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.

DEAR CHRIST PERFORM ANOTHER WATER TO WINE HAPPENSTANCE THIS NIGHT.

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 THE COCK BlOCKER

.
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.

Adieu………………………..

 

  

 

 

Nyama Choma, a book a tipple & varied company.

I here younglings nowadays call it ‘kumeddy’ which is colloquial for meditation, well, I suppose this is what am presently occupying space and time with ‘kumeddy,’ my tools for this artform;  a goodish book, cheap tipple and yes the calling card fo any Kenyan worth their salt some nyama choma on the grill and so often the company of an odd lad come here to expel frustrations or celebrations at my haunt. I am, part-owner and chief imbiber of this hole in the wall aptly christened by yours truly ‘Chillspot’ as you might have guessed from this descriptive title I come here to chill and spot some change to pay my way in this life. So am in a meddy session at present, most days when here really if am being honest, but nothing worthwhile comes of it, mostly it’s crazy get rich quick schemes that I really never really act on. Many days I laze around here  occupying time with  shooting  the proverbial shit with the regulars made up of the proletariat from the estate flats, most work in the factories littering industrial area, that’s the polluted edge of town across the road from the quintessentially biggest national park near a major city, ironic juxtapose if I  ever saw any. Anyway, I digress, so many a nights us the watuus engage in what many a partaker of the mead have since democratic governance gained root and spawned  and this is the politics and how those that practice this self-serving art are shafting us more than our wives, side pieces and the occasional chipo combined and all without even a mere fine thank you after a dry romp. The citizen’s stomach churns at the mention of a politician. How I see it, is that with religion the devil is at fault for every ill that is visited upon mankind, so it is no wonder that in the world of democracy where church and state are separate the holder of democratic office ( read politician) is expected and is held to a higher esteem, but his constant failure to serves his or her purpose as envisioned is what the masses use to vent and pile their vitriol both real and imagined on, also I  feel it helps ignore albeit for a while our own varied shortcomings.
So we sit and maul over this wastes of space and like the cheap liquor imbuing political scientists we are we dissect the gnomic views and actions of our political giants, the creme de la creme of our society, learned Friends and brutish thugs all clad in expensive Italian threads. Yes! these mugs, we discuss their acts and lack of them and in the end, we come to the conclusion that they are utter pieces of shet! Then and only then do we carry over to more worthwhile endeavors like discussing the English premier league and the content of the spirits set before us by this barkeep from the lakeside whose name I cannot really remember, our third since opening the joint. We drink some more listen to Franco or Sailors gang, it depends on the patrons warming the faux leather benches at Chill Spot, all of this banter continues until closing time hatefully referred to as Mututho time, which in our case is when the last chap runs out of coin for mead.

See you on my next spirit enabled brain aneurysm eeh?

My art is a wee rough around the edges.

My art is gruff at best, its that girl who comes to Sunday school late, without a bow tying her hair, with droopy eyes and an “I would rather be in bed” look on her. None the less, the girl is there even though not perfectly put together with a perfect bow, she still is a gift to womanhood and the bible. Still, my art is a wee graff. I know I love music and can sing till the cows trot home, but arranging things has never been my strongest suit to leave alone music. I look forward to the day I will play for the gallery and croon for packed stadiums, but until then my art and I remain to steadfast in expressing ourselves the best way we can; in the shower and in traffic ad infinitum, bowless and unbowed, for this I feel is my arts way of informing me it cannot be tamed like my bank account has been by lack or the absentee hairs on my chest. Like a wild mare or edible moss, I only need to let it loose on the prairie of those who appreciate art in its wildest form.
Here here to all non-conformist and untamed horses that lie in your chest.
My dèvouement to all the art forms lying in our breasts lets, set them free every once in a while for a trot in the prairie that is life.