I now have all these little saplings I feel I must care for. It's no longer the burden I thought it was. It's become a ritual to guide them, tell them they look silly when they do, tell them they're awesome when they are. These days, when I wake up, it's to the sound of a Bollywood movie and rapidly spoken hindi, and with the expectation that I'll encounter a task whose ass I can kick big time.
It's a bit like magic.
I don't get tired. The day just bloody ends and I have to go home, eat, sleep or watch TV when insomnia kicks in. But it doesn't. Ever felt, like you had a purpose on this earth, and then woken up and realized: "fuck! I have no idea what the hell I'm here for.". That's still me. So nowadays, I make it up as I go. Having a goal was awesome. But being surprised is okay... I guess. You never quite know how your day is going to start or end, you just know that it's not yet time to die. And because of that, you do all you can until you can do it no more. That's how it is now.
David was right. You should never stop because if you do, it gets taken away from you. You forget how to do it. You lose your touch. I understand now because it's happening to me. I haven't played (guitar) in two years. I haven't sang in public for two years. I've been writing less and less and I can feel my talent atrophying. It's a bit like suffocating. Sometimes I dream about myself becoming irrelevant. And I wake up all sweaty, breathless... choking actually, as if some murderous hulk had been trying to to fill his quota with me.
Been reading about depression and aging and come to the conclusion that, approaching thirty is driving me insane. I'm depressed... been depressed for all of 2012. I'm overweight - and it's not going anywhere (:D). That smile does not mean I am happy. Far from it.
When I was younger, I swore to myself that I'd be working towards being a millionaire. By the time I was 25, I hadn't even hit point two of a million. Am I a failure? Sure fills like it.
But then I look at all the other things I've accomplished that, had I been so focused on the mulla, I wouldn't have achieved. Still, it feels so small compared to what I thought I would be to the world by now. I feel, like I said earlier, irrelevant. Like a nobody. Like if I died today, no one would notice and if they did, it would be to brush me off their shoulders; like a speck of dust.
Lately, it feels like I'm struggling to do things. Talk, think, walk... did I say think. I guess everyone has a unique experience while aging but, it feels like I'm losing my mind. Dementia, Alzheimers, bloody fuckin' brain bleeds or a tumor that hasn't been discovered yet.
Whatever it is, it's consuming me and I wonder...
I wonder if I'll be around much longer.
(David was a guitarist/vocalist for The Beathogs... wonder if he ever had that baby he wanted)
Had a very strange dream about my boots, my "challenge accepted" T-Shirt which Spyder so kindly thought to make for me, and Tusker Project Fame Season 5 (TPF5). So when I woke up, I made sure to wear that T-Shirt, yesterday's sweat and all, and those boots and to go to the TPF dome tonight. Not sure what will happen but, I'm excited to find out.
It must be something to do with the recent BBC reports I've been listening to. Don't know how, I just feel it's connected. I remember wondering - while listening to BBC features - why all our radio stations waste their airwaves playing just music.We could be doing pieces on Kenyan, African history even, but no! We're busy feeding ourselves and our children with American music, American slang, American bullshit.
I'll admit, I'm envious of their ability to do the kind of stuff they do. The traveling, the hit music, the epic action movies, their version of Anime. It's annoying to say the least, that I'd rather watch Big Bang Theory than Mali. I really would. It's terrible that I spend hundreds and hundreds of 50bobs a year just buying pirated American and European movies.
The only thing I pride myself in as a black skinned African, is that when I find something useful in those foreign pictures that I watch, I share them with my peers in the hope that we shall be able to adopt and Africanize. Unfortunately, we only ever mimic... like monkeys. Not all of us, but most. I mean, have you heard some of the accents people have.
Even those afflicted with the mother-tongue influence insist on emphasizing the twang. God help us!
Met up with artist Nita Hungu this past weekend. Will be writing her story. New style, new feel, new everything. Talking to her, and her manager(Barak) and PR consultant(Wesonga), it was like my eyes had been opened this new awesomeness. forgive my lack of vocabulary, it's all the badness I've been absorbing by not blocking out guys that are out to get me.
The paranoid survive.I feel as if no matter what we do, there's always someone looking us the wrong way, wishing we were unhappy. Guess what? The human race is unhappy from birth. So I don't understand why anyone would want to make it any worse for themselves or anyone else.
Wish some people would ease up a bit. Live a little, learn to smile with your eyes more than anything, be as nice as possible. There's no need to hate anyone for no reason. And when you do, question yourself until you figure out why you're being such a dick to people.
I will say it again: the paranoid survive but mostly, we're all just a bunch of lucky bastards.
I was stuck in traffic this morning, not too long ago in fact. It was the
kind of early traffic that you would normally loathe for keeping you away from
the work you wanted to get done. And the driver of our matatu was a Rasta man. He had, hidden within a swollen mound of
cap, a glorious mane of true African kink.
So, yes. As stuck as we were, no one was mad.
The driver kept chiding his conductors for not 'fixing' a jam that he
invariably caused to begin with by using the wrong lane; they promptly, but not
very proactively fixed the jam and had us moving in what seemed like no time.
During the short struggle however, our bus had
touched bellies with a smaller personal type car and once again the driver
chided one of his men for not fixing the chuma.
Chuma? Asked the conductor. Yes chuma the dreadlocked driver had
responded. Chuma? Asked the conductor
again. Eeeh chuma the driver had
responded rather disgustedly. This had everyone in the bus giggling like silly
little girls. I hadn’t spared.
Remind me of that time I’d gone into Tuskey’s
and when that Boyz II Men - Mariah Carrey song had started, everyone had
started singing along. Sometimes, the universe puts together a bunch of people
who would live in perfect harmony with each other. We just never open our eyes
to it.
A soon as I left that bus I felt like i had
lost a family. It wa like leaving an island you knew you could never get back
to because global warming was going to cause it to be submerged forever. It’s
just the way things are sometimes. They’re beautifully perfect for a while. And
then they’re perfectly over forever.
Every time I think about the things my folks DID NOT do for me, that they should have, I am reminded how big of a miracle it is that I am alive. I remember being sick most of the time as a child and being asked:
"How long have you been feeling like this," by one of my parents. In spite of an answer to affirm how gravely ill I was, the response was always something like:
"Oh okay. Let me know if you get any worse..."
Worse? Worse? I'll show you worse! How about a dead stinking corpse of drug-drenched me? How's that for worse!
It's a little angering, especially when I see kids being mistreated by their parents nowadays. They're more enlightened about disease and how it's prevention can prevent a world of grief - both for them and their children - and yet, they still behave like they're in that prehistoric period before the stone age. You know, that one where insects were considered a little more intelligent than the so called Homo Sapiens.
I tell you, there's nothing as heart wrenching as a careless parent. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's that I'm growing older that I find myself caring a little more. A little too much if you ask me. The thought of having my own children is so unappealing, that I'd rather adopt about 50 kids form the streets and home-school them. Yep. Last time I checked, I still had a good bulk of matter in my thick skull - and as long as I write everything down, I won't forget the important stuff, you know?
There are so many people, the world over having babies for the simple selfish reason of proving their own virility (is that the word?) after which they promptly abdicate their responsibilities or delegate them to a maid or nanny or whatever you want to to call them.
The people for whom child making or child baring is so easy seem the least interested in their offspring, it seems. In some ways, this makes me wonder what it would be like if the Chinese one child per couple rule were enforced universally.
I do not know that they did the best they could. I believe however that our parents got tired along the way and decided on a one-size-fits-all outfit in all facets our lives. We all went to the same schools, even though we are completely different from each other. I especially hated the comparisons that people made between me and my older sister. I hated it like you wouldn't believe. And every time I remember how much I hate, I know that I would never do the same things to my kids or anyone else's unless I was completely fucking brain dead.
Disclaimer: this article is fictional and shall not be taken as truth...but I really know how to feign anger, don't I, did you feel it?
I know it’s a little easier said than done but, no one
should ever have to thank you for doing your job. The salary you get is already
thanks enough, and not only that, but the satisfaction of completing something successfully
that you love should be more than payment enough. And the recognition you get,
if any, is just that extra cheese you like but don’t need on your pizza. Needless
to say, we all need to survive, thus the need to be a bit of a street-smarty
when it comes to getting jobs and getting them done well.
Think of it this way; you may not always get to do what you
love for a living. Things happen, people grow old, get arthritis if they’re
athletes, go blind if they’re readers, writers or editors, you know … that kind
of thing. But it’s your duty to make hay while the sun shines, so that when it
don’t shine, you have lots of stash underground to live on.
So one of Murfy’s fLaw just turned a lot older this past
weekend; I’m impressed with the load of them this far. They are the hardest
working band I know. And they know it too. They have three albums out and with
4 out of 6 of them running households of their own, you’d think they’d get a
standing ovation.
People, guys are willing to spend their cash to make music
to entertain and educate you, give DJs something worthwhile to do, keep your
kids glued to the television and tuned into stations where too often, radio
presenters grossly misuse their power. When we don’t appreciate our own they
wither and die and if they don’t, they go where they know they will be
appreciated. This, I’m afraid is where one of greatest talents, Murfy’s are
headed.
I had the great
fortune of being at one of their birthday Shin-digs. Their lead guitarist was
celebrating another year on earth. He goes by many names; Foco (pronounced foko), Foco Jembe,
Fauz Noir, 9ine and most recently the mad-man (he will gladly confirm this
himself). He can put a talk show host to shame this one. He makes fun of
everyone and every situation, you can’t beat him in a diss contest, but you
could try, just so you could hear what he had to say, and maybe attempt to
understand how witty he is.
Talkative and sometimes coming off as abrasive, Foco is one of
those guys you want to hear talk. A little bit like Russell Brand. He’ll insult
you and you’ll just laugh. Just the kind of person he is. Sometimes you listen,
sometimes you don’t. Not because what he’s saying is not important but because
sometimes, it’s just easier to listen to other things, you know; you get
distracted by the sound of waiters dropping glasses and cursing at the mess.
Don’t know about other musicians but, he and his band some
of the few that I know that don’t care what other people think. While we can
think of about 1000 musicians that could mentor the next generation of
musicians, those musicians are busy being ignored by the very people that
should take the baton from them by playing their music. Not mentioning any
names but how do you expect things to go anywhere when you’re giving foreigners
priority over your very own? Take Camp Mulla for instance, they produced such
good quality music and corresponding video that everyone was convinced they
weren’t Kenyan. But they are. And so are all these other bands trying to get
airplay but getting kicked in the teeth instead.
Radio and Television producers, do your jobs; talent and quality
stares you right in the face.
This past weekend has played out a little bit like a scene in a Stephen King Novel.
See, a bunch of us went and camped on the grabbed hills of Ngong. We knew there were buffaloes and other wild ones but decided they wouldn’t attack us if we minded our own business. A stupid thing to do I know but, what is life without one or two of those. Some of us were dumb enough to carry electrics because they thought it would make them look ‘cool’. I had my acoustic with me and had quite the lineup of Mraz and Bublé songs.
Among us was one Buddha, nicknamed thus because of his peaceful nature and the lotus position he assumed whenever and wherever he was. Though not a musician, Buddha learned how to play the guitar against all odds. When he first started, he had no guitar, couldn’t read music and seemed to know nothing but how to beat drums – the traditional kind – with no particular rhythm. Before he knew it, and after only a few months of hanging around guitar wielding self-proclaimed superstars, he found that he could learn any song by ear.
Having been present during those first days when this miracle began can only be compared to watching a gymnast bloom. In this case, the gymnastics was in his fingers. Though not a rocker, Buddha can do Steven Tyler just fine. He not only looks like a black version of him with locks instead of blonde curly tresses, but sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t just sit for hours, studying and imitating his speech.
So there we were on a Saturday morning at 3am, sitting round a bonfire, intoxicated only by the freshness of the mountain air, and listening to Buddha sing “Back in The Saddle” while simultaneously pulling those impossible Jagger/Tyler facial expressions. He was just about to summarize and hand over the mantle to me when twigs all around us began to crackle.
Buffaloes don’t roam at night I told myself, lions were last seen here in the 80s. But then again, murderers seem to favour these woods as a dumping site. Immediately ‘Jaine’s got a gun’ started playing in my head and I wished so badly that I was Jaine. Of course in every horror story, there’s always that idiot who decides he has to go find out what ‘that’ was. In our case, there were five; Steve, Jay, his brother Jared, Omosh and Kama.
They disappeared into the darkness, guitars in hand in case they needed weapons. Against what, I wondered, fireflies? 50 seconds in and there was a horrible screaming sound coming from each of their directions, triggering an equally terrifying chorus scream from those of us left round the bonfire. Everyone grabbed a flaming log from it, ready to burn and thump anything that came their way. All I could think was, we’re all going to be decapitated. Before I could snatch a torch of my own, I heard what sounded like feedback, then what I knew to be the beginning of a Black Sabbath song.
Then it all began to make sense. The electrics, their insistence on parking in a semi-circle, the amplifiers in the boots of their cars; they’d planned to scare us all along. Expected of a band called Shadow Scratchers. As soon as they turned on their headlights, everyone relaxed and even attempted to enjoy their very grungy version of ‘Into the void’.
I never did get to play and fortunately, only figurative aural decapitation occurred. They were terrible.
I am absolutely flummoxed by the ways of non-rockers. What do they mean when they say of themselves ‘I rock’ when they can neither play an instrument nor hum to a single song that isn’t lady Gaga’s poker face? And when they say rock is evil, do they mean it’s inspired by the devil? Or does it inspire evil doing? This got me thinking, what can I do to make people understand that it isn’t music that’s evil; rather, people are?
Without thinking too hard, I feel that many musicians sing about my life as it was, and as it will be. Their lyrics give me delusions of grandeur. “I just found out there’s no such thing as real world,” he sings to me, convincing me that someday, I’ll fly, someday I’ll soar, because I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for.
John Mayer sang these words and about vultures hiding right outside his door while simultaneously, playing completely discordant chords on his fender. Before he knew it, he was free falling because gravity was working against him. He was talking about paparazzi going to whatever lengths to get his pictures, the more compromising the better. He sang about his half smile and zero shame; a reflection with a different name. Now if that’s a bad thing then I guess we all belong in a schizo-clinic; and he’d be all our boss because his eye-hand-mouth co-ordination is unparalleled.
Macy Gray tried to say goodbye and choked, tried to walk away and stumbled, when she tried to hide it, it was clear that there was nothing evil in her words.
In 1997, Pink was Steve Tyler’s new obsession because back then it was the color of passion and just went with the fashion. Now while his words might have raised questions about his sexual orientation, the song was and still is a hit because of his use of wordplay.
Incidentally, at around the same time, a young Jason Mraz was composing Remedy and You and I both in which he heard two men talking on the radio in a crossfire kind of new reality show, the bright lights turned to night and after being all around the world mixing and mingling found another way to live a life of leisure; he wrote, recorded and performed his hit single Wordplay. Over ten years later, before the cool ran out, he gave it his ‘bestest’ and urged people to see that it was their God intended right to be loved, loved, loved. I listened to these songs and decided that I too was a curbside prophet, waiting for my rocket to come.
Even in 1975, when rock n’ roll was at its peak, Freddie Mercury, who would later die of AIDS cried to his mother, in Bohemian Rhapsody. “Life had just begun,” he says, “and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.”He not only shows remorse for whatever wrong he’s supposed to have done but also urges us to carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters if he has not returned this time tomorrow.
Now, If you’re still wondering what ‘who did you think I was’ is about and if you have no idea what I’ve been saying, and if you still think rock n’ roll is evil, and if you’re sitting there with a confused look on your face thinking, ‘this girl is insane’ then, you most definitely DO NOT ‘rock’.
I know, it’s only rock n’ roll but I like it – yes I do.
