Items by Darius Stone
STONE COLD HAVEN
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What A Girl Ought To Know About Dead Beat Dads
Posted: February 26, 2010, 9:34 am by Darius Stone
So a few weeks ago while relaxing with some friends, I was asked to consider talking some sense into a dead beat dad – who for all intents and purposes, had left a poor girl at the traffic lights, literally holding the baby.
I guess I was only asked when it turned out that I actually went to high school with the said dead beat dad. You’ll be surprised how 6 degrees of separation can make the world smaller than it really seems.
I think we were talking about how kids change people’s lives – and one conversation too many ended up with the story of my former schoolmate. The said girl abandoned at the traffic lights is his ex-missus, so you can just picture where this conversation went short of wishing that she had actually been with us at the time.
I’ll plead the 5th amendment right here on going into the specific story of this couple for the simple reason that there’s a very high possibility that they will be directed to read this post.
I don’t consider myself a marriage counsellor, but for what it’s worth, I thought that this once, I’d provide a public service based on my experience and that of my peers. If it helps even one girl to make better choices in men – or convinces even one other guy to take care of responsibilities, then the post is most definitely worth my time.
It’s certainly easier than sitting down to talk sense to – you know who.
Girls, here’s 5 Stone Cold sure fire ways to identify a dead beat dad from a mile off.
1. Follow your instincts
God gave you instinct to protect you from the evil in this world. Use the damn instincts and save yourself from the world.
The best advice you can ever get is not to get yourself into certain situations especially when all your faculties are telling you that it’s plain madness. Your body is wired to be selective and to use any stimuli it can to detect what is inherently dangerous for you.
You have signs all over that only you choose to ignore – habits, what he says, what he does, the choices he makes, the risks he takes – even his scent gives you an indication about how dangerous the proposition is.
Let’s get one thing out of the way – you’re not going to totally avoid danger. There’s no such thing as zero risk. Everything you do is risky.
Even for a guy, looking at a girl’s ass is risky because it presents options not previously available. For a girl, the risks are different. I’m just saying listen to your instincts and minimize that risk.
2. Follow your instincts again (ground hog day, huh?)
Of course we live in a world where warm blooded males and females have raging sexual hormones so it’s inevitable that you’re going to get laid.
Having made that choice, you still need to exercise a level of ruthlessness that will put Jack Bauer to shame.
Simply put – unless you’re totally convinced that the man you’re shagging is material for being a decent father – never let him anywhere near an ejaculation. It’s his right to blow his load, but it doesn’t have to be inside you.
There’s a very big difference between boys that you want to get jiggy with and satisfy your sexual desires, and daddy material. For the former, you can pick up any rough neck from wherever.
But unless you’re sure the dude is made of daddy stuff – bullet proof yourself from conception even if you have to use a cocktail of birth control methods at the same time.
My point here is that the choice of who you have unprotected sex with is not for legislation. Just make sure if anything goes wrong, he’s someone who you can take home to your parents with a modicum of self respect and explain yourself.
3. Love is over-rated
When it comes to bringing up kids, there’s absolutely no place for romance. Your relationship with your man has little or nothing to do with the day to day responsibilities of raising and caring for a child.
It’s a full time job 24-7. Contrary to folklore – love will not conquer.
Bringing up children will test you in all the ways you can think of. It will make you scream, it will make you cry, it will make you curse. They focus on the fact that it’ll make you happy and provide you with something to live for yada yada yada.
Let’s get one thing straight – even your mother can’t prepare you for the drama your children will unleash on you. You’re mother has already had her share with you and your siblings and if anything, she’ll be laughing because of all them times you gave her grief.
There’s a lot you can already tell about how your man will cope with the responsibilities of bringing up a child. Does he have selfish habits? Does he still think you can both go gallivanting around town and hanging with the boys and stuff? Does he look at you with that ”how do I change this diaper” face? Does he roll over and fall asleep oblivious of the sleepless nights the kids are unleashing on you? Does he find it strange that being a father involves things like – giving the baby a bath and reading to them?
Love has a place in relationships, but this isn’t one of them.
4. It’s all around you – don’t ignore it
The bachelor pad tells you a million things a guy will never tell you. Everything from how clean the toilet is to what he has in the fridge is a message.
There’s something wrong with someone who’s driving a luxury car with all the trimmings, yet he doesn’t have enough toilet roll in the house or the stuff in his fridge expired 4 months ago but he hasn’t noticed. The car seats are more comfortable than his sofa, and the walls are overdue a lick of paint.
You can tell a lot from how often dude changes his sheets, to the extent and immaculate way (or not) he has wired his surround system in his bachelor pad.
Kids cost money – don’t let anyone lie to you and you can tell a lot about how a guy can cope with the financial responsibility by observing how he spends his money.
The point here is that the signs that a child will throw a monkey wrench into dude’s whole programme are there to be seen.
5. If he says he doesn’t want a child – listen to the bastard
I couldn’t be any blunter if I tried. He’s not ready so just move right along and find yourself another guy.
The years and time invested so far with him can never justify the heartache you’ll put an unwanted child in.
Cut your losses and run taking comfort from the fact that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have spent your whole life masturbating. It could be worse – believe me.
And guys, don’t worry – I have my own personal tips about how to totally avoid the dodgy broody girls you have to stay miles away from.
Unfortunately, they don’t come with signs written ’Certified Psycho’. Fatal attraction is nothing compared to what these girls will do to make your life hell.
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Haiti: Self Interests And Hidden Agendas of Aid Agencies Aren’t Helping
Posted: January 22, 2010, 11:22 am by Darius Stone
When news about the devastating earthquake that hit Haiti started filtering through last week, my first thought was ”watch the vultures ride into town”
Even my wife was confused by my perceived indifference and reference to the aid and humanitarian organisations as vultures, as they geared up for what is turning out to be the biggest peace time humanitarian disaster of our generation, save for the 2004 Tsunami.
The earthquake and its aftershocks have caused untold devastation and suffering to the people of Haiti. Lord knows they need all the help they can get, and in principle, I have absolutely no problem with a coherent humanitarian effort followed by a structural programme to rehabilitate the country’s infrastructure.
Inevitably with such situations, the ugly side of the self righteous aid and development industry bears its teeth. It’s a conversation many people in the aid industry don’t want to have as they bury their heads in the sand.
Watch the news now, and it’s more to do with aid agencies marketing themselves and fund raising than actually doing the bread and butter things that helps stabilize relief issues in Haiti. Every aid agency you can think of are in town from Red Cross to Oxfam, from the Sisters of Guayando to The Pillars of Christian Faith, from Handicap International to Doctors Without Borders.
The question has to be asked though? Are all these people working with a silo mentality really helping? Some of the aid agencies are already being accused of focusing on the marketing opportunities the media coverage is providing. If you work in the aid industry, you’ll be well aware of the potential of fundraising off such a disaster.
Aid agencies are even claiming ownership of the relief efforts by using slogans like ”Spearheading the relief efforts” or ”Leading the relief challenge” – as if it was a job that belonged to that agency.
The blunt reality is that the co-ordination of the relief effort is incompetent at best and tragic at worst. The people of Haiti are already feeling the impact of these uncoordinated efforts. Lives that could have been saved are gone, those who could have been treated have developed permanent disabilities because aid agencies were still haggling on the tarmac at the airport in Port Au Prince.
The worst part is that the agencies will still continue to play territorial games and have the overall relief work hampered by politics and hidden agendas.
Where I live, we’ve even been approached by several people purporting to act for NGOs that are sending relief to Haiti. One of them even left a threatening note demanding that we give something.
See
, I’m one of those people who get pissed right off with such nonsense. For one, the heifer who left that note saying she was coming back to collect anything from money to old clothes has no clue where I stand on this issue – or even what I’ve already done for that matter.I actually happen to know how the money trail works within the industry so I’ll be well placed to know what to do if and when I decide that my conscience needs to do something.
These same agencies haven’t even cleared up the mess of the bottlenecks they caused after the Asian Tsunami – and believe me when I say too many cooks spoilt that broth.
We’ve got a long way to go with Haiti.
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The Good ‘Ole Days
Posted: January 13, 2010, 3:23 pm by Darius Stone
When chatting to a good friend on new year’s day, I asked how her daughter was, and at first, it seemed that the question had dampened her spirits.
“Darius, she’s in secondary school now”, was the subdued answer and it was quickly followed by a resigned “Dude – it’s official, we’re old”.
But even after we both cracked out laughing, the thought lingered and you begin to take stock. I guess that the main change in my life over the last several years is that some things have become more important than others and you tend to prioritize better and focus on what’s important. What hasn’t changed though is the ability for nostalgia to hit you hard enough to make you home sick especially with the sub zero temperatures and snow storms that box you in the house and makes you ask that dreaded “what am I really doing here” question.
It made me think of the good old days growing up and enjoying some of the simplest and most cherishable moments life will ever present.
Don’t know about some readers up in here, but there were times when 5 bob could take you a long long way back in the day. My dad used to give us 5 bob a day and that would cover bus fare to and from school, a soda and a snack of some sort (usually quarter bread bandika) for lunch, and you’d still have left over change to buy roast maize with pili pili or patcos to carry you through the evening.
Long before the advent of satellite TV with over 20 exclusive movie channels, local entertainment back then was fronted by public service open air movie services like Tazama Mobile Cinema pitched up in an open field once a month to bring to you the blockbuster of the day. They had this strange habit though, of commentating the movie as it went on in a manner that was as equally funny as it was annoying.
Speaking of entertainment, there were classic shows that would definitely be in my DVD collection right now – From Vioja Mahakamani and the comical antics of the residents of Matopeni, to Vitimbi and the real celebrities like Othorong’ong’o and Masanduku (forget all these latter day celebs who think they’re celebs because…well, anything makes you a celeb these days). There were shows like Tushauriane that were banned outright because they showed a couple embracing and the chap started unblousing the girl. Or even the days when we didn’t have mobile phones and you had to walk a kilometre to the nearest phone box where there was a massive queue of all manner of people – and you’d be mad when your ‘girlfriend to be’ plays hard to get and pulls that stunt of asking you to call later because she’s watching No One But You or The Rich Also Cry. The ungrateful heifer – after all those hours you’ve waited in line to make that call….LOL!
And how was it that folks could actually watch such shows. The acting was so bad and the love scenes so predictable and drossy. Maybe I just hate them coz’ they cost me many a date.
Thinking about dates, I miss those day time dates where you save up the whole term and during the holidays you can take the young lady to a respectable restaurant in town followed by a movie. The only down side is that she has to leave by 4.30 pm so that she can get back home in time before her dad and mum arrive from work. It was such little time you didn’t even get the space to express yourself and give yourself a chance to get into her panties. The strategy was always to buy time and charm her enough to warrant the next date – and perhaps you might get the chance to start early enough in the day.
The most affordable place seemed to be Wimpy on Kenyatta Avenue where you had to contend with their Indian manager always shouting orders at waiters like ”upstairs-downstairs”. But the funny part was the red and blue Bata rubber shoes that they used to wear as part of their uniform. On occasion, some of them would be allowed to wear North stars – but you catch my drift…LOL
Speaking of the successful dates, there were those comical moments when mathe decides that she’d have lunch that day at home and throw a whole monkey wrench into your programme. Considering your chica has to start her journey back home at kedo 4.00 pm, foreplay would be scheduled for just about lunch time – so you can understand why mathe turning up for lunch is not a plot.
Your only ally is the mboch who wants to blackmail you for their own ends and reveal to mathe that there’s a girl locked up in the foetal position in the store outside. You think the plot to hide the girl has worked until your mum asks whose shoes are those outside the door – Shoot! You forgot the girl’s shoes and you’re looking at the maid in hope that she’ll bail you out and say they’re for her friend or something….LOL! Even after mathe goes back to work – reviving that foreplay is a monumental project.
But on the entertainment – I miss shows like This is it whatever happened to Sam Madoka the presenter of the coolest music video show at the time); or Family Affairs that had Mambo and Riziki and their troubled family. On radio, there always seemed to be the same 3 or 4 folks sending salaams on shows like Yours for the Asking. I think there was Robbie Reuben Robbie and Agnetta Machinga who would never miss a shout out on radio. And of course Sundowner with legendary DJ’s like Ike Mulembo.
And what
Happened to Kenya’s best known (now he is a celebrity for sure) radio news reader Agao Patrobas. I used to think he was called A gang of robbers. But Patrobas used to front every news bulletin on radio until he became a household name. Legend has it that the reason why he was too good on radio and wasn’t seen on TV was that he was too ugly – but I honestly don’t think so. But a gang of robbers had the mojo for radio.There were times that it was so boring during the day in the estates, my best friend and I would wear our Sunday best suits and head for town and just walk around. We would carry them brief case type portfolios and fill them with newspapers and Malkiat Singh text books just to give them substance. If we met someone we knew, they’d be impressed about how sharp and on the ball we were even though we were barely out of school. We’d try to say something intelligent to give our cover story some credence.
Speaking of Malkiat Singh, that dude had to be my best author during that time. He was either a mega multi-talented factual author of text books on every subject including Christianity, or he was the biggest conman in town. Either way, he trousered millions of shillings from unsuspecting Kenyan students.
But despite being in town, we would always end up at Jivanjee gardens at lunch time. It was the place to be. If you were lucky, you’d have a few bob to buy some chips and sausage at the only Kenchic in town at the time. Watching those naked chickens rotate on that machine was bad enough knowing you were never going to afford them – but what made Jivanjee gardens interesting is that most if not all of the folks hanging out there were broke like nobody’s business and they all came to pass time and listening to them loud lunch time preachers. But if you looked into the eyes of most of the people, they couldn’t disguise that hunger that oozed out and screamed ”I could murder a bandika and cold Fanta right now”.
We eventually figured out a way to survive being broke during meal times. We would go to Burma market by City Stadium and in the market, there is a long row of restaurants that do nyama choma. The idea was to pop into every restaurant and ask for a sample which would come on a very small plate. After you had the sample, just respectfully decline the offer of a meal and move on to the next restaurant. By the time you hit 8 or so restaurants, you’d have had a whole meal and all you have to do is ask for a glass of water to drink. It wasn’t glamorous but it worked for sure.
Down town Nairobi was a very interesting place though. I always thought the funniest part was whenever there was a fracas of some sort, people would just explode and run away in one direction. But if you even asked someone why they were running, they’d scratch their heads and say “I don’t know – people were running”. I never did figure this one out.
And who can forget the lunch time kiosks along the route to the railway station. I had a friend who used to work with mum and set out to start his own food kiosk called Aluta Continua. The thing was this though, Johnny used to give my best friend and I free meals and once in a while, he’d ask us to run him some errands – collect stock, heavy lifting, that sort of stuff. Sometimes when we got pressurised by girls who were only interested in being taken out for dates in expensive restaurants, we’d get them all dressed up and eventually weave our way to Johnny’s kiosk. There was a bonus for us of course and it’s not just the free meal. If we brought a pretty face it enhanced the equity of the kiosk and was the envy of many others around it – so Johnny would throw in a Fanta madiaba for good measure. Some chicks couldn’t cope and considered it humiliating – LOL, but some took to it like water off a ducks back. You can’t beat fried matumbo and chapos even if you were dressed for a lunch date at Trattoria.
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Time really does fly…
Posted: January 8, 2010, 4:54 pm by Darius Stone
Has it been a year??? Well, Happy Birthday Stone Cold Haven. Well- belated really, but I couldn’t be arsed backdating this post a few days. Time really does fly. It seems ages since this blog developed a life of its own. Actually, tell a lie, I started the blog on the other platform before I decided to move a few months later to one that I don’t have to fight with (as the local blogging legend may have it).
It’s been a great year though, and from a blogging point of view, I’ve learnt a lot and I’ve laughed a lot. I hope I’ve given Stone Cold Haven readers as much joy as I’ve had from reading other blogs.
I wouldn’t have met wonderful people like Kellie who had the privilege of being the first person to leave a comment on my blog; or the schizophrenic 3TOC who cried after reading my tribute to Michael Jackson (at least I can say I’ve made a grown woman cry); or the many blogthren like Farmgal, our girl from the bundux; the girl from Valentia Street; Mo who spent time actually psycho analysing me from my posts; Our Kid my favourite divorce lawyer; Shiko the celebrity blogger (well Zuqka thinks so); Savvy the campus genius; CB the drama queen (btw I’ve upgraded you on the Stone Cold Dramometer) – and all other contributors and lurkers on this blog.
You will of course forgive me if I’ve left you out of the roll call either by design or inadvertently, but all you all including Kidada (‘acha kupotea Mami), Mystic, Mama, Maua, Mrembo, and all other blogthren – thank you for making 2009 a good year on the blogosphere.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t grown up from the experience. From my first post The Ghosts of Christmas past, to other thought provoking penmanship attempts like Why do we rarely ask why?
I was thinking which was my favourite or most inspiring post and I concluded it has to be the Kenya’s Shotgun wedding post. I think it’s because of the raw emotion and pain I still have about what happened after the 2007 election with the hope of an entire generation that got flushed down the drain because of…well – it’s a long story.
There were other amusing moments like when all hell broke loose when ’POTUS The Eagle’ landed in central London for the first time to try and sort out the blue eyed white folk who left our economy in a mucking fuddle; or when the Russians decided to shaft us during the winter; or the discussion as to why men should never be anywhere near a delivery room lest they lose all interest in the business end of their partner’s femininity; or a running commentary of my day in therapy; or even my confessions about well….a lot.
Apart from the Kenyan shotgun wedding post, 2 other posts were very emotional for me – one just acknowledging that we don’t have to go to hell because we already live in it; and the other emotional post being my tribute to Whacko Jacko, simply the greatest entertainer who has ever lived on this planet.
I even managed to get myself suckered into writing a weekly column for one of the most popular Arsenal blogs (did I mention that I love Arsenal??? Coz if I didn’t, then I thought I’d just clarify that…LOL!)
It’s been a great 2009 folks and you all have been responsible for making it a great year for the Stone Cold Haven. Happy new year to you all.Related Articles:
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Just Do It
Posted: December 30, 2009, 3:08 pm by Darius Stone
Air travel isn’t what it used to be. If I’m really honest, it’s probably the bane of my life (or at least it ranks somewhere out there with the things I hate most). The long stretch of flight time 39K ft up there I can probably handle by watching a movie, listening to music or working. The worst part is most definitely the insulting security and pre-boarding checks that take place in the name of guaranteeing our personal safety.
Abdulmutallab, the Arsenal hating virgin who couldn’t even do a competent job as a suicide bomber has just made things overly complicated for hundreds of thousands of air travellers around the world. It’s bad enough to go to any airport and watch passengers being prodded around like useless cattle while being told to remove shoes and go through the most humiliating security checks that are legally sanctioned. But this 23 year old punk had to go try redefine the meaning of a Christmas cracker.
The removing the shoes thing started after some freak tried to blow up a plane with a device implanted in his sneakers and failed. What are they going to do now? Ask everyone to strip and flap their underwear in front of the security guards to make sure that only remnants of pubic hair drop out?
Conventional wisdom suggests that only securing the cockpit door of an aircraft with a Fort Knox style of security system will stop a hijacker taking control of an aircraft and using it as a loaded weapon. However, this ”just do it” mentality is starting to really piss me off.
All this reactive ‘extra security’ nonsense is only designed to make passengers feel better, but it does fuck all (forgive the industrial language) to deal with the issue of terrorist threats. It’s the old classic ideology of Problem, Reaction, Solution. Create a problem, cause a reaction and implement the solution you’ve always wanted because no one can really bitch about it.
They’ve now introduced thermal imaging machines at UK airports to scan through your clothes. Notwithstanding the fact that the guy at the other side of the TV monitor will pretty much be watching X-rated images of passenger’s genetalia, it still doesn’t stop another underwear bomber anyway.
So the politicians sign off another ”Just do it” initiative to pretend to do something about global terrorism. How about dealing with the Palestinian Israeli conflict for one. You’ll be surprised how many fundamentalist nutters will down their tools if the biggest miscarriage of justice in the middle east is resolved – or at least is seen to be dealt with fairly.
Meanwhile, the latest version of ‘Just Do It’ will see passengers being treated in airports around the world like concentration camp prisoners being queued up for slaughter. Airlines will continue to spout nonsense like “you need to check in 3 hrs before your flight”. What nonsense! I’ve never ever tried to appear at an airport 3 hrs before a flight. Why would I do something crazy like that?
If all 290 passengers turned up 3 hrs before (and combine that with all the other outbound flights) that’s just a nightmare in itself. I think it’s all a conspiracy supported by the airport management who want to keep you locked up in their airport for the longest possible time so that you can spend money as a captive customer.
But seriously, enough with this heightened security nonsense. Can someone in America or the UK (anywhere really) start dealing with the reason why people are so pissed off with them they’d want to use a fully fuelled long-haul aircraft as a live explosive device. We can start with prosecutors at the Hague indicting George Bush and Tony Blair for war crimes against the innocent citizens of Iraq and Afghanistan.
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When Facebook decides your job prospects
Posted: December 12, 2009, 10:54 am by Darius Stone
For most people, losing out on a job opportunity is quite a depressing affair. When you get that world famous “Unfortunately on this occasion, you were not successful…” letter, self doubt and low confidence invariably creeps in – even before insult is added to injury with the pretence of the letter’s author wishing you all the best in your job search.
Imagine then when the reason for you not getting a job is self inflicted. And it has nothing to do with your performance on the day of the interview. Well, it was only a matter of time before employers resorted to using Facebook for intelligence gathering about current or prospective employees. It’s like everything else in life, we don’t think it’ll ever happen to us and demons from our past come back to haunt us like a nonsense.
I bumped into a casual friend who was still job hunting and he was lamenting how times are tough out there. We occasionally have a drink at the local watering hole and have a good chin wag. His latest disappointment was that a prospective employer admitted to him that he had to make a tough decision on who to appoint and the young man lost out because this employer decided to look at the Facebook profiles of the last 3 candidates in question. Let’s just say, his own Facebook profile left a lot to be desired and he admitted that if he was the employer, he wouldn’t employ himself based on the shenanigans on his profile.
I sometimes wonder why people assume that their online persona’s are a plug and play component of their life that they can switch on and off when it’s convenient. It’s even more damaging for those who don’t realise the intricate electronic footprint that they leave behind with every single action they take on an electronic network – whether it be the office network or the internet. The register of mortified parents is littered with those who are shocked beyond repair when they find out that their kids as young as 12 are taking nude photos of themselves on cell phones and posting them on YouTube – simply because they think it’s cool and everyone is doing it.
Years ago in a job that I did in a previous life, I was nicknamed the ’Network Hitler’. This was because of my no nonsense ruthlessness when dealing with misguided colleagues who thought the company network was their pissing pot. Instead of carrying on with their job like the rest of us, they spent most of their working hours visiting some unsavoury websites that would make anyone’s mother blush and die in embarrassment.
I ordinarily wouldn’t mind, but when the alert console on my screen keeps popping up dialog boxes every 10 seconds telling me that someone is continuously trying to visit porn sites that the network has quarantined, then it becomes an itch that I have to scratch. My M.O was simply to freeze the account remotely and force the employee to explain to their supervisor why the guys in IT have blocked his network account and why he can’t work. Let’s just say I rarely bought drinks and dinner on nights out with colleagues…and only I knew why.
But my advice to all the transgressors was that the minute they logged onto my network – I owned their arse and could tell every single thing that they did and every single location on the internet that they visited and what they did there. I was sometimes shocked by the brazen and reckless attitude of most internet users, including company directors who were oblivious to the ability of a network to retain certain information. We of course acted absolutely professionally and without question – but if you gave me an itch, I would scratch it.
There was even an occasion while resolving a virus attack, I came across a series of emails that had two colleagues explicitly discussing their affair notwithstanding the fact that the woman’s husband worked for the same company and I knew all three of them. It was my job to fix the virus and not to be a marriage counsellor and the professional thing to do was forget every single thing I had just seen in the emails.
I’m still amazed today when I see how clueless some folks are when it comes to being careful with their internet footprint. The internet is a very small place and believe it or not, it’s possible to do something or say something that will come back to haunt you. Facebook seems to be the new frontier. Only recently in the UK, some woman lost her job because she constantly bitched about how her boss was a nasty piece of work and how she hated to go to work. Her only problem was that she forgot that her boss was one of her Facebook friends and could read every single thing she wrote on her wall.
The boss didn’t disappoint for he handed the woman her notice of a summary dismissal right on her Facebook wall telling her not to bother coming into work on Monday and that her P45 was in the mail.
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Free Sex for Copenhagen Conference Delegates
Posted: December 6, 2009, 6:04 pm by Darius Stone
Loss leading is as old as the concept of marketing itself. Whether it’s the freebies provided to promote a new lager at the local bar, or the free samples of cosmetics and fragrances dished out at beauty stores, or the good old fashioned buy one get one free – inducement to invite custom are part and parcel of our business world.
It’s unsurprising then, to find a storm brewing between groups of commercial sex workers in Copenhagen and the Mayor’s office who are determined that none of the working girls are going to have an early Christmas. What with the whole world descending on Copenhagen, it’s naive at best to assume that horizontal refreshments aren’t part and parcel of the ’entertainment package’ available to delegates at the climate and environment conference just beginning in the Danish capital. Just because it’s not on the official programme doesn’t mean that it’s not available.
So when the Copenhagen Mayor’s office issues a formal communiqué that blatantly says ”Be Sustainable, Don’t Buy Sex” and distributes it to hotels, the response from representative groups of the working girls is emphatic.
Conference delegates who show the official “Anti-prostitution postcards” being distributed at the conference and in hotels, in conjunction with their official conference delegates ID cards – are being offered free sexual services as a retaliatory measure against the move by the Mayor’s office.
A spokeswoman from SIO, a sex workers interest organization says:
”It’s completely discriminatory. Ritt Bjerregaard the Mayor is abusing her position when she uses her power to prevent us from carrying out our legal work. I don’t understand how she can be allowed to contact people in this way – we have to defend ourselves.”
It wasn’t so long ago that Jackie Selebi, the South African Police Commissioner urged the South African government to legalize prostitution for the duration of the FIFA 2010 World Cup. Not surprisingly, Selebii’s ‘pragmatism’ as some would say was totally laughed out of the room into the media circles, despite the validity of the argument that the Police should be “policing” the crowds and not focussing stretched resources on vice duties.
Sometimes, morality has no place in situations where practical solutions are needed to manage unsolvable practical problems, and let’s face it, the Copenhagen conference, and the 2010 World cup for that matter is like Christmas, Easter, 4 leap year birthdays and the lotto all rolled into one for a commercial sex worker. There are some things that are simply unpoliceable when supply meets demand if you will.
You can understand why both sides fight their corner though – and why the police helplessly look on.
I’ve made a point though of maintaining my inherent cynicism about this week’s environment and climate conference in Copenhagen. In March, I wrote the article Environmental fascism in its element – Doomsayers are at it again.
In the March article, I conclude that if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand (and something that acts as another contributor to my cynicism) about this environmental fascism, it boils down to the ability to pay salaries and pay mortgages for all these environmental activists. All the focus and enthusiasm and passion and whatever you can call it about the cause for environmentalism, is simply a cover for a direct route to government funding and donor funding for the environment. The environment and lobbying about global warming is a fashion statement for the next decade. In the 70’s women’s liberation was fashionable, in the 80s race relations was fashionable, in the 90s it was all about the gay and lesbian movement, this decade disability rights has become the new gay, and next decade, watch out for the fair trade consuming, bicycle riding, garbage recycling tree huggers.
For one, it’s hard to take anything that happens in the conference seriously if you consider that the Russian security services are being suspected for leaking ’toxic’ (forgive the pun) e-mails being bandied around – totally discrediting the whole environmental movement. Have all these scientist been lying to us about global warming all these years, or are the KGB back to their old tricks. It’s no wonder the sex workers in Copenhagen are seeing the event as pay day and nothing to do with our environment.
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The drama of having kids
Posted: November 21, 2009, 11:06 am by Darius Stone
I rarely get giggles or motivation from forwards sent to me with a threatening “you will forward this to 25 people or else you will die” type of e-mails.
This one caught my attention though as it’s not only true to life, it’s also hilarious. And my buddy who sent it didn’t threaten me with something dodgy if I didn’t send it on. Any parent will relate to this. Enjoy:
Birth order of children
1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your doctor confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes._____________________________________________________
Preparing for the Birth:1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don’t bother because you remember that last time breathing didn’t do a thing.
3rd baby : You ask for an epidural in your eighth month.________________________________________________
The Layette :1st baby: You pre-wash newborn’s clothes, colour coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby’s little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can’t they?
______________________________________________________Worries:
1st baby: At the first sign of distress–a whimper, a frown–you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your three-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.______________________________________________________
Dummy:1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby’s bottle..
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.______________________________________________________
Nappies:1st baby: You change your baby’s nappy every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their nappy every two to three hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.
____________________Activities:
1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.______________________________________________________
Going Out:1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home five times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached…
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.______________________________________________________
At Home:1st baby : You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.
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Flat-backing your way through school, or simply just to survive
Posted: November 17, 2009, 2:01 am by Darius Stone
Folklore has it that only 2 professions in the world can withstand anything thrown at them – whether it’s the mother of all economic recessions, a world war, or a once in a lifetime occurrence of that infamous and elusive force majeur principle – an act of God. Yup! You’ve got it – prostitution and running funeral services.
They’re the only two professions that have withstood the test of time. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the tax authorities can easily be your new found best friend if you register your sole trading vocations as funeral services and sheltered adult entertainment services. It’s the combination that’s a killer – the revenue folks don’t flag up each of them in isolation.
I even remember a story a few years ago in the famous Kondele area of Kisumu City. There was a chap who religiously attended church every Sunday and vociferously prayed to God to bless his business and ensure that there’s always a ready stream of customers. You see, this chap was the most successful coffin maker in the area, and most definitely a believer in the school of thought that unconventional and diversified marketing, if carried out with discipline and without fear, can yield incredible results.
It’s not surprising then, that the oldest profession in the world has caught onto the most popular phenomenon of latter day citizen media – this here blogosphere of ours. I think it’s safe to say that residents of the local stiff house will never take advantage of the wi-fi provision in their guest house facility, though I’d hazard a guess that you’ll find a mortician or two blogging away to pass time while literally doing the graveyard shift. No, no – I’m talking here about prostitution getting the most high profile attention any blog in the world will want.
Until this week, the biggest and most sought after secret of the blogosphere was the identity of Belle du jour, a high class £300 an hour London call girl who anonymously blogged about her exploits in the sex industry. Her blog – The Diary of a London Call Girl – was a witty, matter of fact kind of blog about her experiences with her punters that whilst not necessarily explicit, left very little to the imagination.
From the time her blog (which unsurprisingly has been moved offline was chosen by the Guardian Newspaper as the best blog of 2003, the literary world and the tabloid and mainstream press set out on a mission to identify and flush out the person behind the blog. There were even claims that the blog was a work of fiction by some professional writer, or that it was written by a man.
Belle du jour, eventually unmasked herself to the Sunday Times in fear that an ex-boyfriend was about to cash in on one of the best kept literary secrets of all time. Now known as Dr Brooke Magnanti, a research scientist in cancer and epidemiology at a Top Bristol hospital for children, she admits that she worked as a prostitute for 14 months to pay her way through graduate medical school.
Her exploits as Belle du jour also earned her a neat cushy income with 2 biographical type books based on her blog and work as a prostitute, and a novel classified as fiction, as well as a TV series based on the life and times of Belle – who was played by a famous actress Billy Piper. Until this week, only Billy Piper had met Dr. Magnanti when familiarizing herself with the role before doing the TV show. Even her publishers Orion had no clue who she was.
Flat-backing your way through school is not a new phenomenon (well, maybe writing about it and publishing a couple of books is a bit different), but the truth is that if you look at most if not all the universities around the world, you’ll find a story to tell. It’s like one of them taboo things that folks don’t speak about – but it’s the white elephant in the room. The methods of payment may vary for most students trying to pay their way through school, and these range from favours, to rent payments, to good old fashioned hard currency. In recent times, many have resorted to publicly auctioning their virginity to pay their way through school.
You could always make a moral argument about whether flat-backing is a sign of an industrious and entrepreneurial spirit, or whether it’s just pure ole exploitation of girls who are desperate to change the course of their lives by daring to aim for the best careers. A good friend of mine I went to college with saw it totally different – “Pragmatic mi old chap, pragmatic” she used to say.
While I understood her reasons for doing it, my only gripe with her was that as a Business student, she was short-changing herself. It’s the classic business conundrum of how to build equity by not committing yourself too much. My argument with her was that if she turned tricks herself, her body could only let her work a finite amount of hours. However, if she got a customer willing to pay £100 an hour to tap arse, and gave someone else £70 to do it, she could better spend her time pimping and building equity. If she had 4 girls working in one hour, she’ll break even and some, and she didn’t even need to stare at the ceiling and think of the Queen.
LOL! Stop looking at me like that. The girl simply asked me for my advice. I was just thinking of the quickest way she could pay her way through school and finish paying off her student loans.
But seriously – like with anything in life, there’s a nasty side to the game. For those like Dr. Magnanti, it probably is a happy ever after story and she’s got her PhD and working in a cushy job (with a few bob also from her books and TV show).
For millions of other girls and women, prostitution is a means of survival and will never be a glamorous affair or the stuff of Hollywood. It was only in September that I wrote about the exploitation of children in Mombasa in We’re not going to hell, we already live in it.
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The peculiarity of men’s underwear
Posted: November 11, 2009, 10:42 am by Darius Stone
For centuries, man has endeavoured to explain some of the mysteries of this here life of ours by resorting to the proverbial trinity of falsehoods – lies, damned lies and statistics. More recently, I remember my maths tutor in college suggesting that Statistics was a good major for those seeking to enter politics simply because you could use statistics to bullshit your way through anything.
I must admit, I have a fascination for statistical information often bandied around in the news media as they tell us something about how we live our lives. But it’s not often you come across a statistical claim that men on average, only purchase their own underwear for 17 years of their lives. This got me thinking. When was the last time I actually went out to buy new underwear? You know what, I honestly can’t remember.
Don’t get me wrong, my side of the dresser always has an abundance of neatly folded clean and fresh stock – but just like hangers that seem to be in every closet, I’ve never really taken time to think about where the new underwear came from or where the old ones were dispatched to. I guess ‘er indoors is due a monumental thank you for taking care of the finer detail in life.
Apparently, one of the biggest stores in the UK has done some research from the information they collect from their sales, and concluded that there’s credence in the notion that men in stable relationships probably have no clue how much underwear costs.
According to Debenhams, most men buy new underwear only if they are starting or about to start a relationship. The unfortunate chap whose job it was to extrapolate this info suggests:
“You can tell when a man is looking for a partner by the number of new underwear they buy. If he buys more than 31 pairs every year, he’s either still trying desperately to impress the woman in his life – or else she’s not The One”.
“This is the one issue that feminism has never addressed. It’s not who wears the pants in each household – it’s who has to buy them that counts”.
They further suggest that men’s underwear buying activity reaches a peak at the age of 23, but declines gradually until the age of 33 when it falls to zero – because many men are in a stable relationship. It picks up again between the ages of 38 and 40, when some men are going through relationship break ups and are seeking new partners again.
But it goes into a sharp decline again and slumps to zero at the age of 44 when they are generally in another stable relationship. After the age of 44 men remain strangers to the underwear department for the rest of their lives, handing all responsibility for their underwear to women.
You know, after reading this stuff, I made a point of asking ‘er indoors how much underwear costs these days and she laughed me out of the room. She was curious to know what brought this on since I’ve never bothered asking her something like this. I admit that I still don’t know how much bread, let alone underwear costs, but I guess each time I pick up a new pair from the drawer, I best be thankful for the small comforts in life. I did entertain the thought of getting in touch with all my ex’s just to thank them for this studious duty of seamlessly ensuring my dignity – but I guess this blog post will have to do.
After all, we have to relentlessly adhere to the old maxim of how important it is to wear clean underwear at every available opportunity. I doubt this has anything to do with personal hygiene….nothing like that. It’s primarily because we all owe our loved ones some dignity in case something tragic was to happen to us – say if we absent mindedly walked under a bus and ended up on a slab in an unsavoury backroom in the local mortuary.
Can you imagine your folks claiming your personal effects only to be handed dodgy underwear with skid marks? The poor folks have to grieve and need to be cut some slack.
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Should men be kept away from the delivery room?
Posted: October 22, 2009, 4:06 pm by Darius Stone
A debate has been raging this past week in the UK, about the role of men in the delivery room during childbirth. A renowned obstetrician Michel Odent has suggested that men should be kept well away from delivery rooms as they add little value to the process of childbirth.
Odent, a veteran who has overseen more than 15,000 deliveries in over 50 years says:
”I am more and more convinced that the participation of the father is one of the main reasons for long and difficult labours. A labouring woman needs to be protected against any stimulation of the thinking part of her brain – the neocortex – for labour to proceed with any
degree of ease. She needs to be in a private world where she doesn’t have to think or talk.Yet, motivated by a desire to ‘share the experience’, the man asks questions and offers words of reassurance and advice, denying his partner the quiet mind that she needs. The father’s release of the stress hormone adrenaline as he watches his partner labour causes her anxiety, and prevents her from
Relaxing. No matter how much he tries to smile and appear relaxed, he cannot help but feel anxious. And the release of adrenaline is contagious.”You see, my first encounter with the trauma of childbirth happened nowhere near a delivery room. Matter of fact, it happened at a social gathering while I attended some sort of party, I forget what the party was for, but I remember that I arrived late and was talked into having some dinner first before joining with the rough and tumble of the bash if you will.
The food was being served upstairs in the restaurant area and I ended up on the same table as a good friend of mine Bella, who had given birth less than 3 weeks earlier and was cuddling her little bundle of joy. While waiting for my food, I did what everyone who came through did – congratulated Bella, cuddled the baby myself and sang goo gaa songs as if the baby gave a fuck who I was. I of course questioned Bella about the father of the child coz’ this child was too cute to belong to her husband. I know him well, and G is one ugly son of a bitch.
Speaking of which, I really get cheezed off about how pretentious people can be. How many times have you heard people go all soft kneed and gooey and lying to a mother that her new born is a cute little thing, yet it’s all plain to see how ugly the sprog is. What happened to the good ole days when people were brave enough to call things for what they are? What happened to saying congratulations, but with a cautionary “lakini dude this baby is goddamn ugly, why lie”. But I digress.
As I tucked into my dish, more and more usual suspects came through to see the new baby. Unfortunately for me, many of them were young mothers who were keen to discuss more than just the baby. How was it? (as in the delivery) Was it as bad as the first? How badly did you tear?
I was very comfortable with how obscene these girls could get as we had been clubbing buddies for a long long time and very few things surprised any of us, or at least that’s what I thought. And believe me, this group of girls could be both vulgar and breath-taking in the same respect. I remember one of them once telling a dude who fancied her in the club not to bother if he was only going to survive one shot at an orgasm. If he wasn’t going to make her cum at least thrice, he should just cut his losses and run. And it was said with a nonchalant coldness it would unsettle any warm blooded male with a dick hard enough to cut diamonds.
Naturally, I made what I thought was a stealth move to relocate to another part of the room as clearly, the graphic conversation and description of childbirth was not conducive conversation for the meal. I was quickly ordered to sit the fuck down and listen to their tales, and I suspect the girls were enjoying watching me squirm as much as they were enjoying their conversation. I didn’t even realise at what point this banter turned into an indictment of the male species as I was blamed for all the happy go lucky men who just enjoy the orgasmic pleasure of sex and want little to do with the consequences. The least I could do was to sit and listen to the consequences of our orgasmic pleasure.
Of course I severely protested and insisted that they should blame their husbands and boyfriends seated downstairs, beer in hand and screaming at the football on the big screens. But that wasn’t going to cut any mustard. Calling my girlfriend at the time to bail me out was as useless as expecting the men downstairs to even attempt to venture into this conversation. I had to listen to every graphic detail from how Bella coped with the excruciating pain to the extent of her vaginal tears and how she was sown up by the midwife – and all this while having my rice and chicken. To tell you the truth, eating rice and chicken has never been the same for me any more.
Thinking of this debate about fathers in delivery rooms does make you wonder though. Will it all fall apart if we’re not there? I know for a fact, that many of my peers who are still back home won’t go anywhere near a delivery room. The best they’ll do is probably wait for the phone call to confirm whether it’s a girl or a boy, pop in to see mother and baby and then head off to the pub to celebrate with their mates.
I know it used to be like that in the 60s and 70’s, but the bra burning brigades of the 70s saw to it that some “bonding” was forthcoming and before long, men attending deliveries of their kids became more common than microwaves in the average household – at least in the western world. A good proportion even film the whole delivery and keep the video tape in the household collection alongside 101 Dalmatians, Chuck Norris’s Delta Force and that Lord of the Rings Trilogy.
Let’s face it. Despite the perceived bonding and closeness and the out of this world human experience that a couple can get from the man being present during the delivery, childbirth is a painful, stressful, unpleasant and traumatic experience. No amount of rose tinted “having my hubby around to support and share the experience” will change that fact.
Experiencing the birth of a child will definitely change a man. The question is whether it will change them enough to appreciate what their partner has just gone through enough to strengthen their relationship; or whether it traumatizes them to the point where they have a problem even looking at the business end of their partner’s femininity with the same enthusiasm that they used to do.
There are documented stories of men who have attended childbirth, and have been so traumatized that they have subsequently walked away never to be seen again by their partner.
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The fine line between being anal and OCD
Posted: October 3, 2009, 7:06 pm by Darius Stone
Strange creatures we are. We’ll probably find any excuse to suggest that we’re not freaks. But I got thinking this past week about some of our habits that others would think freakish.
I have this habit for example, of washing my hands with soap and water every time I get into the house. There’s this voice in my head that tells me that nothing outside my house is cleaner than what I have inside. Maybe even thinking that outside is just outright filthy. I won’t touch anything in the house until I scrub my hands. I also won’t sit on my bed (whether it has covers or not) without changing the clothes I wore while outside – maybe it’s that thought of all the public places I sat on or the dirt I accumulate at work or wherever.
This past week, a friend and I took the wives and kids bowling and while waiting our turn, we decided to have something to eat at the bowling alley. ‘ER indoors always carries sanitized wet wipes because my son has octopus hands – you can never know what he’s been touching. So whenever we’re out and need to eat, they come in quite handy where soap and water is not an option.
My friend’s wife was also equipped at the bowling alley with a purse sized sanitizer that pretty much illustrated to me that we all seem to have these crazy rituals that we may not necessarily acknowledge or even tell people about. Her kids were not even going to touch the plate without a ritualistic clean with the sanitizer. I didn’t even realise they were sold as fashion accessories, or that literally half the population wanted to carry them lest they get infected by something.
At what point do these habits become an obsessive compulsive disorder or at what point are we just being anal. My wife for example, is anal about having a clean house. Leaving dirty dishes and pots in and around the sink might as well be a class A felony punishable by 2 nights in the dog house and a dressing down. “I’ll do them later” doesn’t cut the mustard in the Stone household any more.
I’ve heard of people who won’t even touch door knobs with their bare hands or sit down on a bus or subway if they’re wearing a mini-skirt. There’s a guy who recently died in Germany from inhaling dettol. This dude had dettol everywhere in his house – buckets and bucket loads of dettol in the bathroom, kitchen and probably under his bed.
There’s this former neighbour of ours (thank God she moved) who had this crazy habit of walking into our kitchen and the first thing she always did was open our fridge and appraise its contents. It didn’t matter what time of day or night or whether she was on her cell phone when she rang the door bell and we opened the door. She would head straight for the kitchen as she started her gossip of the day or continued her phone call, and go straight for the fridge. I tried to convince my wife that this was not a Kenyan thing (long story)…but truth be told, this girl really pissed me off too.
One day when ‘er indoors told me the neighbour was on her way, I quickly emptied the fridge and put the contents in the nearby cupboards. The picture of her face when she opened the door of an empty fridge was so priceless, MasterCard would have a problem selling it.
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We’re not going to hell, we already live in it
Posted: September 25, 2009, 12:07 pm by Darius Stone
Sometimes I wonder why we indulge in the mystical belief that there is life after death. Our transgressions here on earth supposedly decide whether we get to go to heaven or as it were, shake hands with the devil before assuming our position in the fire and brimstone of hell.
The truth is, we don’t need to look forward to spending our eternity in hell, we already live in it.
About 3 years ago, a UNICEF funded report that still haunts me today landed on my desk with a post it note suggesting what I can do to highlight what was in the report within my sphere of work. The general subject of the report was not alien by any means, I guess it was the scale of it and the impact that continues to disturb me. The report was about the scale of child abuse and child prostitution in Kenya in general, and around the coastal region in particular.
Fast forward to last night and I’m watching my favourite Channel 4 news and out of the blue, they feature a comprehensive investigative report about the prevalence of child prostitution and child abuse in Mombasa. What was different is that the children involved and highlighted in the report were given names and faces, and they actually came alive to tell their story. Not that they weren’t alive, but hearing the story from them is gut wrenching.
Here is the blog and video of the untold suffering of Kenyan children story by Jonathan Rugman, the Foreign Affairs correspondent of Channel 4.
Leyla, a 14 year old girl being interviewed in the video made tears roll from my eyes. She is clearly a bright, intelligent and articulate girl, and accepts that poverty has dealt her a raw deal and she’s ended up selling her body to survive. There’s one point she says that she reflects and asks God how the hell she ended up where she is and tearfully laments “I’m just a child”.
There’s also the story of a 6 year old girl now in an orphanage and able to better relate to her carers following her ordeal of abuse since the age of 3. It wasn’t only the physical marks of her abuse like the whipping on her back or the vaginal and anal trauma she’s sustained at her tender age of 6 – I submit to you that this girl doesn’t have to wait to live in hell. It’s her life now.
The sentiments of one mother whose 13 year old girl attends church on Sunday morning and from the afternoon is prostituting herself on the beaches of Mombasa to ensure that her family don’t starve to death captures an even more devastating side to this nightmare.
Until the issue of poverty is addressed, it’s hard to see how the “foreign” money from the mzungu – most of who travel for child sex is going to be turned away by those desperate to put food on the table.
It’s estimated that over 20,000 children, most under the age of 15 are involved in child prostitution, but I think it’s fair to say that this is only the tip of a very ugly iceberg. An iceberg that our society, particularly in Kenya, doesn’t want to deal with. For all the publicity the news report yesterday will bring, I’m more concerned with those who suffer in silence and for whatever reason, are not able to speak out.
I have previously worked on issues of social injustice in various forms, and the one that makes it hardest for me to comprehend, is the untold story of our children who are abused daily and don’t have a voice.
I once told a group of colleagues I worked with on a project “show me 5 girls living in a context of social depravation, and I’ll show you a story of physical, emotional and sexual abuse that is likely to be taken by the victim to her grave”.
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I see dead people
Posted: September 9, 2009, 11:24 am by Darius Stone
“Dear God. All I ask you is to let me live for one more day, and I promise to do whatever you want. Just one more day and I promise I’ll never drink again. I don’t want to die like this”
That was my cousin JQ narrating to us his conversation with his God when he woke up in a sewerage gutter somewhere in Kayole estate. He doesn’t recall how he got there, but we all agreed it had to do with consuming copious amounts of alcohol, though the jury’s still out as to whether it was regulation booze or the kumi kumi variety from Mama Pima.
He vaguely remembers sounds of people and one or two cars passing by, but not much else apart from the realisation that he didn’t want to die. It sounds tragic, but his narration of this near death experience was too hilarious – and JQ was compelled to divulge all after he declined a routine 3rd round of booze as we sat outside a bar in Hurlingham some time back. JQ is not one to turn down a drink, but he was already uneasy about us being there. You see, he’s the sort of chap who’s conscience doesn’t tolerate paying a price for a beer that you can get cheaper elsewhere.
His protest was clearly visible each time the waiter brought a round of drinks and he quickly grabbed the bill before reminding us “majamaa, hizi pombe na weza sakanya 33 bob kule kwa mahindi” (Guys, I can hustle this booze for 33 bob in the maize plantations). At one point, he actually challenged the waiter to clarify whether the figure on the receipt was the actual bill or a phone number.
JQ was the last person I suggested to that he was seeing dead people, something he really couldn’t argue with as that is what he felt when in that filthy gutter. So you can imagine my surprise when while on the concourse of Charing Cross Station in London, a familiar voice shouted to me “Hey – I see dead people”.
Most people around me thought Jamie had lost the plot, but there was no mistaking that husky voice running at me from the direction of platform 6 shouting “you jammy bastard”. The bear hug and the testosterone filled hi-fives confirmed to all and sundry that it was possible that we had indeed seen dead folk.
Talk about a blast from the past. I hadn’t seen Jamie for over 8 years if not more, and he hadn’t changed one bit. It wasn’t long before we were in the nearest pub catching up on the good old days of our mis-spent youth.
You see, the first time we coined the catch phrase of “I see dead people” was some time in the mid 90s. I lived in a close Knit community in a small village in the county better known as the garden of England.
Jamie was the bartender at the local pub which literally became my second home. It wasn’t just because of the booze, the landlord and his family became very good friends of mine, I could have passed for a family member if I wasn’t black. The landlord Nash and I clicked the very first day I walked into the pub as both of us were wearing replica Arsenal shirts, and he pulled a bar stool right next to his and bought me my first drink. Jamie was behind the bar.
Over the 6 or so years that I lived there, we had life changing experiences that I’ll never forget. During Christmas breaks, usually one of the days between Christmas and new year, we had a tradition of getting together all the usual suspects who frequented the pub, and we’d have our very own cultural exchange madness. Each year, every household will be nominated a country, and they would then take the mantle of representing this country in a crazy fun-feast for all participants.
So if you got Germany for example, you would have to cook German food, dress up as Germans would, serve German drinks, etc. If you get Mexico, you had to dress up like Mexicans, hook up some Mexican food and drink, and blast Mexican music when the village madness hit your house and so on.
Everyone would then meet at the pub at 12 noon, have a single drink, before starting a crawl round everyone’s house beginning furthest afield. Everybody would enjoy the delights and booze of one country and after dancing to some obscure music from that country, we would all then file to the next destination for a new experience. Naturally, the lightweights will fall off the cliff or black out somewhere along the way, though nobody really cared as they would be expected to sleep it off in readiness for the last round at the pub. If you think of it, crawling at least 12 to 14 different countries, eating and drinking God knows what, and aiming to be at the pub before 10 pm was quite an expedition.
This one particular year, Nash and his wife didn’t get past the 5th house, which was not unusual, so folks decided to end the party at Jimbo’s house instead of the pub. Hindsight would have brought some perspective to this decision, but I doubt if anyone was compus mentus enough to predict the drama about to unfold.
Jimbo is a Kiwi who was prone to do stupid and dangerous things like luring me into an Australian pub in London on the day that the Wallabies were beaten by the All Blacks and only suicidal folks would walk into an Aussie pub wearing an All Blacks jersey. The smirk on his face while doing this was priceless though, just the sort of thing a crazy Kiwi will never hesitate to do given the opportunity.
The stunt nevertheless got me into a tight spot and my only get out clause was to dance and mime to Alanis Morissette’s Ironic on top of a table with a beer bottle as the microphone. Oh! Don’t you worry, Jimbo and his 14 stone All Black self was on the table next to mine also doing his Ironic routine with the rest of the pub cheering like crazy.
That particular night, I had done well even to make it back to Jimbo’s, though most of the folks by then were the ones who had blacked out earlier and bought themselves a new lease of life. The last thing I remember was playing grab ass with Katie and dancing to Brown Girl in the Rain by Boney M – now that I think of me singing that song in the state I was in, I shudder. I don’t even remember when Marco, my Aussie house mate and partner in crime switched places with Katie and started slow dancing with me. I guess it took me a while to notice that his chest didn’t have the customary C cup cushioning that I had already warmed up to, his prickly stubs of a beard that needed a shave were scraping my face, and his ass wasn’t as supple and rounded as Katie’s was.
There was some cake and snacks being dished around and who was I to refuse some good ol’ fashioned Mexican cuisine. Only problem was that Jimbo and his twisted pals decided to lace the sugar they baked the cake with. I have since taken the 5th when asked what was in that cake, except to ask the inquisitive party – “what is white and can be used to lace other white stuff put in a cake?”, and you quickly get my drift. If this was a practical joke, then no one saw it coming.
My next interaction with the world around me was when Marco and Katie’s dad were carrying me into a taxi. I could still hear voices and it was as if people were talking about me like I was dead. Somebody did insist on asking if I’ll make it and I distinctly recall Marco responding “Darius is OK – he’s just seeing dead people”.
He then turned round to me and tried to get me awake before asking me if I was seeing dead people. I honestly don’t know if they were dead, but I had visions of a familiar room with folks that I thought I knew. Leslie (at least I thought it was though I couldn’t see her face) was at one corner and kneeling down as if praying though she was speaking Gaelic, and I remember wanting to shout to her that it’s OK and that it’s peaceful – she didn’t need to fight it. There was Pauly as usual scrounging around for his last blunt, and swearing that he can’t finish the job until he gets that spliff but what distinctly worried me was that I recalled him stripping the tables and chairs in the pub and using them to build a weird shaped casket. There were other people I didn’t know repeatedly chanting some stuff like “Hamnyo mlengonyo” almost as if they were in a temple and surrounded by smoke filled enclosures and the smoke rising and forming images on the roof.
The cab driver was getting a bit anal and wondering whether I’ll throw up in his taxi and arguing with Marco about who will clean it if I do. Apparently, I then told the cab driver to relax, I wasn’t going to throw up, I was just seeing dead people.
And the catch phrase was born.
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Spacial awareness is divine
Posted: September 4, 2009, 8:30 pm by Darius Stone
Train journeys can be as much of a pain as they are comical. There are indeed some strange characters who frequent this mode of transport, and perhaps I should include myself in this category. My M.O is straight forward – get comfortable, hook on the IPOD and resurface when the announcement for my station blasts over the tanoi. I don’t blame anyone for considering this anti-social, but my defence is that it’s probably the most normal thing to do considering I didn’t get on a train to meet people and chin wag the way to my destination.
Sometimes you just want some quiet and some private head space to contemplate stuff. Usually, it’s taxi drivers who can’t get the concept of leaving a passenger alone wanting to eagerly chat to you about everything from the weather to the problems that immigrants are bringing to the beloved British isles. Every once in a while though, you’re forced to become a third party to a telephone conversation on the train that let’s face it, you really don’t want to be part of.
I took my seat across the table from a “quietish” young woman who was busy reading some magazine or something. Even when the conductor approached us for tickets, she was very soft spoken when responding and asking about something or the other. The hits started rolling when her phone violently vibrated on the table and started ringing.
I don’t know what it was that ticked me off instantly. Maybe it was the fact that she left it there wringing for what seemed to be ages so that we could hear the hideous song that was her ring tone, or the fact that it was so loud, I’m sure you could hear it from outside even if the diesel powered train swept past you at 120 miles an hour.
“It’s for you”, I calmly suggested through gritted teeth.
“Oh! Shoot – I was looking for it” was the response.
Who was it who said the art of conversation was dead? Nobody told this girl.
Talk about a lack of spacial awareness and totally disregarding your surroundings. This girl just transformed into the world’s loudest gossip monger with a flip of that phone.
“C’mon C’mon. Spill it out”, she loudly blurted.
I thought the volume of the ring tone was bad, but this girl could talk for England and she wasn’t about to go shy on us.
“How was it”, followed with constant giggles of excitement only of the kind you would dare indulge when you’re alone. You could hear the groans and sighs from the other passengers in the cabin, as if willing each other for someone to wake up and slap the senses into this girl.
“So was it big?” she fearlessly asked before the middle aged woman sitting across from us decided enough was enough and respectfully reminded her that she wasn’t the only one on the train.
“Zip it luv”, was the curt and shameless response.
I was kind of pissed off with that response to tell you the truth. The lady didn’t deserve to be dismissed like that. But chatter box didn’t want to know. The giggles went on with the almost queued up remarks of “awesome”, “wow”, “your kidding me”….you know the drill.
I had one of them moments where I contemplated being arrested for assault because a combination of the girls voice, the nature of the conversation that was making everyone uncomfortable, and the volume of the conversation all conspired for me to consider sleeping in a police cell.
And she continued…“So what will you do, will you think about it?” “I don’t know, how big is it?”. “What are you going to do?”
I’d had enough by then, and before she could indulge further, I audibly interjected, “tell her to use lubrication, it makes it easier – nobody likes it too big”.
The whole cabin just cracked out in laughter. The girl was so embarrassed she picked her stuff up and moved right along probably to the next cabin.
Poetic justice I call it. The chap sitting opposite the lady who was earlier insulted for confronting the girl offered to buy me a drink.
The thing is though – she could have easily been talking about shoes or I don’t know, a bag of potatos? Who knows.Related Articles:
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“My lady is waiting”
Posted: August 23, 2009, 3:04 pm by Darius Stone
If there’s one thing I envy about living back home, it’s the options available to any working family to get an affordable house help or maid, more popularly known as a mboch. Having a live in house help out here could easily cost you the better part of your salary after tax – and for most of us, we have to make do with tackling those oh so unwanted chores , come rain shine or snow.
You see, some of the most drama generating issues for any couple are the mundane things like who does what in the house from washing the toilets and changing diapers, to mowing the lawn and scrubbing the pots and pans. They say it’s the stuff relationships are made of, but in the same token, it’s most definitely the stuff drama is made of. Of course, it doesn’t help that you’re both probably busting a gut at work to make ends meet, and there’s a small matter of kids who might not see things as you see them when it comes to being reasonable.
So once in a while, you resolve to lighten the load for both of you and sub-contract some of the more straight forward chores. A live in house help is most definitely not an option, so the natural thing is to pick up the yellow pages, and look for the locally advertising domestic cleaners, who can pop in once or twice a week. The truth is, doing most of the work yourself for the simple reason that it saves money is a false economy. For the sake of sanity, investing in external help on occasion makes perfect sense.
I thought finding a cleaner would be easy. Back in my bachelor days, it was most definitely easy. I found a nice lady on the other side of the phone, she came with a cleaner on the first day, we laughed and chatted, haggled on a price, and I gave her the spare key, and that was that. Twice a week, I’d come home from work and my apartment would look like a million bucks.
I didn’t have to worry about much, and even if I wasn’t able to leave a few bob under the biscuit tin when I was broke, I could always square things on payday. They were even flexible enough to pop in on an additional day to do a spring clean if I was expecting a booty call (a sparkling clean house never harms your chances of wooing and convincing an undecided chick that panty removal isn’t such a bad thing after all)…but I digress.
I had a bad feeling about this one from the get go. The first sign should have been that a man with an annoying voice answered the phone. His response to my simple question about how much they charge per hour was delivered with an air of disdain that only Ugly Betty would expect from the pretentious, back stabbing colleagues on her first day at Mode magazine.
“I need to arrange an appointment to come and view your house”, the Pratt kept insisting.
“I don’t think you need to see my house to answer a simple question about your hourly rate. Does it change depending on the number of rooms I have?”, was my simple riposte.
“Oh no – sir, we have to follow a certain procedure and make sure that everything is right”.
I should have hung up and just left the fucker out to dry, but I needed to get someone in to do some regular cleaning, and I really didn’t have time to call around left right and centre. And so I gave him my address, and told him that either ‘er indoors or myself will be at home at a certain time, and that he should call before he gets there to make sure that someone is at home.
I found the freak waiting up front 15 minutes before he was due to visit, and his blunt excuse was that he had other appointments so he thought he might turn up early. This was a clear red flag that I ignored (maybe I’m getting soft in my old age), but I decided to just get it over with.
The dude reminded me of a former college lecturer who was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. His arrogance oozed out in everything that he did, how he moved and his appraisal of the living room as he entered the house. Now, every parent with a toddler will know full well that a living room looking like a building site with all manner of toys and implements is a normal state of affairs. I don’t know if he was more pissed off at the fact that Pepper Pig, a popular kids TV show was playing on TV – and clearly, it didn’t make any sense to him (not that it was ever supposed to, it’s a kids show, or the state of the living room was not up to his standards. I would have normally said “sorry about the mess”, but considering I wanted them to clean the mess regularly, I figured it was appropriate that he had an idea of the intensity of the chore.
He started by giving me a history of his company, to which I responded by cutting him off. I didn’t have the time for niceties and I had to go back out again. And so the ridiculous started.
“I have to look around the house and then describe it to “my lady” who will be cleaning. They usually clean from top left to bottom right.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less”, I responded, “but it still doesn’t answer my question about how much it costs per hour. I’ll only agree to it if it’s a reasonable cost”.
“Well, this type of house we would charge x and y per hour, and it has to be a minimum of z hours”, he answered with anger as if I had twisted his arm and slammed his face onto the wall.
“And you couldn’t tell me this on the phone?”
“No sir, we have to agree on the terms and conditions”.
“What do you mean – it’s a cleaning job, I’m not asking you for a loan”.
“Well sir, we usually sign a contract with clients, and then we go through a check list of issues. I have to examine the house for health and safety and for insurance purposes to satisfy that our liability insurance will be met.”
By this time I was rolling my eyes and wishing this fucker had never walked into my house.
“I also need you to sign a direct debit mandate and we normally collect payment 3 months in advance for the first payment as a deposit, and then a monthly payment in advance”.
“For what”, I cynically asked.
“It’s our policy”, the freak says.
“It’s a cleaning job. Why would I want to do something as stupid as sign off a direct debit to you? Besides, I haven’t agreed to it yet”.
He still insisted that they had to take the first deposit and payment in advance and by this time I was already pissed off enough to try find a way to get him out of my house without drop kicking him onto the front yard.
“You see Mr. So and so” I calmly said, “Where I come from, the only people who get paid before a job is completed are prostitutes. Unless “your ladies” are coming here to regularly get laid for a fee, I really don’t see why I should even contemplate paying in advance”.
That clearly got him as he stormed up and suggested that I need to think about it then and give him an answer.
To which I responded, “don’t call me, I’ll call you before the end of the week”….which was clearly a mistake. I should have perhaps said, “fuck off”.
A few days later, ‘er indoors hands me the phone and says “your friend is on the line asking why his lady is still waiting”.
Lo and behold, the dude had the arrogance to say that he had been waiting for my phone call, and that he needed to respond to his lady as she was waiting to know when she can come and start and to organize her schedule to accommodate me.
“I thought I told you I’ll call if and when I decide to go ahead with this”
“But my lady has been waiting”, was his persistent response.
“Then tell her to stop waiting”, and with that I hung up.
Did I mention that he insisted that I needed to buy cleaning materials for his so called ladies? At the hourly rate they were charging you’d think that they were hiring a cherry picker to clean the windows and roof.
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A day in therapy
Posted: August 11, 2009, 10:23 am by Darius Stone
So once in a while, I do something crazy and confide in some old geezer about the occasional territorial battles in my head as my better angels shout down my resident demons. I’m reliably told this pissing contest is a natural state of affairs, though unchecked, the demons are known to surprise the best of us by yielding undesirable results that play out in our thoughts and actions.
This old geezer is an OK fella actually. He’s long retired and has been around the block more times than he would want to recall. I started working with him some years ago as a mentor – supposedly one of them pearls of wisdom, an old sage so to speak, that personal development gurus (these guys who call themselves gurus really need to get a real job, honestly) thrust upon us as a solution to keep our sanity in check. You know, an outsider who can be your confidant, someone who sees things that you don’t, and someone you pay to wake the sleeping dogs in our psyche that we’d all rather let lie.
I can’t recall exactly when, but I think the boundaries of my mentor/mentee relationship with John got blurred some time back – well, I once told him to fuck off, but I guess that particular day, my resident demons were in charge of the situation room. He didn’t seem to mind this, and actually encouraged me to express myself if I felt the need to, prompting me to ask whether he had outlived his usefulness. Nevertheless, catching a pint with John once in a while is something I have time for, and it’s usually after a session when I wonder whether the fact that he’s offered to mentor me as a freebee (I’ve collected some serious air miles with him over the years) gives him the divine right to play the role of a shrink that I never asked for – of course, he’ll say he’s just listening, but I fail to see how John’s M.O is different from a shrink’s modus operandi, suffice to say that its happening in my office.
And so the recent session kicks off…
John: How’ve you been kido, it’s been a long time.
Darius: You do realise you’re old enough to be my granddad, what’s with the kido thing?
John: How’s ‘er indoors and Stone Jnr doing?
Darius: She hasn’t run away with the milkman yetJohn: So what’s on your mind?
Darius: A lot, I guess I’m at that place where other things have to happen for me to feel that I’m moving on.
John: Where are you moving to?
Darius: (*with a cynical laugh*) my buttocks hurt
John: You’re not onto that “going forward” psychobabble nonsense?
Darius: You know me, I hate management band wagons and fine anyone in the office who says stupid things like going forward, joined up thinking and shit like that
John: How much have you collected in fines?
Darius: My beer fund is running lowJohn: How is the work?
Darius: If I went any faster it’ll be illegal, so I guess it’s fine
John: So if work is fine, what about other stuff?
Darius: Talk about beating bushes, what other stuff?
John: Are you being a good husband and father?
Darius: They don’t give prizes for that you know
John: You’re avoiding my question
Darius: She bitches once in a while, the usual, nothing out of the ordinary. Are you performance managing my marriage?
John: Do you want me to?
Darius: For fuck’s sake, you’re the one who asked about it
John: So well – why does your wife bitch?
Darius: How long do we have? You do know she doesn’t hold the monopoly on this one. I’m sure even in her late 60s, your wife still bitches like she used to when she was in her 30s.
John: True.
Darius: So what was the last thing she bitched about
John: My son wanting money – and I gave him some.
Darius: He’s in his late 40s, right? And keeps coming back to daddy for help
John: It happens to the best of usJohn: Why was your wife bitching
Darius: Take your pick – her having to remind me that dish washers don’t load themselves, or to take the trash out, or to sort out the guy who’s supposed to replace the front two tyres of the car
John: Do the tyres need replacing?
Darius: Yeah – we replace a pair each year – I did the back ones last year
John: And why haven’t you replaced the front ones?
Darius: Do you know how much they cost?
John: Does she?
Darius: She fell for the Kwik fit advert that suggests they have the bargain of the century for brand new tyres starting from £25. Recession busting they called it.
John: That sounds like a bargain of the century.
Darius: Yeah – from £25, they don’t tell you in the advert what Pirelli’s cost.
John: What do Pirelli’s cost?
Darius: Why the hell are we talking about tyres?
John: Actually, we’re talking about bitching and why you’re giving your wife reasons to bitch.Darius: Hey – I also have occasion to bitch
John: Like when?
Darius: When she feeds an African man Risotto for dinner knowing full well that by 9 pm I’ll be hungry again
John: What’s wrong with Risotto
Darius: Nothing, I just don’t like the fucker, it does nothing for meJohn: What else do you bitch about then?
Darius: Not much else, you know – Well, maybe the fights I have with my son over the ownership of my wife’s body
John: You do realise that none of you own her body
Darius: Tell that to the little bugger – besides, I have a different agenda with her body than he does
John: When was the last time you took your wife out on a date?
Darius: Don’t know – I think a couple of months ago when we went for dinner with J and H.
John: A double dinner date with friends doesn’t count. When did you last tell her to wear her favourite dress, got the baby sitter in and took her for a romantic dinner, just the two of you?
Darius: I guess I’ll have to do that this weekend then – and wipe that smirk off your face…(*he says with laughter*). I don’t want to get to the stage of her bitching that I only take her out to vote.
John: I’m only suggesting ways that you could as you say, win your wife’s body from your son – good old fashioned romance still works you know
Darius: Oh Yeah! When was the last time you got laid?
John: When was the last time you got laid?
Darius: You haven’t had some for a while, huh?
John: That would be telling.Darius: So what’s your performance assessment of my marriage?
John: As far as I can tell, very normal – garden variety as they call it.
Darius: I guess I better find a restaurant I can afford.
John: Don’t forget the baby sitter.John: What about other stuff – do you get time to see your friends?
Darius: Once in a while, I probably talk to them more on the phone
John: You still go out of your way to avoid drama
Darius: I don’t do it with intent – but I guess a bit of drama doesn’t hurt.
John: You’ll still have drama in your 70s with the few friends you’ll have
Darius: Tell me about itJohn: Summer must have been depressing for you with the football season closed.
Darius: 8 days and counting – can’t wait for kick off at Goodison park
John: How do you think the Arsenal are going to do this season.
Darius: I have that feeling I had at the beginning of the 2007 season. Everyone wrote us off, but we bitchslapped the whole league until Martin Taylor decided to break our star player’s leg.
John: What does that feeling tell you for this season, why do you think you’ll do well
Darius: The team have been trialling a different format of Wengerball. Our problem last season is that teams predicted us like a nonsense and parked the bus in front of their goal and we couldn’t do anything about it and we were also bullied off the park by some unsavoury tactics.
John: What will change
Darius: Wenger is employing a playing system based on pace and depending on the clinical finishing of Arshavin and Eduardo to terrorize defences.
John: I like Arshavin, I think he’ll do really well for you and will probably be the best player this season
Darius: Yeah, I think with the new system of unleashing attacks at pace from our defence, we’ll spend less time pushing around the ball in midfield and have a better chance of terrorizing the unsuspecting defences, and even if it doesn’t work, the football will be played in their half and the pressure will make opponents panic and we love that.
John: You’ve got it all figured out, huh?
Darius: (*laughing*) if only Barnet could play like that
John: Hey – don’t knock Barnet, I’ve been supporting them long before you were bornJohn: You do know football is too emotional an outlet for most
Darius: Tell me about it
John: It’s good that your passionate about it and Arsenal, but what else do you do to keep yourself in check
Darius: You mean if I have the time
John: I’m suggesting you make the time to do something that helps you deal with undesirable energies
Darius: What now, you’re my shrink?
John: Does it matter?Darius: Well, I watch some favourite shows on TV
John: What are you into at the moment?
Darius: I’m watching the last season of NCIS and re-runs of Spooks, though I’ve also managed to get round to watching the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. My wife and her friend used to have phone conferences to discuss the show and they’ve been bugging us (the husbands) to watch it.
John: And what did you think of it?
Darius: Actually, I think it’s a very good show – I haven’t finished all of them, but it’s very African. My only disappointment is that Jill Scott (who is a lovely person and actress) played the lead role yet there are hundreds of thousands of capable young African actresses…
John: The African activist in you is coming out, huh?
Darius: LOLJohn: What else do you do? I mean on Darius time
Darius: I blog
John: This is this internet thing where you just write to folks out there in cyber space?
Darius: Yeah, something like that – but the lonely people out there actually respond, it’s not like radio where you don’t even have a clue if anyone is listening
John: And what do you write about?
Darius: Anything and everything – whatever my demons or angels tell me
John: Essentially – what’s in the agenda in the situation room
Darius: Something like that
John: Does your wife read your blog?
Darius: You know what – I have no idea, we’ve never really had that conversation – “sweetie, do you read my blog?”
John: Does she know you have one?
Darius: Of course she does, she chose the design and layout, and it’s right there on my Facebook profileJohn: So do you ever think about doing fictional writing?
Darius: Does it pay well?
John: I don’t know, I’m not a writer
Darius: Then why do you want me to do it?
John: You write well, I’ve read some of your stuff – maybe your readers will enjoy reading your work
Darius: What’s in it for me?
John: You get to spend your time doing something therapeutic. It’s good for your work life balance.
Darius: There aren’t enough hours in a day
John: I’m not talking about writing a novel. You could write short stories
Darius: Maybe.
John: Think about it, it’ll give you an outlet that you could use your strengths in.
Darius: Are you suggesting I need to release some steam?
John: You said it.
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Stone Cold Memo
Posted: August 6, 2009, 9:00 am by Darius Stone
One thing that riles any boss, especially during times of economic hardship, is providing unnecessary concessions or time off to their most expensive resource, their staff. It’s the age old battle of an employer who tries to get the most out of an employee at the least possible cost, and an employee who is determined to get the most reward for the least amount of work.
I first came across this memo from an employer to his employee years and years ago, and hadn’t seen it again until this week – and thought it was still an excellent piece of diplomacy. I must remind myself to use it some time.
MEMORANDUM
From: Team Leader
To: (Enter employee’s name here)
Subject: Your request for a day off work
Thank you for submitting a request for a day off work. I’m concerned though, that you haven’t looked at things from my point of view, so I think it’s important to examine what you’re asking for.
There are 365 days in a year, and out of these, you only work during the week, leaving us with only 261 available working days.
Out of these 261 days, you are only theoretically available to the company for at most 8 hours a day. If you take the rest of the 16 hours a day as a whole and calculate them into days, then you don’t work for another 174 days, technically leaving you with 87 working days in a year.
If we then subtract all public holidays and the period between Christmas and new year when the company is not open for business, you will see that you only have 74 working days.
We haven’t even considered the time that you have off for lunch, tea and coffee breaks in the morning and afternoon, and the down time that you have for chit chat and office gossip. Take all these in totality through the year, and you effectively have 52 working days left to offer the company.
You will also be aware that the company has a policy of setting aside 1 day a month for staff training. Add to this, the time you spent travelling during the day to and from company clients, and we clearly see that there’s at least another 24 days down time through the year, technically leaving us with 28 working days.
Now, I’m reliably told by the folks in the IT department that on average, you spend 30 to 45 minutes a day browsing websites that have nothing to do with why we employ you. We don’t want you to consider us anal, so we normally overlook this sort of down time for most employees, but give or take, I suggest that this leaves us with 26 working days in a year.
Apparently, the government requires that we give you a mandatory 25 days off work for annual leave, leaving you with only one working day in the year.
I’LL BE DAMNED IF THAT’S THE DAY YOU HAVE IN MIND!
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I’ll be damned if I’m coming up front
Posted: August 3, 2009, 8:32 am by Darius Stone
You’d think that by this point in my life, I’d have mastered the art of shall we say, getting out of tight situations unscathed. I’m not talking about some closer shaves of a misspent youth that brought out the Hollywood stuntman you never thought was you.
You know them tight situations when a father comes home from work for lunch unexpectedly, and the biggest problem isn’t that his daughter hasn’t prepared lunch yet, or doesn’t look like she’s anywhere near preparing anything edible. The biggest problem is that you happen to be naked and firmly anchored in between his teenage daughter’s legs – and as he calls out for her, you’re traumatizing about whether to complete an exercise in coitus that is a justified reward for the time and effort that you’ve clearly invested your whole school holiday in, or jump out through the second floor bedroom window and take your chances with the unsuspecting neighbours who you’re about to grace, truth be told, with what you can find of your clothes in one hand, and if you’re not injured – trying to cover a rock hard penis with the other hand.
No, no – this recent close shave wasn’t as dramatic, but nevertheless, a gentle reminder about why it’s important to keep alert and avoid “sitting duck” situations. So while with a friend of the family, we bumped into some folks from the church that the friends go to, and the chit chat and nosy enquiries started.
“So are you all from the same country?” “Did you know each other before you moved here?” “Do you speak the same language?” “Do you live locally?” – you know the usual check list.
“Hey P, why don’t you invite your lovely friends to church this Sunday, it’ll be really lovely, we’ve got a really worthy theme this Sunday”
And before I could process where all this chit chat was going, P turned around with that “Sure, you guys can come right? You’re not doing anything this weekend…”, and turning back to the friends, assuringly concluding “don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re there”.
I should have said something. You know when you get those moments, those split second situations where a “no” may sound really cold, but it’s so much better for everyone. Well, my no moment passed and come Sunday, we found ourselves looking for a free parking zone (parking attendants out here get paid on commission for the number of cars they clamp, so even on Sunday, I was taking no chances)
Side bar here. I’m not averse to attending church – really. It’s just that since I left my mother’s house many years ago to go to boarding school, my perception of things have changed and the rest is complicated (at least for the scope of this post). Before then, it was a cardinal crime in my mother’s house to miss church every weekend, and I do respect and appreciate why she took this stance. But she also gave us the freedom to decide what to do about attending church once we were older and could make that decision ourselves.
I even had the privilege of being one of the chapel wardens during high school helping the Chaplain run the school chapel day to day – and got involved in everything from organizing the cleaning (first form rabbles did it of course), to helping coordinate regular services and managing finances, and on a couple of occasions, being very proud to be one of the wardens on duty when the chapel hosted the funeral services for two fellow students who passed away while we were still in school.
The long and short of it is that it’s a very long time since I went to church, the only two exceptions being my brother’s funeral service several years ago, and the wedding of our close friends (to each other), both of which meant a lot to me in different ways.
So when my opportunity to step in and say “no, we actually have plans” faded past amidst the “great, we’ll see you Sunday” byes and hugs, I was left with that “what did I just get myself into” feeling.
‘Er indoors is fine with it and attends church very regularly, but there’s just something about these local churches that even she finds unnerving. We have a small church less than 400 metres from where we live, but that’s just gossip central. My neighbours and folks in the surrounding area don’t go to church to know the town gossip, they just go to find out and confirm whether the local paper printed out the version of the story they had heard. Drama central describes the culture of it much better.
So when we entered this new (for us) church as they were singing a hymn, the deacons and ushers sat at the back scrambled to make space for us to sit together, and we just calmly slotted in and assumed the necessary by joining into the chorus. I must have heard this hymn somewhere but I didn’t know the words so I just sang what they were singing only a second or two late – it works.
As we sat down, I thought I’d readjust my chair only to be put in my place by my son. I’m sure he totally didn’t mean to embarrass me (kids his age will say the darnest things), but shouting “don’t be silly daddy, sit down” in a church with pin drop silence doesn’t normally achieve that desired “I didn’t mean to” effect. After the laughter, I knew I was fodder.
My wife’s attention was caught by something else on a projector screen and it was only when she turned around and whispered to me in Swahili did I register her disappointment at the semi-naked starving boy from Liberia that they had on the screen in your now classic International NGO “give us your frigging money for poor African’s” mode.
If you read my post Cynicism in its true colours – Well!, they’ll say they’re saving the world , then you’ll clearly understand my lack of enthusiasm for all matters innately patronizing.
I thought we were coming for a church service not a frigging fundraising event. For the sake of expediency and acceptance that I can’t afford a law suit, I’ll refrain from naming the organization involved, but this was a new low.
I’ll come back to the “give us your frigging money” story in a second, but I digressed when talking about my project of sitting down without any more embarrassment. The next speaker at the pulpit then pronounced the dreaded phrase – “I understand we have visitors today – We’d like them to introduce themselves!”.
I don’t know if I can aptly explain how that call for visitors in a church evokes certain feelings in my being that freak me out. Maybe it’s the conditioning I got as a child every time we visited the grandparents in the bundux and when attending the local church with them – they couldn’t pass the opportunity to show off their neatly dressed grand children from “the city”. We had to stand up, wave and smile back at everyone, and I guess anyone in a church who says “we have visitors”, triggers those raw emotions.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of crowds or speeches for that matter, far from it. I’m actually quite good at it when I’m in my element. It’s just that being paraded for everyone like a dairy cow from Athi River about to be sold at an auction is not my style. A couple with three kids quickly came to our rescue as they made their way up front. What a relief, but then again, I was busy trying to figure out where P and her family were. I just thought it would be useful, while we have the breathing space to just remind P that I was not averse to breaking legs if I had to – and I’ll do it if it’ll stop me from being cajoled into standing up and walking up front like the couple and their 3 kids.
Apparently though, these folks had been debriefed and they were only being introduced as they were new folks who wanted to become members. For some reason, I thought that churches let any Thomas, Dickson and Harrison walk through the door, but maybe I’m mistaken. What I wasn’t mistaken about is that I wasn’t about to fill any membership form.
Fast forward to the service and we come back to the travels of the speaker (who I understood was a guest speaker) talking about his travels on behalf of a charity working in West Africa. I kid you not, if I had a brick, I would have thrown it at the dude with the precision of Andrew Flintoff trying to dismiss the batsman of the Australian cricket team. He wasn’t preaching for crying out loud, he was running a full length live infomercial with video props to boot.
At one point, I wanted to storm out when they started showing a video of how they’ve helped poor Africans plant tomatoes or breed chickens. Clearly, this is something a population of over 850 million people from 52 countries wouldn’t know how to do, and only westerners running charities know how to “teach” the natives. My wife had clearly picked on my mood and as I got shifty in my chair, she stepped on my foot with enough to transmit her clear message “you ain’t going anywhere – sit down”.
I had to endure another soppy story of dilemmas in life where the dude talking had to struggle to make a moral decision to give a pen to a child in the village. His dilemma apparently was that if he gave the child a pen, then every child would then want a pen, and considering that they can’t read and write, this was a big issue. This dude even ask the congregation to tell by a show of hands how many would have given the pen. It was so surreal I just had to lean back and look at the roof.
And the moral of the story – as if it was unpredictable – “Give us your frigging money – we’re saving poor Africans”. If he would have just started with that 1 minute advert, it would have been less painful.
I didn’t realise it was possible to go lower than the very patronizing daytime “please give us £2 a month, we need it to save poor people in Africa” advertisement screened every 5 minutes on cable and satellite TV. Adverts like this one or this one. This dude was actually pulling it off in church – and the congregation were all teary eyed and possibly contemplating their wicked shame of living without caring for the poor of the world – or more succinctly, what William Easterly calls “The white man’s burden”.
If you thought that was dramatic enough, then you must have been as confused as I was. You see, churches out here have a small gathering after the service where the congregation mill around, share a lousy cup of tea and a few biscuits and cakes. It’s during this time that I got reminded how it’s very important to take things in context as the alternative is to get arrested for expressing your contempt about what is being said and the undertones it’s being delivered in.
So while sitting at a table with P catching up, sipping the tea and biting into a biscuit, regular folks pass by, say hello and pull a chair, and the hits just keep on rolling.
(Note to reader: The questions and awkward conversations are aggregated from different “well meaning” smiling people – And the answers up in here were the one’s in my head, but not what I responded)
Q: “So how did you come to the UK?”
My thoughts: A fishing boat
Q: “I didn’t realise you had it that bad in Africa – do you know that village?”
My thoughts: “Yeah, it’s just down the road from where my family is from
Q: If you’ve lived for that long in this area, why haven’t you come to church like your fellow Africans?”
My thoughts: What? It’s now a crime?
Q: “Do you work? The economy is really bad – it must affect you?”
My thoughts: Actually, I run a brothel from my basement during the day – pretty low key, only referral punters, and a different girl every day.
Q: “Are you on benefits (welfare)?
My thoughts: Do I have a frigging sign on my head saying – post office regular every Thursday to cash welfare cheque?
Q:”You know the church is always here – if you’re ever in difficulty, you and your family must ask us for help”
My thoughts: What the fuck!You get the gist anyway….
This was as bad as the funky outfit in Kenya that got a group of my mum’s maendeleo ya wanake group hooked on their fascinating take of why the world was so troubling – got to admit though, they got my friends and I (see – the mum’s dragged all their teenage kids to such redemptions from evil) singing “Riswah” at every available opportunity – it was a ball….
….Or the shenanigans of a one Mary Akatsa, the prophetess of comedy – did I tell you that I had the privilege of visiting her and being prayed for to rid me of the demons of my misspent youth(this is clearly a story for another blog post)…
…Or Kenya’s very own Mr. Miracle Baby, a one Pastor Deya, but that also ladies and gentlemen, is a story in itself.
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Do we have to???
Posted: July 24, 2009, 8:39 pm by Darius Stone
Impulse buying for me, has this ability to evoke certain blood thumping emotions. It must be a man thing – one of them that easily defines an exercise in futility if you try to understand it. There are certain conversations that trigger such emotions – say, like “let’s just pop into the supermarket for a sec and grab some things” or “I’m thinking of grabbing a few bits before we get home”. They have a similar effect to the male psyche when we hear statements like “we have to talk” or “sweetie, I missed my period” or “babes, you remember when I told you that…” – yeah! That kind of feeling.
So when a pit stop at a Tesco petrol station this week turned into a shopping expedition in the supermarket next door, my body defaulted to the “I don’t really wanna be hear” mode. There’s just something about shopping that repels my DNA, and while I accept that it’s a necessity in life, there’s a very big difference between picking a few bits and bobs and going out for “shopping”. I never really get to know how much drama is involved until that humongous trolley is pulled from the trolley parking zone and before I can even utter the words “do we really need this giant thing for a few bits”, there’s that almost dismissive “we’re here anyway, I think we should just do all the shopping now” response, served straight with her ‘“what you gon do’ face.
Well, one option is to go back to the car, roll the chair down and just sink off into the music, but once you’ve reached the stage of being at the supermarket door and seeing that ‘what you gon do’ face, you’ll swiftly rule out this option with a quick reminder not to get out of the car next time. Call it the pragmatism of maintaining world peace and harmony. But even then, world peace has its own casualties, and for me, its that nightmare of being in a mega store that I really don’t want to be in.
I don’t know what it is, I’ve just never liked long shopping trips. Even in my bachelor days, I wrote up a list and either made a painful trip with a very short and specific mission of getting only what was on the list, or I sweet talked a shopaholic friend to do the honours for me. I don’t remember taking many supermarket trips during college as I was broke most of the time anyway. In fact, I spent more time in the store cafeteria having a meal because of their unbelievable bargains than I did while shopping.
Online shopping was God sent. Whoever thought that folks can just sit at home, browse what they need on the web, click a few buttons and lo and behold, a chap would appear at your door with your groceries is a saint. I became a sucker for typing what I needed in the search box, ticking the check box and adding it to my shopping basket.
I guess my laziness in anything shopping doesn’t prepare me well for the sights and sounds of the modern supermarket. At least with a shopping list, you can make a quick bee line for what you need and you’re out of the place in a short time. Most supermarkets even allow you to check out your own groceries with this hand held thingybob so that you don’t waste time smiling with folks in the queue for the till and for nosy people to peer into your trolley to examine your habits.
So this time, I resolved that I should indulge in the spirit – you never know, I might like it and its better than precipitating an atmosphere that could easily land me on the sofa. I’d already lost the battle of staying in the car.
‘Er indoors however, enjoys going through the whole supermarket, aisle by aisle. I’m made to understand that this is a normal state of affairs. I never even knew that a supermarket could have a whole aisle of bread and bready like products. I think actually what surprised me more is that we spent more than 15 minutes in this bread aisle looking for cheap, good quality bread. You see, where I come from, bread is either cheap or it’s good quality but it’s not both. So this is a totally new concept for me. It also occurred to me that I didn’t know the price of a loaf of bread…Is this normal? Actually, forget I asked….
Let’s just say that the trip to grab a few bits and bobs ended us with a huge trolley that I could easily sit comfortably in being full with stuff that I didn’t even realise we needed in the house. Just set aside the fact that we were meant to do this shopping anyway, it’s just that we moved from “let’s just pick a few bits and bobs” to a full blown shopping trip under duress.
There was a bonus though – I got to understand those figures in my bank statement better. Like I said before, the price that I thought bread was apparently was the price in 1996. Go figure.
Next time, I’m carrying my 12 point guide to shopping for men who have to do it under duress. Guys, this was sent to me a few years back by a friend and it works if you’re dragged kicking and screaming for them shopping trips. I should have had it with me. Health warning though: You might end up in the doghouse, or worse still, the only hanky panky you’ll be getting for a while is from late night adult TV subscription.
My fellow brethren, if you’re dragged into a shopping trip under duress, this is what you should do to get out of it next time:
- Take boxes of condoms and randomly put them into people’s trolleys when they aren’t looking.
- Walk up to an employee, tap them on the shoulder and say in an official sounding voice “code 3 in house ware” and then watch what happens.
- Move the ‘CAUTION: Wet floor’ sign to a carpeted area.
- Make a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the feminine products aisle.
- Set off all the alarms in house ware to go off in 5 minute intervals.
- Set up a tent in the outdoors clothes department and tell the customers that you’ll only invite them in if they bring sausages and a gas stove.
- When the manager asks if they can help you, just burst out crying and scream “why can’t you people just leave me alone?”
- While picking and choosing kitchen knives in the housewares area, approach a member of staff with the knives in hand and ask them where the anti depressants are.
- Hide in the clothing rack and when people are browsing, yell “pick me, pick me”
- Run around the supermarket suspiciously humming loudly to the theme tune of Mission Impossible
- When an announcement comes over the loud speakers, coil down in a foetal position and scream “No, no, no – it’s those voices again”
- Walk into a changing room and lock yourself in, and after a while, shout loudly “there’s no toilet paper in here”
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Meeting the Outlaws
Posted: July 20, 2009, 9:34 pm by Darius Stone
Recently, a good friend asked me for some advice as he prepared for a rare trip back home. As I write this post, I wonder quietly whether he came through unscathed, but I guess I’ll have to wait for him to get on a plane and for us to eventually sit and chat with a cold beer in hand, before I can find out the true extent of the said expedition. For many folks who have settled abroad, a long overdue trip back to the motherland is something to get excited about, and it’s something you plan for a long time.
Granted, a holiday trip home, especially with ‘er indoors and the kids is a project in itself. However, the benefits say for folks at home who genuinely want to see you (as opposed to those who get pissed off that you’ve spent thousands of pounds on air fare for you and your kin – money which would have been better spent via a western union transfer to them), far outweigh the financial and emotional investment and stress involved. Well, with the exception of that dreaded trip to the outlaws.
“Come we stay” has been the de facto option for most immigrant couples from home who meet abroad, and I suspect that at the back of every man’s mind (at least those who are not just interested in the convenience of in-house booty as opposed to a serious relationship), there’s that daunting feeling that the time will come when you’ll have to make an honest woman of the lady you’ve been waking up next to for most part.
It’s the sort of trip that despite constant assurances from your other half aka mshikaji, its extremely naive and negligent for a man to embark on such a trip to the wild west solely on the assurances of a loving partner. I mean, how would she know it’ll be OK unless she’s been married before and has forensic evidence of how your outlaws (I mean in-laws) to be will react? Call it a duty to the survival of fellow man folk, but seeking and giving advice from those who have experienced that dreaded trip to the girl’s family to, shall we say, atone for and explain why their precious daughter has been living in sin with you for however long.
I’m not talking about weddings here. Weddings are side shows and opportunities for drama and fairy tale showbiz that a significant amount of folks don’t have the opportunity to indulge in. Where I come from, a marriage is a done deal once the traditional formalities are given a nod by the powers to be. This would involve that dreaded visit that I talk about, complete with the delivery of “cows” to the homestead of the outlaws. This concept of a wedding in church is a more recent western oriented phenomenon that those who can afford to, go ahead with to compliment the process of a traditional marriage – and as my aunt Rhodah would say – “forget the wedding – once they let you leave that boma with their daughter, it’s a done deal. Otherwise, that girl won’t be allowed to leave”. Aunt Rhodah should know, she’s been around the block a few times and left her father’s gate several times – and she ain’t a spring chicken.
So when a friend asks “what can I expect when visiting the outlaws” – the best advice to give is:
- Get a good negotiator – you’re too emotionally involved. Get a chief of staff you trust, a consigliere who can competently represent your wishes and that of your mshikaji. Also make sure you have a good delegation of friends – peers you grew up with and your tight with, an aunt you trust, and perhaps one of your dad’s peers – call him an elderly statesman who is in the delegation for good measure. You’re going to need them.
- There’s always a fixer in the girl’s family – identify that person quick and get on their side. It’s usually (but not always) a grandmother, or an elderly female mother figure like an aunt. This is the person who has the ability to smooth things as and when (yes as and when and not if and when) things go pear shaped.
- Forget all the assurances your partner has given you or all the “it’ll be OK sweetie – my folks are really nice nonsense”. Consider everyone an outlaw. Only those at the table will negotiate the bride price and she’s not going to be there, and in most cases, will never be told how ugly it got.
I’ve been involved in enough of these expeditions to pick the signs of how things can transpire, and the one thing you always say to yourself is this is the time to be a boy scout – always be prepared…LOL! My expedition was comparatively and thankfully a straight forward one, but by being part of many other expeditions of friends and those close to me who asked for my support – I have seen enough that will traumatize any fully grown warm blooded male.
In one particular case, the whole marriage was nearly called off because of the brinkmanship of some of the folks on the outlaws team, and the insistence of the elders on our delegation that their boy was not going to be taken for a mug…LOL! It’s only in such cases that you ever get to see the value of the “fixer” from the girl’s side.
You see, in my culture, its customary that the suitor takes no part in any aspect of the negotiation. Their job is to sit down and look pretty and occasionally remind folks by standing up to answer the question of “who the gentleman is that is seeking to take away their daughter”.
It’s also customary that after the niceties and warm welcome, there is a sidebar session where the girl’s mother is given her own time with our delegation outside the main negotiating table. This task is usually assigned to the chief negotiator aka consigliere and perhaps a female in your contingent like an elderly aunt or something who step outside with the mother of the bride. During this sidebar, the mother of the bride has to be “sorted” out in her own terms.
And boy don’t some mothers know how to milk this one. I’ve heard lines like “You know that girl kept me in labour for 18 hours and she was a very difficult birth” or “she was a very stubborn child when she grew up” or “she broke all my favourite plates”…LOL! The point is – until the mother of the bride goes back to the negotiating committee and declares that “wameniona vizuri kando” (they’ve sorted me out properly), can the proper negotiation of the bride price go ahead. It doesn’t matter how much the mother of the bride relieved you off, or what arrangement you came to – whether in full or in instalments, that part was a side show that plays no part in the bride price negotiation.
It is at this point where it’s possible to see grown men cry….LOL! particularly in cases where more than just the immediate family of the girl is involved – uncles and cousins are notorious for this. But let’s face it, the negotiation and payment of bride price has become a cottage industry of sorts – and for the most part, it’s immaterial what a girl thinks or hopes will happen. They have no influence in what her “peeps” are capable of. And some of these guys play hard ball. All the girl can hope while hanging out with her own peers and kina auntie is that her husband to be will get past the outlaws. The longer it takes, the more nervous she gets, especially when she gets insider whispers during those very frequent and essential sidebars for “consultation”.
The ante is seriously upped when the bride price is dramatically increased for things like perceived virginity (dare you try and call their bluff and suggest their daughter was not a virgin when she met you – this is not the time and place to stand your ground…and considering you’re the first suitor she’s brought in front of this committee, they have a case for the presumption that she was a virgin before she met you – and you don’t want to take this case on LOL), the girl having a university degree and a job of her own (read: our western union remittance will reduce), the fact that you both live abroad and you’re balling it like a nonsense, or that you have a good job and can afford it. It brings a whole new meaning to “we raised our daughter well and we are pleased that you appreciate our effort – and the bride price is a token of your appreciation to the work done here all round”.
So as you can imagine in lore’s case, things weren’t going well on the negotiating table. It was another pal Kim who noticed Lore was in distress – mainly from the throbbing vertical vein that had formed on the left side of his forehead and his eyes developing an unnervy shade of red. Kim swiftly whisked Lore out of the house on the pretence of having a cigarette break – but clearly, the man was being distressed by the very thought of the brinkmanship that was threatening his impending marriage. A few of us joined the so called fag break at the fence and were even approached by one of L’s girlfriend’s peers to find out if we were OK and if we needed anything.
Clearly Lore’s girlfriend and her peeps had seen L being led out in distress and wanted to find out what was cutting – but the only thing you could say is “wazee bado hawajamaliza” (the elders are still talking). Though it was hard to see at that time, we suspected that the folks negotiating on behalf of the bride had their own agenda…LOL! They were there to get paid and they knew that Lore had a good job abroad.
There was a timely break in the protracted negotiations when you had to admire the skills of the elderly statesmen and women we had with us. They had insisted on coming for the ride, though most of us were convinced they were there for the feast. But their value begun to show by the way they maintain conversation and a light hearted spirit to pass the time by with laughter and old timers stories. For most people in the house who weren’t part of the negotiation, it seemed that everything was going on well – if they only knew…LOL!
What we didn’t know at the time, is a group of the mercenary negotiators who were hell bent on getting paid, had accosted the bride to be during this negotiation and meal break– apparently to get her to confess how much money Lore had with him. In fact they literally threatened the girl to tell them how much they had brought with them from “ngambo”. It’s an understatement to say that they scared the living shit out of the poor girl who was in tears for most of the time after that. I guess you could be if you’re being told that your “man” is too stingy to pay the bride price and that his people are threatening to walk away – which I guess was an option, but never one that had reared its head on the table.
Lore’s girlfriend’s distress didn’t go unnoticed and a savvy aunt approached us at one of our famous fag breaks at the fence with that re-assuring “are you guys OK out here” greeting and smile – and a coded “you guys are not leaving this girl here” message, with cryptic instructions of how we could find the back door. Of course we were too stupid then to figure this out and more focussed on the fact that there were totally unreasonable demands being made on the high table and walking away now seemed an option to consider…LOL!
After indicating to our consigliere that auntie so and so had given us a coded message by saying we were not leaving that girl there – the consigliere, who now looked like a man who needed a break… – had a word with the oldest member of our delegation, a neighbour of Lore’s dad who had travelled with us. He disappeared for about half an hour and on his return, the consigliere asked for another break.
Honestly by that time, few actually had any hope we were going to pull this off – yet we had to maintain our smiles and pretend that all was well. The truth is that if we had guns – her 2 cousins and uncle (the mercenaries) could have easily been dead – though you have to question whether that would have done any good for Lore’s marriage…LOL!
The key was the grandmother. She had been out in the background and no one took notice of her – and it was the old man from our delegation who went to have a cup of tea with her. From what we gathered, she was well aware of the mercenary tactics of some of the members of the outlaws team though the hope was that the rest will tame them. But I guess pay day is pay day. The deal that was brokered was for what Lore was willing to offer to be an upfront payment of some sort – and that a small token of appreciation will be on-going – kind of like to keep a bond for the family.
On our part, we gave way to not demanding and being given assurances about what future instalments and demands will be, and on the granny’s part, she guaranteed that the girl will leave that homestead with us and an assurance that tomorrow was another day – this will pass.
Even as people celebrated the new traditional union, there were some very bitter people in that room. Some of our friends went as far as loading everything that the girl owned, including presents from her folk into one of the SUV’s we had, and by the time all the good-bye’s and crying was taking place, all the drivers were revving the cars outside the gate. All that was left was for that girl to be smuggled into one of the cars….LOL! She was ours and we weren’t taking chances that them mercenaries were going to change their minds.
Funny thing is that over a year later at Lore’s wedding, the two looked so happy in church and lapping up the event. If only folks there knew that that wedding might have never happened…LOL! I guess it must be harder for the couple especially since they normally have to take a back seat as others see to their business. I don’t blame Lore for never telling his wife what was said in that room. There is some truth that sometimes you have to protect the ones you love and some things she just did not need to hear.
And to think of how she was a bitch to everyone during the wedding preparations – “Guys, no one is going to fuck this up for me – this is the most important day of my life”. Lordy Lord, if she knew the hoops Lore and his boys had to jump to give her the freedom to say that…LOL!
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They don’t do it like it says on the tin anymore…Part I
Posted: July 15, 2009, 6:06 pm by Darius Stone
I sometimes find myself in a zone where not much seems to happen – kind of like being stuck in traffic without much hope for movement. You know the general direction you’re heading in life, but there’s zilch you can do about the sheer pile up of a jam in front of you. Some folks prefer to call this state of affairs as being in limbo, but I prefer to think of it as downtime that I can justifiably take pleasure at doing absolutely nothing as I wait for the proverbial car in front to move a few notches.
This past “doing nothing” moment found me talking on the phone to an old pal who I keep in touch with once in a blue moon – and for some reason, we were lamenting about how our sons (who are roughly the same age) are growing up on a totally different planet from where we live. I guess before concluding that we were just a bunch of old geezers, we found ourselves reminiscing about the good ole days of growing up the hard way. Nostalgia does have this amazing habit of filling voids that seem annoying at best, and a recipe for procrastination at worst.
My pal and I went to the same high school and we were just thinking of our experiences there. Much has changed these days and a few years ago, I gave my wife a guided tour of my old high school and erroneously expressed my wish that one day our son would follow in my footsteps by attending the same school – only to be met by that “over my dead body” steely no-nonsense look. You know that look – yes, that look that you sometimes get say when you occasionally do something stupid during them drama central moments like suggest that, let me see – “maybe I should just get a second wife”…LOL! Yeah! That look – you know it.
Back in those days, the treatment we got as rabbles (the common terminology for first year fresh meat who had just got off the milk train of primary school) would put any boot camp worth its salt to shame. It was a rite of passage that would scare the living shit out of any parent. It’s always debatable whether some of the perpetrators who unleashed the shall we say, customary treatment, were by any measure candidates for prosecution for child cruelty or even torture. The school was renowned for this and my wife knew it, and not necessarily because my friends and I who she had been around vividly narrated stories of our hell – I guess also because a very close relative of hers was involved in making my life a nightmare in the first year.
The school had its roots in the British Navy and everything about the way it operated and the culture of the school stemmed from this. Students actually run the day to day activities and supervised each other as modelled by ranks in a military setup – where monitors, prefects and senior prefects played the symbolic roles of sergeants, lieutenants and commanders. At first, it really didn’t make sense that your fellow students had so much power over you, but once you’re immersed in the culture, you can’t really wait your turn to unleash the same treatment to those that follow you.
I couldn’t help but think that actually, it was that experience, that rite of passage, that baptism of the fiery sort – that moulded me into who I am, that taught me the virtues I had and the guile to grit through the issues in life. How can that be a bad thing for Stone Jnr. The law says here that you can’t even bitch slap your kid when they’re clearly due a good ole fashioned ass whooping and even in nursery school, they’re taught how to dial child support and abuse emergency help lines.
I vividly remember my first day as a rabble. Yeah – the exciting shopping for your first boarding school experience, the laughter at all them folks carrying buckets and colourful metal coffins on their heads disguised as suitcases trying to board all manner of public transport, and the excitement of meeting new faces and a whole new experience that means you don’t have to answer to the parents at home.
That naive excitement clearly clouded any sense of reality that I had, and even threw the small pockets of advice that I had right out of the window of the car as we turned into the main gates. It was customary that all rabbles spent their first year in a rabble only house before joining their main dormitory for the rest of their school life. I had all this worked out like clockwork, and the reason for this was that my elder brother was a senior at this school – and I figured that if life was as good as he portrayed, then what’s all the fuss – I can pull this off.
It was only while touring the house that I bumped into the two most senior prefects of the house, one of whom recognized me as I had been to the same primary school as him. So in saying hello to me by name, it totally caught the attention of the head honcho who turned around with the sort of glee you’d only see from a starving man who has just been served a platter of a sizzling rack of ribs and chicken drumsticks.
Students were always referred to by surname – and the mention of my name evoking such reaction unnerved me to say the least.
“Is this Stone’s brother”, the head honcho asked his fellow prefect?
“Yeah! It is” the answer came with laughter.
And so the head honcho swiftly directed me to wait for him outside his study – to which I made a monumental mistake of asking why the hell I would want to do that. I had other things to sort out and I figured those were more important than sharing niceties with someone who knew my elder brother. I suppose the arrogance in the manner I expressed this didn’t earn me any friends.I was very quickly brought back down to earth with a monumental slap that made me lose my senses for a split second. I don’t know if the slap would have had a lesser impact if I was prepared for or if I had anticipated it, but there was that split second where a shot of tears was gagging to chuck out of my eyes and I could have sworn I saw or heard the entire Vienna boys choir sing Handel’s Hallelujah.
My very brief moment of confused amazement was mercilessly interrupted by a hail of knuckle busters aka ngotos – and of course, it didn’t help that I had just had a crew cut. Though the assault on my bald head relieved me of the dilemma of finding out whether it was Hallelujah that I was just listening to – I did what any other person in my position would do and went into automatic defence mode throwing punches at anything or anyone that would take them.
Let’s just say that was the worst mistake I could have done on my first few minutes (let alone the first day) as a rabble. After being quickly shepherded to the head honcho’s study by other “concerned” bystanders, I quickly realised the odds were stacked against me. There was a chap called MK already kneeling down outside the said study in full games kits – and if I didn’t know what colours he was wearing, it was easy to surmise that MK was dressed as any prisoner would during work time.
“You’re new, huh?” MK asked with a smile.
“There’s a guy who has just slapped and ngotoed me and I punched back – he wanted me to wait for him here”, I responded.
“Jesus” was the exclaimed response from MK while shifting aside to make space for me.
“Who the hell is he”, I asked as I assumed the position.
“He’s the head honcho. Even though he’s a student, he’s more powerful than even the teachers”.
…Did I mention that MK and I got to become very good friends?
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Things that really make you go Hmmm!
Posted: July 9, 2009, 3:34 pm by Darius Stone
Gone are the days when parents lambast their kids for watching too much telly or standing too close to the TV – citing reasons like “the TV rays will mess your eyes up” or “too much TV will stunt your growth”. No no! Wafer thin plasma TV’s and flat screen varieties that don’t emit funny rays like the old school type that are too heavy and give burglars hernias during transit are in fashion.
But they too come with their own mortal dangers. Of late, there’s a growing trend in the UK (or maybe not just out here) of flat screen TV’s mounted on walls or on shelving jumping out at little 2 or 3 year old toddlers and killing them instantly. A parent’s worst nightmare is their child falling from the top of the stairs or God forbid, running innocently onto the road when playing. But I doubt there’s folks out there who occasionally remind themselves “I must do something about that telly on the wall – it’s going to fly out of the wall one day and injure someone – let me make a note of that”.
Considering 4 toddlers have died this year by TV’s jumping out of the wall and crushing them, it’s only a matter of time before ‘elf and safety Mafioso insist that TV manufacturers carry warnings on them – “WARNING! This device is capable of killing unsuspecting toddlers – Suitable for children over 6 years of age”.
On other matters, economic hardships bring out the darker no-nonsense side of tax payers who hawkishly watch how their government is using their hard earned “tak money”, as folks from the deep south of the US of A would say.
The British government have decided to outsource their prison services by building a £1 million prison in Nigeria for the exclusive use of Nigerian criminals who are currently esteemed guests being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure for various transgressions of the law of the land.
It’s the sort of gesture that would make financial sense from the point of view of civil servants rattling their brains to figure out how to cut government spending during hard times, and actually, it does make business sense. But hardcore nationalists see it as a waste of their tax dough which might be better spent in the British Isles. Apparently, there’s some objections already being cited that outsourcing the prisoners back to Nigerland is in breach of their human rights…LOL! This human rights thing is sometimes milked like a nonsense.
They’re probably just miffed that they won’t be getting satellite TV back in Nigeria, access to education and health services, and for the married ones, conjugal visits enshrined in the law of the land. You wonder what’s wrong with just putting them on Con Air straight to Lagos airport for a good ol’ fashioned reception by the local constabulary in Lagos.
In other disturbing developments, this thing called science is beginning to send shivers down my spine. Some freaks of scientists at Newcastle university are on a mission to develop artificial sperm from stem cells. Are we getting to the stage as men where our pro-creative functions will cease to be the ace up our sleeve? Granted, for centuries, there’s been moans and groans from hardcore feminishta types who will go as far as saying women can do without men.
What the hell are these punks in Newcastle trying to do to mankind….LOL! I’m not cool with any excuse that will give women an option of procuring sperm from other sources for the purpose of pro-creation….I guess I’m still the good ol’ fashioned male type who believes that ‘er indoors will continue to be the quintessential warm blooded female who will always pick the real deal for a good going over, rather than this self destructive “I don’t need a man” type nonsense…LOL!
Some scientific experiments need to be shut down, period!
…And on things that just don’t make sense…
- You go upstairs to tuck your daughter into bed, maybe read her a bedtime story – basically make sure she sleeps well.
- You leave your long term partner aka mshikaji downstairs with your best friend (by the way, your best friend’s boyfriend has blacked out on the sofa)
- When you come downstairs, you hear that eerily familiar soundtrack of sexual groans in the kitchen
- You catch your man with his trousers around his ankles and your best friend has her legs wrapped tightly around him
- Your man tells you he was just showing her his “scar” on his thigh (Clearly I’m getting too old when this is what it’s called these days…LOL!)
- You freak out in blind anger, grab a kitchen knife and stab the bastard in his back
And then, you kiss and make up right on the steps of the court that has just bailed you for GBH and you then marry the dude…
Sounds like a script from Jerry Springer…right? Maybe this couple need to be on Jerry Springer.
Notwithstanding the fact that she actually found him with his tojjer inside her friend…LOL! How do you actually opt to live with a woman who has stabbed you. This dude is crazy – actually, both of them are crazy.Related Articles:
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Ambulance Chasers
Posted: July 3, 2009, 4:09 pm by Darius Stone
I’ve become very skilled at hitting the mute button on the remote to stop my blood pressure from rising because of sucker TV commercials. In fact, I try to break my own record of how fast I can zap the bastards off. The ones that get me the most are those that try to shop you secured loans and always start with stupid questions like “Are you a home owner? Do you have debts you want to consolidate?…” Or the ambulance chasing ones from Accident Direct or Injury lawyers for you or something like that that start with “Have you been injured at work, on the road or whilst walking in town??? We could help you make a claim!” You know them type of adverts I’m talking about…LOL!
So last week, my wife and I were approaching a roundabout and we had to slow down. My wife was driving and I was fiddling with the car Stereo trying to locate one of my favourite songs by Mwamburi – Stella mpenzi wangu (I just love the part he brings his whole clan to the airport to meet Stella his long lost love flying in from Japan and she chucks out of the plane holding a baby with a short Japanese fella following her behind…).
As we came to a halt to give way, the car behind us ploughed into us with such force I could feel the pain of the bumper hitting the ground and a woman wailing like she had just seen Elvis or something. My first thought was – “For fuck’s sake!”. I guess I was more concerned with the fact that we were going to be stuck there for a while and I had stuff to do – and I mentioned as much to my wife whose first response was to shake her head and ask if that’s all I was concerned about and pointing out that someone could be injured – or our son might have been in the back.
Well – my son wasn’t in the car and she didn’t look injured and I certainly wasn’t, and to be honest with you – the fucker behind us is the one who ploughed into us – so I didn’t see what the need for the drama about my lack of concern for injuries was. Maybe she was thinking of the screaming and wailing behind us, but honestly, not doing what I wanted on time was a bigger deal. Besides, we were literally cruising just above 0 and I really couldn’t see how it was possible for an immobile object to inflict casualties.
Boy was I wrong…LOL! Not about the casualties – but more about the state of the perpetrating vehicle. The whole of the other driver’s front grill was hanging by a thread (if you can call it that), her front bumper was on the ground full of denting and her number plate was literally under our car strewn among the broken glass from her head lamps. You couldn’t help but wish the poor lady had insurance. Actually, you couldn’t help but be more concerned for her car (not her at this point by the way), considering that ours only had minor scratches at the back – Well, they weren’t a big deal, but they looked ugly as if someone had run a key (well, a whole bunch of them) from left to right – and it wasn’t cool.
What concerned me more is that she was wailing like a baby and starting to seriously annoy with her apologies and not meaning to hit us sobs. In between picking up her number plate and having to listen to the diatribe, she crossed the line when she told my wife that she had seen us slowing down and stopping – and that was what she also meant to do…only that – she stepped on the accelerator instead of the brake.
That’s when I said fuck it – and I went back to the car. What a load of nonsense. Some people should never be allowed to drive….LOL! I carried on looking for Stella. After what seemed ages, my wife came back armed with the poor lady’s details and we headed off. Of course the drama about my insensitivity continued – but my take is simple. She was stupid – why should I be sensitive. We’re late, our car looks like a bunny boiler had given it a good going over – and for what? – Because some silly woman can’t tell the brake from the gas pedal?
A few days later, we receive a call from an ambulance chasing law firm. That’s when them accident direct adverts came to mind….LOL! How the hell did they get our number? Forget I asked, I should know better in this data savvy age of information selling. Apparently, aside from the insurance process, this company were willing to assist us in a personal injury claim.
So come the questions, were you injured? Who else was in the car? Were they injured? Yada Yada….My question to them was about their intent and how they make their money.
“Oh Mr. Stone – you get 100% of the compensation. We claim our costs from the other party and its a no win no fee arrangement”. But even after telling them no one was injured and the poor lady’s insurance company are paying for our damage they still push on and push on.
I guess you know the economy is bad when ambulance chasing law firms are willing to convince you first that you have an injury and then help you make a claim. I even asked if I can claim for the time I lost. You see, time is of value to me and I would have otherwise been doing something instead of listening to silly people who can’t drive. The answer was amusing “No sir, we only do claims on personal injury”.
I bet you these guys have spotters on roundabouts waiting for accidents and then dig your details from licence plate info – “We know you got injured sir – we were there”…LOL!
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God was kind to Michael Jackson
Posted: June 29, 2009, 3:02 pm by Darius Stone
In the 1988 documentary film Michael Jackson- The Legend Continues, the narrator, actor James Earl Jones, aptly describes the fascination and mystique about Michael Jackson’s collective body of performances as a “Presentation of Showtime”. The only argument that can be levelled against this description of Michael Jackson is that his whole life was a presentation of Showtime, and not just the magic he unleashed on stage or through his signature vocals that brought to life his music that continues to transcend generations of millions of fans around the world.
It’s hard to truly appreciate both the magnetism and the reality of such a statement until you personally experience the magic of an individual who has most definitely earned the right to be considered the greatest entertainer on earth. Not many people had the privilege of witnessing in person, the phenomenon that is “Whacko Jacko”, and for those who did, they will continue to bear witness to a magnificent talent and a consummate professional who despite being deeply troubled, arguably gave up any semblance of a normal life to provide the world with the gift of music that is destined to be immortal in its truest sense.
What can you say about such a person? The first thing that comes to mind for me is the sadness this brings and the profound irony that in death, Michael Jackson is literally uniting the world as hundreds of millions of fans and non-fans alike from all corners of the world, mourn the passing of the greatest superstar we will ever know, yet Michael died a very sad, lonely and broken man.
A lot has been written out there about every aspect of the saga of Michael’s life and death, and as a shameless fan of the man and his music, I would be lying if I said I haven’t been affected by his demise. Perhaps there’s nothing as therapeutic as expressing in my own words, my experiences and how the man, his life and his music influenced me. Call it my own little Stone Cold tribute to the enigma that is Whacko Jacko!
Michael Jackson
I went back to 1988 because that was the year my dad surprised us and came back from a business trip abroad with the first VCR the family owned. Before then, I had to be content with wishing that a day would come when I could credibly hold conversations with other kids in the school playground and talk from an informed position of having a VCR at home. You see, I think my folks were cruel in that by striving for the best for their children, they took us to school right across the rail tracks, to a school where class and social identity was more important in reality, than the performance in the classroom…or at least that’s what it seemed to be.
It was hard to cope in such an environment where kids were talking about stuff I couldn’t even pronounce and constantly bragging about the videos they saw over the weekend, so you can picture the excitement in Stone Snr’s household when the VCR landed, particularly since no one expected it. More importantly, dad had taken his time to pick a sample of some low budget tired movies that escape my mind, as well as a variety of music video collections from well known artists of the day such as Elton John, Phil Collins, Madonna, Julio Iglesias, and to illustrate his tired taste, he didn’t forget his favourites like Jim Reeves and Dolly Parton among others.
While scrambling through our first collection of video tapes with that cheeky contempt that a teenager would have for his parent’s tired and old fashioned taste in anything – there it was – sitting pretty at the bottom of the pile. A double video pack of Michael Jackson – The Legend Continues, and the collection of Videos from his sister – Janet Jackson’s hit album, Control.
Naturally, I homed in on the Janet album…Who wouldn’t. She was hot and I challenge any male teenager or grown man for that matter to deny they wouldn’t get a boner just from watching the videos in that collection, especially the Pleasure Principle, but I digress…. The Legend Continues video did it for me. Dad knew we loved Michael Jackson, and give him credit for not disappointing.
If there was ever any crime for over-playing a single video, I think I can comfortably lay claim to hold some sort of record of over playing the Jacko documentary. I could probably narrate it word for word.
The only comparison I had with the collection of material on that video at that time was the Thriller movie – though some would insist on calling it a music video. I think I had only seen the entire Thriller video a couple of times at a friend’s place or something, but I was more than content that we had samples of both the making of Thriller and clips from the video itself. That did the trick for me, though I decided I was going to collect anything Michael Jackson that I could get my hands on.
Even from watching the documentary, it was very safe to rationalize that my obsession with the man was not a sad monopoly. I can remember thinking I would never get to the stage of some of the footage on that video of fans crying their guts out because Michael had touched them, or because they simply saw him and he waved, or in some cases, grown people clearly fainting and passing out simply by seeing him. Pictures I’m told, are worth a thousand words and there was no denying the sheer impact this enigma of a human being was having on fans around the world. No normal person had the power to influence and move people the way Jacko did, but you can probably understand why this is so, considering for example that in the immediate period after his death:
- AT&T suggest that only in the USA , 65,000 sms messages were being sent per second.
- 22% of Twitter messages were about Michael Jackson.
- Google had to block any searches of Michael Jackson to stop their servers from thinking they were under an attack.
- The speed of the internet literally slowed down as millions of users around the world desperately tried to look for information
July 31st 1992 was the day that made me realize Jacko was larger than life, and whatever I’d seen of him on video was no illusion. Through a radio competition a week earlier (being anal about the man does have its advantages you know), I was lucky to receive complementary tickets Pepsi were throwing around to promote Jacko’s Dangerous World Tour. The only major concert I’d been to in my life was in 1987 when Jermaine Jackson and the legendary Franco and his TPOK Jazz band performed at the grand opening concert of Kasarani Sports Complex in Nairobi leading up to the All Africa Games that year. I wouldn’t have otherwise bothered if it wasn’t the fact that Jacko was on stage, and a cynical part of me wanted to go and find out for myself what all this fuss was about.
My only interaction with Wembley was what I knew from watching the FA Cup football matches being screened on the Road to Wembley shows on TV back home. The folks at the radio station had said that I had won a gem of tickets and I will thoroughly enjoy myself – but again, my arrogant self thought that they probably said this to every Tom, Dick and Harry who won concert tickets for any gig.
I don’t know what I expected when I got off the train at Wembley Park, but by the time I got to Wembley Way, it was already clear that the party for the London leg of the Dangerous World Tour had started. Folks didn’t seem to mind being fleeced by hawkers lined up through the Way to the arena with anything Michael Jackson from T-shirts to clearly fake memorabilia…LOL! Everyone was just excited and swinging into the party mode. After I got comfortable with a few folks I met on the way, we all vowed to hang out together as we were in the same ticket section.
Dangerous World Tour
By the time Carmina Burana, the classical hit by Carl Orff was pumping as an intro through the massive speakers around the arena, there was absolutely no doubt that this was no average show. This wasn’t a tired “concert” that we’ve come to get used to say from wanna be African artists who jump on stage miming backing tracks in a tired and dingy joint in East London. There was method in the madness we were about to witness.
Before hand, we had been looking at some pamphlets being distributed about the Dangerous World Tour, and I guess publishing the tour facts and statistics was a deliberate strategy to “shock and awe” our asses into the mood. It was hard to understand how Jacko’s stage would require 2 747 jumbo jets to fly it around the world, until you got to see that stage and the sets on it. This was no ordinary concert and the choice of Carmina Burana as a shall we say – blood pressure raising and adrenaline pumping intro did the trick.
No one expected what was to follow in a stunt that we later came to know is called “The Toaster”. Short of looking for the panther that was roaring on stage with a powerful microphone (LOL), everyone was duped to assume that Black or White was to be the first song, as it’s the only song folks knew that Jacko used a panther in the video. The shock and awe was completed with Jacko being dramatically catapulted onto the stage from a trap door amidst a blast of pyrotechnics.
“What the Fuck!” was the only thing I vaguely remember thinking, and right through the first performance (I think it was Jam), I was still in shock and awe. I doubt if I recovered from it as I was dancing my ass off and screaming out “Anasema anataka sambusa” with some 60 something year old white hared guy to my right by the time Jacko was performing Wanna be starting something.
Two things stuck out for me as the concert went into full flow. First, it was the sound quality of the gig. It was almost like the sound was beating to your heart and you could feel the base pumping as you go. It was loud, but it was not intrusive or annoying. The sound was well balanced and regardless of how powerful the sound system was, it was clear that it was a well coordinated part of the showpiece. I guess the best way to describe this is by saying that you were feeling the music. The second thing that was crystal clear and in Technicolor is that the young man on stage was the greatest dancer and entertainer you were ever likely to see on this planet. WOW! When they say Jacko’s dancing seems to defy the laws of physics, that was not an illusion or overstatement. Jacko could dance and this was nothing like you saw on the Smooth Criminal or Remember the Time music videos. Seeing it live was out of this planet.
I had my answer all around me to the question “How is it possible that people could lose the plot because of this human being”. It’s a reflex and involuntary action. You don’t know you’re doing it coz the atmosphere and electricity around you sucks you in. You find yourself hugging the next person and locking into a dance move and you find yourself screaming the lyrics of the song. You see people around you screaming and crying like babies who’ve just had their favourite toy snatched from them, while other overwhelmed folks who have fainted are passed over your head like a sack of potatoes to the nearest first aid point on the sidelines.
There were other magical moments that linger in the mind especially the quality and meticulous detail that went into creating sets for individual songs and the seamless change in between. The fact that it was happening live in front of the crowd made it more of the spectacle it deserved to be.
I think it was after he performed human nature with the crowd waving (a significant amount of them holding lighters flickering above their heads) when the lights on stage blacked out for a few seconds – and when they came back on – two chaps with huge brooms swept across the stage from one side to the other and then the lights blacked out again for a few seconds. When they came back on, Jacko and his 4 dancers were all dressed in their Smooth Criminal regalia – him the light suit with a blue arm band and the rest in similar Mafioso style suits. Despite the unbelievable dancing being unleashed on stage – all you could do is open your mouth wide in wonderment with that “how the fuck did they do that so quickly” look on your face. It was unbelievable. As they seem to say in recent years (shows my age…LOL!), it was off the hinges.
I remember thinking Gitonga is totally useless…LOL! Side bar here if I may…Gitosh was a legendary cheer leader in high school and his signature tune that he cheered the rugby crowds with was none other than Smooth Criminal. Gitosh though , with the help of the crowd, sang the entire tune in Kikuyu…You had to love the act, there was no other option. Gitosh even pulled the famous slap on the thigh, a lift of the thigh with a swift jig of the hips in imitation of one of Jacko’s signature moves as the crowd roared “You’ve been hit by, Umegongwa – na Muici Munyoroku!” (You’ve been hit by, you’ve been struck by, a smooth criminal)
But standing and watching the man himself perform the song, Gitosh had no toe to stand on. Jacko was the genius and trying to compare what was happening on stage with Gitosh’s comedy was absolutely no justice to Jacko.
After performing Smooth Criminal, Jacko threw his Stetson into the crowd like a Frisbee after toying with the crowd about which direction he’ll throw it. The person who caught it was mobbed though I think they were prepared to die for it…LOL! and you literally lost count of the number of panties and other items of clothing being thrown on stage. What was funny is either when he moved to one side of the stage or during a change of set or intermission, someone collected the panties and stuff off stage like they were being paid to do it and it was normal…this was something they were used to and their only concern was probably that Jacko might trip on them when dancing so they had to be removed.
The concert did not even attempt to disappoint at the end as during his performance of the last track Man in the mirror, the stage behind him and to his side was being set up for what seemed to be a rocket launch. It was like a scene out of NASA and what was surreal is that he was performing man in the mirror oblivious of what was happening around him with the folks giving an impression that something galactic was about to happen. People were walking around on stage with headsets and clipboards, giving others different directions etc., before finally Jacko was asked to put on what seemed to be a space suit. In the midst of the chaos on stage, what seemed to be a rocket belt was then put on him and a launch sequence was started – counting down to zero. This concert had dramatically changed to a live movie without anyone even noticing.
As the launch sequence hit zero, the rocket belt lit up and the man in the space suit took off and literally flew outside the stadium as pyrotechnics mesmerized the crowd before a commanding voice over the sound system declared “ladies and Gentlemen – Mr. Michael Jackson has left the stadium”.
The only disappointment was that we were later to discover that the person who flew out in a space suit was stunt man Kinnie Gibson and not Jacko, but then again, in between wondering at what point did Jacko switch with the stunt man, how do you not get mesmerized and totally blown in shock and awe of a once in a lifetime show like that. That was no concert…that was a damn movie…LOL! I concluded on that day that there will never be a show that magically captivates and drives people crazy like that one did. It was one of them moments in life that you think back and say – WOW, I was there!
So what is it about this enigma of a human being who through life and in death continues to captivate people all around the world?
I think it was Quincy Jones who when asked to comment about Jacko’s death said something like (and I paraphrase) “Michael doesn’t come along once in a while or once in a generation. He isn’t one in a million. He is just one. There will never be another Michael Jackson”.
You can’t argue with that, and perhaps one of the consequences of Jacko being just “the one” is that his whole life was a media spectacle. Since the age of 5, he has known nothing else but to live his life in the spotlight. And it’s also no surprise that with his talent and ability to mesmerize he is a global phenomenon in life and death.
Jacko wasn’t just an influence in the lives of those who had the ability to watch his videos or follow his soap opera of a life in the western media. If you travelled to any village in any corner of this planet – whether it was the indigenous communities of the Amazon, or the remote villages say in Jirapa in northern Ghana, or the far reaches of Chittagong in Bangladesh, or the bundux of Gulu district in Uganda – the only globally recognized brand that could rival the global reach of Michael Jackson is Coca-Cola.
Having a soap opera of a life inevitably has its consequences and like many other public figures of fascination like Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Princess Grace of Monaco and Diana Princess of Wales, Jacko did not disappoint in his exit off stage by going out in a blaze of controversy – almost as if it was part of the plot of his soap opera.
His mystery of his life and how he lived it was therefore a constant fascination to the global media who were always looking for a story to sell, and as drama goes, the more controversial, the better the copy will sell. There was never any doubt that Jacko knew how to work the system to his advantage – it was his job as a show man, and he revelled in it. Jacko was savvy enough to manipulate the media to suit the project of marketing himself, but he was also a true living testament that if you live by the sword, it is very possible that you will die by it.
His latter years in life were shrouded by different scandals, and I think that when reflecting on his whole life and what purpose Jacko served on this planet, it is very unfair to equate his life to the scandals of child abuse allegations that dogged him in recent years. My take on this is that Jacko stood in front of a jury of his peers and answered to these allegations, and his peers acquitted him of all charges – and as much as the continuation of the scandal provides a constant talking point, the man was acquitted and he remains innocent.
The two aspects to his life couldn’t be more contrasting. On the one hand, the only place Jacko was ever comfortable was on stage. He owned the stage and once he was in performance mode, there was never any doubt that you were looking at a genius and a dedicated professional who will stop at nothing to entertain the world because that was the only thing he knew.
The cost of being the enigma he was on stage was that he never grew up, and refused to give himself a chance to grow up – but then again, who are we to judge and lay blame. This was someone who had their childhood totally yanked from them and while other kids played in the park, he was sweating his guts out in rehearsals and on stage, and as a grown man, he never seemed to want to give up on rebuilding that childhood that was stolen from him.
It was that innocence and naivety that eventually signalled the beginning of the end for him with one of the fatal blows being the day that he met a one Martin Bashir. A long time friend of Jacko, the illusionist Uri Geller confesses that his biggest regret was introducing Bashir to Jacko – after Bashir begged and pleaded for that introduction to a sad point of even presenting a crumpled note, apparently hand written by Diana Princess of Wales vouching for Bashir as “good guys”.
It’s my belief that the domino effect of that subsequent Martin Bashir documentary – Living with Michael Jackson – is what landed Jacko on the slab in the autopsy room of the Los Angeles coroner’s office.
Jacko had always had a troubled existence behind closed doors – whether it was his dependency on pain killers – or his awkward and non-conventional life choices – but the last 6 years had been an unbearable burden on the man that was to eventually break him down.
“This is it” the series of London concerts at the O2 arena seemed an apt way for the King of Pop to rise from the stooper that dogged his recent life. I must admit, when I heard he was to do 50 shows, the first thought was that it was a ludicrous idea. 15 20 years ago, he used to do 50 or so shows but over a period of 2 years…and frankly speaking, it’s not that he was a spring chicken any more. The dude was 50.
There was also the risk that with his crocked body, maintaining the level and quality of performances that he had previously done was an extremely tall order at 50, and coupled with his recent personal drama and lifestyle, this was going to be a step too far even for the King.
They say God works in mysterious ways and maybe with his sense of humour, God found a way of not only relieving Jacko off his very sad, lonely and broken existence – but he also found a way to preserve his legacy and music in a way that guarantees Jacko will never be forgotten.
God was kind to Whacko Jacko. The man needed to rest and God obliged. Jacko had already given us all his life, and maybe it was time for him to have it back in peace.Related Articles:
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Things that make you go Hmmm!
Posted: June 25, 2009, 1:29 pm by Darius Stone
It was only a matter of time before people decided to unleash their own brand of justice on those who transgressed against them and brought down the financial system that wiped out their lifelong savings. This one is the stuff of legend…and what Hollywood is made of - not the typical and predictable attacks on the [...] -
Baptism of Fire - Part II
Posted: June 21, 2009, 3:13 pm by Darius Stone
The other night I was watching an episode of NCIS on TV, which was uncharacteristically eerie and was full of scenes from a funeral home, corpses cut up into meat puzzles, and teeth removed from someone alive to be superglued into a burnt out corpse to give the impression that someone was dead – and [...] -
When Stupidity defies its own boundearies
Posted: June 19, 2009, 3:00 pm by Darius Stone
I’ve always believed in the notion of never under-estimating the power of stupid people in large numbers. Contrary to what conventional wisdom will suggest, a collection of stupid folks can unleash the most unpredictable results, but every once in a while, there are cases that defy the very boundearies that we are prepared to [...] -
Baptism of Fire - Part I
Posted: May 29, 2009, 9:48 pm by Darius Stone
Every so often, life reminds you how cynical and ruthless it can be. It’s the old adage – “In life, you either get fucked or your doing the fucking”. Stone cold advice doesn’t come as succinct as that. But before I indulge, I think it’s worth clarifying that (as nearly suggested by [...] -
Would you let him take care of birth control in the name of equal opportunity?
Posted: May 5, 2009, 8:59 am by Darius Stone
I can think of any number of women I know who will scream “It’s about bloody time” when you confidently tell them that this time – the male contraceptive that is proving to be as good as the pill in preventing pregnancy is just round the corner – literally. There’s been a number of hoaxes and [...] -
Stay away from pretty boys…or is it unpretty boys in pretty cars?
Posted: May 1, 2009, 9:35 am by Darius Stone
As a young girl, ask any seasoned mother for advice about boys and heartbreaks, and she’ll tell you with a tint of reflective self regret – “Avoid the pretty boys”. Now, I’m not advocating here for the paid up, card carrying members of the “Girl’s ignore me coz’ I’m ugly society”, but it’s a [...] -
Jailed for literally saying “Fuck you” to neighbours - You’ve got to love it!
Posted: April 28, 2009, 10:21 am by Darius Stone
Every once in a while, folks get to surprise you with their determination to shove a middle finger in the direction of those who can’t deal with it. If you ever doubted the criminal justice system can be cynical, then meet 48 year old Carolyn Cartwright - who believes it’s her God given right to enjoy [...] -
Confessions of the Stone Kind
Posted: April 24, 2009, 12:34 pm by Darius Stone
Clearly avoiding the tag was wishful thinking and I totally blame her of the crazy variety 3TOC.
Apparently this is a honesty scrap award bestowed on Stone Cold Haven for (what was it again 3TOC?), and I’ve got to fess up to 10 things then follow some instructions or something….So here goes.
1. I don’t have a mobile phone. I decommissioned my cell phone last year and I’ve never looked back. It was as liberating as giving up smoking 5 years ago. There’s just something about taking control of your life and deciding when you actually want to talk to people. I got to the stage of accepting that there’s nothing urgent that won’t wait for me to get home. I’ll go as far as saying that it’s made my quality of life much better and reduced my stress levels.
The ability for anyone to call you at will is an unwelcome destruction many people are too weak to face. Some people are so anal about their cell phones they could have sex with them if it was possible to do that – an act I wouldn’t put past some. In fact, I rarely talk to people on the phone unless I’m convinced you’ll add value to my time – so nothing personal if I don’t pick up the phone at home.
As for calls during work hours, I’ll be damned if I speak to you if you’re not part of a process designed to help me make money. It’s a no brainer.
2. Apart from regular and sports news, I don’t watch regular scheduled TV. Even for the news, there are some channels that I’d rather poke my eyes with needles than watch because of their sickening obsession with broadcasting bad and biased news that shamelessly promotes imperialistic agendas.
If you want me to punch you (even in your own house) put on Fox news while I’m in the room – and that’s not the only one, though I won’t waste a punch for others.
For this reason, I’ve become a hardened supporter of on demand TV for the rest of my entertainment and nourishment. Whoever conceived the idea that you can watch TV as and when you want on demand is a genius. Everything I need to watch is on demand TV (well except for Baby Father which I think is a crime for this show not to have a re-run as it was one of the best shows especially with a predominantly black cast where gangs, violence and hip hop music was not the order of the day).
While on the news theme, I only read newspapers on the web, and always certainly start with the Sports pages.
3. Over recent years, my threshold for accepting stupidity has become lower and lower to the point of intolerance. Case in point – people who answer their cell phones and ask the caller “how did you know I was here?”. I think stupidity should be an offence under the criminal justice system with a custodial sentence that prescribes solitary confinement for repeat offenders.
Failing that, folks should be allowed to apply for a licence to take stupid people out back and give them a good hiding. Nothing life threatening, just a good old fashioned pasting.
4. Most of my lifelong friends are from high school. I find it hard (well, I probably go out of my way to avoid it) to make friends with people I’ve met in my adulthood. Maybe it’s the baggage and drama that folks come with, or maybe we just don’t get along. Of course I differentiate friends from acquaintances and drinking buddies that are best left in the pub – the sort you’d never take home to meet your mother.
Saying that, most of the good friends (some very close) I have made since high school are friends that I’ve made online for one reason or another. It’s interesting that people sometimes try to separate their lives from their online presence and see online interaction as something you switch on and off at will – some spiritual folks say it’s impossible to separate you from your alter ego.
In one of my university courses (some time ago now) on the impact of the internet on social interaction and the psychology of it – my study group did a case study on mashada.com – a site started by a former school mate, where I was a member (long retired). Being one of the earliest members (Jeez – I’m old…) of this crazy and more often than not outlandish forum (No! Don’t look for Stone, you won’t find me there as Stone…LOL!), I was well placed to provide insight to the relationship between people’s anonymous alter-egos online and their real lives. The psychology of it was fascinating to say the least, but more importantly, the overall conclusion was the appreciation of a misguided disconnect by people who still think the internet is a plug and play component of their lives that they can separate at will from their day to day communication and interaction with the world.
My class mates thought Kenyans were psycho (but a good psycho) after spending some considerable time on mashada for the case study – maybe I should come out of retirement and check the place out again, though there’s probably some folks there now who hadn’t even started eating solid foods when I was a member.
5. Over the years, I have become very cynical about religion. I can’t help but think that the whole concept of different religions in the world is just a big hoax that’s designed as a mechanism to control the masses.
What intrigues me is the idea that someone is supposed to blindly follow a doctrine without questioning or taking some time to try and reason or rationalize the teachings of such a doctrine. They call it faith I think, but if someone is supposed to have a close relationship with their God, what’s with the intermediaries in the form of religions and churches. Are folks incapable of having a relationship with their God without someone holding their hand?
My cynicism stems more from the fact that there’s so many inconsistencies with this story of God and the different renditions of what some consider to be the world’s best story book – the Bible.
Some people have found my views around this very uncomfortable and offensive, but I fail to see how we get to the place where the only reaction to a conversation about the veracity of a so called religion is folks getting hot under the collar and threatening that the Bible says you will burn in hell with fire and Brimstone for even questioning.
What happened to good old fashioned conversation? For example, nobody so far has given me a plausible answer as to whether animals commit sin by fornicating and having sex out of wed lock – I mean, if all creatures a God’s creation, why the double standards? Why do humans have to get married and supposedly enjoy one of the fruits of life within a matrimonial context – and anyone indulging outside marriage is seen as sinful? The only come back has been something about humans given more ability to reason and created in the likeness of God so we are more superior. Indeed we may be, but it still doesn’t explain whether animals are committing sin.
6. I’m trying to get better at accepting that not everyone can easily deal with my bluntness. Life has taught me that some things need to be served cold, but I guess with time, you also get to learn that its equally important to acknowledge that cold is uncomfortable for some people.
Several friends and ex-girlfriends have told me that one of my most chilling characteristics is my ability to be calm and not even raise my voice during drama filled episodes. So much so that I supposedly transmit a nervy and cold demeanour that can be unsettling. One even confessed that after that conversation, she shut herself in the kitchen and had one of them “how the hell did I fuck that one up so bad moments”.
I prefer not to spend my energy stressing about some things – so I guess I rationalize my actions by suggesting that being calm stresses me less and I really don’t have air time for shouting matches.
7. I’m at a stage in my life where I’m determined to live it without being in the drama of the rat race. Been there, done it, got the suit, the T-shirt and the DVD – and I’m done. The quality of my life and my family’s life is more important than running around like a headless chicken in a career that I don’t enjoy any more.
I find it hard in the first place staying in a job for more than 3 years – I kinda see my value as that of getting things from A to B and once that’s done, I’m off. In my last job as someone’s employee, I got asked what I saw my role to be in a Q&A session – and my answer after some thought was that I felt it was my job to open the door and for the rest of them to keep it open.
I’m in my second stint running my own business and this time round, I guess I’m more relaxed about things, much wiser and more importantly, much smarter than the first time round and I know what to do to get some balance to things. There’s a very big difference between working for yourself and having a business and only experience can teach you that.
8. Many folks think I only started blogging in December last year. Matter of fact, I’ve been blogging a long long time – only it was for my former employer. My last two jobs made it impossible for me to work, blog, and have a life at the same time…so I engineered the blogging to be part of my job description. Some have asked me why I don’t return to some of them posts….but it’s one of them things you know.
Apparently, I signed a contract that suggested that the stuff I wrote remained the intellectual property of that employer. I guess it’s impossible for them to remove my name as the author (which is fine for me) and more importantly, I got paid handsomely to leave the intellectual rights with them.
9. I’m a sucker for music and in particular old school soul music. They don’t write them like they used to do back in the day. I grew up around music and was crazy enough to major in it in high school – though my major regret was not learning how to read music score properly (I mean the really really deep stuff here) when I had the chance. I could read music and even did my own arrangements that others were able to play – but I guess some things just pass you by.
I have an obscene collection of music, most of which is now converted to a digital format – but I lost the plot literally (and was diagnosed as depressed when 10 years ago, I lo
lost my entire collection of music when it was stolen. I still refuse to tell anyone what it cost me to pay for that collection coz’ folks will think I’m insane, but its sentimental value was much more important to me than anything else. With time, I’ve managed to get some of it back (thanks to the usual suspects for helping me out) – but it’s not the same.I still listen to other stuff especially since my wife has an eclectic taste and collection of music that ranges from classical types like Pavarotti and Bochelli to African classics from greats like Simba Wanyika – but I draw the line on head banging hard core rock. That’s just outright noise.
10. I first went to a night club when I was 15. I probably would have got frozen but got smuggled into Carnivore by an older girl I knew from church – and she bought me the first beer too….
My mum found out about this coz’ a family friend who was there that night but I didn’t see him sold me out and it made life difficult for me for a bit…LOL! But life has its way of paying back. This guy seemed for years to be happily married (to a girl I knew very well and hang out with sana) and was the envy of town….
Only, one day in a bar in North Carolina while having a quiet beer with a friend, his wife walked right up to me and pulled a bar stool and let’s just say my friend felt like a spare wheel after that. So after all those years, his wife upped and left without notice…just picked up her passport, her daughter and left the country (they had the means)….and left the dude at the traffic lights. Didn’t even tell him shit…just called when she arrived in America and told him I left you. Kweli money can’t buy you love.
I would have liked to say that was retribution for all them years back when he sold me out – but I actually felt sorry for him. When I asked his wife what cut and why she didn’t just divorce him – she was like “Wacha Darius – you know peeps at home, who was going to allow me to divorce that one”.
So there – another dip into the life of Stone
So, as instructed – here are the things to do for my unsuspecting victims.
1. You must brag about the award.
2. You must include the name of the blogger who bestowed the award on you and link back to their blog.
3. You must tag a minimum of 7 blogs that you think are brilliant either in content or design
4. Show their names and links and leave them with a comment to inform them that they’ve got the dreaded tag from honest weblog.
5. List at least 10 honest things about yourself then pass it on with instructions.
My unsuspecting victims:1.M the Thinker - A comrade from this here internet of ours – a true wordsmith.
2.Mocha - simply coz’ I want to get her out of retirement
3. Shiko – Always refreshing and maybe she can tell us more about this amazing ice-cream at the coast.
4. Rombo - bumped into this lady a little while ago. Fascinating insights and she claims she has a window but the view ain’t hers
5. Our Kid - Only found out about this guy this week but I already want him to be my lawyer. He can start by doing this one
6. Lady Pink – now you didn’t think I’d leave you out, did you?
7. Mystic – an interesting one in a land far away from home – Interesting dilemmas
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G8: A continuing irrelevance that pledges to “sort out the pending world food crisis”
Posted: April 20, 2009, 9:29 pm by Darius Stone
A quick scan through history provides a fascinating insight into the downfall of some of yesteryear’s (well – centuries really) global powers and their gradual and sometimes dramatic fall from grace.
Take for example, the Order of the Knights Templar – arguably the world’s first multi-national corporation who were pretty much responsible for inventing the banking system. They may have had their day between the 12th and 14th centuries – but during their time, they wielded unprecedented power through their economic resources that would rival the combined economic power of the so called G8. Of course they had their very own militia to boot, who operated with the ruthlessness of any fighting force known to man – but we’re not going to suggest that these “soldiers of the temple” were a bunch of thugs sanctioned by the Catholic church now, are we?
Fast forward to the 19th century and a bizarre, outlandish and surreal gathering by some European folks in Berlin in 1886 decided – “You know what, fuck it! We’re not going to survive out here going on like this – let’s all head out to Africa, colonize the bastards, and chop it up and divide it among ourselves. May the best country win”…hence the rise of the British Empire (and the rest of them of course)…Like with many dynasties and empires, the Order of the Knights Templar and the British Empire have some common threads – their fall from grace was both inevitable and incredible, but more so, their downfall was driven by the fact that they were no longer relevant and were past their sell by date.
In the case of the Knights Templars, a clearly vindictive King Phillip of France used weaknesses stemming from the continued irrelevance of the templars to finish them off. Granted, there was a small matter of the King being indebted up to his eyeballs to the templars who financed his various unsuccessful wars (George Bush comes to mind here) against the British - and arresting them, torturing them, charging them pretty much with blasphemy and treason and killing them by roasting them on a stake – clearly provided a creative solution to sort his debts out. (*Makes a mental note that there are other ways of settling issues with creditors apart from paying them*)
In the case of the British empire, it became untenable that such a small island would continue to conquer the world and plunder the colonies in search of resources and raw materials to sustain their livelihoods. My only issue with the fall of the British empire is that there’s a wide spread myth that on the exit of the colonial masters, African countries actually achieved independence. “Independence from what?”, I normally ask. In Kenya’s case for example, all that happened on that cold December night in 1963 was that power passed from one set of seasoned thugs to another more unsavoury and locally bred bunch of bandits masquerading as freedom fighters.
I digress, but my point is – empires and world orders crumble because they’re no longer relevant in any given age. Fast forward again to this here world of ours in 2009, and the lessons history has taught us have come to play again.
The G8, in my view, a self imposed cabal of dodgy imperialists who decided to usurp the democratic space of the UN and impose themselves to the world as the giver and taker on the basis of their economic power – has had their time.
There was a time that they could claim that their economies warranted their exclusive club status, but like President Lula daSilva of Brazil recently undiplomatically articulated – “Have you seen an Indian or a black man having the power and resources to cause damage to the world economy? This mess was caused by blue eyed white people who think they know everything”. He was of course talking about the current global economic crisis.
The global financial crisis has not spared any of the so called developed countries. In fact, some are at the brink of negotiating with the IMF to bail them out. Mind you, this is an institution that the cabal members put in place without much thought to “sort” out the developing world – and created a culture that saw any country receiving money from the IMF as a pariah. The others have resorted to printing new money to buy out the radio-active assets that got us into this mess – but of course, they’ll call it quantitative easing or something fancy like that. Ask Robert Mugabe and he’ll tell you “those bastards are printing money like I did, don’t let them lie to you”…
. Now that the only justifiable basis for this cabal of 8 to exist has been removed out of the equation, you’ve got to ask yourself why they should even be taken seriously. They don’t have the economic power that they justified their existence as an exclusive club with.
Take the example of the last G8 meeting where the cabal sang to anyone who would listen that they had resolved to save the world’s environment, they had continued with their commitment to save Africa from itself, and had got Russia and America talking again.
Well, at least they decided to seriously examine cutting green house gas emissions in half by 2050. Any seasoned diplomat will tell you “seriously examine” is a euphemism for “let’s kick this fucker into the long grass”.
As for Africa and aid, don’t get me started. It’s tragic enough that the destiny of a whole continent is pinned on the eloquence and campaigning skills of ageing rock stars like Bono and Bob “give us your fucking money” Geldof – all the cabal decided to do was reiterate their commitment to supporting aid efforts in Africa. Talk about a broken record.
As for Russia and America talking – I guess the other European countries in the G8 have to make themselves look busy and relevant and force themselves as mediators. Besides, if they don’t, someone might notice that Brazil, Russia, India and China actually have more clout than they do on global economic and political matters.
When times were hard, a tactical move saw the emergence of the G20 with their first main summit recently in London. However, the talking shop that it was won’t change the fact that the entire continent of Africa was not properly represented at this jaunt. For good measure of course, they threw in a lame duck South African caretaker President so that they can tell the world “lookey right here – we have some folks from Africa too”….and there was one chap from NEPAD too – but if anyone needed an indication that Africa needs to take itself seriously and sort out its own issues, then here you are.
Gadaffi for all his longevity and staleness in political office may have been on to something when his first rallying call as AU president was for the formation of the United States of Africa. Set aside what you think of this old geezer, but there’s a visionary in this guy.
Clearly there’s a hell of a lot of distance still between the rhetoric of a United States of Africa and the reality of our dodgy and thug life leadership that sometimes makes you feel some African leaders should just be put into one stadium and shot.
However, there’s still a significant amount of merit in aspiring for more effective economic and political integration within Africa and for African leaders to be visionary enough to see the solutions to the continents problems as coming from within. A good start are the regional blocks like the EAC, ECOWAS and SADEC – but first, they have to work for the people within their regions, and I’m sure we all have a story about them.
I forget again why I was writing this article….Yeah! The agriculture ministers of the G8 countries are getting together to thrash out a solution to the pending world food crisis. Of course they’ll throw in someone from South Africa or something for good measure and maybe a stooge from a related UN agency to do some administration and follow up.
Don’t be surprised if all that happens is that a solution for Africa to whole heartedly embrace genetically modified food is presented as a saviour to this crisis. Nothing at all to do with pushing the corporate agendas of multi-nationals like Monsanto who have a bit of bad press out west and need a new market…God forbid, that would be immoral (*he says with some sarcasm*)
How about stopping farm subsidies that allow cheap European produce to flood developing countries and wipe out any chance of the African farmer to get something for their wares in a fair market? Maybe they’ll get a chance to survive enough to grow their own food to eat.
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Kenya’s shot gun wedding: Self Destructing to Irretrievable Chaos
Posted: April 13, 2009, 12:36 am by Darius Stone
Today marks the first anniversary of the shot gun wedding that the Kenyan political establishment was dragged into, kicking and screaming. The choices following the chaos of the discredited 2007 general election ranked somewhere between impossible and improbable, and if only to stop the killing, violence and lawlessness, the two main protagonists had little choice but to commit to political matrimony.
If it wasn’t tragic enough, you could almost picture it:
Kenyan President Mwai Kibaki
To the left of the proverbial priest, a jaded and tired looking Emilio Mwana wa Kibaki, wearing the mystified face of a misguided, power-hungry incumbent – who’s eyes tell a tragic story of a shell shocked and politically disenfranchised character who stares blankly in wonderment about how things could have got so bad. If they could speak, Emilio’s eyes could have been heard constantly asking “They told me wananchi would complain for a few days then we’ll be back to Kazi iendelee. What the hell happened?”
Kenyan Prime Minister Raila Odinga
To the right, a bitter and frustrated Raila Odinga who feels that he’s been violently robbed of his date with destiny as the leader of a people. A man who has only to look in the mirror to recognize the contempt he holds for his partner in matrimony that lurks beneath the surface and is only held back by the desperation to salvage a justifiable sense of political restitution for an election he believes he has just won.
Former UN Secretary General Kofi Annan
Lurking in the shadows, the ever humble and diplomatic Kofi Annan, with the clear bulge of a heavy duty shot gun struggling to wrestle out of his immaculate suit. A man who’s biggest regret while Secretary General of the UN was that the Rwandan genocide took place on his watch and the UN apparatus was powerless to stop it or influence other players to stop the genocide. A man who’s face shows a steely determination of someone who has been given a second chance to redeem himself and will stop at nothing to ensure that what happened in Rwanda is not repeated in Kenya.
As Kibaki and Odinga take their vows, a representative congregation of an entire people of a nation watch with bated breath. They watch in anticipation hoping for an immediate cessation of violence. They watch and hope that the killing and mutilation will stop. They watch and hope that the gang rape and horrific violation of women and young girls will stop. They watch and hope that the country does not sink further into tribally fuelled anarchy.
Desperate father scrambling for safety with his 2 children through burning rubble during the post election violence on Jan 2nd 2008 in Mathare Slums.
One year on, has the marriage worked?
The blunt answer to that is Absolutely Not! The Kenyan leadership spearheaded by both Kibaki and Odinga has illustrated a spectacular level of incompetence that at best, is laughable, and at worst, tragic.
In fact, I’ll go as far as saying that the continued leadership of these two characters and their grand coalition government are a direct threat to the existence of the Kenyan society as we know it.
To illustrate my point, I’d like to take a step back and revisit some of the key issues that led us to where we are.
Many observers acknowledge that the discredited 2007 election was most certainly a trigger to the violence that was unleashed on Kenyans – where neighbours turned on each other, lawlessness became a cottage industry, over 1000 people lost their lives and hundreds of thousands were displaced from their homes.
However, before the 2007 election, all the ingredients of the dynamics of a classic civil war were already in place.
- The ethnic fragmentation caused by the 1992 and 1997 clashes in Rift Valley and the Coast province, as well as other pockets within the country.
- Long overdue constitutional reforms.
- Decades of flawed and failed policies that affected the livelihoods of huge sections of the population.
- Historical injustices and land grievances.
- Colonial legacies that encouraged and supported tribal politics in favour of nationalist politics as a divide and rule tactic.
- Wide spread poverty and economic inequalities
- Media hyperbole and irresponsible and unaccountable broadcasting.
- A betrayal of the hopes of the people by the NARC government elected in 2002 on a reform agenda.
Two things are quite disturbing at this point in time.
Firstly, none of the above historical and long term reforms have been addressed. The failed experiment of the grand coalition government has done nothing to give Kenyans any expectation that this lot of discredited leaders can run a bath or organize an empty drawer if their lives depended on it.
Secondly, despite the unanimous calls for change in leadership of a generational kind, there are few, if any, viable alternatives to the leaders in place at the moment.
On the first issue, it’s only a matter of time before another trigger unleashes the worst violence that Kenyans have ever seen. We console ourselves by rationalizing that we have learnt lessons from the violence of 2008, but clearly – the leadership have resorted to their own devices and are blissfully ignoring the ticking time bomb their sitting on and fuelling with their total disregard of the wishes of their electorate.
A brief lesson into the history and chronology of the Rwandan genocide will aptly illustrate how it’s possible for the seeds of a human catastrophe to be sown while we bury our heads in the sand and pretend that what happened in Rwanda will never happen to Kenya. The comparisons of the two scenarios are not far off by any measure.
On the second issue of lack of a viable leadership alternative – there is an unacceptable vacuum in leadership that exists because the next generation have not stepped up to the plate for whatever reason. A “every person for him/herself” unpatriotic attitude” - or the absolute fear of harm and retaliation, political assassinations and extra judicial killings unleashed by the old guard and the establishment on some younger upcoming leaders who have tried – may have put promising leaders off.
But leadership is not just needed in politics, it’s needed in enterprise, in public service administration, in health and social care, in development and in many other disciplines that are essential to keep the country ticking over day by day.
The revolution needed in Kenya to return the country back to the citizens who own it is made even more complicated by the fact that the old guard in power right now have blatantly illustrated the impunity by which they are going to cling to power by all means necessary – and if we want our country back, we’re going to have to take it back because the only exit strategy the old guard know is the kind that permanently relocates them 6 feet underground in a wooden box.
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Our Duty Never to Forget What Happened in Rwanda in 1994
Posted: April 7, 2009, 9:42 pm by Darius Stone
Very few people who don’t understand the history of ethnic tensions in Rwanda and the surrounding regions couldn’t have seen what was to come after the Presidential jet carrying Rwandan President Juvenal Habyarimana and Burundi President Cyprien Ntaryamira was blown off the sky as it approached the airport in Kigali.
That event exactly 15 years ago was the catalyst to the worst crime on humanity that most of us have witnessed in our generation. In fact, the assassination of the Presidents of Rwanda and Burundi is just one aspect of a deep rooted and historic conflict between the Hutu and Tutsi people of Rwanda.
You have to go back as far as 1957 to get a sense of some of the historical aspects that led to the 1994 genocide, including the build up to the genocide itself.Many observers from all walks of life have argued and debated the facts and figures in this case, including the death toll and statistics involved, as well as the impact and effects. However, unlike with the Nazi genocide of the second world war or the genocide of Cambodians by the Khmer Rouge, authorities of the time in Rwanda made no attempt to officially record the deaths.
However, It’s hard to disagree with James Smith from the Aegis Trust who points out that: “What’s important to remember is that there was a genocide. There was an attempt to eliminate Tutsis — men, women, and children — and to erase any memory of their existence.“
Not least because there are lessons to be learnt from the Rwandan experience, I believe it is our duty to make sure that the world doesn’t forget what happened in 1994 in Rwanda.
I wouldn’t be doing any justice by trying to capture or articulate a perspective of what actually happened and why we should make an effort of remembering it on this day. However, I highly recommend reading this comprehensive and chronological account of the events before, during and after the Rwandan genocide to get a sense of why what happened should never be forgotten.
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The circus is in town, but will it fix the problems caused by blue eyed white folk?
Posted: April 1, 2009, 10:38 am by Darius Stone
In an early episode of the fictional hit TV drama The West Wing, the show’s President Jed Bartlett vents his fury at his Director of Intelligence. In the plot of this particular episode, the intelligence folks fail to pick up hundreds of thousands of Indian troops and their war machinery marching aggressively towards the Kashmiri Pakistani border in a clearly provocative move that will not bode well for the two nuclear armed neighbours.
In disbelief, Jed Bartlett angrily berates his intelligence chief by pointing out that his motorcade can’t move from K Street in the middle of DC to Connecticut without being picked up on a weather satellite. Aaron Sorkin and his production team obviously did their research well in coming up with a realistic depiction of the plot that is the challenging project of moving the most powerful man in the world from location A to location B.
Last night, London was treated to the real life rendition of this project when the US secret service pretty much commandeered central London to ensure that their boss had his “customary” no nonsense protection as he made his first long haul trip across the Atlantic. The RAF Northolt airbase, the UK’s equivalent of Andrews in Maryland (which normally hosts dignitaries and royalty), clearly wasn’t up to the job of hosting this circus and Stansted got the honour of going out of business for a little while as it hosted Airforce 1. The reality and sheer magnitude of the project of protecting President Obama and his wife is undoubtedly a more challenging proposition than the plot predicted in the TV series.
President Obama and First lady Michelle acknowledge well wishers as they disembark off Air Force 1 at Stansted AirportNevertheless, it’s hard to fail to admire the determination of the circus mentality shown by the American establishment as they lap up the opportunity to show the world that they’re the best at what they do, especially when it comes to protecting the big fella from Pennsylvania Avenue. To illustrate the sheer magnitude of this American circus, here are some facts about the project of Obama’s G20 trip:
- Obama is travelling with an estimated 500 to 600 personnel in his entourage. They won’t confirm the exact number as the mystery obviously adds to the spectacle of the circus.
- 200 of the folks travelling with him are secret service officers to cover the protection detail for him and his wife. One wonders how the rest of the entourage will be kept busy in Europe in the next 5 days.
- Apart from Airforce 1 and the second identical Boeing 747 that normally travels with the official plane as a decoy, Obama’s fully loaded Marine 1 helicopter is in town, together with the 2 or 3 equally loaded helicopters that fly together as decoys. The idea being no one really knows which plane he’s on. Clearly, they’ve been advised well on London traffic nightmares and he’s lucky he can afford using a helicopter around the capital to avoid the traffic.
- The beast is also in town to move him around where it’s not practical to use Marine 1. You can’t help but be fascinated with the sheer madness of this vehicle aptly named the beast. Apparently, apart from the out of this planet armoury that this limo has(most of which will make James Bond’s Aston Martin look like a rickshaw from a century ago), it’s also a moving hospital that carries oxygen as well as bottles of the president’s blood, not withstanding that there’s always a fully loaded ambulance in his motorcade.
- His 500 strong entourage also got to dodge the London traffic as they too have their fleet of American military Chinook helicopters to hop on to like the boss
Aside from the arrival circus witnessed by many well wishers waving the stripes and stars at Stansted airport, the most secure piece of real estate on the planet as of last night was Winfield House in Regents Park in central London. The private residence of the American Ambassador is sprawled over 12 acres and has the second largest private garden in London after Buckingham Palace. No problem there for the entourage to pitch up tents if they had to.
It’s a scene also reminiscent of an episode in the last season of the TV hit West Wing, where Matt Santos, the Latino presidential candidate causes a logistical nightmare when he decides to pop home for dinner and the secret service have to take over an entire suburban neighbourhood lock stock and barrel. Needless to say, the neighbours are least pleased as they pretty much have to provide their grandparent’s DNA profile (not literally – but you get the picture of course) to enter their homes, and Santos has to apologize about the circus to his wife Helen, who’s only comfort is the acknowledgement that at least they’re in the most secure neighbourhood in Texas if only for the night.
As a side note – it was interesting to note that the whole character of Matt Santos, the fictional Latino President in the TV hit The West Wing was inspired by the real life political story of Barrack Obama. Eli Adi and the West Wing writing team had the dilemma of not having a precedent to base a non-white presidential candidate on as part of the show’s plot. It was only after Obama’s stomp speech at the 2004 Democratic Convention in Boston in support of John Kerry, that the writers and producers homed in on the Obama inspiration for Santos’ character…..but clearly, I digress here….
So, is the circus in London going to be worth it?
We’ll see after the pomp and ceremony of the tea and reception with Aunt Liz and Uncle Phil at Buckingham Palace, and the Jamie Oliver dinner later in the evening being prepared for the heads of state at Downing Street (well, that’s if Jamie’s heavily pregnant wife doesn’t go into labour – otherwise it’s the local take away for the big fellas).
Incidentally, the spouses of the heads of state don’t get to eat with the big boys at the high table. They get relegated to the long grass of the back room dining areas with the consolation of a few celebs like JK Rawling, Dame Kelly Holmes and Naomi Campbell thrown in for a spectacle. Funny, if I was cynical, I would suggest that the inclusion of black celebs in the dinner for the first ladies is an obvious stunt to make Michelle feel less awkward (would they do that….Nooooo!). Barrack doesn’t have an identity problem and doesn’t need props seeing that he’s the X Factor that is calling the shots – it comes with being the most powerful man in the world. The folks out back are still figuring out how to handle Michelle, but yet again, I digress.
To the more serious matter of the jaunt at the Excel Centre on Thursday where the hopes of the world’s economic future is pinned on a 4 and a half hour G20 meeting. Will they achieve anything of substance? Absolutely not! As they’ll say, it’s a step in the right direction and we’re focused on stimulating the economy, in regulation and in making the IMF almighty and all powerful so that they can screw up developing countries even more.
Brazilian President Lula daSilva will still go back home blaming the blue eyed white folk for having fixed nothing after their breath taking and spectacular incompetence in screwing up the world’s economy, the Metropolitan Police and British Security Services will have spent £20 million in the security operation of the decade (it will be a good dry run for the 2012 Olympics though – but an expensive dry run all the same), and the biggest spectacle will be the numerous battles with the street protestors of different persuasion - from fair trade consuming, tree hugging, environmental mercenaries, to those convinced that this is the perfect opportunity to kill capitalism, to folks just pissed off that they don’t have jobs.
My personal opinion is that if any of these leaders had any vision of changing life permanently for generations to come, they’d actually kick this talk of fixing the world economy in 4 hours into the long grass and be bold enough to conclude the Doha round of world trade talks that would ensure free trade without protectionism and ridiculous tariffs that hit the poorest countries in the world.
All signatures needed for this will be in the room – the question is that of whether they’ll have the balls to do it and fix, as Lula daSilva says, the mess caused by greedy blue eyed white folk.Related Articles:
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Tax Payers Money for Porn - What a perk!
Posted: March 30, 2009, 2:50 pm by Darius Stone
It’s always difficult to tell which is the more stressful or humiliating – the fact that your hubby has been watching dirty old hard core porn, and probably playing with his tojjer, while you’re away working hard for the bacon, or the fact that the drama of him being a naughty boy is played out on a national and possibly international stage.
I must admit, I’m not a fan of Jacqui Smith, the UK Home Secretary, but even a stone cold approach to some issues in life doesn’t stop me from empathizing with her, regardless of the spectacular stupidity of this matter. Deep down she must be wondering what the fuck hit her as she looks in the mirror and tries to contemplate whether to castrate her husband for the public humiliation, or whether to cry because of the heartbreak.
Home Secretary Jacqui Smith leaving for a very long day at workClearly, the irony of the timing of the leak about her expenses claim that paid for pornographic movies with tax payers money isn’t past the cynical mind of someone from the enemy camp with excellent sabotage skills. I don’t think its coincidence that the leak comes just before one of Jacqui’s biggest moments on the international political stage, as she prepares her security apparatus to host probably the most powerful 20 leaders in the world in London. Apparently, MP’s now want the Police to investigate who leaked her dirty old secret out - are they afraid their skeletons are coming out next?
Gordon her boss must be thinking – “The damn bastards”. If it’s not enough that he’s gallivanting the world in an attempt to rally G20 folks into buying his global financial master plan, the enemy has to unleash this madness onto the stage.
Gordon Brown’s job already looks like a lost cause that is tantamount to him trying to herd cats, but this Jacqui Porngate affair is just the stuff that comedy is made of.
As for Jacqui’s hubby Dick, it looks like he’ll have to do with the sofa for a while as she cools off. I don’t know which is actually more stupid on his part – Watching hardcore porn on the family TV pay per view account, or getting caught by stupidly letting his wife claim the cost of the porn movies from tax payers, lest she asks why she shouldn’t be claiming it and he has to admit that he’s been a naughty boy.
Jacqui Smith’s husband Richard Timney apologizing to the media for his moment of madnessHe’ll probably plead insanity and claim that she’s been starving him of his conjugal rights hence his creativity looking for alternative entertainment – but with a good stint on the sofa, chances are he’s not getting pussy for a while.
Either way, the biggest question in Britain right now is “What were those 2 porn movies that he watched?”. Talk about free advertising handed to the producers of the movies on a plate.Related Articles:
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Of civil liberty violations, police states, democratic dictatorships and 1984
Posted: March 25, 2009, 9:02 am by Darius Stone
Trick question: What do Joseph Stalin, Benito Mussolini, Adolf Hitler, Nicolae Ceausescu, Gordon Brown, George Bush, Robert Mugabe and who else….Hmmm let me see…the military junta in Burma, the military junta who ruled Argentina in the 70s and Pol Pot have in common.
Answer: For differing reasons, they have all been responsible for some of the world’s biggest and most severe violations of civil liberties of the poor old folks that they proclaim to lead or have led.
George Orwell (if he could), must have a smug and uncanny smile on his face that has that characteristic “I told you bastards so” look. Look at any plot in his 1984 master piece and you get this queasy feeling that George was definitely onto something that will scare the living daylights out of any self respecting individual who values their privacy.
I’m not particularly interested in this article to talk about or even argue the case and justification for the different ways in which the so called leaders above implemented their totalitarian dictatorships….far from that. Trying to compare and contrast the good guys from the bad guys in that list will give me a headache. What is a constant is that they all have, are, or are intending to take a place in history as those responsible for the massive and ruthless violation of the civil liberties of their citizens, in the name of a better and more grander cause for the good of the majority.Why am I writing about this? Well, for a long time now, it’s been common knowledge that big brother Britain was slowly descending down the slippery slope into a 21st century police state. You can’t go anywhere in this country without being in range of a CCTV camera which will catch anything from a bemused smile as you indulge in self wonderment of an individual kind, or the quick adjustment of your dodgy underwear that is violating the sacred crevasse in between your bum cheeks, to the violent criminal activities that go on in every street corner.
The National Health Service has been trying for years (thank God for the incompetence in technology implementation to put in place a global central database of patient’s most intimate medical and psychological issues apparently to streamline the system and make medical support at the point of contact more accessible and a more efficient experience…at least that’s what they say – though the thought of every Thomas, Dickson and Harriet knowing that you have mental health issues or genital herpes before you even say hello at the GP’s reception doesn’t amuse any 3 dimensional individual.
A few months ago, a stealth law was introduced in the British parliament under the guise of “Anti-terror” legislation that every single email, sms text and phone call was going to be recorded and monitored as a strategy to defend the citizens of the country against acts of terror. It’s amazing that there wasn’t enough time given to debating this law and letting folks really understand how ridiculous it is.
Gordon’s government hasn’t had enough….now they want to monitor and record every web site and social networking activity that internet users make. Recording our email and phone calls is not enough – Nooo! Let’s go ahead and record every single thing they do or say on Facebook, MySpace and other social networking sites. Frankly speaking, I’ll be amazed if they get anything from the crap that’s written on folks walls on Facebook, but that’s not the point here…
The thought that it won’t be long before you’ll have to ask the government for permission to take a piss, or apply for a licence to have sex, or have your friends on Facebook or those who e-mail you be under surveillance because of what both of you were supposed to have said makes my stomach turn. And for what? Supposedly to save us from the imminent threat of a terror attack?.
This smirks of a classic case of “Problem, Reaction, Solution”, a strategy that has been used to oppress masses for time immemorial. Create a problem (usually calculated but can be opportunistic), create a massive reaction and outcry from the populous, and then provide a solution that stamps your authority on a desired political, social and financial order that satisfies your agenda.
All this nonsense about fighting and winning the so called Dubya’s war on terror is becoming blatantly annoying. If there’s an enemy out there, they must be laughing their arses like nobody’s business. Look at how terrified and clueless citizens have their liberties violated in places like airports where they’re herded like the sheep they are, barefoot and forced to hold clear paper bags for inspection like those suspected of exceeding their food rations in a prisoner of war camp before they board a flight. Some airports are even trialing thermal imaging x-rays that see through clothes as you pass security – now this is not even funny….and passengers don’t even have a clue.
…And all this for what? To save us from the big bad ugly terrorist. You know, folklore has constantly shown that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter. Take Charles dGaulle for example. This dude was at one time seen as the nemesis of all things civilized in France and actually branded a terrorist. Now look at what they call him. Besides, who gets to decide who is a terrorist…what’s the difference between those supposedly living in caves and using crude methods of destruction and those wearing Savile Row suits, sitting in plush offices in the safety of a security blanket and sanction the killing of hundreds and thousands of civilians using an expensive pen to sign a decree.
You know, if I was cynical, I’d actually suggest that Gordon’s government need a serious smoke screen and side show to change the agenda from the fact that Britain is running bankrupt and its a result of spectacular incompetence over the last 10 to 15 years in fiscal management that saw the City and Wall street get away with Casino style gambling of the economy. No prizes for guessing who was in charge of the coffers then.
If all fails, scare the shit out of the public with immanent threats of terror (by the way, whatever happened to that traffic light system in the states where people were shafted around based on someone’s decision to change the terror alert by traffic lights – green for somewhat OK, amber for vigilance….you catch my drift, but I digress) – and once the public are shit scared, take their liberties from them and tell them it’s the only way to save their lives.
And all this from a government with the worst record in the storage and security of sensitive public data (or if you prefer, the best record in losing sensitive public data). Those in charge of data security don’t even seem like being capable of hitting a barn door with a shotgun and they want to record every single email, phone call, sms, where folks go on the web and what they do or say on social networking web sites.
I wonder which is worse…someone violating you and they make no effort in hiding the fact that they’re violating you, or someone who violates you when they’re pretending that their reason for doing so is solely to protect you from the big bad wolf outside.Related Articles:
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Cynicism in its true colours - Well, they’ll say they’re saving the world
Posted: March 24, 2009, 9:11 am by Darius Stone
There are fewer things in the world more cynical than a bunch of…let’s say, pin stripe suited men sitting in a board room (without any women present of course –,well, tell a lie, except for Mildred in the corner taking minutes or Deidra the tea lady who pops in once in a while to top up the biscuits and make sure the tea pot is fresh) discussing solutions about how to fight gender discrimination in the work place.
Or maybe, a conference about “The Kenya we want” that is fronted by the old school establishment of unsavoury, incompetent and outright dodgy characters who have had over 40 years to provide the Kenya folks needed in the first place but failed spectacularly. (Speaking of which – what was the point in holding a conference when the answer to the question of “What Kenyans want?” is succinctly captured in breathtaking precision in the Kenyan national anthem).
Anyway, it was interesting to note that once again, there was a “high profile” (this word is as abused as the word normal coz’ clearly, it’s a relative state of affairs) conference bringing together the good and the great who classify themselves as world experts on poverty alleviation and eradication.
If there’s one thing that I have a problem rationalizing, it’s the fact that there’s an actual discipline that is taught and theorized by elite folks out here in the west, that purports to know how to eliminate poverty for the world’s poorest folk. I suppose my view is somewhat compounded by the misguided self-righteousness of some folks in this poverty and aid industry who see it as their destiny and God given right to go out and save the people of the world. William Easterly couldn’t have put it any better in his classic book “The White man’s burden”.The aid and development industry is a self fulfilling prophecy and in a ruthless and cynical way, its survival depends on the continued existence of poverty. There are folks in this industry who have mortgages, bills to pay, kids to go to school and you know, day to day obligations that need to be met. That really isn’t an incentive to run themselves out of a job presumably by eliminating poverty, is it?
So the British government in a desperate bid to show that they are actually taking the lead in global matters decide to hold a global conference to bring together the world’s top experts on global poverty. The “let’s bust poverty around the world” elite spent two days in the plush surroundings of 5 star lobbies and conference rooms in central London discussing short and medium term strategies to support the poorest countries in the world who will be worst affected by the global economic crisis.
Funny, it cost them over £527,000 to host the conference, which is a touch ironic considering the grand purpose of the big picture they’re constantly telling us about….”over x and y number of people in Africa live with less than a dollar a day….yada yada”. £527,000 could have paid for 127,000 anti-malaria nets and is actually more than Britain’s annual aid budget to Namibia.
There was a chance I could have actually taken this more seriously if they held it say in Ouagadougou or the far reaches of southern Asia where the realism of what they’re purporting to do could be the back drop of the discussions….but of course they’ll say, our conference in London was representative and had delegates from the poorest countries in the world. Of course, let’s wheel in the token poverty struck Chair of a so called partner NGO, put him or her in a suit bought somewhere in Shepherds Bush, fast track their visa application through the embassy and parade them to the British media and say – see, we have poor people with us. We even let them speak on stage.Related Articles:
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Environmental fascism in its element - Doomsayers are at it again
Posted: March 11, 2009, 9:40 am by Darius Stone
I could have sworn it was only the other day that thousands of tree hugging, Guardian reading, bike riding, fair trade consuming mercenaries for the cause of mother nature got together in Portugal. It can’t have been that long ago (I’m talking a matter of weeks or at the extreme, a few months).
The reason why this is pricking my stone cold conscience is that I distinctly remember the environmental doomsayers breathing fire and brimstone down our throats that if we don’t do something about the environment pronto, the world is inevitably going to suffer the worst death of its kind (speaking of which – I’d like someone to validate this claim with a plausible comparison of any other kind of bad death of human kind).
I note that over 2000 of our beloved tree hugging friends of the earth are meeting again this week in Copenhagen. See, I’m one to be cynical about these types of events. 2000 people in one event are way way too many to get anything of substance done. I’m talking here from the experience of attending a couple of conferences of this magnitude for my sins.
Such events are notorious for the difficulty of locating a clean toilet where you don’t have to tip toe while pulling up your trousers to avoid a disturbing cocktail of water and bodily fluids of all manner taking residence on the floor (you get the picture) before executing a fine acrobatic act of peeing without soiling your immaculate suit – speaking of which, at one such event, I had to force my female colleague to take a taxi back to the hotel to use the toilet in her room. The girl was clearly suffering and her bladder was in distress, but her martyrdom for the cause of clean toilets around the world was clearly putting the long term health of her internal wiring at risk. In more familiar surroundings, she is the sort of hard nosed girl who is comfortable in desperate times to look for an alley while shouting back “Darius just keep watch while I take care of business here” – but clearly, some locations don’t give you the option of an alley conducive for squatting in times of emergency….but I digress.
My point is that it’s difficult to see how to get anything decent done at such an event following hot on the coat tails of another similar event weeks ago. In fact, most productivity is normally achieved at breakfast get-togethers in the hotel or in the evening at the hotel bar. Roll call is impossible and you’ll be surprised at the number of joy riders to such events who just go for shopping and spend the whole day down town, some even still wearing their event name tags and carrying the paper bags of exhibitors crap that they’re pretending to take back home and put in the staff common room as if it were evidence to justify the cost of their attending of the event.
So when I see that there’s another environmental get-together not so long after the Portugal one, where supposedly scientific experts, environmental lobbyists, professional event attendees (aka joy riders) and any number of so called environmental NGOs are again hooking up to shove the perils of our disregard to the environment down our throats, several questions start disturbing me.
- What has changed since a few weeks ago when the same number of environmental mercenaries got together in Portugal?
- For folks who preach about carbon footprints and unnecessary air travelling, why isn’t anyone bitch slapping them for this sort of nonsensical travel for information that can be posted on the internet?
It would be even cheaper for Al gore to make a sequel of his Inconvenient truth power point presentation and post it on YouTube.
This constant mantra of ”You will perish and die if you don’t stop polluting the earth” smacks of more arrogance than fundamentalist right wing movements that operate unsavoury tactics to get their ideologies across. Folks are not stupid and shouldn’t be treated as if they are with the constant bombardment of the same information laced in different ways.
So I ask again – What has changed since the last meeting a few weeks ago in Portugal so as to warrant scaring the living shit out of folks about the world coming to an end faster than we thought?
If there’s one thing Abraham Maslow did, its injecting a reality check with his theory of the hierarchy of human needs. I suspect that for most folks around the world who are being credit crunched at the moment, and for the majority of the world’s population who were economically screwed anyway before the credit crunch, global warming and the need to worry about the environment is kicked into touch for a while. Folks are more concerned with the small matter of putting food on the table for their families.
As a side note, one of my clients does a lot of environmental work. I have spent a lot of time working with them and if there’s one thing I’ve come to understand (and something that acts as another contributor to my cynicism), it boils down to the ability to pay salaries and pay mortgages for their staff. All the focus and enthusiasm and passion and whatever you can call it about the cause for environmentalism, is simply a cover for a direct route to government funding and donor funding for the environment. The environment and lobbying about global warming is a fashion statement for the next decade. In the 70’s women’s liberation was fashionable, in the 80’s race relations was fashionable, in the 90’s it was all about the gay and lesbian movement, this decade disability rights has become the new gay, and next decade, watch out for the fair trade consuming tree huggers.Related Articles:
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Blah blah blah
Fish cakes
Alas a fish cake.
Yet more fish cakes
Guess what ... yeah ... fish cakes.
The end of the fish cakes
