'Butt' Almighty

Life is lovely and in diversity, we are all unique in our own way. It is this diversity of life that identifies what’s special for each one of us. By special, I’m also considering unique aspects of the Homo sapiens man that exists today.  If you believe in evolution and the fallacy that we’re descendants of one ugly creature that looks ages, the so called Chimpanzee, then it’s your own belief. I think you’re supposed to be known as an atheist in civilized English. As for me, I shall not be likened to a gorilla of sorts and I chose to believe in the unseen. It is the reason why I believe there is a superior being greater and older than the evolution theory that you believe in whom I call the Great Supernatural aka God.

My argument is simple and goes like this. If you believe we evolved then evolution started from somewhere.  I believe the superior being behind that evolution theory of yours is one eternal man above us. He is responsible for the diversity and made us look different and think divergent in our own unique individual way including the appearance of our bodies. You call it evolution, I call it creation. The Great Supernatural must have taken all the time at His disposal to create anatomy that He called man. Unlike the rest of His creation which was brought forth by mere proclamation ‘let there be’ , the Great Supernatural made us with His own palms, upon the fingertips like a potter would squeeze clay to mould a urn with keenness and precision and behold, mankind that we are.

However, evolution thrives in all that is artificial including human lifestyle. Obliviously, we call it change. Consider anything man made and find out if it still looks how it used to in eons and you will discover evolution has created change and a new form is gives prominence. Consider the natural thereafter, the eternal, like mankind. You will discover we too change but our form still remains intact. We grow, age and die but we forever remain bipeds, with two arms, same number of fingers, eyes and all that constitutes human anatomy. One of the aspects of human kind that I have witnessed evolves or changes as you may want to call it, is fashion. I have seen them all, the bell bottomed pants and blockbuster kind of shoes, from the famous North Star sneakers of the nineties to Moccasins, from Savco jeans that never worn out to khaki pants and so on. Name them and then look around and see what now exists around you. They say the only constant in life is change and I dare not query.

I have said too much of nothing already. I’m not here to speak about change of grooming but of the ideal body. While I’m at it, I shall be biased to my opposite gender, the other mankind called a woman, the womankind. I’m a very chalant being who loves observing my surroundings. Simply, I make use of my eyes to the maximum. I have been observing the change of the ideal fashion of an ideal woman body size. When I was younger, I thought, at least I was made to think and believe that the ideal body size of a woman was akin to a telephone mast. I heard this was fashionable and passed modeling, the skinny but with a glowing face and long hair. Before I could get myself one of those, another womankind was on offer. The so called “Coca Cola” bottle shaped breed, the size eight I heard. The ideal size eight was supposed to be meaty around her torso, the breast area adopting the “Coca Cola” bottle shape proceeding downwards suddenly adding more meat around her bottom appearing plumper in this vital area. This defined the size eight. Again I thought and was made to believe I should drool for this one but change made evolution and didn’t give me a chance. I thought the womankind had accepted being size eight until I turned on my television the other day.

I watch a lot of television. It’s like my library. I consume of it and one day while I was flipping to and fro, channel to channel, I stumbled upon something interesting, well, on a channel I stumbled upon. It is a channel that I would ordinarily not be watching because I eat not of its content. It doesn’t auger well with my television diet so my appetite for it on this day was erroneous. Note that I used the word ‘stumbled’ but being a man, what I saw aroused my curiosity and suddenly an appetite for the content was rife. What I stumbled upon made me think and realized the womankind has evolved further and is now on a ledge while the man, the male kind was still in the ages of the atheists.

 Besides the fact that the ideal African woman has been eroded by an urge if not obsession that defeats African sense, is now adopting a foreign culture which commands her to turn her dark and beautiful color of an ideal African woman to something that now seems alien to me, right into the murky culture of the white woman. The African woman is under the influence, in fact drunk, of the western culture and has now decided to paint herself with an undercoat, a primer and a main course of alienation over her original skin. I see them with colored faces. By colored, I mean any other color besides her original color of black and beautiful. I look and analyze her closely and discover that her elbows, knuckles, ankles and wrists have denied her the ‘privilege’ of truly converting herself to a white womankind.

Now, going back to what I stumbled upon, on this channel that I shall not name because I do not want to annoy anybody who subscribes to it, a program dubbed ‘Ten over Ten’ was on air. On this ‘auspicious’ occasion, what was being ranked were a collection of top Kenyan celebrities of the womankind species with super drum size buttocks aka bottoms alias butts. I had no idea that having much of your body weight upon your waist and appearing meaty with a protruding mass of bum meant something if at all you belonged to the species of womankind. I hear, well, just hearsay, not that I know, bums are now the ‘assets’ that make the ideal womankind tick and thus how mammoth a size, the better. Again, I hear, not that I know, some celebrity of womankind have an insurance cover for their precious bums. They say, not only are their bums precious in attracting their other half in the name of man, the male kind,  into their lair but also are a source of livelihood prompting an insurance cover earmarked upon them. I halt and engage my mind into thought to crack the puzzle on how these ‘assets’ earn a livelihood for the carrier. I thought if I knew how, I could make a side hustle with my own bum. I thought too could use my butt to make a few bucks for myself and buy an insurance policy for them until I cracked the puzzle.

Amidst deep thought, then I discovered for one, my butt could not pass an insurance valuation for the simple reason mine is minuet and handful. Secondly, and the most important, I realized I belong to a different species other than the womankind. I discovered I’m the male kind. Thirdly, I realized that in all insurance policies, a risk is involved and I failed to come up with a risk that my butt would possibly encounter in my lifetime. I couldn’t pinpoint any. I therefore concluded that my bum was too useless for an insurance cover and I realized it cannot fetch even a single nickel for self.  I also concluded that my bum had only two applications since time immemorial. One of them is sitting and the other is alimentary related.

I’m told, so I hear, that bums of a womankind have a price tag upon them to appear in one of those lewd music videos which showcase themselves in the same channel that I had stumbled upon. I agree, without iota of doubt in my mind because the music videos that followed after the ‘Ten over Ten’ program was over, were awash of super drum size, semi groomed bums all of the origin of womankind and largely of the African descent while the men, the male kind clad fully in designer suits with the best of the best of designer labels.

I’m also told, so I hear, that men are after these plus size bums during these trying times. This is enough evidence of the devil dinning with us. It is enough proof that Lucifer walks on this planet we domicile and bequeathed to us in good order and sanity by the Great Supernatural. I’m also told so I hear,  the demand  for super drum size bums of womankind origin is so overwhelming that entrepreneurs are cashing in on artificial bums in form of huge spongy soft pads that are supposed to be stuffed beneath the pants of these mega ‘butts’. I then suddenly realized the mega super drum  ‘butts’ I see gait in the streets of Nairobi might actually be fake, only stuffed with something that substitutes what is real. Suddenly, everything now makes sense and it’s now clear a new idol is in town, Butt Almighty! If I said I was not worried about the current breed of African womankind, I would be lying. I’m so worried! In fact, I shiver of worry!

Compiled by tickler

Son of ‘the unquenched’

Kevin Murungi

murungikevin@yahoo.com

©Rights Reserved

Romance Rheumatism

It is advisable that prior to falling ill, one is supposed to pay a visit to a modern herbalist commonly known as a doctor in the ordinary language of Englishmen. The modern herbalist always advices whenever symptoms of a particular illness persist to look for him/her at a designated place known as the Hospital. That goes for all illnesses including malaria, rioting stomachs that lead to unprecedented visits to the common cubical called the toilet or pleasantly in a civilized courtesy, the restroom. The above illnesses are treatable if you visit a modern herbalist in time. I have been in many incidents a victim of these convectional illnesses but this time around, I was a victim of a common but unique illness. My illness was one unique discomfort that I have baptized Romance Rheumatism. If you prefer identifying illnesses by their scientific name, “Romancilus Rheumatoid” is the preferred identity for this particular fever. I do not know of a single doctor on this planet able to cure Romance Rheumatism. At least none I have met. As far as I am concerned, love sick is an incurable disease. It should be categorized with manageable diseases such as diabetes, cancer and HIV- AIDS. I consider love sick as a disaster that needs to be recognized by the World Health Organization as an epidemic. Managing Romance Rheumatism unlike the above diseases requires the cooperation of either gender who must be suffering from the same fever and finds your illness compatible to hers or his’. Upon determining compatibility to each other, it’s advisable that you combine forces to overcome the monster by forming a hybrid cure. By combining both fevers from either gender and forming a hybrid cure, you survive the illness and blossom into eternal love. Romance Rheumatism therefore, by being converted into eternal love, it stands managed until eternity.

For identifying the illness in case you are infected, let me give you the signs and symptoms. It has to be known that the symptoms differ from individual to individual depending on one’s capability of containing and controlling emotional urges. The symptoms arises after noticing the desired opposite gender that you presumably believe is the type you’ve desired in your entire lifetime. Upon noticing this particular desirable other gender, the symptoms arise instantaneously or gradually considering the ability of one’s emotional madness. The first symptom that may occur is ‘castle building’. Castle building in this circumstance is a brain nostalgia that tells the patient that the only thing lacking in the life of the particular target is you. You believe he or she is the type that needs your type. You tend to imagine things that only occur in other planets and finding both of you in the domicile of these super planets. You tend to relate stars and moon to the brightness that you seek. The second probable symptom is becoming a ‘nocturnal’. Being a nocturnal means the likelihood of you not catching sleep during the night is immense. You become a relative to the bat or a member of the cat family that pretends to sleep during the night while in real sense, preying. If by any chance you afford a wink, then the reality of dreaming about how the target is a beauty or handsome creature is eminent. You see the creature in you and the creature in her/him in a romantic cohabitation. The situation could get worse and embarrassing if you happen to be the kind that speaks while asleep. You become a dream storyteller by narrating the unfolding events in your dream to third parties as you speak aloud throughout the dream.

Lastly but not limited to the aforesaid, the other symptom is ‘stalking’. You tend to translate yourself  to a secret service agent or a private detective by tracking the whereabouts of the intended target in her/his daily movements. The reason for stalking is to establish the likelihood of the desired target being in cohabitation with a person of your own gender. Another reason is to understand the dynamics of your target and the possibility of hope. During this process, heartbreak could be your other disease if it dawns on you that your desired target is engaged and exists in cohabitation by either marriage or circumstance and the little hope that existed in you dwindles. Worse enough, is there being another suitor with obese pockets while yours is deficient and malnourished. An obese pocket translates to the amount of legal tender in one’s pocket giving an indication of what is contained in ones bank account while the malnourished one translate to the opposite of the obese. The obesity and deficiency of ones pocket mostly affects the masculine gender known as males. Calamity would hit harder when the desired target you believed was your type tells you in bold white and black that you do not play in the same league and relegates you to a lower league that he/she believes is your league and ilk. At this point, you aren’t likely to be only heartbroken but also suffer another strain of illness known as depression. In case you already suffer from frail emotion control and can not withstand temptations of Lucifer, the possibility of you buying a rope and tying it around your neck is an option. Other options would be proceeding to the highest level from the ground; preferably, a tree or a skyscraper of a building, overdosing on an insecticide similar to DDT and subsequently declaring you past tense from suicide, is highly achievable.

I happened to catch “Romancilus Rheumatoid” sometime in the past years especially during my teenage. I am therefore qualified through experience to advice you on this matter. When I met the carrier of this fever, I suffered all symptoms but since I wrote this article, I did not go all the way to declaring myself past tense by committing suicide. To fathom the act of suicide is incomprehensible but I do not blame those that have suffered the heartbreaks to that extent. Crimes of passion are a common phenomenon in this day and age and to be sincere, what the society has become I do not believe there even exists genuine love sick. Since my heart reigns on my emotions and my mind chooses when to be emotional, I no longer suffer “Romancilus Rheumatoid” and therefore, I am immune of the aforesaid symptoms. I let nature take its cause. However, I do not discourage anyone from testing the waters and seeking their depths. Find out yourself and tell me.

Compiled by Tickler

Son of ‘The Unquenched’

murungikevin@yahoo.com

Kevin Murungi.          

©Rights Reserved

Merry!

Since time immemorial,

Man’s too immoral,

Adam, Eve and all,

Abate God’s law,

Merry, is liberator for all.

Wrath of God evade,

Cometh, liveth, the averter,

His only son, a liberator,

Cometh, liveth, a rebirth,

Merry, is salvage for all.

Thence was an epoch,

Hour was whence,

O’er two thousand years, eons,

A king was born, solid rock,

Merry, is negotiator for all.

Now sins to atone,

We Him that adore,

Born of a virgin, pure,

Let celebrate our cure,

Behold the savior of masses,

Merry, for us, is Christmas.

Compiled by tickler,

Son of ‘the unquenched’,

Kevin Murungi

murungikevin@yahoo.com

©Rights Reserved

 

A Rioting Stomach and a Smoldering ‘behind’ on Golden Jubilee.

^12th December is supposed to be a day when the entire republic recognizes men and women who fought for our freedom from the Englishmen in form of  mass action coupled with crude armory ranging from ‘rungus’,pangas’,arrows,spears and guns. These men and women went further on this day to grab independence off the Englishman’s torturous, mean hands. It would be important to note that the guns referred to here, that led to attaining this precious end were not automatic rifles but those that depended on the user’s strength to cock them. In my native language we call them ‘kiunandoo’ {guns that break at the middle}.For those that like straight points and who may find my language a bit gibberish, I am talking about celebrating a day my great nation attained self rule by lowering the Union Jack, the so called God save the queen blubbery and in jubilation hoisting the Kenya Flag and a new song altogether, our national Anthem. On this day we honor the Mau Mau veterans too. This is Jamhuri day.

This time, however, we celebrate not just the moment but also the milestones of our journey fifty years on after that memorable moment on 12^th December at 12 midnight of 1963. This year it was our golden jubilee having fought and won independence from the Englishmen through our gallant, brave and daring men and women of the day. That said, my golden jubilee turned epic and drama has never been at higher note than the personal experience I went through while fellow Kenyans celebrated in ululations.

My Jamhuri day was a little bit typical because I had pockets that were demanding. They were demanding pieces of hard spherical metals and sheets of paper that bear a human portrait on them, creating a little distinction from the ordinary paper. They also enjoy the prevailage of being recognized by law as a medium of exchange. Simply, we have baptized the entire lot; money. Facing that scarcity therefore, prevented me from joining other Kenyans at the usual celebration shrine normally referred to as Nyayo stadium. [Oh, point of correction there]. Nyayo Stadium has for decades been our usual shrine of national rituals until the analogue era paved way for digital thus moving the golden jubilee celebration to a new shrine named the Home of Heroes aka Moi Sports Centre Kasarani. I however think both shrines are one and the same thing considering they are all Nyayo’s. I thought of following the proceedings via frequencies that translate themselves into motion pictures in a box that the same Englishmen, who colonized us, call TVs or rather, Televisions. Since these boxes come in handy and considering the fact that not every human can afford one in their living rooms, I decided to walk to Mwaura’s ‘crib’ for an opportunity to catch up with the event via his box. Unfortunately, my much needed neighbor had left; perhaps to wet his throat at Mama Pima’s.

With all the disappointment written all over my handsome face, it was time to engage my handful piece of brain into useful thoughts pondering on the next move. Although my handful brain has failed me in many occasions especially in school, it does not let me down in times of crisis. It told me that, many Jamhuri days were bound to come but not every day that notes and coins will occupy my pockets. At that point, I decided to go for business. I have this little kiosk that I stock with green leaves originating from my village backyard and some confectionery. Let’s just say that my ‘kangeta’ Base kiosk was loaded with a ‘drug’ that has since been condemned and banned by the same Englishman from entering his country called ‘Miraa’ aka Khat and some sweets. I hoped that I could make some notes and coins to end a spell of drought facing my pockets temporarily.

Within sometime and after engaging my legs in a little bit of exercise by trekking all the way, I was open for business. Customers who have trained their cheeks how to become elastic and to hold a huge ‘load’ of the green leaf, an art they have named 'loading Taxis’, were already streaming in. Business was booming until things started happening that are not biologically accepted for a normal healthy human being. An organ we call the stomach was launching a mission to rescue itself from unwanted intruders, probably arising from too much ingestion of boiled eggs the previous day. I could hear funny sound emanate from that area in protest. It was rumbling!! It is at this instance that I realized things were about to become ugly and extremely embarrassing.

I beseeched for mercy from the Supernatural being in the heavens to proclaim healing upon me but I guess I did that at the wrong time. Probably He was not interested or perhaps was busy throwing a stag with patriotic Kenyans at the shrine. It is at this moment of prayer that things began to turn ‘elephant’. The stomach had already sought audience from its all time ally, the ‘behind’. Signals that were quiet unpleasant for the human respiratory system that could spur the audience of the National environmental management authority were forthcoming. It is at this moment also, that I realized that the rioting stomach was about to create space for itself and quick intervention was required. It meant business and was threatening to evict me from the face of the earth if I did nothing about its business.

I hastily shut down my trade and with feeble legs feeling the wrath of their neighboring organs, walked to the ‘matatu’ terminus with a dream of reaching home where I could rescue my stomach from pressure and in turn deliver myself the apocalypse. May I take this opportunity to intimate to the Governor of Nairobi that he needs to make available more cubicles for such contingent emergencies around the city environs because where I reside there are none and regardless of being miles away from the CBD, I still believe I’m in Nairobi! I boarded a ‘matatu’ plying my route. The worst mistake that I committed was to sit at the back seat because at every pothole and every bump along the way, acted against the sorry situation I was in. My ‘behind’ was smoldering and the entire circumference was literally on fire. Luckily, I managed to hold on the grip until the next terminus where I had to alight. I alighted as astray gas declared doom on my fellow commuters who had their noses complain of oxygen impurity forcing them to direct the organ to the window. I never looked back. I guess it’s a taboo to look back in such decadence of manners emanating from an adult, a grown man.

I got to the house and headed straight to where I was supposed to be at that crucial moment, the toilet. I hardly shut the door, my pants already down and there I was. It was sweet sorrow. Sweet that I felt delivered from a rioting stomach but sorrowful because my golden Jubilee was ruined, not forgetting that pockets were not fully satisfied. I celebrated the golden Jubilee in a toilet.

Compiled by The tickler

Son of 'the unquenched’

Kevin Murungi

murungikevin@yahoo.com

©Rights Reserved