From Shanghai to Vermont.

Usijikoseshe usingizi,

Kuelewa ya wanadamu,

Wala sijifunge hirizi,

kujikinga na ghamu,

Yao maganda ya ndizi,

Ukiyatelezea utapoteza fahamu,

Ya firauni yatakufanya chizi,

Ukazama kwa bahari ya Shamu

People think they know you but they don’t

Think they’ll break you but they won’t

Think they know your life story down to the font

Assume the backbencher will never dine at the front.

(Dismiss the affront)

Never let the scars of their daggers haunt,

Smile at them them marks proudly flaunt,

Let them tirelessly taunt,

You; it’s your name they’ll hail from Shanghai to Vermont

(Revel in this jaunt).

Asikubabaishe mwizi,

Kukuvamia jambo gumu,

Hafahamu zako tizi,

Mwenyewe tajilaumu

Limbukeni na chipukizi,

Hata akutilie sumu,

Pwagu kampata pwaguzi,

Shubiri tamu kwa anaye dumu

People think they know you but they don’t

Think they’ll break you but they won’t

Think they know your life story down to the font

Assume the backbencher will never dine at the front.

(Dismiss the affront)

Never let the scars of their daggers haunt,

Smile at them them marks proudly flaunt,

Let them tirelessly taunt,

You; it’s your name they’ll hail from Shanghai to Vermont

(Let them have their jaunt.)

Sibabaishwi na taharuki,

Meona mengi nikakita,

Medungwa mikuki,

Ila kifo kimesita,

Asali mali ya nyuki,

Kuchovya mzinga watakupiga vita,

Mesimama tisti sitikisiki,

Revel in this jaunt,

Let them tarnish and taunt,

You, flourish while they remain gaunt,

Let them have their jaunt

Kibali

The Rarity That Is Kenyans Defending The Matatu Conductor

If there’s one trait that describes Kenyans apart from passive-aggressive, it’s ticking timebombs. We simmer like magma; waiting for a trigger to erupt. And we explode, sometimes to disastrous results, and then we go back to our merry lives like nothing happened.

So today, after my usual Wednesday song sessions with Ragz, I walked to my bus-stop of choice GPO. I’d have gone to Kencom, but the gridlock that greeted me as I snaked my way to GPO was heartbreaking. And waited I did, patiently for a bus to come. There was a multitude of people so I knew my chances of getting in first were slim to none.

Like clockwork, a KBS bus slowly made its way towards us, teasing our tired feet with the sound of its revving engine. Expectedly the conductor swung the door open and shouted “hamsini Kibera, mia Kawangware!” People let out their otherwise stifled sarcasm because let’s face it, we love to pretend we are polite. After a while, the conductor realized empty don’t pay rent and the fare ‘went down a notch.” I wasn’t impressed though, so I moved further back.

And then a compliant joined the foray, “fifty hadi kawangware” a shrill voice pierced the air. Suddenly there was commotion. Strangely though, no one was getting in. Apparently this was not its route, so they had to “cough” some money to a bunch of guys to be allowed to “beba watu wao”. The stuff you read about in books like Kinyanjui Komban’s Den Of Inequitues. I figured fifity bob to Kilimani was no so bad. I had contemplated walking, but the darkness was quickly setting in and who knows what monsters lurk stealthily in the shadows.

Traffic…traffic…soon we were on Valley Road when the lady conductor suddenly shot up and started collecting fare. Whilst doing that, she admonished us for agreeing to pay sixty bob on other days, when we know full well the fare is fifty bob. “Lady, who is your mother?” I wondered in my head. No one points out our faults so callously; we know we are being trampled upon but we are Kenyans, we just comply until we are at the end of our tether.

And then she got to this guy, who gave her forty bob. She respectfully declined saying she’d haggled for all of us to pay fifty bob, thus it was only fair that she be paid what was rightfully owed her. I found myself nodding in agreement. This conductor was a stark contrast to that fool in the Ngong matatus I used earlier in the day. Buffoon wanted to overcharge me AND REFUSE WITH MY CHANGE! “Kula vaco budah, chorea”. I told him I don’t speak gibberish.

Back to this guy, dude had a mouth like loose stool. I don’t get these assholes who feel that being rude to women makes them macho. Even after the passenger next to him offered to pay the extra ten bob for this nigga, he still went on insulting the “makanga” much to the chagrin of the men in the bus. I was gob-smacked, and for good reason. First he was Somali, and before you side-eye me for being a “tribalist” bear with me. We are in the month of Ramadhan, which means this nigga had just broken his fast. Who insults people after iftar? Geez! To be quite frank I have never met a muslim man let alone a Somali exchanging words with a lady in public during Ramadhan. In Mombasa my friends have this joke, that if you are born a Somali and you are not pious, you must have been exchanged at birth. “Wasonjo wameshika dini sie wengine utadhani makafiri” they say.

Suffice to say, eff words in Sheng laced Swahili, spiced with blatant arrogance don’t sound as cool as they do in the movies. In one fell swoop blows were raining on this dude like it was planting season. And then he started to yell that he was being victimized for being Somali. Nigga really? That was after he told this burly man in his fifties to “peleka” his “pang’anga kwa gazati na akaitombe” I kid you not, pardon my French. Asiye funzwa na mamaye hufunzwa na ulimwengu so goes the adage.  

I hate violence, I am the poster child of pacifism but this dude had it coming. You do not rile people who are grappling with issues from here to Kathonzweni. No. You shut up and “nyenyekea” as the man sitting to my right said resolutely. All this guy had to do was say he was cash-strapped, and even I would have paid that ten bob for him. Life happens, and I always pray that should I find myself in that precarious position, someone will bail me out.

Long story short, he was mercilessly thrown out of the bus, and a sweeping calm came over the bus like nothing had transpired. All I could here were hushed tones, discussing the incident in excruciating detail. Of-course whispers tend to be louder than screams. The one line that stuck with me was, “ma vijana wa sku hizi wana ufala. Wanadhania dunia ni ya nyanya yao.”

I hope he learnt his lesson, because it would have end badly for him. People have been thrown out of moving buses to the welcoming arms of hades. No one loves a man drunk with blind macho pride, it gets you killed in these streets. 

Caveat:

This post might offend. That was not my intention.

Image courtesy of World-Nomads  

Masalkheri

Dear irate Kenyan "fans of music", TAKE NOTES sweethearts.

I get so incensed when I read comments where we as Kenyans apportion blame to "the others" because we just won't accept we are full of sh*t. Pardon my language, the gravitas of this matter demands that I write as I truly feel. There will be lots of caps in this post because I will not stifle my thoughts for fear of suffocating. This post will be long and arduous, because ranting is taxing. Indulge me.

I love what events like Godown Gig are doing. They are holding free shows yet paying artists. Big up Muthoni and the Blankets crew, ensuring every month Kenyan artists have a platform to play. Choices Baricho Road, KI Clubhouse, Alliance, Goethe, and all the rest that ensure musicians have money to cater to their basic needs first so that they can channel their energies to growing, and releasing music. There are clubs and churches everyday that support the arts, don't stop. DON'T. 

I attended Fafa this weekend thanks to Manciny and those tickets were bloody expensive but THE ROOM WAS BRIMMING WITH HUMANITY. Sold out! I know caps shout, my exact intention! There were CEOs there, even the Botswana ambassador because a designer from his homeland was showcasing. The Kenyan CEOs in attendance were were all dressed by Kenyan designers. I did not hear of a Kenyan government official acknowledged save for Dr Dorothy Nyong'o, wife to Kisumu County's senator. Where do I begin?

Ah yes, crux of the matter. See image below 

It wasn't the status that got me worked up but the comments. The same ones you hear everyday calling Kenyan music crap because all these guys know three bands and five celebs that they all publicly hate but dance to when high as a kite. I like to avoid conflict because I am a natural pacifist. So I shared the status with my response. 

That however would not salve my conscience. The need to speak up gnawed at me. So I opted to post two responses on Kollo's status. I am coping my responses verbatim because that is exactly how I feel. See below:

"I'm just gonna be the one to say it, art is a mirror and if you think our artists are regurgitating crap then surprise, it's your own reflection you see! Let's just interrogate ourselves. We speak sh*tty Swahili but go bananas when someone butchers the queens language. 

We are out here learning sijui French and Mandarin because "those tourists need us to understand them". Why should we expect more of our artists when we will not DEMAND more of ourselves? The few artists you claim to love, do you support them religiously to ensure that they can pay their bills and THEN AFFORD TO RECORD MORE OF WHAT YOU CLAIM YOU LOVE? Nigerian, Tanzanian music etc is huge because first they support out of patriotism then demand for quality. They are so many budding musicians out here, in Taita taveta, in Kisii, in Turkana, in West Pokot, in Mombasa, in Kisumu, heck hata papa jiji letu, FIND them, tell them you love them, buy that one song they have, call your favourite radio station tweet them even until they block you! 

Go to that deejay or that club that will play that one song you love. The one song your supposed favourite Kenyan artist can afford to record because he already paid rent (euphemism for basic needs). Then after you've done all that, hope that your favourite artist is gracious enough to dedicate three hours of their day rehearsing, writing, reading, researching, growing, jogging and gyming and learning all the tenets of music from vocalization intonation to instrumentation.

And is brave enough to wean themselves of your stereotypes so they can actually create stuff their parents will love.

We just need to stop acting like we don't hate Kenyan stuff, we do consciously and sub-consciously. We sold our birthright to the highest bidder and now we are neo-colonial slaves acting like we are steeped in freedom. Some of the comments here reek of that mentality. To get, demand, most of all of from yourself.

I choose to search for artists I like, whether they sing in a language I understand or not. I will do my bit to support. Do your part. People kesha outside malls to buy albums, legally download music they love. You are the change you seek; if there is one, just one artist you love whether ni wa ohangla, benga, katitu, mwanzele, rhumba, bango, genge etc, do the same. And watch the market slowly but surely react to that erstwhile* latent demand for quality."

I am not excusing musicians, but we cannot be consciously apathetic. Who will break the cycle? Embrace your position as a change maker, be pro-active. The musicians will then go back to the drawing board and learn their musical history and in turn regurgitate that "newly espoused Kenyanness" you are claiming hawana. But first interrogate yourself, how KENYAN are you?"

We spend thousands every weekend drowning our sorrows, but will not fork out money to pay for music. There are free shows almost every week but all I see are the same "groupies", and expatriates who dance themselves lame genuinely appreciating the richness our musicians have to offer. Where are you? Where the hell are you?

If you spent 500, no 300 bab EVERY MONTH paying for a show, or an album, or airtime to legally download music of those your favourite artists, do you think there would be a vacuum in the market for amazing Kenyan music? Marslow law anyone? Musicians would have fiscal wind beneath their wings.

I am overly biased, I have been in a band, and my life is teeming with creatives let alone musicians. I know what these guys are going through. Heck I rehearse every week wondering if I'll ever record after I'm done offsetting those recurrent monthly bills. Those are the things I grapple with yet at-least I have something I do to sustain me and mine. What about budding unemployed artists? Who has time to dedicate to their art when they have bills? NOBADY!

Diamond, yes him of the "millions for a show" fame, started with one You-tube video. ONE. Just let that sink in. I am sure he had sang for years before you heard of Mbagala. Sit with any established artist and ask them how much of themselves they had to invest when nobody, NOBODY believed in them.

I sing here and there and people ask me, "when will you stop wasting that voice and record?" I smile and saying I am working on it. This is how most musicians respond in their heads ---->>>> "Do you know how much money it costs to record an album that can get played outside of Kenya? 200, 000 + to please you ego-centric music connoisseur. Sorry, potential fan. And then I pay for rehearsal space and my band after I am done paying for my plan B degree in-case you DECIDE my music is sh*t. Koz a job never hurt anyone. Sit down." 

My aim, is to have songs that WILL garner views and listener-ship all over Swahili speaking countries globally let alone the Kenyan diaspora. Taarab is huge is Arabia, just so you know. It costs. I save to have fare for weekly rehearsals that may amount to naught, I drink water, I sleep sufficiently, I exercise and walk to increase my lung capacity and ensure my voice has sustaining power. I avoid sugar and cold stuff, heck even dairy! And I haven't even recorded, music is still a hobby. Now pray tell, what do you think those ones whose music YOU DO NOT request on radio etc undergo to sound so good? YOU HAVE NO IDEA!

My point? All the greats we know, have invested blood sweat and tears to breathe life and form to their ideas. If you are not willing to spend your money to help them sustain that, shut the f*ck up. No seriously just stuff it. Gyms are expensive, eating healthy is expensive, "finding your own style" is expensive, voice lessons are expensive, learning an instrument is expensive, MUSIC SCHOOL IS EXPENSIVE! 

R Kelly who btw has seemingly sang since Elvis walked the earth doesn't worry about the basics.

That's why he can dedicate hours of his day chiselling his human temple, let alone his almost palpable voice vessel and mind to achieve that gruelling feat all of you bow down to. Nobody wakes up great, ten thousand PLUS hours were sank in! Ask Beyonce how many hours she sings and dances for a day, when prepping for a concert. 

Ruminate on that before you start complaining. I am done ranting. By the way dear musician, stop thinking those people who religiously tweet you are your biggest fans. Nenda mashinani, you will be amazed by the support you can garner at the grassroots. The people who toil day and night will support your hustle if you are deserving because they know what it means to be loyal. Wachana na ranters wa social media. WORK ON YOUR CRAFT DAY AND NIGHT AND GROW YOUR FAN-BASE. Grow it! 

And finally Kenyans, 

Kibali

My latest illicit (You freed me)

I read Aziz Mola's blogpost, The Other Man and I thought, how does one respond after the person you love gives you their blessing to move on and when you do then say they still love you? 

"I want to thank him but do not know his name, the other man...I hope he is past his cocoon and she finally finds the butterfly she deserves….'

This poem (someday-song) was written a response of sorts to a similar situation, after time has elapsed. I present "My Latest Illicit (Misfits)

Is it my face you search for in the sullen stars dotting the night sky?

Is it my voice that lingers when the rivers echo “goodbye”?

Is it my touch you feel when the wind’s whispers draw nigh?

Is it my emptiness you long for with every tear and sigh?

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

 Misfits and illicits, seems I have a penchant for those,

Dark-like-thunder-bound-for-six-feet-under, yet delicate like the rose,

Suffocating yet healing, their darkness my daily dose,

Misfit number two replaced you, now colder my heart grows

Because…

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

My heart’s vessel needed feeling…filling

You were wary that that overflow,

Would nourish me deep within,

And make me see you as whole, hold on and never let go,

You saw yourself as wounded, and happiness was the mirror’s reflection that you loathed,

So you asked me to sail till my soul was grounded, anchored by another, drenched in sweet sorrowful nothingness yet finally clothed…

Willingly imprisoned, you freed me.

Tore through the darkness till you unchained me.

Told me there was better go find it.

And in your words I lost myself and sailed toward my latest illicit…

Is it my fingers you reach out for in the dark?

Is it my smile you search for in the corners that shadows lurk?

Is it my name you call when you monsters bark?

Is it me you seek when your heart’s territory you mark?

Just remember it was you who freed me…

Handed me over to my latest illicit misfit. 

Kibali

Images from the internet.

Rooted, Anchored Wanderer

I just read Aleya's piece (Not Yet Kenyan) and I have that uneasy silence, akin to the calm before a tempestuous storm.

I cannot even pretend to relate to the victimization of fellow Kenyans that is happening. I feel that the following words will trivialize an issue that is so complex. 

I feel compelled to stay silent, but if I betray my need to communicate what I feel, I will feel my resolve break to smithereens.

Someone told me that we as 'Kenya' are so quick to give citizenship to all and sundry, unlike the rest of the world that guards that right religiously. Thus everyone who is not "black" is not Kenyan. Doesn't matter if your great grandparents, and every ensuing generation was born here.

Not having a sense of belonging is haunting. Even worse, is constantly being reminded that "you will never belong because..." They have a problem because you do not fit the mould with which belonging is freely dished out.

The one thing I have heard all my life is I don't look, speak or act like a Kikuyu. I have been told that ad-nauseum in Mombasa where I was born, in Nyeri where I schooled, and Nairobi where I live now. I have been told that so many times it stopped irking me.

Try getting an ID in Mombasa, when you speak "Swahili with the fluency of a native, your birth certificate says you were born in Mombasa yet you claim to be Kikuyu and your dad is light skinned and has worked at the port all his life..."  I was given a myriad of reasons why I was "Swahili (of questionable descent)", even told that the ID would delay. It did.

That sadly, will IN NO WAY EVER compare to the feeling that one day you can be kicked out of a country, on a whim. Certain regions yes, that has happened quite a bit. During the elections ethnic tensions are whipped up, and people "shipped from one corner of the country to the other" by fear, trepidation and circumstances. Sometimes forcibly.

I belong to the very 'few' that think a human being is a spirit having a human journey. Almost everything else is vain, what is most important is being true to what you consciously accept as your "humannness". Thus home is where your weary heart finds rest, comfort and protection from the vagaries of this life.

Sadly, not everyone agrees. There are demarcations, and I am constantly told to "accept" things as they are, not as they should be.

Will I though? I choose to "revolt." In my silence, in my speaking, in my thinking, in my being. Yet even though I consciously choose, I don't know how to. I am not a rebel, not in the way that I perceive rebels to be. I am just me, it's all I know to be. I hope everyone else can let people be, and be extended the same courtesy.

Maybe that will solve all the problems in the world, sadly there are no guarantees in this life.

These are my sentiments, I am no expert on these matters, nor do I purport to be. 

Even to the gallows (Your crazy)

I made a few mistakes,

I taught myself to be dependent on you,

I chased waterfalls instead of lakes,

settled for a mirage so untrue,

told myself we'd last forever,

and watched forever burn away like chaff,

incandescently lit streets to never,

vanity glowing, magical stuff.

Then your crazy made me see,

Just how foolishly I was acting,

Trading away my now for eternity,

promised in a whisper, dissipating,

Then your crazy made me see,

just how deep I was falling,

in a pit painted with pity,

drawing me in to the chaining.

I wanted a friend, I wanted your shadow,

I wanted the sweet taste of tomorrow,

I wanted my lonely, to become your hollow,

I wanted my sun to melt your snow,

I wanted your song, I wanted your sorrow,

I wanted my width to be come your narrow,

I wanted your kiss, I wanted to follow,

wherever you would lead, even to the gallow...s

I slipped a few times,

tripped and fell enamoured with your embrace,

yet in your morose eyes were watery rhymes,

and darkness smiling behind your iris' face,

I shuddered in that surreal calm,

I told myself you meant no harm,

yet it was my soul you wanted to embalm,

with your crestfallen charm,

But it was your crazy that made me see,

Just how foolishly I was acting,

Trading away my now for eternity,

promised in a whisper, dissipating,

Then your crazy made me see,

just how deep I was falling,

in a pit painted with pity,

drawing me in to the chaining.

I wanted a friend, I wanted your shadow,

I wanted the sweet taste of tomorrow,

I wanted my lonely, to become your hollow,

I wanted my sun to melt your snow,

I wanted your song, I wanted your sorrow,

I wanted my width to be come your narrow,

I wanted your kiss, I wanted to follow,

wherever you would lead, even to the gallow...s

Kibali

My Territory's Title Deed

My eyes have beheld the light, 

my lips have tasted life, 

my feet have been stung by might 

and my fingers by heat melting away the wedding ring forcefully put on by strife, 

I thrive day and night, 

my mind no longer bleeds from pain stabbing like a knife, 

where self defeatist thoughts ran amok and hope took flight, 

now warrior chants are rife. 

Here's to victory over me, 

insecurity, inconsistency, 

here's to victory, 

destiny and ever-blazing legacy, 

here's to victory, 

succeed, your ground never cede, 

here's to victory, 

and taking over my territory's title deed.

sijisumbui kwa mawazo ya kujifadhaisha,

mbona nijigandamize na bure nna tele maisha,

vipawa vyangu vitanifanikisha,

hadi ile siku pumzi yangu kwa kasri la Maulana itajiegesha,

nitajitahidi kujinufaisha,

ndoto zangu tazihalalisha,

hamna hata mmoja atakae kanusha,

kwamba yangu nia kwa hatma nlotengewa itanifikisha

My words and utterances are different,

I am living in my element, 

Everyday I awake to the scent,

of a new day, yesterday well spent.

I sing a new song at dawn,

I no longer traipse through life withdrawn,

I tango with reality like the dew does with the lawn,

And embrace life like an ayala embraces its fawn,

Here's to victory over me, 

insecurity, inconsistency, 

here's to victory, 

destiny and ever-blazing legacy, 

here's to victory, 

succeed, your ground never cede, 

here's to victory, 

and taking over my territory's title deed.

sijisumbui na mawazo ya kujifadhaisha,

mbona nijigandamize na bure nna tele maisha,

vipawa vyangu vitanifanikisha,

hadi ile siku pumzi yangu kwa kasri la Maulana itajiegesha,

nitajitahidi kujinufaisha,

ndoto zangu tazihalalisha,

hamna hata mmoja atakae kanusha,

kwamba zangu juhudi zitanizidisha

Here's to victory over me, 

insecurity, inconsistency, 

here's to victory, 

destiny and ever-blazing legacy, 

here's to victory, 

succeed, your ground never cede, 

here's to victory, 

and taking over my territory's title deed.

Kibali