The Dilettante's Journal

Links to downloadable party manifestos for the Kenya 2013 Election

SAFINA (Paul Muite) English version - http://www.paulmuite.com/downloads/safina_manifesto_english_version.pdf

SAFINA Kiswahili version - http://www.paulmuite.com/downloads/safina_manifesto_swahili_version.pdf

CORD (Raila Odinga) - http://www.kenya-today.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/CORD-Manifesto-2013.pdf

JUBILEE (Uhuru Kenyatta) - http://www.scribd.com/document_downloads/123569244?extension=pdf&from=embed&source=embed

EAGLE ALLIANCE (Peter Kenneth) - https://www.dropbox.com/s/vuegaokkffegoej/Peter%20Kenneth%27s%20Manifesto.pdf

If anyone can point me to downloadable PDFs of the RBK, NARC Kenya, Amani Coalition or ARK manifestos, I’d be happy to update the post.

Keep the peace people! Happy voting on the 4th.

Mere words

These words stand between us, a wall.
So easy to tear down.
So easy to love, and
Leave standing.

A Story

A diary.
Redact.
Embellish.
A story.

Over

A valley,
You, there,
I, here,
You are,
I am,
We’re not

I’m Alive

Spit swallowed,
Breath, smooth, imperceptible,
Ragged, a desperate clinging,
I am,
Until I am not

Lessig Blog, v2: Prosecutor as bully

A Sleeve, Emptied

Tucked in his pocket is the Nothing,
That was not always so.
And it hurts, this nothing,
Where no more blood flows.
There once was Something
To tuck in, you know.
But the thing was taken,
And behind left a Hole.

Hahaha!

Him: Have you ever heard bone crack? No? It’s a most delightful sound, I assure you. One that, I suspect, you’ll become quite familiar with as the evening progresses.

Audience errupts in laughter.

Him: (Turns his saw over in the palm of his left hand, feeling a tooth with the tip of his finger.) For our first act tonight, we need a volunteer. Would you kindly join me on stage, madame? (Pointing at a particularly amused lady on the front row, She jumps on, stands besides him) Thank you. For the first part of our act tonight, I shall saw off her left hand. If you would extend your hand toward me, madame. Thank you, thank you.

An impatient murmur spreads among the guests.

Him: (Addressing the volunteer, the strain showing on his face) You’r quite the athletic young lady, eh? This normally takes no more than 5 minutes. (She chuckles uncomfortably, unaccustomed to being in the spotlight.) Aah, there we go! (Motions his assistant to bring over the pail, holding the severed hand with its impeccably manicured nails)

The Volunteer walks off the stage into the now roaring audience, bleeding profusely, but visibly pleased with herself for her small part in making the night a success. A gentleman on the front row helps her to her seat, from where her lifeless body is soon fetched by the paramedics on standby.

Him: For the second act, we shall use the humble mallet.

The tension is palpable. Can he beat the last act?

The things I took

A kiss
- The kiss -
Wasted beautifully
On my lips

A heart
Beating endlessly
For one so cold

Lust
For one who
Lusts not

Love

Time
Better spent
Elsewhere

Flee
That I may take no more

Once upon a Jeevanjee Saturday

I only came here to piss. I didn’t plan to stay. I can’t really say why I did. Those two girls seated across from me keep turning their gazes my way between giggles, which I can’t help but worry are at my expense. On the next bench, daughter and father, or lady and lover - I can’t tell - lost in animated conversation, in musical Somali, casting nervous glances my way every few minutes. Is it so weird that a guy should sit all by himself in the middle of a park? Okay, I’ll admit it, maybe it is. There’s a lady in blue. Rifling through her purse. She’s alone, I can tell, and not just on the bench. So many lonely people here. She has a transistor radio hidden somewhere,  playing Kameme. The rusty statue of our rotund Indian benefactor stares out at us, subjects of his two-acre Kingdom. A crowd of Bunge la Wananchi types making endless noise about whatever new way our ruling classes are fucking us out of our rights. The preacher selling his god. Must he do it so loudly? In my head, the smokers’ corner is the monkey cage at the orphanage, with slightly less boisterous occupants, and the rest of us pointing and staring. This is Nairobi, distilled to her essence.