Eti How Now Does Love Run the World? Into the Ground, Perhaps

There's a reason love gets called all kindsa names. Love is a game of life, after all, with a biological imperative that serves itself: without at least tolerating each other, we'd likely be an endangered species by now.

 

What love does is ruin, not run, the world. The world entire, not our littu cosmoses and osmatic asthmatic mosaics what know no collages.

 

Which is why all the brouha about the world ending feels more than just a tad endothermic. We do it to ourselves. Heat ourselves up, long before we encounter others we may choose to collide with, propagating our species. Moto bin kumoto, and boom. 9 months of penance, percentiles more of suffering until our young leave the yard upon attaining the suffrage of the universe. Presuming the chickens don' come home to roost, and our nests weren't so comfortable as to have taught the chicks a failure to launch.

 

In protecting these external limbs whose natures we have grown so accustomed to as to wonder what would happen to them if we weren't there to give guidance, we may wilt, and wilt, and wilt...and nurture them into suckers who know little but how to drain the very life force outta everything that comes within nuclear fallout radius of their spherical influences. 

 

Why?

 

Because we loved them ever so much as to have shown them that they weren't only number one, but the one thing – and one thing only – what mattered to their gods: and by God, Moms and Pops would strike all other false pretend totems outta their very expensive horizons – let alone closeted exo-very-skeletal armor – if they even once chose to look them askance. These littu monsters then watch, amused, as Moms and Pops laugh at how their Lord's love is too much ooo, and better than all other lords, so help them not blaspheme God; and fight over how their God's rules specify convenient supremacy for whosoever the apparent winner is at any given time of day.

 

Smitten?
 
You're it.
 
You've been had.

 

You will do as you were told, Bathsheba, and await your Man Solo to reign over you and the legacies of what pains it took to get him there. The lands of Sheba had no baths, you see, and the bounties of Egypt had long since taken a rain check, flowing to the West Bank where even their smallest accurate boys could bake and sing and bite those who kaa Naan; all target-practicing and comfort-living, the better to launch deadpooling-pebbles a-sling at Giants.

 

We did that.

 

No National interests did that.

 

Love is called a drug.

 

Love is called sugar. Love is called giving a fuck. Love is warm enough to have no chills about ending other loves. Yet since everything worth its weight in salt knows to seek moderation, too much love becomes an idealist stockade of potions that make poisons cower in dark corners, afraid to show their faces.  It dehydrates what it once vivified. Anhydrous love, like salty peepu? Sheds insulation: it becomes insular, a live wire to the touch, electrifying to look at.

 

Deadly on contact. It has charted some pathways so oft, and so hard, it needs feel only warm to seek heat like a missile, and ravage it till everything of its own cold metallic exterior is lodged into everything that boiled and charred the fuck out when - inevitably - it combusted, incinerating everything fortunate enough to find itself within its explosive radius.

 

Incendiaries have nothing on love gone sour. We did that to ourselves. We will do it to ourselves. I bet you when the world-ending event finally gets here from outta Space and Time and all their continuums, those mohines so fortunate as to perish together will remember nothing of what mattered so much that they forgot to enjoy, more than destroy, life as we know it.

 

Love is only sugar because given to one man at the right time it will reboot receptors and cool down capacitors long enough to keep the ticker marching: to the other man? It may well be the difference between the kicker kicking on, and the last kicks of a diabetic horse. It is only ours because we may well be the only species that knows how to - and thus in true human fashion has learned to excel at - hating what we can't have. Ending what we can't be. Unaliving (Good God I hate that bullshit notion of a word) what has more life in its pinky than ever flowed through us as we sat tainting all we touched with our giant heads.

 

Si basi tuendelee kuingizwa kichwa tu? Kichwa ngumu ya jitu itapasua msamba vile ndovu inge ku tu! Forget supra-additive toxicities of drug abuse and ethics, moralities and Acts of godly judgment: love and how it interacts with our lifestyles?

 

Is how the world ends.

Crashing on Heaven's Gate: Kenya'$ Ghetto Havens

How many licks does it take till you get to the centre of the O?

The Art of Seduction in a world choke-fulla hubris and self driven folk geared - by self or other - towards a distinction of themselves from others based on what triggers their likes and dislikes, fannies and dicks, offense and defense, is slowly petering out into all out warfare between the sexes.

I say slowly, because fortunately, this itsy bitsy denudation and lack thereof bullshit has yet to hit your rural areas in full force. Sure, there are isolated sexists gallivanting about, usually driven by political machineries they barely understand, but most certainly will in the end. And before you agree, that means you, sexy lady making a buck stepping on everything in your path with balls, as much as it does the loud motherfucker whistling at your phat ass from across the road in his hooptie. 

The beauty of living in what is now referred generically as the Female Genital Mutilation headquarters of the world, is that you slowly come to realize how distinct and varied our valued belief systems really were. And how there is more to culture than traditions long since obliviated by good sense. 

You see men and women, boys II girls, all working together, tagging war and exchanging ideas, laughter, and most importantly, domestic responsibility.

Lemme see that thong?

See it's all push and pull, shove and plunge, give and take, in this big thing we call life. Why anybody buys into the bullshit that institutionalized the very fundaments it seems to fight profit from is beyond me. If you give it a name, then it's already won... What are you good for?  

Do you wanna get funky with me?

Religious bellies belief has bred the disbelief that belies humanity. Sit down, nun-yuh-Father's business. Religion isn't just about your sects and cults. It is a way of life that is just as soon replicated, for better or worse. 

Capitalism against Socialism, Marx against America, Einstein escaping Germany, Ubuntu against Ukabila, and yes: Islam against Christianity, Catholic against everything, Protestant against good sense, and every church against Kiuna, Ng'ang'a et al.

We simply get pissed when some smart ass-wipe has the audacity to learn the ideals we call our own and make better money, dick or good pussy than we ever could doing it 💰😉😂🐱

I don't want no scrubs, a scrub issa guy that can't get no love from me.

The late great Hip-hop god of the golden coming of age of Kenyan music says: moss, moss, polepole, haraka haraka haina baraka. He was a buccaneer at a time when it was not entirely popular to be Muslim in Kenya. He died young and fast, and that is how we like our poets and artists. Dead and gone into the K-ruptions of our loves and memories. E-sir real con, and a broken drum fool of conundrum, making art to reflect social more where none lives.

Don't get mad: get even. 

Kirk Franklin is the diva of the Afro Gospel scene, as is Mr Madea on the Afro American screens. So what if you don't like what they offer? Get up, struggle like they have, understand the basics of the systems they stride across, then bring us your high quality shite for mass production. 

If Gengetone is a representative of society, who says slapstick isn't? Does it have to both be proper to your swaying sensibilities and sweet to your popularity for it to count as good, not great? 

Who taught Kenyans to run so amok on our own standards that we are happy to choke each other for breakfast 🥐 art café lattes? Ya leo ni leo, yalondwele sipite; accept, move the fuck on. Get even as fast as you can, coz daily bread and kids and and and...

(Puff Puff ) Pass the (couversier/Dutchie pon di left hand side #Alloftheaboveandthensomecockandtail

Let go of each other, watch from the sidelines as life batters us all to pulps, then whine that peepū have changed, become addicts, need divine ass from distance sistances, who look you askance talking bout cancerous AIDS and disoders, for men are dogs.

 Slap some money on the problem, make it less shameful to us, and keep it away, fattening and drooling so we can have some peace in our spaces of comfort, in the zone.

You reap what you sow, dear heifers and cock-and-bulls. So bathe in it and wade through the chaotic murk that we allow to fester every day. Challenge me to a dogfight, however, and know only this much: I play for the long run in a long game. Marathon your way on, sprint the fuck outta dodge, I'ma just walk at my own pace, and rhythmically rhyming balance, to my chosen destination.

Fortunately, you have the same options I did:

Death after decay.

 Or decay after death?

It's driving me outta my mind ...never trust a big butt and a smile. 

If I were you I'd take precaution.

Scheme as we may, and we will have to, the endgame is simple: do I play evil for good, or become evil for good? Choosing a side means learning to be fit at the art of surviving the seduction of pretense.

Be who you are, or nothing at all. Honest dicks and rude bitches get along swimmingly; it's your eye candy and holy Joe you've gotta watch out for. I'd much sooner vote for a Sonko in this day and age than I would a Bensouda. 

A bad mummajumma with an attitude will 9 times outta 10 ride or die with you, if you suit her fancy as much as she suits yours. In life, love, and affairs of the mind, body, soul and beershara.

Conclusions? 

Can't outrun Freddie when his Jason's going nowhere. So, towards that effect...

Vacancy: now hiring Call Girl. Duties inclusive but not entirely limited to answering short calls, coz a nigga fucking tired of y'all; sounding like a pornstar, coz a nigga still wants to give you a raising rise; and miscellaneous, coz a nigga might wanna be buried next to someone, and she might as well do. And of course, she will make you feel honoured to sell me your soul, so sweet and patient and payable she is.

Ciao for now. 

Do as I say, nut as I do 😉

Why? Butt I cunt?

Footnote: Satire?  Who gives a flying fuck? Coz enyewe butt me I cunt with entrées! 

Bye for real 😂🐱😬🙏 

The Poor Valentine

Look up, dear Valentina. That means you too, Valentino.

Those nails have seen enough polish. Get them to work. That screen, with the Persies and Drogbas and Toures inn’ going nowhere. You bought that recording gizmo that DSTV offers, did you not? Use it. 

Go to church. Pray for a miracle. Thank God for that new car.


Consume. Thank the creator for allowing it.


Poverty begins in the mind. It springs forth, off my father’s lack of forethought. It comes from his disregard of his duty to build upon my forefather’s simple ways, his subsistence from farm production.


Poverty is in the ‘mine’; in your own mine. I want. I must have. I should do’s and don’ts, because they asked it of me. But it does not end there.


It seeks pigeonholes. It wants company, assertion, reiteration…noise.


It does not want silence. It is afraid it will see right through itself. It worries that it will wonder why it spends a small company’s annual budget – nay, its entire 5 year plan – on a palatial room in a well-marketed castle for a dead saint.


What else could 2.4 million Kenya shillings produce?


And there’s a million voices…


Poverty is in the experience, in the lack; in the lack of experience, the wastage of luck… It is not original.

I want to be original; to be creative and be part of the solution. Don’t you? Of course you do. You have been asked, time and again, to be that guy; that girl.

But how…?

How do you create original solutions to a self-perpetuating problem? How do you, when that self-recycling problem raised you? Molded your every thought, every experience and word…your very voice? Molded you in its own mould, molded you against that mould?

How do you tell others not to be poor, when your perception of poverty varies so often? When their happiness and your own misconceive each other, do not converge to build better for each other?

The answer is so simple, to me, right now. Mind matters. Darkness matters, as much as the light guiding us out does. The journey, all with one accord, must matter. Divergent thought, critical, matters.

Can we not teach our children to know themselves, accept others, and tolerate only that which they must, to get where they need to be? Can we not show them that access to resources, to information, to people, matters more than that vision board with the flashing wedding lights?

I believe that we have no option but to do just that. We have no option but to walk, we who can and believe we know how to. We will amuse some. Others will ignore us. We will face challenges.

Above all, we will remember that challenges are opportunities waiting to be reached for. We will constantly eat new experiences, meet new meats, and grow our reach.

We will grab the opportunities by their throat, choke our poverty into oblivion.

Only then, shall one ably willing generation: #EndPovertyInKenya.

Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick |

“Women always talking ‘bout what men, do, we don’t ever talk about what

women do…at least till now.”

- Ying Yang Twins, NAGGING.

Yuh heard? 

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, you said?


Give. me. a fucking break. I will now pretend you felt the sense to see that as the exclamation - from within your own little hell’s kitchen - which it truly is.


I have been watching you, skunk. Regarding your every move with suspicion, as you waltz from convention to the next, heels held at the ready to poke out the next mansplaining eye you meet.


And you meet them.


Everywhere you look, you see them. You actively seek them out, your funky 3-week soggy sock attitude stinking up every space you crawl into, every hole you skunk through. It’s lonely on your side of the bed, and you take it out on every little wanker with his dick out between his hands.


Because he is OBVIOUSLY creaming for your loins. How could he not be? Look at you and all that you 'guts going on'. Look at him as he sits and gropes and gapes at your *big brain*.


Who the fuck told Kenyan "feminists" that they could sit around and mutually masturbate, in their little regurgitating rooms, fixing their makeup just right, and proclaim a ‘crisis for the mens’ every two bloody cycles menstrual flows seconds?

"I know you're lying coz your lips are moving..."

- Meghan Trainor, Lips Are Movin'

Who, dear little winner with the silenced little weiner, whack-slapped your little brain so far up her ass that you lap up and spit out everything she says up like the little mongrel she has made you?


Who the fuck made cuckolding mainstream?



I went for the Storymoja Hay Festival last year. A mensed up bloody mess of a thing it has become lately, yet perfectly so. It is a representation of a little cosmetic cosmos we like to call a second or third cumming of the liberal Kenya. It lives in small dark "enlightened" crevices it calls *spaces* in Nairobi, arrogantly proclaiming its ignorance whenever a chance presents itself.


Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?”

Continues here: click at your own fucking peril

Up Yours, Dear Kenyan Mangina: Go Suck a Real Dick ||

Now at this festival, there was perhaps no more indicative a bullshit session of Kenya’s faux liberati scum as the forum dubbed ,“The! Future! of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today? of Men!: What is it like to be a man in Kenya today?” 


It was moderated by the consummate prick that is Oyunga Pala, supposedly in conversation with his little big dickmate Biko Zulu, but eventually groped by the now infamous Tony Mochama.We both know you came to drool at Biko, little girl. So sad you were that he did not show, you pulled off your panties and put the roof on fire. But did not squirt it off at the end, when it really was the least you coulda done.


I will not sit here and talk about what has been extensively cataloged by every feminist blog between here and kingdom chick-bean-flicking cum. As an audience member, I did that. Internal monologues between me and myself, and later with one puny cocked weasel Yule Mbois Mndialala who thinks himself some sort of autonomous wankster god on Facebook.


The session turned out quite as I had expected. In these Kenyan *spaces,* the right to doublethink has categorically been displayed as a privilege the *mens* should – make that capital, underlined, bold *Must* – check. It is whipped out in such fancy colours that you, the menses, actually do. You do check these privileges your dick gave you over her pussy.


Women have been silent for so long in Kenya, the second they grow a pair of brain cells, they feel they own the privileged right to whip it out and shut you up with it.


Who said that victims cannot be graceful victors? All I see in these streets are victims walking around either moaning about their victimized little minds, or masquerading as victors to manifest their victim mentality in every puny argument their weak ideas present:

‘manslamming’this, 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

‘manspreading’ that, ‘maninist’ this… 

[Caution: spoken with a loud curling Kilimani twang, or else...] 

What is it with you little bitches and your manventions? Ok, I get that you need to vent your manly frustrations, but really? You gave yourselves a label, so we need one too? Don’t we already have enough in our liquor cabinets?


Don’t you see that these one-size-fits-alls will be your undoing?


Tell me, dear little femininely shamed slut of a feminist, how when a man drinks himself silly and has his way with your tired but equally drunk hung-out-together-all-night ass, it is rape. It becomes rape when you wake up, remember your inhibitions were more than slightly off their ticking rockers, and so you could not have been in any position to give his drunken ass consent.


I will wait for you to swallow that.


As a matter of fact, I will rephrase it for your weak little bitch-fitting brain-denying cunt: he was high, his cognition holds up; you were high, yours does not. How can you turn around and look me in the eye, away from your place of invisibility, as you sing that doublethink back into my ear?


Do you even realize how vile that parseltongue is to me?

At the Future of Men rolling in the Hay session, you and your ilk stormed the house.


Check.


You were pricked by Tony and the like.


Check.


You stormed out.


Double twice check.


So you proceeded to whip your imagined dicks off onto the mic, and refused to back down when it was your turn to. Order, dear little vadge-badge, applies to you too.


If you grab the mic off my hands because your fragile little angina tells your vagina that it needs to bring its monologue out into the public, and so fuck me as I wait for my turn to speak:

*you are that little mansplaining, manspreading, manslamming prick you so love to detest.*

Start acting aware of your surroundings. Get away from your phone’s little screen and tembea fucking Kenya. Otherwise you will get plowed down by people who are also unaware of their surroundings. And for the life of your (un)born sons and daughters, little bitch, get a life and live it.


Screaming bloody murder and oh “not all men” means all men, but “no means no”?


Will you stop and get a hold of your export brains before they fall completely out off your imported bra?


In closing, here are the immortal words of T.O.K., the same ones you danced your skinny ass off to before it grew fatty cellulite and made you a fat angry bitch:

No way, Jose, we nuh go ever stay, a gurl fi know she haffi give it up

before we pay…

Coz if she don’t play, then we don’t pay!

Think about that too, every time we pay your way for a lay. Because if I have to hear you claim to have more sensible investments than we do, coz you got land and shit? You and your funny nanny of a fanny will see how gaskets truly blow.


Yelling how there's a mansis up in every nigga-fucking large hall that lets you pander your Bull. How there are no men left up in this bitch.

Bring it! What? We right here, We're not going anywhere.We right here, This is ours and we don't share... We right here, Bring your crew coz we don't care...

- DMX, We Right Here

If you can't find a good one, so you wanna whip up your own little mangina to Lorde over, get the fuck outta my way. I am human. You can take that broken groupthinking gender kaleidoscope and shove it where my sunny little dick will never shine.


And now, in true closing, I will quote my friend Smitta Smitten, the one y’all tried to smite – all hail, ye mighty smiters –

“oh dear, better legal gold than legal lead…n both are better than legally dead!”

Now go manfist your Audre-manifesting self or some shit. I'm out.

Signed,

Marquis de Sadness 

Member of the World Fuck You Media.