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Once more into the fray (Live and Die on this day)

“Once more into the fray

Into the last good fight I’ll ever know…”

 

My penance piety does not suffice

As the fray takes toll upon my mortal

As the dagger slices and dices

The fort crumbles…

 

Hope and pray I be reborn

To dive into the fray one other

To face demons whose fire I stoke

That my soul for peace to have

My heart for ants to feed

Yet death hath become this life I boast

All good fights have come to this

The moment on which I stand

The weapon upon my hand

Broken sheath under my feet

 

On this day I am born

On this day I die

I must hope and pray

That one day I learn to hope and pray

 

Eyes gaze beyond the clouds

For an omen I might see

This fort mine blessing and curse.

 

Immortality it might be

The bright light that cometh my way

Into the last good night I’ll ever see.

 

“…Live and die on this day

Live and Die on this day.”

Fire, Oil and the Price of Ignorance (and the story of a woman scorned)

Disaster in the city…again.

Same script, new players, same villain.

Something happened yesterday; a fire in a Nairobi slum killed tens of people in the span of a few hours. Media houses were in shock, as was the rest of the country, and they ended up showing extremely graphic pictures, disgusting the good heart of our nation, even those claiming to be tweeting to help.

As someone who has been to a human anatomy laboratory, and around the bodies of the deceased more times than I count, I can tell you for sure that you do not know how you will react until you get there. Instead of whining about our little consciences, it would have been nobler to start organizing counseling services for the hundreds of residents, rescue workers, police officers and most of all journalists who were there all day. I placed the last as the ‘most important’ for one reason, they had to take photos, and then edit them. At least police officers and rescue workers have counseling services, or an iron armor you develop when disaster strikes too often.

Sad as it is, the fire was prophesied once, two years ago by two budding journalists. They cheekily titled their story (or the editor did, I suspect) The Fire Next Time: Slum Courts Doom. Two Years later, on a rainy, cold Monday morning, doom did accept to be courted, actually it came and took away about a hundred people and ruined others. The fire next time became, well, the fire next time indeed. The government was frustrated because local MPs would not allow the forceful eviction of residents. Ignorance paid off again, as it did several borders away in Congo where it smouldered about 240 people trying to siphon fuel. Of the three disasters that plagued the Central and East Africa Region, killing over 500 people in two days, two were fuel related, and all were machine failures. Still, on the bright side, it was not terrorist-related (or self-inflicted) like the attack on the WTC 10 years ago. Now we blame God, the government and poverty.

When someone asked me why I agreed with @machariagaitho when he wrote in this opinion piece that the price of impunity (and in extension, ignorance) had been paid and yet this people were driven there by poverty, I answered using the adage that ‘Ignorance is no defense’. You cannot live on an oil pipeline and not anticipate danger. Hell, I even mumble a prayer every time I get into a matatu. The saddest thing is that we are a country, and a world, of idealists. I salute the journalist who wrote this, reading was disturbing, even for me. and by the way , just in case you are looking to buy the fuel that survived, read this first.

We want the subjective, sieved details, we want to see edited photos and talk about the disaster. We want photos of the better part, not caring that there is worse happening. We romanticize and we look at disaster subjectively. We act as if disaster is a new thing, and yet it has stuck with humanity all through. Poverty or no poverty, realism has taken a backseat and we are where we are no because we have denied ourselves the truth…

The sight of charred remains, still smoking, the remains of what used to be a human body. The disgusting photos of the half-burned bodies floating in a river, as the people standing on the riverbank hold their chins. Of a slum where one neighbor knows not the other. Where people have died with no identity. It is the greater equalizer, death.


Stalin said that the death of a million is only a statistic, as is the death of a hundred in this case. Even if only one person had died in this fire, it would and should have been a tragedy enough. But the truth is that we have too high a moral sense, unwarranted to begin with, and we sympathies and empathize, and it is a new morning, whats the news?

When I was in college, my financial accounting lecturer told a story about his near-death experience. He was a college student back when the first oil truck overturned near Banana in Kiambu County a little over half a decade ago. As he headed home, he saw the truck and the people getting pails and buckets to get fuel. He joined in; like any other good Kenyan would (I am making an assumption here). When he had his first bucket full, he ran home to get another and just as he reached a few hundred meters away, the truck exploded. Drenched as he was in oil, he did the first thing his mind told him to do, silly, as it was he ran back. What he saw still haunts him, the one memory of a woman running towards him, like a human frame of fire, screaming and wailing for help. She fell to the ground and started rolling in an attempt to put out the fire, but an oil fire can be an ass.

There is no moral to that story, except where one believes that experience is the best teacher, or the story that is retold after that. Do not misquote me; I know if another truck overturns, or a fuel pipe leaks, people will go to get free fuel.

I believe that the worst disaster is the disaster of human ignorance, that innate ability to refuse to listen to reason because we think the universe knows we are poor, or homeless, or unfed, or rich, or tall, or short, or framed, or justified, or beautiful. I have it, you have it, and it will be the death of us, and death is a good thing, living with the scars is much harder.

smouldered, a pile of ash held together by death...


ION and on somewhat of a lighter note, Walking with my friend @wambumishi yesterday, we happened upon this leaflets (read printed papers) distributed all over.

Hell Hath no Fury Indeed

Now thats a woman scorned. This I believe is a classic case of the propaganda war, slander her name using all possible jabs. A little advice to women, if he is going out with her, fight him, not her. Then again I know that hit on deaf ears, even the realist in me can not understand why this woman would choose to get this tryped, printed, and distributed.

The last lines are the kind that ‘send a chilly feeling up and down the culprit’s spine’

This is the Beggining

Maraya!!!!

Now my friend and I are arguing about whether Maraya in this case is the woman’s name, nickname, or an insult misplaced. Whichever the case, the four exclamation marks place emphasis on the point.

I Prayed

I knelt on a mat beside my bed today

And prayed.

I prayed for the souls of the living

For power and water and food

I prayed for a good life

I prayed for age, for a bumper harvest

I knelt and prayed to all deities

I lay prostate and offered my being as a sacrifice

Hoping and waiting

I prayed for the future of the poor and the Conscience of the rich

I prayed for the insomnia of the wise

For the oversleeping of the daft

I prayed for water, for a full stomach

I prayed for a special heaven

For Hades to be consumed by its own fire

I prayed for the balls to face tomorrow

I prayed for love, for music, for all emotions

I prayed for art and for science

I prayed for might and meek

I knelt and prayed for pain, against pain, for torment, against torment

I prayed for revenge and for forgiveness

I prayed for a small fire to consume a big fire

For a small god to outdo a bigger one

I prayed for muscle and for flesh

I prayed for a great country

For a truth, any truth, some truth

I prayed for darkness, and then I prayed for light

For rain, and then for sun

I prayed for the souls of the undead

For the memories of the immortal

For the innocence of the unborn

For the death of the dead.

I knelt there, and prayed for Satan.

The Bar Stool

Carrier of man’s problems, pervasive and persuasive

A place of peace in the midst of insanity and noise

For a breather where none exists

To wallow in life’s problems and listen to one’s own conscience

To plan and pan, to feel alive

To stare at the barman

Or at the one woman who will serve a pint without throwing a fit

The bar Stool

Raised, higher than all other seats

A place where the lone wolf can sit and wish he had friends

Where he can make new friends and pay his own bill

Some sit on it because it makes them taller

For the first time in a whole day, they feel bigger than they really are

Because hot girls seem to sit there when they are lonely

Because unlike the noise in the background

The drugs, the ruined lives, and liver cirrhosis

The gout and throat cancer

The addictions and pervasions in the background

The happiness in the midst of ruin

Unlike the riches burnt in the background

The school fees not paid and battered spouses

The abandoned families and lost jobs

The choking and yet tempting cigarette smoke

The death and despair, the dance floor

The madness that seems like hell

Where people of different world’s can meet and meat

Where deals have been made and governments brought down

Where independence has been won and history made

Where Prohibition and taxation can do no harm

Where everyone is here to enjoy and make merry

Some to make a living

Some to steal it

Some to forget the problems that life has blessed them with

To forget if only for an hour

Sacrifice for a moment of happiness they will want to enjoy on the morrow

To meet new people

Dance away life’s problems and scream like the voice box has no knob

To kiss and love away at strangers

People life would never have brought them close to

To run away from the darkness that is their lives

And yet, a different man and woman sit on the bar stool

A man who would readily give up his high sit to be on the background with friends

A woman waiting for someone, or waiting to forget another

An old man on the prowl, for women or for amnesia

A young man waiting for his meal

An old maid staring at the barman’s abs

A little high chair, staring at the pints in their bottles

Wondering whether everyone else has a story of their own

Some sit on it to run away from the madness, to ponder, stare, glare

Some sit on the bar stool, alone, because it is the only place quiet enough

Quiet enough to read the paper, noisy enough to be in on all of it.