He drops three ice-cubes in his glass. They tinkle. A tinkle that announces a tipple. A sound that arouses your tongue. He then – like a chemist- fleetingly waits at the ice cubes to mist up the glass.

Even though the music is loud, and the bustle swirls all around, there is an inexplicable silence borne from the deliberate way with which he goes about mixing his drink. It’s almost ritualistic. Sacred.  

The clock ticks away as he stares at his drink. I regard him. He’s shaven inches away from his skull, his scalp is oiled. The greenish light from the overhead lights bounce off his skull in a shard of rainbow. He’s in a white dress-shirt, un-tucked over blue jeans. On the wrist gleams a watch I wouldn’t wear if you threatened me with hair loss. Not that there is much left to lose. Loafers step on the rail that run along the edge of the bar. He’s neat, too neat. Like he’s hiding a flaw. Most very neat people are hiding something. Those guys who move around with a comp in their cars. Or cologne. They are hiding something with those layers and layers of impeccable self-grooming.

Now he lifts the other glass containing the double of the greenish gold liquid, and as he tilts the glass slowly, the liquid’s viscosity shifts and surrenders to the pour. The ice immediately gets wet. Then they sigh, as if they have been released from their own prison of longing. John Jameson, would be proud.

“I love that song,” he now turns to tell me, ...... Read the entire article

I call it High School because this is where we form. This is where we become. That’s what I told someone who asked why I insist on calling this platform High School.

A little history: Before this were rented a small room on WordPress, that is before more cats joined the bull dance. WordPress was great; I had two readers who didn’t light a fire under my ass when I didn’t post on time, or when I posted a limb post. Then their friends got wind of it, then their friends’ friends got wind of things and a Gang was formed. Someone hauled in a harp, we made music. It soon became white noise. Then the neighbours started complaining, saying a decent neighborhood like that didn’t deserve loud louts like us. That we were driving down property prices. One rainy evening, there was a knock on my door and standing there was a trench-coated goon with a wet beard. “You really gotta move,” his lips moved from somewhere underneath that grisly beard. I’m no fool, I knew that it wasn’t a request; it was a command, a thin veiled threat. Soprano style. That night, I made a call.

So, with the help of the very gracious Alexious Mwiti, we found a new address. For days, Mwiti built it from nothing with his barehands living on nothing but good intentions and miraa. Kemnet Technology, his hustle, takes care of the hosting and what not. We also got a shingle from the enigmatic photographer Mutua Matheka, a shingle that we hanged up there when we opened shop, it shows him – ...... Read the entire article

Gang, as of yesterday High School lowered its flag to half mast. And this flag will fly at half mast for two weeks.

Given these circumstances, I’m unable to post anything today, but I will call an assembly here on Friday 8am for a briefing. So long.

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I just got back from Isiolo. My whole forehead is sunburnt; looks like a medium-rare steak from Carnivore. I have been trying to load my Monday post for hours now, with very little success. I thought it was my Orange so I went down to Java and it was worse. Something about a cable, I don’t know, I’ve been in the bush for the past four days or so. I have pictures that won’t upload.

I don’t want to run the story without pictures, so I will keep trying. If it doesn’t happen then there is always another Monday. If it happens then it’s all good.

Having said that, I hope the Gang is all good?

So long.

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I run thrice a week. I rise at 5.30am. I tie my shoelaces. I gaggle mouthwash. I pull down a mavin over my head and I step into the darkened cold. And for the next hour it’s me and the moving tarmac. I don’t listen to any music; instead I listen to my heartbeat. That’s what running is all about; listening to your heart. And everything is connected to the heart. Everything.

The road – at 5am – is immensely cathartic. On the road I make decisions, I write intros, I let go of fears, of anger, of angst, of unhealthy thoughts. I breathe. Running is my shrink.

So, last week, I’m outside the gate, warming down and stretching. My landlord’s son is standing there with this backpack that weighs more than a Vitz. He’s waiting for the school bus. He’s a great kid. Loves soccer. Paul. That’s his name. Paul. He’s 10.

Most mornings I find him outside the gate, waiting for his bus. He loves it when I remove my mavin and plumes of steam stream from my head.  “Wooooo! A smoking head!” he normally exclaims when that happens. If you want to befriend a 10 year old, show them steam from your head.

We make light banter. He tells me how school is going. I act very interested. He is a very eloquent boy, Paul. And curious too. So, I finish my stretches, wish him a good day and just when I’m about to step into the gate he asks me, “how was your 2011?”  That’s a mature question for a 10year old, no?

I would have explained 2011 ...... Read the entire article