Sunday, 9 October 2011


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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