Cheap Thrills

mtura1Thank the Almighty. Thank Him fully my fellow humans. I cannot begin to imagine how we would have been without it. The way He created us to his image and likeness; the way our bodies are organized in utmost complexity of which only He knows. But all these complexities, none can be able to match this thing I’m talking about here…The thing that without it, how would we humans be able to enjoy the pleasures of this lovely planet of ours? Located somewhere in these bodies of ours, they can be a great source of pleasure if given what it deserves. And Oh my goodness! If given what it deserves, the sufficient amount of course, it is simply magical. The way your eyes close in sheer happiness as the pleasure slowly cascades from its source, tingling your brain nerves, making you savor each and every lasting moment of that exhilarating experience. I’m taking about our beloved organs located inside our mouths, you evil minded pricks! All hail our taste buds. Yes, those tiny little bumpy things neatly arranged on top of our tongues. Those battalions of pleasure as I call them. The way they make your mouth wet when you give them a little dose of something sugary or anything that your body is totally and madly in love with. Their eruption with excitement when the food of your dreams is swimming all existing styles in your mouth. Everyone has their own different, weird desires and suppose if all of these desires, by God’s grace, I wonder how would the taste buds react. They would probably rupture with over-exposure due to pure sweetness.

So, ladies and gentlemen, let’s go back. Not really that back. A couple of years back, somewhere around 2012-2013, the time of my life when I was just a dumb, clueless high school student whose levels of hormones were levels never witness before in his entire life. He thought he was becoming a man. Little did that dumb boy know that the road to manness was one hell of a crooked, upside down, crazy, stressful, disillusioned journey. And he, was nowhere nearing the beginning of that journey. The time was around 9:00 AM. Moments before that, our school, which we hated dearly with all our hearts despite being forced to sing some ‘school anthem’ which went something like ‘I’m in the best school… .’Bla bla bla, was closed for the second term break which ran from august all the way to early September, when we were supposed to leave the comforts of our beloved beds and wave them goodbye for a very long, long time. To all who persevered the four year ‘sentence’ our beloved 8-4-4 system granted upon us, know that we celebrate you. You are heroes in this great country. Nyinyi  ni mashujaa I tell you.

Anyways, thirty minutes after the school shut its doors and each and every student went back to their homeland, we were now the small town located at the junction that leads to the legendary Machakos town. Makutano if you’ve heard of it. Just a few kilometers away from Nairobi , and thousands and thousands of miles away from the Indian ocean, it was where we, people at the sea level, would take our buses home; I have to say those buses were the s**t man! As comfortable as you were at home, so were you in those buses. Lucky for us, we made acquaintances with an old man who knew all the drivers and management team for those buses, so it wasn’t a hustle for us to secure a seat. As I said earlier, the time was 9:00 AM. And usually, under normal circumstances, the bus would arrive at around 11:00AM after which our journey would begin until sometime late in the evening, around 7 to 8, when we would finally say we have arrived home. Having secured seats for ourselves, and having more than two hours to spectacularly waste in this small town of Makutano, we decided to do what every boy-child could have done. Seek adventure. We started loitering around like street dogs, sight-seeing how our beloved country was faring on after being locked up for years. There was this particular street that we had been warned by some people, even our school had the list of all no-go zones in Machakos school environs, and this exact street was on the top of the chart. But hey! What other way to find out that something is bad without having at least tried it. After all, we weren’t in school. That’s how our naïve brains were functioning back in the days. No reasoning. Just going head on and jumping into dumb conclusions. After thorough consultations with our ‘educated’ brains (If only you knew how chemistry was shoved up our brains making us feel like we were Le Chatelier’s great grandchildren). We decided to head into the street. The beautiful well-arranged shops quickly changed into poorly built aluminum structures. The fresh air before changed into the stinking stench of some illicit brew. We passed by a group of elderly men sipping some weird substances as their eyes rolled unevenly like marbles on a glass container. We went further into the street and then we spotted it. The legendary dish of all times. The Almighty African sausage. Mtura yani. There it was, a few meters ahead of us, being skillfully prepared by a young man with a brown apron, which we could obviously tell it was once upon a time white as snow ,but after years of not spotting some water molecules , it had no otherwise but to adapt, improvise and overcome the harsh conditions it was surviving in. We walked towards him, yearning to have a slice of it. There were some few people gathered around him, conversing in mother tongue as they partook in the devouring of the delicacy. The moment he saw us coming towards him, he smiled as he waved at the other people to give us ,his ‘esteemed guests’, some space for us to indulge. We obliged as we formed a small curve around the man, observing how he turned then African sausage with his bare hands as if it wasn’t straight from the fire, placing it at the further end of the rusty wire being used as the cooking apparatus, ready to place another raw, long sausage into cookery.

‘’Hii ni yenu mabrathe,’’

He spoke as he quickly chopped it into equal pieces, then dipped his hand into the left pocket of the apron which came out with a pinch of salt. He evenly sprinkled the salt onto the African sausage as he simultaneously placed some chopped tomatoes mixed with lemon and some pepper besides it. He was a master of his art. The whole procedure made our mouths pour with saliva, yearning for a taste. Not wasting a single minute, we began munching the delicacy. Damn it was sweet! Not ‘sweet’ sweet, but it did something to your taste buds that made you want more and more of it. Simply magical. The hotness of the pepper made it hot: hot with sweetness. It was unexplainable. We munched and devoured it non-stop, with our mouths and hearts begging for more. I almost felt like licking my fingers. God bless the African sausage. One hour later, we went back to the bus station, our stomachs totally full. It was as though we were being starved to death back in school. The mission was accomplished. We discovered new territories and returned back with our stomachs completely full. We were even lucky enough to be awarded a whole African sausage by the man courtesy of us promoting him. What a way to begin the holiday. With blessings. It was finally 11:00 am and a few minutes passed when the bus finally arrived. The way we had eaten was enough to sustain us through the whole journey until we arrived in the shores of the Indian Ocean. We boarded the bus and comfortably sat as the journey soon began. With the blazing sun of the Eastern region at its full throttle, sleep was inevitable. I soon began sleepy and in no time, I was dead asleep.

What the @#$!

 

I woke up with a strange feeling in my stomach. Remember how your mother folded up and down the wheat flour when she was preparing chapati for you during the festive season? Imagine that happening to your beloved stomach. I grabbed my stomach in pain as I fumbled on my seat. I closed my eyes in pain as I felt the pain slithering form my stomach, going up to my heart, and back again into my stomach and even my small intestines. It was pure torture. I looked around to where my friends were seated, only to discover they were undergoing the same scenario, even worse than mine. I looked at my friend who was seated next to me as his eyes became watery and tears flown out of his face. I was engulfed with laughter but as I even thought of laughing, the pain in my stomach became more and more agonizing. You know how the cycle goes; after poor decisions comes the phase of regrets. I cursed at the man who sold to us, having massive regrets as to why we went to that place in the first time. My stomach rumbled endlessly as the woman seated next to me looked at me with a grin in his face. I looked outside and we were in the middle of nowhere; still some few hours to go before we reach a refreshing joint where I could run out of the bus like a mad person to the nearest washroom. Now the washroom was at the top of my agenda .To hell with the rest. There was no shortcut here. I had to wait until the bus stopped for me to head out. I looked at my watch and approximately two hours were remaining to reach the nearest stop.

Those were toughest, longest, most painful two hours ever. I got up of my seat, walked around the bus like a confused idiot, all this in the name of my stomach to at least have mercy on me. My friends were laughing at me, as though we weren’t sailing in the same boat. I went and sat down. Moments later I got up, pretend to yawn all in aim to calm my stomach. I swore in my ancestors name I would never dare taste the African sausage, ever, ever again. The torture I was enduring would have been unbearable for the common mwananchi. But to God be the glory: two hours later, the bus came to a stop. Even before the driver switched off the bus engine, we were out of the bus, rushing like gazelles being chased by predators, to the washrooms. Everyone in the bus watched in awe as we rushed out of the buses. Experience was delivered unto us in un imaginable ways.

 

 

Cheap Thrills.

 

The Longer Walk

fleet_55pax_inside_back

It’s funny. Quite funny how twelve whole months stream past you without any warning. Swoosh! From January all the way to December. Like nothing happened, seeming as though you were in a coma immediately the year began and somehow, by God’s amazing grace, as soon as the clock ticks 00:00 on the 31st of December, TWELVE whole months later, you mysteriously wake up from the coma, as clueless as you can possibly imagine. You look around, tried to get hold of all the information bumping, entering and leaving your brain. Then reality hits you. With a metallic rod. On your face. Twice. At the same exact place. And you realize that one whole year has vanished from your life. Just like that without any warning. The clock ticks 00:01. A new year has begun and with whatever vague memory you have of the previous year, you try to recollect together the scattered pieces of all the good, ‘positive’, life-building things and actions that you have done to at least propel your life to the next level you endlessly keep dreaming and fantasizing about. After scanning through the whole year, carefully trying to extract all the good stuff. Damn! That’s when it dawns on you that you ain’t s**t! The whole year you did nothing to be proud of, except tons and tons and tons and tons of really bad, shaming decisions, followed by a series of massive guilt and regret from which you are yet to recover due to the trauma it caused unto your life. As manly as you think you are, you bump your chest and begin motivating yourself that this year you will try as much as possible to be the best version of you. But hey! We all deserve second chances right! So, for the sake of moving forward, let this year, 2017….scratch that, 2018, be a year of zero procrastination (something which runs deep in my DNA) and let’s make it a year worth remembering.

So, shall we begin?

Seat number 19. The seat located at the left row. The left row and the exact center of any long-distance travelling bus. And it’s also located next to the window. That, ladies and gentlemen, has been among one of my favorite seats since I don’t know when. I have been travelling from my County on the coastal side of this great country of ours all the way to the green, misty highlands located somewhere in Machakos for four whole years in the name of attending high school. So I have proudly made more than twenty journeys (I hope this word exists somewhere in the minds of great English elites) to and from home to school.

Now on this particular journey, which took place around three years ago, I was heading to school. Those days when the SGR was barely some rumors. So there I was, seated on my favorite chair (seat number 19), wearing my perfectly ironed school uniform; I recalled how I ironed it four times continuously ,especially the school shirt, so that the line;you know that line which appears at the endings of each cloth when you iron; yes that one. I had to make sure it lasted as long as possible and what better way than to iron it until those nice straight lines form as thoroughly as possible. Let’s just say I was unbelievably clean. When deep down you where you are headed to you are going to declare a war between you and water, you must prepare yourself psychologically. And that I did my friends. I had, as always, prepared myself in all ways possible. I was calmly seated on that window seat, enjoying the breathtaking view of Mother Nature and all its glory. The bus was cruising smoothly; typical of all buses plying the Mombasa-Nairobi route. The well-spaced seats, tinted windows, the smooth sound of the engine making you feel as though you are gliding in high altitude. And not forgetting the free Wi-Fi; who doesn’t want to get hold of free Wi-Fi? Plus the surround system on the bus. And on top of it all, the loads of snacks you are given throughout the journey. Home away from home. That was the slogan of each of these buses. My eyes were ever outside the window, watching how the surroundings were slowly transforming from the flat areas of the coast to the hilly mountainous terrain. And as usual, I could feel how the air, which was softer and warmer as we left the coastal area, casually becoming thicker and breathing was quite different. You feel your head becoming heavier, but not for long since moments after your body adjusts to the changes and you’re good to go. We were now past the Tsavo National Park which blessed us with free views of some scattered giraffes, antelopes and some group of lions which found no better place to rest than a few meters next to the road. The speed of the bus made them vanish into the thick grasses nearby as their little cubs were left clueless near the road, wondering why their counterparts left them without any warning. We watched as the elder lions came back to where they were, grabbed the little cubs by their necks and disappeared with them into the thick grass along the road. Family is forever I guess.

Boom!!!

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…My head was leaning against the window, admiring God’s nature, when out of nowhere, we hear this loud blast which rips through the whole bus. I felt a sharp vibration through the glass, and I immediately lifted my head away from the window. The vibration ran through my head as I tried to get hold of what on earth had just happened. I blinked heavily as I looked around the bus. The cool and calmness of the bus was abruptly changed to a tense mood. Children who were dead asleep began wailing uncontrollably as their frightened mothers tried to calm them down, while they too were dead scared. Murmurs filled the bus as everyone was curious to know how things went from 0-100 real quick. ‘Shit!!’ The loud gasp came from the extreme front of the bus. On the right end from the bus in specific. It was the driver. I raised my head alongside other passengers to get a glimpse of the driver, only to see a large, blue truck, with its headlights brightly shinning on us, coming to our direction at defying speeds. I recall very well seeing the driver let go of the steering wheel and covering his face with both his arms. The large truck smashed our bus and I felt a large amount of force that tried to pull me out of my chair. I still have no idea how I had kept on my seatbelt. They literally stopped me from flying across the bus and I was intact on my chair. The screams and wails were deafening to hear. I tightly held on to the straps of the seat belt as I felt the bus overturn. My eyes slowly began to shut down and the wailings and screams which filled the bus began to fade away…

The morning bell rang at exactly 4AM and I lazily opened one eye first, then the next. As I woke up from my bed, I felt a sharp pain on my neck and it grew sorer as the days went by. I touched the bandage around my neck and it seemed to be peeling off. I placed my palm on the front part of my neck and I could feel a large scar running from one end of my neck to the other.

Three years down the line, the scar is still visible on my neck. Regardless of it growing smaller as time goes by, it’s still a clear reminder of how I was in a f*d up situation some time back.

The Long Walk

Let the water wash away your worries.
The sun is slowly setting towards the horizon. I remember the time. Memories never fade they say. They are just stored somewhere behind your already-filled brain, patiently waiting for just a single trigger and snap! The memory proudly slithers from the back of the brains, skillfully meandering through, up, down and round other memories without displacing them even by an inch. It slows down at the front of the brain, together with other memories which have the utmost priority in you. It makes you wonder :Are my getting my priorities wrong or what? But fear not, there’s a reason (it’s what most people say anyway) the memory has suddenly decided to grace you with its presence. So, shall we begin?

Ocean waves. The way they swish to and from the shoreline. A sight to behold. I was there. After the sun was done tormenting innocent civilians in Mtwapa with its brutal thermal energy, it was now time for it to set. It lay on the western side of us, me in particular, as I could feel it’s warm heat a soothing to my brown skin. I was walking….not walking the way my counterparts in the capital city walk when heading to work. That’s rushing for dear life. I was strolling. Lazily if I may add. Yes, I was lazily strolling along the shoreline. With my pair of shoes firmly held on my hands, the sensation of walking barefoot alongside the shoreline was just satisfying. Watching the waves originate from deep in the ocean. From far, you see some whitish substances parallel to each other, coming towards your direction. They slowly increase in size while getting closer and closer towards the shore. A few metres away, they roll together, making swishing sounds. Sounds that simulate peace and serenity into your soul. They roll hitting the ground with a soft force and finally spreading the shores with its blue, foamy waters. The water slithers across my feet as a rather high speed, then slowly cascades back, across my feet again, this time slower. The stress, headaches: all that has been causing problem to your life slowly fades away. It’s like some sort of therapy. A natural one. With each wave passing through your feet, you feel some sort of relief in you. You wonder if allow the worry and anxiety is really what there is on this beautiful planet of ours. Andrew the way the water is warm (courtesy of our beloved sun). It’s waves is enough to relieve you of your burden : now add the warmth of the water. Simply magical. And the sand, let me not even talk about it.

Now there I was, enjoying some free therapy. What a great day to end the day. By the sea shore. Admiring God’s creation at its finest. As usual, that time was the strolling period for many folks. Locals and foreigners streamed to the ocean to catch a glimpse of how the sun sets the ocean’s soul and it’s surrounding on fire. And who am I to be left out. And when you’re walking, there’s no need of looking where you are heading to. Most heads looked down:to the water swaying to and from your feet. That’s the position I was. A group of small fish who got unlucky and were displaced bt the waves quickly swam past my feet and I admired how they courageously swam towards the same waves that washed them ashore. I gazed as they slowly swam past the waves and further into the open ocean.
“Bump!”

You know that bumpy sound that originates when you unknowingly bump into some stranger. So it was heard. I felt a soft bump on my left shoulder and my eyesight immediately shifted from the waters below me to the person whom I just bumped into. An old, frail man was looking at me sternly. Damn. I could tell what was running in his mind. How the youth of today have become disrespectful to the society. Blah blah blah. I said a quick sorry plus a brief explanation of how I didn’t see him coming. His grinned face turned into a distant smile. With a small nod plus an ‘it’s okay ‘, the elderly man turned around and proceeded with his walk. I too continued my long walk to nowhere actually. I was determined to stop strolling once darkness was in my presence. For the night was dark and full of terror.

“Hey there! Stop”

“Yes you! The one with a blue t shirt!”

It was I. I turned around to see who was calling me. I saw a multitude of peole heading towards me. Not lazily strolling as it was the norm. They were rather stomping towards me. I could hear them murmuring as they slapped the water with their feet. I stopped and waited to witness what the fuss was all about. I had no single doubt in my mind, knowing very well the law-abiding citizen I was. They reached where I was and from their facial structures at that time, they were not happy citizens. Before I could even open my mouth to ask “Nini mbaya “,a bearded man raised his voice.

“So you are the ones we’ve been lookin for all this time. You are making this beach unsafe.”

I’ve never been more confused in my life I tell you. There I am, clueless as to what he’s saying . Before my brain loads, another bombshell is dripped. This time an elderly woman raises her voice.

“These thugs need to be burned. How can a young man like him steal from an old man!”

Wait a minute…..What! Now I’m more confused. The sounds of agreement from the crowd and their vigorous nodding further increases my confusion. I tell them that I didn’t steal anything from nobody. “But this old man says otherwise.” Another man speaks while stepping aside. Behind him, he was there. The old man who I had just bumped into.

What the fuck!

He looked at me. I looked back. Cluelessly in fact, while he smiled at me. I quickly spoke”Look guys, this man is a plain liar.” I explained to them the bumping event and how I didn’t even utter an insult to him. “I can even empty my pockets for you,” I said as I quickly dipped my hands into my pockets. I took out my phone which was on the left pocket and showed it to them. I took out the keys and some few notes which were on the right one.”See, I told you” I said as I looked at the old man whose plans had failed horribly.

“The back one “.Came a voice from the crowd. I quickly placed my hand into my back pockets. I felt a huge bulk in my pockets and took it out slowly. The crowd was in shock. In my hands was a golden wallet. I looked at it in wonder,my mouth wide open. I shiftedidn’t my glance to the old man. He nodded, smiling at me. All eyes lay on me as more and more people were streaming towards me. But why? I was asking myself all sorts of questions.

I felt a tight grip on my right hand. A well built man stood behind me, with his face a clear expression of death.

And The rest is history.

The Boy Child 

Hellooo! Can anybody hear me. Or am I talking to myself.

I think I finally have your attention now. There’s an issue. A really really serious issue that almost no one seems to care about at all.

Let me now quickly rewind back the sands of time and safely arrive at the 18th century. Oops, premature arrrival right there. Let’s go back, further back, to be the 16th century. Yes, right there. The 16th century. Somewhere in Africa. Those were the times when Africa was 90% rainforest with a few million people. Now those times the western government didn’t exist. We ruled ourselves through chiefs and kingdoms. But what a terrible time to be alive I tell you. The daily routine for your whole life would be : wake up, farm, go hunting the whole day, come back home, eat and finally sleep. And the cycle continues. And most important of all, protection was a paramount responsibility.How glorious was it for a male child to be born. The joy, the love,not forgetting how the community was hopeful of the future due to the male child. That was the future of each and every male species born during that time. How optimistic it seemed.

And then there were women. The female species. Their cycle was quite simple: Do the household chores and stuff, produce babies, produce babies, and finally produce babies. No say, no nothin. Just a silent, submissive species who no one gave even the slightest of priority. They were literally non existent. Just some children-producing machines, which never get worn out or break down. And the discipline they upheld, epic I tell you. The community at large was responsible for that if a female species decided to misbehave. So I could beat the crap out of your wife as I please if I see her doing ,not unlawful during those times, but uncultural things. As I said earlier, what a terrible time to be alive that was. But mainly for the female species. The male counterparts however,not quite sure if they were basking in glory or just thought that’s how things were supposed to be.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, let’s flash forward the sands of time and boom! We land right back here. The lovely and amazing 21st century. The era of free thinkers and passion followers. But first, let’s take a detour and slowly cruise through the 40s and 50s, a time when the world was at war. Real war. It was a time when the whole of Europe was filled with posters and banners convincing all male child to join the army for the sake of protecting their motherland. It seemed as though the world would unceremoniously end. Just like that. Even we Africans joined in the war. With all we got by the way. And the turn up in their motherland, don’t even ask. European males showed up in large numbers to fight for their countries. With all they got. No wonder there were two World Wars because none was willing to give up.

Now, we were in the 21st century. I don’t even know where to start. I’m trying to think about what went wrong but I’ve not been successful. The era where the tables have turned 360 degrees. The boy child is doomed. Doomed!!!! Very soon we are going to be extinct. And you will miss us when we are gone I’m telling you. The word boy in boy child is slowly fading away with the winds. Women have become more and more superior through the ages and they officially have surpassed the male species hands down. Feminism huh. That’s what I hear it being called. Feminism. Not saying its a bad thing. You deserve it of course. Throughout history, this is the only time when women have almost equal rights with their male counterparts. But, with the 21 St century and all its glories and freedoms, What about us? What about the Boy Child. Have you focused too much on feminism and forgotten about us. Yes you have. The boy child has lost his touch. The level of manness has drastically reduced. It’s funny how a few decades ago, the boy child was busy fighting for their motherland. Now here in this futuristic 21st century, the boy child can weep all night simply because some girl gave her the legendary blue ticks. The boy child can cannot handle responsibility as it was back in the day. Instead of facing them, we run. And run we can. The ways through which the boy child runs away from problems, you will sympathize with them. Drugs and alcohol have become a major escape route from the pressures of society. We feel the need to relieve ourselves from what we term as problems but deep down we know we don’t have any problems. We just scared. Scared that what awaits us in the near future will be one hell of a burden. We all know it, but instead of making our lives straightforward,as of every man should , we shy away. We keep on being told that no one will help you in this life. You need to help yourself. Which is true, I basically agree with that. But come on, don’t you think a little help in choosing the right path would be appreciated? And that’s another problem. I have seen with my own pair of eyes how a family constantly keeps in touch and does all it can to ensure their girl child gets the support she so desires. The said girl child is active and has high hopes for the future.Meanwhile, in that same family, there is a boy child. Seated at the corner, with no clue what he is doing with his life. No one even bothers about him.”He’s a man, he’ll figure it out ” They say. How do you expect him to figure nothing out? When he becomes a nuisance to the society, the way the stories will change you will wonder if people really care about the boy child. The pressure the society puts on us is tremendous. In a good way since its supposed to mould us into proper men which the society can look up to. But in this generation, one can use another alternative to deal with all that. Being high. Higher than the stratosphere. Little dont we know that it’s only a temporary fix. The day after, the problems slowly crawl back to us again. And the cycle continues.

But there’s no time for blame game here. The fact is the boy child has been neglected in levels never seen before. We all know this and it’s as if we are waiting for the complete extinction of the boy child and maybe a new species will emerge from its ashes. A dumb species I presume. But before all that happens, let’s acknowledge the fact that the boy child needs help. Real quick, or else…

And as I was saying earlier how during the world wars people defended their countries, suppose, God forbid, a war breaks out in our motherland, with the levels of YOLO at superhuman levels, no one even imagines that one day we would leave this beautiful world behind: all the pleasures of life. Do you think how many boy children in this generation: my generation, will step forward? If not many who will form a battalion of verbal warriors on social media.

The issue can be discussed for days on end, but still…

Boy Child lives matter.

The Night is Still Dark

Where the fuck was I?  Oh yeah, I remember. Thank goodness my memory is sharper despite being defiled by substances which are known to screw up your mind for the night and leaves you agonizing in pain the morning after. Why do we still do it!  I wonder. Don’t  judge me lest you be judged my friend. 
The night was dark and full of terror. 

It still is. Darkness and terror like never before. It makes you have endless questions about how crazy the world is. The witnessing of an old frail woman being torched. So there I was, wondering whether to believe some shit like that existed or not. Then boom! Have you ever had one of those moments where out of nowhere, probably outer space or something, an idea crashlands into your brain, catastrophically displacing all your neatly-placed memories you had stored in there: the day you had your first kiss, the day you had you witnessed the first hand brutality of some infamous gang in your hood that made you fear darkness itself: among others. It was as if you unceremoniously erased the memory from your mind and out of options, it left. Only for it to go and re-organise itself for a major comeback: one hell of a comeback I tell you.  And Tarra! It comes back with all it has and you have nothing else to do but think about it. Giving it one more chance. Measuring whether it makes sense or you were just some idiot to throw it away. 

So, the year was, I think, somewhere around 2005 or 2006. Somewhere in between there. You know I’m aging as we speak. Not almost dying,  God forbid, but aging. Somewhere in Mtwapa, of course, the story begins. The afternoon sun was killing us.  I was not outside but the heat was unbearable and I could imagine how someone who was walking under that sun was feeling. We were five of us. Two ladies and the three of us gentlemen. Scratch that, there’s no way one can acquire such titles at such a tender age. So we were three boys and two girls. We were standing in front of a class of forty five. All eyes on us. Back then, shyness and fear were the order of the day. I was there. All thanks to a teacher I hated most in that primary school. I have no idea what was going on in her mind, but out of nowhere, she called five names and told them to come forward and I was one of them. We lazily walked forward and stood facing the rest of the class. We then looked at each other cluelessly, without a single idea what was happening. Being a back-bencher, all I could think of was her spotting me laughing or as we called it back In the days, noise making. “I want you to sing a song from your motherland “She spoke, with her rough voice that used to give me chills each time she spoke. Then our clueless minds became wise in an instant. We looked at each other and realised: Fuck!  We were all from the same tribe. All five of us. So that’s why she chose us. Face it, back then we were slow as fuck in everything. 

So, there we were. The Fucked Up Five. We looked at each other. Again and again. But really, my motherland is somewhere on the cold hills of Taita highlands, which at that moment was miles and miles away: so how the hell am I supposed to recall a song which I heard probably in mother’s womb. Seeing no hope in the other four, I remembered a fraction of some song I heard my uncle hym to while he was driving. I decided to take the chance. Either give it a chance or die trying. Just kidding, nothing like die trying. I was dead scared of her beatings. She was a brute when it came to discipline. Her slaps and kicks were my nightmare. I took a deep breath, close my eyes and cleared my throat silently. Kaende venye kataenda! I asserted myself. 

Then Shit happens. The floor slowly begins to shake. A slight movement but with lots and lots of vibration. I could feel it. The desks began vibrating at high speeds. Rumbling altogether and becoming more and more intense. I was..I don’t even know which state I was. I looked at the rest of the class and I was better off. The looks on their faces said it all. Never-before seen levels of fear was portrayed in their faces. Then came a loud scream. The type of scream that let’s you know you don’t know. Then another scream. And another one. Soon there were screams all over coming from one particular direction. The screams mixed with the rumbling of the ground seemed like we were in some war torn country. We all rushed outside to behold the sight of what was the main cause of all this. We left the teacher inside the class, speechless, or maybe in shock: but that’s her problem. None of us really noticed. We ran outside the gate of our school and from far, we saw them. A whole lot of them. Scores and scores of children: an endless stampede of children running towards our direction. Their uniform was recognisable by everyone. Shimo La Tewa Primary School. The whole town was brought to an abrupt standstill. Most of them were familiar faces. Everybody knows everybody in Mtwapa. So I spot one of my friends who was also running and signals him to come to where we were. He sees me and heads towards us. His heartbeat was tense. He breathed heavily as we tried to calm him the fuck down so he could give us the whole information. 

After narrating to us what he had witnessed at the school which led to everyone, even the teachers, run for safety, I was in fear. Fear that all had believed to be rumours and hearsay all along was the truth. Nothing but the truth. These supernatural shit is fucking real I tell you. 

For the night is dark and full of terror. 

The Night Is Dark

For the night is dark and full of terror. Where I’m from, somewhere along the shores of the Indian Ocean, you will never skip a single day in your life without hearing someone mumble about the supernatural. From the old, to the young, even to the extent of the unborn yapping about it. And the interesting thing about these happenings is that when someone says he saw a particular(Song of the year tight there by the way.Anyways let’s proceed before you forget all I’m saying.)thing, everybody else now miraculously gets the courage to speak his own similar story and before you know it, the topic is being discussed by every one, I mean every single person existing at the sea level. There was a time, some few years back,when out of nowhere some fisherman, or so I heard, came from the ocean with tales of how he witnessed ,with his own two eyes, a mermaid that swam quickly past their boat and disappeared into the depths of the ocean. I mean Really??? . From my point of view it was total bullshit. The way his news spread across the coast, the topic was on everyone’s mind. Now everyone was on high alert, hoping and praying to encounter one of those fucking creatures to back up the story. And by the way mind you the one with the original story is a full grown adult human being with a family and a dozen of children and he’s narrating his story to you while he’s scared as fuck. So you have no option but to believe what your brain tells you to believe. But for me, that’s just hearsay. Now to make things worse, months later, another story emerges, this time round of a young nigga, my age mate in particular. So as heard, the guy went for a swim by himself. The water was warm and shit, he was having the time of his life when from afar, he spotted a young girl, also swimming by himself. The hyena in him jumped into action and swam towards her. His goal was to swim underwater all the way towards the girl and startle her suddenly and boom!  Mission accomplished, they start chatting and the rest is history. The nigga takes his breath and dives into the water. Of course your eyes must be open in the water to know where you are going. He swims toward her and in the water begins to see her blurry shape. Then he decides, let me swim between her legs and come out the other side. His hyena mind is thinking at infinity level. As he approaches her, he sees no legs. He looks closely and the lower body is joined together and at the end is some sort of tail. He literally screams under water and his small bag of air in his mouth escapes out of the water. He says he just saw the tail flap a few times and the creature was miles away from him. And he has no fucking idea how he went back to land but what’s in his mind is that the ocean is a no go zone for him . His particular story trended without hashtags. It was viral verbally.  Those who will be lucky enough to come down here to the coast, ask around and the tale will be narrated, perhaps even better. 

Now let’s leave the mermaid crap aside for a moment. They are just imaginations from a bunch of high people. My opinion there. But there’s this story that up to date has given me endless migraines whether or not it is true. I personally have had some encounters here and there. These clean little pets we all love and cherish. Cats. They are warm and loving elsewhere, but here, they are the most feared. It has been reported thousands of times about how cats are some sort of possessed with evil spirits. Some say they saw some cats changing into humans. Especially the changing into human ones. Stories are told that during the daytime, you just see an ordinary human being doing his daily routine. As the night falls, while others are deep asleep, he becomes a cat and starts roaming the streets doing his part time job -haunting peole. Just recently, some fucked up incident occurs. And old woman was found lying naked in someone else’s compound early in the morning. Keep in mind that the compound was surrounded by a ten-foot wall, and on top of the wall, an electric fence was mounted on top. Now someone please explain to me, how the Fuck could a naked old woman have surpasses that wall and electric fence!!. I’ve used all logical means and shockingly, none prevails. In a community where supernatural issues are a common thing, the peole wasted no time. She was roughed up by the large mob that had gathered to witness and out of nowhere, a tyre flew from the crowd and landed right around her neck. In every one’s mind, a witch had been caught. I was there that fucked up day. Remember how I told you in the beginning that when such incidences happen people miraculously gather the courage to speak up, well they did. People spoke of how a cat had been giving them sleepless nights, crying in different voices,how she terrorised innocent children, among other horrifying things. She was unceremoniously burned right before our eyes, her screams and yells seeming like music to the joyous celebrations of the masses.

And  after her death, there was some sort of calm. The incident occurred a few miles from my home and people spoke of how relieved they were, how comfortable their sleep had become and how children who were once dead afraid of playing outside suddenly became playful. 

For the night is dark and full of terror.

The Encounter 

No place I’d rather be than in the calm, serene, shoreside town. My town. My home. Mtwapa.Where my soul is at its best state of rest. No place I can possibly imagine would best replace this feeling I have when I’m there. Anyways, enough of that already. The place is not in heaven or a European country. In my stay for all those years, I’ve experienced some really fucked up stuff, but there’s one: this one that is still in memory and I bet it will stick in me forever. I just remember it and I don’t know whether to laugh, or just pity my sorry ass altogether. 

I remember that particular happening. I don’t remember the exact year, month and date, but I remember my age. I was four years old, about to turn five in a couple of months. So yeah, it’s a very, very, long, long time ago, considering the fact that I’m almost marrying and soon my first born child, a son I hope, will follow after. Wait a minute, I’m just kidding. By the way it hurts like hell knowing that your future wife is currently being banged mercilessly by some horny senior year campus student who has also been fucked up by a cat he had no clue about. Please,  I beg, go easy on her. Damn, life is a bitch right! 

So, as I was saying, I was a four year old little boy. The time was around 7:30 pm and I was just chilling at home, you know,  as any normal kid would do. With the TV remote on my hands, switching from Nickelodeon to Disney Tv : those days when missing your favourite cartoon was a nightmare on top of nightmares. The horror was unbearable I tell you. What are you going to tell your friends when you link up the next day?  The way you will be laughed at,it was just unbearable. And that, my dear friends, was the origin of stress as we know it today. So there I was, watching my favourite cartoon. Then I hear my name being called in the kitchen, My older sister, Lucy. How I used to hate her those days. The moment I hear her calling my name, it’s like if I was basking along the glorious shores of the Indian Ocean, then a second later, a thick cloud full of thunderstorms form above me, dropping hailstones, huge drops of rain, thunder and lightning smashing along my face, all at the same time. I knew she was about to send me to some God forsaken shop to buy a God forsaken cooking ingredient she had surprisingly “forgotten “. So I  angrily throw the remote – not on the ground of course. No matter how angry I was, that would simply be a good way of telling my mother “Kindly beat the shit out me. Please.” The remote landed safely on the smooth sofa and I went to hear what she has to say. I was unceremoniously handed over a one thousand shilling note and “Go give this to the gas supplier guy. The tall one. Tell him it’s me ” were the words that came out of her mouth. Really Sis!  I know you have a crush on the nigga, but must you use me to convey your info! She just thinks I’m a dumb, clueless nigga. Well joke’s on you. 

So I rush out, as quickly as I possibly can.  Deliver the goods and get the fuck back as quickly as possible. That was my motto. Beind the sreetsmart Lil nigga I was,  shortcuts were my favorite thing back in the days. I had the entire map of Mtwapa at the back of my head. I reach the gas shop, give the guy -aka my sister’s crush the money and begin heading back home. I have a cartoon to catch up with for heaven’s sake. It would feel like missing your wife’s delivery of your first born child. Out of nowhere, I feel this tight grip on my left hand. I instantly break -actually the brake was automatic. Iook at the hand. Who the fuck could this be. Probably my aunt who lives around the block or a mother who knows me. I look at her face and my mind simply blows away. This woman, a total stranger whom I have never met in my life, is tightly holding my hand.  And the way she is dressed,  Oh my goodness!. From her hand which is full of bangles, and her breasts which were shamelessly hanging from a thin bra-less top. What the fuck!!! Her face, Jesus Christ!! Layer upon layer of endless make up. I try to break free from her grip buy it was too tight. So I’m there looking at her like ” Bitch what the fuck do you want from me!! ” I’m thinking that, not saying of course. Then as if she reads my mind, she places her hand on one of her breasts and begins fondling it. “Naeza kusaidia”. Those were her exact words, I still remember upto date. She proceeds by licking her lips in a round motion and blinking endessly. You have no idea how fast my heat was beating at the moment. I was in full panic mode. Then it bumped into me. She is one of those women Dad warned me about!  She is a hoe!! Then she’s asking me if she can help me. Help me with what actually. Of all the growe ass men walking past her, she sees me. Me!!. A four year old boy. I even don’t know how my own fucking dick works, and you are telling me to help you! With what. Can’t you see virgin written all over my face, and my body, height, weight, my panicking, my everything actually.Jeez. I slowly slide my hand into my back pocket and slowly grab it. Being the devout Catholic I was, my rosary was with me at all times, and I clearly recalled what the Father said one Sunday morning, “Whenever you spot the devil, it will be your greatest weapon.” True to those words, I was face to face with the Devil’s biological mother. I was wishing I had more rosaries to counter her demonic influence. I try as quickly as possible to recall all the prayers and sermons taught to us and arranging them strategically hoping to unleash unto her one by one until she lets go of my hand. 
And the rest is history…

Home Sweet Home 

This is not the normal memory lane where you recall your awesome childhood days of being brought gifts and shit everytime your parents come back from home. 

Something just got into me. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but it just got into me. That feeling. Honesty it’s amazing. It has been on my mind for long, and at last I’ve given in. You know,when nature forces you to do something, even I it’s your worst nightmare or something, you will do it. Reason for that only the one above knows. The feeling of telling my fellow humans all and everything about the place I call home. The fucked up small, tiny, minute town located at the beautiful shorelines of the great and might Indian Ocean. 

As you may have known, my origins and where I find utmost peace in my dark soul are found in a town blessed by whoever the hell came up with its name. Mtwapa . Sounds familiar right. Oh Yes, you’ve began thinking of the roads in the town lined up with stripper poles and the strippers dancing along the roads showcasing what their mamas gave them.  What a shame. Shame because what you are thinking is not further from the truth. It’s the clearest definition of all. Hoe City. Fuckboy Capital. Sin City. Syphilis Depot. I hope I haven’t forgotten the nicknames of my great town. Mtwapa. I also guess that name is neatly sprinkled with cocaine at the first letters, then the middle letters are drenched with some expensive vodka, then the last letters of that name are well garnished with::well of course, what do you expecti :=Hoeeeeess my friend. That awesome combination is basically the stronghold of my beautiful town. If Mtwapa were to be an independent country, I would expect no other symbols of national unity than those three. Pussy. Money. Alcohol. Lemme not go further and Imagine the economic activity that would have been driving our economy. 

Home is best. All my years on this cruel world, Mtwapa has been my home sweet home. Now allow me the pleasure of giving you a sneak peek of this town. The main entrance to my small town is a bridge. The Mtwapa bridge. Once you cross the bridge, you are officially in Mtwapa. The first sight to behold is the police station. Located a few metres past the bridge, it has been built at the edges of the cliffs on the Mtwapa Bay. One single slip and you plunge down, hundreds of metres into the ocean down below. Legend has it that the cliffs have rather been a “lifesaver” for the wrongdoers who are apprehended. A wild jump off the cliffs into the ocean is better than spending your night in a cold, dirty cell, some say. Well, past the police station is an array, or rather a display of the main source of income in my lovely town.  As usual, the town is divided into two parts. And I wonder by the way, why is it that almost all towns are divided into two. Most commonly by a road. The East side and the West side. Why the fuck is that. Anyways, it’s just the way it is I guess so let me not give myself migraines thinking about something that will not change. Well that’s the case in  Mtwapa. There’s the East side and the West side. In between lies the main road to and from the town. And these two sides, completely different from one another. As in the exact opposite. One town. Two sides. Two different worlds. 

Closer to the shoreline lies the East side of Mtwapa. The crown jewel of my town. A sight to behold if I may add. If you are new in this town and your branch towards the East from the main road, you will surely be amazed. Right from the beginning of the road, you are welcomed with the sight of well-arranged, classy hotels strategically built at the sides of the road. With beautiful paintings on the outside and sophisticated architectural designs, the hotels are legendary in the coastal region. And the lodgings, Oh my Goodness.  State of the art I tell you. No wonder hoe business is booming in this town. The way they are strategically placed beside strip clubs high-end night clubs. Damn, I just had a flashback of a major throwback in my life. Speaking of hoes, I vividly recall my first encounter with a hoe: a rather weird, epic encounter, at a very young, totally young age just along the ‘Hoe Superhighway ” of Mtwapa. Yeah, we have that in my hometown. A place where there is smooth streaming, intake and outake of hoes at record breaking speeds. Don’t tell me you don’t have that in your town! For real!!!. Anyway, that’s a story for another day, but in the meantime, I was at the East side of my hometown. The apartments in this side are a sight to behold. Apart from the European architecture used to design these gorgeous apartments, at the top of most of them ,the very top of the apartment, you will see a flag bravely flying high courtesy of the warm ocean breeze. Not a Kenyan flag if you are to assume. But a flag of European origin: mostly Germany :actually in case you don’t know, foreigners make up about 40 percent of the population in my hometown, so yeah, that’s why “business is booming “. That’s why they find it best to call this place home and further increase it’s growth in all aspects. 

Now let’s cross the road and head to the West Side. Well this side is a Lil bit fucked up, but they’re catching up. Now this side is where you get your brand new second hand clothes. The streets are neat, well lit, but there are no fucking rules on this side. This side is divided into territories and in each there is a gang. With the extremely high levels of ‘living life ‘ here, one can wonder why waste time in school while you can make quick and easy money selling drugs and engaging in criminal activity for the guys, and for ladies,the profitable hoe business can make you filthy rich in a short duration of time. 

All in all, regardless of its bad reputation which is now spreading to international levels, I’m proud to hail from that fucked up place and it has, and always will be my home sweet home. 

20

This place reeks. It stinks actually. From the endless echoes of passing cockroaches and rats here and there. How I hate those dirty insects. Some flying aimlessly while others Criss cross my feet shamelessly. And the countless spider webs scattered across this place. It seems as though this place was deserted ages ago. A bloody ghost town. The tiny drops of rainwater slowly leaking from the rooftop,slowly descending towards it’s companions: a small puddle on the floor constantly increasing in size. Wind howls from the cracked walls,: the cockroaches rush to their dark holes in fear. I’m literally shaking my head right now. My absence from this place has made it look so dead. Come on! It’s only been a few days, or weeks…wait a minute. It’s almost past a month. Damn! Well, what can I say. The world and its never-ending cruelty. Just when you think all is done and you can now sit back, relax and enjoy a cup of hot coffee in a roadside Cafe while doing(finally) what you love when you are suddenly punched in the face by the cruel world(I told you). Something came up and there you go, rushing as though you are racing with Bolt himself. You therefore end up forgetting about your obligation to fill the masses with content. Time flies and you realise its past a month and you have no writings to show. That’s when you eventually make up to your mind and..here we are! Me, writing at the demonic times of the night. Quite a peaceful time it is by the way. The silence is just mystical.Legend has it that at those who are awake at these times are either witches or writers. Either way we both are magic, right. Let me bring this place back to life once more. The stench of abandonment is too strong.

Two bloody decades. Twenty whole years and some few months counting. I have lived, loved and laughed on this cruel world for twenty years. A quarter of a century….and still more:many many more to go. I look at my life in those few years that I’m bragging about and the transformation is astonishing. Having graced both the 20th and the 21st century, things have changed. Really changed. I one day had that lazy stroll across the ocean shores. Shoes on my hands , the rough waves of the ocean come from the deep sea, roll over each other into whitish foam which slowly cascades towards the end of the shoreline. That feeling. The salty, warm, wavy water streaming past your feet giving you a tingling sensation on your legs. And it’s constantly coming back and forth your feet. Plus the way your feet easily sink into the sand as you walk, leaving behind footprints that quickly become filled with water and begin disappearing. Trust me no matter how stressed or how life has fucked you up, when you take this walk, those burdens will slowly wash away: yes, it works :like a charm.  That’s when you learn the beauty of life. All that stress you’ve been loading on yourself you’ll realise its defects. 

So sad to say, but I’ve personally compared 20 year old males and females and damn! Honestly speaking, we, the boy child, are so very fucked! A twenty year old young woman has her priorities all set up. It’s like God placed some secret brain somewhere that lets them figure everything out. I have no fucking idea how they do that. She is physically twenty but intellectually way past that age by far. This young woman walks with elegant elegance and confidence one might mistake her for working at a high-end International bank. The way she carries herself, priceless. We the male species of that age just eat with our eyes, literally. You wonder if she’s living in the top, creamy, yummy part of life and we the counterparts lie deep below the dark,congested and saturated part.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves. Winter is coming. The world we know of is about to change. Drastically change. Winter is actually here if I may say. Let us now talk about a twenty year old male species. Dear Lord, please have mercy on us-on our noble souls. And before I begin, all of you must know that life is tough for the boy child. Keep that in mind as we enter this dark, sad tale. A twenty year old male. We, the boy child, are totally fucked. First accomplishment of any typical twenty year old male is at the top,literally,so that all can lay eyes on it. The long, really long hair. The shaggier the better. The sky is the limit for this one Hehehe. We are all victims of this. Semeni ukweli. After finishing high school, this one is like a course for all of us. A rite of passage in this life. One begins his career of keeping hair till the day our Savior will grace us. No mane, no lion, right?. That’s what it is to us. Mane. He gets into trouble here and there, thats just natural in fact. And the ripped jeans. If females wear it, it looks spectacular. If we wear it, the stories you will hear. So and so ‘amekua mkora’ nowadays. Even the dreadlocks. They keep it, society approves. You try and see flames of curses coming even from our ancestors graves. A disgrace, product of a burst condom. You name it. The list is endless. And they say we have no goals or ambition in mind. No, wait a minute, there are ambitions in their minds actually. Let’s just refer to them as sleeping dragons, shall we? Boy child, I’ve just saved us! I will narrate and further narrate about the misfortunes of the boy child but the fact remains, no one gives a fuck about us. We are, and continue being on our own. Society gives our counterparts more and more privileges while we fade away. 

I shall call you for mass action one day if need be, but in the meantime, I’ll submit my complaints to the Supreme Court for further investigations. 

The Gap

Life is a bitch. And death is her sister. Those words came out someone’s mouth. Not a fancy guy dressed in a suit holding a large microphone motivating a multitude of confused youth in a closed arena. Nope. Those are some of the lyrics from a world reknown rapper. Young Mulla Baby! Yap,Mr Lil Wayne himself. One can wonder how can one use words from rappers who only preach about money women and drugs as food for thought. Well, I don’t give a hoot. No matter the person, that nigga(scratch that)  has influenced an entire generation with his music. Endless spitting of metaphors in his songs making us all wonder how he came up with them. Atleast his doing him, and I’m doing me right now, so you do you!!! 

Anyways, enough of that now. With Lil Wayne’s metaphor, I can comfortably proced with what my bored mind has decided, this time round, to come up with. And by the way , I was just lucky enough to hop onto a bodaboda with speakers loud enough to burst your ears. I tell you, for a moment, I was confused whether the guy driving the motorbike was one a famous rapper-gone-south. From the infinite amount of chains on the neck. I it was those chains are are extremely long and one wound around the neck, one can think you’re wearing several chains. Basically twenty-something in one. So there I am, heading to the matatu stage a few kilometers away on the bodaboda. The loud music he was playing was Hip Hop. And for the Hip Hop fans, you can agree that the sweetness lies in the base. That hard vibration and boom that constitutes the whole song. Each time that beat ‘dropped’ the whole motorbike shook as though an earthquake was underway. Then vibration is fed into your soul and you feel your heartbeat rhyming with the beat. With the motorbike at record breaking speed and the music blowing your soul, you reach your destination without realising it. Sorcery of the highest order. Well, amidst the bumpy yet fantastic ride, those Lil Wayne’s lyrics magically found themselves in my ears and went further into my brain. Next thing I know, two days later , I’m writing this piece. 

It so turns out, I don’t know why, we are divided into two. The haves and have nots. Well not technically have nots, but the have -a -little. In between there’s one hell of a gap. I call it The Gap. For the two decades I have managed to live in this cruel world by the grace of God, I have managed to have interactions with both sides of the Gap. And they completely differ with each other in all ways imaginable. So let’s begin with the Haves. Those living in the uptown parts of the city. Well -furnished roads with beautiful gardens and large mansions are a daily norm. Porsche cars cruising through the ever smooth roads are a normal routine. Trust me when you a stroll in these neighborhoods you will hate your life and fill your brains with wonders on why you are not living in that estate. I have learnt a few things here and there about the haves. One thing for sure, I mean 100% sure about all of them is privacy. Privacy is of high importance to them. Each home is separated by a very thick,high wall and on top of it, an electric fence is unceremoniously mounted alongside barbed wire. And the gate is manned at all times by a guard with two large German Shepherds. I wonder if these guys know about something called Nyumba kumi. They literally live in their own world. You can spend almost the whole of your lifetime not uttering a single word, or even glancing the person living next to you. And the haves also value their security. There’s no way you’re filthy rich and you live in an open compound. What do you expecti! I think it’s because the haves probably toiled their way to the top. And the path to success is a fucked one. The more you rise, the more you encounter challenges and of course not everyone wishes you well. Or another way is that they probably did some bad things to be where they are. That aside, the haves are ever busy : trying to make their accounts overflow with money. Basically I take the good  tips you know, positive vibes and all. So, you’re welcome. 

Now, let’s cross the bloody Gap and hop into the other side. The have-a-little. The humble side. The downtown side of the city. You come into this place and the livelihood fills your spirit. The estate is bustling with all sorts of activitie. People everywhere, selling everything. When you are here you feel elevated. Hustlers are born and bred in these tough places. And surprisingly, it’s this side of the gap where talent is born. All sorts of talents are orchestrated here. People with amazing capabilities but lack adequate funding to further their cause. And by the way,this one thing here,you will all agree with me on. This side of the gap is united in such an amazing way. People leave as brothers and sisters. You can literally walk into any house and ask for anything you want :be it food, name it. Humility at its best, I may say. People have little yet are willing to help others regardless of whether they know you or not. In short, everybody knows everybody here. And furthermore the day never seems to end. People are constantly on the move. As night approaches and some return home from a hard day’s work, others are preparing to go to work. Bartenders and all. Each one trying to find means of supporting their lives. Where self-made originates actually. 

Well, that’s about it. My creative juices are nearly extinguished. I really have nothing more to add right now. Too bad. But don’t worry. A sip of hot coffee in the morning ,a stroll by the oceanside and some laughter with friends will refresh my creativity to superhuman levels.