Revolution is just a reminder

Revolutions are not trajectory movements of radical change as they are deemed to be, they are a reminder to the working and the worked for class that Wanjiku exists.

When I was reading comments on #occupyKenya skeptics who claimed that Kenyans are completely incapable of taking to the streets and all we could do is complain behind our laptops, smart-phones and androids, I saw the naivety of Kenyan middle class.

One even said that we could only go on #occupykenya if the price of petrol hits 300 Ksh.

Well if its news for you people walk to work in Kenya and it is not given the hullabaloo Besigye has attracted in Uganda. Whether price of fuel is 3oo Ksh. Or not there are people who just don’t care because it makes little significance for them until…

It gets to their food.

Therein lies my theses that the middle class who actually tweet or blog or know about Nigeria, Egypt and Tunisia more than locals of these country are removed from their own realities and the risks that this poses to their safe heaven.

Kenyans who still think about the Kadogo economy when the poor buy sugar in spoonfuls, about the price of a liter of petrol when Kenyans are walking to work in kazi za sulubu kama industrial area na mjengo (strenuous work in industrial area and masonry), about unga revolution when bizarre amounts are sold by retailers who are too quick to increase prices and forget to reduce them even as the shilling stabilizes!

The middle class is deceiving itself when it thinks it belongs to the upper class as petty bourgeoisie.

And that’s what revolutions are about.

Reminding the advantaged that there are Wanjiku’s out there who starve while I write this article. Who do not care about #occupykenya but are patiently waiting for the slightest opportunity for unrest to get back at the advantaged.

Whose tribe is poverty and honor is looting to get out of their quagmire!

Who the middle class should be afraid of because the rich (not wealthy) have turned them to their buffer zone against the poor man’s rage.

It is you they will rob when they #occupykenya, on highways, it is you they will disposes so choose wisely when the time for wealth redistribution beckons because it is you who is in social medi and it is them who will be on the street, them who will want your house if you think they are as spineless as you when they got nothing to loose!

I leave with an excerpt from Fantz Fanon’s Wretched of the Earth in saying that the capital system we embraced too soon as elitist inheritors will undo not our master but us! Us who chose which side of #Occupykenya to belong.

The settlers' town is a strongly built town, all made of stone and steel. It is a brightly lit town; the streets are covered with asphalt, and the garbage cans swallow all the leavings, unseen, unknown and hardly thought about. The settler's feet are never visible, except perhaps in the sea; but there you're never close enough to see them. His feet are protected by strong shoes although the streets of his town are clean and even, with no holes or stones. The settler's town is a well-fed town, an easygoing town; its belly is always full of good things. The settlers' town is a town of white people, of foreigners. (of surburbs and plush Muthaigas, Karens, Milimani’s…)

The town belonging to the colonized people, or at least the native town, the Negro village, the medina, the reservation (The Mukuru’s the Mathares, the Kibera’s Ksouth …), is a place of ill fame, peopled by men of evil repute. They are born there, it matters little where or how; they die there, it matters not where, nor how. It is a world without spaciousness; men live there on top of each other, and their huts are built one on top of the other. The native town is a hungry town, starved of bread, of meat, of shoes, of coal, of light. The native town is a crouching village, a town on its knees, a town wallowing in the mire. It is a town of niggers and dirty Arabs. The look that the native turns on the settler's town is a look of lust, a look of envy; it expresses his dreams of possession—ALL MANNER OF POSSESSION: TO SIT AT THE SETTLER'S TABLE, TO SLEEP IN THE SETTLER'S BED, WITH HIS WIFE IF POSSIBLE.

Sony From Mars

I like looking at advertisements.

Maybe because they are very creative and a lot of energy is pumped into them or maybe it blood curls me when I remember Oglivy knew its success when he ‘tested blood’ after his The Theory and Practice of Selling the AGA cooker debut as the father of advertising.

In my occupy adds series I will offend some corporate bodies by making fun of their adds but primarilly am set out on a campaign against consumerism.

So I am watching TV and and advert by Sony is on.

Young men are having a party in I do not know who’s house, by God the whole estste will kill u if u have such a party in my neighbourhood and for those reading about Africa, Village (Binyavanga’s How to Write about Africa)

Then an alien comes complaining that the noice is too much it is disturbing the cosmos of the space.

Halt!

They are essentially saying that Sony is so loud u can hear it in space?

I mean if I was doing that ad Sony would be so loud thieves would come and steal the shit from you!

If you were in Kenya, Michuki will come for your ass for Noise pollution!

Aliens?

Does Sony think we are americans?

Now we can excuse the insulting hair-do you gave us in a previous ad about black people getting weird afros from listening to Sony but I think this is getting out of hand, this idea of a need for loud music.

I know you need us to buy your products, but honestly noise is not the soundest way to sell consumerism!

the Nation Of Africa: Catechism

the Nation Of Africa: Catechism: I wake up in the morning quite undecided whether to wake up at all or sing along Bruno Mars... today I don’t feel do anything… but the rush ...

Catechism

I wake up in the morning quite undecided whether to wake up at all or sing along Bruno Mars... today I don’t feel do anything… but the rush in the house cannot allow me such luxury especially that they are incessantly asking the million dollar question “You are not going to church?” in turns as if they had convened and conspired to rouse my guilty conscience.

Maybe guilt does get me off the bed as I remember the number of times God has bailed me out, honestly counting my blessings would be futile just like counting the hair on my head so I let the Almighty do that for me in a book of life that would hopefully be on my side on judgment day.

So I awake and drag my feet I simply don’t care if I’ll be late or not as long as I’ve gone to church to appease my conscience, it’s the only earthly power I answer to.

On the way I meet a fellow I was with last evening at a mama Pima and he is ecstatic. His excitement is stemming from yesterdays escapades and he thanks God for meeting a fellow who shared the devilish communion probably more than the faithful am going to join in a bit.

We decide to poke a nose at mama pima and somehow I abandon the conscience that I know will question me later, well even judgment is not today anyway, I might make up later by doing something good as atonement like Kenya for Kenyans or something.

At Mama Pima’s we are shocked to find that the booze is surprisingly over! What? maize mill at Unga limited might be exhausted and that would never  raise my hairs, petroleum might run dry and I will walk without much ado, but changaa! How is it even possible for changaa to run out? I make quick inferences maybe my God this time really is serious on getting me to his Christian house.

“Alright I admit, I m coming father,” I resolve and walk late to church. I do not even attempt to go in and sit at benches outside the old church and start to contemplate time looking around for young girls and admiring God’s creation at his house, befitting ;-}

I know that majority of young men have turned the house of God into a hunting ground for potential wives and girlfriends. But by God where are young people. This trend is scary honestly where do we all go to on Sunday coz we are neither too many at mama Pima anyway.

I start to rouse my philosophy and find out why we are all fleeing the church?  One I think up that maybe the church is too rigid and the TV has practically taken over with church services over. They run morning shows with youth dancing lingala and mentioning God in one verse of the whole song and call it that gospel. They pervert every conservative dogma and retain very little element of worship. They forget that the devil was an angel and he decided Gods tyranny was not going down his throat no more.

That he fought his angels because he thought he was smart enough to reject the ways of God as archaic as the beginning and it was high time they moved furniture around. That martin Luther King saw the Catholic Church as a backward conservatism and in seeking to change it he broke it into a million shards. And that what they are doing is actually the same. Secularizing religion is just not right and it cannot find justification. If you cannot stand the heat join me at Mama Pima and do not come to sell doves at my father’s temple collecting offering via M-Pesa!

Everybody around me suddenly stand up. Am jolted back to the mass service, I say my prayers murmuring to a God who hears even the thoughts unvoiced. And they say the reading. My favourite.

The rich man with talents that he gives to his three servants; immediately I take defenses in finding philosophies to counter the preachers coming sermon. And I smile wryly when the third servant says tells his master on his face that he is a goddamn capitalist, gathering where he has not scattered and harvesting where he has not sowed. I think of Caliban cursing Prospero; about insulting patronized benevolence.

And when the preacher starts his sermon I start my arguments; when he encourages people to make the most of their talents all I can think of is that we should struggle with our lives so the government and some Multinational company gets paid. I want him to teach us to be the third servant and take all the money they delude us with and bury it. Fuck the banks, fuck the multinationals and fuck the government and the church for pacifying us telling us to work our backs out so the villains can continue investing in us so we earn them profits.

I remember that was why I left the church in the first place. I could not take the animosity anymore. Holding constant arguments in my heart with the preacher that I left there angry and emptier than I ever went there. And in my exhaustion I gave up and stopped going. I could never find the element that religion is supposed to inject in my essence. I abandoned myself to the idea of god without needing a communion with people who professed a similar maker but held very different perspectives of everything in life.

But then he also taught maybe in his seeking relevance maybe unconsciously that we ought to be self reliant. That we should go back and be subsistence. He asked the congregation if they had their own maize would Unga limited strangle them in a chokehold. If we walked to the banks of Indus River with Gandhi would we need the British to make us Kay salt or if we spun yarn like Gandhi would we need to be slaves of consumerism buying second hand Louis Vitton, Gucci, Prada dumped in our ‘free’ markets.

Wait so he could also go against the pyramid his position espoused. I wanted to ask him is we could pray at home would we need to come here pay for his phone gas and light bills in the name of offering to God?

But I did not as I have never but saw the power the churches wielded in Africa and I wrote this catechism to churches in the homeland. You need to know where your allegiance lies. Between God and his people or your church and its politics. Find the renaissance of civil war preachers in America; own their religion and save the souls in the homeland. Take a catechism of reality of the homeland and without fear like the knees of Rev. Nzioka as the police brought down their clubs; teach not what they taught you but what you see every day. Catechism.