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?