The Book I Never Wrote

Dear Dad,

I have been thinking about you. I always do, I even wrote you a poem recently. I am today writing to deliver great news! I made a discovery so grand, the oil discovery in Turkana last year (You must have been to Turkana during the time when you were staying in Maralal) has got nothing on my discovery. Allow me to explain how it all unfolded … It was a boring Saturday afternoon and I was in my room, at home alone reading the Daily Nation. A special feature spread on a former MP-now a squatter suffering from diabetes and the fear of dying before getting compensated by the Kenyan government for having been in detention for five years while innocent and ostracized as among those who orchestrated the infamous 1982 coup, told by a brilliant writer Roy Gachuhi enthralled me.

While multi-tasking feelings of sympathy for the poor old man and marveling at how one writer could manage to balance the misery of a man with an impressive twist of a powerful literary style that could put me in the same room with the subject and then take me back into time to meet him again; somewhere along the story line I fell into the name of a former politician, Oloo Aringo and immediately wondered why that name echoed something inside me. I could not remember if I ever met Oloo Aringo while a young girl (probably 5 or 6 years old) but I should have. However, I can’t forget that this man was your confidant. That bleak memory immediately brought me a sudden vision. Inside that limbo world, I found myself stuck in a big white empty house with many mirrored doors. I had been running around tired and wanting out but in vain. And then all of a sudden there appeared a black door with a shinning knob made of silver. The joy of entering a new place was overwhelming and as soon as I walked through, I saw you sitting there smiling at me though silent. What happened made me afraid. I saw you through the newspaper, through the mention of your friend’s name. As freaky as that sounds, it  had to mean something. Immediately I knew and realized that you are the title of the book many people have urged me to write on, the one I have always wanted.

It would take the coincidence of me being engrossed in someone else’s work to know that all this time, you were the topic to write on I had been searching for. This must already sound so complicated, try explaining that to the writer whose work led me to the topic of you. Brave and hopeful; I drafted Roy an email first thing on Monday morning to commend him on his luminous literary style, and explain how through his article he lead me to you. That wouldn’t be easy from the look of Roy’s command and the kind of emails he must be receiving from all kinds of people. But he would respond to me the same day in a sharp, precise and sane tone, granting me a meeting next week to advice on my new-found discovery—the decision to write your biography. “Fortuitously, this is a journey that many people, some famous, others not, have undertaken and documented. You will not have a shortage of reference and inspiration,” he wrote to me in a powerful and encouraging email.

This year, the heavens have absolutely opened wide for me. People have been so good to me yet I have done nothing to deserve it. Life has been good, words wouldn’t even start to describe the grace and goodness of things around me. I now anticipate to dissect though the roads you treaded, places you worked and visited, people you touched, kids you brought up, the women of your life, the numerous letters you wrote to mum and just about anything that might have made you the kind of man you were up to the point where you passed on and then started living on in my dreams and beyond. Dad I pray that you bless me and my endeavor.

Worthy Of My Pen

After having been the unofficial Chair lady of the Singles Club for about three years now, it is with dignified pleasure that I announce my resignation. Contrary to the anticipated, I am still a single lady so don’t be thinking that I am now hooked, hitched or whatever you like to call it but like gleaming fresh tomatoes—I now feel like it’s time to be proudly out there in the proverbial market. My Facebook Relationship Status is still as standing. However, my guard is lowered as I finally gave someone a chance into my life. Someone I have known for 10 years now, a time during which they had been trying to make me notice them. But like ordinary people, I was blinded by a veil of bygone loveless relationships, immaturity and the haggardness of dealing with a one-time long distance relationship that only recently started to fade. Now I see and feel much better.

The little things Mr. Mystery Man does like kissing my forehead smack in the middle of the night or my arm in the morning—make me smile. Sometimes we talk about how we first met a decade ago, and then look at present day comparing and contrasting how far we have both come, albeit separately. He’s a good man because he respects me and other women. I am yet to see more of his goodness, if any. He’s thoughtful and sweet. In the middle of the day, he comes by my office just to say hello. When I am on night shift, he turns up in the middle of the night and waits up till I am done, then we sit in the car for hours talking about everything and nothing till the wee hours of the morning. Who really killed chivalry? All these things and some gutsy feeling tell me that I am either too vigilant or he’s got the potential of becoming more than just a friend. I hardly ever feel the need to write about any man so let it be known that this post comes from a special place. A modest and unknown quote goes that; “To live forever, impress or depress a writer.” For these clashing extremes most often act as endless muse. Mine could be yet another infatuation or case of mistaken identity. But since ditching Team Forever Alone (at least mentally), it’s a no-brainer that Mr. Mystery Man has inspired me to be a better woman, in every kind of way. So much that he’s worth writing home about. Oops! I meant blogging about

Miguel– All I Want Is You- Kaleidoscope Dream (Album Review)

Miguel is not a regular Grammy-Award winning singer. His aesthetic speaks louder than his sound—a fuse of the 90s music feel and an inexplicable futuristic vibe that probably made Vibe Magazine recently brand him and Kendrick Lamar as “The New Classics.” From his sturdy creative direction, velvety voice, naughty yet catchy lyrics like [I don’t wanna be loved, I just want a quickie) to simply how he adorns and moves in the classic black trench coat in How Many Drinks? music video; it’s literally hard to point at what’s not to love about this man.

His debut album All I Want Is You, released in 2010 was pretty solid but still wasn't impressive enough for a lot music critics. I thought it was an ode to lost R&B and probably the first sign of Miguel coming to the rescue of the genre that in a few years would be overtaken by pop. Jodeci or Shai would in this decade easily produce a song like Miguel’s Teach Me—it’s lazy sexy and slurry beat echoes Jodeci’s baby-making hit Freek'N You. Only Quickie, Sure Thing and the album’s title track All I Want Is You featuring J. Cole shone, the latter’s hip hop/R&B combi pushing both artists to topping radio charts.  My stand out tracks in this album was My Piece and Girls Like You. In the latter, Miguel sings about single-hood  There’s always that guy/girl you can’t have but will always remind you that you’re lonely. Here, his electric guitarist delivers a stellar recording. Sure Thing is my all-time favorite Miguel song, also from this album. [Love you like a brother, treat you like a friend, respect you like a lover … this love is a sure thing]. I appreciate the poetry in this masterpiece.

In early 2012, Miguel released Art Dealer Chic Vol 1 & 2 EPs. The six-tracked two-part record birthed songs like Adorn and Gravity that would later feature in his sophomore album Kaleidoscope Dream, released later in the year ( September). The album’s first single Adorn went on win him many fans and the 2013 Grammy Award for R&B Song.

It’s a dream come true to find an album like Kaleidoscope Dream that needs no skip-a-track dial. The vocal arrangements in its title track Kaleidoscope Dream give the listener a whimsical and smooth welcoming into the album’s experience. I like that here Adorn was given the entirety it deserves. The first Adorn off the EP was only two minutes long and ends even without a bridge. Anyway, Adorn has probably one of the sickest kicks I ever heard and it’s just cute for anyone to say, “Let my love adorn you.” Other Must-Listens in this album include Do You (whose video’s love interest is Miguel’s actual girlfriend Nadia –sweet), The Thrill and Where’s The Fun In Forever? (Miguel originally wrote this song for Alicia Keys and took it back when it didn’t fit into her Girl On Fire album) that features Alicia Keys only shouting “Music Break” at the rear end—bizarre doesn’t start to explain this collaboration that never really was.

How Many Drinks? 4.33

This song slowly overtook my love for Adorn as my best Miguel song off the new album. I just like its feel-good vibe and story line. Here, Miguel wears the shoes of a man in the club and in need of a lay. Unlike the old trick of buying a woman gallons of vodka, he sings [How many drinks will it take for you to go home with me? I don’t want to waste your time or my time] The message in this song is deep. I am not championing picking girls or men in the club but the policy that when you want something, whatever it may be—go for it! [I aint’ judging if you decide that you might be f* tonight] How Many Drinks? Remix featuring Kendrick Lamar is a fantastic marriage and its video –clean, classy and classic! (Check that alliteration am ill

Pussy Is Mine 3.13

I just want to know why R&B lovers crucified Brian McKnight for singing about pussy yet Miguel’s pussy song wasn’t jeered at all. It must be an age thing. It just sounds wrong singing about pussy in your 40s but which girl wouldn’t want the sexy 28-year-old Miguel singing raunchy things into her ear? I love that the naughtiest song had to be the only acoustic song in Miguel’s entire discography and absolutely hate that I sometimes find myself singing it out loud [Tell me that pussy is mine]. Do guys actually go around saying, “That P* is mine?”

Candles In The Sun 4.56

A lot of good and bad things alike happen in life; while some happen around, others are miles away. But we are brought together by the power of media and music to know of gang rapes in Syria, illegal drug trafficking in Mexico, foreign house helps being mistreated in Dubai, Kony marshaling child soldiers in Uganda and our own country’s inequality among worldly events. This song is about such times. It equates humans to silly creatures that light candles in the sun, blowing in the wind. Miguel sings [If there’s a God is He watching? Is She watching? If not, where are we going? What are we doing? … They say that we are all created equal but that’s not how we treat each other… When the sun goes down, heroes are shot; will it be too late to find out?]

BONUS: “May we all live long, may we all be brave. And the bridges we burned only light our way,” Miguel. I just reviewed Miguel’s entire discography in one post. Biggest Kenyan fan.

All That Matters

There are things you did that I can’t explain. Your were the plane and I was the pilot who let you fly. There are buttons I pressed that I shouldn’t have but they saved both us from crashing landing. Adding to my heroism was a subtraction for nobody really cared about our smooth landing, not even us. It’s almost like we were destined to move in a certain speed that neither of us could ever control.

When high above, the world was so small yet beautiful and we were mega lovers. In the real world, what we had—was so small yet bountiful, but not enough. Now all I care about is where you lay your head. As you get out there on your own, I hope that you are okay. As you head on with your life, whether on a plane or plainly flying in thoughts; all that matters is that you are safe.

Our Attempt

I might have said some things I didn’t mean. And you might have said some–you didn’t need to. Makes me wonder if that was just the heat of the moment or maybe simply it was the moment of truth. For strangely enough, I thought about it all, way after we said all those  brief and insane things yet so bravely muttered.

“After Tom Mboya”

“About a fortnight before he was assassinated, Tom Mboya changed his mind about addressing a Sussex University conference on development. Had he kept his engagement, he’d probably be alive today. For the weekend he was due in London he was shot in Nairobi. But he had written to the conference organizers crying off because of pressure of business. now his business is with history.

The conference was to have opened with a day devoted to Kenya’s development problems. But the man responsible for the economic planning lay dead in Nairobi. Instead, delegates heard a moving tribute to Mr. Mboya, which he would particularly have appreciated. He was never more at home than at these gatherings of international experts. And it is one of those tragic ironies that he should meet his end because he could not find time to attend one …”

The above excerpt from the well-written article “After Tom Mboya” was first published in the Kenya Weekly News on July 18th 1969, just 13 days after Tom Mboya’s assassination. I bumped into it while at the Kenya National Archives, last year researching on the library article  Treasure Trove: The Kenya National Archives & Documentation Services I was then writing for Goethe-Institut Nairobi.

To read the full article that has among praises for what Tom Mboya had achieved for such a young Pan-Africanist, and the shocking reality that Kenya is still tackling most of the developmental issues she was faced with over 40 years ago; just walk into The National Archives.

BONUS: The above is his statue set up by the Kenyan government on Tom Mboya street, a few years ago. It is said to be just a stone throw away from where the man died.

 

While you were away …

Dear Dad,

While you silently smile and shine down on me like a star; not a single day passes without missing you. While you never visited me in my dreams for nearly a decade, not a single day passed without me daydreaming about the kind of man you must have been, to have touched all the lives you did and still gave me one. While your graveyard grew old and ragged, your epitaph stood strong like your legacy and my faith that soon you will meet me, even if only in my dreams. So we can talk about how it seems like it was just yesterday when a 7-year-old girl tightly held your hand while you were lying inside the cold mortuary as she wondered, why Dad wouldn’t wake up. Since you’ve been gone, I never changed. I am still 25 and dreaming of you; waking up and your infectious laugh. I dream of stroking your soft skin, picking up your calls just to vex you, and marveling at your graceful eyes and smile. While you were away, I was still your  HUGE fan.

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin- Louis de Berniéres (Book Review)

Captain Corelli’s Mandolin is an extremely comedic yet awfully emotional story about love, war and music. Set in the mid 20^th century during the World War, Berniéres first introduces the reader to the beautiful abyss of the Cephalonian Greek Island, where Dr. Iannis, also a budding literary resides with his lovely daughter Pelagia, an extraordinary cook whose secret wish is to one day, even if just a teensy bit, be a doctor like her father.

She gets engaged to a fisherman Mandras, the first man who makes her swing her hips unconsciously in foolish young love. Soon he joins the army as a non-partisan Greek in a war mainly between the Italians and Germans in the hope of returning to his fiancée as a hero, and not just a poor fisherman. Unfortunately, the man returns affected by the war—sick, enraged and psychopathic. It’s only the island’s cloud of aroma from preparations for Easter’s scrumptious feast that get Mandras out of bed and into lighting a candle and rejoining believers in a holy march, during which both his mother and Pelagia wonder inwardly, if indeed Mandras has also risen like the Christ. After the ceremony, the man goes back to his old crazy and helpless self. During Pelagia’s stay with her man, she finds out that illiteracy hindered him from reading any of the love letters she had sent him during his time in the war. Just as Mandras is coaxing Pelagia to read to him old letters, some of which their intent and heart had since changed, Italian soldiers invade the island—a relief for Pelagia who then thanks heavens and runs away in realization that she’s fallen out of love with Mandras, who then finally rises and heads back to war. Oh the satire.

The Italian invaders chose Dr. Iannis house for their Captain, also a mandolin player Antonio Corelli mainly because the doctor happens to be one of the best Italian-speaking Greeks in the island. The uninvited but noble guest is forever embarrassed by having led this invasion, and even further by displacing Pelagia from her own bed as directed by her father so as to get medicinal supplies in exchange. Corelli spends most of his free time alone with Antonia, his mandolin. He’s mostly dreaming of being a musician while playing and composing songs for Pelagia, who shyly notices. The captain even recruits his officers to sing in his La Scala band, whose memorable times would include singing out loud together with Corelli’s mandolin by the sea and outside the doctor’s house on silent nights.

When the war erupts, two lovers are caught between race, history and allegiances. It’s hard enough to keep alive during war, let alone being in love with an invader. When the Germans invade the invaders, the island becomes crippled as Corelli and his officers face a firing squad. Carlo, one of the captain’s men shields him from the firing bullets with his gigantic body and empowered by the memoir of his long-lost unrequited love, Francesco, a former fallen soldier and ally. The doctor and Pelagia then save Corelli’s life afresh in a night-long surgery with hardly any equipment and medicine apart from a pittance and the captain’s mandolin strings, which the doctor uses to sew up his broken ribs. And would forever be part of his ribs. The captain is forced to flee the island for safety after he and Pelagia promise each other life-long marriage after the war. The now accomplished world musician never returned for at least another 40 years when he coincidentally meets a boy, Pelagia’s grandson Iannis playing [his] old savior Antonia, also after which the boy’s mother was named.

This book is an inspiration that life doesn’t have to be inclined on either side. Whether or not in war, love or music, we are part of history and should make the best of it in the time we have. Long before the war, Corelli complements a woolen colored coat that Pelagia was making for Mandras as “a masterpiece”, even though the owner had just rejected it citing asymmetry. “The human heart likes a little disorder in its geometry,” says the captain who let his rifle rust, and even lost it once or twice, but still won battles armed with nothing but a mandolin. If there were no arms or machines in the world and we had to go to war, what would be your only cover? Maybe not a mandolin or anything as sophisticated, but Louis de Berniéres reminds us all that sometimes to fight the biggest of war, it’s the seemingly most irrelevant things and people around us that will mostly save us.

BONUS: Quote from Carlo, “If there was only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonor, and emulating one another in honor; and when fighting at one another’s side, although a mere handful, they would overcome the world. For what lover would not choose rather to be seen by all mankind than his beloved, either when abandoning his post or throwing away his arms? He would be ready to die a thousand deaths rather than endure this.”

Foolish heart

I am the sunshine and you are the rain. When we mash-up, your grey skies and my blue makes a reverie of colors. When night falls, we become one—only separated by distance and invigorated by our trance. When you are missing, I know you’ll be back as the stars serve as a constant reminder. Shining bright, and sending a sign that without you, I must suffer not. Even though, without you I suffer a lot.

Please hold out your hand, body or soul, and reach over to my side of the universe. Lie next to me silently and don’t leave, but listen to these verses I wrote for you. For even before I met you, they were meant for you. To dry my tears, lock out all your fears. For even when we are far apart, our spirits mustn’t be far apart but near. And even if it’s stark dark, you’ll see and feel me. You’ll realize that I am all yours. But you fail to see—that you don’t need anybody else, and that all you needed was my foolish heart.

Keeper of my days

From a land far away and above, he watches over me. It’s hard to understand or explain how he does it but when the London birds sing and the Kenyan drums beat like in Dakar, he feels me. When his flights delay, soar high or his favorite record plays, he reminisces of me. And sometimes, in the hour that memories subside, he tells all his secrets to the wind, which in turn travels miles just to whisper into my ear—that he misses me. And when the sun rises, nobody knows but I adore him the more. When the sun sets, it doesn’t matter because he’ll still wake up mad about me. It’s never like it used to be before, I am not shy anymore but different and open, the good-kind. Like a bird grasps daylight, I want to take flight into his world. For there, I am special and safe. And he’s the sightless bird flying above the skies, blind enough to watch over me.

 

Born in war but liberated at heart: my new Somali friend

“We never had peace in my country, I was born in war,” says Ahmed Ali, one among multitudes of Somali refugees in Kenya turned businessmen living and working in Eastleigh, home to probably half (if not more) of Nairobi’s economy. He owns and manages a textiles shop located at the grandiose Bangkok business plaza that houses a majority of Somali retailers, who mean nothing but business, and will ruthlessly throw ‘Take or Leave’ at you as soon as you start bargaining.

While shopping, a rich jungle green colored silky fabric draws me to Ahmed’s store. I also notice that he is friendly and speaks fluent English/Swahili unlike most of his counterparts. He looks a little older than 23, probably a side effect of tough life. He smiles so gracefully and genuinely, definitely portraying a different man from the one in his past. After the purchase, he also sews the fabric into a curtain for me (at an extra fee). As I wait for completion, small talk leads into a conversation that would later become this story about his story.

The two-decade-old war has torn Somalia apart not withstanding Ahmed’s family. Born in a family of 13 siblings, the 23-year-old has since lost three siblings to the war. “My sister was killed after a grenade blew up our house in 2005. I had just left about five minutes before that. If I hadn’t, I would probably be dead now,” he says. Soon after, Ahmed’s parents coerced him (their youngest surviving child) to flee Somalia into Kenya for safety. “If you have money there are people who can get you through the boarder at a fee.”

Ahmed arrived in Kenya in 2006 with no baggage other than the load of having to start over his life. “I first went to Kenyan officials to get an alien ID card. Then came here (Bangkok plaza), started doing odd jobs and slowly learnt the trade that got me here,” says the self-taught tailor who runs the business alongside his father (based in Dubai) responsible for sending the textiles from Dubai and China via shipment.

According to Al Jazeera, Human Rights Watch and other agencies accuse Kenyan officials of ‘stigmatization’, and have documented 300 cases of police harassing Somali refugees in 2012 only, also adding that there is little evidence to connect the bombings and shootings in Kenya with Somali refugees. Ahmed says he is happy in Kenya because of the booming business in Eastleigh but doesn’t know how long that will last, citing police brutality, political unrest and insecurity. “We don’t know if a new government will allow us to stay here, we are already suffering the blame of being allied to Al-Shabab. And if you meet police or happen to be on the wrong side of the law, they ask for bribes of up to 80,000 Ksh. That’s crazy.”

Ahmed’s childhood dream was to become “educated and have a good job”. It still is. The war also cut short his education making the Eastleigh business his single accomplishment. On a good day he says he can collect anything between 30,000-45,000 Ksh. According to a 2011 study by the UK think tank Chatham House, Eastleigh’s shopping malls make about $7m a year. However, to Ahmed that’s just a tip of the iceberg. “I was never cut out to be a tailor. I want to become better and do business in bigger markets like China.”

For immigrants, every day is literally a chance to mend their past anew. Ahmed doesn’t take that for granted as everyday, he stitches his path towards reuniting with his family and country. “I have no time for dating or anything other than work. I work every day all week. I only get time off to the mosque [which is in the same building where he works].” He’s optimistic that his country will rise above the rubble. “Somalia is changing. People are now tired of the war. It’s been 21 years of fighting for nothing. Other countries including USA are starting to recognize that we are a country. People will stop saying that Somalia is not in Africa, that doesn’t make sense—it’s just like MRC saying Pwani si Kenya.”

The endless war in Somalia has left many families broken, lives lost and memories forgotten but Ahmed weathered the storm and still manages to stitch pretty well (the curtains came out lovely). His mother fled to Ethiopia and has since been trying to get herself to USA to reunite with some of Ahmed’s siblings living in Colorado. “In the mean time, we all communicate via the internet, but it’s never enough.” One of his brothers was killed in Somalia after stepping on a landmine while playing—an unfortunate event among a series that inexplicably and paradoxically continue to liberate Ahmed’s spirit. “I must one day return to my country to play where I used to when I was a kid and also see my friends and relatives who still live there. There’s no sea in Nairobi; I really miss Somalia,” sums up a nostalgic Ahmed.

BONUS: Thanks to the chance meet-up, I am now friends with Ahmed. When we first met in town (he was bringing me my notebook that I forgot in his shop), he said he didn’t know any places in the city apart from Posta, where Eastleigh mats stop. My mission is to one day show him around, not because it’s so amazing out here and not to absolutely discredit the awesomeness out here but so that Ahmed can have just one  day without working to chill and take a look at everything he’s solely achieved for himself at only 23 and in a foreign country. His life story inspires me loads to be better at what I do and to appreciate my country.

Wake up call

If you let me, I will. Take care of you. Never lie to you. Always abide by our rules. Never lie alone, but next to you. And then I will let you … Love me. Hold me. Whisper into my ear. Sweep me off my feet. Then back down to walk on the roads we drove down. For this love is my vehicle.

To Kill a Mockingbird- Harper Lee (Book Review)

Set in a fictional town, Maycomb County in the 1930s, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee is an extraordinarily powerful book essentially about how one’s life is influenced by upbringing and society as a whole, and how [that] affects one’s view on bias, in this case—racism and societal segregation.

The book’s utter beauty lies in its narration by 9-year-old Scout Jean Louise, the assertive tomboy daughter of Atticus Finch, a white lawyer faced with the challenge of balancing single-parenthood and a demanding profession. Through Scout’s eyes, the reader walks inside her world revolving around her family [comprising her father, elder teenage brother Jem Finch and their nanny Calpurnia (a Negro)], school and how the conscious of a town affects [her own].

Atticus has developed a strong relationship with his kids; so much that they call him Atticus or Sir (in dire situations), hardly ever Dad. The lawyer, an avid reader and man of wisdom encourages his children to always remain impartial in a world full of people with different opinions, preferences and beliefs. “If you can learn a simple trick, you’ll get around better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view,” he advises his daughter after a rough first day at school, words that haunt Scout up until an incident that happens to her later in life, becomes an embodiment of her father’s counsel.

When Atticus takes on a case to defend a black man charged with the rape of a white girl, Scout and Jem are ostracized by neighbors, kids at school and even extended family, all calling their father a ‘nigger lover’. Scout confronts her father wanting to know what it means and if he [really is one]. He says, “Ignorant, trashy people use the term when they think somebody’s favoring Negroes over and above themselves. It’s slipped into usage with some people like ourselves, when they want a common, ugly term to label somebody. I certainly am a nigger lover. I do my best to love everybody … It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.”

The case of a white man defending a black man is unheard of in Maycomb County. It’s an intriguing court battle that brings together a people in a battle of the better color instead of what should have been justice. In a case closely followed by citizens entangled in group think, it’s no surprise that Atticus’ children come out among few souls in the town neutral to the case.

To Atticus, it’s not a crime to be of whatever race, color, belief or association, and nobody should counter what you stand for. When he gets his children air rifles as gifts, it’s the first time Scout hears her father say that it’s a crime to do something—to kill a mockingbird. She asks Miss Maudie (a neighbor) about it. “Mocking birds make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,”she says.

While Atticus Finch defends Maycomb’s real mockingbird, the county’s deep-rooted racial differences, hypocrisy and sycophancy is exposed. Atticus is criticized for defending a nigger and ironically still celebrated as Maycomb’s top attorney. Regardless, his initial worry is his integrity and what will be left of it for his children to emulate or despise after the case (which later takes an unexpected turn).

To Kill a Mockingbird’s key message is skillfully packaged in subtle humor. As the book celebrates its 50^th anniversary this decade, it still transcends generations and societies. Harper Lee gave the world a timeless and beguiling book that unchains Django and ultimately, inspires readers to reason beyond society’s group think mentality. We are reminded to respect songs of those who sing, even though we might not dance to their tunes. For in one way or the other, we are all mockingbirds flying and singing, sometimes dreaming that someone will listen, but mostly hoping that we’ll live to be heard.

BONUS: The character of Atticus in the book has been humanized by many over the decades, and when some felt like the lawyer has passed on, his legacy never did. The book, his epitaph and tribute always remain celebrated—whose words remain to be among the most shared in this generation. Read Atticus Obituary here.

Why ‘friends without benefits’ is shit.

“Let’s be friends with benefits.”—it’s highly probable that you’ve been asked that before, at least once if not severally. Let’s flip the other side of the coin that indicates it’s also as likely that you’ve already shoved around [the proposal] yourself. If you don’t resonate with either case then you must be in a relationship that benefits all the same. Code word—benefits.

Friends with benefits (FWB) is a typical two-people-pretext allowing them to act like mere platonic friends to the world while in the real sense, frolic in between sheets in the name of ‘no strings attached’ [another post for another day]. The rules of the game are simple: If the sex is good, it’s cool. If it’s bad, it’s probably over. And if in either scenario anyone catches feelings, they are weak players and therefore risk being dropped or dropping out of the league … Silently and honorably. It’s however marveling how the cliché FWB thing has become in making trendy the use of sex as bait or cover up for anything and everything, unconscious to friendship, the very foundation of relationships.

Akin to business, friendship is inherently a give and take affair or if you like, an exchange between two with an objective that both parties should yield considerable returns or at least an equivalent of their investment. And just like the uncertainty of business that once in a while, things might go extremely well or terribly haywire so is the malleability of all sorts of relationships. Things will go fine or dreadful with your partner, wife, lover or FWB. For example, you might find yourself falling for your FWB or vice versa. You might also fall out with a friend, break up with your partner, make up or happily remain intact if not sadly history with your better half. In the universe of relationships, all this is normal. What’s not is when we keep forgiving partners who always end up getting caught up in the same tangled web of unfortunate events that affect us; this is continually rewarding bad business. And essentially a business not working out must be re-structured or closed down. You can only operate in loses for too long.

My point— if you get yourself into a strictly physical FWB contract; while on the streets, don’t expect more from your partner, your territory doesn’t surpass the sheets. In bed however you can stretch your muscles and ensure that standards are kept at par with the initial bar set while entering into agreement. Any friendship or relationship that defies its initial accord in one or more ways than desired or desires more than the union stipulated is again, bad business. And sometimes in these scenarios, we subconsciously subject ourselves to the poison that’s kiss-and-make-up.

Think about it critically, if truly like business, the premise of friendship is based on the prospective profit for both parties then that means, apart from the FWB case coming out strongly in labeling, it’s intent is just as loud; making it perfectly alright for other relationship to emulate it’s straight forwardness—all factors remaining constant, and despite [it] being the home to a whole load of disguise, among them: mere debauchery, experiments and experimenters, sissies and those hiding from responsibilities that come with the exclusivity of relationships.

Moral of this post—Like business, relationships aren’t solely based on looks or love but preference and the promise of abundance, quality and consistency, making it simple logic that all people (single or coupled) need love and company— in and out of bed. And if eventually, the people we acquaint ourselves with in whatever scope of business act shoddy; the pact should be terminated swiftly for an opportunity to explore new markets or different ventures. Pardon my French but no matter how hard or soft you like your world rocked, any relationship/friendship without benefits is bullshit.

Dear poetry,

I think about you. I write for you because you are the hues of my expression. You are the healer to my blues. You are the teether when it’s hard to bite at life’s hurdles. You are the teacher who taught me how to tie my shoes. You cool me off when shit hits the fan and you school me beyond the streets and sheets of love. That to have; I have to give. And that to forgive, I have to start with setting myself free from the pain of yesterday and get ready for what the future will pay. Who are you gift of conveyance? For you take me to a place where no one cares if I am the best but everyone dares to excel and be the best they can be. It’s a place of clairvoyance; where ears translate melodies into words and eyes anticipate colours that burn into unwritten vocabulary.

You are sanctified. For those who don’t write in you, find grace and light in your art. From the sincerity and gaiety of those who confide in you; we are inspired. For the power of your words encourage all, from the poor in belief to the rich in conviction. In you, we see visions of truth and truce. In you we find hope in desperation. For you allow us to talk to those who won’t open their doors for us but will read and feel us when we articulate in hope for reparation. You allow us to connect with the ones we have just as much as the ones we lost. You teach us to let go of regret and to smile at our dismal pasts. We are the pillar of tomorrow and you are the bolstering cement we write inside of waiting for it to dry so that one day the world may read the inerasable.

11 QUOTES from Living to Tell the Tale, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I recently bumped into some quotes I compiled from Living to Tell the Tale, a book by Gabriel Garcia Marquez also posted a book review on the same last year and surprisingly forgot about the quotes, well till I found them. So, here are my best 11, enjoy

1. “What you need is a good woman.” For my brother Abelardo, there were no problems in life that could not be reserved in bed.

2. “If this bed were the academy and you were the student, I’d be number one not only in class but in the whole school,” An adolescence Gabriel to his cougar lover (who was a teacher by profession).

3. I do not know what in fact I learnt from my captivity in the Liceo Nacional (elementary school), but the four years of harmonious coexistence with everyone instilled a unitary vision of the nation in me. I discovered how diverse we were and what we were good for, and I learnt and never forgot that the entire country was in fact the sum total of each one of us.

4. Bored with studying, I left everything to the mercy of chance. The reality was that I did not understand why I had to sacrifice my talents and my time on courses that did not move me and therefore would be of no use to me in a life that was not mine.

5. “If poetry does not make my blood run faster, open sudden windows for me onto the mysterious, help me discover the world, accompany this desolate heart in solitude and in love, in joy and in enmity, what good is poetry to me?”—a poem by one of Gabriel’s acquaintances.

6. Stealing books is a crime but not a sin.

7. Today, trying to recount my past days, I do not find them in my recollection, and I have come to believe more in forgetting than in memory.

8. I discovered the miracle that all things that sound are music, including the dishes and the silverware in the dishwasher, as long as they fulfill the illusion of showing us where life is headed.

9. In 1953, March 6 I would be twenty-seven years old. In the midst of the good wishes of my friends, I felt ready to devour raw the seventy-three I still had left before I celebrated the first hundred.

10. We did not use a tape recorder. They had just been invented and the best ones were as large and heavy as a typewriter, and the magnetic tape would tangle like angel-hair candy. Transcription alone was a great feat. Even today we know that recorders are very useful for remembering, but the face of the person interviewed must never be neglected, for it can say much more than the voice, and at times just the opposite.

11. There are books that do not belong to the person who writes them but to the one who suffers them, and this is one of them,” of his book, Memoirs of a Shipwrecked Sailor.

Moving onto 2013

Drinks, holidays, dropping parties and panties; it’s another end of calendar, and start of endless new-year messages, resolutions and god-knows-what. It’s another opportune moment to write off the wrongs and ills of the past year, and to write anew the thrills of a promising new year.

As I bid 2012 adieu, I am nothing less than motivated and made better and stronger by my achievements just as much as my shortfalls. It was great writing. It was great getting a promotion at my TV job. It was great managing a record label. It was great featuring on a magazine cover. It was great meeting and interviewing Dwelle, Akon, Erykah Badu and Joe among others. It was great resigning at some jobs that felt like bad relationships. And as for relationships, the one or two, all undefined—were good all the same. It was great to love, feel loved, wanted, unwanted, feel like a bother and then wanted again. In all these aspects revolving around my life, the biggest lesson I have learnt this year is to appreciate myself and learn to tolerate nothing less of persons who appreciate me, themselves and those around them.

I’ve learnt that, you’re the only obstacle between yourself and failure. The same way, you’re the sole road to your own success. I am sick of people treating others (including me) like less of humans because of [their] disorganization or ignorance. I am sickened by negativity and in the coming year, I am not taking anyone’s bullshit.

I want to be like London-raised, Nairobi-born, Kuljit Bhamra, composer and producer from London. His ‘Man in a Suit’ profile in the Intelligent Life Nov-Dec 2012 issue inspired me a lot. Kuljit contracted polio at the age of one and has since been wearing leg braces, which in the 53 years that he’s been alive, haven’t dampened his spirit. “I am not really sad about my leg because I’ve never run, I don’t know what it’s like to have that, and I’m not in pain. My sadness is that life’s amazing but it’s so short. I want to see everything, but there’s not enough time. We’re really such a small event in the life of the planet. I find that amazing and glorious and precious, but at the same time deep down I find it sad,” he said.

As I march into 2013, like Kuljit, my spirits are high. And would love to inspire anyone who’s bumped into this blog post to fuck past failure or triumph; let’s make tomorrow the best we can mould it to be, having in mind that tomorrow is now. That way we have the security of always celebrating our good times and move one swiftly once we fall.

BONUS: Here are some links to some fine people, books & places I encountered in 2012, enjoy And cheers! Thanks for reading.

Tobin Jones

Erykah Badu

Ayub Ogada

Living to Tell a Tale

Leonard Mambo Mbotela

A mystery into Lord Ergeton’s castle

Soul sister Erykah Badu rocks Nairobi

Erykah Badu loves her personal space. While at her exclusive press conference at Sankara hotel in Kenya, she first requests to move back the dozen microphones on the table staring closely at her. “Hi Nairobi, hello, how’s everyone doing?” The presence of the queen of neo soul in the room is overwhelming, so much that nobody greets her back, at first. It’s 3pm, about 14 hours since her arrival in the country and four hours since the cancellation of her first press conference. But despite jet lag and sleepiness that she confesses to fighting, Ms Badu looks pretty well rested. When the moderator opens the floor for questions, it’s not a fist-fight as you would expect, everyone seems to be intimidated—I am. But as soon as the soft-spoken singer starts to chat, the air around the room becomes more conducive.

She immediately states that music and performance is therapy to her. “Music is almost like the fifth element, it brings about emotion and change in many ways. Its frequency is specific; each note has its own vibration that can be measured. I write lyrics according to what the music makes me feel.”

Erykah is also a songwriter, actor, director, producer and activist—a personification of artistry. From her 90s turban, long dresses and Afros to now—long flowing and kinky hair easy-going with vintage hats; her image has evolved over the years. Erykah’s brass African-map-shaped ring stands out in her fashionable ensemble of cobalt pajama-esque pants, a navy blue top, and numerous humongous wooden bangles. “My taste in humor, fashion, music and film are all in the same category. I like to hear what I like to feel and see, I just gravitate towards things that I get attracted to aesthetically, it’s the art of creating an experience for people to share”, she says. Her music is however unmoved, she’s remained consistent, versatile and unparalleled— almost like she’s has always been in her own world.

The next day at exactly 9.15 pm at Carnivore gardens, Erykah gets on stage. From hard stepping hip hop to mellow sounds, Erykah is a fierce and fearless vocalist/performer. She’s also playing an electronic drum kit in a crazy dance-set with her band. Constantly sipping from her little thermos flask what could be water or vodka or whatever, that nevertheless fires her up at every sip. “At the back! What the fuck you looking at!?” She engages the audience who roar back at her. She sings out loud mixing cussing words with banter, unrelated. Here, she’s self-assured and at home.

I finally get the balls to shoot a question at Ms Badu on her connection to the motherland.

“My first connection to Africa is because about three generations back my family was brought to America from Africa. As Africans living in America, it’s hard to trace our roots so we have to sometimes create our own history, communities and tribes to identify with. Because our birth right is not in place we want to belong to Africa in some kind of way.” Erykah is also involved with the Kemetic community (the study of Egyptian writings) which influenced her stage name. Originally named Erica after a famous soap opera star of the 70s, soon after becoming a recording artist, she changed her name’s suffix to Kah (The inner self that cannot be contaminated). “I wanted to have a name that would have some kind of vibrational frequency that could connect me to my past and future. Badu means 10th born in Ghana, I don’t know why I am [one] but we’ll find out, I am still evolving and creating every day.”

Erykah is also a doula (an assistant to a birthing mother). And she equates birth of life to music. “As a doula I have to be like water, always out-of-the-way to help. But when am on stage am a different kind of servant, I am the mother and the audience is helping me give birth.” On stage, she feeds off the audience’s energy and seems taken a back at Nairobians serenading most of her songs word-for-word. This is where she gives her all. Her typical raspy voice suddenly sounds like three soul singers in one and still manages to outshine her two powerful vocalists paired with her tight six-man band—in a good way. When the ‘Badu, Badu, Badu!’ rhythmic chant overwhelms Erykah, she asks each member of the audience to yell out their own names instead. “What? Are you afraid to scream out your name?” She prods.

It’s a two-hour long concert (non-stop) that sees Erykah, after every couple of minutes shed something. From her shawl, socks to heels—period. When she performs Window Seat, nobody is certain she won’t drop more clothes. She doesn’t.

“Window seat video was performance art and nudity always played a big part in it because [it] demonstrates the bareness of the subject. My issue was group think, which affects all spheres of life from politics to media. I shot the video is Dallas as at the site where JFK was assassinated. As I took each step I eliminated a piece of clothing that represented a thought or something I had learnt forcefully or not here on the planet and as I was totally nude—I was assassinated. In America nudity is grossly misunderstood when it’s not packaged for the consumption of men, I hope a lot of people got the point but if they didn’t, they don’t have to, you cannot censor art.”

My best moment at the concert is her performance of Gone baby gone and Bag Lady. The drum and electric guitar provide a sultry bouncy beat—that deep neo soul. When performing Love of my life (An ode to Hip Hop), her  collaboration with former boyfriend Common, she glows like a woman in love. Should have asked her to pass over Common’s number or Andre’s. WTF.

The four-time Grammy award-winning singer has five albums. Her first album (Baduizim) came out in February 1997. Her second album Live came out the same year  in November. The same day her son was born. “I spent the whole of my first pregnancy working at the beginning of my career; I had to breast feed and create a home on the tour bus. I know no music business without my children,” says the mother of three.

Her last song Call Tyrone leaves an absolute sense of satisfaction. She’s incessantly chanting ‘peace’ and bids a gratified crowd goodbye displaying with her hands heliograph signs for love and peace. The undisputed queen of neo soul doubles up as queen of the night. She exits. It’s just a few minutes to midnight: 12.12.12, Kenya’s 49^th Independence Day.

For more info: www.erykah-badu.com

The Newness

The unsung joy of tomorrow haunts me. The high possibility of rising above my fall flaunts the strength in me. It’s not the length of the journey but the ability to savor every moment. It’s not always about the honey or money but also the bitter moments. For they mature the mind and tongue, the same—that they may be sane and able to differentiate between tastes that last or not. And that they may not only take it in but measure what comes in. It’s the realization that the uncertainty of tomorrow is me. And that tomorrow is now. After all forever isn’t as much fun as today or is it? So I rise.

Use me.

For all the things we did, for all the things I miss, for all the times we kissed, for all the lies you said, for all the love you gave, for all the stars we caught, for all the dreams we shared, for all the tears I fought and the ones I cried; for happiness or otherwise—thank you. You made me stronger.

Rescue

I don’t know what it is but I know that my weekends are useless without you. It’s no use listening to The Weekend-Love through her, for I can’t get you out of my mind. I don’t know how I feel but you remind me of a distant dream I once had. That someone’s hues would fuse with mine and make me warmer and stronger. I don’t know how it feels because I can’t describe this but if I had to—it has something to do with how you make me calmer and better. I don’t know what you think of this intangible thing we share, this immeasurable thing we are feeding. I don’t know what I feel but when I close my eyes I only see you. And when I wake up in the morning I first smile because of you, then the light. And then I feel like I might want to explore something about you, I’d love to. Do you want me to? Fuck that—do you want to do this, with me? Let me know the truth, next time I see you.

Do we have to?

I don’t want to be friends because I started loving you. Neither do I want nor am I ready to find someone else because I already found what I wanted in you. Later I could find all this in someone else or maybe not; so I will put this matter to rest—I am taking no chances. The glitches of our relationship were just typical of [many]. But what [isn’t] is your smile—that brings meaning to life. Lately I’ve realized that no other guy makes my temperature rise above ordinary like you do. No other makes missionary rise above boring like you do. None other makes my heart melt light like metal in an alchemy pot like you do.

I don’t want to say goodbye because in this scenario, valediction is no option. Not when I am the only one who ever made a notable cameo in your episode of love. It’s senseless and not fair if I don’t have you yet in all my possessions, you’re all I have. It’s clear that in this affair you’re the drug I can’t function without. Could we go back to where we used to be? Could we draw again from the inspirations we used to see vividly with our eyes closed and feel briskly without touch? Could I not worry much about your feelings for me? Because I am the schizophrenic; you’re not only my doctor and medicine but also what my psychic tells me is real amidst this insanity.

I don’t want to lie that you mean nothing to me because that’s old and am out of new tricks. Plus it doesn’t make any sense to keep playing with feelings like a game of cards. I can’t say that I don’t miss you calling my name and your kiss or your hugs but in fact, I miss everything about you, even the annoying habits and you hating on my uggs. Among quite a number of things, I miss your classy suits just as much as your ambitious pursuits. Out of all the guys I’ve seen, you’re the reason why I am sitting here waiting still. You’re the reason why we can both turn this hurt back into love. And if we don’t try then we’ll never know if maybe one day we could have turned this house into a home.

Morning dew …

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face. I would walk for miles in search of an answer as to why but it’s simply because I am laced with grace and the gift of life. It’s the realization that I am not ordinary but special. I can lift you up. And you can support me and help me lurch forward. It’s the anticipation of what we can do together. It’s the saying goodbye to yesterday’s sorrows, mistakes and hesitation—moving onwards. It’s going by the spirit of today and what it has to give us in relation. It’s letting go of the past ghosts and embracing the lost joy of  blessings around me—always abundant, new and fresh as the morning dew.

Affairs of the heart …

I like doing business with you because we are reckless and care less what the world thinks. It’s how you satisfy my demands whenever I am in need. And how I qualify as in deed, the best lover you’ve ever had. It’s how you caress my brown skin when I am restless … and then I find myself braless and the rest becomes history. When you’re clueless, I let you rest your head on my chest and stare into my eyes that tell you stories speech could never communicate. When I am lost and can’t speak, you take me through an adventure in exploring each and every one of your treasures that no language could ever describe. Our pact inspires me. I admire that it knows no tribe or race but in fact; only the scribes of the hereafter. For even before we knew it; our trade was long-written and sealed in documents far more precious than our endless love letters or mere paper—it’s incredible! Though intangible, we uphold these documents that are today, art inside the proverbial shelf of our affection perfectly labeled as, “Affairs of the heart”, that many view and aspire to emulate if not imitate.

In your eyes …

When you look at me and smile, I see your soul. It’s abundant and located in a place further than walking miles would ever take me. The place is resplendent, sacred and laced with no lies but a river flowing with truth. The place is not selfish or plagued by haste but surrounded by serenity and the taste of eternity. For to us, forever is now—the visage of the two of us. Naked eyes can’t see or decipher this. For only those dressed and ready to dive naked into your ocean like me have this power to look and see through your eyes …

Different sleep …

Next time I see you, let me see through you. Let me seep through your mind and thoughts for we are illiterate and have failed in communication. Let your emotions sail free like the birds. Let your feelings sail blind like a bat. Let the reeling of your fears open free like that of a shipwrecked sailor for I will be your saviour. When I see you, let me touch you. I want to feel if your lips still fit in mine. And feel if my heart still beats faster than yours. I don’t want you to talk but whisper into my ears sweet nothings, that i want to decipher as if everything else in the dictionary is shit and only what you say under our sheets is real.

Next time you see me, I will let you see through me. I want to show you that I am deeper than what you presume. That I can be far from ordinary yet very close to the simple things that you like to consume. I will let you into my castle that’s guarded and endeared because you are the knight with the honorary task of winning me over. When you see me, let me end the battle, let’s not fight. Instead we might spend time getting to know each other the better. You don’t know me so I will let you discover the mine and if lucky you will uncover the dime, many yearn and search for. I don’t know you but if you’ll ever find me, we’ll both [know it].

Mystery man

Sipping on some coffee, you are sitting across the room far from me yet close, as far as my senses are concerned. You are right by the corner yet I am the one who feels cornered by your presence. You are right, I am intimidated by your stare. Your confidence is so intense. Illuminated by the light of day, you seem capable. I wouldn’t dare you to do anything, other than me. Leaning on the table makes me think you’ll break away and walk towards me. But you are hiding behind your allure and still keep seated. Deep set, are your eyes on me. On sight, to me, are your eyes and me. My mindset has you all over me, playing under covers, walking hand in hand like lovers unbeknownst to others and kissing for the first time like forever is today. But you order your bill and then look at me as if I was the food you were about to eat. My eyes are lit up by the passion you exude. And unfortunately you do but [really] don’t notice me. You leave as I order for another glass of wine to quench the thrill that only you Mr. Mystery Man could have quelled to my satisfaction.

Hope.

You accidentally hit the ground and incidentally it hurt—it’s alright pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. They said that to guard your dignity, you have to wear a black veil. And to show your chastity, you have to wear a white one. It’s alright take them all off. For like a little sparrow, you are frail-hearted. But fear not, for you are not defined by a fall, fault, achievement, ailment or mere clothing but your wings—little, that allow you to fly into horizons you’ll never imagine.

Living to Tell the Tale, Gabriel Garcia Marquez [Book Review]

From Sucre to Aracataca, I’ve been to Colombia (solely via reading Living to Tell the Tale). The temperatures were almost always high above measure and occasionally the insomniac rain, if not storm, hit hard just to boast of immensity. But even then, men and women in long rain coats and fancy hats walked down the streets, protected by divine intervention, even more than their perfectly round-shaped umbrellas.

More than anything, this book brings out the ingenious grit and wit with which Colombians treasure Spanish, great writers and utmost—the power of literature. “The greatest invention of all must surely be writing. Despite its complicated early systems, anyone learnt it. The reason revealed in the ancient Egyptian scribal-training texts which emphasize the superiority of being a scribe over all other career choices. The earliest scribes understood that literacy was power—a power that now extends to most humanity, and has done more for human progress than any other invention,” writes Tom Standage for Intelligent Life, in the debate—what’s the greatest invention of all time?

The magic in this book, Gabriel being the unparalleled fiction writer and literature’s father of magical realism, lies in the tales of his real life, that shaped the creative writer and journalist he became. A powerful lesson is that, we can spend years, and time traveling in search of ourselves while what we were searching for all along was right home inside of us only needing to be triggered. Gabriel unexpectedly, finally finds the inspiration he’d been searching for, to write and be his own man, in his childhood memories (which he recounts candidly, from breaking his virginity to a whore to being prescribed ‘less reading’ as medicine when his life-long suffering from insomnia began at the age of twelve) when the then budding journalist, in his twenties, accompanies his mother on a journey back to their native. “My mother asked me to go with her to sell the house,” the first sentence in the first chapter.

If you are familiar with Gabriel’s works, this book’s utter beauty is in the encounters that inspired and shaped his thought process while writing his books, some of which top among the world’s best books of all time including One Hundred Years of Solitude—which he makes a shocking revelation about here. Gabriel writes about his brother, “Yiyo in the most difficult years of poverty became a writer and journalist by sheer hard work. He died at the age of fifty-four, almost not enough time to publish a book of more than 600 pages of masterful research into the secret life of One Hundred Years of Solitude, which he had worked on for years without my knowing about it and even making a direct inquiry of me.” My copy of Gabriel’s One Hundred Years of Solitude has 422 pages. Did he get some excerpts from his brother’s? It’s not mentioned, so we’ll probably never know. But did his brother inspire him? I believe so.

Some mind-blowing discoveries include the revelation of the origin of Gabriel’s imaginations, so real, like Macondo (a famous fictional magical town often existing in his novels). Also as interesting is the fact that Gabriel’s parents’ previously forbidden love inspired the premise of his book Love in the Time of Cholera— the unconventional love story of an old couple Florentino Ariza and Fermina Daza, who were able to still fall in love in their olden days after their cat and mouse cataclysm that lasted half a century. When [his] grandparents finally permitted [his] parents to get married, Gabriel says [their] story was no longer captivating so to prolong and remodel his book’s characters he got inspired by the story of an old couple murdered on a deck (a case he encountered during his journalism days). To him, fascinating was the fact that the victims were at the time of death both married to different partners. FYI, Love in the Time of Cholera’s last scene is on a deck where Florentina and Fermina, old, are finally together, free from their former partners and falling in love. Anew.

It’s alleged that Gabriel locked himself in for over two years recalling and researching on [his] life whilst writing Living to Tell the Tale (his latest publication first out in 2002) in fear of looming death, right after his battle with lymphatic cancer. He writes, “While talking to papa about the difficulty many writers had in writing their memoirs when they could no longer remember anything, Cuqui, just six years old, drew the conclusion with masterful simplicity: he said, ‘The first thing a writer ought to write is his memoirs, when he can still remember everything’.”

At the point at which this memoir ends, Gabriel has risen from grass to grace and is now able to support his family. The bachelor sets on a trip to France for an international conference. The trip which was meant to take a few weeks eventually saw him stay there for a few years. At [it’s] onset he jokingly writes a letter to Mercedes, the woman he had been exchanging letters and pleasantries with, “This was not meant to be more than five lines to give her official notice of my trip. I signed it: ‘If I do not receive an answer to this letter within a month, I’ll stay and live in Europe forever.’ It was Friday. On Thursday of the following week, when I walked into the hotel in Geneva at the end of another useless day of international disagreements, I found her letter of reply.” That’s the last sentence in Living to Tell the Tale.

Mercedes waited years for Gabriel, who later married her. They have two sons.

By the time the book ends, none of Gabriel’s acclaimed books have been published, only his first novel ‘Leaf Storm’ which Gabriel (who BTW studied law under his father’s duress) highly recounts as his best expression and most honest to date. I have to find that book. Explains why Living to Tell the Tale was meant to be the first of a trilogy of Gabriel’s self-authored biographies but could sadly turn out to have been the last of his new works as Gabriel now suffers from dementia caused by the intensive cancer treatment. His brother J’aime whom in this book, he shared an affectionate relationship with says (via the Guardian UK), “Gabriel has problems with his memory. Sometimes I cry because I feel like I am losing him.”

At the finale, the man, who would years later, win the prestigious Nobel Peace prize of literature, has just discovered his calling for writing but still, is in search of himself. On the way to the airport now a well-respected writer in his country, Gabriel bumps into one of the porters from his former office who then asks, “What I don’t understand Gabriel is why you never told me who you are.” He answers, “I couldn’t tell because even I don’t know who I am yet.”

In essence, this book is about the struggle to find oneself, one’s art and path in a world filled with responsibilities and expectations.I pray that Gabriel writes again. If he doesn’t, I’ll still be happy he lived to tell tales and part of [his] tale. All that inspired me a whole load. The book is really deep and humanizes the legendary Gabriel Garcia Marquez making him that light-hearted vagabond and carousing yet insightful soul we all need to befriend. So much, sometimes I shed a few tears while reading it (Shhh … don’t tell anyone) that took me about five months—during which, my own life transformed a lot in many ways. It’s almost as if I was reading on his journey while I was on one myself. Heck, aren’t we all on one anyway?

BONUS: Living to Tell the Tale’s prologue, “Life is not what one lived, but what one remembers and how one remembers it in order to recount it.”

Ayub Ogada on music, writing & marrying Nyatiti.

Internationally renowned Kenyan folk music singer/songwriter Ayub Ogada’s music style is defined by the matrimony between his deep smooth voice and the soothing sounds of the nyatiti (a traditional lyre famed of the Luo people of Western Kenya). With just [one] solo album and award, an Academy Awards nomination, countless tours around the world and more than 80 compositions, Ayub is now set to release his sophomore album.

On a breezy warm August evening, I am at the Godown Art Centre sitting at its restaurant padio, minutes early for my interview with Ayub—who I wouldn’t have recognized had he not called on arrival (and on time). “I am at the parking lot, will be with you in a few.”

Ayub is known for his conspicuous stage regalia— African dresses and ornaments. Today, off duty, he’s bespectacled and dressed down in plain jeans, a stud, cap and a black leather jacket—unexpectedly coming off as an ordinary guy. “Traditional African adornment simply reinforces my music. I dress like normal people when I am not performing to avoid attracting unwanted attention. It’s the only way I can easily relate with people—an important part of being an artist,” he says.

Ayub speaks with a rare conviction exuding the kind of peace-of-mind many wish to attain. To achieve it however, the man had to embark on a bitter-sweet long journey, which forced him to detach himself from family and success. He relocated to the UK, where he spent years in search of “the right minds”. Being discovered by Real World Records changed his music career, but it was until returning home (Kenya), that Ayub finally found himself.

When music called, I responded

“My dad showed me how to play my first guitar chords. Ironically, after that, he never wanted me to even touch his guitar. I would only play it while he was away from home,” says the self-taught guitarist who wrote his first song at the age of 13.

Ayub’s father was a guitarist and mother—a singer. But despite the musical family background, his father wanted him to become either a doctor or a technocrat. However, the father unable to beat his son’s voracity for musical knowledge finally caved in and enrolled him into piano and trumpet lessons, a time during which the family was living in USA. To complete his final year of elementary school, he returned to Kenya to join Our Lady of Mercy School and later enrolled at Lenana High School. “Even while at school, [I knew] that I wanted nothing other than music”, asserts Ayub, who—after school, decided to do away with the idea of even starting university, to start building on a career in music.

Soon, he started working at the Alliance Française (then French Cultural Center) as a session instrumentalist. The budding musician was eager for any opportunity, and one unexpectedly came, in form of a man.

“I remember 19^th Nov 1979 vividly. It’s the day I met the man who changed my life.”

While en route to the Kenya National Theatre Ayub bumped into Allan Donovan (Director, African Heritage). Allan was looking to start a band that would play at his fashion shows around the world. Ayub found his right match. The duo teamed up to start one of Kenya’s pioneer bands, the six-man African Heritage Band.

After a few weeks of taxing rehearsals, the band was off to Belgium for their first international tour, effectively marking the beginning of a successful career.

Marrying Nyatiti

(In Luo, Nyar is daughter, and Titi—a clan).

Through Allan, Ayub got in contact with the African Heritage Art Gallery. It was while [there] admiring traditional African instruments that his eyes first caught the nyatiti. Soon after, he got [one] built for him as he enrolled for a six-week course on playing nyatiti at the Bomas of Kenya. He further amplified his quest for knowing the instrument inside-out by listening to nyatiti music recorded on tapes. Eventually falling in love with the daughter of the clan, Ayub’s grandmother saw the depth at which he was awestruck and warned, “She’s going to take over your life!”

“With all due respect, nyatiti looks like a woman. Its sound box resembles a breast and the two holes at its front look like eyes, making the area somewhat similar to a face,” he says. But like the frivolity of relationships, Ayub was soon discontent. “At first I found nyatiti limiting as I wanted more notes and harmonics. But with time I learnt and emulated its simplicity—distinct of minimal notes and vast rhythmic sequences.”

For years, Ayub has been appearing solo with his nyatiti at various international platforms considered for bands, and getting great reception all the same. At the 2012 London Olympics, he was among musicians from East Africa and Rwanda performing at the Pre-Olympics concert in front of an audience of over 20,000 people.

“I knew I chose the right partner, several years back, when after my performance at Canada’s Waterfront Music festival, I was met by Ry Cooder (famed American guitarist) backstage. He praised my performance and invited me to a hang out. We went on a cruise in his yatch full of girls in bikinis, and strawberries. Then I asked myself, ‘what more could nyatiti get me?’” Ayub poses.

“I pay tribute to older generations that made such classical instruments. I can play several instruments but my life revolves around nyatiti. So much that I refer to myself as ‘me, myself and my nyatiti’. We’ve been married for 24 years now.”

Leaving Kenya & getting discovered

By 1985, African Heritage band had released two albums, Niko Saikini and Handas. Adding to their triumphant belt were international tours to Germany, Switzerland, Estonia and Spain, among other countries.

However, fame and success didn’t satisfy Ayub— a hunter eyeing finesse.

“I wanted to be an excellent percussionist and hang out with musicians of like minds. That was a tough dream because at the time, there were no such musicians I could learn from in Kenya. The [greats] were still from West Africa and South America then, so I decided to move. There were however no direct flights to West Africa; passengers would have to fly there via the UK. And because many West African percussionists were already based in London, I settled there.”

That was 1986. The same year, The African Heritage Band split.

In London, he met the portrait in his mind—talented musicians from all over the world whom he got a chance to interact with and learn from. But painting his own-portrait was tasking. He struggled to make a living—juggling business studies and part-time jobs.

His big break finally came after 4 years of street performances. One day, while playing at Tottenham court road, he caught the attention of many, among them a lady who worked at Real World Records, partners of WOMAD (a 3-day festival featuring music, art and dance from around the world).

“She promised me a chance to curtain-raise at WOMAD and I thought, …’alright’.”

The Kafala Brothers from Angola were to headline at the fest but they missed their flight. Fortunate for Ayub, being at the right place and time granted him a grand welcoming into the world music stage. He played in place of the Angolans, and recounts his stint with WOMAD, “When I began playing the nyatiti, no one paid attention but by the time I finished, there were over 6,000 people applauding.”

He later met Peter Gabriel (founder, Real World Records) to sign [his] first record deal. En Mana Kuoyo (Luo for It’s Just Sand), Ayub’s debut album was released in 1993.

Coming Home

After 2 decades of living in the UK, Ayub was home sick and still the dissatisfied huntsman. His song writing skills suddenly reached a dead-end. “I missed Kenyan people, food, language and mostly inspiration. Writing African songs away from Africa in a place where all other Africans (me included) had been influenced by the western world was a challenge,” says a seemingly distressed Ayub at the memory.

In 2006, an invitation to perform in Kenya at a concert organized by Sarakasi Trust saw Ayub’s visit extend into an abrupt permanent residency, finally providing his resilient heart with serenity. “I [just] left my house and everything in London unexpectedly but I still have ties with my friends and label. Finding my happiness in Kenya made me stay.”

Music writing is my sole business

Among other avenues, Ayub’s music has enjoyed wide publishing. His poignant compositions have made soundtracks for a number of international films including War Dance, Blood Diamond and Out of Africa.

The original to Ayub’s celebrated song, Koth Biro was rumba and written by Black Savage (Ayub’s other former band) during their tenure. “I have fond memories of the day we wrote the song. We were rehearsing in a Westlands garage.” By 1993—when Ayub was compiling his debut album, some members of the band had since passed away.

“It was the ‘forgotten song’ so I decided to re-do it to honor my former band members. Though the new version was hugely influenced by Ghanaian, Malian, West and East African traditional folk, on it—I worked with musicians from Nigeria and London. Making the song was damn simple but what came out was a pleasant surprise and amazing reaction, to date.”

Koth Biro earned Ayub an Academy Awards nomination for Best Original Score for the film, The Constant Gardener.

With such an impressive repertoire, ironically, the singer had to wait till 2011 to receive his [first] award. At the inaugural African Heritage Awards held in Nairobi in 2011, he was honored for his outstanding contribution to African music. He says as-a-matter-of-fact-ly, “I get a certain amount of respect but I am not looking for it because when I got into this business, I never expected to be any kind of well-known musician. I only wanted to write songs.”

He credits the success of his music to his simple approach towards it, paired with the efficiency of his manager Rob Bozas. “If I have to play music along computer programs, then it’s not music.”

Nearly 2 decades since his debut album, 2012 will finally see the release of Ayub’s sophomore. He says, “I am a slow writer who goes by the saying ‘Haraka haraka haina baraka’ (a famous Swahili saying advocating for caution where speed is involved).”

Since returning, the singer has been enjoying writing new songs, most of which have been recorded under the sky in his portable studio at open environments around Kenya— providing a sense of freedom, which lacks in normal recording booths, that he refers to as, “…claustrophobic”.

The album features other musicians: Isaac Gem and Trevor Warren, from western Kenya and UK, respectively.

Political turmoil endangers music

Kenya’s music is vibrant. And contemporary musicians have great ideas, says Ayub who then expresses his disappointment with the education system, and ministries of communication, and culture/heritage, for failing to grant music the importance it deserves. “Music is a great income earner and the government of Kenya should tap into it holistically. The education system should impart basic music education to generations.”

To Ayub, politics and musicians make a no-no combo. “You can perform at rallies but you must not associate yourself with any party by endorsement. Corruption is now using the popularity of musicians to flourish.”

I am whole, thanks to my child and new album

At 56—the new album and first child certainly make 2012 Ayub’s annus mirabilis. The proud dad to nine-month old baby Tazlin Achien’g says, “The life of musicians is tough. There’s a lot of pressure, especially for those who travel often. Family requires stability but most importantly, a sense of things happening at the right time—it’s where am at.” It’s his turn to feed her tonight, he tells me excitedly.

While unwinding Ayub enjoys versatile music including sounds of Stevie Wonder and The O’Jays. He’s met and performed alongside renown African musicians including Selif Keta, Baaba Maal, Angelique Kidjo and Hugh Masekhela. “We are friends who talk about life when we get off stage. Music is for stage/rehearsals, yet the painstaking mirror image of life.”

It’s now dark. And the whispering warm breeze has turned cold. We’ve been lost in conversations for over 2 hours. Ayub finds his watch and says, “This has taken longer than I had anticipated but your questions are good. I’ve done so many interviews, it can get boring. I even thought of making a tape on myself to give it out to journalists.” We laugh about it. He starts to ask me questions about myself and seems particularly impressed by the fact that I juggle about 3 jobs. “So you’re a busy lady?” It’s awkward suddenly being an interviewee. “Well … If I wasn’t working, I’d just be home watching TV,” my reply. He poses, “Why watch TV while you can be on TV?”

Pundits reference Ayub as a ‘world music’ star. He’s fast to set the record straight. “I sing African music. Europeans created the world music genre while in the real sense, it’s Africans who invented world music. Violins are like Orutus and rock & roll/jazz is nothing without drums—which Africans invented. If human beings came from Africa, so did music.”[ That sentence makes me wanna wear a sisal skirt, go bare-chested and do some crazy African-yele-yele dance ]

“Anything else you want to say that I haven’t asked yet?” I prod him. “When can I buy you dinner?” he warmly jokes OR maybe not … I will hold him to that. I really enjoyed the walk through Ayub’s beautiful mind. I haven’t met many of such broad-minded, assertive and content people.

Testimonial for his recent sprouting musical inspiration, and growth, Ayub’s new album will either be titled Mbegu or Kothi (Swahili and Luo for seed, respectively), and will be released in the course of 2012.

For more www.realworldrecords.com

Dear God …

I come before you like a child lost because I am, and the one who never learns. I’ve gone astray and like the prodigal son, I am your daughter coming home. I have fallen prey to sin and many ills of this world. But in reparation, I am willing to learn. Through the mirror I was the queen. But now I am keen to look outside the window. I see thousands of people akin to me; making me realize that I am just a grain of sand you allow inside your massive life-hour glass.

I come to you like a weakling because despite the worldly gains, I am frail. I hope I am not late to apologize and trust that you will take me back into your arms. Whether weak or strong, surround me with your strength. Whether alive or gone, make me anew your image. Whether I fall, or uphold you, bless my lineage. Whether I hide or proclaim my commitment, make me truly spiritual, for the church is nothing if it doesn’t actually exist in the heart. And I am nothing if you don’t exist in mine.

The closet …

I just cleaned out my closet. I should have from the onset. Not my bedroom’s but my heart. For you are like the corset that chokes me. It suffocates and holds my heart and lungs, just like you haunt me. I need to lose you. Like books I never read, you are a road I took that leads to nowhere—torturous. I don’t need you. You are like the clutter tolerance and intolerance made me keep. Though I couldn’t say it didn’t matter, you have proven not to be worth my time and space. Like a broken oven we are sometimes cold and then hot. Unlike my lace, denim and colour, we aren’t timeless, our fashion is over. Behind your charming smile is deceit. Just like my old receipts, I am getting rid of you. For what we had, and never [will] is priceless, no need for paper. Still, I had to write you this letter to say; find another room where you can stay.

Technical difficulty …

I need repair. For when am not scared shitless of loving you, I am not prepared. And I am clueless as to why. When I think I am up for it, I realize that I am not. It’s a surprise because you are everything I would ever want in a man. But even when I fall or trip I rise and appreciate you and everything you do. You call me a painter for I love colours. And I think you are a fantastic carpenter. Though not of furniture but by far, the only one who could fix my problems. My heart is quirky, and my actions pretty juvenile. I sometimes lie. Saying I am feeling something I am not. Sometimes I am blind. Praying for things I fail to see are right in front of me. So I came to your shop to get repaired because I want to function fully. To have the courage to tell you that my insecurities have nothing to do with your mastery of your tool box, but only me, the bravery I lack and the fool I’ve become. So leave the box; and take all of me.

Let’s be roomies …

I am looking for a sizeable room. I heard you were looking for a mate, I want in. In it, I don’t need service, a bed or even ventilation—just you. And if we suffocate, we can learn to breath again. If we communicate, we can kill this illiteracy. Everyday could be our chance to read and write. Not fantasy novels or manuscripts but the language of two people.  Sounds like fun huh? And when we are done, leave me no room for doubt.

I want in. Give me room. In it, I don’t need doors, just your direction. Show me which way leads in OR out. Not to the hall but into your heart’s vault. So that if I stumble inside, it won’t be just my fault—but ours. It’s a lot to ask to co-habit without a television, we’ll have to make our own cinema. I have a vision. You be the guy. I will be the girl. We might mess up, so we’ll let God be the director, as He is always watching over us. And by the time He is done mending us, He won’t leave us room for doubt.

I want in. Give me room. In it, I don’t want to be judged or prodded. Don’t ask me questions but I will tell you of my imperfections. That’s because we all make mistakes, and I am just a student. Let me learn from you. Though inexperienced I want to teach you a thing or two, too. I am guilty of admiring you and wanting to fuse bits & pieces of me with your hues. Walk slowly so you don’t trip and fall over me. For I am not lonely but alright— so just walk up to me. And if your room is full, it’s cool. Just know that I won’t leave you room to doubt that I am enough.

Disappearing Acts

You were here. I could feel you. But then when I opened my eyes I couldn’t see you. For you were gone. Like a shadow, you stalk me. The more I run away from you, the closer you seem to get. But my touch is never enough for I touch your shadow. I am shallow to have thought that [it] would be capable of feeling. Instead I should have swallowed my pride and touched [you] instead.

You are there. I can see you. But I can’t seem to put my hands on you. For you are elusive like a reflection on sea. If the sun shines, you smile and are submissive. But when the weather dampens, so do your spirits, I observe. You deserve someone who understands you. Someone who knows that you don’t have to be seen or heard, by anyone other than yourself. Me. And to stay, leave the shadows and lean over; so I can feel your real weight on me.

Just don’t push me too hard …

Misty window

She’s a mystery unspecified, elusive yet real. In reality she’s your dream.  But in your dreams, she comes to life; changing faces and taking you to places you’ve never been. Every time you try to pin her down, she’s back at trading places; pacing royally up and down your mind, making your heart start racing like crazy. The hunt is on but she’s the unidentified stranger yet a companion. Her dominion has power over you. When she smiled, your problems disappeared for a second. And when you lied about her, it felt like you cheated on yourself.

Like secrecy, she is a matter of confidentiality. Other than in your mind, no one knows where you can find her. She’s the kind that’s hard to get but plays no games all the same. If you let her stray, she’ll come back. But if you force her to stay, she might not be fulfilled. And if you fill all the blanks, though available, she is still nowhere to find. The journey to her heart is one you’re willing to take as her hands have power over you. When she grabbed your chest, you lowered your guard and touched her breasts. And they felt like mountains of truth.

She’s indefinable. There’s something about her strength that’s similar to the oceanic waves. When you push her further, her currents hit back harder. When you are calm like the sea breeze, she’s the water that goes far away to hide. And she doesn’t come back till dawn. But she always comes back, you realize. But she’s still intangible. You want to touch and feel down the lace of her bodice and not keep chasing doors. You want to protect her from closed doors but she won’t stop running. In her pursuit, you’re stuck in a myriad passages learning one from the other. Though accused of insanity, you’re asleep brother. And if you’re still trying to find her, don’t bother waking up.

Reflections …

The skies are bright and the birds are singing, suddenly providing me with that everything-is-alright warm feeling. As a victim of your love, I have been warned of suffering but out of the blue I realize that though my stakes are high, spring is nigh. For my heart is slowly transforming from temperate to snow cold.

The skies are dark and the birds worryingly circling above, suddenly providing me with that shit-it’s-gonna-rain feeling. As a victim of your love, I have been warned of stormy days but unexpectedly, it’s you who’s in danger. For my heart knows no weather but reign; stronger than a hailstorm.

The skies are crystal clear and the birds are nowhere in sight, suddenly providing me with that balance-is-life feeling. As a victim of your love, I have been warned of loneliness but am afraid you’re the loner with empty skies; stainless and needless of anything or anyone. I am leaning over looking into the sea’s reflection of your sky. If you ever do the same, tell me what you see.

Sentimentally Un-covered …

My clothes are on, yet I feel naked. Maybe it has a lot to do with your whisper, charmingly brushing through my neck. It’s a kind of soul-stripping, definitely good and strong, feelings and vibrations rushing through a soul sister like me. From my toes, soles of my feet to my songs and their beats, I feel it. I like it because it’s the kind that makes me want to preach. It reaches down, making my heart skip a beat, like tick … Then tick … And again, tick … because unlike a clock, I don’t have to tock. I just talk, and you listen. Sometimes, with your naked eyes, you watch my timid self. And then I am coy and lost, while you’re fully wearing just your presence.

But with clothes on, this nudity is stupidity; yet a beautiful serendipity. Because I found myself, once more at a place where I am able to say sorry. And when I touched the ground, it felt alright, like we were only starting to be close to a different yet tight pace. For you are lenient, and moving anti-clockwise. Because unlike the planet’s movement, you just lose control. And then have control. Lose control. And then have it. And like a wise man, I understand that language. So I stop, stand and take it in. And even though I can’t speak it or of it, it inspires me, so I rise and write.

I wear not clothes, but adorn them. Similarly though a loner, my spirit isn’t weary of those lovers that come along to adore me, yet disguised as outfits. Because I realize that if the shoe fits, I still don’t have to wear it. Instead I have to let [it], be worn by me … You should get sued, for robbing my vulnerability … But how could anyone be against your ability? To see that I was there even before you came. And to believe I see that you were here, even before I left. For we could have been anywhere in this cold world, but it’s right here where I feel undressed yet dressed; that’s calm, warm and absolute.

Tuning into Channel Orange: Frank Ocean

Frank Ocean is no stranger to murky waters. Prodded by Hurricane Katrina from his native New Orleans, he moved to L.A to pursue a career in music. After experiencing waves with record labels, he broke out solo in 2011 releasing his debut, Nostalgia Ultra (NU), a mixtape. Its critical acclaim was a show for Ocean swimming good into genres broader than R&B/hip hop.

Delving deeper, Frank recently came out (labeling himself neither gay or bisexual) in an open letter via hisTumblr blog, declaring that a man was indeed his first love, amidst girlfriends and confusion. While some critics took the lackadaisical confession as uncalled for, a myriad of celebrities including Mama Blue Ivy, Jermaine Dupri and Russell Simmons showed their support. And Frank was well above his strokes at the verge of unleashing his official debut album cum sophomore effort; Channel Orange (CO) released in July 2012.

Half the time, there’s nothing (or nobody) like your first. So to speak, CO is rather a guaranteed will-fall-in-love-with album; as opposed to NU’s love-at-first-listen gift but nonetheless a befitting sequel, once again displaying Frank as an effortless juggler of innovative sounds, poetic lyricism and emotions running nude.

2. Thinking about you 03.20

This alluring entrée into the album is served with a falsetto that would put Usher to shame. The poignant composition is a quest of a carrier of love un-returned seeking THE answer, “Do you not think so far ahead? Coz I’ve been thinking about forever”. I heard so many covers of this song before this original version, and I’ve come to a conclusion that all other singers should be banned from it with immediate effect because only Frank killed it straight up that nothing was left.

7. Super Rich Kids feat Earl Sweatshirt 05.04

From big cars, money to drugs and servants, this is a story of the lives of super rich kids, laden with a heavy R&B beat, complete with a slurry hook, a melodic incarnation of Mary J’s chorus to Real Love. Earl’s lazy flow rap is the kind of stuff you want to be high on all year round. Sick collabo!

10. Pyramids 09.52

Half split into dance and dub step, respectively, this track is definitely a favorite! Also making for a serious club banger! The song is a weird yet beautiful lyrical journey starring Cleopatra as the stripper and the cheetahs; an analogy for ‘hungry’ men. They are set loose but her legion still stands tall as she’s working at the pyramids, a place where she makes many (including him) feel brand new and loved, though not for free. Someone please tell Frank to write me a book on poems. BTW the vocal arrangement in this one is the album’s most outstanding!

11. Lost 03.54

Certified iPod banger! Frank sings about love lost. The song is a mirror to the many worthless pursuits of the world. Like being hopeless in love with a girl who could never care that she was overweight more than unemployed, or her sightless thrills, even if urged to modify. Miami, Amsterdam, Tokyo, Spain, L.A, India or Kenya, wherever in the world, she’d still be lost and so would he, in the heat of it all, he sings.

Ok. I admit I added Kenya to that list. Nway the ad-libs on this one make me want to get so freaking lost that Frank would just serenade me back into my senses if not into his life. I mean I kinda have a model figure & a job too Something’s gotta give!

14. Bad Religion 02.55

‘If it brings me to my knees it’s a bad religion’.

The embodiment of short & sweet and probably the most beautifully written song I’ve heard since I can remember. It’s paradoxical twist will get to you if you listen keenly.  The song is a one-way verbal diarrhea at a taxi driver, the last resort to getting out burning emotions of love unrequited, a one-man cult, he sings. And after all that confession, the driver only said to him, ‘Allah Hu Akbar’.

It’s human nature that we nearly if not entirely worship those we truly love, even when they don’t return back the favor. Those un-reciprocating gods account for millions of followers of a bad religion (what Frank equates to being in love with someone who could never love you). He’s actually singing about [his] first love here. Did you cringe? I did, but probably for a different reason. The last 30 secs of his ad-libbing is the most heartfelt thing I’ve ever heard from Frank making me think of only two things I want to do: Kiss & Love Frank Ocean. I mean who could never love this man, and make him sad? Also this is the kind of song with two extremes, you either dig or not. And it’s true, we’ve all been in a bad religion, at least once.

15. Pink Matter feat Andre 3000

If you weren’t already acquitted to Frank Ocean, Pink Matter is by far the closest this album has channeled him back to the brilliance of NU. From Frank’s poetically jotted lyrics about a quest to know what lies beneath every matter (be it heart, a box or body), his sweet revarb-ing vocals, to Andre’s inexplicable rap/vocal prowess, this track is Frank’s best collaborative effort so far.

The complete Channel Orange has 17 tracks,  including must-listens like Forrest Gump and the guitaresque Sweet Life. I have new-found respect for Frank’s honest expression through his music. Away from fame and fortune or whatever else could come out of this, Frank is a beacon of redemption for any person ostracized for whoever or whatever they loved or stood for. For love is love. And music makes the world go round. And if anyone can’t understand that, then they should jump into an ocean already. I recommend Channel Orange, just be prepared for a good swim.

For more info dive into frankocean.com

BONUS: Check out this 9 minute interview of Frank talking about creativity, inspiration and how he appreciated his first chance to write his own songs for NU.

In silence, we speak …

While falling is to human, in love must be to humanity; and in silence–a rare occurrence. So pardon me when I confess that last weekend I fell for two men at first sight. Just like that. As you would imagine, it was overwhelming. But nothing I couldn’t handle, particularly because I fall a lot. I once fell on the stairs leading up to my office lobby, and a stranger walking in picked me up. Then he recognized me from Twitter. Now tell me that wasn’t a classic case of literally falling at first sight. Only this time, the one who fell hardly used their sight appropriately. Another time, after a rainy night I fell on the muddy terrain that used to be Mutindwa market’s ragged path. But those are embarrassing moments. So it’s with pleasure that I am sharing my love stories: sandwiches, pajamas, music, and most recently Downton Abbey have occupied my heart, to large extents.

But Yaaay! Finally, here is a non-slippery situation: two adorable men. One was quite small, the other; more of my size–big. The combi was father and son, the latter seemingly three years of age. His eyes were beautiful, his smile even the more. His tongue was cute, sticking out probably in oblivion but fused in careless mountains and valleys, that were his incessant giggles and chuckles. He was staring at me, and so was his dad. I was staring back at the little one, with my side eye through my shades, while pretending to be reading my magazine. But an entire feature later, I hadn’t comprehended anything. Maybe it was because reading Intelligent Life by The Economist is no mean feat. Not only for the intellectually challenged but for the masses in general. Or maybe it was the men around me who clouded my senses. And if it was them, why so? I didn’t have time to check out the bigger man. He was too close and it would have come off as rude. But overall, I appreciated the connection we had. It was so strong I didn’t have to check him out after all.

One and a half man, sitting next to a stranger, side to side in a noisy matatu driven like we were on the road to hell. But we were just heading to town. It felt though like the two were headed to a more joyous destination–a bright future, a great friendship and a lasting bond. It’s how the two were playing silly dad-son games, and sharing glances like (you-say-hi-to-her-first), and all that while, I was in adoration of them, just wondering what their names were. Because I had my shades on, I didn’t think they would have really known anything about me, but I was wrong. Right when we got to town, Mr. Fly Dad told little man, “Why don’t you say hi to her?” I lowered my guard–shades to be precise and the little one only stared at my eyes like I was a mysterious roller coaster running fast and wild. Maybe I am.  So I asked the dad, “What’s his name?”  Abdul, he said. Maybe I should have told them mine, but who really cared after the lovely brief and silent moment we had shared?

That experience made me think a lot on the issue of communication. How many times do we care to do it in silence? If it isn’t through social media, it’s via other media still, mostly outlets for outbursts as compared to verbal communication or even better, what the heart was made for other than pumping blood– just feeling. It’s common sense that silence is no communication. But it’s rather nonsensical to ignore that it’s also a form of communication, just that in it; a lot of signs are often misread and therefore misunderstood. However, I just discovered that little forms of communication come close to MUS (Mutually Understood Silence).

I know that Abdul’s dad wished me well, and that he knows I did the same for him. As for Abdul, he was probably checking out my boobs jonesing for milk and there I was getting all emotional about him. On the real though, I appreciated those two gentlemen. Wherever they are, God bless them. I felt the energy around them and it fed me some good vibes. Moral of this post– I am learning to appreciate the power of silence. Now somebody get me a hot miming man without a child already damnit

Lovers Rock

Don’t push me too hard. Because I might fall. Don’t rush me either, because I am a flower, and might wither. Like a Rose, let me blossom– water me, watch me grow … Like a waiter, serve me good, and I will return to your service.

Don’t push yourself too hard. Because you’re just a novice, and might fall. And I can’t pick you if you do. For even though you are light as a feather, you’re heavier than I can handle. Now like a disease, I am sick, of you.

Like a priest, sanctity me. Who knows? I might get born again; free to catch your fall or simply stand on my own.

Violet streets…

The streets of your heart are deserted, yet lighted up. Not with neon but violets. Like a legion, your trees stand tall even when their leaves fall. In cold season, they wither. Then during summer, the flowers start to bloom. It’s a circle always leaving room for a fresh start. But your streets are dead in need of renewed existence.

The streets of your heart are deserted, yet lighted up. Not with illumination but dew. In relation, you seem new but in the real sense you are broken. Your traffic lights are intense but control not. Green says stop, and red says go. Cars speed to nowhere while people walk everywhere. While they need direction, your streets need some inspiration.

The streets of your heart are deserted, yet lighted up. Not by the government but solely by you. Even in darkness, you are your strongest armor. In karma or at dusk, perseverance is a foreign term to you, a self ruler flaunting your fragrance. It’s bitter sweet. Making a lone walker like me forgive the unknowing of your streets.

Chasing lights …

Your lights blind me. Something about your eyes that’s binding and hugging, even clouding to my senses … Don’t turn it low. I want you to confide in me. Because I dig your flow and how you roll. Your lights turn me on, they flicker and I stare. When darkness is thicker you always  illuminate, leaving me with a lot to anticipate.

My thighs bind you. Something about my smile you say, that’s amazing and enticing, even exhilarating. I won’t let it go without you. I won’t hide when you need me. I know you believe in me, because I entrust in you. From the floor to the ceiling, to every part of my body, my soul fills you. And if this feeling is too strong, turn your lights low.

A note to thank you.

Dear mother,

There’s none other like you. And it’s really cool that for nine months, you carried me inside you. Like an innocent fool I came into the world and you taught me what school couldn’t. That respect is earned not demanded. Am always reminded of your humility and agility. And that to succeed I have to maintain my authenticity.

Mum, you’re beautiful. Your eyes sparkle like the sunray’s reflection on water. I am honoured to be your daughter. Your affection is priceless. You always love regardless. You are the provider of wise counsel. You are the divider of food in the house. You are the arbitrator when people disagree. You are as strong as a rock.

You are inspirational. When I am irrational, you always provide the voice of reason. Of all seasons, you work hard. Your laugh is infectious. Your heart is golden. Even in olden age, you still exude youthfulness. Your generosity exceeds the ordinary. Your simplicity is to reckon. You give extra attention. You are selfless.

When restless, you told me to practice patience. Thus haste or hate don’t exist in your dictionary. You have the power over the world. Despite your humble itinerary, wherever you go, you command attention without asking. The air around you always feels ample & safe. It’s like an angel surrounds you. Even though I didn’t get to know Dad well, i know that’s why he adored you. He still does. You’re cool peeps ma.

And for all these things & more, thank you.

Yes, You. Yup.

Your smile is irresistible. Your charm incapable of another. If you were a constable, I would break no rules. But because you’re just a brother, yours are made to be broken. I appreciate your presence, it’s like a token of your gravity. Your chastity is sacred. Your purity admirable. Your wit amiable. And I couldn’t stay away from you even if I wanted.

I am haunted by your graceful touch, always making me lurch towards your motion. While your silence is peaceful, your emotions run deep. I like that because sometimes, I see through your eyes. It’s a place free of lies. It’s where I want to hide when I am weak. It’s where I am understood, even when I can’t speak. And I would be in full swing, even when I didn’t realize it.

You’re a surprise as beautiful as the sunrise. So each day I rise to the occasion of seeing you, being with you and simply, feeling you. Your words inspire many. I aspire to be just like you, a leader. I don’t need a fortune reader to know that your hands were made to fit in mine. Because like a treasure hunt, you found me. And even if you didn’t know it, I would still be your ideal diamond. Yes, me. Yup.

War, Heart, Art.

It’s a wall built so strong and high around her existence, to protect her from you, and all the hurtful things you did. She keeps home, and away from you; because it’s a battle. When she loses she’s the wounded soldier who fell in the dirty puddle of love’s water. When she wins, she’s the little miss perfect, you say. Her rounds of ammunition were not enough because she wound up battered. The crowds of spectators didn’t matter. The more they cheered on, the more she continued to bleed. In bloody love. If you were graceful, you would surrender. For she is under duress, stress and anything you would think of, other than your so-called, love spell.

 

Stainless, still.

Her lips are stainless. So if you want her mark, don’t kiss her. You’re clueless. That’s because you read her like the back of a book– insufficient. If you take fright, she will take flight. If you take it lightly, she will fight. If you are serious, stain her heart with your signature. And like a lithium stain, she will stay. For its her nature to be stainless but not still.

Hey month,

Dear May,

I want to be a better person. To write letters to actual people and not months, like you. To stick to my policies like glue. To be true to my friends, family and myself. To be selfless and kind. To be a one-of-a-kind woman. Not to lie. To listen and learn. To teach what I know. To practice and grow. To love in slow motion. To share emotions as much as emoticons. To give second chances. To breed a heart of forgiveness, one that’s full of happiness. To bleed love, and need it. To leave behind bygones. To be blind to see good where there is dark–nothing. Halting everything, to let God reign. To refrain from haste. To taste life, the good and bad. To hush and not rush. To let go of fall and pain to celebrate gain. To let it rain. To let is shine. To feel past my third button and be real past the bosom, be deep. To let the flowers of my life blossom. To let go of those which died. To be brave and not hide from my fears. And because June, December and the rest are members of your family–to you all, this is my prayer.

5 reasons why soccer is like your woman.

Is he less of a man because he doesn’t dig football? Well, as opposed to popular and ignorant theory, the answer is no. A man shouldn’t only be judged by the kind of team he supports but also, the kind of stuff he’s made of. Ultimately, he’s fake if he’s the biggest football fan but still a douche bag.

In the world of sports however, the masculinity of a man has been overly associated with soccer. Take for example the manly record-breaking Usain Bolt. He’s tall, strong, rich and complete with a signature move—on and off the tracks. His articulation is tight, no such lines like ‘kung’arisha fiatu’. But you’ll still find that Messi—a man of extraordinary goals yet endowed with just an ordinary stature and the occasional messy demeanour of most footballers is held up in higher esteem internationally. Ca veux dire–a man’s love for football is blind. Only a woman can come close to taking [its] place and most times second is her best position.

Just like scores of women; I hate soccer. I am not too sure whether it’s because 90 minutes is too long for me to keep staring at non-shirtless men running haphazardly across a field in the name of trying to attain a goal or that I am in envy of how like a demon, the game possesses a man (Heck, I want to possess a man like that). It’s the moment when he hears or sees no evil i.e everything and anything that’s not related to football. Quick tip ladies; this is the best time to drop any pending bomb shells because he won’t hear you. And when he brings it up in the future, you’ll just claim to have already told him anyway. When you think about it critically, there actually isn’t a single definitive thing for women equivalent to what football is to men.

While at my friends (all boys) house, recently, the usual chitchats that encompass the ‘just chilling’ mode were unceremoniously cut as soon as a football match came on-screen. ‘Now shut up!’ I was directed. I couldn’t beat three men so I decided to join in. I could only see Drogba’s annoyingly glossy hair. Shouldn’t he also be endorsing Hairglo? So I resorted to reading my book which also proved difficult to follow; as after every six minutes or so, the boys kept cheering and shrieking at the game’s highlights. Even more disturbing was that the sounds they made resounded like those emitted while having sex. ‘Uhhhhh, ahhhh… Nooooooooo! YES, YES!’

Could it be that to a man, football is like a ‘good’ woman—irreplaceable, and it’s highs and lows almost similar to those of sex?

On one boring Friday afternoon in the office I decided to spice things up by ambushing the guys around me with a quick kinky Q&A. Out of fifteen, nine guys revealed to Black Roses that if they had to choose between the other, they would actually prefer to watch football over being with a woman, sexually or otherwise. That was a shocker! I would rather plough a farm (no pun intended) other than watch a football match. But then again I am just a woman who happens to love bits of farm life. Provided all underlying factors remain constant, these comparisons still rely on the fame and skill of the playing team and the X-Factor of the woman a man rolls with.

From the gentlemen, I collected these 5 fascinating similarities between football and women:

1.Best choice

Like panties, general football enthusiasts drop their support for teams depending on how they are faring on in the current season. Similarly bachelors, and well, George Clooney, have the vagabond freedom of rolling with various women depending on who best suits them and when. A die-hard Gor Mahia (or any other team) fan is like a married man/one in a relationship. He already settled with his best choice. This man is down for his woman whether she strips or trips. Same way win or lose, no real fan turns his back on his team.

2. Time (A minimum of 90 minutes)

You need to set time aside for football. The game usually extends past 100 minutes, so patience, a cozy seat, maybe a beer or two at hand and crossing fingers is always a great prerequisite. You already heard that if it’s not a quickie no woman wants a ‘one minute man’, during a date or in bed. Patience, a cozy environment, wine or something smooth will make good accompaniments. 90 minutes should be good enough but if you opt for extra time, dude why not?

3. Satisfaction

A bad match (your team of preference losing) leaves you with a bad taste and a foul mood. It’s the same when a date, meet up or sex goes bad. On the flip side, your team kicking ass and some good loving from the mamacita will leave you celebrating for a long time, if not feeling brand new!

4. Show off & bets

Men will always be boys. You don’t like how a friend keeps bragging about his winning team. So the two of you took it to the next level–daring bets. Money is cheap and lazy, now bets range from kissing the sole of your shoe to walking down Koinange street on a Friday night only dressed in boxer shorts. It’s the same case scenario when guys spot a fly honey. If she’s yours, you are proud so you brag about her. If she isn’t’ yours, then the chase and the bets start rolling.

5. Concentration.                                              

The replay of the pass, foul or goal doesn’t feel as electric from recycled tweets, print stories, word of mouth or even YouTube; to feel the magic of soccer, you must have seen it yourself, and in real-time. It’s the same way when it comes to stories and theories on women. Until you realize that it’s high time you focused on getting to know one, you’ll never really feel her magic.

Many women also watch soccer. While at my house, Wanjeri once jumped so high in celebration of a goal, she broke our chandelier. My sister then gave her a fine of washing our cat for a month. The cat ran off a few days later, even before the much-anticipated first wash. What am trying to say is; damn ungrateful cat! And that someone’s love for football can make chandeliers break, Twitter freeze and some people like me, even the more disinterested. But the fact remains that human beings will continue to have opposing preferences at their pleasure. The faster we all come to terms with this, the easier it will be for us all to co-habit respectfully and non- judgmentally, for football and women are the best at the feet of world’s offerings.

F_ck love! Introducing Kameron Corvet.

Contemporary RnB/soul fused in eclectic soft rock, best describes songs in Kameron Corvet’s new mixtape titled ‘F_ck Love’, released in February 2012. With a falsetto comparable to The Dream’s and some of that raw Frank Ocean lyricism and inexplicable genius, Kameron shows love the finger while sitting on its proverbial fence. The EP is a confession of rollercoaster love; from gooey heartbreak songs to egotistic flirtations and sexual show offs, it really is a hot whirlwind–begging the question, what’s love?

Must you fall to be in love? Must you lose yourself in love? Wait, must you love? That warm fuzzy feeling … is it love? ‘Fuck it, fuck love!’ You’ve probably said that once, twice or maybe never, but it’s highly likely that you’ve once had the secret dream to love or be loved, silently and peacefully.

2. Legends of the fall 03.32

Replay material. Great neosoul track. I loved how the guitars are laden by the hauntingly funky drums from The Gap Band’s, ‘Outstanding’ or if you remember better, Soul For Real’s ‘Every Little Thing I Do.’ He’s spotted a hot girl whose spotted a hot man, him. But she won’t fall into his arms because she’s heard of his bad reputation. And now she won’t pick up his call. I love this one because being a fine brother isn’t reason enough for a girl to be with a man.

3. Good Habits 04.10

This one a very beautiful song. The acoustic rock guitar in it makes me imagine Joss Stone or Alex Pelzer doing its cover. The story is about a man in desperate need for his estranged lover–a bad habit turned good, a fixture he can’t live without. ‘Tell me the secret to your love’ He sings. This one is a show of his splendid songwriting skills.

4. Sign Ur Name 04.08

Another replay material. Upbeat yet mellow, really love the guitars. Would you rather sign your name on the marriage certificate or across one’s heart? Oh the rhetoric. This is a song of a man distressed over the insecurity that his lady is cheating. He even sings in French (very sexy) that every other hour and minute, ‘Je pense a toi’. If Kameron marries me, I will sign his name, anywhere and everywhere, even across Nairobi city

5. Snap Out of It 03.27

This song is effortlessly soulful, and definitely one of my favourites. ‘Don’t you love the way I do you?’ The opening line with the undeniable Musiq Soulchild swag. It’s groovy sound and straight-up talk renders it a great RnB/quiet storm radio hit. He sings, ‘I can’t be the good guy and the bad guy at the same time, you’ve got to make up your mind.’ Relationships aren’t always a walk in the park, we all know that. One day it’s cold and another it’s hot. The wrong partner sometimes turns out to have been the right one and vice versa. Kameron’s one wish is for her to just, ‘Snap out of it’.

7. F_ck Love 05.05

The deep lyricism and acoustic lead guitar in this one can make you jizz! Eargasm doesn’t even start to describe this sound. For the EP title track, Kameron did a lot of justice to this song. ‘I can be honest, i don’t know where i am going. At this point I hardly know where I’ve been’.  You can feel his emotions of a conflicted love. An assertion that love can be evil, but a necessary one at that. I enjoyed the song’s verses melody better than the chorus and hook.

You won’t find a lot of Kameron Corvet’s info on Google, so for the record, I am highly rating this singer/songwriter and producer. Having gone by the stage name Jonz in his earlier career, he’s to date released two albums, Sayingthings and Korporate Rockstar. I think I like him better as Corvet. Well, despite love lost or meager lust, F_ck Love’s 7 songs will leave you with a lasting good feeling; for somewhere in this big bad world lies some good love, for you, and me too To listen/ download the free EP check  www.kameroncorvet.com

BONUS: The video to F_uck Love