Sunday, 11 October 2015

RELIGIOUS MUSINGS (Christianity)


Religion is a noble practice that, unfortunately, has the capacity to reduce the most intelligent of us into a walking mess of retrogression. For every wonderful religious folk, there are a few extremists who smear this aristocratic front with the unholy muds it seeks to make redundant. This they do by either being too uptight, holier-than-thou, snobbish and condescending or by deliberately misquoting scriptures to further a selfish agenda. Then, there is a special case that use religion for self development, which in itself is not a bad thing, until you realise it is 'at all cost', the flocks I am preaching to be damned, humanity be damned. Nothing done that laughs in the face of humanity bears fruits that aren't bitter or painful. Religion is one of the pillars of hope for humanity and thus must be treated with the reverence it deserves.

My religious background taught me to respect religion and that rings true even now, though I m a skeptic. People's belief and faith in religion should never ever be taken for granted, which therefore means that those using religion for the betterment of their own pockets while leaving the flock still flocking in poverty have best come out of their con-man shaped cocoon and be honest. The tithe and offering offered are to furnish your Highrise apartment and buy you a Beamer. Lay it all bare. It's okay. True, maybe it will be detrimental and self defeating but humanity complexity has your back, you will still have your stalwart believers.

Still on religious folks riding on religion -shaped business agenda, isn't it ironical that some of the folks who claim to have a personal relationship with God barely have a sense of shame or empathy? That even when they have wronged and their awful misadventure has led to a loss of life, they still claim innocence and cast aspersions to those calling them out of their fault?  Isn't it ironical that the humility they preach to us, the humility they tell us God expects from us, is barely a term they can spell? That, as they speak of how pure Jesus was, their hearts are darker than a moonless night and their motives contain more evil than the name devil? The recent outing of fake pastors has been happening at such startling frequency that it makes religion as a whole look like a glorified syndicate of wrong doers. It is high time the christian folks reconsider their ways and shift the trust they have dumped on these so called Men of God onto something else, maybe wholly onto The Holy Bible. Men of God! More like men from dogs. If I sound angry, its because I am. The motives of many churches today has shifted from spreading the Gospel then making money to making money then making money then making more money; those silly believers can go swallow soap and positive thoughts. Churches have become burdens, cursed mansions of sin and christians should distance themselves from such churches and just work their way around the Bible. Damn, these pastors aren't even telling you anything that isn't in the Bible and understanding metaphors is quite easy if you read well.

Moving onto the religious folks themselves, bigotry is a sin. Seems some don't get that. While being a human who plays by the rules of a Diety might come with benefits such as ranking higher on the morality ladder, intolerance and at times outright loathe to people who don't consent to your set of rules is an indespicable act that I believe even the father of lies might be tempted to run away from. It doesn't matter how awful 'other' human beings are, discrimination, dogmatism and hatred are not admirable traits. It doesn't matter how many charities you support single-handedly or how well you can manoeuvre the Bible blindfolded, when you hate, you befoul all your good deeds. The greatest commandment according to God himself is love one another (see I also read the Bible). True, its hard, at times downright impossible, to love another, but that's when tolerance is required. It's an action, not just a noun. Sometimes ( and I believe its almost every time), there is usually an undercurrent of reason flowing beneath the tide of rashness, a voice that asks for second thoughts and second chances. A voice that asks you to forgive. That's the voice of humanity. It's there in almost all of us, and if you feel it, listen to it and follow what it tells you. Associating with only one of your kind is comfortable, but being able to accomodate others that you have nothing in common with is priceless. Being accomodative is one of the best traits any of us could ever possess.

So, therefore, in our daily dealings with life, let us remind ourselves that Religion is not a tool for separation and self-magnification but is an important column on which we support our cause to rid ourselves of these ghosts of prejudice that make us lose hope in ourselves.


Saturday, 10 October 2015

A DREAMER'S PRAYER

Part 2

The magnitude of this dream I know not, maybe just you and the devil might know, but I look not to ask the devil for favours before I exhaust all my options with You, oh God. Hitherto, my entire existence has been structured, systematic and possibly even a lie. So no more shall I look to buy time, for I have wasted enough hours to let some more pass me by. So on this day, and every other day henceforth, let me be able to nullify this mental block that tries to nest in this mind. Doesn't this filth obstacle not know the bore it lay on a fragile heart fuelled by pure passion and purpose? I wish to be able to twist its slimy throat between my mortal fingers. I was built for this, and no hinderance can stall nor hold hostage anymore this ball of resilience, for this body is a host of eminent legacy. I won't stop the chase so as to appease my lazy alter ego, for I have wasted enough time being a slouch to give up this new-found, relieving purpose and focus. Lord, don't let me let myself die before I let this dream out, for it pulls me, draws me with a force stronger than a magnetic attraction and failure to try and reach it will be the ultimate failure and letdown to, not just myself but to everyone with high expectations of me, and most importantly you. Would you want that? Then give me the strength. My bones are hollow and fractured. My muscles are cramped. My brain is dead, my spirit is broken. My last ounce of strength is spent and now my fingers can no longer hold. My eyes are dimming. I am sick and weary. Wornout and deadbeat. Yet I can't stop this dream from happening. It'a all over me, Dear God, like some kind of disease, like a compulsive habit that I cannot rid myself of and one that I surely wouldn't want to rid myself of even if I had that power. Even at my most laguid and indolent, it creeps up on me, swarm me like critters of prey on a prey. Its malignancy is as potent as cancerous growth. Let me put it out there, Dear God, before  it bursts out of the seams of my thoroughly incapacitated body and leave me a shell of putrification.

No Dear God, I am not asking you to lay it for me on a silver platter. All I am asking for is the strength. I want to hold on just a little longer, push just a little harder, to do it just a little better, to weather the extremes just a bit more courageously, yet I know, all that cannot and will not happen if the only thing I keep doing is keeping on dreaming. I set out to meet these expectations and surpass them and I call upon you to hold my hand and guide me to safety. I am a mess, but I wouldn't want to die a mess that failed to heed when summoned to righten wrongs.

So help me God. I may not be religious, but my belief in You is steadfast, and I know You believe in me too. So I ask that You see me through and bless all that I do.

Amen.

Friday, 9 October 2015

Act 1

Scene: (yet to decide)

[Robert and Lina step into the living room. Elvis is crouched infront of the stereo system. He is fiddling with the knobs as if trying to fix something. Lina crumples back into her previous couch as Robert, painting in hand, drags gracefully to the sofa he had been sitting in.]

ROBERT : (sounding concerned as he speaks to Lina) My dear, will you not go and have yourself some food?

LINA : (wincing slightly as she closes her eyes and reclines in her couch) Oh dad its okay. I'm full. ( she opens a single eye and looks at the shiny yellow bulbs hanging from the chandelier) I just have enjoyed something quite heavy.

ELVIS : (turning a cheeky smile to his sister) Weh! Don't tell me the date fell through.

LINA : (sitting up suddenly) Jesus, shut up !

ROBERT : (looking lost) What date?

ELVIS :  Oh come on Lina, everyone knows it. I knew it even before you knew it. (He ducks to avoid the pillow Lina hurls at him. He picks it up and laughs on) That doesn't change the fact that I knew it.

ROBERT : (looking more confused) What date?

LINA : (sounding angered) Hey let me never find you up in my business again.

ELVIS : ( standing up and rushing to his feet, a wry smile on him) Ah Lina kubali tu. Its not like dad atakuchapa na slippers juu you are dating.

ROBERT : (now completely disoriented and annoyed) What date ?

LINA : Elvis! Elvis! Elvis! How many times did I call you?

ELVIS : (scratching his head) If my amnesia serves me right- I don't remember.

ROBERT : ( at last short on patience) Okay you two, stop with your young adult, yet-to-fully-mature squabbling. (Both Lina and Elvis go quiet. Robert nods approvingly) Glad I am understood. So will I hear about these dates or what?

LINA : ( jumping in before Elvis can open his mouth) Oh, today dad, my friends and I decided to go on blind dates so I ended up with this hank who-

ROBERT : (holding up a hand) Hold it hold it.  Hank what what?

LINA : ( breaks into a laughter and is soon joined by Elvis as Robert frowns in unamusement) Oh dad a hank is just a handsome man.

ROBERT : ( nodding) oh - ho. Cut the old man some slack. He can't tell a hand from a duck.

LINA :  Huh?

                        *    *    *

Exerpt from my newest work, a play titled 'Why I Hate My Neighbour' which is explores relations between two  different cultures and races forced to unite in the most divisive of circumstances. It promises to be a fun read full of amazing twists and humour as well as a message or two. Keep it here for a few more sporadic excerpt updates.

CHAPTER 9: A Strange Night

...
   So should she? The thought rankled on, heeding to exactly none of her pretensious efforts at distractions. Beyond the walls of her room, someone groaned and mumbled intelligible nonsense. Anna sneered. After drinking himself silly, Bosco had slumped into the sofa and was probably just waking up, wondering in what dimensions exactly the non-existent blanket had fallen into and whether the bed had indeed been that small when he slept on it. She turned and looked at the dress spread on the bed. She reached for the hem and felt the skirt between her index finger and thumb. Wouldn't it be nice if she could be happy for once? It didn't matter how, or with whom, but wouldn't it- wouldn't it be nice to have fun? To live life and laugh out loud? Marouane hadn't bothered  returning her calls. Mad- sure, but the lack of even a sliver of concern hurt her most, the fact that he had refused to cut her some slack. Was it hard to understand that she had a sick brother? Did he think it was any easier on her to disappoint him? But wait; those were wrong questions anyway. The tasking puzzle was; did he even care about her? Did he even love her? She twisted her lips in disgust and began channelling hatred from the basement of her regular emotion home and tried directing the venom towards him. He had proven he was yet just as selfish as those schmucks he calls friends. Sam gave a low groan. She turned to him but the boy was not waking. He turned and faced the centre of the room, eyes half closed, mouth splayed open with saliva drooling down the side of his mouth, a show of how enjoyable the sleep was after a long day in the hospital. Anna reached down and parted him lightly on his side belly and cooed to his ear. Just as he had startled, he fell right back seamlessly into his peaceful sleep. She looked at him, but her thoughts had taken off. She would go. She would go to the party. She would look for Emma and Priscilla and the three would see the night through in the best possible way. She reached down for the dress in resolve-
She stood before the mirror, the koroboi held in her left hand. She looked good. Beautiful! The earrings dangling down her ears glittered in spasms, twinkling like stars fallen on. The hair, straightened and held in a bun behind her head, sheened in its pitch black shade and her radiant face glowed and her lips glistened with the mild redness of the lipstick. Beautiful! She threw on some leggings to ward off the biting chill, picked up a tiny clutch bag and threw in some other numerous effects. Then, she picked up a black, woolen jacket, pecked Sam lightly on his cheeks, blew out the koroboi and stepped out, leaving the door ajar behind her. What she didn't know however, was that the ill hand of fate was not done messing with her, that the culmination of  events coming in the next few hours would render that kiss to her brother the last.

                 *           *            *

Excerpt from my very first attempt at a full novel writing 'The Red Hills Of Ivojo' which I'm still working on with hopes of publishing.

Saturday, 19 September 2015

A DREAMER'S PRAYER

Part 1

After a toil and hunt for the bread, daily I sit upon this creaking bed, sick and weary, the uncertainities, consequences and possibilities of tomorrow leaving me shaken and dreary. If these dreams come with a price, I trust I am committed enough to pay. If this life comes with a risk, then on death I'm willing to lay. Bless the mind that dreams and bless tenfold the hand that does. These dreams look to be dispatched and dispensed to the world and a print to be left by each word.

In these puny hands is a task, a task that has to be done before dusk. I'm sick of putting on a mask. True, I seek humility but let me shed some wight off my modesty. Not that I want to be a brag, but rather proclaim to the world the fact that I am no drag. Whether I live this dream by mouth or hand, I don't mind, but from this moment on, I lift the blind off this raw mind and let the dreams that had been hidden now be the guide I live by and abide.

Patience is a virtue. I'm willing to accomodate a delay, but don't let the despair that come my way fair better than I. Having walked the lowest streets of existence, Lord don't let me bring me back into that being. Books, knowledge, passion, fooling, cursing, learning, living all don't amount to much but if ever, by a strong pull of the fates, these dreams never amount to much, then let me be able to let my children also be called 'a rich man's children'. Let their loins also be dressed in a rich man's scent and that the footprints they leave be made of gold. Let it be that on their every walk, around them, be people willing to kiss the ground that they walk. Yet I still pray open these eyes, that they may not just visualise the dream, but be the dream, that the dreams cease to just be dreams, but become the very existence, the very meaning of life, the definition of living and being alive

It is my sincere hope that my insistence isn't a bother Dear Lord, for this is just the beginning. You never tire and my prayer is that upon me you may cast your undying and tireless spirit, that if I am to die, that I may die in the battlefield, that I may bite the bullets and still rise. That I may avoid suffocation in squalor owing to my yawning pockets and screaming wallets. The coin I toss, and ready I am to count my loss, all so that I may live the life I dream to live. Bold, ready to face the demons of my repose and cast aside the overwhelming doubt, ready to meet my destiny, who will be waiting on me with open arms and a smile, I suppose.

Before me I see beams. The spotlight upon me shines and the applause behind the splitting white beams die down. Is it, that my mere appearance, just the fact that I have shown up, is to be celebrated more than the show I put on?  That is more like it, it seems, that fortune upon me never gleams and that I should let go of these pesky ideas and give up these silly dreams. If I had reality at the mercy of my whims, Dear Lord, it would have been my dream to cast away these dreams, but a purpose beyond personal gratification beckons, and I am no longer too selfish to ignore. I have grown sick of constantly fighting this war, forever on the fence, not sure whether to stay or go.  So, I say now, as I have said before, I fully embrace my valuable valour and let this dream go, so that I may at last put to rest my ambivalence with my life. Now, I hope to keep up the work, consistence, and keep pushing my limits, persistence. I ask for strength, Oh Lord, that even when I am questioned and doubted, I can keep a stable foot and hold my balance. I pray that I may find solace in solitude, quiescence, that I may find bright ambience even in the dimmest of nights.  ...

To be continued.


Sunday, 13 September 2015

TO MY DEAREST

In this reeking lair
Seated on this cold creeking chair
I write
Write to you
With hope that you stop your wander
Write about you
With dear candor
Write for you
To celebrate your honour

In abject squalor
I have been
On empty stomach
I have slept, on clammy concretes I have l lain
My back washed in pain,
I have bent and kissed the lowest ebb
Of living and being alive
Take this scribe, my dearest
As a frank contract
A bold commitment to my utterances
That when you indeed rest in my arm
You will be peaceful through the night
And see the day just how you find right
At no one moment
Will you walk over the shards of glass
That malaised my entire existence
No longer
Will the soles of your feet be mapped with blisters and swells
Forget being famished and malnourished
With me dear, you are and will be forever cherished
Upon your head
I commit myself
All this struggle is for you
That you may know trouble
But not in its crudest element, misery
That you may cry
But not offend your face with a deluge
That you may fear
But no be paralysed with terror
And that you may smile
And break your ribs when laughing
Because I know that with you
My dearest
I have a reason to do more

'The Writing Of The Collosus: A Poem Anthology' by Kiraka D Mugatsia

Saturday, 12 September 2015

A VOYAGE OF DESTINY

In a castaway land,
A land of thriving murk of poverty
A land where everyone was no one
Someone was born.
Through every wrong and right,
Through the thick and lean
Through the shrewd dealings of reality
A legend grew.
To blaze a trail, they sought
And the sky's enigmatic allure,
So fetching, blissful and pure
Beckoned
And who is the legend
Not to respond to the call to duty.
Never,
In the land where everyone was no one
Shall it remain the same
The stalemate has been broken
And cast atide on the dhow
Is Destiny
On the uncertain waters
Over peaceful depths
And unsettling shallows
It will float
Through the waves and the tides
Through the gentle waters that lap on its sides
The vessel will heed no divergent calls
As the wind fills the sail
No more shall it all be in vain
The voyage of destiny
From view in the periphery
Is set to dock
I advice you make merry
For from the castaway land
A land where everyone was no one
Someone has risen.













Photo from www.travelphotosforyou.com
Courtesy of Anna Andersson

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