Thursday, 20 October 2011

BEFORE THE ALSHABAB START DETONATING EXPLOSIVES IN KENYA…

Most of us are afraid of terrorism, but like most happenings of the day, we often joke about it. There is this gag I find totally off the hook: an Afgan mother, after going through the photo album of her five dead sons sniffs and says to her friend, ‘…it’s sad, how fast they all blast away.’ Before I say anything else, let me make it crystal clear that I am not a coward (err, please stand by for more information). That doesn’t mean I do not value my life (there, I said it). So please no threats, no bombs, or grenades (I am the bush doctor, not Bruno Mars for goodness’ sake) and do not send me any anthrax powder via my email; sorry, post mail, after reading this blog.

Where were we: ah yes, terrorism. I think any fellow that acts towards you and for all the wrong reasons puts your hypophysio-pituitary-adrenal axis on overdrive: makes you fear, fume, flee, fight or fart (if you really can’t help it) qualifies to be called a terrorist; whether you die or not. That definition makes anybody ranging from the Alshafam (Alshabab, Alshamum and Alshakids) to the estates’ mongrel qualify as terrorists. Infact, I have particular individuals who I think should be hunted down by the anti terrorist unit and brought to justice by Ocampo and the likes:

*The shower skiver
This is the person you are unfortunate enough to be next to anytime of the day. He (or she sometimes) is congenitally hydrophobic. I lack adjectives to describe the stench emanating from this fellow. And within this group of shower skivers, there is a special subgroup who are responsible for unleashing fumes only second to nerve gas on the lethal scale. I'm talking about the culprits who smell like they drink methanol or formalin as substitute for alcohol and smoke beetle dung rolled in old newspapers. They are the people house flies avoid: they stink so bad, when they walk close to a garbage fire the smoke billows to the opposite side. These people just ruin your whole day: if you are fortunate enough to walk out of their vicinity alive and conscious that is.

*The ill mannered ‘coughers’ and ‘sneezers’
If you have ever walked down a busy street then an oncoming pedestrian coughs or sneezes right in your face, you know what I am talking about. Anyone who is insane enough cough or sneeze without covering their orifices scares the health out of those in his vicinity. I think this qualifies to be an act of terrorism considering the health risks innocent by standers are exposed to. This is the 21st century; the ages where one could dispense spittle as a blessing and get away with it are long gone.

*Smokers
I have nothing against decent smokers; the ones who realize that not everyone is like them and when they do smoke, they cause minimum discomfort to non smokers. The problem comes in when a section of smokers feel like global warming is not progressing fast enough and they urgently need to do something to ‘fix’ that. Yes, the kind that insists on walking with a cloud around them; choking everyone in their vicinity. With the widely known paradox that secondary smoking is riskier health-wise than primary smoking, I think this here qualifies as an act of terrorism.

*The Kenyan police
Our boys, no: brutes in blue are just something else. From the stray bullets that kill innocent by standers to the fake glocks planted as ‘evidence’ on the bullet ridden corpses of alleged offenders: the list of terror goes on and on. I have witnessed an arrest where some guy was hoisted so far up by his pants; I think his testicles momentarily receded into his thoracic cavity. Here is another typical scenario.

{feet shuffling as some young revelers are rounded by police at night}
Police {half shouting}: Kichana, pika makoti! (kneel down young man!)
Victim {submitting now scared}:…ssawa, sawa afande (alright, officer)
Police {dealing some blows}: Nachua watu tatu natembea usiku, Umbwa, Mwisi na Askari. Wewe nani kati ya hao? (Only dogs, police and thieves walk at night. Who are you amongst them?) *like walking at night is a crime*
Victim {injured, and obviously in a trilemma}:………..eerm…….*thinking: what the hell?*…….{Uneasy silence}
Police {harder blows, draws blood}: Unachifanya pupu sahii? Kichwa kama mzigo ya mwizi! Gucha kibande ii, wewe taongea mbele! Twende! (Now you can’t talk? *insults* Maybe when we lock you up, your tongue will loosen up. Let’s go!)

Now that Kenyan troops have invaded Somalia, the Alshabab are an imminent terrorist threat for sure. But before they strike, let’s all try and steer clear of these local terrorists now won’t we?

Sunday, 9 October 2011

A LARGE UGALI FOR MY BIRTHDAY PLEASE..?

I sure have missed blogging. Unlike most bloggers and social networking site users who have just showed up after ignoring their blogs, pages and walls for a while; I chose not to complain about the ‘cobwebs’ on my blog. Being a bush doctor comes with many awkward responsibilities including a heightened sense ‘cobweb tolerance’. Before you conclude that my sense of hygiene is twisted, these eerie strands overhanging from the roof of my cave somehow increase my patients reverence in my abilities as a bush doctor. The word here is ‘bush’, by the way. I just hope though, that there are no bats lurking in some dark crevice. Bats and I; we are sworn as mortal enemies. That’s a story for another day though. So where have I been?

Again, ‘writer’s block’ is the cliché excuse but no. The only ‘blocks’ I have come across so far are nerve blocks by a myriad anaesthetic agents I'm yet to cram into my cranium and bribe collection centers; jam inducing road blocks by the Kenya Police. ‘Blogger’s hiatus’ is my excuse for being away. My constant accomplice Mr. Thalamus and I took some time off. Pause. The thalamus is an interesting part of your brain’s anatomy that is central in controlling your mental and physiological processes. Before you conclude I'm gay, dear readers; meet Mr. Thalamus. He is my mind’s permanent secretary, the small guy whose job is to control me and is sometimes my partner in 'crime'(:-G for gangster grin). In fact, recently I added ‘mediating the conflicts between the evil angel on my left and the benevolent devil on my right’ into his job description. Oh, how irony rocks my world! So Mr. Thalamus and I had gone for an expedition. While I have been busy in medical school and life, Thalamus was on his own wild adventures…

In Africa, we have a tradition of taking males of a certain age into the jungle. There we put them through experiences that will leave them palpating their loins just to confirm that their scrotum and its occupants are still intact. After that, we declare them men. Mr. Thalamus went through a similar ordeal after life threw a few curve balls at him. When he came back he had this ease about him, like they taught him how to gently put the world on his palm before it spins him off his axis. This guy’s attitude has really changed. In fact, I now declare him a man. *applause*. He is ready to grab the bull by the horns before it strikes; to halt the donkey by the balls before it kicks and, to pick the skunk by the tail……(you get the drift, right?). And with the advent of his manly metamorphosis, he has this crazy idea of how we should celebrate my birthday.

The way to a man’s heart is trough his stomach they say. Unless we are talking about Martians here, I’ve always wondered what sorts of men bear a direct link between their heart and stomach. Talk of a cardio-gastric fistula! Anyway, Thalamus fancies this theory and he proposes that a volunteer should cook me a smashing ugali as a substitute for cake for my 22nd birthday. He thinks that things should roll of a tad bit differently this birthday round. With the current inflation, the price of maize flour is way above soaring so if it’s some expensive pastry I’d wanted, delicious ugali just qualifies. So to stop his constant pestering and try doing something banal yet ironically funny for my birthday, I hereby launch my bid to anyone who feels philanthropic enough to cook me a delicious ugali with the following specifications. I would like an ugali I can sing for, like that wacko dude on some advert. Make it big enough too. Of late, Thalamus and his best friend Hypothalamus keep tweaking my appetite. Lastly, please use Jogoo maize flour. I hear under the influence of certain contraindicated therapeutics, it makes ugali taste just like chicken!
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