Hulipa ushuru

Helped me alot

WHEN MANDELA DIES

Two months ago, my biggest fear was that Mr. Nelson Mandela would meet his tragic demise before getting a chance to witness the first World Cup ever on African soil only a bus trip away from his palatial home in Bishopscourt, Cape Town. You may not agree with me on this but I truly believe it was Mandela that brought the World Cup to Africa, through his name, his symbolic status and the country he helped liberate from apartheid. And for that, we should all be grateful.

Yesterday, Mr. Nelson Mandela (as children of the soil we’re allowed to call him ‘Tata Madiba’) celebrated his 92nd birthday. It goes without question that South Africa and indeed the world at large adore and revere Madiba and have deified him to the point where the United Nations has declared July 18th “International Nelson Mandela Day”.
Understand this, the only International Days the UN has declared so far have to do with Children, Human Rights, Women, the Environment and such. So, yes, it’s a big deal for *a person*, *any person* let alone Mandela to have such an honour bestowed upon them. Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Martin Luther King and a few others (may their souls rest in peace) must be literally turning multiple shades of green envious of Madiba.

All that being said, Mandela will one day die. Don’t shoot the messenger. Just hear me out.

I am merely stating a reality that seems too painful to accept in a society where we exalt mere mortals putting them on pedestals so high that they appear god-like. Granted, Mandela deserves alot of the praise he’s gotten and the remarkable story of his life is exemplary and truly worthy of accolades. His unparalleled sacrifices for the ideals of freedom, reconcialition, nation-hood and peace have indeed made him the global icon he is today. These are things that no one and nothing can take away from Tata Madiba, even if he were to die today.

The Obama – Mandela Comparison:

Over the weekend, I was privy to a very lively debate surrounding whether a comparison can be made between Madiba and Barack Obama not only as political leaders but as statesmen and perhaps global icons. The overwhelming view from my colleagues was that mentioning Obama in the same breath as Mandela is preposterous in that there is no comparison to be made at all. If anything, most of them felt that Obama has never had to sacrifice anything for his beloved country other than sleepless nights campaigning for votes; whereas Mandela spent 27 years in a maximum security prison on Robben Island at a time when blacks were considered less than human. Coincidentally, this element of sacrifice is what seemed to work for John McCain (who lost both his arms during Vietnam) in the 2008 Presidential race against Obama. In short, Obama has simply not been tested yet in his political career and therefore the only comparison that can be made between himself and Mandela is his rapidly greying hair, which he may want to think about dyeing back to black unless he’s going for the Madiba look.
I listened attentively to all this and all I could think to myself is, why are we so protective over Madiba? Are you trying to tell me that comparing Madiba to someone as accomplished and praise-worthy as Obama is simply not allowed? I refuse. Yes, I agree that, presently, Mandela has achieved a status that puts him in the same league with luminaries like Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Teresa and Martin Luther King and so any comparison of him to Barack Obama is precocious at best. But, in terms of their leadership qualities and attributes, I see a whole lot of similarities between the two that cannot be denied or ignored simply because of the special status that Mandela enjoys in the minds and hearts of many.

In other news,

The painting below by a white South African artist Yiull Damaso, currently on display in a Johannesburg shopping mall (Hyde Park) has been widely condemned by residents and South Africans at large. It depicts a deceased Mandela being autopsied by Nkosi Johnson, while FW de Klerk, Jacob Zuma, Helen Zille, Desmond Tutu and others look on.

The corpse in the original Rembrandt was actually a man convicted of armed robbery (the punishment for which was hanging) and whose body was later taken to an anatomy theatre. So, I can certainly understand how people would get mad about THIS comparison to Mandela… but I doubt that’s why they’re mad, or that they are even aware of this historical fact. The reality is that South Africans are afraid to talk about Mandela’s inevitable death and the blow it would have on the people and the country as a whole. In his defense, the artist has argued, quite convincingly in my opinion, that this painting is “a tribute to Mandela which shows that underneath all his great achievements, the revered former South African president is flesh and bone, like everyone else.” Thus, it seems to me that calling the painting racist is simplistic and more should be done to address the underlying fragility of the South African social fabric and its young democracy.

The fragile ‘Rainbow Nation’:

As the current President Jacob Zuma once put it: “Nelson Mandela is the glue that holds us together as a nation. He provides eternal hope in our people and the world that South Africa can only be a better place each day”. Just the other day, South Africa was celebrating 10 years of democracy (yes, ten!) so when we talk about a fragile nation trying to get over its dark past, rebuilding its institutions, reconciling blacks, whites, coloureds and asians under one flag, it is clear that South Africa still has a long way to go. Armed with the most progressive Constitution in the world and endowed with limitless human and natural resources, South Africa has grown in leaps and bounds. However, dont let the facts, figures and postcards fool you, the socio-economic situation on the ground is not nearly as rosy: rampant crime (especially rape and violence), xenophobic attacks and an enormous gap between the rich and the poor (with glaring racial and gender delineations) characterise modern-day South Africa. Assume for a moment that we were to accord Madiba with this god-like status he currently enjoys, in that case the entire ANC would be guilty of using Madiba’s revered name in vain, starting with Julius Malema. As ANC Youth League Leader, Malema has taken on the role of the ANC Party’s attack-dog, while invoking racially-charged freedom songs, claiming to be fighting for the rights of the downtrodden, poverty-striken majority black population and yet he lives like a King in the posh Sandton suburb of Johannesburg. Meanwhile, events such as tense atmosphere during the death of Eugene Terreblanche and the intermittent eruptions of xenophobic attacks are further signs that South Africa as a nation is still very volatile. The unifying effect of hosting the just concluded FIFA World Cup remain to be seen.

And so, dear Africans,

Let us not wait until Mandela’s death to understand the lessons we all should learn from his life-long struggle to make South Africa and indeed Africa a better place for posterity. The humility and pragmatism of many of his public acts should remind us that it’s our job to pick up where he has left off, and to continue the work of building a continent which yearns for peace, strives for progress and tolerates diversity. We cannot rely on icons and myths to do that work for us, but should instead stay alert to the beguiling – and soporific – tendency to wait for someone to show and tell us what to do next.
My fellow sons and daughters of the soil, in subsequent celebrations of ”International Nelson Mandela Day”, let us not only celebrate the personality of Mandela but also remember what he and his generation stood for. When we live this good life that the elders suffered and sacrificed let’s wonder what’s ours to forgo so that those that come after us may advance and thrive.

Ashamed to be African

Have you ever been ashamed to be African?

My crew strolled into Gallileos the Friday Ghana lost to Uruguay with our heads hung lowish. We were sad they lost but happy that they could’ve won. So we were there to celebrate and mourn at the same time.

As previously mentioned, I don’t drink and am not a fan of night life either so I’d never been to the aforementioned night club and wasn’t hyped to.

We’d barely made it into the club and found places to stand when my mind stopped drifting and I began to assess all the scantily clad ladies, wondering if they weren’t freezing in their tiny skirts with no undergarments on. Then I noted the foolishly dressed men they were dancing with in overtly sexual manners with additional inappropriate PDA Western influenced intimacy smothered on for taste. In the midst of this recipe of raunch and debauchery, it took me a few seconds of clarity to realize that the song playing was actually some Kikuyu Gospel track.

There’s a light in which the youth looks at the older generation that is really not flattering to their virtues. We look at their strict moral uprightness as overcautious pretension and abhor it; we view their way of doing things as old school, outdated, obsolete. Yet we take all their vices and extol and exponentiate them; we’ve taken every negative stereotype and raised it to the nth power.

Except n is negative.

Sorry for the Math reference. What I mean is….Whereas our fathers and forefathers were proudly polygamous, we’ve just become inordinately promiscuous without standard. Where they were daily drinkers, we’ve become inordinate druggies and alcoholics(DNAs). Where they enjoyed a good time out, we’ve made it our lives to hanye(coin “Hanyeholic”).

And while we’ve been busy doing all that we’ve strayed so far left from our roots we seem to be part of another tree altogether, a Western one, ironically. We, the African urban youth, future of this fair continent, are more likened to the culturally devoid foreigners we idolize and emulate on television than we are heirs to our fathers and fore fathers. All this in the guise of changing with the times and globalizing. So much so that certain people will be more in tune with the fashions, cultures, music and news abroad than what’s going on in their own backyard.

Now to some degree, I can understand appreciating the culture, arts, and all this: Hell, before I knew the National Anthem in Kiswahili, I had most of Rapper’s Delight and various Lionel Richie albums committed to memory. I’ll take it a step further and say that there are times – many of them – when I’d rather be in Brooklyn. And with good reason, I’ve lived abroad for a while. But in spite of all my love for everything great about every foreign city I’ve been to, I still dial +254 when I call home. I’m proud to be Kenyan, proud to be African, and unapologetically so. There’s nothing wrong with changing with the times and being an “International” citizen.

But one must know which is wife and which is mistress; is your mother Africa and your teacher American or vice versa? Because one gives you supplementary knowledge and escape whereas the other gives you your core morals and essential learnings. It’s hard to know which is which watching some of these kids walking around.

I stood in the club that night, postulating this theory – feeling very glum indeed -when the lady on my arm – a good friend and DR reader – made her way to the dance floor. In those few seconds after she left, another random lady walked up and began talking to me. I only showed a passing interest until she said something that I failed to hear when I told her I had to be in work in the morning.

“What did you say?” I hollered over the bumping – now, Hip-Hop – beats.
“I said I have to go home early too.” She said with an inebriated sneer.
“Oh.” I said and turned away disinterested.
“Yeah, I need to get some sleep before my baby wakes up.”

I hoped and prayed to God she was talking about a husband or boyfriend. But she wasn’t. And when I asked who the baby was with she says “Her big sister.”

Not “my big sister” but “her big sister”.

This 20-something lass has 2 kids; both daughters; and this is the example she’s setting for them. Worse still, she felt no shame in admitting it. Now, granted, we all need some time off – parent or not – but I think I have reason to question the parenting skills of an underdressed someone who drunkenly hit on a stranger while her two babies babysat each other.

Then I remembered where I was. For a brief minute, I felt like I was in a ghetto in Atlanta questioning some baby-mama who’d been victim of the disenfranchised naiveté of her people. In reality I was at an upscale club in Kenya talking to someone who had options, had choices and more eerily, had parents. African parents.

I looked around at the what the future holds for this country; promiscuous drunks who spend disgusting amounts of money to fuck-dance to gospel tracks and emulate their American peers in hopes of being cool. Single mothers whose priorities remain themselves and not their children. Men who may be fathers but don’t know and don’t care as they are too busy plotting on the next turkey they’ll be stuffing.

I looked at the future of Africa and saw the present demise of the West. I looked at people who had little pride in their culture and felt ashamed of what I had so avidly defended. I wondered if these were the people I belonged to.

For a few moments there – and everyday since – I felt ashamed to be African.

**Before people get uppity in the comments, I had a lengthy enough conversation with the lady in question to pass the judgment I did. **

Dont watch twilight saga eclipse

We interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to issue this important public service warning.

Twilight sucks.

I’ve already explained why I have an issue with Twilight as a franchise; long story short, it’s insulting to anyone with half a brain and/or testosterone levels or male loins.

I would never, of free will, watch said cinematic abortion; any of the 3 parts. But alas, I have a vindictive niece who can hold grudges longer than fundamentalist terrorists. So it was that I found myself at the tickets and concession stands watching her buy the tickets (Yes, I let my niece pay. I have standards.) as I ran prayer beads through my fingers asking God to tell Scotty to beam me up before it was too late.

When the nice lady behind the counter asked if I wanted anything to take with me in the movie, I said I’d like a sharp razor blade.
She repeated while giggling “Food or drinks. Something edible.”
I said “I was going to eat the razor blades. But now that you mention it, I’d like some cyanide to wash it down.”
She was less amused “We don’t have cyanide or razor blades.”
“Fine.” I exhaled. “Then give me some battery acid and a plastic spoon so I can scoop my eyes out.”

My niece dragged me into the room with the loudest “Nkt” ever heard to man. This was the beginning of the end. All I could hear while walking in was the stone mason chipping my name into my tombstone.

“Here Lies iCon: The First Man to Die From Sh***y Cinema.”

You know what firing squads, hangings, guillotines and lethal injections have in common besides being gateways of legal murder? They promise imminent doom in such a fashion that the suspense and terror are both flat and bland. Think about being blindfolded up against the wall, or with a noose round your neck, or your head in a guillotine brace, or strapped to a chair, waiting for the Reaper wondering whether he’ll tap your shoulder or just slap the bejesus out of you. Either way, you’re sodded. This movie was like a combination of all the above; I was in a chair with nowhere to turn waiting to lose my head and for the certain painful death that would ensue.

The movie begins with the sparkly vampire guy turning down that chick that’s been wanting to bone him since he threatened to eat her and then abandoned her. Why she still thought he was a dream man is something only the patient, desperate and naive can comprehend. Anyway, they’re lying there in the grass and flowers talking about sex and marriage. Then some stuff happens in the middle of the movie and there’s one cool scene where a vampire gets decapitated and glitter spills out as a werewolf gets bearhugged and that chick stabs herself(I’m really not making this up). Anyhow, at the end of the movie, guess where they end up? Right back in that damn meadow having the same bloody conversation they were before. Nothing changed. For 2 and a half hours – about 2 months in their timeline – NOTHING CHANGED!

Seriously?

Woe be the literary mind that actually had to review this book; the movie is supposedly better than the book but I fail to see how. Especially since this book is really just the author lady penning some fantastic wet dream she had.

The only thing worse than this would be getting castrated with a hot salad fork or having to artificially inseminate two crocodiles and a hippo at the same time. Actually, that last one pales in comparison to the outlandish ridiculousness that is this “movie”.
None of the people in the movie can actually act(which is why I called them “people” not “actors”). The plot is thinner than greased baby hair and so basic that that the baby in question would probably have walked out halfway through asking for a refund. The effects are basic and the cinematography is … All in all, just gawful.

But that’s not why you shouldn’t watch it. The reason why NOBODY should watch this movie is because you are putting money into undeserving pockets. Stephenie Meyer is yet to pen one interesting sentence; Robert Pattison has the emotional range of a comatose earthworm, that redheaded chick looks like a bird trying to swim and that werewolf dude looks like an alpaca.

And none of them can act, yet all of them earn more per movie than the kingdoms of Lesotho and Swaziland see in a year.

My fear is that if we keep giving Steph et al. money, she’ll get it into her head to make more movies or write more books. Likewise with those faux-actors. And that, really, is no different than re-electing current government officials: it’s pricey and counter-productive. And the movies are actually dangerous to one’s health. I stumbled out of that theater bleeding from my eyes and ears but after a few nights in the hospital, I survived.

Now, with renewed purpose in life, I pen this letter.

Dear World,

We have 2 options. We can chalk Twilight-mania up as a misguided hormone driven miscalculation, count our losses and move on so that real books can inherit the spotlight.

Or we can round up all the concerned parties and leave them in Roman Polanski’s basement for the next decade or so.

Either way, this must end.

Thanks
DR.

life

“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”

World Cup: The Worst Eleven

World Cup: The Worst Eleven

FIFA introduced the brand new ball known as the Jabulani; as a result many a goalkeeper was Jabulani-ed in South Africa. Sometimes, however, that was no excuse. At the same time there is a difference between a Rookie and a Pro. Where Part 1 focused on the players who excelled, Part 2 will focus on the players who were pathetic, and did not deserve to represent their nations.

Poor Robert Green committed the kind of mistake against USA that defines a career and not just a tournament. The basics are well known: Clint Dempsey shoots; Green lets it slip through his hands and acquires international infamy.

Right back: Jonas Gutierrez/Nicolas Otamendi (Argentina)

Right back can appear the easiest position to play on the pitch. Argentina, who didn’t pick any specialists, proved that isn’t necessarily the case. In the first two games, Jonas Gutierrez displayed all the positional sense of a left winger playing at right back; unsurprising, given that is what he was. Then centre-back Nicolas Otamendi took over. His duel with Germany’s Lukas Podolski was among the most one-sided of the World Cup. Suffice to say that the substituted Argentine didn’t win it.

Centre back: John Terry (England)

Perhaps the most elementary error a central defender can commit is to misjudge a goal kick and let it bounce behind him; that was what John Terry did when Miroslav Klose gave Germany the lead against England. There is a temptation to say Terry was all over the place but, more accurately, he was rarely in the right position and lacked the speed to get there. As it is cited as the reason for his dire display against the Germans, he plays as the right-sided centre back in this team. Another reason for Chelsea to get rid of him and replace him with some one more capable like Dani Alves.

Centre back: William Gallas (France)

Swift to blame Raymond Domenech after France’s dismal campaign concluded, William Gallas nonetheless admitted his own form hadn’t been brilliant. His partnership with Eric Abidal rarely threatened to work and it should mark an undistinguished end to his international career.

Left back: Patrice Evra (France)

The Manchester United defender began his career as a striker. For 24 hours, he reverted to that role when organizing the futile French boycott of training. It was not Evra’s finest moment; nor, indeed, was it when Mexico’s Pablo Barrera sped past him with unusual ease en route to winning the penalty for their second goal. Evra was duly dropped for the final game. As Raymond Domenech manages this team, Evra captains it (though presumably John Terry would attempt to take it off him).

Centre midfield: Gennaro Gattuso (Italy)

Time has been cruel to too many of the Italians. Four years ago, Gennaro Gattuso was the Azzurri’s enforcer, an all-action midfielder at the peak of his game. Now only the trademark beard is the same; brought in to stop Marek Hamsik, an anonymous Gattuso was hauled off at half-time against Slovakia. It was a sad farewell to international football.

Centre midfield: Felipe Melo (Brazil)

Felipe Melo’s short fuse had long been apparent in Serie A. When it became a problem on the international stage, it did so with huge consequences. Brazil were already trailing to Netherlands, after two goals credited to Wesley Sneijder but where Melo was partly culpable, when he planted his studs in Arjen Robben’s thigh. Blaming the Dutchman for his dismissal was unfair; it was Melo’s fault and it was the moment that effectively ended Brazil’s World Cup hopes.

Right wing: Franck Ribery (France)

This has not been Franck Ribery’s year. Overshadowed emphatically by Arjen Robben( just to mention he is not in the worst 11) in Bayern Munich’s fine campaign, he was suspended for the Champions League final. Eligible for the World Cup, he was shunted around the forward line, proving especially ineffective in the hole. While he set up France’s only World Cup goal, scored by Florent Malouda, and was the better of two poor right wingers – Sidney Govou was shocking – Ribery’s pedigree means he qualifies as the greater underachiever. A lot of time spent in whore houses in Paris.

Left wing: Cristiano Ronaldo (Portugal)

Cristiana Ronald was somehow named man of the match in each of Portugal’s three group games. Perhaps it was merely wishful thinking, though the Portugal captain did have a fine second half against North Korea; then again, so did the entire side. But Renaldo’s only goal proved irrelevant and, when Portugal required inspiration against Spain, he was unable to oblige.

Striker: Wayne Rooney (England)

Four games, no goals: in everything other than a red card, Wayne Rooney’s World Cup was rather too similar to his tournament in 2006. Then, as now, he did not appear to have fully overcome an injury; then, as now, the system did not seem to suit him; then, as now, a reputation as one of the world’s leading players was not justified. Clearly this Cat carried Man-U the whole season, injuries and burnouts brought him to this list of shame.

Striker: Nicolas Anelka (France)

The man who achieved the dubious honor of becoming the first player, among those who played in the World Cup, to leave it, Nicolas Anelka contrived to do rather more damage in his own dressing room – where his outburst at Raymond Domenech brought his expulsion from the French camp – than he did to opponents. Two anonymous displays may be forgotten easily, but the French civil war won’t be.

Substitutes: Federico Marchetti (Italy), (Argentina), Fabio Cannavaro (Italy), Eric Abidal (France), Giorgios Karagounis (Greece), Claudio Marchisio (Italy), Kaka (Brazil), Sidney Govou (France), Alberto Gilardino (Italy), Fernando Torres (Spain).

Manager: Raymond Domenech (France)

Others failed, but none so humiliatingly and yet so predictably. That Raymond Domenech was out of his depth was obvious in Euro 2008, yet he retained his position for another two years. Tactics, team selection, man-management and even basic dignity appeared beyond him. That his players have queued up to blame Domenech is no surprise: the shock will be if any club or country offers him a swift return to employment.

hi

this is Cyril not having sleep

Maps of Kenya

Cars CArs CArs and More cars

Nairobi Kenya

paper loving - Chris Martin

Cyril,Andruh,Nikita,Laura,Jelz

My Lil Cuz

the luck factor

Sometimes in buses if I have a seat (rare occassion).. I get scared if a female who is a little plump around the waist stands near me.. especially those working females.. Why?

Because I feel (and I have actually mistaken that) they are pregnant and I get up to offer my seat to them!

If she is pregnant, I have done a wonderful deed but giving them my seat to them. I feel really proud of myself on such days.

If she is NOT pregnant, I lost my seat and trust me, NO WOMAN likes to be called pregnant especially when she's not. It's like a slap in the face. Hurts.

I think I understand what's going through your head now. I'm not the kind who politely smiles and offers the seat. I actually chit-chat because I want to confirm that the person I'm offering my seat to, is actually pregnant and not some sly, plump female who is taking my seat on grounds of looking pregnant. So there is 50-50 chance of me being right.

Sometimes I have been right, sometimes I have lost my seat.

Also, for those who do not know, there are 2 laws that work in buses - (Dimple's laws, not Murphy's)

1) The day you are super tired and don't have strength to stand- you will never get a seat.

2) On days you are full of energy, you will find a seat to rest your ass on without any difficulty.

So when the latter happens, I do not miss an opportunity to rest my ass. I may have let it go for short distances, but since I live in a village out of Mumbai, I don't usually do that.

But when the former happens, I do the following things to gain sympathy:

• Look all sad and tired (I already feel that from inside, but now I have to "show" it)
• Look at my watch, look at the crowd and sigh.

On rare occassions, someone actually gets up and tells you to sit down in their seat even though there are equally good competitors around. Bless that soul.

But somedays, according to the laws, you just can't help but stand in the crowded bus, get pushed around and give dirty looks to stupid men staring at you.

But somedays you have all the luck. I hate such days :-P