We men have always prided ourselves as the hunters in the dating and relationship wilderness, with the women as our prey. But very quietly, the tables are being turned, and the women are now the hunters. And this is happening so subtly, most men don't even notice it and probably never will.
So you feel like bragging to your pals about how you had that lass at the party eating out of your hand only hours after you two met? Hold up, man! Chances are she actually saw you first, decided she liked you, found a way of getting your attention, [which probably wasn't too hard,] and then sat back and pretended submission to your charms.
Simply put, the man does the courting, but it is the woman that chooses the man who will do the courting. Sorry guys, but that is the new reality in the dating field.
However, now that we have ourselves a fundamental circumstance of life where women are for once actually on the driving seat, something just has to go wrong somewhere. That is as inevitable as another trophy-less season at Ainfield. And the problem in this circumstance is tenacity.
There are women out there, (and their numbers are quite disturbing,) who quite simply won't get the hint that a guy is not that into them. Even when you make it plain as day that instead of dating them you would rather find more interesting things to do with your time such as root canal surgery or supporting Liverpool F.C , they simply refuse to get it.
And the saddest bit is, there isn't anything men can do about it. It is said that men can't live with women and at the same time can't live without them, but on the other hand, women simply can't live without us, period. So since we are a basic female need, the female hunter aggression is something we as men need to learn how to live with because there is no alternative.
But women also need to understand that some prey just can't be had. If a man is not into you, I swear it will be much easier to compute the microphysical dynamics of thermal disambiguation in a cubic decimeter of condensed compounds from Neptune's ionosphere (without a calculator) than to get him interested in you.
To help you know when this is the case, dear sisters, I will now give you three main ways of knowing that pictures of romantic bliss don't pop into a guy's head when he thinks of you.
One, a guy that's not into you will spend as little time with you as possible, despite there being plenty of time and close enough proximity between the two of you. So if you live in plot 917 Umoja 2 and he lives in plot 918 Umoja 2, yet he spends as much time with you as a trophy in the general location of Liverpool, then it is time, like Jesus would say, to cast your nets elsewhere.
A man who is not into you will also not exhibit any signs of jealousy when there is evidence of another man in the picture. Men are naturally very competitive, and more so when striving for a woman's affections. He will get very jealous if he even suspects someone else might be on your speed dial, so if you detect no such apprehension from your prey when he sees you in the company of Biko Adema's cute twin, then sorry sis. Wrong number.
And then there is the fallacy that men always forget important dates, and the truth behind it carries the potential for any woman to know whether or not a man really likes her as much as she hopes he does. Indeed, we do pay scant attention to birthdays and anniversaries, but that is because we don't think they are as important as the things we prioritize.
However, if a girl means that much to me, I will do my best to remember the most minute details about her. The reverse, as you can imagine, is also very true. So if your birthday is on Christmas day but he still forgets despite the fact that your name is Christmastine, then allow me and all of us at ITHSU? this opportunity to offer you and your chances with him our sincerest apologies.
But all these hints and signs are nothing compared to straight up honesty. Thus if you really want to know whether or not a guy is into you, the best thing to do is to go straight up to him and express yourself. Trust me, no guy that is into a girl will even dare to think about not giving you a straight answer, so forget your fear and go for it. After all, In this age of Women's Lib, such things no longer shock us and you will not be considered a brazen lass.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
For me, it's personal.
In the 2008 movie 'Taken', Liam Neeson plays Bryan Mills, a retired CIA operative whose daughter gets kidnapped by a gang of Albanian human traffickers while holidaying in Europe. That of course turns out to be a seriously misguided move by the kidnappers, for a crazed Mills is soon on their trail and by the time he is done with them, they have to learn how to operate a human trafficking ring from the confines of hell.
The 93-minute thriller is as action-packed as they come, and I'd heartily recommend it to any thriller-movie buff. However, this post isn't intended to be a movie review. I simply mentioned 'Taken' because one line from the movie forms the gist of what I'd like to talk about.
When Mills finally has Patrice St.Clair, the leader of the trafficking ring, at gunpoint and in his mercy, St.Clair pleads for his life, asking Mills to reconsider because there was nothing personal in what he did, only business. Mills is however not in a very considerate move, and tells St.Clair "For me, it is entirely personal." before fatally shooting him in the chest. At this point, President Mwai Kibaki drowsily totters into the picture.
No, the Head of State does not have a cameo role in the movie. In fact, I'm certain that together with getting on the wrong side of Mama Lucy's temper, the last thing Emilio would ever consider in this lifetime would be a Hollywood career. It's just that he picture I'm talking about is my subject today, that is the personalization of the war against corruption, and President Kibaki happens to be an integral part of it.
On Monday, the president officially opened the fourth session of independent Kenya's tenth parliament. This came hot in the heels of a week of high political drama, in which Prime Minister Raila Odinga had succeeded in casting the president's commitment to fighting corruption into serious doubt. Evidently irked by this, the president used his parliament opening speech to warn the public in general and Raila in particular against 'politicizing and personalizing' the war against corruption.
We will discuss politicization later. For now, let us dwell on personalization.
One day last year, i made my way to the local supermarket to buy a packet of maize flour for my family's dinner. But to my surprise, the maize flour counter was emptier than a combination of Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester City's trophy cabinets, and this forced me to revert to the neighborhood kiosks where the price of the commodity is significantly higher.
However, the neighbourhood kiosks were also out of maize flour, and it was not until I crossed to the next neighbourhood that I found a shop with flour in stock, retailing a 2kg packet at a whooping Ksh.150. I did not have the extra Ksh. 50 and the kiosk had a big sign which said 'If you want credit, come tomorrow with your great-grandmother' over the counter. Thus that night, my family went to bed hungry.
For almost two months, my family went through hell as the country grappled with acute maize shortage. Later, I learnt that this was because high-placed personalities in the Ministry of Agriculture had colluded to fraudulently export maize from the country's strategic reserves, in what later came to be known as the Maize scandal.
So in a nutshell, I personally paid my taxes, which I'd like to think was used to pay farmers for their maize. But thanks to corruption, this maize was illegally sold abroad, and I was therefore forced to personally walk long distances and pay exorbitant fees for flour, and that was when I was lucky enough to get it. When I was unlucky, which was often, I personally had to go to bed hungry, and even more galling, witness my own family, including very young children, go to bed hungry. And someone then has the audacity to suggest that I don't personalize the war against the graft which forced me to personally go through all that?
Sorry, Mr. President. But for me, to quote Liam Neeson, it is entirely personal.
The 93-minute thriller is as action-packed as they come, and I'd heartily recommend it to any thriller-movie buff. However, this post isn't intended to be a movie review. I simply mentioned 'Taken' because one line from the movie forms the gist of what I'd like to talk about.
When Mills finally has Patrice St.Clair, the leader of the trafficking ring, at gunpoint and in his mercy, St.Clair pleads for his life, asking Mills to reconsider because there was nothing personal in what he did, only business. Mills is however not in a very considerate move, and tells St.Clair "For me, it is entirely personal." before fatally shooting him in the chest. At this point, President Mwai Kibaki drowsily totters into the picture.
No, the Head of State does not have a cameo role in the movie. In fact, I'm certain that together with getting on the wrong side of Mama Lucy's temper, the last thing Emilio would ever consider in this lifetime would be a Hollywood career. It's just that he picture I'm talking about is my subject today, that is the personalization of the war against corruption, and President Kibaki happens to be an integral part of it.
On Monday, the president officially opened the fourth session of independent Kenya's tenth parliament. This came hot in the heels of a week of high political drama, in which Prime Minister Raila Odinga had succeeded in casting the president's commitment to fighting corruption into serious doubt. Evidently irked by this, the president used his parliament opening speech to warn the public in general and Raila in particular against 'politicizing and personalizing' the war against corruption.
We will discuss politicization later. For now, let us dwell on personalization.
One day last year, i made my way to the local supermarket to buy a packet of maize flour for my family's dinner. But to my surprise, the maize flour counter was emptier than a combination of Liverpool, Arsenal and Manchester City's trophy cabinets, and this forced me to revert to the neighborhood kiosks where the price of the commodity is significantly higher.
However, the neighbourhood kiosks were also out of maize flour, and it was not until I crossed to the next neighbourhood that I found a shop with flour in stock, retailing a 2kg packet at a whooping Ksh.150. I did not have the extra Ksh. 50 and the kiosk had a big sign which said 'If you want credit, come tomorrow with your great-grandmother' over the counter. Thus that night, my family went to bed hungry.
For almost two months, my family went through hell as the country grappled with acute maize shortage. Later, I learnt that this was because high-placed personalities in the Ministry of Agriculture had colluded to fraudulently export maize from the country's strategic reserves, in what later came to be known as the Maize scandal.
So in a nutshell, I personally paid my taxes, which I'd like to think was used to pay farmers for their maize. But thanks to corruption, this maize was illegally sold abroad, and I was therefore forced to personally walk long distances and pay exorbitant fees for flour, and that was when I was lucky enough to get it. When I was unlucky, which was often, I personally had to go to bed hungry, and even more galling, witness my own family, including very young children, go to bed hungry. And someone then has the audacity to suggest that I don't personalize the war against the graft which forced me to personally go through all that?
Sorry, Mr. President. But for me, to quote Liam Neeson, it is entirely personal.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Esther, F.O.G, Hell On Raila
Prime Minister Raila Amolo Odinga must be seething with rage. The skin around the scar on his left temple must be stretched almost to breaking point. Because on a week that he in all fairness should have hogged all the headlines, a Jazz saxophonist and a former TV personality somehow connived to rob him of the spotlight.
Kenyans are an extremely sadistic lot. It is almost in our psychological make-up revel in scandal, and when the Prime Minister chose Valentines' day to announce that his romantic relationship with the President was headed for the rocks, he was giving us exactly what we wanted and surely must have counted on nothing less than our complete and undivided attention.
But unfortunately for him, it was round about this time that whispers of a very shady relationship between human-thesaurus-cum-jazz-
Which was quite ironic, considering that while the PM was evidently playing for the headlines, the last thing Hellon and [especially] Esther would have wanted was to be a topic of nationwide discussion. So while the PM's lieutenants kept giving interview after interview to the press in a bid to keep him in the limelight, Esther and Hellon called a press conference and told all and sundry to keep the hell out of their private lives.
And this begs the question; should we stay the hell out of these two good people's private lives?
In my opinion, I think we shouldn't stay the hell out of their private lives. In fact, I believe we should hound them to the very gates of hell if that will keep them on the straight and narrow.
From my perspective, Esther gave up her right to enjoy the privacy of any nondescript citizen the moment she picked up a news script and allowed her lascivious figure to be beamed into our living rooms. The same goes for Hellon, who ceased to be a private citizen and became a public figure from the very first time he sat down in front of a paying public and played his saxophone.
As public figures, a lot is expected of our celebrities. These are the people our children would like to emulate when they grow up, and not scrutinizing what they get up to when the cameras are not on them is tantamount to criminal negligence. We let Tiger Woods have his privacy, and seventeen marital infidelities later, we now know what a horribly bad idea that was.
Esther won a CHAT [Chaguo la Teeniez] award a couple of years ago, which means a large number of young people think she is cool. Hellon's classy demeanor and mastery of the English language during his stint as a teacher of TPF3 left a lot of young people mesmerized and won him a host of fans . Therefore, it isn't beyond the scope of anyone's imagination to assume that these two people's theatrics, be it the distance between their respective beds when they sleep at night or the bizarre aspects of their spirituality, is likely to influence a lot of young people who look up to them and may want to copy them.
The Finger Of God church, which Hellon apparently heads, may or may not be a cult. However, we have the right to ask questions, and not only for the sake of our impressionable younger generation. We also have the right to ask questions because you don't just pluck a TV anchor that half of the male TV-watching population of Kenya would like to sleep with from our TV screens and expect us not to ask questions. And when you convince the said TV anchor to dump her fiancee and distances herself from her family in the process, we will not hesitate to ask even more questions, such as what kind of psychological hold you really have on her.
Kenyans are an extremely sadistic lot. It is almost in our psychological make-up revel in scandal, and when the Prime Minister chose Valentines' day to announce that his romantic relationship with the President was headed for the rocks, he was giving us exactly what we wanted and surely must have counted on nothing less than our complete and undivided attention.
But unfortunately for him, it was round about this time that whispers of a very shady relationship between human-thesaurus-cum-jazz-
Which was quite ironic, considering that while the PM was evidently playing for the headlines, the last thing Hellon and [especially] Esther would have wanted was to be a topic of nationwide discussion. So while the PM's lieutenants kept giving interview after interview to the press in a bid to keep him in the limelight, Esther and Hellon called a press conference and told all and sundry to keep the hell out of their private lives.
And this begs the question; should we stay the hell out of these two good people's private lives?
In my opinion, I think we shouldn't stay the hell out of their private lives. In fact, I believe we should hound them to the very gates of hell if that will keep them on the straight and narrow.
From my perspective, Esther gave up her right to enjoy the privacy of any nondescript citizen the moment she picked up a news script and allowed her lascivious figure to be beamed into our living rooms. The same goes for Hellon, who ceased to be a private citizen and became a public figure from the very first time he sat down in front of a paying public and played his saxophone.
As public figures, a lot is expected of our celebrities. These are the people our children would like to emulate when they grow up, and not scrutinizing what they get up to when the cameras are not on them is tantamount to criminal negligence. We let Tiger Woods have his privacy, and seventeen marital infidelities later, we now know what a horribly bad idea that was.
Esther won a CHAT [Chaguo la Teeniez] award a couple of years ago, which means a large number of young people think she is cool. Hellon's classy demeanor and mastery of the English language during his stint as a teacher of TPF3 left a lot of young people mesmerized and won him a host of fans . Therefore, it isn't beyond the scope of anyone's imagination to assume that these two people's theatrics, be it the distance between their respective beds when they sleep at night or the bizarre aspects of their spirituality, is likely to influence a lot of young people who look up to them and may want to copy them.
The Finger Of God church, which Hellon apparently heads, may or may not be a cult. However, we have the right to ask questions, and not only for the sake of our impressionable younger generation. We also have the right to ask questions because you don't just pluck a TV anchor that half of the male TV-watching population of Kenya would like to sleep with from our TV screens and expect us not to ask questions. And when you convince the said TV anchor to dump her fiancee and distances herself from her family in the process, we will not hesitate to ask even more questions, such as what kind of psychological hold you really have on her.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
You gotta love them, our politicians!
A few months ago, some very enterprising Mheshimiwa sold our entire maize stock to his relatives in Southern Sudan, forgetting that in its milled form, Maize is Kenya's national staple. Due to this, the supply of maize in the country was quickly outstripped by demand, and as is wont to happen in such circumstances, the price of maizemeal was soon scaling heights that even Yelena Isinbanyeva would have needed steroids to clear.
A hungry nation is an angry nation, and having just recently come out of butchering each other simply because we were angry we did not have a Prime Minister, it was clear that playing with our food was the quickest way to a violent revolution since Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake." Governments hate revolutions, and ours quickly moved to remedy the situation by importing maize from outside.
For a while, everything was OK, until PriceWaterhouseCoopers did an audit of the excercise and discovered that true Kenyan style, a few billion shillings had somehow managed to affix itself to the real price of the maize that had been imported. Quite a few prominent names were mentioned and suddenly, Kenyans were very interested. Corrupt government officials were about to be exposed!
Our euphoria, however, was to be short-lived because in a master-stroke to end all master-strokes, the implicated Waheshimiwa pulled a fast one of us.
You see, just like Maize is Kenya's de-facto national staple, politics happens to be Kenya's de-facto national pastime. We can never get enough of politics, and being aware of this, the implicated Waheshimiwa knew that the surest way to deflect our attention from matters pertaining to the shady importation of maize was to give us something political to talk about instead. So out of absolutely nowhere, they manufactured a political crisis.
First, the Prime Minister called a press conference and fired ministers he had no authority to fire. Stunned, we were still taking it all in when a statement from the President's office clarified the obvious. We still hadn't understood what the hell all that was about when the Prime Minister screamed blue murder and declared a dispute between him and the President. While we were still getting our heads around the realization that kumbe disputes have to be declared before they are actually disputes when the Prime Minister went two better and called Annan while pulling his troops out of Cabinet, or rather, Cabinet meetings. [The two are mutually exclusive, apparently.]
Then having turned us completely on our heads, the Prime Minister packed his bags and left for the Far East to tell the Japanese what a politically stable and corruption-free investment destination Kenya is.
Behind him, he left a thoroughly punch-drunk and confused nation wondering what the hell had just happened. All the talk was now on the provisions of the National Accord, whether the PM has the right to suspend ministers and what exactly a 50-50 power-sharing deal was all about.
Any talk of maize, of course, was now completely forgotten.
A hungry nation is an angry nation, and having just recently come out of butchering each other simply because we were angry we did not have a Prime Minister, it was clear that playing with our food was the quickest way to a violent revolution since Marie Antoinette said "Let them eat cake." Governments hate revolutions, and ours quickly moved to remedy the situation by importing maize from outside.
For a while, everything was OK, until PriceWaterhouseCoopers did an audit of the excercise and discovered that true Kenyan style, a few billion shillings had somehow managed to affix itself to the real price of the maize that had been imported. Quite a few prominent names were mentioned and suddenly, Kenyans were very interested. Corrupt government officials were about to be exposed!
Our euphoria, however, was to be short-lived because in a master-stroke to end all master-strokes, the implicated Waheshimiwa pulled a fast one of us.
You see, just like Maize is Kenya's de-facto national staple, politics happens to be Kenya's de-facto national pastime. We can never get enough of politics, and being aware of this, the implicated Waheshimiwa knew that the surest way to deflect our attention from matters pertaining to the shady importation of maize was to give us something political to talk about instead. So out of absolutely nowhere, they manufactured a political crisis.
First, the Prime Minister called a press conference and fired ministers he had no authority to fire. Stunned, we were still taking it all in when a statement from the President's office clarified the obvious. We still hadn't understood what the hell all that was about when the Prime Minister screamed blue murder and declared a dispute between him and the President. While we were still getting our heads around the realization that kumbe disputes have to be declared before they are actually disputes when the Prime Minister went two better and called Annan while pulling his troops out of Cabinet, or rather, Cabinet meetings. [The two are mutually exclusive, apparently.]
Then having turned us completely on our heads, the Prime Minister packed his bags and left for the Far East to tell the Japanese what a politically stable and corruption-free investment destination Kenya is.
Behind him, he left a thoroughly punch-drunk and confused nation wondering what the hell had just happened. All the talk was now on the provisions of the National Accord, whether the PM has the right to suspend ministers and what exactly a 50-50 power-sharing deal was all about.
Any talk of maize, of course, was now completely forgotten.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Three little words.
In 1996, Prince Charles famously gave up his royal reputation, public affection and the most stunning female since Marilyn Monroe- all for the love of a woman.
But that, cataclysmic as it was, doesn't even hold a candle to his great uncle. sixty years earlier, King Edward VIII went on air to tell the British people that if a mere throne stood between him and the woman he loved, then they could take this exalted piece of furniture and shove it up their prudish behinds.
Hard as it may be to believe, these two royal idiots aren't exactly in isolated company. Men have been known throughout history to do some pretty absurd and even desperate things to prove their amorous inclination to the objects of their affection.
But in a paradox of sorts, you will find it much easier to coax some semblance of scruple out of a Kenyan politician than you will trying to get a man to utter those three little words that are the true spirit of Valentine. A man will readily show you that he has feelings for you in about a thousand ways, but if you are waiting for him to say it out loud, then stock on the food and the blankets. You have a long wait ahead of you.
There are two main reasons behind this strange mix of circumstances. The first one is chauvnism, plain and simple. No man deserving of the male title will ever give up his authority and accept to be subordinated in a relationship. In a manner of speaking, we prefer to hold all our cards in a relationship game, and an audible expression of affection to the female is tantamount to ceding part of you to her authority and therefore out of the question.
Basically, what this means is that the heart in a man can completely surrender to a woman, but the man in the heart will never allow him to say it out loud.
The second reason is psychological.Each one of us is unique. We all have an inner being which defines the way we think and the way we behave, which builds our characters and subsequently determines our destiny. Now this part which which defines us, is something we take very seriously. Things which profoundly affect it are the kind we don't go about voicing to every tom Dick and Harry.
And they don't come more profound than love, so we will find it very hard to voice it out loud. A man will find it really easy to say those words when he doesn't mean it,or when he is voicing it in the platonic sense, because then he won't be giving up a part of himself.
But when it comes to the real thing, I'm afraid these two situations make it, forgive the pun, a little easier done than said
But that, cataclysmic as it was, doesn't even hold a candle to his great uncle. sixty years earlier, King Edward VIII went on air to tell the British people that if a mere throne stood between him and the woman he loved, then they could take this exalted piece of furniture and shove it up their prudish behinds.
Hard as it may be to believe, these two royal idiots aren't exactly in isolated company. Men have been known throughout history to do some pretty absurd and even desperate things to prove their amorous inclination to the objects of their affection.
But in a paradox of sorts, you will find it much easier to coax some semblance of scruple out of a Kenyan politician than you will trying to get a man to utter those three little words that are the true spirit of Valentine. A man will readily show you that he has feelings for you in about a thousand ways, but if you are waiting for him to say it out loud, then stock on the food and the blankets. You have a long wait ahead of you.
There are two main reasons behind this strange mix of circumstances. The first one is chauvnism, plain and simple. No man deserving of the male title will ever give up his authority and accept to be subordinated in a relationship. In a manner of speaking, we prefer to hold all our cards in a relationship game, and an audible expression of affection to the female is tantamount to ceding part of you to her authority and therefore out of the question.
Basically, what this means is that the heart in a man can completely surrender to a woman, but the man in the heart will never allow him to say it out loud.
The second reason is psychological.Each one of us is unique. We all have an inner being which defines the way we think and the way we behave, which builds our characters and subsequently determines our destiny. Now this part which which defines us, is something we take very seriously. Things which profoundly affect it are the kind we don't go about voicing to every tom Dick and Harry.
And they don't come more profound than love, so we will find it very hard to voice it out loud. A man will find it really easy to say those words when he doesn't mean it,or when he is voicing it in the platonic sense, because then he won't be giving up a part of himself.
But when it comes to the real thing, I'm afraid these two situations make it, forgive the pun, a little easier done than said
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Tennis and gender rights.
I find tennis a really fascinating sport. But I'm also acquainted with the logical import behind that saying about one person's culinary delight causing another person numerous painful trips to the restroom, so for the benefit of that section of the public which finds tennis as interesting as your local councilor’s life history, I won't talk about match sets, double faults, deuces and hawk eye technology.
However, there is something about the Masters that leaves me heartily displeased, and I would like to voice this displeasure. And my point of origin shall be the just concluded Australian Open, which had two obviosities;
[OK. According to MS spell-check, the word 'obviosities' doesn't exist. But since I was never under any obligation whatsoever to use words that actually exist to express myself, you can go ahead and sue me if you so wish. Otherwise, let's proceed.]
As I was saying, the just concluded Australian Open had two obviosities. One, Roger Federer was always going to win the men singles title. Nadal is the only competition King Fed has had in a while, but Nadal is not yet back to 100% fitness after returning from a long injury layoff, and to beat Federer, even 100% is often not enough. And two, the younger of Oracene Williams' daughters was always going to pulverize whatever opposition she would face in the ladies final.
Both Federer and Oracene's last born took home an equal US$1.5 million prize money. And obviously, I am of the opinion that this is the most disgracefully unfair thing since Prince Edward was forced to choose between his throne and his love.
In the Gospels, there is a parable about a wealthy farmer who needed labor for a huge task that needed to be done on his field. So one morning, he made his way to the market square where young jobless men always idled from dawn to dusk. "Kazi kwa vijana." He said in the local dialect, and within a few minutes, he had hired himself some laborers.
But the labor he had hired wasn't sufficient for the task he wanted done, so at noon, he walked back to the market square where more idle young men had replaced the ones he had hired. "Kazi kwa vijana." He bellowed again, and in no time flat, he had himself an extra labor force.
However, even this doubled labor effort wasn't enough to finish the job. So in the late afternoon, the farmer made a third trip to the market square and for the third time that day, unemployment figures in that locality recorded a decrease.
This time the workforce was at par with the labor demand, and by the end of the day, the work in the fields was done, after which all the young men lined up outside the farmer's house to receive their pay.
While paying them, the farmer started with the group he had hired last, and they each received an equivalent of Ksh.250/- in the local currency, which was the set daily rate for the Kazi Kwa Vijana labor initiative. Upon seeing this, the ones who had started work earlier thought they would receive more money because they had worked longer, but to their utter horror, they also got the base Ksh. 250/- equivalent.
Naturally, these men who had been hired in the morning and at noon complained, but the farmer stood his ground. They knew the KKV terms when he hired them, and regardless of how much labor they had put in, he was under no obligation whatsoever to pay them more or the others less.
There is a spiritual lesson to be gathered somewhere in this parable, and I'm sure finding this lesson and applying it in life would earn any of my readers a point or two with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. But to be honest, spiritual considerations are quite frankly unnecessary in our present discussion, which is about fairness in the remuneration dealings at the Grand Slam tennis championships.
For starters, a vast majority of the revenue that pours into these championships is thanks more to the Nadals and the Federers than the Sharapovas and the Mauresmos. The Williams siblings are an exception, but considering the number of black players of either sex to have ever won a grand slam can be counted against two fingers of one hand, I dare anyone to challenge my assertion that their novelty is not due to their sex, but their race.
From a purely tennis perspective, it is even more grossly unfair. In all tournaments, men play more matches than women, their matches last longer because they play more sets, (Five in the Australian Open to women's three,) and generally, men's matches tend to be less lopsided because the incidence of matched talent in their pairings is always higher than in female pairings.
So with all this, does it really make sense to pay both these evidently unequal levels of effort equally? Of course it seems perfectly all right for the feminists and gender rights campaigners, but since when have such people ever offered any logical explanation to their actions and rhetoric?
However, there is something about the Masters that leaves me heartily displeased, and I would like to voice this displeasure. And my point of origin shall be the just concluded Australian Open, which had two obviosities;
[OK. According to MS spell-check, the word 'obviosities' doesn't exist. But since I was never under any obligation whatsoever to use words that actually exist to express myself, you can go ahead and sue me if you so wish. Otherwise, let's proceed.]
As I was saying, the just concluded Australian Open had two obviosities. One, Roger Federer was always going to win the men singles title. Nadal is the only competition King Fed has had in a while, but Nadal is not yet back to 100% fitness after returning from a long injury layoff, and to beat Federer, even 100% is often not enough. And two, the younger of Oracene Williams' daughters was always going to pulverize whatever opposition she would face in the ladies final.
Both Federer and Oracene's last born took home an equal US$1.5 million prize money. And obviously, I am of the opinion that this is the most disgracefully unfair thing since Prince Edward was forced to choose between his throne and his love.
In the Gospels, there is a parable about a wealthy farmer who needed labor for a huge task that needed to be done on his field. So one morning, he made his way to the market square where young jobless men always idled from dawn to dusk. "Kazi kwa vijana." He said in the local dialect, and within a few minutes, he had hired himself some laborers.
But the labor he had hired wasn't sufficient for the task he wanted done, so at noon, he walked back to the market square where more idle young men had replaced the ones he had hired. "Kazi kwa vijana." He bellowed again, and in no time flat, he had himself an extra labor force.
However, even this doubled labor effort wasn't enough to finish the job. So in the late afternoon, the farmer made a third trip to the market square and for the third time that day, unemployment figures in that locality recorded a decrease.
This time the workforce was at par with the labor demand, and by the end of the day, the work in the fields was done, after which all the young men lined up outside the farmer's house to receive their pay.
While paying them, the farmer started with the group he had hired last, and they each received an equivalent of Ksh.250/- in the local currency, which was the set daily rate for the Kazi Kwa Vijana labor initiative. Upon seeing this, the ones who had started work earlier thought they would receive more money because they had worked longer, but to their utter horror, they also got the base Ksh. 250/- equivalent.
Naturally, these men who had been hired in the morning and at noon complained, but the farmer stood his ground. They knew the KKV terms when he hired them, and regardless of how much labor they had put in, he was under no obligation whatsoever to pay them more or the others less.
There is a spiritual lesson to be gathered somewhere in this parable, and I'm sure finding this lesson and applying it in life would earn any of my readers a point or two with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates. But to be honest, spiritual considerations are quite frankly unnecessary in our present discussion, which is about fairness in the remuneration dealings at the Grand Slam tennis championships.
For starters, a vast majority of the revenue that pours into these championships is thanks more to the Nadals and the Federers than the Sharapovas and the Mauresmos. The Williams siblings are an exception, but considering the number of black players of either sex to have ever won a grand slam can be counted against two fingers of one hand, I dare anyone to challenge my assertion that their novelty is not due to their sex, but their race.
From a purely tennis perspective, it is even more grossly unfair. In all tournaments, men play more matches than women, their matches last longer because they play more sets, (Five in the Australian Open to women's three,) and generally, men's matches tend to be less lopsided because the incidence of matched talent in their pairings is always higher than in female pairings.
So with all this, does it really make sense to pay both these evidently unequal levels of effort equally? Of course it seems perfectly all right for the feminists and gender rights campaigners, but since when have such people ever offered any logical explanation to their actions and rhetoric?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Just zip it already!
The memory part of the female brain is an amazing thing. It stores
birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, what Junior was wearing when he
took his first step, the correct dosage the vet prescribed for the
dog's flea bath and such type of clutter that men would rather clear
their minds of to concentrate on matters of more relevant import.
But while this isn't neccessarily a bad thing, (Memory is after all a
very integral part of any technical set-up,) trust something in the
female make-up to find ways of making it a bad thing.
And in this case, it is the nagging.
This arises from the fact that while women are indeed are good at
keeping memories, they prefer negative memories to positive ones.
Due to this, we have a situation whereby her head has more than its
reasonable share of negative vibes. Negative vibes are unhealthy, and
letting them out is the reason why psychiatry is by far the most
profitable field in the medical industry.
Unfortunately, shrinks don't come cheap, and even then, she is highly
unlikely to think she requires their services. But these negative
vibes are there and have to come out, so you end up taking the
shrink's place on the receiving end of the negative vibes.
When a man is slighted, forgiveness will come with the relative speed
of the Middle East peace process. But you can be sure that unless it
is something collossal, like say an insult on his mother's honor, he
will forget about the slight in no time flat.
Women on the other hand are wired a little differently. So were you
immensely relieved whenshe bought the tale that your lip-lock with her
best friend on her bed the other day was nothing but a case of
mouth-to-mouth resucitation? Well, don't act surprised when she brings
up the incident at your 20th college re-union party.
And that, I'm afraid, is guaranteed to be an incredibly uncomfortable
experience.
A women will remember that you broke your promise to take her to
Amboseli the previous month, but conveniently forget that you renewed
her subscription for the gym on that very day you were suppossed to
take the trip. She will belittle and berate you about the limited size
of your living quarters, but unless you bring up the fact that half
your salary has been meeting her tuition fees at the university for
the past four years, then it will pass unmentioned.
Throw in the fact that science has proved women speak about 75000
words a day to man's 15000 words, and you begin to appreciate the
quagmire that nagging is for us.
It is better to live alone on the roof, King Solomon once said, than
to share a house with a nagging woman.
This was a King whose experience with women was both prolific and
legendary, and considering that he was like only the wisest person
that ever lived, I'm guessing it isn't too much strain on the the
imagination to assume he knew what he was talking about.
And it is an opinion most men whole-heartedly agree with.
birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, what Junior was wearing when he
took his first step, the correct dosage the vet prescribed for the
dog's flea bath and such type of clutter that men would rather clear
their minds of to concentrate on matters of more relevant import.
But while this isn't neccessarily a bad thing, (Memory is after all a
very integral part of any technical set-up,) trust something in the
female make-up to find ways of making it a bad thing.
And in this case, it is the nagging.
This arises from the fact that while women are indeed are good at
keeping memories, they prefer negative memories to positive ones.
Due to this, we have a situation whereby her head has more than its
reasonable share of negative vibes. Negative vibes are unhealthy, and
letting them out is the reason why psychiatry is by far the most
profitable field in the medical industry.
Unfortunately, shrinks don't come cheap, and even then, she is highly
unlikely to think she requires their services. But these negative
vibes are there and have to come out, so you end up taking the
shrink's place on the receiving end of the negative vibes.
When a man is slighted, forgiveness will come with the relative speed
of the Middle East peace process. But you can be sure that unless it
is something collossal, like say an insult on his mother's honor, he
will forget about the slight in no time flat.
Women on the other hand are wired a little differently. So were you
immensely relieved whenshe bought the tale that your lip-lock with her
best friend on her bed the other day was nothing but a case of
mouth-to-mouth resucitation? Well, don't act surprised when she brings
up the incident at your 20th college re-union party.
And that, I'm afraid, is guaranteed to be an incredibly uncomfortable
experience.
A women will remember that you broke your promise to take her to
Amboseli the previous month, but conveniently forget that you renewed
her subscription for the gym on that very day you were suppossed to
take the trip. She will belittle and berate you about the limited size
of your living quarters, but unless you bring up the fact that half
your salary has been meeting her tuition fees at the university for
the past four years, then it will pass unmentioned.
Throw in the fact that science has proved women speak about 75000
words a day to man's 15000 words, and you begin to appreciate the
quagmire that nagging is for us.
It is better to live alone on the roof, King Solomon once said, than
to share a house with a nagging woman.
This was a King whose experience with women was both prolific and
legendary, and considering that he was like only the wisest person
that ever lived, I'm guessing it isn't too much strain on the the
imagination to assume he knew what he was talking about.
And it is an opinion most men whole-heartedly agree with.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Dating your Exe's friend.
For its smooth running, any organized human activity must have rules and norms which its participants are expected to conform to. And since romantic relationships between two (or more) humans fall under the definition of 'Organized Human Activity,' then they too need to have their own rules and norms.
In romantic interaction, these rules are always unwritten and often are subject to modification depending on the prevailing circumstances. But although of the most part logical consideration inspires the creation and adoption of a majority of these rules, sometimes certain norms occur which make about as much sense as Arsene Wenger's transfer policy.
And a good example of such a norm is the incredibly absurd 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend.'
When Stephan met Julia, he was convinced that his debauched bachelor existence had just entered its home stretch. She was stunning, cultured and fun to be around, qualities which although independently common in most of the women he had dated, had never manifested themselves to him together in the same woman.
The situation however wasn't exactly straightforward. For a girl of her caliber, Julia unfortunately had other suitors apart from Stephané, and like any female between the ages of 18 and 28, she was as yet unversed in the intricacies of making up her mind.
Obviously, she needed time to learn this vital art and apply it, so in the meantime, she engaged the help of her childhood friend and roommate Sally to keep Stephan deceived whenever she was checking out another suitor. Sally's brief when such discretions took place was to engage Stephani in conversation and defer his attention until Julia got back from her escapades, or whenever it became apparent that Julia wouldn't be able to make it back, lie her behind off until Stephan was convinced.
But although he couldn't precisely boast headache-inducing IQ, Stephan had nevertheless been somewhere near the front row when brains were being handed out, and thus it didn't take him long to figure out that his chances of walking Julia up the aisle in this lifetime were just a few notches below non-existent. So being a pragmatic man, he decided to cut his losses and cast his eyes further afield in his quest for the bone of his rib.
Only he didn't have to cast them that much farther afield. During the course of his interaction with Sally while Julia was out playing him, Stephan had come to like Sally very, very much, while Sally, who wasn't seeing anyone at the time, had all along disliked the way her friend was dogging this earnest, sincere man whom any girl in her right mind would fall hopelessly head over heels for...like she herself had.
Thus it came to pass that almost two years later; Stephan crossed the finishing line of bachelorhood with Sally in his arms. And as would be expected because of the 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend' rule, Julia never attended her erstwhile bosom friend's wedding because she felt Sally had committed the unforgivable sin of snatching her man.
Emotions are instinctive, and everybody knows that instinct cannot be controlled. So although it wouldn't be right for a person like Julia to feel aggrieved when her friend claims what she considers rightfully hers, it is perfectly understandable that she would feel aggrieved when it happens. However, going on to deliberately make that into an unwritten rule that criminalizes what was in fact a natural, logical progression of events under the circumstances would in my opinion be stretching the limits of reason to frankly unacceptable extremes.
Why should real love and genuine foundation for a lifelong relationship be stillborn because a person's soul mate was once in a relationship with the said soul mate's friend? That is of course both unfair and unreasonable, but among women, a former flame is permanently sealed and off limits to any of her friends for life, and breaching that seal is considered the ultimate betrayal.
It must be said, men aren't immune to such ravages of jealousy when such instances arise, but at least we make allowances for exceptional circumstances. With men, exes are basically off limits to friends, but when a friend is truly into your ex, he is expected to ask your permission to date her. You, in turn, must grant him this permission.
An unconventional rule, yes, and even a little unreasonable. But let's face it. It is much better than the blanket ban on opportunity that women have with their 'Thou shalt not date thy friend's ex' rule, and one they would do well to adopt.
In romantic interaction, these rules are always unwritten and often are subject to modification depending on the prevailing circumstances. But although of the most part logical consideration inspires the creation and adoption of a majority of these rules, sometimes certain norms occur which make about as much sense as Arsene Wenger's transfer policy.
And a good example of such a norm is the incredibly absurd 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend.'
When Stephan met Julia, he was convinced that his debauched bachelor existence had just entered its home stretch. She was stunning, cultured and fun to be around, qualities which although independently common in most of the women he had dated, had never manifested themselves to him together in the same woman.
The situation however wasn't exactly straightforward. For a girl of her caliber, Julia unfortunately had other suitors apart from Stephané, and like any female between the ages of 18 and 28, she was as yet unversed in the intricacies of making up her mind.
Obviously, she needed time to learn this vital art and apply it, so in the meantime, she engaged the help of her childhood friend and roommate Sally to keep Stephan deceived whenever she was checking out another suitor. Sally's brief when such discretions took place was to engage Stephani in conversation and defer his attention until Julia got back from her escapades, or whenever it became apparent that Julia wouldn't be able to make it back, lie her behind off until Stephan was convinced.
But although he couldn't precisely boast headache-inducing IQ, Stephan had nevertheless been somewhere near the front row when brains were being handed out, and thus it didn't take him long to figure out that his chances of walking Julia up the aisle in this lifetime were just a few notches below non-existent. So being a pragmatic man, he decided to cut his losses and cast his eyes further afield in his quest for the bone of his rib.
Only he didn't have to cast them that much farther afield. During the course of his interaction with Sally while Julia was out playing him, Stephan had come to like Sally very, very much, while Sally, who wasn't seeing anyone at the time, had all along disliked the way her friend was dogging this earnest, sincere man whom any girl in her right mind would fall hopelessly head over heels for...like she herself had.
Thus it came to pass that almost two years later; Stephan crossed the finishing line of bachelorhood with Sally in his arms. And as would be expected because of the 'Thou shalt not date thy exes' friend' rule, Julia never attended her erstwhile bosom friend's wedding because she felt Sally had committed the unforgivable sin of snatching her man.
Emotions are instinctive, and everybody knows that instinct cannot be controlled. So although it wouldn't be right for a person like Julia to feel aggrieved when her friend claims what she considers rightfully hers, it is perfectly understandable that she would feel aggrieved when it happens. However, going on to deliberately make that into an unwritten rule that criminalizes what was in fact a natural, logical progression of events under the circumstances would in my opinion be stretching the limits of reason to frankly unacceptable extremes.
Why should real love and genuine foundation for a lifelong relationship be stillborn because a person's soul mate was once in a relationship with the said soul mate's friend? That is of course both unfair and unreasonable, but among women, a former flame is permanently sealed and off limits to any of her friends for life, and breaching that seal is considered the ultimate betrayal.
It must be said, men aren't immune to such ravages of jealousy when such instances arise, but at least we make allowances for exceptional circumstances. With men, exes are basically off limits to friends, but when a friend is truly into your ex, he is expected to ask your permission to date her. You, in turn, must grant him this permission.
An unconventional rule, yes, and even a little unreasonable. But let's face it. It is much better than the blanket ban on opportunity that women have with their 'Thou shalt not date thy friend's ex' rule, and one they would do well to adopt.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Secret Admirer.
Dear Ms. Gloria
My hope and prayer that you have no reason to be thankful for the existence of health institutions. My prayer too that your spirits reside at hights that Yelena Isinbanyeva would need steroids to clear.
I sincerely apologise for this intrusion and any inconvennience it might cause, but I find myself in an unfortunate situation that only you can remedy. And that, Ms. Gloria, is not an exeggerattion. You happen to be the singular person among the odd eight billion humans that populate the globe who can help me out of my predicament.
Thing is, last night I created a google e-mail [gmail] account because I needed to open a new facebook account. [And please don't ask me what I needed a new facebook account for. Trust me, you DON"T want to know.]
Anyway, did you know, Ms. Gloria, that scientists have reason to believe humans are evolved from pre-historic, pelagic life forms? Well, if there is factual validation for this assertion, then I surely must have descended from the forefathers of the modern day goldfish, because there is very compelling proof I have the memory span of one. This morning when I went to continue with the mischef that had made me create a new facebook account, I realised I had forgotten my e-mail address and therefore could not access it. My password I could remember since I'd written it down and somehow managed not to forget the slip of paper at the cybercafe, but not the e-mail address!
Which is where you fit into the scheme of things.
You see, you just happen to be the only person in the world to have ever received an e-mail from that account. Just before I logged out last night, I used it to e-mail you a very detailed account of my fascination with certain parts of your anatomy.
So in the sincere hope that it won't be a terrible inconvenience, I'm requesting that you please retrieve a message titled 'Why I think you're hot' from your inbox that was sent at between 9.00 and 9.40pm last night by one Anonymous Admirer and foward me the address to this account.
Yours sincerely
Anonymous Admirer.
My hope and prayer that you have no reason to be thankful for the existence of health institutions. My prayer too that your spirits reside at hights that Yelena Isinbanyeva would need steroids to clear.
I sincerely apologise for this intrusion and any inconvennience it might cause, but I find myself in an unfortunate situation that only you can remedy. And that, Ms. Gloria, is not an exeggerattion. You happen to be the singular person among the odd eight billion humans that populate the globe who can help me out of my predicament.
Thing is, last night I created a google e-mail [gmail] account because I needed to open a new facebook account. [And please don't ask me what I needed a new facebook account for. Trust me, you DON"T want to know.]
Anyway, did you know, Ms. Gloria, that scientists have reason to believe humans are evolved from pre-historic, pelagic life forms? Well, if there is factual validation for this assertion, then I surely must have descended from the forefathers of the modern day goldfish, because there is very compelling proof I have the memory span of one. This morning when I went to continue with the mischef that had made me create a new facebook account, I realised I had forgotten my e-mail address and therefore could not access it. My password I could remember since I'd written it down and somehow managed not to forget the slip of paper at the cybercafe, but not the e-mail address!
Which is where you fit into the scheme of things.
You see, you just happen to be the only person in the world to have ever received an e-mail from that account. Just before I logged out last night, I used it to e-mail you a very detailed account of my fascination with certain parts of your anatomy.
So in the sincere hope that it won't be a terrible inconvenience, I'm requesting that you please retrieve a message titled 'Why I think you're hot' from your inbox that was sent at between 9.00 and 9.40pm last night by one Anonymous Admirer and foward me the address to this account.
Yours sincerely
Anonymous Admirer.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Coming to America: The Million-shilling Resolution.
Ten days into the new year and already, I'm halfway through breaking my New year's resolutions.
Among other things, I'd vowed to tackle my slopiness this year, but the dozens of cigarette stubs littering my bedroom floor are clear evidence of just how short-lived that resolution was, as well as of what happened to my other resolution to finally give up smoking. I'm also yet to destroy my Two Girls One Cup DVD, I'm yet to step into a Mosque this year and my ex girlfriend's digits are still on my speed dial. Clearly, I suck at this whole resolutions business.
However, all's not lost. You see, the reason my resolutions have the longevity of a Kenyan legislator's integrity in the face of material inducements is because like most people, I make resolutions not because I have a burning desire to set goals and stick to them, but because everybody I know and their grandmother seems to be making one and I don't want to be left out, but this time there is one resolution I made which I fully intend to see realised.
That resolution is to have ten thousand bucks in my account by the time Jakaya Mrisho Kikwete wins his second term as Bongo's big Kahuna or the first yellow NRM poster of Kagu wearing that ridiculous hat hits the streets of Kampala, whichever comes first.
By buck, I'm obviously not talking wildlife, and neither am I interested in ten thousand actions aimed at upheaval in the general order of things, such as would be inferred in statements like 'bucking the trend.' By 'Buck,' I'm talking about the legal tender accepted as payment for goods and services as well as the settlement of debts in the United States of America.
The natural questions in this case would of course be, what the hell do I need ten thousand bucks for, and how the heavens am I going to make ten thousand bucks?
The answer to the first question is quite straightfoward: I don't need ten thousand bucks. All I said was I've resolved to have ten thousand bucks in my bank account by the end of the year, period. who said anything about needing it? It isn't beyond the scope of reason to want to have any amount of money in your account that you don't need now, is it?
Getting around the second question is a little trickier. My plan when I made this resolution was to wait until December and then persuade my MP to surrender to me his improved monthly pay package in the yuletide spirit. But although I can be quite persuasive when I want to, the brutal economic times coupled with the sheer capacity for meanness in our legislators means the chances of that happenning are only slightly less than the chances of the said legislators voting no when the improved pay package report is finally tabled in the house.
There is a fool proof way of making the money, though. Since the buck is American currency, it follows that the best place to make thousand of them is to go where then thousand of them can easily be made, i.e the United States Of America, so all I have to do is make my way there. In fact, I'm reliably informed that despite all that Economic Downturn nonsense, there is alot of money to be made there, and it won't even take me a year to accomplish my resolution.
Only one problem with this method. If they can ignore the fact that I'm Moslem, the American Immigration Department first of all requires that I have ten thousand bucks in my account before they issue me with a visa to travel to their land and make ten thousand bucks...
Among other things, I'd vowed to tackle my slopiness this year, but the dozens of cigarette stubs littering my bedroom floor are clear evidence of just how short-lived that resolution was, as well as of what happened to my other resolution to finally give up smoking. I'm also yet to destroy my Two Girls One Cup DVD, I'm yet to step into a Mosque this year and my ex girlfriend's digits are still on my speed dial. Clearly, I suck at this whole resolutions business.
However, all's not lost. You see, the reason my resolutions have the longevity of a Kenyan legislator's integrity in the face of material inducements is because like most people, I make resolutions not because I have a burning desire to set goals and stick to them, but because everybody I know and their grandmother seems to be making one and I don't want to be left out, but this time there is one resolution I made which I fully intend to see realised.
That resolution is to have ten thousand bucks in my account by the time Jakaya Mrisho Kikwete wins his second term as Bongo's big Kahuna or the first yellow NRM poster of Kagu wearing that ridiculous hat hits the streets of Kampala, whichever comes first.
By buck, I'm obviously not talking wildlife, and neither am I interested in ten thousand actions aimed at upheaval in the general order of things, such as would be inferred in statements like 'bucking the trend.' By 'Buck,' I'm talking about the legal tender accepted as payment for goods and services as well as the settlement of debts in the United States of America.
The natural questions in this case would of course be, what the hell do I need ten thousand bucks for, and how the heavens am I going to make ten thousand bucks?
The answer to the first question is quite straightfoward: I don't need ten thousand bucks. All I said was I've resolved to have ten thousand bucks in my bank account by the end of the year, period. who said anything about needing it? It isn't beyond the scope of reason to want to have any amount of money in your account that you don't need now, is it?
Getting around the second question is a little trickier. My plan when I made this resolution was to wait until December and then persuade my MP to surrender to me his improved monthly pay package in the yuletide spirit. But although I can be quite persuasive when I want to, the brutal economic times coupled with the sheer capacity for meanness in our legislators means the chances of that happenning are only slightly less than the chances of the said legislators voting no when the improved pay package report is finally tabled in the house.
There is a fool proof way of making the money, though. Since the buck is American currency, it follows that the best place to make thousand of them is to go where then thousand of them can easily be made, i.e the United States Of America, so all I have to do is make my way there. In fact, I'm reliably informed that despite all that Economic Downturn nonsense, there is alot of money to be made there, and it won't even take me a year to accomplish my resolution.
Only one problem with this method. If they can ignore the fact that I'm Moslem, the American Immigration Department first of all requires that I have ten thousand bucks in my account before they issue me with a visa to travel to their land and make ten thousand bucks...
Monday, December 21, 2009
Painful lessons
In Budalang'i, telling the weather isn't Binomial expansion or Logarithms or some equally complicated exercise. All you have to do is listen to the weather forecast on the radio and then stay put for the exact opposite.
So when the weatherman, courtesy of my grandfather's SQNY[It's a world receiver!] promised intermittent showers throughout the day with the possibility of a heavy downpour in the afternoon, I immediately dispatched onr of my nieces to the lake with my dirty laundry since I fully expected them to be dry by evening.
With the rest of the morning to kill, I thought about going to the lake myself for a dip and breakfast at one of the many kiosks that dot the fish-landing site where a jugful of sweet, fermented porridge goes for only ten bob, but looking around the compound, I had an idea.
Of course like virtually all stupid ideas, this one struck me like one straight from the brains of Solomon.
My grandfather keeps a bunch of huge, ungainly creatures in the homestead he insists belong to the cow species, although I doubt they are even herbivores, given their ugliness even by cow standards and the relish with which they went through the packet of Dettol I came with from Kampala. But my skeptisism about their dietary inclination notwithstanding, I nevertheless could tell they were mammals capable of giving milk fit for human consumption, and by looking at their undersides, I could even tell which was a bull and which could fit the purpose of my great idea.
The gist of my idea? Operation No More Strungi.
However, the only person I knew there with anything approaching competence in milk extraction procedures was my grandfather, and quite unfortunately, he had joined his friend John Osodo at Taddei's, joint for a 'Power Breakfast' and discussions on a wide range of sensitive topics, mostly about PNU and ODM and other equally political abbreviations.
But not to worry. After all, milking wasn't exactly Algebra now, was it? I reasoned. All I had to do was remove that silly calf that was milking its mother dry, then get down to milking its mother dry. Simple as ABC without mathematical signs.
So with that, I approached the lactating calf and after a brief struggle, managed to secure it to a nearby tree stump. Then jug in hand, I positioned myself beside the mother's left rump and bent down to do my thing.
I was about to learn that cows too are capable of cold calculation.
Upto that point, the silly animal had shown absolutely no indication it dissapproved of what I was doing. It had looked lazily at me as I dragged its calf off, it had accepted the few tufts of grass I had offered it as incentive to shower my jug with milk. For God's sake, it had even swished its tail in apparent pleasure as I approached its hindquarters and started to bend! Upto that point, no dissent. upto that point...when my crotch was in direct line with it's left hoof.
I have been hurt before. But even on the day I got caught up in a UoN riot in Town and got struck on the head by a GSU man's baton, the pain wasn't nearly as bad as the terrific surge of searing hot sensation that exploded on my balls when the hoof connected hard and squarely with my crotch and burnt through to the pit of my belly. It was so painful, I actually screamed out for my mother.
It's embarrassing enough telling you this, so I won't tell you how the children around howled like hyenas with derision at my plight, or repeat ad verbatim how my grandfather, when he came back, loudly wondered what idiocy could make a full gown man milk a cow without tying up its hind legs first.
So when the weatherman, courtesy of my grandfather's SQNY[It's a world receiver!] promised intermittent showers throughout the day with the possibility of a heavy downpour in the afternoon, I immediately dispatched onr of my nieces to the lake with my dirty laundry since I fully expected them to be dry by evening.
With the rest of the morning to kill, I thought about going to the lake myself for a dip and breakfast at one of the many kiosks that dot the fish-landing site where a jugful of sweet, fermented porridge goes for only ten bob, but looking around the compound, I had an idea.
Of course like virtually all stupid ideas, this one struck me like one straight from the brains of Solomon.
My grandfather keeps a bunch of huge, ungainly creatures in the homestead he insists belong to the cow species, although I doubt they are even herbivores, given their ugliness even by cow standards and the relish with which they went through the packet of Dettol I came with from Kampala. But my skeptisism about their dietary inclination notwithstanding, I nevertheless could tell they were mammals capable of giving milk fit for human consumption, and by looking at their undersides, I could even tell which was a bull and which could fit the purpose of my great idea.
The gist of my idea? Operation No More Strungi.
However, the only person I knew there with anything approaching competence in milk extraction procedures was my grandfather, and quite unfortunately, he had joined his friend John Osodo at Taddei's, joint for a 'Power Breakfast' and discussions on a wide range of sensitive topics, mostly about PNU and ODM and other equally political abbreviations.
But not to worry. After all, milking wasn't exactly Algebra now, was it? I reasoned. All I had to do was remove that silly calf that was milking its mother dry, then get down to milking its mother dry. Simple as ABC without mathematical signs.
So with that, I approached the lactating calf and after a brief struggle, managed to secure it to a nearby tree stump. Then jug in hand, I positioned myself beside the mother's left rump and bent down to do my thing.
I was about to learn that cows too are capable of cold calculation.
Upto that point, the silly animal had shown absolutely no indication it dissapproved of what I was doing. It had looked lazily at me as I dragged its calf off, it had accepted the few tufts of grass I had offered it as incentive to shower my jug with milk. For God's sake, it had even swished its tail in apparent pleasure as I approached its hindquarters and started to bend! Upto that point, no dissent. upto that point...when my crotch was in direct line with it's left hoof.
I have been hurt before. But even on the day I got caught up in a UoN riot in Town and got struck on the head by a GSU man's baton, the pain wasn't nearly as bad as the terrific surge of searing hot sensation that exploded on my balls when the hoof connected hard and squarely with my crotch and burnt through to the pit of my belly. It was so painful, I actually screamed out for my mother.
It's embarrassing enough telling you this, so I won't tell you how the children around howled like hyenas with derision at my plight, or repeat ad verbatim how my grandfather, when he came back, loudly wondered what idiocy could make a full gown man milk a cow without tying up its hind legs first.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Ecstatic
It is not everyday that Moses turns down gorgeous female company, so when he curtly told some lady he was unavailable and hung up on her the other night at Elvis' place as we swilled beers to celebrate the end of our week-long alcohol-free sentence, we were quite understandably concerned.
"What's the matter? Have you lost your Mojo?" I asked.
"Are you sick? Have you lost your mind?" Allan added.
"Relax, fellaz. My Mojo and my health are perfectly in order, thank you very much." Moses protested. "And my brain is too, which is more than I can say of some people in present company." He added and shot Allan a withering look.
"Then why did you behave so contrary to character just now? Allan asked. "I mean, I haven't encountered such strange behaviour since when I saw a Moslem at a confessional."
"When was that?" Elvis' wife asked, shooting her husband a warning glance as his hand moved towards yet another bottle of Pilsner.
"Er...Never." Allan replied, and the ensuing laughter provided enough distraction for Elvis to grab the bottle and pop its cap in one fluid motion.
"Hey, tone down guys. You'll wake the kids." Elvis' wife cautioned. "But seriously, Moses, I'm also curious. Why did you blow that girl off like that? If someone did that to me he'd better be able to run faster than I can drive."
A most apt comparison. The mere thought of Mrs. Elvis behind the wheel of a vehicle was enough to send a chill down our respective spines.
"Let's just say Sasha must be the reason the concept of 'extreme' even entered the realm of human perception." Moses said, and Allan pointedly told him that this was modern day Kenya, not Shakespearen England. "In modern day Kenya," he finished, "people try as much as possible to get straight to the point."
"Sasha is this Russian girl I dated a couple of months ago. Her dad is some attaché or the other at the Russian Embassy in Nairobi." Moses started to narrate. "I had to leave her because I found her preferred ideas on sex and relationships a tad bit too hedonistic even for me."
"Whips, cuffs and garter belts?" I asked.
"For starters." Moses replied. "This girl is into some really deep stuff. Swinger, sadomasochism, ritualistic, the works. At first I thought it was a good way for me to push my horizons in the carnal dimension, but when it got to the drugs, I decided that maybe some horizons should just remain horizons."
"Drugs?" We all asked incredulously and in unision.
"One evening she invited me to a party thrown in honor of some visiting Kremlin official." Moses went on without missing a beat. "Obviously, we retired to her place after the party, and there we were joined by a friend of hers, a norwegian whose name I didn't catch because it was entirely made up of consonants."
We all laughed and again, the uproar covered the hissing sound of Elvis popping yet another Pilsner.
"Anyway, Sasha made us all drinks. I'd asked for Vodka but she gave me Whisky, and we made light conversation. However, we had already drunk enough at the party and both girls' English was just a little better than atrocious, so we soon moved on to what had really brought us here. And it was spectacular!"
"So where did the drug come into all this?" Elvis asked.
"They came in the drinks. Literally." Moses answered. "You see, the experience was altogether really intense and we were at it for quite some time. When we were done, I heard Sasha tell the Norwegian girl she hadn't believed there was Ecstasy in Kenya, but now she was sure there was.Initially, I thought she meant ecstasy, as in the emotion. But towards morning, the Norwegian girl suddenly started convulsing and passed out. We immediately called an ambulance, and at the hospital, toxicology tests revealed very high levels of Ecstasy, the drug, in her bloodstream."
"You mean she overdosed on the drug?" Someone asked.
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean." Moses said irritably. "And I also mean that she overdosed on a drug that had been meant for me."
"What!" We all asked again incredulously and in unison.
"Remember I asked for Vodka and Sasha gave me Whisky? Well, the Whisky had been for the Norwegian girl, and Sasha, who had all along meant to spike my drink, mixed up the glasses and gave her my Ecstasy-laced Vodka instead."
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Of crochets and needles
I never told you how the Mr. Big saga ended. So, here goes...
Few people like sharp pointed objects, and fewer still appreciate having such objects introduced onto their anatomies. The three of us definitely belong to the larger percentage of the human population that views sharp, pointed objects uncharitably, but since our misadventure at the pub necessitated a small medical procedure called a tetanus shot, we had to set aside our personal prejudices and, with a glaring lack of enthusiasm, allow Mr. Big's doctor brother to jab our behinds with sharp, pointed objects.
Few people like sharp pointed objects, and fewer still appreciate having such objects introduced onto their anatomies. The three of us definitely belong to the larger percentage of the human population that views sharp, pointed objects uncharitably, but since our misadventure at the pub necessitated a small medical procedure called a tetanus shot, we had to set aside our personal prejudices and, with a glaring lack of enthusiasm, allow Mr. Big's doctor brother to jab our behinds with sharp, pointed objects.
Our tribulations however didn't end there. Not content with making us confront our rabid fear of needles, the doctor had one more nightmare for us. No alcohol for the next few days, or the shots would be useless, meaning needles all over again. We all took this pretty hard. I felt like someone had switched off the sunshine in my life and posted a note saying "Back in a few days," while Allan looked like someone whose personal demons had all gathered together and decided to pay him a sudden, unannounced visit. Moses I was almost certain we would have to hire someone to follow him around, unless we were comfortable with the possibility of dealing with his sudden suicide within the next very few hours.
The only person who didn't have a problem with all this, and found it all very hilarious actually, was Elvis. This was only normal, considering he had been at home asleep when battle royale and the subsequent visit to the clinic went down and thus hadn’t suffered our misfortunes. Such circumstances bring out the sadist in Elvis.
"Holla man. How are you doing? I heard you people had a blast last night, with particular emphasis on the word 'blast'." He called the next day to ask, at an hour when only chicken thieves and employees of Nakumatt's 24 hour outlets could conceivably be awake.
"I'm trying to get some sleep, you moron." I curtly told him. "If you are so concerned about my health, let me remind you the risks of sleep deprivation...And how did you find out so fast anyway?" I wondered.
"Moses just returned my car, and I could tell he'd had himself a swell time. So swell in fact, that his head is still swollen." Elvis replied.
I said something nasty.
Elvis ignored it. "So why don't you all come over to my place this evening and fill me in on what happened? Six O'clock. And don't worry' drinks are on me. I'll have the missus make a lot of Ketepa. Bye." He hung up without waiting for a response. In any case, I was too tired to argue, and after making a mental note to call in sick at the office immediately I woke up, I went back to sleep.
It was not until much later when I showed up at his place that I remembered accepting Elvis' invitation meant I would have to face needles again, albeit of a different kind.
Allan was already at Elvis' place when I arrived, and he was trying hard to force down a cup of tea as well as a conversation with Elvis' wife, who was busy knitting what I guessed was a sweater for one of their children."That's a nice sweater you are knitting." I said to her as I hugged her in greeting. "For the boy or the girl?"
"Thanks. It is for my sister's child, actually. You know how expensive ready-made ones are nowadays..." and as she launched into a critique of the impact of the global economic downturn on the price of textile products, I relaxed.
Allan winked at me as if to say "you lucky bastard." And I smirked back. He hadn't been so lucky.
Presently, Moses arrived, and despite the fact that he had carried a kilo of meat for her, she didn't hug him in greeting, and when he complimented her knitting, she curtly told him that she was crocheting, not knitting, and returned to our conversation which had inevitably moved on to the global economic downturn's impact on food prices. Like Allan, Moses was unlucky.
Elvis arrived soon afterwards, and he burst out laughing as soon as he walked through the door. "You people look like hell!" He said between fits. "Hi baby. How's the crocheting?"
Elvis arrived soon afterwards, and he burst out laughing as soon as he walked through the door. "You people look like hell!" He said between fits. "Hi baby. How's the crocheting?"
"That's what they get from engaging in primitive drunken violence." His wife replied. "And I'm knitting, not crocheting."
Elvis ignored her. "Come on, guys. Fill me in on the details. I've already heard Moses' and Allan's tales, so Edgar, tell me how you fared with that Orang Utan."
Upon hearing this, Elvis' wife suddenly cast me a very pained look, and my heart sank.
You see, Elvis wife, although warm, homely and usually very affable, has a very interesting eccentricity. She is always knitting, and whether or not someone's presence is welcome can be discerned from her response to any comment that person makes about her knitting. If she agrees with your comment, all is well. But if she contradicts you, then too bad.
Thus she had all along been cross with Allan and Moses but not with me because having come out of the previous night's bar brawl with a relatively unscathed head, I was the only one of us three who didn't sport a bandage on my cranium.
And until Elvis' question gave me away, she had assumed that I hadn't been involved in the previous night's 'primitive drunken violence.'
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
iran vs Uncle Sam
When not busy beating the living hell out of dissenting citizens, Mahmood Ahmadinejad, President of the Islamic Republic of Iran, splits his time equally between scaring the living hell out of Israel and pissing the living hell off Uncle Sam.
Ahmadinejad: (Beating the holy crap out of a dissenter) So you wanted Mousavi, heh? I am your president, mpende msipende. You think Mousavi is your mother? Just wait till I'm done with you...
Uncle Sam: Now now, Mahmood, that isn't the way democratic leaders deal with dissent, especially when there is such ample justification for dissent...
Ahmedinejad: You stay out of this, you infidel! You want Mousavi to win so that you will connive with him to steal our oil, like you did in Iraq and Afghanistan...
Uncle Sam: You are mistaken, Mahmood. I'm only interested in promoting democratic practises and human rights, both of which you are seriously violating right now.
Ahmedinejad: But I won fair and square, only for this son of Iblis and his ilk to come in and cause trouble! ( Continues beating the dissenter) Ati Ahmedinejad must go, heh? Niende wapi! Just wait and see. I am going to kick you so hard between the legs that your nuts will pop out through your eye sockets...
Uncle Sam: Mahmood!
Ahmedinejad:...I'll make your face look like Israel after I've dropped a nuclear bomb there...
Uncle Sam: As a matter of fact, that is why I'm here to see you. Thing is, the rest of the world is very concerned about the high number of nuclear weapons in the world, and I feel it is my duty to ask you to abandon your nuclear programme.
Ahmednijad: (incredulously) Now why would I do such a dumb thing? You have nuclear weapons. Russia has nuclear weapons. Pakistan has nuclear bomb, as does India. For Allah's sake, even that crazy dwarf from North Korea has a couple of warheads. Why are you so hard on me?
Uncle Sam: Because everybody else is open about their nuclear programs except you. We are afraid that you just might decide to fire a missile off in the general direction of Israel.
Ahmadinejad: I wouldn't do such a thing! My nuclear programme is purely for energy purposes. (aside) Enough energy, of course, to wipe every Jew and his fourth cousin twice removed from the face of the universe.
Uncle Sam: That may be true, Mahmood, but the I and the rest of the International Community would feel just a little more comfortable if you abandoned the programme alltogether.
Ahmedinajad: Well, you and the rest of the International Community can apply your favourite lip balm and kiss my Arab behind, because that is not going to happen.
Uncle Sam: Stop being so difficult, Mahmood. You know I can put more sanctions on you and cripple your economy.
Ahmadenijad: (Laughs) Surely, Sammy Boy, that is so old! You have got to be more creative at threatening me than that.
Uncle Sam: (Now at the very end of his tether) Mahmood, this is no laughing matter. Either you report to the negotiating table or I will allow Israel to go ahead and obliterate anything that even looks like a nuclear facility.
Ahmadinejad: OK OK! Don't get yourself all knotted up. I'll be at your disposal as soon as I receive the specifics from Arak, Ardakan, Bushehr, Isfahan, Qom...
Uncle Sam: Now just a minute. You mean you have another facility, another nuclear facility, at Qom?!
Ahmadinejad: Oops...
Ahmadinejad: (Beating the holy crap out of a dissenter) So you wanted Mousavi, heh? I am your president, mpende msipende. You think Mousavi is your mother? Just wait till I'm done with you...
Uncle Sam: Now now, Mahmood, that isn't the way democratic leaders deal with dissent, especially when there is such ample justification for dissent...
Ahmedinejad: You stay out of this, you infidel! You want Mousavi to win so that you will connive with him to steal our oil, like you did in Iraq and Afghanistan...
Uncle Sam: You are mistaken, Mahmood. I'm only interested in promoting democratic practises and human rights, both of which you are seriously violating right now.
Ahmedinejad: But I won fair and square, only for this son of Iblis and his ilk to come in and cause trouble! ( Continues beating the dissenter) Ati Ahmedinejad must go, heh? Niende wapi! Just wait and see. I am going to kick you so hard between the legs that your nuts will pop out through your eye sockets...
Uncle Sam: Mahmood!
Ahmedinejad:...I'll make your face look like Israel after I've dropped a nuclear bomb there...
Uncle Sam: As a matter of fact, that is why I'm here to see you. Thing is, the rest of the world is very concerned about the high number of nuclear weapons in the world, and I feel it is my duty to ask you to abandon your nuclear programme.
Ahmednijad: (incredulously) Now why would I do such a dumb thing? You have nuclear weapons. Russia has nuclear weapons. Pakistan has nuclear bomb, as does India. For Allah's sake, even that crazy dwarf from North Korea has a couple of warheads. Why are you so hard on me?
Uncle Sam: Because everybody else is open about their nuclear programs except you. We are afraid that you just might decide to fire a missile off in the general direction of Israel.
Ahmadinejad: I wouldn't do such a thing! My nuclear programme is purely for energy purposes. (aside) Enough energy, of course, to wipe every Jew and his fourth cousin twice removed from the face of the universe.
Uncle Sam: That may be true, Mahmood, but the I and the rest of the International Community would feel just a little more comfortable if you abandoned the programme alltogether.
Ahmedinajad: Well, you and the rest of the International Community can apply your favourite lip balm and kiss my Arab behind, because that is not going to happen.
Uncle Sam: Stop being so difficult, Mahmood. You know I can put more sanctions on you and cripple your economy.
Ahmadenijad: (Laughs) Surely, Sammy Boy, that is so old! You have got to be more creative at threatening me than that.
Uncle Sam: (Now at the very end of his tether) Mahmood, this is no laughing matter. Either you report to the negotiating table or I will allow Israel to go ahead and obliterate anything that even looks like a nuclear facility.
Ahmadinejad: OK OK! Don't get yourself all knotted up. I'll be at your disposal as soon as I receive the specifics from Arak, Ardakan, Bushehr, Isfahan, Qom...
Uncle Sam: Now just a minute. You mean you have another facility, another nuclear facility, at Qom?!
Ahmadinejad: Oops...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Whatsthathesaid?
First of all, Happy Birthday, Val. I meant this post to be entirely about you, but was overtaken by events, namely a coursework I have to finish. The next post is for you. i promise.
Anyway, I happen to be a sociology minor at Makerere University, and recently, Dr. Atyekereza, our Soc 3100 [Classical Sociological theory] lecturer, gave us a coursework assignment.
Dr. Atyekereza
Actually, he gave the assignment a month ago. I just finally got round to starting because the deadline for submission is monday.
Anyway, we are expected to analyse Roy Bhaskar's critical realism ramblings, specifically his assertion that "society is not the unconditioned creation of the human agency, but neither does it exist independently of it."
Lost? welcome to my world, dawg!
Obviously, such a question cannot be answered by the kind of guesswork you would apply for example in tackling Dr.Okiror's "Examine the relevance of consistency in a MIS for a decisionmaker" in PAM 3103 [Management Information systems]
But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, especially since this is the kind of paper that makes the prospect of coming back for a re-take more definite than probable. Serious research entailed first of all finding out who the hell Roy Bhaskar is, and since navigating your way through the bureaucracy of Makerere University's main library is the stuff of gladiators, I resorted to the net.
Horror of horrors. [Cue a horror-themed soundtrack. If you can't think of one, any song by Jeniffer Lopez or Ja Rule will do.]
Roy Bhaskar is the kind of guy who writes sentences such as "philosophical approach that defends the critical and emancipatory potential of rational (scientific and philosophical) enquiry against both positivist, broadly epistemological and ontological questions."
Consider this, in his dialectical works, the man actually wrote this:
"Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucaultian strategic reversal - of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundament of positivism through its transmutation route to the super-idealism of a Baudrillard."
That's what I'm going through right now. Please pray for me. I beg you.
Anyway, I happen to be a sociology minor at Makerere University, and recently, Dr. Atyekereza, our Soc 3100 [Classical Sociological theory] lecturer, gave us a coursework assignment.
Dr. Atyekereza Anyway, we are expected to analyse Roy Bhaskar's critical realism ramblings, specifically his assertion that "society is not the unconditioned creation of the human agency, but neither does it exist independently of it."
Lost? welcome to my world, dawg!
Obviously, such a question cannot be answered by the kind of guesswork you would apply for example in tackling Dr.Okiror's "Examine the relevance of consistency in a MIS for a decisionmaker" in PAM 3103 [Management Information systems]
Dr. Okiror
or Dr. Simba's "Analyse the role of NEPAD and AGOA for the economic development of Africa" in IRS 3101 [Global Political Economy] Dr. Simba
Such a question requires what every average student dreads: Research. As in SERIOUS research. And last time I checked, I was still an average student. So obviously, I was dreading this.But a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, especially since this is the kind of paper that makes the prospect of coming back for a re-take more definite than probable. Serious research entailed first of all finding out who the hell Roy Bhaskar is, and since navigating your way through the bureaucracy of Makerere University's main library is the stuff of gladiators, I resorted to the net.
Horror of horrors. [Cue a horror-themed soundtrack. If you can't think of one, any song by Jeniffer Lopez or Ja Rule will do.]
Roy Bhaskar is the kind of guy who writes sentences such as "philosophical approach that defends the critical and emancipatory potential of rational (scientific and philosophical) enquiry against both positivist, broadly epistemological and ontological questions."
Consider this, in his dialectical works, the man actually wrote this:
"Indeed dialectical critical realism may be seen under the aspect of Foucaultian strategic reversal - of the unholy trinity of Parmenidean/Platonic/Aristotelean provenance; of the Cartesian-Lockean-Humean-Kantian paradigm, of foundationalisms (in practice, fideistic foundationalisms) and irrationalisms (in practice, capricious exercises of the will-to-power or some other ideologically and/or psycho-somatically buried source) new and old alike; of the primordial failing of western philosophy, ontological monovalence, and its close ally, the epistemic fallacy with its ontic dual; of the analytic problematic laid down by Plato, which Hegel served only to replicate in his actualist monovalent analytic reinstatement in transfigurative reconciling dialectical connection, while in his hubristic claims for absolute idealism he inaugurated the Comtean, Kierkegaardian and Nietzschean eclipses of reason, replicating the fundament of positivism through its transmutation route to the super-idealism of a Baudrillard."
That's what I'm going through right now. Please pray for me. I beg you.
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