Covid-19 the apocalyptic film lives!

I love apocalyptic films, there is some realism that they carry with them, a force majeure of biblical eventuality, maybe it’s because I have been raised Christian and there has always been that anvil called the book of revelation whose verses have hung over my head and sprinkled into my conscience every other time when the boogie man at the pulpit wants to sound the gong of the end of days and squeeze some extra penance coins from our already emaciated pockets. But yes, end of day films have always been a favorite of mine, from Denzel’s Book of Eli to Will Smiths I am Legend and Brad Pits World War Z, I eat this genre up. Then in early March it happened the world as we know it was immersed in an apocalyptic end of days type of plague and it had one of those Hollywood titles to boot to “Covid-19” or the novel Corona Virus, I swear whoever concocted this thing in a laboratory has to be an apocalyptic film cinephilia just like me because of bravo! right? .So yes on stage we had the Corona Virus and just like in the movies it has been spreading like wildfire, and yes just like in the movies there does not seem to be so many “Third World” zombies falling to this malady but lo and behold it has decimated the owners of this rock we live in just like the proverbial Sword of Damocles sears through those in power. But wait, in every one of this apocalyptic epic that I have watched or read about, there is always a

heroine right? a bumbling fool who eventually rises to the occasion and saves the day, well in the case of the world the pre imposed Heroine was the World Health Organization aptly acronymed WHO, as a proper superhero should be, I think the body should have been called The WHO, or Mr WHO or Lady WHO or the WHO

who identifies as other, we have never had an LGBTQ superhero at least not that I know off, I think an apocalypse is a good enough time or reason to have one in place. I digress, so yes daily updates were given by the WHO, our troop of boy and girl wonders cloaked in a cape with the Caduceus insignia, and every day like any dutiful protagonist they sat at their desk in front of the media and told us of rising numbers and what it is world bodies were doing to fight the scourge, they still are I think but now they do so in on the down-low on social media without a request for Retweet. So yes they gave us numbers of the dead and afflicted until they came out of our ears, now we have grown apathetic to this plague I feel, not that it is doing any less harm it is just that we have grown attuned to it like that Uncle who came to visit from upcountry with the smelly legs but you became used to the putrid smell four months down the line when it dawned on you he was not leaving soon nor was his affinity for gumboots. So yes updates, drowned on, but as with every plot there is a  twist and an antihero who comes from  the left side enter Mr Trump the topmost self-imposed scientist from the Wild wild West joined the fray and he sought to clip the wings of the heroine WHO, who identifies as other our interest was piqued again, for this man suggested we drink Bleach to be healed of this socurge.To make a plot the more interesting, our nemesis to the protagonist had a challenger from the ranks of the WHO known as Dr Fauci a pint-sized bespectacled sage who we thought was our hero, but now he was no match for the Orange faced man with hair that looked like rats fuzz shavings on his head and oh boy he ran circles around our mini protagonist. We got bored yet again as deaths raged on  we asked how many sequels are there to this epidemic this apocalyptic farce needs to end already! and alas, just in the nick of time, the medicine men atop  the mountains of Pfizer et al found a cure for the Covid menace phew! just in time for Christmas consumerism too, Jesus must like the idea of capitalism.

At some point, I thought this film franchise would drown on to ad  infinitum  like that Star Wars hubbub has.

But wait, there is a twist in the plot, (as with any farce worth it is salt) remember us the peoples of The “Third World” well, the fourth wall has fallen for yours truly, the lot of us can barely afford to put three square meals on the table so we would be hard-pressed to buy a vaccine from the medicine men in the mountain. So yes, even though the plague is slowly gaining tide in our end of town we are up the river without a paddle if you will, and just like a mini plague that has been wreaking havoc for decades in this parts now known as the HIV/AIDS we think this particular Apocalyptic film called Covid will have endless reruns on our end of this rock we call home until a saviour, a medicine man or our Ostrich head in the sand leaders do something about it(sic!), till then, we will settle for the many televangelists for our dose of placebo blind faith as  the level headed among us make beelines to the market store to buy lime, ginger and garlic to make concoctions to keep the Covid at bay. I do hope we find a heroine of our own we will call him Mr Third World generic perhaps? We can only hope some hero with Aladdin like lineage (India wink) comes to our rescue in time before we  yet again become fodder for the myriad NGOs that litter our corner of the world.

Opinions and perspectives are like a set of lungs every one has a pair of them

“The sidewalk loafer”
He only works, for the wherewithal to buy a gaudy creation of the tailor’s art, some six-for-a quarter so-called Havana’s and a rakish bowler, which he dons with the inevitable tilt. With this necessary equipment…. he is then at peace with the world”~ ( Ovington, Half a Man; Cleveland advocate, June 5 1915).

Counter thought

“Street corner man” ~
He lives perpetually “in a sea of want”. Unlike the middle-class person who accuses him of being excessively “present-oriented” he usually does not ” have a surplus of resources, either economic or psychological gratification of hunger and the desire for simple creature comforts cannot be long deferred, Neither can support for one’s flagging self-esteem. Living on the edge of both economic and psychological subsistence, the street corner man is obliged to expend all his resources on maintaining himself from moment to moment”( Elliot Liebow,n.d. A study of steet corner men(NewYork,1967).

Social contract is A SHAM

Hobbes social contract is a sham, I believe we should go back to living in a state of nature; we are not all the same so we should not be governed with the same laws. This truth is shown in our state of nature acts such as the extrajudicial killings, George Floyd et al this is just but symptoms of institutionalized and systemic bias against a race that has been robbed, mutilated and cowed for the most part of the last 5 centuries. What we have now in Kenya is entrenched from the colonialist mindset what the Americans have is as a result of the white gaze which will only recognize you if you conform to its perception of you. A system that is hell-bent on keeping the Negro in his place post-emancipation. Right now in the U.S., they are pushing for defunding of the police, the taking away of advertising dollars from Facebook and others who are complicit in keeping things as they are by fortune 500 companies. I feel this form of social protest WHERE THE ALMIGHTY DOLLAR is used to push for change should be entrenched in law otherwise the systems status quo shall remain. , and in Kenya, the toothless bulldog that is IPOA made some noise on Yasin Moyo etal, but hey we are living in a militant state at present (have you seen the new Hitleresque mustache brandishing Nairobi governor). Nice piece, guys.

My lovely daughter joined us the other day..

My daughter joined us the other day, from the belly of her warrior mother she emerged and now for the past two days she leads our three-man choir every day in between 12 midnight and 3 a.m., we do not blame her for her lack of time observation she is a star in her own right and so she is allowed to be fashionably late. The young lass is known as Ivory Nyawira Kamau and like May weather from aunty boss she is the first and last of that name( I Googled). Our little songbird came out weighing 3.1 stone with a full head and forehead of hair, enough for braiding soon according to her mother, I feel the mother blames me for the few upper back hairs, as I also am afflicted by the same, but to me, this is a future alarm system against would be marauding hyenas who would seek to take advantage of my baby I will tell them ” my daughter turns into a werewolf when you come to close to her you don’t believe me check her upper back”. I love this little creature, I know I would do anything for her, right now am loving her weary single cheeked smirk when she sleeps, it looks well practised, I bet she heard my jokes inside her mothers belly and smirked wondering who that smart fella was just beyond the world of amniotic when she smirks she does it like her daddy and when she does so it seems like she and I have just shared an inside joke. I look forward to many of those smirks; her brother has them too now more so than before especially when he is being cheeky. I pray that God keeps our guttural singing babe in good wealth health and stead will all of man and that we, her humble audience always appreciate her going and coming moods. I love you Ivory Nyawira Kamau.

Chivalry is dead coz yall turned us into metrosexual freaks.


The cliché nowadays goes tall dark and handsome which code is really for can cook, gets a many Peddy has rock hard abs and lets me spend his money with quiet abandon. Yes this is the man that every present-day lass longs for, should we blame it on sex and the city, the plethora of soaps they watch or the Kool-Aid

served up by the talk shows they have imbibed on since they were eight years. All I know is that the Victorian version of chivalry has not survived the test of time. So it’s no wonder that when we get into bar brawls she is the one standing on top of the counter stiletto in hand defending her now inebriated version of prince charming, before he gets the life clobbered out of his drenched skull by a humongous wallop who lifts weights all day as our knight in shining cuticles is paper-pushing in one of the many office blocks in upper hill.

When it comes to raising children the modern-day knight is lost because he has become so inseminate the best thing he can do is put his son in front of NETFLIX

or worse E! And let him learn what the celebrities are up to, he himself cannot kick a football without calling the wrath of a hamstring upon himself, so he settles next to his boy and reads a copy of True Love or GQ magazine just to catch up on what is expected of an Alpha male of his caliber. If by any chance his mother visits from shags with a chicken as they usually do, he will be hard-pressed to put the poor animals out of its misery, the last thing he remembers killing was a mosquito that threatened to spoil his perfect skin that he had just come from having peeled at the salon. So when grandma comes with a chicken from shags off Booi is sent to the caretaker or ‘soldier’ to come and take the chicken from its life.

To be honest, the caretaker/watchman is the only man who has stuck to his African heritage in this Boi’s whole court. I mean he has his choice of all the bevy of ladies in all of the houses(read house technicians), he eats to his fill from the various houses, trims hedges shirtless and washes Bois car with zeal, to top it off he sleeps in the different bedroom ensuites you pay for while you push paper at some nondescript office.

Let’s leave his tale for another day, won’t we? This is the tale of the demise of chivalry so next time y’all complain about the lack of bravado in your menfolk just know it is by your own doing that we have become so.


MY  KINGS OF MEAD(Wamunyootas)


They come staggering or crawling back home every dawn or dusk or just gives up by the trench near the gate , it’s my   prodigal one and his father; my two kings of the mead, they have  been binge drinking today, it must have been a good day at mungetho, Saturday’s usually are, it’s when most  women  need water fetched others  fences trimmed and gas cylinders refilled. Today was particularly special, it was the last Saturday of the month, and the beginning of a new semester for the “comrades” and ‘fresher’s’ at the local university so open season it was. Nobody knows how to ferret out a coin than an alcoholic at six in the morning. Snout to the ground, ear on the wind dragging at a borrowed fag as if it was the last piece of tobacco on earth, he looks out for that all-important haunt that will be the vehicle to his removing his “lock” and then he is good for the mid-morning loiter.

I needed My prodigal to oil the gate today he was mteja most of the day sleeping under the mango tree. Him and his bum father pass out so often on this contraption  that welcomes you to out derelict compound  I am of the mind to get some of the tents from our IDP days out and elect them by the gate for the convenience of my two kings of the mead,  for when they come back home late at night  signing preemptive dirges full of the grog. I thought the kasober program would help my two kings, but as usual, it was nothing else but another shit sling to steal money by our swine looking governor.

Many a day I wonder what will become of my name, my beautiful name, will it disappear with the mound of dirt with which they will hurriedly cover me with once the maggots call out my number. This wretch of a prodigal doesn’t seem like he could sway a mangy dog to lift a leg up for his entry.

I wish like his biblical equivalent he would leave my sight already find his way into someone’s pigsty in the middle of the night and that he makes acquaintance with a blunt farm tool or two, truly he has proved to be the product of his father’s loins and purveyor of grief for his mother. Now as I while away my time singing requiems I contemplate   him and his sire to their graves at least my death by a thousand vexing knives will have been hurried along and easily forgotten after they become dunes for me to lay wreaths upon and pretend they are what they once were; a son and a father whom I once held dear and not the two rabid zombie dogs that they have become and that need putting down. Maybe then and only then I might be able to salvage what was left of my long-gone sanity long gone at the behest of my two kings of the mead.

Diary of a poly-trick-earn


I am a politician, not a blessed Christian, a resplendent tactician but never the pious Corinthian.

I always with me carry a big dance lest I ran into the pressman who’s always interested in a bit of twaddle & light-footed prance.

With passion, I sway with the moments of the day that promise my coffer’s bloat stay.

The lobbyists’ crawl to me in turns for me to an un-lumber them of their urns filled to the brim with their ill-gained earns.

My people I shun till the ballot bells toll & to the theatre of their minds I spawn, fibs of newfound fountains of mead and gold.

My trajectory to the lofty august throne once again is foregone,   ride into it on the shoulders of this my conduits is a given.

My fate is my own, your case I disown, disrobe my duty I will Strike every ounce of meat from its bones, with glee I milk its juices for my manicured lawns. Pawn what is left of its’ hoofs for my minions, for during election time you must a peace the throngs to urge their thongs along to the south.

Cloak me with the robe of “duty” I shall not!  I would rather avoid the threat of scorn & retribution from my peers,  but all the same, appearances must be kept up with, lest I stir up a storm with the pious activists amongst my flock.

I am your leader, you call me servant what a hoot, un-soot your eyes and troop to the truth I live only by the Darwinian truth & your place my friend is where the murk resides & that is underfoot, my shoe. See you at the ballot you forever emaciated fool.


Dearest Christ, son of man, sion of God, please commit another water to wine happenstance and lead the men of this rat hole estate into my small rat hole pub to imbue in these spirits I offer as mead. Please lead them my way that they may rot their innards with my high spirits and not my neighbors, who even though has a cheaper froth for their gauntlets lacks in the customer care prowess of my barkeep. You see, rent is due as is the daily 50 bob backhand owed to caesars blue goons. So dearest lamb, have the patrons come to my spot and chill to Francos and Madilus crooning barbequesque looking face, all in an effort to have me pay my dues for this brick & mortar situation I have going on here. Amen.


Grammar, oh thee pain in my posterior, if it weren’t for you English and I would have already copulated and brung forth a sire that would outlive both English and me long after the 6th epoch. But, you keep on knit-picking at my artisitic flow you uptight bitch, I never met a cockblocker of your ” class” and callibre but, I will slay you yet; if you notice I have played to your gallery in this here epitaph, hopefully, you will be flattered enough to let me have my way with your fairer partner in crime, the one who identifies as the queens key emissary when it comes to her expressing her queenly thoughts. Till I bring you down oh cockblocking heifer I shall prance around you and steal kisses from her majesty miss English, I hope she does not fall for another as I plan my outright murder of you in favor of us expressing our love and admiration for one another.
Signed Ben the lover of English & sworn enemy of Grammar.

The musings of a greenhorn copywriter looking for a job.


Being of sane mind and subtle ambition, I dare not delve into this unrealistic realm of hopeless innuendos of me having in my person a gifting only genetically coded for me, for that my friend would be the confessions of a lunatic, being many things I prefer striking lunacy of the list for I believe if I lack my sanity I shall lack audience to propagate my other not so popular works of mischief.

Back to my gifting, as you might have gathered or not I tend to amuse the person that is me with the notion that I could be or are a scribe in the making. I am passionate about the art and not that many other things in this realm really, but then again am a slothful fuck and will procrastinate till the mules give up Russian. Fancy the idea of me being a writer it’s the stuff that fairy dust is ground from. Just a few hurdles though. Me sitting down to put quill to tablet and etch out something decent has been an uphill task. One because of lack of said tablet and two I haven’t enough challenging briefs to immerse myself into. Again most of the critical minds I engage had tumultuous upbringings so their critiquing of my work does leave me more perturbed than I was when I engaged their literal wits.

So grand sir/madam here is where you come in. I am led to believe as from your title that your calling is skewed towards judging ‘creative. I think that is a moniker I could wear well; creative that is not your title which is creative director, no no you sir can keep that God knows I need directing.

I’m scared of the grim one coming for my weary soul and finding it bitter as a result of me having never gone down this path. So, now I have resigned myself to my fate presuming (sheepishly so) that this is the path that the almighty intends for yours truly.

The die was cast just being late arriving at my epiphany, it’s now that I chuck my cufflinks (borrowed) & do some serious (might even be decent) writing wish 017 me luck and give me a job if you believe like I do that I can hack it.

Hello, my name is Ben Mbocha, I Have uploaded some stuff I have penned here for your perusal, please do inform me if they are up to scratch before I quit my present dead-end job and go hungry for the foreseeable future. Thank you and I hope to hear from you at your earliest convenience.