Coming soon,
TV commercials go on and on,
New movies,
New albums,
Intimate connection ads,
Oversexed girls gyrating on TV,
Asking me to call or text the number on the screen,
Winter is one huge business opportunity to many,
Fall premiers come first,
Holiday season specials,
And the Christmas blockbusters,
While the Oscars are just around the corner.
Winter gets intimate too,
Its gets cold,
So cold it burns,
And I need a cooler,
White covers the land and space,
Just as does cloth cover the body,
Humans become couch potatoes,
And yet The TV does more selling than entertaining,
I get sold condoms,
Beer,
Latest versions,
Of vehicles,
Phones,
Computers,
Kitchenware,
And the play-offs too.
And home delivery is ecstatic,
They talk of
pizzas,
wings
Coffee,
ribs
And aphrodisiacs.
Its winter,
A time when being “strong” is cool,
We dress like zombies,
With Oversized jackets,
Boots,
Hats,
Gloves,
And Coffee to keep all warm.
KAGAME
from Icebox.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
BUNGA BUNGA
Since we have not had this conversation before I assume that you are typically interested in crime stories. Stories with all the twists of drama, intrigue, hatred, playahating human beings, success, failure, envy, joy, peace, sadness, drama and recovery, sex and happiness.
I know also that you may not have gone ahead to name yourself don or even worship at the altar of the mafia, but perhaps you watched the GodFathers; everyone else seems to have anyway.
So I was watching the news this evening and witnessed the best as far as crime stories come.
BUNGA BUNGA
You may have heard of the story of Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, his rise to professional respect in law, politics and women. Recently has is said to have “danced’ WITH Moroccan bellydancer. Note: He has helped launched the career of that curvaceous 17 year old girl.
Anyway, the girl said that she danced with the Prime Minister as well as his Bunga Bunga Club members. Private sessions of course!!
EPIC ENDING
Now the story ends up in parliament, they have had to vote on a vote of confidence whilst his esterwhile allies turned enemies on the attack. While the entire media, MPs, EVERYONE OF note and notofnote seriously believed Berlusconi was out. Wapi>>>>>
(thinkThink of any epic story.
But the drama was enchanting as the results of the parliamentary vote were confusing. The results were announced twice and Belusconi appeared to have lost the vote in the first bulletin from parliament.
Most people predicted a loss to his People’s Freedom Party, which itself is a precursor to his earlier party; Forza Italia. Borrowed from a football chant- were indeed disappointed and to show it they burnt all they could find. Of course some of those immigrants that have been chased around the srteets were amongst the people baying for the blood of Ill Cavaliere. The Knight!!!
.
The protesters who were now in jubilation and merry making because of the first results turned violent and burnt down cars and anything they could find other than their historic buildings Rome when the second result came out.
Watching the television I could not believe my eyes; was it some fantasy story, a movie turned news or pure bullshit?
Berlusconi is of original blue-collar mould from some obscure community near Milan. He made his name into high classes the hard way. He went to school, hustled the streets and turned into a politician.
Old Money
Along the way, he toned a well-muscled body, technology took care of the hairstyle and at 71, and stories of him and a 17-year-old belly dancer are not strange. In fact I’d love to look like Berlusconi if I ever make it to 71. But definitely act like him; although I’d love his success too; to be thrown in the package such that at 74 I am still a mover and shaker of both the sane and insane in equal measures.
Berlusconi is scorned upon by the old money and conservative kind; but he rightly belongs in their quarters and so they have to only be stubborn by not welcoming him among their ranks. In fact to show that he is old money enough, he decided to move his earlier left leaning political affiliations to completely right wing.
Along the way alienating and supporting moves to deport illegal African immigrants and throwing the mostly Ghanaian home care workers in the streets.
New Money
Now that the old money kind is on his side he has to deal with the others, which are the new money. He is a success story of every Tom Harry and Dick who leave their hometown street to search for El Dorado in big cities, some in even bigger countries.
As he did with the nobility, old money and conservative kind, Berlusconi invited himself to the wealth table, successfully transforming a street vendor kiosk to an empire, while also pursuing a career in investing in AC Milan.
Saturday, 4 December 2010
first time I drove a vehicle,
Loud and sudden orders,
The instructor is contrasting,
As he is confusing
Almost interfering,
but I am a student.
The precision of a machine,
A test of concentration,
The response of the body,
The thrill of beating gravity,
A meeting of God and man,
A battle of wits and nerves,
On the highway,
The ultimate pass code,
To freedom,
As is known in the west.
The car screeches forward,
The mind works,
Is it a thought or action?
The mind asks.
Sight, touch, sense and feel,
Alert.
The first time I drove a car,
“How old are you?”
The instructor asked?
27, far near 28 I answered.
“And you have never driven a car?”
He asked again with disbelief.
Today I hit an electric pole,
Practicing,
Parallel parking,
Shocked;
immediately I asked to go home,
It was scary.
Failed the parallel parking,
New lessons.
Daily news hound for years,
A man about town,
Attending Events and issues,
daily,
Never drove a vehicle.
Walking offers much more freedom,
No rules,
Just raw street smarts,
And mobility on foot is no problem,
No explanation.
1000 dollars today,
To learn driving a vehicle,
and road rules,
Thank God I can afford it,
No, Thank God for this country.
Kagame.
The instructor is contrasting,
As he is confusing
Almost interfering,
but I am a student.
The precision of a machine,
A test of concentration,
The response of the body,
The thrill of beating gravity,
A meeting of God and man,
A battle of wits and nerves,
On the highway,
The ultimate pass code,
To freedom,
As is known in the west.
The car screeches forward,
The mind works,
Is it a thought or action?
The mind asks.
Sight, touch, sense and feel,
Alert.
The first time I drove a car,
“How old are you?”
The instructor asked?
27, far near 28 I answered.
“And you have never driven a car?”
He asked again with disbelief.
Today I hit an electric pole,
Practicing,
Parallel parking,
Shocked;
immediately I asked to go home,
It was scary.
Failed the parallel parking,
New lessons.
Daily news hound for years,
A man about town,
Attending Events and issues,
daily,
Never drove a vehicle.
Walking offers much more freedom,
No rules,
Just raw street smarts,
And mobility on foot is no problem,
No explanation.
1000 dollars today,
To learn driving a vehicle,
and road rules,
Thank God I can afford it,
No, Thank God for this country.
Kagame.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
The first time I met her,
She sat across the table,
With her exotic eyes,
and perhaps the brightest smile,
Like the morning sunshine.
It was A random moment,
A moment of happiness,
drinks and meals on the table,
friends,
new and old Merry,
IT WAS A BLESSING.
Dining and talking,
UP in Nyamirambo in Kigali,
The city of the genocide,
The city of rebirth,
The symbol of failure,
Kigali; that ray of reconciliation,
and STATEMENT OF HOPE,
and of dignity.
At the Indian restaurant,
Down by the corner to Sun City,
In the troughs of the valley,
Where the sun sets,
Amazingly,
Quietly,
daily.
I got her first name,
And gave her CUTE as the second one,
I asked her number,
I saved it under CUTE.
IT was the wrong number,
A lost connection.
But Kigali sets things straight,
And in Kigali there's talk,
Talking up and down,
In the highlands of East Africa,
Words walk.
Across valleys and mountains,
where the People meet.
With the fake telephone number,
she disappeared,
Just like a winning lottery ticket,
Worlds separated us,
But the souls didn't.
Facebook connected us,
Again,
As friends!
In a perfect world,
We would be in a ‘relationship.’
And the world is not perfect,
But friendship can be perfect.
KAGAME.
She sat across the table,
With her exotic eyes,
and perhaps the brightest smile,
Like the morning sunshine.
It was A random moment,
A moment of happiness,
drinks and meals on the table,
friends,
new and old Merry,
IT WAS A BLESSING.
Dining and talking,
UP in Nyamirambo in Kigali,
The city of the genocide,
The city of rebirth,
The symbol of failure,
Kigali; that ray of reconciliation,
and STATEMENT OF HOPE,
and of dignity.
At the Indian restaurant,
Down by the corner to Sun City,
In the troughs of the valley,
Where the sun sets,
Amazingly,
Quietly,
daily.
I got her first name,
And gave her CUTE as the second one,
I asked her number,
I saved it under CUTE.
IT was the wrong number,
A lost connection.
But Kigali sets things straight,
And in Kigali there's talk,
Talking up and down,
In the highlands of East Africa,
Words walk.
Across valleys and mountains,
where the People meet.
With the fake telephone number,
she disappeared,
Just like a winning lottery ticket,
Worlds separated us,
But the souls didn't.
Facebook connected us,
Again,
As friends!
In a perfect world,
We would be in a ‘relationship.’
And the world is not perfect,
But friendship can be perfect.
KAGAME.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
The Shitzens
He is quite a fellow; in fact I have never met him for the two years we have been neighbours, but I know he is a mid level to senior peace officer in investigations circles somewhere in the Citi.
Perhaps that’s is the reason we have never met despite occupying the same block; I harbour not so good feeling towards people of uniform. He may have heard that I am a journalist as well; a sleazy one at that and one he would rather avoid.
He has some children but since there are so many children that play in my courtyard- just like they do in all the courtyards in the neighbourhood-I cannot tell which ones are his and which aren’t. I assume that the ones that appear healthier in the bunch are his kids.
He drives a car or his is driven in one. I don’t know which kind because I have not seen it. I hear it once when by coincidence we both happen to be in the neighbourhood.
But it is good that the policeman and me have not seen eye to eye. I harbor many suspicions about his trade just as I assume he detests mine too. Since by calling, God had stationed us on opposite sides of the street-considering the not so cordial professional relationship between the police and the media –Citi was determined to set us straight.
SHITZENS
But telling you about the policeman neighbour without introducing the neighbourhood would tantamount to giving you the bone rather than the meat of the story.
CLAIM TO FAME
It is located just behind the famous penitentiary in Citi where inmates are serving time for participating in war crimes and crimes against humanity in Citiland as recently as 1994.
A large prison enclave populates the suburb, it hosts over 7,000 inmates serving time for their role in messing up Citiland; they are known as shitzens.
The prison is our only claim to fame, commerce and is symbolic of the Citi, it is also a large presence in all our stories.
large presence
Shitzens as the inmates are known wear a bright colour uniform and in the evening they watch TV; passersby hear the sound of Citi TV news in the evenings. And we are irritated by it.
There is no water connection and the electricity is also very shady in thevillagebehindtheprison, but the large prison makes its own electricity from the shit of the war criminals hence the name shitzens. They call it biogas and when the villagers see the shitzens walking about in the street with their colourful outfits they cannot help some envy.
Behind the fence of this gigantic structure lies semi detached houses where yours truly and some other people working to oil the economic machinery of Citi reside. The suburb is simply known as theVILLAGEBEHINDTHEPRISON.
Amongst those people is my closest neighbour, a policeman with whom we haven’t met but maintain an amicable relationship aided by a network of emissaries involving children, housekeepers and other neighbours.
I still cannot understand why said police officer chose to reside here; from the look of his house and the wall fence around it is clear that he could afford to reside elsewhere in the Citi. There’s a lot of irony on some days like today.
You see the shitzens have these schemes where they can work their sentences away.
Working Time
Say if one is in for 30 years for butchering his neighbours-and God forbid if said neighbourhood is this one behind the prison- works away at their chosen trade and the earnings are converted in terms of time. So if he worked for 10 years his sentence reduces by 20. So weekends like today the shitzens some of whom are engineers, masons, teachers and farmers are building a new modern residence.
A lone prison guard in full gear closely watches events and proceedings; my neighbour stands in his courtyard and lazily walks about not even aware and concerned about the close proximity of war criminals, children, house girls/boys, wives and motorcyclists.
In my mind I picture a scene where the shitzens turn on the guard and attempt an escape but they would be stopped in their tracks by the guards of said peace officer. Yet the shitzens cannot escape because they are in a tricky situation. First them colourful uniforms come off as signs of privilege; they are driven around the Citi like they are some important people.
Second because if the shitzens were to escape they would not survive beyond the warmth of the prison fence with its television and electricity. Shitzens would also be vehemently prosecuted by the kind of mob justice that I fear to imagine leave alone write.
To be continued
KAGAME.
Perhaps that’s is the reason we have never met despite occupying the same block; I harbour not so good feeling towards people of uniform. He may have heard that I am a journalist as well; a sleazy one at that and one he would rather avoid.
He has some children but since there are so many children that play in my courtyard- just like they do in all the courtyards in the neighbourhood-I cannot tell which ones are his and which aren’t. I assume that the ones that appear healthier in the bunch are his kids.
He drives a car or his is driven in one. I don’t know which kind because I have not seen it. I hear it once when by coincidence we both happen to be in the neighbourhood.
But it is good that the policeman and me have not seen eye to eye. I harbor many suspicions about his trade just as I assume he detests mine too. Since by calling, God had stationed us on opposite sides of the street-considering the not so cordial professional relationship between the police and the media –Citi was determined to set us straight.
SHITZENS
But telling you about the policeman neighbour without introducing the neighbourhood would tantamount to giving you the bone rather than the meat of the story.
CLAIM TO FAME
It is located just behind the famous penitentiary in Citi where inmates are serving time for participating in war crimes and crimes against humanity in Citiland as recently as 1994.
A large prison enclave populates the suburb, it hosts over 7,000 inmates serving time for their role in messing up Citiland; they are known as shitzens.
The prison is our only claim to fame, commerce and is symbolic of the Citi, it is also a large presence in all our stories.
large presence
Shitzens as the inmates are known wear a bright colour uniform and in the evening they watch TV; passersby hear the sound of Citi TV news in the evenings. And we are irritated by it.
There is no water connection and the electricity is also very shady in thevillagebehindtheprison, but the large prison makes its own electricity from the shit of the war criminals hence the name shitzens. They call it biogas and when the villagers see the shitzens walking about in the street with their colourful outfits they cannot help some envy.
Behind the fence of this gigantic structure lies semi detached houses where yours truly and some other people working to oil the economic machinery of Citi reside. The suburb is simply known as theVILLAGEBEHINDTHEPRISON.
Amongst those people is my closest neighbour, a policeman with whom we haven’t met but maintain an amicable relationship aided by a network of emissaries involving children, housekeepers and other neighbours.
I still cannot understand why said police officer chose to reside here; from the look of his house and the wall fence around it is clear that he could afford to reside elsewhere in the Citi. There’s a lot of irony on some days like today.
You see the shitzens have these schemes where they can work their sentences away.
Working Time
Say if one is in for 30 years for butchering his neighbours-and God forbid if said neighbourhood is this one behind the prison- works away at their chosen trade and the earnings are converted in terms of time. So if he worked for 10 years his sentence reduces by 20. So weekends like today the shitzens some of whom are engineers, masons, teachers and farmers are building a new modern residence.
A lone prison guard in full gear closely watches events and proceedings; my neighbour stands in his courtyard and lazily walks about not even aware and concerned about the close proximity of war criminals, children, house girls/boys, wives and motorcyclists.
In my mind I picture a scene where the shitzens turn on the guard and attempt an escape but they would be stopped in their tracks by the guards of said peace officer. Yet the shitzens cannot escape because they are in a tricky situation. First them colourful uniforms come off as signs of privilege; they are driven around the Citi like they are some important people.
Second because if the shitzens were to escape they would not survive beyond the warmth of the prison fence with its television and electricity. Shitzens would also be vehemently prosecuted by the kind of mob justice that I fear to imagine leave alone write.
To be continued
KAGAME.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
Foreign hours, foreign people
The bright light in the bus shows all the tales,
Especially those of fatigue and to pay bills on the faces,
But I don’t see fatigue,
I see irony.
As we wait at the bus stand,
We stuff earphones,
In and on our heads,
We dance.
Some nod,
Some whisper to the tunes,
Others speak in foreign tongues,
We all might as well be thinking in some foreign dialect.
Foreign dreams,
Foreign jobs,
Foreign hours.
Visibly tired people,
yap away on cell phones,
In foreign tongues,
To people perhaps in foreign countries too.
A lone man walks about picking cigarette butts,
Burnt out and thrown away,
On the ground.
The Indians walk far off the Bangladeshi,
The Filipino away from the native,
The Ethiopian away from the Somali.
The awaited bus arrives,
Off go the cleaners,
Nurses,
Cooks,
Kitchen hands,
Factory workers,
More cleaners,
More foreign people.
Because the work shift is over,
And the bus shift must start.
Kagame
Especially those of fatigue and to pay bills on the faces,
But I don’t see fatigue,
I see irony.
As we wait at the bus stand,
We stuff earphones,
In and on our heads,
We dance.
Some nod,
Some whisper to the tunes,
Others speak in foreign tongues,
We all might as well be thinking in some foreign dialect.
Foreign dreams,
Foreign jobs,
Foreign hours.
Visibly tired people,
yap away on cell phones,
In foreign tongues,
To people perhaps in foreign countries too.
A lone man walks about picking cigarette butts,
Burnt out and thrown away,
On the ground.
The Indians walk far off the Bangladeshi,
The Filipino away from the native,
The Ethiopian away from the Somali.
The awaited bus arrives,
Off go the cleaners,
Nurses,
Cooks,
Kitchen hands,
Factory workers,
More cleaners,
More foreign people.
Because the work shift is over,
And the bus shift must start.
Kagame
Friday, 29 October 2010
The message
first the communication went dead,
at first, the words came as torrents,
then they disappeared,
the music went dead,
then resurrected again
music always does.
the communication went dead,
the updates died down,
the hammock stopped swinging,
there was a STOP.
Then the silence,
the awkward moment,
the busy air,
the hard breathing,
the hard life.
then came the mind,
working,
the time.
life,
A day alive,
happy a moment,
the works of God.
gratitude and humility.
George
at first, the words came as torrents,
then they disappeared,
the music went dead,
then resurrected again
music always does.
the communication went dead,
the updates died down,
the hammock stopped swinging,
there was a STOP.
Then the silence,
the awkward moment,
the busy air,
the hard breathing,
the hard life.
then came the mind,
working,
the time.
life,
A day alive,
happy a moment,
the works of God.
gratitude and humility.
George
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