You and Mr. Me in this trivial life of economic recession By Charles Jomo

The month is still twenty hungry with a delay of the pay slip. When a wall refuses to smile at you even after inserting a plastic card in it means the world is spinning like turning a ‘O’ upside down.

So we are walking downturn me and a colleague we will call Mr. Me, for the sake of this post. Being an extended twenty hungry period of the month, the description of our wallets, and workers drawing a salary is dismal. We couldn’t afford a hole in the middle of the doughnut t have two coins to rub together!

It's was late in the evening as a writer’s muse got me thinking on the greatest phenomenon in the world agenda has always been; the world moving on unmoved, unfazed at human kind hustles and bustle to define its place herein.

I mean, the world?

The economy stings creating a domino effect in people's wallets, with lies aligned with masks to hide their faces of oblivion from cruel reality in this time of the month. The humankind; women , men and children are in a merry go ground to transform corn, that is if afforded, into a corn meal we call ugali in East Africa.

Silvio Berlusconi, Italy PM got his ass kicked out from power, Barry Obama is getting Republicans sniffing his ass in White House because of the bloated economy. Guy Fawkes mask has got a reconnaissance of sought because of economic down turn.

If the big of the world can squirm why not a common mwananchi wa kawaida like you and me? Even encountered, which brings me to our friend Mr. Me, someone who try’s to look economically sound even in the face of economic disglut (cooked this one from disquiet)?

Earlier yesterday Mr. Me, a good time buddy, asks me if I could spare some roasted stuff. Those roasted maize found in every road side in Kenya and rake more millions than roasted meat, nyama choma, but since they are left for hoi polloi will never feaure in marketing the country.

You see, just to digress, nyama choma going down with beer is a social meal, but mahindi choma by the road side is a means of deprivation, a meal that cant be shared in a merry mood. First of all there is no water to wash your hands, making one to disregard his health over germs filled hands (at the back of hand washing campaigns) which is a sign of personal neglect!

Take a test with me Kenyans who chew on the roasted cob always look down trodden and in a pensive mood. Just take a cursory look today!

So back to my friend, the first ones we come across are rather stout and small in size and so we neglect them altogether. We soldier on and good heavens, we come to the next vendor (are they really vendors or roasters) and we go about to pick our like from the still hot.

It’s here that Mr. Me intrigues me. I pick a small rotund cob which looks young and succulent despite its size.  On the other hand my main man (stolen from Obama’s Dreams from my father) fuses with the roaster like a broke window shopper before settling for a big mature cob, with me picking the ‘bill’.

Being presumably richly well endowed with concern 4 human kind, I decide 2 let him have that which he desires in life because this way only, do we become great achievers.

a few steps from the point of purchase, Mr. Me complains about his cob.

“This damned maize is hard and tastes funny. I feel like throwing away this piece of shit!” He complains.

I'm then like: what the hell is wrong with you? You insisted in picking this cob as aligned with more grains?

“This cob will upset my stomach with this funny taste” Mr. Me complains, quietly feeling the hurt from his obnoxious behaviour towards my kindness.

What made me like his reaction rather than getting irritated is how he sounded more of a nag looking for attention from the reality of the economy than having any justifiable course.

Mr. Me complains, like lower middle class families facing inflation and completely disowns his role in accountability, or so I think.

And so I get a pissed off with the lad’s tirade and leave him alone as I retire to my abode, which is humble like the hackneyed phrase with a parting shot:

“My main man, i think your insolence has worked me up, see you morrows.”

That was earlier in the evening do now as I wait for my bachelor’s supper to cook it makes me think what really is the concern of man?

Life under recession, I muse, is a vicious cycle accorded to humankind all the days of its life. Inflation hits and the poor suffer most. They try to cover a hole from a leaking wall, but with powers against his strength the water ultimately rushes in and cover his life.

Without a leaning shoulder to guard against politicians insolence, the weak shilling (wherever it is) and skewed international trade balance the poor are completely caught unawares in the daily pangs of life and as a result, they never just anticipate any next, worthy courses of actions.

You live life as it comes; no planning for a tomorrow whose rouse is beyond your grasp.

May be, if only you and me force ourselves out of the boxes we're contained in and get to think outside these boxes, the world would then become one heaven of a place.     

(The writer is a graduate of English Literature from Maseno University, Kenya. He teaches at Migori Boys School)

A play: Bitter Sweat by Mwangi Wilson Murimi

Synopsis

A convergence of animals in Kikulacho County is called by the Development Committee, under the watchful eyes of the county governor Mr. Lion.

The Baraza is called to discuss possible implementation of a new produce deductions policy. The policy recommends a 25% seasonal deduction of members’ produce for five consecutive seasons.

 The convergence, however, turns out to be a forum for members to demand answers on earlier cases of resource misappropriation. This culminates into the quest for the formulation of a new Development Committee.

CHARACTERS

LION - King of the Kikulacho County.

CHAMELEON – Member of the Kikulacho development Committee.

HARE – Member of the Kikulacho development Committee.

HYENA – Member of the Kikulacho Development Committee

TORTOISE – Citizen of the Kikulacho County.

CHICKEN – Citizen of Kikulacho County.

ZEBRA – Citizen of Kikulacho County

FOX – A law expert at Kikulacho County.

GIRAFFE – A technician at Kikulacho County.

(As lights fade in, the Lion, Hare, Hyena, Monkey and Chameleon sit on the front bench as other animals assemble at the Mikutano Square for a public Baraza. The Hare, who is the head of the ceremony stands at the podium. The other animals take their seats at the auditorium. He takes in a deep breath before picking the microphone from the giraffe who is the technician for the meeting)

HARE (Moving his gaze sideways): Ladies and gentlemen today’s meeting will be short as we all know the agenda. (The animals nod in agreement, as the hare picks a file from the table, and proceeds to read from it). Kikulacho Country has recently faced a severe drought that has claimed the lives of a good number of us. With me is a proposal of the austerity measures to contain the situation, and avert such a catastrophe in future.

HYENA (leaning to the Chameleon): Learn to stay put today and leave your colour changes to the trees.

HARE: Honourable members, the Development Committee of which I am a member sat and drafted a proposal of a Kikulacho County Granary. All members will contribute to the granary. (Low toned murmurs follow) Pursuant to the Kikulacho County constitution, members of the Development Committee will be excluded from the suggested produce deduction due to their inflated budgets occasioned by their service to Kikulacho County.

CHICKEN: Don’t committee members eat and empty their bowels like the rest of us!

HARE (Ignoring Chicken’s outburst): Honourable law abiding citizens, we at the Kikulacho Development Committee have never frustrated Kikulacho County before. This new austerity measure is the best solution for famine in Kikulacho County. 

TORTOISE:  (In a high-pitched tone):  What developments have you initiated beyond your homes. The hyena and his family are ever growing fat as our children cry out their rumbling tummies.

HYENA: My family only eats to their proportion just like the rest of you. (Satirically) Maybe you are on a weight loss prescription!

HARE:  Honourable members let’s not demean the acclaim we have recently received at the recent conference at Ufisadi County. All other counties are longing to emulate our cooperation in Harambees.

TORTOISE: Why did your wife accompany you to the conference? Was she a delegate? And by the way were you harvesting cotton at the conference? You have since bought your family new cloths!

CHAMELEON: The new produce deduction policy is as important as the lives of our loved ones whom the drought snatched from us. Let’s not contradict ourselves with baseless allegations.

TORTOISE: There comes the white sepulcher that waivers with his every colour change!

(A loud laughter follows Tortoise outburst)

HARE: Order! Order! Order honourable law abiding citizens…

CHICKEN: Too much silence makes the mouth stink!

HARE:  Etiquette is a virtue. Kikulacho Development Committee exists as your mouthpiece we cannot all talk at the same time.

TORTOISE: Is that so called Development Committee a mouthpiece of Kikulacho County or the mouth to feed the committee members?

ZEBRA: Have the findings of Monkey’s maize saga ever been tabled?

HARE: Honourable members please lend me your ears awhile.

CHICKEN: Go ahead and pluck mine out. Do I even have any?

(Earsplitting laughter follows)

CHAMELEON: Honourable members, investigations on the case are ongoing. Let’s not get ahead of the times

CHICKEN: Debate with yourself. You seem to have two different personalities.

(Air tearing laughter ensues)

TORTOISE:  We demand a statement from Monkey right now. Since the maize scandal was uncovered his wife has been making more trips to the posho meal. The hare has since been increasing suits on his closet, as our children wear tatters!

MONKEY: The fact that I am becoming healthier is no reason to be called a thief. The peanuts I get from the Development Committee are barely enough to meet expenses of my administrative duties.

CHICKEN: Endorse me chairlady in your place!

HARE (The irritated hare walks back to the podium. Anger almost chokes his voice): Before the meeting took a twist, were setting logistics for the establishment of a Kikulacho Granary. Prior to my interruption, I was about to mention that all members of Kikulacho County are to pay 25% of their produce to the national granary for a period of 5 seasons to contain the famine occasioned by the two dry spell. (Murmurs ensue but the hare opts to proceed).  Of the 25% proceeds paid to the granary, five percent will go to the Development Committee’s kitty…

TORTOISE: Who authorized that committee to make resource deduction decisions on our behalf? That’s a breach of the Kikulacho Animal rights! We are the most supreme authority on taxation matters! And by the way how important are the tummies of the Development Committee members?

CHICKEN:  Some of the committee members are too old. They should go home to look after their wives!

HARE (Irritated by the satirical outburst of the chicken): We never converged for an election. We were here to endorse the new austerity measures. The election can wait.

LION:  You have bickered enough, can you now listen (Murmurs continue, before Lion angrily clenches his canines).  Shut up. You’ve had enough time wag your tongue. Listen here!

CHICKEN (In a whisper): We use the ears to listen not the mouth.

LION: The mud you have smeared on my Development Committee is founded on incoherent and false allegations. Move forward if you have any evidence validating your allegations or learn to shut your rowdy bickers and listen! (Silence ensues, as the fox strolls into the Baraza venue. Nobody seems to notice his entry.) We never rendezvoused here for a political witch hunt concert.

CHICKEN: Where are the witches?

(Prolonged laughter follows, before it is sternly stopped by the lion’s loud roar. By this time, the fox has moved up close to the podium awaiting a turn to speak)

LION: First things first. This granary policy has to be endorsed, no compromise about that!

FOX (Other animals are surprised by his unprecedented entry): Kikulacho constitution has deeply ingrained principles of resource accountability that resource misappropriation whatsoever. (The rest of the animals nod in agreement). On the provisions of leadership, the committee members are bequeathed the power to lead and no to rule!

CHICKEN: We’ve now started talking!

LION (angrily): This is not a convergence of constitutional experts. It is a crisis Baraza to save Kikulacho County.

TORTOISE: Yes the salvation of the chosen few, by devouring every bit of our bitter sweat!

FOX:  The constitution calls for elections if 65% of Kikulacho’s citizens pass a vote of no confidence following gross corruption by the incumbent government. I believe we have a quorum to demand for polls!

(The auditorium claps, as Chameleon confusedly rises to speak.)

CHAMELEON: Let’s not heckle each other…, Law abiding citizens; dialogue is the mother of concurrence. Let’s agree to talk and disagree to disagree.

CHICKEN:  Stop confusing us.

FOX: Polls, polls, polls, polls…

AUDITORIUM: Polls, polls, polls…

HARE: You won’t like it. That’s tantamount to incitement.

FOX: Mass action is democratic. We will protest anything short of a new committee and resource accountability!

LION: So be it, early tomorrow we will be back here. You will appoint a new Development Committee.

FOX: Let it happen right now!

(The lights fade out as the entire auditorium surges towards the podium)

(The playwright is a third year media student at Maseno University and a sub-editor of Equator weekly.)

African Story; Why the hair on hyena’s back is longer.

Long, long time ago when animals still talked like people Simba the lion was very very sick. One early morning while Simba the lion went hunting he stepped on a big big thorn which stuck on his leg.

Simba tried and tried to remove the big big thorn but could not remove it. Sadly and painfully Simba went back to his cage very very hungry and very very sick

Simba could not hunt again for food. Simba was very hungry. Simba grew very very thin and sick.
One day Sungura the hare was being chased by Fisi the hyena. Fisi wanted to eat Sungura for breakfast.
Sungura ran and ran very fast and hid inside Simba’s cave.
Fisi was afraid to follow Sungura because Fisi was afraid of Simba. Fisi went away very hungry. Fisi went to look for rotting meat for breakfast.

Inside the cave Simba caught Sungura the hare. Simba was very hungry and eating Sungura for breakfast could make samba very healthy.

“I am going to cook you for breakfast” Simba told Sungura.

Sungura started trembling because Simba was very very hungry and sick.

“I will remove the big big thorn in your leg. Please. Please Simba don’t eat me for breakfast” Sungura cried.

Simba agreed not to eat Sungura. Sungura then removed the big big thorn from Simba’s leg.

Simba could now walk without the big big thorn in his leg. Samba lived with Sungura in the cave.
Sungura cleaned the cave while samba brought meat to cook.

Fisi on seeing Sungura living with Simba was jealous. Fisi was angry. Fisi knew he could now not eat Sungura for breakfast.

Fisi was afraid of Simba.

Fisi thought and thought how to eat Sungura for breakfast. Fisi went and told Simba that hare knew the medicine to cure Simba’s leg.

The bib big thorn which Sungura removed left a big wound on Simba’s leg.
“Sungura has been hiding the medicine to heal the wound left by the big big thorn” Fisi told Simba.

Simba went back to the cave looking for Sungura.  Simba told Sungura “You know the medicine for the wound caused by the big big thorn, but you did not say” Simba said.

Sungura knew that Fisi was jealous. Sungura thought of a very very clever trick.
Sungura told Simba that the medicine was the skin from Fisi’s back.

“Am small that is why I could not get the medicine which is the skin from Fisi’s back” Sungura told Simba.

Immediately Simba heard this he jumped on Fisi’s back. Fisi cried and cried. Fisi ran ran away but samba caught Fisi.

Simba removed the skin from Fisi’s back.

Sungura took the skin and made a medicine. Sungura placed the skin on Simba’s leg and was cured immediately.

Simba the lion and Sungura the hare lived happily ever after.

Fisi’s ran away crying and bleeding. Fisi was never seen gain. When the skin on the back of Fisi the hyena healed the hair grew longer. The hair grew longer because there was a wound there/

That is why all hyenas in the world have longer hair in their backs,

Valentine Aftermath: Love was the Sore Loser

So how was your valentine day?

Was the chocolate Belgian? Was the wine French? The flower Oserian? or was the courtesy English? I just wonder if the cocktail was Irish and the dinner was under a chandelier?

In this big event celebrated world wide, love has become the sore loser with high unattainable expectations and business adapt at putting sales at the needle peak.

If the dinner advertisement in press, the flowers doting the streets and the sales offers on the shop is anything to by, then the meaning of love in this special day has weathered faster than the roses the morning after.

To my male readers, was the sex satsifactory after doting the woman? Or was is that after spending in anticipation of a cozy night the woman gave an excuse? If you went to bed an hugged a pillow then was there a meaning of love yeasterday?

To the ladies, after anticipating him to be wild as a stallion, did he just jump on you like a stolen bicycle, or did he, in name of foreplay, just sucked your lipstick dry and tuned your nipples like an FM nob in a cloudy day?

Honestly, the heartbreaks felt in the morning after, the quarrels of diminished expectations and the love-and-lets-show-the-world attitude makes love to become the sore loser as lovers strive after vanities of romance, which is expensive, compared to love which is given all heartedly and freely.

Love unlike romance is not a one day speciale or constricted to a color, dressing code and dinner parties.

The unwanted pregnacies that were patched last night, the number of veneral disease contacted or the wastage of money on vanities sadden if you consider the vanity of love.

That is not to say i didn't enjoy my valentine because i had supper (I don't do dinners) with a lovely lady.

Corruption, Tribalism may Cripple Benefits of New Counties in Kenya

President Kibaki and PM Raila Odinga signing the new
constitution to law

Ever since the quest of establishing the Kenyan new constitution started over 2 decades ago, the new counties have been heavily debated. In the run up for last referendum the issue played a center stage in the campaign showing how the subject is dear to Kenyans.

The appeal was bringing governance closer to the citizens with devolved funds from Nairobi for development. Additionally, the provincial administration used by the colonialist and successive government to oppose the citizens is annulled.

With this appeal will the 47 counties in the county have their full potential or like the devolved funds like CDF and LATF be marred with corruption and tribalism?

In colleges the fad is high with the administration requesting county details to districts. Student organizations with tribal living have shifted from constituency to county associations!

Corruption and tribalism need to be rooted out least they permeate to the 47 counties in the country. Imagine having monor scandals, political shoody deals and leaders shouting their selves hoarse in 47 counties of Kenya!

The tip of the iceberg is already showing with opportunistic politicians not only jostling for positions but also the county headquarters with ethnic underlying. This is worrying if you consider the turmoil in Somali although they have one tribe and one religion. Often in Kenya, the tribalism, clanism and family card will be played.

Additionally, the grandiose plans already being unleashed by economically endowed counties against laggards may cause contention in future. With these counties taking more tax to the central government the question raised on equitable distribution of the 15% on GDO.

Finally, the issue of counties frantically determined how Kenyans voted in the referendum thus it need to be guided gainst tribalism, corruption and patronage for success.

Let boda boda be, with regulation though

Although the number of road accidents caused by boda boda (motorbikes) is on the increase, I would like to congratulate what this noble trade has done to many Kenyan youths!

The notion on riders being poorly trained with as low as Ksh. 50 within a hour should not be viewed as a catastrophe but the breakdown of the ministry of Transport to adequately plan for the increase of the bikes in the country.

The 2002 Narc government promise of 500,000 jobs and the Kazi kwa Vijana initiative which flopped terribly makes one wonder what the operators were doing prior to their current trade.

Personally I know of age mates who quit being criminals to seek livelihood in riding and leasing motorbikes. They have easily replace bicycles for their speed and efficiency. Additionally, the bikes require little capital to start threatening matatus and taxi business since they are available to common mwanainchi.

The boda boda business is quickly becoming a major economic player in attaining Millennium Development goals and need to be regulated regularly. Not only is the rider and owner directly employed but other indirectly benefiting in this ring are spare parts dealer, insurance brokers, local government, filling station amongst others.

Worth to mention is that even though they are a menace the frequent police crack downs need to be taken with a pinch of salt. Their frequent and hyped crack down on matatus has yielded nothing with even Michuki rules violated in all road blocks. This leave no doubt that bikes languishing in police stations are because their owners could not afford a bribe!

Maseno University

How my Hawking Stint in Kibera slum ended.

The houses bowed together ominously as if conniving in a secret deal. The little lane between them was littered with garbage.....

During the just concluded long holidays I tried to venture into small scale business to supplement my college pocket money. My bid to gain white collar employment hit a snug. Being idle at home I thought of hawking household items around estates in Nairobi.

With little savings, I rented an improvised cart attached cart attached with wire mesh. Most goods were displayed on the mesh as I moved from door to door selling my wares. Mostly I was accompanied by my two best friends Ken Korir and Joseph Wachira.

My stint with hawking though ended prematurely a month ago when I met conmen.

As I recollect, raising early and leaving my friends behind was my first mistake as there was no one to offer security. It was a beautiful Saturday as the freshness of the dawn replaced the stale night in Kosovo area of the sprawling Kibera region.

As the morn bustle and chatter chased the clinging night I arranged my wares in anticipation of a great sale. After few sales I ventured into a lonely stretch n the estate.

The houses bowed together ominously as if conniving in a secret deal. The little lane between them was littered with garbage. Ducks and pigs had a free rein in rummaging through the open sewers. I rang my bicycle bell and called out my wares.

“Thermos! Aiyaah! sufuria! Pegs! Thermos!” Cling. Cling “Sema bei kuuliza ni bure” (It’s free to ask the price, just talk)

My calls attracted a group of youths playing a game of draught and idling next to a forlorn looking scrap of a Peugeot station wagon. One, the oldest with a grizzly beard like a coconut husk called on me.

“niaje boyee (hi buddy) what do you sell?” he asked in a creaky jovial voice.

“I have the best thermos, sufuria set, spoons, knife……” I offered and realized that the all crew was attentive.

“Mama Ciku needed a thermo flask” offered a youth.

From inside a nearby dark hovel Mama Ciku confirmed the request and asked for a 1.8 liter flask.

A small boy was sent to take the flask and he dashed away into the dark house.
I murmured a silent prayer as my heart pounded with expectations.

The business spirit with a knack of a salesman bit and I quickly offered four sets of sufuria. After haggling with the youth with the grizzly beard, we settled on a price of Ksh. 850 in Mama Ciku was to take the thermos.

“I know she will love the offer, the flak was beautiful” Sid the ring leader as I parted way with the sufurias, another boy dashed in the dark house, with the sufurias in tow.

I murmured a silent prayer, again.

After ten minutes I started to get restless since the boys hadn’t come out. I pleasantly told the spokesman to tell Mama Ciku, the voice, to pay me for I need to go. I was assured of the pay and told to be patient.

Fifteen minutes later I got anxious as ideas of being conned played in my mind. I rubbed the thought off because of the good nurture of my customer.

Meanwhile the erstwhile attentive troupe ignored me and continued playing draught indifferently. I observed I could better have been Skinner, the invincible man. By now, a little alarmed I insisted on the pay.

Smiling sarcastically the coconut husk face said “I will go check on what is delaying your pay, just relax I will be back.”

To be sincere he left the draught game halfway and went in the shack. It was the last time I saw a beard which looked like it has been shaved by shears.

Now I became panicked and alarmed, I told the rest that I wanted my pay. When I got adamant about getting my business money back they resorted to ignoring me completely.

“unabore kizee, jipange ndani umsake huyo boi ukamdai, na upunguza pang’ang’a (You are a vexation, go in after the boy and stop being a nuisance)” someone told me irritably in sheng.

It was then that it dawn on me that have been conned plain and simple. I was fixed before a charging train on a bridge over cliff. Going after my pay, I had the risk of I being mugged and I would surely kiss my unattended ware goodbye.

Sweat trickled on my back and the shirt stuck on me like a second skin. I felt a jab and choked in emotions of hopelessness. As I turned away dejected the motley crew burst out in a mirthless laughter.

“Anytime you’re welcomed back and thanks a lot.” Someone called amid the din. I didn’t acknowledge it. I walked away pretending not to hear.

*Sufuria- Swahili for cooking pan

Sheath away your pride.

Ever since it was discovered by Egyptian autocrats from animal intestine as a protection against pregnancy, condom has evolved to be a major ingredient in sex.

This latex sheath has taken enjoyment to the next level in preventing STI and pregnancy. Though small enough to fit in a palm, if not disposed off properly after use it can show how the edifice of human intellectualism can be reduced below the shoe soles.

I realized this last week when my next door neighbor in hangover induced wisdom choose to dump three use Condoms infront of our house. In the morning rush I never noticed the sheaths and their seedy contents.

Imagine the dating process; endless calls, seduction and dates reduced into table spoonful of semen. How disgusting. And that was the look I got when I went back in afternoon; disgust. The playing children, house wives and other neighbors felt offended at the sight of the sheath in afternoon sun.

Sex is a clandestine process for the outcome to be seen by all and sundry. We date in lonely and bushy roads. Romantic dates are emotionally charged at night for ‘the darkness helps the hyena”.

The hush-hush of love making force us to close the front door, the bedroom door and still not satisfied we cover ourselves with a blanket.

And when a man starts requesting meeting in sequestered places away from people then a lady knows that the time is nigh for taking a relationship to the next level. This painstaking process sucks when seen in poorly disposed condoms!

Even buying a condom is a nerve wrecking process. Smart chemists display brands behind the counter where you merely point and pay before sliding away to brittle ecstasy.

In supermarkets, condoms and other accessories like lipstick are placed near the counter and wrapped separately.

This avoids an overzealous kid to imagine what happens behind mum and dad closed bedroom.

All said, sex is a private matter therefore used condoms need to be wrapped and disposed in pit latrines to avoid eye sores to the public and stop poising little children minds.

If its hard to explain the use of condom to a child, how tough do you think it can in explaining about a used condom!

A Dance with The Devil

The sun mercilessly struck the sparkling ocean and reflected rays on white sand. The heat and humidity stood in windless beach like a wall. Abdul Razak, a photographer at Kenyatta public beach in Mombasa shifted his camera.

The business had been slow, Razak thought ruefully as group of local tourists nearby splattered happily in Indian Ocean. Although he started as a beach boy before owning his own photo studio he hated the salty water which tested like unwashed armpits to him.

He shifted the SONY digital camera in his hand again and moved to his studio. Razak Studios and two French waiting for him while chatting animatedly like dating weaver birds gave him a smile.

Blaine and Roxanne smiled as he approached.

“Jambo” chorused Roxanne and her husband Blaine.

“Jambo, bonjour mademoiselle” quipped Razak as he wondered for a hundred-and-one time why they always insist on his services as they had a more complicated camera.

Other photographers eyed him enviously as their eyes shifted to the black Range Rover SUV parked under coconut trees sashaying with ocean breeze.

 It was just another hustle and bustle day at ‘Pirates beach’ which could have faded in Razak’s memory like an odorless fart in a gale where it not for the deal.

First, as he later recalled in Shimo la Tewa prisons they insisted on having the conversation at the back of the studio.

“Nataka picha private, pesa mzuri iko.”  (We want private photos, there is good money) Roxanne explained as they settled in the studio.

Razak never made the expression on her face from the dark designer sunglasses, her husband’s blue eyes on the other hand darted nervously as if he was sitting on a time bomb.

Later as the conversation was hushed in low tones, Razak felt his shirt stick to his sweaty body like a second skin.

He was to film the two of them in their spacious villa overlooking Mvita Island having sex. Razak’s inquiring on security was quelled by a promise that it was not porn but a private venture.

“it will be easy, we’ve watched you closely and know you are reliable” coaxed Roxanne pleasantly “the party will be Thursday with an outright down payment of Ksh. 20,000” She placed crisp bank notes next to a camera stand.

Tempest emotions raged within Razak as he eyed the money ravenously. His mind wondered to his house at Bokole, a low class settlement in Changamwe.

The pretty face of his wife Amina Akinyi and their daughter’s torn uniforms danced before him. They had suffered a lot in poverty.

He could feel the money in his pocket.

“Tell him we don’t have the whole day” hissed Blaine jolting the cameraman from his reverie.

He would later testify they left him at the studio and heard the fuel guzzler start outside and leave.

Long after they left Roxanne’s perfumed clung in the studio. Outside the charade hit Hakuna Matata joined the tourists chatter to blend in a cacophony on Razak’s ears.

“Are you alright sir” asked his Studio assistant when he found him in trance.

He felt the bundle of crisp notes press in his trouser pocket.

“We will close early on Thursday, I have an appointment” he replied moving out.

During trial the court heard the day was Monday, 8^th June 2008.

* ****

The Thursday job became an initiation. Among the five photographers at the job, Razak graduated rapidly to handling technical camera and editing. Skills and few questions he asked endeared him to the French.

He became a fixture at the Villa; his voice was heard in the din of wild parties. His heart and hand helped scheme the business.

Like a duck to water, Razak took to the underworld of pornographic business.

He sold his ram shackled studio, bought a flashy ex-Japan automobile and adorned trendy fashion. He dined in affluence and moved his family to the cozy Nyali suburbs.

In mornings the figure of his immaculate daughter going to school evoked the guilt of young girls and boys he recruited in the trade. The grimace and zombie eyes looking lost at the lens haunted him.

The nightmare of the sick world bearing on their young shoulders with sado-masochist adults haunted him deep in the night. But money numbed his conscience and made the bridge of poverty he had cross dissolve.

The waltz with devil stopped in a clip for a top dollar European gay client.

“Starring Black Jack, who met his German tourists in Mombasa and taught a few African tricks” drawled Roxanne in accented English.

Razak dutifully zoomed in the face of the 15 years drugged boy on the couch. Blaine smiled sardonically approaching the boy……………

“YOU ARE UNDER ARREST!” shouted police officers as they stormed the villa. Through the confusion that ensued, a bullet narrowly missed Razak’s head and shattered the camera. He hit the floor sobbing like a lost baby.

As he was being led away journalists had a scoop. Abdul Razak, ring leader of a porn syndicate had acres of print and reel of time in media.

The SUPKEM, NCCK and NGOs called press conferences. Marches cursing sex pests across Kenya were organized. In verbal diarrhea politicians threatened and charged while non-offered a solution.

After a ‘thorough’ investigation, state counsel told the court Abdul Razak and six other drugged urchins had a case to answer. They were later sentenced.

Roxanne and Blaine were questioned by the police and later released.

Later the noise ceased, Hakuna Matata, Mombasa raha songs still play at pirates.

As Razak curses the deal and longs for his humble photograph work, two French tourists eyed a camera man in Malindi.

It was four months as Roxanne and Blaine charted with the gullible camera man under a coconut groove.

A poem, Ecstasy of being Published; Sunday Standard, Sunday Nation.

When the journalism bug bites and the urge to write unquenchable, a young writer always find it hard to believe on his pieces.

Most time unedited pieces done solely with little assistance from peers who find writing boring, I resolved to find some other quarters. I sent a series of my poems to different newspapers and Magazines.

Always I could not afford to follow up on publications due to financial ditches. Among the newspapers and magazines I did send my poems and articles are The Drum, True love, Nation and The literary discourse in Saturday Standards.

I still wonder when and where this poem appeared but some three readers found it uplifting enough to write back to me. They become my first comments and gave me energy and self esteem to write on and start my blog.

Buoyed by the comment i published my poems on the poem hunter internationally. I have received further comments from readers worldwide.

My maiden comment, or advise to be precise, was from :Esther Wanyoike who recommended Power of the Written Word. The was to help me as a poet.. The regards were sent on Thursday, July 31, 2008

The second more interactive mail was from a Mt. Kenya University diploma student Esther Mwaurah. It was more vivacious. I received it on Monday, August 4, 2008.

"Hi! Surprise, my name is Esther; I happened to peruse on the newspaper(never knew which) and found a poem you wrote, Am a big fan of poets and wish to congratulate you on a job well done."

on October 6, 2008 David Kamwela from Dar-es-Salaam in Tanzania wished me luck:

"Hello! Manuel, I have read your poem In that Village of Mine. It was a very nice poem i can say your are really a poet. i love your work. Wish you all best in these mail of mine."

Ms Mwaurah wished me good day and told me to keep in touch. I did albeit with glee.for both of them. Of the three only Esther Mwaurah replied back. We exchanged a series of mail till she excused herself to concentrate on her exams.

The three comments bolstered my self esteem and i refer to them to get the strength and inspiration to write. Am indebted to the three,.