Brief Articles
My Birth Story
Last year on my birthday, my daughters pinned me down to share my birth story. Their mother and I usually take turns to narrate their birth stories during their birthdays, adding zest each time we re-tell the stories. Being a good custodian of their birth stories, they expected mine to be as interesting as theirs, if not more. But there I was wondering how my girls could pull such an unforeseen ambush on me, and doubting if I had a palpable birth story to speak about. I quickly went into recollection of the bits and pieces that I have heard my mother mention about my day of birth and put together this brief account …….
During the early hours of the evening on Saturday 19th November 1977, a young woman in her late twenties (my mother) arrived home tired, coming from fending for her family. It had been a rainy day and the resilient woman had spent the day at … guess where… doing manual work at a coffee farm in the vicinity of our village. Just one or two hours later the heavily pregnant woman went into labour. The backbreaking work might have induced her labour although her baby was already due. She delivered her sixth child, a bouncing baby boy whom he named after her elder brother. Talk of strength of women!
My recollection is this brief, but the girls are still yearning for more – how I behaved as a toddler … if I threw tantrums … my first words – i.e. the kind of flavorings we sprinkle into their birth stories. I do not know much else except for the fateful 42nd day of my life which was on Christmas day.
My elder sister was holding me on her laps when a disagreement occurred between her and my other sister on how to share 60 cents given to them by our father. They got into a tussle on who would take the 50 cent coin and who would have the 10 cent for their Sunday school offertory. With the toddler resting on her laps, the bigger girl engaged her both hands in jostling for the coins with her younger sibling. And all over sudden ‘splash’ - the toddler slipped into hot water in a basin placed nearby. The water was meant for their bath before donning their new Christmas dresses to Sunday school.
The tiny toddler got severely burnt on the right side. I usually joke that “the water must have been hot enough to work loose the feathers of an aged rooster to be slaughtered for the family Christmas”. Christmas celebrations in the family went into disarray.
The toddler took several days recuperating in hospital. My paternal grandfather who was by then aged above a hundred years volunteered an opinion. He felt that the critically burnt toddler ought to be ‘thrown away’ so that its mother can come back home to take care of the rest of her children.
“Why did your grandpa say that?” the girls sadly asked… He lived through the days when seriously sick people were taken to the forest to either experience some divine healing and find their way back home, or to die in the forest. Grandpa was never treated in a hospital and didn’t believe in modern medicine.
The toddler lived to tell the story. Although they got a little worried by my birth story last year, the girls still found it interesting in its own unique way. Therefore aware my birthday is approaching, the mischievous girls have been stroking a scar below my right armpit enduring from this fatal burn 41 years ago. And trying to re-count how it came about between themselves.
I can tell they are spoiling to be regaled by my birth story a second time. They have stirred me well enough to spice up the story than last year’s. It’s this kind of stories that substantially arouses their curious minds. Questions galore will follow; and what a remarkable way to celebrate my birthday later today. Responding to their enquiries sometimes sounds like fielding questions from two little researchers. A fruit does not fall far from the tree!
Last year on my birthday, my daughters pinned me down to share my birth story. Their mother and I usually take turns to narrate their birth stories during their birthdays, adding zest each time we re-tell the stories. Being a good custodian of their birth stories, they expected mine to be as interesting as theirs, if not more. But there I was wondering how my girls could pull such an unforeseen ambush on me, and doubting if I had a palpable birth story to speak about. I quickly went into recollection of the bits and pieces that I have heard my mother mention about my day of birth and put together this brief account …….
During the early hours of the evening on Saturday 19th November 1977, a young woman in her late twenties (my mother) arrived home tired, coming from fending for her family. It had been a rainy day and the resilient woman had spent the day at … guess where… doing manual work at a coffee farm in the vicinity of our village. Just one or two hours later the heavily pregnant woman went into labour. The backbreaking work might have induced her labour although her baby was already due. She delivered her sixth child, a bouncing baby boy whom he named after her elder brother. Talk of strength of women!
My recollection is this brief, but the girls are still yearning for more – how I behaved as a toddler … if I threw tantrums … my first words – i.e. the kind of flavorings we sprinkle into their birth stories. I do not know much else except for the fateful 42nd day of my life which was on Christmas day.
My elder sister was holding me on her laps when a disagreement occurred between her and my other sister on how to share 60 cents given to them by our father. They got into a tussle on who would take the 50 cent coin and who would have the 10 cent for their Sunday school offertory. With the toddler resting on her laps, the bigger girl engaged her both hands in jostling for the coins with her younger sibling. And all over sudden ‘splash’ - the toddler slipped into hot water in a basin placed nearby. The water was meant for their bath before donning their new Christmas dresses to Sunday school.
The tiny toddler got severely burnt on the right side. I usually joke that “the water must have been hot enough to work loose the feathers of an aged rooster to be slaughtered for the family Christmas”. Christmas celebrations in the family went into disarray.
The toddler took several days recuperating in hospital. My paternal grandfather who was by then aged above a hundred years volunteered an opinion. He felt that the critically burnt toddler ought to be ‘thrown away’ so that its mother can come back home to take care of the rest of her children.
“Why did your grandpa say that?” the girls sadly asked… He lived through the days when seriously sick people were taken to the forest to either experience some divine healing and find their way back home, or to die in the forest. Grandpa was never treated in a hospital and didn’t believe in modern medicine.
The toddler lived to tell the story. Although they got a little worried by my birth story last year, the girls still found it interesting in its own unique way. Therefore aware my birthday is approaching, the mischievous girls have been stroking a scar below my right armpit enduring from this fatal burn 41 years ago. And trying to re-count how it came about between themselves.
I can tell they are spoiling to be regaled by my birth story a second time. They have stirred me well enough to spice up the story than last year’s. It’s this kind of stories that substantially arouses their curious minds. Questions galore will follow; and what a remarkable way to celebrate my birthday later today. Responding to their enquiries sometimes sounds like fielding questions from two little researchers. A fruit does not fall far from the tree!
Cancer heads-up
I wish to begin the Year 2019 on the Face Book platform with a heads-up. And to convey my message more clearly, allow me to open my heads-up with a quick introduction.
During the opening of the Mother and Child hospital in Makueni County in early December last year, Governor Kibutha Kibwana in his usual humble mien called a young man up the podium. It was just before the First Lady who was the chief guest at the ceremony rose to speak. Going by the title pastor, I thought the young man meant to say a word of prayer. But he was burning with a message about the health of the nation.
He was sending this message to the President through the First Lady. As a recovered cancer patient, he wanted the President to know that cancer is increasingly becoming a scourge in the country. He wished the President could do something about it.
The First Lady in her characteristic attentive nature and commitment for matters health was absorbing the message. She appeared keen on delivering the message explicitly to the heart of her husband. I was tuned to a live TV broadcast of this event and listened pensively to the young man. He fell short of stating exactly what he wanted the President to do, but his message was nevertheless conveyed articulately and strongly.
The previous day we had laid to rest a close relative who had succumbed to cancer. The young man’s message got me thinking. Yes in indeed more needs to be done about cancer. Granted an opportunity to voice one such priority, I would urge an action which may sound quite obvious and simple, yet quite critical and urgent. That even as we equip our hospitals, train and deploy doctors, the government and other stakeholders need to create awareness for the public to take cancer with seriousness.
I happen to know people who have forfeited on Tuberculosis medication and Anti Retro Viral therapy then resumed afterwards and achieved recovery. But our people need to know that cancer is no joke! When a patient makes a small blunder with medication and follow up with clinic, a tumor can go haywire.
I raise this concern because with all the efforts dedicated towards treatment of cancer, it is disheartening that a quack can still thrive in our midst. A quack can have the leeway to walk around with a briefcase stuffed with chemo medication or other concoctions. A quack has the guts to administer this ‘medication’ to a cancer patient. And after exhausting the little money that a patient has, the quack vanishes leaving them lying on their deathbed at home.
To the medical fraternity in coordination with security organs, a mere suspicion on existence of quacks luring the public into bogus cancer medication ought to be a good enough trigger to action. I therefore urge the duo to deal ruthlessly with what appears to be an emergence of cancer entrepreneurs out to capitalize on public ignorance and sense of helplessness.
And for the good number of us who come from families that are still weighed down by ignorance even on very basic issues, this awareness and forthrightness ought to start with us in our own families. That with my education, awareness and exposure, I should not only be popular in the family because of the position that I hold at my work place, the car I drive, the house I live in and how spontaneously and generously I respond to requests for financial assistance.
That it also behooves me to act quickly and decisively against ignorance especially when it threatens to lead to a fatality. Even if it demands invoking a measure that is vehemently opposed by your kin and acting regardless of possible backlash.
That there is nothing as vanquishing to the heart than when something has come to pass and you are left with this feeling of “what if I didn’t wait?” or “why didn’t I act fast?”. When you are compelled to climb down from your comfort zone to do what you ought to have done, with the very backlash you feared following behind you. When the repercussion is deeply regrettable.
I wish to begin the Year 2019 on the Face Book platform with a heads-up. And to convey my message more clearly, allow me to open my heads-up with a quick introduction.
During the opening of the Mother and Child hospital in Makueni County in early December last year, Governor Kibutha Kibwana in his usual humble mien called a young man up the podium. It was just before the First Lady who was the chief guest at the ceremony rose to speak. Going by the title pastor, I thought the young man meant to say a word of prayer. But he was burning with a message about the health of the nation.
He was sending this message to the President through the First Lady. As a recovered cancer patient, he wanted the President to know that cancer is increasingly becoming a scourge in the country. He wished the President could do something about it.
The First Lady in her characteristic attentive nature and commitment for matters health was absorbing the message. She appeared keen on delivering the message explicitly to the heart of her husband. I was tuned to a live TV broadcast of this event and listened pensively to the young man. He fell short of stating exactly what he wanted the President to do, but his message was nevertheless conveyed articulately and strongly.
The previous day we had laid to rest a close relative who had succumbed to cancer. The young man’s message got me thinking. Yes in indeed more needs to be done about cancer. Granted an opportunity to voice one such priority, I would urge an action which may sound quite obvious and simple, yet quite critical and urgent. That even as we equip our hospitals, train and deploy doctors, the government and other stakeholders need to create awareness for the public to take cancer with seriousness.
I happen to know people who have forfeited on Tuberculosis medication and Anti Retro Viral therapy then resumed afterwards and achieved recovery. But our people need to know that cancer is no joke! When a patient makes a small blunder with medication and follow up with clinic, a tumor can go haywire.
I raise this concern because with all the efforts dedicated towards treatment of cancer, it is disheartening that a quack can still thrive in our midst. A quack can have the leeway to walk around with a briefcase stuffed with chemo medication or other concoctions. A quack has the guts to administer this ‘medication’ to a cancer patient. And after exhausting the little money that a patient has, the quack vanishes leaving them lying on their deathbed at home.
To the medical fraternity in coordination with security organs, a mere suspicion on existence of quacks luring the public into bogus cancer medication ought to be a good enough trigger to action. I therefore urge the duo to deal ruthlessly with what appears to be an emergence of cancer entrepreneurs out to capitalize on public ignorance and sense of helplessness.
And for the good number of us who come from families that are still weighed down by ignorance even on very basic issues, this awareness and forthrightness ought to start with us in our own families. That with my education, awareness and exposure, I should not only be popular in the family because of the position that I hold at my work place, the car I drive, the house I live in and how spontaneously and generously I respond to requests for financial assistance.
That it also behooves me to act quickly and decisively against ignorance especially when it threatens to lead to a fatality. Even if it demands invoking a measure that is vehemently opposed by your kin and acting regardless of possible backlash.
That there is nothing as vanquishing to the heart than when something has come to pass and you are left with this feeling of “what if I didn’t wait?” or “why didn’t I act fast?”. When you are compelled to climb down from your comfort zone to do what you ought to have done, with the very backlash you feared following behind you. When the repercussion is deeply regrettable.
Is someone paying attention?
We all love to express ourselves on things that we know or understand. And our lives and experiences are some of those few things that we claim to know well - at least many of us think we do. However, talking or writing about ourselves is seldom useful or of much interest to others. You often tend to think you have a compelling experience to share, but you could easily slip into a soliloquy or self-indulgence.
Being a fan (fanatic) of stories, I find comfort in skimming through the written word and absorbing stories about happenings, people, places and stuff. The written word is also my most convenient mode of composing my scientific and creative stories. Writing being a solitary practice, I’m so accustomed to being alone at my table, thinking and stitching words together. Writing is therefore not for the faint hearted, or those in a hurry to go somewhere. Neither is reading.
I usually try to give relevance to my story by careful consideration of what, when, how, why, where and who I want to savour that story. While I have little doubt about the what, when, why and the how of my story, I often get disturbed by two critical questions:
(i) Who do I write for - who has the time and patience to read 100 words in a Facebook post?
(ii) Where do I share my story - on which platform can I disseminate my story and draw some attention?
I am however glad that this doubt has now been amicably resolved. Unsurprisingly, I write for that curious reader, ready to indulge in every word I use in that brief story. That person who can immerse into the story and doesn't come out until the end, 1000 words later. That person who emerges with a single sentence from that story, and with a few thoughts about why it captured them. This has special value to me.
I therefore count myself lucky to have those ten people paying attention to my story. I also intend to use diverse platforms where more of the few and far between enthusiastic readers can be found. These include reviving my derelict blog which will be up soon.
I am also my own most avid reader. I can't get enough of reading through my words, listening and critiquing myself along the lines. And this critical look at every brief account I write inadvertently becomes the building block for my next story.
We all love to express ourselves on things that we know or understand. And our lives and experiences are some of those few things that we claim to know well - at least many of us think we do. However, talking or writing about ourselves is seldom useful or of much interest to others. You often tend to think you have a compelling experience to share, but you could easily slip into a soliloquy or self-indulgence.
Being a fan (fanatic) of stories, I find comfort in skimming through the written word and absorbing stories about happenings, people, places and stuff. The written word is also my most convenient mode of composing my scientific and creative stories. Writing being a solitary practice, I’m so accustomed to being alone at my table, thinking and stitching words together. Writing is therefore not for the faint hearted, or those in a hurry to go somewhere. Neither is reading.
I usually try to give relevance to my story by careful consideration of what, when, how, why, where and who I want to savour that story. While I have little doubt about the what, when, why and the how of my story, I often get disturbed by two critical questions:
(i) Who do I write for - who has the time and patience to read 100 words in a Facebook post?
(ii) Where do I share my story - on which platform can I disseminate my story and draw some attention?
I am however glad that this doubt has now been amicably resolved. Unsurprisingly, I write for that curious reader, ready to indulge in every word I use in that brief story. That person who can immerse into the story and doesn't come out until the end, 1000 words later. That person who emerges with a single sentence from that story, and with a few thoughts about why it captured them. This has special value to me.
I therefore count myself lucky to have those ten people paying attention to my story. I also intend to use diverse platforms where more of the few and far between enthusiastic readers can be found. These include reviving my derelict blog which will be up soon.
I am also my own most avid reader. I can't get enough of reading through my words, listening and critiquing myself along the lines. And this critical look at every brief account I write inadvertently becomes the building block for my next story.
Memoirs of modesty
Memoirs are popular with people who have exemplary deeds and noted accomplishments. Or rather, people who have lived extraordinary lives. But a critical analysis of my brief birth story that I composed a couple of moons ago stretched out into a contemplation of a different type of memoir. The memoirs of people with simple lives and small achievements.
The lives and deeds of so many of us may appear as if there is nothing to hold a breath about. Yet amidst the simplicity that characterize our lives are remarkable tales of absolute strives and resiliencies. I will christen these stories the 'memoirs of modesty'.
So, this brief anecdote of my accomplishments in my work life is a progression of my 'memoirs of modesty'. It stirs something in me about myself. And also serves as a confession that the adage ‘Life begins at magical 40’ cannot be truer for me.
All the things that have been in my ‘to accomplish list’ are slowly falling into place. Get me right – this is not about how much I take into or out of my bank account. Neither does it have anything to do with riches and the primitive accumulation rampant in society. It is about how much value I make of every minute of my waking days – with or with no money accruing.
First, my environment career took a long winding twist and glad that I can now effectively juggle assignments in environmental practice and research. Secondly, my creative writing hobby which I have had a long struggle with, is now slowly and surely coming of age. And the bonus: after a rather long incubation characterized by imagining, experimenting, procrastinating and false starts, my fine art (scrap innovations) project is finally shaping up.
The other day I confronted myself about where I got all the time to waste in my 20s and 30s with these true desires of my life waiting to be realized. Only to come to appreciation that I have been painstakingly rehearsing, experimenting, polishing and improving on these three devotions of my life.
What a journey of sheer consistence and persistence, eventually culminating in these humbling achievements. But of course measured using my own scale and not those set forth by family, friends or the society out there. And not forgetting to ask the almighty to grant me meekness and satisfaction from these works every time I go down on my knee.
And admittedly, the days of my life are turning out to be, by and large, reasonably satisfying. Perhaps even feeling a lot more enthralled than Alico Dangote when he took out $10 million crisp dollar notes from his bank account just to take home and admire. The satisfaction I derive from these threesome pursuits is also making me feel young. But not so young though.
Memoirs are popular with people who have exemplary deeds and noted accomplishments. Or rather, people who have lived extraordinary lives. But a critical analysis of my brief birth story that I composed a couple of moons ago stretched out into a contemplation of a different type of memoir. The memoirs of people with simple lives and small achievements.
The lives and deeds of so many of us may appear as if there is nothing to hold a breath about. Yet amidst the simplicity that characterize our lives are remarkable tales of absolute strives and resiliencies. I will christen these stories the 'memoirs of modesty'.
So, this brief anecdote of my accomplishments in my work life is a progression of my 'memoirs of modesty'. It stirs something in me about myself. And also serves as a confession that the adage ‘Life begins at magical 40’ cannot be truer for me.
All the things that have been in my ‘to accomplish list’ are slowly falling into place. Get me right – this is not about how much I take into or out of my bank account. Neither does it have anything to do with riches and the primitive accumulation rampant in society. It is about how much value I make of every minute of my waking days – with or with no money accruing.
First, my environment career took a long winding twist and glad that I can now effectively juggle assignments in environmental practice and research. Secondly, my creative writing hobby which I have had a long struggle with, is now slowly and surely coming of age. And the bonus: after a rather long incubation characterized by imagining, experimenting, procrastinating and false starts, my fine art (scrap innovations) project is finally shaping up.
The other day I confronted myself about where I got all the time to waste in my 20s and 30s with these true desires of my life waiting to be realized. Only to come to appreciation that I have been painstakingly rehearsing, experimenting, polishing and improving on these three devotions of my life.
What a journey of sheer consistence and persistence, eventually culminating in these humbling achievements. But of course measured using my own scale and not those set forth by family, friends or the society out there. And not forgetting to ask the almighty to grant me meekness and satisfaction from these works every time I go down on my knee.
And admittedly, the days of my life are turning out to be, by and large, reasonably satisfying. Perhaps even feeling a lot more enthralled than Alico Dangote when he took out $10 million crisp dollar notes from his bank account just to take home and admire. The satisfaction I derive from these threesome pursuits is also making me feel young. But not so young though.
The story of football stories
I have a confession to make especially at the height of an important sporting season in Africa, the Africa Cup of Nations. I am NOT a soccer fan, with apologies to the legion of fans to whom soccer is THE sport. I have however had my fun moments watching soccer. The most memorable was in high school when my school played a neighbouring school. It rained heavily and the match turned into a messy, do it how you like mix of soccer and rugby. We cheered on in the rain. The referee must have retreated to one of the sheds in Kirigiti stadium to take shelter.
I am however a fan of stories, and I do have a story of football to share. And it is not about the football action in the field. It is rather the story of the football stories. Stories more so emanating from the EPL. The league whose splendid action and formidable sounds, by design, resonate so realistically and irresistibly for millions of fans across the world. The action may only last 90 minutes, but the stories begin to churn days before the match. And continue long after the winner is declared and the looser mocked.
In Kenya, these stories lace everyday conversations in rural villages, in the urban ghettos, in the bus, in the streets and in high places. The EPL soccer fans movement is also driven by solidarity, emotion and romantism. The romantics in the movement often develop and manipulate the story line.
Fans will assemble in all manner of places and spaces to put forth their technical analysis, their predictions, their disappointments etc. Everyone has a story, and every story counts, at least in the cocoon of fellow fans and for that moment when it is still valid.
The stories are told in such superb creativity unlike any other topic that circulates in the public discourse. You can't help the imagery used to explain how that opportunity got converted, or how that chance got wasted. Add to this the mchongoano (taunting) exchanged between fans of rival clubs, which knows no age boundaries.
Sandwiched between two such fans in a congested cyber cafe, they switch into a dazzling language of the permutations and combinations they will apply in placing their bets. They use the first person plural 'we', 'us', in reference to the glorified clubs, the revered players, the hallowed precincts and the impending play offs in faraway Europe. *A fan friend of mine couldn't fathom how for the life of him, someone can travel to Europe and pass by the hilarious Old Trafford and not feel something jerk somewhere inside them.
How I wish the society yarns its various other stories so vividly and visibly. Arguably, football has helped to foster national unity in Kenya in the midst of tribal politics and other forms of negative ethnicity. I think it has the potential to instil in people the kind of togetherness that nation’s struggle to cultivate among their citizens with national anthems, loyalty pledges, national days, monuments and the like.
I could also be right to assert that this important social discourse is just wasting away. I am therefore persuaded that in addition to the sports news and technical reviews on media, these ‘ordinary’ conversations deserve to be documented and disseminated in one form or the other.
With the stories already abounding and readily accessible, I would wish to synthesize them from the spoken word to the written word. I would make accounts of where fans normally hook up with the action, fans versions of the climax of the action, how to place a bet, how to celebrate a win and how to cope with loss etc. If only the platform could be made available, I think I would have such an easy time in a creative sports writing assignment.
Perhaps getting me immersed in organizing these scattered conversations into structured narratives would be the highest price one would pay to convert me into a soccer fan. But one who would prefer not to confess allegiance to any of the clubs in order to remain unbiased in my synthesis of the football stories.
Any offers Nation? Standard?
I have a confession to make especially at the height of an important sporting season in Africa, the Africa Cup of Nations. I am NOT a soccer fan, with apologies to the legion of fans to whom soccer is THE sport. I have however had my fun moments watching soccer. The most memorable was in high school when my school played a neighbouring school. It rained heavily and the match turned into a messy, do it how you like mix of soccer and rugby. We cheered on in the rain. The referee must have retreated to one of the sheds in Kirigiti stadium to take shelter.
I am however a fan of stories, and I do have a story of football to share. And it is not about the football action in the field. It is rather the story of the football stories. Stories more so emanating from the EPL. The league whose splendid action and formidable sounds, by design, resonate so realistically and irresistibly for millions of fans across the world. The action may only last 90 minutes, but the stories begin to churn days before the match. And continue long after the winner is declared and the looser mocked.
In Kenya, these stories lace everyday conversations in rural villages, in the urban ghettos, in the bus, in the streets and in high places. The EPL soccer fans movement is also driven by solidarity, emotion and romantism. The romantics in the movement often develop and manipulate the story line.
Fans will assemble in all manner of places and spaces to put forth their technical analysis, their predictions, their disappointments etc. Everyone has a story, and every story counts, at least in the cocoon of fellow fans and for that moment when it is still valid.
The stories are told in such superb creativity unlike any other topic that circulates in the public discourse. You can't help the imagery used to explain how that opportunity got converted, or how that chance got wasted. Add to this the mchongoano (taunting) exchanged between fans of rival clubs, which knows no age boundaries.
Sandwiched between two such fans in a congested cyber cafe, they switch into a dazzling language of the permutations and combinations they will apply in placing their bets. They use the first person plural 'we', 'us', in reference to the glorified clubs, the revered players, the hallowed precincts and the impending play offs in faraway Europe. *A fan friend of mine couldn't fathom how for the life of him, someone can travel to Europe and pass by the hilarious Old Trafford and not feel something jerk somewhere inside them.
How I wish the society yarns its various other stories so vividly and visibly. Arguably, football has helped to foster national unity in Kenya in the midst of tribal politics and other forms of negative ethnicity. I think it has the potential to instil in people the kind of togetherness that nation’s struggle to cultivate among their citizens with national anthems, loyalty pledges, national days, monuments and the like.
I could also be right to assert that this important social discourse is just wasting away. I am therefore persuaded that in addition to the sports news and technical reviews on media, these ‘ordinary’ conversations deserve to be documented and disseminated in one form or the other.
With the stories already abounding and readily accessible, I would wish to synthesize them from the spoken word to the written word. I would make accounts of where fans normally hook up with the action, fans versions of the climax of the action, how to place a bet, how to celebrate a win and how to cope with loss etc. If only the platform could be made available, I think I would have such an easy time in a creative sports writing assignment.
Perhaps getting me immersed in organizing these scattered conversations into structured narratives would be the highest price one would pay to convert me into a soccer fan. But one who would prefer not to confess allegiance to any of the clubs in order to remain unbiased in my synthesis of the football stories.
Any offers Nation? Standard?
Ties Unbinding
We all have people close to us who’s certain conduct or action has put the bonds we share with them into doubt or betrayal. This is everything the Bible, sorry, the dictionary says the words ‘doubt and betrayal’ means. And you don’t want to remain surprised or disappointed, or to keep whining about that someone. You want to say it as it is, honestly and explicitly and get the damn issue off your heart. By that someone I especially mean your brother, sister, nephew, niece, cousin or friend.
Wouldn’t you feel good if someone openly confronted you when you upset them? It's also a relief for you to engage someone diplomatically when they betray the ties that bind you. And not hesitating to raffle feathers when compelled to do so. Throwing your diplomatic hat off and being a little bit bare knuckled if the up close and candid moment works best this way. And not casting the stick deep as to muddy the pod, just stirring a little.
I am however not even remotely advocating lording over your morality or etiquettes on anyone. I am only exhorting the importance of establishing the authenticity of the basic principles that bind you with that someone. For ties that bind are built on certain fundamental principles and commitments including loyalty, honesty, courtesy, gratitude and humility. And violations of the bonds that gel us with relatives and friends must be avoided at all costs.
However, binding ties can be subjected to an honest censure without breaking. Being specific about your issue and careful not to be vindictive. And this might turn out to be the ultimate test of whether that bond you share with that someone is superficial or has a solid foundation. This is the crux: on raising the slightest objection or criticism, weak or unbinding ties crumble like a house of cards. With some of those someones not really worried about losing a part of themselves.
So, if you are not one to live a lie in your friendships and relations, and have an axe to grind with that someone, don’t hesitate to go for this very decisive antidote. And get ready to breathe a good sigh of relief.
Disclaimer – this may be counterproductive, so make sure your shock absorbers are strong and well-greased to absorb the wrath. And have a strategy to manage/live with the aftermath. Because more often than not, ‘utakuja kujua hujui’. On at least two occasions when I applied this antidote, the brittle bonds I shared with those someones instantly snapped away.
You will be lucky if that good friend or relative of yours doesn’t swing up promptly, wondering where you got the source of law to criticize or raise an objection against them. Anticipate the worst as well: that someone may come out guns blazing, hurling invectives at you. Calling you shenzi (stupid) and other unprintable that are usually spewed by social deviants in a certain culture. The kind of nasty words usually hinted with the first letter (B) and the others letters muted with asterisk (****), or concealed with a sound over a recorded audio. Thrown to you by someone you consider to be close to you just because you questioned their unbecoming conduct in a particular situation.
A sympathetic gang may be quickly assembled to provide reinforcement. Or to just applaud as that someone gracelessly lets loose caprices of emotion that could have remained camouflaged, and which could have continued to choke them if you didn’t come out unequivocally.
You will be linked to a kamati (cartel) hell bent on ‘discrediting’ and ‘devastating them’. Surely, self-righteousness is more stubborn than self-interest. Some more bombshells may drop: that the bond you always believed you shared with the good friend or relative of yours was just but your weird claim to entitlement at their table of privilege. And the salvos might continue to fly with no holds barred, further diminishing the currency of friendship or blood relation.
By which time your point is Home and Dry, and you have relished in a deep, well-deserved sigh of relief. After you have diligently maintained closeness with a relative or hanged on to a friendship for years, it turns out you have only been a daring entitlement seeker. Your only recourse here is to count your losses, and then hurriedly and quietly walk away to cool off in peace. And essentially leave that/those someones to be haunted by eternal shame.
Left floating on the surface is the insincerity and indifference that remained covert for so long. Tactfully hidden beneath those occasional (fuzzy) tête-à-têtes. Those (plastic) smiles. Those (procedural) firm handshakes. Those (acted out) hugs. And those Facebook/WhatsApp (cheat) chats and (suspiciously) glowing emojis. In the case of a relative, that which flows in our system and on which we proclaim kinship might turn out to be just but a dilute red fluid; perhaps even thinner than water.
We all have people close to us who’s certain conduct or action has put the bonds we share with them into doubt or betrayal. This is everything the Bible, sorry, the dictionary says the words ‘doubt and betrayal’ means. And you don’t want to remain surprised or disappointed, or to keep whining about that someone. You want to say it as it is, honestly and explicitly and get the damn issue off your heart. By that someone I especially mean your brother, sister, nephew, niece, cousin or friend.
Wouldn’t you feel good if someone openly confronted you when you upset them? It's also a relief for you to engage someone diplomatically when they betray the ties that bind you. And not hesitating to raffle feathers when compelled to do so. Throwing your diplomatic hat off and being a little bit bare knuckled if the up close and candid moment works best this way. And not casting the stick deep as to muddy the pod, just stirring a little.
I am however not even remotely advocating lording over your morality or etiquettes on anyone. I am only exhorting the importance of establishing the authenticity of the basic principles that bind you with that someone. For ties that bind are built on certain fundamental principles and commitments including loyalty, honesty, courtesy, gratitude and humility. And violations of the bonds that gel us with relatives and friends must be avoided at all costs.
However, binding ties can be subjected to an honest censure without breaking. Being specific about your issue and careful not to be vindictive. And this might turn out to be the ultimate test of whether that bond you share with that someone is superficial or has a solid foundation. This is the crux: on raising the slightest objection or criticism, weak or unbinding ties crumble like a house of cards. With some of those someones not really worried about losing a part of themselves.
So, if you are not one to live a lie in your friendships and relations, and have an axe to grind with that someone, don’t hesitate to go for this very decisive antidote. And get ready to breathe a good sigh of relief.
Disclaimer – this may be counterproductive, so make sure your shock absorbers are strong and well-greased to absorb the wrath. And have a strategy to manage/live with the aftermath. Because more often than not, ‘utakuja kujua hujui’. On at least two occasions when I applied this antidote, the brittle bonds I shared with those someones instantly snapped away.
You will be lucky if that good friend or relative of yours doesn’t swing up promptly, wondering where you got the source of law to criticize or raise an objection against them. Anticipate the worst as well: that someone may come out guns blazing, hurling invectives at you. Calling you shenzi (stupid) and other unprintable that are usually spewed by social deviants in a certain culture. The kind of nasty words usually hinted with the first letter (B) and the others letters muted with asterisk (****), or concealed with a sound over a recorded audio. Thrown to you by someone you consider to be close to you just because you questioned their unbecoming conduct in a particular situation.
A sympathetic gang may be quickly assembled to provide reinforcement. Or to just applaud as that someone gracelessly lets loose caprices of emotion that could have remained camouflaged, and which could have continued to choke them if you didn’t come out unequivocally.
You will be linked to a kamati (cartel) hell bent on ‘discrediting’ and ‘devastating them’. Surely, self-righteousness is more stubborn than self-interest. Some more bombshells may drop: that the bond you always believed you shared with the good friend or relative of yours was just but your weird claim to entitlement at their table of privilege. And the salvos might continue to fly with no holds barred, further diminishing the currency of friendship or blood relation.
By which time your point is Home and Dry, and you have relished in a deep, well-deserved sigh of relief. After you have diligently maintained closeness with a relative or hanged on to a friendship for years, it turns out you have only been a daring entitlement seeker. Your only recourse here is to count your losses, and then hurriedly and quietly walk away to cool off in peace. And essentially leave that/those someones to be haunted by eternal shame.
Left floating on the surface is the insincerity and indifference that remained covert for so long. Tactfully hidden beneath those occasional (fuzzy) tête-à-têtes. Those (plastic) smiles. Those (procedural) firm handshakes. Those (acted out) hugs. And those Facebook/WhatsApp (cheat) chats and (suspiciously) glowing emojis. In the case of a relative, that which flows in our system and on which we proclaim kinship might turn out to be just but a dilute red fluid; perhaps even thinner than water.
Trail of hawkers
With their marketing ingenuity, hawkers, can be an awesome lot. They purport to remind us the things we need for ourselves, our families, our houses, our animals, our farms etc. And in the process the have perfected an arguably effective selling tactic. In the context of runaway joblessness, they have become ubiquitous and aggressive in their brusque business all over the place – along the streets, inside the bus and door to door. Some make their business as light as possible to move around with. The ambitious ones exhaust themselves with a heavy load of merchandise.
Sometimes they spontaneously happen on us when we least expected them. And this notoriety pushes some establishments to keep them at bay with the ‘no hawking’ notices. Many towns and cities are grappling with the toll of hawking which accelerates urban congestion and provides camouflage for crime.
It is however in those places we frequent to while away time and ‘spoil money’ that hawkers confront us best. I am Relaxing in one such place the other day and up to nothing much. So I curiously follow the trail of hawkers and their diverse merchandise. I engage with two and also happen to overhear the haggling on the tables across mine. I pay particular attention to the hawkers’ business acumen.
Hawker # 1: selling bites such as ground nuts, cashew nuts and macadamia, chewing gums and sweets. He extends his box of merchandise held with his left hand to right under my nose and taps on the box rhythmically. The rhythm is accompanied by a unison jingling of coins in his right hand. I pick a sachet of g-nuts and he’s left with my 20 bob change. He’s not willing to give back the change, so he entices me into taking some sweets or gum for myself or to take to my children. I let him know that I do not chew gum or sweets nor do I take any home to my children. He then pulls out a ball of sim-sim and I am game. The sim sim blends well with the g-nuts, swallowed with a sip of my drink.
Hawker # 2: selling water – I must replenish my factory which requires adequate amounts of water to process the frothy stuff I am imbibing. I grab a half litre bottle. The vendor talks me into buying a litre if I wish to wake up without a hangover the following day. I ‘take heed of his advice’ and substitute the half litre with a litre. A sip of water also helps to wash down the tiny simsim seeds stuck in my gums.
Hawker # 3: selling two products (i) a substance that can deal a fatal blow to creatures that trouble us all the away from the kitchen to the bedroom, i.e. cockroaches, bedbugs and all. (ii) A dental suspension with potency for every dental problem including a painful tooth, breeding gums, ‘meno kuingiza baridi’ etc. A patron at the adjacent table is about to buy the dental suspension before he is intercepted by his friend who wonders how a single remedy can be such a panacea for everything dental. An argument ensues. The hawker walks away grumbling, and on his way out quips that the suspension is also potent for ‘upungufu wa akili’.
Hawker # 4: has slices of water melon, pineapples and pumpkin packed in a clear bucket. Some one remembers his weaning child might wake up hungry the following day and a pumpkin will do. He grabs some pieces of the pumpkin. He gives a 500 bob note. The hawker pesters him to get some pieces of water melon and pineapples to make it easy to get change.
Hawker # 5: selling men, women and what she calls ‘unisex’ underwear –a new variety perhaps? Someone realizes he could soon be running threadbare underneath and grabs two for himself. The hawker implores him to take some for his better half. He claims he doesn’t know her size and the vendor asks him to describe her built around the hip quarters. He says her better half is exactly the same built as the vendor. The vendor pulls out the appropriate size for him to select his other half’s favourite colour and design. The haggling of course involves some amount of flattery. In a swift business acumen, the hawker might have rekindled romance in a marriage.
From this impromptu analysis, I arrive at the conclusion that hawkers’ shows up on us right on time with something we genuinely need. They also induce the impulse buyers and the tight pocketed alike during their most vulnerable moments. Under the influence, the sped thrifts pick and pick while the misers have begun to soften towards honouring the self and familial responsibilities they usually neglect.
With their marketing ingenuity, hawkers, can be an awesome lot. They purport to remind us the things we need for ourselves, our families, our houses, our animals, our farms etc. And in the process the have perfected an arguably effective selling tactic. In the context of runaway joblessness, they have become ubiquitous and aggressive in their brusque business all over the place – along the streets, inside the bus and door to door. Some make their business as light as possible to move around with. The ambitious ones exhaust themselves with a heavy load of merchandise.
Sometimes they spontaneously happen on us when we least expected them. And this notoriety pushes some establishments to keep them at bay with the ‘no hawking’ notices. Many towns and cities are grappling with the toll of hawking which accelerates urban congestion and provides camouflage for crime.
It is however in those places we frequent to while away time and ‘spoil money’ that hawkers confront us best. I am Relaxing in one such place the other day and up to nothing much. So I curiously follow the trail of hawkers and their diverse merchandise. I engage with two and also happen to overhear the haggling on the tables across mine. I pay particular attention to the hawkers’ business acumen.
Hawker # 1: selling bites such as ground nuts, cashew nuts and macadamia, chewing gums and sweets. He extends his box of merchandise held with his left hand to right under my nose and taps on the box rhythmically. The rhythm is accompanied by a unison jingling of coins in his right hand. I pick a sachet of g-nuts and he’s left with my 20 bob change. He’s not willing to give back the change, so he entices me into taking some sweets or gum for myself or to take to my children. I let him know that I do not chew gum or sweets nor do I take any home to my children. He then pulls out a ball of sim-sim and I am game. The sim sim blends well with the g-nuts, swallowed with a sip of my drink.
Hawker # 2: selling water – I must replenish my factory which requires adequate amounts of water to process the frothy stuff I am imbibing. I grab a half litre bottle. The vendor talks me into buying a litre if I wish to wake up without a hangover the following day. I ‘take heed of his advice’ and substitute the half litre with a litre. A sip of water also helps to wash down the tiny simsim seeds stuck in my gums.
Hawker # 3: selling two products (i) a substance that can deal a fatal blow to creatures that trouble us all the away from the kitchen to the bedroom, i.e. cockroaches, bedbugs and all. (ii) A dental suspension with potency for every dental problem including a painful tooth, breeding gums, ‘meno kuingiza baridi’ etc. A patron at the adjacent table is about to buy the dental suspension before he is intercepted by his friend who wonders how a single remedy can be such a panacea for everything dental. An argument ensues. The hawker walks away grumbling, and on his way out quips that the suspension is also potent for ‘upungufu wa akili’.
Hawker # 4: has slices of water melon, pineapples and pumpkin packed in a clear bucket. Some one remembers his weaning child might wake up hungry the following day and a pumpkin will do. He grabs some pieces of the pumpkin. He gives a 500 bob note. The hawker pesters him to get some pieces of water melon and pineapples to make it easy to get change.
Hawker # 5: selling men, women and what she calls ‘unisex’ underwear –a new variety perhaps? Someone realizes he could soon be running threadbare underneath and grabs two for himself. The hawker implores him to take some for his better half. He claims he doesn’t know her size and the vendor asks him to describe her built around the hip quarters. He says her better half is exactly the same built as the vendor. The vendor pulls out the appropriate size for him to select his other half’s favourite colour and design. The haggling of course involves some amount of flattery. In a swift business acumen, the hawker might have rekindled romance in a marriage.
From this impromptu analysis, I arrive at the conclusion that hawkers’ shows up on us right on time with something we genuinely need. They also induce the impulse buyers and the tight pocketed alike during their most vulnerable moments. Under the influence, the sped thrifts pick and pick while the misers have begun to soften towards honouring the self and familial responsibilities they usually neglect.
