bullet. You save up. Invest wisely. Have a budget. Stay disciplined. All the boring stuff we all know, yet shun with reckless abandon

Battle of wits

 My take is that flattening a paunch boils down to a battle of wits. As we age, things change. We exercise less (what with all our busy schedules), most of us sit for extended lengths of time at the workplace, in our cars in traffic and then sit some more at home (sedentary lives will be the end of us), we imbibe alcohol more often (well some of us) because networks have to be built and nursed; and to crown it all we enjoy hearty three square meals a day (Isn’t that why we work so hard anyway?).

In time, we realize our tummies bulging. We make half hearted mental notes to cut down on fatty foods and account for all food groups in our diet but we never quite come round to it. With effort, we at times observe this noble intent for a day or two, but inertia always gets the best of us.

Every now and then, you will see someone with a distended tummy which scares the living daylights out of you because you imagine that is your fate, and you are hurtling to it. Again, you make feeble promises to yourself, about the gym, your diet and your drink. Feeble promises that fall on rocky ground, never to sprout.

The fact is as we grow old, we burn less fat because we metabolize less. So the body stocks up more fat than it burns depending on how active we are.

If you're reading this, I bet you know someone on a religious exercise routine, planning to get into one or quit one already.

Benevolently, I will hazard to share four tips I “try” to adhere to in my fitness journey;
1). You don’t need regimens to help you rein in your carbohydrate binge. Simply watch what you eat, how much you eat, and the time of day you eat (A generous serving of Ugali at 10.00pm is an own goal for sure. What use is all that energy in your sleep?).

2). Take alcohol, but consider low-carb drinks (whisky and its ilk perhaps).

3). Exercise. Exercise. Exercise.  If you can’t hit the gym, running won’t cost you a dime. Once in awhile, alight from matatus two stages from your actual stage and walk home. It won’t kill you.

4). Tame your taste buds. Stay away from processed sugar. Hard I know, but it is an acquired taste. You can acquire a new one.

Not a foolproof list by any chance, but an effort nonetheless.

Patriotism in armband craze

I'm always amazed by the ingenuity of Kenyans. Browse around you for things uniquely Kenyan. I bet you will point out a marvel that speaks volumes about the creative genius behind it.

I will steer away from influencing your observation by way of hints. Recently, I had a sit-down with a Zimbabwean acquaintance in Kenya on business. A real bubbly fella with an opinion on everything under the sun. We met for tipple. He is a whisky guy, so before us was a bottle of Chivas. The conversation got off to a shaky start, I guess we were sizing each other up prodding at our comfort threshold.

Gradually, the liquor took the edge off and our conversation rambled on with relative ease. But there is so much one can ask about Uncle Bob. Each response I got sounded like something I've seen in a #someonetell tantrum on Twitter. In time, we exhausted politics, business and were onto the social realm. As our conversation progressed, we got to discussing peculiarities.

It was here that my acquaintance mentioned the armband, themed around the Kenyan flag. So he says to me, he has been to several African countries but it’s only in Kenya that he has come across this flag adorned armband craze.

I posed for a moment to reflect. Indeed, I have seen people rock those armbands as I make my everyday rounds but put very little thought into it. That revelation left me a tad patriotic. I made a mental note to acquire the subject armband next time I spot them on sale.

Look, don't you just feel a tinge when you see our runners donning garb tailored out of our national flag colors trouncing competition? Or better yet our rugby sevens team in their flag
t-shirts pulverizing competition cheered on by a handful of Kenyan fans, who drown any other noise in the stadia hysterically waving our flag?

Well, I don’t know what gives you that feel good kick about being Kenyan, whatever it is, rock it with pride today.


Courtesy of Richard Miriti

The Hustle Continues

Navigating the narrow sidewalks of downtown Nairobi can be quite a chore in the evenings. It tests your patience, what with all the weaving and sashaying you have to endure around a heaving web of humanity. There is hardly space for two generous strides.

So you walk with a heightened awareness of your surrounding. You just have to. Not unless you want to take on a legion of hawkers Bruce Lee or Jackie Chan style should you innocuously step on their wares.

No amount of apologies ever works with this bunch. So you tread with caution. The spaces between tarmac, and the shop entrances are a treasure trove of stories. You need only observe, and like a ball of string the stories unravel. You will see distraught shopkeepers nursing forlorn looks reminiscing of yesteryear's when order dictated customers could walk into their shops unimpeded.

A look that decries the extortion that is the license fees they pay to the city council for business. Licenses that should guarantee their customers an easy access to transact in their shops or window shops in the very least. Then we have the hawkers who've annexed city pavements, converting them into sprawling markets. They cause a racket that competes resolutely with the blaring horns of matatus and touts issuing catcalls to passersby.

The hawkers do raving business, displaying anything from counterfeit cutlery to mtumba. You may frown at their wanton disregard of the rights of walkers in town, but you’ve got to acknowledge their industry. The hawkers are forever edgy. Fidgety to a fault. They cast stares hither and thither always on the ready to spring at the sight of council askaris who pounce unannounced every now and then.

All hell breaks loose when the askaris strike. Hawkers run for it, leaving their lean display of wares behind. Once in a while, the askaris land a catch in the melee that ensues. Onlookers stare blankly from a safe distance as the askaris gleefully haul the few unfortunate culprits, and a mosaic of abandoned wares into the back of an ever hungry run down van that never tires of swallowing.

In the aftermath, this enclave of the city dips into a lull for a few minutes, quickly springing to life soon after.


Courtesy of Richard Miriti