So, I entered the Airtel Trace Music Star contest...

I understand now why most actors don't watch movies they've starred in. Why scriptwriters don't watch movies they've written.

In my old age, I have decided to enter the above mentioned singing contest, and by a miracle of God, I ended up in a Google Hangout with Akon himself. I had done no research on the man at all, other than watching a few of his collabos with the King of Pop, my favourite rapper Eminen and some of his first successful singles.

So here I am at the Google offices in Westlands, Nairobi. Never been there, never been part of a hangout before, don't know what to expect. But it sounds easy enough, so after 2 days of  "performance anxiety" and a gut of mush (butterflies are for sissies), I'm sitting there, as calm as a lake at dawn.

'Will they ask me to sing?' I wonder. I don't know. Ready for everything.
'Will my mind go blank as it is wont to do in the face of pressure?'
'Will guys look at my funnily shaped head and go "What's wrong with your head, dudette?"'
"Will my dreadlocks hurt my chances?"
"What the hell do I look like on TV?"

All this time I'm nibbling at some fruity cake, and checking out my reflection in the laptop Biggie (A larger than life Google tech guy) had set up for me.

Why do I look so yellow? I point up with what I hope is an inquisitive look on my face.
"It's the lights," Biggie agrees.

Someone's giving us instructions. Somehow, I'm able to follow her instructions and my own train of thought without getting confused. And don't forget, the cake is still getting nibbled. Multi-tasking ninja!

Suddenly, Akon's in one of the screens. First thing he does is lean in, presumably to see the faces of the people at the hangout. This is followed by a swift, nose-pick. Thankfully, my mic is muted so he doesn't hear me laugh and say "Ew!" and "My Negro! You're one of us!!!!"

Don't deny it, you go fishing inside your nostrils on a regular basis when no one's looking.

And then Larry Madowo is on. Then Mosh (John Muchiri) then Muthoni "Not the drag queen" Ndonga. (I wonder if she's from that family that has a supermarket in Kagwe). Njeri Mwaura, Charles from Airtel. And I'm like, 'we really all look like we know what we're doing here'.

Alright. As soon as we go live, Akon's face changes from inquisitive boredom to: "Hi! I was created to make you happy and comfortable. And you're going to like me whether you like it or not."

I wanted to ask a bunch of stuff, none of which I remember now. But in my fear of looking stupid, I went ahead and looked even stupider by tweeting on my 2011, Samsung Galaxy. Yes. It still works. No one's talking about this. Good. I only told my sister and my friend Pauline. It's not like I won the lottery so I'll keep this under wraps until I have something worthwhile.

But what is that saying about not despising small beginnings?

Larry keeps throwing 'chances' at me. Each time, I have no idea what he means, but I end up asking something silly, but Akon, being the star he is salvages it by responding in a matter befitting a Diplomat.

"This is an amazing opportunity for shy singers," I say, "How did you start out! Have you worked with rock artistes? Would you want to? Are you a slave driver?"

Notice the downward progression of that line of questioning. I sound like a dumb cop, interrogating a smart criminal who can tell I'm dumb as hell. Like a diplomat, he answers and answers and answers.

"We're in it for the money. No I haven't worked with rock artistes, but I would consider it. Absolutely, I'd drive you to work. You have to work hard."

"I have no political ambitions," my foot! This guy has it in his blood. He may not want to be a politician, but like Jonah, he's getting swallowed by a whale - politics. He'd be the only other honest politician in the world, after Pope Francis.

Before I know it, the hangout is over and I'm sad that I didn't get to sing. Everyone talked. Everyone asked questions. Some were smarter than others. As usual, the self-deprecator in me goes into overdrive (sounds like an Incubus song)

The wonderful people at Google take us to the Sankara for dinner. We're there until almost midnight. It's a Thai Restaurant. To be safe, I order soup and only water. But I think the food there was specifically to give you a good night's sleep because, as soon as I slurp the last of my stuff, I'm pining for a soft pillow.

Struggling to keep my eyes open. How do they do it? All these stars who perform every night for months on end? Drugs. No? Some people were just made for late nights and bright lights. Some need a little help along those lines.

But I guess I must really want it, because I can't stop thinking about it. Not even after I've prayed about it.

And I guess this is as good a time as any to ask you, whoever you are, to listen to my recording, and if you like it, VOTE!!! for me.

Call 0900733733 enter my code 54101412, and vote for it.

or

Text my code 54101412 to 337337


You can also enter the contest yourself by calling  0900733733

Thank you!!!

99 problems and ... they’re all matatu related

@njerish

njerimuchai@outlook.com

You know how, when you enter a matatu, you pick the seat of least resistance in the hope that no one will sit on you, step on you, unwittingly – or otherwise – fondle you or pick your pocket? No? Well, most of us do. It doesn't always work. In fact, it rarely does.

Public transport is the cheapest, safest, most comfortable form of transportation in Kenya. Or at least it should be. As it stands, Matatu drivers are ninjas, every single one of them. Notice how they carry on conversations with passengers, their makanga and whoever is on the other end of that mobile phone in their hand, overtake at 120kph in dense traffic, evade arrest and wear their uniforms all at the same time.

One hand is on the steering wheel at all times and the rear-view mirror is all but unnecessary; they prefer to turn their heads and look!

Put on a track with Lewis Hamilton, they might not follow the rules, but they’d beat him every time because, short cuts and flawless multi-tasking, are what it’s all about. Of course, they crush – a lot less than you’d expect – kill and maim thousands every year, themselves included.

The treachery, however, begins before you even enter the matatu.  In many parts of the country, the drivers, intent on catching the fish their competitors are also making eyes at, will drive right onto the curb, forcing pedestrians and clients alike to dive into whatever nearby bush is available. Or worse, straight into oncoming traffic! 

But they don’t stop there! The makanga proceeds to shove you into his vessel having whispered a ridiculously low fare into your ear. And that would be really good too, if he wasn’t taking you 100 kilometres away from your destination. 

They always assume they know where you’re going. On the off chance that you are going where they’re taking you, the driver then proceeds to drive off at full speed, when you only have one foot in the car. He’s a ninja, see?

Once you’re inside a matatu with ninja Kamau at the wheel, you feel instantly safe that he will get you where you need to go. That, or you suddenly get the urge to take up long distance running as a way of life, rather than as a sport.

If you choose the former, you still have the makanga to contend with. And that independence seat just behind the conductor offers no respite. If the dude did not shower that morning or is overly prone to perspiration, you’re getting a whiff of him whether you like it or not. And his manly scent is not the worst of it.

If we ever had the misfortune of entertaining Lady Ebola in Kenya, a makanga would most likely be to blame for your catching it. 

They’re swift, aren’t they? How they wipe the sweat off their brow, pick their nose, scratch their crotch, ‘welcome’ another passenger into the already fully occupied vessel and hand you your change in one fell swoop! Mind boggling. 

New Olympic sport
Makangaring should be an Olympic sport; a test in swiftness. We thank God, don’t we, that Aids is not as easily transmitted as televangelist Pat Robertson seems to think it is. We ordinary, matatu-taking Kenyans would have ceased to exist in the 90s, and an Elysium of sorts, populated by only those with personal cars, resulted. 

You see, aside Nyayo Buses (DAFs, we called them) and Kenya Buses, matatus and sometimes friendly neighbours, were the only other way of getting from one side of the country to the other.

Out of all 99 matatu related problems, death by accident and death by Ebola, are the most obviously frightening.  

Then there’s the cashlessness issue. We were supposed to have gone totally digital by July 2014. Tomorrow is November, and cash is till passing from one sweaty hand to another. This is not only unsanitary, but it also gives conductors and drivers room to play with the fare prices. 

How about the fact that cops do not check if passengers are wearing belts, or if they even exist to begin with? Not only that but, some people just don’t fit. They’re either too minute or too large. Some occupy half a seat; some occupy a lot more. The skinny get squashed and fly out of their belts in an accident. The hefty do the squashing and fly out of the windscreen because the belts were not designed accommodate them. They’re jua kali seatbelts, hastily installed in the fear that not doing so would rattle Michuki’s snakes.

And then there’s the little matter of being touched against your will. Ever notice that, when you’re unfortunate enough to share a seat, the guy next to you always has his money in the pocket that’s in contact with your hip. Why is it never in the breast pocket or even ensconced in someone’s cleavage?

And God forbid that Mr Conductor should take your fare or hand you your change without touching you. He has to grab the tip of the note between your thumb and forefinger, with all five of his phalanges. Sometimes, all ten! Ninja! The rest of that note that you’re not touching is not money. No! It couldn't possibly be worth anything is their logic.

Again, why does the makanga never give you crisp notes or shiny new coins in change? Two parts of a 50bob note are always glued together with tape and the coins always show signs of having been in a fire... or an accident.

Also, when is the Nyayo Bus coming back?

I totally had a Jesus dream...

... but it all began with me in hospital. I was sitting in a waiting room, but not with other patients. I sitting near an arrogant nurse. Don't know where the idea that she was arrogant came from. I was seated so close to her... too close for comfort, hers and mine, that when it was time for her to call out my name, I could see that I was the last one on the list, so obviously, it was time to go. Apparently, I was there to see Dr Bashir... in my dream I knew her full name but I don't remember it now. So up I got to go to the doctor's office. Instead, I was at Villa Rosa Kempinski. It was royal-looking, beautiful, like an idiot's heaven, perfect, shiny, angular, rich people milling around with their noses up... although I couldn't quite see them. 

Before long however, I was running. Where to, I don't know, I was still at Kempinski, being chased by people, all over the place. The landscape was breathtaking, like a Golf-course with marble plaques every few metres. Now that I think about it, they were like grave stones, but beautiful and shiny. I was pulling some ninja moves, jumping here, running a little, slipping out of the grasp of a security guard just by a whisker, and then I saw a familiar face, and with an unfamiliar head of white hair. A black man, with a white, old man's hair. Samuel L. Jackson was on my tail, he was trying to get me, but I kept skipping and jumping so that neither he, nor his goons could catch me. 

Somehow, I made it out. Now I was running up a bridge. A bridge. Not really. It was that overpass that straddles university way. I was running up the ramp shouting. Took me a while to realize what I was shouting. And I only remember shouting it just twice. Once in my head, when I realized that he was standing there, at the centre of the 'bridge' looking towards the Globe roundabout. He was looking at the sunset. Impossible. It was evening, and there's no way the sun sets in the east. Right. So maybe it was a fire he was looking at. He was tall. So tall. Slender. In white. But the light, or fire, or sun that was rising at the wrong time, made his face and gown look the softest, lightest brown. His hair was long, his beard was just right, but I only saw the side of his face.

He wasn't happy. When I realized who I was looking at, I cried out his name; twice, like I said. Once in my head, the second time, I heard myself say, in a very loud an desperate voice: 

"JESUS!" and I had my hand stretched out, like I was saying, "take me with you now!". And just then. Just as I was about to reach him, he either snapped his fingers or waved his hand and everything turned black and white... like a 1920s comic book... and he was gone. I remember thinking in my dream that I was going to remember this dream, no matter what happened. I knew I was dreaming. That was Thursday night or Friday morning. Not quite sure. And I woke up with my hand stretched out, so it's likely that I woke up a few neighbours as well.

I was right. I'm probably never going to forget that. It's only my second Jesus dream. When the first one happened, I was a child, maybe 5 or 6, maybe 8... I don't know. But he wasn't happy then either. He was seated among ruins, historical ruins, it looked like, and was surrounded by broken clay pots. Just seated there, alone as I watched from a few feet away.

Intense dreams.

“Enough is enough”: the women of the DRC demand an end to sexual violence & conflict

No more war on women's bodies

BUKAVU (South Kivu), Dem. Rep. of Congo (DRC), February 25, 2014/ -- A fact-finding mission to the Democratic Republic of the Congo—led by Nobel peace laureate Leymah Gbowee of Liberia, and organized by the International Campaign to Stop Rape & Gender Violence in Conflict—today called on the government of the DRC and the international community to put women at the centre of peace efforts and bring an end to rampant sexual violence.

Logo: http://www.photos.apo-opa.com/plog-content/images/apo/logos/nobel.png

Photo: http://www.photos.apo-opa.com/plog-content/images/apo/photos/avatar.png

“They say that the DRC is the rape capital of the world,” said Gbowee.  “But what I see is that it is the capital of strong women and solidarity among women.  We are here to support the courageous women who have survived rape and other forms of sexual violence—and are now working to help other survivors.  These women are the peacemakers, and they need to be supported to bring true peace to this country.  They have told us:  'enough is enough'--no more war on women's bodies.”

The group, which also included American journalists, philanthropists and women's right experts, visited Kigali (Rwanda), Bunia in the Orientale province of the DRC and Bukavu in South Kivu of the DRC.  At each stop, the group met with women's organizations, grassroots groups working on justice, provincial government officials, and officials from the UN and other international organizations—and also toured women-led projects aimed at supporting survivors of sexual violence.  The delegation came to the DRC at the invitation of women's organizations in the DRC that are part of the International Campaign to Stop Rape & Gender Violence in Conflict.

“We work with organizations around the world who care deeply about the situation of women in the DRC,” said Julienne Lusenge, the President of Solidarite Feminine pour la Paix et le Developpment Integral (SOFEPADI).  “Together with our partners in the International Campaign to Stop Rape & Gender Violence in Conflict, we are calling upon the governments of the region to come together with us to ensure adequate access to care for survivors of sexual violence all across the DRC—and end the impunity that still exists for committing rape and other atrocities against women.”

The fact-finding mission met with over 350 women in the DRC.  The women presented the delegation with key recommendations for the government of the DRC, governments in the region as well as the international community.  The recommendations include greater protection for human rights defenders, effective application of transitional justice in DRC and reparations for survivors, access to a full range of services for survivors (medical, psychological, legal and socio-economic, family planning) across the DRC, reform of the police, army and other judiciary mechanisms and the full implementation of the National Action Plan on Sexual and Gender-based Violence.

One of the key concerns is the lack of adequate funding for grassroots women's organizations.

“Groups like SOFEPADI do so much—with so little,” said Elizabeth Bernstein, the Executive Director of the Nobel Women's Initiative (http://www.nobelwomensinitiative.org), an organization created by six women Nobel peace laureates.  “These small organizations have the knowledge and skills to provide a full range of services to women in the DRC.  We are calling for more direct support to such grassroots organizations.”

The delegation will end it's mission in Kigali, where it will be meeting with local officials, members of the diplomatic community and representatives of international agencies.  

Distributed by APO (African Press Organization) on behalf of the Nobel Women's Initiative.

LIFE AFTER DUSK #LAD AT SKYLUXX LOUNGE

This Friday, let's celebrate anyone and everyone who loves fashion all the way From Fashion Bloggers; Fashion Websites; Fashion Critics; Fashion Lovers; Designer Houses; Models; Stylists; Make Up Artists ....their work will be showcased digitally on the screens and some physically on stands at the Skyluxx Lounge, this Friday, February 28. 

Dove Slimme to perform at #Choices

Dove Slimme to perform at #Choices
On #March 3rd, Dove Slimme is doing at again - #Rock Night at #Choices Pub & Restaurant, Baricho Road. 

"Come enjoy the Rockin 'tudes and an awesome jam session by yours truly!! Us!! I say end your weekend with a BANG and rock your Monday into submission!! Hope to see you there :)" 

"PS: Bring aaaaall your friends!!"

That's what she said...Haha

Check em out on facebook here: http://on.fb.me/1hpgUzi

Trust me it's worth it. If what we hear on radio is anything to go by, these guys deserve sold out stadiums... 

Saturday Sensation Party - Marabou Sports Lounge

GOETHE-INSTITUT’S TEN CITIES PROJECT COMES BACK TO NAIROBI

TEN CITIES, Goethe-Institut’s project about public sphere - urban space - club culture, comes back to Nairobi once again. After the huge success in April 2013 with several events (warehouse concert, writers talk, pop-up club, etc.) the project lands in Kenya’s capital one more time this March.

3rd - 7th March 2014

Music Production Phase including the musicians Afrologic (Lagos, NG), DJ Satelite (Luanda, AO) and Tshepang Ramoba (Johannesburg, ZA) as well as Kenyan artists Just A Band, Provoke, Wangechi and Fena Gitu

8th March 2014 / 9.00pm

TEN CITIES Rooftop Party / on the rooftop parking lot of The Mall (at Westlands Roundabout / Westlands, Nairobi) with DJ-sets by Afrologic (Lagos, NG), DJ Satelite (Luanda, AO),

Trust The DJ (Johannesburg, ZA) and Just A Band, in addition performances by Wangechi and Fena Gitu

 For more information about the project visit www.ten-cities.com.

TEN CITIES - Warehouse Concert April 2013 with Just A Band - © Paul Mune...

BLACKWELLS POETRY CONTEST

https://www.facebook.com/blackwellspoetry

THURSDAY NIGHT LIVE AT #CHOICES, #BARICHO ROAD - MARCH, 2014 EDITION

Here are poster of March's Thursday Night Live events featuring various artistes. It's going to be a blast!!! KABOOM. Eddie Grey, who just came off playing at the FIRST EVER! Safaricom Jazz Festival starts off the month. There is no way that's not going to be entertaining.

ParkingLotGrass New Video Release for Speed Chaser

Watch "Speed Chaser - ParkingLotGrass (Official Video) HD" on YouTube

THE GOOD BREAKFAST

I just tried to have a 'good' breakfast - not cooked by me - at a place called Farmers. All I got was late for work and high blood pressure. If you're in a hurry, don't go there. If you wait for ten minutes and nothing is ready, don't bother waiting, it's not worth it.

Not looking down on farmers in general or anything but man, that place, all its workers, cooks, blah, blah are nothing short of the rural Kenyan farmer defined. 

They're slow, ill-mannered and do not understand the concept of time. Granted, it is a Monday morning and everyone is still half asleep, a business like that needs to hire people who 'get it'.

"Hakuna Toast..."

"What?"

"Tukupatie mandazi instead ya Toast..."

Flummoxed, I say "fine" then "no".

"Ama tukupatie an extra sausage?"

I like that idea so I say:

"Sawa."

But now that I think about it, how do they stay afloat? it's somewhere I have been before and gotten pretty horrendous service. And for two years, I stayed away. Didn't remember why I'd stayed away all that time until this morning.

"Juice gani? Mango ama Passion?"

"Passion," I say.

For a few minutes, I'm anticipating the taste of passion juice, sausage, eggs and bacon on my tongue. Then she comes?

"Hakuna Passion. Kuna Cocktail, na Mango."

"Ah! You people!" I say. "Leta Mango."

She takes about five steps before I look down at my coffee. So I call her back and say:

"Wachana nayo. How much is this coffee?"

"40 bob," she says.

"Sawa," I give her a hundred bob and tell her to hurry up with my change. I sip the coffee in the meantime, it tastes like dirty water was used to make it. I put it down and think of all the homeless people I'd walked by near the old Globe roundabout brigde. They'd probably not be as choosy as me.

She stands next to me with stained coins. Looks like they've been through a fire. I take my change and don't realize that instead of 60 bob, she's returned 30bob.

I attempt one more gulp of my hot coffee and give up. I'm annoyed, it tastes bad, there's no way I'm going to sit here without breaking something. Some poor fool comes in just as I'm standing to leave. He has no idea. Or maybe he does but does not mind the mediocrity Farmer's offers.

Never mind. I've had enough and I walk out and towards Moi Avenue. I stop next to the magazine stand where that old fuck tried to steal from me once. I look at the 30bob in my hand and head back to the restaurant, ready to call my waitress and bloody thief.

I'm stopped short when they produce a receipt. It's stamped. I take it and walk away saying something about their efficiency and service and how much it sucks. The cashier calls me back and says:

"Take this one, it's not that one."

I take the one she's offering me, and study it. it's exactly the same except, it's not stamped. Just to piss them off. I reject it and pretend to huff off with the one they'd given me first.

Only I'm not pretending, I feel cheated. 70 bob for dishwater-coffee and bad service. Next time, I'll just give my money to the homeless and drink free waiting room coffee. At least there, you always know what to expect.

And thus, my February begins.                      

So this is what it feels like to be homicidal...and broke.

What a life I lead!


If all I did was music, I’d probably have starved to death already because guess what? My show got cancelled!


Yup! After weeks of rehearsal, nerves, finger and nail damage, some event manager decided my band wasn’t well known enough to cut it. Hell! If all event managers thought like this, Hendrix, Kansas and every other great musician who started just like me would never have made it. Not to say that I’m as good as any of them but when starting out, it’s good to have yardsticks that are better than you might ever be.


So here I am pretending to the black version of Courtney Love playing for Kurt Cobaine during the dress rehearsal and before I know it, midnight comes a’ knocking. Everyone but the singer is present but we’ve been so engrossed in perfecting our parts that we didn’t notice she hadn’t arrived. Front-men and women are generally dramatic, moody and ‘fashionably’ late so we let it slide this time. It was now two days before Sunday’s scheduled show and we get the rude realization we’ve been snubbed.


True to character, our front person, Kelly, dramatically depressed, explains everything and the fact that the employer – those guys they like to call corporate – had decided to go with a better known artist. This had us all crying on account of the oestrogen saturation that characterizes an all female band.


Not to sound new-agey and stuff but hasn’t it ever occurred to lady I-don’t-know-who- Sandpaper-are, that maybe even they need a new sound injected into their monotonous track lists. You can’t possibly have the same listeners forever. There is such a thing as a new generation. But that show was not to be, for Sunday came and went and all I did was stage an imaginary kung-fu duel where I beat the crap out of the event manager with my guitar.


Boy, was I miffed! I’d spent nearly all my money knowing that Sunday would be payday, my outfit was all ready and sparkling, I had a manicure – Jeri the all round tom boy had a manicure and it cost me five hundred; five hundred that I would have spent on two copies of last year’s Q magazine.


Diary, it’s not so much that I spent a lot of dough preparing for this, it’s that people, supposedly of influence can write you off just because they’ve never heard of you. As if people start out by being as famous as say, B.B. King. He was a nobody at some point too. No one is paying attention to new comers; exactly the reason why the people dominating award shows now have been doing so for fifteen, twenty years.


No. The world, no matter how unreceptive, will not push us down for we are the sun. We’re never really gone; we’re just on the other side.


It’s just like Kansas said: Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done.