The alarm just went off so it's definitely Wednesday morning. I'm quite convinced that was way less than the hours the alarm convinced me of last night when I knocked off. If I didn't know any better then I would be convinced time was on some performance enhancement stuff but I digress.
There is sort of a mini-hurricane going on outside; well devoid of all the rain at least but I can almost swear I heard the trees outside cry out in agony. Despite all this, I'm still pretty amped for this hour of the morning; the good weather took off earlier in the week so that is definitely not it. I have this class to get to that is fast working its way up my all time favourite list; its Applied Sustainable Science and as a bonus its all of three minutes walk from my house . Why is this relevant? Well because I do not have to fight the famous 'Wind tunnel' that is the Cornelius Drebbelweg; as a slight diversion from this I must mention I have many a time sat in the EWI (Electrical Engineering) building watching people get blown off their bikes at that point much to my amused amazement.
So this class is just a pre-cursor to my other class in the afternoon - Sustainable mobility (which is what I'm actually so amped about because we get to work on/with this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7g3v00cBok8
the most environmentally friendly car of all time (and it looks like a cross between a Bugatti and the Bat Mobile - awesome!!). Before you start wrinkling your nose up at the potential of being bombarded with 'how bad you are for the environment and such like philosophy, watch the video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAjLeSpj6PM
attached and tell me who would not want to hang with that, all day.
You see, the dynamic of being here is that I can balance it all out; Rocket scientist all day and at some point, figure out how to save the world. How many other places can you do that? All in one day? You tell me!
Thursday, October 06, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The power of a sunrise
The sun came out to play today.
That may sound like a rather inane statement suggesting the rather obvious concept of sunrise and sunset may not be as it should be. However, when you live on the end of the world where Spring acts like a mini-summer and sunny summer days are punished by a week of semi-typhoons, you learn to appreciate the sun coming out to play.
So I woke up today with an air of excitement; you see, I come from the sunny side of the world, so waking up to a decent sunrise, I get excited. Not that it will in by any way influence the price of oil in the world; nor will it reduce the effects of the massive damage we cause to environment in our wretched path to 'development'; nor will it automatically mean that all my problems will melt away. No! It just means that for those ten minutes when all is still and silent (save for those infernal pigeons and other flying creatures floating by balcony) nothing else exists save for the inexplicable beauty of Mother Nature in her royal splendour. Therapeutic is the word my friend used; humbling is what I proffered.
Nothing beats nature in the morning. I dare you to prove me right.
That may sound like a rather inane statement suggesting the rather obvious concept of sunrise and sunset may not be as it should be. However, when you live on the end of the world where Spring acts like a mini-summer and sunny summer days are punished by a week of semi-typhoons, you learn to appreciate the sun coming out to play.
So I woke up today with an air of excitement; you see, I come from the sunny side of the world, so waking up to a decent sunrise, I get excited. Not that it will in by any way influence the price of oil in the world; nor will it reduce the effects of the massive damage we cause to environment in our wretched path to 'development'; nor will it automatically mean that all my problems will melt away. No! It just means that for those ten minutes when all is still and silent (save for those infernal pigeons and other flying creatures floating by balcony) nothing else exists save for the inexplicable beauty of Mother Nature in her royal splendour. Therapeutic is the word my friend used; humbling is what I proffered.
Nothing beats nature in the morning. I dare you to prove me right.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The DQ is at it again
Enough said, the talent is insane :)
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7hfU0DkMwU
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E7hfU0DkMwU
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Ngeli ya Baiskeli VI: From whence it began...
Since the beginning of my Dutch adventure, there has always been one constant; and no its not the cold, neither is it the near homicidal winds, nor the erratic weather patterns but the availability of a means of two wheeled, non-motorised transportation.
The chronology of those that I have come into contact with and involved with can be traced in earlier versions of this here blog but for the sake of memory, we shall delve just a bit into the past.
First there was Blackie (later christened St. Blackie due to her boundless magnanimity). She, who accepted and shieleded all stray noises and gave them a place to call home, I proudly owned and took all over the place but sadly retired herself in a moment of suicidal insanity that left her destroyed and yours truly limping for a week.
Next came Newbie, lithe, fast and in great condition. Run well for a couple of months and even accepted to take on some of the traits exhibited by her predecessor (maybe it was a haunting, or Blackie just looking out for me - we shall never know). Took on noises left, right and centre and then one day, just refused to work. I should have taken a hint when her back brakes just seized up for no reason mid cycle to class one morning rendering that ride a cardio-vascular session. Then she unceremoniously broke four spokes in one ride and two more on subsequent rides. Finally she gave out and just refused to move; what option did I have but to let her go?
Then there was the 'Greyhound'; a sturdy city bike with working light systems, gears and systems at al. Perfect workhorse that could cart across the city in record time on demand or just cruise around at slow speeds for random cycle work. What a bike that was; no complaints whatsoever about 'The greyhound' I dare say...well till the day that it was nicked from the parking lot outside my house...stunned was the only expression I had on my face for a couple of days, and the mystery surrounding that remains just that, a mystery.
So now I cycle around on a brilliant bike. However, for fear of history repeating itself inexplicably, I have refused to name it. The bike is capable of 21 speed and has extra handle bars, handles brilliantly and is as light as light can get on a heavy duty bike. But as is characteristic of all those that have passed through my possession, magnanimity has not eluded even this one. The home of all noises seems to have been moved from all the bikes I had previously and is now in the cogs and chains of this here bike but I fret not. Apparently, this is a good sign; fast track to potential naming soon and after that the sky is the limit.
How brilliant can this get...nameless one, on to you..
The chronology of those that I have come into contact with and involved with can be traced in earlier versions of this here blog but for the sake of memory, we shall delve just a bit into the past.
First there was Blackie (later christened St. Blackie due to her boundless magnanimity). She, who accepted and shieleded all stray noises and gave them a place to call home, I proudly owned and took all over the place but sadly retired herself in a moment of suicidal insanity that left her destroyed and yours truly limping for a week.
Next came Newbie, lithe, fast and in great condition. Run well for a couple of months and even accepted to take on some of the traits exhibited by her predecessor (maybe it was a haunting, or Blackie just looking out for me - we shall never know). Took on noises left, right and centre and then one day, just refused to work. I should have taken a hint when her back brakes just seized up for no reason mid cycle to class one morning rendering that ride a cardio-vascular session. Then she unceremoniously broke four spokes in one ride and two more on subsequent rides. Finally she gave out and just refused to move; what option did I have but to let her go?
Then there was the 'Greyhound'; a sturdy city bike with working light systems, gears and systems at al. Perfect workhorse that could cart across the city in record time on demand or just cruise around at slow speeds for random cycle work. What a bike that was; no complaints whatsoever about 'The greyhound' I dare say...well till the day that it was nicked from the parking lot outside my house...stunned was the only expression I had on my face for a couple of days, and the mystery surrounding that remains just that, a mystery.
So now I cycle around on a brilliant bike. However, for fear of history repeating itself inexplicably, I have refused to name it. The bike is capable of 21 speed and has extra handle bars, handles brilliantly and is as light as light can get on a heavy duty bike. But as is characteristic of all those that have passed through my possession, magnanimity has not eluded even this one. The home of all noises seems to have been moved from all the bikes I had previously and is now in the cogs and chains of this here bike but I fret not. Apparently, this is a good sign; fast track to potential naming soon and after that the sky is the limit.
How brilliant can this get...nameless one, on to you..
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Of growing older and seemingly wiser..
Birthday week has come and gone; yes I claim a birthday week. Why you ask? Well because I figure that after an entire month laden with study calumniating with exams form the back door of hell itself, I deserved a week off from life in general. Luckily, my birthday falls right about the start of this lazy week I call it so I could so easily protract it for an entire week and have no guilt about it whatsoever; thus birthday week!
So what is it about growing older that makes us so excited? The need to hire temporary help to respond to messages on all sorts of social and electronic media aimed at yours truly is one I think. On this one day is when all and sundry will be nice to you; handshakes, hugs, kisses and the likes even from total strangers in a sort of emotional domino effect kind of concept.
As this day wears on, and in between my nonchalance to the system of classes I should be attending, I steal short moments here and there to try and contemplate all that I have been through in the past few years of my life and see if I have become any wiser since when I last did this.
Like a proverbial mirror on the wall, I stare into space to objectively assess my life in the past years in anticipation of massive revelations about the point of life and its direction in my particular case. For one the face has not changed much; the beard I shaved just last week is back with a vengeance, facial hair seems to grow much faster now (must be the age!); the eyes are a bit more sunken and tired (must be the midnight oil sessions taking a toll); the face has lost its initial youthfulness and naivety and aptly replaced with seasoned experience on issues life et al; the hairline is showing signs of receding which leaves me a few worries here and there.
They say a face can tell an entire story, so details of other changes are rendered pretty irrelevant in general.
Fast forward to the latter parts of the evening and a birthday party is in full swing. As I sit in a corner, head bobbing to the music or inadvertently due to the extra special drinks imbibed with over zealous individuals hell-bent on getting me on the drunken express in record time (as they believe a birthday is best spent drunken and disorderly!) - I know not - I recall when I was a member of the aimlessly-hopping-about-drunken-youth bunch in a night club with an inexplicable amount of energy; days gone by when I lived for the party; days gone by when FILO applied (for all who did some sort of management studies you will understand the first-in-last-out principle); days gone by when the success of a night was measured by how much one could imbibe in an evening or how many non-rejections from the fairer sex one would have notched up on the counter.
A loose chuckle escapes me as I watch the ensuing events of the evening and think back to why we actually celebrate getting older in life. Then it hits me; its not about celebrating ageing, it is celebrating getting through one more year of changes in one's life; one more year of growth (both physical but mainly mental); one more year of victories and losses and lessons learnt. It is a celebration of all that one has accomplished in a year and the hope and longing for another year of similar if not greater achievements. It is a celebration of life and an extension on one's lease of life.
So ladies and gentlemen, give thanks for the life you have and celebrate life every single chance you get!
As was said by Steve Jobs:
'Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice and most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.'
Salutations to you February-borns; we rock!
So what is it about growing older that makes us so excited? The need to hire temporary help to respond to messages on all sorts of social and electronic media aimed at yours truly is one I think. On this one day is when all and sundry will be nice to you; handshakes, hugs, kisses and the likes even from total strangers in a sort of emotional domino effect kind of concept.
As this day wears on, and in between my nonchalance to the system of classes I should be attending, I steal short moments here and there to try and contemplate all that I have been through in the past few years of my life and see if I have become any wiser since when I last did this.
Like a proverbial mirror on the wall, I stare into space to objectively assess my life in the past years in anticipation of massive revelations about the point of life and its direction in my particular case. For one the face has not changed much; the beard I shaved just last week is back with a vengeance, facial hair seems to grow much faster now (must be the age!); the eyes are a bit more sunken and tired (must be the midnight oil sessions taking a toll); the face has lost its initial youthfulness and naivety and aptly replaced with seasoned experience on issues life et al; the hairline is showing signs of receding which leaves me a few worries here and there.
They say a face can tell an entire story, so details of other changes are rendered pretty irrelevant in general.
Fast forward to the latter parts of the evening and a birthday party is in full swing. As I sit in a corner, head bobbing to the music or inadvertently due to the extra special drinks imbibed with over zealous individuals hell-bent on getting me on the drunken express in record time (as they believe a birthday is best spent drunken and disorderly!) - I know not - I recall when I was a member of the aimlessly-hopping-about-drunken-youth bunch in a night club with an inexplicable amount of energy; days gone by when I lived for the party; days gone by when FILO applied (for all who did some sort of management studies you will understand the first-in-last-out principle); days gone by when the success of a night was measured by how much one could imbibe in an evening or how many non-rejections from the fairer sex one would have notched up on the counter.
A loose chuckle escapes me as I watch the ensuing events of the evening and think back to why we actually celebrate getting older in life. Then it hits me; its not about celebrating ageing, it is celebrating getting through one more year of changes in one's life; one more year of growth (both physical but mainly mental); one more year of victories and losses and lessons learnt. It is a celebration of all that one has accomplished in a year and the hope and longing for another year of similar if not greater achievements. It is a celebration of life and an extension on one's lease of life.
So ladies and gentlemen, give thanks for the life you have and celebrate life every single chance you get!
As was said by Steve Jobs:
'Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice and most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.'
Salutations to you February-borns; we rock!
Friday, February 04, 2011
The Schitt History
Attributed fully to the Jujubean herself...
Who is Jack Schitt you ask? The lineage is finally revealed. Many people are at a loss for a response when someone says " you don't know jack schitt." Now you can intellectually handle the situation. Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt and O Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O Schitt, the owner of kneedeep N. Schitt, Inc. In turn, Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt, and the deeply religious couple produced six children: Holie Schitt, Fulla Schitt,Giva Schitt,Bull Schitt, and the twins, Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt. Against her parents' wishes, Deep Schitt married Dumb Schitt, a high school dropout. After being married 15 years, Jack and Noe Schitt divorced.
Noe Schitt later married Mr. Sherlock, and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was then known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt and they produced a nervous son, Chicken Schitt.
Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt were inseparable throughout their childhood and subsequently married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. Thewedding announcement in the newspaper announced the Schitt-Happens wedding. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg,Byrd, and Horse. Bull Schitt, the prodigal son left home to tour the world, and recently returned from Italy with his new bride, Pisa Schitt.
So now when someone says, "you don't know Jack Schitt", you can correct them.
Who is Jack Schitt you ask? The lineage is finally revealed. Many people are at a loss for a response when someone says " you don't know jack schitt." Now you can intellectually handle the situation. Jack is the only son of Awe Schitt and O Schitt. Awe Schitt, the fertilizer magnate, married O Schitt, the owner of kneedeep N. Schitt, Inc. In turn, Jack Schitt married Noe Schitt, and the deeply religious couple produced six children: Holie Schitt, Fulla Schitt,Giva Schitt,Bull Schitt, and the twins, Deep Schitt and Dip Schitt. Against her parents' wishes, Deep Schitt married Dumb Schitt, a high school dropout. After being married 15 years, Jack and Noe Schitt divorced.
Noe Schitt later married Mr. Sherlock, and because her kids were living with them, she wanted to keep her previous name. She was then known as Noe Schitt-Sherlock. Dip Schitt married Loda Schitt and they produced a nervous son, Chicken Schitt.
Fulla Schitt and Giva Schitt were inseparable throughout their childhood and subsequently married the Happens brothers in a dual ceremony. Thewedding announcement in the newspaper announced the Schitt-Happens wedding. The Schitt-Happens children are Dawg,Byrd, and Horse. Bull Schitt, the prodigal son left home to tour the world, and recently returned from Italy with his new bride, Pisa Schitt.
So now when someone says, "you don't know Jack Schitt", you can correct them.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Hi5's all round...why not?
2/1/2011
The 31st of December, commonly referred to as New Years Eve, is one of the most looked forward to days of the calender. That day is pregnant with the anticipation of a new year, a better year, a brighter year and a host of good tidings. I spent the 31st of December 2010 at a wedding; speaking of which...congratulations to Peter and Jane - an eternity of bliss and happiness be heading your way. Away from all the glamour that weddings present and the wedding juice all mothers imbibe before they show up, a wedding of a common friend from Kitas brings all characters that make up Kitas 00208, The Series, together.
More so, when the wedding spills over to an evening party which will in turn double up as the New Year's party and then you see that Kitas is not just a place, its a way of life! Midnight comes and is marked with the attendant pomp and splendour deserving of such an occasion. That marks the beginning of a 'party till we drop fiesta' fuelled by the over zealous dj and his 'Shouter' (this is the name I have appointed to the guy who stands next to the dj and yells random things into the microphone in an attempt to hype the crowd).
Come 7 am as we drive into home after a night well spent crossing over into a new decade. How many would have loved to see this morning but for one reason or the other could not; we never forget to give thanks for such mercies and indulgences.
The time to get back to the Northern Hemisphere is fast approaching; however, before leaving, a mention must be made of all those who made this holiday as massive as it was: Dq and her attendant posse - y'all take rocking to a different level. Pilli, Liz, Nduku, Eric, Muriuki, Dmuitta, Di - la familia extend! Mko juu tu sana. Lillian, way too long it had been...lets fix that. Bubbles, sigh! Need I say more? Mutheu, unofficial Nairobi tour guide, how awesomely awesome are you? Brilliant! Sheri and the crew of Kabasiran, next time we make it bigger. Kitas crew hi5's all round. To all who might have been missed in this, you are never forgotten in the heart - where it matters most. To Nairobi in general, the love I have for you is unbelievable! Stay good, till next time.
I'm out.
The 31st of December, commonly referred to as New Years Eve, is one of the most looked forward to days of the calender. That day is pregnant with the anticipation of a new year, a better year, a brighter year and a host of good tidings. I spent the 31st of December 2010 at a wedding; speaking of which...congratulations to Peter and Jane - an eternity of bliss and happiness be heading your way. Away from all the glamour that weddings present and the wedding juice all mothers imbibe before they show up, a wedding of a common friend from Kitas brings all characters that make up Kitas 00208, The Series, together.
More so, when the wedding spills over to an evening party which will in turn double up as the New Year's party and then you see that Kitas is not just a place, its a way of life! Midnight comes and is marked with the attendant pomp and splendour deserving of such an occasion. That marks the beginning of a 'party till we drop fiesta' fuelled by the over zealous dj and his 'Shouter' (this is the name I have appointed to the guy who stands next to the dj and yells random things into the microphone in an attempt to hype the crowd).
Come 7 am as we drive into home after a night well spent crossing over into a new decade. How many would have loved to see this morning but for one reason or the other could not; we never forget to give thanks for such mercies and indulgences.
The time to get back to the Northern Hemisphere is fast approaching; however, before leaving, a mention must be made of all those who made this holiday as massive as it was: Dq and her attendant posse - y'all take rocking to a different level. Pilli, Liz, Nduku, Eric, Muriuki, Dmuitta, Di - la familia extend! Mko juu tu sana. Lillian, way too long it had been...lets fix that. Bubbles, sigh! Need I say more? Mutheu, unofficial Nairobi tour guide, how awesomely awesome are you? Brilliant! Sheri and the crew of Kabasiran, next time we make it bigger. Kitas crew hi5's all round. To all who might have been missed in this, you are never forgotten in the heart - where it matters most. To Nairobi in general, the love I have for you is unbelievable! Stay good, till next time.
I'm out.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Christmas times...
25/12/2010
When I was a young one, say in primary school days, we had a used to have Christmas holidays at the end year which also coincided with the end of year school holidays. As we were wont to do, we had this little nifty songs that we would come up with just for the occasion. We had a mix of a famous Christmas song that would go:
'Tis the season to be be naughty,
fa la la la la la la la la,
burn the maths books and the textbooks,
fa la la la la la la la la la,
set the teacher's desk on fire,
fa la la la la, la la la la.'
I awoke this morning with that song playing in my head; a random hum of the same permeates my room as I get into the Christmas mood. I mean, it is Christmas and though it shall not be a 'white Christmas' (26 degrees begs to differ) it shall still be an epic one. There are certain duties that need to be carried out on such days by the men of the house and top on that agenda is the death of the goat to be partaken. That done, and the hapless animal hanging decapitated and skinned upside down off a tree, and fire set up for the open roast.
The beauty of Christmas at home is the superb atmosphere. Graced by my uncle and his family and a friend peculiarly named Jesus, Christmas could not have been better. Humour abounds as stories galore are flung about the fire. Picking myself up after every tale gets harder and harder as they evolve from the true to perhaps only bits of truth and more fiction. How much more awesome can Christmas get? I don't quite know.
Jesus (pronounced as Hesus!) took photos of the barbecue so as soon as I can track him down from Kakuma (way in the North of Kenya!) those shall be uploaded.
A great day was had by all; and memories galore shall remain with all present.
Oh happy days.
'tis the season to be naughty...'
When I was a young one, say in primary school days, we had a used to have Christmas holidays at the end year which also coincided with the end of year school holidays. As we were wont to do, we had this little nifty songs that we would come up with just for the occasion. We had a mix of a famous Christmas song that would go:
'Tis the season to be be naughty,
fa la la la la la la la la,
burn the maths books and the textbooks,
fa la la la la la la la la la,
set the teacher's desk on fire,
fa la la la la, la la la la.'
I awoke this morning with that song playing in my head; a random hum of the same permeates my room as I get into the Christmas mood. I mean, it is Christmas and though it shall not be a 'white Christmas' (26 degrees begs to differ) it shall still be an epic one. There are certain duties that need to be carried out on such days by the men of the house and top on that agenda is the death of the goat to be partaken. That done, and the hapless animal hanging decapitated and skinned upside down off a tree, and fire set up for the open roast.
The beauty of Christmas at home is the superb atmosphere. Graced by my uncle and his family and a friend peculiarly named Jesus, Christmas could not have been better. Humour abounds as stories galore are flung about the fire. Picking myself up after every tale gets harder and harder as they evolve from the true to perhaps only bits of truth and more fiction. How much more awesome can Christmas get? I don't quite know.
Jesus (pronounced as Hesus!) took photos of the barbecue so as soon as I can track him down from Kakuma (way in the North of Kenya!) those shall be uploaded.
A great day was had by all; and memories galore shall remain with all present.
Oh happy days.
'tis the season to be naughty...'
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Dude in the big city
16/12/2010
Farmers choice sausages and free range eggs; chai ya Ketepa, mkate nusu na uji - Now that is a breakfast of champions. You see, the perks of being at home are varied but without a doubt, food is right there at the top. How dare one not appreciate just how epic a breakfast of this magnitude is? While acknowledging the skill of the chef who put effort into it?
Today is day one in the big city; been away all of twenty four months and rumour has it development has finally found its way to my beloved city. I'm curious as to how well it has turned out seeing as the ride up to home began all smooth and dainty but ended up as a version of The Rhino Charge at some point when we still alleged to be on the road.
The impressions of the city are not lost on me; brilliant expansions of roads I once considered no better than one way estate roads, re-carpeting of these same roads and every other major road I can think of; and the crown jewel of them all, the multi-level interchanges on the 5 lane a side Thika road due to be commissioned later next year. Tears almost well up in my eyes in a moment of sheer unadulterated patriotism as I imagine how it shall look when fully done.
It takes all of five minutes on the road to figure out that Matatus shall never change; and Kenyan's along with them. The blaring music hits me as a multi-coloured blur (that could have been anything from a vehicle to a stampeding buffalo herd) whizzes by nearly taking my life with it as I attempt to cross the road at a zebra crossing. Clearly, we have yet to make that stride.
The brilliantly warm sun shines down hard upon her people; the hustle and bustle of Kenyan's wearing smiles on their faces brings a warmth to the heart. I have missed this and I plan to enjoy it as long as I possibly can.
Much love Nairobi.
P.S: Have you seen the interchange they intend to put up at the former Museum Hill roundabout? Have you? You should! Darn!
Farmers choice sausages and free range eggs; chai ya Ketepa, mkate nusu na uji - Now that is a breakfast of champions. You see, the perks of being at home are varied but without a doubt, food is right there at the top. How dare one not appreciate just how epic a breakfast of this magnitude is? While acknowledging the skill of the chef who put effort into it?
Today is day one in the big city; been away all of twenty four months and rumour has it development has finally found its way to my beloved city. I'm curious as to how well it has turned out seeing as the ride up to home began all smooth and dainty but ended up as a version of The Rhino Charge at some point when we still alleged to be on the road.
The impressions of the city are not lost on me; brilliant expansions of roads I once considered no better than one way estate roads, re-carpeting of these same roads and every other major road I can think of; and the crown jewel of them all, the multi-level interchanges on the 5 lane a side Thika road due to be commissioned later next year. Tears almost well up in my eyes in a moment of sheer unadulterated patriotism as I imagine how it shall look when fully done.
It takes all of five minutes on the road to figure out that Matatus shall never change; and Kenyan's along with them. The blaring music hits me as a multi-coloured blur (that could have been anything from a vehicle to a stampeding buffalo herd) whizzes by nearly taking my life with it as I attempt to cross the road at a zebra crossing. Clearly, we have yet to make that stride.
The brilliantly warm sun shines down hard upon her people; the hustle and bustle of Kenyan's wearing smiles on their faces brings a warmth to the heart. I have missed this and I plan to enjoy it as long as I possibly can.
Much love Nairobi.
P.S: Have you seen the interchange they intend to put up at the former Museum Hill roundabout? Have you? You should! Darn!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Kitas - back again
14/12/2010
The sweet, slightly chilled air of the highland areas that make up the so called 'Burbs' greet me as I alight the car at home. Kitas - the fond nickname we have coined up for home - also known as Matasia (short for Enoomatasiani) has a gorgeous view of the sky I have come to admit. The silhouette of Ngong Hills over the hills at midnight is nothing short of surreal; this is what I've been missing.
The lowing of the cows and the incessant debate over which chicken gets the early worm makes for a jolting back to life in Kitas; farm politics and details make for early morning breakfast discussions and the likes - You just have to love being home. A solid ugali is on the menu for lunch without a doubt and acquisition of a sim card to join the millions of fleecees (yes derived from fleece and meaning those who are fleeced!) on a Kenyan mobile phone network are the top two scheduled activities for the day. Those and numerous phone calls that have to be made to pay homage to relatives and friends without whom the journey of my life would have taken a different tangent.
But for now, I shall sit back and enjoy the warmth of being home.
How I have missed you so!
The sweet, slightly chilled air of the highland areas that make up the so called 'Burbs' greet me as I alight the car at home. Kitas - the fond nickname we have coined up for home - also known as Matasia (short for Enoomatasiani) has a gorgeous view of the sky I have come to admit. The silhouette of Ngong Hills over the hills at midnight is nothing short of surreal; this is what I've been missing.
The lowing of the cows and the incessant debate over which chicken gets the early worm makes for a jolting back to life in Kitas; farm politics and details make for early morning breakfast discussions and the likes - You just have to love being home. A solid ugali is on the menu for lunch without a doubt and acquisition of a sim card to join the millions of fleecees (yes derived from fleece and meaning those who are fleeced!) on a Kenyan mobile phone network are the top two scheduled activities for the day. Those and numerous phone calls that have to be made to pay homage to relatives and friends without whom the journey of my life would have taken a different tangent.
But for now, I shall sit back and enjoy the warmth of being home.
How I have missed you so!
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Homecoming
This is an entry I wrote on paper but failed to upload onto this blog.
13/12/2010
Dreams of a clear, smog-free, warm Nairobi sunshine have been shelved by circumstances that go way beyond my control. The anticipation of devouring the ribs of a hapless goat brought to slaughter in honour of the 'homecoming' have been put on hold as the plane sits like a lame duck on the runway. We're back at the airport for the second time in as many days; last nights' crushing news that the flight had been delayed by 16hours has been numbed somewhat by the stay in the three star hotel and loads of open bar drinks and food courtesy of KQ.
Its boarding time, and the itchy excitement of smelling Nairobi's air and savouring its intense warmth render me all giggly; its been nearly two years since I set foot in my motherland and the excitement is palpable. Just eight hours I tell myself and I shall get my chance to do so yet again.
There is nothing quite as breathtaking as the descent from Northern part of Kenya to the J.K.I.A. at night I dare say; its starts as a bleak darkness punctuated only by the occasional light - 'tis a scene that mirrors the heavens on a clear night. The punctuations slowly graduate to a line here and there and finally an entire array of lights as streets come into view and the beauty of the city is there for all to enjoy.
Clearance done and customs sorted. Luggage does take its time when you can see your loved ones through the glass partition of the airport arrival lounge but at last it is processed and I can safely say I'm home.
Overwhelmed by emotion and love, the admission that home is home is rather evident; the smell of the clear air, the perfect night sky, the flow of Kiswahili, Sheng and all other sets of dialects is music to my ears. Fighting back the tears is quite the task but it be time to drive up to the house and enjoy being in the motherland.
It feels good to be home; +254 you have been sorely missed and I'm here to prove it!
13/12/2010
Dreams of a clear, smog-free, warm Nairobi sunshine have been shelved by circumstances that go way beyond my control. The anticipation of devouring the ribs of a hapless goat brought to slaughter in honour of the 'homecoming' have been put on hold as the plane sits like a lame duck on the runway. We're back at the airport for the second time in as many days; last nights' crushing news that the flight had been delayed by 16hours has been numbed somewhat by the stay in the three star hotel and loads of open bar drinks and food courtesy of KQ.
Its boarding time, and the itchy excitement of smelling Nairobi's air and savouring its intense warmth render me all giggly; its been nearly two years since I set foot in my motherland and the excitement is palpable. Just eight hours I tell myself and I shall get my chance to do so yet again.
There is nothing quite as breathtaking as the descent from Northern part of Kenya to the J.K.I.A. at night I dare say; its starts as a bleak darkness punctuated only by the occasional light - 'tis a scene that mirrors the heavens on a clear night. The punctuations slowly graduate to a line here and there and finally an entire array of lights as streets come into view and the beauty of the city is there for all to enjoy.
Clearance done and customs sorted. Luggage does take its time when you can see your loved ones through the glass partition of the airport arrival lounge but at last it is processed and I can safely say I'm home.
Overwhelmed by emotion and love, the admission that home is home is rather evident; the smell of the clear air, the perfect night sky, the flow of Kiswahili, Sheng and all other sets of dialects is music to my ears. Fighting back the tears is quite the task but it be time to drive up to the house and enjoy being in the motherland.
It feels good to be home; +254 you have been sorely missed and I'm here to prove it!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Vilage chronicles I: Old McDonald and alarm clock woes
Life on the farm can be quite the interesting one I daresay. It’s a perfect blend of peace and tranquillity that is second to none in this world. After a year of fighting to keep ignorance at bay, a holiday on the farm was just what the doctor ordered. However, the doctor never thought that an animal farm could be such an ‘interesting’ place to live.
I love sleeping; it’s on my list of top ten things that I love in this world. Needless to say, any interference with my sleep for reasons that do not directly affect the sustenance of my life may lead to a life long enmity between the perpetrator of such a heinous crime and I but I digress.
I haven’t used my alarm clock since I got home for holiday mainly because I love to sleep. However, of late I have been feeling a bit like Old McDonald from the famous childhood sing-a-long ‘Old McDonald had a farm’.
It all starts at the ungodly hour of three a.m. when the battle of the cockerels begins. The chief cockerel stamps his authority with a deep and long crow that would put all others to shame. Not to be cowed however, the neighbours’ cockerel is quick to respond and likewise with the entire zone such that in no time there’s an entire battle of the cockerels going on. You would have to be deaf to not to appreciate the efforts of the fowls as they go about their business of establishing who gets bragging rights for the entire day. This war goes on for all of an hour; which leaves one with just enough time to get back to sleep before the cattle take over as they begin their long incessant lowing in a bid to remind all that its time for them to get milked. Woe unto thee who forgets to milk them for you shall surely not sleep for their lowing is relentless. For sure, dawn is right around the corner when one finally gets back to lay his head on the pillow and try and get some sleep.
As if by some nasty twist of fate, at this particular moment is when the pigeons of yester tale show up and teach the attendant birds of the farm how to tap dance and sing-song on my window sill and has been proven in the past, silencing these breed of birds is nothing short of an impossible task.
So there goes an entire night, whether I like it or not, and up I have to be. Indeed, I have become Old McDonald from the famed folklore and established the answer to the question just how useful can an alarm clock be in these circumstances?
I love sleeping; it’s on my list of top ten things that I love in this world. Needless to say, any interference with my sleep for reasons that do not directly affect the sustenance of my life may lead to a life long enmity between the perpetrator of such a heinous crime and I but I digress.
I haven’t used my alarm clock since I got home for holiday mainly because I love to sleep. However, of late I have been feeling a bit like Old McDonald from the famous childhood sing-a-long ‘Old McDonald had a farm’.
It all starts at the ungodly hour of three a.m. when the battle of the cockerels begins. The chief cockerel stamps his authority with a deep and long crow that would put all others to shame. Not to be cowed however, the neighbours’ cockerel is quick to respond and likewise with the entire zone such that in no time there’s an entire battle of the cockerels going on. You would have to be deaf to not to appreciate the efforts of the fowls as they go about their business of establishing who gets bragging rights for the entire day. This war goes on for all of an hour; which leaves one with just enough time to get back to sleep before the cattle take over as they begin their long incessant lowing in a bid to remind all that its time for them to get milked. Woe unto thee who forgets to milk them for you shall surely not sleep for their lowing is relentless. For sure, dawn is right around the corner when one finally gets back to lay his head on the pillow and try and get some sleep.
As if by some nasty twist of fate, at this particular moment is when the pigeons of yester tale show up and teach the attendant birds of the farm how to tap dance and sing-song on my window sill and has been proven in the past, silencing these breed of birds is nothing short of an impossible task.
So there goes an entire night, whether I like it or not, and up I have to be. Indeed, I have become Old McDonald from the famed folklore and established the answer to the question just how useful can an alarm clock be in these circumstances?
Monday, May 25, 2009
Of Spring and hybrid mosquitoes....
As has become custom, my love-hate relationship with the pigeons on my window sill continues; they love to irritate me to within an inch of my sanity and I hate them for trying to befriend me. The united voice choir of pigeons (U.V.C.P.) is at it again and they seem to have recruited a fleet-footed tap-dancing raven that is without a doubt as tone -deaf as a severely inebriated man. I awake to the cacophony of poorly coordinated, discordant though slightly harmonious cooing of pigeons accompanied by an inexplicable tap-dance by the newest recruit to the band. The cawing of that infernal creature I cannot stand and after running out of objects to throw at the window in a seemingly lost battle at chasing them away, I surrender to the ‘music’ and kiss my slumber away.
It’s yet another grouchy morning; not that I have anything against the morning but this has gone on long enough and besides, I haven’t really had much sleep of late and early mornings are great for this but alas the U.V.C.P. has other ideas.
Spring is a great season I daresay.
It’s apparently the season of life and love; trees awaken from months of slumber and grow some leaves to cover their bare sides; flowers bloom and fill the air with sweet scents of breed after breed that can be quite invigorating and intoxicating at a go; bees in abundance as they spread around pollen from flower to flower in reckless abandon occasionally smashing into all and sundry as they buzz around; even the fowls seem much happier with general warmer temperatures and make a point to show you as they splash around in ponds and canals all over the place.
For all these creatures of the earth, I have nothing but joy and envy save for one. I wouldn’t have a problem if they just minded their own business but they don’t now do they? Flying around, darting in and out, biting here and there and moving on as if it’s their right to do so. Yes, these are more tenacious than any I have ever seen. Sleep has become a thing of the past; counting sheep has been replaced with counting them.
They buzz, dart, bite they fly off. Hybrid too they have become, I can attest to this. They are organised, fearless and ruthless. I can almost swear that they now work in teams; some to lift the blankets and sheets covering my head and the rest to attack the top of my head. It sounds ridiculous but I can almost swear I have seen them do this, almost accidentally. I once woke up in a start only to find my blanket hovering strangely above my head but dismissed it as a confused dream and went back to sleep. However, shock on me when I awoke the next morning to find a set of bites on my forehead. Indeed, hybrid they have become and quashed they must be.
So yes I love spring and all the attendant life it brings along but I still stand by my assertion, hybrid mosquitoes must be quashed and I shall lead the campaign. Feel free to join me!
It’s yet another grouchy morning; not that I have anything against the morning but this has gone on long enough and besides, I haven’t really had much sleep of late and early mornings are great for this but alas the U.V.C.P. has other ideas.
Spring is a great season I daresay.
It’s apparently the season of life and love; trees awaken from months of slumber and grow some leaves to cover their bare sides; flowers bloom and fill the air with sweet scents of breed after breed that can be quite invigorating and intoxicating at a go; bees in abundance as they spread around pollen from flower to flower in reckless abandon occasionally smashing into all and sundry as they buzz around; even the fowls seem much happier with general warmer temperatures and make a point to show you as they splash around in ponds and canals all over the place.
For all these creatures of the earth, I have nothing but joy and envy save for one. I wouldn’t have a problem if they just minded their own business but they don’t now do they? Flying around, darting in and out, biting here and there and moving on as if it’s their right to do so. Yes, these are more tenacious than any I have ever seen. Sleep has become a thing of the past; counting sheep has been replaced with counting them.
They buzz, dart, bite they fly off. Hybrid too they have become, I can attest to this. They are organised, fearless and ruthless. I can almost swear that they now work in teams; some to lift the blankets and sheets covering my head and the rest to attack the top of my head. It sounds ridiculous but I can almost swear I have seen them do this, almost accidentally. I once woke up in a start only to find my blanket hovering strangely above my head but dismissed it as a confused dream and went back to sleep. However, shock on me when I awoke the next morning to find a set of bites on my forehead. Indeed, hybrid they have become and quashed they must be.
So yes I love spring and all the attendant life it brings along but I still stand by my assertion, hybrid mosquitoes must be quashed and I shall lead the campaign. Feel free to join me!
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Chronicles of a timewaster
It has been claimed in the past that the sunrise has got to be the single most beautiful and breathtaking events on this earth. The promise of a new day, a new-lease on life, a new set of dreams, hope and expectations casting away all disappointments and failures of yesterday. A dawn to new life and new hope. But alas, this phenomenon is but for a few to witness.
A discordant yet harmonious sing-song and incoherent beat wakes me up with a start. I do not dare look at the time for I know deep down in my bones it is yet too early to awaken. It has been like this for days on end; a discordant yet it persists; you would think the repeated threats would have taught them by now but alas. The United Voices Choir of Pigeons with inexplicable pecking on my windows is not the ideal way to begin a day but apparently it is to them. As has become our fair tradition, the pigeons and I, I find some object to hurl at the window and away they go; the games have just began.
I roll back into bed and face the wall in my struggle to return to sleep. This can never reach the ears of the president of the association of couch-potatoes, malingerers, posers and layabouts (A.C.M.P.L.). He should never know that a co-founder of this exclusive club was awake at the time of the birds. In time I disappear to a land of dreamless slumber in pursuit of the ideals that this exclusive club has tried to impart upon me.
When I finally awake, a little past the hour for any normal human to be asleep, the day is well into its development; having just run right by teenage and fast headed toward adulthood. Awake though far from alert, I stare at the ceiling and mind-numbingly count and recount the boards that make up my ceiling. I just might have to eventually leave my bed but in that light maybe I should stay a bit more; the census on my toes is yet to be completed for the umpteenth time.
Breakfast is a meal I have failed to indulge in for quite a while now. With rules set forth to live up to by the order it was hard not to. To the kitchen indeed to cook up a storm; yes this is the life of a malingerer. Eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep a little more then just be. Brunch once done, I was ready for all sorts of activities time wasting. As is stated in the creed of the ACMPL, I turned on the television and flipped through here and there. It was standard procedure, irrespective of all other activities time wasting.
It was time to switch off my brain; mental activity was against all that was adhered to in the A.C.M.P.L. had to find something to do that involved time wasting thorough and through; something that would make the president of the A.C.M.P.L. proud; something that would put me back in the good books of the A.C.M.P.L.; then I saw him.
It was pretty amazing that I actually saw him. It’s not everyday that one gets to enjoy the sight of sheer elegance and patience so when it does happen all one can do is register interest and remain in awe. I watched him attempt to do a crossing of the veranda, which in my opinion to him seemed like the impossible task but then again only he could tell us. I decided to name him Pete. In the true spirit of the A.C.M.P.L. I began to wonder how a conversation with Pete would go.
“Good morning Pete” I would go and he would respond:
“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-am we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-well”
“Crossing my veranda I see”, I would proceed to which he would respond:
“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-am t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tryy--tryy--tryy--tryy--tryy-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ing…..trying to.”
You see, Pete is a chameleon and it’s pretty obvious that it takes quite a while for the great crossing to be complete and by the time this happens, the day has crossed mid-life and is on fast track to old age. Indeed it was a day for the record books. The A.C.M.P.L. shall be very pleased to learn of this but that too would involve work and that cannot be. Alas, its time to eat again and then sleep. Oh the life of a timewaster.
A discordant yet harmonious sing-song and incoherent beat wakes me up with a start. I do not dare look at the time for I know deep down in my bones it is yet too early to awaken. It has been like this for days on end; a discordant yet it persists; you would think the repeated threats would have taught them by now but alas. The United Voices Choir of Pigeons with inexplicable pecking on my windows is not the ideal way to begin a day but apparently it is to them. As has become our fair tradition, the pigeons and I, I find some object to hurl at the window and away they go; the games have just began.
I roll back into bed and face the wall in my struggle to return to sleep. This can never reach the ears of the president of the association of couch-potatoes, malingerers, posers and layabouts (A.C.M.P.L.). He should never know that a co-founder of this exclusive club was awake at the time of the birds. In time I disappear to a land of dreamless slumber in pursuit of the ideals that this exclusive club has tried to impart upon me.
When I finally awake, a little past the hour for any normal human to be asleep, the day is well into its development; having just run right by teenage and fast headed toward adulthood. Awake though far from alert, I stare at the ceiling and mind-numbingly count and recount the boards that make up my ceiling. I just might have to eventually leave my bed but in that light maybe I should stay a bit more; the census on my toes is yet to be completed for the umpteenth time.
Breakfast is a meal I have failed to indulge in for quite a while now. With rules set forth to live up to by the order it was hard not to. To the kitchen indeed to cook up a storm; yes this is the life of a malingerer. Eat, sleep, eat some more, sleep a little more then just be. Brunch once done, I was ready for all sorts of activities time wasting. As is stated in the creed of the ACMPL, I turned on the television and flipped through here and there. It was standard procedure, irrespective of all other activities time wasting.
It was time to switch off my brain; mental activity was against all that was adhered to in the A.C.M.P.L. had to find something to do that involved time wasting thorough and through; something that would make the president of the A.C.M.P.L. proud; something that would put me back in the good books of the A.C.M.P.L.; then I saw him.
It was pretty amazing that I actually saw him. It’s not everyday that one gets to enjoy the sight of sheer elegance and patience so when it does happen all one can do is register interest and remain in awe. I watched him attempt to do a crossing of the veranda, which in my opinion to him seemed like the impossible task but then again only he could tell us. I decided to name him Pete. In the true spirit of the A.C.M.P.L. I began to wonder how a conversation with Pete would go.
“Good morning Pete” I would go and he would respond:
“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-am we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-we-well”
“Crossing my veranda I see”, I would proceed to which he would respond:
“I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-I a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-am t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-tr-tr-tr-tr-tr-tryy--tryy--tryy--tryy--tryy-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ing…..trying to.”
You see, Pete is a chameleon and it’s pretty obvious that it takes quite a while for the great crossing to be complete and by the time this happens, the day has crossed mid-life and is on fast track to old age. Indeed it was a day for the record books. The A.C.M.P.L. shall be very pleased to learn of this but that too would involve work and that cannot be. Alas, its time to eat again and then sleep. Oh the life of a timewaster.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Studentlife 101 - I
It’s a beautiful night out;
Half moon shining her heart out; a movie-scripted sky with stars dotting its already freckled appearance and a nice warm breeze. I should be out perhaps, enjoying a drink with friends or just randomly enjoying the randomity of creation but alas I'm pinned to my desk with the ghosts of exams past haunting me and the books eagle-spread on the table calling out to me in feigned embrace of a lover.
It is the eternal struggle of student vs. books; a fight no sane man was destined to win but alas we try; for what would be without the hope that perhaps if we try again, we just might succeed. Yes it's that time of the year again; lecturers are sharpening the knives and students, like sheep being led to the slaughter house, are 'eagerly' queuing outside exam halls oblivious of the evil schemes that have been hatched inside by conniving lecturers in a bid to shame them to the whole world and prove once again their superiority.
Yes, 'tis exam time once again and woe unto thee student; whether you have studied or not. It must be something in the books they make that make you believe that you have no knowledge of what it to transpire in the exam hall; or a spell cast on individuals to make their minds go blank when exam papers are placed before their eyes; or an elaborate scheme to ensure that questions posed cover only the topics that you have not studied. Either way, exam time has never and will never come at a good time in life; if it did then maybe perhaps pigs would fly and umbrellas would be the order of the day for all and sundry but I digress.
Irrespective of all this, yes it's time to sacrifice ones' life yet again at the altar of vindication of ones knowledge by the unforgiving, uncaring, illogical exams. Like a spiteful lover, they use you then leave you by the roadside, gutted and disillusioned. 'Tis exam time yet again student believe it or not and once again, they shall have their way with you, like it or not. So fight not their wily techniques, but embrace the energies of years of sharpened experience. Here's to another painful exam session.
Meanwhile the books beckon...how foolish of me not to respond…
Half moon shining her heart out; a movie-scripted sky with stars dotting its already freckled appearance and a nice warm breeze. I should be out perhaps, enjoying a drink with friends or just randomly enjoying the randomity of creation but alas I'm pinned to my desk with the ghosts of exams past haunting me and the books eagle-spread on the table calling out to me in feigned embrace of a lover.
It is the eternal struggle of student vs. books; a fight no sane man was destined to win but alas we try; for what would be without the hope that perhaps if we try again, we just might succeed. Yes it's that time of the year again; lecturers are sharpening the knives and students, like sheep being led to the slaughter house, are 'eagerly' queuing outside exam halls oblivious of the evil schemes that have been hatched inside by conniving lecturers in a bid to shame them to the whole world and prove once again their superiority.
Yes, 'tis exam time once again and woe unto thee student; whether you have studied or not. It must be something in the books they make that make you believe that you have no knowledge of what it to transpire in the exam hall; or a spell cast on individuals to make their minds go blank when exam papers are placed before their eyes; or an elaborate scheme to ensure that questions posed cover only the topics that you have not studied. Either way, exam time has never and will never come at a good time in life; if it did then maybe perhaps pigs would fly and umbrellas would be the order of the day for all and sundry but I digress.
Irrespective of all this, yes it's time to sacrifice ones' life yet again at the altar of vindication of ones knowledge by the unforgiving, uncaring, illogical exams. Like a spiteful lover, they use you then leave you by the roadside, gutted and disillusioned. 'Tis exam time yet again student believe it or not and once again, they shall have their way with you, like it or not. So fight not their wily techniques, but embrace the energies of years of sharpened experience. Here's to another painful exam session.
Meanwhile the books beckon...how foolish of me not to respond…
Friday, March 13, 2009
Ngeli ya Baiskeli V: The Haunting...
Last we heard of St. Blackie she was confined to some basement somewhere in Delft; and truth be told she is sorely missed. I see her everywhere I go, at parking bays, going around a corner only to go and check and confirm that indeed she is still lying in state in that basement.
Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if I had stayed with her; if we hadn't had that public split and if she hadn't tried to kill me; how far would we be now?
I have a new one now (henceforth reffered to as Newbie); still stuck on the name to append to her. She hasn't come up with any spectacular character traits worth appending a name to. She is lithe, fast, in good conditioning but of late I have noticed small traits that may be associated to her predecessor.
She has recently picked up a noise! Yes people, St. Blackie lives on. I was riding behind some miscellaneous individual and his transport medium was emitting a sound comparable only to a banshee in pain. In the spirit of the whole moment, I had a bit of a laugh that was short lived because it took all of a couple of seconds for Newbie to figure out just how to emit a similar sound; the only problem is that if this had been a singing contest, Newbie would be one of those who's clips are scorned for eternity because all she could muster was a raspy screeching-like noise emanating from somewhere near or on the chain that has successfully managed to stick up to date.
So maybe the spirit of St. Blackie has moved on and possesed Newbie or maybe colonised my mind to the point of believing so. Either way, Newbie has picked up her first sound...and so it begins...
Sometimes I wonder how things would have turned out if I had stayed with her; if we hadn't had that public split and if she hadn't tried to kill me; how far would we be now?
I have a new one now (henceforth reffered to as Newbie); still stuck on the name to append to her. She hasn't come up with any spectacular character traits worth appending a name to. She is lithe, fast, in good conditioning but of late I have noticed small traits that may be associated to her predecessor.
She has recently picked up a noise! Yes people, St. Blackie lives on. I was riding behind some miscellaneous individual and his transport medium was emitting a sound comparable only to a banshee in pain. In the spirit of the whole moment, I had a bit of a laugh that was short lived because it took all of a couple of seconds for Newbie to figure out just how to emit a similar sound; the only problem is that if this had been a singing contest, Newbie would be one of those who's clips are scorned for eternity because all she could muster was a raspy screeching-like noise emanating from somewhere near or on the chain that has successfully managed to stick up to date.
So maybe the spirit of St. Blackie has moved on and possesed Newbie or maybe colonised my mind to the point of believing so. Either way, Newbie has picked up her first sound...and so it begins...
Thursday, January 08, 2009
The real world
“Welcome to the real world!” she said to me condescendingly. “Take a seat; take your life plot it out in black and white”. This conversation I have had with Mother Nature morning after morning since winter officially began sometime in December. One would think that experience teacheth fools but alas this is one fool who has refused to learn.
I have dared to dream as our forefathers taught us to; I have dared to dream of a holiday paradise every single night; I have dared to dream of lush foliage in jungle that winds up at the sea shore; I have dared to dream of warm, sweat infested sunny days crashing through the said jungle and winding up at the coast; I have dared to dream time and time again about endless white sandy beaches; I have dared to dream about azure skies obscured by the occasional fluffy cloud crossing the path of the ever-smiling sun; I have dared to dream of clear sapphire waters into which I dipped my feet in and enjoyed the flow of wild fishes as they swam aimlessly about my feet; I have dared night after night to have this dream of sun soaked days and warm breezy nights by the sea whiling time away with coconut drinks but alas its been proven yet again to be but a dream.
Thus this morning again we had that chat, Mother Nature and I. this morning when it was too foggy to think; this morning when it was too cold to leave bed; this morning when the elements conspired to eliminate all sorts of resistance whether passive or aggressive; this morning when a heater and hot chocolate were no match for the viciousness of Mother Nature’s elements; this morning when I woke up from one of those ‘happy-weather-dreams'
“Welcome to the real world!” she said to me very condescendingly. “Take a seat; take your life plot it out in black and white”
For now you win, but tomorrow is yet another day and I have faith and that you cannot take away.
I have dared to dream as our forefathers taught us to; I have dared to dream of a holiday paradise every single night; I have dared to dream of lush foliage in jungle that winds up at the sea shore; I have dared to dream of warm, sweat infested sunny days crashing through the said jungle and winding up at the coast; I have dared to dream time and time again about endless white sandy beaches; I have dared to dream about azure skies obscured by the occasional fluffy cloud crossing the path of the ever-smiling sun; I have dared to dream of clear sapphire waters into which I dipped my feet in and enjoyed the flow of wild fishes as they swam aimlessly about my feet; I have dared night after night to have this dream of sun soaked days and warm breezy nights by the sea whiling time away with coconut drinks but alas its been proven yet again to be but a dream.
Thus this morning again we had that chat, Mother Nature and I. this morning when it was too foggy to think; this morning when it was too cold to leave bed; this morning when the elements conspired to eliminate all sorts of resistance whether passive or aggressive; this morning when a heater and hot chocolate were no match for the viciousness of Mother Nature’s elements; this morning when I woke up from one of those ‘happy-weather-dreams'
“Welcome to the real world!” she said to me very condescendingly. “Take a seat; take your life plot it out in black and white”
For now you win, but tomorrow is yet another day and I have faith and that you cannot take away.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Epitaph of a friend
It took me all of six hours to get me a bicycle when I landed in the Netherlands; this inclusive of the travel time from the airport to Delft. I’m not sure if this is a record but I’m pretty sure it’s right there among the top times yet but I digress. She was an awesome machine; a sturdy Dutch city bike of original models thus a reason for great envy amongst its peers. She? You ask, well following the standard naming convention worldwide of pretty much everything (islands, planets, cars, hurricanes). Blackie she was named promptly as she was quite the black cycle and creativity had taken a day off then and so it stuck.
It took a short while to notice things about the character of this machine. She was a beauty; when she was younger I think. The black shiny coat was still there in bits and pieces; perhaps I daresay she was not as aesthetically pleasing as she once was but not everything can be as perfect as we want it to be. She was a sturdy bicycle once but exposure to the elements over time have eroded that structural integrity and thus contributed to her lack of aesthetic pleasantness. Basically that is code for the fact that a layer of rust had invaded one of her sides and threatened to spread like some crazy virus across her whole structure; however, this did not deter me from keeping her.
The main reason for my refusal to let her go was the fact that she was magnanimous to levels that would put any human saint to shame. No sound would pass her by before she quickly adopted it and made it her own. At first I thought it was a slight nuisance; a passive hobby that would pass in time, when she learned better I thought perhaps but how wrong I was. No sound and I mean no sound however loud, horrible or unbearable would ever be allowed to stray away form her. Thus she was aptly named St. Blackie. She picked them all up and after a while the constant clanging and banging away of the various squeaky parts of her frame slowly began to sound like the world famous song Eye of the tiger by Survivor. I should have dropped her then but it was pretty entertaining to have the soundtrack as I cycled and besides having that bike was a conversation started beyond all others. Eventually the bike sounds have developed and are slowly starting to sound like a brass band in practice so much so that I began to consider having a banner printed and stick it on the back of my bike emblazoned across it BRASS BAND AUDITIONS that way the strange looks I elicited from the people would stop but I didn’t.
Word got out of the things I had been saying about St. Blackie and the other bikes in the bike park began to poison her mind against me. They made her think that I was the enemy; they made her hate me; they made her want to eliminate me; they made her evil. It would have been a pretty excellent end for them had she succeeded but she didn’t; she went of a corner, grew wings and flew and took me with her. As she slammed into the tree it dawned on me that this was an attempt on my life but it failed. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; I know.
So now she rests in the basement of a building somewhere; bereft of her ability to be ridden anywhere as she bent her tyre into an insufferable knot in an attempt to get back at me. So I moved on; I had to. They say its better to have loved and lost and I believe it now. Every now on then as I move around on my new bike and I wonder, what new thing would St. Blackie have done now that would have led to yet another conversation? What new sound would she have picked up this time that would have made me ever so mad yet ever so happy? I can only wonder and mourn my fallen bicycle, St. Blackie.
It took a short while to notice things about the character of this machine. She was a beauty; when she was younger I think. The black shiny coat was still there in bits and pieces; perhaps I daresay she was not as aesthetically pleasing as she once was but not everything can be as perfect as we want it to be. She was a sturdy bicycle once but exposure to the elements over time have eroded that structural integrity and thus contributed to her lack of aesthetic pleasantness. Basically that is code for the fact that a layer of rust had invaded one of her sides and threatened to spread like some crazy virus across her whole structure; however, this did not deter me from keeping her.
The main reason for my refusal to let her go was the fact that she was magnanimous to levels that would put any human saint to shame. No sound would pass her by before she quickly adopted it and made it her own. At first I thought it was a slight nuisance; a passive hobby that would pass in time, when she learned better I thought perhaps but how wrong I was. No sound and I mean no sound however loud, horrible or unbearable would ever be allowed to stray away form her. Thus she was aptly named St. Blackie. She picked them all up and after a while the constant clanging and banging away of the various squeaky parts of her frame slowly began to sound like the world famous song Eye of the tiger by Survivor. I should have dropped her then but it was pretty entertaining to have the soundtrack as I cycled and besides having that bike was a conversation started beyond all others. Eventually the bike sounds have developed and are slowly starting to sound like a brass band in practice so much so that I began to consider having a banner printed and stick it on the back of my bike emblazoned across it BRASS BAND AUDITIONS that way the strange looks I elicited from the people would stop but I didn’t.
Word got out of the things I had been saying about St. Blackie and the other bikes in the bike park began to poison her mind against me. They made her think that I was the enemy; they made her hate me; they made her want to eliminate me; they made her evil. It would have been a pretty excellent end for them had she succeeded but she didn’t; she went of a corner, grew wings and flew and took me with her. As she slammed into the tree it dawned on me that this was an attempt on my life but it failed. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned; I know.
So now she rests in the basement of a building somewhere; bereft of her ability to be ridden anywhere as she bent her tyre into an insufferable knot in an attempt to get back at me. So I moved on; I had to. They say its better to have loved and lost and I believe it now. Every now on then as I move around on my new bike and I wonder, what new thing would St. Blackie have done now that would have led to yet another conversation? What new sound would she have picked up this time that would have made me ever so mad yet ever so happy? I can only wonder and mourn my fallen bicycle, St. Blackie.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
In loving memory...
Hello my friend, we speak again, it’s been a while where should we begin? It feels like it’s been forever. Within my heart lie the perfect and well guarded memories, a perfect love that you gave to me; that I remember. I just want to say hello again.
I thought of you again today, as I have every year for the past four, and I just wanted to say hello again. Whether you have been following my progress in general is not in doubt; I’m pretty sure you’ve been checking in on me once in a while just to make sure that I didn’t make too many mistakes. In fact, I’m quite sure you’re the voice that has on so many occasions stopped me doing things that I would have probably lived to regret.
I just want to say hello again and tell you things haven’t been the same since you left. True we weren’t the best of friends but that’s because you always believed that discipline in life was key and I was headstrong and fighting my way out of teenage and still trying to work out my identity and niche in life. Too bad I spent half that time with a blurry haze shielding my eyes from the important things in life. If only I’d known then what I know now maybe things would have been different. They say that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone and boy don’t I know that. It’s amazing how these mundane statements we make come back to slap us in the face.
I just wanted to say hello again and fill you in on the things we talked about last. Yes, the girls are well. I have done all I could to make sure of that just as I promised. One is busy criss-crossing the world singing her heart out and exercising her talents. The other is in the land of our former colonial masters working on bettering herself. The last is at home, and it is for her that I have looked out for most. She misses you more than I do, or ever will. I do so hope they let you go every once in a while that you may check in on her and let her know that you’re never too far.
I just wanted to say hello and tell you that all those things you told me when I was busy sulking away like some whiny child have come to pass and I only wish now that I had paid more attention. It’s been hard converting from boy to man in such a short time but I made it and I think you had something to do with that, after all I do suffer from good upbringing.
I thought by now I would have got over it but five years to the day the wound still hurts like it did then. They say time heals all but this is one that time may just have glossed over. I just wanted to say hello again and let you know we miss you now as much as then and that you will never be forgotten. Your spirit lives on in all of us and even as the warm tears course down my cheeks, you should know that. You were, are and will always be not only my father but my friend and nothing in this world shall ever change that.
I miss you dad and that is why I just wanted to say hello again.
I thought of you again today, as I have every year for the past four, and I just wanted to say hello again. Whether you have been following my progress in general is not in doubt; I’m pretty sure you’ve been checking in on me once in a while just to make sure that I didn’t make too many mistakes. In fact, I’m quite sure you’re the voice that has on so many occasions stopped me doing things that I would have probably lived to regret.
I just want to say hello again and tell you things haven’t been the same since you left. True we weren’t the best of friends but that’s because you always believed that discipline in life was key and I was headstrong and fighting my way out of teenage and still trying to work out my identity and niche in life. Too bad I spent half that time with a blurry haze shielding my eyes from the important things in life. If only I’d known then what I know now maybe things would have been different. They say that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone and boy don’t I know that. It’s amazing how these mundane statements we make come back to slap us in the face.
I just wanted to say hello again and fill you in on the things we talked about last. Yes, the girls are well. I have done all I could to make sure of that just as I promised. One is busy criss-crossing the world singing her heart out and exercising her talents. The other is in the land of our former colonial masters working on bettering herself. The last is at home, and it is for her that I have looked out for most. She misses you more than I do, or ever will. I do so hope they let you go every once in a while that you may check in on her and let her know that you’re never too far.
I just wanted to say hello and tell you that all those things you told me when I was busy sulking away like some whiny child have come to pass and I only wish now that I had paid more attention. It’s been hard converting from boy to man in such a short time but I made it and I think you had something to do with that, after all I do suffer from good upbringing.
I thought by now I would have got over it but five years to the day the wound still hurts like it did then. They say time heals all but this is one that time may just have glossed over. I just wanted to say hello again and let you know we miss you now as much as then and that you will never be forgotten. Your spirit lives on in all of us and even as the warm tears course down my cheeks, you should know that. You were, are and will always be not only my father but my friend and nothing in this world shall ever change that.
I miss you dad and that is why I just wanted to say hello again.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Ngeli ya Baiskeli IV: Brass band auditions...
St. Blackie is one heck of a character; one worthy of being placed in a bicycle hall of fame somewhere in this world. These are sentiments you would most definately agree with if you had been following the serialisation of the life and times of Dude and St. Blackie (hmm, theres a ring to that, a story in the offing, but I digress). Thus far we have established a couple of amazing facts, noteworthy on so many levels and to some just a chronicle of a timewaster (another ring...hmmm..)
One must have realised by now that the Mother Teresa of bicycles has come into my possesion and is now my faithful mode of tranpsortation to pretty much anywhere. Second, you must have noticed by now that St. Blackie is more that just a saint-bicycle; she has proven to be a multi-talented fabricaton with a keen 'ear' for music.
Well, theres a new sound in St. Blackie's fold. A drumming and clanking sound. Sounds like a not-so skilled drummer on a brand new set of drums hammering away at it and driving me mad. A lesser man would have gone mad by now, but not me. I have actually started to pick up songs from the infernal racket being emitted by this saint of ours. The other day I could distinctly pick out the beats to 'Real World' by Matchbox 20.
In this vein, methinks I will paint a banner and stick it at the back of the saint, with the words BRASS BAND AUDITIONS embalzoned across it seeing that at this rate, I will soon have a choir riding behind me to make use of the beats being belted out by St. Blsckie. I'm thinking of picking up my guitar and writing a song accompanied by St. Blackie; only problem is, someone needs to be riding for the music to come forth; any takers?
One must have realised by now that the Mother Teresa of bicycles has come into my possesion and is now my faithful mode of tranpsortation to pretty much anywhere. Second, you must have noticed by now that St. Blackie is more that just a saint-bicycle; she has proven to be a multi-talented fabricaton with a keen 'ear' for music.
Well, theres a new sound in St. Blackie's fold. A drumming and clanking sound. Sounds like a not-so skilled drummer on a brand new set of drums hammering away at it and driving me mad. A lesser man would have gone mad by now, but not me. I have actually started to pick up songs from the infernal racket being emitted by this saint of ours. The other day I could distinctly pick out the beats to 'Real World' by Matchbox 20.
In this vein, methinks I will paint a banner and stick it at the back of the saint, with the words BRASS BAND AUDITIONS embalzoned across it seeing that at this rate, I will soon have a choir riding behind me to make use of the beats being belted out by St. Blsckie. I'm thinking of picking up my guitar and writing a song accompanied by St. Blackie; only problem is, someone needs to be riding for the music to come forth; any takers?
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