Monthly Archives: July 2010


Nice dance by blondepix 2008

I know someone, a woman, who does not like music, animals and other things which I will explain.
I like to listen to music, even as background for pleasure, feeling and mood or as a purpose. I love the melodies of Jazz, the poetry in French songs and the beat of Latin music. I like music which tears my soul, bring memories and open my inner emotion.
Not her! She lowers the volume to the inaudible point, turn it off when she has company in the house and has no distinct preference about the music she wants to hear.
Some people like to move to music. No, she does not, she says “I don’t know how to dance” and she won’t even try a wiggle.

I like pets, any type of pets. My grandmother, which whom I live as a child, had birds, fishes, dogs and cats. Not at the same time, but we always had one or two type of animal in the house. I like the look of pets, behavior and attitude. They make me laugh and soothe me.
No and no, pets are for the outside. She does not play or caress them; she does not feel anything for them. No pain, no joy, no love and interest. I feel abnormal for having a picture of my friend’s pet on my mobile screen, Pinky is a cute dog.

She has little interest in art. A museum, unless it is famous for a visit to say “have been there”, is boring for her. She does not see aesthetic in everyday item. A chair is a chair and when I see the extra chair she question-mark, in her head, what I see in it, “as long as I can sit in it”, its fine. If she cannot go beyond chairs so let’s forget about painting, sculpture and the rest of the artsy work, that’s a glitch.

In a supermarket she doesn’t browse, she goes straight to the item she wants and that’s it, she is done.
She gets quite annoy when I delay looking at things heightening my curiosity. I waste her time. Shopping with her, I can talk thinking she is next to me then look up at a stranger looking at me with big eyes and raised eyebrow.
The paradox is that she likes shopping mall and I don’t, they tire me.

For food is easy, she lives on raw vegetables and fruits. She does not give a hoot about cooking, recipes and the little secret in dishes.
Don’t ask her what she wants to eat, food is food!
She has no special comfort food or maybe yoghurt.
However, I did succeed in introduce her to Japanese food. Now, she loves vegetable sushi.

She is not totally void of interest. She loves TV but not the news, her favorites are series and soaps. I mean, almost all the soaps including the one from the Philippines and South America. You know the one were dubbing is done at a different speed from the lips. Also, she enjoys reading money-making articles, religious books and inspirational novels.
That’s strange because, I like TV news and hate the books she reads.

She likes Indian movies, you know the one where lovers never kiss and the whole cast burst dancing and singing at the most impromptu moments. Romantic movies are also her favorites.
The movies which can keep me up, because I can sleep watching movies, are thrillers and fact based stories. I do have a weakness for music-hall like West Side Story, Cabaret, Chicago, all that Jazz and even the old movies from Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly.

She loves to talk on the phone; her phone is so mobile that she walks with it outside when she uses it and when she runs out of credit she uses mine then delete, sometimes, the number called. She has friends and gets invite for wedding, funeral, pre-wedding parties, baby showers, bible studies, get together to get together and get well soon at the hospital.
I never go since at the beginning I was voted “persona non-grata”, so I decided to keep my status.

Maybe, I think, she is a minimalist. Everything is short, precise and concise with no allowance for waste. It must be good, it enables you for less choices and consequently a saving on the decision making process.
Is she a voyeur? Not the kinky kind, but the one who enjoys watching to satisfy repressed emotions. It could be that, I noticed that her social network on FaceBook is quite heavy. She looks and looks at her friend’s profile but does not respond.

I really do not know how to categorize this void of desire that everyone indulge in.
Is it infantile trauma?
She loves babies and I tried to teach her baby talk – “Agaga googoo”, “aniewniewniew”, “gooloo gooloo”.
She says am silly.





Chicken crossing the road


In Westlands they are putting up, probably, the most beautiful hotel to landscape Nairobi. Peeking from the outside the décor is a duplicate of what is seen on the covers of glossy European magazines. It is not yet finished, but already smells of elegance and has a “tutti frutti” star appeal.
The road leading to the entrance is paved, courtesy of the hotel, with light gray blocks. A little bit of sidewalks decorate each side of the entrance.

It is odd, but Nairobi, a capital, has a phobia about sidewalks. They are too narrow, uneven or non-existent.
Rhapta road, yes with an H between the R and the A, in Westlands has almost a dozen residential hotels and no real sidewalks on either side from beginning to end.
Pedestrian walking, for ease, at the edge of the road are like matadors curving bodies left or right in order to avoid cars zooming inches from them. Missing is a crowd, for each successful zoom, cheering ……… Oléééééé.
Crossing a road is a challenge; you have to play chicken run with speeding vehicles. Climbing the stairs of an overpass is a health risk for disabled, smokers and people suffering from acrophobia.

There is such a phobia about having sidewalks that in more affluent neighborhood they get rid of them altogether. I have been to a place called Kaputei Gardens in Kilileshwa. The gentry on the road reserve, in front of their plot, plant grass and trees and booby trap it with barb wire or metal posts, ensuring that soles of unknown pedestrian never vilifies the ground facing their great address. They even put up a fence on the main road to enforce the mental idea that “peasants are not welcome”.

I have seen sidewalks so narrow that walking on them make you feel like a funambulist balancing on a tightrope.
Some remind me to loose weight crossing path with another earthling. I usually suck up my stomach, make eye contact with a cheeky grin then with unknown eartlings rotate my steps in the purest tango style.

Paved sidewalks, except for rare find, are uneven in Nairobi. The dirt paths provide your feet with roller coaster emotions using ankles as shock absorbers.
Tripping on these terrain irregularities is not an exception but the rule. So don’t waste your time looking for what made you trip, move on!
On rainy days these sidewalks are like skate rinks with mud providing unpleasant gliding experiences. The familiar users take off their shoes to cross the small pools which magically appear.
Some sidewalk pools are like Russian roulette cocked with live wire. Cross it and you turn into an instant Christmas tree.

Sidewalks and roads in Nairobi are a representation of the arrogance the rich have over the poor. The elite do not understand why pedestrians, walking on “their” roads, are not giving way by using non-existent sidewalks.

Yuk! Gag me with a spoon.



From Panorama

The Italian edition of Panorama magazine reveals the affairs of gay priests in Italy. They have ménage a trois, two consenting adults and the Holy Ghost.
Everyone knows that lots of kinky things are happening in religious circle; Da Vinci style sadomasochism ritual and homosexuality among others. I have not mentioned nuns; it is yet to be exposed.

Catholic priests have vows and are not allowed to ever use their zee-zee. Yes, they are not allowed to use it, except for urinating.

The magazine shows a video; a priest with a dog-collar with his bone wrapped in his underwear.
Post-frolicking, he performs a private mass and drinks wine from a metal goblet. I saw it on the Swiss TV. Interesting!
Then the investigating report shows priests partying in the hot gay spots of Italy.

I do not care what the bone-collar gang does. They are the same jokers telling you not to use condoms, and brain wash you with moralities of what you should or not do with your consenting partners.
Then oops! They go play with your kids’ jewels and tell you, sorry I was weak and the devil made me do it, come and let’s pray together for forgiveness. Jesus will understand. I want to keep the affair quiet, I am priest.
 “Do not hit me! I have the power of excommunication.”
“What!” without warning daddy becomes physical with the priest
“Daddy, daddy not him, the other priest!”
“Jesus! Help me, I am sorry!”
“Daddy, he played with my brother. The other one wanted me to kneel in front of his zee-zee.”

I understand now why they love to preach gospels to the poor, uneducated nations of South America, Asia and Africa.
Away from the hub, called the Vatican, there, it is easier to hump-hump the mass.
I am sure that lots of them procreate kids, have girl or boy friends and get drunk on Fridays night in these far away lands.

Soon, but not so soon, the pope will give you this long metaphoric monotonous monologue in twenty different languages, “we are looking into the matter”.
Then take a cute snooze, while sitting on his pope chair, in front of a cheering crowd.
Change has to come. Priests must be allowed to legally sex people up, or each others for that matter with consenting adult but not the kids.

Let them enjoy life, marry, have families and divorce too. It will give them more strength to understand the pagans among us.

They go to gay bars, drink, fornicate and we, the dodos, must not use condoms for control damage when we get excited.   Let’s allow them to live like us, they will understand.




African led in coffles to the Coast for sale to European slave traders.


My opinion was in response to an article blaming African’s problem on the West.

Ali Jamah’s article in The Standard of September 14 refers. I have several reservations about the tone and pitch of his opinions since they are the same reason Africa has played into the hands of stereotype labels.
Real issues that have a negative impact on Africa are man-made including corruption, lack of Press freedom, human rights abuse, nepotism, questionable governance, famine, wars and poverty. If these were addressed, Africa would break the vicious circle of stereotype of backwardness and want. I do not mean Africa must emulate Western culture in order to win recognition. Globalization demands that societies mould or adopt systems and styles of leadership and institutions that are less oppressive, more humane and responsive to wananchi’s needs.
Most of Africa was decolonized 50 to 60 years ago and though none was expected to accelerate from zero to total “development” in such a short time, they should, nonetheless, have grown over the years.
If it helps, I remember as a child, people said anything manufactured in Japan was junk. It is no longer the case now, yet Japanese society is not an offspring or copycat of Western culture.
Jamah argues that African values are different regarding homosexuality, sexual liberation in all its forms, same sex unions and feminism. However much as this is true, Western values are as a result of long years of a gradual social evolution.

Corner of society
There is nonetheless a growing African feminist movement. Women in Africa are considered property or third-class citizens. Yet, from this corner of society and a growing wave of micro-enterprise, they are the backbone of many economies.
Imagine what more they could accomplish if they overcame such anachronistic cultural practices as genital mutilations, forced or early marriage and widow inheritance.
Africa has fabulous stories and personalities that can break the stereotype Jamah calls mental slavery. The continent has had great influence in Western art, architecture, language, history, sport but whose media are they waiting for to trumpet and exploit these achievements.

Promoting deformity
For instance, Senegalese soldiers fought in Europe against the Germans during WWII as did many East Africans; what of the North African Arab influence on the language and architecture of Spain; The African influence on modern European Art.
Great African thinkers and writers such as Felix Houphouet-Boigny and Leopold Senghor the first African to sit at L’Académie française (French Academy). And how about Maghreb influence on the cuisine of Europe as is West and North African influence on European music?
Others are the undeniable influence on European football, athletics and fashion. The immigration has positively changed the demography of Europe and the Americas, such as how brain drain has led to an exodus of nurses to Europe and even presidential material if US President Barack Obama is to be counted.
However, most recently is the invention of banking via mobile phone. Who would have thought that originated here?
The list is endless, but by default, African media promote the deformity that West is best by picturing fair skinned people on billboards, dismiss local fashion, use European-style wigs and hair straightening products, skin lighteners, glorify and build European-style houses complete with furnishings.
To make it worse almost all media give minimum airplay to African music, art, theatre, cinema and so on. Who is to blame for this sorry state of affairs? Ask your leaders, institutions of governance and media. Only then will the chains binding Africa to mental slavery break.



photo from photo bucket

I did not take a shower this morning. I just woke up, went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, only my teeth and nothing else. I have the same underwear I slept in and I still feel quite comfortable. I only put on a clean T-shirt and a sweater because the house is cold. Today is my day, I am not going anywhere, and intend to do what I please. I want the upper part of my body with clean clothe and the bottom funky.
I know that I will spend the all day alone, no one ever comes to my house unannounced, except my neighbors and I do not mind, so I am safe.
I had no intention of having a regular breakfast so I made ONE leek, ONE celery and TWO potatoes soup. Vegetables are healthy and it was quite yummy.
I drank all my soup, about a liter and a half, together with a cup of black coffee. It was so much that I skipped the orange juice.

For lunch I decided to go Chinese. I stir fried 250gr. of pork loin with some spinach leaves, baby corn, and snow peas with a little dark and light soy sauce and fish and oyster sauce. It felt authentic and I used a fork. In the process I messed up my T-shirt which I did not change since the colour blended with soy sauce.

I left all my dirty dishes in the sink but at least I dusted the furniture. Now, I am bored and my belly is heavy. Standing up I stretch my body forward then backward then give up. I am seriously bored.
Suddenly I realized that I have nothing to do and I do not want to do anything either. I check my phone and no! I have no miss call, no one called me and I have no one to call either.
CNN is talking about the Bank Stress test; it seems that all have passed except seven banks. They are talking about market, liquidity risk and the announcers are quite excited about the topic. I don’t give a hoot since the only liquid I can get is the one from the tap, and I have plenty of it left since I did not take a shower this morning.
So I must be rich, stinky filthy rich. I am liquid rich because I save water. Maybe I should have been a banker so I can give them some advice in order to get a bonus higher than poor Joe who gets peanuts interest on it’s saving.

Its cold today, I know you are saying it’s not cold we in July. Yep, but I live in Kenya, right below your equator, so your summer is my winter. It is not snow cold but green foliage cold and I don’t like the cold.
The animals must be freezing their butts out in the bush. Bet you, the hippos are not swimming today. I wouldn’t, maybe they are doing like me and not having any mud bath today. The giraffes are walking with their head down; it’s too cold up there.

Anyway, let me watch TV, mostly news. My satellite TV is rich in news but poor in entertainments. I know everything that’s going on in the world; the flood in China, the wear of the qitab in Europe, BP fuel leak, the election in Myanmar and even Obama’s grandmother.
Strange, my word dictionary does not know who Obama is. The prompt says “correct to Osama or ignore”. Anyway, Obama is nice; he speaks English with an American accent. I say so because, Kenyan thinks he is a brother. I hope that’s not true, or else America is in trouble. You don’t want an African statesman in your backyard, once in power your private backyard is gone, that’s why the World Bank was invented for them to get more backyards. You pay and they get it!

Sarkozy has problem too. It seems that an old almost senile but super rich lady gave him some money during his election campaign. He went on TV to woo woo the very not stupid French that it was not so. I am laughing; the French do not believe him.
This heavy duty make up lady will get fully senile if she indeed gave that money to Sarkozy. Already she has tax problem so if you add Sarkozy on her arse (I prefer ass but I was told to be polite) she will go coo coo. French, do not joke and I should know I am French, I never joke.

So what! That’s true, I am French and I live in Kenya. Anyone is allowed to make mistake.
The truth tough, is that I do not know how much longer I will stay in Kenya. I understand them looking into building a nuclear plant to produce electricity. Looking at the way their transformers are blowing up on a daily basis, I do not think it will be a good idea. I hear that Chernobyl is still close. In Africa they will have to close the whole continent.

I am happy because your summer will end soon. Now I know what to do, when my summer comes I will take a shower then you can stop taking one.




I am on the first row.


It is amazing how childhood memories or the lack of it can stain adulthood.
My parents separated then divorced when I was very young, I do not remember my age when it happens maybe plus or minus five. I don’t know and don’t care so much anymore.

My parents, each with their distinctive emotional pain emigrated to other partner, lifestyle and even country.
Me, I stayed with my maternal grandmother, a huggable looking woman with a withdrawn personality and a serious ailment consuming her days and thoughts. She lived in the same building; same floor a couple doors down from my grandfather with whom she was separated.

My grandfather was a well educated man with a sciatic problem in his legs which prompted him, while walking in the street, to stop and kick walls to mute the pain. Also, drinking red wine was his favorite pass time from the time I knew him.

My maternal grandparents provided me with lots of comfort while growing. My grandmother took the role of my father and mother in all aspects but she was not so good with my school work since she was semi-illiterate. Actually, I wrote the “parents” school notes on her behalf.
One particular teacher would entertain the whole class by reading and pointing out aloud all “her” grammatical errors. I laughed, for my protection, at the mistakes too.

My grandfather was the entertainment director. He took me for walks in the park, carrousel’s ride and outdoor marionette shows.
The public indoor swimming pool was a treat during winter time. His skinny body was pale in contrast to his funny underwear looking swimming costume and when he laughed his dentures would come out of his mouth.

Both grandparents are long passed away. My grand mother lies in a sky blue tomb; my grand father no longer has a mark on his grave.

My mother is the one with whom I have rekindled attachment. She will be eighty soon and with time has regained my honor with her words of love and care. She calls me at least once a month to hear my voice. She says that I am her only family and only child.

My father flashes. He flashes in and out of my life with no commitment or attachment. The intervals between flashes can last years; one lasted more than 15 years. He still attracts my respects but at a different level.

I do not have ill feelings towards my parents. It is unfortunate that we are now scattered over three continents. But in a couple of years I will be sixty and still wish that, as a child, one of them had held my hand to cross the street, pick me up when I fell, be with me for my birthdays, carry me on top of their shoulders or help me open the holiday presents.

I wish my parents had given me an identity, a family tree with my name on it, ,positioned where I belong.