A mobile phone that costs 60k-plus should be able to kiss you goodnight. Hell, a phone that costs that much should be able to tell you if your fly is open. Samsung Galaxy S III, unfortunately, is not that phone.

A confession: I’m a Nokia sycophant. I have used Nokias all my life. My first Nokia was a 51-something. It was on offer, complete with 250 bob airtime. The ugliest phone I ever used. But 2001 were virgin years of mobile telephony, and it really didn’t matter what phone you had, it was just enough to have a mobile phone. Carrying that phone around felt like carrying an obese baby. And if by some rotten chance it fell on your feet, it would break all the phalanges on it. I’m serious, every last bone. It also had antennae, which, used properly, could maim or even paralyse a grown-ass man, if you thrust it in the right body part. Like the eye, or navel.

Which is ironical because when thugs finally relived me of it – the only time I have had a gun thrust in my face – the antennae didn’t mean squat. But undeterred by such villainy, I continued purchasing Nokias. I bought them because there is a certain reassurance when you buy a Nokia; that it won’t throw you under the bus. Unless, of course, your child pees on it. Or microwaves it.

So you can imagine my gleeful confusion when after over a decade of using Nokias, I got the Samsung Galaxy S III in my possession. Which brings me to another confession: I’m no Savvy Kenya. ...... Read the entire article

I’m not worthy to stand before men. I’m not worthy to make judgment, or to crack wise at anyone’s idiosyncrasies. I have always been in pursuit of satire but the twist of this tale is that satire is what my pathetic existence has rapidly transformed into. In one of my earlier posts, one commenter, Tito I believe, bared his teeth and mentioned that all the reader accolades will soon get into my head and it will swell, and I will start being obnoxious, snobbish and autograph hungry. That soothsayer predicated that will be insufferable and vain and that I will morph into a pathetic and unpleasant man. His prophecy – although beaten by time- really came to the truth barely a week after he had catalogued it.

How do I say this…

I joined twitter.

Yes. I know. I’m a twat. I swore I would never join twitter because, well, because some yuppie jang who has never been past Siaya called it twirra and I remember feeling nauseous. I remember thinking that I didn’t want to be on a social forum where people contort their pronunciation to fit a profile. I was disgusted. Disgusted at this brazen pursuit of exclusivity. The need to be a part of a cool group. I honestly imagined that all these guys on twitter meet every Friday at some swanky address to sip cognac, listen to jazz and come up with language that others can’t understand. Language of twits, or tweeps. Like I said, I’m still trying to wrap my head around this lingo.

I don’t have ...... Read the entire article

The call comes in one lunch hour when I’m chowing. It’s a friend of mine. The same one who recommended the book The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. A book I reviewed here and one which failed to expose its true spirit to me.

“Do you know Kidum?”

I don’t know Kidum from Adam (ignore the pun), but I know about him as much as I know about nuclear science.

“I know he sings. Why?”

“Well this guy is phenomenal,” she cries, “I’m at the salon and they are playing his songs, I think you should review his album for the newspaper!”

Here is the rub. I frequently review movies for the dailies. Sometimes I will also review an odd play. But I have never really quite reviewed music before. The reason I have never quite picked an album to review is because I don’t find local music engaging enough. To review an album you got to listen to its twelve or so tracks. Sometimes you got to listen to it many times. There is nothing as dreadful as listening to a bad album (and many are indeed wanting) for two days in order to find its traction. Besides our local artists release an album after every lunar eclipse. So I give local artists a decent berth and stick to music that has some consistency because I love consistency.

“Well, maybe… why not,” I tell her, but just to get her off the phone.

She offers to give me Kidum’s album to listen to. I say sawa and pick the album from her the next day and picking that album is probably ...... Read the entire article

I’m introducing a new section of this blog that will be essentially about a review on say a  book I’ve just read, a movie I’ve just watched or even music that I’m currently obsessed with. Like I said blogging is about vanity and it can only get worse, so bear with me.

I have a good friend called Jay. She reads about two books a week; suffice to say she is a brilliant mind. Once in a while she will recommend a book for me to read. The last time I saw her she said, “There is a book you need to read, it will make you approach life and fatherhood differently.” I was piqued. The book is called The Last Lecture by Randy Pausch. It’s a true story.

So over the weekend on a trip to the Lewa Marathon I read this book that was supposed to make me a better father and crystallize my life. Randy Pausch is a computer science professor dying of pancreatic cancer. He has eight tumors in his pancreas. His doctor announces that he has about three to six months to live. That was sometimes in 2007. Randy has three children, the eldest being 5yrs old, the youngest a daughter is just 1 yr old. Randy decides to give one last lecture to his university before he kicks the bucket. This last lecture becomes an instant success once it gets online. Today up to 10million people have tuned into this lecture and it’s stirred an emotional public debate on mortality and what not. This famous lecture was turned into a book, co-authored by some cat from the Wall street ...... Read the entire article