KritykaL

Criticism

2009-12-13T22:27:00.003-05:00

I'm putting up two articles concerned with African Lit.

The First discusses the idea of happiness in a recent Egyptian work of fiction: The Yacoubian Building. It can be accessed here.

The second examines the continued use of violence, intimidation, and the judiciary by the Kenyan state against its opponents and activists for social justice. Covers the time period beginning in the early 1900's and for the next 100 years. In other words, the continued 'state of exception'. Access here.

How Do You Choose?

2009-07-23T22:30:00.005-04:00

How do you know that this is it?
What is this 'just right' feeling that one senses, deep within, deeper than one ever thought they could go?
So deafening it silences all others, it feels so right, so natural, so meant to be, and not just to you, but to the other too.

What is this balance that one keeps, not desiring but still wanting, not seeking but still finding, not knocking but still getting doors opened?
What fantasy is this that one lives?
Where does it show so that I may watch till my eyes, red, bloody, and hungry, may pop out, and then, blind, I shall follow the dream, find the one.//

What is this me that I need to find before I can receive, before I can give?
Oxymoron, the giver receives, the keeper loses, the loser keeps, the last is first, and the first is last. The head is down, the legs are up..... tantric!

Unfair, the more you have, the more you get, the less you have the less you get!

But there is hope, hope in making small indelible marks on the cave wall. Marks eternal, marks that defy weather, nature, God, marks that go against, marks that create anew., marks that stand alone in the storm, marks that do not weather the storm, but whose existence cannot be erased in the big record of 'time.'

All instincts tell to get what you deserve,
yet One thing tells to mark what you deserve and avoid it, like the plague,
to go ahead in the storm and dream; with your mind to neatly arrange the flying cows in the eye of the tornado back in their pens,
the houses back in their yards, and the hearts back in the hands of those who love them.

Lucretius: On the Nature of Things

2009-06-21T20:27:00.005-04:00

This is a 95BC exposition on, literally, everything below, and above, the sun. Of course, many of the facts have been disputed, but it's quite intriguing to see what Roman society thought about various issues, keeping in mind the fact that this work mostly shows what one man, Lucretius thought.

In "Now bend thy mind to truths profounder still:/For stranger doctrines must assault thine ear,/And a new scene of wonders yet unfold./Whate'er is new, though obvious and defined,/Gains not an easy credence; but when once/Flies the fresh novelty, th'unsteady soul/Yields its full faith to facts mysterious most./" I love the way he tries to preempt the reader's disbelief.

He then goes on to tackle the issue of extraterrestrial life, yes, even back then they were fascinated with UFOs etc. Lucretius says, "the fact flows doubtless,/ mid the void immense,/ that other worlds in other parts must rise,/ peopled with reasoning and with brutal tribes." It's pretty telling the manner in which he assumes that even in extraterrestrial life there exists a division in civilization, and in the same manner that Roman civilization, riding on the back of Greek science and art was assumed to be the best, and all else was barbaric, so too there exists a similar parallel out there in a far off world among the stars!

On how the earth feeds on its own perpetually he says, "The mass material must survive entire/To feed succeeding ages, which, in turn/ Like thee shall flourish, and like thee shall die;/ Nor more the present ruins than the past./Thus things from things ascend: and life exists/To none a freehold, but a use to all./ Basically, live and enjoy what you have right now, since you will leave it all behind when you die so it can be used by future generations. He does not mince his words!

He then scoffs at the phantoms that people create, and concludes that the soul dies with the body, so there can be no hell, or heaven. Quite the difference from what good old Constantine would agree to on his death bed! Lucretius says, "Did men but think... that from themselves their heaviest sorrows rise?" He is of the view that we torment ourselves, and moving from one location to another will not really help since the curse is within.

For those of you wondering how to conceive a baby boy, or a girl, listen keenly! "If when the male his genial energy (semen)/Imparts, the female deep her breath retract/From female store prove female: if revers'd/From store paternal male.../ In normal 21st century English, as semen is put into you, either naturally or artificially, breath in, and it shall be a girl, breath out, and it shall be a boy. Would it not be wonderful if it were that nice and simple?

Lucretius has a pretty intuitive and rudimentary understanding of relativity, a theory that would take another two millenniums before it was fully expounded upon. Interestingly, when considering whether the earth moves round the sun, or vice versa, he decides not to commit himself either way. He also understands that "one sole cause propels the stars of the earth" but as a sage "who treads with cautious foot" he dare not say what exactly that is. Copernicus would come to prove the heliocentric universe more than a millennium later, our boy Lurectius would have bet both horses and won either way. That's a smart philosopher/poet/scientist for you!

"On the Nature of Things" is in may ways outdated but its very form, a poem that discusses such diverse scientific and social issues, makes it worth reading. Furthermore, going back to some ancient science one cannot help but wonder what ideas do we hold so dear that will seem extremely ridiculous within the next fifty, one hundred or two thousand years?

Woman Up: Shoot Straight & Avoid Deceit

2009-06-20T18:16:00.003-04:00

Njoki Kaigai has quite the message in How to Entrap the Elusive Man. I disagree with her strategies, and luckily she too agrees that they might backfire, but there is more to disagree with 'entrapment' than just the fear of failure. Even if a woman does succeed, does she really have such a low self-esteem? Seeking to entrap a man is equivalent to staring into a mirror and telling yourself that you are worthless, moreover, the only way you will ever have someone in your life is through deceit. Who wants that?
If you have been in a relationship that seems to be going nowhere after 4/5 years, there is something you can do. Now, listen carefully, this has been a very well kept secret and should be used carefully, it is called asking! Guess what, you can ask your man exactly what he has in mind for your relationship's future. Granted, women would much rather the man initiated this relationship, but desperate times ask for desperate measures, so whip out your question and sit back. Despite all your prior indignation, watching HIM squirm to come up with an answer will be well worth it.
One of two things might happen. He may confess he has no future in mind for the relationship. If you are comfortable with this, strap in and enjoy the ride. If you have higher aspirations in life than a come-we-stay relationship, you better run, immediately, and fast! Politely inform the guy you will not be seeing him anymore, pack your bags and leave. Yes, it will be a terrible waste of the 5 or so years you have invested in the relationship, but guess what, those years are gone, you will never recover them. Further, it is better to let go of those 5 years, than to handcuff yourself for the rest of your life to a man who never wanted to marry you; there in lies hell!
If he says he has a future in mind for the two of you, well, inquire further if there is a time line that goes along with his plans. If none, give him your ideas, some time to think them over and discuss this further. He might like your plans and you can go ahead with living happily ever after. If he does have plans, either they match with yours, or they do not. If they do, well, lucky you, seems like you won the relationship jackpot! Go out and celebrate, and do not forget to brag to your girlfriends, you are one rare woman and deserve that new bag, shoes or whatever. If, however, his plans do not add up with yours, explain yours, and be ready to compromise. If he does not seem willing to do the same, think very hard if you want to go ahead with this. It can be a sign of trouble to come ahead, giving in now may or may not mean that you will have to settle for a life where your own ideas are relegated to second place. That can be extremely frustrating.
All this should be taken with a grain of salt. The key, however, is to believe in the sanctity of yourself, and your ability to attract someone who ACTUALLY wants to be with you for the rest of his life. Entrapment, even if it works, may leave you tied to some psycho who will only make you miserable. And guess what, he might actually enjoy this, and never miss an opportunity to remind that this was all your doing. OR, he might never be the wiser and you may both settle to a good old marriage. Who knows. life's weird!

History Repeats Itself.

2009-06-17T23:45:00.004-04:00

Excerpt from Lysistrata

Magistrate: Think you, O foolish women, that from wool
Spun thread, and spindles, ye can make to cease
This dreadful state of things?

Lysistrata: If any sense were in you, ye had manag'd all affairs
As we our wool.

This is from Aristophanes' Lysistrata, written 2,500 years ago. At the height of the
Peloponnesian war. The women of Greece are sick and tired of all the violence and decide to end it, by sex-starving their husband-warriors into making peace with their enemies.The women seize the Acropolis such that politicians cannot dip their grimy fingers into state coffers to pay for the war.
Outcome of the siege? The men capitulate and by the end of the play couples from both sides of the war dance the night away after signing a peace treaty.

Enter Kenyan women sick and tired of a coalition government that is terribly suicidal and recklessly oblivious of its citizens plight. What do they decide to do? Sex-starve all politicians till they iron out their churlish political differences and learn to work together for the country's sake.
Media story on the sex-ban.

Brilliant! Gotta love the way history repeats itself.

Uncle Caleb

2009-01-30T12:15:00.001-05:00

My newspaper-boy’s hat off kilt a bit,
I wobble, with some exaggeration, enjoying
The buzz from the local “watering place”

I wander, intentionally, into my nephew’s
House. Intent on meeting the new bunch of
Multi-colored kids he’s housing,
Babies wishing to change the world,
Our “Third World!” I shout out loud

A “gentle’ knock on the front door is
Answered, with snickers, then finally
The frightened North Americans open up
They call their host for safety’s purpose,
My nephew, graciously introduces us,
Re-introduces us, I pump each hand, hard,
A welcome to my homeland, and a warning
Not to walk with their noses in the air.
It is, after all, my “Third World!”

I care for it,
“It’s the Third World, mama.”
To the flushed blue-eyed blonde in skimpy shorts
They’ve been here three months and they still
Insist on dressing as though they’re at the beach
Or perhaps I’m getting too old and need to move on with the world

Vivacious, rounded, lively and smiley, ever smiley
His black walking stick is his partner-in-crime
As he wrecks humor on those around him
None is spared
He challenges even the most uptight of the bunch
And they melt at his hands

Balding, hair cropped short
He has the feel of a Buddha, a big, black shiny Buddha
You would trust with your secrets and dreams
One that gives you the audacity to hope
For a better “Third World” where the citizenry
Is proud of who they are, or are not, but maintain agency
And respect, and honor
Genuine, through and through

Stevie-Wonder

2009-01-27T11:52:00.000-05:00

‘Hello!” he says to you
His breath reeking of illegal village brew,
Chang’aa, is his end-all be-all

With cracked unwashed hands he forces you to
A handshake, you respond with the deadfish
He’s not having none of that, he pumps your hand
“Murembe mno mno mno mno mno….!”
Finally you pull your arm back
Feeling as though you’re stealing from him,
As though it was his all along,
Only on loan to you

With the handshake a success, he proceeds
To tell you who he is, “They call me Stevie,
Stevie Wonder!”
You smile, you never imagined to
Hear the name here, 500 Kms from the Metropolis
A simple farming village in the Maragoli hills
“Globalization,” you muse to yourself
Yet you do not protest his title, you smile
Urging him on

You’re about to go, need to catch up with
The rest of your party else you’ll be held
Hostage by Stevie’s breath all day, but to let you
Go, you have to “take a photo with me!”
And part with a few shillings,
Just enough to keep him buzzed till next time he sees
You, “Not!” you hope,
“But could be worse
He is a gentle mad-man; they do, too, come in violent
Forms,” you sigh

Wet-mare

2009-01-26T16:07:00.001-05:00

I pull my blanket closer; I hear the sound of water lapping,
Licking my toes, tentatively, as if unsure whether or not to join me
In bed
Then, with great nerve, it proceeds to caress me, up my thigh,
My waist, and now kissing my lips.
In a minute I’m chocking as the water deep-throats me.
Throwing back my beddings I get up to a flood,
In my room.
Neon lights from outside reflect in the puddle,
Broken here and there by bits of furniture floating

I jump out of bed, or rather, dive into the pool
Intent on getting out, fast, making my way to the door
Through the mess of papers and books
My feet get stuck in my overturned desk chair and
I panic that I will not get to the door fast enough

The more I struggle the tighter the chair grips me
And even when I manage to release myself, I still have
To contend with my drawers, all open and
Painfully connecting with my sheens

The water is rising faster; it is now up to my bottom lip,
Last night’s empty vodka bottle narrows misses my
Front teeth and I curse, a little, afraid of drowning
I can hear someone on the other side of the door, trying
To open it, and then give up, they’ve left me inside—to drown!

Just as I make it to the door, fumbling underwater
To twist the knob open, I slip and fall, submerged
I’m sure to drown.

I open my eyes and sit up straight,
I’m relieved to feel my blanket around me, dry, warm
It was just a nightmare

I jump out of bed
The empty vodka bottle by the open drawers has new meaning
I twist the knob and open the door a crack
I switch the position of the chair and the bed, I want to be as close to the door
As possible

I cannot risk this being real.

P(a)ins

2009-01-11T12:28:00.004-05:00

Photo Credit

.....

2009-01-11T12:02:00.001-05:00

not STAPLES, but PSLESTA

Prison, shooting pistons
Silence, metallic licence
Light, throttling life
Endless, rotting empress
Shingles, old and mingled
Tents, worn and bent
All, loved in fall

(NO, YES) X 2

Nylon-soaked beans
On oxygenated ice-picks—
Yellowed, withering from
Endless systematic
Steaming sessions.
Now, nearly-neutered nymphs,
Out-do Odysseus-of-many-divorces,
Yearning for
Everlasting processors
Securing mind-boggling mechanical bliss.

Globalized Shopping

Should all self-respecting
World-wise travelers
Look before they leap—dangling eye
Patches and clanking pots
As they imperialize 3-star hotel rooms
And search for the next curio?

Encounter with a Prophetess

2008-11-03T22:08:00.003-05:00

She cornered you and whipped out her Bible,
Prophesied, the doom in her heart,

Her religion is extreme,
It is afraid of difference,
Of people who, God-like, create and mold anew
You shake the very foundations of being,
Her ignorance makes you an enemy: to be feared.

She be far from the only one who reads the Word,
And she be not the only one who gets it all screwed up.
If anything, more than all else,
Religion is about self-determination: she forgets.

You got a bean and turned it into a cob,
Miracles, bigger than lemonade from lemons.
Creation, I believe He is proud of you.

To Black or not To Black

2008-10-31T19:16:00.005-04:00

I think I am sick and tired of African Americans telling me that I am or I am not Black. Despite slavery and all else, sorry but you have no mandate to determine who is or is not Black. 'Black' at an Ivy League, is different from Black on the streets of Harlem and the Bronx, which is different from Black in South African Soweto. You cannot homogenize and lump together simply based on skin color. There are minute shades of difference, not better or worse, but richer, privileged etc that are as real as the pigment. Glossing over those is akin to fighting the Civil Rights in the courts rather than addressing fundamental political changes that entrench justice for all.
Africans have their own very real sense of being Black. This should not in anyway overshadow the African American experience but neither is it to be glossed over. There are definitely more similarities than differences, but if one were to focus for example on Liberia, divergences show up.
Open-mindedness people, open-mindedness!

We Shall Meet

2008-10-05T20:41:00.002-04:00

Poem to those who've gone before us,
A simple gesture, to ourselves more than to anyone else,
Re-assuring us that all will be alright, after all.

Tree-Leaves-Tree

2008-10-05T19:52:00.004-04:00

Fall's fast approaching and each time I imagine what plants sense as they partly die off, a necessary evil so they can come back next spring.

On Writing, and Intellect

2008-09-27T13:57:00.002-04:00

We all purport ourselves to be writers, some of us at least, and we will expose on our poetry, over a glass of wine at the occasional poetry reading or other such literary gathering. We will quickly, almost with shame, go over the several attempts we've made in the past to create fiction, poetry or other kinds of work.
Inevitably, we come to a crossroad where we have to negotiate what we write, and how much time we wish to spend on it. Shall we be forever, wishful writers or shall we chain ourselves to our wooden tableau and vow not to rise till we've completed a work of certain mastery?
A quick read through English literay history serves to allay the fears and concerns upcoming writers have. Is my subject pertinent to the times I am in? Will there be any readership for my work? Such questions mild in the face of writers, of both sexes, who wrote journals, essays, plays and so on, purely for themselves, many of which were never published but posthumously. But also of the many writers who tinkered in the craft and failed. Yet the few, and sometimes numerous, successes serve to show that there is indeed light at the end of the tunnel for those willing to hold onto the torch that will light their way through.
I propose taking the essay and the personal journal as ways to guarantee constant practice in the art: a vital thing. Write about anything that crosses the periphery of your vision and in this way you have much chance at writing what is pertinent to life around you. Yet, at the same time, do not neglect to record in the annals of time, your own life. It is these 'queerities' - queer qualities, that make life diverse and banish dullness. Reflection will give one a chance to consider what else could have happened, and coupled with a vivid imagination, this is food for fiction and other great works.
Both of the above types of writing contribute to the overall role of an intellect, one who is curious about his/her environs, and who takes the time to investigate and form an opinion on different matters. Curiosity is a better director of what one will write, better than the rules set down by the different academies we subscribe to. An intellect has the capability to take what is otherwise mundane and turn it into a novel idea that leaves others wondering at the poverty they suffered before this new idea came up.

When You Need That Little Extra ....Mmph!

2008-09-25T23:21:00.003-04:00

... to convince her, you should wipe out Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress'

It's beautiful!
First of all sets the stage and makes her feel worth heaven and more, more than empires and goes on to expound on the hundred years you'd spend on each of her eyes and the 30,000 to study the rest of her body... watch as she begins to melt at this point.

You then, casually, point out that 'time's winged chariot [is] hurrying now'
and since you don't want 'worms [to devour] that long-preserved virginity.'
More so because 'the grave's a fine and private place, but no [one goes] there [to] embrace.'

Long story short? 'Let us [behave] like amorous birds of prey' .... auwww!!
'Roll all our strength ... and our sweetness into one ball' ....she's all hot and bothered at this point,... 'and [enjoy] our pleasures' to the max!

Read the full text for yourself

(Un) Holy Thoughts: King's Gospel Ministries International

2008-09-25T20:37:00.006-04:00

Keeping in tune with the recent economic turmoil in the West, I've made a new plan to ensure my economic future. I'm headed home; to start a church!! Hold on, don't get lost yet, stay with me on this one and I'll convince you why this is the best move I'll ever have made in my short life.
Being a pastor needs no education, that I've seen a few books, hell, even read them will only help me stand out from the crowd. I can mesmerize my congregation by expounding upon the 'proclivity of Dooms Day' and plead with them to let me 'evince them of the euphony they shall get in heaven,' if only they come more often to my church. No matter there are simpler words to use to give the same message, what will really sell my church is the number of SAT/GRE vocabulary I can use in a single sentence. That it does/does not make sense is immaterial.
As soon as I land at home, I'll head out to the biggest bus terminal in the city with a big green book in my hand. This I'll open at certain intervals and proceed to deafen the people around me. Shouting and frothing at my mouth to ensure my voice soars above that of the adjacent vehicles will win me a few shillings in offerings at the end of my prayer. Best thing? I can use my hat to collect the money: no initial investment needed! I don't even need a Bible. I'm pretty confident no one will come up to me and ask to take a look, I could as well be reading 'Mathew' from an old copy of Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body.

Within a month, I'll have saved enough to get me a loudspeaker. This I'll power using a car battery and use it to serve the Lord's Word to the masses. Since there are already so many preachers on the streets, I'll go to the highways. I want to serve the Gospel as you wait for the green light. My sermon will start with something like, 'I was young once, and I lived the fast life! I'd drive big cars and not give money to beggars when they pawed my closed windows during gridlock. Then the Lord showed me the error of my ways and now I'm here to serve the Lord's word to you dear brothers and sisters in Christ. Repent so that when Doom's day comes...' You get the gist. My three minute sermons, planned such that I'll read a verse, expound on it, pray and ask for money between consecutive red and green lights will work. Nairobians want as much religion as they can. They're willing to put their eggs in as many baskets as possible in the hope that one of them will hatch the elusive good life we all want.
Within another three months, I'll have rented a small shack on the fringes of the city in one of the shanties. I'll then proceed to play loud Gospel music every night in the name of 'keshas' or all-night prayer meetings which will have me praying in 'tongues', beating a loud drum and generally announcing my presence in the neighborhood at 4am in the morning. No-one dares have me evicted in the fear that I'll ask God to retaliate on my behalf.
To get the right kind of attention, I have an even better plan. I'll make friends with someone who works at a second-hand car bazaar. Every week, I'll have him drive to my shack in the evenings when workers are getting off work with a Benz, another time a BMW, Lexus, latest Honda or whatever else high-end car he can lay his hands on. This will then be effectively parked outside my door, and once he's in we'll proceed to pray for an hour or so, before he leaves, hooting and honking to attract attention. This will definitely get the locals watching my new 'King's Gospel Ministry International' and begin to associate it with the good life, a classic advertisement strategy.
From there, it won't be long before I start telling people of how the Lord has enabled me to travel to various places and how if they come for prayer meetings, I can pray over their US/UK/Australia or wherever else they wish to go, visa applications and the 'Lord will open the door.' Flocks will queue outside my door from morning, word of mouth is a good way of advertising in the business, at least for the first timer, so no extra expenses: all I get on Sunday is mine!
It won't be long after before I appear on TV, have a radio show and start attending 'Crusades' in Atlanta, Kentucky, Boston, London or wherever else I can get a large Kenyan gathering and guilt trip them into thinking about the Lord for a few hours, minus a few dollars or pounds. With such a career in store for me, who cares about Lehman Brothers going down? If anything, it only serves to juice up my testimony, 'I walked down the wide path, and then I saw the light, and in my dream all the banks were going bankrupt, and I realized the only good way to save is to save with the Lord.....'
You wait and see!

Photo Credits: Christopher Chen, http://www.flickr.com/photos/chanc/507900559/

17th Century Porn...

2008-09-22T20:52:00.000-04:00

License my roving hands, and let them go
Before, behind, between, above, below

Full nakedness! All joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed should be.

As liberally as to a midwife show
Thyself, Cast all...
To teach thee, I am naked first, why then
What need'st thou have more covering than a man?

ha!! And they try to make us believe we're more leery
than they ever were... hypocrites!! But this is a great
John Donne excerpt.

Splatter Splat!

2008-09-21T23:36:00.002-04:00

In honor of all those fallen/still standing soldiers,
Fighting each night to water the throats of the powers that be,
Massaging the egos, and making a kill, if possible.

Kudos!

My Vagina . . .

2008-09-21T23:29:00.004-04:00

Is a rose is a rose is a rose.
What we say, what we mean, what we are.

? ? ?

History Spurs With the Future

2008-09-21T23:12:00.003-04:00

Time has a way of simply flying away, pun intended, that just leaves you wondering,
how soon before it's all over or before it starts all over again.

Religion-remix

2008-09-21T18:16:00.006-04:00

This poem has featured here before, but not in the same way.
Art should permeate each and every aspect of life, if it is truly to be a mirror
upon which we view society. In this regard, here's a new way to experience poetry:
through sound and images.

Annoying!!

2008-09-17T22:55:00.004-04:00

Something that really irks me is listening to people sit
And complain, fuss and grumble about something without raising a finger
To do anything, one wonders what it profits them to prattle along
If they do not wish to make any serious actions to change the situation.

Just because all the men you know,
Including me, are wimps does not give you the mandate to call
All men weak. It's very churlish to sit and complain, a terrible way;
To give up your power and just extremely unattractive, I wish you'd at
Least know that!

If men are so terrible, oh my but you have a great choice, say adieu to
All of them and try the other side of the river, if you can't do that,
Shut up and suck it up... real good too, please!

This also applies to all those, poorly (or well-hang) misogynists,

Said the shadow to the looking glass, peering, intently
At the person on the other side, wildly disturbed by the similar
Noises arising from the image, similar, so similar to be one and the
Same.

Sunny Eastonian Day

2008-09-10T23:34:00.002-04:00

this past weekend was a nice day out on the east coast, despite a pretty raining Saturday. I took a walk around the local cemetery and it was interesting to see all the different ways we try to remember our loved ones, from really ornate tombs to amazingly huge monuments. All fueled by the fear of being forgotten perhaps? In addition to physical manifestations of heavenly figures, our minds have a lot to grapple with in such a place.

Walking in the city was interesting, from seeing some one who's planted flowers in their shows to taking photos of surveillance cameras it was a nice way to notice new things about paces I figured I knew all there was to know about them.

MORE PHOTOS ON FLICKR

Religion

2008-09-09T22:46:00.003-04:00

MY God is a woman,
and she smells of clean, fresh laundry.
She and I get along so well,
have a great time when I invite her over,
into my heart, every Sunday.

The relationship is still romantic, barely a few months
in, still steaming hot,
and oh my can She keep going at it!
Sweaty within the first five minutes, she
won't stop until I'm totally spent,
till I lay down my tool(s), job well done.
The way she moves inspires me to
outdo myself, break the record each time.
The house gets steamy, she ends up wet,
dripping all over her body, gasping and short
of breath, her arms and legs bulging with each exertion.

By the end, we lay side by side, in each others arms
and reward ourselves; the hut is now squeaky clean.
A-DIOS till next time!!

Lamu

2008-09-04T22:50:00.005-04:00

Lamu, a small island on the Kenyan north coast is known for its beauty and serenity. i found both and more: first there was Mzee Mohamed Famao who met me at a random jetty at Matondoni village and took me to his house for lunch, and to buy some of his basketwork,

then there was the Tana river which had been emptying its water into the Indian Ocean since that was the rainy season and so the ocean was pretty much unswimmable... unless one chartered a private boat to one of the islands... that whole tourist thing that I do not always go for. And lastly there was a dead body, fished out of the water as I watched, my desire to swim, understandably, fell a little bit, but soon enough I was back... I figured the ocean is big enough, so whatever the dead may have been carrying had to be distributed among many gallons of water and so was quite dilute... don't you love my line of thought!

The place I stayed at was great, it had some amazing Lamu doors to all the rooms, and was clean enough. Power was a problem, but that was experienced all over the island so I cannot fault them for that. Silas was the guy who I stayed with, his place had a nice balcony, would definitely recommend it. Something else I'd recommend is having a lime fruit shake after walking all day at one of the small 'hotels' within the old town... just amazing. It was at the same place that I got to eat lobster for the first time. Someone came to sell some to the guy who owns the juice-joint and I was happy enough to let myself be convinced to buy some. Great investment, if one could call it such, that last dinner I had was amazing. Something else that is a must do is to enjoy a cold one at one of the jetty-front places, late at night as residents walk by.

When you do go, please take a flash light, the streets in the old town are amazingly and SCARILY narrow, and if you do not wish to start knocking on random doors you better know your way well.

Do not be afraid to walk, walk to Matondoni and walk all the way past the beach houses and hotels past the big ugly pink castle and you'll come across some of the most pristine and isolated beaches you'll ever get anywhere, if nothing else you get to chase crabs as they hatch and move ito the ocean... tons of fun by the way!

SEE MORE PIX ON FLICKR

Around Zanzibar

2008-09-04T22:29:00.006-04:00

Kigama

2008-09-04T22:14:00.003-04:00

I had to go back to Kigama, I spent a memorable seven months here before I went to college and the kind of work I did has influenced me ever since. Long live the Super Six!!!

Ahuga, someone who's name I should know but don't, and I outside the new Inyali dispensary renovated by the last group that was there summer 2008, great work guys!!

Billowing smoke over the Maragoli hills.

the head of Kisangula primary, Mr. Mudgodo, great very cooperative man!

Torn up banana leaves, the result of frequent hailstorms in the region.

Good Shepherd school is Ahuga's new venture... doing well.

T.S's library... will be getting an upgrade soon so i heard, but still holding on..

Inside Old Faithful, she had a 'hot' experience this past January, and the steering wheel still bears the 'scars of battle'. Otherwise, still runs fine, however you define that....

Cracked windscreen view of the now very very smooth Mudete-Majengo road

'Do I really wish to come and study here?'

Our favorite yellow and blue troupe...

Spice Farm

2008-08-30T18:07:00.006-04:00

Zanzibar gained its fame after ruler Seyyid Said, led it to become a great producer of cloves and other spices. A little bit hard considering hurricanes ravaged the island frequently,but then again not too hard considering he had free slave labor!!

cademon? i think...

This is nutmeg, adding it to your drink distorts your vision, you feel as though you're drunk, perfect for an Islamic country...

Black pepper which grows a creeper vine

Spice from the Seychelles island, in Kiswahili both the tree and the island have the same name, Ushelisheli.

No way I'm going up their to pick green coconuts...

Not a spice, except in France perhaps.

Something used in Pilau

Red bananas

Cacao, the island shares this with Ghana

Believe it or not, this tree produces mineral iodine, you can use it as an antiseptic.

Flight U22:Kampala to Kilimanjaro, via Zanzibar & Dar es Salaam

2008-08-30T17:42:00.004-04:00

Enough of UG, let's hobnob to the last of the original East African Community member

It's been a while since I last walked on the runway, you really do feel that you're getting onto a plane.

Entebbe is a big source of UN flights to Juba, Congo and other area where the UN is stationed in the Horn of Africa.

Let's get some juice for the journey..

Why is a Kenyan registered fueling planes in Kampala?

'Sir, please make sure we have enough!'

Lake and extinct volcano onthe floor of the Rift Valley

Approaching Zanzibar, tell me you just don't love the water!

Ferry on it's way to Unguja

Kampala

2008-08-30T17:28:00.004-04:00

It was a short stay, but the matoke, cassava and sweet potato with goat stew was definitely worth it.

The river Nile, somewhere just past its source at Jinja

Old taxi park, Kampala, tight, full of people, lively, crowded

The church at Namirembe??

The king's palace is the building at the very top

Mosque, courtesy of Muammar Gaddaffi

Sunrise, from the hill that houses the famous makerere university

Graffiti at a basketball court, makerere

Those students need to get off the roof!

Nairobi to Kisumu

2008-08-30T17:05:00.005-04:00

Limuru/Uplands... formerly White Highlands for the nice cool climate

A flower farm at Naivasha

Looking into the Delamare farm, hate the fellows but they have such good yogurt... none of these low-fat crap! So i figured i might as well buy some, and contribute towards hiring a defense lawyer for their crazy murderous son, Tom.

Burnt out shell of a house, i suppose belonging to a Kikuyu, but I could be wrong. Anyway, if these happened right next to the main road, where security is at its best, imagine what went on deep in the interior!!

Londiani, another burnt out shell.

Internally Displaced People at a camp, while our worthy politicians haggle over who'll inherit the Seat come next elections.....

Who needs a drainage system when u can just walk around in the mud?

These workers' houses at a Kericho tea farm are an interesting landmark; i wonder how old they are.

Kenya's famous tea, I say uproot the damn thing and use the land to feed our people. We do not need that much tea as a country and what is the point of growing commodities that the West buys at its own prize... leaving us starving!

I had not done this westward journey for about three years, it was a relief to head back to K'sum Siti!! When you go to Kisumu you HAVE to go down by the lake and have fried fish with ugali!

Choose your lunch from the displayed samples.

As you wait for it to be cooked, you can watch high school students visiting the city for the National Drama festival competitions.

You could even consider going on one of these boat trips, you get a life jacket so no worry, I'm not too sure about the crocs, but i suppose there are none that close to the shore.

Lunch arrives.....

And you do it justice...

Sonorua

2008-08-29T18:54:00.003-04:00

From Nairobi to Magadi, the salty lake situated in the Great Rift Valley is about 2 hrs, on the way you pass several places famous for their goat meat, Oleopolos and Tinga are some of the better known towns but Sonorua is definitely a place to check out too!!

Graffiti on a public service vehicle, making fun of the dirty car by stating its refusal to take a cold bath..... ok, the joke has been lost in translation

Skinning dinner...

the big big fire to cook it with

all that was left the following morning... all you damn carnivores... buah ahaha

making sure we get the last tiny bit

washing down the meat with some holy water...

and of cos some more goats for next time

Prosperity Institute

2008-08-29T18:49:00.003-04:00

Prosperity institute is a small upcoming tertiary education provider in Nairobi. It only started a few months ago but the director, Mrs kabura, has great dreams to provide as many youths as possible with life-changing skills so they can begin their path towards self-reliance.
The school teaches hairdressing, computer skills, dressmaking and will soon be starting a driving school as well as a car mechanics course.

To learn more visit their blog: ProsperityInstitute

Ngong Hills Academy..

2008-08-29T17:35:00.005-04:00

... or as it is now known: St Joseph's Ngong' Academy.
But for me it will always be N.H.A.

Me and Joram Njoroge, former classmate

hallway inside the school

library on the left, bathrooms and a car park

my grade 8 class

me and Mr. Rapando, former English teacher.

good times as i studied here from grade 1 to grade 8.

Juja

2008-08-29T17:18:00.003-04:00

Juja is an area by the Athi river, a long river that crosses a major part of Kenya on its way to the Indian Ocean. Athi river is useful in many ways, farmers use it water to irrigate during the dry season, harvesting when the prices are highest.
Nairobi City council, unfortunately, also uses it to dump sewage and all other kinds of waste that they wish not to deal with. So technically, what you flush from your bathroom in the morning, ends up on the veggies that you eat in the evening.... sorry but it's true. The same thing happens in Singapore, with a crucial water recycling step in between... lol.

See pix of farmers hard at work to earn a living.

The Athi river

More Flickr pix of juja

Home sweet home

2008-08-29T16:59:00.005-04:00

Home Sweet Home!!

More Photos from Home

Caribbean Writing

2008-08-08T16:27:00.001-04:00

I indulged in a lot of Caribbean writing when I was in the Bahamas this past January. Confessions of Anansi by David Brailsford was a fine, fine way of getting acquainted with Brer Spider after he came across the Middle Passage inside a ship’s hull. It was quite interesting to think about the change that Spider Man has undergone, from traditional West African folklore to mainstream American media; they always did steal the best of our stuff.
V. S. Reid’s The Young Warriors is a curious commemoration of the Maroon rebels who fought off British slavery. They ran off into the Jamaican forests and lived their on their terms. Not an often discussed topic in British history but still one that has informed other Commonwealth histories such as that in Kenya where peasants rose up in arms against British colonial rule.
Cliché as it is, Lousie Bennett’s South Parade Peddler still stands out as one of the best pieces of non-traditional English poetry I’ve come across. It of course has a lot more to be said about re-owning the master’s tools and all that, but it’s simply so lyrical and so subversive it’s quite extra-ordinary in its simplicity.

Wilbur Smith

2008-08-08T16:26:00.000-04:00

This is part of a longer essay on Wilbur Smith’s fiction. His writing is full of romance and adventure. People love, die, get rich, lose fortunes but there is always a happy ending for several people. His writing is very ‘frontier’ based and relies upon new lands that are yet being discovered. Ostensibly, the discoverers are always white men who happen to have less hunting skills than the dog-like black men they have in their employ. They, however, compensate for poor hunting through great business acumen and so they can use something that the ‘natives’ have had forever and make money out of it. Obviously Smith is relying upon the traditional colonial model and more so in Southern Africa where most of, if not all, his books are set. It has been repeated more than once that it is quite hard to tell the difference between his white characters’ racism and a sense of prejudice which is thought to emanate from him as a person.
Despite that, his writing is very inspirational for me. I find that it challenges me to achieve that odd thing, perfection. Smith’s characters all have great need to control their destinies and they will do whatever they deem necessary to make it happen. Anything that stands in their way is destroyed, and while this sometimes leads to self-destruction there is a great need for deliberate personal choices which I feel is what really makes us human: the ability to choose and stand beside our choices whatever the outcome.
His is definitely a ‘white project’. His white characters do ‘normal’ things like make fortunes, make love etc while black men are imbued with ‘supernatural ability to hunt’ or to draw people towards themselves. Smith’s desire to pair up white with human and blackness with nature is playing upon the old Victorian idea that lower races were living the pure life through their backwardness and thus were able to communicate with nature more easily than the white man could. Of course communicating with nature is pagan and barbaric and thus the ‘white man’s burden’ to educate them out of this nonsense.
The Victorian adventure genre still appeals to us in modern lifer and that is why Smith’s books still find great readership.

Touchy Feely

2008-05-17T02:34:00.001-04:00

She looked sharp in the National Guard uniform. Light greens emphasized her eye color making her worthy of a second look in the DLA compound full of rushed navy officials. The lunch queue at Subways was ten people long. As the third person in front of her was being served, a hand grabbed her butt. The rude and confident gesture, moved from between her legs to her waist. Her immediate reaction was to lash out at the pervert and teach him, she was sure, a lesson.
Her right hand reached back, grabbed the offending hand and as she turned, she slammed it into the wall beside her. Grandy silently grimaced in pain and she dropped his arm, shocked.

What the hell are you doing here? Was all that came out of her.

He flashed that sheepish look he always gave her as a child if she saw him peeping at her in the bathroom. She was taken back years ago when he looked after her and her brother while their parents went to work. Grandy moved in with them to serve as the nanny during the day. He was in charge of getting them ready for school in the morning, making sure they had lunch and picking them up after school. She could never understand why he insisted on bathing her even when she was 13. The manner in which he rubbed his hands over her nubile body made her protest one morning as he tried to touch her. She raised such a racket, eventually calling her mom at work that he had to stop. He took to peeping through the bathroom keyhole. His heavy breathing on the other side of the door was just as creepy as his touch, yet no amount of protesting would make him stop.

Stringing Words

2008-04-30T23:27:00.002-04:00

Ninayatoa matamshi
Moja, mbili tatu
Yanadondoka kama asali
Toka kwenye kinywa kitamu
Unautoa ulimi, ukiningoja
Nikumwagie, toka moyoni wangu
Una-weza kweli?
Kuya-fafanua matamshi, ama utaya-angalia kisha
Kuya-nyamazia?
Bila Kuya-fafanua, kuangalia kile wahenga
Wanaposema, toka kwenye akili yangu,
Ama ume-wasahau wale waliotu-anzilia?
Umekuwa mtu mpya, sasa hau-semezeki, wala
Hau-angaliki.

I string my words out,
One, Two, three
Dripping like honey
From my sweet mouth
You, let your tongue out, in anticipation
For me to serve you, from the depths of my heart.

Are you up for it?
To translate the words, or shall you just stare,
Without understanding, what the ancestors say
Through the dregs of my mind,
Or have you forgotten them, those who were before us,
You're now a new person, untouchable,
Un-imaginable.

Mr. Policeman!

2008-04-30T23:12:00.003-04:00

Barking amri left, right, and center,
you ride the wave of siasa, unaware of
all you spray behind in your wake.
I admit; I'm not woman enough to handle
your disregard. It Kills me, and mine.

Leaves me hang dry, wringing my hands
glaring my eyes for invisible water.
You ride on, me faltering like the fish
you swim beside, a victim.

That is why, I shall not watch you,
I shall stay away from the sea.
Once bitten, twice dry.
You swim, I fly,
I may yet be a better
flyer than you are a swimmer, spending
days by your side at the beach takes
away from my practice. I shall treasure my time.
If I fail let it be my own doing, not
because nilitumia my time
cheering you on.

My Vagina...

2008-04-21T22:18:00.001-04:00

.... is a self-cleansing oven
A mechanical invention of the male
brain that satisfies, me, alone.
Self-cleansing so it does not need
you to emancipate it, or open the door
for it; it's in control, keep off.

An oven, ripe with promise for better
things to cum, nourishing, you, my
man, and my female lover as I sit on her
face.

My dangling lips drip, wet with honey,
that you ache for, but I
hold it back, tantalize you into
a back arching session of desire.
I watch you gymnast your way to the
future, my questions scratch your back,
bleeding out your prejudice,
drip, drip goes your sexist mentality
onto the ground, a living libation to
those who were, and those yet to be.

A red thread stringing us all back to
us.

Mungiki

2008-04-21T21:37:00.003-04:00

So it seems that some Kikuyu consider the Mungiki thugs a necessary evil. They are seen as insurance against 'those others attacking us.'

Quite an incisive statement this. First, the Mungiki youth are wasting away the best time of their lives, youth, smoking up, stealing and harassing fellow Kenyans. Yes they may have the vigor to run away from police tear gas canisters for now, but how long do they think that strength will last? Soon enough they'll turn 40 and all that youth will be gone, they will try stealing, and alas! Those one time fast legs will be snail-slow and a bullet up their asses will show them this was never the way to do it.

Second, the Mungiki youth are supported by several Kenyan politicians and businessmen, these young people need to stop for a moment and wonder why someone would hand over whatever sums of money they fork over. Why would someone offer them a million, two or whatever they get? Surely it must be because they can get returns on their 'investment'. These unscrupulous businessmen/politicians depend on thugs to avoid competition. They see Mungiki for what they are, looking for a quick buck, and they are ready to give it to them. In the meantime, they continue to rake in massive profits and at the end of the day, my dear Mungiki brothers will be left in the slums, with no education, no health care and no pensions, while those who urged them on will fly themselves in and out of plush hospitals each time they have a slight bout of influenza. Think people, think!

Third, they might have terrible things done to them. But by harassing fellow Kenyans they are creating enemies and joining hands with those who destroy our country. If one cannot do business without fear of extortion, insecurity or otherwise having your efforts reduced to ashes in the heat of a police battle, when will the country's entrepreneurs get a break? Mungiki need to realize they are doing more harm to the country. By all means protest, air your views and so on, but when you undress women wearing trousers, you are no better than the American war machine killing people in Iraq or the Janjaweed in Darfur, you all have no respect for human rights!

As to those Kikuyu who asked 'for a few Mungiki to be spared' so 'they can protect us from the others', you need to realize that you are digging a well for your neighbor that you will soon fall into. This Frankenstein-monster that you are rearing for your neighbor will/has become too big for you and is now turning onto you, because among you are many who belong to the 'let's steal all we can' group. Mungiki is not blind/ stupid, once they've taken over all else there is to take over, believe me they will come for you!

Unfortunately this tale would NOT be complete if we did not mention police brutality, state impunity and the great greed which has seen numerous people get way with crimes much bigger than Mungiki can fathom: Goldenberg, Ouko, J.M Kariuki, Tom Mboya, 1992 clashes etc. We must follow up Mungiki, but by doing so we must be ready to follow ourselves up too, and THAT, is not a popular political subject!

White Man's Burden

2008-04-12T12:45:00.001-04:00

The White Man’s burden is his small dick,
Or fear of.
Lacking real loving from their women folk
The Norks went away to force
Strange looking women into bed, rape their way
To manliness. When they came back they
Had been ‘so terribly missed’
Despite the, two new kids they didn’t
Leave their wives pregnant with they had to get a little
Freaky-dicky.

The inferiority complex
Of the White Man has caused untold trouble all
Over the globe as he ransacks various peoples
In search of glory, and power.

What better power than to conquer a people
Not only in their own land but also to bring them
Back with you, millions of them
Packed tight in ships’ holds to show off to
Your wives, and new kids,
How terrible the beast you’ve been fighting against is.
Thus, how worthy a man your victory makes you.

But, no.
Your wives saw through your greed, and they began
To love this hunk of a man you brought to help out
In the garden. And you could not take it no more
That your wife had at last discovered the true
Source of pleasure, the long, thick
Stick of fear up your’s twisted and struck yet
Further in.
And you just HAD to take away that which
Your wives wanted. ‘String them up, hang them up,
Cut if off.’

Understanding Kenya's Politics

2008-04-06T17:41:00.003-04:00

The Council on Foreign Relations has two very interesting papers on the recent political developments in Kenya. One by Michelle Gavin Policy Options Paper - Kenya emphasises the role of the US in the future reforms that the country has to make while Stephanie Hanson is categorical in Understanding Kenya's Politics that "[Kenyan] democratization can only go as fast as the locals [wish it to]" and that there is a "limited role for international actors such as the US and the E.U."
What's the right way to go about it? It is obvious that ethnic tension was stoked to violent temperatures by retired president Moi as a way to remain in power despite donor pressure to install multi-party democracy. It worked, and every five years Kikuyu farmers would be hounded out of their Rift Valley homes because all of a sudden their Kalenjin neighbors could not stomach them. Yet 40% of the Kenyan population lives in urban areas with many of them living in squalor, evidence of the great inequality that has become a hallmark of the country. Both of these factors are worth keeping in mind.
The future looks bleak for the country. The Annan-inspired coalition government has taken more than three weeks to name a bloated cabinet that will dwindle public funds from vital infrastructure management to importing SUV's for ministers. The new constitution that is meant to be a product of this coalition, the tool that will then lead us through better elections in 2/3 years is going to take much longer than that. All sides of the political divide are not only grabbing as much as they can now, they're also making investments for the future, truth be told, the majority would love the constitution as it is right now, as long they're the president.
Constitution-making is a selfless act that requires love for the poor and joy in the struggles. Very few politicians are that selfless, many are padding their pockets and leave it at that. But they are OUR politicians. We have made them the way they are. Every five-years we have asked our women-folk to go line up for cheap-printed shawls/lesos as well as look out for any bags of maize meal being handed out. Us the men, have at that time followed, and walked great distances to listen to political rhetoric in the hopes of a few hundred shillings, with utter disregard of what else we could have done with our time.
Private entrepreneurship is looked down upon and we school our children for specific careers, not for the love of education and making better people of them. We are to blame and Kibaki and Raila only happen to be at their positions by proxy. It could be me or you and the same game would be played out.
A society which has only just recently lauded one of its great freedom fighters with a statue after watching all the Kapenguria sis languish and die in poverty should not be amazed at what is happening now. We have walked away from all that was good, and bad, in our traditions and without any critical thinking embraced ideals from all over. Reform is going to take a long time because even if we changed the person at the top and placed someone from another tribe the psyche that allowed several hundred Kenyans to die at the hands of their brothers, and sisters, still exists. That is not say that the ethnicity of the person at the top does not matter, it does, but it definitely is not the only thing to work on. Our form-four-leavers finish high school looking forward to two years of waiting before they can join college. About 18 months during which time they do not engage their minds in any productive manner. With no worthy challenges they grow restless and disillusioned with life, unless they come from the top 20/30% of the population which can offer them options such as public or private, local or overseas tertiary education. Surely what else did we expect other than this mess?

Splatter, splat!

2008-02-26T21:31:00.003-05:00

She traces images of tomorrow
on a carpet, a quilt work of memories
and desires. Her mind is a vacant cinema
hall, empty seats where ideas used
to jostle for space.
No longer is the surround sound a hallmark of
her mind, echoing out of her insides
into the mike on her sullen karaoke
nights at the local beer place.

Kite Flying

2008-02-26T21:01:00.002-05:00

the owner lets it loose, a bit,
keeping a tight hold on the string
wary of any move from contenders,
real or imagined.
a compliment is eyed suspiciously
and the kite is brought back to earth.
faster than a 10lb stone.
for quick inspection
to ensure not a far away breath
has gotten to it,
unnerving the owner even more.
not jealousy, just wishing to secure
'our foreign interests'
Bush-like, with blazing guns
that go off as easily on the
kite,
itself, as on contenders,
real or imagined.
back and forth till when?
each time the string is loose
the kite willingly fastens it back.

Baseballeresse No. 39

2008-02-26T20:53:00.002-05:00

Short hair, competing with your temper
Brown boots, to stamp out stoking embers
of others' ideas.
Thin frame that holds even thinner
blood, thin heart, small heart, that
is withholding, doubtful.
Your fast tongue reacts,
lashes out angry words,
"stupid, make-no-sense" words,
that whip across the room,
leave us all off-balance on our brooms
as the Head Wizard renegotiates
curves in his speech, plodding on, he initiates
new moves
that ignite itching, painful grooves
in your mind
causing you to turn blind,
as you throw them fighting words back
@ him.
Then it's 11.45, and it's all over,
For now.

Mad Angry Librarian?

2008-02-26T20:48:00.002-05:00

Male-ish hair, or at least no feminine
Attention accorded it.
Gray coat, drab, over all your other
Uni-colored clothing, just
Deflects any attention.

Who are you?
Anonymous, I know not what to
Think or feel
You embody the emotions/perceptions
of your workplace. Solid books
that give knowledge, mirrored by
Your stolid looks that bring back
Many a wandering student's mind to,
The task @ hand,
Deciphering the jargon, the thesis vs.
The Theory.
The drab fashion vs. the humane,
in you.

History Spurs With the Future

2008-02-25T11:44:00.003-05:00

It views my past
And shudders, I know not from fear
Or resemblance.

Innocence sleeps with Guilt and
The bastard child produced, runs amok
With a trigger-happy dick
That fits any hole.

The past, on the whole,
Is to be displaced, distilled,
Brewed to something pure.

Is there enough future to hold
All the past in?
Without troubling remains of time,
Running over and spilling,
Eternally?

Tight Rope Walk

2008-02-25T11:18:00.004-05:00

Hot molten lava,
Opposite blue flames from Hades,
Licking, jumping flames that will devour,
Your heart out, once, twice and all over again.

The game is rigged,
You, an overweight athlete, with a left lung
Heavier than the right,
Sucking you below like a pedophile's
Past. That just keeps coming back to haunt her.

The lance, your lance, is unevenly weighed
Volatile matter whose eventual mass cannot be
Guessed,
Divine intervention necessary
Since no mathematical calculation,
Can take away the hurt, without adding to the indignity,
Or multiplying the sadness.

You're a clown, with a fixed smile
That you have to keep up
Forever,
Forever,
You'll have to clown that keep,
So you can fix the upped smile.

We Shall Meet, Infact, We're Still Together!

2008-02-24T22:35:00.003-05:00

The horror was seeing you, sitting,
Poring over some domestic chore or other,
And as school children passed by on their way
Home,
I cried my eyes out as I asked you why you left,
Why you were now back?
What did you have to say for yourself,
For the way you went away?
So helpless, just before the promise of a better future
Materialized.

Your sagging, emaciated chest mocking
Any signs of prosperity that my new sneakers,
Or my collection of colognes seek to give me.
They mock my failure, acquired even before I knew
I could, try.

And as the past, time-warps itself into the future,
On its way to the present, I look for any signs
Around me that you're still there, here.
That you're doing fine.

I would Die

2008-02-02T14:50:00.000-05:00

The day my gray cells refuse to
Merge and fit, refuse to weave words
Together, I shall die.

The day my souls will cease to create, my heart of
Darkness runs out of old wives' tales to tell,
And my fingers refuse to warp and weft truth and fiction,
Surely I shall crawl to my death.

The spring produces bitter-sweet water,
And then sweet-bitter water
I lay down and feed my outside on my insides
Cannibalizing the left to repair the write.
Non-existent talent, simply an internal mouth
That refuses to shut up, parroting away,
Pecking a shelter into the trunk that's my
Brain, non-stop, march onward to the past!

Choosy Beggar

2008-02-02T14:35:00.000-05:00

Blue heels, red sneakers, grey sandals
I stare at the cacophony of color presented by the
Working class on their daily rat race.
I sit and meditate on whether to go for lunch on the few coins
I have, hoping that stingy hotelier will feed me for half-price
Or perhaps if tomorrow I should bring my baby along, all
Scrawny and drooly.
I look away from the clerk who eyes me with pity,
Curse under my breath at the manager who sees my 'lazy side'
How dare you criticize me yet you know nothing about me?
I might be poor, might be starving, but I
Refuse to pick up the coins thrown at me by the
Slender model, as she, pats herself for 'promoting
World Peace'!
I am choosy. I might lack, but I
Have standards.

I shall eat my baby, if it comes to that,
But I will not stand any disdain.
See, I'm a rich beggar, well, nearly, as soon as I
Have enough. So give me that goddamn ten dollar note!

What Next?

2008-01-29T08:23:00.000-05:00

For once I'm actually ashamed of being Kenyan, African.
Africans have a beautiful continent and yet we all, from North to South, have turned it into a battleground. Bloody useless!
i intend to settle back home, i always accepted that would mean I'd be relatively poorer, i never realized it would mean I'd be relatively poorer AND DEAD!
Perhaps i should apply for refugee status abroad, the US, Canada. I am Kikuyu and there are well documented cases of people from my ethnic community being sought and killed. well whop-ti-doo I get accepted, what does that mean for my family? And big deal if I manage to fly them over, what does that mean for their brothers and sisters, my friends. What good does it do to save a few and leave the rest to die? But does that also mean we should not save the few we can, simply because we cannot save everyone? And all that is assuming I'll get accepted, what responsibility does the West have to make space for me and 900 other million Africans who are living in defunct states? If a Luo from Kenya also asks for refugee status and gets it, and we end up in the same states, does that mean that he/she will come after me and seek revenge, or shall i go out and seek his head on a platter and retaliate? If yes, do we then deserve to leave Kenyan at all, would it not be easier for everyone if we just stayed in Kenya and killed each other there? Less messier for the West? And if we can come abroad and live together, why can't we do the same back home? Why have millions of fools, both politicians and the poor masses, taken the law unto their hands and decided to mete out justice to their one-time neighbors? We are only one assassination away from a Rwanda or Burundi. Heaven forbid that any of Kibaki's men or Raila's close circle die, and give it all up if either Kibaki or Raila die. That would be the end of all ends. Has the government enough foresight to allocate increased security not just to government ministers but also to opposition leaders, or are they waiting for things to blow up before they act?
Leave slavery and colonialism out of it, these are decisions that have been systematically made by people. Raila Odinga, Kenyan opposition leader, has the audacity to say he 'suspects foul play' in the recent murder of an MP. Does he understand that millions of people will take that as an endorsement to go and get revenge? What do these guys do at night? Do they sit down and evaluate what they say and the effect it might have on the lives of others? Are they so drunk on power, the ability to sway the mob they have become blind?
But the Americans were at each other's throats in 1776 and they turned out Ok, perhaps Africa will too.

Hybrid Children as Narrative Devices in Contemporary African Writing by Nadine Gordimer, Goretti Kyomuhendo and Nuruddin Farah

2007-12-07T21:57:00.000-05:00

My work this semester involves studying contemporary African literature, primarily to raise my own awareness of what is out there in the field and also to examine similarities and differences between what was written “before” and what is being written “now”. This desire stemmed from an obsession among literary critics to resort to Achebe, Soyinka and Ngugi whenever they speak of African literature. My study of Nadine Gordimer’s Crimes of Conscience, Goretti Kyomuhendo’s Waiting and Nuruddin Farah’s Knots attempts to examine whether there is more to African literature than the so-called classics.
I started off with a basic comparison of “old” vs. “new”. The difference being the time period the work was written. I defined “old” work as writing done before and after the independence wave in Africa, so from 1930 to about 1970’s. These books are famous world wide: Things Fall Apart, Petals of Blood and Weep Not Child being good examples. “New” writing then, is work in the late Eighties to the present, embodied by writers such as Kenya’s Binyavanga Wainaina and Nigerian Chimamanda Adichie, both of whom have been characterised as forming the African re-naissance.
In addition to a time-period difference, I envisioned that there would be a thematic difference between the two groups of writing. I theorized that while “old” literature would have been greatly engaged with the colonial project, “new” literature was not. By virtue of when it was written, “old” literature was a route through which the colonized redefined their past and future. Fables and other oral traditional forms were prolific during this time as a counter-argument to the European view that Africa had no history. Political speeches, ideals and theories were peddled in newsletters set up by the missionary-educated clerks, accountants and messenger-boys. Independence leaders such as Kenya’s Jomo Kenyatta, at one time or another headed a magazine, newspaper or other such means of writing that aimed to spread the freedom “Word” to the masses. Jomo Kenyatta’s Muiguithania (The Reconciler) first appeared in the early 1940’s as the media wing of the Kikuyu Central Association political party, in its struggle against the British.
Having won independence, African writers celebrated by producing work that romanticized their leaders, but this period of “bliss” was short lived. Soon enough, various countries realized that they had not really expelled the oppressors but rather they had merely replaced one kind with another. And so, work such as The Beautiful Ones Are Not Yet Born and I will Marry When I Want by Ama Ata Aidoo and Ngugi wa Thiong’o, respectively began to appear. These texts were concerned with the political process in Ghana and Kenya, respectively, and wished to make the masses more involved in wealth distribution, civic power and ability to critique the political situation. This was a period rife with incarceration of various writers, famous among whom is Ngugi wa Thiong’o who wrote Devil on the Cross while in prison, on prison-issue toilet paper. While the debate on what language to use in African literature had ensued before, it really exploded during this period. Ngugi wa Thiong’o at the forefront of this debate in Decolonising the Mind argued that African writers should use their own languages in order to fully connect with the masses. Such theories that aimed to include the peasantry in politics dominated by imperialist leaders were considered treasonous, inevitably landing Ngugi in prison. Driven by tribal divisions, countries were experiencing civil strife in addition to external influences from former colonial masters who were controlling their former colonies through the backdoor. Though having gained independence, African countries still had legal systems based on the mother colony’s, the education systems were designed to teach European rather than African languages and history, creating a society that was inept at both European languages and their own mother tongues. Even more crucially, the new countries’ economies were still joined to those of the mother colonies’. The newly independent countries still did more business with their former colonies that with their neighbors. In such situations, what language to write in, in order to gain both home-readership as well as international recognition became a pertinent question.
Given such a history, together with a greater awareness of the global racial construction, I argue that new literature would grapple with issues such as globalisation, capital flight, brain drain, internal strife and civil war as well as celebration of home-grown solutions to national problems. The ability to create solutions to problems that are unique to different countries and cultures in Africa is a process that is largely ignored in the West. The media and the public portray Africa as helpless and needy of aid from N.G.O.’s such as Oxfam, World Vision or predominantly American celebrities who adopt African children in problematic circumstances. The view of Africa as helpless and the perception that there is no inherent art on the continent are two faces of the same coin. One fuels the other, creating a vicious cycle that I hoped ‘new’ writing would dispel.
It is problematic, however, to attempt to study ‘new’ literature. As a western-educated student, I have invariably incorporated some notions that could be considered prejudicial. For example, my aversion to any form of English that does not follow grammar rules might easily lead to the dismissal of Pidgin English. Yet this is a vibrant language and culture that is growing at an amazing rate and has great diversity as exhibited in its various manifestations in Nigeria, Ghana and the West Indies. It is quite possible that I have attempted to stamp onto the African literary scene Western models that are ineffective in understanding the complexities intrinsic in the work. Perhaps my standards for a new African literary re-naissance are Western influenced and skew my observations. On the other hand, it is possible that as an African, I am tempted to gloss over issues that might reflect negatively on the continent’s people. There are traditions that my community engaged in historically that are now considered unethical. While I do not support polygamy or Female Genital Mutilation, they are both part of my history, and I find it highly problematic for outsiders to critique them, with no understanding of their historical importance. Both of these are positions I occupy, by virtue of being an African abroad. And so awareness of possible prejudice is key to providing as objective a study of several African literary works as possible.
Even more crucial is the fact that the study of such diverse works as Nadine Gordimer’s Crimes of Conscience, Goretti Kyomuhendo’s Waiting and Nuruddin Farah’s Knots is useless if one glosses over the differences between them. While studying contemporary African writing seeks to eradicate the public fallacy that Africa is one homogenous mass, lumping the texts together as one continuum would achieve the exact opposite. It is of great importance to highlight the specificities of each work discussed before delving into a close-text reading that relies upon their similarities. Gordimer’s work highlights South Africa’s apartheid era, something that Farah’s work set in government-less Somalia has no means of dealing with. On the other hand, Kyomuhendo’s novella occurs at the height of a revolutionary Tanzanian-led war in Uganda. Each of the books deals with communities with little else in common other than they happen to live on opposite ends of the same land mass. They share no language other than English, and other than Farah’s main character who emigrates from Canada and has a sense of the world outside Somalia, have no apparent awareness of each other. Farah and Kyomuhendo are “black” Africans, Gordimer occupies an interesting position in her whiteness. She has access to privileges that her “black” characters do not, but she acknowledges these privileges and is aware of their unfairness, unlike her “white” characters. It is worth acknowledging that questions on thematic differences are “vexed questions” that are hard to answer. Although pertinent, these questions include a close examination of my own writing for presence of any prejudice on either side and an acknowledgement of why and how this prejudice might affect my views.
To comprehensively study the issue of thematic differences between “new” and “old” works of literature requires more space than this work can afford, instead I will focus on the use of hybrid characters in the three representative “new” texts and the manner in which the authors used hybrid characters as a way to comment on the political situation within which the works are set. To engage with this issue, I will begin by providing an explanation of hybridity, before launching into a close-reading of the texts, highlighting moments when characters have been portrayed in a manner involving hybridity. This will involve a comparison of the reverse non-hybrid manner in which they could have been portrayed in similar situations. Having shown these two concepts, I will then be ready to make connections on how the narrative depiction of hybrid characters critiques the politics of various countries.
Homi Bhabha’s theory of hybridity rests upon Jacque Derrida’s idea of discursive transparency. Derrida theorized that language did not have a one-to-one relationship with reality. If this were the case, the word tree in Swahili, French, and Malay would be the same. That it is not, points to the fact that speakers of each of these languages have agreed upon a particular sign to represent the thing: tree. Bhabha examined the colonial notion that the colonized were a tabulae rasae which prompted the colonial project to teach a certain kind of history, one that established a hierarchy among races with white occupying the top. The colonized, however, did not attach the same meaning to the languages they were given by their colonizers. Using Derrida’s theory, Bhabha shows how the colonized attached new meaning to the very same colonial languages, such as English, that was intended by the colonizer to enslave them. ‘Freedom’ did not only mean English or French freedom, but also Ghanaian or Vietnamese, in the respective countries where the former colonizers established themselves as lords. Again, the meaning in a word changed, or was transferred, depending on its cultural context.
The process of adopting new meanings is hybridity. Bhabha argues for a new theoretical position which escapes the polarities and tensions between tradition and the present. A position
which overcomes the given grounds of opposition and opens up a space of translation: a place of hybridity, figuratively speaking, where the construction of a political object that is new, neither the one nor the other, properly alienates our political expectations, and changes, as it must, the very forms of our recognition of the moment of politics (Bhabha, 25).

This hybrid or new “political object” as Bhabha argues is defined in this paper as behavior that is different from the norm and one that subverts authority and tradition. The crucial aspect of hybridity is that it challenges established notions of culture and authority, creating tensions that have to be resolved by the parties involved.
In all the works examined, tradition dictated a world that was in favour of men, white men. Nadine Gordimer’s Country Lovers is set in apartheid era Southern Africa, a time when white men kept Africans away from the cities unless, they were there to serve. Similarly, patriarchy is the modus operandi in Nuruddin Farah’s Knots and Goretti Kyomuhendo’s Waiting. Both books portray a world where men have better chances of living fully without the restrictions of security and giving birth which can be crippling or fatal, especially due to lack of proper healthcare. Additionally, the books portray a tradition that does not take much input from the youth. The youth are asked to step aside and wait their chance to engage fully with society; in the meantime they are asked to engage in crime or menial labor that has no long term benefits for a prosperous future.
Hybrid behavior, as will be shown later in the paper, is behavior that either puts characters in positions of power where they can make decisions that offer them more than a traditional way of life. Similarly, hybrid behavior offers the youth cultural and economic choices that would otherwise be unavailable to them. In the summer 2005 issue of Research in African Literatures, Richard Priebe examines Tierno Monénembo's L'aîné des orphelins and theorizes on the book’s child characters who are no longer “unfortunate victims” (Priebe, 49) but actual “perpetrators of violence.” (Priebe, 50) In the same journal, Odile Cazenave in Writing the Child, Youth, and Violence into the Francophone Novel from Sub-Saharan Africa: The Impact of Age and Gender, investigates how the youth, as depicted in several West African novels, have realised their agency and while “un-shirking traditional expectations” (Cazenave, 62) to carry on the community, have also attempted to “cut their own path,” (Cazenave, 67) albeit using murder and violence. What is significant about the above articles is that they highlight instances when child characters in various other novels have become aware of their power. With this awareness they have acted in ways that deviate from tradition, making choices they might not normally make. As the latter article aptly says, ‘‘the youth of African societies today, … no longer want to be burdened by the collective duty of carrying on … the community, … they want to go their own ways.’’ (Cazenave, 60) Both of these articles are theorizing on new models of behavior that are being adopted by African youth in various parts of the continent. This essay will attempt to examine these changes through the works of several writers.
Having defined hybridity, I will now look at specific instances where it occurs in the texts. In Kyomuhendo’s Waiting we confront a young narrator, Alinda, who has to help her mother deliver. She serves as a midwife to her younger brother’s birth, a very unconventional role. Communities that use midwifery at home rather than hospital healthcare have certain criteria to decide who is competent. One key aspect is that the midwife be an adult and possibly have given birth herself. The narrator, however, does not fulfill either of these criteria, her role as a midwife upsets protocol, just by the simple fact that she sees her own mother half-naked. Despite this, it is necessary that she be involved in the delivery since the family is unable to go to hospital in the middle of the night, with possibilities of running into wild Idi Amin soldiers. It is because of this that the behavior can be categorized as hybrid. The birth of Thebedi’s and Paulus’s baby in Gordimer’s work presents the reader with two hybrid characters. Thebedi and Paulus, despite the sanctions placed on interracial relationships have had an affair for several months. This defiance of society places them in a unique position and when the baby is born they are forced to keep the baby away from Paulus’s parents to avoid them knowing about their illicit affair. However, they are not completely free of society’s prejudices as evidenced by the baby’s murder. Thebedi reverts to her position as follower of whatever the “white-man master” says, while Paulus comfortably dons the oppressor’s cloak, poisoning his own flesh and blood. While the outcome of their affair is tragic, it can be argued that the birth of their baby is a hybrid act that defied society and for a short time upset established racial prejudices. Likewise in Knots, the birth of a baby to the warlord’s wife gives the main character, Cambara, a chance to portray hybrid behavior that is outside the norm. Cambara personally goes to her family’s property and takes the warlord’s wife to safety and good healthcare. All this is despite her cousin’s warnings that the city of Mogadiscio is “no place for a woman like her.” (Farah, 50) The main character opposes both fears of insecurity and patriarchal nuances and does what she believes will help her regain what is rightfully hers.
Chaotic events in the three works help, rather than hinder, hybrid characters. Chaos helps breakdown traditions and social restrictions, creating space within which the characters can make their own choices. In Waiting, the main character’s trusting relationship with the Lendu woman is untraditional. The Lendu woman, never mentioned by name, occupies the position of an outsider. Since she is not from Alinda’s language community, she is viewed with suspicion. Alinda defies her father’s warnings that the “Lendu woman is a witch” (Kyomuhendo, 34) and trusts her advice about her younger brother’s illness. Alinda’s behavior is opposed to the norm and thus qualifies as hybrid. She views the Lendu woman not with suspicion but with friendliness. Additionally, the death of Alinda’s mother leaves her in charge of her younger sibling’s care. Such a position of responsibility ignores her youth and calls upon wisdom beyond her years. This occurs at her young age, placing her in a position neither entirely adult nor youthful, simply hybrid. The author emphasizes this by avoiding any mention of her father remarrying. Although there is a neighbor who now “sleeps in [Alinda’s] father’s bedroom,” (Kyomuhendo, 99) Alinda still has to bear all motherly responsibilities. In Country Lovers, Njabulo stands by Thebedi’s side despite the color of their new-born baby. Njabulo does his material duty by providing items for the baby’s comfort. While he would be expected to separate from Thebedi and disown her for her earlier affair, he remains true to his love for her. The judge’s compliments on his “honorable behavior,” (Gordimer, 25 ) however, sound too much like the American equivalent “good Negro,” a condescending term that refers to a “black” person who without complaining accepts all the injustices done by White society. In Njabulo’s case, it is debatable how much he could have done even if he had known who the baby’s father was, because of the power relations in an apartheid society.
Lack of a universal structure that encompasses all Somali culture helps the main character in Knots thrive. She can operate under Islam, feminist or economic terms as shown by the various roles she plays in different encounters and conversations. She wears the hijab as a way to cover her body and hide “her knife in her left hand,” (Farah, 100) a weapon for self-defense. Her athletic body and martial skills are also hidden away under the cloth, putting the “element of surprise on her side” (Farah, 101) and catching potential victims unaware. She is also able to negotiate with Kiir, a female friend, and the other members of the women’s group into letting her premier her play to them, if they provide the necessary security detail. By occupying such dissimilar roles at different points, the character can be portrayed as hybrid. Silk-hair and Gacal the two main youth characters also thrive under chaos. Gacal lost his father and was out of touch from his mother for several years yet is still able to display remainders of “high-class upbringing,” (Farah, 230) despite living as a mercenary soldier in horrible conditions. Furthermore, they both wield weapons capable of killing but they are still willing to listen. Though young they have not let power take away their ability to take good advice.
Giving is another string that runs through all three texts discussed. In Kyomuhendo’s Waiting, Bahati the Tanzanian soldier gives Alinda’s friend, Jungu, a rectangular piece of fabric decorated using “beautiful colors and designs” ( Kyomuhendo, 98 ) depicting “three large flowers with bursting greens and yellow petals.” (Kyomuhendo, 98) This fabric, called Kanga, is unique to the East African coast and usually has both visual and poetic art. The particular one that Bahati gives Jungu has a love line: “our eyes met and our souls spoke to each other.” (Kyomuhendo, 98) The Kanga provides Bahati with a chance to express his love and show romance to his new-found friend. Generosity, then, enables the youth to forge relationships they might otherwise be unable to, given the violent conditions they live in. Thebedi and Paulus exchange objects to show their affection for each other. Initially, the presents show the giver’s artistic inclination, Paulus gives a “painted wooden box” (Gordimer, 24 ) and Thebedi a “brass-wire and beads bracelet” (Gordimer, 24). Both of these items are handmade but only Thebedi’s was made with the receiver in mind. Paulus’s gifts: “a red plastic belt and gilt-hoop earrings,” (Gordimer, 24) either come from class or are ready-made from shops. There seems to be an uncanny correlation between Paulus’s plastic gifts and his plastic love, a love that does not bother his conscience at all when he later poisons his own baby. In Farah’s Knots, generosity is embodied by Cambara who voluntarily “prepares a meal” (Farah, 97) for her cousin’s body guards who would otherwise not bother. She also prepares a “puppet show” for her host Kiir and the members of her woman’s group. Kiir, throughout Cambara’s stay has been generous, giving Cambara a room for free saying “we’ll worry about such details as money later.” (Farah, 150) Additionally she availed her security resources to Cambara on her quest to repossess her family property.
I can now delve into showing how hybrid behavior is connected to the political. The birth metaphor to be considered first, traverses all works and all three works have a woman giving birth; most of the babies survive birth and are well on their way to childhood by the time the books end. Presumably, they will live long into adulthood and old age and keeping in mind that Africa is always at the bottom of “development” statistics, these babies represent a new beginning. They are endowed with skills, right from the word go, to help them emerge and help Africa rise. In Kyomuhendo’s work, both the mother and the baby are sick right after birth, in fact the baby is “producing pus from its gums” (Kyomuhendo, 49) while the mother “bled after delivery.” (Kyomuhendo, 39) The baby pulls through but the mother does not. From a young age then, the baby is depicted as a survivor, one who will outlive the old establishment and build a new one. This is clear in Farah’s text, where the baby and the mother are spirited away by the main character, Cambara, to a safe haven to be well cared for. In contrast, the baby’s father, a warlord, is “feared dead” (Farah, 230) in another part of the city “after skirmishes with other rival warring groups.” (Farah, 260) In both cases, the babies fare better in the chaotic worlds they are brought into, than their parents.
In both Kyomuhendo’s and Farah’s work, the babies lose a parent, representative of losing part of one’s history. This metaphor can be used to symbolize Africa’s colonially-marred history. The onset of European empires in Africa caused a break in many communities’ way of explaining their history. Furthermore, loss of family members during political struggles for freedom as well as civil strife, decades after independence, contributed to a loss of the populace’s collective memory. This loss is symbolized in the books by the loss of one parent. The authors, however, wish to show that the babies and symbolically, Africa, can work above these tragedies and turn their destinies around.
It is significant, however that all the above success is made possible by hybrid characters. In Kyomuhendo’s work, the baby survives because its progressive sister, Alinda, takes the advice of someone the community around her thinks is a witch, while in Farah’s work, it is due to Cambara, a divorced, childless woman that the baby gets a chance at a future, safe from Mogadiscio’s war. The authors, by using young Alinda and divorced Cambara, show that people traditionally thought to be at the margins of society and thus possibly useless, are actually capable of great acts. This idea is reinforced in Farah’s work by the presence of the character Kim, a woman leader in Mogadiscio. Kim is also a single mother and her marital situation puts her at the furthest margin of Somalia’s Islamic culture. Despite this, she has ignored all the prejudices against her and worked hard to create a little “haven” (Farah, 222) for her daughters and herself, all this while reaching out to those in need, such as Cambara.
In regards to my argument about thematic difference between “old” and “new” literature, the above analysis shows more similarities than differences. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart, is concerned with colonial influence on traditional Igbo culture in Nigeria. In Achebe’s work, outcasts and other marginalized sections of society such as widows and the childless, turn to Christianity and end up more empowered than those who stuck to traditions. The idea about potential power embodied by those traditionally marginalized is still as relevant today as it was in 1950’s colonial Nigeria. Present day Africa is rife with unemployed, widows, Aids orphans and those who have only partial education. Modern day culture asks these people to step aside as the politicians, western N.G.O’s and the middle class get down to the business of “developing Africa”. The “development industry” i.e. those involved with uplifting Africa’s living standards have continuously been criticized for not asking the very people they wish to help, exactly what they want help with. Farah and Kyomuhendo critique this process by showing that it is those thought as useless who are in fact most useful to society and have the capability to make positive changes.
Within the birth metaphor, two babies survive into childhood, one does not. Thebedi’s and Paulus’s child is murdered by Paulus who does not wish his parents and the neighboring white community to find out about his affair with a black girl. The interracial baby, a symbol for the relationships between indigenous Africans and white South Africans dies, representing the violence that marked South Africa’s history as white rule oppressed other South Africans. The mock trial that follows shows how the apartheid government was able to get way with killing its citizens, for example, during the 1976 Soweto massacre where school children were shot at for demonstrating against the poor education system.
As had been noted earlier, chaos is significant in providing the hybrid characters with enough space to be themselves. Chaos represents a breakdown of the old establishment, due to its inabilities to adapt to new times or due to its atrocities. In Kyomuhendo’s Waiting, Idi Amin’s government comes crumbling down due to his gross murders that force neighboring Tanzania to intervene militarily. Chaos in Somalia and South Africa is represented by a civil war and an apartheid regime respectively. Presence of Idi Amin’s murderous soldiers results in poor public health and no security for the citizenry. Such conditions call upon the ingenuity of Alinda and her family in order to deal with her mother’s delivery. Alinda’s serving as a mid-wife fulfils this requirement that should otherwise be fulfilled by the government. A similar need is manifested in Farah’s work. Mogadiscio is run not by government, but by private effort. While taxes are collected in the form of haphazard, unregulated payoffs to youths at roadblocks, where they sometime harass motorists, these funds support the warlords and their men, rather than maintain and develop public infrastructure. When the warlord’s wife is about to deliver, it is necessary for Cambara to take her to a safe and healthier environment, ordinarily a maternity care hospital, but unavailable in this case.
In Njabulo’s case in Gordimer’s Crimes of Conscience, chaos perpetrated by his employer’s son renders him action-less and he is relegated to the role of a spectator. He understands only too well that he has not enough political clout to wrestle true justice out of the courts and thus sticks to being supportive to his wife through the whole fiasco. Njabulo’s support, while kind, is only a function of the social castration he has undergone on the table of apartheid South Africa. State policies that have kept him out of school and denied him chances for a better life have also denied him justice despite a constitution that purports to uphold human rights.
The need for chaos to catalyze a fresh start is reminiscent of the wars waged against European empires in various parts of the world, specifically in Africa. Franz Fanon, while theorizing on the Algerian independence war, argued that violence has a cleansing effect (Fanon). Fanon favored violence in order for the colonized to make a clean break from colonialism. This need for violence as a way to make a fresh start is a similar trend again hinting to closer thematic similarity between “old” and “new” literature than earlier theorized.
The above analysis concludes my work investigating hybrid characters in Nadine Gordimer’s Crimes of Conscience, Goretti Kyomuhendo’s Waiting and Nuruddin Farah’s Knots and how their narrative descriptions critique the politics of the countries within which the works are set. During this research, I came across texts I had not read before and got inspiration to write from Adichie’s historical fiction, Half of a Yellow Sun. The politics of the different countries was easy to discuss because it permeates many aspects of the characters’ lives. Everything in the works examined is political and each author has made conscious choices on what to include. Conversely, it is necessary to think about what has been excluded, why for example in Gordimer’s work it is a white man rather than a white woman who has the freedom to experiment with interracial affairs. Why in Farah’s work it is a woman who is involved with the production of a play and why a girl, rather than a boy, helps a woman deliver in Kyomuhendo’s work. Each of these omissions is as indicative as the inclusions and shed some light on how much gender equality has been attained in different societies.
It is imperative to point out that these texts are not at all representative of the countries they are from, it should be noted that many people lead lives far different from those represented in the three texts and it is necessary to acknowledge this diversity. My analysis has shown more of a similarity between “old” and “new” literature than expected. Themes such as globalization and an awareness of the world outside one’s country were no more present in these “new” works than it was in those before. Such awareness, for example in Farah’s work was not voluntary, simply a requirement of the reality the characters were living. This is similar to Achebe’s Things Fall Apart where traditional Igbo society would rather have remained ignorant of British culture if that could have guaranteed not being colonized, of course, such a choice was never offered to them. Overall, this project has informed my awareness of African literature and given me a chance to read widely, both texts and theoretical material, while making connections to pertinent contemporary issues.

Literature Cited
Cazenave, Odile: Writing the Child, Youth, and Violence into the Francophone Novel from Sub-Saharan Africa: The Impact of Age and Gender
Research in African Literatures (Bloomington, IN) (36:2) [Summer 2005] , p.59-71.

Ezenwa-Ohaeto. "The child figures and childhood symbolism in Flora Nwapa's children's fiction." Research in African Literatures 26.n2 (Summer 1995): 68(12). Expanded Academic ASAP. Gale. Lafayette College. 4 Nov. 2007
.
Farah, Nuruddin. Knots. New York, 2007.
Galle, Etienne. "The Probable Young African Hero." Commonwealth: Essays and Studies 15.1 (1992): 29-35.
Gordimer, Nadine. Crimes of Conscience. London, 1991.
Kyomuhendo, Goretti. Waiting. New York, 2007.
Priebe, Richard K.: Literature, community, and violence: reading African literature in the West, post-9/11.
Research in African Literatures (Bloomington, IN) (36:2) [Summer 2005] , p.46-58.

Sahay, Amrohini J. "The Location of Culture." College Literature 23.n1 (Feb 1996): 227(6). Expanded Academic ASAP. Gale. Lafayette College. 17 Nov. 2007
.

Thiong'o, Ngugi wa. "Decolonising the Mind(*)." Diogenes (Winter 1998): 101. Expanded Academic ASAP. Gale. Lafayette College. 17 Nov. 2007
.

Woods, Tim. "The Location of Culture." The British Journal of Aesthetics 35.n3 (July 1995): 292(2). Expanded Academic ASAP. Gale. Lafayette College. 17 Nov. 2007
.

Yellow Canary Cage

2007-12-03T05:55:00.000-05:00

Heaven knows I love them,
I mean, I did after all do my share
of sitting-egg duty.
But my oh my, these birdlings ARE demanding!
I’d imagined Puffy, our two young and I
making a perfect, little robin-family
but it’s been far from peaceful.
From the time they pecked
their way out of their eggs,
as we hovered close-by,
grinning stupidly, elated; they’ve never
shut-up for more than a half hour
at a time.
“Feed me!” “Feed me!” they chorus
with each other back and forth
as Puffy and I sweat, hauling
back fat worms and bugs. It’s
gotten so bad we had to feed
them McD’s just to keep them
busy as we napped.
Bad idea. They loved it so much they
over-ate and had stomach upsets. Now,
on top of feeding them, we also had to
nurse them back to health- so they
could keep eating!
I’m tired, and that yellow canary
cage in the pet-shop two blocks
away is beginning to look
not half as bad.

Tree-Leaves-Tree

2007-11-26T13:02:00.002-05:00

Message to the Tree

The top branches are all nude
Exposed to the sky, pushing
Themselves up, in anger at
Having being de-robed. The leaves’
Corpses hang, brown
Like a nineteenth century southern town.

Message to the Leaves

Bright red leaves, edged with gold
Twirl and flutter in midair,
Catching this breeze and the next
Enjoying the last of warm days.
All alive, enjoying the last few ounces
Of breath, left in them.
Breath in deep, little leaves
Soon you’ll be headed into that
Deep dark night.

Message to the Tree

With your arched bark
Taut, like a dancer’s back
Protect the seeds inside your trunk.
Slowly, surely, blood seeps up
To nourish your nearly-dead fingers and toes,
As they stretch out into the sky
A last act of defiance.

This String Can Run Around The World Twice

2007-11-26T13:02:00.001-05:00

From here to Mercury is the distance to your heart twice
Cold, cold heart.

I duck to avoid the hailstones,
To dodge the fragments shooting from your heart, I run

But I’m hot! And I can,
Melt away the snow-balls shooting straight at me.

Your dagger-eyes, look at me like that and like this
I’m in paradise, spare me!

Welcome to my world,
You fume and heave, and puff and push

But the three little piglets
Are still safe and sound.

I wish to tie your pinky,
Put you on a sling and twirl you from a string,

Around and around,
Until you grow dizzy.

My fears and sorrows mesh with your
Anger to make a quilt of our joy,

It is the,
Most exquisite pattern,

It has a burst of blood here
And a squelch of green all over.

Take me back to the good,
Old future: never ending

Grass plains burning from
Comet dust.

Dying flowers replenished by
Halo stars and alien smoke.

The craters and the crevices
Seem to wink back at me,

More so when I,
Stare at the mirror with three eyes shut.

I run across the water
Better than electric current,

Zipping from anode to diode
As it connects my nerves,

Arching my back in ecstasy
And pain interjected by

Devilish laughter,
Buah ahahaha……….mmmmm.

Like my brown puppy
Squashed between the giant toes,

Of a 4 x 4 truck’s
New, shiny, now red, bloody wheels.

I recline now and
Gaze with wonder at

All my fans out there in
The universe

Winking at me over and over,
Jostling each other

For an autograph,
Or a photograph

Of me in my world,
A simple string.

Sestina

2007-11-17T17:18:00.001-05:00

So if you feel that way about the herb
Let it be positive all of the time
Do not let it divide us
Joker smoker
This is a habit, you can’t maintain it
You borrow a cigarette and a lighter

You leave with a look in your eyes that’s lighter
I’m in the club smoking my herb
I’m burning burning it
I stand up to mark time
This is my hundredth year as a smoker
And wide-eyed I wonder why the sharks won’t leave us

One more cloud between us
“Recently your love’s been lighter”
I grill fish on our ancient ‘smoker’
Spice up my simple dish with Italian herbs
Precious meditation took up all my time
All the while shouting “Just do it!”

We elevated it,
On a golden pedestal between us
Yet this was meant to be our time
I lost grey cells, now my brain is lighter
Spreading rumors that I weep for my herb
My sawn-off shot gun left him a smoker

An Elegy to Chivalry

2007-11-17T14:38:00.000-05:00

Long ago, you lived in the hands offered to ladies descending from coaches,
An open door and a “I’ll take your luggage, maam”,
We moan your departure, you left us
To wallow in the dark miasma of “Bitches and whores!”
When will you return?
Ladies look back to the good old days
A kiss to the hand, a chair pulled back
Kind words and clean language,
You will return, won’t you?
Reincarnate and treat us to your nice manners
You’ll join in on the ‘independent woman’ movement,
Won’t you? That won’t throw you off, right?

In Memory of Che

2007-11-17T14:37:00.000-05:00

Who would have thought the bike trip across the continent
Would influence you so much?
Turn you into a true a cosmopolitan even before the word was invented
A human in touch with various places and caring about
Justice in all of them
Curing, literally, many that you came across.
Sad eyes watch,
Your theories have now turned into teenage accessories.
No one understands the poor like you tried to
No one brings them together to fight against the bullies,
Both internal and external
Sorrow, the poor lament your death with each starving child dead
You understood a new world order,
One in which the oppressed would be able to stand up for themselves
Your big arms, tall physique
Gave comfort to the poor, and fear to your enemies
Pity, that it was not immortal,
Not indestructible, that it was mere flesh and blood
They took you down, had to
Your soul was too pure and determined to win,
At whatever cost
Could not let such a legend live on
You were threatening them in more ways than they could
Make bombs

John Garang

2007-11-17T13:21:00.000-05:00

Just as things got better at home,
Only when peace had come after 20 years,
He was taken away,
Nobody’s sure it was an accident.

Good man that he was, courageous
And always willing to go the extra mile for justice
Remember how he left the oppressors and fought for his people?
Ah! How much a cheat death is!
Now we enjoy the fruits of his labor,
Giving thanks for his efforts, wishing he never made the ultimate sacrifice

Letter of Appreciation

2007-11-07T22:16:00.000-05:00

I Am Learning Czech
Published in Southern Review

To Richard Katrovas,

I read your piece titled 'I am Learning Czech' with a lot of interest really enjoying the humor in it. As an international student, and aspiring cosmopolitan, I appreciate it when people move out of their comfort zones and attempt to learn new cultures. I am not entirely sure though if this was your intention, because while you make fun of your poor Czech, I feel that you have also come to appreciate the traditions of your adopted home. I really enjoyed the style you used to write the piece, mixing your personal experiences with material from a language textbook and then commenting on the characters as though they were real. This enabled me to understand the lives of international students in Prague, showing both the good and the bad that exists, like in all cities. Commentary on your family's life hooks the piece into real life, making it more pertinent.

Your life history is another aspect of your character that I find very interesting. I can barely imagine moving up and down the country with a conman dad, and then being jetted off to Japan while still a teenager. To me, these experiences place you in a unique position to understand other cultures with more compassion for differences, I might be wrong, but I’d bet not.
To cut a long story short, I really liked reading the article, and look forward to coming across more of your work.

The Poem I'd Never Write....

2007-11-03T18:39:00.000-04:00

The Poem I’d Never Write…

Is baggy, droopy, like my belt-less pants
Falling below my knees and exposing
My cold, shriveled member, at my
In-law’s dinner party as I reach
Over to kiss them good evening

Is sticky, odorous like the sexual
Juices oozing out of the bitch
From down the road the other day
As I drove my ex-wife and my
daughter to lunch. My ex said
The bitch was “paying for the
Pleasure of others" when my little girl
Asked her why “the dog was crying from its bum”

Is loud, obnoxiously loud,
like the group of black women who
Sit at the bus park and throw
Their heads back in laughter,
Nervous laughter, as though they can
Still smell the singeing flames
Burn their ancestor in this Southern
town 200 years ago.

Is leaking, leaking damn it, leaking!
Like the last German U-boat
in the English Channel, already wounded
crawling home, but yet
continuously, murderously torpedoed
towards complete annihilation…
“and THEY call US Nazi’s”

is bright-eyed, so God-damned bright-eyed
like an 8 year old widow condemned to a life
behind closed doors for having “overturned the world”
looking forward to no career, no family, no life except
begging by the Ganges, reminiscing on her brief nuptial
bliss, and saving up for cremation.

To Kazim Ali

2007-10-29T00:56:00.001-04:00

How is it to raise your head high and count yourself
American, despite the denial
From the beggar down the street that you are
From the wrong side of the world
Only because the beggar up in the House told
Him so?
How is it to gather compassion within you and
March into the streets each day, looking straight
At the people who might willingly give you
Up? How is it to select among this very crowd
A group that is aware, less essentialist
And saviour-oriented, who appreciate
Your past and your future together,
How is it to meet such neighbours, friends
And know that you will never be alone in this individualistic
Country, there will always be one or two by your side?

How is it to listen to your brothers speak out
In hate against your wife’s, potentially relatives?
The look they give you as you walk by with her, snide
Remarks that you sold out, by marrying out of the clan?
How to behave as an outsider in both worlds, and yet enjoying
Every now and then, just before you drop dead from hate,
A refreshing drink from a stranger, and you know,
You know that yet all hate will end on earth?

The Dog’s Flea’s Theology, After Y.Komunyakaa

2007-10-29T00:40:00.001-04:00

I fly ahead
Of the dog. His mane drags on
His speckled skin,
Warm enough for me, and mine
Shooing away the wind and cold
Cursing off the snow and rain. I
Know where I’m going;
To the vein with sweet
Sweet blood pumping in the
Dog’s neck,
His circulation a quenching eternal well
Of red German beer.

If I Were A Bee..

2007-10-29T00:39:00.001-04:00

Sting plus sting is equal to pain
Is equal to sucking sweet nectar
One, two, three, countless male drones
Drowse by her Highness’ side
Side splitting laughter ends
With the piercing clap of my wings
Zzing away from home
A mere slave

Cacti hair on my back
Revealing Zebra skin, my beating
Bee heart enclosed in an ever-full wind-sock
As I fly into the wind
Silken wings caress my lover’s rounded
Cheeks, dipping my feet into the communal honey pot
And smearing her lips
Over and over and over, that’s three,
Three mics at the weekly karaoke
Hearts beat wild as tom toms
Feet thudding harder than rampaging elephant bulls
You wipe sweat off your wings
As you relax on a flower petal, getting
High of rose water, and jasmine
SSSSSSSSS AH!!

Kenya-7: Taste Buds Tour

2007-10-14T14:13:00.000-04:00

the fresh, steaming-hot fish sauce
escorts greens and the mound of
corn-meal paste down
spit the fish bones and
enjoy your stay by the lake

the cow bellows at it's bled from
the jugular, warm blood and milk
mixture fills, lulls the baby to
sleep. the family by the fire strip
roast meat from the bones
the endless Savannah outside
sits in the Rift Valley, snugly

as mist rolls down the mountain
your teeth crush, grind bean, maize and potato mixture
mashed with pumpkin leaves,
floating beside beef chunks, on a hot sauce

the coconut milk and mango slices for dessert
were better than the rice, steamed in coconut milk,
with shrimp sauce, and deep-fried, flour-dipped potatoes?
you ponder on this, as the waves lap the shore, back and
forth to the ends of the world, tomorrow they will still
meet you here,
by the white sands, under the blue skies

shove past the office clerk
as you make your order at the counter,
"chips and a Fanta"
"add two sausages" you say as an afterthought
you carry away the sad-looking fries
some, hot as hell, others, nice and chunky,
most, mangled and inedible
it's not an upmarket cafe, you expected this.
but mostly you expected the jostling and the shoving,
the cacophony from the street outside as peddlers show their wares
you enjoy it
"much, much better
than the insulated atmosphere at the Hilton",

Kenya-6: FMDK

2007-10-14T14:10:00.000-04:00

He died in chains, hanged
Now he soars above the crowd, free.
He lived a fugitive on the run
Now, he's been turned into stone, forgotten.

*Inspired by a sculpture of Field Marshal Dedan Kimathi,
a freedom fighter with the (in)famous Mau Mau

Kenya-5: Young, Upshot, Upcoming

2007-10-14T14:04:00.000-04:00

Lipstick? Check.
Mascara? Check.
Eyeliner? Check.
Nail polish? Check.
Hairdo? Check.
She's young and beautiful

Flashing smile? Check.
Handsome boyfriend? Check.
Furnished apartment? Check.
She's ready for the world

Car keys? Check.
Bank account? Check.
Friends? Check.
She's ambitious and ready to do it all

Degree? Check.
Wisdom? Check.
Experience? Check.
Kindness? Check.
She's a professional on her way up.

Kenya-4: Threadbare

2007-10-14T13:58:00.000-04:00

The 5am dusk beckons her, out of the warm bed
Leaving her husband's loving cuddle,
Tip-toeing away from her sons' snores, softly.
She shivers as she hugs her threadbare coat closer,
Layering to keep warm,
She must try and get something warmer for herself
Perhaps today,
If she rakes in enough profit.
But, what about her son's cough syrup?
Or her husband's new shirt?
And what about contributions to the savings' group
she's part of?
Oh well, maybe her coat will wait for next month.
She'll survive.

Kenya-3

2007-09-29T16:29:00.000-04:00

the vampires are yet to sleep
dawn is yet two hours away
and the birds still sleep, snore and dream of fat worms
the sun applies make-up,
ready for another hard day at work,
on that chosen day

the half-coated farmer, behind the bespectacled office clerk
shuffles dusty feet forward, fumbling with the election papers,
on that chosen day

he cleans his thumb, making sure the ink will stick
and make that special mark
on that chosen day

the old lady wipes her eyes
trying to stay awake
on that chosen day

the clerk at the table, mumbles through the instructions
'make your mark here!' with a foreign-ish intonation.
glasses at the end of her nose as she eyes the dirty corner of the
country she's been sent to, all in the name of democracy
'hurry up, you louts', she thinks. 'i wish to get back to my city'
on that chosen day

the job-seeker at the end of the queue
eagerly looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse
of the incumbent politician, doling out money,
taxpayers' money
on that chosen day

as the sun slowly rises, the ballot boxes slowly fill up
the citizens walk and drive, drive and walk
the boxes to the counting center,
they listen closely to the stereo
watch keenly the tubes
tallying up the results, as they await a new crowd,
at the top.
on that chosen day

Kenya-2

2007-09-25T16:15:00.000-04:00

December 12th 1963
the hey-day for a young nation, nothing but a toddler
but now all of a sudden too much trouble for the nanny
so the child is left to its own devices
as the nanny steals away, in the dead of night
hiding the shame for the former crimes

the young child laughs, happy,
to be rid of the nanny
the young country celebrates, glad to be rid of the tyrant

but alas, little does the young child know
of the vermin and viruses inside her, the bouts
of disease under the auspices of civil strife, corruption
and hunger she will suffer.
the headaches from all the political bickering, noisemaking
and rumour-mongering, waste of time
rather than building self

smile young country, you will not be able to smile for much longer
you will develop later than your counterparts, poor underdeveloped child,
ravaged by your own

most of the times

yet we know your beauty,
your grace and strength of spirit.
despite the horrors upon you by your
nanny, you find within you forgiveness

your natural gifts will bring you many friends, and
envious enemies.

*December 12 is Kenya's Independence Day

Kenya-1

2007-09-25T16:03:00.000-04:00

amorphous, not yet formed
it was simply a gathering of bodies,
a clash of bodies, war, disease and poverty... so 'they' say
traditions ruled and kept everyone in check
people were born, wed and buried under the
Knowing eye of culture, led along by the warm hand of taboos,
not withstanding a knowing nod, every now and then from
the ancestors
who remained with us even after death

good and evil were neither abstract nor unreal
laws were executed and most people were happy
'steal and be rolled down a hill in a beehive,
full of bees'
'be good, hardworking and you will be rewarded'

girls lost their virginity on the wedding night
amid ululations from the in-laws
with the mothers hovering nearby, waiting for that
red stain, cry of pain
that would confirm the family's virtue

young men were made by the dozen, at the crack of
dawn, when the famous Mara got rid of his mom,
by the river. cold cold water numbing that vital
part, just enough so you could ignore the sting,
viz the pain, of the grizzly old surgeon, entrusted
with the role of sculpting your member into a fine tool

She

2007-09-22T15:37:00.000-04:00

She
Assumed he
Would always be
There for her to
Help out whenever she wished
Without having to worry about where
He was the rest of the time.

She
Took him
For granted and
Never appreciated his help
Until one day he simply
Disappeared
And
Has not
Been heard from
Again.

Patience

2007-09-22T15:36:00.002-04:00

My legs wobble, unsure of the way,
Missing the track every other step; going astray.
My mind uncertain, of the time of day
My journey is long, I know, so no delay

No idea of what will transpire tomorrow
Do not know if I’ll be full of joy or sorrow,
If for my food I’ll have to steal, beg or borrow

Uncertainty is the new gospel
Fear is the new confidence,
Doubt, the new wisdom

Why be sure?
Why know exactly what will happen?
Why want to predict the events that are yet to occur?
Why spoil the surprise with weather channels, news and market predictors?

Why not instead share the joy of spontaneity,
Enjoy the thrill of the newly discovered, ride the suspense until you
Find out what happens?

Patience.....

Tell me*

2007-09-22T15:36:00.001-04:00

I remembered you, in the deep, dark dense night
Crouching low, tensing muscles, dripping beads of sweat,
Encircling your prey: The prey.

I thought of you squeezing your eyes tight,
Going for the jugular- does He have one?
And pinning Him down
How much does He weigh? How does He smell like?
Are His armpits full of a musty farmer’s smell,
Reminding you of dusty village farms, with scrawny chickens running around?
Are His hands rough, from the gardening, turning over compost, milking?
Is His chest usually bear, to cool Him off as He stands back every now and then to
Examine His progress on His land?

Tell me.

I saw the sculpture and thought of you,
Pinning Him down, until He was short of breath,
His wife, nearby, fretted you would choke Him to death,
But you knew you just wanted Him to promise you
Long life, and a million descendants

Did the desert sand, the stars, moon and wind
Cheer you own as you nailed Him down, until
He rapped His hand, thrice on the ground to signify defeat,
Asking you to let Him go?

Did he finally limp off, dusting sand, leaves and pebbles off His hair,
Straightening his clothes so His friends wouldn’t see he was in a fight,
And lost?
Did He try to walk off the pain in His left leg, grimacing with each step,
All along thinking to Himself, that He, had been defeated by one of His own?

Tell me.

*Inspired by a bamboo structure depicting Jacob’s Ladder- or half a DNA strand, depending on how you look at it.

Where, is my Shrine

2007-09-16T22:05:00.000-04:00

It is a sunny day, the wind hums as it goes in between my legs,
Caresses my arms on its journey out West,
To the farthest corner of the world and back.

I walk among the daffodils, plucking the petals,
Of blood, as I write under an acacia tree,
Or think that I am.

I gather cotton, wool and all things soft and cover
It up: my head.
Cushioning my mind against Iraq and poverty,
Ignorance and disease.
The porous material betrays me, I can still see,
Hear, the hurt in the bare-footed child running
Across the road in Calcutta, fetching water from
An Oxfam tap, dug with agricultural subsidy money.

My brain screams out loud, blood seeps
Through the layers,
“never remove the layers, instead add more”
My EMS instructor told me,
Right after teaching me that ‘normal’
Skin color is pink

Grey cells turn red,
The valleys and ridges full of iron,
It’s a place full of possibilities.
Just like where I stand,
On a sunny day, the wind hums
As it goes in between my legs on its way to
The furthest corner of the world and back.

Guinness

2007-09-16T19:58:00.001-04:00

Set out one day, tired of bickering with his
Younger brother to look for the ladies in Dublin
Ha, ladies he did find, but poverty too
He became poor and had to look for work,
Since he had no bu-flight(bus fare) to-rudi Ocha(head back home)
He set himself up in the nearest Industrial Area
How was he to know what would become of him later on?
That his name would bring saliva to the mouths of many,
Inspire songs of low IQ, clearly showing the great effects of his invention

Was it just genius, hard work?
Perhaps a little free labor imported by Wilberforce-
Before he went native?
Or did he do an ‘Esther’- show some skin and
Got himself in the right position to receive, eventually, money-
"On your knees, hands spread", but first, sex –"on your back, legs
Spread"?

It doesn’t matter, since either way his legacy stands
Firm on its own.
I’d vouch for it!

Family Secret

2007-09-16T19:57:00.001-04:00

The little girl could see
There was a skin color
Difference in one of her relatives
She gaped, starred and wondered
But stronger than her curiosity
Was the family hush-hush
As to the origin of the
Lighter-colored granny

Halfway across the world now, the
Girl has become a woman, in
London, the metropolis of the world
She dates carefully
Scrutinizing for any resemblance, a
Nose, hooked ear, birth mark, anything
To serve as a thread To that fateful day,
half a century ago
When a throbbing, hard, wild-eyed white soldier
Pinned her ancestor to the ground,
Among the grasses, and piercingly,
Painfully, added a new gene
To the next generation.

The Further You Go (2)

2007-09-09T10:57:00.001-04:00

The further you go,

just you, the tarmac ahead
you sing along to the music
in the player, you conjure
up images of love, you
theorise on who the man
in a blue beret and a scarf
two cars back was going to,
in the scruffy beat-up Honda
He reminds you of the beggar
up the street on your
Advisory-laden country's
capital. visions of home.

The Further You Go (1)

2007-09-09T10:50:00.001-04:00

The further you go,
the more you return
to the original,
place.

Set the cadaver
on the table,
slice and dice
your way to the very cells
magnify, be not
surprised to see that
deep within, the cells
are similar

that deep within,
we are all alike
despite the labels we use
to avoid thinking,
to avoid hurt and,
love, and hurt

Young One, You're

2007-09-09T10:36:00.000-04:00

Young one, you're
so quick to judge
draw your word-sword and swish and slash
caring not who bleeds, or drops dead
after you're done

Be careful with your words
maturity is not cruelty.
T'is a sad world this, that
connotes humility with stupidity
not knowing that quiet words
build,
us, a lot.
You undo the other,
simultaneously, destroy yourself: selfish

Be honest to yourself,
follow the good in you
accept it,embrace it
it is not weakness to be kind to God's creatures

Happy Birthday

2007-09-07T23:08:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you dear 'kritykal'

How old are you now?
One!
How old are you now?
One!

Happy birthday dear 'kritykal'

One year anniversary since the first post
on this measly blog this side of the web.
Looking forward to many more.

Sydney, Australia

2007-08-26T18:56:00.000-04:00

Uni. of New South Wales Study Abroad Experience

After two 14 hour flights, I really was not in the mood for the usual immigration trouble that people of my skin color enjoy at airports world over. The lady examining arriving passengers for food stuff that would endanger the Australian ecology did not even bother to ask me where I was flying from, my looks told her I was an environmental hazard, and she promptly sent me to the next queue to have my luggage scanned. Huffing inwardly, and angry at this blatant discrimination, my only respite was seeing the nicely dressed Thai airlines’ stewardesses receive the same treatment, “Over there, please”, she said over a plastic smile you could see had been on, the entire ten hour work shift.
The passport fellow was okay, he didn’t look at my passport as though I had handwritten it myself, on scraps of paper. I did after all have an Aussie visa which I assure you that after an unnecessary English test, exposure to radiation to ensure I had no TB, and numerous confirmations of my capable financial situation, happens to be the toughest visa to get. He stamped it, soon enough, and sent me on my way. But there was still one more hurdle between me and my Kangaroo Dream. A nice lady stopped me and asked me a few questions about where I was going, where I would be staying, what I would be doing, how long I would be staying, do I intend to get myself adopted, married or enrolled for refugee status? Ok, I made up the last three, but I’m sure that if I had not had my fat file with all the educational records, she would have. I have taken to traveling with this file within easy reach; you should see me, I smoothly pull out document after document like a criminal lawyer, sure I have won the case, because after all I have been through these kinds of situations before.
But after that, I was out scot free! I was in Australia and nothing was going to dampen my moods, not even a ‘random’ bomb test, which by the way happened again when I was leaving the country..... it is true after all that everything comes in two’s in the Land Down Under, I just made up that saying.
Orientation was fine, fun to have the American accent surround me after two months in Kenya. I was hanging out with more American students than I do at Lafayette, odd no?
Classes began in style, I had a three day weekend, I lived 15 minutes away from the beach and so as you can imagine, I extended my ‘educational’ experience to include trips to the beach, to study, I don’t know- how the water feels on a hot sunny day, the theory behind ice cream tasting so good after a swim, in addition to more challenging issues like why do all the girls by the beach look like models?
Sydney proved to be more cultural than I had expected it to be. There was always a museum, heck two or three even, to go to every weekend, a dance place to check out, not forgetting Asian cuisine, from Japanese and Vietnamese to Korean and Singaporean. It was such good food, a bit on the pricier side, but each dish was worth the dollars through its sensual pleasures.

Driving in the Outback was something I got to do towards the end of the semester. I back packed from Sydney to Melbourne by bus, then to Adelaide again over road. In each city I stayed two or so days, savored as much food as I could, slept everywhere BUT in hotels and lived on bread, jam and fruit juice for a whole week. I also rented a car.... bad bad credit cards and had an awesome time driving, and getting lost, in the outback. I discovered the quaintest small towns along the highways, abandoned farm houses that looked dead and eerie whose only inhabitants were wild rabbits. Sitting in the widest open fields you can imagine. The serenity and calm in these places was very very worth the long drives necessary to get to them.
Australian humor is more on the laconic side, it tends to poke fun at the other person, whatever there status. Theorized to have sprang from the brotherhood at the convict start of the Australian colony, it has lived on to act as a form of social censorship and everyone is subject to it. It is easy to feel picked on, but once I got the hang of it, it brought me that much more closer to understanding the culture of this most urbanized country in the country, that ironically sits right beside some of the largest empty spaces in the world map.
Far be it said that I did not learn anything. My future life and career has been permanently marked by the Post-Colonial class I took in the school of English. I am now, more than ever, inclined to pursue English at a post-grad level and hope to go on to teach and write prolifically. Exposure to some of the big names in post-colonial theory such as Homi Bhabha, Jamaica Kincaid and the lesser known Dionne Brand has left me thirsty for greater critical works in African literature, I hope to be among the group that spearheads something akin to an African re-renaissance, sooner rather than later.
The long flights and the bureaucracy applying for my educational visa might have made me think twice about going off to Sydney. But now, emailing my former professors and promising to meet soon as I present a ground-breaking theory paper in English, I am ever so glad I stuck through it all and went. I definitely would urge anyone with even half a chance to do the same.

Writing

2007-08-26T18:53:00.000-04:00

Why do you write?
Assuming might,
Of the pen over the night
That is your kite,
Flying in your tights.

Words roll over each other
Letters meddle with each other
And they bother
You, me, your brother
Yet they smother
Him, her, their mother

Which, is a smart buy
What, says goodbye
When, this is the end
How, shall we never see each again

The warp and the wefts
Of life are patterned
By the pen, in its route
As it cuts and it delves
Through the cracks and the clefts
Of the Left

Food

2007-08-26T18:52:00.000-04:00

More than nutrition, it serves
As a tradition, that swerves
In opposition, to doves
Of time and transition. The Haves
Give some additions, to the non-Haves
To stem persecution, of their nerves
And end starvation, while the Pervs
Enjoy anticipation, in the non-Haves
Leading to subjugation, display their curves
In sexual seduction, turned into slaves
For a little nutrition.

Female Survivor

2007-08-15T10:00:00.001-04:00

Busy bee
Come to me
E Z T
Does not heal

On the hill
Time the kill
Tie thy will
Grab and steal

Dig and till
Chop and peel
Man is ill
Well, he feels

Time

2007-08-15T09:58:00.000-04:00

For a time, and times
And half a time, the earth will last
The taste of our lives
Like a heat wave from a blast
Overwhelming for a bit, then vanishes
Leaving behind naught but ashes, debris
Destruction in the wake of a breath
Or splendour, unknown joy and happiness
From a life well lived

Time waits for no man, or woman
The sun always sets on the western
Front, that’s quiet and wealthier than
The eastern, torn apart
Slit asunder, rent into two, point of no return

Four a time, and times, and half a time

Money

2007-08-10T01:05:00.000-04:00

How much is ever enough?
How much should one give up for it?

The ever-greener pastures just behind the horizon,
The bigger pearl we see
Under the sea
Enticing us to go further and further
Until it’s too late
We’re out of air and no way up
We’re trapped!

Fight for our breath,
But friends and family we shunned away long ago
Not one of them can reach us,
Lend a helping hand
We went in too far and all they can do is
Scan the surface of the water
For our bloated bodies to surface
"The damage’s been done", they whisper
"Nought we could do or say changed his mind"

Enough!
When do the rich stop amassing?
Like the ocean which still desires rain despite all its water,
Hades that desires death, despite all the deceased,

A curse, is it?
Can one walk the tight rope between wealth and life
Living rather than existing simply to acquire
Propelled by great greed to have all there is in God’s earth

Spokesperson

2007-08-06T22:29:00.000-04:00

Why do they expect one of us to speak for all of us?
A representative of the race
An example to learn from
Good or bad, the only thing they will ever remember
From now until eternity about the group of people
Who look like that one man, one woman they saw
Ten, twenty, thirty years ago

Why do I have to speak up against each and every insult to us
Am I the only one who has the right, the responsibility
Why don’t you stop,
For one minute, throwing accusations, asking questions
'How did you get out of the ghetto?'
Silly questions
And walk in my shoes
Attempt to defend your entire race, group, tradition, culture
From your meager individual experiences
Struggle with words, emotions, hold down rage
Like a bull in a rodeo, waiting for the time it will buckle you off its back
And you run for cover, under hails of bullets
Or orange overalls off Cuba, Guantanamo.

Why are labels so easy, so useful
What kind of an education educates its young to group
Categorise, taxonomise, arrange, order, label, tag, organize,
Systemize, classify everything they come across
Others, themselves, us
Here, there, immigrants, citizens
Teaches them to despise the one group that matters
Humanity, humanity, humanity
That is what we all belong to,
That is what we all should worry about

Where is the Promised Land?

2007-08-06T22:27:00.000-04:00

North of the Sinai, West of Jordan
Bullets ricochet
Competing for space with RPG’s, SAM’s
God be with us!
Shall we survive another intifada?
Who’s the oppressor? Who’s the oppressed?
Both mothers bemoan fallen sons
Ravaged daughters
Peace and harmony flew out the window
When we walked in through the door

My heart bleeds
A mirage on the desert floor
Smoke on the horizon
Both more real than the Promised Land
I do not understand
When we will overcome
Our desire for harm

Our hearts, Men and Women, our hearts,
Much comfort is in them
How comforting these inner parts!
Much joy they impart
And in the end, perhaps,
That land that we yearn
Might be closer than we want.

The Newer Colossus

2007-08-06T22:25:00.000-04:00

A spin off from Emma Lazarus's The New Colossus

Like the brazen giant of Chinese fame
With blocks of concrete, iron and logs
Here at our sun-baked, scorpion-filled lands shall stand
A mighty fence with barbs, whose cloth
Is the seething anger, and his name
Blocker of Dreams. From his jagged edge
Straddles the country hostile, his wild eyes command
The wind-swept ‘scape that the deserts frame
“Keep, ancient lands, your wretched childs!” cries he
With brazen speech. “Give me your healthy, your rich,
The strangled masses wishing to breathe free, keep!
Your numerous refuse from bursting cities, keep.
Send these, the richest, the educated, the best,
I lift my arm behind the golden door,
Sit on my fence and choose. Select. Send back,
With no remorse.

Gimpel the Fool's Afterlife

2007-08-06T22:24:00.000-04:00

Ha! I thought I was done with deception after death. How wrong was I
Before my death, my wife had been crying on my face
Every day, asking me to join her
I’d wake up with her tears, salty on my eyes and lips
I was eager to join her

I took longer in Purgatory to wait for a bed of roses to grow
A gift for her. Never should have bothered!

When she saw me she sneered,
Angry I had come to intrude on her freedom
She was now with another man, She told me to find myself someone too
I always knew that even in death that woman would cause me pain
I tried to at least ask her who she was with now
I had been so eager to be with her for eternity
I was very angry and wished to go over and teach the new fellow
One or two things with my fists

I went up to see God and present my case
“She cheated on me all through life
Poor me, should she now not care for me and
be with me the way a proper wife should be?”

God answered from His white beard, “I’ll look into it!”
He consoled me as His child
And told me it would all be settled soon

That was five months ago, each time I go to check on His verdict
St. Peter tells me He’s gone on a journey,
Last month it was a long business trip to Hades,
The month before that He was pulling survivors from an earthquake
Before that He had had to settle my Jewish brothers and their
Arab foes by the Jordan
“He’s never around!” the saints assure me

They think I’m still Gimpel the Fool,
Last time I came to speak to God about my wife
After they told me He was away
I went round the back and entered His house through the kitchen.
You will never imagine who I saw, in a purple robe, sipping from a glass of wine,
You will never ever guess, who was sitting,
Straddling his lap, whispering into His ear and throwing her head back in laughter.
Bhah!! Deception never ends!

Please Do Not Ask

2007-08-06T22:21:00.000-04:00

please do not ask me if i ride an elephant to school,
and no, i did not have to run 10km over hills, valleys
and what not to get to school.
i actually had a school bus service
no, i have never seen, killed or ever intend to,
a lion, crocodile, cheetah, hyena or any other such
exotic animal. the only people who see wildlife in its
natural habitats are rich western tourists who can
afford the overpriced 4WD tour packages

i do not go up a tree in the evening and neither have
i seen a grass thatched hut in my lifetime.
i might not have tapped water, but i neither walk for
week with a small container to go get it.
electricity goes off sometimes, but i do have a tv
set, that, unfortunately, shows too much Paris
Hilton, Big Brother and MTV

i learnt English, not on my plane ride here, but in
school for the past 12 years. unlike you, i actually
know grammar and can converse on the difference
between the subjunctive and the adverb, unfortunately.
i have never ever written, heard or spoken African, and
other than Afrikaans, there exists no such language.

despite what Bush says, Nigeria is not the capital
of Africa, and neither is Kenya in the Congo.
raffia skirts went out of fashion with my grandmother's
grandparents, and yes we do have selections of suits
from all over the world.

so please, think through some of your questions before
you open your mouth to ask them. coming from the west
you have at your disposal many resources to find out some
about me.

while were on that matter though,
is it true that you Americans walk around in the nude,
are all millionaires, drive big cars and do not believe in God?
That's what my tribe told me to ask you on our last
Tom Tom communication!!

Let Her Rot

2007-08-06T22:19:00.000-04:00

Ha!
Look at her,
Silly woman, poor woman
Her sons and daughters have deserted her
All have left
The birdlings have grown wings
And kept distance from their smelly nest

Let her rot!
Let her bleed!
If her own children have deserted her
Who are we to care?

She loved them all
Gave them the sun, rain, wind and earth
Gave them the savannah, forests and lakes
Mountains that surpass all others
Beauty unrivaled
Pah!
What a waste
Spill not your pearls in front of the swines
Lest they turn on you!

I told her, I showed that her children
Deserved nothing but chains,
Whips and dungeons
Nothing better than scraps,
Ship hulls and open barns
I know how to treat them
Make them suffer, and they flock to me

Let her rot!
While her children are away
Let’s visit her
And ravage her over and over again
Let us satisfy our lust
Our loins shudder, let us not hold back
Let her rot!
If her own children have deserted her.

Unless you Want it To

2007-08-06T22:17:00.000-04:00

What your parents do, will have no effect on who you are,
Unless you want it to
What you did yesterday will not matter today or tomorrow
Unless you want it to
What mistakes you did,
What opportunities you missed, will matter no more,
Unless you want it to

The course you failed last semester, will not affect your degree,
Unless you want it to
The shot you missed last game will not keep you out of the finals,
Unless you want it to
The impression you made last year will not hinder you making a new one,
Unless you want it to
The food you burnt will not hinder you making a real good meal,
Unless you want it to

Time

2007-08-06T22:15:00.000-04:00

Never was it time to mourn,
Never was it time to mop,
Time to snarl, time to be sad,
Never was it time to work up a tantrum,
Never time to seclude yourself
Never was it time to wrap yourself in the mild cloaks of self-pity.

If it ever was time, if the present was ever time for anything but;
It is time to write, time to live,
Time to be the photojournalist, time to be the actor,
If it ever was time, it is time to be happy
Time to be rich, time to be smart, time to read,
Time to be well dressed, time to make impressions
Time to try new thing, Time to go new ways,
Time to meet new people,

If it ever was time, it is time to be the person I wanna be in future.