a rant

This is not like the other entries. It has no attempt at a clever five-lined italicized introduction that gives the reader an insight as to what the subject matter is. It may not even have a point. This is a rant, an emotional anger I feel at this moment. So here goes

Last year, roughly around this time, I went to the Spanish embassy to renew my visa. One can imagine the excitement I felt when the lady who came to serve me was Kenyan. I did not have to worry that there would be language barrier and she, being Kenyan like me, would understand and be more sympathetic of the plight of us from developing countries when it came to visa applications. Alas! It was not to be so. This Jezebel (I am really trying not to say bitch) did not offer the customary greeting I and many others in African societies are used to. She stood there staring at me, shifting her weight from leg to leg drumming her fingers impatiently. Even after I offered a mumbled 'good morning', the lady just silently glared at me. Shrugging, I presented all my documentation and stated my purpose. She took one look at my papers and informed me I needed a certificate of good conduct. I was confused because I could have sworn I had carried my certificate so I rummaged through my documents only to find the said certificate nestled cosily in between the other documents. I showed it to her with a questioning look which she ignored. I then pointed out that I did indeed have the document to which she answered

'Yes, but you need another one.'

'Why?' I asked

'Because you need a certificate of good conduct.' she answered

'But I have a valid one with me', I retorted

'Yes, but you need another one', she sneered

Sensing that this conversation had hit a loop, I humbly retrieved my papers and headed to the door. Now anyone who has had to apply for a certificate of good conduct understands why this was extra painful. The process alone takes almost half a day standing in a queue before being herded into a crowded room and having you fingerprints roughly taken; all this while being berated by civil servants whose intellect cannot hold a candle to that of you bedroom's door nob. After that, there is the trip to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs where you need to take the certificate to be stamped and verified as an original because after all this is Kenya. Needless to say I was less than impressed by her flippant demeanour and dogged, uncompromising attitude. But I let it slide and went about the business of securing said certificates. Two weeks later I was in the same office being served by a Kenyan again who was really helpful.

As fate would have it, I had to go back to the embassy again this time to get my academic certificates translated into Spanish and certified. The nice lady had pointed out that since I was on scholarship, I was entitled to absolutely free services at the embassy as long as they were school related. So here I was again a month later face to face with Jezebel relaying this information after she demanded I pay translation fees. This woman literally rolled her eyes before saying nothing like that existed in the embassy policies. After I pointed out that I had received free services that were far more expensive than what she was asking for, she decided she would go and 'confirm' and disappeared into the inner office. Fifteen minutes later, she emerged and literally threw the documents at me, all signed, sealed and stamped. I shared this story with a fellow Kenyan in Spain and she told me I had found her in a good day. Apparently this bitch had done worse to others.

I thought I had seen the worst of the worst and she was a one-off until today, almost a year later to the date. I need to go for a conference in Budapest, Hungary. Hungary is a member if the EU and is signatory to the Schengen convention which basically opens up all EU internal borders. I have a Schengen Visa issued by Spain and a residency card. In an ideal would this means I should be able to travel to Hungary for as long as the residency permit is valid, right? WRONG! Out of curiosity and for clarity's sake, I visited the Hungarian embassy 2 weeks before my scheduled departure date to confirm that I could use my residency card. Again I was served by a Kenyan lady. Having been bitten once, I was careful not to expect 'loyalty' from a fellow Kenyan. From the minute I articulated my query, this bitch had already decided I was not eligible to travel using this document hence starting what can only be described as a nightmarish 3 days. This bitch said, and I quote 'I don't think you can use it, but I will go and confirm with my superior'. As I stood there waiting for her to finish her consultations, I could only imagine how valiantly she would champion for me having already been predisposed against me. As expected, she came back with a gleeful looking proclaiming that she was right after all and I had to apply for a new visa. The pleasure she took from delivering that news...So she handed me the application forms, a blank piece of paper and went ahead to list what I needed for the application. After that, she told me it would take 7-15 working days to process my visa. I was travelling in 11 working days, tickets booked and fully paid for. Again that smile appeared as she said there was nothing she could so to speed up the process. As the offices close at 1 and it was already 11 plus I did not have any of my documentation, I went back home and got my documents in order ready to return.

Which brings us to today, 9th June 2011, 9 working days before my scheduled departure date. I got to the embassy with everything she had listed at around 9.30 a.m, the first and only person there (at that embassy, they let in one person at a time and everyone waits outside the compound. There is no shade or sitting area, just a bunch of people exposed to the elements). This bitch looks at all my documentation and established it's in order, then she asks for the fee which is 60€. Seeing that i am ion Kenya, I made the fatal mistake of assuming I could pay in Kenyan. The minute I said this, she hands everything back to me and says I must have euros and turns back without a second thought. I had to call after her to enquire where the closest forex bureau was. I leave, hope into the first matatu and head to a forex bureau at ABC place, a full 20 minutes away to get my shillings changed into euros. I hurry back and arrive 30 mins later to find there are 4 people ahead of me now waiting to apply for their visas. I waited for over an hour and a half to get back in and hand my documents with 60€ to this bitch which she graciously accepts. After sorting out my documentation, she asks for my ticket booking. Huh? There was absolutely no speak of that on Tuesday when she listed the documents I needed! She then insisted she told me yet I had the list in front of the both of us that I wrote as she listed what I needed. There was no mention of any air ticket bookings. It was now 12.15pm and the embassy closes at 1. Now I had to go searching for a cyber so that I could print out my ticket. Again I rushed and grabbed the first matatu to ABC place only yo find there was no cyber. I jumped into the next matatu and headed in the opposite direction to Lavington shopping centre. Yet again there was no cyber. Then I remember a friend works across the road from Lavington shopping centre. I tried calling her but she did not answer her phone. I texted her but still no reply. I decided to take a chance and fortunately I found her at her office and got her to print it It was 12.45 so I ran back to the embassy and got in at a few mins to 1. Lucky for me there was a Hungarian visa officer there with the bitch. The bitch decided to start nit-picking. She asked why my ticket was for the 22nd but they invitation letter says they are paying for accommodation from 23rd. I said I was footing my bill for that night she wants a bank statement now! I told her why I booked then and that thing is sorted then she asked why I was, in her words 'extending my stay till 30th and the conference ends on 26th'. I answered saying I wrote 30th in case shit hits the fan and I must stay there. She started bitching before the Hungarian tells her on document says i am going to be there from 21st to 30th so its okay which finally shuts her up albeit temporarily. I then plead oh so politely for them to do anything possible to hurry the process, while acknowledging that they have procedures. She quickly said 'No, i told you it will take 15 days!' However before she could finish her statement,her Hungarian comrade told me to come and check for it on Tuesday! So there I was with a 'WTF!!!' look on my face wondering why this Hungarian was willing to speed up the process as she understood the situation so why was this bitch ass stupid Kenyan hell bent on slowing the process.I had been there 2 hours earlier and she saw all my documents, sorted them and saw no booking, why did she say nothing about this?

These two experiences have left me with a sour taste in my mouth, wondering if we Kenyans as such a self-hating people that any success by another, real or perceived is so threatening to us that we would do anything to sabotage it. Is this the same thing that causes us to stand in the way of our development? are we the proverbial man who cut of his nose to spite his face? As I said before, this has no point, no bigger picture, it is simply a rant.

of the individual and the group

it takes one and one to make many

and many to make the one

without the one the many wouldn't be

but the many wont let

the one just be

I like my hair long, I alway have and I am pretty sure I always will. Ever since I was a child, it took valiant efforts including coercion, threats and bribes from my father to get me into a barbershop. His go-to excuse was I needed to look neat as a student plus the schools demanded it. So when I completed secondary school, I gleamed slyly because I now had a counter-argument for this. So for the next three years I pranced around with a victorious smile and ever-growing hair, much to the chagrin of my father. Then came the others. Everyone suddenly had an opinion concerning my hair; how I should cut it, or braid it or perm it etc. I got numerous offers from people trying their hands at hair care to use me as a guinea pig. Of course I turned down most of them but that's not the point. If I followed all the suggestions in those three years, half my head would be shaved while the other would be 'relaxed' and braided and most likely in different colours. Majority of the people I knew share my father's disdain over my long hair and they were not shy about letting me know how the felt. I tell you my hair was a hot issue, a topic of discussion much like an MP caught up in a scandalous affair. I understand the stake my barber had in my hair so I excused his comments whenever I ran into him in church, I was denying him business after all. So it was with great relief that when I lived abroad, I was surrounded with people who were not really concerned about my appearance let alone my hair. I would got for a month without combing it and not only did they not have an opinion either way, they did not even notice the difference. I was in my little hair haven. The few times I combed it, I was greeted with wonderment, many trying to feel on it as they said it reminded them of a ball or a football field. Not once did anyone suggest or intimate what I should or should not do with my hair.

Earlier this week I was 'tarmacking' (Kenyan expression for job hunting). I sat in a bigwig's office in the UN begging for employment and he made this off-cuff comment about my hair; 'Will you leave you hair like that', he asked. Now it was not pointed but the message was loud and clear, I had to cut my hair to look 'presentable' as I search for a job. So there I was seated in his office, armed with all sorts of qualifications and experiences, and all that stood out to him was my hair. I was not shabbily dressed, my hair was not unkempt (I had shampooed, combed, and patted it down barely an hour earlier so it was impeccable). For the entire duration I was seated there, all I could think of is why the length of my hair was important and what message it sent out to my family, my friends, my potential future employers and or suitors. Why was the length of my so important? I started noticing things on him I had not bothered before with like how short his hair was and how his beard was shaped. Still these things meant nothing to me but I left his office knowing that I had to cut my hair, which I love so much, to increase my prospects of getting a job. Society had won this round, I had to tow the line to achieve an end. Recounting this to a friend, she also had a tale of her own that was similar to mine. She had gone to Somali-land for working purposes and had to don a hijab and buibui in order to do what had taken here there. There would be no point in antagonizing the locals by holding on to her beliefs whilst it would cost her nothing fall in line and achieve her results easily.

We both came to the painful conclusion (at least it was painful to me) that in order to navigate the treacherous waters that are life, at times we must give up a part of who we are for the greater good. Sometimes we must do what society dictates or expects even if it is contrary to what we feel or belief for either peaceful co-existence or to accomplish a certain goal. This 2 incidences brought to mind a quote I once heard by Nietzsche (I apologize in advance to a friend who asked me to stop quoting the man if I have not read his books or studied his works) where he said 'the individual has always struggled to to keep from being overwhelmed by the tribe'. This begs the question, how much of yourself is worth the sacrifice? How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice to accomplish what you must? When does the self-sacrifice stop and the individual shines with pride? Must we all think, act, feel and even dress alike to be accepted in a society? I have always wondered where the rules that govern societies came from and what makes then right; what gives them precedent over the individual. Until the day when society accepts diversity and embraces our difference practically and not theoretically, I guess I will remain an individual struggling not to be overwhelmed by the tribe.

the tribe has spoken

they divide to conquer

we are divided and concur

they use and abuse

we are used and refuse

to see the fall that pride of tribe incites

Roughly one and a half years ago I embarked on a journey. It took me all the way to Europe in pursuit of my Masters degree (and America, but for totally different reasons) in order to better my life. It was the ride of my life, filled with laughter, joy, discovery, happiness, love, friendship. I saw the reality that is 'developed' countries vis a vie 'developed' ones. I got a deeper understanding of this dream we chase abroad that seems so much better than our lives at home, seeing first hand the good , the bad and the ugly sides of development. It was truly an eye-opening experience that I can never trade for anything in the world. After completing my Masters, I embarked on a 30 hour sleepless journey back to the mother land. Back to the dusty, potholed roads, live fences (unkempt or otherwise), constant political bickering, cheap food by the road side, never-ending traffic jams, the matatu menace (the matatu industry in my opinion has lost its integrity; not integrity in the sense of their customer service and 'roadside manner'. It is now nearly impossible to find a decent or even roadworthy matatu. I remember when I was in primary school and matatus were at their prime trying to outdo each other in attractive designs and brilliant colours. Back then they were properly maintained as they were judged on appearances first. Nowadays, all you seem to see are rickety old death traps in which you are most likely to die of Tetanus than get to your destination. But this is a story for another day...), high taxations with little to show for, accusations of corruption left, right and centre the constant black outs and water rationing (services that seem to be provided at a whim), the daily sitcoms on TV that are news programmes, English and Swahili everywhere... ah, home sweet home how dearly I had missed it.

On my first day back, I took a matatu (the destination is not relevant destination). The 'conductor', while collecting the fare from the passengers, did something that instantly brought back the ugly reality of being back home; that one thing that being away from home I had come to forget, by mistake or by design. While trying to get the attention of a passenger, he opted to use a not-so-derogatory word in the passenger's mother tongue. There it was, the thinly veiled tribalism that is the heartbeat of our country, the scourge of our nation. The single greatest barrier to our country's development in my opinion. Those stereotypical jokes told in apparent jest burying real emotions in shallow graves bubbling just below the surface. These emotions that erupted to the surface in 2007 and led to the death of over 1000 people, leaving hundreds of thousands homeless and/or scared physically and emotionally. One would think that after that horrific time in our history we would have learned something, that we would have changed and shunned tribalism. One would be pitifully wrong. In fact, I daresay tribalism is more alive now than ever. When my own father asks me, before anything else, the tribe of any of my friends he meets... When the most outstanding character trait your neighbour of 20 years is their ethnic background... When you order something in a restaurant and its immediately associated with your ethnic background...

Growing up in 'cosmopolitan' Nairobi where we knew not our peers tribes, save when our parents pointed the out, simply because it did not matter, we were convinced that we were the generation that would end tribalism. I looked forward to the day when we would be Kenyans, not only to foreigners who do not know (or care) the difference, but to our fellow Kenyans. I could not wait for the day when my last name did not automatically put me in a box complete with a character trait and with it expectations, good or bad. Unfortunately this is not the case; in the 2 weeks I have been back most of the tribal innuendo and 'jokes' I have heard are not from my parents and their age-mates, but from people my own age, my peers who were supposed to be the change. We who were to be the solution are now the problem. Tribalism. So I have to wonder, if someone who grew up surrounded by and interacting constantly with all other ethnic communities is still prejudiced against others, what are we to expect from those who grew up in rural areas with members of their community only? We are supposed to know better, we are supposed to be better. Where did it all go wrong?

Our immediate former president, in an attempt to get Kenyans to embrace and be proud of their culture as we strayed and embraced the 'western' cultures, once told us 'mwacha mila ni mtuma (he who abandons culture is a slave)'. I found that very inspiring as I am proud of my culture, the culture of my forefathers passed down from generation to generation. However, this same cultures have been and still are a reason to divide us with politicians using tribalism to secure votes and we the electorate blindly following. Regular citizens casting their votes based solely or tribal affiliation regardless of the principles or character of the candidate. In my opinion, this thing we call culture is not working any more. It is now being used by certain individuals as a tool to achieve an end desireable only for them and not for the good of the populace. This pride we have of our cultures has became more detrimental than beneficial. Something must change and I think this something must be drastic in order to shock us into seeing reason. Maybe it is time for us to do away with all our cultures and adapt a new, all-inclusive and all-encompassing culture that is Kenyan. In a country where tribe speaks, it is time to give one tribe a voice-let that tribe be Kenya.

lines in the sand

some right some wrong

some weak some strong

some die some hold on

some will rise some will fall

but some lines were never meant to be drawn

My all-time favourite characters in a TV series happens to star in my all-favourite TV series-Dr Gregory House. That show has some of the most profound dialogue I may ever encountere as the characters try to navigate through the murky waters that are endless ethical dilemmas. On one such occasion, House spoke words that rang true to me: the problem with exceptions to rules is the line-drawing, who do we get to exclude in the rule and who don't we. Of course I am paraphrasing but you get the gist of it. Those words have never been truer to me than the events of this week. When I say 'events' it sounds overly dramatic only I am a dramatic person. I was having an innocuous conversation with a friend when it took a drastic turn and unearthed an issue I had encountered years ago, virginity. More specifically where the line is draw. So I posed this question to several people in various circles gauging the response and trying to find a common ground. At first glance, it looks like a pretty straight forward question, one ceases being a virgin when the have sex, right? One person jokingly offered to demonstrate using dolls as visual aids. Guess the joke is on them now because herein lies the issue, what do different people define as sex and by extension virginity?

The discussion I had with my friend that opened this can of worms reminded me of a story I had heard a while back. It was rumoured that women at the Coast like many others, due to cultural or religious reasons, had to be proven virgins on their wedding night by presenting the bloodied bed sheets from their new marital bed. The problem arose that in this day and age with society morphing, very few could remain 'pure' till their wedding nights so they resorted to engaging in all forms of sex including anal sex to satisfy their carnal desires. That way they maintained their integrity and were virgins for all intents and purposes until their wedding nights. How true this story is I may never know, but the idea of it raised a few queries, what is the definition of a virgin? Here is where the line-drawing comes, in the definition of the term. Is a virgin a person (of both genders) who has not engaged in penetrative sex? If so, does someone who has had anal sex considered a virgin (I mean it is penetrative)? What about a person who has done neither but has received oral sex from one or more different lovers? Is that person still a virgin? As if the question is not complicated enough, lets consider a person who has never been naked in front of another human being but has and is now an expert at giving oral sex. Is this person still one? What about the person who knows not the nakedness of another person, but watches erotica and masturbates. Can we still refer to this person as a virgin? While discussing this at length last night a new possibility was opened to me; what of the computer worm who never leaves his room or the newly-wed separated from her husband before consummating their marriage, what of this person who opts to use technology as a sexual outlet and has video or phone sex, can we lump him/her in the pool of virgins?

A couple of years ago whilst having a heated discussion about this, a friend offered an opinion of which I have to agree with. For him (and me as well to some degree), virginity is as much a mental/psychological phenomena as it is physical. There does exist such a thing as sexual innocence which is mental and once that is taken away through some form of action, then virginity is lost. That was where he drew his line. So in this murky issue, I pose the question one more time; what does a person have to do to stop being considered, either by self or society, a virgin. With lines constantly being drawn in the sand and just as constantly erased by the tides of time and change, where do you draw your line?

PS: is virginity that important to you? why?

living the dream

hopes and dreams, reality and facts

inseparably intertwined

forging formidable goals and acts

I have dreamed incredible dreams

I have lived incredulous realities

Growing up in Nairobi, there was not really much to see. Don't get me wrong, it is a beautiful city in its own right that I will love to the death, but in all honesty Kenya is too young a country (nation) to have the kind of things I speak about here that I would love to see. It does not have historical marvels like the Colosseum in Rome, architectural wonders like the the Eiffel Tower, it has no wonders of the world like the Wall of China, it has no Renaissance museums like the ones in Milan. Yes it has art, history and architectural masterpieces, but none as grand as the ones found else where (not an less important though). Anyway, growing up in Nairobi with little to see, the world was opened up to me primarily through books. From the day I picked up my first Hardy Boys I was fascinated by other cultures and societies and the way the lived that seemed so different, so alien to me. Books transported me to a world beyond what I knew. Through them I lived in New York, chased bad guys and brought them to justice, fell in love with some of most beautiful damsels in distress, rescued them and lived happily ever after, raced cars, even operated on patients and saved lives. Through books I did anything and everything. Through them, dreams were fostered; dreams that before we inconceivable and beyond any stretch of my imagination. Slowly my imagination ceased being; now I needed to actually walk on the streets New York and interact with these strangely different people, I needed to rid the world of 'bad guys', I had to hold a man's barely beating heart in my hand and help bring him back from the brink of death. I dreamed simpler dreams of merely visiting a foreign land and living among its people and experience their different way of life for a little while. I had dreams.

Two particular books focused, if you may, my dreams; Dan Brown's 'Angels & Demons' and 'The Da Vinci Code'. These books opened up two of Europe's greatest cities to me and I silently and solemnly swore I would visit this cities if ti was the last thing I would do. I needed to look at this famous buildings and visit those historical sites, to marvel at well-known pieces of art laden with centuries of history. I needed to visit Paris and Rome, not to live there, just to walk through the galleries of the Louvre looking for the Mona Lisa, visit the 109 churches in Rome just to see the sculptures so vividly described in the books, go to the Vatican and enter the Archives that hold the secrets of the very church I was born and raised into, follow the trail the Illuminati used all those centuries ago in such of enlightenment... Oh such a simple dream, yet such a monumental task to accomplish. As fate would have it, I somehow made it to Europe. The excitement was palpable! I was within reach of places and things I only read about and envisaged in the eye of my mind. For the past 12 months or so, I have made a point to and have traveled to several historical cities and seen countless memorabilia from different times through history. Through my travels I have discovered a new dream, a dream I grew up surrounded by but ignored as I didn't share the dream; a dream that is now, as I see it, a nightmare.

I guess I had seen manifestations of this dream since the day I set foot on foreign land but ignored them. My awakening came when I was visiting a friend in Atlanta, Georgia. The land of milk and honey. The land of opportunity. The land of the free and the home of the brave. The land where opportunity can be created from thin air. Or can it? I had been aware of many Africans in Europe but never really thought of the circumstances that got them here. I think I must have assumed that we all got here for the same reason through the same means. Then I had the chance to speak (or rather listen) to a few Kenyans living in the States. The general consensus was they would rather stay there and make a living than 'hustle' in Kenya. My first assumption was they must be really successful as this is AMERICA after all, only to find out that they work in pizzerias and such kinds of odd jobs merely to make ends meet (I am not speaking of the ones working such jobs whilst in school trying to complete their various degree programmes, no these are there stable jobs). Needless to say I was shocked, I could not fathom how someone who was once somebody in Kenya would chose to be less than nobody in America, happily accept the kind of suffering I saw and not demand more. According to one, a horrible life in USA surpassed an okay one in Kenya. At least there he could afford to drive and afford his own place. What he failed to mention was that he would be paying for the car all his life and the house he lived in would put to shame the shanties in Kibera. I imagined him bragging to his friends and relatives how he was living in AMERICA, not telling them he needed 3 jobs just to barely keep his head above water. Then I remembered that growing up the dream that most had was to leave poor Africa and never come back. As my brother aptly put it, Kenyans had 2 dreams, to go to heaven and to go to America.

Fastforward to April 2011, I have finally made it to Rome, the city of my dreams. The countless books I have read and the movies I have watched trying to picture how this magnificent city would look like. I get there and head to my hostel room which happens to be next to the main train station. First thing I notice is the number of people of African decent there (there are as many here as there are in Paris if not more) roaming the streets aimlessly (it is easy to spot someone who is walking towards a particular destination). On our way back from dinner which is pretty late, I see a long line of the same Africans I had seen earlier lying along the wall of the train station sleeping under blankets. There must have been 150 of them. I remember the Kenyans in America and feel pity. Is this really the dream? Is it really worth living in Europe only to live in abject poverty, maybe worse than you did back home? I try to think of all the reasons one would come all the way here simply to hawk necklaces and other 'authentic' African articles just to get by. I could understand those who leave war-torn countries as any life may be better than death. But looking at these desolate-looking people reminds me of the people I knew in Kenya who would give life and limb to live in America in search of the American dream. I think of the advice I keep getting, people asking me to swear a blood-oath not to go back to Kenya. I wonder if Kenya is a prison and I am one of the lucky ones to have escaped. I think now of all the Kenyans who willingly left and are now struggling to make ends meet, too proud to go back home to poor Africa even if it means better quality of life. I think now that maybe they are all living their dream.

After countless debates concerning this blog post and its self-righteous tone, I have been requested to add a statement that clearly states my point of view of the whole issue. So here goes; this is not about the successful people living abroad and making something of themselves regardless of the work they are doing, this is not about those who were forced out of their countries by circumstances like poverty or war, this is for those who believe the 'western' world to be the pinnacle of success and Africa to be the gutter no matter their circumstance, this is for those who would rather suffer abroad than lead a relatively comfortable life back home.

master or slave

unbreakable bondage

unwaivering devotion

unquestioning loyalty

but who commands who

who leaders who follows

Today I went to the museum in Cadiz city centre. Having lived here for over a year, I could not actually believe it had taken me this long to visit it, especially since I have visited some in far away cities. Anyway, it was a lovely experience. From the archeological stuff that I could not care about to the art pieces that were simply amazing. The talent exhibited in that place was beyond description. Some of the pieces were so detailed all I could do was stand and stare. Then came to the final part of our hour-long tour, the contemporary art section. Let me tell you in advance abstract art is not my cup of tea. I find it very confused and confusing. I know it is not supposed to be interpreted as is but by the emotion/feeling it evokes emotion or something like that. Still I just don't get it. However, one of my friends is crazy over this art form so we indulged her. Piece after piece I tried to find meaning and/or emotion but nothing magical happened. Then we got to this piece that was just genius in its simplicity. First let me paint you a word picture of this piece; it was a dog with a human head seated in front of a TV mesmerized. This human-dog had a leashed that was chained to the side of the TV. Since this is contemporary art it must be contorted so the TV doubled up as a kennel for the human-dog with the door on the side complete with a feeding bowl right next to it. We all stood there and tried to explain this piece of art and what it meant to us. After 5 minutes of heated debate among peers at the cusp of getting their MSc, the general consensus reached was this was a representation of how humans have become enslaved by 'TV' and that their lives revolve around it seeing how this poor human-dog's life was centered around the device. 'TV' here could be loosely interpreted to mean technology or the media. So we all took turns making fun of what the TV in the piece would be substituted for if the piece was about us, if the students of Water and Coastal Management, 2009-2011 were indeed the human-dog. Again we quickly agreed that it would be a computer as our lives now completely revolved around them, from doing endless assignments to surfing the internet in between assignments to communicating with each other.

This got me thinking, what am I enslaved to in my day to day life? What is that one inanimate object that I think I have control over but in reality runs my life-without it my life would come to a complete standstill albeit for a short period of time? For the longest time, my slave/master was my phone. It ruled my life such that 2 hours away from it whilst on the football field was pure torture. The minute I got off the field I would run for it before even getting for a drink of water. What did I miss when I was away? Did anyone call or text me? It was the first think I thought of when I got out of bed in the morning. I would automatically reach for it to check for messages or missed calls before going onto the internet. What's new on Facebook? The two times I lost my phone or it malfunctioned, it was like I had lost a part of me-a limb if you may. I mourned for days on end vowing to do anything to replace it. Then I got to Europe and was free it only to replace it with a new slave/master-my laptop. I blamed it on the endless papers I had to write but in reality my attachment to this device runs deeper than that. This is evidenced by the fact that even after completing all works due, I still go to my computer every single morning when I wake up, every time I walk into my room from a short stint outside. Sometimes I even think about what I would be doing on my computer when I am out having fun with friends. I no longer let my phone govern my every second, I proudly proclaim to anyone who will care to listen. Sometimes I go for days without knowing where my phone is. However, I deliberately leave out the fact that I have merely replaced it with some other inanimate entity whose effect I fear is much greater.

As I stood there looking at this abstract piece of art, I couldn't help but wonder about its accuracy. Do we control technology or does technology control us? In this relationship, who really is the master and who is the slave?

genesis

when pen meets paper

everything turns into vapour

when pen meets paper

I cant help but feel much better

when pen meets paper

you will get to know me so much better

One day I sat on my father's favourite chair staring into space. My friend and brother were in the room as well talking but I heard nothing they said. My mind was too engrosses in the sad reality I faced. Something I had fought, toiled, sweated and bled for was at the verge of collapse. I could not explain how I felt at that time to anyone. I am not sure if it was out of fear of being mocked or misunderstood or if I was unable to verbalize this innermost feelings. I will never know for sure, all I do know was I could not talk about it. Yet this thing nagged me, gnawing in my insides until there was a physical manifestation of the emotional pain I felt. I wondered for a moment if this was a 'Dear Diary' moment. If such feelings inspired the people I had mocked to keep a journal. I was never one to share my feelings openly so writing them down and forever keeping them on record was definitely out of the question. But on this day I questioned my reasoning for dismissing journals, wondered if indeed such people had the right idea. Since I had no pen and paper available, I got the next best thing-my cell phone. I went straight to Facebook and decided to write a note, pen down my ideas. I had no intention of posting it;I used Facebook merely because it was the one feature that allowed me to write using unlimited characters. At that point I started typing away my feelings. Slowly I saw a pattern emerge, there seemed to be some artistic flow to the writing. My soul was bleeding through my phone and art was being created. I could not stop writing. When I got to the end, I looked at what I had written and using the little poetic knowledge I had acquired in high school, I broke up the sentences. That was when my first 'artistic piece' was born. Two days later I tried it again and the same thing happened. This was the genesis of my discovery of this 'talent'. I put this two things in inverted commas because I don't think I write poetry or have a talent-yet. But I am a work in progress.

That was three short years ago. Since then I have written countless 'artistic pieces' some better than the first some worse. I have tried all forms of writing trying to curve a niche, from poetry, to stories and most recently to songs. But I will always remember the first. The one that led to the serendipitous discovery of an ability, a way with words. The one that led to a passion that I now live for. I have a dream, I will be an accomplished author one day. I have started small, working on short stories, hoping to compile them one day and publish a book. But until that day, here is a sample of my first short story. Just the beginning to give you a taste. If you like it, I will send you the rest of it. Enjoy.

All James could think about was that quarter piece of chicken and fries that he was going to get once he got home. After a long day in school, he could devour a whole goat, however the Kenchic located between Prestige Plaza and Uchumi Hyper would suffice. He looked down at his watch and groaned upon seeing the time as he now had to decide what to go for first, football or food. Well, getting out of the madness of the city centre was his top priority; the rest would be decided when he got home. He looked to his right wondering where all the buses where. I bet most of these guys are waiting for a 32, he mused. He was standing in the midst of this mass of humanity at Kencom bus terminal in the centre of Nairobi. This was the heartland of commuters heading to the estates west of Uhuru Highway. There was Railways Station too but that was for those who liked matatus, which were not his cup of tea. Like most of the commuters, he was standing to the right of the newly-constructed shelters which were hardly used by anyone so as to get to the bus first when it was stuck in traffic. He reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone, but it wasn’t there. Panic briefly swept over him before he remembered he had thrown it into his rack sack when the Business Management 301 lecturer had walked into class. He took off his backpack, fished the phone out, logged onto Facebook and updated his status to ‘hiyo kuku porno haina bahati…’ He then connected his headphones to his phone, put the ear buds in his ears, and turned on the music.

Beatrice first smelled his cologne before she saw him. She looked around her in the typically overly-crowded Kencom bus stop to trying to figure out where the scent was coming from. How she was able to pick this smell out particularly in the midst of over one thousand bodies crammed into the relatively small area amazed her. Her eyes settled on this cute guy with earphones on and she surmised it must be him, who else could it be. She instinctively reached down to straighten her skirt and adjust another piece of garment. She wished she was wearing make-up today. Oh well, at least she had lip gloss on as she never went anywhere without her raspberry-flavoured one. She now wondered why she hardly wore make-up except when going out at night. Well, that was a rule she was definitely going to change. If all the guys in her class were looked like him I would go to school religiously, she thought. There were some cute ones but they were still small boys straight out of high school like she was, simply filling in the time between high school and university. But not him, he was cute and looked so mature and experienced, a real man who had lived life and had much to share. The things she could learn from him… sigh… Her reverie was brought to an abrupt end by the man who roughly bumped into her almost knocking her over. She struggled to regain balance throwing him a dirty look in the process.

But he barely noticed the look, let alone young girl he had just bumped. Firstly, because there were so many people it was impossible not to bump into someone. But mostly because he was completely lost in his own world, focused on the job he was going to. Paul could not believe that this is what his life had come to. He had big dreams when he left his village and headed to the big city to pursue his degree in Economics. His family, as well as his entire village, was there on the day he left patting him on the back and encouraging him. Everyone was beaming with pride as though his accomplishment was shared by the collective. He was to be his family’s saviour from the abject poverty they suffered. His father had gone to great lengths, sacrificing an arm and a leg, to ensure his fees were paid for in full. Friends of the family had organised a harambee to make up the difference. His school fees were basically covered for the next four years. He excelled in his studies and passed with Honours. However, that was where the success well ran dry. He had been jobless for the past 6 years since completing his undergraduate degree and was at the brink of despair. He had worked so many menial jobs to make ends meet while looking for better things. Somehow, degrees accounted for nothing here. He stopped walking at the edge of the pavement and waited for a bus. Just behind him, he heard a mature couple having a discussion in hushed voices. They reminded him of his parents and he was engulfed with sadness.