This Beautiful World

This beautiful world 

Oh, my bones it rattle 

My heart, alas! 

It rends with precision 

Scything through the riotous throb 

A tumult of orgasmic elation 

A surge of cheerful contentment 

As the sun drenches the verdant hills, 

Domes looming in the vicinity and the curved horizon, 

With the mellow bars of its unerring rays 

The thin leaves of the pine trees glittering in the day

As the conspicuous red flowers of the Nandi Flame singe the eyes 

But with grace, pleasantly mild

The light filtering between the leaves and branches 

To the maculated and dewy undergrowth  

Crawling with earthworms and red ants 

To the flowers on the briers and bougavillea shrub 

Mottled with the elegant glide of the butterfly 

As the weaver and the swallow sing 

A harmonised melody from the heavy crown of the fig 

And on my skin the warmth dances 

Like a tender caress - soft and loving 

Kind and courteous to my happily trembling bones 

 My cankered bases restored.

My eyes glow and grow 

 At the pulchritude of nature 

 Balmy and rustic existence 

Oh, this beautiful world, 

My heart of stone, it thawed.

Beauty, and The Wonder of loving it

The glistening down
Dusk
Thinly clouded westside
Fall
Sun setting to rise
In worlds away and beyond
Orange flatters grey clouds
Strokes of the rosy rays
On my cold skin play
In me
Invokes
Sound wonder and Raw marvel
At the golden shine
Horizon
Of a glorious Sun down.

So, you may not be all that I wished for
But you have provided all that I needed
And so much more
You may not be up to the pristine wishes
Of my faulty fancies
But you have been more than 
A fulfilling reality
And for you my love I give, Oh glorious sundown.

Short Prose

"The law forbids me from brandishing my gun in public when I'm under no threat so get your hands off that gun."

"Oh Elvin," Leo smacked, "I'm not that stupid. You reach for your pockets I reach for my gun. Just to be sure, so don't mind." 

"I'm duty-bound not to kill you in public, much less without you posing a direct threat." Elvin gruffed, looking at Leo with his eyes narrowed. 

"But I'm a most wanted." Leo bragged, a disdainful sneer on his face. He turned and let his eyes wander in the restaurant. A waiter stood by the doorway leading to the kitchen, as people teemed about in the foreground. He had his eyes firmly on Leo but upon meeting the brute's eyes, he averted them to the door, where and elderly woman waddled in, a young man by her side, keeping her in stride.

"Who's that and why is he staring at me?" Leo turned to Elvin and used his eyes to lead him. "That waiter with jaws like a chisel." Elvin turned a disinterested eye at the waiter, who was now rushing to the table where the elderly woman had settled.

"Perhaps he is wondering just how long we can keep our butts here." Elvis said. "We better make this quick. I want to arrest you. You want to hand yourself in right?" 

"You have moles in here don't you?" Leo said, his face suddenly plunged into an aggressive scowl, brows knotted, and eyes narrowed. He appeared beastly, much truer to the brute he actually was. 

"I said I don't know him." Elvin retorted, displaying his own aggression with a sharp look and pellucid eyes. "Perhaps he likes you."

"Oh that's funny." Leo said and with a swift move, he whipped out his gun. 

He moved fast, so fast that Elvin had been left momentarily blurred as the figure fleeted before him and fired. The crack of the gun broke the calm air of a dusk tea den. Momentarily, time stopped as the bullet whizzed over heads following the explosive burst. It was immediately followed by sharp screams as everyone scampered off their butts in panic.

The waiter, tray in hand, collapsed in a heap as the elderly woman momentarily forgot her age as she scampered awkwardly to the door, where a bottleneck of scared people lumped in a rush to get outside. Elvin ducked late as Leo pointed the gun and fired at him. The impact threw him back, sending him crashing on the table behind him as his blood scattered and sprayed onto the white wall behind. In place of his left eye, was a gouged socket throbbing with deep red blood, his whole face smeared with the gore as blood pooled below his head from his torn skull.

Sad Love Song

Bolo was a wispy man. He came in an odd shape. He had a phallic head which was supported over his scrawny, lanky frame with a thin neck. Not exactly a human being that eased one's eyes. If anything, based on the fallability of instant bias that comes with a being human, he was repulsive, repellent. He had little, if at all anything physical, that atoned for the cruel physicality bestowed upon him. He was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, The Beast, a man who could lose a beauty contest to a warthog and still go home feeling like a champion for at least making it far enough to be in the final two. He had reddish, watery and distended eyes, a disproportionate nose that seemed to gulp down oxygen through the outrageously oversized nostrils and a pair of thin, dry lips that folded into a crooked smile that went a long way in bringing to prominence the ugly wrinkles on his cheeks and the hideous forehead folds that his straight face hid. While others held their smiles as a redeeming asset, Bolo's smile would be what made him the undisputed repugnant entity. It did more damage and offered no discounts. Which was why he barely smiled, barely even creased the side of his cheek by a millimeter. The last time he had smiled was something of half a decade ago, in the midst of strangers. A joke had been cracked. It had been a raw one, a ribcracker of rare authenticity and punch which had been delivered with a deadpan humourist that had become his good friend since that day. Just like everyone around, he could not control himself. Yet by the time the laughter was smouldering , it was he that provided the humour, he had become the joke. His aversion to smiling had thus been born. For years now, he had cultivated in him a brood and now, five years on, he owned his melancholy and wore his solemn, grave and humourless face with pride. But forget about smiling. At least he had had a chance to smile until five or so years ago. He had never had sex. Never. And he was clocking twenty five. Not that he seemed to care much anyway. Sure he longed for a girlfriend, but he had long been let know of his shortcomings and had come to see it as the definition of whom he was. So he never bothered to hit on any woman, even those he felt he would die for. Why would they want to look at him while they could find pleasure staring at the waters leaking from a broken sewer? So porn and masturbation became his distressful comfort. His struggles yet his fulfilment. His pleasure yet his guilt. Something that did not fill him with pride yet something he did with zeal akin to passion. His fantasy was to get a decent woman. His reality was masturbating to phone sex with an Asian prostitute with curves to die for. How inverted life was. Definitely not fair but not wholly unfair either. At least he once got to screw a voluptuous bbw in a dark alley at K- street. Yet still, this other thing is what actually kept him going. It was his passion, his definition. This one thing he did that could make all people respect him, make any woman fall for him, earn him enough money to live a comfortable life. Thinking of it in that sense flattered him and gave him the fuel to keep working on it. If only they stopped and paid attention when he rose and spoke. At least just slice him an ounce of their time and he would blow their minds away. He reached for the guitar and held it in hand. He placed the notes before him and studied them keenly. Then he strummed the first notes of this sad, love song he was composing.

EMOTIONAL DISCOURSE

I'm trapped in a glass case of emotion.
My mind is a vine of confusion and muse distortion. Maybe I'm a little psychotic but I know that despite the despair I exude, I 'm  optimistic, a roving feline, or as Romeo and Juliet, I believe in destiny. Sure they both die at the end but who said a babboon can't enjoy some wind beating against the red anus even when it's red and ugly as fuck.

In the never ending quest to make it, I realised damn it! I'm too serious. Hell, I even make the name serious frown at me like 'seriously?' (He he that's my laughable attempt at modern day lingua). Also, its raining, our houses are flooding. Better wake up with a smile as we scoop these waters in our plates, cups and spoons as we break into a unanimous 'Count your blessings' chorus, washing the water down to a farmer who truth be told looks out of place in Nairobi. He already has enough blessings, but who said you can't stock 'em? Then, go to work where my boss will probably shout at me with some vibes and rhymes that will make Eminem sound silly and uneducated and make Kanye's philosophical rants sound like gibberish a madman would say before disappearing down a hallway into their rooms in a mental institution. Also I think Kanye and Eminem are the best rappers ever, alongside Khaligraph and Kalamashaka crew (Johnny Vigeti, Roba and that third guy whose name I can't remember to recall), and Zaka na Kah and every single member of Ukoo Flani Mau Mau. If you are not here its not personal, its professional.

I bet insanity is taking over me slowly, like how a malignant cancer just fucks you up one Monday morning when you are singing 'Singing in the shower' in the shower. But atleast I get to experience the descent to insanity instead of having it bludgeon me down to the dregs of normalcy one Sunday afternoon as I listen to Esther Wahome on my Hi-Fi, or to Bahati lament in each of his tracks (No hate).

It takes a lot to look at life, and not stare at the harsh reality. No seriously. Fuck reality! I want to live in this blissful world of my dreams, where I am a caveman with intellect and a prisoner with no dilemma. A world where I am the most important cog holding humanity together. A world whereby I'm the go-to guy, without whom the world would be using spoons to fetch water and...wait, we actually do that. I mean, who wants to know that they are insignificant and their presence in the world is only mildly consequential? Not useless, just not entirely as useful as we believe. Seriously, to hell with that. I am the man of men. The reason I was born is because humanity needs me, needs me like a Jay needs a Beyonce, or a Beyonce needs a lemonade (sorry I could not control myself. Just had to use it). Without me, guys would just be stumbling around, being insignificant and shit. Me, I'm the shit... I carry my own tissue paper to wipe other shits* with.

So I woke up today and thought 'Wait a minute. Sitting around and staring at the cold hard facts just depresses me.' So I decided I'm going to avert my eyes from reality and flutter my eyelids at fantasy and daydream. I had a connection with them once but we lost touch (poor them. They must have been so lost without me). My primary school Math teacher was harsh, but my crush was not. She was hot. So I stared at her during Math lessons to lessen the discomfiture of sitting through two whole hours of pure numerical grinds and nothing else. Also I thought she smiled at me once but I'm not sure. It looked like a cross between a grimace and an oh-God-get-me-out-of-here-sneer. But who said a man can't dream. She probably thought she was still a virgin but I took it away from her in my wet dreams. Also I know she liked me she just didn't want to show it. Well keep playing hardball girl, me and my significant self won't be hanging around forever. Take advantage of me while the offer lasts, otherwise you lose me, you lose a very key part of humanity. What is that you say? That I ain't that important? Please refer to previous paragraph because you are reading too hard. As you do that, I will be on my way to Bahamas, or Mathare, depending on how much I'm willing to save.

Anyway, the path to insanity isn't that bad at all, trust me. Despite what movies tell you, there is no axe-murdering. Insane people don't Jason Vorhees the hell out of people. I don't even own an axe to begin with. And a mask, I don't have that too. And also I don't have the name Jason, much as I would wish to. The transition is just a smooth segue. One minute you are er-okay. The next minute, you are flipping birds to everyone. When you are not flipping those birds, then you are holding them captive when someone flips you some. Also, you begin to think you are flying when you are just high, forgetting that being high is different from flying. Also, if I said high, and you thought 'drugs', you are the insane one.
Seriously, being delusional is healthy. Science backs up on me pretty hard. Wait, what? That didn't sound right. I meant to say, Science backs me up pretty hard. Phewks.

From The Confused Musings of Kiraka D. Mugatsia: Thought Chronicles

JULES AND THE MUSICAL LEGACY HE LEFT

Tribute

There is nothing quite as destructive and fascinating as death. Yet there is nothing that puts our mortality into perspective than the death of someone so colossal that they seemed un-human. People who  were born doing their art while the rest of us mere mortals waddled on for another five or six years, throwing tantrums as they became the forces we fawn over and revere in unceasing awe and gape. The sudden passing of Papa Wemba is what has prompted me to pen this article to celebrate an artist that we will marvel and gawk at for decades on end, as we still do Franko and Madilu System.

Papa Wemba collapsed in his chosen battlefield, the stage, early Sunday morning, 24th April 2016, at the FEMUA music festival in Abidjan, Ivory Coast and died on his way to hospital. If ever there was need for proof that death has a sense of dramatic irony, this certainly must have been it.

While I wouldn't want to pander about by claiming to be a 'big fan' of Papa or go in lengths about how his music inspired me blah blah blah, let me say that I grew up listening to the Soukous music or Congolese Rhumba by default, never by choice. My old man is a great fan of such so it was only natural that these were the songs we had to listen to whenever my father happened to prefer the great indoors. Listening to his razor-sharp singing voice, then to the heavy, paternal drawls of Franko Luambo and Madilu System, brought a dawn on me on just why they are revered by the generations of our fathers. 

They showed mastery of the art, successful not just in the commerce of it but in the mastery of tools of trade. Wemba is one of the Lingala artists I have grown to enjoy listening to (the others being Franko, Madilu System, and Pepe Kalle (R.I.P all). Whether it's the strong and danceable beats, his high-pitched voice or the beauty of the Lingala language, there is just something about Papa Wemba that made me listen whenever he hit the booth. Those times were few, but I cherish the songs I have listened from Papa with astounding passion.

A legendary journey that started in 1969, with the formation of Zaiko Langa Langa band, Papa Wemba's talent saw the band hit popular heights in the mid-seventies, and in a country that had the likes of the late colossus Franko and his iconic TP OK Jazz Band and the late Tabu Ley Roshereau and his Afrisa band, that is quite something. It needs something special to nestle yourself among greats, and Papa did just that so soon after getting into the music scene, cementing his legacy not long after.

I will forever remember him for the smooth guitar strums of 'Yolele' and 'Show Me The Way', and the soothing, slow tempo of 'Ye Te Oh', on which he featured French singer and actress Ophelie Winter, and for his high-pitched voice. Just as he joined fellow legends in this churned-up stretchy scape of music and fame and became a legend, so has he now joined them in strumming harps in the Heavens. The legend continues, indeed.

Rest in peace Jules Shungu Wembadio Pene Kikumba aka Papa Wemba. We will see you someday.

June 14th, 1949 - April 24th, 2016

Is This The Turn of Kenyan Sports or Just a Fleeting Wonder

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What a terrific fortnight! These are some of those so incredibly great periods that make one don pride of being Kenyan with a wholesome embrace and a matching sheepish and optimistic grin.

From Harambee Starlets' swim through adversity to Women's Afcon to The Rugby Sevens Team, Shujaa, winning a rugby series main title for the first time in 114 tries. In the euphoria that comes with moments like this, it is tempting to get lost in the moment but I choose not to. I'm a cynic that celebrates with a smile and perhaps a five minute jiggle, so, after trying to hold it in, I finally lay it all out. What does the women's football achievement and Shujaa's Singapore Sevens win signify for the respective sports?

Starlets, in current state have no future

Let's start with the Starlets history making appearance in The Women's Continental showpiece to be held in November. The replay at Kasarani was nothing short of spectacular. That they eliminated Algeria, one of Africa's football powerhouses just iced the cake, which yes, we want to have and eat, and maybe even binge on. But a lack of proper structures means that this showing is more likely to be a one-off. Kenya has no proper women's league and no women's youth team. While football administration in Kenyan football has been poor, management in the women's side has been incomparably mediocre, so dismal that it can only be compared to itself, and that's saying something. The current team slept in lodges and cooked for themselves using firewood while in camp ( anyone who has used firewood knows how tolerable they aren't). The players allowances have been delayed more than a few times, the only surprise being when they are actually paid, let alone on time. Meanwhile, their under-performing male counterparts, who slept in five-star hotels and were paid handsomely, conspired to lose their most important games to ensure that they won't make it to the next years event, as has been the case since their last Afcon appearance in 2004. However, we should lay down proper foundations to ensure that this glorious moment is not just left at the mercy of history. Our women have shown that our negligence is not deterrent to their spirit and we should use that to build the sport to world class standard. The spirit is there. The desire to succeed stands us in good stride too. The dream is not far off either. Let's use these to build a reality and make this historic moment a regular event. Hell, maybe it can get our girlfriends interested in the sport. Win - win everyone. Right?

Rugby Sevens has a future
Need I repeat the memorable howl from the commentator, said in typical Mzungu twang fashion: A youu! A youu! (Oyoo). It was a moment that captivated and united  a nation still struggling with ghosts of hostile and negative ethnicity. With the winning of gold a foregone conclusion in long-distance running, this rarefied win in Rugby provided fresh air and opened us up to new possibilities on what our sportspeople could do if just given the right push. It also lent corroboration to the argument that Kenyan coaches are just as good as any other professional coaches from outside the country we so often are guilty of fawning over. We won this title with Benjamin Ayimba, after a gamble with Mike Friday and Paul Treu. Who's the genius now? (No offence to Mike and Paul). And with the like of Oyoo (A you) and Wanyama, there is reason to believe that the future prospects are just as hot as the veterans (No homo). And also, seriously, I believe its about time our local television stations took to airing the Kenya Cup, the rugby fifteen league. That is the belly of our rugby. Watching them will add meat to the bones we are currently wielding in celebration. Can you imagine the pride and arrogance you will exude when talking to a foreigner about our rugby league? Just name dropping players like they are hot ( again, no homo). Okay, might as well stop using hot altogether, sorry.

Meanwhile, the reality of the matter is that a majority of Kenya's populace is footballcentric. Harambee Stars might crawl into a sewer, wallow in the murks and emerge a stinking mess of human regret but will always be revered and forgiven. But hey, can't have your cake and eat it huh? Well, it seems like the football team can keep the cake as the Starlets and Shujaa keep the wins. Also, holy shit! Harambee Stars under 20 (men obviously. Women have no under 20) risks a ban from CAF for fielding ineligible players.
The saga continues ...
But tribute to the Starlets and Shujaa sevens team for their historic milestone. They deserve every incentives and celebration that comes their way. And whatever happens at the women's Afcon in November, there is no doubt that the ladies are champions in more ways than one.