Wednesday, 21 December 2011


Once upon a time, the Creator needed a hand. After a thought, He conjured a man. He wove around him a weakness for writing, a longing for curing, an eye for the arts and an ear for music and poetry. Within him, He placed a deep, resilient soul. Around him, were simplicity, subtlety and flaw. He then let him out into the world and set him on the path of life. As time went by, the Creator noticed a vast and troubled emptiness within this man. This 'flaw' was taking its toll on the man. There was a need to make an antidote for this flaw lest the man veered off on his path of life. After thoughtful consideration, He decided to make a painting.

So on a designated day, He set out before sunrise to the windward of the heavenly hill side. This place had the most exquisite view in the entire universe. With Him was a priceless canvas, a unique set of brushes and a collection of the rarest of pigments. He found the ideal spot on the hill side, settled on a rostrum and waited. At the first ray of dawn, He struck his first mark on the canvas with his brush. And for twelve painstaking hours, he struck his brush gently and carefully umpteen more times until the last ray of the sun. For with the sunset came his completing stroke. He stood back and looked at the painting. It was ideal, so perfect was it to his eyes, it deserved to be brought to life He thought. This would be the best gift to the ailing man. So the Creator set back to his premises, this time satisfaction welling within him. He was eager to summon the man in the morrow.

The next day, the man found himself in the dark of the heavenly hill side, the creator astute by His side. A little puzzled, the man inquired why he had been brought back to heaven on such short notice. The Creator explained to him that he had a special gift, one that was intended to change his life for the better. Within that moment, the night gave in to dawn. The sun, with all its majesty, cut slowly through the morning chill. In its aura was the silhouette of stunning beauty. So unique was this astounding image that the plethora of God's creation paused momentarily in its recognition. The man's heart bubbled with bliss, as his emptiness faded. In that instant, he found his feet carrying him towards this sight-to-behold, his eager steps gradually transforming into flight. His hands reached out this newly found treasured gift. His speech failed him, but his eyes glowed in awe. She was the most exquisite thing he could never describe. Her gentle eyes, dainty nose, soft smooth skin, stunning smile, perfect curves and her breathtaking ambience amalgamated into pristine beauty. She was flagrantly fragrant. He embraced her warm frame; it was his first ever serendipity.

Having witnessed this magical moment, the creator wished them well, let them back into the world and retired to his premise; a satisfied being. Together, they were united in life. They walk the same path, but in different shoes. The man had never felt as complete before. She laughs at his stupidity; her giggle is magical, more so how she lifts her foot when laughing. He likes their random kisses; her petal soft lips, how they evoke a rush within him. He smiles at her naivety, her deep sense of keenness, her feminine strength and her prowess in culinary. She has a thing for music, often depicted in her graceful gyrations. She is a kindred spirit, one he admires in awe; a fragile heart he will ever hold so close.

She is his patient; contagiously love sick. He is her doctor, somewhat addicted to her contagion. Between them is a sense of uncanny ambivalence, a Utopian reality, joyful hurt, dry tears, a confusing epiphany and most importantly an everlasting moment: sweet and treasured. Emotional alteration is their subtle tuner, and life's turbulence serves as a constant polisher to what they have. The man embraces it all with thanksgiving, as a priceless present, which he strives to set on a pedestal despite his misgivings. And everyday, he sends a silent prayer to the Creator; that in her deepest insecurity, He may so often so softly remind her, that she was specially and specifically made for him, and he will always be there.

Tuesday, 20 December 2011


The Hippocratic Oath requires medics to recognize the frailty of human life; and as such act to save life, not pose as gods. Sometimes however, I ask my self whether human life is really that frail. I mean different people are caught up in similar situations all the time. While some - rather most - brace themselves and walk out of it; others insist on pegging their lives around the worst possible outcomes. The former lot takes life by the horns, while the latter are like na├»ve matadors in the ring, devoid of the red flag. The out come is rather obvious don’t you think? So what am I drawing at? The fact that the modern world is consistently bombarded with unnecessary and sometimes disturbing information about the world ending.

It all started with one Reverend Harold Camping's first prediction in 1994. Well, maybe there were earlier predictions by other characters prior. Since I wasn’t around yet as they were happening, I presume it safe to announce that the world never ended. Now, let's get back to Mr. Camping. This man announced the end of the world on September 6th that year, later postponing it to May 21st 2011. He then postponed it, again, to October 21st, same year. The reason for changing the dates according to him was a 'miscalculation'. The irony is that the fellow has a degree in engineering. Miscalculation should therefore not exactly be his specialty. Somehow, the old man still managed to pull a hat trick on the scare contest (applause). If the 'good' reverend still has a following, I wonder what his flock thinks of him.

Then there was Y2K at the turn of the century. It started as a potential logistical scare in the computing and business world. Computers back then were programmed to date up to 1999 and therefore the aforementioned stakeholders risked distorting huge amounts of data. This would rather be disadvantageous. Somehow, the media and some pessimistic isolates in the public extrapolated the scare into a full blown potential disaster. I clearly remember the 31st night of December 1999. I stayed up late that day. Picture a scared kid waiting for the trumpets and heavenly escalators to materialize in the skies at night. Midnight kicks in, and the crossover is just as usual; fireworks, disturbed barking dogs, then the night retires to a few cricket chirps here and there. Oh brother!

It is even more disappointing that some of the most famous civilizations had to join in this scaring game. Case in point: the Mayans and the Aztecs. I think whoever they decided to designate the role of 'chronologist' to suffered from a severe case of Pessimismosis - not a real disease, though I believe you get the idea. It is for that particular reason, in my opinion, that somehow the Aztec and the Mayan calendars' had to end at December 24th this year and December 23rd next year respectively. As I wait for Christmas this year, I am hardly surprised why these civilizations are almost non existent.

Lastly, there is this fellow Nostradamus. If there is one policy in life I live by, it is not to trust any information contained in someone's autobiography. To prove this, I will digress to Hitler and his book Mein Kampf (My struggle). I will not divulge into its contents, but just from the title, you are left wondering what sort of struggle this man was writing about. Whether it was liberating Germany from western influences, or 'cleansing' the Arian race off Jewish infiltration, this guy was pure evil; I give not a tad about his struggle.

Nostradamus had an autobiography and a book, Les Propheties (The prophecies). Last time I checked, prophecies emphasized on three things; time, manner, place. His book however makes no tangible sense in the named aspects. In fact, while some people try hard to interpret its contents according to modern day events, a segment of his critics describe his quatrain poetic writings as 'vague', 'inaccurate' and 'baseless'. A school of thought even argues that Nostradamus was expelled from University of Montpellier Medical School, after which he took to being a quack in the French countryside. In his own record, he took to studying astrology using cosmologic reflections from a bowl of water and interpreting them in a state of 'trance'. As with autobiographers, I have a deep seated mistrust for quacks. Then the mention of trance brings two things to mind, cannabis and methamphetamine (crystal meth). No further comments honorable readers.

In concluding, I tend to think that the outstanding feature about the human race is its consistent sense of optimism. A few characters are usually out to preach the worst about everything. Some of us believe it and react by selling all our property, buying gas masks, building bunkers, 'cleansing' ourselves with fire, worshiping guys who just landed in our locale using parachutes, to mention but a few. The rest of us however coolly trudge on into the future with special motives, faith in the Creator and a resilient sense of optimism. It is for the latter that I do not listen to propaganda, nor lend an ear to sad music. In fact, you can play all that after my funeral for all I care. For now, 2012 is another year for us to prove ourselves as human beings; the best and strongest species the universe has yet.

Friday, 16 December 2011


Well, it's Christmas again, that short time of the year when the usual activities are replaced by traveling, eating (even while traveling), drinking and making merry. I don’t want to go on about what happens during Christmas lest you start accusing me of having a firm grasp of the obvious. Lets talk about something eccentric instead. Something like; what if Santa Claus was a Kikuyu?

Ditch the white guy, the red clothing, black boots and the hat. In their place, put a hefty middle aged Kikuyu man in a blue Savco jean, a yellow 'Ng'ombe' T shirt, Safari Boots and a beige 'Blue Triangle Cement' flat face as a hat. You could switch the latter with a cowboy hat or a turban if you like. That’s your average Kikuyu Santa.

Santa Claus Village would be Gatunguru village in Murang'a County. I hear that is where all enterprising Kikuyus hail from.

The guy would roll in a Toyota Probox or a hand cart depending on how much a liter of petrol is going for on Christmas Eve. These are trying economic times remember? Either way, the vehicle would be pulled by donkeys.

The elves would be four to six standard three boys from Mushatha Primary School (probably Santa's sons or nephews).

Carols such as 'Njingo Mbews' and 'We Wich You A Melly Krithimath' would be remixed by John De Mathew and the likes to more conversant 'Mugithi' tunes.

Gifts would be wrapped in banana leaves. They would definitely be for sale.

The Probox would work as a Taxi on Christmas day. Hakuna kuregarega!

Christmas bells would be replaced by the 'Coro' horn.

The 'Merry Christmas' greeting is a little hard for the average Kiuk Santa to repeat all day. After all, 'Engrish' came into this land via a 'Chip' (read ship). How about something simpler like 'Mujiejoyy! Ho Ho Ho!' Its a good thing Kikuyus do not shrub 'H' sounds.

Finally, Luo's, Kalenjins and Luhya's would be 'Claus'trophobic

That said, I am now gearing up to celebrate Kwanza this time round. To all loved ones, friends, followers and readers of this blog, have Happy Holidays. Try not to eat yourself to constipation, drink yourself to a comma, or drive yourself into a ditch. In case you do, you know where to find me. J.K. Mujiejoyy!!

Monday, 5 December 2011


Being a medical student is a 'jack of all trades and master of none' affair. It really leaves me at a loss of where I would like to go after the next three years of clerkship and hard labor. But that’s far off, for now; let me share what I sometimes think of some of these professions whenever my mind wanders:

Mortician/ Pathologist

Male: Either you are a weirdo, or you just get the kicks out of telling people, 'OK, we'll still meet: sooner or later'.
Female: Seriously lady, get a life. (I mean that literally too)

The ass kissing you did in med school, it wasn’t meant to be a profession.

Me: Hey, so what is your job like?
Answer: Well, I just sit all day, listen to people say their problems, observe their behavior and confirm they are insane
Me: Really, that’s all?
Answer: Yes, that’s all I do.
Me: Erm, I think you need to see a psychiatrist.

Young male gynecologist: You pervert!
Older male gynecologist: Yeah, I know you have saved many damsels in distress. Still, you pervert!
Female gynecologist: Girl power; way to go lady, way to go!

Male urologist (age regardless): Bro dude, you either have balls of titanium (three balls to be exact) or I am asking questions about your position on the sexual fence.
Female urologist: Well, well, well, what have we here? For one reason or another, I am cocksure (that's an English phrase) you never lack patients. In other news, way to go ma'am, way to go!

You sadist, all you do is wait for accidents to happen.

Roses are red, violets are blue, the patients are old, the job is too.

I bet you never have Monday blues; all you do is witness and facilitate miracles for a living.

Neurologist/ Neurosurgeon
Until the day you find the cure for stupidity, whatever your job entails will never really equate the number of years you spend in medical school.

We mend broken hearts; hearts full of cholesterol to be precise.

Cosmetic surgeon
The barbie doll industry is at last alive. Using a blade to draw curves and conjure smiles, totally awesome job. Yeah, even the part you ensure ladies stop seeing their feet whenever they glance down.

Either your sense of optimism is enough to move mountains (read tumors), or you and the hearse driver have a lot in common.

Lastly, Kenyan General Practitioner
The Game to Dr. Dre: 'Yo Dre, I see debt people.'

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