The Grand Experiment

“What a laugh, though. To think that one human being could ever really know another. You could get used to each other, get so habituated that you could speak their words right along with them, but you never know why other people said what they said or did what they did, because they never even know themselves. Nobody understands anybody.”

– Orson Scott Card

Perhaps this is the question I seek to eventually answer

#Np G-Eazy – Me, Myself & I

“At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want,” said Lao Tzu. Okay technically am not sure when he said this or like where. I am however sure he didn’t say it in those exact words. In English any or perhaps there are misgivings of translation somewhere. Oh! This morning asked who he was I would have lied. Like straight up lied. Knowing me I probably would have spun something about a writer with an Asian descent. Well it wouldn’t have been that far-fetched, look at his name. Encase a memory or two about having collided into one or two quotes from some of his books then I would definitely have an ace in my deck – Not sure that’s the right poker lingo though, I can’t play cards right to save my own life.

So who is he? Well for starters – he’s Chinese. I knew it, I knew it, and I knew it. Well he’s also a mystic philosopher of ancient China. Like he was one of those old shamans (super old clever people from ages past) whose existence is mostly separated from myth by like painted pictures. Almost like a Jesus moment, on the appearance side, in his case there are less hypothetical.  There’s a whole history about the guy but it’s sort of sketchy, you know a million years later kind of lost documentation sketchy. Facts lost in time and all that. Point he was bright and wrote books, read manuscripts, several which are currently way past their fifth editions currently. Rewrites and stuff. Seeing that I have lost my trail of thought, I guess that’s about as far a lesson I am going to give about the guy. Plus I have the strangest of feelings somehow this got irrelevant like a paragraph back. Still give the guy a read.

Now as for all that mumbo-jumbo above I think I was trying to explain the starter quote. In principle its self explanatory but to I would add it pretty much relays an interest or two we have in life. Like less about talents and more about hobbies and interests. By definitions most of the things we are into are us. We are to a part defined by the things we like doing.

Thus – The Grand Experiment. Sounds awesome right, it has its aura of mystery, provides just the right amount of intrigue and heck it even comes off as rather fancy. In a closet of words, that has to be what I would wear to a wedding. Continue reading

A Butterfly, Pretty To See, Hard To Catch

Someday, we’ll run into each other again, I know it.

Maybe I’ll be older and smarter and just plain better.

If that happens, that’s when I’ll deserve you.

But now, at this moment, you can’t hook your boat to mine,

Because I am liable to sink us both.

Gabrielle Zevin.


#Np Boys Like Girls – Leaving California


“So who’s you’re favorite author?”

I regretted the words the moment they left my lips. Saying it out loud it sounded like the least sane thing I could have opened with. Okay sure, it probably had an aura of sophistication or some warped justification I couldn’t think of yet but really, as an opening question? What next, first action, set myself on fire?  To believe I had actually maintained a charade of normalcy until now, funny how that felt like a million a year ago on different a lifetime.

“Normally I am under the assumption such a question comes eons after cliche queries like favorite meal or something as duff as say favorite color?” She replied taking a sip off her mug.

Are you joking? Please tell me you’re joking? The precise paranoid thoughts that crossed my mind, a second longer and my heart would have missed too many a beat for me to be in the land of the living. Relief came too quick when I noticed the strange hidden resemblance of a waning grin. Her sarcasm was lock, stock and barrel flagging.

In the few seconds it took me to gather my words, perhaps better placed would be gather my breath, I couldn’t help but notice how gentle her movements were, I found it quite an amaze, she watched the world from a view of delicacy, everything so brittle endlessly  liable to break. While the rest of us held everything under the heavy thumb of sturdiness. I wasn’t sure there was much she was afraid of losing or perhaps she didn’t think holding onto anything tight meant it was enough a reason to keep it. Now I am told I have an unsatisfiable love for coffee but her eyes lost in a steamy fog I couldn’t help find similarities between the two. Sure crazy but I loved how her eyes danced to the contention of my reason. Like how they were creamy white to the milk she poured every couple of minutes into her cup. How I was completely convinced if I leaned in close I could see the gentle shades of brown in the black iris of her eyes, her eyes the color of the tender suns kiss, the color of the brew she held in her hand. Never once did she take her gaze away from me as she waited for her answer. Even when she took a sip from her mug her eyes seemed stuck in stance, never losing me in an imaginary crowd.

“Well those I can simply find out given enough time, at least under the assumption that you are to stick around for say relatively long a while,”I said calmly. Blue rang subconsciously somewhere in my thought, a silent conquest. She donned enough of its distinctive mark for it to miss some sort of meaning.

“Consistencies of habit I would assume,” She asked as I nodded in agreement.

“Touché, Well I really don’t read, I find it rather exhausting.”


Ha-ha – Obviously she didn’t say anything as ridiculous given that she did have quite the humor. I am just choosing not to relay any part after that. I know they say you are the people you surround yourself with but just in case one is the books they read, am not about to take chances on letting you find her. So let’s call that last part a secret, mine to keep. I however will tell you she mentioned a writer I knew nothing about – The agony.  Perhaps in my discourse of curiosity I had hoped she’d speak of familiar a name. Then again in retrospect I might be equally as glad she didn’t. Given that I am halfway on the first read and I already enjoy it a little too much.

So now that we speak of favorite authors, do I personally have a favorite one of my own? Yes and no. Personally I’ve never liked the idea of being backed into a corner by choice. Especially where there shouldn’t any but if I was to play favorites it would go something like a death match between John Green and Nelson DeMille.Plum Island - Nelson Demille Nothing as rhetoric as some dead poetic writer from the 18th century, sure I give them a read occasionally but I like my snacks more than I like cuisines. I still have a gentler soft spot for Nelson De Mille though, an appeal to my inner darkness or something about a love for gore and a clean beautiful investigation I can’t seem to kick. Nothing personal really but I’ll trade an investigation for a love story any day. Oh! Plus John is heavy on the emotional stuff; well sure the writing has a lot of heart but I occasionally take offence to professional tear jerking.

Now I’d love to talk about Nelson De ’Mille for like forever but I will only advice you check out the John Corey Series, it’s a six book series. Perhaps I’ll spare my adoration in the respect of adjectives until you get round to actually reading them. I can however assure you will not be disappointed.

Now if you’re not familiar with John Green – sighs – , you probably live in a ditch somewhere and it’s probably a nuclear apocalypse outside – most legitimate reason, perhaps you are afraid of the radiation poisoning. [Don’t worry I’ve been watching a little too many apocalypse oriented shows.]

Here is a link to the book – The Fault In Our Stars

Still if you haven’t and this is like one of those big ifs, you’ve probably seen an adaptation of his book, probably your favorite grief-stricken romance after Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet, The Fault in Our Stars. Now I read the book before the movie ever came out (weirdly I feel like I have to mention that) but I do remember when the movie was coming out – At the time I wasn’t even aware that the adaptation was in the works. Figures! Still, I was rather ecstatic about it to a fault. Get it? Fault, plus the book title – laughs – Hell it’s funny. So I tried to get a friend to go watch it with me but I guess they really didn’t share much of the ecstasy I had concerning it. I remember the insane huge poster of the movie that hang from the ceiling of the Junction on Ngong Road. Augustus Waters across Hazel Grace doing a weird plagiarism of the Spiderman kiss. They looked happier though, then again no one had tried to rob Hazel in the few moments that had passed. Still I did feel foolish about the grin I couldn’t seem to smack off my face when I walked in Century Cinemax.

Notice I skipped on the Toby Maguire version of the Spiderman kiss, from the movie adaptation; somehow it looked way nicer in my head, like this drawing version nicer. For lack of a better word it’s rather icky.

So how did I come to know about John Green? You can be assured it wasn’t something as picking one of his books from a street vendor. I wish then it wouldn’t have taken me forever to acknowledge his writing.  It was at a house party a couple of years back. Yes I said house party not book club – Throws brick. Everyone’s a cynic now, so yes those are somewhat the kind of parties am into. We occasionally talk about books, mostly music but that is before we mellow into the booze and the drugs going around. After that we mostly just break stuff, mosh (head bang –Rock dancing) then fall asleep. Not necessarily in that order – then again chaos hardly ever has order. Sleep however remains the zenith of it all.

I hate parties though, well anything in the category of organized assemblage but the idea of rock music playing did a lot to sway me. Plus I had the whole birds of a feather thing going on. I can’t think of a party, occasion or concert where music I could actually identify with was ever played. It’s exhausting watching a jazz musician while mentally you’re begging he could strum the guitar a little harder and bestowed would be the miracle of distortion. Well about the book let’s say I got into a conversation with these two guys who in high regard talked about it. I think snooping is the right word (at first), considering I was sitting somewhere pretending not to exist. That reminds me – throws tantrum – I had precisely told my friends not to ditch me after we got in but heck do they listen. I was sure though against the allure of girls and alcohol I didn’t stand a chance. Like a puppy, at social gatherings I only stuck with only that which was familiar. Everything else could rest assured I would bark at. Familiarity ran deep between the two, close friends I assumed but as I came to later find out these were the kind of gatherings where somebody knew somebody, a sudden chain effect and it was certain you knew everybody. It didn’t take a lot to get roped into the conversation, although I was more about inquiry than actual answers.  Sadly I did get much but the name and the promise of getting it sent to me via email. They weren’t much in the way of spoilers.

Normally I don’t drink (see am the worst party guest ever, don’t ever invite me) am inclined to like stuff more supple to my taste buds. You know stuff that’s sweet or has sugar or like more and more sugar – he he. Alcohol still remains outside that category. Nevertheless given in the dead of night I happened to clash into someone I was having this weird unrequited love thing going on with, drowning a stray emotion or two under a couple tots of liquor at the time sounded like the best idea. Worst move ever, definitely didn’t help hell I tried. Come morning I had little recollection of said night. Well except for the fact that I somehow misplaced my wallet plus the tiny weeny insane fact that said “unrequited love” somehow got me home. At this point I pretty much craved like a blood copper taste in my mouth, something along the lines of drowning on my own blood. Argh!

A few weeks later I checked my email and heck there was the attachment, precisely few a day after the party, apparently some people are consistent with their promises.  Must be like an undiscovered human sub-species or something. The Fault in Our Stars, I read, a relatively short book actually, pretty sure I did it in a night, primarily because it was too insanely awesome to put down. I don’t believe writers are one hit wonders like some musicians so after a soft search on internet I found more of his books. I read everything from Finding Alaska to Let It Snow, a combined work between him and two other writers Maureen Johnson and Lauren Myracle. Probably also his Wikipedia pages and something about a webcast he runs with his brother, I was a little too thorough.  Although I loved the Fault in Our Stars, my ultimate book had to be Paper Towns. At the time I just thought it a more equitable read.

Fast forward to a couple of years and they finally did a film adaptation of Paper Towns. I hated it. Okay sure I both loved and hated the fact that the Enchantress (Suicide Squad) actor Cara Delevingne played Margo, she’s an amazing actor but I couldn’t help think she Continue reading

Squash my Berries and call them Compote

One word. Exceptional.


There is a local restaurant nearby that we eat at quite often. Living in a small place that underwent depopulation crisis in the nineties and also where I grew up, when a new venture that focuses on the pleasures in life opens, we must support it.

We do.

If I eat there during the day, I often order chicken and mushroom vol au vents. Yum! They are a main course with salad and chips.

546b4db4-4450-428b-b31a-7764c0a8641a.jpg Pretty delish.

Sometimes we eat there at night.A new evening menu appears.

For starters (appetisers) I often get chicken and mushroom bouchee. Rocket leaves. Dressing. No fries.

d068e9_d9edd8f13ec14948880fd57e5ce7af95.jpg A bouchee. Or a fancier vol au vent.

What’s the difference?? Time of day. Price. Name. Portion. Costs more to eat less.

I often whisper to my company, ‘I am getting the posh vol au vent even though it’s the same thing as during the day’ as if in…

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The Witch Head Reflection Nebula


I am a dreamer.

I know so little of real life that I just can’t help re-relieving such moments as these in my dreams,

 For such moments are something I have very rarely experienced.

I am going to dream about you the whole night,

The whole week, the whole year.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky

#Np The Agonist – The Escape

They say when you remember a memory, you’re actually remembering the last time you remembered that memory and perhaps they were right.

I really don’t like rain; or rather I abhor the fact that water has to fall for it to be called rain. Gloomy the heavens are quite different a tale, I rather enjoy the relative calm to it all. Although in retrospect it’s nothing but calm, the wind almost always blowing sporadically from one cardinal to the other, you have to admire how silent it gets just before the skies open and the rain falls. Every bird gone, having silently retired to its humble aboard. The skies more beautiful then, spared the normalcy of a shining sun and an endless stream of fluffy white clouds. How alike the sky springs to an impression of a painter’s canvas on a rainy day. Every couple of seconds, ever changing, a quota of it a little darker and another different a hue almost like it all graced by a newfangled brush stroke of color. Mother Nature completely adamant on wiping away the representative insignia of her skies. To normal an eye missing the blue of the skies, the white of the clouds and the yellow of the shining sun it’s almost too easy to miss the beauty behind the simplicity of color. A crazy retro photographer too seems to pop ever so often in the form of lightning, I am not sure I enjoy the loud clap of the crowd he entertains, the thunderclaps. They did almost seem to scare me as a child. Perhaps a little too many an architect of art in a room.

It’s exactly a minute twenty five past two o’clock, according to my wrist watch. I am partly certain that’s what it should say, not that I checked it. It’s say always proven easier to reach for my phone. Foolish but long did my watch regress to fashionable an article of dress. Someone avers it makes me look neat. I am not about to challenge that fact.

As far as qualms go with rain, mud has to be my biggest; it’s something I can never seem to get my head around. Well then again these brown boots did rather serve beautifully, I might be biased about black but I doubt it could hold its own when facing the tussle that is red volcanic soil. I will have to admit it would be better if I was as biologically adapted like a cat, you have to admire how she dances and hops around the puddles. They really hate water. My apologies, I am watching a cat grace around trying to avoid getting wet, as for myself let’s just say I found it better to sit on the floor to my door and wrestle my boots off. I certainly have lost to the cat my hands already wet.  It reminds me of a moment past, perhaps a mental journey would suffice but I would insist you follow me close behind; I would hate if you wandered off in parts unknown and see something you might exceptionally never unsee.

So it was an exceptionally strange day, the trademarks of a Monday but perhaps given the weather, everyday did look a lot like a Monday lately. Inside the vast expanse that was the Nairobi CBD the weather hadn’t been so kind. Now our friend was wet, compared I was like a lily met by the gentle spray of a florist’s hose while he’d ragged screaming through the canals of the Nile. For sentimentality perhaps semi wet would serve, I theorize it sounds more supple given he was drying off; no longer dripping water – laughs – the madness. Given the current conditions hypothermia seemed a lot like a possibility; it was after all fairly too easy to score down on the two degrees. Then again we are talking about dying here so perhaps it’s was more favorable to undertone the pessimism, he stood a chance.

Hell I picked one hell of a day to leave the house without my gloves. So apparently freezing to death is a thing now. Three mugs of down in the past couple of hours, coffee don’t fail me now. So Kencom is a bust, I’ll just catch a ride from Railways and connect from there. It’s exceptional how dead Moi Avenue is dead today, bearing in mind that I am next to the August 7th Memorial Park, there is almost always a happy couple or group of friends chatting away in there. I bet they miss the sun.  Side note, is that place like super haunted in the night?

Now to add insult to injury, my body suddenly has the audacity to feign hunger, not so much feign but still, absurd considering I always skip day meals. I find them a little too monotonous for my taste; given my light hours they just seem to be on a collision course. Still I had to cross the road and probably find a place to eat. Hey there is Nakumatt, it’s almost impossible to miss to blue streak that is its insignia on Anasuya Lane. Although I am abundantly insane to walk in and walk out with a bag of salty snacks, bad idea, Mwandu Chips and something, nay, totally not in the mood for fries. Perhaps I am plentifully overdue on a ritual. Fetch me my knife. Laughs – Just kidding. Worry not, no blood and guts shall be involved, perhaps milk is the closest animal product demanded by the gods. I am dying for pastries or at least anything not in the bread family with a lot of sugar. Let’s call it cake, a whole lot of cake. Plus I just happen to know the best of places – un momento de silencio [a moment of silence] – plus they just happen to have these weird prices so I always have tones of coins to spare for candy. Mibisco Limited. I have never really got the whole limited part but I have to admit whoever came up with “Mibisco” was super creative, it’s kind of cute, whatever it means that is. Did I mention its super small so it’s like super cozy? Well inside anyway outside I can’t seem to fight the touts fast enough not to drag me into their matatus. I only wish I knew why they were so determined to take me to this place called “Sivo.” Seriously what is there and more specifically where is there?

So Mibisco Limited it is then, well I considering I am still on Haile Selassie Avenue, somewhere between Karibu Hotel and Jade Collections if only blowing my hands warm actually sufficed to create warming a difference. Worried about the givens of detail, don’t be I just checked the walls, I know exactly where I am because I am pretty sure I am about to be robbed. Sixth sense perhaps or probably because this stinky weird-looking “chokora” looks like trouble, second look, no, anybody but him, argh we have history. By the way if my mom asks I called him street kid or in this case street man. I am not about to take chances getting  smacked dead if she heard me use that word, see she’s a little critical about certain ways people brand people. Bastard (that too) although I should probably take no offence to the father, for all I know he might actually have stuck around no need to turn stereotypical aye? Although he’s a bastard by means of annunciation he still stole my phone, well like – counts – five years ago?

This guy nicked my phone while I was on a date. Like seriously on a date, I speculate that’s what they mean when they say romance is dead. On the third date, with this super pretty girl, total understatement by the way, I’d say cute but I reserve that for my pets and beautiful just sounds lame. It’s just lacks the sizzle of proper describing an adjective.  I have the faintest memory of how I used to joke that I saw twin stars when I was around her. Am not sure she got what I meant, then come to think of it perhaps my description was flawed, it does sound a lot like what you see when you have your head knocked really hard. I just loved relating her eyes to stars. If you were really close, like a kiss close they were blue, alike to the Witch Head reflection nebula. I only wish I knew to which side the Orion constellation was hidden.  Impossible a venture considering she wasn’t big on eye contact, something about an effect on her. Not that I bought it, that girl didn’t have a bone of shy in her, still it was quite the buzz for my ego. Few were the times I actually got away with it. Still who’s to say the said kisses weren’t proper a consolation – giggles.

Numbness wrenches the cavity that is my chest,

For different a second I am cut out of breath,

Her love lingering at the canopy of my thoughts,

Her eyes a hue of blue graze my love lit iris,

 My heart in drowns the in the embrace of her lips,

Matched to watching the sun sink in the ocean at day’s end,

Is the dismay I feel missing the sight that is her eyes,

Although a kiss at such a moment serving a setting suns bliss,

  A moment granted a wish would last forever,

Now as for everything else about her, from the curls in her hair to the curves on her body, it was a sense of perfection.  A creamy chocolate complexion didn’t hurt either with supple a smile and a damsel of a face. A hint of a sly vixen when she cracked a smile plus it didn’t help that she had infectious a personality, one of those happy people. The kind you bask in the sound of their laughter and the warmth of their being.

Memory does fail me about her attire, almost certainly since I’ve been known to tinkle with certain details of my memories. I tend to entertain the habit of redressing everybody in alternative clothing; something between some Gothic embodiments, band tees and Victorian dresses. Reality does seem  a lot like a sham compared. Think of it like a bad vampire movie where some vampires are stuck out of time enjoying the dress of the 1800’s while others have deeply flawed a taste for leather. It seems like rather grim a place, assuming cows are endangered a species with all the leather going on. Plus black seems like the only color under the sun, the dominant one nonetheless. Don’t get me started on the boot fetish. As for the Victorian dress frontier I just can’t seem to get over the love of pattern, how the dresses of age intertwined lace and fabric. Call it an ample tear-jerking bliss. As for the actual designs, they were purely magnificent, perhaps stolen from the tailor’s court in heaven.

I do remember an article of her dress though, their significance a wager, a pair of brown wedges she clad, given any shoe she owned to choose the longest heeled, she would try to beat my height. I won.

So walk to Odeon we did. Supposedly we were to catch a ride to Kileleshwa, en-route alight at the Arboretum. For a girl who didn’t look like she did the outdoors much she rather enjoyed the idea of having a date under the sun. She didn’t strike me as someone who enjoyed the grimy, gross, not fun dirty aspect that was the definition of outdoors. I like it plenty; I just don’t enjoy the idea of people. Conceivably peg her wrong I did, a princess on a certainty but not hang on some pedestal.

So we are walking and our “friend” directly puts his hand in my pocket and links our arms. Appalling was definitely my state of mind considering the various contemplations about pathogens. Imaginably a little overstated was my love for grim and gross. I would assume by end of tale I still should have you believing in fairy-tales and happy endings so I’ll spare you the gruesome minutiae. I will tell you this though, I proudly recoil at the sight of roaches, perhaps a few many  particulars about the constituents  of their underbelly according to a column I read so given the “ammo”  our so-called friend was wielding, I was say a willing victim. I should mention I can easily take this guy out but I seriously want to skip the hospital and recovery time. My reluctance to comply was somewhat extinguished when said threat extended to my date.  So that’s how I lost my phone or rather in the next couple of minutes while the fool left me outside the Bata shop in Kai Plaza on Tom Mboya Street. Pretty sure he disappeared on Timboroa Lane on that tiny road on Latema Street.  I have to wonder if I could get away being called a hero on this one – laughs – tough luck, equated it’s like calling a monkey a sapien.

Did I mention my date actually found it hilarious? Sure in bad taste, I’d just lost my phone but seriously that girl’s laugh was infections. Momentarily mad to a pulp, a second later I was leaning at some wall trying not to breath from all the laughing. I did consider calling the date off, more like vocally suggested it. After all I sort of had enough of my fair share of hostage situations that day and I no longer trusted the day not to pop any other unpleasant surprises. My optimism for a day has been known to wane because I couldn’t seem to find the damned toothpaste cap after unscrewing it. It was however a given she in no way was about to quit on half lived a day and she had a rather compelling number of reasons about how the day would light up.

How wrong she was, between getting rained on, losing her umbrella and catching a cold, then there was the mud issue, ultimate foe, at one point I would have believed the smile faked. Or maybe it was just stuck on her face. By the way I have to mention getting rained on is like a me and a female thing. Sorry, female whack, I mean like if we are friends and you happen to be in the female subcategory, of the human species anyway, ever so often Mother Nature will pull out her rain antics. I’ve found it easier to think of it like a complementary, a creed of some sort and a say sanctification of our friendship. I duly apologize in advance for the hair. As for girlfriend’s too, oh God, those sort of have it worse. The mugging thing was a one of though, sure it might have happened say one more time, too particulars cannot entirely be considered as sufficient data but she was rather adorable, our tiny mugger that is. That’s my personal favourite a tiny kid. Laughs – Well that’s a story for another day.

So between all stated reasons I was pretty sure I would never hear from her again. Well either she was good at being crazy or I just didn’t get tired of being wrong because I did hear from her again, like a couple more years hear from her. Oh and she’s was not crazy, apparently from it all, the highlights of the day did outweigh all the sour points, who knew?

So friend on Haile Selassie Avenue, I loathe you yes? Pretty sure it has a lot to do with my playlist. Those things are sort of sacred. Like tiny babies you just watch grow up, song after song. Nicking the phone that was her cradle doesn’t really help your case you know – Is it weird that I think of my playlist as a girl? Wait, don’t answer that.   They say eyes are the windows to the soul but I am sure he saw the windows to hell in mine. Maybe it didn’t help when I asked for my phone when he tried to mug me again. I have to admit watching him speed off did make for a splendid view, a certain exploit to it. Call me heartless but I really didn’t hold my breath when a few steps wrong he almost ended atop some random car bonnet. Conceivably ghosts of his past had too deep a claw in his soul. I never did give chase given although I ought to have, under press of morbid humor of course. Still drunk I’d be on power if I caught him, a little too much for fear. Heavens, I watch too many horror movies. Perhaps the rapid heave of his breathe escaping was enough a consolation. Or perhaps I owed him a thank you for the memory. “Well thank you little speck of man running away, “sadly my eyesight s tank I could hardly see him. Gone but somehow rambling into Tom Mboya Street I couldn’t help watch a hooting bus inside Oil Libya behind the green brick building. There once, two a step left where it rest I stood, her reincarnation a gaze away;

”Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages”

(The Merchant of Venice)

I could swear it’s a little bit warmer now, a subconscious thought but still a little warmer. Now cake awaits.

Well he did get home anyway but not before he passed by home, poor soul was freezing half to death. On the bright-side he did carry cake with him so. . .

Finally damn buggers are off. I seriously could swear someone pored glue down my shoes in the morning. Or maybe am growing fat, God forbid, then again am not sure there’s a fat for feet. Mental note, remind me to google that.

“Sweet home Alabama
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home Alabama
Lord, I’m coming home to you

In Birmingham they love the gov’ nor (boo, boo, boo)
Now we all did what we could do”

And so my ringtone goes, am not much for classic rock but that cropped chorus of the song makes for one hell of a ringtone to sing along. Surprise, surprise, just dammed the soul I was thinking about.


The Sanctimonious Pursuit of Annihilation

We all need to look into the dark side of our nature – that’s where the energy is, the passion. People are afraid of that because it holds pieces of us we;re busy denying.

Sue Grafton



#Np All Time Low – A Love Like War (Feat. Vic Fuentes)

I have always identified as a Christian but most times I find myself more spiritual than religious.

We recently broke up but for some reason I can’t seem to get over him. He was great, perfect to a fault. Around him I felt relaxed and calm, like I didn’t care about a thing in the world. It was fun for a while well until every fiber of my being demanded I seek adventure, a manner of chaos, anything that wasn’t order. The stars realigned it didn’t take long before the perfect fairytale was blown out of the water. Maybe it had to do with the fact that I was ever distant or perhaps because I was never actually available. I never bothered to ask, I just didn’t see him as much anymore.  There was no way I could feign innocence seeing that accused guilt would fall like rain on a stormy day. I just wished I felt at a loss, the emotion missing, lately I just seemed to be busy doing my own stuff. No longer smothered I do enjoy it all a little too much. Sometimes we hang out but I can’t help but feel like I want to walk out and end the moment right there and then. It just doesn’t feel like it used to, perhaps the past has been reduced to nothing but a distant memory.

Apparently that’s how I said goodbye to night sleep and that was the offset of my nocturnal tendencies. The night just felt wasted sleeping when the whole day I was obligated to do everything except what I actually liked. Considering humans aren’t nocturnal creatures nights seem like the best of times to do stuff, they are quiet.  No random noises around, perhaps a dog or two barking in the distance but that depends on how thick your walls. Mine are pretty thick. I get to catch up on all my favourite serie, I write and when it feels like there’s nothing to do I walk out and lie beneath the stars. Okay maybe that last part is a lie, they grass is always wet. I think they called it dew. So see I had a number of reasons to break up with sleep, night sleep anyway. It sort of ended up cheating with the brother; apparently once you hook up with the sleep family it’s not a relationship you walk away unscathed. Staying single sort of ended up giving me eye bags. It’s not a pretty picture.

So you can understand why I enjoy momentary snoozes on the bus on my way home. Sure I wake up feeling a little bit cranky also my neck feels all directions of wrong but I enjoy them the same.  A small price to pay for colossal a thrill. Plus I get away with saying I live life on the edge. How many of you can admit to comfortably sleeping in a public service vehicle? I could equate different a cataclysm that could happen to you to every palmistry marking I have and still couldn’t count them all. Obviously there’s the fact that you could almost always miss your stage and if we are anything alike that’s at least two hours back.

That could be one reason why I sleep in cars; the other might be because I cannot survive without doing it. I can’t remember a time I didn’t sleep during a car ride. As kids we get away with it and there’s the added advantage of comfort under the embrace of one’s mom, your head on her chest. That’s kid heaven. Like a child I don’t travel that well, apparently it’s all levels of exhausting. Thirty minutes into any journey and I get knocked out cold. I figure compared I still have a lot in the way of growing up. Sadly I can no longer demand to go to the front seat after much demanding that I needed my own seat at the back. Sleep is no longer an excuse to ride shotgun. I remember my dad’s protests about shifting seats mid journey; then again he wasn’t properly equipped to fight a little angel. I always got my way.

Oh well, at least it’s a couple of minutes to my gate, finally I’ll get home and lay my head down. It doesn’t help that I just had exams and troubled is my psychological state as is my physical. Maybe some food will help; at least if the scamp hasnt beaten me home, if the gods above listen, spare me the turmoil and constraint of having my hopes crushed . Normally I wouldn’t describe the topography of where I lay my tent lest someone follows me home but somehow this enhances the plot. I would hope. So said minutes away from my gate is a hilly terrain, not like a hill, that’s different, hilly like the gradient increases gradually. I only call it hilly because everyone I’ve brought home complains about it. It’s only so because it’s an access road to two feeder roads. Whatever the hell that means.

So on said hilly terrain, again not a hill, scratch that let’s call it a hill considering now that I think of it I always hit a jog when I approach it. It does rather depend on what I am wearing; some clothes don’t give a lot of leeway for cardio. Of course then there’s the whole issue about shoes, a lot of those I own wouldn’t allow me to walk away with my ankles intact. So I notice some mama a couple of steps left of it, (now officially the hill) pretty sure I’ve seen her somewhere. Considering she’s a tad bit familiar, should I duck before she sees me? Hell yeah – Darn a second earlier and I could’ve actually made it. It doesn’t help that our eyes meet and I can’t help but fake a smile, certainly a second or two longer and it would tear at the seams. [Aaaargh] Maybe it’s not too late to run? No, save that level of crazy for a rainier day. Basically any unprecedented social interaction can be summarized as a zombie apocalypse where I am the lone survivor.


I still try to wave a quick wave as a hello and ditch but she signals I stop, it doesn’t help that she insists on shaking my hand. I feel like a hostage, please kind lady let go of my hand. It’s worse when I notice some other woman approaching us. Now this demands I venture into my mind palace. A mind palace is like – Okay I am not explaining that, just watch Sherlock, some UK series, four seasons and a movie, then you’ll have a clue. By the way Benedict Cumberbatch looks amazing as Dr. Strange.


Okay. So two people, women rather, maximum acquisition dependent on the number, numbers are strength after all plus strategic a placement at a junction. I am not the only victim, like lions on a hunt this alike to a river bank across a river infested by crocodiles on a Mara Migration. I have to imagine it that way seeing that I just momentarily noticed the other lady. Either she was hiding or somehow got her hands on Harry’s invisibility. Again in the couple of seconds it took me to shake her hand I had noticed a bunch of yellow booklets she held on different a hand, piece that together with all other said evidence. The situation seemed a little too familiar for my liking.

This ought to be good. Although I have proven to have no sense of humor, my sarcasm rang like a bell in my mind, proving insanely hilarious even to myself. Truly I dreaded every second & picked one hell of a day I did not to carry my earphones. A couple of hours without them and the ripple effect suddenly feels like death, my eternity of my world turned upside down.

”So yeah what do you want?” [Laughs]  I wish. I was all levels of submissive really as she talked, didn’t say much really. As predicted it had something to do with religion, Christianity anyway. I doubt she was one of those Jehovah witnesses’ evangelists though, I could be wrong, I haven’t collided into them for quite a number of years.  I am void of memory regarding their tactics. So she handed me the yellow booklet, an extract of Romans, the New Testament book. Great tell me how I am going to burn now. Let’s just say I am equipped with enough knowledge about Romans to know it’s all about turpitude, the promise of heaven, redemption through the blood of Christ and obviously hell. Hell is the dead ringer half the time. Although it’s a testimonial of God’s grace; in part it’s almost like a summary of the New Testament. Given said information, this was a song I’d danced to one many a time so the questions that came next served as no surprise.

“Are you saved?” The predictability had to be all levels of appeasing. Normally caught in such compromising a situation I choose to lie, it’s almost always easier. So am I saved? Truth I am not sure if I am. Sure I have taken Jesus to be my personal savior & I am familiar with said concept thus far but . . .

“So did I lie? No I didn’t. Why? I seriously wish I knew. I said I was Catholic. How that was to ride as an answer I didn’t think it through. Having to explain the technicality in couldn’t be undertaken in so little a word. I have to insist though before you read the next part take some things into consideration. One, I don’t do religious pieces, this is a first. They’re messy; at some point trying to justify myself, my sense of opinion will leave me tainted. Two, Catholics aren’t evil, okay you probably know that but given my justifications, at some point you might find it comparative to place my sense of being to my church, don’t do that. So I am Catholic given, I think I already explained that part I think. So before I started hanging out in Protestant churches I knew little about being saved. The protestant version of saved at least.  It didn’t help that I went to those primary schools that had a saint (St.) statement at the beginning of their names. I probably considered it a running gag back then but considering I did follow the same trail for a secondary school by then it all became relatable, including with all that I was taught. It was the church I could completely identify with. Okay you might doze off at this part but bear with me. Are you familiar with sacraments? I’ll lead with the assumption that you are not. I am Catholic so we refer to them as Christian rites called sacraments. I am familiar with the fact that other denominations have them too, almost always two, we have seven. Sacraments are defined as efficacious signs of grace, instituted by Christ and entrusted to the church by which divine life is dispensed to us. I learnt that as a kid in church, at least the Swahili version anyway, this I just googled – laughs. I’ll only confer about ‘The Sacrament of Confirmation,’ it’s basically a lot like somewhere in Acts where the apostles go around giving the holy spirit to the faithful, it’s like the second stage after baptism. I’d compare that to getting saved, but as Catholics that is something we do almost always do as kids. Rather innocent little things too far from the proper idea of sin. Then we are as children by biology as we are children by faith. Given that it’s the beginning I would assume there are other stages before one completely achieves their complete and true spiritual self. Beginnings don’t convene to endings, some people quit at the middle.

 Said mama obviously had encountered such an answer before because she asked what was in my heart. Legitimacy to said claim of being saved. Now logic and technicality would never allow me to say yes, unless I chose to explain it all (I wasn’t about to), my mind would never let me. I neither could ever get away with denial so I rather couldn’t run with my ‘yes’ answer. By definition I am saved but I am nowhere near salvation. The way she meant it my answer was no but passed by my definition my answer ought to have been yes.  So obviously the next logical thing for her was to ask if I wanted to get saved. I may hate my mind when it comes to making particular decisions but if there’s something we’ve always agreed on one thing, we run an introverted personality. That’s the operating system; we never get pressured into an extroverted encounter. Ever.  All the kicking biting and scratching is allowed to find an out. So given this involved some sort of praying,  I guess fear was a great motivator cause saying no seemed so natural. I avoid people for simple impersonal reasons like shaking hands that simply acknowledge existence, what she asked was top shelf. So advise me to read the booklet she did as I waved bye and continued my slow climb thinking.”


. . . I am sure I actually enjoy being aberrant. I have become so adjusted to the dark my eyes hurt when I walk into the light. I merely didn’t adopt the darkness, it became me. Don’t get me wrong I don’t go around strangling babies or run around with a checklist of wrongs wondering which to perform next. Far from it, I am incapable of most actions on the avenue of what I would describe as dark. I wrong sure but my war is waged on the fact that hardly passes a time that I am not reminded that I seek out no redemption for any of my actions. I just find it hard to apologize when I know not my wrong, absolution alike. I could have borderline personality disorder though – I’ve heard they can shoot you and still find no fault in their actions. Am certain you’ve met a few, somehow they are the kind of people who find a way to laying back the blame to you for their actions – Crazy huh? Now for a person who doesn’t believe in grey areas this shouldn’t serve as a way for me to parade my transgressions as conquests of some kind. I have nothing I aim to hang on a wall alike to a hunter’s trophies. Although on the streets I walk with a tainted soul unlike most, I am bothered only by the fact that no part of me aches for any morbid an action I might have committed. I am bothered because of the fact that am not bothered – a complete mind boggle yes? I know they are wrong, actually I don’t, am told they are wrong I am void of said guilt of transgression.  Call it two different a side of a coin whose one side I am blind to. I have always assumed that when you have a wrong unresolved it feels awful, a weight on your soul something worse than a troubled conscience. Like gray you can’t help but want to shower off your body.

Remember as kids when you say broke a glass you’d get this huge feeling of regret and sometimes fear. You’d be tempted to tell the truth lest your mother found out. Emphasis on tempted, we never really went through, it say always depended on who your mother was. Mine was crazy, still is, I can just run faster than she can now. For me the perks of old age. Okay maybe we found it easier to destroy the evidence, hide the body.  Sorry, not cops, my mom, then again in trouble I can never really tell the difference. Afterwards it proved easier to feign no realization about a missing glass from her dozen glass set. It was perhaps one of the few times I actually hated that I was so good at mathematics. Once I tried getting away with it by insisting twelve came after ten but I ought to have known that being that shrewd obviously had something to do with an inherited genetic marker. Just my luck it had to be running through her blood.


“Do tell me what is six by two?” She asked separating the dozen by half.

“Twelve,” I shamefully answered.

“So how come we are running an odd number at one end,”

Curses! I never pictured getting into trouble because I memorized the damned multiplication tables. Kid me called them times tables, the ‘X’ sky markers that made all of us young samurai’s between the lessons. The teacher purposely insisted they were a good idea. After all they had rid me of all the scribbling at the back of the book.  I no longer had to suffer the turmoil of meeting the scribbling’s at the middle of the book, almost always in the middle of a lesson trying to tackle classwork. It didn’t help that I couldn’t own an eraser for more than a day or two. Am still convinced something swallowed them when they fell to the floor.

Now the prime problem about said transgression was that I was forever denied absolution. Also it was easy to forget that no crime was ever perfect. Somehow the glass always insisted on breaking into a million pieces she’d find remnant when she did chores. Evidence is a lot to handle; it’s only ever efficiently squashed by your last card, confession. I happened to be an only child so there was no one else to blame. Although I could take my chances by placing blame to my dad, then again it doesn’t help blaming your only ally. After all he was the only one who could understand that I didn’t raise it way above my head and toss it to the floor.

Alike I was to compare and write about all manner of ways about how people break decrees where I am void of said transgression; everything from idol worship in the form of money to spite that could be equated to murder. It seems nothing more than justification for my own. That’s not what I am after. Although my idol could be music I do unusually like it. Then again I doubt that qualifies, it just sounds like an attachment to passion. Horses to their halt y’all are better set to hold the stones for a while seeing there’s still absent proper a reason to cast them.

So am I good? No, nobody is actually, all of us black sheep.  The only difference is perhaps I have come to accept parts of my being, alike to an infection that takes time to heal. It’s mine and I am to run with it, well at least until I cannot. After all thus far it has proven not to be a struggle.

I think my biggest problem is my insistence that no two opposites can ever co-exist, good and bad, light and dark, pain and pleasure. Somehow I have forever refused to believe in grey areas, one can never be two things that are completely different. Seeing that I lack enough compelling a reason and strong enough a guided courage I choose to be that which cannot be tainted. Darkness is after all darkness, there are a lot of shades to light. Still in my discourse I refuse to air my dirty linen, never to hang them in public. Like everyone else my transgressions are my own, my burden. My actions heartfelt as they are heartless, everything good forever masked by a misdeed, everything bad absolved by an action of grace. My reasons might probably be as simple as a funny taste for humanity so my actions too few to properly mark me as an agent of bedlam. After all they serve proper a purpose, reason, a memory.

I could close the book there, fully tainted myself but I find it befitting to drag you all to my level. After all if I am to burn, the songs of the masses make for the best of tunes. Don’t believe me listen to a choir. Let’s see there is turpitude that one actually enjoys committing, I included and they’re sweet, never dark nor demented. Low hanging fruit whose juices we so often love. The sensation of their drip of juices too sweet a taste running off our lips. Society itself having helped find loopholes around; a drug encouraged. None to talk about them as wrongs, avoided, all guilty nobody to stand and point fingers. How it’s almost easier to place blame when your hands are tainted by different blood.


I would be easier if it were all simple as empathy. Good and bad that is. A feeling whose creation cannot be traced right, a complexity lost in its own simplicity ever so easy to find even in the smallest of living creatures. You have to admire how in the hour of ailment how even your pet understands. A language unspoken understood it later demands to stay by your side when it has all manner of reason to ignore you. Okay maybe not as deep, she’s had me thinking I was dying at least twice perhaps compared we would all hang ourselves because of our turpitude. Still I assume it’s clear what I mean.


Now on an end note I can’t help but feel that I need to emphasis that this is no lesson in religion or spirituality. I am simply documenting my thoughts so no am not an agent of the devil sent to lay cushion to whatever twisted thing you did that keeps you up at night. Believe me it will kill you, it has to. Mine to but I just happen to have made peace with mine, a peace laid on a cracking foundation. So until then I am safe, delaying the inevitable. Perhaps in a way I think I stock up on weapons until then, brace myself for all that jazz that will finally come, I am however lost to the simple fact that my nemesis multiplies his army by every passing day.

Sometimes I think perhaps in my pursuits I only engage my life in one of my favorite quotes from the old iteration of vampires, am not sure if any of you have ever read Dracula. That was before Twilight, Vampire Diaries or even Anna Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. All books I recommend a read if you do so have the time. If I am to quote the author, Bram Stoker,

“I am all in a sea of wonders. I doubt; I fear; I think strange things which I dare not confess to my own soul.”

Reflect on that and so given that I am full now, seeing that I got home first, I beg to believe and give say a thanks for the gods were listening. Closing sentiment before I seek my so dearly deserved snooze, I ask,

“Individually I am accordingly conversant with all my chances, are you?”