There's a country I used to lead

There is a country I used to lead
I was their supreme leader
They adored me like a faithful dealer
I was their Messiah sent to sire

They loved to be manipulated
Shoved and ordered around hither and thither
Sadistic made them go ballistic
They saw the strong grip of a tyrant ruler as artistic

Anarchy wasn't a vice in that nation
Nor was the selfishness evident like a cancerous lession
Civil liberties and freedom were kitch and fad words
Gruesome violence was awesome

Accountability is the thing in this nation I lead now
A hundred rats jostling for my position
Democracy,equality and transparency is their new song
They are tired of the fervent hold of an ageing dictator


©MzeeVaraq2012

posted from Bloggeroid

The grand conspiracy

I have not updated this blog of late, too much activity in the varaqsphere I would add. Yet the main reason I think has been lack of motivation. I have recently discovered that I can write best when am mad at something or somebody or can feign enough anger, just sufficient to complete a post. The truth however is that things have not been that bad, really. Am even tempted to say good, the only problem though with that word is that it doesn’t exist in varaqsphere. My blog is about whining remember?

So last week, after a long sabbatical I finally decided to pay a visit to DJ Brayo. Now DJ Brayo is not your normal mix master, he is my movie guy. Okay, not just mine alone, Default’s too. Okay even you Wekemeu. He operates, or for the purpose of this story, used to operate a movie shop in Tom Mboya Street. I can’t really recall the last time I was there. I think I went to look for some series, it must be How I met your mother, I think. The construction of the Post Modern Library and free Wi-Fi I think have something to do with it. This is despite the director of Wi-Fi’s (am not sure the position exists) best effort to limit the internet usage to things academic. After all, doesn’t watching Dr House, teach us practical medicine? 

Well, the place looked different with a new shelving system; beautiful ladies on cue, ready to assist you choose the new thing in the market. Also gone with DJ Brayo was my dear Caro. Now Caro in all sincerity was the reason I went to DJ Brayo’s on such a regular basis. She was just a sight to behold. She had this charming smile that made me buy documentaries upon documentaries, even those, especially those I didn’t need. Sometimes I look at my collection and wonder how the hell I got to buy documentaries such as `How to smuggle marijuana in the US’. Nothing personal against marijuana people but seriously? Smuggle? Marijuana? In the United States? I think I must have thought uncle Barry would come for me. I remember I used to tell her how Roba and Caro would make a lovely couple. There is this line that I liked using a lot then that if we cancelled the similar letters in our names, we would   remain 1-1, yaani draw yaani moja. What perfect sync!

And even though I knew her first loyalty was to DJ Brayo, I was just willing, and of course able to buy anything she recommended. In all fairness though, they weren’t such bad choices, I mean most of them. So I finally looked at the handsome man in the mirror, mustered some courage and told myself,”Varaq, you can do this!” you must imagine my disappointment when I got there and not being greeted by my most favorite smile in the world, okay second favorite, just so I don’t find myself single after this article. She had left, just like that, I mean who does that? No note, no press statement. In all fairness we didn’t exchange numbers; she liked it mysterious and random. But she could just have googled me. The new ladies though were not keen on offering any information on the former tenants so I guess all just have to look for you manually all over Nairobi, that’s if you dint go to smuggle marijuana in the US already.ill knock on ever door, until I find you. So in case you are reading this  1/1 is coming for you  babe.

Well this episode at DJ Brayo’s reminded me of just how far apart we are getting, I mean the Maseno community in KU. One can’t rule out that there has been a grand conspiracy to destabilize and disorient the Mase Musketeers by the top echelons of power. I remember every Friday was nyama day in mzee Default’s room, never mind that we didn’t have sufurias, plates, spoons, or even basic ingredients such as cooking oil and even the cooker! All we had was hope, the same hope instilled in Barrack Obama jr by Barrack Obama snr, a Maseno boy. We didn’t care whether we had to borrow, steal or buy and dispose(we weren’t keepers then).All we had was the conviction that at the end of a laborious week, Default ,Sad News, Dzjaduon’g Dimitri, Wekemeu, and occasionally Mchil would congregate in Frunk’s corner in Longonot 2B and talk over mouthfuls and revise a few episodes of Boondocks.

During those days, if I got a text I knew it was free Dzjaduon’g Dimitri telling me he’ll be running late and asking me to’ catch for him’ two chapatis at the Nyayo mess before the stock got depleted. Then we liked Nyayo mess because the rice was yellower as compared to the others. We naturally assumed then that yellow was the colour of sweetness. And in case were still waiting for Wekemeu to finish an episode that he was always at the verge of finishing, we would order more  chapo and wash it down with free soup freely accorded by our gracious university administration. We called it desert then.

Well , that’s untenable now that my roommate, mzee Byudeh has introduced me into the wonderful world of arega(just ask around in case you don’t know) and Wekemeu now ‘travels’ to school, I’ll get into that story shortly. Sad news as you might be aware is the new Mr. KU and can’t allow his hard earned reputation to be soiled. Imagine if rumor mills has it that he was seen gulping down soup in the students mess. His new status elevates him to the table of men. As for Dzjaduon’g Dimitri, let’s just say that if anybody would like to do a study on the progression of arega addiction and dependency then Dimitri would be your perfect candidate.

Before I forget, I promised you my dear people a story on Wekemeu’s commuter status. This is the guy who invented the only surviving Mase tradition, an ancient tradition called #teamgikosh in the year 2010 as well as contributing several words to the Mase’s dictionary. The tradition is a unique and complex journey that involves waking up at 6.25 am and covering a stretch of about 200 meters in order to catch the 6.30 am train to town. One would wonder how five minutes would be adequate to prepare himself, well it would be if you slept fully dressed .In case you are wondering what was wrong with adjusting the alarm to give adequate time for preparation, here is your answer. The sheer fun of barely making it, the rush of adrenaline, and the joy was fun that couldn’t be traded for anything, not even at the altar of convenience. Yes, and the fact that it provided the founder with a God given opportunity to work out, albeit even for five minutes. 

The catch though was to carry less cash lest one succumb to the impulse to buy what he didn’t really need. In most cases though this intervention didn’t work because of the new Barclays branch in Gikomba. The elite only bank with the elite. Back to Wekemeu, with such achievement, one can drown in his own invincibility. Well if Wekemeu thought he was important, the director accommodations just reminded him how average he is. In all respect though, the fight isn’t over, maybe his good friends Alicia Florick, Danny Crane or Allan Shaw might just unite for him in the greatest legal battle of all time.

I must have mentioned something about Willis House in my piece, the school of men. A description wouldn’t be complete without mentioning the guy Adush Latif Maxcy. If there was a guy who was conspicuous then it was adush. If it wasn’t about his higher than normal melanin concentration then it was his short trousers that were way above the knee. In all fairness, the shorts being provided by the boarding master weren’t tailored for a man of Adush’s physique. Here was a tall form one standing in front of the house assembly giving cover for the naughty guys behind just finishing their loaves or talking about how a madam teacher was really smart that morning, sharing or creating the latest rumor in school.

If there is a reason am mentioning him today is because of his big heart, literally. This abnormality has caused the disruption of normal heart activities and he needs urgent open heart surgery in India and guys are contributing towards this course. For more info check out A Heart for Adush on facebook. We can’t afford to be just friends when there is laughter to be shared or goat to be roasted. We can stand together and be counted, we can choose to remember where we came from and help Adush stay alive. And the great news is that it’s within our powers, it can be done and it will be done. 

Just like we believed we could eat nyama without even having a sufuria or the courage of Wekemeu of  shoving his way  past men who had bricks for biceps cause he was walking alongside me………………and Dimitri………..and the others too.

Barrack obama did it; again…………………………we can too.

. 

What’s your message?

You use to floss me to your pals

Now you just toss me like a fifty kg bag of cement

Sometimes you avoid me as plague

Other times you embrace me like keg

A month ago we were the perfect sync

Dotting on each other like a hen fusses over the chick

Holding hands in public, texting all week

Missing each other immediately we hugged bye

You used to meet me coz u were in sheer awe

Now you do so out of utter owe

Do you want me to fight for you

Like rams over a ewe?

Ma heart races every time I see you

You still have that tight hold on me

Dangling both the carrot and the stick

Teasing my mind to click

Never for once having a fight

Just being each other’s light

Finding the flow, rolling on the floor

Whispering the promise of a grander tomorrow

How couldn’t have I seen this coming?

So engrossed that I swallowed the bait whole

Should have seen the subtle hints

And taken the opportunity to scuttle our bond

It wasn’t rocket science

That my docket in the alliance was untenable

Should have seen the writing on the wall

The moment I hit the wrong gong

Oh my Esther, as sweet as an ester

Couldn’t you have padded my fall

Not to land from erect to eject

To wail over my tail which still ail

Mzee Varaq 2012

The School of Men

There is stereotype that Luos are proud and headstrong individuals who see themselves as far above other communities in the cadre of ranks-never mind that Forbes or our dear Steadman have not posed the question to some two thousand four hundred respondents for determination. They don’t need their approval-one would say. After all you don’t have to be told that you are bright for you to believe that the one above gave you something between your ears.

The Luos it’s said have a unique and entirely conspicuous way of life. They don’t just do things for the sake of having them done-they do them with a bang. I will not allow myself to be dragged into confirming or denying these allegations not least coz they existed before I was born but because the least said about it the better. Who knows what other Luopeans may to do to me bearing in mind that one good judge of Luo descent recently declared Mr. Omar El Bashir a persona non grata in Kenya. 

But that’s beside the point. If you think these of the Luos I don’t know what you would say of Maseno School alumni. Yes, the lucky man who had the honors of going to the only national school west of the Great Rift Valley. That may not hold weight any more bearing in mind that each county has a national school now. We can however use the ‘we are the original’ line and still eat our cake. The only school that was eligible to participate in provincial fetes at two different provinces-after all neither of the provinces could claim sole custody. You might be wondering why the results got posted under Nyanza. The Luos live there, remember? I remember we used to wake up in the southern hemisphere, go for breakfast in the Northern hemisphere, attend classes in Nyanza province and go for games in western province. No, we didn’t have tuk tuks or boda bodas in school; in case you we beginning to wonder.

But it wasn’t just the physical location at the foot of the Emabungo Hills that gave Maseno the bragging rights. I remember during one instance at the provincial drama festival gala, the provincial director of education made the unforgivable mistake of calling Maseno High school as the overall winners. He was stunned when instead of ululations; the students only looked at each other. His mistake, you guessed it right-Maseno isn’t a high school; it’s just Maseno School.

The list of the great men who passed through the school is boldly embedded in the schools dining hall. Barrack obama is an alumnus of Maseno School! Not Michelle’s husband but Sasha and Malia’s grandpa. Those who went to Maseno School will no tire of telling you how they sat in the classrooms where Jaramogi conceived some of his brilliant ideas. The Rock of Ages, the school chapel is where Tinga was baptized. I won’t mention others like the speaker and myself –you should appreciate am not a proud man.

In Maseno School, there were no boys-only gentlemen who had been refined by the hardest of circumstances to the smoothest of men. I remember during my first assembly, some tall hugely built master gave us a speech on how we were going to be transformed over time. That man as I later realized was the principal and he needn’t do anything to instill fear. He cut the look of an  imposing master and I do remember when he spoke the school was silent save for the occasional quacking of the monkeys.ooh and if I dint say it, the population of monkeys and lizards in the school far surpassed the student population-not that an to be taken seriously of course. No census was done to that effect.

Another thing that a Masenonian (that was how the ladies called us then) couldn’t just let you go without letting you in was the houses-those that you called dormitories in your high schools .I remember the first time I got my admission letter, what I lost for enthusiasm in not getting my first choice Starehe I quickly replaced with the thought that I was to be a resident of Willis House. It sounds exotic, right? That was my first instinct as well .My good brother who in the years before had had the honors of passing through this factory found it amusing. Why he found it so I soon figured out myself and let’s just say it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. It’s true what they say, British sounding names doesn’t necessary translate into palaces.

So here I was an unimpressed tenant of Willis House with the greatest of stories not least among them that the house assembly rests on a tree that has spurn over a century. I remember, the old boys especially the form twos had been compelled to false hospitality. For one term they fetched us water from a huge tank with another fancy name-the Jacobs well and later stole the same water themselves. But if there is an invaluable lesson we learnt was how to survive and live us brothers. 

Nothing spread faster than a juicy story. By the time it made an entire lap; the owner of the story would be impressed by the pool of creative talent. Some of these rumors eventually turned out to be true. Whatever you did, don’t just hog the limelight coz there were hyenas to deal with those who asked to much questions. The student leadership was a powerful force to be reckoned with and remaining in their good books was a ticket to safety. The most frequent threat was,” if you value your jaws…”.This would make sense to you if you realized just what a plate of nyoyo meant. Of course you couldn’t crash the maize and the few beans without a complete dental set!

And now that am talking about food, it is only fair that I let you in on some of the culinary interests that were unique to this chosen few. There were delicacies such as fish and chicken. The latter was served albeit once in a while to motivate the students. As for the former let’s just say that the school procurement officer always missed the big fish and in most cases we had to settle for the smaller version-omena. During those every meal could be successfully paired with bread, mandazis or samosas, be it rice or beans. The value of six bob was 'metronomical’ then .Don’t ask me what that means, am not sure ,I just got it from another article and thought it would do my piece some justice.

 Being broke was a bitch but we devised ways to get by. After all isn’t necessity the mother of invention? We acted as if we just needed an extra bob to purchase these precious commodities and the people with loose change were just eager to be of help. Ten friends each contributing a bob to this noble cause would ensure you have two mandazis sometimes even living more lavishly than the donors. It was however, mutually benefiting as you would be the one doing the coin dropping next time unless of course you were those guys who had ‘fixed’ money any time.

And how could I forget the trips. If there was ever a motivation to be neat then these were. Those who didn’t have the necessary apparel such as ultra white shirts or nice shoes didn’t let this minor inconvenience come between them and the lasses on offer. They either resorted to buying or borrowing. Stealing was of course an offence and being the model students that we were ,we just borrowed from the washing lines and returned it dirty and creased after it had outlived its usefulness .This was referred to as involuntary  temporary borrowing. The other form, permanent borrowing, where an individual kept the ‘borrowed ‘merchandise for eternity was however rare and frowned upon. It went against the basic code of brotherhood. 

This was also a God sent opportunity for juniors (forms 1 and 2) to adorn long trousers. This was believed to   exponentially increase their net value an opportunity they seized with both hands. And if they spotted the same deodorant then your guess is as good as mine. The only thing that could be trusted as genuine in a Maseno man was his face and the brain behind it. Never mind that Baby J Mogz, the hockey maestro enjoyed success in his muddy grey short and his umoja slippers. The skills that he used are however encrypted. I will however seek his permission to release such classified info in my next post.

I remember that we learnt that there wasn’t much we could do about tomorrow; therefore we lived each day to the fullest. I remember we laughed at our common misfortunes instead of mourning over them. I remember the concept of brotherhood –everything save for toothbrushes and undergarments belonged not just to you and your immediate cycle of friends but others you didn’t love as much . Even in the trickiest of circumstances we still found a way out. 

That was Maseno School for you, a school that taught pride and self belief even before the curriculum.

the first epistle of mzee varaq to his people

Caroline Mutoko, the self confessed queen of radio has been hoarding much of the media limelight for the past fortnight. And it’s not because in her sensational style she picked a quarrel with one cabinet minister or her favorite customer, Alfred Mutua but for,wait,you not going to believe this………copy, pasting!  Her inspiring ‘piece’ a letter to my twenty something old self apparently had done its round on the net before it graced our Nairobi Star columns. The letter has raised furore hitherto unseen with most tweeps calling it a perfect epitome of plagiarism.

            There were others however who remained steadfast in their belief that Kenya’s version of the iron lady is capable of no evil. Others in her defense used the famous line “he who is without a sin cast the first stone”. I however refuse to judge unless you execute the villainy I teach you. Who knows you might even better the instruction. She must have however seriously underestimated Kenyans reading culture.

            She has however inspired me to do something new, write a letter; not to my twenty something old self but about my twenty something old self.

This got me thinking about the tones of letters swiftly gathering dust in a certain metallic box in my father’s house. I remember most of them were from some Angie of Moi Girls’ and others that am having a hard time remembering their names. Unlike these ‘missives’ as we called them then, this epistle is not of a hopeless romantic but rather of a sober man. It’s not of a little boy who will tell the love of his life how food tastes different without her. It’s definitely not of a man who’ll insert babe, sweetie, honey, dear before every full stop just so as to be seen as romantic. I know Macabre might be disappointed after all those preps in form two green that we spent to fine tune that writing.

Dear Pals/ Acquaintances/ Family/sweetheart e.t.c …... (Tick as appropriate)

Am just a young man trying to find his niche in the society, when you see me try up different things like Yoga or Spanish lessons or even aerobics, don’t judge me. Don’t ask me why I quit the Sarakasi dancers just after ten minutes. Just take that as youthful energy without a solid home. 

Am not writing to you so you would understand me totally. No, I could never play such huge responsibilities on your feeble shoulders for even I don’t understand myself at times. I don’t know why I do certain things, I don’t know why I am the way I am some times, am writing to you just so you would fathom where am coming from, my motivations and maybe  what makes me tick.

Somebody once asked me why I like to complicate my life, why a simple life wouldn’t just suffice for me. A life that involves doing the regular things that normal people do. Never mind that normal is relative. He wasn’t the first and am sure he won’t be the last, I ask myself the same question too and just as it beats you, so does it me. So don’t ask me that, when I get the answer that befitteth I assure you you will be the first to know. 

Sometimes you look at me and shake your heads in disgust at the boisterousness and noise that accompany me. You don’t understand why instead of taking advantage of the free texts on my android device to alert somebody 200 metres in front of me to stop, I’d rather shout at the top of my voice to achieve the same effect. You don’t understand that where I come from, that is how we used to call that guy who passed by our village to hawk ‘mang’ich’ (fresh fingerlings from Lake Victoria). It’s not like am trying to be loud and unruly; my past is just catching up with me.

You wonder why I stop to greet virtually everybody I meet on the streets of this institution of higher learning. You don’t understand why instead of saying a simple hello, smiling or doing that quick shuffling of the eye, I have to bend low like Mulo Mutisya during those that days that ‘alikuwa anafuata  matako(sic) ya baba’. Our people say that it’s only a man that you deeply revere that you greet while staring at his manhood. Maybe I respect you a lot or maybe am just laying ground for my quest to be the Sec. Gen of Kenyatta University next year. 

You definitely don’t understand my fascination with the female folk, you think just coz I sometimes stare at what their mamas gave them for a second longer, am definitely a playboy whose favorite banquet is these lasses’ asses. You look at me and see the devil incarnate. I don’t deny that once or twice I fall into temptations, who doesn’t? Just because I fell for Maron doesn’t make me a Moron. When I call you sweet, dia or babe, it’s not that I want you for myself, I just ooze sweetness. If I call or text you regularly don’t read between the lines, just pick what you see from the lines.

I may cut the impression of a confident man, sometimes profoundly overbearing, I may act as if am a brave man unperturbed by the challenges I face. It doesn’t mean that my path is straight or I have all the answers, it’s just a façade I wear to scare away my tormentors. Maybe deep down am just as scared as you are, may be more. So before you think of me as that guy, see me as a normal man who is scared of something and is just putting a brave face for show.

If/when I don’t communicate, don’t for a second think that you weren’t that important to me or you not worth the time. Maybe am equally dying to hear from you, after all who doesn’t want to feel needed. Maybe I sit by my phone whole day waiting for you to call. If that’s the prize I have to pay for taking my pride as my bride then I’ll bear the consequences like a man.

Above all, if I expect less from mere mortal men, it’s not that I consider them inferior beings. It’s not rocket science that great expectations make frustrated beings. If I think less of you don’t take it personal, I think so of everybody including Mzee Varaq. It’s just my insurance against panache, heartache or disillusionment. I fear am not well equipped to handle disappointment. Am not of course saying you’ll disappoint me but then again, you could.

Am not what I say, am not what I do, I am who I am. Every day I strive for perfection, every day I strive to be a better person, sometimes I fail miserably, other times I fall just short, other times I just make the mark but one thing is for sure, I do try. So before you rank me, just try to understand where am coming from.

Yours faithfully, yours truly, yours affectionately, yours sincerely….

(Once again feel free to tick where appropriate)

Mzee Varaq