Thus Spake Mr. Round Square ....

From a Poet Aspirant

2011-09-19T12:16:00.000+03:00

To Aspirant Poets

Never cut your poetic milk teeth,
Toying with ideas, to write any piece
Written ere, by past contemporaries,
If your verses, would look similar
To theirs, or even worse, inferior.
Refrain, if you’d make no difference!

An aspiring author and poet,
Must write, such a novel piece,
Neither read nor writ afore.
Or perfect, what a past poet,
Would have dreamt to realise.
A matchless way to figure out
If your poems are any excellent,
Is by contrasting them against
Dead, but accomplished poets.

Contemporary poets, so Unpoetic
Are celebrities created by a critic,
Constantly seeking out for an artistic
Fairy. A carpe diem poet, of the occasion,
A rhymester belching with exaggeration,
Pompously puffed up by pouring praise.
But when these invented fairies
Have departed, they rot in extinction,
Decompose quietly in misty oblivion.

Of all great artists an aspiring poet
Can contest with, as an antecedent,
Are the dead; revered most inimitably.
That way, they are like an athlete
Sure-footed, running a race set
Against the timer. Never merely
Venturing to win the competition,
Simply by defeating every opponent
That trails limply, in the marathon!

If you never run against time,
How would you ever know,
If you’d be aborted, or grow,
To write, an eternal rhyme?
Like master, like gent;
Like—but oh! How different!

©roundsquare.

Unpoetical

2011-09-19T12:11:00.000+03:00

Unpoetical

To sweat tirelessly,
And more ambitiously
Than good ol’ Wordsworth.
To squiggle and scribble
Not a topic sentence,
But a simple and single
Line, of a plain sonnet.
And the line, he supposes,
Is the greatest in all earth.
But the line he composes
Alas, is as scantily set;
Deficient of all senses
As his own silly existence.

Why sell artistic skill and all?
Why trade in entirety the soul?
For false fame or prosaic sake,
A penname, immortality to make,
Obsessed by fleeting success.
Forgetting the lasting consequences
That leaves life with nothing less
Mocking than bigotries, theories,
And philosophies of failed artistries,
In the footnotes of poetic histories.

The only poets so appealing,
Unaccomplished and unmarketed,
Yet charming and enchanting,
Are verily the poets so inferior.
For the poets so superior
Dangle high in bubbly air, floated
By winds of fame and so appear
Blown out of proportion, inflated,
Exaggerated, in what they really are.

A gifted poet?
A truly gifted poet
Sadly is the most unpoetical
Of all creative creatures.
But a substandard poet,
With third-rate lines so unlyrical
Is such ‘a distinguished genius;
Ingenious! Grandiose! Gorgeous!’
The dimmer their verses gleam,
The more sensational they seem.

Plenty of petty poets
Publish loads upon volumes
Of such mediocre rhymes,
Puffing up these egoless poets
As pretty much attractive.
Then go round boasting of lyrics
They can never ever connive.
The other composes lyrics
In tunes they daren’t pulsate
Nor are predisposed to resonate,
Lines of poetry they can never live.

©Roundsquare .

*Wordsworth – an aspiring but failed poet in V.S Naipaul’s Miguel Street.

Poetic Faith

2011-09-19T12:09:00.000+03:00

Poetic faith

What if poets patch, bandy
Words in the brow-beaten
Style of theologically penned
Liturgies, for you to entwine
In a quagmire of Grundy
Quibbling yet misapprehend
Shreds of truth in lines between.

What if poets rouse auguries
Of words like an aborted poet
Pounded to pulp by lexicographicide
Or like a stillbirth crushed, lost
In a womb of pregnant allegories
And blind metaphoric passages
From whence voices safely hide
Kept mum in a shroud of images.

What if poets tether, knot
Words with rhymes, caught
Amidst a periphrastic elucidation
And a worn-out poetical fashion
Leaving your wits still tussling
In an intolerable wrestling
Against syntax and meaning.

What if a writer shapes, mimics
Words, creating an impression
To Thomas and his sceptics,
That our parables are an all—
Sophisticated scheme, so subtle
Of saying something simple,
Yet, our words, are a distraction
Which we obscure semantics
Under an arsenal of polemics.

At this, suppose we impose
A short-term curfew with
A disbelief that might expose
Your pedestrian loyalty. And
In a twinkle of an eye, suspend
Your poetic faith…

Aha! Attempt to master as a learner
To use words, and our every trial
To manipulate a language rule
Is a totally new reconstruction,
A different type of frustration.
Since we never learn to outsmart
Words for what we no longer
Have to say, or in manner
In which we are no longer
Disposed or inclined to assert.

©roundsquare.

Revered Servant of the Sword

2010-03-15T06:32:00.003+03:00

Admiral Brutus Street isn’t what you would call an admirable street—well, there are tired-looking buildings parading in unclean pavements and smelly sewages. There are haggard-looking shops, bars tickling with glasses, and have never closed its doors for the last half century and counting, lodges creaking with beds, that lie awake from indecent lives within them, weather-beaten iron-roofs that clatter-clang and gaze at one another with black collected countenances. There are also reprobates who monitor everything that happens in that street, as if they possess it, or perhaps possessed by it.

The pot-holed tarmac, an occasional sparkling fuel-guzzler arrogant with road monstrosity, loud-mouthed hawkers, weighed down by huge hoarded goodies, competing here with impatient hooting, and there with street preachers, old tilted taxis, and stranded passengers, pedestrians, drug peddlers, idlers, and the playful scatter of street urchins make the street a visual and an oscillating concerto of confusion.

This chaos climaxes every Sabbath Day, when spirited lips chew chants and sing sacred songs while the revivalist irritates every open space with verbal diarrhoea. The street pays no attention, for an anthem of hullabaloo from the madding crowd, hustles noisily upon its ear, and drenches the whole hallowed hum. Even when the ‘brother’ proclaims like the prophets from his Ararat podium, eloquent as Luther King but boiling with braggadocio, and, his hand on the open Bible, of the ‘revered realities of our religion’, and of angel-like lives and vicarious sacrifice, and of endless bliss or indescribable gnashing of teeth, its eyes darkens with restless dust, agitated, in case the heavens up yonder should rumble and smite those speckled lips busy spewing forth sacrilege.

An old dark man, old as the sea, with the most depressing looks and a face that reminds one of Rufus, but on second thoughts, of Hannibal dusts the windshield of his London cab for an umpteenth time. He has the most curious raincoat that has its rightful place in the war memorial museums. It covers his spurs, barely concealing his shining army boots and had once been a confederate grey in colour. But rain and sun and age has so speckled it that Caesar’s rabbit-fur coat, beside it, would have discoloured to a pallid monochrome. A despondent descendant of kings is this old man.

The old man stands majestically by his dark cab that is so old that Lot himself might have asked for a ride in it after he fled Sodom with his two daughters and wife blindfolded in the boot, lest she should be tempted to look back. Although the street itself is already worried by the ominous presence of this old man of the hills by his evil looks, the old man touts for would-be passengers, and as they approach, he draws the fly whisk, waves without using, and proclaims like Noah, in deep, rumbling tones: ‘Zion Train express! Get on board sire, spotless—no dust, jus’ back from di funeral, suh.’

An Undertaker’s hat conceals his white wig but still reveals a wee-bit of his parched face and also shows some secret forces of despair and shame that pull it earthwards. He assumes the most revered expression to match his outrageous overstatement of the weight his burly figure carries. His sharp eyes join the other million-dollar Zimbabwean eyes curiously detained by a revival meeting that is just starting, conducted by three sisters in black, and a brother.

A sister waves and strikes the tambourine against her hand in attempts to silence the crowd. She gives up as no one pays attention to her listen-to-di-servant-of-the-word cries. Aah! It’s her sorry figure; darting eyes from the crowd seem to confirm. She’s in a shapeless black robe and white shoes, had starved her face of make-up, and thus would be a miracle if forty-nine out of fifty men dared to look at her twice!

Like the old street, the old man too, is not impressed by the enacting scene, now pregnant and anxious with clamoured chants of [1]Miserere Mei Deus, for they are like, the reception room of an undertaker’s office, a cold ambience motioning toward the mysteries of ethereal raptures: a place painted with reverent images of immortal proportion, disturbing odour, flower vases, sketches of soaring swifts and gloomy misty mountains.

The brother glances sternly at the mortified faces of his listeners, swings with swaggers his Bible as he preaches, his powerful voice resonating with threats of repentance. Two sisters clasp their hands in harmony, nodding their consent at his testimony with mismatching refrains of HalleluJahAmen, the third sister stalks around with a tambourine extended charitably for the congregation to give what’s the Lord’s. When the brother’s testimony ends, the tax-collecting sister deposits the Caesar’s coins into her palm and—with a zeal that would embarrass Zacheus—transfers them to the pocket of her long black robe.

She shakes the tambourine in a rising crescendo like a lead percussion military band player, and strikes it against her left hand. The brother starts clapping his hands and prods the other two sisters to join her. They sing in a husky, dehydrated tone the well-known worship hymn,

‘Di Spirit of Jah,

Pour down di fyah!’

Their rasping voices and phrasing literally hypnotize the sisters and seem to transpose them to the Day of Pentecost. They beat their chests, shake their heads, their black robes spin from the gyrations, and the brother stretches forth his right hand into the sky, eyes searching the clouds, and blinking like a light indicator, no wonder seeing visions of [2]Ecce Homo hanging upon the cross.

The sisters seem to see a different apparition—their Lord’s blood gliding from his veins down the trunks and onto the base of the cross. They tremble with mortal dread, seem out of this world and even the old man of the pyramids has to agree, this is no ordinary revival.

The old man’s eyes searches the faces of those who stand there and gawk blankly into the sky—for signs of lunacy. He only sees gaping eyes arrested by a likely spectacle of torrential brimstone and fire. He realises too, that for once, the street is unattended, that eyes has stopped watching the street, and focussed on the heavens, looking out for miracles and signs. He sees doubting Thomases, impatient to watch, yet stand still—like the sun did for Joshua—gazing at the azure horizon and scorching the roofs of their mouths, then take back their eyes to watch the street, shaking their cricking necks, cursing, ‘I told you silly goose, this is just another impostor.’

They watched and watched and listened too, for a rumble, that is, but all they heard was another urgent hymn:

‘Di voice of di Lord a-callin’

Di las’ train soon a-goin’

Come all git on board

Don’t be left behind.’

But every soul that stood and watched seemed determined to be left behind as none stepped forward when the brother made a last call. His keen eye only met the most unwilling stares of the would-be passengers, suddenly reluctant to plant their cold feet inside his Zion Train. Perhaps he had not scared them hard enough by intimidating threats to book a one-way ticket to Zion. What could unmask ‘an adulterous and wicked generation’ and turn their stone-hard hearts to heed to the tender pleas of free ride to Zion? His once Martin Luther voice changed into an upsetting tenor—no wonder his Lord hadn’t hesitated to use a whip!

He didn’t seem to notice that behind those empty stares were discerning souls which especially had no faith in his ability to chariot the Lord’s Train with the crew of his three sisters, for they knew everything about them, knew where they lived, and how.

The tax-collecting tambourine sister, whose voice governed the air, whose voice was intense with ecstasy, shared a lot in common with the woman who stood watching her, throwing knowing looks from her scarlet eyes, obviously after a [3]khat chewing session, blowing puffs of smoke like a tractor with a defective carburettor, darkening her stone-face that was already cursed and blemished by scars from countless extra-marital escapades. This was why when they bumped into each other in the street, a polite title of ‘sister’ escaped from their pursed lips.

When the music saturated the air, the faces that stood watching seemed to be elevated to another plane, transformed even and started struggling like the Djinn trapped inside the bottle that was found by an Arab fisherman. The music seemed to unveil new possibilities, a new horizon unseen before by those gazing eyes and breaking the walls of their existence, shattering into splinters what held them back, lifting them higher out of their present state, as if, once the bottle was opened, allowed only a split of a second scurrying from their first condition, into a worthy next.

A beggar came along, stood for a moment to weigh the prospects offered by the large crowd at the revival, but hesitant to try his luck, then his face lit up when the first man he desperately stretched out his hand for, dug into his pockets for loose coins. Nothing came from his effort, for he reflected for a second, his hand still inside his pocket, and started walking away, as if some unexpected emergency had occurred. At this, the old man half shook his head and smiled, adjusted his undertaker’s hat and went back dusting his cab.

The meeting came to an end. The three sisters and the brother, waving their hands sadly, sang, ‘May the sweet airs of heaven, be with you till we meet again.’ This had an effect on the faces; caused upsetting expressions, and one by one, they left, dispersing unwillingly and dejected. The music stopped, and the brother put the Bible into his big pocket and gathered his flock of three to leave.

The old man watched the three women and the one man walk up slowly the street. He gave them a second or two, then started the cab and made towards them, caught up, threw open the door of his cab, got out, flourished his duster, and began his depressing formula: ‘Zion Train express! Get on board sire, spotless—no dust, jus’ back from di funeral, ma’am.’ The 49-50 sister smiled when she recognized him—the old man who had dropped crisp new bank-notes into her collection, but the other sister, whose long black robe looked designed in wrath and worn in a rage, was restless not to get trapped in any talk that might impede her voyage—to Zion.

‘Please, step in. I am off duty, and I shall give you a lift to your place.’ The old man offered again, waving impatiently at them to get in.

‘You done seen him before?’ the brother whispered. The sister nodded. And for a moment, they meditated between silence and speech. Then the brother after studying the air to the left and to the right of the street, seemed to agree with the proposal, entered and sat in front. The three sisters sat in the back.

‘Know De Klub House?’ the brother asked him.

‘Oh, yeah,’ the old man swallowed and adjusted his Undertaker’s hat, without taking his eyes off the road, ‘so, you live by the Klub House, huh?’

‘No sire, I live by the monastery.’

‘Are you monks and nuns, then?’

‘Not really, I’m not a monk and definitely they are not nuns, but I’m saying I live next to the monastery because our house is next to the monastery.’

‘So you’d say the General lives by the beggar if a beggar lives near him?’

‘You have a very strange way of twisting words, old man. You waste your talents driving this cab—you should be with the FBI!’

‘I’m just pulling your legs.’ The old man jokes, his teeth luminous like a lighthouse and his laugh coming up out of him like the beginning of an earthquake.

‘Your voice is so strangely familiar, ol’ one.’ The brother muses.

‘I’d have almost sworn by God that I’ve heard that voice before.’ The sisters looked at each other, and then shake their heads in unison.

‘Oh, come on now, I’m everywhere in this little world, riding in this taxi, and this town is so small, when a cab driver buys a bag of peanuts in the street, they compose a little song about him.’ He threw a grin and started tuning the car stereo, searching for a suitable station. He settled for one. He hummed to the song.

Dem waan I fi come to deh burial

But dis man a no come a no one funeral

Yet deh man claim say him a di general

‘Yeah, General Brute!’ the 49-50 sister exclaimed. ‘You have his voice.’

‘Hahaha..!’ the old man guffawed. ‘I’d almost believe it myself, about this General, Conqueror of the British Empire, Last King of Scotland, the one and only president of this country, but riding in a cab? Funny thing, isn’t it?’ he grinned, and from his voice he could have been pointing out the shortest way to get to get out of town.

‘Yeah, very funny indeed,’ the brother observes, ‘the General’s life is shrouded in mystery. We don’t know if he’s dead or alive. It’s only when he fools around that we get to know that he’s still in charge of this country.’

‘You’ve heard the rumours about his ruthless killing? They say that, two days ago, he drowned all cripples and street beggars into the sea. That he lured them that he was going to entertain them at the State House, and poor souls, bundled into trucks and tossed into the sea for the fishes to feast on!’ the dressed-in-rage sister explains.

The old man tensed a moment, but attempts to defend what he felt were necessary evils. ‘Perhaps it was because the Queen of England, her brother Briton Hood, and international AMF visiting the country and the General didn’t wish his ‘extinguished’ guests to witness ten million underbelly crooks pretending to be beggars.’

‘Killing innocent souls?’

‘The means justifies the end.’ The old man went on. ‘I myself decry the soaring number of children in our streets, I will personally recommend a statue to be set up, and a title, the Knight and Preserver of the Kingdom, to whoever can invent a painless way of turning these brats into useful members of the commonwealth.’

‘Brutal and gullible General!’ the brother went on, ‘couldn’t even address the queen properly with dignity at the state dinner. Just listen to his speech last night on State TV: “thank you disgusting guests, ladies under gentlemen, Mr Queen sir, before I undress you, may I open the windows for the fart climate to go out.” and when they were opened, the fool cracked his sick joke about Edward de Verre, the 17^th Earl of Oxford, who was so embarrassed after he passed wind when bowing before Queen Elizabeth I that he left England and travelled abroad for seven years. When eventually he plucked courage to return, the Queen welcomed him and said, ‘‘my lord, we had forgotten the fart.’’’

It was such an uproarious joke that their faces turned a little lighter, and they all screamed with amusement. The dressed-in-rage sister cracked so hard she had to hold her heaving chest as a trickle of tears squirted from her eyes and emptied down into the raised corners of her cheeks.

‘And we Africans say British his-story is boring?’ the old man cut in, humming to the refrain coming from his car stereo.

Dem want I to come a dem funeral

Dem claim say dem a di general

‘And how about the one that the CNN journalist asked him, whether he was cannibal, as reported by the western media, and he replied that he didn’t like eating human flesh because it tasted too salty!’ the sister added to the general mirth.

The brother goes on, ‘I love the one that when he heard about the Russians going to the moon, he directed our leading astronauts to invent a rocket that would take them (and our country into the light of scientific advancement) into the sun. And when he was informed that, the rocket would melt under the sun’s intense heat, he advised them not to travel during the day, but fly by night, that way, the sun would be sleeping and cold!”

‘I think the great things happen at night, in the moonlight, including scientific advancement, because the moon is more important than sun; it gives light at night when light is needed; but sun gives light during the day when light is not needed!’ the old man added.

They stopped to let the lights change at General Brutus road junction. A cocktail of humdrum din and clamouring voices, dashing pedestrians, eager to cross the street, idlers watching everything in the street, and inside the car, the scents of body sweat and polluted fumes from the exhaust made the atmosphere in the street almost visible.

A Hummer, driven by a very sophisticated looking youth, stopped next to them, and is playing very loud Wailing Souls song Mass Charley Ground. It’s an ear-splitting statement that leaves them to re-assess society’s anxiety with the youth and loud music. Perhaps they heard too much wailing souls in music their parents danced to before they were born, and by playing loud music, were declaring what their parents missed.

This noise juxtaposed with what was on other side of street, two mass choirs in black and white robes. They sang hysterically, their wailing voices like wounded angels, pleaded to the wrath of God to smite a sinning universe. The attempt was glorious, but all around them, people were preoccupied with pressing earthly cares, looking trodden and weary of feelings.

‘Com duon Fadduh, com don!’ begged the preacher. ‘Dis world-o na be my home, I’m jus’ passim by!’

‘This poor people, who, who…,’ the old man mused, ‘who’re so busy worrying about the next world that they can’t live in this one! Just see all these idlers and hypocrites in every street.’

‘Brother, man!’ the brother admonishes, ‘your talents are wasted as a grumbling taxi driver; you really must join the army of our Lord.’

‘The Army of the Lord?’ he smiles, ‘but I’m the General in the Army of the Lord, only on undercover assignments!’

‘You must confess, and declare publicly, brother.’ The brother forcefully puts in, his Martin Luther tone having come back.

The dressed-in-rage sister says, ‘this is more than a spiritual warfare my brother, you must declare to the world that you’ve booked an express first-class to Zion!’

‘We desire eternal life—but most of us want it here on earth, not in heaven.’ The old man replies.

‘We can build our little heaven down here, if we allow the Spirit of the Lord to dwell upon us,’ the 49:50 sister offered. But the old man half-shook his head, still unconvinced why the word Lord shouldn’t be kept within the precepts of a church like other words inside the bedroom!

The preacher then waved his hand and called to someone in the crowd, ‘You mustn’t let the doors of heaven shut upon you! You must plant a seed! You must give generously! And yeah, nobody leaves here till we have a hundred dollars!’

The old man watched, and no longer speaking an unnecessary word to his passengers. ‘No wonder He didn’t hesitate to use a whip on those who were defiling and turning His house into a den of idlers.’ He mused, his eyelashes twitching, they couldn’t tolerate seeing wolves in sheep clothing with a cosmetic tongue designed to confuse the gullible. Yet he knew where the carcass was, there will the eagles be gathered. He turned back to his music and hummed to it.

Let deh dead bury dem dead

I’m a living man, ‘ave got work to do

‘The light has changed, brother.’ The brother nudged him.

‘Oh, has it?’ He said, as if he had not been conscious of it. To evince surprise at his passenger’s impatience was part of his PR benevolence.

Before a fly could blink twice, they were at their 4^th Brutus Street destination, their car appearing round the corner with noisy threats of speed. ‘Here we go,’ the brother breathed briefly, ‘behold the monastery and the house!’ He pointed with finality, indicating with his finger, first to the left and then to the right like he was giving the positions of two new planets.

‘Thank you very much, may you be blessed abundantly.’ The brother wished him and they turned to go. There was an embarrassed moment from the 49:50 sister who thought the old man deserved more than just ‘blessed abundantly’. She couldn’t bear the thought of breaking an old heart like the way one would throw a cigarette you were through with.

‘Perhaps you’d still pray for me, my most excellent accomplished sister, for heaven to rain sweet odours on me.’ The old man, as if reading her thoughts, suggested to her as she were leaving.

They delayed their voyage again, and for another moment, they meditated between silence and speech. Then the brother after studying the air to the left and to the right of the street, seemed to be in agreement with the suggestion, that there was no harm in throwing an old man a few left-over blessings.

And they all disappeared into the big house from another century, the old man tagging along, deliberately and with measured steps. It did look like a monastery, but only in age and simplicity about it. They made through the main door, there must have been more than five bedrooms in that old house, judging by the space the hallway boasted of.

There was an old prophetess sitting in a raised chair in the middle of the sitting room. Her countenance changed as soon as her eyes met the old man’s. ‘I don’t like surprises, children,’ she observed. ‘And from the look of things, I can see fear.’ She looked at them. Her eyes went quick and fast to the old man, darting as if she was troubled there wasn’t time to look, for without moving her head at all, she looked at them—at all the three of them at one time.

Someone knocked loudly at the back of the house. Before the prophetess could stand, the 49:50 sister had sighed a soft excuse and was gone to investigate the noise. She returned shortly with a cheered up face, a faint flush on her cheeks, and sixty years lifted from her shoulders. She was fondly holding the hands of the newcomer, a man, whom before he could properly be introduced; the gun stared at his face.

The old man had pulled out a revolver. He used the other hand to tear off the mask on his face, and warned brashly at the new arrival: ‘Don’t even dare!’ Their initial shock instalment was the sight of the gun; the aftershock was when they finally realised who he really was. Mortal fearful faces full of OMG followed and filled the room. They stood arrested with fear and fright and for a few moments, remained still, looking down in that gloomy direction where all dreadful faces looked for respite.

‘Holy Moses, General!’ A sigh escaped the prophetess.

‘What the …!’ cried the new entrant.

When you find yourself in a backstreet building at the beginning of the year and see faces that are not as other faces, you can bet your million dollars that you are looking at faces that have come face to face with the face of General Brute. That is what happened back there, as soon as they registered and digested who the messenger of wet news was, now standing in their sitting room, with a pointed gun, and face to face with three sisters, a brother, an old prophetess and worse, the Rebel Chief of the Lord’s Liberation Army, a religious rebellion that kidnapped babies still suckling and strapped to their mothers backs, to go fight in the forest in the name of the Lord!

A deathly silence fell over the room. The brother and the three sisters are obviously in despair over their careless chit-chat back in the car, behind the back of the General, even when he had been right in front of them. After a while the General turns matter-of-factly to the Rebel Chief: ‘how many bodyguards are out?’

‘Seven.’ The Rebel Chief says, and then goes into a silence like that which saturates a cathedral after a service. ‘But they’ll swarm all over this place if I don’t show up in ten minutes.’ He added.

‘Don’t worry about your soldiers; do you think they know their behinds from the holes in the ground? I doubt there is a brave one in the bunch.’ The General dismissed. ‘But just in case, push comes to shove, no one moves, no one gets hurt, am I clear?’ he went on in clear as day orders. The silence of the next few seconds must have been louder than the sound of all the music ever played by the youth since time immemorial.

‘How foolish was I?’ the prophetess cried, like a maidservant remembering half-an-hour too late the water tap that she left running in the bathroom tub.

‘Old woman, your guardian angel didn’t warn you in your visions, did he? Your world just coming to an end this way!’ the General mocked. ‘I’m sure we can all come into some understanding. The gun I’m holding is just to remind you who is in charge.’

They stood in respected awe and listened without answering back, for to contradict the General was a death sentence in itself; he was rumoured to have killed more men in a year than a mortar could do in a decade.

‘The scriptures say,’ he went on unheedingly, ‘“reap what you sow, for thou shalt eat thy bread by the sweat of thy brow”, because, if you always eat bread not from your own sweat it’s just tasteless. Brothers, why are you reaping where you never sowed? Brother, you have been measured, weighed and found wanting.’

The prophetess starts shaking but after a second she restrains herself and proclaims, ‘this is not how it ends, General, for the cherubs have spoken to me, in visions and they don’t make mistakes. They’ve chosen me to have a blessed birth to a reincarnation of St. Elizabeth who’ll usher in our Lord to fight the Armageddon and end the times. You wouldn’t wish to meddle with that eternal plan, would you?’

The General smiles, ‘if all men could have power to strike like lightening, as the heavens does, then the skies above would never be silent, for we’d abuse our skies for nothing but strike vengeful lightening. It’s consoling that that power is only vested in the hands of lenient heaven, which with its fast and furious force, tears to shreds the unbreakable and bulky rock, as swiftly as a soft siltstone. But man, mortal man, dressed in a diminutive power, doesn’t even know what he claims he knows, his naughty nature, like a bull in a china shop, amuses himself in such subterfuge and sham before high heaven, and causes the cherubs to weep, who, if they had our faces, would all have laughed themselves mortal!’

‘If what I hear is true of you General, then I’m afraid good wombs have borne bad sons.’ The prophetess said sadly.

The General agreed, ‘not only have good wombs borne bad sons, indeed, not only have the rains from heaven nurtured the ear of the corn and nourished the scent of the rose, but also strengthened the thorn and fed potency to the poisonous nightshade. That’s why the hypocrite who supposes they can have the best of both worlds, by assimilating good and evil is merely feeding the virus in their heart, for they are false already, and there’s no truth in them.’

Finally the Rebel Chief cleared his throat, ‘we are in a war General, I fight beside the Word, and you, with the Sword. The blood we aspire to shed is mutual. By the Word of my mouth and by the Sword of thy hand, whoever gets the other first, I pray to high heaven, and even I, to forgive them. And if there is such a place prepared for those that die in honour, I pray that when he falls, his weary soul may merit such a right to be with the seraphim.’

The General was prepared for this outburst: ‘How cowardly men crawl under the long arm of the law, while hypocrites play hide and seek with eyes of heaven! How some men devour into other’s narcissism, while egotism abstains in their impiety.’

But the Rebel Chief wasn’t giving up, ‘If you have come to cut a deal with me, then I must disappoint you, for the movement and the cause is not up for grabs. You can take me in. You have me. You can finish me off. But the Lord’s Army is bigger than just me. For every one of me, there are hundreds of them,’ he dared, pointing at the sisters and the brother, ‘and we have the Lord as our General and Shepherd!’

‘I see you are trying to put your religious tragedy into petitions, how encouraging!’ the General walked, pensively, around his prime prisoner. ‘You know, when we squander time and whole energy on white elephant projects that don’t work, normally we are left with only one alternative—disband it! That’s sensible, stop wasting more valuable time. Just discard it into the dustbins of history. Your followers preach in the street, day in day out so that you can have funds to fuel your religious warfare. Well, this opium of the masses, it doesn’t add up anymore. You crowd the streets with what you call morality, religion and so on. When your religion becomes obsolete, revamp it, renovate it, kick-start it, but in the most practical way. This is your chance; I’m extending you a brotherly hand.’

The Rebel chief seemed to chew on the proposal, for a while, but finally disagreed, ‘How gladly I would shake your hand brother, except that your finger nails are full of filth and blood of my brethren. How would you explain that? If you can only prove that there’s hope amidst the gloom that has darkened this dreadful country—with its kleptocratic bureaucracies and corruption, then I’ll die for an embrace.’

‘Development and progress don’t have to explain themselves.’ The General dismissed. ‘It’s open for the whole wide world to see. There’s nothing but bright hope in this country. What do you boast of in your army of the Lord but poverty, despair, starvation, desolation and chasing after dreams of heaven? I pay my army men a good salary, and they follow their own earthly dreams.’

‘But don’t you see what happens to their souls?’ asked the Rebel chief.

‘You think they’ll be eternally damned? No! No! No! I will save them, just as I will save yours?’

The Rebel Chief was amazed, ‘Save? You? You mean corrupt me! You will save my soul?’ he pointed at the General and guffawed.

‘I will fill your pockets with enough money to buy food, clothes and provide you a decent house in the government quarters. That way, you’ll live well off, my brother, enough to be a spendthrift, and to live handsomely—more than enough, self-actualise even; so that you could be copious, carefree, and charitable. That will save your soul and preserve you from the sins of the flesh.’

‘Whoa…’ he looked confused, ‘the sins of the flesh?’ the Rebel Chief seemed to be learning everything new from the General who was well-versed in the Art of War.

‘Yes. The sins of the flesh,’ the General spat. ‘Power, wealth, authority, liberty, pride, respect, and to be somebody in society; what else can save a man from those evils breaking his back, but money? The only means that can lift your soul up the food chain and heal your body, I’m proudly proffering you this golden chance to be elevated, transformed, and purge your poverty-ridden flesh from its virus.’

‘Wealth makes men of weight, and it was a man of weight whose entrance to the kingdom of heaven was botched. So don’t blaspheme that poverty is a virus!’

‘I agree, yes, it’s not just a virus, but the most virulent of viruses!—to be poor is a crime! Of all crimes, it towers in majesty and other crimes pale in comparison, for they become like virtues. Poverty is a disease that plagues our souls with immortal fear—just ask those who’ve lived in it! Just as those whose souls are dying or dead and their bodies are following suit. Poverty has blighted the happiness and demoralized the well-being of the society. It’s why we spend our invaluable time worrying how we’d keep these imbeciles far away from infecting us with the virus, and sink us down into their abysmal oblivion.’

There was no stopping the General, he swallowed his accumulating saliva, and argued, now addressing the Dressed-in-Rage sister, ‘you talked ill of the cripples and beggars that I drowned into the lake; you reproached me of condemning their souls into damnation unrepentant. Well, bring me a hundred more beggars; I will bathe their souls into deliverance and not just by empty rhetoric and dreams of heaven, but by paying them attractive wages, a good decent house in General Brute Boulevard. You watch them after three months, they’ll be driving to the Intercontinental Hotel, in a limo and spotting a tuxedo, to dine with American diplomats, and obviously become members of private golf courses.’

‘And will that make them better?’ the Rebel Chief sneered.

‘Of course, what is life, but in the living? Stop being hypocritical—they’ll grow a beer belly and have shiny faces. Their wives will spoil themselves in Jacuzzis, and their children will go to high cost ‘intercontinental’ schools. You know it—their lives would be much better than in the street, where they clap their hands and dance to false prophets in shower caps and long Joshua’s beards, giving their all, body and soul and money to you, and hoping your manna promises will come falling out of the sky. I tell you, you’ve perfected your gimmicks in dishonouring heaven. It’s so cheap a work converting desperate souls with a bible in one hand and a threat of eternal damnation in the other. Even I can convert the whole street into Zoroastrianism on the same basis. But I wish to give you that appointment—to test your revival skills on my men whose souls are starved because their bodies are bloated.’

‘So you want us to stop preaching in the streets, and leave our brethren starve of the Word of God, so that we can contribute in the very depraved natures that we’ve been fighting against in our cause? You want me to be the shepherd in your splendid church, embellished in the most extravagant manner, and erected on your avenues and where your congregation array themselves in preposterous and furore apparel. You need me to be your talented priest, so that you can give me a salary worth a king’s ransom, because then, I can amuse and entice and pull such a crowd with gimmicks. Then warn me that my sermons must not touch popular sins, huh! But be made polite and agreeable for the fashionable ears, for fashionable sinners are the registered members and fashionable sins must be concealed under a pious fiction and a badge of godliness. That, my brother, I cannot simply agree to do, I prefer the street. Better a lean moor hen than a fat caged sparrow.’

That punctured the General who sadly solemnized, ‘I too lived in the street; I was down there, my brother, for such a long time. I moralised and waited for God to pour His blessings, like He did Brother Job, but what did I get? Nothing but verbal diarrhoea in my famished stomach, until it occurred to me that I could also posses the attractions of the next world and be a General, and that God helps those who help themselves. Then I set out to follow my dream.

‘Nothing could stop my pursuit of happiness—I was determined to use the Bible, or the gun for this purpose, and comforted myself that neither ideology, ethics nor integrity, nor what have you would dissuade me. I rose up from my stupor, promised myself to “eat before I was eaten” and see now where I am? Am I not one of the greatest men in this country? Am I not charitable? Am I not somebody who can change society’s destiny? This is how we stand up and are counted, brother, and we can together rewrite this to be the history of every African so that we can rid Africa from the virus of poverty.’

The Prophetess joined in the fray, ‘How you talk! You contrive to say nothing at the most inordinate length!’ This is nothing but idle chatter, gibberish and nonsensical rigmaroles.’

‘But my dear prophetess,’ the General’s emotions finally collapsed, ‘where else can I have a better platform to express my ideas, when you don’t allow anyone to ask questions in your revivals?’

‘They are utter nonsense!’ The Prophetess threw all caution, ‘And if we allow you, I’m afraid; you’d be stringing gabble till the dawn of eternity! We all know what you did and how you made your way up there, with your self-seeking and ruthless scruples robbing from the poor, brutally butchering your enemies.’

‘No! No! No!’ he shook his head. ‘That’s not simply true, for I have the most careful conscience about the vice of poverty which you moralise and sanctify as a desirable quality. I’d prefer to rob than to beg; I’d rather be a slave master, than buckle and slave under poverty. I don’t like either conditions, but if you put those two unnecessary evils on my table, then, by God, I’ll go for the valiant and nobler. My scruples against poverty are so strong, and that’s why I wonder why you keep on extolling them. Let’s just say, my policy is not to moralise about them but destroy these unnecessary evils. Don’t reason with beggars; exterminate them. That’s why drug trafficking is minimal in China because they don’t reason with the criminals; they eliminate them.’

‘So all your scruples boil down to brutal killing, huh? Is that your solution for our troubles?’ That was bait from the Rebel chief.

‘That is the ultimate penalty for a General to pay, for how can he make omelettes without breaking a few eggs? It works elsewhere; it can work here because it’s the only language strong enough to shake up a shit-system; the only armed prophet that would succeed in bringing lasting change to a social system.’ The General grappled with his feelings, absolute power corrupted absolutely. He could crush a street protest by just sending only a handful of anti-riot police to scatter them, and he was about to kill a rebellion, for this Rebel Chief, with his moral rabble, imagined by moralizing, would change the system. That was a big fat lie, useless like a powerful prince without a smell of a gun under his breathe!

The Rebel Chief went on, ‘theocracy, one so much ordained by God, neither by the ballot nor the bullet, but founded on the principles of the Holy Book, that is the only way out of this mess, Mr. General.’

The General dismissed, and ignored what the Rebel Chief said, ‘By the sword or the word, whatever you choose to use to change a system, is the one and the same, for when you destabilize a system, you crush the old order and set up new one. Kingdoms rose and fell under swords and words, isn’t that what the war history of the Bible proclaims, Mr Brother Man?’

The Brother nodded from where he stood stupefied, ‘Although the scriptures say so, I’m quick and reluctant to confess it, for I disapprove your sentiments and despise your disposition. I wish to challenge it; but even the devil can misquote the scriptures for his purpose and still make sense, which shouldn’t be the case.’

‘Shouldn’t be the case?’ The General laughed, ‘we are not about squander our time quarrelling under some cover of barbaric scruples like your moralists out there. We live only once! Isn’t it enough that the history of the world is the history of those who plucked courage to accept this reality? Have you the courage enough to embrace this truly necessary evil, which still is, true and necessary?’

‘Children, I can’t allow you to listen to this blasphemous balderdash.’ The Prophetess admonished the three sisters and the brother, and then she turned to address the General, ‘what are you trying to prove by claiming that evil things are necessary? What does it matter whether they are necessary if they are evil?’

‘Let’s just ask it this way, what does it matter whether they are evil if they are necessary?’ the General punned.

‘Children, close your ears this instant!’ the two brainwashed sisters, obeyed their Prophetess, took the palms of their hands to shut their ears and closed their eyes as well. But the brother and the 49-50 sister didn’t.

‘Does it matter whether we listen to nonsensical rigmaroles?’ Instead of closing her ears, the 49-50 sister mused aloud.

‘It matters every inch. It confirms that you disapprove evil ideas from wicked men.’

‘But that wouldn’t save them, would it?’

The Prophetess could not stand this nonsense, ‘are you about to challenge me, sister? Are you closing your ears or are you not?’

‘Of course, it’s depraved of General to extend his brotherly hand, but I don’t think it’s necessary to close our ears without giving him a chance to justify himself, I hate the sin, but we are commanded by the scriptures to love the sinner.’ The disobedient 49-50 sister corroborated.

Then the brother got back his voice, and added his salt to the boiling pot of heated brawl, ‘let’s just say, I can perceive some hint of truth about this notion of necessary evil. We could join his forces, and fight from within, that could work. Let’s weigh the options, I’m not saying I totally agree with his ideas indiscriminately, but I’m thinking we could come to a compromise. Everybody does it one way or another, a man must live, you know…’ he trailed limply and suspended his speech in mid air when the prophetess, engrossed in interest to his outburst, made him anxious, ‘may be I don’t make any sense,…’ he became tongue-tied, looked to his right, then to the left, and whispered something to the 49-50 sister.

The General came to his rescue, ‘I am not asking you brother, to exchange your soul for power, no; all I’m saying is you’ll still have your soul, as well as the power thereof.’

‘That’s not what is worrying, I mean, this sale of my soul, you know many a time, a man must do what a man must do—for money, for wealth, for the world, even for heaven! I can even exchange it for vanity, but that’s not what I’m doing right now, am I? It’s not for wealth or position, but for truth and for power.’ He stammered.

The Prophetess cautioned, ‘we all know that the devil doesn’t have any power, and neither does he, nor would you, don’t fall for his traps, son!’

‘This is not just for my own supremacy,’ said the General, ‘I’m creating power for the whole wide world, for all bodies and souls of men of valour!’

‘To have power?’ the Rebel chief agreed, ‘that too, is my humble aspiration, but it has to be spiritual power.’

‘I believe all power is divine,’ the Brother made a come back, ‘I have preached on how the people can acquire, perpetuate and use spiritual power on this earth, how the people might gain and posses this holy power, but people don’t feed on spiritual power, they want a tangible power that they can see and feel.’

‘That’s what I’m talking about,’ the General explained, ‘that’s the power we can have, and that you can manipulate, and give it to your fellow men.’

‘Power to kill helpless men and rape women?’ sneered the Prophetess, ‘Power that justifies the rule by brutal force rather than by law?’

The punctured General shifted his gaze to the old prophetess, tortured her with mean looks and he explained, ‘when you have power for good, you must also have its opposite, I pointed out before that good wombs borne bad sons, who will still suckle from their mother’s breasts in spite of their villainy. Don’t imagine heavenly kingdoms and principalities that can’t exist on earth. The way your men live is just but an antithesis of how men should live in the society. If you abandon what is, for what should be, then you’re only calling on your own collapse rather than your preservation; for men who struggle after goodness in whatever they do are sure to come to ruin, since there are so many men out there who are evil.

‘Of course, we have on the board, many possible dispositions that we can embrace, but we don’t have to be excessively anxious about possessing all the good ones. A man may be thought of being generous, guileless, and religious, but he must only appear to have this persona. You soon become aware that you can’t actually possibly posses all these traits since it comes a time when out of a necessary evil, must needs contradict and act against them. You have to steer the country by doing what it takes to keep power, and you are left with only one rule: one that’s favorable—by rook or crook.’

‘Is there no higher power than brutal force by the power of the gun? The Rebel chief Asked, pointing at the General’s gun.

‘Every General would love to be adored and feared, but because it’s not easy to unite both qualities in the same person, then I’d rather have my men fear me than adore me. So long as I don’t meddle with their business and property, or their women, or take their lives without a just cause, then force is a necessary evil that holds my men together and bonds the country cohesive. I’d say that’s not brutality in the strongest sense for a General who leads his own army must practice brutal force so as to command complete reverence from his soldiers. Ask any Hannibal how they commanded their armies, and you’ll get my answer, it’s because of brutal force that his soldiers and officers were never rebellious for they feared and obeyed him. You must execute the soldiers if they understand their commands but do not obey!’

Suddenly there was an outburst from the 49-50 sister, ‘I wish I could get away from all this. Oh, that I had the wings of a dove I would fly away.’

‘And be a deserter? Just run away from the street? Just run away from the cause? You can’t be this selfish, sister?’ That was the Rebel chief.

‘I really wish it was this easy, just to go away from all this, and everything. But it isn’t. In the streets, I’m blissful, but only for a moment. It’s an escape from my little miserable world into a heaven of happiness and soul saving; but what is the point of chasing after little fishes when the bigger ones swim out of our reach? Why not fight evil from its heart. Why not launch an attack where it’s lodged, where the devil himself would least expect, yet in the very place we can do with most evil destruction. That’s where we should take our battle—at the very heart of the devil indeed, right in the middle of hell’s whorehouse. As long as we just keep to the streets, we can never really get anywhere to fighting the virus of evil, which we have sworn ourselves to. There’s no getting away from the General and his evil men who are everywhere. Turning our backs on him is like turning our backs to life.’

The Rebel chief admonished her, ‘You were once an indomitable sister, bent on nothing but fighting the evil side of life. Whatever happened to your zeal? I can hardly recognize you in your new guise!’

But she was determined to have her way, ‘come to think of it, life’s a tree with many branches, the inferior and the superior side are but one reality; it’s all one and it’s what you make it to be. I’m not going to squander mine squabbling whether the evil I have to fight is of sin or suffering, or poverty, am I now?

‘I wish I could cure you of your irreligious idiocy.’ The Prophetess cut in once again.

That stung the General and he gasped, ‘don’t be such a religious zealot and hypocrite! You are all just spiritual gymnasts to me!’

And the 49-50 sister sighed a relief, and confessed, ‘I have principles; I have forgiveness too, and wouldn’t allow for some scruples to turn my back on the General’s offer. I’m no longer squandering my life in the street, with brother preaching, and my sisters singing and making collections, and I shaking the tambourine, because sooner or later I would be sweeping the street, paved with General’s power, or be a barmaid in one of General’s clubs, like all those women back there.’

The 49-50 sister was determined to take the plunge and work for the General. She had that same feeling she had felt the first time the General had dropped the crisp new bank note into her collection. She felt she had to do what a sister had to do—get herself life to live, and never let go such a million-in-one chance. Only she thought it was the money and the wealth, power and the glory, when it was actually salvation to human souls.

And this time, she wouldn’t be in pathetic streets, where depressed souls clapped with clamour for brimstone and fire to fall from the sky and expecting some miracles and signs, but with the high and mighty, overfed and indifferent, superior and conceited creatures, all belching about their liberties and rights to transgress, and thinking that the devil would wholly honour them for committing so much sins in the name of their General—or so she thought.

That was the break-even of her life she had ever dreamed of. Her Rebel Chief would never toss it to her face again to run around converting the street and inducing them with hopes of heaven so as to rob them of their coins. She was no longer in the captivity of the prophetess, to be brainwashed to do God’s work on earth. What was this work that you never saw immediate results but a foretaste of things to come? And who ripped the most from this work? Wasn’t it men under guise? That God had had to create in His image to do it because it couldn’t be done except by living men and women. If that was the case, then, as the earthly caretaker of God, she held the keys of heaven and hell and when and if she died before she awoke, then she would still be saved, for she had faith in the hunch of religion, and would even hedge her bets in it, just in case the brutal revelations of damnation would come to pass!

The brother joined too the General’s fray, he was no longer yielding to the absurd demands of the prophetess nor listening to the Rebel Chief and his infinite tyranny, he was no longer indulging in a greedy egotism that fed on powerless people of the street. He was going to try his hand alongside the army of the General and operate from the heart of hell. The comfort and trappings wouldn’t placate his gnashing of teeth in the torture chambers, but at least it will give it the meaning. Yes, the meaning he could not find in the ‘Lord Liberation Army’ side of hell.

But the stubborn Rebel Chief had his own ideas. He preferred death to compromise, and his ultimate line of defence pointed in that direction for he threw all caution, dared the General to shoot him point-blank in the head and finish his business. The General was reluctant to take him out in this manner, and the younger Rebel Chief, seized him by the arms, taking advantage of his hesitation, and wrenched the gun from him, but he couldn’t use it as they got entangled, started to struggle.

‘Oh yeah,’ yelled the Rebel Chief, trying to have a better grasp of the gun, ‘did you think I wouldn’t get back to my feet? Did you imagine I was blindly going to cut a deal with a tyrant? That I, who have tasted spiritual power and promised my followers that this power is real, who have blessed assurance of greater things from above to come down, could develop cold feet when a semi-Armageddon trial came my way? Never! I will die with true religious colours and a proud soldier in the army of the Lord.’

A struggle ensued once their hands were free, and the General, being the stronger, wrestled back the gun from the Rebel Chief, but before he could cock it, the bodyguards, attracted by the commotion, came rushing into the house. The prophetess, caught in the scuffle, tried to dart for cover, but even with the speed of a lizard nailing a fly, it was still too late. The General grabbed her and using her as a human shield, scurried back to the car, the bodyguards, hot in pursuit, and the Rebel Chief helplessly watching, while he, daring them to shoot and kill their own prophetess.

The next day, the national TV announced that the General, had ordered a crackdown on revivalists, and banned street preaching with stiff penalties to those caught in the act.

The street became quiet once again as the hounded preachers went underground. The Prophetess was placed under house arrest.

A week later, the Rebel Chief was found dead on a dark street. The late human being had been engaged in terrific battle—there were plenty of evidence to prove it. Fanatic and bigoted though he had been, he had also possessed all the honours and merits of a soldier. But he had lost, true to his creed—to die with the colours because it was better dead with blood drained away than alive with it rotting in the veins. His hands held securely and so firmly a new crisp bank note that no one could wrench from his fingers.

His funeral followed, an almost lonely affair, and was attended by a handful of mourners. The moderate men from the street who had known him groped about with words, looking lost as they rummaged around their adjectives that would appropriately describe the Rebel Chief as demanded by funeral custom. The brother stepped forward, looked to his left, and then to his right, whispered to 49-50 sister, and then spoke thus: ‘when Rough Neck was about sev’n, he had the best army knife in the whole street.’

After the brief funeral, when the 49-50 sister was leaving, she saw the familiar old black cab, standing in the corner of the street. She inched closer, her heart pounding, and then her eyes met the silhouette of the old man from the hills, who for a brief moment, forgot his stone-face looks, and threw her a-happy-to-see-you-again smile.

He threw open the door of his cab, flourished his fly whisk, and began his depressing formula: ‘Zion Train express! Get on board ma’am, spotless—no dust, jus’ back from another funeral, ma’am.’ And then the sister smiled at the ritual. His coat had added on a few eternities, and discoloured in darkness, the thread and cords were raggedy and shabby, and one of the two enduring buttons—the ivory—was gone. She entered and sat herself at the back left, and the old man drove away, whistling wistfully to his mystical music:

Dem waan I fi come to deh burial

But dis man a no come a no one funeral

Yet deh man claim say him a di general

End.

©RoundSquare 2007

[1] Have mercy upon me, O God, the first words of Ps. 51.

[2] Painting of Christ wearing a crown of thorns.

[3] Green and juicy stimulant chewed around East Africa.

chicken crossing

2010-02-14T21:55:00.002+03:00

At the inception of the chicken century, the sons of men pounced on the farms with obstinate wills and sincere and unyielding ambition. The earth fed greedily on their energies and nourished in ecstasy. They inflated her abdomen until it ruptured and gave birth to a thousand hamlets and wheat fields, a thousand paved roads and muddy paths, a thousand granaries and barnyards and abattoirs and butcheries.

The farms nurtured. They bore fruits and extended to each man an affiliation limited only by his talent, his dexterity, and his enthusiasm and aptitude for labour. For Smokie Joe and his kin, a yearning had been roused and conquered. But for us animals and our kith, life proposed no such promise or connection. We came from the wrong places, the forests, the wilderness; we came strapping, fervent, penetrating and unrefined.

The farms declined our offers and we took refuge back into the woodlands, along water points and underground abodes. We re-organised and cut deals with sons of men. We traded the use of our brute force and our sinewy muscles for food and security. We tilled farms and dragged carriages, we laid eggs and produced milk, and in hushed harassment and aggrieved arrogance, we desired, and endured in quest for our own dream; that we could live in liberty, finally, and rise to welcome life with might and majesty or suchlike simplicity, life could accord.

And there were hard battles and so were sweet victories, fortifying the communal might of the Animal Revolution. We fought and tasted triumphs, tackling a new dream that consumed equality and allegiance as its energy. We were kings, and life was promising, bursting, and blooming. The calves, lambs and chicks of change that would make our generation a cringing, cowering, subdued, and pacific generation had not yet been conceived.

Well, that’s gone with the wind now. It’s an animal dream crushed, and just half a chicken century after the glorious Animal Revolution. Neighbouring farms, earlier on liberated, have been lost back to the descendants of Smokie Joe, who now dominate the landscape with might and power. Ask Dog—never has he felt so servile in his life than to Smokie Joe. He only has to see his pipe on his desk to feel undersized. He has only to smell his cigar and he gets timid like a mare—even now when he looks at his boots, stepping on that the gas pedal, taking us for a ride, so flexible and springy, he feels his heart sinking, as they say, into his paws.

Mine too, that’s why I sometimes plant my chicken shit right inside those boots, accidentally of course, as poetic justice. I guess, it’s those old, biased ‘accepted wisdom’ fed into us as young pups and chicks. Dog has sleepless nights (for our sake) thinking up ways to ruin Smokie Joe without being found out. Perhaps cut the brake cables of his truck, but then, we almost always ride in it and that would spell doom for all of us.

His three boys toil too, on the farm, and the two girls hide in the kitchen, perfecting skills, as plain Janes do (sad but true), being useful only in culinary arts and in housekeeping for what they lack in looks. Smokie Joe has to look at himself in the mirror to know where they got their deficient looks—and perhaps their dexterity. And as the boys hanker after bean-stalk cutes in short-skirts that can’t boil tea, they rust on the shelf. Sometimes at night around the kitchen table, they help the servants shell French beans; their wages, after powder for their dull faces, can’t even keep me in shoelaces, assuming I have shoes. Poor girls! Poor servants! They are just like the rest of us animals.

That’s why Smokie Joe has to run the farm with might and muscle—and only when he’s around. Right now, I bet you, as we drive to town, you wouldn’t find any servants at home. They would have taken a French leave to rave and crave in honour of the free occasion. Last night, when Ol’ Trevor developed complications, and had to be taken to the veterinary clinic, Smokie Joe ordered them to be around, just in case, as he wouldn’t return until this morning, and gave them explicit instructions to stick in the compound. The briefing was enough, we well knew, to insure their immediate departure, all and sundry, as soon as his truck hit the road.

The evening breeze, as sharp as a Somali sword, slices over our heads and we all cower at the back of Smokie Joe’s old truck. It negotiates the bumps and cruises round the hilltop with loud threats of speed. He shifts the gears carefully and peeks at us from time to time, as if we would jump off the truck! He is only met by Ol’ Trevor who, in her mournful eyes, is staring into empty space as she chews the morning’s cud; Dog and Cat are busy quarrelling, as they usually seem to be doing. I am the only one who seems collected and calm, and perhaps the eldest, north of fifty—in chicken years, that is!

A Cattle Crossing poster hangs dejectedly at the bend and it seems to have been written by a drunken monkey. Smokie Joe lights his pipe, and hums to the music from the car stereo.

You've been riding
You've been riding quite a while, child
(keep on riding, keep on riding)
You've been jiving
Like a peacock, that's your style
(keep on jiving), ooh (keep on jiving)

Smokie Joe puffs his pipe with unembarrassed and contented air, exhaling as if he has summed up the world in a phrase, or perhaps his own world.

Mrs Mabel waves; she’s a senior spinster and neighbour. Smokie Joe has a soft heart towards her, so he pulls to a stop, and they chit-chat. She has lost Daffy again, her favourite nanny-goat, and the only one she has. She peers, from time to time, into the distant bush searchingly, like a starved dog that can’t remember where he had hidden a bone.

Then her peeping eyes of poverty stare at the ‘goodies’ at the back of the truck. The disappointment of their search—perhaps for a goat track that would guide her back to a monarchy of realistic happiness—keeps them wary and cagey. She hadn’t done so well on the farm business, like Smokie Joe, but still retained that matriarchic authority about her. All her suitors were would-be inheritors of large wheat fields, and of course, she had hoped to settle down with one and raise her family on huge plantation tracts with plenty of servants. But man proposed—and woman accepted the proposal, if I am to contrast that ageing maxim modestly.

She leans at Smokie Joe’s half-opened window, but withdraws when the fumes hit her nose. Smokie Joe hums to the radio’s tune.

You've been riding quite a while
(keep on riding), keep on, ride (keep on riding)
Ooh, wait till I get my hooks on you
I'll show you what a fisherman can do

‘Where are you taking my likkle darlings?’ She asks, throwing another generous look at the eggs in the tray.

‘Ol’ Trevor had a miscarriage last night; she has been uneasy all day, so I’m taking her back to the Vet. Nana here has chicken flu. I guess Titi and Toto just hopped along.’

‘Shall I have a tray then, I’ll surely pay you at the end of the week.’ She begs, still gazing expectantly at the tray, her mouth hanging open, wide enough to allow in a swarm of flies. Her pitiful eyes are dramatic, they are always so lively and gay, and explains why she almost always get away with every bout of begging. Today she forgot her eyeglasses and obviously didn’t apply her sun-repellent lotion in her anxiety, and light has starved the rosy dimples in her cheeks and depressed the lilied tint of her face, to give a shade blacker than Daffy’s coat.

Smokie Joe grudgingly lifts a tray and hands over to her—an example of his ‘widow and ol’ spinster’ charity—loving his crooked neighbours with his crooked heart.

‘But you can have it for keeps,’ he changes his mind, ‘if you ride alongside me, of course. I won’t be long. That way, we can come and look for your nanny together.’ And he puts his hands at the side pockets of his dungaree, exaggerating his manliness.

‘But, but…’ She blushes, and starts drawing sketches on the dashboard. Perhaps Smokie Joe has inspired poetic imagination in her, but they are only some knick-knacks of writing, such as a baby with an author’s pen might make for idleness or for practice

She gives in, in spite of herself, and opens the front door, enters and sits, in her queenly grace.

Smokie Joe is being sensible because he knows she won’t pay back, that easy, for that tray—they almost never repay! He has lost four shrewd neighbours for good by loaning them money and hoping they’d keep their word; they keep his money instead! He assumes they feel he doesn’t miss his money. He expects them to feel embarrassed, as he would have, if they did not repay him. Still, he was not about to lose another by refusing her a ‘tray’ loan.

Smokie Joe winds the side window for her and hits the road, cruising softly, as before. He throws us a distant look, increases the volume in the car stereo and settles to smoke his ‘eternal’ pipe. He whistles to the lyrics.

At Christmas, more like an Easter bunny
Just like a rabbit, you're always on the run
But wait till I get my trap on you
I'll see where you gonna run to
Wait till I get my trap on you
Then I'll see where you gonna run to

‘That shong ish about Mishis Mabel.’ Dog suggests, lifting his ears as if to listen to the lyrics.
‘You have more fur than brains!’ Cat teases Dog, ‘And more foolishness than fur!’
‘You have more wormsh than shtomach.’ Dog retorts.
‘More fur than intelligence? I love that.’ Cow agrees.

‘Lishten to me you shilly gooshe.’
‘Why must I listen? I know who ate Mrs Mabel’s Bunny, last Christmas!’
‘Thish ish no time for bloody nonshenshe, it ish sherioush.’
‘When you want somebody to listen it ish sherioush.’ Cow joins, imitating the lisping Dog.
‘Cow never know de ushe of him tail till de butcher cut it off!’ Dog digresses, hitting at Cow.
‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’ The cow challenges back.
‘Every dog hash hish day!’ Dog balances the battle of puns.

‘That’s why you have more hair than intelligence!’ Cat goes on.
‘If the cover of the shalt shaker hides the shalt, then it ish more than the shalt. And sho the hair that coversh my intelligence ish more than the brainsh, for the lessh cannot hide the greater.’ Dog justifies himself.

‘Miaw.’

‘Moo.’

‘Bow-wow.’

They go talking about origins, that the ancient line of his great grandfather was descended from the very Dog that Ceausescu had seated in the House of Senate, with full ranks of a Comrade and even saluted by other Comrades.

‘Each day you tell that fairy-tale, you find different ways to tell it, different crap to spice it up.’ Cat sneers.

‘I’m shpicing up nothing. I’m telling you the factsh of my genealogy. They imported bishcuit from Harrods for my anceshtor, and delivered through the Romanian Embasshy in London. We were kingsh!’

‘But the trouble is—no liberty! A hungry dog believesh in nothing but meat.’ He muses dreamily but wakes up at once! ‘It’sh the shame with me—I can think of nothing but liberty.’

They roar rumbustiously with laughter at their dull dry jokes, but Doggy dries a tear when Cat informs him about the death of her kitten, and stretches, yawns, sighs, and groans like any other Dog with a rendezvous at the back of his mind. He then pokes his head against the railing of the truck unconsciously, and begins to pant, mechanically lolling out his tongue.

‘Why is it that,’ Cat asks, ‘dogs always feel a sweet sensation when they poke out their heads out of car windows?’

‘Like in Bolt? He watches too much TV and Bolt!’ Cow suggests, and they all go into giving opinion about our favourite character, Bolt.

The air is electric and crunching and shouting out with opinions, and they pretend they have some. Each one of us animal has opinions to give, and they are demanded in return. They misinterpret my absence of opinion as opinion.

Smokie Joe doesn’t shout at us to stop the incessant noise, but instead, he increases the volume in his stereo.

Ooh-ooh
Old Mr. Joe, he build a house away
On top of some hill
Old Mr. Joe knew he had to go, so he
He got right down and wrote bank will
He say now, here's to Mother Hen
And her Chicken, Lord have mercy now

‘Why not perfect your acting shkills by watching more Tom and Jerry?’ Dog says to Cat, after Bolt’s intelligence is ridiculed. ‘What a shtray Cat! You shall go back to the shtreets where all condemned catsh live!’

‘Shut up, Doggy, you can’t! You haven’t the invention of a cockroach! Can you fast for a week with bran and water?’ Cat asks.

‘Yesh, and alsho pray for a month with moushe and pigeon.’ Replies Dog.

‘Sshh!’ I warn, ‘when Chicken merry, Hawk de near! Why don’t you be reasonable like Ol’ Trevor here?’ I plead.
‘Shut up, you, chicken heart! Don’t you know that a totally reashonable cow is alwaysh pregnant and calving, haha!’ Dog teased.
‘Calves are a blessing from Taurus!’ Trevor could hardly restrain herself.
‘Well, Taurus can have the pupsh and bitchesh back!’ Dog went on.

Master, will you take a roll in the mud
Like you know you should?
The old barnyard, the old barnyard
Birds and the Chicks, ooh-wee
Who's got to watch out for Brother Mongoose
With his top hat and walking-stick?

The truck speeds past the mulberry plantation that is even mentioned in the encyclopaedia.

It's just the poor's brain washing
(Poor's ...) They told me a long time ago,
It's just the poor's brain washing, ooh-wee
(Poor's brain washing) Now look at a thing like this

At the Zebra Crossing, we meet Mini, Dog’s half-sister, wobbling in the mud-spattered pot-holed section of the road with the energy levels of a starving village mongrel. Smokie Joe slows down, to let her get out of the road. He becomes impatient and gives a deafening hoot for the silly bitch to get out of the way. She doesn’t. She has recognised Ol’ Trevor and is barking madly, coming towards the truck. We make telepathic noise and even Smokie Joe recognises her in his smoky mind.

‘Be careful now, ol’ un!’ Mrs Mabel warns.

He gets out of the car and hoists her to the back of the truck. He is so mechanical, he doesn’t even think about it. In a while, we are riding once again like before, him curiously blowing smoke into the air like a Victorian steam locomotive.

Cinderella and her long lost fellow
In the midnight hour, she lost her silver slipper
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
While Jack and Jill had themselves a fall

Dog breaks the pregnant silence in an actor’s voice. ‘Forgive me my shweet lady, but I haven’t had chanche to shay “hidy dey do’’ to you.’ He tries to kiss Mini’s paw but she pulls it away.

‘Spare me Doggy; I am not in the mood for nonsense. If I permit you to kiss my paw you’ll be yearning for my elbow next, then my shoulder!’ She was offended.

‘Oh, you won’t return my compliment becaushe you are not in the mood. Oh, the logic of bitchesh! Come to think of that, I never have liked bitchesh; I could do without their shillinessh! Thank God I’m no daughter of a bitch! Mutton dresshed as lambsh! Jusht to shee one in the dishtance getsh me horny. My shaliva shtarts pouring with rage.’

‘You can’t touch us, Doggy, we are the emancipated bitches. ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL! No more incest! How can children be fathers of their own brothers? We can’t be the very same to our mothers who bore us! To be son and husband—the very same who mount their father’s beds still wet with their mother’s milk! What inglorious shamelessness?’ Mini sounds seriously disturbed.

‘All animalsh are equal but shome of ush are more equal.’ Dog adds, looking greedily at Mini’s shy tits, like he never turned down a third course of any meal.

‘Your depraved psychosis will plague this land. O thunderbolts, where art thou? But what use for the thunder? O precious villain!’ Mini swears, but she knows, as much as I do, that her trepidation to bring down a piece of the sky is only a vacant boasting. That’s the noble office for my husband, for when he crows early in the morning, the sky and Sirius star obeys him and comes out of the sky, and dawns listens to his crows. For Doggy, Smokie Joe’s leash is enough.

It's just the poor's (... brain washing)
And I don't need it no longer (... washing)
It's just the poor's brain washing
Coming through to a poor man's child, ooh-wee, look at this

Smokie Joe slams the brakes so hard and abruptly. The truck jerks. Swerves from the left. Swings to the right. My chicken heart comes to my beak and I shake. And before we know it, we have hit a nanny goat, and on a Cattle Crossing sign! She now lies in a pool of blood, kicking the last kicks of dying horse—nanny, before finally succumbing to her internal injuries.

Baa, baa black sheep. Baa baa have you any wool? Baa…dead!

‘Oh my Living God!’ Cries Mrs Mabel. It’s her lost Daffy.

But Smokie Joe only gets out of the truck to asses the damage on his bumper. Then comes behind the truck and curses at the careless number of eggs that has broken. Throws us his meanest looks, but never for once ask us how we are feeling, he just goes back to his steering wheel, trying to restart the stalled old truck. My feathers are still ruffled.

‘You killed her!’ Mrs Mabel stares disbelievingly at her favourite nanny. ‘Only you Smokie Joe, can do this! Told you to drive slowly, didn’t I?’ She gives him a ‘didn’t-I-tell-you’ look, but obviously knows its futility. Even Mrs Columbus with her cold shoulder couldn’t have prevented her husband from that carelessness of going out to sea and discovering America.

‘Why do goats keep crossing these roads so slowly?’ Smokie Joe keeps swearing. ‘Why can’t they learn like the dogs?’ Something occurs to him, and suddenly he seems so surprised, finally, although I didn’t see anything about the death of a nanny goat on the road that went beyond the bounds of the ordinary. His eyes look away from where Daffy lies, as though he had thoughts to hide. His pipe shakes for once in his lower lip.

The dead nanny lies, as dead nannies always do, in a uniquely dreary monochrome, her rigid limbs slouched in the rough tarmac, with the head forever bowed to the yellow sign. Her pallid brow with bare patches over her depressed eye-socket had been re-organised by the screeching tyres. The ears had subdued, and in the way typical to the dead, the jutting muzzle seemed to compress the almost popped out tongue.

She had transfigured divinely and had grown even fatter since I last saw her, but, as is always the case with the dead; her countenance was more composed and above all more venerable than when she lived. The dead still looked peaceful—never mind if Orwell got terrified by dead humans he saw when he was supposedly shooting down rogue elephants. The appearance on Daffy’s face testified against it, and added that, what was crucial in her life had been consummated, and done properly with a nanny’s dignity.

Further more, there was in that dignified expression, a caution and a counsel to the living. This reproach, however, seemed an afterthought—don’t cross the road carelessly—or, as I felt, it was an out of place thing, at least not for my kind. We all stood there, paying our deepest last respects and feeling an assured discomposure, even Mrs Mabel hurriedly crossed herself once more, turned, opened and slammed the truck door— too hurriedly, and too disregarding of all her queenly decorum. I think she was oblivious or just too hysterical to care.

‘Why do they keep crossing the road like they were going to a wedding ceremony?’ Smokie Joe kept cursing, even after the truck had jump-started, and his music filled the mourning air.

Little Miss Muffet she sat on a tuffet
While Little Red Riding Hood
Delivered her grandmom's food
Ooh-wee ooh-wee
Ooh-wee, look at one more thing like this
The Cow jumping over the moon
While the Dish got jealous,
He grabbed the Handy Spoon

Yes, why indeed, were our kind—goats, sheep, cows, chicken, dogs and cats—dying on the roads day by day, in spite of the Zebra Crossings? The Cattle Crossings? Ol’ Trevor has the explanation, she read it somewhere in the Animal Farm Chronicles. Hearing the story from her would be like hearing the theory of relativity from Einstein himself.

A few chicken centuries ago, our ancestors shared a cab home after an evening out. At their destination, Cow paid her fare in full amount. That’s why she crosses the road majestically, gracefully, or sometimes, at her choosing, even doesn’t get out of the road at all, for she owes no one, nothing. Furthermore, she has a Cattle Crossing sign specially designated for her kind.

Goat paid half-amount, is why she moves out, but quite reluctantly, because she has to—she still owes a half-much!

But watch the dog as he crosses the road—always too fast! For he paid nothing! He’s on the wanted list, and drivers don’t get to hit him much too often because he darts like a female lizard being chased by her mate. He’s guilty. He’s afraid.

It's just the poor's brain washing
And I don't need it no longer, I don't want it no longer
I don't need it no longer (...washing)
And I don't care for no more brain washing (... washing) ...

Cow’s anxious eyes, still reeling from her personal loss, and now this, drift damply inside her yawning dark sockets; semi-cloaked by stern upper lids and weighed down heavily by bushy white brows. Deep furrows fan out from the soggy corner, stretch past the muzzle, and suddenly she puffs up her nose and licks at her snotty mouth.

Her old gaze is straight ahead, but at what? Perhaps at nothing. Some imperceptible target. Some parting point of exodus. I feel for her, it has to be the crossing business. Her kind has to learn the hard way. Even Chameleon learns to run faster when the forest is on fire. She stops chewing. She shakes her head as if to say this isn’t her head she has right now—something that used to belong to Shrek or Nemo.

The sun plays hide and seek with the fluffy clouds and genially swathes the oriental sky with an ornate layer of gold. We are heading back to the farm from the Vet. I’ve witnessed two more road carnages. The last one was a chick, barely a year old (in chicken years)! Where are Chicken Crossing signs, before all chicken are wiped out from the face of the road? Scattered like locusts all over the railway track and crushed to death in hundreds by passing trains? Bewildered creatures that will one day rise up in swarms from their graves and curse, ‘we never took a ride in your cab, yet you buried us by the roadside! Woe unto you?’

Who will run up against a hit-and-run truck that even after hitting you, keep on going and a-going and it won’t stop till the day Sirius hits Planet Mongo? Good thing, when I am done for, the wheel has run over me, I will have no reason to get anxious about the future. Death is just an old comic fool, but every animal sees him in a brand new costume. Until that day when wheels grind me, as I walk under the shadow of death, I will feel no fear, for I shall not be able to find consciousness! The Michelin tyre that would compress my skull down to the tarmac, shall help transport me to Sirius, which with its bluish light, has always caused wonder and terror in my husband’s mind, in fact I think he worships it as a divinity.

©RoundSquare 2008.

Close Shaves vii

2010-02-02T20:26:00.005+03:00

Joe and John were identical twins.

Joe owned an old dilapidated boat and kept pretty much
to himself.

One day he rented out his boat to a group of
out-of-staters who ended up sinking it.

He spent all day trying to salvage as much stuff as he
could from the sunken vessel and was out of touch all
that day and most o...f the evening.

Unbeknownst to him, his brother John's wife had died
suddenly in his absence.

When he got back on shore he went into town to pick up
a few things at the grocery.

A kind old woman there mistook him for John and said,
"I'm so sorry for your loss. You must feel terrible."

Joe, thinking she was talking about his boat said,
"Hell no! Fact is I'm sort of glad to be rid of her."

"She was a rotten old thing from the beginning."

"Her bottom was all shriveled up and she smelled like
old dead fish."

"She was always holding water. She had a bad crack in
the back and a pretty big hole in the front too.
---------------------------
Little Johnny attended a horse auction with his father.He watched as his father moved from horse to horse,running his hands up and down the horse's legs, rump,and chest. After a few minutes Johnny asked, "Dad, why are you doing that?" His father replied, "I have to make sure that they are healthy and in good shape ...before I buy them." Worried, Johnny replied, "Dad, I think the Postman wants to buy mum"
------------------------
A man was driving down a quiet country lane when out into the road strayed a rooster. Whack! The rooster disappeared under the car in a cloud of feathers. Shaken, the man pulled over at the farmhouse and rang the doorbell. A farmer appeared. The man somewhat nervously said, "I think I killed your rooster, please allow ...me to replace him." "Suit yourself," the farmer replied, "the hens are round the back."
---------------------
There was a little boy who had just learned to count on his fingers. One day his uncle came to visit and the boy was anxious to show off his newly acquired skill. He told the uncle to ask him and addition question. So they uncle asked, "What is three plus four?" The little boy counts it out on his fingers and said, "Seven." The uncle said, "Listen kid, you cant count it out on your hands because someday when you are in school, a teacher will get mad at you for it. Now put your hands in your pockets." So the little boy put his hands in his pockets and his uncle asked, "What is five plus five?" The uncle saw movement in the boys pockets, then the boy said, "Eleven."

--------------------------
The new Army Captain was assigned to inspect a company of soldiers in a remote post in the desert.

During his first inspection, he noticed a camel hitched up behind the mess tent.
He asks the First Sergeant why the camel is kept there.

"Well, sir," is the nervous reply, "as you know, there are 250 men here and no wom...en. And sir, sometimes the men have ...m-m-m....urges. That's why we have the camel, Sir."

The Captain says, "I can't say that I condone this, but I understand about urges, so the camel can stay."

About a month later, the Captain starts having a real problem with his own urges. Crazy with passion, he asks the First Sergeant to bring the camel to his tent.

Putting a stool behind the camel, the Captain stands on it, pulls down his pants, and has wild, insane...m-m-m.... with the camel.

When he is done, he asks the First Sergeant, "Is that how the men do it?"
"Uhhhh..., no sir!," the First Sergeant replies. "They usually just ride the camel
------------------------------

One day an 85-year-old man is taking a stroll around his hometown, which he has lived in for his whole life. As he sees the landmarks, homes, and streets from his youth, he starts reminiscing.... "I remember helping build that bridge when I was 25. I worked hard on that. But people won't call you 'the bridge builder' i...f you do that here. No, no, they don't!"
"I remember building that house over there when I was 30. But people won't call you 'the house builder' if you do that. No, no they don't!" "I remember building that tavern that I still lounge at when I was 35. If you do that people won't call you 'the tavern builder' either. They sure won't!" "But if you fuck one goat......."
-------------------
A Man was walking down a street when he heard a voice from behind, 'If
you take one more step, a brick will fall down on your head and kill
you.' The man stopped and a big brick fell right in front of him. The
man was astonished.

He went on, and after a while he was going to cross the road. Once
again the voice shouted, 'St...op! Stand still! If you take one more step
a car will run over
you, and you will die.' The man did as he was
instructed, just as a car came careening around the corner, barely
missing him.

The man asked. 'Who are you?' 'I am your guardian angel,' the
voice
answered. 'Oh, yeah?' the man asked 'And where the hell were you
when
I got married?'
---------------------
In a second grade class, a little girl asks, "Teacher, can my Mommy get pregnant?", "How old is your mother, dear?" asks the teacher. "Forty." she replies. "Yes, dear, your mother could get pregnant." The little girl then asks, "Can my big sister get pregnant?" "Well, dear, how old is your sister?" The little girl answ...ers, "Nineteen." "Oh yes, dear, your sister certainly could get pregnant." The little girl then asks, "Can I get pregnant?" "How old are you, dear?" The little girl answers, "I'm seven years old." "No, dear, you can't get pregnant..." Then, the little boy behind the little girl gives her a poke and says, "See, I told you we had nothing to worry about."
---------------------------
A couple made a deal that whoever died first would come back and inform the other of the after life. The woman's biggest fear was that there was no heaven. After a long life, the husband was the first to go, and true to his word, he made contact. "Mary... Mary..." Awestruck, Mary responds, "Is that you Fred?" "Yes, I h...ave come back like we agreed." "Well, what is it like?" Fred excitedly tells his tale, "Well, when I get up in the morning I have sex, then I have breakfast, then I have sex again, then I bathe in the sun, then I have sex twice more, then I have lunch, then I have sex all afternoon and into the early evening, until bedtime.
And, then, I start all over again the next day." So happy Mary says, "Oh Fred, you surely must be in heaven." Fred replies, "Hell no, Mary, I'm a rabbit in Kansas."
------------------------
There is a Russian comedian Yakov Smirnoff. When he first went to the United States from Russia he was not prepared for the incredible variety of instant products available in American grocery stores. He says, "On my first shopping trip, I saw powdered milk--you just add water, and you get milk. Then I saw powdered ora...nge juice--you just add water, and you get orange juice. And then I saw baby powder, and I thought to my self, “What a country!"
---------------------
Returning home early from a business trip, a man finds his wife standing naked in the bedroom. Surprised, he says, "It's the middle of the afternoon. Why aren't you dressed?"
"I have nothing to wear," his wife answers.
"Nonsense," he says, throwing open her wardrobe. "You have a red dress, a green dress . . . hi, Harry .... . . a purple dress . . ."
------------------------
A married fellow gets home early from work and hears strange noises coming from the bedroom. He rushes upstairs to find his wife naked on the bed, sweating and panting. "What's up?" he asks. "I'm having a heart attack," cries the woman. He rushes downstairs to grab the phone, but just as he's dialing, his 4-year-old so...n comes up and says, "Daddy! Daddy! Uncle Ted's hiding in your closet and he's got no clothes on!" The guy slams the phone down and storms upstairs into the bedroom, past his screaming wife, and rips open the wardrobe door. Sure enough, there is his brother, totally naked, cowering on the closet floor. "You bastard!!!" says the husband. "My wife's having a heart attack, and all you can do is run around the house naked scaring the kids?"
--------------------
There was a little boy who had just learned to count on his fingers. One day his uncle came to visit and the boy was anxious to show off his newly acquired skill. He told the uncle to ask him and addition question. So they uncle asked, "What is three plus four?" The little boy counts it out on his fingers and said, "Se...ven." The uncle said, "Listen kid, you cant count it out on your hands because someday when you are in school, a teacher will get mad at you for it. Now put your hands in your pockets." So the little boy put his hands in his pockets and his uncle asked, "What is five plus five?" The uncle saw movement in the boys pockets, then the boy said, "Eleven."
------------------------
A man went to the police station wishing to speak with the burglar who had broken into his house the night before. "You'll get your chance in court," said the desk sergeant. "No, no, no!" insisted the man. "I want to know how he got into the house without waking my wife. I've been trying to do that for years!"
---------------------
There was this man in a mental hospital. All day he would put his ear to the wall and listen. The doctor would watch this guy do this day after day. So the doctor finally decided to see what the guy was listening to, so he put his ear up to the wall and listened. He heard nothing.

So he turned to the mental patient and ...said, "I don't hear anything."

The mental patient said, "Yeah, I know. It's been like that for months!"
-------------------
This guy goes to a whorehouse and says to the Madam, "I want to get screwed." The Madam tells him to go up to room #12 and knock on the door. The guy walks up to the door, knocks on it, and says, "I really want to get screwed, bad!" A very sexy voice replies "Just slide $20 under the door." So the man slides the $20 un...der the door and waits... Nothing Happens! He knocks on the door again, and yells out "I want to get screwed!" The sexy voice behind the door answers, "Again?"
---------------------------
A guy goes to the supermarket and notices an attractive woman waving at him. She says hello. He's rather taken aback because he can't place where he knows her from. So he says, 'Do you know me?' To which she replies, 'I think you're the father of one of my kids.' Now his mind travels back to the only time he has ever b...een unfaithful to his wife and says, 'Are you the stripper from the bachelor party that I made love to on the pool table with all my buddies watching while your partner whipped my butt with wet celery???' She looks into his eyes and says calmly, 'No, I'm your son's teacher.'
---------------------
Little Johnny is walking by his parent's bedroom when he hears a lot of noise. He opens the door and sees his dad with his mom bent over the dresser having sex. Dad looks at Little Johnny and smiles, gives him a wink and motions for Johnny to leave the room, so he does.

A few minutes later dad is walking past Little Joh...nny's bedroom and hears a noise. He opens the door to see Little Johnny with grandma bent over the dresser having sex. Little Johnny looks at dad and smiles, winks at him and says, "It's not so funny when it's YOUR momma, is it?"
-------------------------
A man placed some flowers on the grave of his dearly departed mother and started back toward his car when his attention was diverted to another man kneeling at a grave. The man seemed to be praying with profound intensity and kept repeating, “Why did you have to die? Why did you have to die?” The first man approached h...im and said, “Sir, I don’t wish to interfere with your private grief, but this demonstration of pain is more than I’ve ever seen before. For whom do you mourn so deeply? A child? A parent?” The mourner took a moment to collect himself, then replied, “My wife’s first husband.”
----------------------------
An office manager arrives at his department and sees an employee sitting behind his desk totally stressed out. He gives him the advice: "I went home every afternoon for two weeks and had myself pampered by my wife. It was fantastic and it really helped, you should try it too!". Two weeks later when the manager arrives ...at his department he sees the man happy and full of energy at his desk. The faxes are piling up and the computer is running at full speed. "I see you followed my advice?". "I did", answers the employee, "It was great! By the way I didn't know you had such a nice house!".
----------------------------
There ws a young girl that was going out on a date for the 1st time & she told her granny about it.
Her granny said, "Sit here & let me tell you about those young boys.
He is going to try to kiss you; you'll like that, but don't let him do that."
She continued, "He is going to try to feel your breast; you'll like that, bu...t don't let him do that.
He is going to try to put his hand between your legs; you'll like that, but don't let him do that.
Then the granny said, "But, most importantly, he is going to try to get on top of you and have his way with you. u r going to like tht, but don't let him do that. It will disgrace the family."
With that bit of advice in mind, the granddaughter went on her date and could not wait to tell her granny about it. The next day she told her granny that her date went just as the old lady said. She said, "Granny, I didn't let him disgrace the family. When he tried,I turned
----------------------
MR. BEAN IN GRADE SCHOOL..
Teacher:What is 5 plus 4?
Bean:9
Teacher:What is 5 plus 5?
Bean:Are you trying to fool me, you have just twisted the question, the answer is 6.
--------------------
A man went to the doctor and said - "Doctor, whenever I fart there's no smell". The doctor asked he man if he could do one there and then, which the man did, very loudly. The doctor sniffed a few times, said - "Yes, I think I know what the problem is", went out of the surgery for a moment and came back with a very long... stick with a hook on the end. The man became very frightened and asked - "Doctor, what are you going to do with that thing?", to which the doctor replied - "I'm going to open the window - you've got something wrong with your nose!".
-------------------------
A man goes to a shrink and says, "Doctor, my wife is unfaithful to me. Every evening, she goes to Larry's bar and picks up men. In fact, She sleeps with anybody who asks her! I'm going crazy. What do you think I should do?" "Relax," says the Doctor, "take a deep breath and calm down. Now, tell me, exactly where is Larr...y's bar?"
------------------------------
A little boy was attending his first wedding. After the service, his younger cousin asked him, "How many women can a man marry?" "Sixteen." the boy responded. His cousin was amazed that he answered so quickly. "How do you know that?" "Easy," the little boy said, "all you have to do is add it up, like the preacher said:... 'Four better, four worse,
----------------------------
She married and had 13 children. Her husband died.
She married again and had 7 more children. Again, Her husband died.

But, she remarried and this time had 5 more children. Alas, she finally died.

Standing before her coffin, the preacher prayed for her. He thanked the Lord for this very loving woman and said, “Lord, th...ey’re finally together.”

One mourner leaned over and quietly asked her friend, “Do you think he means her first, second or third husband?” The friend replied, “I think he means her legs.”
---------------------------
A guy calls the hospital. He says, "You gotta send help! My wife's going into labor!" The nurse says, "Calm down. Is this her first child?" He says, "No! This is her fucking husband!"
--------------------------
In a mental institution a nurse walks into a room and sees a patient acting like he's driving a car. The nurse asks him, "Charlie, what are you doing?" Charlie replied, "Driving to Chicago!" The nurse wishes him a good trip and leaves the room. The next day the nurse enters Charlie's room just as he stops driving his i...maginary car and asks, "Well Charlie, how are you doing?" Charlie says, "I just got into Chicago." "Great," replied the nurse. The nurse leaves Charlie's room and goes across the hall into Bob's room, and finds Bob sitting on his bed furiously pleasuring himself. Shocked, she asks, "Bob, what are you doing?" Bob says, "I'm screwing Charlie's wife while he's in Chicago!"
--------------------------------
A TOOTHBRUSH!!

A small girl walks-in while her father is dressing in the bedroom.

She looks at his privates and points at his person and asks "Dad
what's that thing between your legs?" Dad replies "I don't know".

She goes to kitchen and finds her mum "Mum what is that long thing
between dad's legs?" The mum instea...d of explaining things to her
she replies "I don't know"

A week later when the mum was coming from work the little girl
runs to her and says "Mum you refused to tell me the name of that
thing between dad's legs. I have finally figured it out on my own.
IT'S A TOOTHBRUSH".

The mum laughs then asks her "How do u know that?"

The girl explains "....when I came back from pre-school this
morning I saw the maid kneeling in front of dad, brushing her
teeth with dad's toothbrush and sure enough there was TOOTHPASTE
in her mouth
-----------------

An office manager arrives at his department and sees an employee sitting behind his desk totally stressed out. He gives him the advice: "I went home every afternoon for two weeks and had myself pampered by my wife. It was fantastic and it really helped, you should try it too!". Two weeks later when the manager arrives ...at his department he sees the man happy and full of energy at his desk. The faxes are piling up and the computer is running at full speed. "I see you followed my advice?". "I did", answers the employee, "It was great! By the way I didn't know you had such a nice house!".
-------------------

Close Shaves vi

2010-02-02T20:09:00.006+03:00

The college professor had just finished explaining an important research project to his class. He emphasized that this paper was an absolute requirement for passing his class, and that there would be only two acceptable excuses for being late.

Those were a medically certifiable illness or a death in the student's immedi...ate family.

A 'smart' student in the back of the classroom waved his hand and spoke up. "But what about extreme sexual exhaustion, professor?"

As you would expect, the class exploded in laughter. When the students had finally settled down, the professor froze the young man with a glaring look.

"Well," he responded, "I guess you'll just have to learn to write with your other hand."

------------------------------------------

A small tourist hotel was all abuzz about an afternoon wedding where the groom was 95 and the bride was 28.

The groom looked pretty feeble and the feeling was that the wedding night might kill him, because his bride was a healthy, vivacious young woman.

But lo and behold, the next morning, the bride came down the main st...aircase slowly, step by step, hanging onto the banister for dear life.

She finally managed to get to the counter of the little shop in the hotel. The clerk looked really concerned, "Whatever happened to you, honey? You look like you've been wrestling an alligator!"

The bride groaned, hung on to the counter and managed to speak, "Ohhh God! He told me he'd been saving up for 75 years and I thought he meant his money!!"

----------------------------------

A blonde hurries into the emergency room late one night with the tip of her index finger shot off.

"How did this happen?" the emergency room doctor asked her.

"Well, I was trying to commit suicide," the blonde replied.

"What?" sputtered the doctor.
"You tried to commit suicide by shooting your finger off?"

"No silly!" the b...londe said. "First I put the gun to my chest, and I thought: I just paid $6,000.00 for these breast implants, I'm not shooting myself in the chest."

"So then?" asked the doctor.

"Then I put the gun in my mouth, and I thought: I just paid $3000.00 to get my teeth straightened, I'm not shooting myself in the mouth."

"So then?"

"Then I put the gun to my ear, and I thought: This is going to make a loud noise. So I put my finger in the other ear before I pulled the trigger."

------------------------------

The children had all been photographed, and
the teacher was trying to persuade them each to buy a copy of the group picture.
"Just think how nice it will be to look at it when you are all grown up and
say, 'There's Jennifer; she's a lawyer,' or 'That's Michael, he's a
doctor.'" A small voice at the back of the room rang ou...t, "And there's
the teacher; ...she's dead."

------------------------------

I was handing out directions on how to make something. I can not even remember now what it was. One little boy turned to the kid next to him and he said--- "I love it when Mrs. Towell hands out erections."

--------------------------------

Disorder In The American Courts - PART 1

ATTORNEY : What was the first thing your husband said to you that morning?
WITNESS : He said, "Where am I, Cathy?"
ATTORNEY : And why did that upset you?
WITNESS : My name is Susan!
_____________________________________________
ATTORNEY : Doctor, before you performed the autopsy, did ...you check for a pulse?
WITNESS : No.
ATTORNEY : Did you check for blood pressure?
WITNESS : No.
ATTORNEY : Did you check for breathing?
WITNESS : No.
ATTORNEY : So, then it is possible that the patient was alive when you began the autopsy?
WITNESS : No.
ATTORNEY : How can you be so sure, Doctor?
WITNESS : Because his brain was sitting on my desk in a jar.
ATTORNEY : I see, but could the patient have still been alive, nevertheless?
WITNESS : Yes, it is possible that he could have been alive and practicing law.

Disorder In The American Courts

These are from a book called “Disorder in the American Courts”, and are things people actually said in court, word for word, taken down and now published by court reporters who had the torment of staying calm while these exchanges were actually taking place.

ATTORNEY : She had three childr...en, right?
WITNESS : Yes.
ATTORNEY : How many were boys?
WITNESS : None.
ATTORNEY : Were there any girls?
WITNESS : Your Honor, I think I need a different attorney. Can I get a new attorney?

ATTORNEY : How was your first marriage terminated?
WITNESS : By death.
ATTORNEY : And by whose death was it terminated?
WITNESS : Now whose death do you suppose terminated it?

ATTORNEY : Can you describe the individual?
WITNESS : He was about medium height and had a beard.
ATTORNEY : Was this a male or a female?
WITNESS : Guess.

-------------------------------------------

A doctor and a lawyer were talking at a party. Their conversation was constantly interrupted by people describing their ailments and asking the doctor for free medical advice. After an hour of this, the exasperated doctor asked the lawyer, "What do you do to stop people from asking you for legal advice when you're out ...of the office?"

"I give it to them," replied the lawyer, "and then I send them a bill." The doctor was shocked, but agreed to give it a try. The next day, still feeling slightly guilty, the doctor prepared the bills. When he went to place them in his mailbox, he found a bill from the lawyer.

----------------------------------------

A police officer pulls over a Scottish man who's been weaving in and out of the lanes. He goes up to the man's window and says, "Sir, I need you to blow into this breathalyzer tube."
The man says, "Sorry, officer, I can't do that. I am an asthmatic. If I do that, I'll have a really bad asthma attack."
"Okay, fin...e. I need you to come down to the station to give a blood sample."
"I can't do that either. I am a hemophiliac. If I do that, I'll bleed to death."
"Well, then, we need a urine sample."
"I'm sorry, officer, I can't do that either. I am also a diabetic. If I do that, I'll get really low blood sugar."
"All right, then I need you to come out here and walk this white line."
"I can't do that, officer."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm drunk."

----------------------------------------

A taxi passenger tapped the driver on the shoulder to ask him a question.
The driver screamed, lost control of the car, nearly hit a bus, went up on the footpath, and stopped centimeters from a shop. For a second everything went quiet in the cab, then the driver said:
"Look mate, don't ever do that again. You scared th...e daylights out of me!?
The passenger apologized and said, "I didn't realize that a little tap would scare you so much"

The driver replied, Sorry, it's not really your fault. Today is my first day as a cab driver - I've been driving a mortuary van for the last 25 years."

---------------------------------

A dinner conversation that went wrong....

WIFE: "What would you do if I died? Would you get married again?"

HUSBAND: "Definitely not!"
WIFE: "Why not - don't you like being married?"
HUSBAND: "Of course I do."
WIFE: "Then why wouldn't you remarry?

HUSBAND: "Okay, I'd get married again.

WIFE: "You would? (with a hurtful look o...n her face)."

HUSBAND: (makes audible groan).

WIFE: "Would you sleep with her in our bed?"
HUSBAND: "Where else would we sleep?"
WIFE: "Would you replace my pictures with hers?

HUSBAND: "That would seem like the proper thing to do."

WIFE: "Would she use my golf clubs?"

HUSBAND: "No, she's left-handed."

WIFE: - - - silence - - -

HUSBAND: "Shit."

------------------------------------------

Close Shaves v

2010-02-02T20:01:00.004+03:00

ʎɐqǝ uo pɹɐoqʎǝʞ ɐ ʎnq ı ǝɯıʇ ʇsɐן ǝɥʇ sı sıɥʇ
.....
Wafula is wondering where Noah kept woodpeckers on his ark
…..
Build a man a fire and he is warm for a day. Set him on fire, and he is warm for the rest of his life
……
Grammar is important. For instance, commas save lives. E.g “Let's eat grandpa” is not “Lets eat, grandpa”
……
Wafula thinks that if your relationship status says, "It's complicated" that you should stop kidding yourself and change it to "Single"
…….
Before you use the bathroom in someone’s house make sure you check they have toilet paper!!
…….
Press Alt+F4 and see something amazing happen.
…….
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are sexy
……..
Solution to two of the world's problems: Feed the homeless to the hungry

Moon is more important than Sun, couz it gives light at Night when light is needed; And Sun gives light during the day when light is not needed!!!

Omwami on an interview for the post of Detective:
Interviewer: "Who killed Gandhi?"
Omwami: "Thank you Sir for giving me the job, I will start
investigating..."

Mwalimu: "In which state does the Nyando flow?"
Omwami: " Liquid State ..."
Audience clapped.
Mwalimu stands stunned, looks behind, All were Omwamis...!

Omwami wanted to eat chicken bt dnt know its name in english, so when he saw an Englishman eating boiled eggs, he called the waiter and ordered: “I want their mother'

-------------------------------------------

Imaginative Letter to Son

Pyare Puttar,
Vahe Guru.

I am in a well here and hoping you in the same well there. I'm writing this letter slowly, because I know you cannot read fast.

We don't live where we did when you left home. Your dad read in the
newspaper that most accidents happen 20 miles from home, so we moved 20
miles. I wont be able to send the address as the last. Sardar who stayed here took the Address Plate with them for their new house so they would not have to change their address. Hopefully by next week we will be able to take our earlier address Plate here, so that our address will remain same too.

This place is really nice. It even has a washing machine, situated right above the commode. I am not sure it works. Last week I put in 3 shirts, pulled the chain and haven't seen them since.

The weather here isn't too bad. It rained only twice last week. The first time it rained for 3 days and second time for 4 days.

The coat you wanted me to send you, your Aunt said it would be a little too heavy to send in the mail with all the metal buttons, so we cut them off and put them in the pocket.

Your father has another job. He has 500 men under him. He is cutting the grass at the cemetery.

Your sister had a baby this morning. I haven't found out whether it is a girl or a boy, so I don't know whether you are an Aunt or Uncle.

Your uncle, Jetinder fell in a the nearby well. Some men tried to pull him out, but he fought them off bravely and drowned. We cremated him and he burned for three days.

Your best friend, Balwinder, is no more. He died trying to fulfil his
father's last wishes. His father had wished to be buried at sea after he died. And your friend died while in the process of digging a grave for his father.

There isn't much more news this time. Nothing much has happened.

Faqat,

Twadi Maa.

P.S : I was going to send you some money but the Envelope was already sealed. Also, when the letter reaches you, please put the stamp on it otherwise the postman will not give it to you

------------------------------------------

Married Humour

Wife:     'What are you doing?'

Husband:   Nothing.

Wife:      'Nothing...? You've been reading our marriage certificate for an hour.'

Husband:   'I was looking for the expiry date.'

------------ --------- --------- -

Wife : 'Do you want dinner?'

Husband: 'Sure! What are my choices?'

Wife:    'Yes or no.'

------------ --------- --------- -

Wife:   'You always carry my photo in your wallet. Why?'

Hubby: 'When there is a problem, no matter how great, I look at your picture and the problem disappears.'

Wife:   'You see how miraculous and powerful I am for you?'

Hubby: 'Yes! I see your picture and ask myself what other problem can there be greater than this one?'

------------ --------- --------- ------------ --------- -----

Stress Reliever Girl: 'When we get married, I want to share all your worries, troubles and lighten your burden.'

Boy: ’It’s very kind of you, darling, but I don't have any worries or troubles.'

Girl: 'Well that's because we aren’t married yet.'

------------ --------- ---------

Son: ' Mum, when I was on the bus with Dad this morning, he told me to give up my seat to a lady.'

Mom: 'Well, you have done the right thing.'

Son: ’But mum, I was sitting on daddy's lap.'

________ _ ___

A newly married man asked his wife, 'Would you have married me if my father hadn't left me a fortune?'

'Honey,' the woman replied sweetly, 'I'd have married you, NO MATTER WHO LEFT YOU A FORTUNE!'

------------ --------- --------- ------------ --------- ---------

Girl to her boyfriend: One kiss and I'll be yours forever.

The guy replies: 'Thanks for the early warning.'

------------ --------- --------- -

A wife asked her husband: 'What do you like most in me, my pretty face or my sexy body?'

He looked at her from head to toe and replied: 'I like your sense of humour!

---------------

Close Shaves iv

2010-02-02T19:49:00.001+03:00

The Value of Sleep...

Back in high school, laziness was a usual thing but some extents defied limits. I recall a time when it was made compulsory for us to pray before sleeping. There was one guy, Desmond, who would slip into his sheets without performing any rituals. He just loved his sleep, so much so that waking him up would book you a place in the hospital ward instantly. Now Desmond's laziness got him wondering how he would cope with the prayer rules. Being a bright boy, Desmond drafted a simple prayer, printed it and hang it next to his bed. When it was time for sleeping, all Desmond would do was point at the paper on the wall and say, "dear lord, that's my prayer tonight. Read it." and Desmond would retire to sleep. Some laziness is just too much.

---------------------------------------

In a biology exam, the question was, draw the female
reproductive organ.
As the exam was progressing, a girl looked between her
legs. A boy saw her. Afraid that the girl would get all the marks right, he decided to raise his concerns and shouted, "Excuse me teacher,
she is copying from the original!!!"

-----------------------------------------------

Castration

"Doc," says Steve, "I want to be castrated."

"What on earth for?" asks the doctor in amazement.

"It's something I've been thinking about for a long time and I want to have it done" replies Steve.

"But have you thought it through properly?" asks the doctor, "It's a very serious operation and once it's done, there's no going back. It will change your life forever!"

"I'm aware of that and you're not going to change my mind -- either you book me in to be castrated or I'll simply go to another doctor."

"Well, OK.", says the doctor, "But it's against my better judgment!"

So Steve has his operation, and the next day he is up and walking very slowly, legs apart, down the hospital corridor with his drip stand. Heading towards him is another patient, who is walking exactly the same way.

"Hi there," says Steve,"It looks as if you've just had the same operation as me."

"Well," said the patient, "I finally decided after 37 years of life that I would like to be circumcised."

Steve stared at him in horror and screamed, "Shit! THAT'S the word!"

---------------------------------------

Kikuyu Power..

There was once a Kikuyu man called Mwangi who was
involved in a car accident. At the hospital, when he
awoke, he called for the nurse to tell him what had
happened to him.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but you were involved in a very
bad car crash".
"Car crash! My MB M W! My MB M! is my car all right?"
he asked hysterically.
"Sir, your car was destroyed, but that is the least of
your worries you lost your left arm in the crash, and
we were unable to save it he said apologetically.
"I rost my arm? My Rorex! My Rorex!"
"Sir, please calm down. That is the least of your
worries. You are in a very critical condition, but all
your family is here to see you".
He asked for his family to be called in. As they
gathered around the bed, he called for each of them by
name.

"Wairimu, are you here?"

"I am here husband, and I will never leave you"

"Kamau, are you here?"

"I am here father, and I will never leave you."

"Wanjiku, are you here?"

"I am here father, and I will never leave you."

"So, if you are all here who is at the shop???"

Eng mwangi

-----------------------------------------

Omera, When are you coming to pay me a visit?

But do I say!!!!!

The next time you're in a Luo's house, just say
you're cool, however hungry or thirsty you may be!

I recently paid a visit to a Luo's hao and ended up
not having anything to drink despite the offer.

Below is how the offer was made:

Question: "what would you like to have - fruit,
juice, soda, tea, chocolate, milo or coffee?

Answer: "Tea please"

Question: " Ceylon tea, Herbal tea, Bush tea, Honey
Bush tea, Ice tea or Green tea?"

Answer: " Ceylon tea"

Question: "How would you like it? black or white?"

Answer: "White"

Question: Milk, Whitener, or Condensed Milk?"

Answer: "With Milk"

Question: "Goat Milk, camel milk, cow milk?"

Answer: "with cow milk please"

Question: "Milk from Freeze land cow or Afrikaner
cow?"

Answer: "Jatelo, I will take it black."

Question: "Would you like it with sweetener, sugar
or honey?"

Answer: "With Sugar"

Question: "Beet sugar or cane sugar?"

Answer: "Cane sugar"

Question: "White, brown or yellow sugar?"

Answer: "Jowa! Forget about tea just give me a
glass of water instead."

Question: "Mineral water or still water?"

Answer: "Mineral water"

Question: "Flavored or non-flavored?"

Answer: "Gee!! I give up just forget about
everything

Owada just chunga when you arrive at a Jango's
place.

--------------------------------------

CHINOZ THE HERO!!

One day Chinoz was enjoying the sun at the beach in Cape Town, South Africa. A lady came and asked him, “Are you relaxing?"

Chinoz answered, "No, I am Chinoz."

Another guy came and asked him the same question.
Chinoz answered, "No! No! Me Chinoz!"

A third one came and asked him the same question again.

Chinoz was totally annoyed and decided to shift his place. While walking,
he saw a certain guy soaking in the sun. He went up to him and asked,

"Are you relaxing?" This guy was a lot more educated and answered, "Yes, I am relaxing."

Chinoz slapped him on his face and said, "Stupid, idiot. Everyone is looking for you and you are sitting over here!"

Chinoz died and went to heaven. When he got to the pearly gate Saint

Peter told him that new rules were in effect due to the advances in education on earth. In order to gain admittance a prospective heavenly soul must answer two questions:

1. Name two days of the week that begin with "T".

2. How many seconds are there in a year?

Then Chinoz thought for a few minutes and answered...

1. The two days of the week that begin with "T" are today and tomorrow.

2. There are 12 seconds in a year.

Saint Peter said, "OK, I'll buy the Today and tomorrow answer, even though it's not the answer I expected. But how did you get 12 seconds in a year?"

Then Chinoz replied, "Well, January 2nd, February 2nd, March 2nd, etc......to December 2nd”

Saint Peter opens the gate without another word.

One day in his rural, having lost his donkey Chinoz, got down too is knees and started thanking God.
A surprised passerby saw him and asked, "Your donkey is missing; what are you thanking God for?"

Chinoz replied "I am thanking Him for seeing to it that I wasn't riding the donkey at that time, otherwise I would have been missing too."

One day Chinoz was traveling in a train. He felt sleepy so he gave the guy sitting opposite him on the train $20,000.00 to wake him up when the station arrived. This guy was a barber, and he felt that for $20,000.00, the comrade deserved more service.

So, when Chinoz fell asleep, the barber quietly shaved off his beard

(munongodzizivawo ndebvu dziya).When the train arrived, Chinoz was woken up, and he went home. Reaching home, he went to wash his face, and suddenly screamed when he saw himself in the mirror.

Said his wife "What's the matter?"

He replied, "The cheat on the train has taken my $20,000.00 and woken up someone else".

Chinoz went with his friend into a pub and after ordering two beers, they took some sandwiches out of their pockets and started to eat them.

"You can't eat your own sandwiches in here," complained the pub-owner.

So the two then swapped their sandwiches.

Chinoz finished his English exam and came out.

His friends asked him how he did his exam, for that he replied "Exam was okay, but for the past tense of THINK, I thought, thought, thought and at last I wrote THUNK!"

It was then the first time people were going for blood tests and Chinoz had a friend who had gone for one at a local clinic in Fio. Chinoz came and found him crying hell and asked, "Why are you crying?"

The friend replied, "I came here for a blood test"

Chinoz asked, "So? Are you afraid?"

The friend replied, "No, not that. During the blood test they cut my finger".

Hearing this Chinoz also started crying & screaming.

His friend was astonished and asked him, "Why are you crying?"

Chinoz then replied, "I have come for my urine test."

----------------------------

Close Shaves iii

2010-02-02T19:40:00.005+03:00

Hilarious Humour

I got my sense of humour from my parents; that’s why they don’t have one anymore!

Doctor of medicine married doctor of theology. Now they’re said to be body and soul.

Seen while passing by a church: Get in touch with God by knee mail.’

High heels were invented by a woman who was kissed at her forehead.

What does a vampire fear most? Tooth decay.

Who won the skeleton beauty contest? No body.

What make men chase women they have no intention of marrying? The same urge that makes dogs chase cars they have no intention of driving.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Think about it…

If practice makes perfect and nobody’s perfect, then why practice?

If you died with braces on your teeth, would they take them off?

If love is blind, then why do we believe in love at first sight?

Don’t you find it worrying that doctors call treating you their practice?

If you try to fail and succeed, what did you just do?

If a book about failures does not sell, is it a success?

Could someone ever get addicted to counselling and if so how do you help them?

If a chronic liar tells you he is a chronic liar, do you believe him?

Why do eggs not taste like the chicken itself?

What is the opposite of opposite?

Why do you get on a bus but get into a car?

Why do mattresses have design on them whey they are always covered with sheets?

How do you know which armrest if yours in movies theatres?

Why is the time of day with the slowest traffic called rush hour?

Why do we wash towels? Aren’t we clean when we use them?

What is the male ladybug called?

If you stole a pen from a bank then would it be considered a bank robbery?

If you tell someone that they are being judgmental, aren’t you being judgmental yourself?

If scientist were ever going to figure out how to travel thought time, wouldn’t we now be seeing people from the future?

Did Adam and Eve have navels?

Why do we call them ‘apartments’ when they‘re all stuck together?

You know that little indestructible black box that is used on planes, why can’t they make the whole plane out of the same substance?

Why is the person who plays the piano called the pianist, but a person who drives a racecar not called a racist?

If you decide that you’re indecisive which one are you?

Why does caregiver and caretaker mean the same thing/
if it’s zero degrees outside today and it’s supposed to be twice as cols tomorrow, how could it going to be? (Since 2 x 0 = 0)

What do you say when someone says you are in denial but you are not?

If you are born exactly midnight, is your birthday on those days?

Isn’t is scary that the word ‘therapist’ is the same as the words ‘the’ and ‘rapist’ put together?

Why do we call it your bottom when it’s really in the middle of your body?

What happens when you get scared half to death twice?

Why is it called a ‘building’ when it is already built?

On a mo-phone, why does ABC start on the number 2 and not 1?

Why do we say ‘bye bye’ abut now ‘hi hi’?

Why is the word ‘abbreviation’ so long?

Can a guy named Nick have a ‘nick’ name?

If an ambulance is on it’s way to save someone, and it runs someone over, dies it stop to help them?

Close Shaves ii

2010-02-02T19:37:00.004+03:00

How hot is it in hell?

A thermodynamics professor had written a take home exam for his graduate
students. It had one question:

"Is Hell exothermic (gives off heat) or endothermic (absorbs heat)? Support your answer with a proof."

Most of the students wrote proofs of their beliefs using Boyle's Law (gas cools off when it expands and heats up when it is compressed) or some variant. One student, however, wrote the following:

First, we need to know how the mass of Hell is changing in time. So, we need to know the rate that souls are moving into Hell and the rate they are leaving. I think that we can safely assume that once a soul gets to Hell, it will not leave. Therefore, no souls are leaving. As for how many souls are entering Hell, let's look at the different religions that exist in the world today.

Some of these religions state that if you are not a member of their religion, you will go to Hell. Since there are more than one of these religions and since people do not belong to more than one religion, we can project that all people and all souls go to Hell. With birth and death rates as they are, we can expect the number of souls in Hell to increase exponentially.

Now, we look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell because Boyle's Law states that in order for the temperature and pressure in Hell to stay the same, the volume of Hell has to expand as souls are added.

This gives two possibilities.

#1 If Hell is expanding at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter Hell, then the temperature and pressure in Hell will increase until all Hell breaks loose.

#2 Of course, if Hell is expanding at a rate faster than the increase of souls in Hell, then the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.

So which is it?
-

Omwami at bar in New York :
Man on his right says, "Johnny Walker single"
Man on his left says, "Peter Scotch single"
Omwami says, "Wekesa Johnstone Married"

***
Boss: I'm giving you a job as a driver. Starting salary is Ksh.20,000.00;
is it okay?
Omwami: You are great Sir! Starting salary is okay, ...but how much is
Driving salary...

***
Omwami's theory: Moon is more important than Sun, couz it gives light at
night when light is needed;
and Sun gives light during the day when light is not needed!!!
***

Two Omwamis are driving a car, one puts on the indicator and asks the
other to check whether its working. He puts his head out and says,
"YES...NO...YES...NO...YES...NO...

***
Omwami shouting to his girl friend, "you said ati we will register
marriage and cheated me. I was waiting for you yesterday whole day in the
post office..."
***

Two Omwamis looking at Egyptian mummy:

Omwami 1: "Look so many bandages, lorry accident case - mpaya sana .."
Omwami 2: "Eh Pwanaaa!! , lorry number is also written...BC 1760...!!!"

***
Omwami on an interview for the post of Detective:
Interviewer: "Who killed Gandhi?"
Omwami: "Thank you Sir for giving me the job, I will start
investigating..."
***
Omwami for an exam had studied and prepared for only one essay 'FRIEND',
but in the exam the essay which came was 'FATHER'. He replaced friend
with father in the essay and it read:
"I am a very fatherly person, I have lots of fathers, some of my fathers
are male and some are female. My true father is my neighbour."
***

Interviewer: "What is your qualification?"
Omwami: "Sir I am PhD.
Interviewer: "What do you mean by PhD?"
Omwami: (smiling) " Passed High School with Tifficulty."
***

Mwalimu: "In which state does the Nyando flow?"
Omwami: " Liquid State ...."
Audience clapped
Mwalimu stands stunned, looks behind, All the class were Omwamis...!
---------
He said to me . . . I don't know why you wear a bra; you've got nothing to put in it

I said to him . . . You wear pants, don't you?

He said to me . . ..... Shall we try swapping positions tonight?
I said to him.... That's a good idea - you stand by the ironing board while I sit on the sofa, watch TV and fart!

He said to me. ... What have you been doing with all the grocery money I gave you?
I said to him . .....Turn sideways and look in the mirror!

He said to me. ..... Why don't women blink during foreplay?
I said to him .. . They don't have time

He said to me. . How many men does it take to change a roll of toilet paper?
I said to him .. . I don't know; it has never happened.

He said to me. . Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring and Good- looking?
I said to him . . . They already have boyfriends.

He said...What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is every night?
I said. . . A widow.

He said to me . .. . Why are married women heavier than single women?
I said to him . . . Single women come home, see what's in the fridge and go to bed. Married women come home, see what's in bed and go to the fridge.
--------------
The pilot says: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the plane is losing altitude and all the baggage must be thrown out."
A little later, the pilot says "We're still losing altitude; we must throw anything out that is in the cabin". The plane continues its descent despite more things being thrown out.

Pilot: "Still going down - we must throw out some people".
There's a big gasp from the passengers!

Pilot: "But to make this fair, passengers will be thrown out in alphabetical order.

So... A... any Africans on board?" No one moves. "B.. any Blacks on board?" No one moves. "C... any Coloureds on board?" Still, no one moves. "D... any Darkies?"

A little black boy - asks his dad: "Dad....what are we? Dad: "Today son, we are Zulus,".
-------------
Proof that the World is nuts:

In Lebanon, men are legally allowed to have sex with animals, but the animals must be female. Having sexual relations with a male animal is punishable by death.

(Like THAT makes sense.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Bahrain, a male doctor may legally examine a woman's genitals, but is prohibited from looking directly at them during the examination. He may only see their reflection in a mirror.

(Do they look different reversed?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Muslims are banned from looking at the genitals of a corpse. This also applies to undertakers. The sex organs of the deceased must be covered with a brick or piece of wood at all times.

(A brick?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The penalty for masturbation in Indonesia is decapitation.

(Much worse than "going blind!")

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There are men in Guam whose full-time job is to travel the countryside and deflower young virgins, who pay them for the privilege of having sex for the first time. Reason: under Guam law, it is expressly forbidden for virgins to marry.

(Let's just think for a minute; is there Any job anywhere else in the world that even comes close to this?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Hong Kong, a betrayed wife is legally allowed to kill her adulterous husband, but may only do so with her bare hands. The husband's illicit lover, on the other hand, may be killed in any manner desired.

(Ah! Justice!)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Topless saleswomen are legal in Liverpool, England - but only in tropical fish stores.

(But of course!)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Cali, Colombia, a woman may only have sex with her husband, and the first time this happens, her mother must be in the room to witness the act.

(Makes one shudder at the thought.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In Santa Cruz, Bolivia, it is illegal for a man to have sex with a woman and her daughter at the same time.

(I presume this was a big enough problem that they had to pass this law?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

In Maryland, it is illegal to sell condoms from vending machines with one exception: Prophylactics may be dispensed from a vending machine only "in places where alcoholic beverages are sold for consumption on the premises."

(Is this a great country or what? Well, not as great as Guam!)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.

(Who volunteers for this stuff?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Humans and dolphins are the only species that have sex for pleasure.

(Is that why Flipper was always smiling?)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The ant can lift 50 times its own weight, can pull 30 times its own weight and always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.

(From drinking little bottles of ???)

(Did the government pay for this research??)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Butterflies taste with their feet.

(Ah, geez.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An ostrich's eye is bigger than its brain.

(I know some people like that.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Starfish don't have brains.

(I know some people like that, too.)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

And, the best for last?

Turtles can breathe through their butts.

(And I thought I smelt bad Breath in the morning!)

-----------
Q: I've heard that cardiovascular exercise can prolong life; is this true?

A: Your heart is only good for so many beats, and that's it... don't waste them on exercise. Everything wears out eventually. Speeding up your heart will not make you live longer; that's like saying you can extend the life of your car by driving it faster. Want to live longer? Take a nap.

Q: Should I cut down on meat and eat more fruits and vegetables?

A: You must grasp logistical efficiencies. What does a cow eat? Hay and corn. And what are these? Vegetables. So a steak is nothing more than an efficient mechanism of delivering vegetables to your system. Need grain? Eat chicken. Beef is also a good source of field grass (green leafy vegetable). And a pork chop can give you 100% of your recommended daily allowance of vegetable products.

Q: Should I reduce my alcohol intake?

A: No, not at all. Wine is made from fruit. Brandy is distilled wine, which means they take the water out of the fruity bit so you get even more of the goodness that way. Beer is also made out of grain. Bottoms up!

Q: How can I calculate my body/fat ratio?

A: Well, if you have a body and you have fat, your ratio is one to one. If you have two bodies, your ratio is two to one, etc.

Q: What are some of the advantages of participating in a regular exercise program?

A: Can't think of a single one, sorry. My philosophy is: No Pain... Good!

Q: Aren't fried foods bad for you?

A: YOU'RE NOT LISTENING!!! .... Foods are fried these days in vegetable oil. In fact, they're permeated in it. How could getting more vegetables be bad for you?

Q: Will sit-ups help prevent me from getting a little soft around the middle?

A: Definitely not! When you exercise a muscle, it gets bigger. You should only be doing sit-ups if you want a bigger stomach.

Q: Is chocolate bad for me?

A: Are you crazy? HELLO Cocoa beans! Another vegetable!!! It's the best feel-good food around!

Q: Is swimming good for your figure?

A: If swimming is good for your figure, explain whales to me.

Q: Is getting in-shape important for my lifestyle?

A: Hey! 'Round' is a shape!

AND.....

For those of you who watch what you eat, here's the final word on nutrition and health. It's a relief to know the truth after all those conflicting nutritional studies.

1. The Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

2. The Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

3. The Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

4. The Italians drink a lot of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

5. The Germans drink a lot of beers and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than Americans.

CONCLUSION

Eat and drink what you like.

Speaking English is apparently what kills you
------
SON: Daddy, how was I born?

DAD: Ah, well, my son, one day you need to find out anyway! Mom and Dad got together in a chat room on MSN.
Dad set up a date via e-mail with your mom and we met at a cybercafe. We snuck into a secluded room, and then your mother downloaded from dad's memory stick. As soon as dad was ready for an upload, it was discovered that neither one of us had used a firewall.
Since it was too late to hit the cancel button, nine months later the blessed virus appeared. And that's the story.
---------
LAW OF QUEUE:
If you change queues, the one you have left will start to move faster than the one you are in now.

LAW OF TELEPHONE:
When you dial a wrong number, you never get an engaged one.

LAW OF MECHANICAL REPAIR:
After your hands become coated with grease, your nose will begin to itch.

Its nice to be Jang'!!!

>
> Who said Blacks can't speak English? ai yawa?!!!

> Jaluo drives into a service station in his battered , vokswagen clad in
> shorts, All-Stars, funky beard and i-spoti(small hat). He hands the
> attendant the keys complete with a beautiful Tupac keyring:
>
> *JALUO:* "jasna tank-Super" (jaluo means fillup the tank!)
>
> *Attendant:* "How much?"
>
> *JALUO:* "Omera adwaro petrol mar super full tank?" - Meaning, hey I said
> fill up the tank!
>
> *Attendant:* "I only speak English!"
>
> *JALUO:* "No problem. Good day to you Sir. I currently feel a profound
> desire to replenish the propellant of my motorized vehicle. Therefore, I
> cordially request you to transfer, from your subterranean reservoir, a
> sufficient quantity of the combustible fluid of the highest octane rating to
> fill the appropriate receptacle of the said means of perambulation to the
> brim."
>
> *Attendant:* "YAWA?"
>
> *Jaluo:* "Do you have a problem Sir? I thought you said you spoke only
> English?"
>
> *Attendant:* "English? That is not English!"
>
> *JALUO:* "My dear Sir, are you veritably attempting to insinuate that you
> do not even recognise the language which you allege to be your singular
> means of communication?"
>

--------------
LAW OF THE WORKSHOP:
Any tool, when dropped, will roll to the least accessible corner.

LAW OF THE ALIBI:
If you tell the boss you were late for work because you had a T- jam, the next morning you will have a T jam.

BATH THEOREM:
When the body is immersed in water, the telephone rings.

LAW OF ENCOUNTERS:
The probability of meeting someone you know increases when you are with someone you don't want to be seen with.

LAW OF THE RESULT:
When you try to prove to someone that a machine won't work, it will!

LAW OF BIOMECHANICS:
The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the reach.

THEATRE RULE:
People with the seats at the furthest from the aisle arrive last.

LAW OF COFFEE:
As soon as you sit down for a cup of hot coffee, your boss will ask you to do something which will last until the coffee is cold.
-------------------------
LETTER OF RECOMMENDATION

1 Tom kamau, my assistant programmer, can always be found
2 hard at work in his cubicle. Tom works independently, without
3 wasting company time talking to colleagues. Tom never
4 thinks twice about assisting fellow employees, and he always
5 finishes given assignments on time. Often he takes extended
6 measures to complete his work, sometimes skipping coffee
7 breaks. Tom is a dedicated individual who has absolutely no
8 vanity in spite of his high accomplishments and profound
9 knowledge in his field. I firmly believe that Tom can be
10 classed as a high-calibre employee, the type that cannot be
11 dispensed with. Consequently, I truly recommend that Tom be
12 promoted to executive management, and a proposal will be
13 executed as soon as possible.

**Addendum

The idiot was standing over my shoulder while I wrote this report.
Kindly re-read only the odd numbered lines!!!

-----
1. A guy walks into a kinyozi and the kinyozi asks "unataka kunyolewa?" the
guy answers, "Apana,nataka kunyonya!"

2. You're asleep then someone nags u till u wake up then they ask u.
Ques: "ulikuwa umelala?". .nkt. .!!!.
Ans: sikuwa nimelala. I was just admiring the insides of my eyelids!.

3. A dude asks a chiq; "uko facebook?" then the chiq answers; "hapana,niko
hapa."

4. Mum to her son headed to the kitchen,"utaniletea maji
ukikuja?...Son, "sipitii hiyo route mum,kuna karao!!

5. a dog barks 4rm outside.
MUM:did the dog jst bark?.
ME:hapana imekuwa ikiimba reggae.

6. Q: eish..na unakohoa!kwani uko na homa?
A: apana..nimefurai. .hivi ndo me hucheka nkt!

7. Friend 1: unafua
Friend 2: hapana na rescue sabuni imedrown

8. Kid: Daddie umelala
Dad: hapana nafanya rehearsal ya ku die

9. Friend 1: nimekam kuwatembelea. .
Friend 2: uliskia hatujui kutembea ama hatuna miguu??nkt!

10. Umetoka rave unastagger and your mom asks you...'kwani umelewa?'... ..u
answer....'unathani nlikuwa nakunywa uji!'

11. Sam: Oh,Umenunua Toyota?
David: Wao huandika toyota ndio isiibiwe,lakini ni Benz.

12. Steve: Sijaona ile mbuzi yenu ya brown for long. Mliichinja?
Tom: Hapana,imeenda U.S. for further studies.

13. Person 1: Nimeskia ati hiyo movie mpya ina-star Will Smith.
Person 2: Yule Will Smith wa Men in Black?
Person 1: Hapana,wa Vioja Mahakamani

14. On seeing an accident a lady asks;"hiyo ni gari imepata accident" dude
;"apana ni titanic imesink.."

15. Customer: Niwekee hizo soda kwa fridge.
Shopkeeper: Ndio zikuwe baridi?
Customer: Hapana,ndio ziive haraka...

16. Passanger: Tao ni how much??
Conductor: mi sijui!! kwani inauzwa??

17. guyz at a soccer match:
guy 1:niaje scorez ni?
guy2:ni zero-zero!
guy1:na sa si tuko na?
guy2:maembe, nkt!!

18. Kwa stage ya mat: unangoja mat? Hapana I'm waitin for the next solar
eclipse!!!
------
Omwami bought a new mobile.
He sent a message to everyone from his Phone Book & said,
'My Mobile No. Has changed. Earlier it was Nokia 3310. Now it is 6610'
========== ===== ======= ======
Omwami: I am Proud, coz my son is in Medical College .
Friend: Really, what is he studying.
Omwami: No, he is not studying, they are Studying him.
======== ====== ====== ======= ===
Omwami: Doctor, in my dreams, I play football every night.
DR: Take this tablet, you will be ok.
Omwami : Can I take it tomorrow, tonight is the final game.
======== ======= ======= ====== ====
Omwami : If I die, will u remarry?
Wife: No! I'll stay with my sister. But if I die will u remarry?
Omwami : No, I'll also stay with your sister.
========== ======= ======= ====== ==
Omwami : People consider me as a 'GOD'
Wife: How do you know??
Omwami : When I went to the Park today, everybody said, Oh GOD! U have come again..
======== ======= ===== ======= ====
Omwami complained to the police: 'Sir, all items are missing, except the TV in my house.'
Police: 'How come the thief did not take TV?'
Omwami : 'I was watching TV news...'
========= ====== ======= ======= ==
Omwami comes back 2 his car & finds a note saying 'Parking Fine'
He Writes a note and sticks it to a pole 'Thanks for the compliment.'
======= ====== ======= ===== ======
How do you recognize Omwami in School?
He is the one who erases the notes from the book when the teacher erases the board.
======= ====== ====== ====== =======
Once Omwami was walking he had a glove on one hand and not on other.
So the man asked him why he did so. He replied that the weather forecast ann ounced that on one hand it would be cold and on the other hand it would be hot.
====== ====== ====== ======= =======
Omwami in a bar and his cellular phone rings. He picks it up and
Says 'Hello, how did you know I was here?'
======= ====== ====== ====== ======
Omwami : Why are all these people running?
Man - This is a race, the winner will get the cup
Omwami - If only the winner will get the cup, why are others running?
======== ====== ======= ======= ======
Teacher: 'I killed a person' convert this sentence into future tense
Omwami : The future tense is 'u will go to jail'
======= ======= ====== ======= ======
Omwami told his servant: 'Go and water the plants!'
Servant: 'It's already raining.'
Omwami: 'So what? Take an umbrella and go.'

Mortifying Mona Lisa vii. What goes around...?

2010-01-04T07:02:00.007+03:00

        Men have died from time to time,
          And worms have eaten them,
                    But not for love!

Phew! Finally, it comes around—this mortifying escapades and playing blackjack with scandal matriarchs and devious angels. Blinded by the sparkles of the star, the young Moth in The Moth and the Star story, never understood that the dazzling twinkle he thought was trapped on top of an elm tree, was actually million of light years away from his world and trying to reach it was chasing after the wind.

I didn’t spend all my years trying to reach Damascus—thanks to the blinding bolt of lightening! How blind I was to myself finally when I reached Damascus, or perhaps all along, I had been blind even before I embarked on the voyage and struck down thrice like Paul, the good old Roman citizen (I wonder why Caesar declared all his subjects ‘good’) and transformed by the thunderous voice.

Perhaps Damascus was a mirage after all, for I could have missed it in my blindness. I was that want-it-now child who should have accepted his mother’s advice that the moon wasn’t a plaything for children, and taken his mother’s jewels to play with. Instead, I was the contradiction—having eyes that the more they looked, the less they saw, and a heart that hated evil but was more than glad to partake in its reincarnation. This was the moralist’s prattles against vices they had become bored of committing. This was the anti-abortion crusader’s denunciations who when his teenage daughter became pregnant, rushed her to queue in dark-lit backstreet clinics.

Not to mention the fiery clerics and those on the forefront ridiculing our misdemeanors, that they pretend to show by their exemplary lives the higher values, else if they don’t, as in my case, then that kind of hypocrisy touches our subliminal essence so passionately. We really feel it when someone who either reproved our faults or motivated us with their ideal life falls short. It’s an intimate betrayal if the marking schemes of our morality are flawed. But isn’t that commonplace? What have they committed? Can’t they denounce themselves? Of course, yes, is the implied answer.

They came short of convictions that they embraced deeply and fell with a big bang into the hole of hypocrisy, so what do they do? They usually devote the rest of their lives to penance trying to amend their idiosyncrasies. If like me they don't, that is, somehow fashion a scheme that allows an exception or two, then they create in themselves not only professional hypocrites but also get their necks ensnared serving the god of duplicity. Before you know it, they'll be writing books denouncing deception and making headlines in Talk Shows.

So you’d ask, Mr. Teacher of others, do you teach yourself? You denounce against gossiping, are you one? These too, are my trepidations and in simple algebra, I’ve attempted to give you the one letter or formula that sums up a long course of reasoning—that summarises our hypocritical journey to Damascus, and now Paris with my scandal matriarchs. Remember I had promised you in the last episode that I’d be there ‘for a while’. Barely had I been there ‘for a while’ than was heading back to Charles De Gaul Airport to catch my flight back to Nairobi. What happened? You may ask. More drama?

------------------------

In the hag scene, the scandal matriarchs, TD, MH, BB, BF and our stage dog entered from the stage and turned the play into a theatre of the absurd. They were taking over. I reminded the audience that I was the main actor but Cherrie ridiculed my pedestrian delivery of lines like a first timer. There was laughter—a mile away—and the dog crossed the stage and started barking at the back-stage intruders who, in their mimicry, were trying to warn me to get out of the stage before it was too late. They threw stones at the dog to get away too. Two huge ones fell squarely on its ears.
The dog let out a splintering yowl and cowered—looked the type that was used to be kicked on occasion—putting its tail between the hind-quarters, vanished into the Prompter’s skirts and even she, in her trembling legs (for she looked the type that had had bad experiences with dogs) shooed the laughing hags when the offstage noise became unbearable. TD thought it was perhaps thunder or a hag had broken wind (for they were timid at the sound of thunder), but I pointed out, with guess-worked inaccuracy, that it was a backstage dying roar! That the peals of thunder were impatiently rumbling and laughing themselves silly, warning us from the skies above that we were no longer acting in a play but in reality, had roles reversed, that not only were we in an actual reproduction far from its mock-up but also a perfect live-version of it.

That was the first death, the next time I died, white worms rushed and swarmed all over me, laying their maggots in my putrid carrion, but not for love! They hatched, and two larvae emerged, fed on the remaining carcass, exhausting it. Then there were no more carrion to feed on, and the two larvae transformed into souls, sized each other. They looked so familiar. Yes, they were Cherrie’s and mine—strange we were naked and entangled in a ritual dance. She gyrated excitedly, climaxed with brazen boldness, put on a masquerade, become monstrous, grew fangs and clutched me by the neck, broke into an evil laugh—that you only hear from cringing doors in creepy movies.

Her evil soul crept into mine, like a giant worm into an orange, ate and ate my manliness, reduced and reduced my moral energies, drained and drained all values, depleting it except for the outer crust and holding puny pores of black powder within. It was so painful—the way she dug deep into my naked soul—bored and bored reluctantly, it was the most miserable way to die and I wanted to get away desperately from her tight clutch, but I couldn’t. I just lay embraced in her coiled tongue like a snake’s and enchanted by her metallic dark eyes; and eating on my soul to the very last dregs.

The third death, I was a young strapping moth flying across the sky to my star, a million light years away, and Cherrie was on my back again, tightly clasping, entangled. The more I beat my wings to shake her off, the more she wrenched me down; down and down we wafted, hitting the oceans with all my six legs and wings bound. I lay in the water, panting, drowning, exhausted and struggling to get away—now a dolphin, she, a shark, now Nile perch, she, French coast penguin, swimming for all my worth underwater. But with paralysed fins, the stronger I strove to keep abreast with my pace, the deeper I drifted down, down, until I sank to the bottom where again, she spread out her trap-shaped arms like giant octopus, rough and ready to clasp me in her tentacles—and there I was bawling like Coach Carter, she smiling silently like that lunatic. ‘Sucker! Sucker!’

I was a monitor lizard, darting for my life, she, chasing me, caught my tail, bit it, a new one grew, she invited her hags and together they feasted on my coiled twisting broken tail, like ants, and my siren-like wails never touched their sharp claws as they chewed me, I only saw her gleam and grin and yes, Mona Lisa smile!

I hate you Mona! I hate you Lizard! I hate you hag!

Yes, she is still sitting and smiling, stealing a saintless secrecy in her Mona Lisa stealth—hushed and apathetic in her aloofness. Indifferent when it’s your birthdays, unconcerned during your anniversaries, neither stirred by your happiness, nor compassionate whether your new baby dies or lives, whether you fall in love, or out of love. Smiling yet helpless to hate or to love; as calm as a cat by a rat hole—a predator who knows her dinner is in there, yet can’t savour it just yet, but she can while away her time ‘for a while’ in wait—what freak! What coldness!

She still sits silently in her sullen parisien masterpiece, smiling after the triumphs of her ‘pretty traps’, spreading about her ‘rat traps’, knowing only too well that ‘in a while’, you’d poke out of your curiosity hole. Sometimes you take too long in there, no problem; she can read Status Updates to scheme best how her friends would swallow the baits of her traps faster. She could peruse through Newsfeed to curse why disaster isn’t befalling someone she’s eyeing, or she could feed on the morsels of Notifications to see if someone has finally become single or engaged with another ‘pretty trap. Or, make herself useful with fellow scandal matriarchs in non-stop Babels of chatters and bouts of verbal diarrhoeas. Perhaps she is timeless, after all, and doesn’t get tired sitting and smiling—like in her masterpiece—conniving and sniffing out her next billy goats and weighing out her chances of reward like a fireman in a blazing house full of treasure.

I finally woke up after what seemed to me to be a whole week’s sleep—the nightmares, the visions and dreams came flooding back vaguely but still realised that I was in great tribulation. I pinched myself after staring around and seeing, but not believing, that I was in completely new environment—hospital. I also felt a dull pain and strange sensation. It was so unbelievably true just lying there like a man who dreamt quickly for fear of waking up.

As I lay, my ears picked a resigned melancholy from a song of a bird only familiar with the memories from my childhood, and there was no way it could have found its way to Paris. I picked myself up and sat to listen to its urgent plea. My grandmother had told me the bird was a goodwill messenger looking for Kibeles, a blacksmith working in a far, far away land, for his wife whom he had left months ago heavy with child, had given birth to a bouncing baby boy, but were now being nursed and fattened by a man-eating mean ogre. He had to leave his pursuits and hurry back home:

‘Oiyee chakte chichi,

Mi chemosit kapchi!’

I had to hurry up! I never left any wife back home, but the pregnant connotation was clear as day from that messenger of wet news, and started shaking with gigantic goosebumps like a squirrel in the talons of a falcon. I sweat, despite the cold weather, like a grasshopper in the hands of John the Baptist. Did it matter the nature of weather for the unfortunate grasshopper? Its fate was in the jaws of the Baptist!

So was mine. Nothing was setting right that morning nor made sense anymore. The thermostat in the AC seemed regulated by a baboon—it was out of control! Once the room was freezing, then suddenly it soared and soaked me in extreme heat. Or was it a monkey operating my hypothalamus? And I fell back to my useless maxims—now lame—like an F1 driver who just discovered that his spare wheel was also flat and his tongue hang dangling limp like elephant’s proboscis.

I reflected the vicissitudes of my recent life in vague clarity. The latest endless circles of triumphs, escapades, joys before reality had pounded me and reduced me to ashy powder and then destiny reassembled me again and pounded me the other way, then minced and mashed me, ground me up, and put me back together and the mortar-and-pestle monkey business started all over again. Whatever dreams I aspired to were turned into round squares by the icy winds of fate. Cool was sub-zero freezing points. Warm meant getting scolded sitting inside a microwave. There was no mean balance!

I gathered the little energy left in me and staggered to the spacious patio. A pigeon, ochre-red in head and silvery wings, sniffed out a frail-looking female frantically, exactly the way a rapist would do its victim, she was unwilling, so she fluttered away, but was hotly pursued, in between the branches of the lone tree standing in the compound. She scurried through the bushy groves as her life depended on it. Stubborn as a he-goat on heat, he assumed a different strategy, strutting the plumage around his neck and cuddled his wings, flew up a telephone post to enact a chorus of endless cooing, no doubt to attract his reluctant mate, to come out from her hideout, and admire his handsome eminence, then get raped into the bargain!

One gendarme nodded at these inducements dramatised by the male pigeon—as if to acclaim him. The other threw me a knowing smile warm enough to melt the snow of Mount Kilimanjaro, and then glanced at his watch and informed me politely that it was time—my flight was due in an hour. I swayed back into my room, and as I dragged myself slowly, it occurred to me that I should leave my belligerence and masculine pride to the family of pigeons, for the etait d’affairs of the pigeons were beyond doubt justified. With the soaring swiftness of her woman, he required all the aggression he could gather for his Dr. Jerkyl and Hyde existence—otherwise he could never be a proud father.

--------------------

When the gendarme’s car pulled up at the airport, my heart fell heavily to the floor of the backseat. A battery of journalists and TV crew swarmed all over the place, craning their necks to scoop more perspectives for their editors about my ‘Kidney Kidnap’ ordeal. I didn’t have to go through all the protocols and rituals of checking in—thanks to their threatening presence—but still noticed, through my side-mirror glances, that strangers stole stares at me whenever they thought I wasn’t looking, while those who didn’t pretend just openly offered me that knowing look a mother throws her daughter when she holds back some secret. My looks didn’t help either—gave me away—like those of an actor, taking the part of a Roman Centurion, but spotting Gucci sunglasses and wearing a Rolex watch, in a second century scene.

So I was whisked straight away into the VIP lounge, where a dozen VIP tongues who were incessantly wagging themselves silly, as they waited impatiently to board the Nairobi non-stop Air France flight, but still could find time to take turns staring—curiously and with a twinge of sympathy—at the ‘young man who lost his kidney under mysterious circumstance’. The staring was getting into me by the minute, and I wished they could be charged—those accusing eyes—as well, for nonsensical sabotage such as picking your nose in public, staring at its brown contents, and stealing a glance around you to make sure no one was staring back and it was safe to put the slime into your mouth. But BANG! BANG! Before you closed your mouth, I stared back shamelessly; looking intently at all those open mouths, searching as if they had plotted with Cherrie, and beware, a man whose kidney was missing would rummage around for it everywhere, even between your teeth!

I found no kidney though; instead, those stinking mouths went into a ritualistic Babel of hollow blubber. Having trouble with my ears because of my condition, I was strained beyond measure, by the swelling buzz of humdrum dialogues into an audio anguish, which only my eyes could helplessly meander from one excited pair of mechanical jaw to the next. Despite being as deaf as dumb, I still feigned interest with my plastic Mona Lisa smile, but felt a growing twitch to blast their mouths. No wonder God quashed that noisiest project of all time, and brought the towering Babel tumbling down when they were just a stone throw away from heaven’s gates. Perhaps they roused up Peter, who still ‘deny’ his stupor instead of standing guard at the gate, or perhaps their incessant drones bothered the peace of the meditating angels—but down and down, they were brought. And immediately they were down, you can imagine your sick ears at the mercy of those Babblers when you try to calm them down or stop their verbal diarrhoea and brouhaha!

-------------------------

Inside the first-class compartment, my hopes for justice lay drowned in the French’s judicial system. My heart sank, as they say, into the soles of my boots. Tears, redundant tears, oozed from the bottom of my soul; tears flowing from the depth of some divine despair, trickled from the heart, and paraded in my eyes. It was just sad reminiscing my happy-go-lucky days, and relishing on memories that were no more. It still pained too, my left side of tummy, where my kidney had been surgically removed, but the pain was most bitter in my mind just at the thought. They had been very professional for I only felt a little physical discomfort.

I was already plotting for my sweet revenge, not just for the emotional attachment I had for the loss, but to bring these organ harvesters to poetic justice. It was nothing less than tooth for tooth and eye for an eye. I waxed indignant scheming—without being found out—how to injure them. This is where it helped to subscribe faithfully to old Mosaic Laws of Righting Wrongs and Avenge, that is, full redress of the violation, especially by physical approach, which Moses venerated as the nobler, and was dialectical to the monkish doctrines, that when you are smitten on one cheek, to turn the other also.

This would not crush the cheek, but give confidence to the criminal. No wonder it was practiced by spineless cowards and advocated only by charlatans, or men who aspired to subjugate others into slavery by dispossessing them of the power of self-defence. A wrong was unredressed when the consequences overtook the redresser, or if he failed to make himself felt. I wasn’t making a scarecrow of this law, setting it up to scare the garden birds, but still allowing them to get used to it by habit until they turned it into their roost and no longer something to frighten them.

I whispered a weepy prayer, with tears rinsing my sanctified begging in my eyes to make petitions lucid as day. I didn’t pray to God to forgive them of their sins, but to smite them for iniquities. I entreated and implored God until I felt he was lodged in my mouth, and proceeded to chew His name, a name I no longer believed in, except when I was ailing, terrified or in the plane. There and then, I was all—in the dark skies, scared and convalescing!

I didn’t have appetite for the ritualistic finger-licking dinner and inflated drinks served on the newly-launched A380 Airbus. I picked up my fork and jabbed the meat with the knife; chopped off a piece of the beef, half-drowning miserably in a mourning sea of soggy sauce, put the beef in my mouth, chewed it and, with massive exertion, forced myself to ingest. It tasted nothing. What a waste of French’s culinary talents. In fact, it choked my throat and I felt that sickening sensation to vomit. It was so satirical like the last dinner of the damned where lamb chops or chicken tikka moustikka—whatever the condemned man desires—is lavishly dished out in his cellblock as a mockingly merciless memento of what the immense little-fleeting world has to extend. Man shall eat from the sweat of his brow; otherwise, the bread became tasteless.

So I took to drinking, taking sips directly from the bottle, to the consternation of the flight attendants. I found my rudeness justified for there was no difference, drinking from the glass or the bottle; it was all the same if only you got drunk. A marvellous mood encircled me, as if light were being shone on me, besides the awareness of how many years had passed since I had enjoyed being uncouth on purpose accelerated my drunken stupor. I just felt I had to be deliberately impolite and indifferent as the lonely cold skies below. It felt better and lessened my pain and bitterness. Drinking to forget was the delicate art of mixing tears with sugar—sad but sweet. And the tears called for were warm tears, never bitter. There was always sugar at the bottom of the cup. There was always elation at the bottom of the bottle. I was consoling myself instead of poisoning the first-class atmosphere with useless sighs and groans.

I think I got drunk, for I finally lay still in bliss, shut my two eyes, opened the other three, and let the fluttering flood of realities wash over me. I sprawled back contentedly, in conquered comfort, gulped more sips and plunged deeply into oblivion. In my trance, penitence, compaction, guilt, sorrow, dishonour all paraded around my luxurious armchair. TV cameras hounded, chased, and followed me everywhere I escaped. The international press, whirring, clicking, paparazzi, pursuing me, even when the plane’s doors and windows had been tightly closed, I sensed my solitude uncovered by those peering phantom thousand eyes. I pulled a heavy curtain across my private self, but still felt ghost eyes piercing, penetrating, every wall and undressing me, stark naked, stripped, uncovered of body and soul. Perhaps, I dreamt, the Maasai were right, after all. Who knows if the camera captured and took away your soul?

The bitter end :( :( :(

Oops! That was the end of this story, but not my story. What transpires when I land at JKIA, to meet Mojo, Skylark and my cousin, waiting for the bride I had gone to fetch? The police and immigration officials waiting for me to record a statement? The paparazzi and the press and how I evaded all of them and boarded an ambulance straight to hospital where I am still recuperating and plotting my sweet revenge?

Well, I leave all that drama to your imagination. I must disappoint you because my story shall be continued in your mind…in your mind…in your mind….!!

The true end :) :) :)

Mortifying Mona Lisa vi. Concrete Plans.

2009-12-28T14:09:00.006+03:00

As expected, the Angel Group descended on Cherrie’s neck like ravenous octopuses, rebuffing her for actually admitting to have fallen in love with me and upsetting their initial noble assignment. It was not only unthinkable, but also a timely break from their attention, which shifted from me to Cherrie—and she was slandered more than they had undone me. When her reputation began to be torn to shreds, with assorted hyperbole and nasty insinuations, she wrote an urgent note to the Angels:

‘Dear so-called Good Angels, I can only imagine you sprawling in conquered comfort after the comportments of what you think is another well-dressed scandal, pulling me to pieces in your ridiculous chatty-chatty mouths liberally dripping with the chitchats and silly tittle-tattles which makes me interesting.

‘You are all hypocrites and you know that. I love RS, so what! I adore him! Why should I hide that fact? Why must I run away from myself? I find him irresistible and I confess! Yes, he’s a burden bound round my neck that’s plunging me under to the very bottom but I am madly in love with that dead weight, I cannot live without.

‘You call me a woman bastardised by psychosis? A woman whose cracked IQ has to be reconstructed? But I assure you that I have become a new woman who can no longer be subdued in subways of scandals and shame. I may be crazy but I shall be tainted no longer. I am a new Cherrie and if you can’t make out that distinction between the new Cherrie and the old Chaff, then you don’t know the difference between shit and shinola.

‘This is just me, like it or not, I feel no compunction, I owe none an apology, on the contrary, any remorse or regret I may have felt before, has been vindicated by the crowd mentality into which you knowingly seduced me to fall into. Mine is a cry of victory. Mine is no indecent insinuations. You all are just as vulnerable! You would have done the same thing but just sit uneasily on your BFAs. Don’t imagine I would be buried without a single man ever having seen himself in the whiteness of my breasts.

‘Don’t suppose yourselves superior beings. Just sink your teeth into your haggish carcasses; it’ll stink the same slime pus, a symptom that you are the same as all people on earth. You neither have two a#₤$ nor your livers and spleens function differently from everyone else. Why you turn into moon-hard lunatics when anything involving RS comes up, is crap I won’t pretend to understand. His charisma alone confounds your theories that his ancestors were savage sub-humans living in the trees three centuries ago, when we forced our presence on the African continent. I don’t think his sophistication was cultivated within three hundred years.’

Finding encouragement from their denouncement and their dissuasion, she plainly acknowledged as a woman amongst women (by sort of freemasonry) what she would have been mortified to admit to others before. Not only was she sinking a level deeper and bragging about it but also, still lower, ridiculing their boldness, their insistence in saving themselves innocent!

But then, she was threatened with blackmail, as the lawyers accusingly put, ‘qui facit per alium, facit per se’, whoever does anything through another, does it themselves, that: ‘This love game is ours, not yours, and you have gone too far in your quest for pulling the carpet off the feet of our noble assignment. Don’t think we’ll find no means to avenge ourselves of a witch who has derailed a noble process. You have the last chance to get back your BFA here or else, the world would know!’

They threw all their finer feelings out of the window and a savage obsession overwhelmed them. After all, she was just a ‘woman’ and had her skeleton share of animal infatuations in her cupboard. They were ready to descend deeper than she had in rallying for the support of the crowd mentality around their villainous cravings—and not remorseful even for a pinch second! What retribution, vengeance and reprisal could castigate the depth of such misdemeanour?

-----------------

There was a mutual sensation of disquiet between us, although we had reassured ourselves, and even guaranteed, that dark bygones were dark bygones, we sensed a small amount of trepidation when occupied even in a minor intercourse or even when sharing a bed of humour. Such is often the case with someone travelling on the road to Damascus; you roam and ramble obliviously just as you would in your favourite street. But at the slightest rumble, the least odd symptom in the skies above, your visage instantly reflects a rejoinder of creepy apprehension—like the good old Paul, thus showing your relentless awareness of persistent peril.

But to melt in yearning for love and remain calm about it was a pompous punishment I could desecrate my heart. What good was bigotry to me—sneering on the surface at her kind, but lying awake night after night thinking about her? No good! It only defrosted and thawed my heart into an intolerable numbness when all the love juice melted out! I thought that proverbial time healed and walls concealed unpleasant things, but what a falsehood! It could never be true! When things crawl and lodge deep within us, there is nothing or anyone who can change them—changing them is like trying to sweep away the vast oceans.

When the truth dawned on her that our concrete plans were actually coming to fruition after all, she confessed that in her wildest of fancies, she was having her wedding reception in a large cathedral in Notre Dame with Mona Lisa painting hung beside the Madonna. But it was for man to propose—and woman to accept the proposal—to humour that old, old, maxim a wee bit.

It was an added advantage to me that women changed their shapes more than men did their minds, for when I realised finally that the fountain of her mind was lucid enough to irrigate my fertile imagination on it, I was beside myself, drawing humour in its scabbard and spraying it on hers.

There was no arrier pensee. There was only an explanation in our own words. That before God had created the world; He had all souls stored together in one place and while some souls connected, while others crossed paths, ours fell in love. That’s why people who had never met before burned in love or melted in jealousy at the first sight. It was all the language of the soul speaking to the often obstinate and dumb body.

My next stop for summer was Paris. I was going there for a while to spent quality time with Cherrie. Summer seemed long way off—just a month away—when I would be off to Paris for a while. I must remind you that ‘for a while’ in Africa meant anything from three days to thirty years.

Read about the reversal of events in my final part ‘What goes around…’

Mortifying Mona Lisa v. Grilling Debauchery.

2009-12-19T05:36:00.004+03:00

When I didn’t deactivate my Facebook account the following day, the four hags enlisted the support of like-minded scoundrels and lobbied in their Status Updates the following notice: ‘Copy and Paste this warning message. Mr Round Square is a hacker and will pilfer your valuable information before deactivating your accounts.’ That was a terrible thing to say about me and I wished I were as deep under the earth as I was above. I bid my time—there was nothing to lose anyway. I wasn’t going away from Facebook. I wasn’t deactivating my account because some five hags had demanded it. I wasn’t neither asking for some help from Mark Reins nor his Facebook developers but cleaning my own mess in my own way.

You have seen many a time these ‘Copy-and-Paste-Warnings’ that so and so is a hacker and if you add them as friends, there goes your account! I too had seen them and never thought the hags were capable of undoing me in such a fashion. But seeing me still lingering my ‘menacing’ face on Facebook, Tipsy Daisy wrote an urgent note and posted it on her Angels Group’s Discussion Board and tagged her friends—and to my horror, we had more than 200 close friends between us. This was a desperate move to tame the adamant Mr Round Square. The note went this way:

‘My Good Angles, a serious threat has occurred; a malignant virus has wedged itself where you can’t even begin to imagine. A microbe, lodged where it can cause the most evil grievance and this is in our very core of antiseptic unit—if you may permit me to use the metaphor—right inside the antibiotic research facility. An epidemic has broken out and will spread false allegations like bushfire fanned by strong Eastern winds. Yes, dear Angels, a germ is hacking and feeding on our private information in order to wipe out our good morals.

‘This virus is now in full custody of our confidential and otherwise exclusive information and has profaned the secrecy of our inboxes and, further, reliable source has sent me intelligence, which the substance of it is that, our secrets are about to be disclosed indiscriminately to our friends and enemies alike. We cannot let this happen, Good Angels. We must do something urgently about the impostor who for a long time faked his friendship against our beloved trust. We must never allow the virus to smoulder ill against us to friends and enemies alike. Our good unquestionable reputation, good friends, is now at the mercy of this virus. Our very livelihood and decorum as Good Angels and women of virtue is in jeopardy.

‘It is a serious and sombre subject, my Sweet Angels, and we are obliged to boost up our immune integrity even as we struggle to contain this chronic ailment in our systems. We have also established that not long ago, he has launched a direct communiqué with propaganda networks who would not only marshal to spread misinformation about us, but also by poisonous and disparaging means, wreck our characters. That’s the whole situation, as it is, and now I’d like to open this up for discussion—to destroy or not to destroy this virus. That, as Hamlet said, is the question. Does anyone have any suggestions?’

Sly verbal dexterity decorated with pretended OMGs, LMAOs, Good Grief, and collective disorientation greeted the news bulletin.

CHATTY MOUTH: Are you saying, TD, that right here in this Angel Group there’s someone….

TIPSY DAISY: I am afraid (and she used three other stronger adjectives—deeply distressed, angered and disgraced) that is the facts of the case. We had, until now, an Angel here in this Angel Group—let me emphasize the word angel—who had all along and under a mask of ingenuity, which only confirms his duplicitous character, been bleeding dry the foundations of trust so that he would feast his fangs into our very tender souls.

BIG FOOT: You mean he wanted to be a blood-feasting vampire.

TIPSY DAISY: Not only that, but he is in fact moving from theory to practice. We have learned that he has established connections…

BANG BELLY: OMG!! with vampires?

CHATTY MOUTH: haha!! @CM ;) wouldn’t he have a bit of difficulty doing that?

TIPSY DAISY: That’s enough! I beg you not to mock at scandals that discredit the noble cause of our Angel Group, outrage that is working against our noble assignment and hence a flaw in our gorgeous character, and particularly to me as the one accountable for all our ethical integrity.

You can imagine the tyrannical stillness that followed the revelation, as the Good Angels pretended to come to grips with the matter. But the pregnant silence was soon forgotten when I intruded ‘rudely’ to ask for the identity of this virulent organism.

ROUND SQUARE: @TD, May we know what or who this insidious virus is J ;)

BANG BELLY: No, you may not, Mr Chauvinist Cock.

ROUND SQUARE: come on, even the nannies and the hens are sniffing about it…

TIPSY DAISY: I can’t bear to pronounce that name—but truth must be proclaimed—we’re talking about you, Mr Round Square.

ROUND SQUARE: ‘WTF?’

I had to feign pretended shock as well—for the sake of my propriety and to acknowledge my humanity—for to appear astonished at accusations is ingeniously part of our elegant amiability. It’s like the silly grin I sometimes plant in my cheeks when I am being kind to snobs who consider me inferior yet with in their arrogance, it should be the other way round.

MOTHER HEN: That is a big fat lie. It can’t be true! Round Square is a sensible and respectable man—I know he is—he loses sleep fretting like a train on matters, which concerns us all. He digs profound truths and attempts to expound extensive arguments to the complicated questions we raise and issues of integrity, ethics and all such things. The connections you allege? It’s just preposterous. It’s simply a big fat lie and I can’t believe it! These are malicious lies circulated by evil people who wish to generate mischief for his charming character.

It was consoling to know that I had an advocate right under their blouses despite the overwhelming malevolent tongues that were wagging themselves silly to bring my untimely ruin. Mother Hen was one of the oldest facebookers I knew. She was prudent enough to distinguish rumours from facts, having eaten the salt in the bread of life longer than any of the other hags. She had been sympathetic to my ‘engagement’ with Cherrie, had even consented, and blessed our union. That’s why she had been made the Moderator of Angel Group because of her graceful age.

But Tipsy Daisy would hear none of her arguments.

TIPSY DAISY: As soon as we’re done here, I will personally arrange for her immediate deletion and blocking. Need I mention that of all times our Angel Group definitely can’t afford the luxury to consign responsibility to a Moderator who apportions blame to members and blatantly accuses us of deceit, can we?

BANG BELLY: Indulge me TD, I think we had better check her Senility Ratio for it’s completely clear that she is manifesting McNoughton Rule—has no control of what she’s saying.

TIPSY DAISY: Yeah, we could ask around if other groups require an SAO—Senile Affairs Officer ;).

BIG FOOT: That’s the most level-headed decision.

Mother Hen was henceforth removed from the Angel Group, and blocked from being a friend to any of the Angels. But in a strange twist of events, she still was technically in the group as she had another profile—so ingenious was Mother Hen—I came to learn later that, like other Angels, she had multiple profiles, just in case of a screw-up!

TIPSY DAISY: @Mr Round Square, you may wish to use your right to respond to accusations levelled against you. We live in a civilised world and we don’t propose to enact some sort of barbaric jungle justice. That would simply mean we are degenerating back to an age of gossip and slander against which we are probing. We wish to establish the facts and handle your case with full integrity to the facts! You are innocent until you are proven otherwise. The truth must prevail come what may.

CHATTY MOUTH: Yes, witch hunting is inimical to the principles of this group. We bestow indestructible resplendence on excellent members but our goodwill is not extended promiscuously. Our love for good and worthy members does not prevent a genteel abhorrence of those who are impostors. We can read actions as accurately as they are that no impostor can get away. We perceive things clearly in their true colours. No deed can escape the firm constancy of our judgment. And that’s why we desire nothing but the whole truth from Mr. Round Square :P

Listen to them! I was not intending to take seriously ill-bred hecklers, who were busy raising qualms and snags, hissing reprovingly, in concerted exertions to crush the truth; I was going to ignore and pass them by and give them my meanest of looks like those of a miser in the face of a beggar. I wasn’t intending to engage them in squabbles and useless hullabaloos, nor square things up through a negotiation—you didn’t negotiate with moral terrorists! I was not an amusement for hags who were so liberal with words drenching wet with saliva of integrity about their immaculate characters and yet had no single drop of truth in the slippery tongues between their decaying mouths.

Triumphant truth prevailed all around them, yet they chose to be mute. If they fancied a meticulous truth to suit their revolting pride, I was not going to humour their silliness, for they could always indiscriminately whitewash truth that they stumbled upon with their own. Now they were putting up obstacles against me. Nevertheless, I was not game for the evil angels whose eyes were blind to reality and only saw in false light, ears deafened by clamour and shrewdness that only obstructed the outlets of their perception. I had nothing else to convince blind detractors whose comprehension was just like a sealed envelope, unable to receive any additional information after it was sealed.

But when I ignored them, who else did I find in my Facebook inbox but Tipsy Daisy? I received a composed message from ‘Me’ addressed to ‘Me’, signed by Tipsy Daisy. That was unbelievable. I felt like the man who kept discovering that the earth was actually flat and had to pinch myself that I was indeed reading a note from my nemesis, Tipsy Daisy.

TIPSY DAISY: I have to see you after you ignored me in our Group’s Discussion Board.

ROUND SQUARE: WTF? How did you get in my inbox? And what are you doing here anyway?

TIPSY DAISY: Doing? We have sensitive business to discuss.

ROUND SQUARE: But how did you get my password?

TIPSY DAISY: I never hacked, if that’s what you are thinking. I requested Cherrie for it, and she kindly forwarded to me, for I explained to her how urgently you needed to speak to me, and how we might have a reversal of events if I had to wait long for you to unblock me.

ROUND SQUARE: So much for monkey tricks—this is so very you!

TIPSY DAISY: You suppose that I hacked? I could, if I wanted to, as you use the same password for all your accounts, anyways.

ROUND SQUARE: We don’t have anything urgent to talk about. I’m done with you liars, you must get out of my inbox. I’m changing my password now.

TIPSY DAISY: Don’t be foolish—we have a lot to square, Mr SquareBalls, because of what took place recently—we shouldn’t dally, the Angels are waiting for our answer.

ROUND SQUARE: And who told you to confirm all those pages and friends’ requests?

TIPSY DAISY: Well, I had to make myself useful in order to occupy the time—besides, I can vouch for them, you’ll be charmed to know them.

ROUND SQUARE: And what about these flattering comments on my cousin’s photo?

TIPSY DAISY: You hassle too much brother man! Anyways, what do you think about our little conquest?

ROUND SQUARE: Which conquest?

TIPSY DAISY: It’s incredible, I can hardly imagine it would work so fast. You have the talent Round Square—exceptionally talented.

ROUND SQUARE: I have no clue of where this ‘crap of discussion’ is headed!

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ROUND SQUARE: It’s ironical, but now that I’ve finally abandoned my hill, and the next one I am trying to climb is also crumbling, whatever I know from hacking your accounts has no function for me. You are right—I was just a harebrained lunatic who thought he could exploit the powers of evil without rubber-stamping away his moral fibre. And as we all know, it’s impossible to dupe the devil.

TIPSY DAISY: Whoa whoa… there! Can you deceive what you can’t see?

ROUND SQUARE: But I busted you up hags! Evil is a tangible thing and you can feel it brush past your ear lobes towards your addled brain to whisper flowery lies, and proceed to spew them out of your mouth.

TIPSY DAISY: Are you pointing a finger at me?

ROUND SQUARE: No, you’re merely his pampered playgirl!

TIPSY DAISY: Hang on a sec, if I am to understand your parables, you are saying that Daddy’s little girl is incapable of addling your brains, isn’t that what you mean?

ROUND SQUARE: No it isn’t! I am merely stating the obvious; that you use your sophistry as a versatile missile for assailing everything that intimidates your Old Man made of Bones but behind your confident countenances, is a miserable existence with an empty shell soul like those of spent cartridges.

BIG FOOT: Is that the heritage you want to be remembered for when you leave Facebook?

ROUND SQUARE: Yes! My pang of conscience is not gifted enough to comprehend your decadent ideas, nor is my spirit amply subtle to cogitate their exposition! We are like chalk and cheese! We have a vacuum between us! Why worry about me? You go your way, and I shall go mine!

TIPSY DAISY: Whoa ;-) It’s a little commonplace—this silliness with men—every other time their pride is wounded, it boils down to a woman. Now you can understand why Delilah was blamed for Samson’s stupidity and Eve, even when Adam’s groin itched after hers. But a heritage is a heritage and despite your masochistic stance towards us Angels, we’ll demonstrate to you in good faith, how altruistic we are by stifling our nausea and eulogizing your final homage!

BANG BELLY: That’s how tolerant our bang bellies have always been….

Etc etc bla bla bla yap yap yap….there was no stopping verbal diarrheic hags!

Try as I could, my tender all-persuasive urgings fell on rigid hearts. Their solo refrain was, ‘Kick him out! Him and his indignity.’ And that was expected, for when deference and consideration for truth was furrowed against hypocrisy, what avenue was there for common sense? Yet hypocrisy and depravity had their own jagged edges of imagining being tolerant! ‘Oh, yes!’ They claimed. ‘We are very charitable and forbearing!’ Of course, that implied charitable only in so-called virtues that never translated beyond their vile mouths.

‘Send Cherrie back to the noble assignments of Angels and we shall amiably exonerate the two of you.’ They cried after me. Noble assignments of Angels! My foot! The hags meant entangling innocent souls to corrupt morals, spreading poisonous scandals, steeped in dishonesty beneath curtains of benevolence and sophisticated words etc etc! Perhaps Cherrie and I were sterilized and absolved after all, even in our little failings.

Even the providence of God sheltered little men with little sins because no ‘farthing’ escaped His keen eye. Was I capable of abandoning my proverbial hill of decency and climbing on alien ones? Leaving Facebook for good and dissociating with my friends I’d known all this time? Perhaps it was an unspoken inducement as well as an intimidation. ‘If you turned back and winked at our double standards, we shall nurture you with the leftovers of our conquests. If not, out you go in scandals!’

Beware Soul Brother—I had to admonish myself against the scandal-breathing hags as I mused over crucial questions in a bid to calm down my anxious conscience. But, how would I reconcile my contention to posses a moral might, and accordingly despise hypocrites, while on the other cheek, I aspired to attain the confidence of charlatans, and when one of them actually sought after me, not only did I imbibe with her the art of deceit and beamed with joy at our joint forces—and even covering up for her—instead of kicking her out and spitting in her face? That was the most difficult part of my dilemma in attempts to reconcile my exterior by appealing to my inner conscience.

Perhaps it may appear imprudent to you, but I initially felt that my endeavour to liberate those enchanted by charlatans of scandals and my objectives to wrestle against such impostors wasn’t to be cramped in sheer hypothetical guesswork and arm-chair presumptions only. I had been and still am confident that, it would have been impractical to boast of a hands-free battle—and in an attempt to keep my hands clean—while pretending to confound the frauds in a battle, as I was in that sense. I could only fight by walking my talk; otherwise, my struggle would just have amounted to resurrecting the same old cobwebs of ignorance about hypocrisy, which I was battling, but in another pretext.

Furthermore, how would I respite my rebellious ‘inquietude’ when impostors lay sprawled at my doorstep to waylay me? I wasn’t going to act like a theoretician chilled in his theories; I wasn’t turning the other cheek for the hags to smite. I had to uncover the evidence of their guilt by practically gathering my data untainted with those rumoured by self-same scandalmongers about armchair struggles. In short, this was a battle, and like all battles, I had to wield my armour and practically run after the fleeing foe!

It was my mandate then to conclude what I had begun; to travail the hell of the road to Damascus. It was a noblesse oblige for me to contribute my abstract facts as a means of practical struggle, which implied obstinately penetrating the breeding ground of those scandalmongers, and then exposing and prosecuting the scoundrels. Why incessantly pride ourselves in warfare against blackmail, scandalmongers and hypocrites, yet if called to publish a list of shame of every single disseminator of this venom, we assume deafness? Or is it because we are of the same ilk?

If I was to stand on moral Ararat, then I had to have power over their information while submerging them with own disinformation; to wipe away their real tracks, while hoodwinking them with false ones. To exploit their own associations to salvage those of us whose interests were under threats while invalidating their empty bravados. To support our struggle by being our own spy concealed in the jaws of the enemy, indeed, in the very tongue of the enemy’s mouth specially intended to slander against us!

----------------------------

CHERRIE: I never whispered anything deliberately or otherwise. You know, am not mad at your scruples, or exposing me, or even the way you argue so bluntly, and now tardily trying to amend, but that you actually thought about it at all! If you are gifted with such thoughts about me, then there’s no reason being friends. You too, have to go, like the rest of the evil brood.

MOTHER HEN: :( :( :( LOL!! I was a fool to accuse you. I always end before I even begin and end up ruining everything so stupidly. What would I do without you? I am a very beautiful mess.

CHERRIE: You think you’ll win me over by appealing to your emotions? Whoa ^_^.

MOTHER HEN: Have you forgotten what we vowed to each other on your birthday?

CHERRIE: Don’t drag my birthday into this, that’s nothing to us now. You’ve betrayed me deeply to talk your way out by manipulating our memories of the past. Moreover, I ordered you to do something….

MOTHER HEN: Are you serious we should discontinue our friendship?

CHERRIE: Dead serious. Bite me!! Gggrr! I don’t intend to humour your silliness anymore.

I had that flattering consciousness that Cherrie was standing up to her exploitation. She was no longer in the company of the hags. She was dissociating herself from their vile company. I was once happy that she had at last found her voice to yell back at Mother Hen—but still unhappy that we still had our differences. But it was better first to chase the fox away then later warn the hen about wandering too far into the bush. So first, I had to celebrate no mean feat in the break of ranks resulting from incessant bickering and Tipsy Daisy’s high-handedness. My penetrating escapades were paying dividend after all for the hags were having their scruples. Damn the Angel Group! I was about to say to TD to enjoy her—but it was a high office of the retribution gods to avenge it, but just mine to wish for.

Sick as we were in our own ways, Cherrie and I got back together once again and started making plans of even meeting in person. Read how we took our joke of relationship a bit too far in the next episode ‘Concrete Plans’.

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Close Shaves i

2009-12-15T18:50:00.002+03:00

Two doctors board a flight. One sits in the window seat, the other in the middle seat. Just before take off, a lawyer sits in the seat by the aisle. The lawyer kicks off his shoes, wiggles his toes and starts to settle in when the physician in the window seat says, ‘I think I’ll get up and get a coke.’
‘No problem,’ says the lawyer. ‘I’m by the aisle. I’ll get if for you.’
While he’s gone, one of the physicians picks up the lawyer’s shoes and spits in it. When he returns with the coke, the other physician says, ‘that looks good, I think I’ll have one too.’ Again, the lawyer obligingly fetches the drink. While he’s gone the other physician picks up the other shoe and spits in it. The lawyer comes back and they all sit back and enjoy the flight.
As the plane is landing, the lawyer slips his feet into his shoes and realises what had happened. ‘How long must this go on?’
He asks the physicians.
‘The fighting between our professions? This hatred? This animosity? This spitting in shoes and pissing in cokes?’
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A friend was standing in a shop, when a man walked in smoking a cigarette; the assistant politely informed him that smoking was prohibited in the shop. ‘Well, if you sell cigarettes in here I ought to be able to smoke here’ the man said irritably.
‘You’re right, we do sell cigarettes here,’ the shop assistant said calmly. ‘And we also sell condoms.’
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A man noted for his tact was woken one morning at four o’clock by his telephone ringing. ‘Your dog’s barking and it’s keeping me awake,’ said an irate voice. The man thanked the caller and politely asked his name, before putting down the phone. The next morning at four, he phoned his neighbour back. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I don’t’ have a dog.’
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Joe was driving in a rig in a long line of tractor-trailers when a traffic officer stopped him for over speeding. Astounded that he alone was caught, he asked, ‘out of all these trucks that were going as fast as I was, why did you pull me over?’
‘Have you ever gone fishing?’ the officer asked.
‘Yes,’ Joe replied.
‘Well, have you ever caught all the fish in the pond?’
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Barry: and what sort of a person is this man Steve?
Charles: well, if you ever see two men talking, and one looks absolutely bored out of his mind, the other is Steve.
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Guide: and this stone is where the great General fell in the battle.
Tourist: No wonder! I almost toppled over it myself.
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Poet: this lyric of mine will make everybody’s heart miss a beat.
Editor: that won’t do-we never print anything that interferes with the circulation.

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Comedian: the last time I was on stage, the people were heard laughing a mile away.
Producer: Oh, yes? What was going on there?
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A crowd of people were sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. They had been there for a long time when in walked a Pakistani. He was about to go straight into surgery when a woman jumped up straight and caught him by the arm, ‘all these people are before you. Now sit down and take your turn.’ She said.
In equally slow and deliberate English, the Pakistani said, ‘I understand your concern my dear, but I’m the doctor.’
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Nick was going to be hanged, and the hangman asked the usual, ‘any last requests?’ ‘Yes, please,’ he replied. ‘Can you put the rope around my waist as I have a bad infection on my neck?’
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After a lavish banquet dinner, the president poured half his coffee into a saucer-so his guest copied him. He then poured cream into the coffee and added sugar. The guest did the same, thinking it was a custom. Then the president knelt down and laid the saucer on the ground for his cat.
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‘We apologise for the error in last week’s paper in which we stated that Mr. Dave was a defective in the police force.’
‘That was a typographical mis-print’. We meant, of course, that Mr. Dave is a detective in police farce, and are sorry for any embarrassment caused.
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Edward de Verre, the 17th Earl of Oxford was so embarrassed after he passed wind when bowing before Queen Elizabeth I that he left England and travelled abroad for seven years. When eventually he plucked the courage to return, the Queen welcomed him and said, ‘my lord, we had forgotten the fart.’
Who says history is boring?
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John a recent convert to Buddhism was asked by his uncle to man the counter at his kiosk. A customer came in, bought some bread and asked for change. John, in style true to the philosophy of his new religion, replied ‘my brother, change must come from within you.’
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A famous billionaire once gave a lecture to students at a business college. He told them that when he first came to the city, all he owned in the world were the old pair of shoes he wore, the old shirt on his back, a pair of trousers, a tie, and a brief case. The students marvelled at this true ‘rag to riches’ story. After the lecture, one bright student followed him and asked, ‘sir, I am so impressed. But I’m curious to know what you had in the briefcase’. The rich man smiled and said ‘it is good you asked, son, because in that brief case I had two government bonds-each worth $50 million.’
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‘Can you describe you assailant?’ asked the policeman as he helped up the bruised and battered man.
‘That’s what I was doing when he hit me.’ The man replied.
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Drunkard: why have I been brought to the police station?
Police: you’ve been brought in for drinking.
Drunkard: well, when do we start?
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Pat: did your watch stop when it fell?
Kim: of course, did you expect it to go through the floor?
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Lawyer’s son: My father goes into court on a case and comes home with as much as a half a million.
Doctor’s son: My father performs an hour’s operation and earns twice as your dad.
Pastor’s son: My father preaches for only twenty minutes and takes people to carry the money.
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Architects, lawyers and politicians were having an argument about whose profession was the oldest.
Lawyers: we defended Adam and Eve versus Snake.’
Architects: God used the principles of architecture to create order in a chaotic world.
Politicians: and we caused that chaos.
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‘Mrs. Elvish, huh?’ said a kind woman keen on names because she preferred the personal approach. ‘It’s easy to remember-just think of Elvis and add ‘h’. Several days later, she wrote a letter, marking the envelope, Mrs. Preshley.
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After a church service, the pastor pulls Jack aside. ‘Why don’t you join the Lord’s Army?’ he asks. ‘But, I am in already.’ Jacks explains. ‘Then why do I see you in church only in Easter and Christmas?’ the pastor persists to which Jack smiles and answers wryly. ‘Because I am in the secret service.’
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Peter is late again and the boss is on him. ‘The road was so slippery that for every one step I took, I slipped backwards two steps.’ He explains. ‘And so, how did you finally get here?’ the boss eyes him suspiciously, to which he curtly replies. ‘I turned back home.’
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John and David were both patients in a mental hospital. One day, john suddenly dived into the deep end of the swimming pool, David jumped in and saved him, and the doctor came to know of this heroic act. He immediately ordered David to be discharged from the mental hospital, as he was OK.
Doc: we have good news and bad news for you, David. The good news is that we are going to discharge you because you have regained your senses. Since you are able to jump in and save another patient, you are now a normal person. The bad news is that John, whom you saved, hung himself in the bathroom and died.
David: doctor, he didn’t hang himself, I hung him there to dry.
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Mortifying Mona Lisa iv. ~ Shocking Revelations.

2009-12-10T16:23:00.007+03:00

There was a rational explanation to that anomaly—her family not consenting nor cursing our engagement. And this happened no sooner had we swapped our account passwords for both Facebook and regular email out of goodwill and trust. We were one in body and soul, and being soul mates; there were no more secrets between us. She was the first to importune for my password for she suspected there were some phantom secrets tucked away in my inbox. She was losing sleep in her anxious desirous world over the imaginary flock of lovers that I might have been keeping.

Of course, there were, but only those (too shameful to lose) I was prepared and inclined to share with her alone. Then there were those (too alarming to keep) that would offend her—from the jealousies of Skylark to the misapprehensions of my cousin and Mojo’s vilifications. I took a few ‘hours’ to whitewash my inbox clean before I granted her exclusive access to sit in the arm-chair of my ‘secret’ soul.

Cracks in Cherry’s ordered existence surfaced straight away and restored my traumatized confidence in Manu’s philosophy that women were, and still are, a reincarnation of evil. She was, after all, like all the other frogs—lay flat on her belly—no gynaecologist could tell between the constipated and the one heavy with ‘tadpoles’. I discovered a continent of lies faster than Columbus did the West Indies. She was full to the brim with them more than the devil had sinners.

Her inner sanctum Sanctus unveiled in her inbox, and to my consternation, I started judging others by herself, I began believing in ‘looks is deceiving’ maxim, and concluded that the genuine, the only charming life of every creature, is nurtured beneath the sheathes of dark hours, secretly. The life of each creature orbited around mystery, and plausibly that is the mother of all ‘WHYs’ all ‘civilised’ citizens insisted stubbornly on the reverence due to their personal secrets.

To attest just how stunted sincere truth thrives in the human race and how often even where it is likely to be found, behind all the peripheral balderdash of integrity, behind closed doors of secrecy and in the deepest recesses, evil is seated at the steering wheel. For this reason, virtuous men and humanity of the better kind would rather be deprived of human company for the companionship of the four-legged creatures, to be in no doubt, for how are they to find respite from the incessant mock-ups, manipulations and mischief of humankind, if there were no pets into whose ingenuous expressions they can look and admire with no mistrust?

For what are our sophisticated characters but life-size masquerades? Disgusting disguise, and as a rule, behind the smokescreen you will uncover the self-seeking ogres. Men leaning on the facade of philosophy, and smiling with visors of benevolence, and what I shouldn’t disclose—in my own hypocrisy. Women have a lesser option. By default, they smear themselves with tinges of decency here, reserve there, gentleness on the lips, and timidity on their faces.

It was no shocker therefore to find out from her quarrels with her elder sister that my charming Cherrie had been married twice and had added four children into the population. Neither was she a doctor nor ever been one. Was north of fifty, battling weight, hypertension and diabetes into the bargain. Had intermittent renal failure and sometimes depended on life support machines during these attacks. Descended from a family of albinos, herself recessive, but still the heritage had blessed her with night blindness. Funny thing she would deny these ‘blinking malice planted by her enemies’.

From her mother’s admonitions, it was apparent that her personal life was as interesting as a belching competition: was awake at weird hours, had reverse anorexia and ate ravenously even when she wasn’t hungry; and the mirror at her bathroom was occasionally shaken by her looks; of course, since she almost never noticed it, she was oblivious that the yarns of her interlocking hair needed restraining, that her eyes, fogged up with absent-mindedness, and teeth pongy with mouldy layers of bleeding gums required urgent medical attention, and that the petticoat with missing buttons was a long-awaited candidate for the comfort of the garbage mass. She talked herself passionately—often contradicting her views, like the hesitant Mr. Grinch when deciding whether to go and steal Christmas presents, and the blind man living across the hallway, thought there were two Grinches living as one.

I now believed that evil had pervaded her like a tangible thing—with frequencies, just like echo and sonar energy. Her humble abode acted as an evil transmitter and vibrations of evil reached her because from her deleted messages—mostly squabbles about scandal this and scandal that—I found out what was principally the most devastating evidence of her duplicity. That together with her evil associates, they insinuated in all sorts of insidious falsehood to trap me, rousing each other with ornate communications by way of trickery, and secretly directing her on how to allure me and then retreating, to build her web the more subtle and enthralling.

I found out, to my cost, that she was the envoy bent on accosting and wrecking me of my macho inclinations. One note from Tipsy Daisy declared it all, ‘tame this son of a woman! What does he think he is? A big strapping boy, milk hardly dry on his lips, without a smear of mortification?’ she mused. ‘Break him to bits and pieces!’ another one from Bang Belly declared. I found out what I had been hunting for in my Damascus voyage. She was in a scandal-mongering company—led by Tipsy Daisy, Bang Belly, Chatty Mouth, Big Foot and herself—and I had been trapped into their snares and was about to be dethroned of my masculine prowess. I was just like other men, after all, with carnal feelings and unsaddled passions for women, in spite of my hardliner stance.

I read their messages on ‘strategies’, ‘the art of alluring a man’, ‘best laid traps’ ‘solicitations’ ‘playing hard to get’, and all other feminine hotchpotches and wiles that Cherrie had experimented to drag me into succumbing to her traps. The Columbus’ Realisation hit me; that the earth wasn’t actually flat. How foolish I was! I swore, now like a woman, remembering too late that she had left boiling milk in the cooker. Sour memory, like vomit, clogged my throat. It was hard to swallow the true-to-earth fact for it became as a huge lump of ice lodged in my belly and kept melting leisurely all day long. I bet this is how the ambushed cat felt once he was inside the trap of curiosity.

Each word became a piercing blade, battering my heart. Every word was pungent more than a concoction of salt and vinegar. But I had to erect a war strategy by studying and cramming the notes over and over to drain the very sediments of its acidic connotation. I had to know too, the capabilities of my antagonists from the other side, those who were baying for my blood and I was obliged (for the sake of poetic justice) to hack into their facebook and regular mail accounts. I also needed to justify my course of action to my conscience, which could not condone any form of undercover spying especially to my friends, but you see it was the lesser of the two necessary evils.

--------------------

The nerveless barbarian hags that they were! I was ready to employ any means necessary to prescribe boundaries to their outrageous misdemeanours and wait upon the wrath of heaven to breathe its revenge and obliterate out the tragedy of having trapped me in their soiled embrace. I was going to turn tables by tricking the tricksters. I wasn’t an eclectic and intelligent man for nothing. Didn’t one wait until a crocodile’s tail surfaced out of the water before launching an attack?

With such a spirit, I let a handful of days fall like leaves from the tree of time as I amassed my art-of-war strategy. But as with tragic opera, things got worse after the interval and amazing episodes overtook me—seemed like every step to my dishonourable downfall had been calculated! She accused me of duplicity (what cheek!), changed her ‘Engaged’ status to ‘Single’ and blocked me. She changed her phone number and never answered to emails I sent thus making herself inaccessible. I had no clue how she may have known that I had ‘checked’ her out. Or perhaps she was taking no chances for she must have discovered the testimony of her incriminating ‘sent’ messages and ‘threads’ still lied undeleted in her inbox.

Bang Belly was next. She came online and turned on her webcam. There was a sort of a snooping look in her face and chat messages that I did not like. I don’t know whether Cherrie had told her that I was ‘unpredictable’ only, or unashamedly insolent but I know the hag meant to cross-examine me. I was conscious of myself as we chatted and constantly watched her face on the webcam beaming with a smile, which, as she realised that I wore a stone-face, took effect and melted in her very hollow dimples. I did not give her more time to open her lips. ‘I am so very busy right now, Bang Belly!’ I screeched at the keyboard and gawked at her reproachfully with such an icy decorum that she was very relieved to turn her webcam off as soon as decency permitted and vanished into obscurity for all I cared.

It was apparent that Bang Belly must have banged into Big Foot’s inbox to transmit her of the new development, because the hag came online, as if it were a coincidence, and strove to initiate ridiculous chitchats with me, perhaps to corroborate what Tipsy Daisy had nourished her—for symptoms of impudence or impertinence, I figured out. She must have believed that I was already down and out. I didn’t intend to humour her silliness anyway.

‘What you hags have done to me! No punishment is severe enough!’ I cursed her. ‘You used her to get at me! What cheek! Shame on you!’ I’m not done with you lot!’

Before you could say Muddah meets Fadduh, Chatty Mouth and Typsy joined Big Foot in the chat. I wanted to block them, but that would have been unmanly. So, I assailed them head on. Four hag-faces staring down at me; come to celebrate their imaginary victories from imaginary battles. I had a bad feeling about the whole business. I had never been in a scandal before. But I put on a strong countenance. I was not blowing my top for the sake of some five foolish hags. I wasn’t going to afford them a satisfaction to provoke my displeasure. They were not worth the satisfaction. I had to put them into the place they belonged

And all the time the duo-core running of my mind unsettled me nearly to the point of insanity. I was continually monitoring myself, my inner self, to stabilise my propriety with my own temperament, staring blankly on my computer, behind that chat window filled with four ogling faces, as I sat impatiently volleying questions against explanations. This was insanity, and even worse, for I was conscious of my lunacy.

It was pointless arguing with them.

ROUND SQUARE: There’s nothing extraordinary about it. If you and your hags are guilty for sowing this unfortunate seed, then I curse you with all my heart. You are evil and I wish to have nothing to do with you.

TIPSY DAISY: You are misplacing your priorities once again! If evil is flesh and blood, then above all, he lives inside us!

ROUND SQUARE: Then you must be his most preferred house!

TIPSY DAISY: You undervalue my worth at least as much as you puffed up yours a while ago.

ROUND SQUARE: Who are you people? To invade into my soul, and break trusts, sending your loyal disciple to corrupt and steal my morals…so ambitious to depose me, you set that witch on me, this devious impostor, this charlatan peddling lies, unfortunate creature sunk low to her advantage— unsound spirit in an unsound body—sick in her dexterity! Why don’t you guard the avenue to her waning soul before brooking for a showdown with me?

TIPSY DAISY: Look at it this way: I am merely a medium who helps fellow mortals stir up or stimulate things that already lived within them even without their help. My support, you see, simply made it easy for you to discern something invigorating in life and thus was more satisfied in yourself.

BIG FOOT: We only live only once. Why then, should we squander those precious few decades assigned to us roasting beneath the swathe of some barbaric scruples? Do you know why you labelled us evil? So that you may swing your own liability out of dread of your own conscience and that things inside you that crush them down—away from your own bigoted ego, into mine, through ‘diffusion’ as psychos call it, or ‘transference’ only to console your scruples!

ROUND SQUARE: That is preposterous, and you know it…

BANG BELLY: Laughable!? And you hoped to bamboozle your own scruples by fiddling with your brand of sophistry!! And by tagging me with that offensive label, you anticipated you’d truly even flatter yourself. And our little trial had no other function than to simplify these little frivolities for your banal chauvinism.

TIPSY DAISY: But you were naïve to think of deceiving the devil without signing away your own soul. Why else do you think she cancelled her ‘engagement’ to you, huh? The party is over bway:(.

ROUND SQUARE: You tell me, dumb ass!! I’m not answering questions like that from you hags.

TIPSY DAISY: Yes, because you know too well that she has had the audacity to be real and live in line with her own standards.

BIG FOOT: And now at last she has done something grandiose!

CHATTY MOUTH: Something exquisite!

BANG BELLY: To seize the gallantry and the vigour to bow out from your fiesta of fantasy so early!

BIG FOOT: and exposing your villainy for all the world to witness.

ROUND SQUARE: You control her. She is just a pawn in your game. A marionette to be pulled and pulled until she cracks from the long stretches.

TIPSY DAISY: That sting my raw nerves, son, but I’m afraid I am obliged to deprive you of that charismatic fantasy.

ROUND SQUARE: Fantasy?

TIPSY DAISY: You lack the providence to multiply your idiocy, we are here to make sure of that, besides, and you won’t be permitted to keep it for long, anyway.

ROUND SQUARE: What do you mean?

CHATTY MOUTH: She was engaged to you on her own whims and accords. We had no hand it. We are only more concerned that you outsmarted us in our little inboxes and now you can’t spread propaganda about us.

ROUND SQUARE: Bite me!

BANG BELLY: We finally found out how we can stop you from being on Facebook. If your friends and enemies come to learn of what we found out about you today,...

ROUND SQUARE: You can’t blackmail me!!

CHATTY MOUTH: Unless you make a decision by tomorrow that, you are terminally bedridden, that you have to go away for a year or two and sadly have to deactivate your account—Monday morning (and until you bow out honourably) every Status Update will carry your story.

That was what I called reversal of events for lack of better adjective. The hunted hunting the hunter. Killing one bird with two stones—to make sure it was dead. Double-crossing the bridge—just to be certain! Cherrie appeared online shortly to curse me with a mocking denouncement: ‘You’ve crowned my name with the very tiara of falsehood. If I must depart from you, eternity, gravity, and mortality do to this body what extremity it can, but the sturdy pedestal and edifice of my love is as the epicentre of the earth, dragging all things, as it is, to it. I am going in to weep for my dishonourable ignominy. Where shall I hide my face?’

She went offline before I had chance to solicit further explanations more than just ‘weep for my dishonourable ignominy’. But she was dead right—for she wept herself blind at our separation—as you will come to know, in the next episode.

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Mortifying Mona Lisa iii. A Curious Engagement

2009-11-28T21:38:00.009+03:00

Two months into our relationship, we announced an engagement. It was a very simple ritual. An agreement of undying union of love, confirmed by shared strong infatuation yawning in our hearts, pointing towards the hallowed belief and mutual admiration, cemented by the swapping of our rings—we exchanged our rings through Fedex—and a few other ceremonial formalities necessary for the condensed sacrament, pledged with our joint signatures, sealed by our mutual declarations, attested by.. bla bla bla. You see? It wasn’t a full-size convention as I am making it out!

Friends and close relations discharged their due shower of goodwill messages—wishing us many happy returns on our intriguing ‘serious’ commitment. With that spirit, I introduced her to my family and off-line friends, who like my cousin, had their reservations and raised eyebrows. The following comments baptised my changed Relationship Status:

‘We disapprove of her name.’ That was my brother Kleo on Twitter. I did remind him though—and whatever ‘we’ meant—that there was no deliberation to gratify his narrowed bigotry when Cherrie Whitesugar was christened.

‘What’s her figure?’ My modelling sister CS asked. ‘Don’t matter if she can reach my heart.’ I dismissed her. I was just full of pretty answers because I had anticipated all comportments of questions to be flung at me. I could as well have been betrothed to Shylock’s daughter Jessica and conned her out of her precious Jewess ducats.

‘Who’s the unlucky lass?’ Pitied Bunny the 5th.

There were, of course, the conformists. My cousin Edd led that camp. The cultural die-hards, whose contemplations were that I would have done better to ‘engage’ a hamlet lass or my own kind because Cherrie, ‘was refined by the wisps of her verbal diarrhoea better than the breezy wiles of their arguments—if it was done in English. I reminded them that she was French.

But they detested such fervent mirages of ‘aristocrats’, such ‘antisocial strangers’, such ‘snobs of lingo’ who pronounced ‘water’ with a voiced ‘r’ instead of the usual ‘t’. They were simply saying they couldn’t understand her because she spoke as if she were chomping a hot potato in her mouth, and miserably had very little spit for the procedure.

‘No no no ! We will embrace the engagement a delusion until it emerges a dream.’ A sceptical cousin quipped.

‘After just a two months!?! Better to miss the boat by a river than to leap wildly for it and drown.’ Another update from My Space wondered. That came from cousin Jojj.

Skylark warned in my inbox. ‘Beware soul brother. Her ancestors drove our ancestors out of their prehistoric birthright with one or two signatures on a piece of paper. You are signing away your own soul.’

Mojo was distressed that an African son of soil had turned a patch to be sewn onto a White Woman’s worn miniskirt. To him, I was like the wayward child who when punished at home, tagged along a sympathising stranger off to a foreign land.

-------------------

And so she went into her genealogy, and established that Adam was barely a fifth cousin in an unstructured splinter of their family—I promised you to dwell on the quintessential elements—yes, Adam of the Garden if you are like ‘WTF!’ Ancestors disposed of; she delved deep into—to my friend’s revulsion—her confidential family secrets. She verified that her maternal grandmother boasted her ancestry back to Eve, but obstinately refuted any potential hearsay that there were her relatives in the Land of Nod, where Cain, the banished son of Adam and Eve, exchanged the first marital vows in yet-to-be-recorded-history.

Her relations were Gnostics, or KNOWERS Of THE GREAT LIFE. They adorned long robes of white clothing and believed in continual water baptism—but only through immersion! DAS ILLUMNUS—their Holy Book—is in vernacular language of the Vikings—mind you it’s all written in CAPITAL LETTERS. Their speculations of DARKNESS and LIGHT border around those of Zoroastrianism and they call all rivers YARDAN. Their long-dreadlocked hair and weird dress code is tailored to preserve their allegations that they are the CHOSEN PEOPLE Of LIGHT. Most of my friends thought that she was just another Normandy star worshipper with primordial pagan inclinations.

-----------------

I wasn’t as pious as my siblings—was the black sheep—and I classified myself in the background thickets of the ‘enlightened thinkers’ but believed the ghost of religion lingered around me, nevertheless, in an apparition of moderate humanism or some such slogan. For me, God was pretty much the entire earth, or rather the complete cosmos, along with the clear-cut conventions it seem conditioned to, possibly kick-started us off when he lay down the foundations and then left every man for himself in a hands-free mode or must be some kind of Newtonian clockwork God.

I was born the eldest of four children in a family that was neither rich nor poor. At school, we perfected the art of conceit and malice. We exercised snobbery to upset other students with malevolent comments and to parade a sophisticated face of superiority and apathy. Attitude approved our associations with other students. We would malign, taunt and contempt teachers throughout school day, or showed our indifference to authority through imaginary superiority.

After school, if you did not fool around in games for the indulgence of the self-image, you would dart home to watch overcooked gibberish of Mexican Soaps or weary yourself in coquetry with the opposite sex in the street and surrounding areas. We looked forward to weekends because we’d inexorably be alone at home and invite other young people of both sexes for a roguish revelry, where the perverted beastly passions set the standards.

At school, if you performed well in scholastic tests, the thumb rule for peer approval required that you justified a pretext for academic brilliance, high performance being a trademark symptom of weakness, of unwarranted reverence to ‘established’ authority. In my youth, my forlorn familiarity with religion was in the course of futile, perfunctory recitations of the Bible at morning drills in school parades, or other odd incidents. Religious chit-chats were taboo and God was mentioned with embarrassment only.

We clenched all religious convictions as a credulous crutch and every ‘intellectual’ ignored the ‘garbage’ of God. It became an accepted wisdom and our parents, teachers and elders allowed it. My grandfather was once a cleric, but still had butterflies mentioning God with honesty. During meals, he would vomit out the Grace like an android and never did he implore me even to rummage around for religion nor did he relate religion to our day-to-day lives.

At the university, I ventured discreetly with the bravery to probe these beliefs, and to expose and put across suspicions, which I had hazily felt, but had timidly even buried profoundly from myself. I respected the character and the philosophy of Jesus, but was rationally perturbed regarding the whole tale of a ‘vicarious sacrifice’ being crucial for God to sanction us to have salvation. Also it seemed to me to be impertinent to blaspheme this way, but even so I mused over it; if Jesus knew he was immortal, how could the crucifixion be as enormous a sacrifice be as immense a sacrifice as that made by any of the mortal men who died similarly for their brethren?

The crucifixion of Peter in Rome—poor Peter with his moments of human trepidation that had made him even fleetingly deny the Christ—a down to earth bloke for whom heaven was an affair of belief only, seemed more genuinely poignant to me. It was all incredibly baffling to me. Then I read ‘The Golden Bough’, and marvelled just how much of Christian values had become knotted with pagan fertility festivals—there it all was: the vicarious sacrifice of the god-man. Many students proclaimed themselves agnostics, conceding Jesus only as a mortal being, a mortal being fond of his fellow mortal beings, like Gandhi or Mandela.

When I got together with Cherrie, I was considerate to her Gnosticism, but not persuaded. I assumed that they had their own sort of insularity as Christians had theirs, and I sought for a universally oriented faith. I was not yet liberal from obstinate academic illusions about occidental religions and Gnosticism, and possibly some of the Gnostics I met had their delusions too. Naturally, when we were engaged, there was compassion between us on this essential ethical issue, but I did not like the indecent proposal of embracing another belief without full conviction, or the idea of espousing it for purposes of conflict of interest.

I joined the Gnostics, not as a member, but as a spectator, amused and marvelling at how their ideology and philosophy were more whimsical and far from consistent. As a humanist and philanthropist, I always suffered pangs of distraught at the notion that of all the children, whom their mothers give birth to after nine months of labour, and bring up with much trouble, not a single one of them is liberated from sin, according to the Gnostic dogma. Hence, every person who comes to this world is born in sin; subsist in their existence as a wretched sinner, and perishes in sin. Their deliverance is dependant on the mortal priests whose purity itself is doubtful.

My scruples could not accept as true this ridiculous wisdom, but I was constrained to consider them as a Gnostic, all the same, I craved to disembark from these manacles and on this ground; I set off to study other major religions of this world. While probing Hinduism and Buddhism, I found out that both these religions advocate the doctrine of reincarnation and of the soul’s comeback into this world in different bodies owing to sin, and thus they also believe in the intrinsic sinfulness of human life. They could not eliminate my fears nor ruffle my dilemma.

------------------------

Finally, Cherrie addressed the question of woman, and the place of woman to her female ‘cousins’ as the major impulsion that even made me study Gnosticism and almost converted. It confounded all my chauvinist ideology and abashed my macho supremacy for the ‘weaker sex’ for she savours an immense eminence—I think it’s the earliest religion that predetermined the liberty of woman and safeguarded that autonomy. This religion celebrates woman and all her endeavours. It secures all her privileges. It venerates her as a mother, a wife, a sister and as a daughter. What else would any woman be? She posed to my chauvinist consternation.

‘Prior to the dawn of Gnostics,’ there was no stopping Cherrie, ‘the position of woman was dismal. In china, woman was prized with utter condescension. She plunged into puberty playing hide and seek with cultural impediments lest anybody—here she meant men—should catch a glimpse of her ‘stained’ face; in India, Manu teachings pronounced woman as evil incarnate. She had no rights at all and she was classified with eyesore elements and effects of her father, husband or her children.

The Greeks entirely secluded woman, she was in cultural bondage and her chief function was to replicate and nurse children. The Jewish man would supplicate to God in a formula contemptible to the woman. Thank God for you did not create me a dog, a Gentile and a woman, under the Romans, woman were so much debased that her husband was at liberty to arbitrate and castigate her as his whim desires; he would even exterminate her if he deemed it fit to do so.

-------------------

That was briefly. My friends and I only wondered why her side of family never said anything. Surely, there was some boiling brouhaha from that end of eternity—or so—now you must be raising your eyebrows too, over this curious engagement.

end of part iii.
------------------
coming soon. part iv. the debauchery.

Mortifying Mona Lisa ii ~ Know Thyself

2009-11-27T00:59:00.007+03:00

Before you could say Miss Muddah and Mr Fadduh, my ‘activities’ with Cherrie increased generously to statistical levels. Quote after quote, and epigrams woven in witticism adorned my profile wall. Some, clever and humorous, especially when I tagged her in an amorous poem: ‘Your intelligence inspires my humour that I end up lavishing generously in your wall.’ She’d say and my quick reply would be: ‘if you squander word for word with me, I shall suck all your sense of humour dry.’ Some, embroidered, especially when I sent her a daffodil: ‘How like a dream is this I see and hear! May fortitude bequeath on me the serenity to abstain as long as it lasts!’

And some ‘innocent’ comments should have alerted me with their foregrounding tomblike avowals because it was just after a week of knowing each other and she was already talking of death. She confessed in my wall: ‘Do I finally have you, oh, my celestial crystal? Why? Now I may die, for I have lived long enough. It’s my heart’s desire, a dream come true. Oh, this blessed hour!’ Mind you, that was the same suggestive discourse between Eve and the insidious Snake. She was dazzling me to her lair and enthralling my head quicker than a jugular vein.

My closest friends noticed my changing relationship landscape—I was ignoring them, apparently—and so they summoned me. Mojo was cynical as usual. Mojo and I shared the same noble school of thought—that women were evil—and couldn’t explain my sudden turnabout.

‘Who is this star that you worship so spiritually?’ he attacked.

‘Ah! The Queen of Stars,’ and I attached Sweetie’s smile-like-an-angel shot, ‘and isn’t she a divine creature?’

‘No,’ that was typical of Mojo, ‘but an earthly archetype, shoddier replica of a planet.’

‘Christen her celestial.’ I pleaded.

‘I wouldn’t flatter her.’

‘Oh, flatter me, commend me because love enchants in sweet-talk.’

‘When I was love-struck, you prescribed bitter herbs; I must honour you with similar dosage.’ He eluded.

‘Just admit it Mojo, that if she’s not a celestial star, then at least acknowledge her as a prototype comet to all heavenly bodies.’ I said but sensed nothing good was forthcoming.

-----------------

This followed a moment (so I had a suspension of poetic beliefs too?) when my vulgar aloofness and contempt for the ‘weaker sex’ became makeshift buoyancy. I was a becoming a rare cock; not a typical rooster. My crudity for women was wearing away and replaced by a resilience, which seemed to have been as taxing as the old tenacity. I was becoming the proverbial fool who erected his crib on a jerky sandy precipice on the verge of a gulf, already destabilized by invisible forces, and the cliff and the foundations all crumble to wee-wee bits and pieces along with him, and he is plunged into the roaring billows of wretchedness from which there is no flight.

I started perceiving her—together with Skylark, and my cousin—with a sure-footed mutual faith—albeit wavering, as a hen is in no doubt, that is, with no shrewd knowledge about it. I was jeopardising my manhood and deserved the void inside for I let the ‘Genius’ escape from the bottle of my heart. I was a terrible impostor, silently and anxiously bustling with an uneasy ado, and laying my traps and nursing the qualms in a kind of restless dream that still was full of sureness. I would braggingly cackle and pretend to be the one calling her sun out of bed. Yes, I wished for detestation and adoration at the same time—the paradox of trying to fit a square ball into a round hole. That revealed my catch-22 entangling me—frayed between masculine dominance and masculine yearning for the ensnaring pretty creatures of romance and poetry.

And when you are dazzled by the combination of poetry and romance, how life turns out to be as a dream. How things appear so spanking new. Oh, how mesmerizing it was! How I wobbled under a heart painted red! How I loved going online, signing in to Facebook, sitting there, chatting on IM all night and day on end, watching things slither past. Not caring what people said or did. Like a book that you read slowly so as not to get to the final page! Like a man who dreams slowly for fear of waking up!

Yes, it was like drama. It was exactly a play. You would agree strongly that was a prompter behind some curtain. Or, that my Profile Wall was the painted backdrop. But it wasn’t until a little inconsistent ‘prompter’ showed up on my Profile Wall glumly and then reluctantly ambled off, like a little ‘theatre’ cat, a little cat that was on valium, that I first suspected that there were more principal actors and actresses than just Cherrie and I as the leading dramatis personae in the play. This ‘prompter’ wasn’t just reminding us our lines, but was actually pulling the strings of her two performing masquerades.

We were on the theatre. We weren’t only the audience, not only watching; We were performing. Even the ‘prompter’ had her part and came every Sunday. I swear, someone would have noted if the ‘prompter’ had been absent; the ‘prompter’ was part of the performance after all. How strange I never saw it that way before. And yet it explained why Cherrie ensured that she availed herself just the same time each day—so as not to be late for the rehearsal—and it also explained why I had benefit of doubts as to tell my friends how I spent my free hours—chatting online with Cherrie. I laugh loudly at myself when I come to think of how I was enacting the stage for my own ruin.

-------------

‘I don’t think I’ll ever forget this evening. I have a feeling that I’m becoming a new person every minute I’m with you. Please forgive me for saying it so openly, but it’s as if something were radiating from inside of you that—I don’t understand how I could have walked by you so indifferently before—it’s simply that I’ve never felt anything like this before… you know, that heavens predestined us on that quiet morning yet on creation day…before the beginning of time and space…’ she couldn’t allow me to finish my rapturous declarations, as if she were afraid I’d change my mind in the next phrase.

‘How lovely! Isn’t in the still, quiet places that things do happen? I imagine that when God embarked on creating the world—on that early morning, the first day of January—you might have peeped out of your balcony and perhaps listened to the plaster and mud splattering from His trowel as He erected up the everlasting hills. What became of the noisiest undertaking in the world?’

‘The Eiffel Tower?’ I was losing her.

‘I mean the construction of the Tower of Babel? Well, there is a footnote in the Encyclopaedia Britannica and one can stumble on it in Google Search when those clattering men tried to challenge the plans of God.’

‘Of course,’ said I, ‘human nature is universally similar. It’s just cultural difference that conditions us, but there is more passion—er—more comedy and parody and –er—romance in some places than in others…’ I was no longer following her; it was more of a chase, for she was prodding me into a verbal hogwash while at the same time taking advantage of my complete lack of interest.

I only caught up with her when I saw on the MSN screen . She was in a monsoon of tears, sobbing and crying. That was my other issue with her and other women—they were like that—always dripping wet with sentimentality. She wanted us to dance to that. For the new found happiness and undying friendship. Soul mates for life! We were to declare to the Facebook world of our changed Relationship Status, that we were officially ‘In a Relationship’.

Somehow, I accepted her invitation although it was a pity I’d never danced before in real life—my ‘default’ attitude forbade it—and laughed off any suggestions of being a ‘robot’ at parties especially if you were with charming girls whose calculated dance moves made your groin itch. Yes, it was a pity, besides; I was that exception to every rule. That, a young man should be mortified of not being able to dance! I’m not hinting this out of bigotry; I don’t in the least presuppose that your intelligence should be in your feet—thank God, the thinking organ is still not below the neck—but my attitude is ludicrous now—It’s just that how do you dance with the devil without getting entwined in his clench?

………………………………………..
coming soon part iii

Mortifying Mona Lisa i. Flattery dripping flirt

2009-11-24T18:53:00.006+03:00

excerpts

‘Many times I have found myself on the Road to Damascus; many times I have been struck down and changed by the miraculous voice.’ In the beginning were those words. Those words were with my Facebook Profile. Those words were my Status Update.

Those words became my sentence, and ensnared me into a quest in a literary Damascus only to be struck down many a time like Paul, but unlike the Good old Roman bachelor, a romantic escapade was the reason why I was criss-crossing this lonely stretch. The expedition was as melodramatic as my update that day—if you had cared to notice—but with scandals overtaking me, announcing me a public enemy—to be despised by the majority—one of the few times in my life when I became fleetingly important for this to happen to me.

Since I juggle with words, many a doubting Thomas would put their best foot forward that my stories are only sophisticated scheme of saying something simple, that fiction is a distraction in which writers obscure their semantics under artillery of words. At this, let’s quite gladly impose a short-term curfew of disbelief that amounts to pedestrian loyalty. Just suspend for a moment your poetic faith for you don’t need a miraculous voice to stop hunting with cupid arrows—or in my case, haunted—if a story would do the same trick.

why i hate women...

Words from lips of flattery plotted successfully and I was undone; words beguiled a man who had summed up and assessed the civilisation of centuries in his mind. A man who discerns that all pretty girls were a trap, a pretty trap, and admonished other men to expect them to be. I never suspected their laid snare until it was too late and I was deep inside their disposable WC. They knew I hated all their lot. It was obvious from reading my countless stories that I hated the female characters instinctively and detested them by intuition. My leading bigotries and chauvinist heroes that I fashioned in my stories frequently intimated to the ‘weaker sex’ the remarkable rebuffs in the poetry of Jesus; ‘woman, what have I to do with thee?’ and disparaged them impetuously at every prospect, reflecting that possibly even God Himself hadn’t been pleased with the meticulous bit of labour!

You get a lucid impression from Van Gogh’s painting of that child made twelve times unclean. Or from Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa’s bald-faced plastic smile. For me, she lured and ensnared the first man and still carry on her spellbinding craft—a pathetic mortal, treacherous, strangely disconcerting. What more? Her demonic fecund body camouflages a hollow ambushing soul. In my estimation, God must have created her only to coax man and entice him. That’s why man had no better option in safeguarding himself but advance her with stealthy vigilance—if he were constantly terrified of surprise attacks.

Her body is, in fact, even created like a trap, what with her arms unmitigated and her lips parted for man? I am lenient only to old grandmothers, made innocuous by their invariable retiring senility and burdened incessantly by constant childbirths and childrearing. But still watch out because I am aware that, within their hearts, are humbled serpents reclining in the rock bottom of their abashed bodies—those tigresses so docile—is that eternal yearning in my mother, my sister or my aunt, which still blush sexually for me even if we are related by blood like Oedipus to her mother. I feel it in their alluring gaze—ever present innuendo in their eye than that of my father, my brother or my uncle—and that makes my blood boil because it is still woman’s love, carnal love. I experience it—this depraved craving—even in their submissiveness, in the charm of their chatty-chatty mouths, in their inferior eyes, and in their crocodile tears when I repulse them boorishly.

But when it comes to flattery and smooth talk, the most shrewd of men are the most easily betrayed, and anyone can be swayed to gulp down anything, even if it’s incongruous and outrageous, as long as it is flavoured with acclamation. Such experience may scratch one’s honour, but if one has need of people, one must be diplomatically immunised to have room for them, and if there’s no way of attaining support, well, then, the irresponsibility lies more with the flatterers than with those who want to be flattered. I think that is the only way I can explain and justify how I—an assorted, extensively read, urbane academic, who had nurtured and cultivated his brains with many philosophical droppings—could find myself beguiled by these self-same lesser creatures of romance and poetry. Listen to the wisdom of Mephiphosteles;

“I am woman,
I am spirit,
I am me.
I am the scapegoat for society.
I am the flesh for the vulture,
That devours the death of my culture.
I am the darkness that embraces the night.
I am the nightmare that brings you fright.
I am the gypsy upon life’s path.
I am the cauldron to men’s wrath.
I am the roar of the ocean’s tide.
I am the poet with pride.
I am the passion of a burning fire.
I am the whore you desire.
I am this and so much more.
I am a divine creation at eternity’s shore.”

She became society’s scapegoat for her lead-supporting role in reducing man to rubble, and not a guiltless one, but a villain ornately worthy of any misery man decided subsequently to upload to her. That is the image deeply embedded in my edifying worldview, and so to imagine her as anything less than a devil is above all impudent—especially in the jaws of the one who holds the female sex in disdain.

I have rebuked my heart about the pretty trap, but it will not pay attention. I have squabbled with my heartbeat, but I am trampled in every other argument for love is unreasonable; I think mine is wedged in some blind organ below my neck—and with a head—without a brain, too. That’s why I deal with my hydraulic temptations by yielding to them. I will never understand the words of my grandfather when he wondered aloud at my cousin’s beautiful face: ‘Look at you’ he had quipped, ‘such a precious little thing! You are going to break a whole lot of hearts.’

but still find time to flirt....

The next day I found myself Facebook-chatting with her. ‘You are so absurd and strange, you know. Your writing style is a cocktail of crazy and wild ideas.’ She prodded.

‘Perhaps I am, but so are you. For that matter, everything is absurd and meaningless. Life, human beings, women especially and everything, is just froth spewing about in the stream until it sinks and sinks—down and down into an endless sea of dreadful depression.’

‘May be. So, about our unfinished Damascus business, a kiss is in order!’

‘Depends with where you wish me to plant my lips.’ Said I.

‘You may want to start with my hand first.’

‘Okay dokay, I warn you though, I’ll not be responsible for my actions.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Are you still a babe at twenty-five? Are you familiar that it’s risky to play with fire?’

‘Not for me. I have full insurance cover.’

‘No, your heart can’t be fire-proof. And even if you were, my tepid squeeze here that can still kindle a flame.’

‘Have you been in love?’

‘Well, don’t put it like that, but I’ve passed by quite a few girls. Occasionally, I became dumbstruck when my gaze fell upon one lass. Dumbstruck, I mean, like those fairy princes in the English Castles that couldn’t eat nor drink for love.’

‘Who was this lass?’

I typed ‘WTF**’, but hesitated to press the ENTER button, ‘If you are dazzled by a woman,’ I wanted to write, ‘try to gain her; but if that is not viable, well, don’t hassle, drop her. A forest is not made of up of only one tree!’

‘Who was she?’ she persisted when she sensed my dilly-dallied answer. I deleted ‘WTF’, instead wrote ‘You can’t force me to tell you’, and pressed the button.

‘I inquire as an equal, I ask as a friend. Who was she?’

‘My cousin. ; -)’

‘How strange. :P’
............***.........

**end of the first journey.

United States of Africa & Poli-tricks

2009-05-21T01:01:00.006+03:00

He checked his mailbox for the fifth time and saw a forwarded letter from the President. He wondered what the General wanted to know even when nothing tangible had come his way. He read it though.

Hey PP,
How I hate the three Bs: Bush, Blair and the BBC! Not only do they own most of the world and its airways, they also think this gives them the right to tell the whole world what to think.
Look at this ‘Third Term’ business. How dare they lecture the good people of Africa about how to govern themselves! How dare they tell us that we GPs- General-Presidents should quit after two terms in office!

Don’t they know that here in Africa, the older you are the wiser you get? I was pretty bright at the age of 20 but look at me now! There’s no end to my wisdom. Think what my people would have lost if I’d quit after a paltry ten years in power. It’s unthinkable.

Did God stop at the end of His second term? Did He say, “Sorry folks that’s your lot-George Bush thinks it’s time for me to ‘Bush’ off and retire into some bushy golf course.” Of course, He didn’t. He took a long look at Himself and concluded that, bearing in mind the state of His brain and His continued ability to run marathons, He was good for another millennium.
The worst hypocrites, PP, are those people at the BBC. I particularly have in mind that duo in Bush House-(I hate the ***#**%#`~** bushy forest!) Blackbird Bum and Elizabeth Hyena. For the past twenty years, they have been hectoring us on the virtues of ‘multi-coloured demo-crazy, good governed-asses, and regular erections’.

The cheek of it! Who elected them? How many terms have they served? Don’t they know that the entire continent is crying out to be spared the tyranny of their voices lecturing us about ‘freedom and democracy’? I believe real freedom not to be bothered by the strictures of self-appointed moralists at the BBC, like Bum and Hyena.
And look at what Miss Hyena is up to now. She’s back in Africa as a Minister without Handbag, telling the poor President Cufflink what to think and say. Was she elected? Has she submitted herself to the will of the people?

I had a dream, PP, I had a dream. I dreamed I was attending the twelfth anniversary of the formation of the African Union. I was chatting to the Union’s President for Life, Colonel Muammar Graffiti. We were strolling along Graffiti Avenue in central Graffiti-Ville (capital of what used to be Ethiopia). Graffiti was complaining about the declining value of the Graffiti (the African Union’s currency) against the dollar.

“What we need,” I suggested, “is an injection of capital from new members”.
“But every African country is already a member” said Muammar.
“How about Germany?” I proposed. “The Germs have got loads of money, you know!”
“But they are not African,” he said. “They are not even black. In fact, they do not even like blacks. They don’t really like anyone who’s not German”
“No problem!” I said. “They can be honorary Africans”.
“But General-Specific, why would they join us?” asked Muammar.

“Well”, said I, “having failed totally to take over Europe, they are looking for new horizons.”
Graffiti, I could tell, was not convinced. He was more interested in taking over the European Union than in Germany swallowing us. In fact, I happen to know that Graffiti is currently financing the Southern Bavarian Lederhosen Liberation Front, which has in the recent past been involved in a number of atrocities involving exploding frankfurters and poisoned sauerkraut.
At this point, Captain Bob, the Number One Leader of the African Union’s Southern provinces joined us, and Flight Lieutenant JJ Warplane, now back as head of state of Africa’s Western region.
JJ Warplane was not happy. “I bring you bad news,” he said. “The people are not pleased with the African Union. They hate it.”

“Listen!” said Colonel Graffiti. “The achievements of the African Union are self-evident. We have lasted for ten years, we have the same currency and we all belong to a country of the same name. What more could we have done?”
We then fell to discussing titles and ranks. “Why is it,” I asked Muammar, “that you have always been a colonel? Why didn’t you promote yourself after your famous victories against American Imperialism and your triumph over Lockerbie? You were once called Private-public, but that was so many years ago. And what about you, JJ, why stick at Flight Lieutenant when you could so easily have been a Jumbo General?”

Graffiti gazed into the distance and said, “Colonel is not a military rank. Colonel means ‘the nucleus or central part of everything’ that’s me: the central part of everything-that is why I said a big no to the hypocritical arm-twisting antics of the West”
“Over the Lockerbie compensation?”

“Yes, yes. That was outrageous! Whenever Britons commit murder abroad, we never hear of the British Queen being told to accept responsibility and pay up!”
Captain Bob, who had been absorbed in his book, “How to torment Homosexuals, volume 3’, looked up and said, “Excuse me, Colonel. You are thinking of ‘kernel’, the nutty kind of kernel, the softer, and the edible kind of kernel”.

The president was obviously offended because as a young man he was very fond of nuts and would often eat them in the afternoon. Until one day, he got a Brazil nut caught in his throat and almost choked to death. So he ordered his ambassador to Brazil back to his palace and had him killed.
“Nutty, eh?” Screamed Graffiti. “Are you implying that I’m nutty, soft in the head, unfit to rule this great Union of ours?”

“Not at all!” said Captain Bob. “I’m just implying that you can’t spell.”
But Graffiti would have none of it. “You traitor! You plotter! You coward! You ex-leader of the African Union southern provinces!” And Graffiti pulled out one of his exploding frankfurters and threw it at Bob, blowing him into a thousand pieces. JJ also perished in the blast.

And that, PP, is how the African Union became a true union. No more North, East, South or West. Just Africa. Funny thing, dreams.’

The minister was very happy by the forwarded attachment. It had made his day.

READ MORE FROM MY NOVEL SUFFERIATION STREET.

Feminism cums to standoff turning on heat to men

2009-05-02T13:51:00.004+03:00

A lobby group WGO—Women Girls Organization, pressure group, GI- Girls International and SHE – Sexual Health Education, mobilised ‘women’ to demonstrate in the streets against a number of pressing issues—sexual harassments, Pro-Abortion Bills, Affirmative Action Bill, among other women ‘issues’. Twigs and placards reading all manner of demands were waved along the Sufferiation Street that brought traffic and business to a stand still when curious onlookers stood by to watch these women.

They had a point to make but many onlookers questioned their honesty –and whether it was not one of those protests with a hidden agenda. A new style of lobbying had emerged recently where money power were used to influence crucial decision makers in a bid to support these pressure groups. And often hired—protesters marched—the loudness of their protesting voices reciprocal to the amount of cash dispensed.

Being on the streets once again—it was just a few weeks back when they had had another successful ‘Sexual Boycott’—it brought in the question of ethics governing these powerful lobby groups, which was overstepping their bounds in influencing bills pending in and outside the parliament. Affirmative Action Bill had already been passed but these ‘women’ felt that the government was slow in implementing it because men and boy-child still had an undue advantage over the women and the girl-child.

They nagged that women were still vulnerable to stigma, sexual abuse, rights violations such as inheritance of land, domestic violence and too, that ‘SHE’ was stigmatised and haunted in every path-pregnancies, incest and rapes which stalked her all the time.

In their keynote address before those gathered for the demonstration, the organisers had a very vocal message to speak out over these gender issues.
‘We need to do away with the double standards and discriminatory legislation that confine our freedom and personal rights. Until these thought processes are eliminated, we will never be truly liberated as a society.

‘When we highlight the positive, we not only salute the efforts of the woman achiever, but also inspire even more women to achieve similar, if not greater, success.

‘Our work never seems to end: through motherhood, we raise, nurture, comfort, and educate the leaders of tomorrow. This is not a nine-to-five job. We have no annual or any other kind of leave. It is a job for life. Incredibly, we still have time and energy to hold down the more ‘convectional’ job. We are innovative scientists looking for a cure for AIDS and cancer; We are politicians and leaders; We are the artists who brighten up and excite our lives with song and dance. We are the flesh and blood of family life and society. Without us, all we’d have is a bare skeleton.’

Speaker after speaker followed with the same song.

‘We have to appreciate ‘us’ in all our totality; strength, beauty, intelligence, creativity, innovation, and infinite patience in bringing life into this world and nurturing it. Let’s have once big party around the world and appreciate ‘us’.’

This was followed by the grand march along the streets, paralyzing traffic in the busy highways, chanting! Shouting! Daring! Exercising their basic rights and proud at that. There had been recent spate of stripping women in Eastlands, especially those putting on ‘indecent’ clothes. A group of young girls had tight trousers minus blouses – just the thin bra. Others had micro –miniskirts with slits reaching up their grey areas, exposing what turned the heads of the many men’s staring eyes.

The ones on trousers were chanting; ‘As African women, we can celebrate the fact that we will wear trousers forever. We need a progressive mindset. There were hardships upon our grandmothers and mothers who endured to raise us. This is a chance for every woman everywhere to pledge their support our current and future generations.’

The Eastland ‘stripping incident’ was condemned in the strongest adjectives possible. ‘Hail Civilization! Hail Miniskirts! Hail Trousers!' they shouted as they marched. A poem composed for the same was recited in the placards- that demanded to have perpetrators brought to book.

Next followed ‘BULLSHIT FGM – ILLEGALL OPERATION’ placards waving women and girls. From the loudspeaker, one little girl was showing for all and sundry to see; ‘Ganjaweed are FGM! Awyei wid dem Shashamane! Never talk or glance at a member of male species for five minutes!’

Other champion placards declared; ‘THE F****G?! CUT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH PROMISCUITY!’ This was followed by dozens of ‘PELVIC PURITY COMES FROM GOOD MORALS! NOT FEMALE CIRCUMCISION.’

During the crusade later at the Heroes Corner, many speakers denounced the practise whose origins, as the prominent activists explained to the youths, was African and whose roots were deeply embedded in an obsolete cultural belief system that necessitated purity.

Another fiery feminist speaker bitterly condemned the practice; ‘One need not be female to discredit this ‘masculine’ crap for its deep cultural and ethnic entanglements. A bullshit practice that some goons and fools ashamedly regard as a rite of passage, but it violates basic woman right.

‘At a time when we are advocating against abusive practices, at a time we are against degrading practice, why are we continuing to patronize customs that treat matriarchs like commodities? Why should a woman be worth more dowries if she is circumcised? Purity…! You say? I say bullcrap!’ and she spat to demonstrate her distaste and heighten her dramatis personae as a public speaker.

‘Tell dem say!’ shouted some youths.
‘Toboa!’ others yelled.
‘Biss-millah!’ yet others sighed.
‘You are wrong!’ She persisted. ‘Heads over heels – you are deader than dodo wrong!’ Circumcised girls feel more adult and engage in sexual relations than uncircumcised ones. If you doubt me, just visit the areas where girls are ‘cut’ and you will see like I saw. There’s a higher rate of teenage pregnancy and school drop outs.’ They clapped and chanted at this.

A prominent feminist gave a hate-speech, which carried away the listeners with her extraordinary feminist backlash sentiments.
‘V!” She greeted. ‘Amandla Vee!’ She was one who had tasted the fruits of women movement through her involvement with the Vagina Monologue Activism.

‘V Day Every Day, O Daughters of Eve!’

Many women and girls were ignorant as to what she was talking about, so she explained.
‘When I say V sisters, shout Vagina, shout Victory, shout Violence.’ She informed. ‘This is what we should say when we declare total Victory over Violence to the Vagina! This is our anthem.’ She pressed on.

‘V! Amadla?’
‘Vee Yohuro?’
‘Vee Uhuru?’

A few daring girls shouted back. This infuriated her.

‘Daughters of Eve, are you ashamed of your God-given organ? The V-cut is harmful to our female psyche, inimical to our reproductive health, potentially fatal and illegal. So why are girls still dying from it and their practitioners still largely untouched? Should we not be seeing truckloads of the razor-welding surgeons being incarcerated for performing the illegal act? Shouldn’t we be seeing our prison overflowing with the hospital nurses who abet this violence against the vagina?’
She was cheered and lifted shoulders high and became an instant heroine.

‘V! Sisters!’ She dared.
‘Vagina! They thundered back.
‘Vee… for what?’
‘Va – gi-y- na!’ They chanted resolutely.

A ‘Virgins Only’ Pressure Group - First and Second Virgins-the former never had sex while the latter vowed to abstinence after having ‘forced’ to have sex - marched along too, waving twigs protesting against sexual abuse – that virgins were becoming an endangered species and they would soon come to extinction. They dressed on white bridal gowns and veils covered their faces.

The Widows of Veterans followed the demonstrations from their corner. These were trying to pressure the government to compensate them for their contribution in the struggle for independence.

HIV/AIDS Pressure Groups, wearing red skirts signifying the deaths wiping out the vulnerable women and black blouses representing dark misery to mothers and orphans and girls hiding because of stigma, protested in their corner too. Tomato-sauce dripping placards expressing their concerns were waved.

It stated: ‘ABC discriminates against women. Women cannot abstain when rape and violence is rife in society. Women are faithful-men are not. Men are not straight-no matter how well you feed a dog, it will always scavenge in the rubbish dump. Yes, ABC is men-friendly. Look at condoms-it is men only affair-some even use it twice especially in the rural areas.’

The Heroes Corner in Uhuru Garden became a parade for the rights of women. Poems were recited. Songs and dances performed and theatrical performance was acted. Moving speeches were made.

‘Brutality against women and girls every single day-carried even in the press-must stop. We are in the midst of worst crisis of morality in our history. We are being preyed on, raped, and murdered on daily basis across the land. Broken violated bodies are being discovered in the bush every time. If you are a woman who is carjacked, may the Good Lord be your Shepherd. The shadow of rape and the phantom of violence hang over the head and shoulders of each and every woman and bar none.’

Speaker after speaker drummed.

‘Where you are men folk of Africa, as your sisters, mothers and daughters are ruined by your brothers? Are you silent because rape happens to other people? Are you quiet because it has never affected anyone in your closest circle of friends yet? Or are you mute because in your heart of hearts, you are a rapist yourself?

‘The women of Africa cannot find their way out of this jungle by themselves. They are not adequately represented in the police force to track down the criminals on their own. They are not present in the judiciary in enough numbers, to send the few beasts that are caught away for very long time. They have no say in the parliament and no way in changing our laws. And they don’t have the physical strength to protect themselves when the demon attacks.’

‘Until all of us in this country wake up, this problem will not end. We are in a midst of an epidemic. Even those men, who sneer at the concept of rape while sitting in bars ogling women around them with lust they can barely conceal, should flinch at the rape of little ones-who are still immersed in the bliss of innocence, are being subjected to the worst form of adult carnality.

‘The bell is tolling for every woman in Africa to stand up and be counted. Let the politicians take their eyes off political pastimes for just a moment and make loud statements in the most forthright terms possible condemning rape as unacceptable.

‘The police commissioner must reveal to us very clearly, what his plan of action is -and what he is doing to contain the predators in his own force. Women-only Police Stations and ‘Spider Squads’ are very good start but, not enough.

‘Those who control the public coffers need to realize that there is no more pressing use of taxpayer’s money than the protection of the bodies, the honour and the dignity of our women folk.’

The local chapter of ‘Violence against Women speaker then turned to address the dummies and effigies of naked men bragging of larger-than-life semi-erect organs.

‘And what of you my testosterone filled friends? You should hang your heads together in abject shame (which their holders put their heads to touch down). You have created the society that does violations that shames the nation.

‘You have stood by and watched as social values deteriorate before your own eyes. You have cracked the jokes that reduce us to mere chattels. You have harboured illicit lust in your hearts that find its ugliest expression in the acts of a rapist. You must now place feminity and motherhood close to divinity again, as ‘We Were Once, Queens.’

'We-want-justice-not – poli-trics! End Sex-ploitation!’ chants raved in the air. They were announcing their boycott of sex until the patriarchs gave in to their demands and recognized their fight for equal society. They vowed to starve the machoistic tradition of romance until they were on familiar and equal terms with them.

‘Yes! Boycott sex until these predators starve! No reforms! No sex!’ they chanted deliriously in unison.

The climax was the cutting and burning of male penis effigies and dummies—animated cartoons of public figures—of naked men were displayed. Then the leaders led the demonstrators in cutting their organs, gorging and mutilating out their testicles, castrating sex organs which ‘had caused so much trouble to women more the all the wars combined’ as one placard proudly announced. Burning of these thousand – plus organs followed.

Anti-riot police watched with hawk–eyes at these women now chanting; 'We want peace! We've suffered so much! No more sex-ploitation!'

Another T-shirt announced for all who cared to see; “All our problems have to do with MEN; MENtal distress, MENstruation, MENopause!'
Two enterprising hawkers who ventured to sell their ‘Play-Safe’ condoms and lollipops to these angry women had their goods confiscated and stripped naked.

The police cut short their demonstration. One policeman was pelted with stones and other missiles as he came to announce the meeting illegal. Drama followed as another policeman was stripped naked. Tear gas canisters were thrown to disperse these stark raving and mad Daughters of Eve. Rubber bullets were also used to quell these violent ladies, and running battle took to the streets.

Only the international press covered this ‘breaking news’ and announced to the outside world of the ‘barbaric’ cutting of five men's sexual organs during the skirmishes – two belonging to the police officers and three, their ‘innocent owners’ caught up in the scuffle.

These attacks were described by the few men interviewed as ‘primitive and savage in this age of enlightenment.’

The other scenes that caught the attention of viewers were those of an old lady who lifted up her skirt and was exposing her back side to the police and shouting abuses to them, as she roundly shifted her bottoms—up and down—left to right, shouting: 'This one is for the Police Commissioner.' She cursed as she directed her immense fat bottoms—like two stale bread—in the police direction.

‘This one is for the men folk – and it's clean by half!’
She turned her backside to this press and dramatically swung it sideways; 'And this is for the press.’ She amusingly displayed, but was roughly caught and bundled in the waiting police Land Rover.

Apparently, there was no mention of these women in the local newspapers the next day save for the catching news of another item now popular with lawyers.

LAWYER CAUSES STIR
A mentally disturbed lawyer who ripped off a minister’s car yesterday stunned the court again when she recited the Loyalty Pledge and chanted the National Anthem instead of answering the charges. Mrs.Mkati Aji, described by colleagues as a brilliant advocate and scholar, began singing immediately after the judge finished reading the charge sheet. The woman recited the three stanzas in Kiswahili holding her right hand fist to the chest and then stretching it up in the air, gesturing to the stunned public to join her.

The judge then ordered the lawyer to be taken for mental check-up. The incident attracted a large crowd into the courtroom before orderlies took away the accused to the basement cells. Mrs.Mkati Aji was accused of removing a pendant from a minister’s Mercedes Benz 700 series car at the parliament buildings on Tuesday. The second charge stated that she threatened to ‘castrate’ the minister for culture and his driver, Mr. Azali Mapesa.

Earlier on, there was anxiety at the courts when lawyers, having learnt that the accused was one of their own, denied that she had mental problem, saying that she was only expressing what many people would wish to state. Former classmates and professional colleagues described her as an intelligent and sensitive woman-a graduate of Harvard, who mastered from Oxford and having worked in South Africa. She was also a political writer for one of the local dailies.

However, the judge warned them that it had become a common trait with lawyers behaving in a manner likely to cause a breach of peace following a similar incident inside the precepts of parliament when apparently another lawyer caused a ‘stir’ etc, etc…
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From the novel ‘Sufferiation Street’ P266ff.

Thus Spake Mr. Round Square ....

From a Poet Aspirant

To Aspirant Poets

Unpoetical

Unpoetical

Poetic Faith

Poetic faith

Revered Servant of the Sword

chicken crossing

Close Shaves vii

Close Shaves vi

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I was handing out directions on how to make something. I can not even remember now what it was. One little boy turned to the kid next to him and he said--- "I love it when Mrs. Towell hands out erections."

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Close Shaves v

Moon is more important than Sun, couz it gives light at Night when light is needed; And Sun gives light during the day when light is not needed!!!

Omwami on an interview for the post of Detective:Interviewer: "Who killed Gandhi?"Omwami: "Thank you Sir for giving me the job, I will startinvestigating..."

Mwalimu: "In which state does the Nyando flow?"Omwami: " Liquid State ..."Audience clapped.Mwalimu stands stunned, looks behind, All were Omwamis...!

Omwami wanted to eat chicken bt dnt know its name in english, so when he saw an Englishman eating boiled eggs, he called the waiter and ordered: “I want their mother'

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Imaginative Letter to Son

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Close Shaves iv

Kikuyu Power..

Omera, When are you coming to pay me a visit?

CHINOZ THE HERO!!

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Close Shaves iii

Close Shaves ii

Mortifying Mona Lisa vii. What goes around...?

Mortifying Mona Lisa vi. Concrete Plans.

Mortifying Mona Lisa v. Grilling Debauchery.

Close Shaves i

Mortifying Mona Lisa iv. ~ Shocking Revelations.

Mortifying Mona Lisa iii. A Curious Engagement

Mortifying Mona Lisa ii ~ Know Thyself

Mortifying Mona Lisa i. Flattery dripping flirt

United States of Africa & Poli-tricks

Feminism cums to standoff turning on heat to men

Omwami on an interview for the post of Detective:
Interviewer: "Who killed Gandhi?"
Omwami: "Thank you Sir for giving me the job, I will start
investigating..."

Mwalimu: "In which state does the Nyando flow?"
Omwami: " Liquid State ..."
Audience clapped.
Mwalimu stands stunned, looks behind, All were Omwamis...!