When did ish get so serious?
Ordinarily my peeps and I gather around every Friday to discuss about the next vaccine that will help save so many guys from some horrible disease. Our brains are usually radiating with knowledge traceable to the medieval Einstein. Equations and scientific words like saccharomyces and basillus are our basic “how you been” terms.
If it’s not science, we all go politico; current events are our dish of choice. With our help, the current crop (why not bush or shrub???) of leaders would sublimate the wave of public rage into sticky love.
During one meet, we came up with the easiest solution(S) to the environmental disaster that is the BP oil spill (Biggest Polluter). They should just rename the goddamn thing to something sexier. Names change perceptions; believe me. Logic is as curved as a boomerang. If only Scholastica had in her possession this vital knowledge, maybe, just maybe.
The other urgent thing is to lose the in-house gaffe machine chairman; this guy drew a oily target on his foot and has been shooting at it since then.
When I and my boys are not discussing the above topics, we discuss the rapid morphing of cartoons. Yes, I don’t mean the humans that ride to parliament to chant and stamp their feet at some others cartoons stupid comments; I’m going on about saber rider, red beard, darkwing duck, sky dancers and their ilk.
i was watching some cartoon (the things you do when on leave) on KTN today just before the Netherlands Vs Slovakia game (I told you the slovs were flukes) Anne van der Graaf, OUR TEAM WON. These animated graphics were an ocean and desert away from the simple cartoons we were used to back then. These days all of them are filled with tough terms and complicated instructions.
The goal is always the same and static; get the freaking bad guy. Not once did I hear Scooby scream out to shaggy to “get on the PC asap and download info on the unidentified ghost”. They kept it simple. Scream, run, sweat, the ghost will reveal itself as a non-ghost in a ghostly costume – that kind of fast-paced drama that was devoid of techno hulla.
These days, coded messages and CGI characters have taken over the gaze-tube. I swear you can rake in immense info on Ms Windows and viruses from cartoon network. The Smurfs never got attacked by computer viruses. All they had to do was steer clear of an old wizard Gagamel cooking up potions with an unsightly cat and sing. And for that; we were ETERNALLY loyal.
Goliath, Hudson and Lexington et al were my bad azz team from yesteryears. How cool would it be if I could freeze up into a boulder at first sight of light – NO WORK!!!!! And at night, I woild hit the streets…pause..This is where reality takes a bite at fantasy – the actual and dreams collide!! Oh, I’m on page gargoyles for those I left behind. Those were the days – when cartoons were cartoons.
Nowadays, every single cartoon either curses too much has flies swooning around their heads. Others just go around falling in love and chasing girls. A bunch keep the company of imaginary friends or worst still goes to the gym with a monkey. And some albeit with “super powers”; wasted them on silly activities like acquiring jaw breakers!
I have no idea where I got all this sentences on such an abstract topic. R.I.P real cartoons that were the fountainhead of entertainment before transformers and tekken took over.
Now this soccer game should just start!!!!
another great piece i came across..from time magazine, 1987..slamming!!!!!!
The animals stand motionless in gold-white grasses — zebras and impala, Thomson’s gazelles and Cape buffalo and hartebeests and waterbuck and giraffes, and wildebeests by the thousands, all fixed in art naif, in a smiting equatorial light. They stand in the shadowless clarity of creation.
Now across the immense African landscape, from the distant escarpment, a gray-purple rainstorm blows. It encroaches upon the sunlight, moving through the air like a dark idea. East Africa has a genius for such moments. Wildlife and landscape here have about them a force of melodrama and annunciation. They are the Book of Genesis enacted as an afternoon dream.
In Amboseli, under the snow-covered dome of Mount Kilimanjaro, a herd of elephants moves like a dense gray cloud, slow motion, in lumbering solidity: a mirage of floating boulders. Around them dust devils rise spontaneously out of the desert, little tornadoes that swirl up on the thermals and go jittering and rushing among the animals like evil spirits busy in the primal garden.
Later, in the sweet last light of the afternoon, a lion prowls in lion- colored grasses and vanishes into the perfect camouflage — setting off for the hunt, alert, indolent and somehow abstracted, as cats are. A rhinoceros disappears: the eye loses it among gray boulders and thorn trees. The rhino becomes a boulder.
To the human eye, the animals so often seem mirages: now you see them, now you don’t. Later, just after dusk, Abyssinian nightjars discover the magic wash of the headlight beams. The birds flit in and out of the barrels of light, like dolphins frisking before a boat’s prow. The Land Cruiser jostles, in four-wheel drive, across black volcanic stones toward the camp, the driver steering by the distant light-speck of the cooking fire.
And then the African night, which, more than elsewhere, seems an abnegation of the conscious world. MMBA, “miles and miles of bloody Africa,” and it all falls into black magic void.
The world stills, for the longest time. Then, at the edge of sleep, hyenas come to giggle and whoop. Peering from the tent flap, one catches in the shadows their sidelong criminal slouch. Their eyes shine like evil flashlight bulbs, a disembodied horror-movie yellow, phosphorescent, glowing like the children of the damned. In the morning, one finds their droppings: white dung, like a photographic negative. Hyenas not only eat the meat of animals but grind up and digest the bones. The hyenas’ dung is white with the calcium of powdered bones.
Africa has its blinding clarities and its shadows. The clarities proclaim something primal, the first days of life. The shadows lie at the other extreme of time: in the premonition of last days, of extinction. Now you see the animals. Soon, perhaps, you won’t.
….IMAGERY AT ITS BEST…
Step into a time machine and spin off into time- backward please. This 2055 business is getting clichéd faster than the word Constitution. We stop our back flips on Friday, lets say March of ’96 – randomness is intoxicating.
I was still struggling with primary school then. The subject called mathematics was my main concern (and how girls perceive me…good times. where did Asha Jama go to?) adolescence:- the swampy, murky place between innate dependence and power!!
BODMAS was my greatest fear. In retrospect, arithmetic and Toyota have something in common – they should all be recalled. And while they are at it take YOGA with you too – useless concepts. Only useful counting is when money is involved, the rest should be reserved for Aristotle or whoever thought it up. and in this case, the notes/coins are still less than the numbers i have at my disposal. i could count till 1 friggin million..so much for arithmetic!!
My normal day was devoid of traffic jams and noisy matatus. Back then high decibel music deliberately installed into cars (that already had preinstalled radios) was as known to us as the size of Osama’s foot. Now, the blaring speakers attack my oval window with unrepentant force!! im conducting poll soon to figure out how many meru drivers have infiltrated the city routes..terming them as horrendous is being polite.
Daudi kabaka and Les Wanyika were all I would listen to as I dress up in some not-so-beautiful uniform – the whole shorts thing in lower school was torture – how did my sibling in starehe boys survive…tortured souls. Our father and mother station – KBC English service was our daily rooster with some drab playback tune that clung onto us for years. Mom loved those songs. Guess they were ‘skip to my loo’ and ‘gully creepas’ of her hey days. And mom can dance!!!! in case your wondering which part of the 3rd world i cut my teeth in..the windy city of nyeri..rest your questions.
Presently, I wake up to explicit debates on matters horizontal. Switch between stations and sex attacks your from all directions.(not to be taken literally). After waking up at 5.30am – forcing myself to wake up- I am still drowsy and missing my blankets already. Maina and his hormonal colleagues spare no time in taking me back to matters of the bedroom. Seems sanity is not a free frequency. This reminds me of an op/ed I chanced upon in a LEADING (this is me NOT being biased) newspaper…… http://www.nation.co.ke/oped/Opinion/Sex%20talk%20%20on%20radio%20disturbing/-/440808/937624/-/ifj177z/-/index.html. And which sane human calls in to have some of this pedestrian “experts” solve their issues?
start quote.. Kenyans have peculiar calling habits..end quote..the authentic M.J. different context but still applies.
So I get to work and though Mr Gathara is not present to try instil some much needed knowledge (it not apparent till much later in life), or Mrs Njoroge trying to convert me into a african wyclef jean with all the crochets and f-clef hulla, the day still has its sizeable share of challenges. The keyboard is my canvas and as long as the man in the LONG room upstairs is crediting me with notes, imma paint on with my tool of choice…WORDS!
As the day proceeds based on the set template, it’s not long before im back in the monstrous vehicles, back in the same jams.
There no playground to go to and play one touch with. Nay, all I can think of is a cold drink and the couch- or my bed. Usually at 4pm back in the foggy past, my energy levels were at an all-day high. Now my pistons are misfiring akin to our waka waka teams.
No after-class chats with girls. Technically this can still happen, but at an extra cost and usually in the company of weirdly named coffee concoctions (cappuccino though sounds nice) Back then I didn’t even own a wallet to get deflated. There was actually a time in my life where money did not matter? Sleep was my main concern! Good ol days.
Talking of matters slumber; is it just me or are the nights shorter than they usually were back then. 11pm gets here so damn fast and 5.30 am much faster!!! Dang, growing up is a bummer. Ha.
- It’s so stupidly cold!! Wow!!!
- Backing Slovakia for the world cup trophy……………unless Ghana players grow advanced feet and score.
- Stupid update today—–never look down on your Workmates; unless you have a clear view of the Cleavage. “alibaba”
Scenario; I am walking down Kimathi Street talking with my workmate. It’s 4.15pm and all I crave is my couch, a cold coke, a bowl of popcorn and the remote – whoever invented soccer should be knighted. World cup has me going bonkers. July 12th will be the end of me!
In the blink of an eye (I miss writing compositions) Naomi Campbell swings into my eyeshot. Complete with the catwalk swagger and legs that stretch from here to Timbuktu. She moves closer and that’s when I realize that she is dressed in a rather MAN-ISH way.
Ok, hold up…WTF IT’S A MAN! Damn, and he worn a woolly marvin to boot. Oh, shoot, I need to throw up.
I realize that I’m not the only one writhing in radioactive disgust. Many pedestrians are shocked senseless too. I can almost hear their mental words – “hawa watoto wa siku hizi wamepotea kweli”.
So yeah, a very gay guy is literally strutting across streets. He would put many models to shame.
During my job interview late last year, the ‘gay couple saga’ somehow came up. As a journalist you have to be impartial and so my strongly homophobic views had to be tempered just to suit the moment. This female-wannabe just had to awaken a sleeping beast.
I have been accused of not being too passionate in debates where the majority seems to hold strong views – Kadhi’s courts and the better religion between Islam and Christianity debates have a knack for popping up more often than not. My stagnant argument; what does not directly hurt me warrants zilch attention from me.
For some reason, matters gay escaped this sieve and rests high on my OH HELL NO list. It’s the exception to the rule. I’ve read opinion pieces that endorse the behavior. And read the counter arguments too (could not find a link – got them on paper though..ha!)
Gay proponents’ brains are stuck on overdrive coming up with reasons ranging from genetics to “it’s a modern world” as to why male relationships are normal. Where did they buy their fix of delusion? It’s the special kind; top-dollar fallacies.
If you decide to have your tea with two spoons of salt rather than sugar; it’s your tea. But expect some uninvited comments from those near you. Doing something in the wrong way or going unconventional and arguing that salt tastes better, does not make it true or right. The beauty of brains is the gift of decision making.
Low level biology defends my view. The whole aspect of egg and sperm meeting in the ultimate war all humans had some while back. It’s the S-army battling out amongst themselves for an E-princess rested somewhere at some peaceful haven polishing her nails. Ever heard of an S-prince being fought for by its kind? It’s always the lady being saved –Shrek, sleeping beauty, snow white fairy tales serve as ample analogies.
Why is it that in all male unions, one of them assumes female antics – the whole works – makeup, dressing, hairdo and as in my aforementioned subject – catwalk swagger. If it is so right and normal, why don’t they all wear spotless suits, black FLAT polished shoes, carry a wallet (not those canoes girls carry) and do all things manly. What is so appealing in the “abnormal scenario” of man-woman that you want to copy us? Oh, wait a minute – we are the sugar into tea type right?
If had my fair share of genetics shoved into my medulla over the years, so I am not Woods the TIGER commenting on boxing. As of 8.57pm June 16, 2010, all scientists have managed to prove on “gays are born that way” is that it is not yet proven. The best so far is – it is possibility. But everything has a degree of possibility. I have a slight chance of waking up as Elvis Presley tomorrow – that possibility is zero. I am not going to append figures for the scientists, let them do their research but in passing, some free advice – zero is a beautiful number.
Religion too is on my team. Christianity and Islam expressly forbid it. It is ungodly and the laity can now turn around and follow the teachings selectively. I don’t have the exact quotes at dial, but that’s beside the point. We are taught about Adam and Eve. Along the way some are trying to morph it into Adam and Steve.
However, it should be understood that we all make choices in life. And you will always have people telling you how its wrong (and that you high on moist poppy) to change jobs or dumping your boyfriend. At times all we want of the world is for them to LEAVE US ALONE. Opinions and views are free so let me leave our salt into tea brothers alone.
And just like that my evening is spent….but first to some soccer…GO SOUTH AFRICA GO…waka waka..(in other news, Torres should not have shaved!!) tapered thoughts signing off ===========() waka waka…
CAME ACROSS THIS…….
always use the word ‘Africa’ or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky’, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’. Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.
Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.
In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.
Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African’s cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.
Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.
Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.
Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.
Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).
Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa’s situation. But do not be too specific.
Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.
Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.
Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people’s property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).
After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa’s most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or ‘conservation area’, and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa’s rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.
Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).
You’ll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.
Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.
A rocking chair comes to mind whenever I reach for the remote and flip between channels to catch up with our politician’s latest antics. The wonderful piece of furniture, if built by a seasoned carpenter, can serve as tasty eye-candy.
But the chair has one flaw; it heads nowhere. It’s to and fro pendulum motions amount to zero. And that’s what our politicians – and of late church leaders – embody. The only tragedy in this entire non-performing dance is that we are the innocent (really?) bystanders.
This “forest of words” is inspired by the latest turn of events over the proposed law. Events ranging from the twisting of open truths to tangible lies, eviction notice to certain communities and the suspected grenade blast a few hours ago at a nay campaign in the city.
An MP answering by the name Kapondi recently issued blatant threats to those who vote in the affirmative saying they will “pack their bags” and return from where they came from how went on to ass “we will not accept to suffer while people sit on our land”. He is still sleeping in his bed.
Another “honorable” colleague was busy thumbing texts to journalists assuring them that they had just poked a bear and should be prepared for the repercussions. He will be driving his guzzler to work tomorrow.
In the latest twist to this unfolding epic, 24 Kenyans are nursing wounds from a suspected grenade blast at Uhuru Park. One is feared dead.
I will not act like a doomsayer, but I am reading the tealeaves on my palm and the signs are not comforting. Kenyans are slowly sowing the hate seed,again. And once it sprouts, after violence, killings, evictions, IDPs and setting up reconciliation tribunals; the cycle is complete – next season please!
If somebody stands by the Door of Destruction and goes ahead to leave it ajar; they may deserve what they get. We have stood by this door before, and we were served with disaster. A similar scenario is playing out and if the damn door is not shut, we should not expect milk and honey days come August.
Is it that Kenyans love their leaders so much as to readily lay their lives down for them? I have always thought of my countrymen/women as peaceful people. I choose to believe would rather watch a fast paced soccer game rather than go around burning houses and using their neighbors for target practice.
The government – those who are not down south watching soccer – should do something about this before it spirals into irreversible gloom.
It’s not too much to ask for our politicians to exercise some decorum or in the least, call upon some maturity. If they have some hint of common sense residing in them, all we want is occasional use of the same.
Our vuvuzela-blowing President should come back home and try make amends for what he and his premier conceived last election. They have a chance to avert a repeat scenario; I believe it will at the least massage their pained conscience.
Lock the hate mongers up; from either side – ili iwe funzo kwa wengine walio na tabia kama yao. Name, shame and chain the potential murderers. We need a stable country and the likes of Kapondi and Machage can be the first on the occurrence book at the nearest station.
We are all on the same team- why are we shooting at each other?
.many yearz ago,a child was born in the hilly,fertile slopes of Mt. Kenya.his parents named him Dickson Kabugu Mutegi..
I bet he was dilligent frm his early days,i belive some traits and mannerisms are innate. He must have been a hardworking young man,studious in school and responsible at home.
He herded goats and cattle as it was his duty..coming from a farming community,livestock herding must have been commonplace, likenened to our daily cyber cafè visits or hanging out with our boys/gals. (My mom once owned a single goat, tugging on its rope,milking it and feeding it wasnt a stroll in the park. I would had a small death had it dared give birth!!!!)..
But the Lord above had special plans for this particular young man. Fate was in a good mood and smoothered him with some tidings in the form of his elder sister.
She reasoned that her parents couldnt afford her school fees and siblings too. Unselfishly,she gave up her right and handed the education baton to her younger brother. (Im still shocked,i asked myslf i would have done the same)
As it had been envisioned by many,he went on to school. Did pretty good. Joined Ikuu Boys high school(Kaggz high ya Chuka)..His brilliance in class was admired. He went on to join Alliance high for his A-levels,and later on joined University of Nairobi to study Law. Quite an achivment for
a young village boy back then..
He went on to become a respected lawyer(Danny Crane of that tym)..his brilliance saw hm ascend ranks in the corridors of Justice. He was promoted to become a Senior Resident Magistrate in the Nyeri courts. I stil remember running around the offices there,seemingly oblivious that serious biz went dwn in that compound. To me n my siblings,twas just a maze of office blocks..A PLAYGROUND.
He was a wonderful father,showing love in abundance and never shyd away from dishing out discipline..i once missed a 1 week trip to the maasai mara,crime-id thrown a plate of fud on the floor..Thats baba for u!!
He was a man of the people,friends right left n centre. Home was one busy place..too many animals met their death there. (the nairobi courts were closed on hs burial day,a huge tribute)
A practical man too,would cook food for the whole family on several occasions. But labor day was hs day..jst sit back,dad will do it all..
A loving husband too,the golf club ws xclusively a male affair,he dared to change the status quo..strolld in wit mom n askd the men why he shuld leave hs wife at home!!thngs changed after that..
Dad,u left behind a great family.u married a wonderful lady(she stil luks 16)..we doing great..kaari is nw mrs. Gitau..the rest of us tuko tu..
Ua truly misd..
On this day 15years ago,on ua way to play ua fav game..golf,God called u.
We dont question Him..bt were allowed to say,we Wish u was here to see how weve grown..i spot a beard,lyk u!!paul has 3hairs(to hm its beardy enuf)he is turning up to b a tough lawyer jst lyk u,mutugi chin is still as smooth as the back of a spoon bt ths dude and hs drums,a joy to watch..faith is still as bubbly as ever,the family parrot..mom is great..kept us healthy,safe and schooled..kaari is a nurse now,noble lady..married,bt no kidz just yet(manze kaari,tunawait!! Nimebuy NUN 1 ya mtoi)
15years after your left us,we al fine,knw u watchn us frm up there,bet you loving wat u see!!
We miss u dad..