A night of beautiful dreams

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Let my life be merry again,
The way it used to be,
This is my dream;

I am a farmer, bonded to toils of the soil.
I am a worker sold to the labour of my hands.
I am a slave to servitude , servant to you all.
I am a poor man, humble, hungry,& mean—
Hungry yet today again,
despite my dream.

Beaten to the ground,I still hold onto my dream
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest man bartered through the years.

BUT–

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance to the sweet tunes, playing in my mind
Till the heat of the day is done,
Then rest at cool evening,
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick hot day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
Beneath a tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming on tenderly
Black like me.
That is my dream.

I will hold on fast to my dreams,
For if my dreams die,
My life will be a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.

I will hold on fast to my dreams,
For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field,
Battered to the ground,
By the hot noon sun of the day.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I feel truly blessed to live in this beautiful place

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Right now outside my window the
leaves are beginning to change colours.

This is a paradise lost in the glory of nature

It often feels like Heaven here.

The radiant reds are glowing in the sun.

The peaceful yellows are rustling in the breeze.

The brilliant burgundy’s and outrageous oranges are making entire trees as bright as flowers.

Even the fallen leaves are turning the paths into multicoloured, crunchy carpets that are a
delight to walk on.

I can hear children laughing and see
adults smiling as they stroll through these leaves and enjoy the wonderful scent of them in
the air.

Everywhere I look I can see Nature’s colours
painting the trees and mountains with beauty.

If it isn’t Heaven here then it certainly is close.

It isn’t just the mountains that make it Heavenly here either.

I can see bits of Heaven in so many of the people too.

There is a kindness in their smiles.

There is a gentleness in their voices.

There is a goodness in their actions.

There is a patience in their manner.

There is a peace in their souls.

There is a love in their hearts.

And there is a joy in their lives.

Everyday they grow a little more in oneness with Nature.

Everyday they bring a little more Heaven into this world.

I feel truly blessed to live in such
a beautiful place with such good people.

My country home, however, isn’t the only place that can be Almost Heaven.

Any place on Earth can be Almost Heaven if we take our Heaven with us.

How much Heaven is within you?

No matter how much you said, take heart in
knowing that it can always be more.

God gives us that choice every single
day.

Everyday we can choose to love more, give more, care more, and help more.

Everyday we can choose to bring the joy of
Heaven into our hearts and souls and then share it with the world.

Everyday we can live in Almost Heaven while still here on Earth.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Let your life be the catalyst in which the lives of others are changed for the better

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It is important that we brighten the path that we walk upon so that it is illuminated for those who walk behind us and beside us.

Brightening our path means that we do our absolute best to encourage those who are
discouraged, to inspire those who are stagnant and unmoved and simply do our best to be a beacon of hope and love that people are
drawn to and motivated to emulate.

We who follow the example of the Lord Jesus Christ who condemned none and forgave and loved all should extend that same love towards our fellow man.

Let us take hold of the reins and be the initiators of good works.

Let us love the unlovable, let us forgive the unforgivable and let us reconcile with those that have been distant from us.

Mending relationships not only blesses the recipient, but our life becomes elevated as well.

Being a world changer starts by impacting those closest to us first and then when they do the same for their neighbor, the ripple effects will continue on longer than we could ever think or imagine.

No matter what you may be going through and no matter how tough the trials in your path seem to be, I encourage you to be that beacon of hope, love, forgiveness and reconciliation.

Let your life be the catalyst in which
the lives of others are changed for the better forever.

Use the gifts within your heart to draw all people back to the One who has given us the
ability to be His ambassadors on this earth.

I wholeheartedly believe that a life well lived is a life lived in service to others.

Let us be our brother’s keeper and do all that
we can to leave a long and lasting legacy of good works towards our fellow man.

That is a life that we can be proud to have lived.

I hope this message inspires and challenges your heart to be that beacon of hope and love that others are drawn to and made better because of.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Of all the cute butterflies that chose to stay, I’m in love with the one that got away

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Perhaps you know someone whose heart clutches onto the bittersweet memory of the one who got away.

Someone who secretly bears the weight of this
imperceptible burden wherever he or she goes, every day of his or her life.

Someone who’d gladly travel back in time to a day when paths diverged,to mend together that which has been torn apart,setting destiny back on its rightful track — if only he or she could.

Perhaps you know this someone better than you think.

And should this someone happen to be you, may you find strength and support in the
millions of others who shoulder this burden with you, and may you be reintroduced one day to true love…in this lifetime and whatever comes after,to the one that got away.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Life beyond bitterness

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I used to love a girl who was very beautiful and outgoing.

As I came to know her more,I realised that beyond that beautiful and pleasant facade,she was a very bitter woman.

I don’t know what her past lovers had done to her,but most of our discussions,the ones she initiated were almost always about some form of bitterness or the other.

She was just a beautiful shell full of rankling bitterness.

I just couldn’t cope with her bitter perspective of life,especially her bitterness about men in general.

It made me fear for my life in her presence.

All that bitterness could trigger her to do harm to her perceived culprits,or any man for that matter.

Of all the barriers that discourage committing to a new lover, the wall of bitterness is the most deadly.

There is no greater warning sign to a potential
relationship than cynicism about the past.

Those black clouds signal the presence of a failure-demon, who lies in wait for the first time you do not meet his or her expectations.

Bitter, cynical, pessimistic people often attract
“cheerleaders” who are determined to bring light into their darkness.

These ever-hopeful “happiness makers” are somehow confident that they will be ones who can make the difference.

If only they hang in there and keep those positive behaviours coming, maybe their partners can find true love in the ruins of their multiple failures.

If you have tried to love bitter people, you are well acquainted with their legitimate reasons for their ongoing suffering.

Your chronically unhappy lovers may have become attached to the cynical character
they have become.

If so, you may have been daunted,trying desperately in vain to save them from
themselves.

More than likely, the harder you tried to love them, the more strongly they held on to their unhappiness.

You may have been determined to love them, but
eventually got tired of carrying those cheerleading pom-poms.

Sadly, when you finally did give up, your
cynical partners have added one more reason to
their expectations of relationship failures.

To recognize a resolutely bitter person early on,
listen for statements like these:
“I don’t really expect much out of relationships
anymore. They seem to start out okay, but eventually something always happens to trip them up. Haven’t you found the same disappointments?”

“Let’s face it, when the hot sex quiets down, your partner is bound to be unhappy with you.
They always start out supportive, but eventually find fault when you don’t live up to all their expectations.”

“I don’t think people are really meant to be together for a long time. The bad stuff adds up, and the good stuff can’t compete. I don’t know one great relationship that makes it through the rapids. Mine certainly haven’t, and I don’t expect them to anymore.”

If you are attracted to these tragically sorrowful
people and are just naturally compassionate, you may be tempted to try to help them, especially if they have other attractive qualities.

Be especially careful if that person tells you that you’re different from all their past lovers, even possibly the one person who could understand them.

If you believe that story,know that it will be a zero tolerance test.

Your partner has been disappointed many times in the past, and is hoping against hope that your love will overcome their fears.

If you question their repeatedly returning
to their cynical viewpoint, they may accuse you of no longer caring, just like everyone before you.

How is Bitterness Created?

No one is born bitter.

It is a learned attitude, most often from pessimistic, cynical, or hopeless caregivers.

Sadly, small children are the most affected by consistent negative messages like these:
“Don’t count on anything and you won’t be
disappointed.”

“No one deserves anything good. Maybe you’ll be lucky and maybe you won’t.”

“No one is really happy. Don’t even think about it.”

“Happiness doesn’t last. There is always going to be something bad in your life.”

“Life is hard. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Why should you be any luckier?”

“Why do you think you deserve love? It’s not
automatic, you know, and more likely to go away than stick around.”

Hope is a natural way to envision a future that is better than the present.

Despair diminishes hope, and instead sees a life of continued suffering.

Every person needs to know that they have some control over that process.

The absence of possibility can cause despondency, defeat, and hopelessness.

If children are instead given messages that hope is always possible, they can reach beyond
disappointments and seek fulfilment even when their lives are hard.

Some people are more internally resilient than
others.

Despite having more heartaches than most,
they can still maintain hope.

But most are not so fortunate.

The continuous crushing of dreams, or a
lifetime of repeated failures, can push anyone down.

When people experience loss after loss, they may unconsciously create behaviour patterns that sabotage new options.

The natural result of too many broken
dreams or unfulfilled expectations is a lessened
willingness to try again.

They now see successful love relationships as an impossible realization.

Different Kinds of Bitterness

Bitterness can be expressed in many ways, but the following five are the most common.

Unfortunately, they are not mutually exclusive.

Ø Bitterness handed down trans-generationally

Ø Bitterness from depression or other organic
causes

Ø Bitterness from broken promises and lost dreams

Ø Bitterness that results from unrealistic
expectations

Ø Bitterness from trauma, neglect, or abuse

Trans-generational Bitterness

Pessimistic attitudes can be passed down through generations, even when the original reasons for cynicism no longer exist.

Unfair discrimination, blocked access to new ways of life, or attachment to restrictive traditions, can keep families from believing that change is a viable option.

They feel that keeping their children hardened to vulnerability and low in expectations will protect them from unpredictable pain.

They toughen their family members early, never allowing them to hope or dream beyond what is readily available.

If any of their children aspire beyond those limitations, or attach themselves to optimistic outsiders, those children may be threatened with punishment or exile.

Some cultures treasure their cynicism as part of their lore.

They feel that passion and loss are one, and that despondency is part of life.

You will find bitterness and cynicism hard to release if it has always been a part of your culture.

That will be especially true if you have chosen a partner who does not have the same background.

Depression or other Organic Causes

A genetic predisposition to depression can make the most hopeful of situations appear bleak and
untrustworthy.

Unlike grief, which has a specific loss
to endure and permits hope, clinical depression feels more like an open-ended prison sentence without chance of parole.

Sleep eludes, appetite wobbles,self-esteem is non-existent, and energy for life wanes.

Those suffering from depression may have
difficulties managing sleep and appetite, have no energy for life, and feel inadequate and undeserving.

For them, life becomes a continuous ground hog day of limited and unsatisfying experiences.

They can feel hopeful at the beginning of a
relationship because new experiences create brain chemicals that offset depression for a while.

With positive qualities to offer, they can attract rescuers who can temporarily undo their negative attitude.

Eventually the depression will re-emerge, making them likely to defeat their partner and end up alone again.

Cynicism that results from innate depression
can be treated.

Once the depression abates, they must then challenge the habits they believed were
intractable.

Genetic abnormalities that lower serotonin and
dopamine levels are sometimes the basis for
depression.

Chronic illness also can cheat people of
life’s beauty.

It may destroy hope, and cause heartbreaking results, such as lost relationships,
financial ruin, or physical incapacities.

Some people find ways to rise above these unwarranted trials, and still create new options for whatever is still possible.

Others find solace in their legitimate reasons for
hopelessness, and cannot change their expectations.

Depressed people can always be helped by a loving and concerned support network but, unless they are willing to receive that assistance, even well-intended friends and lovers will eventually give up.

Broken Promises and Lost Dreams

In every stage of life, many people weave their
experiences into their dream of an ideal romantic relationship.

Children absorb from their parents and
other adults.

Young people join social networks, text
continuously, watch TV, attend movies and concerts, and create the person they feel they might be able to love forever.

Throughout all of their lives, people seek to find that perfect person, that ever-lasting love.

Whether from unrealistic expectations, bad luck, or choosing the wrong people, all relationship seekers come up against unanticipated barriers.

With each new disappointment, they can either store up anger,hurt, and disillusionment, or they can learn from their mistakes and try again.

Over time, repeatedly choosing the negative option can result in cynicism.

Cynical people often end up pushing away the very people they want to be loved by.

With those repeated failures, they may start to believe that they will never have a long-term, loving relationship.

If they can understand that their cynicism is learned, they can faith that they can learn a new way.

Past Failures from Unrealistic Expectations

Most people do everything they can to make their relationships work, but can’t seem to find the right person, do the right thing, or avoid unforeseeable problems.

They may not be aware that they are repeating sabotaging patterns, or choosing partners
similar to those who have hurt them.

As children, they may have been taught unrealistic expectations and to overlook good potential partners.

As adults, they may not have accurately assessed their social marketability.

Alternatively, they may have unconscious barriers to learning successful relationship behaviors.

If they continue to have these unrealistic expectations, they may repeatedly fall in love with people who are disinterested and will not reciprocate their desires.

Whatever the reasons, their mounting losses begin to discourage and disillusion them.

Their expectation of failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy and they begin each new relationship with a pre-defeated attitude, creating the same patterns that didn’t work
before.

Most partners try to lead with their best selves and then slowly reveal the parts of them that may not be as desirable.

Counting on fake image that they have created, they hope that the relationship will survive.

Long-term relationships require new skills and cannot continue if they are not mastered. If people continue to repeat old patterns that have not worked in the past, they will be continually disappointed.

Trauma and Abuse

This is the hardest of all categories because trauma victims have much reason to be bitter, often long before they begin to search for an adult relationship.

They may have suffered at the hands of those who were supposed to protect them, and then found themselves in adult relationships with no choice but to endure unfair and punitive pain.

By the time they understand that they deserve better treatment, they are hyper-sensitive to the slightest indications that abuse may occur again.

Early trauma can teach a child that relationships are supposed to include abuse or neglect.

Their adult attitudes of pessimism, discouragement,disillusionment, and disbelief are protective barriers to keep pain away.

Unfortunately, when they connect with a new abuser, those early memories can feel
familiar. Abuse victims may find themselves
unconsciously pulled towards what they know, even if it hurts them.

Once in damaging relationships, they may not even recognize the abuse or neglect,
tolerating more than they should.

Or, on the contrary, they may see abuse or neglect even where it is not occurring, or at a much higher level of intensity than some others would feel.

Their anticipation of being hurt can emerge as a low frustration tolerance, and they may overreact with hostility, sarcasm, and distancing of their own, driving love away before it stands a chance.

Is it Possible to Leave Bitterness Behind?

Bitterness hurts, emotionally, spiritually, and
physically.

People appear to hold on to it to protect
themselves from more pain.

It does shield them from more hurt, but also from love as well.

Cynical relationship seekers, bitter from the heartbreaks of the past, may not allow for a new and dangerous future.

That engulfing sorrow holds open a painful
wound of disappointed memories, even when the lovers who caused them are long gone.

Yes, people can leave bitterness behind.

To do so,these wounded people must process the causes of their despair, hopelessness, cynicism, and pessimism.

Here is what they need to do to regain hope for a better outcome in the future:

1. Prepare a thorough and realistic assessment of what they have endured.

2. Be willing to face how past partners have hurt them and where they, themselves, may have contributed to holding on to their bitterness.

3. Examine the lessons learned, vow not to repeat them, and formulate how to act differently in the future.

4. Know what they are able to change, and where they will need allies in their healing to accept their broken places.

5. Using all of the above, re-program their emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual selves to be able to face the future with renewed confidence.

Here is an example:

Clara’s Story

Clara grew up in a broken home.

Her parents, both alcoholics, were rarely home.

She was a Cinderella child, made to do most of the household maintenance, and given no encouragement to develop her talents or to encourage her dreams.

She was expected to take care of her two younger brothers in her parent’s absence, often without adequate food or clothing available.

Her only option was to beg the neighbors to share some of their groceries.

She missed school on a regular basis
because there was no one to take care of the boys and there were no other possible arrangements.

Her grandparents told her she shouldn’t expect more because her parents were “doing the best they could.”

When she asked for help, they shrugged and
said they didn’t have any money.

She would have to make things happen for herself, just as they had to.

Her father and mother kept telling her that someday she could have all the things she wanted, but those promises were never kept as the money for them went to beer and unpaid obligations.

Her teachers encouraged her to keep trying because she was “so gifted,” though they had little extra time or supplies to give.

They reassured her that there would be
people someday to help her, but those hopes never came true.

She started working as early as she could
lie about her age, and dreamed alone about the
Prince Charming who would for certain come when it was finally her time.

At seventeen, she met Ted.

He saw the beauty in her spirit and wanted to save her from her pain and suffering.

They married in two months.

Her parents seemed glad that she would no longer be their burden.

The younger boys were taking care of
themselves, and it was one less mouth to feed.

She believed that Ted truly loved her and that her prayers were answered.

They were soul mates and destined to be together forever.

She was filled with a hope she had only been able to fantasize before.

Eighteen months after they were married, he left for Sierra Leone on a peace keeping mission.

She never saw him again.

Broken and frightened, she used Ted’s military
death benefits to go to school.

Used to heavy demands, she was able to work nights and go to school during the day.

She missed Ted desperately,and was willing to accept anyone who would offer her solace.

Within a year, she fell in love with a married professor who assured her that he had
separated permanently from his wife, and would be with her in only a few months.

When she became pregnant, he handed her an
envelope filled with money and told her to take care of it.

He was not present at the abortion, and afterwards announced that he and his wife had
reconciled.

He ended the relationship and told her to
not contact him again.

Living alone, Clarissa finished her undergraduate and graduate studies before her twenty-ninth birthday.

Her mother and father had both died, and her
brothers had disappeared from her life.

She had only few friends, and no time to find more.

Her well-paying job gave her a financially secure life, but she felt deeply that love was something she would never know again.

Her only relationships were the people she saw in church each week, and she carefully
avoided deepening any of those connections.

At thirty, she was informed that her youngest brother had been killed in the war.

In a grief that she could no longer suppress, Clarissa could no longer hold back her grief for the multitudes of losses she had endured.

She fell into a deep depression and felt that
her life no longer had purpose or reason.

Her childhood fears had become a lifetime reality and she could not see her way out of the darkness.

When she did not come to church, her pastor was worried.

He came to her home and found her alone
in the dark, sobbing uncontrollably.

Clara could not keep up her façade anymore and poured her heart out to him.

They spoke late into the night.

He reminded her of how she had sustained hope as a child with no support, and that she could call upon that strength again.

He suggested she get some help.

I had the privilege of being the person she came to see,having been her teacher during her days after Ted’s death.

This was how Clarissa re-created herself:

Accurately assessing what she had endured:
Clarissa did a thorough evaluation of where her
broken dreams began and how she held on to those negative beliefs as her disappointments mounted.

She saw how her both grandparents and parents had given up their own dreams, escaped into limited lives, and had no resources to either help her or them.

She also realized that she had not allowed
herself to grieve Ted’s death because it was
unbearable.

Unable to see herself realistically any more, she consistently minimized her accomplishments and focused on her sadness.

Be willing to face how others had hurt her, and
where she may have contributed:

Clara had taken responsibility for all of the failures in her life, whether they were her fault or someone else’s.

She had continuously tried to make excuses
when others couldn’t be there for her, and had never realised that the people she chose after Ted’s death were as unreliable and irresponsible and those she had grown up with.

Her belief that she must always be strong had attracted men who felt entitled to be catered to, but had no need to reciprocate.

What She Learned:

Clara had to realize that she must no longer only accommodate the expectations of others.

She had never known that she could write her own rules for happiness, and that anyone who loved her would want to know what they were.

She began assessing her strengths, what she had to offer, and the kind of man who would deserve her gifts.

The Personal Changes She Needed to Make:

Clara began to look at her bitterness as a natural response to her many losses, but not a response she had to maintain.

Speaking from her heart and her new confidence, she presented herself as someone
who had a right to the love she sought.

She also saw that the few intimate relationships she’d had since Ted’s death had been with men who had exploited her,leaving her more cynical.
She was now learning how to recognize the traits she was looking for, and to discern when they were not there.

She had to master a whole new set of expectations of herself and others.

Knowing what was possible for her:

Clara looked deeply at what she really wanted and what she had to offer in return.

She wrote a sincere and authentic profile of herself for her future date.

She now knew what to ask for, and that she could not expect a new relationship to heal or justify her past.

The heartaches she had legitimately endured no longer could predict her future.

Though she never got to have any children of her own, Clara did find a deep and meaningful relationship with a man who had also suffered multiple losses.

He too had struggled with limited options based upon his lack of awareness.

They dedicated their lives to helping
disadvantaged children to avoid the multiple
disappointments that bitterness thrives upon.

Instead of “If there has been only sorrow, there will only be more sorrow,” Clara wrote her new
expectations of her future in her personal journal that she has shared some excerpts with me:

“Bitterness’s ally is continuing disappointment. I now know that disappointments come from improbable expectations. I cannot avoid them all, but I’m so much more aware of how to predict them now. I’m pretty good at understand what is possible and what is not. I may be sad that I can’t always have what I want, but I don’t expect what I can’t have, and I love
what I can make happen now. I didn’t know that there was so much more I could do to make my dreams come true, or how I would have to see the world differently. I can feel truly sad for the person in me who suffered so much, but she has an advocate now. That person is me.”

Not all people have the heart, commitment,
discipline, and spirit, to turn their lives around as Clara did.

But everyone can change what they have
believed as their only truth into something they have not yet experienced.

If they learn the tools to honestly self-evaluate, face their own accountability, learn from past mistakes, and change the way they search for and enter new relationships, their options
to end their bitterness will increase.

There is an antidote for the bitterness that poisons love;

It is the re-commitment to believing that understanding and the determination to change can triumph over loss.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you

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I love you because the entire universe
conspired to help me find you

And now, the sound of your laughter is the kind of music I want to spend my whole life listening to

I raised my eyes to see who was passing
by my window, and that casual glance was the
beginning of a hurricane of love that still has not ended half a century later.

You were more than human to me.

You are a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know you are,
anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted.

I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant.

There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to you.

I was about half in love with you by the time we
sat down on my lobby.

That’s the thing about decent girls.

Every time they do something pretty…you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are.

I felt now that I was not simply close to her,
but that I did not know where my body ended and she began.

I must have wished for you so hard and so often you had no choice but to come true in my life.

But now, you’ve slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.

I want everyone to meet you.

You’re my favourite person of all time.

I don’t care how hard being together is, nothing
is worse than being apart.

Do I love you?

My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.

You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I
love, I love, I love you.

I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.

I am nothing special; just a common man with
common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life.

There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten.

But in one respect I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who’s ever lived: I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul; and to me, this will always be enough.

The smell of you hair, the taste of your mouth, the feeling of you skin seem to have got inside of me,and into the air all round us.

You have become my physical necessity.

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest and most
beautiful person I have ever known – and even
that is an understatement.

I want to fill every part of you, breathe the air
from your lungs and leave my handprints on your soul.

I want to give you more pleasure than you
can bear.

I want to do with you what rain does with the
Roses;bring you into full bloom of being a woman!

When I found you, Love, it rained where there was a drought in my soul, it shined where it should snow, the earth shook where it’s never moved, mountains rose on the flattest plains, stars fell all around us, but the world won’t notice a thing.

Because when you found me, Love, the past and present. ceased to exist and we fell into a moment that will last forever.

When I first saw her by my window,I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the
couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep.

Not even to make love.

Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of
the phrase.

But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating.

So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

But in the end,it is me she chose to share all the rest of her life with,and for that,I’m forever blessed!

So, I love you because the entire universe
conspired to help me find you,through my window,during one of my lowest moments in my life!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Living in the present moment is time well-spent

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“The only pressure I’m under is the pressure
I’ve put on myself.” ~Mark Messier

Do you feel that you are living your life under pressure?

That’s awful!

You can do something about it.

Instead of living under pressure,you can choose to live in the PRESENT MOMENT.

That makes a lot of difference.

My Buddhist meditation practice helps me live the present moment.

At this present moment,I’m under no pressure,except the pressure I place upon myself!

Let me explain.

Time in the Present is Well Spent

Certainly you have experienced being in the
present—those moments when time and space
melt into this blissful moment.

Presence makes the most mundane spiritual.

Clarity prevails as deadlines inspire, rather than oppress you.

Presence with peace offers you higher
energy than usual but with nowhere to go and
nothing to do.

Presence surrounds you with resources when you need them most.

Tap into your presence under pressure!

You can do it, and these three keys will help.

1st Key: Embrace Perfection
Your life requires no improvement. In fact, the
most ecological way to embrace change is to
experience this moment as perfect just the way it is.

You just stubbed your toe ‘perfectly’.

Your boss just yelled at you ‘beautifully’.

Embrace, love, and flow with the perfection your life continually offers.

Celebrate everything that is.

You are surrounded by the perfect present.

2nd: Seek Your Own Approval

Good deeds can be their own reward.

Help the frail widow across the street and remember that you aren’t doing it for her.

You’re doing it for you.

You have your own values.

Trying to impress others or seeking their approval instead of your own can cause you to neglect yourself.

Take care of yourself and do what’s important to you.

You will naturally take care of others this way.

Be a model for a happy, well-balanced life.

Do the most wonderful, charitable things in the
world.

Do them for yourself.

Do them because they make you happy.

This can be particularly challenging if you have kids, a spouse, friends, or a mother.

Fix your tea.

Help with the kids’ homework but do it for capital “M” Me.

Hold the baby on your knee for the sheer pleasure of it.

When you do everything for you, you are really
taking care of everyone.

Some years back, I volunteered at a Catholic church organised Health Camp, a
beautiful camp for handicapped kids.

I met Trudy, who was nine years old.

He was using crutches and fell over, hitting the floor hard.

As I bent to help him up, my friend Joe grabbed my elbow stopping me.
With great effort and pride Trudy was able to right himself and stand again.

Joe later explained to me that Trudy’s disease was debilitating, and that he was cherishing his last days without a wheel chair.

It didn’t matter that he fell over because he had
been standing.

Tears came easily as I felt grateful for every step I take. I still do.

Impress yourself.

You are your own toughest audience.

You have the lead role in your life.

Play it up,if only to make yourself feel good to go!

3rd Key: Question Obligations

There is nothing that you need to do and nothing you “should” do.

However, there are plenty of things you act as if you “should” do.

Being forced, even by yourself to do anything turns what might be fun into a chore.

When I was little I loved to play the church piano.

I would spend at least an hour a day just goofing around on the piano, learning how notes fit together and creating simple tunes.

My well-meaning musician priests were inspired— so much so they brought in a piano teacher, Sister Gracia who thought I “should” work at the piano cured me of wanting to play it.

When it became something that I “should” do every evening instead of just fiddling with piano keys,I quit. It was no longer some “fun”.

You won’t be hearing me or Sister Gracia playing at Carnegie Hall.

Later I took up the drums.

When I was ready I asked my priests if I could take lessons.

We found a catechist teacher and I practiced almost constantly.

Having a wonderful time, to this day I can hand drum with the best of them.

Relax. Take a breath. Notice what you are doing.

Ask yourself if the pressure is justified.

You’ll quickly find that many of the sources of pressure in your life are not as real as they seem.

Do what you do.

Don’t do what you don’t do.

But always celebrate what you do no matter what it is.

Test your presence by doing stuff.

Zen it just for the fun of it.

Your Neighbor

Your neighbor’s lawn may be better groomed than yours.

His kids may be smarter and spouse hotter.

Who are you kidding?

Comparisons set out to prove a point; the point is that you are either better or worse than someone else.
My Foster Mother in my catholic parish used to say “Comparison’s are odious.”

I don’t know what odious means, but I do know anytime you compare yourself to someone else you are bound to suffer.

Be present to how your lawn is, how your kids are, how your spouse is, and how you are.

If a beautiful moment or beautiful life could be represented by a beautiful lawn, spirituality would be landscaping, not the mysterious wonderment that it is.

From the wonderment of this moment, step into
the mystery of the next.

Plant a few weeds, pull a few weeds—what’s the difference?

A weed is a plant where it shouldn’t be.

A Bird of Paradise in the middle of your lawn is a beautiful weed.

So is a dandelion.

Dance with Passion

“Follow your bliss.” said Joseph Campbell.

Notice what you love.

Notice what you don’t love.

Surround yourself with equal measures of both, and you will discover that love comes and goes but presence is always there within you.

Presence focused gives birth to passion.

Passion for this, that, and the other.

Passion for everything in particular.

Passion for your foot, the callus on your big toe, your ankle bone and your calves.

You will begin to notice passion everywhere; meet it, great it and embrace it as you fall in love constantly.

Presence under pressure is especially fun.

Sitting silently in a cave is one thing.

Living present in the world is quite another.

You can do it.

Use the three keys above to open yourself to the perfection of presence anywhere, anytime, everywhere all the time.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My date with a prostitute

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It is long ago since I last paid a visit to a brothel.

Oops! I’m sure my readers are not going to like the foolish things I’m going to put down on this post.

My dear readers,reserve your judgement about my morals,till the end of this post,otherwise you will be mistaken to label me a ‘pervert’.

But Daisy,my partner egged me on to visit a brothel.

I had just related to her how I lost my cherry to a mature prostitute during my high school days.

I thought she was going to be pissed by that whole account of abominable things I did during my teenage years,but instead,it got her very excited,and in her devious mind,she schemed a plot to have me enact that memorable experience.

“Sadly, you have become what
you write in your random journal nowadays,” she egged on, “and one day, when this middle-class skin has grown old, you will be left
un-reinvented and stewing in your own reservoir of inoperable words.”

I asked her, “are you here to knock my head
against a wall or is this going anywhere other
than badly?”

“Get out of that shell, Ben,I think you were more exciting when you were young.”

“By doing what?”I asked her,quite astonished.

“Leave what you know. Go to the unknown,” Daisy replies casually.

“Unknown? Like where this conversation is
headed?” I ask.

“Close. Why don’t you one day show that you
have the cajones to write about something
challenging?” Daisy implores.

“I actually like that.”I add cynically.

“What, the idea?”

“No, cajones. People don’t use that word
enough.”

Stony silence.

“OK, fine. What do you want me to write about
that you imagine will get me out of my comfort
zone?” I inquired.

“Write about Sabina Joy,that place where you lost your cherry to a prostitute.” Sometimes,I think Daisy,my girlfriend is a bit crazy.

“But that was so long ago,I can’t even remember how the places looks like from inside,I don’t have the feel of the place anymore!”,I protested.

“I will help you refresh your “memories” about ‘Sabina Joy’,just leave the whole plot to me”,Daisy added in her small voice,the voice of a conjurer,a schemer-that’s my Daisy.

Enter stage left,Gathura,my bossom friend.

He hails from Kerugoya Town and attended Kaitheri Primary School.

By the way when some Kikuyus tell you a name of a school they attended you always imagine they are pulling your leg because the names sound like a traditional herb: Riamukurwe Sec School, Ithekahuno Sec School, Gathuki Mundu Pri School (meaning: shake up a guy), Kianguenyi Second School, Kangubiri Sec School, Kiangoma Sec. School (meaning: the devil’s), Muthuani Second School…It goes on and on like a horror movie credit.

You meet someone who attended one of these
schools and you want to reach out and hug them.

Hug them and tell them, “it’s all right, you are
here now, you are here, that’s all that matters,and please forget about those awful names of your former high schools.”

I met Gathura in 2012 during some KTB(Kenya Tourist Board) loyalty trip where we scored the country from Laikipia to Tsavo.

Fun times.

On our last stop at Shompole Lodge (now defunct), a top-of-the-range resort clinging on the edge of Nguruman escarpment and charging about 50K per person per night for
a view and a bed, we shared a large condo which had two monstrous four post beds, a private pool, no windows or walls facing the escarpment and a view so stunning it looked like a prank.

Anyway, this morning I stir awake because the
room is suddenly awash with orange as the sun
is rising.

From my bed I could see the sunrise without leaving it and as I lie there half-asleep, I
see Gathura walking across the room, heading to the loo. He’s naked. Buck-naked. I’m stunned.

Not stunned at his nakedness but at the fact.

But he’s nonchalant, shuffling across yawning and scratching his back.

That’s how life is; you wake up hoping to see the glorious sunset instead you get your sun blocked by a naked man.

And you dare complain about traffic in downtown Nairobi City?

If that were Nyanza it would have been a different story, because the only folk who walk naked at dawn are night-runners.

Gathura, unbeknownst to him, has that
recessive night-running gene of Nyanza night runners.

I called him last week and told him, “Boss, how
about you take me to Sabina Joy, I want to check it out. Two hours tops. I’m buying the drinks,plus you will have yourself a beautiful company in the name of Daisy,my girlfriend.”

He was confused but agreed.

You might know Sabina Joy as Karumaindo Bar.

It’s legendary, a mythological train that tirelessly keeps chugging and coughing decades of lustful notoriety.

Karumaindo has been there since god
was a teenager.

It’s ideally a whorehouse,a brothel but if you are of the more decent disposition you will
call it a bar.

Everybody who has been in Nairobi town longer than a week has, at least, heard one urban
lore about Karumaindo.

It’s revered for its licentiousness; it’s total lack of sympathy to the naïve or the urban-virgins.

Depending on whom you ask, it’s the den of thieves and the spot in town where Jezebel hangs her bra.

Karumaindo swallows the innocent and spits them out baptised in the roguish ways of Nairobi.

Although you might be with people you are always alone at Karumaindo because the quest for the pleasures of the flesh is a journey pursued alone.

And I was dying to see it for myself,again,after a very long time.

So, 8pm last Friday.

I leave my wallet, phone and watch in the car, not because I’m a wuss but because…OK, because I’m a wuss.

Daisy,my girlfriend,does the same,and her face lights up as if she is on a trance.

“Do you know that all the prostitutes inside there were once virgins?”,I pose to her,to break her trance.

She looks at me full on my eyes,and she just smiles.

Whenever Daisy does this,she makes me her slave for another hundred years!

Wr meet up with Gathura and together we walk down Kimathi Street, cross Uhuru Highway at Hilton and past the statue of Tom Mboya that stands forlornly in the dark pointing towards statehouse and in the process turning into a pitiful emblem of the Luo’s reiterated inability to rise to the big seat.

Gathura reads us the riot act: don’t order anything that can’t be opened before you, so no whisky, or brandy; don’t leave your drink unattended;

always keep your eye on the drink; minimise
bathroom breaks; don’t use a glass; stay close;
don’t get drunk; don’t touch any chic that not your Daisy.

“What if she touches me first?” I wonder.

We stroll past National Archive, past hawkers and street bums and vagabonds and the evening
crowd rushing home with the weight of the day
slung over their shoulders.

We pass that square before Ambassador Hotel, where all the suited Luos carrying folded newspapers (The Standard mostly) hurdle in circles talking politics animatedly.

You will not find a more boisterous and
dedicated political panel of analysts South of
Limpopo.

Sabina Joy doesn’t announce herself because
Sabina Joy doesn’t need to announce herself.

That’s how cocky Sabina is – whoever she was/is.

One moment you are walking past the
smorgasbord of heaving commerce at the
Ambassador stage and the next the entrance is
upon you.

Only a small dusty Tusker beer ad shingle above directs you in.

Once you cross this threshold you have crossed
the Rubicon.

Now you are in a rabbit hole.

(A bit of pun, of course). You walk up a tunnel-like winding staircase, following the thudding sound of the muffled music above.

You walk up this tunnel of debauchery with other men, trudging up determinedly and with all that unbridled hope of those led by their crotches.

On the second floor there is a security guy with
rheumy eyes the colour of strong tea, patting us
down, groping our pockets and impatiently
waving us in.

We are patted by about four different security guys.

Then we walk down this corridor with flashing gaudy disco lights.

There are girls writhing around in what in this part of town passes for sexy. Fat girls, slim girls, light girls, dark girls, pretty girls, girls with faces only a mother can love, girls with faces that can fit at Brew Bistro, girls in heels and girls in sandals, girls with long weave, bald girls, girls with talons for toes, dusty-footed girls, red eyed girls, girls with red lips, smiling girls, scowling girls, girls with teeth from Nakuru, girls with breasts that can
asphyxiate you, girls with chests so flat you can
shoot pool on them…then iron your shirt off
them.

They all have one thing in common; they
are here for you. At a price.

Daisy’s face is now painted in dismay,scornful of these women who scored a “first” with me before she entered the scene,many years ago.

She clings closer to my arm. It is Gathura’s arm she should be holding onto,if she wants me to enact the scene as it was many years ago.

I uncling her arm and hand her over to Gathura.

These girls will not talk to an accompanied man,so she sticks with Gathura for all the time we are inside Karumaindo Bar cum Brothel.

Karumaindo comes as a sinking disappointment when we walk into the bar.

Based on the stories I’ve heard recently, I pictured a dysfunctional, treacherous and extremely seedy joint.

I pictured something smoky with patrons all wearing those Kikuyu hats and tapping their pointed-toed boots to Mugithi songs that Gathura was to translate for Daisy(she come from a different tribe from mine and Gathura’s).

I expected everybody in there to wear loose pleather leather jackets and big golden chains around their necks.

In my head, the common word spoken there was going to be “ciigana?”(How much money in Kikuyu).

Instead it isn’t; it’s seedy all right but you don’t get the feeling that danger lurks around.

And there isn’t anybody wearing pleather jackets or pointed-toed boots. I’m crushed.

The sitting area is T-shaped.

Tables are wedged close to each other with men slumped in them sipping their beers.

There are TV screens all over, showing National Geographic, of all the things for crying out loud.

The men raptly watch a scene of male Gazelles locking horns.

There are old posters on the wall, some still proclaiming Lil Kim as the hottest star.

How old is Kim now, 60?

Cooling Fans whiz overhead.

At the end of the room is a cage from where the deejay peeks like a caged psychopath.

That cage for some reason reminds me of Hannibal Lector.

Sabina Joy is packed.

And it smells.

Not a foul smell, but this smell of blue-collar struggle.

I order two beers.

Gathura’s Pilsner comes in this titanic bottle that the size of a rocket launcher.

I’m curious to see how he will lift it to
his mouth alone.

Daisy enjoy’s her can of Sweet Cherry.

Her eyes are dilated,probably with anticipation,fear or excitement.

She is to remain as invisible to the girls as possible.

The girls won’t play if she decides to mark her territory

We drink.

Girls parade by sipping from plastic bottles.

Dodgy looking men pretend to ignore them, like they just came here to watch National Geographic then they will be on their way.

Soul music blares from the speakers hanging overhead as 80’s disco lights flash about.

A guy selling boiled eggs stops by our table.

We shake our heads, he moves along.

Guy selling Kenyan porn next stops by.

Again we shake our heads, he moves on.

This girl with very dark elbows walks by eyeing us.

We shake our heads…at her elbows.

We drink and make small talk.

My beer is warm; I might as well order a boiled egg to go with it.

At 10pm, I call this girl.

You know how Tony Soprano,the mafia don used to call those strippers over?

It’s very chauvinistic.

It has to be chauvinistic, that’s the only way it can work.

But it won’t work at any other posh place.

It works here because, here is ideally a
cave and we are all cavemen and the year is, well, what year was Lil Kim a hot commodity?

This girl I summoned wedges between Gathura
and I keeping away from Daisy on the other end, and offers me a smile that is supposed to
make me imagine that she is shy.

Well, she’s as shy as a wolf.

She’s light with a decent face but a body that contests that decency; large belly a flat bum, small legs and a tyre of fat around her waist just in case El Nino or Tsunami rocks up unannounced.

You guys, I believe, fondly refer to it as a “Kikuyu momo body”.

Let’s not get emotional. “Priss”.(Please as accentuated in Kikuyu Language)

She tells me her name is Samantha.

No matter, at Karumaindo names mean squat.

I tell her I’m Musa.

I offer to buy her beer, she orders for canned
Pilsner, which I pop open for her and she raises
it up and we knock up in cheers like decent folk.

Samantha has this red tattoo of a Playboy bunny on her right breast.

Yes, I was looking.

They were perked up in my face, OK?

What did you want me to look at instead, the Gazelle’s locking horns in National Geographic?

I ask her what the tattoo is and she (I swear) holds the whole poor breast up (jeez Samantha, I forgot to mention I like my tea black-no milk!) and asks, “Hii? Hii ni Playboy, I am a Playgirl.”(This is a playboy,and I’m a playgirl).

“No, you are a bunny,” I correct her.

“Hapana, mimi ni Playgirl,”(no,I’m a playgirl) she insists and I’m not in the mood to debate.

Playgirl it is.

Samantha is sort of funny.

Gathura had warned me not to ask questions that would get us stabbed, so I struggled to keep it light and nonchalant.

I’ve always wanted to interview a hooker. Or a
Madame. But I had to be wary of Daisy’s reaction. Now, I have her freedom. This is her game.

Can you imagine the kind of male
insecurity stories these women harbour in them?

I say insecurity because I think – and I might be
right- for you to pay for sex directly (not by
buying Pinot noir at Level 8) is a sign of
insecurity.

For now Samantha will do even though my hands are tied behind my back because Daisy is listening.

But I needn’t to because she’s a talker.

She tells me that she doesn’t service light older men because she never knew her father and her
mother wasn’t sure who her father was and she
telling her he was either a Kikuyu one or an
Ethiopian.

She laughs a lot,this Samantha girl, and when she does she sort of rams her body playfully into my shoulder, like we grew up together and Heck! Daisy is not enjoying this boob bumping on my shoulders.

The guy selling boiled eggs stops by again and
looks at me in case I’ve had a change of heart.

I shake my head.

He looks over at Samantha who asks me if I want an egg.

Well, not the one he is selling, I tell her in Kiswahili and it, unsurprisingly, flies right over her weave.

At some point she removes my hat from my head and asks if I wear hats. I tell her all the damn time.

She asks why?

I tell her to look tough.

Don’t I look tough? She puts it back on my head and takes a good look at me and says no.

She asks if she can keep it.

I tell her she can if she lets me keep her Playboy bunny.

She laughs and rams her shoulder into mine.

Then without warning she gets right to it and asks, “sasa itakuwa Kanu ama?”(What next,is it just this playfulness or I’m I looking for the “real thing?”

Kanu? Like Moi Kanu? I’m confused, is this a
political parties recruitment drive? I ask her what that is and she laughs and says “Uko na utoto!”(You are being childish)

I swear to her that I don’t know what she means.

She then wags her middle finger in that Kanu fashion (tingisha kidole fame) and looks at me naughtily.

I still don’t get it.

Then she wags it again, then I get
it and laugh.

You get it, too,my dear reader, don’t you?

Wagging the middle finger? You get it now? Alama ya jogoo? Anyone?

Sigh. She means sex and her finger is supposed
to represent a phallus.

These girls are creative.

I ask her how much.

She says five hundred.

I snort and tell her she is out of her mind, I aint
paying 500bob, not with that belly on you,baby!

OK, that last bit I think to myself.

She says that’s the going rate.

I talk her down to 300bob just to test my negotiation skills, or her desperation level.

She tells me there are rooms on the same
floor that go for 200bob for 20mins.

There, she says, you are timed, which I gather means no foreplay or asking stupid questions like “how was your day today?”

I ask her to come get me in 45mins that I need to discuss business with my pals first.

She leaves obediently.

Gathura,Daisy and I sneak out 20mins later.

After all I heard these many years gone now, Sabina Joy didn’t make look at life different or give me any unique insight into humanity or the trade of flesh.

It didn’t illuminate me or the people I saw.

It didn’t bubble to the surface my sense of morality.

I didn’t find it gritty or profound or humbling in its decadence.

Actually it disappointed me.

Cheated me.

Raised my hope,that sex business has now been more refined as compared to my teenage years, then dashed it.

Maybe it’s because I’m jaded by such novelty of having my girlfriend watch me negotiating for transactional sex,devoid of any emotional feelings.

Or maybe it’s the first impression I got when we walked in; that image of grown men watching gazelle’s lock horns on National Geographic.

Has foreplay sunk to such lows? A rhettorical question that is pertinent to both within our bedrooms or in a prostitute’s den?

Food for thought,especially for you my dear Daisy-remember you asked for it!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Things that matter to me today,at present….

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What’s on your self-care list?

No matter how much we accomplish, we feel we are just not doing enough.

If this resonates with you, you are not alone.

When my agribusiness clients call me for time management coaching,they seem startled when I tell them I can’t help them do more, because I don’t think that’s the answer.

What I will do is show them how to do more of what brings them joy and less of what drains them.

It’s about being kind to ourselves daily – giving ourselves the love and respect that we so freely give to others – regardless of whether we crossed everything off our to-do list that day.

We all deserve it.

What’s the one thing that you are not doing enough of that you would like to do more often?

Whatever this activity is, schedule time for it once a week for the next 3 weeks, just as an experiment.

And honour that appointment as you would any other (client,doctor, and dentist).

“Life is what happens
when you are busy
making other plans” -John Lennon

Make time for yourself and your life because if you don’t, who will?

It’s easy to get lost in all the chores that have to be done each day.

We all have busy lives and there’s never enough time in a day.

But a day turns into a week, a month, a year and before you know it, a whole lifetime.

Let’s not let the years pass without doing what matters most to us.

At the beginning of each month, before your calendar fills up, schedule time for your self-care activity once a week.

Here are some of my favorite self-care
activities to give you some ideas and get you
thinking about what you’d like to do:

• Take a walk
• Go for a bike ride
• Put your favourite song on and dance or close your eyes and relax
• Read for pleasure (novel, magazine)
• Listen to a book or inspirational speaker on CD/ipod
• Sit with a cup of specialty hot chocolate or tea
• Look at photos you took while on vacation
• Soak your feet in dishpan with marbles and Epsom salts
• Go for a manicure
• Write in your personal journal
• Call a friend and remind him/her how much you care about your friendship
• Spend some time on a hobby i.e. baking a pizza for yourself,no matter how imperfect it looks in the end.
• Pet your dog/cat
• Massage your feet or your temples with essential oils
•Give yourself a facial (use steam from a boiling pot with a towel draped over it)
•Browse through decorating books and dream

I encourage you to create your own list and put it on your bulletin board.

I hope you will share your ideas and/or success stories with our community by commenting below.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Things that mattered to me yesterday….

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I still catch myself getting worried about things that don’t matter anymore in my life.

The funny thing is when we get clear on the things that don’t matter, we zero in on the things that do.

It becomes easy to let go of the unimportant.

It fosters gratitude for what we may have taken for granted.

Here is a mixed pot of things that don’t matter anymore in my life;

• Scrubbing my kitchen pots and pans until they’re sparkling

• Making the bed the minute I wake up

• Reading to the end of a book I’m not enjoying

• A ringing phone left unanswered,especially from a caller who doesn’t matter anymore in my life

• Getting less than a perfect score in any game of life

• Being stopped at an unchanging traffic red light until a traffic cop unjams the rights

• Paw prints on a clean floor

• Wearing the wrong clothes, shoes,socks

• Who dumped me years ago,I mean,the. painand heartbreak it caused is all gone,buried. under dustbin of time!

But here is the cream of things that don’t matter anymore;

»Defining my identity.

From the color of braces to the ringtone of my flip phone, everything i owned, wore, played, needed to define my entire life.

I needed a label, a status in the society that
is high school, but having an identity crisis at 15 is awfully dramatic.

Being the gymnast, the bass player, the guy with the Mohawk: not only are these labels irrelevant in our twenties, but more than likely we forgot all about them (although, hopefully the guy with the Mohawk finally got an adult haircut).

Come graduation day, that reputation you worked on for four years evaporates.

Starting college or your first job, no one knows and no one cares about who you were in high
school.

You have to climb that ladder from the bottom of the totem pole once again, the difference being in our twenties we don’t find the need to characterize.

Put it this way, if we still identified ourselves with who we were in high school then my
email address would still be
soccerboy_love@yahoomessenger.com (oh dear).

»Grades were everything.

Nothing like the worry of Mr. Wilson’s history final determining the fate of your college career.
Chances are you can’t even recall what grade you got on that test you were so worried about.

We thought what stood in between success and
failure was whether you got an A or a B.

Although grades and GPA did play a factor in admissions and scholarships, they don’t ultimately determine your career path.

Having unique skills, a sharp tongue, charisma, and connections will get you further in life than your GPA score ever will.

You probably won’t catch a potential employer asking about your high school test scores.

They are going to value your experience,
your referrals, and your skill set when hiring you.

»Your parents are out to ruin your life

They gave you curfews, made you change your outfit, how dare they not let you go out with a senior boy/girl.

Lots of yelling,pouting, and slammed doors from what we remember about our days under our parents guard.

The general rule was that if fun was involved, mom and dad would make sure you didn’t have it, or so we thought.

Growing older, those ground rules we couldn’t understand appear to be more reasonable than before.

Our parents turned out to be smarter than we gave them credit for.

Bless them for putting up with those teenage years where we thought we knew everything.

Hopefully we now see that they were just looking out for us and those horrible rules and punishments were wrapped with good intentions.

We realize the importance of family and
appreciate their love.

»Doing it all

It seemed as though every Friday night was “going to be the party of the year” and if you didn’t go see that movie on opening night, then you might as well not see it at all.

So impatient, so juvenile.

There is always going to be another party, and you realize now you can’t be everywhere.

We learn in our twenties that our lives are enriched by spending time by yourself every once in a while.

You learn to prioritize and schedule better.

»Being friends with people that weren’t really your friends

You wanted to be in on the private jokes, the awesome poolside parties, the reserved seats at the lunch table, but was it worth hanging with people you didn’t really like?

Thankfully in our twenties and thirties, we realize that friendships can drift apart and learn to associate ourselves with people who have our best interest at heart.

Although frenemies and bullies can appear at any age,high school years were overly populated with deceit.

In order to be cool, to stand out, or just find your place, we did some pretty dumb things.

Trying to be something you weren’t or just wanting to fit in, those four years were tough.

We realized after high school that life moves on.
You eventually start to forget the names of most of your teachers, where you sat in home room, and your best friend’s home phone number.

You forget who was cool and who wasn’t, who was pretty and who was smart, who threw the best parties, and who dated who.

Everything changes, life goes on.

Don’t we wish we had that perspective back then?

So we must ask ourselves, are the things that matter in our lives today going to matter in ten years?

Do we value what is important?

Graduate from your mistakes, treat each day as if you’re turning that tassle, and remember what really matters.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The morning of your destiny

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“Success and failure are
not overnight experiences.
It’s the small decisions
along the way that cause
people to fail or succeed.”
–Anthony Robbins

I think when you wake up in the morning your
destiny has already been decided. [Oh, sorry, this will get slightly introspective.]

You can’t even begin averting your fate.

You were born a pawn.

Your card was dealt a long time ago.

So all the misfortune and fortunes that will befall you were already premeditated.

The gavel long landed.

Or is it really so?

Or is it really so rigid?

Not quite,I think.

There is still something we can do about it.

Like the way a mason works on a shapeless piece of stone,and makes a beautiful building block.

Yes,it is still basically a stone,but a beautiful one at that!

My current professional assignment has reinforced this belief, now,
more than ever.

I will explain shortly.

‘Every moment
I shape my destiny
with a chisel,
I am a carpenter
of my own soul.’ ~Rumi

What makes the difference in the quality
of people’s lives?

What is the single factor that shapes and controls our ultimate destiny?

Most people think that biography is
destiny, that the past equals the future.

And you know what?

It can—but only if you live there,in your past,that is.

Any study of history shows that the difference in human beings comes down to one thing: an ability to harness the power of decision, often in spite of adverse conditions.

The history of our world is the result of decisions .

It’s the power of decision that caused Rosa Parks to remain in her seat and state, “No, I will not,the famous black woman activist,go to the back of the bus.”

It took a forceful decision to compel an unarmed man to stand in front of a tank at
Tiananmen Square.

“It is in your moments of decision
that your destiny
is shaped.” – Tony Robbins

It was the strength of decision that led President John F. Kennedy to declare that an American would be first to walk on the moon by the
end of the 1960s.

Decision is the ultimate power—and there are three core decisions each of us makes every moment we’re alive.

These decisions have the capacity to empower,
advance, frustrate or derail us, depending on what we choose:

Decision 1: What are you going to focus on in your life?

Do you focus on things you’re excited about or things you fear?

Whatever you focus on, you experience.

Wherever focus goes, energy flows to attain that end as your ultimate destiny.

Decision 2: What does this mean?
Is your current station in life the end or the beginning? Are you being punished or rewarded?

The minute you decide to focus on something, you give it a meaning.

How you define an event produces emotion and determines how you feel going forward.

Decision 3: What are you going to do about it?
Are you going to give up or follow through?

The meanings we assign to events influence what actions we take as a result.

It’s our decisions, not our conditions, that ultimately shape the quality of our lives.

At any moment the decision you make can
change the course of your life forever.

Whenever you wake up in the morning,knowing life has given you another gift of a new day,take up your chisel of DECISIONS and continue the noble work of shaping your destiny.

Every morning is a morning of your destiny!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Is true bachelorhood just a charade?

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So George Clooney finally decided to marry. I cannot think of a bigger cliché. And my personal dissapointment that Clooney has thrown into my resolve to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life.

Is it just a charade,this bachelorhood thing?

After carrying the biggest banner of bachelorhood, bearing the greatest metaphor of independence and success and everything in between, he finally succumbed just when we
were all thinking that there is actually a soul out there that can stay committed to the cause of bachelorhood.

The vintage Clooney finally sold out to the other species!

If Clooney finally got hitched then everybody will eventually get married.

Being an eligible bachelor is overrated.

It is not as grand as it seems.

I know one.

(Don’t we all?)

He is 46 years old.

Unlike me,he never got married in the first place to be spit out of the hell that is called marriage.

Never married, never dated for more than a year, his sexual orientation straight as an arrow.

He is successful because he works weird hours and knows which ass to kiss and which one to kick.

You might fault him for many things but not for being a hard worker.

Because he runs his own little business — in logistics — he is obsessive about it.

And he puts nothing before it: not a woman, not even himself.

Bachelor’s lair

He lives in a house with a garage and a study.

His balcony overlooks a small stream but when he describes it he says his house overlooks a “river”, especially if a woman is listening.

It is a sexy house as far as houses go; a mix between the retro, minimalist, and artsy.

Because he has to show the women that he believes in something, that he is passionate about something bigger than modern decadency, he collects numerous expensive paintings from different parts of Africa,
countries he frequently travels to for work.

There is a particular unique one that hangs on the wall that leads out to the balcony which he calls a “deal maker” because it unfailingly manages to reel in even the most
difficult of women.

It is of this little Congolese girl bent over a three-stone jiko blowing the fire.

You should hear him explain the context of that painting,tears almost welling up in his eyes.

It is the phoniest thing you will ever see, but the tragedy is that women always buy it.

He does not even like children, or three-stone jikos.

His house smells of opulence and independence.

It is his lair where he slays the naïve women and conquers the cynics.

He drives a German car, bought off a relocating expat for a pittance.

He loves clothes.

He keeps fit: plays squash weekdays and rides his bike on weekends.

He will do a marathon a year but only because I am sure it sounds good to drop it in a whisky conversation with his cigar-smoking friends.

He is not on social media — too unproductive for him, too “toxic”.

He also does not own a TV because he only retains things that — and wait for this —
“stimulate him cerebrally.”

Untamable charmer

Women love him.

They love this charade to death.

But I suspect that women do not really love him, they love the worn novelty that he embodies.

He is like a flame, and I have seen many moths get burnt at his feet because they approached
him first with intrigue then as an agenda.

And they all failed.

Most women he meets are always obsessed with trying to unlock the question of his bachelorhood.

They feel equipped to unlock this puzzle because he deceptively offers them “incentives” to make them feel as if they are the chosen ones who will finally get him off this path.

He drops clues as if it is a treasure hunt.

So they come into his life and try to be “useful” and “unique” and he feeds them this sob story about how he keeps meeting the wrong girls
who just do not “understand” him, those who want to “change him.”

House of cards

He builds this house of cards so high that he starts believing in it too.

Every woman who gets into his life intentionally internalises his need for independence while secretly believing that she
will be the one to bring down this house of cards.

He uses a carrot and stick method, feeding these poor souls a little hope, while deceptively setting them up for the ultimate fall.

It is the dance of death that he wins eventually.

It is quite artistic, this morbid game of emotions.

Before writing this I asked him if it was OK if I wrote it.

He said it did not matter either way because no matter the information a woman knows about a man, if she likes him she will easily disregard those truths.

“In fact, your article might just help me,but would you kindly leave out my name so that my snares don’t end up empty,just because someone I’m leading up the garden path chances on it” he said.

He says he will never commit and marry because he is not “built” for it.

But like Clooney, his Waterloo is coming.

Eventually he will find that one whom he does not want to let go of; the one who sees right through the hogwash of that painting by his
balcony!

This story is not about me,damnit!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Here is how to determine your core-values

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Most people you meet don’t like their jobs, are
unhappy with their family life, and want more money.

Winning the lottery would make it all okay. At least that’s what they think.

But the truth is… unless you live your life according to your core values, no amount of money will be enough to bring you joy.

What do I mean by core values?

I mean the feelings you have about good and evil that are buried deep within your heart.

What does goal setting have to do with core values?

It’s all about insuring your long-term happiness.

If you set goals that contravene your core values, you will wake up one day and say, “I did everything I said I wanted to do. But so what?”

You don’t want to end up being yet another highly successful but fundamentally miserable person — a fate so common it’s become a cliche.

Here’s how to make sure that doesn’t happen…

Begin by imagining a funeral.

It is taking place in an elegantly appointed room.

The room is full of friends and family members who have assembled to talk about the deceased.
You look around.

You begin to recognise faces. “Who is the deceased?” you wonder.

You look at the casket. Heck, it’s you!

So what are the people at your funeral saying about you?

Imagine real people: a relative, a neighbor, a
business associate, and even a stranger.

And imagine them making very specific comments.

It’s not enough to imagine your nephew saying
something like, “He was a generous man.”

You need to imagine a second, qualifying sentence, such as, “He always sent me expensive birthday presents.”

And be honest.

Don’t sugarcoat the pill.

Say it like it is.

For example, your next door neighbor might be saying, “I thought he was a very inconsiderate person. He never picked up the trash when his dog carted it to my lawn.”

Imagine everything the people at your funeral could truthfully say about you — and then think about the way their words make you feel.

If you don’t feel good, it means that — in those
relationships, at least — you are not living your life according to your core values.

Now, for every negative statement you just imagined, ask yourself, “What would I like this person to be saying about me?”

The answer to that question will reveal one of your core values.

Let’s say you imagined someone saying, “He was always struggling to make ends meet.”

That statement would make you feel bad, right?
So then you imagine what you would like that person to say about you.

You might come up with, “He struggled for a while, and then everything changed.
He became very successful and died a wealthy man.”

If that statement makes you feel good, it’s reasonable to say that acquiring wealth is a core value for you.

And you would write it down like this: “I believe that financial success is a valuable and admirable accomplishment.”

Got it?

Negative Statement: “He was always struggling to make ends meet.”

Positive Statement: “He struggled for a while, and then everything changed. He became very successful and died a wealthy man.”

Core Value: “I believe that financial success is a valuable and admirable accomplishment.”

The goal of this exercise is to come up with about a dozen statements that indicate what you think is important in all the major areas of your life.

I recommend that you shoot for about a dozen
statements.

Why?

Because you want to address what you think is important in all the major areas of your life.

Your core values should determine your goals.

And your goals have to be comprehensive.

Most goal-setting programs are not comprehensive.

They focus on just one thing.

Making more money.

Or losing weight.

Or being happy (whatever that means).

Setting such singular goals can sometimes
be effective, if you have the flexibility in your
schedule to focus on them.

But most people don’t.

And that creates a problem.

They start out enthusiastically and make progress for a while.

But before long, life’s many urgencies push their way in.

Good habits are neglected.

Bad habits return.

Before long, the goal is abandoned.

You are going to avoid that very common problem by considering not just your health or your wealth, but also your hobbies, relationships, social obligations, and so on.

Here’s what you should do now:

1. Take out a piece of paper and divide it into four boxes.

2. At the top of those boxes, write Health, Wealth, Self-Improvement, and Personal Relationships/Social Obligations.

3. Inside each box, write down statements in that category that you would like to have said about you at your funeral.

For example…

Under Health: “He was the fittest 80-year-old I ever saw.”

“He could run a mile in eight minutes.”

“I once saw him lift up a car by its bumper.”

Under Wealth:

“Of all the people who graduated from High
School in 1972, He turned out to be the wealthiest.”

“He left $4 million to charity when he died.”

Under Self-Improvement:

“He was the best chess player I ever knew.”

“He was also a published poet.”

“He knew more about home decorating than most interior designers.”

Under Personal Relationships/Social Obligations:

“He was also a very generous friend.”

Write down at least two such statements in each of the four categories.

The purpose of writing them down is twofold: to fix them in your mind, and to have something specific you can refer to later.

You will be referring to these core values many times in the coming years.

They should be a source of continuous inspiration.

Treat them seriously.

They are the crux of your plan for the life you really want to live.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

What are your core-values,and how far can they take you after losing everything else?

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Think about it.

You can lose all of your money and start over.

If you lose love in one person,you can still find awesome love in someone else.

If your house burns down, you can rebuild it.

It’s the things that cost you nothing that you can never replace.

One of the most important keys to self motivation is to clearly identify your core values in life.

You must decide what matters most.

Why the need to identify your values?

Many people think, “I know what’s important, I don’t need a list to remind me.”

What they don’t fully understand, however, is that core values often serve as critical guides for making important decisions.

When you’re in doubt, your core values will cut through the fog like a fog light beacon.

We all know there are many distractions along the road of life that will try to pull us away from our values.

Sometimes we are forced to make difficult choices.

But a good rule of thumb is that when you have to sacrifice material possessions for one of those “free things” that life has given you…you’ve made the right choice.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The breaks you need in life have already been preordained

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The breaks you need in life have already been
preordained to come across your
path.

If you will stay in faith and go out each day and be a person of excellence, you’ll walk right into these appointments of favour.

When you really understand this principle, you’ll begin to get excited about every single day!

You’ll have a spring in your step as you think about what blessing is coming next. It could be today.

It could be tomorrow.

It could be next week.

Keep expecting.

Keep believing.

Stay focused on the fact that God has already released into your future everything you need to fulfil your destiny.

Start declaring seasons of increase over your life.

Declare that favour is on you and look for those
appointments of divine favour!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When Karma finally catches up with your enemies,go on and have a good laugh!

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It is said that we should love our enemies,but nowhere it is said that we shouldn’t have a good laugh on them if they stick their face in the mud!

Schadenfreude( the closest similar term in English would be “Karma”) is a German word for pleasure derived from another person’s misfortune,especially those of our perceived enemies or detractors.

We all feel it and either repress it, push it away or make it personal,or have a good laugh behind the barn.

We all know that this tendency is not
admirable,it lacks modesty, so we hide it.

However, when we hide these things not only from others, but from ourselves, we hide a flaw that is inherent in us as humans.

Feeling joy in the misfortunes of others,and especially on those who wish misfortunes to befall us, is in fact healthy and natural as long as that misfortune is not
life threatening.

In fact, this is part of evolution.

When we smile as a response to another’s misfortune(say,when an ex-friend is unknowingly walking around all day with white smudge of wheat floor dough on his nose) our brains are sending us signals that make us feel good.

These signals also serve to remind us that life is somehow fair. That we are not the only ones bound to make silly and comical mistakes. Our adversaries too make silly mistakes!

Once the smile is out of the way and our mental state is taken care of we are able to actually feel sympathy for them,but not before having a good laugh on it.

What most of us do is deny the Schadenfreude and go straight for the(false) sympathy.

This sympathy is of course not fully
genuine, because it is coming from a repressed place.

We do not feel Schadenfreude all of the time,but when we do, we must not repress it.

We must let it live and examine it.

In the end, its purpose is to allow us to feel grateful for our lives and be happy for those people we lost in our lives,who on hindsight,were only going to be a burden in the long run.

Its outcome is that we actually feel more genuine sympathy for ourselves and others,even though they may have dealt us a bad card sometime in our past.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Sign Language goes terribly wrong for a Mafia Bookkeeper

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A MAFIA godfather discovers that his book-keeper, Guido, has cheated him out of $10 million (Sh885 million).

The book-keeper is deaf so the godfather brings along his lawyer,who knows sign language, to confront him.

The godfather tells the lawyer, “Ask him where the money is.”

Guido makes signs and the lawyer translates: “He says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

The godfather pulls out a handgun, puts it to Guido’s head and says, “Ask him again or I’ll kill him.”

The lawyer signs to the book-keeper. “He’ll kill you if you don’t tell him.”

Trembling, Guido signs back, “OK! It’s in a
brown briefcase, buried in my cousin Bruno’s garden.”

“What did he say?” asks the godfather.

The lawyer: “He says you don’t have the guts to pull the trigger.”

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

In this life,you just can’t raise your anchor and sail off to new waters

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Sometimes when you’re sat in the wee small hours of the morning trying to make sense of the little things life throws your way to both complicate and titillate, you end up wondering if what you’re doing is the right thing.

How many of us complain about our work and moan about what we don’t like about it to any
and all within earshot?

I’m one of those people.

I look at the paperwork stacks and the things on the “to-do” list and find that I’m not so keen after all to go wading through it.

I’d rather moan about it to the unfortunate who happens to be there at the wrong time (For them).

But what to do?

There are people who will say “The answer is
simple: quit and find a new job”.

Life is never that simple.

When there are bills to pay, savings to add to
and things to buy, you inevitably cannot simply raise anchor and sail off to new waters.

In these austere times, fewer and fewer people are able to shift their career from one area to another, let alone be able to consider the same earning potential doing something different, having to retrain and the like.

Many of us end up trapped in a cycle of
getting up to amble like the walking dead into the office and flog our butts for yet another day of drudgery.

Not many people can say “I love my job entirely”.

There will be aspects of the job that people love and more often than not, aspects they really loathe.

I think that works for any job.

And relationships too!

Stay too long and you begin to wonder if you could ever do anything else because “You’re not qualified” or “You’ll not earn as much or have the same benefits.”

Aspects of these can be true, but then many jobs have transferable skills that we don’t even realise we have, and it takes a practised hand to say that actually, you CAN look at
doing this and start to explore the why…

In this country we have a ridiculous propensity to want to hoard our money like little dragons sat on a pile of coinage, blowing flames in the direction of those who would like to take a little or a lot of it from us (Usually in exchange for goods or services, admittedly).

Ever tried helping a miser count his gold coins?

We postulate about what will be best for “the children” instead of thinking about making life as happy as possible in the here and now.

Why the old and the aginglook at their retirement and think “Once I’m 67 I’ll be
able to do what I want,” and consider that to be a healthy way of looking at life is beyond me.

You should enjoy your life now while you’re still
young(ish) and able to do the things you won’t be as willing or able to do 30 or 40 years down the line.

Hoarding your money to pay top whack for a
mortgage under the guise that it “brings stability” to your burgeoning family and a nice nest egg for later life or for “the children” when you pop your clogs is a terribly post-mortem view of life that few other people feel holds water.

Sure, we can look at all the cuts we’ve had to take over the last couple of years and think how stoically we’ve been able to accept them and forge ahead, but are we happy as a result
of it?

Worse off are we!

But how to make those changes?

Do you drop everything and move somewhere different, starting afresh and trying something entirely new?

Is it baseline stability you want or is it a new challenge that doesn’t leave you loathing either yourself or your job?

Is it better to be happy with what you’re doing,
living in the here and now or would it be best to be tied to one role, earning a reliable amount of money with a view to making life that tiny bit easier once you’ve lived your life over again and started exploring the september of your years ?

There are no right or wrong answers, I guess.

Everyone feels differently about it but I suspect most would rather save now and spend
later, once they’re older.

A relative few like to throw caution to the wind and go balls out for something new and I envy them their ability to do that, I really
do.

It is a fine balancing act to get it right.

Mortgage or rent for the rest of your life?

Stay in current job even if you’re not enjoying it
or seek employment elsewhere?

Security versus Spontaneity – never an easy choice.

From time to time, we all wrestle with the thought that we could be doing something else, something better or something more creative, more “ME” than we are currently.

I know that I feel like that an awful lot and
always have done.

I like change so long as change is good and it is rewarding.

The trick, it seems, is in the knowing when to get off the bus at the right stop when you have a blindfold on.

You just never know for sure until you try it.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Musings of the mind

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The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work.

Now i can put my feet up and enjoy it,with Tom & Jerry cartoons screaming in my living room.

I can’t help but wonder,about this little boy in me who has refused to grow up,and he really loves Tom & jerry cartoons,
and forces me to keep my door shut
when the DVD is playing in my living room,
just in case someone pops in suddenly and wonders what the heck!,
’cause he can only see and man grinning
merrily at the farce that is ‘Tom & Jerry’,
but at this moment of my greatest pleasure,
my mind is all nothing but a boy’s mind enjoying his cartoon show!

Search my luggage every time travel,
And you will never miss this ‘Tom & Jerry’ DVD among my most treasured items.

It is there as an item in all my lost baggage claim forms,and declaration forms,though it always draws sneers from overworked clerks in the baggage desk!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Musings of the mind

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The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work.

Now i can put my feet up and enjoy it,with Tom & Jerry cartoons screaming in my living room.

I can’t help but wonder,about this little boy in me who has refused to grow up,and he really loves Tom & jerry cartoons,
and forces me to keep my door shut
when the DVD is playing in my living room,
just in case someone pops in suddenly and wonders what the heck!,
’cause he can only see and man grinning
merrily at the farce that is ‘Tom & Jerry’,
but at this moment of my greatest pleasure,
my mind is all nothing but a boy’s mind enjoying his cartoon show!

Such my luggage every time travel,
And you will never miss this ‘Tom & Jerry’ DVD among my most treasured items.

It is there as an item in all my lost baggage claim forms,and declaration forms,though it always draws sneers from overworked clerks in the baggage desk!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

For all the mistakes you have made in your life,God still knows that you are the right path

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{In Loving Memory of my Friend,David}

When you think about your future, what do you see in your mind’s eye?

Maybe at one time you were excited about your life — you had big goals and big dreams, but you went through some disappointments or life
didn’t turn out the way you planned and now you’ve just settled where you are.

Understand, God’s plan for your life didn’t go away just because you had some disappointments and setbacks or because somebody treated you unfairly.

God didn’t write you off just because you made some poor decisions.

No, He knew every mistake you’d ever make; He knew every person who would wrong you,
and He still called you.

He still designed a perfect plan for your life.

No matter what’s happened in your past, God’s plan for your good remains.

He still has a bright future in store for you.

If you will get your hopes back and get your vision in line with God’s Word, then the rest of your life will be the best of your life!

Keep standing, keep believing and get a vision for your future because the Lord has amazing things in store for you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Make it happen!

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“Infuse your life with action. Don’t wait for it to
happen. Make it happen. Make your own
future. Make your own hope. Make your own
love. And whatever your beliefs honour your
creator, not by passively waiting for grace to
come down from upon high, but by doing
what you can to make grace happen…
yourself, right now, right down here on Earth”.
~ Bradley Whitford

I rescued my cat from damnation somewhere
in the streets of Narok on my way home during my birthday last year,on a day like today.

I brought it to my home in Kajiado and fed it religiously for six months.

It grew to become a very beautiful and playful
companion in the house.

I never failed for a single day to make sure that Jaffa had something to eat and some milk to go down with its food from my friendly Maasai neighbours.

He literally lived because I was there.

Without me, or so I thought, Jaffa would
not live a day.

Then one day I was called upon to go out for
an urgent call of duty that took me out of town for two days.

But it took me not two days,but three weeks to complete my assignment!

There was so much to lose if I did not get to Maasai Mara in a hurry, and in the process Jaffa was forgotten.

I even forgot to leave Jaffa some food
and water.

It was not a consolation when I remembered I had also forgotten to close the window of my kitchen.

The kitchen was at the back.

So even if the cat was able to get out of the kitchen, he may just revert back to his olden ways as a wild alley cat.

In my long absence,he was doomed again.

At the back of the house, on the way out of the kitchen, I kept my waste bin.

I emptied the bin once a week.

It was not the end of the week yet before I left for Mara.

This meant that the bin had most of the leftover food for almost a week.

Without a family, most of my meals consisted of rice, noodles and spaghetti.

The quickest food a bachelor can prepare.

That was not the kind of food Jaffa was used to eating.

Maybe he did not even recognise that rice was food after eating donated meat from my Maasai friends all the time.

So the option of turning to the waste bin for food for Jaffa was wishful thinking.

My cat was probably going to die of starvation by the time I got back.

No one had my spare key for the flat that I could call upon to help feed the cat.

I prepared for the worst.

I arrived back home on the evening of the third week.

Before I got to the house, I bought a packet of milk and a piece of liver, in the hope that Jaffa was not dead,or had completely absconded the house and needed careful reboot to life like I had done before.

When I got inside the house, it was as quiet
as a tomb.

There was absolutely no life.

I went to the kitchen.

The window was still open but Jaffa was nowhere there.

I figured out that he could have most likely absconded the house.

I decided to make some tea for myself with the milk I had carried for Jaffa.

The liver would be make stew for my dinner.

I was busy in the kitchen when something soft and furry touched my legs.

I looked down and there was
Jaffa!

He had been sleeping on my chair at the
study room.

He was as healthy,if not even looking better than before.

He was even more friendly to me than ever before!

I was confused.

The liver was on the chopping board over the kitchen the table.

He saw it but didn’t bother.

He just made contact by brushing his body against my legs as greetings and then hoisted himself on the kitchen window and disappeared behind the waste bin.

The jigsaw puzzle started falling in to place.

Jaffa lay very still in a hunting poise and hidden behind the bin.

Some birds, house sparrows to be exact, came and landed on the bin.

They looked around and went inside the bin to look for rice.

As soon as the birds went inside the bin,Jaffa jumped from his hiding place and on top of
the bin.

The birds had no escape from inside the bin.

The cat quickly grabbed one of them and started playing with it before killing it and carefully plucking the feathers before eating the bird.

Jaffa had discovered how to make use of waste to get fresh food, in the absence of his benefactor!

Make this year, the year to make it happen, yourself, right here.

Jaffa taught me this fine lesson.

I started him off in his new life.

He has already found his way to go on about his life,even without me.

I dedicate my birthday today to Jaffa,for being my worthy and innovative companion,even in my normally long absences from home.

I toast to Jaffa,for having lived with me,since my last birthday,and through a whole year,to my birthday again today!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When a man weeps!

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This story is about my upcoming birthday.

This story is about my mother who I never had a chance to mourn. She died at my birth. I killed her,Oh no,dear mum!

This fictionalised story is a closure of a pain that has resided in my heart for all these years.

Today I cry for you dear mum.

Today,I shed tears of joy for all the good things that have happened in my life,in your long absence from my life,since the day I was born.

Be proud to know that I love and miss you,though I never got to know you!

R.I.P dear mum,and happy birthday to me!

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
A lonely weeping man-,
I never thought I’d ever write those words in
reference to him.

Not Simon.

Simon is unbowed.

Simon is a titan.

A stoic.

Simon is my dad.

He’s from the dated school of thought that subscribes to the maxim that crying is feminine.
That a man should keep his emotions under his hat and all that blah blah doodah.

And I agreed with him, for 51 years.

But now, Simon weeps soundlessly, albeit with a great measure of embarrassment,for my stepmother.

With an almost laughable sense of phony self-
preservation.

The only other time I have seen him exhibit this
kind of emotion was when his father – my
grand-dad – died in 1980.

The hearse had just driven in the compound and as usual, where I hail from, this turns out to be a spectacle; wailing, and general gnashing of teeth.

Like a wedding for the dead.

He stood at the edge of the compound, one
leg on an anthill, arms folded across his chest
and in the dying light of the evening, I saw
something glistering that I assumed were tears
stream from under his spectacles.

Although it was brief, this sight, it jarred me.

It shook the foundation onto which he had built the monument of what manhood was.

But now as my siblings and I approach him
where he is seated outside the morgue, he seems to take a deep breath and look upward, as if willing the tears back.

But they don’t.

He seems to struggle to get up on his feet, a man besieged by death, stalked by a dewy future, a future filled with loneliness.

Simon looks old, older than I have ever seen him.

He hugs my kid brother – our last-born – first,
and then hugs my other brother, and then finally my big sister melts into his embrace.

She sobs in his large chest. I stand, respectfully, at the side, hands thrust deep in my pockets because I don’t know what to do with them.

I stand waiting for my hug, like a refugee in a queue, waiting for his food portion.

When we finally hug it’s as I expected it to be; awkward.

Why shouldn’t it be anything but awkward when it’s the second time we embrace in my life?

Why shouldn’t it feel like I’m embracing a Mugumo tree? Or Sumo wrestler, for
that matter? (Heck, I don’t know where that came from. My mind wanders to the absurd in these confusing moments.)

I’m sure you are thinking; was Ben
adopted? Negative. My old man didn’t raise us to hug and kiss. I started watching fathers hug and kiss their sons in the Godfather movie,Mafia empathy if you like,but I thought it was cool and, later, The Sopranos (deep down Italians are pansies).

We were raised to be men; stoic and sturdy. Eh, and not to wear skinny jeans. But now, seeing my father’s eyes wet, seeing his composure
breached, seeing the man I have looked up to as the archetypical male completely compromised fills me with almost as much sadness as the reason we are here.

You see, up to this point, I haven’t cried.

It’s been 24 hrs and I haven’t shed a tear.

Not that I’m Samuel L. Jackson or anything, no, I just haven’t felt the tears come.

It’s been 24 hours and I haven’t succumbed to these most embarrassing moments in a man’s life.

The doors to Chiromo Funeral home in Nairobi opens into a small empty room -like a holding area.

The walls are white.

The undertaker who leads us inside is a chirpy portly chap who is literally bouncing off the walls.

Surely, it can’t be the formaldehyde poisoning that is affecting his gait,

I think, it’s either weed or this guy just likes to piss us off to death.

Together with a handful of my aunts, uncles and cousins, we are led inside the inner room.

Chiromo Funeral Home, can only hold nine bodies at any given time.

They are put in these huge elegant metallic drawer-like freezers.

If you stumbled into this place by mistake when you are drunk, you wouldn’t suspect it’s a morgue; it’s spotlessly clean.

You
could unwrap a pizza in there and eat it.

Chirp N Dale (Oh, the beautiful 90’s) walks to the end of the room and, with no ceremony at all, opens the bottom drawer of the last row.

There is a slight sigh as the drawer slides open, it’s like opening a crypt.

Cold mist rushes out briefly and when it clears I see, Jane, my stepmother.

She’s Jane, all right, but at the morgue they don’t call her Jane any more, they call her “the body” and it fills me with such anguishing sorrow, such alien desolation to hear my step-mom referred to as “the body”.

I mean just because she stopped breathing doesn’t mean she has lost her identity.

But understandably, they would easily call her
“the body” because she didn’t nurture them, or
take them to school or admonish their truancy.

They would call her “the body” because they don’t know her favorite colour, or meal or music.

And so even though she is kept in the freezer like an object, she still is my stepmother. She still is Jane.

There is a small sharp gasp in the room when all these registers – when we are fully brought to consciousness of her presence – and it takes me a moment to realize that the gasp came from me.

I’m standing at the back of this group and I see my half-brother bring a handkerchief to his face.

I hear my big half-sister break down and cry; a low, gutting animal-like cry.

A cry that sounds like her insides are wounded, and it’s a cry I won’t forget in a hurry.

I hear my dad say, “Mummy has rested now, she is peaceful.”

And I hear my heart break into a thousand pieces like cheap porcelain.

My breathing changes, it becomes short and terse.

The first to walk out of the room is our last-born Hal-fbrother.

He’s called Jamal; he’s always played rugby (Homeboys club) so he’s a tough young
man with a small waist, a chiseled chest and
ripped biceps.

But even a flanker can’t stand to see his mother on a cold slab because the flanker has always been mother’s pet.

Jamal walks out.

My big half-siz strokes my step-mother’s short hair.

She strokes her while she cries so bitterly, so
hauntingly, so horrifyingly painful that I can’t
fathom there ever will be any pain to match this
pain she feels.

At some point, one of my uncles will hold her and lead her out.

I avoid looking at my father because I don’t want to embarrass him by seeing him vulnerable, I don’t want to intrude into his grief, yes, but also because I’m afraid he
will make me vulnerable.

So I stare at step-mom, lying there, looking like she’s having a power nap.

Finally, I walk through the small throng and stand right next to her.

She hasn’t changed a tad.

It’s her.

She has my half-bother’s forehead.

She has my half-sister’s good heart.

And she has my daughter’s chin.

Even though she departs with parts of us she still leaves us with a part of her.

I touch her forehead and I immediately wish I
hadn’t.

She’s cold.

Step-Mom is cold like frozen steak.

Death is cold,cold like a witch’s tits.

It’s inhuman.

The act of touching her seals her death for me, it brings it home.

A closure of a sort.

I step back and at the end of the room I find the Undertaker guy and I ask him if I can see
my step-mom’s heart when he’s doing the
embalmment and whatnot.

He looks puzzled.

I tell him I want to see how her heart changed
after eight years of heart disease.

I’m dying (nice pun, eh?) to see how it looks like.

My dad overhears this mad conversation and says it’s “unafrican” and that I should “let go because it’s God’s will”. I cede reluctantly.

My mind is un-hinged.

I walk out and up to this disused staircase on top of the physiotherapy department and there I sit at the end of the staircase overlooking these old University housings.

And there I think of one scene from the past:

It was on a weekday night.

We had rushed her to Mater Hospital where before admission I took her to the X-ray room to have her chest X-rayed.

Is that right, Dr Karimi,my dear high school classmate?

Can I say have her chest “X- rayed”?

Oh, Dr Karimi is the official High School
doctor in case you are wondering. We sat on the same desk. I became a nobody. He became a doctor!

My step-mom had lost a great deal of weight because of her heart condition.

She had become frail and wisp.

The disease had eaten everything on her
except her spirit.

I walked with her in the X-Ray room and the radiologist asked her to hold this rectangular thing on the wall in order for her chest to be X-rayed.

Her blouse was off but I had to stand behind her because she was so weak and there was danger of her falling back.

But it wouldn’t have been possible, I mean, she was so light that if she had started falling back, I had time to nip around to the dispenser to fill my Styrofoam cup with water and get back just in time to grab her before she hit the floor.

And so as I sat on that staircase, I remembered
this scene.

I remembered how frail she looked,how the veins in her arms popped out as she
struggled to hold onto that rectangular thing,
how the muscles on her back trembled from that strain.

I remembered how deeply saddened I was
looking at her in this state, how helpless I felt.

And it ate into me like cancer.

I marvelled bitterly how this disease had stripped her off her dignity that her son had to watch her bareback as she clanged onto that slab., a most odd metaphor of her struggle with life and failing health.

I remembered how dead tired she must have
been to continue carrying around a heart that
had betrayed her.

I thought of that night, and I broke down.

I cried so hard I was surprised that I still had that amount of grief in me.

It came flooding out,choking me, squashing my heart in a tight fist.

I cried like a kid who had had his lunchbox stolen along with a favourite meal.

Jesus, all that male braggadocio flew out of
my pants and I cried the way my daughter cries
when you force her to wear a sweater she hates.

At that staircase I was nothing but a child who
had lost his step-mother and I remembered thinking; heck, I need a handkerchief.

You should have seen me up there, sitting on that last stair, crying into my t-shirt and not caring even as two buibui-clad girls across the fence stopped momentarily to stare at me and perhaps think to themselves; he looks like a fairly decent chap, why would anyone make fun of his ugly forehead and make him cry so?

When I was done, when I had wiped off my tears and my lips had stopped trembling, I walked down to where my relatives were and acted like I had only gone for a long bathroom break; “must have been that chicken pie I had in Narok,” I said.

My dad avoided my eyes.

He knew that my grief for my biological mum was eating into my heart after all these years.

I was going crazy mourning my two mums.

I must have been delirious to say that nonsense under the circumstances.

When a man weeps,his spirit and his mind become un-balanced.

***
It’s midnight as I write this.

Tomorrow morning- Friday – I will be at the airport to pick up my little Half-sister.

A couple of hours ago she Whatsapped me
from her stopover in Amsterdam and said, “I’m scared of coming back,” and I thought; hell, I’m scared of picking you up from the airport.

The amount of crying she will do when she sees
me is going to be unsettling, if her crying over the past few days is anything to go by.

I’m even more scared of crying with her, not because I’m embarrassed of it (OK, a bit) but because it makes me feel so vulnerable and I hate being vulnerable because it makes me feel weak.

***
When you lose your mother, bottom falls off.

Literally.

You feel alone even when you have a million condoling messages in your phone.

You feel lonely even when someone sends you a verse.

And you dislike God a little. How can you not?

He’s the giver and taker of life andso he has to
take the rap, so you blame him even though you know that he knows better, even though
countless of verses in the bible proclaim his
superior wisdom.

But even more poignantly,when you lose your mother, you momentarily stop being a man, a son, a husband, a professional, a boyfriend, a giver, a taker, a dreamer, an aspirer.

You are reborn in reverse and you become a child once again. A sad child.

But like everything else, all these will come to
pass at some point and the sun will come out
again.

Like my friend Gathura – who lost his mother in the most sudden and tragic of ways –told me, “It will get worse before it gets better.”

I don’t think it can get any worse than this.

Friends, I’m done pouring heart here, if I continue any longer I might break into an catholic choir song and it’s not that bad. Hmmm.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Time check; 12.23 am,I’m hitting the sack, pray for me and my people.

And don’t forget to wish me a happy birthday.

It is so sad that I have to celebrate my birthday on the same day of my mother’s death anniversary.

But what else is more fair than life and death?

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Empowering words that can change your perspective in life for better

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~“I wonder.”
Give yourself time to think so the time you spend doing things will be better spent.

~“Today was good.”
If you can say it once, you can say it again. And again. And again.

~“I believe in this.”
Be it a good, a plan, company, a person, an idea—you have to put your faith in something.

~“I’m not finished.”
Only you get to decide when your life’s work is done.

~“Thank you for making this possible.”
Because nobody does anything alone. We’re driven and supported and thwarted by others at every turn.

~“That’s enough.”
Food. Drink. Episodes of Law & Order. Pairs of shoes. Overtime. Articulating your own limits is powerful tool to avoid waste.

~“I can do better.”
As soon as you say it, you’re that much closer to making it true.

~“I’m sorry.”
But you can’t just say it; you have to mean it. Really mean it.

~“I survived.”
Moments of danger are major points of an exciting life.

~“You’re amazing.”
Let yourself be in awe of another person, and you’ll feel strong and vulnerable simultaneously.

~“I am home.”
Home is every adventure’s final destination and starting point—and we all need one to call our own.

~“I did my best.”
If this is true, you did something amazing.

~“How can I help you?”
Because you want people to come to your funeral, and if they can’t make it, at least they’ll miss you.

~“I’m lucky.”
You are lucky, in a way that no one else is. Now, what are you going to do with your good fortune?

~“I want that.”
Ask for it: that’s you get what you want—from others and for yourself.

~“This is wrong.”
If you never say it, you embody the statement.

~“I quit.”
Not everything is worthwhile, and sometimes we don’t find that out until we’re in the middle of a rotten situation.

~“Isn’t this beautiful?”
The more often you notice the gorgeous world around you, the happier you’ll be.

~“Congratulations.”
Say this without jealously. Practice if you have to.

~“Damn, I look good.”
You come from a long line of people who convinced others to pair with them so that the genes you have in you survived. That’s why you are here. Remember that.

~“I can master this.”
The ability to learn is the foundation of every other talent.

~“Hold it there, I want it.”
Ask for the little things on a regular basis and you’ll find that it’s easier to make larger demands on occasion.

~“This is who I am.”
The nervous energy spent pretending to be something you’re not is better spent on practically anything else.

~“Get out!.”
It’s always harder to take back an invitation than to give one, but protecting yourself from personified trouble is always worth the effort.

~“That was my contribution.”
Own what you’ve worked to create—that’s how your presence will be felt long after you’re gone.

~“I’ll try it.”
Consider the impotence of never saying you’ll try.

~“Tell me more.”
Really getting to know someone (or some topic) will help you better positioning your own place in the world.

~“This is my favourite thing.”
Enjoy what you love and say this as often as you can.

~“I earned this.”
There’s a layer of proud ownership over everything you possess that wasn’t merely given to you.

~“I don’t care.”
Being able to discern between what’s important and what’s trivial is a skill that will save your sanity and your schedule.

~“Your secret is safe with me.”
Because it feels deep-down good to be trustworthy.

~“Eureka!”
Being the first to know something is a delicious sensation.

~“Let’s go!”
Where you’re going often matters far less than the enthusiasm you have for the trip.

~“I trust you.”
We all need allies, and admitting as much helps forge alliances.

~“I don’t know how to do this.”
It’s better to admit it and learn than to fake it and embarrass yourself.

~“I’m terrified.”
Fear is an asset. It can save you from danger and alert you to trouble. Don’t ignore the tingles that run up and down your spine.

~“This is going to work.”
When this is said truthfully, it’s an assertion of power of determination over failure.

~“I made a decision.”
Autonomy transforms any activity from a chore to an act of destiny.

~“I love you.”
We all want to say this, and we all want it said to us.

~“I understand.”
More important than being right, or being important, is being truly aware.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Can you imagine a world without men?

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Can you imagine a world without men?

There’d be no crime, and lots of fat happy women.

There would be no divorce or dumping.

There would be no romantic songs to sing;the world would sing about such important things like crop rotation and milking cows.

There would be no violent games like boxing,or silly games like football.

There would be no urinals,those smelly places by the roadside which men treat as nature’s urinals.

There would be no war,no guns or bombs.

There would be no bars(women would “cook” beer at home for their babies).

There would be no labour wards,or even gynaecologists;women would culture babies from yeast or something like that.

There would be no double beds or even bathrooms;who would need privacy when the world only have women?

There would be no clothes as everyone would be free to walk naked.

The world would be full of animals that men hunt for fun.

There would be no psychiatrists or marriage counsellors;empathy would be enough to heal all of women’s psychological problems.

There would be no beauty parlours or hair saloons;who would be there to impress?

There would be no gyms;why work out when there is no one to impress?

There would be no poetry,just verses to praise the rainy season and healthy crops.

There would be no rape!

There would be no passionate kiss.

There would be no heartbreaks.

Hey! Would you help me add in some more advantages of a world without men in the comments section here below?

I look forward to a world without men,’cause all men would be in heaven living as angels-have you ever heard of an angel called Mary or Janet?

Men were not meant to live on earth as men,but as angels in heaven,and that would really give women a break here on earth!

Please help me add some more…..

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There will always be some vicious criticism for those who choose to pursue greatness

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If you’re going to pursue greatness, if you’re going to be a great businessperson, a great teacher, a great parent, a great leader, you have
to understand that not everyone is going to cheer you on.

I’d love to tell you that your family, friends and co-workers will celebrate you, but that’s
not necessarily the case.

Some people simply can’t handle your success.

As you grow and increase, someone will get jealous.

Someone will start finding fault.

Don’t be surprised if a relative tries to belittle or discredit you.

You can’t focus on making everyone around you happy or you’ll start changing and lose sight of your goal in going for the ultimate prize of your hard work and destiny.

Remember, your destiny is too great to be distracted by people who are never going to affirm you.

Don’t take it personally.

It’s not about you.

It’s their problem.

Shake it off, run your race, and be great anyway.

Having greatness in the midst of criticism begins with constant forgiving spirit.

Don’t hold a grudge.

Bless those who curse you; pray for those who
spitefully use you.

As you keep doing what is right,your achievements will draw envy.

Be great in the midst of criticism!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Have I lived long enough?

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Have I lived long enough?

How long do I have to live to feel that I have lived long enough?

These thought provoking questions were a theme of a meditation session with my Buddhist meditation teacher.

I have made them subjective,as my own question because the subject of death even after one has lived to a hundred is a sensitive topic and I want to draw this discussion inwardly to myself so that my dear readers don’t get panicked by this discourse.

If I wanted to be thinking I have lived enough in the future, then the best way to get there would be to live with that exact same thought right now.

Immediately, I started asserting this new notion that,already, I had actually lived enough. After all, there are many humans that are not blessed with the experience of even a second day of life on earth.

How greedy was I willing to be?

How selfish and ungrateful?

The deeper this pronouncement that I had lived enough sunk into me, the greater the shroud of fear surrounding death lifted.

Whether I initially had believed this or not, I slowly grew to the place where I knew, beyond any doubt, that I had lived enough.

Yes! I had already lived enough!

And, just like that, all my fears vanished and I finally felt free, overflowing with a sense of appreciation and contentment.

Ever since, I’ve been discussing this concept of “enough” with others in the throes of grief and loss.

What I explain is that “enough” is always a value judgment, rather than something that can be quantified or measured.

It’s about perspective, a determination on
our part to choose gratitude for what we’ve been granted over regret for what we have lost or fears about what we might lose.

This can be tremendously powerful, though admittedly very hard at times.

Is it possible to view the death of a young
child and understand that he or she lived enough?

Can a parent suffering through such a loss perceive their abbreviated time with their son or daughter as enough?

When a friend or parent or anyone else we care about passes away, can we experience the time we had with them as enough?

The answer is yes.

It is possible, if and when we choose to exercise our right to invoke this perspective.

We can view whatever time we’ve been given through the continually available lens of gratitude, appreciation,celebration, and love.

We can understand each moment as a gift, as “enough.”

To be a human is little short of a miracle.

In the limitlessly vast universe of atoms and particles and stars and planets,gases and quarks and molecules, stones and trees and bugs and platypuses, of all the possible manifestations of life that are possible, we have been given the rarest of privileges of experiencing what it is like to be human.

That’s cool!

Just by being here, we’ve already beaten the odds, no matter how many more minutes of this miracle we get to experience.

We know when we lived enough by knowing this right now, during this and all future moments, even while we crave to drink in as much as life continues to offer us.

We appreciate that no more is needed.

We’re thankful and, from the wisdom of this thankfulness,we smile, at ourselves and all around us.

We’ve already lived enough—and that’s a beautiful thing.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Love comes to those at peace with who they are

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This isnt a race—it is my life.

This revelation didn’t come easy in my life.

After six months of being single after my divorce, I wanted to date again.

I was still afraid of failure and rejection, but I wanted to try.

I felt the best way to get over it was to
dedicate my time to finding someone new.

I didn’t know where to begin, but I knew I had a clearer understanding of what I wanted in a relationship.

I definitely knew what I didn’t want in a relationship.

I thought if I could just find someone with the right qualities, happiness would follow.

I made a long list of qualities I desired in a lady.
I tried out as many girls as I could.

I thought I could get what I wanted by playing
the odds, like sending out 100 resumes for a job hoping one company would call back.

I felt I had learned from my past mistakes and was impatient to find true love.

Six months later, after a string of bad dates, I was no closer to finding the love I desired
and the whiff of desperation seeped from my pores.

I started to feel like maybe there really wasn’t anyone out there for me.

So, I decided to stop chasing.

I began to take care of myself.

I decided to be the person I was looking for while at the same time, creating a way for
the right girl to find me.

I decided to remove all the clutter from my home and my mind.

I threw out boxes and bags of clothes and objects that represented the old me.

I wrote daily gratitude lists and stopped thinking about what I didn’t have.

I started going out to for weekend treats alone.

I found new restaurants to try.

I took long drives in the wild.

Once I took my focus off finding the right person, I started to find myself.

I could sit for hours on my back porch
reading a novel.

I would buy myself chocolate Ice-cream and flowers for Valentine’s Day.

Once I was providing for all of my own needs, I started to smile again.

This wasn’t a race—it was my life.

I intended to enjoy every moment of it with or without someone by my side.

Around this time, I started to think about finding some new friends.

I lost half of my friends during my divorce.

I was looking for positive people to hang out with that would be interested in the same things I liked to do.

I started joining book exchange clubs and meetup groups.

I went to exercise classes and asked co-workers out for drinks.

I started accepting invitations to parties,not with the aim of finding new love,but simply to enjoy my life.

Meanwhile, I still meditated.

I still read on the porch and I stopped looking for new love.

I just wanted to have a good time and find some friendly people my age.

I wasn’t having a lot of luck in the friend department, though.

It seemed like I was in a strange age group.

When I joined my friends circle, most of the members were either a decade older or younger than me.

I wondered why no one my age seemed to go out.

I reasoned they must be busy with parenting and working a lot like most people in their forties and fifties.

I just wasn’t finding people my age.

Then one day, sitting around the house doing absolutely nothing, I had a light bulb moment—I would start a group for people my age to meet and find friends!

At the second meeting of my group, my future partner walked in the door.

I knew she would be my soul mate the second I
saw her.

And yes, she has most of the qualities on that
original list.

If you’re looking for love and feeling like time is running out, slow down.

Breathe, go buy yourself some good presents,
and stop trying so hard.

Love comes to those at peace with who they are.

Here are some tips for cultivating love while you wait for it to find you:

1. If you build it, they will come.

If you can’t find what you’re looking for, create a way for it to find you.

2. Be the person you’re looking for.

The best way to find love is to love yourself.

Spend time exercising, meditating, and cultivating your self-esteem.

When the right person does show up, a calm confidence will be far more attractive than fear and anxiety.

3. Stop and smell the roses.

It’s not a marathon.

You’re looking for the best person to show up, not the first person to show up.

When’s the last time you found someone who seemed panicked attractive?

4. It’s okay to dine alone.

Many people are afraid to do “couple” things alone.

Try going to treat by yourself.

You can really have a good time just enjoying your own company.

Take action toward your dreams, but then step back and let those conditions manifest.

Enjoy life and give yourself what you need instead of waiting for someone to give it to you.

Meet each day with gratitude and joy in what you do have and what you wish for will find its way to you.

When you stop chasing butterflies and sit still,they will land on your shoulders.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Some Mornings…..

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Some mornings,the world seems like a paradise.

You wake up,take a deep breath by the window, and look out the welcoming golden sunrise streaking through the trees.

Some moments like this make life seem so precious.

A sublime piece of music that perfectly matches your happy mood plays softly on the radio to complement this perfect moment.

But other mornings,the world seems like a place full of horror.

You wake up to newspaper headlines that scream headlines about a grisly terror attack,or jews pounding their Arab cousins to smithereens in Gaza- another holocaust,but this time,the jews have taken the place of one,Adolph Hitler.

Another serial killer has claimed his tenth victim.

All is gloomy.

The sun has taken refuge behind the dark clouds.

These are the moments when nothing seems to make sense,nothing seems fair.

You ask yourself;does my life really matter or I am just a small insignificant cog in some vast cosmic juggernaut?

Whichever way you look at it,it is only your choice,and yours only,that decides the kind of morning that will grace your day.

Some mornings,you just have to bring along your own sunshine to grace your day!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I think the Baggage Claim desk is the worst place to work in because no happy conversations happen there

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I think the Baggage Claim desk is the worst place to work in because no happy conversations happen there.

Everybody who shows up here is poised to curse.

I have made it a habit to fill lost baggage forms as soon as I disembark from any airport. It is a routine I intend to keep until I’m too old to travel.

Take someone who flew for, what, six, eight hours only to land, tired, lagged and hungry to find his luggage missing.

Picture the conversations someone like that will
have.

But those officials have seen it all.

They are blasé towards shouting and banging of tables and fingers jabbed at their faces.

A good day for them is when they encounter an irate client who doesn’t speak English.

You don’t imagine you would feel so distraught until you are standing at the carousel after deplaning and it has ground to a stop after everyone has picked theirs and it suddenly dawns on you that your luggage is missing.

It’s bad enough to lose your luggage, but to realize that you lost it as you stand at an airport with a name like Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International airport in Mauritius is deeply disturbing.

Baggage Claim to fill forms and whatnot.

They don’t know where my bag is.

We connected through Jo’burg, so it’s anywhere between Nairobi and Mauritius.

Which means it could have fallen off over the Serengeti and right this moment as you selfishly tweet, a Rhino might just be
peeing on my suitcase.

Or it could have fallen in Zimbabwe, and some Zimbabwean called Simango Dabengwa is trying to sell my boxers for 2.5million
Zimbabwean dollar. Totally flattering.

They will reimburse me 75USD daily for my expenditure that goes into buying the necessities I need until my luggage is retrieved from Serengeti National Park where it could have dropped from the skies, an official at the desk tells me.

Please fill this form here Mr. Oooooooogo. “It’s Mugo!” I sigh, testily.

As I’m filling the important form, I
can hear a very irate passenger at the end of the counter getting his knickers in a twist.

He has a Nigerian accent.

I turn to look and it’s Uti. Big Brother. Chewing the ass off this reed-thin airport official. She looks spectacularly unmoved by all the anger.

He turns to me and asks, “Did they also lose your luggage?” and I want to say, “No, I’m
here to pay for my DSTV,” but I nod and say, Yes, imagine that.

But looking at that thin Asian official who just wants her shift to end so that she can go home and have a hot shower and tandoori chicken, I realize that it’s the very first time I felt sorry for an Indian.

No really, I’m not being racist.

When were the last time you felt sorry for an
Indian? Exactly.

Things get better slightly because an hour later we are booked into the best resort in the island – Trou Aux Biches Resort and Spa (Not pronounced “bitches”)- for a one-week agribusiness content showcase jamboree that was represented by media from more than half a dozen African countries and music and comedy talent.

But still it’s hard to operate in the same clothes you left Nairobi in 24hrs earlier.

Clothes that lost one hour to get to Jo’burg and gained another hour in Mauritius.

Clothes that smell of JKIA, OR Tambo and the Seewoos…that-one airport.

Even when I bought new clothes – some
random t-shirt and overpriced underwear from the only shop that was still opened that night in Port Loius – I still felt like I was wearing someone else’s clothes.

I constantly think of my clothes.

I dream of them.

I picture them in that dark suitcase, wondering why they have been abandoned.

I think of my socks, curled into a ball in a corner, yearning to stretch their legs.

I had running shoes in there. Now lost. My poor shower gel.

Sigh. You don’t know how precious your shower gel is until it’s gone.

Guys, cherish your shower gels, it might
be gone tomorrow.

And then there is my bottle of Hugo Boss, Orange.

Hugo, if you are reading this, I will find you.

I will not tire until I find you.

I don’t care if ghouls here will say that sounds gay, but I will find you Hugo.

Tell you what, I remember momentarily stirred awake last night with a start; my bed smelled funny.

Smelled of India.

There was an Indian in my bed, I thought, only to realize it’s the thin colorful can of deo-spray I bought from some shop in Port Louis.

Fourty five percent of Mauritius is Asian brought in here as slaves from India by the British colonialists to work in sugarcane farms.

They are fairly dark Indians though.

One watersport chap walked up to me at the beach and put his wrist against mine and said enthusiastically, “look, we are both black,we are brothers!” and I don’t know why that made me sadder.

It’s a black hardback suitcase.

If you see it near your office,please drop me a line.

If you see it bobbing down Uhuru Highway, on a trailer to Malaba, please hail it down.

If you go to Maxland and you see a bunch of chaps stepping on it under the table as they drink, please email me pronto.

If you are in Kisumu and you’re having fish
by the lake and you see some fisherman stuffing fish into it, please let him keep it.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Men were never meant to be pretty

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This story is not about sour grapes.

At my age,which is many times over my teenage years,I have no illusions about my looks.

I’m not handsome.

No lady would be dying to share my ‘ugly’ life.

That said,let’s now wade in the gist of my story.

I like boxing.

It’s crude and primal.

It’s blood, gore and aggression.

And it’s downright dirty.

You use your knuckles to pound another man’s head until they submit to you.

Until they hit the canvas and see their lights go off.

Until the ref looks into their eyes and sees defeat and submission.

It’s a man’s sport.

And I like Floyd Mayweather, Jnr. I like him because he is a loud mouth,like Tyson, well, that is before he developed a taste for uncooked human ears.

I like Floyd because although he toots his
horn, he ends up pounding you.

He puts his mouth where his fist is, or rather he puts his fist where your mouth is:42 fights and 42 wins should mean something.

The man is an animal.

One problem though, Floyd calls himself “pretty boy”.

Men shouldn’t get to that point where they think of themselves as pretty.

Men aren’t pretty; kittens are pretty,women are pretty, flowers are pretty, so are puppies and
small babies with pacifiers sticking out their mouths.

To say you are a pretty boy is to liken yourself with something feminine, something breakable, something fragile.

You know?

Something that bruises easy.

Men should be men, if you need a nickname it should be something hard, something beastly or risqué, like RAMBO or, well, you know what I mean.

Something that doesn’t have pretty in it.

But it’s a given that some men tend to wander towards that cliff, where they embrace that side
of their femininity.

Here is a story I only tell when I’m drunk. Er, sit pretty,this is weird.

I have this friend of mine,let’s call him Edward.

He is into big money.

He rolls on the best wheels that money can buy.

His Mansion draws envy of most men.

He is single.

He is-wait for this!-beautiful!

He knows about skin moisturisers,hair shampoos,manicure,pedicure-name it.

He is obsessive about his looks and cleanliness.

His last girlfriend happens to be an ex-girlfriend.

We are still on friendly terms,having completely moved on from a relationship that never worked for me.

She left him too.

That’s no big deal.

Men are being dumped everyday by their girlfriends.

But something she said about why she left him drew my dried up curiosity into their former relationship.

This guy,she told me,made her feel dirty.

He couldn’t be persuaded to make love for whatever reason without a condom.

And he always showered meticulously after that.

He boiled and washed all his underclothes,especially after getting intimate with her.

He boiled and ironed all his handkerchiefs.

He slept in a separate bed,and only made contact whenever it was necessary to fulfil his biological needs.

He disinfected the toilet seat every time he had to use it.

Full mouth kiss to him is like licking a dump pit.

In short,he drove my ex crazy with his fussiness.

He can’t trust anyone to pair his socks.

They were the only ones living in his house.

“I just couldn’t stand the way he is so fussy about his looks and the standard of his personal hygiene that bordered on pathological obsession”. She told me.

As I complete writing this piece,I realise that my socks and shoes are littering my sitting room,my bed has been unmade since morning,there is a heap of clean laundry over my bed that should have been packed away into the wardrobe last week.

These may be the very same things that drove my ex-girlfriend away-total disorder in my life.

I’m now surprised to know that perfect order drove her away from the most “pretty” man she ever met.

Life is full of ironies,but I’m pissed of by the irony of a “perfect” man driving away his beautiful girlfriend by being so orderly!

Mind you,I’ve just told you this story in my most sober moment.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

This is a story of how I would like to be remembered

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Sitting through the funeral of one of my childhood friends yesterday was nothing short of torture; one of the toughest hours of my life.

It’s not just about losing a friend.

Of course that part is horrendous.

But when it’s a friend who is your age, with friends who are your friends, and children who are your children’s age, you cannot help but put
yourself up there on that pier.

Or worse, imagine your own loving children(not all of your children will end up loving you,but as a parent,you are obliged to love them all) up there in the front row of chapel pews.

God how I dreaded entering that funeral home and witness my dear friend lying in state.

I stopped a block away, caught my breath, looked up at the glorious blue sky and wondered if I could do it.

I willed myself to walk up those stairs, to turn the corner into the chapel, to plant myself
in the austere pews in the comfort of old friends, forced to face forward and hear words I didn’t want to hear about my departed friend.

And yet, I’m so very glad I did.

I had forgotten how these kinds of ceremonies often provide comfort.

How there were so many points of wisdom in the thoughtful eulogies that help offer enlightenment and closure.

One of the most striking moments of the ceremony was when her own father described how anxious he was when Julie’s job took her to dangerous parts of South and Central America, forcing her to travel accompanied by bodyguards.

“You realize as a parent,” he said with remarkable strength and clarity, “that we often fear the wrong things about our children.”

It was lovely hearing person after person describe Julie’s optimism and kindness of spirit, her grace under the most heinous of circumstances for 21 months, her unwavering
devotion to the relationships in her life, and her ability to effortlessly do it all.

It was unanimous: she was amazing.

And she was loved.

However those of her childhood friends in attendance–and there were easily 40 or more of us–were all feeling the same thing.

If you could have woven through the pews with a magic siphon and collected our thoughts, you would have seen us all grappling with our own mortality.

You just can’t help it in this situation–you put yourself in that coffin.

You think, what if it were me?

Or, what if it were my partner?

And then you ask yourself, how do I want to be remembered?

Later at lunch, with ten amazing friends (thank God for amazing friends who can laugh with you as easily as they cry with you and don’t make too much fun of you for ordering a
tequila shot with your wine), Sara brought up first what I know we were all thinking.

“You know, when they were describing how she always took care of her kids with a smile, entertained, volunteered, held down a high-powered job and made it all look
effortless…that wouldn’t be me.”

We all laughed.

And agreed.

Nope.

None of us would be known for our effortless ability to do it all.

“They would say, ‘she was really good at calling the nanny on a Friday night,’” one friend quipped,”so that she can go partying”.

“They would say, ‘she always had dishes in the sink but at least she was fun,’” I added.

And we all laughed, as we assembled our imperfect obituaries.

I spent the rest of the night trying to answer the question in my own head.

Wondering what people might say of me when
I’m gone.

And whether I’d be okay with it.

Have you ever thought about it?

How would you like to be remembered?

As children, we were all fascinated by our own treasure hunts.

We sought the gold at the end of the rainbow.

We dreamed of sailing all the world’s seas looking for Treasure Island.

We pretended to navigate ancient lands looking for the spot marked “X”.

Growing up in my foster family, my treasures were little feel-good events that made me smile.

I longed for play time so I could climb trees and catch spiders.

I looked for friends who could play with me all night long.

I loved visiting our local bookshops to scour the shelves for books I’d enjoy.

As I grew older, I stopped seeking treasures.

A life of routine and common dreams had descended on me.

It was no longer seeking Treasure Island or the spot marked “X” but rather the acceptable haves of my generation.

In my country it was known as the 5 Cs—cash, credit card, car, condominium, and country club membership.

When I started looking deeper, I asked, “Is that really all there is?”

Was life all about acquiring things?

It just didn’t feel meaningful.

I began to look for the real treasures in life, and started thinking about the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind.

4 Treasures to Leave Behind

I have discovered that the real treasures in life have nothing to do with status and everything to do with leading fulfilling lives and sharing them with people.

We can’t take anything with us, but we can leave these behind for our loved ones, both to remember us and to help and inspire them.

I’d like to be remembered for;

1. The books i read

The books we read shape our lives.

They equip us with the wisdom and skills we need, and inspire dreams that set us
on journeys of meaning and fulfilment.

We have the opportunity to leave behind books that enrich the mind and soul, teach others how to lead better lives, and inspire greatness from within.

One day, when our children and their children grow up,they will browse our library and learn what shaped us into the people we were.

Mark Twain wrote, “The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

Gain that advantage for yourself, and leave it behind for generations to come.

2. The pictures and videos i took

Pictures and videos evoke memories that lead us back into the recesses of joy, laughter, and even sadness.

They remind us of years past when we were once young and vibrant.

In our modern age where physical photographs are becoming obsolete, pictures have not lost their value and importance.

When we browse our photo archives on our
iPads or notebooks, we are still filled with a sense of nostalgia.

Pictures and videos are treasures that bring history to the forefront.

Take the time to immortalise the little things that
make you happy, as well as your milestones and adventures.

They’ll fill you with joy when you revisit them, and they’ll leave your children trails of their roots.

3. The journals i maintained

As you pass the various ages of your life did you bother to record your thoughts and dreams?

Did you write down your best ideas to revisit at a later time?

Did you create a blog to write down all your thoughts?

Did you carry a notebook to jot down thoughts that meant something to you?

Who are we but passengers in a life of experiences?

But our experiences are invaluable because they are unique to each of us—and they provide wisdom for those who read our stories.

Start your own journals.

It can be a simple notebook or even a blog.

At every moment that is priceless to you,
record what you’ve experienced.

It will both help you find lessons and meaning in your life, and create a treasured archive for your loved ones after you are gone.

4. The legacy I created

Finally, what lessons did we teach through the lives we led?

What philosophies of living did we engrave in the hearts of people who know us?

What mission and values did we uphold in life?

What can our children learn from us?

Did we teach them well?

Did we teach them about life?

The legacy we create has lasting impact long after we are gone.

Amputee athlete and activist Terry Fox died at just 21, after attempting to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research.

Thirty years after his death, The Terry Fox Run is still conducted around the world annually, in remembrance of his hope and vision.

That run will endure and continue to inspire, in much the same way he did.

We may not all leave legacies of this magnitude, but we all have the ability to touch people’s lives in a way that will live on when we’re gone.

Think about the legacy you want to leave behind—how you can share a message of
goodness, hope, and inspiration.

The Treasure We Can Enjoy Right Now

If we go through life seeking only gold and silver, we miss the point.

Life is about the experiences we have—and what we learn and teach as a result.

The true measure of success is about treasures of the heart.

Start building them today and you’ll have them to share tomorrow.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My Home Village;a postcard that has not yet been printed

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I’m writing this piece from my verandah in my home village.

It’s shortly after 6pm; the cows are coming home.

My dog, called,’Simba’, lethargically herds these cows home.

It’s amazing that everybody names their dog
‘Simba ‘in our village, which says a lot about our creativity in naming dogs,or lack of it.

Almost all other dogs I know in my village are called ‘Simba’.

‘Simba’ is one of those dogs that make dogs
look bad; totally unimpressionable, a laughable caricature of the canines.

It’s a lazy mutt that is scared of its own
shadow.

Think Courage the Cowardly Dog on cartoon
network.

But my groundsman is fond of that dog, maybe
because my partner doesn’t see the point of keeping it.

Ha ha.

Come on guys, that’s amusing. Ish.

Ok, maybe only in my village.

My village is not on the map.

Any Map!

It’s small and unassuming.

We don’t grow cash crops.

We don’t have notable heroes.

We don’t have a tarmacked road- all we have is a ragged dusty winding path that climbs hills and slithers down plains like a jaded vein.

Only recently we got piped water.

Only recently we got electricity.

When it’s hot, it’s really hot.

When it’s cold, well, it’s never that cold.

Our leadership is gone south – as is in most parts of Kenya.

In my village we don’t have a leadership that shakes the political order.

My MP is a dud.

He sleeps in parliament, but then again which MP doesn’t?

If I were to be honest with you, there is really nothing special about my village.

We are a blip in the radar and life crawls by with an eerie obscurity.

But we have the water dam.

The second largest man-made dam in Kenya.

Surely that should count for something folks.

We have both Christians and Moslems.

I remember as a kid, one of my much older
uncles was dating this homely Moslem girl called Fatuma.

For some reason he used to call
her Fatima.

Love does that to you I guess; you mispronounce names.

But I’m not a Moslem.

And I know no Fatuma – or Fatima for that matter.

So it’s here in my village that I spend my weekends and holidays.

Have you ever heard of a place called “Mukuru wa Ngoma”(Devil’s Valley)?

No? Well, it’s this place in my village which has
trees that actually talk.

Ok, I’m kidding.

It’s actually a crater.

It has green water(algae,probably).

But this crater is ridden with riveting folklore passed down from generation to generation.

I don’t know, I’m not big on such things.

But since Devil’s Valley is only 10kms from my home, I decided why not visit it and do a story?

So I called one of my Science editors- who I imagined was somewhere in the coast sipping mojitos- and sold the idea to her.

She bit on this idea (something ‘Simba’ should learn to do).

Simba never bites anything,even my sworn enemies who have made a habit of trespassing through my compound on their way to the local shopping centre.

I think ‘Simba’ is afraid of dentists,and he doesn’t take chances biting anything that may loosen his teeth!

So I drove out to take pictures and do some interviews.

My nosing around got me a vital information.

There was an old woman who stayed at the lip of the crater, and this old woman had the lowdown on what happened in this crater, some herdsmen told me.

Oh, by the way, whereas the Maasai herdsmen are tall, wear shukas and carry spears, but our herdsmen from my community are tall, dark, carry unsheathed machetes and sometimes smoke pot.

How’z that for size?

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it, folks.

A woman headed to the market offers to show me the boma(home compound).

It’s a small house.

Two pots (the kitchen vessel not ‘joints’,as pot is referred to around here) sit outside.

Maize plantains feature in a modest farm outside this boma.

Chicken wander outside this hut..

It’s quiet, not a soul in sight.

The door is ajar.

The woman who walked me here points with her chin,“She stays there.” and when I turn to ask her if she could take me inside she is gone.

Gone like she was never there.

Ok, I’m prone to dramatics so bear with me.

The woman sort of turned and left, and of course I would have grabbed her and pleaded with her to walk me inside that hut, but I’m a man darn it, and I come from a place where herdsmen carry unsheathed swords!

So I approach this hut with caution…maybe caution is not the appropriate word of choice here, make that anxiety.

I approach with anxiety. “Hodi?” I call out at a
distance.

Silence.

I move closer.

It seems rude to just amble in a stranger’s home without invitation.

So I peer inside; it’s dark inside.

Very dark.

“Cucu?”(Grandma) I call out again.

There is no response and I start thinking that perhaps there is nobody in the house.

And just when I’m contemplating to leave, I hear a noise in the house.

A small muffled sound, more like a gruffy sound….like someone who has a bad wet cough trying to clear their throats.

I venture inside.

Stepping into this dark hut was like stepping into a time machine.

The floor is made of mud, and decorated by
running a blunt object on it.

It’s cool inside, as if the aircon is on.

Next to the door is one of those old traditional wooden chairs that you can fold and keep
away.

Since I can’t see anything, I decide to take a seat.

Where light falls on at the end of the room is a wall full of old, very old, framed pictures.

Black and white pictures of the departed,her departed.

One of the glass windows of the framed pictures is shattered.

Next to these pictures are two traditional hats, complete with feathers sticking from
them.

Hoisted on the roof is a big barbed branch- or
walking staff, I dunno.

There is an old wooden table against the wall.

On it sits two plastic plates; red and blue.

Morsels of dried brown ugali (Maize meal cake) leftovers feature there.

Next to these plates is a wicker lamp.

When was the last time you saw a wicker lamp folks?

I feel like fish in a bowl.

Then there is the smell.

Well, it’s not really a smell,because a smell has connotations of foulness.

This hut doesn’t smell bad.

It has a different smell, a smell of a gone era,smells from back in my childhood days.

The smell of age.

And this smell somehow sets the mood.

I could as well be in the 70’s and I’m enchanted.

I sit there trying to orient my eyesight to the darkness.

Then she speaks from somewhere in this darkness.

She says hallo in that slow drawl that is characteristic of old women.

Her voice is coming out from somewhere behind the door, it seems like a voice from a cave; hollow and ominous.

I say hi and tell her my name and explain what
brings me here.

There is silence.

My eyesight slowly adjusts to the darkness and I for the first time I make out the shape of a tattered bed; an old thin tattered mattress
on a mat- and looming figure lying on it.

See, at this point I know this was not going to make it in my story to my syndicated column in newspaper.

Editors don’t give a hoot how you get the
story, it’s all about getting to the point because there is space and word count to think about.

“Whose son are you?” the voice asks again.

In my culture you are a nobody until you say who your father or grandfather is.

No man stands alone.

You can’t crawl from the shadow of your father.
And so name dropping is very permissible here.

So I drop the name of my old man.

Silence from her.

I guess my father is also a nobody as I
am.

So I drop my grandfather’s name and finally I get a reaction.

She knows my grandfather!

And that’s enough really.

Her bed cringes as she slowly sits up.

Then I see her…sort of.

Since her bed is behind the door, light doesn’t reach her, and so only shards of light hit her and shadows fall and rise on her time- weathered face.

If my daughter was here she would have called her a witch.

But she isn’t, she is an old woman.

A very old woman.

Her face sags.

Her short white hair glows in this darkness.

Deep galleys run down her face etching into her skin with bold strokes.

I make out two wisps of beard on her chin.

I guess old age is an equalizer because she looks like a man.

She is as thin as a drinking straw.

Her shoulder bones jut out from her very old dirty t-shirt.

She looks so frail; it makes me a bit sad.

When my eyesight fully adjusts to this darkness I see her eyes.

They are as dead as a coffin.

They are watery and look like cuddled milk.

She constantly leans forward and squints to look at me.

She asks me to get her water, and with a long bony finger she points at tin across the room.

It’s one of those Kimbo cooking fat tins .

When was the last time you saw those, 1985?

I bring her water, and she drinks it.

The gulping sound of water gushing down her throat seems magnified in this hut.

With trembling hands she hands back the tin.

I ask her how old she is, and she smiles and says she is not sure. “I know it’s not less than 90yrs,” she says, “Maybe 100yrs”.

Well, I knew she was younger than my old
car, I muse.

When she is ready, she tells me the story that brought me here.

And for her age she is amazingly coherent.

Her memory of names is succinct.

Her talk is peppered with curious metaphors.

She throws in sayings and rhetoric.

And like old people, she tends to stray into stories that I’m not interested in, but I tactfully and gently bring back her back to the main story.

This is how it all ends, I think, while she bangs on about old tales.

This is all this old woman aspires to; reliving
stories.

She sits in her hut in complete solitude, filling
her day with sleep.

She and death play a waiting game;she waits for death and death awaits her.

With one foot in the grave, her existence as she knows it, is laden with not only a bleak hope but a realization that she is living on borrowed time.
I suspect that at her age, she secretly lusts for death because death to her means freedom.

Freedom from her aching bones.

Freedom from her failing eyesight.

Freedom from her busted ear drums.

But most importantly, freedom from loneliness.

I can tell nobody has ever shown keen interest on her lately, like I’m doing.

She seems to love my inquisitiveness.

She relishes the fact that I laugh at some of her comments.

She is surprised that anyone would care about what she has to say and when I tell her I will have her picture in the newspaper, she is overcome with joy.

Who said travel journalism is a lost cause?

Who said we don’t do good…even if we are getting paid for it in inches,column inches that is?

The folklore he narrates to me revolves around
alcoholism and its pitfalls, and she unspools loads of wisdom on the same.

And at some point she stops and asks me if I’m a beer drinker and I quickly say no.

But then I feel like a jerk, lying to this old lady, I feel like she can see through this little fib and I quickly stammer, “Well, a little.”

She gives me a small knowing look.

When I used to post in a magazine some time back, I used to interview old men for a column that basically highlighted what they had learned in life, I loved writing this section of the magazine because I would stumble on wisdom that you couldn’t find on Wikipedia, stuff that you can’t Google.

Stuff that only comes with age.

And so I asked this old lady what she has learnt in life and she said in essence, “Never look back on things you should have done better or shouldn’t have done. If you are to look
back, do it only for the lessons.”

Then something happens that exposes the psyche of a woman regardless of age.

I ask her if I can take her picture and she obliges.

I hold her hand- which feels bony and brittle like glass- and I help her outside where I
sit her on a folded chair.

Then I request if she can wear one of them traditional hats hanging from the wall.

She smiles skeptically and asks,“I dunno, I haven’t worn those in many years, are you sure I will look okay in one?”

At this point I tell her that I’m certain she will look great in one.

So I get one and she carefully perches it on her
head then she looks at me for approval.

And being prone to drama, I take a few appreciative steps back, shake my head and say I think she looks absolutely smashing! Boy,did she giggle like a school girl!

“Really?” she asks.

I say “Absolutely! I think you look
totally stunning, wait till I put you in the newspapers,everybody will ask ‘who is that lady?!”

More toothless giggles.

And that’s the thing, regardless of age; a woman will still want to hear she looks hot.

She will still crave that compliment.

And there was a little light that I had lit in
this old lady’s eyes by telling her she looked hot.
And it felt good.

I took my pictures.

Then I walked to the nearest shop and bought her stuff; sugar, salt, bread, oil….the
works.

In my culture it’s rude to visit an old woman
without leaving her something.

Then I squeezed some money in her dry palms, which she proceeded to spit on it as customary.

Good luck or something.

I stayed with her for over 2hrs and when I was leaving,she held my hand in both of her hands and said she would pray for me.

She asked me what I wanted prayed for and I said “Wisdom, good health and strength to deal
with things I can’t change.”

She nodded and said she would and for some reason I believed that those prayers would reach the Heaven above.

Then I bid her goodbye.

Here is the thing.

I’m not going to say that meeting the old lady changed my life, no, that would be so corny.

But meeting that old woman made me feel good.
By Jove, it made me feel so damned good.

You know how you meet people and say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you” even though you wouldn’t have cared either way if you hadn’t met them?

Well, for once, I meant it from the bottom of my
heart when I told her that it was a pleasure to meet her.

I really did.

And you would have, had you met her because
she was a scream!

And for me this meeting was the icing on my Weekend holiday.

Meeting Mama Rosa beat sipping overpriced wine with some pretentious folk any day,and again,right in my home village.

Postcards are made of this!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Francis

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This post is not about suicide.

It is about friendship.

It is about depression,that bottomless pit that sucks in the human soul to loneliness,and loss of faith and hope.

This story is about Francis,my bossom friend.

He left no note.

I have to immortalise his final moments by re- constructing his final thoughts.

He wonders why anyone would find it necessary to leave a note.

Who,even among his estranged family or close friends can really empathise with the pain in his soul?

He lights a cigarette – his twelfth in under an hour – and closes his eyes and takes a deep drag at it.

Smoke fills his soul.

A metaphor that fits snugly with the state of his life,

He doesn’t open his eyes but lets smoke crawl out of his nose and into the cold chilly night in a lazy trail.

He sits like this for a while; immobile.

Still.

The cigarette smoulders in a dull ember between his fingers.

A soft breeze blows through.

He slowly, even achingly opens his eyes and looks down at the streets below.

At 2am there are a few cars in the street, mostly drunks, heading home, or moving to another bar for a night of unending binge.

It had just rained, so the streets are wet.

He watches a couple ambling along up the streets; the man’s hand draped around the woman’s shoulders.

From where he is seated they look like miniature human beings.

Hell, from where he is seated- on top of the building- everything looks miniature.

He looks away.

Thirty eight stories up.

That’s where he sits, feet dangling languidly from the ledge of a window sill.

He reaches for the bottle of Vodka next to him and chases the smoke down his lungs with a long swig.

His throat burns but it makes him alive and he doesn’t miss the irony.

Nothing matters anymore, and that’s why he is up the bloody building, at 2am,getting pissed,his last one man party.

Tears sting his eyes and he bites his lower lip, daring them not to come because even in this
hopeless moment, he still feels a need for self
preservation.

Even in this hour of darkness he still wants
to maintain a level of dignity.

So he tries hard not to cry.

He stares ahead defiantly, at nothingness.

He stares at the numerous rooftops around without actually seeing them.

He stares out into the horizon, and fails to see the beautiful sleeping city.

His eyes sometimes linger on a speck of light in the fringes of the city and he imagines someone sitting in that house, watching a late night show,
reading for an exam, making love, tossing in bed,praying, eating a late meal…life continues in seclusion of his woes, it dawns to him.

Two hours ago he had taken a long hot shower, longer than he normally does.

One last luxury.

He had then shaved off the two week stubble, applied some aftershave and ran a comb in
his hair.

He then worn black pants and a white shirt.

No belt.

He then completed this look with his favourite tie, a black leather tie tied fastidiously in a small sexy knot.

He loved that tie, a present from his cousin Judith, the only person who seemed to give a shit.

It was a pencil tie.

You know, the fancy type you see in catwalks?

Judith had style all right.

The occasion called for something ceremonial like this; a black tie.

On his way out of the house he had decided to throw on a red blazer because it was drizzling.

Then he had looked around the house one
last time, and killed the lights.

Now he removes his wallet from his back pocket.

He has no photos of in there.

He has a son, yes, but the last time he saw him his mother was dragging him away from him,
screaming profanities at him.

That was 8yrs ago.

He must be big boy now, he thinks sardonically, but only fleetingly.

He is not the one to dwell on empty thoughts.

He continues to flip through his wallet; he has a credit card, and three debit cards.

There is a business card with a name he can’t place.

He tosses it away and watches it float down until it disappears in the greyness below.

He then tosses away his debit cards next, one by one.

He does these in a very absent-minded way, in a mechanical way.

He has some money in the wallet, not much,
enough to buy dinner at a decent restaurant.

He tosses away these as well.

His cigarette dangles from his lips,the smoke making his eyes water.

He places his wallet next to the bottle of Vodka then takes a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves.

It’s 2.44am.

His fishes for his phone in his pocket and calls the one person who would take his calls at this time of the night;Judith his cousin.

The phone rings forever and when he is about to hang up she answers.

“Hey,” she sounds woozy and perplexed.
“Hey, Judith.”

He mumbles, “Sorry to bother you at this
time of the night – ”

“What’s up, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m in bed, I couldn’t sleep.”

“What time is it?” she asks still half asleep.

“Around 2am?”

“Thanks for waking me up!” she scolds.

“Listen, I just wanted to say I won’t be able to see you tomorrow, something’s come up.” He says.

“And this couldn’t wait until morning? Anyway let me know when you are open….at a decent hour.”

He manages a little laugh.

“Judith?”

“Yeah?”

Brief pause.

“Never mind, you sleep tight, take care of yourself,okay?”

“Sure, let’s talk tomorrow, good night.”

When he hangs up, his lips start trembling.

Time check: 2.57am.

They say in the hour of darkness comes a point of clarity,a small window that nature offers a respite.

He doesn’t see it.

He doesn’t feel it.

But he feels the wind in his ears, beckoning, urging.

He also feels the thudding in his heart, a tattoo of death.

He feels the pain in his heart.

But mostly he feels fear, a powerful and demonic force that grasps his heart and squeezes.

He thought he would be drunk by now, half way through his Vodka, instead he feels the sensations that he thought he would avoid; the
biting cold in his face, the twitching of his muscles.

The ache at the pit of his belly.

He feels dread and dread feels like death if you really want to know.

As the hour nears, he increasingly feels empty.

Not as empty as the last year has been, but empty like someone dredged out of purpose from his inside.

This worthlessness is only matched by the profound sense of rhetoric that the whole scenario has transformed into.

He tries to think of the things that has defined his 57yrs of life and regretfully comes up short.

He loves his job though; he is a creative director in his own Advertising company.

This is the zenith of creativity sitting up here freezing my tits off, he thinks with a half and almost deranged smile.

He thinks of his brother who works in a casino in Dubai.

He wonders what he is doing at that precise moment.

He wonders what he will be doing when he receives the news.

He thinks of his estranged wife and how evil she
is, and he wonders what he ever saw in her.

It sadness him that he could have been so wrong about her, so blinded by her phony demeanour.

He thinks of the music he enjoyed listening to. John Mayer’s “My stupid mouth” comes on top of that list and yet he never really loved it that much.

He purposefully avoids thinking of his mother, because he loves her too much.

He thinks of Judith,his cousin, and a deep sense of loss washes over him.

At 2.57am he starts to cry.

More like a soft sob.

His shoulders shudder and convulse,his jaws clench and tears roll down his cold cheeks.

He cries in silence and he cries like a wounded animal.

He cries with his head held in his frozen hands.

He weeps,softly, with dignity.

He weeps the way you would weep when someone is not watching.

The last time he had cried was 8yrs ago, when she took his son away.

That bitch!

When the time finally comes he is numb.

His mind floods out every thought.

He remains a shell of a man.

He remains void and pitiful.

His eyes deaden, a dark cloud crosses over them, a black cataracts.

He stares out at the dead city beyond, and although awash with lights, he sees a dark hole.
Although a soft wind blows his ears, he hears a dirge.

He is a man besieged by his own choice and he dies even before death receives him.

He is no longer crying, he doesn’t need to because his die has been cast.

He takes a last swig, tosses his cigarette away,
then takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t pray.

It’s already too late for any kind of salvation.

At 3.59am his watch alarm buzzes.

He closes his eyes and pushes himself off the ledge.

He starts falling.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes.

His final existence is boiled down to elements that are subtle but incorrigible.

He feels the wind whip at his face.

He feels gravity pull at him with deranged grit.

He hears the sounds of the pavement rushing at him.

He hears his own eulogy.

His tie, his black tie flatters upward in the wind.

His black tie, at that moment curiously represents a hangman’s noose.

As he tumbles down to meet his death, he is unaware of the amount of pain that he has already created.

He is unaware that his only sibling, his brother will crumble on the floor in his principal supervisor’s office and weep when he hears the news.

He doesn’t know that his mother will be
so stunned by the news she will plunge into a depression that she never quite recovers from.

He doesn’t know that the last person he had a drink with, his best mate Felix,will blame himself for not having seen signs.

He doesn’t know that his father will turn in his grave with disappointment.

He is unaware that his estranged wife will choke on hearing the news, and she will turn into a
vegetarian soon after witnessing the crumpled fleshy mess that forms a tomato paste kind of splotch in the pavement.

And Judith, poor Judith. Judith will play the last conversation in her head over and over
again.

She will remember the pause, she will remember
the last words, “….take care of yourself, okay?”
These immortal words will be the bricks to her castle of guilt, a tall structure that will relentlessly cast a shadow on her life.

Although they were close and she will miss him
every day, she will hate him with equal passion, hate him for being selfish.

She will grow thin.

She will get nightmares and her life will never be the same again and she will moan him like you would your own child.

His girlfriend of three months will never know who he was,and that will greatly intrigue her.

Everybody will shake their heads in bewilderment because he was not the type
to do what he did.

He had a great job,a good business too.

He didn’t do drugs. He drunk as modestly as the next guy.

He loved to dance.

He loved music.

He was a nice guy who looked stable.

Everybody will think of cracks that they might
have missed with him, nothing.

And added to the fact that he leaves no note behind, he will be a puzzle with many missing pieces.

He doesn’t know all these as he falls.

The final moment is hazy.

If it was a colour, it would be black.

It’s not a moment that can be chalked in words, or reconstructed by a living human mind and it’s swift as it is vague.

He doesn’t open his eyes even when he feels
the end reaching out for him.

Feelings and emotion flee his body leaving only that subtle hint of fear which matters little then.

A few seconds before he slams into the hood of the blue bread delivery van, the church clock
chimes 3am.

His name was Francis.

Hw was my best friend.

I miss him.

I always will.

R.I.P,my dear Francis.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Stories that live in our hearts; Do you know how a new day smells like?

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I’m typing this from my laptop and cynically casting a cursory look at the battery strength.

Going on a leisure travel alone is like sending yourself a saucy sms.

Or “liking” your own picture of Facebook.

Or looking at yourself in the mirror and muttering with a wink, “they don’t make them like this anymore.”

It’s desperate and vain.

But two weeks ago, I found myself in Maasai Mara Game reserve at 6:30Pm, alone.

This was a tour of duty.

I facilitated a workshop for Game Hotels around Maasai Mara and Serengeti Game reserves striding across Kenya/Tanzania border on Best Waste Management Practices.

Let me back up a bit.

In my line of business, I spend a lot of time in hotel rooms.

I’m lucky that I spend most of that time in high-
end hotel rooms where the management leaves a chocolate bar on your pillow together with a personalised note welcoming you to their fine establishment.

Since I’m always writing travel reviews about those establishments as a side hobby along with my Agribusiness Consultancy, I’m always treated slightly better than a paying client.

I get more smiles, even if they are more artificial.

I get free spa treatment if I ask.

I’m often called by the manager who wants to find out if “you are having a good time and
if you need anything that would make your stay more comfortable.”

I once told one in jest, “Yes, actually, can I have
one blonde Russian dancer and a petite south east Asian with a gap in her front teeth… and some red wine. Thank you. ”

There was a shocked silence on the line before I
added; “It’s a joke.”

An uncomfortable laughter followed from his end.

I never make tea in the room, or wear their bath robes.

I never use their closet because I never unpack.

My room is often shabby, which I suspect mirrors the state of my mind.

Unless otherwise, I never use the air cons, breath that cold for too long and feel your lungs calcify.

I normally like to strip down to my boxer and hang out in the room that way.

If there are peanuts in the mini bar, I will have them.

I avoid chocolates, even the complimentary ones.

I love hotels that have a huge bowl of fruits in the room; it makes me feel like I’m in Game
of Thrones.

When you stay in numerous hotel rooms they
all start looking the same.

They blend into a murmur of walls and windows.

I find hotel rooms vacant and sad.

And too prim.

That changed a fortnight ago when I had a vehicle breakdown in Lake Magadi,in the hear of Kajiado County.

Kajiado and Narok County are Maasai people heartlands.

A Lady friend of mine who works in Botswana and i have been talking on email since beginning of year.

She kept “threatening” that she would come down to do an excursion on the Maasai near Lake Magadi, just at the border of Tanzania.

Would I be able to accompany her down?

Yeah, I said knowing full well that she wouldn’t come down.

It’s about a long distance relationship that we have.

The details would take me a long while to explain,and why should I feel obliged to explain such private details about my social and love life in such a public post?

She was to come in June.

She didn’t.

Then she said she would come in July.

She didn’t.

Last email I got was three weeks ago, saying she will be coming in this August Month.

So a number calls me at 2pm and says in some
funny accent, “Hey, is this Ben?”

It’s Sunday, so I’m thinking it can’t be someone from Barclays Bank peddling personal loans.

But I love the voice that comes through.

I say yes, this is her.

“Hey, this is Daisy!”

So I’m like, who?

She knows I’m teasing her.

” I’m in Nairobi!” She says excitedly. “Where can I pick you up we go
down to the “Maasai place”? She asks.

“Now?” I say incredulously. Shee says yes.

I say, I can’t.

I mean, I can’t just up and leave man.

I mean, I have things to do tomorrow.

And the next day.

She says look, you promised.

I hate it when a woman says that.

So I balk and wink at my colleague who looks
at me and says, “ Magadi? Now? You got to be kiddin’ me!”

I tell the car-hire guy with the queer name to pick me up from home; meanwhile I throw in a few clothes in a hold all, and I’m off.

I forget my toothbrush and my boxers.

Daisy shows up with some chic that she introduces as the photographer, but whom at some point during the trip down here, I see her touch on the thigh.

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s a Botswana thing to touch your photographer on the thigh.

Maybe photographers in Botswana take
better pictures when you touch them on the thigh.

Who am I to judge, I’m just Kenyan.

I will have nothing to do with a Botswana beauty when Daisy is here…

To cut the long story short.

The Land cruiser we are using stalls, a fan belt problem.

The Maasai village we are to stay in is another couple of hours away.

The driver–a sheepish chap, with a crooked hat – announces that we have to find a place to camp somewhere before they bring us another car from Nairobi.

Some Maasais offer to house us for a fee.

Yes, nothing is for free.

For 2k we will get a small manyatta, and a meal.

I want to ask why they shouldn’t throw in a Maasai dance as well now that we are here, but the fellows didn’t seem to be the kind
who took jokes.

Our house stinks.

We are offered two thin mattresses which, going by the smell, I suspect were formerly owned by a He-goat.

At night we shall all sleep with our clothes on, sleeping next to each other in a file.

My Daisy slept next to the photographer who, she placed – strategically – at the end of our line,very far from me.

At night they will talk in hushed whispers, in the strangest tongue ever, Setswana I assume,talking about me.

She will giggle a few times.

So will our driver,in moral support.

At the end of the room, a fire made from
cow dung will smolder the whole night, emitting heat and some smoke.

I will doze off and dream of stir fry chicken.

But for now young Maasai women giggle around us.

I try not to look at their perky breasts which are all out (I swear) and are pointing at us brusquely.

Then there are the naked children who mill around us.

They touch the photographer’s equipment, not her thighs, like Daisy.

Supper is boiled maize and some milk. No meat. No vegetables.

We sit around some fire where the main mzee
of the boma and some of his sons chat us up in shaky English,mixed with Swahili,and Kikuyu,my mother-tongue.

Here is a true tri-linguist!

Behind us, darkness stretches into nothingness.

Behind us lives the untamed wild.

The night is still, so still it feels like time has stopped, like the earth has held its breath.

Chic photographer tells the Maasai elder about their culture and asks him questions.

He is a seasoned interrogator, I can tell.

I’m impressed by the kind of penetrating questions he asks the chic.

I enjoy listening to how he lures information
out of the chic.

He’s artful.

Daisy giggles with the children who are later forced to go sleep.

She then sets up her imposing camera on a tripod behind us and every so often, the stillness of the night is interrupted by the whirring sound of her lens.

Then, click: a picture of us seated under God heaven is immortalized, because that’s how small you feel in the open night of Maasailand.

You feel like you are seated under God’s feet.

You feel like you are seated at the feet of your father.

I like it here.

I like it like this.

I like the hopeless state we are in.

I like the fact that these Maasais could just – for
the fun of it – decide to rob us and send us out into the night to get mauled by lions.

I like the taste of smoke at the back of my throat.

I like the sound of mouths ripping into their maize cobs and the monotonous chewing.

We sound like feeding bovines.

I like knowing that life has been stripped down to its bare essentials; milk, maize,silence, the night and a hope for sunlight tomorrow.

At some point I will want to shower because I can never get any sleep if I don’t shower.

Some little girl will be asked to put my water in the reed bathroom which is at the edge of the boma, in deep darkness.

The Maasai elder will ask if one of the small boys can stand outside the bathroom for me to feel secure.

I will say no.

I will say I’m fine.

But I’m not, I’m terrified that I might step on a
snake, or a lion might pounce on my back.

I’m terrified like a female dog in the face of a leopard.

But no way, I’m going to let some Maasai kid be my security, no matter how many
lions he has killed.

No way will I disgrace myself like that.

I will take my chances with the lion.

Bring it on,Old man lion!

I want to write more, but I can’t.

OK, I’m lying; I don’t want to write more.

I want to stay here forever.

I want to wake up tomorrow and smell a new day.

Do you know how a new day smells like? It smells like all the Maasai goats in this compound.

It smells like the mooing of cows.

Of the hoofs rumbling out of the kraal.

Of little Maasai herds boys whistling under
their breaths as they herd the cows out.

A new day smells like the sensual perfume of the chic photographer watching me brush my teeth
with a piece of a twig chewed at the end and saying, “that’s the coolest thing I have ever seen, can I take a picture?” and me posing goofily with a twig sticking from the corner of my mouth.

Like I do this all the damn time.

Like this is how I roll.

I like it here.

I really do.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When you get mugged your self-esteem suffers more than your physical injuries

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I get to enjoy my Work/travel mode in the course of my work as an agribusiness consultant.

There is this Thenge Njeru waterfall.

It’s in Runyejes, in Embu.

To get here you use murram roads that slither up hills.

If you step off the road, you will plunge deep into shockingly beautiful greenery and clear rivers.

The folk who live here only have to stare at the green hills to get Vitamin A.

Quite often this area gets misty and drizzly.

The roads here are mostly deserted and once in a while, a bodaboda(taxi) motorbike will zoom past but most of the time you are alone.

And so it’s on one of these roads that I was driving up,headed to meet a client and my contact who is well versed with the history of these waterfalls – and of some 3km tunnel that
the Mau Mau used to walk through while evading the British Army – that I realized my front wheel was getting flat.

I pulled over to change it.

The car – a SUV – is one of those with the spare wheels strapped behind it.

Only this one was locked by a padlock.

So I’m standing at the rear of this car, calling the car hire guy to ask where the darn
key is when I hear movement behind me.

Behind me two ninjas are stepping out of the mist.

OK,I’m being dramatic, they sort of step out of the thicket.

Ninjas in their mid-twenties. Locals.

One has a weeding hoe slung over his right shoulder. (Imagine how that statement
would sound like if I were writing about Westlands in downtown Nairobi by
night).

Now, two things; this is not my neck of woods and I’m a siting duck standing there in the middle of some small road.

I could get robbed, killed and my body rolled down the valleys where I’d end up in the rivers below for the fish to feed off me.

I have been mugged before, in 1998,in South B.
It was midnight and I was walking to Wheels
Bar in the shopping centre to meet my pals for a drink.

In 1998 Wheels was the place to be.

It was dark, smoky and smelled of a cattle dip.

And we loved it.

About 200 meters from the shopping center, a chap had stepped in front of me, another had kicked the inside of my knees from behind effectively getting me down on my knees, a rough hand had then grabbed my throat
choking me and hands had plunged through my pockets relieving me of the little I had (their were no cell phones back then, OK, there were but mere mortals like me couldn’t afford them…they belonged to ministers and
minister’s mistresses).

I was left on my knees, shocked,dazed and with a burning throat.

My throat eventually recovered, faster than my ego.

When you get mugged your self-esteem suffers more than your physical injuries.

There is something perversely dark with another man putting you in a position of helplessness.

So no, I wasn’t ready to get jumped in Runyenjes, and certainly not with a man with a hoe on his shoulder.

I quickly pocketed the phone when these two chaps walked towards me.

I had valuables on me; a decent Nikon
professional camera on the passenger seat, a MacBook in a bag on the back seat and some decent amount of money for the trip. Plus, the phone was a Blackberry Bold 9700
that a marketer friend had handed me to use and review before the launch.

It’s safe to assume it was the only Blackberry Bold in the whole of Central Kenya(just kidding to make this whole story a bit more interesting!).
If they robbed me, I was going to lose everything I had done for the past three days;
pictures, notes, including all my valuables in the laptop.

There is something Andy Garcia said in a movie I once watched: anyone who wants to assail you will always be as nervous as you are and quite often what they need is a reason from you not to go through with it and that reason is confidence.

“Men smell fear on other men,” he said in
that dark way he talks.

So I walked towards them, forcing them to slow down, and I extended my hand in handshake.

Mr. Hoe was forced to transfer the hoe to his
left hand to shake my hand (see what I did there? A trick to disarm a right-handed thug!).

As we stood there exchanging pleasantry, my phone started ringing. Now BlackBerry is a phone – as they say –designed for humans but inspired by nature (what a coincidence I was deep in nature) and so has these
ringtones inspired by nature.

I had my ringtone on Jungle Drums, which is the sound of small tribe in a forest in Mali beating drums and dancing around a fire half naked before they sacrifice a goat to the gods of thunder.

And so you can imagine how odd it was when the car hire chap started calling me back.

So there I was having a conversation with these chaps when drums start beating from my pants.

Of course I don’t want to remove the phone lest I give them ideas, and they are looking at my
pants like “aren’t you going to feed that small African tribe in your pocket? ” and I’m standing there acting like they are the only ones hearing things.

In short, I wasn’t mugged; in fact, they helped me change the tyres.

Here is the problem.

When you live in the city for too long, you become cynical.

You lose faith in humanity.

You forget the basics of human nature.

You forget that the world is full of good people.

That people will ignore drums in your pocket.

Some truth: most of us love our jobs but not all of us respect our jobs.

You’d imagine that loving your job would automatically make you respect it.

Hardly.

Take me for instance, I love writing but most time I slack and forget to dot my i’s, I write weak sentences because the deadline is here.

I disrespect the art.

You’d expect me to knot tightly my sentences that no editor would dare even touch it.

¤¤ ¤¤
Then there is this shop in Kutus Town.

You’ve never heard of Kutus? Come on! Google it!

Anyway, as I passed through this town one rainy morning I saw this hardware shop by the side of the road.

I don’t know why it reminded me of Sanford
and Son.

There was a chap in the shop.

He had a workman’s apron,like Julius Malema in a parliament session,all bright red.

I found that even cooler.

Since I was in a hurry to get to Embu, I made a mental note to make that small detour and visit the shop on my way to Nairobi the next day.

And I did.

The shop belongs to Ben Njoroge.

He calls it Bentabs Ltd.

In short, Ben fixes anything broken.

I told him I thought his shop was a scream and that him wearing his apron showed a dedication and pride in what he did.

He laughed, flattered.

Ben(no relation to this writer) works with his hands.

They are thick and greasy.

Hands that say, I take care of business. I fix things.

In his shop is a framed picture of his family; two girls, the eldest is 19.

“They admire what I do, most teenagers
would be embarrassed if their father did something like this,” he says with a smile, “ but they aren’t, they know that I love this and that I love them, so they love this.”

Words that you don’t expect in Kutus,a neck of woods in Kenya.

How can you not learn something from Ben?

¤¤ ¤¤
On my way to visit this huge Mugumo tree in Aberdare National Park, this tree that the Mau Mau used as a post office, I ran into this grumpy wrinkly jumbo.

You aren’t allowed inside the park without an armed KWS ranger because you could do something foolish – like try pet the head of a Buffalo – and end up dead.

So they send you in with some armed chaps.

I had two; one called Mary and the other called Taruz.

Mary rode shotgun.

Taruz sat at the back but I could smell him; he smelled of hide, something that walks the
forest with other animals.

And when I say he smelled of hide I mean it as a compliment because he smelled like a
warrior, not like some woos who wears Hugo Boss and is scared of lizards.

Whilst Taruz said very little, Mary couldn’t stop
chattering; talking about game and whatnot, stuff that would greatly entertain an Othello, not me.

But I acted interested, urging her on with “aaah” “really!?”

“You are lying Mary!” “No way!” “Come on!” “You are so fearless!” “Hey, can I touch your gun?”

As she regaled me with a tale about some tourists who mistook a crocodile for a log of wood and sat on it, we suddenly stumbled on this jumbo(African Elephant) hanging out by the roadside, a toothpick(chewing a big twig) sticking out the side his mouth,where his tusk had been broken,probably by poachers).

A thug jumbo.

Something about that jumbo that showed me that he had a troubled childhood, that he never really knew his father. He was clearly having a bad day.

He was having a bad day because someone had broken one of his tusks.

Maybe he owed some other jumbo money
and the guy had sent goons to collect and ended up breaking his tusk, who knows.

He stood at the side of the road, breathing hard; breathing like those guys in broken
suits who work at KICC and who are forced to use the staircase to the 12floor because the lifts are down.

Then suddenly for the first time, Taruz spoke up: “Stop!” he howled from the back and I stood on the brakes.

The car went silent as we watched the thug jumbo watch us.

We stood there regarding each other for a while, waiting to see who would blink first.

I knew things were tricky when Mary stopped talking and held her gun tightly.

“What do you think he’s thinking?” I whispered.

My question went unanswered for a while before finally Taruz hissed from the back, “ I’m not thinking!”

What Taruz really said was, “ Don’t do anything erratic and he will leave us alone.”

I chuckled and wondered what erratic thing he thought I would do at that moment;walk over and inspect his broken tusk?

Walk over and offer it some peanuts, maybe?

“Are they roasted or fried?” Jumbo would ask.

Me;“ Fried.”

Jumbo;“Salted?”

Me;“Yes.”

Jumbo;“No, thanks. Trying to lose weight here.”

Me;“New year resolution?”

Jumbo;“Yes.” Thug Jumbo would say, “Can’t you tell I’m slimmer?”

Me;“Yes, you are. You lean lean thing. ”

Oh no, I wasn’t about to get erratic, not before a pissed off Jumbo!

If you want to know how pissed off he was,
it’s like going to the ATM on your way to a hot date only to find out that find out that HR had sent the wrong salary instructions to the bank and so now you have to wait until next week Tuesday to access your salary.

That’s the kind of day Jumbo was having.

Someone had broken his tusk and when he was in the process of looking for that guy, he runs into three fools in a car, one of them an Agri-journalist, and you know how wild animals hate journalists because they are always getting
their facts wrong.

Plus they are always giving wild animals nicknames; like call elephants “jumbo”.

All this while Taruz hadn’t stirred from the backseat and that gave me some level of confidence, I was in good hands.

If Taruz was cool about the scenario then
everything must be cool.

But when the jumbo slowly started towards us and Taruz leaned over my right ear and said firmly, “ Reverse…slowly,” I knew we were in
– and wait for this old primary school expression – hot soup.

I reversed slowly, gently. “He is looking for a path to get back into the thicket,” Taruz assured me as Jumbo followed us slowly.

But when we passed two entrances that jumbo should have used and he didn’t, I knew he
was going to sit on the bonnet of the car then ask us casually, “ Looking for anything in particular in my neck of woods, fellas?”

And when the jumbo got onto the road and started walking towards us more steadily, I knew for sure, we weren’t leaving that park alive.

I’m serious.

I was terrified!

That jumbo was huge and menacing and in no mood to negotiate with anyone. Much less an Agri- journalist.

I knew from Mary that Taruz was more experienced than her because while she spent the day at the KWS office,pushing paper and occasionally taking busload of students into the park for a tour, Taruz was a security ranger, spending days in the park, hunting down
poachers, herding of trouble making buffalos etc.

He had a thick skin…the elephant, I mean.
I was now reversing at 10km/hr (faster than a Toyota Vitz on Mombasa road) and the damned Jumbo was bearing down on us.

It became obvious that the jumbo’s
temperament was unique when Mary looked behind at Taruz and asked, “ Tufanye nini sasa?”(What to do now?)

Taruz impatiently tapped me on the shoulder, “Smamisha gari!”(Stop the car!) and before
the car was fully stationary he was out, cocking his gun as the jumbo, now walking faster, now salivating at the mouth, bore down on us.

Suddenly the silence of the park was split by the shot of his gun going off.

A monkey screamed somewhere (that monkey wasn’t me, I promise) and the jumbo sort of
jumped startled and I hoped to God, Taruz had put a lead between his eyes. I expected him to stagger and flop by the roadside, tits up.

Instead he ran into the bush.

I was horrified! “That thing was the size of a house,” I scold Taruz, “How could you miss?”

“We don’t shoot to kill Jumbo’s;we are not poachers,but Rangers. We shoot to scare them back to the bushes where they are safe from human interference”.

Powerful words in defence of African Elephant.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There are tall girls,then there are those pedestalled on high heels

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She is a full head taller than me.

A full head taller than everybody in the airport.

It’s a stupefying sight, to look under a woman’s chin.

It makes you feel frail.

You feel your gonads shrink and cower.

And particularly, I was concerned that she could see the middle of my head and we all know the story of depletion beginning to happen there.

So anyway, I distractedly mumble an apology, to which she responds with a very faint smile, a smile so faint I thought it was a sneer.

In fact, I think it was a sneer.

I suspect that this is the smile she saves for shorter men or men with no hair in the middle of their heads -whichever comes first.

In this case, both.

She is with a man; some Somali/Ethiopian looking chap with an obedient beard.

A chap she also dwarfs.

He’s telling her something in a language I can’t understand and she, demurely, responds officiously and in a very calm monotonous tone.
A tall voice.

I know it was a tall voice because the sound of it seemed to hang around in the air longer than the man’s.

Later, after I had passed the metal detector and I’m getting into my jacket, and is strapping my watch I watched her cross over, pick her purse and strut away to the airline desk, followed by literally every eye on the airport floor.

Women gawped; men seemed to hold their
breaths.

She was abnormally tall, so tall it almost seemed
rude.

It wasn’t graceful, or even sexy, just sobering.

Sobering how she made each one of us on that floor seem like ants; stunted and worthless.

And funnily enough, that feeling in itself was intriguing if you want to know the truth.

I have always had a phobia for women who are taller than me.

I never want to stand near them, or hug them, or walk on the same sidewalk with them.

I have always wondered if they are the ones to change the bulb in your house.

Or you are the one to stand on your tiptoe to kiss them. Taller women filll me with angst.

They make me feel like their “female dog” (see how being politically correct can sound flat?).

OK, I’m sure all the trained psychologists in High School will offer textbook diagnosis to explain these insecurities.

Let me save you the trouble.

I give them a wide berth because I’m an egomaniac ogre.

Because I fear being challenged.

Because I’m too damned lazy to stand on my
tiptoe to fetch a kiss.

Yes, the hell with high hanging fruits (no pun), they rot quickly because nobody ever touches them anyway.

So the sun dries them out.

Take your pick…not of the hanging fruit, of course.

The last tall girl I know, the one who looked at me like an ant was from Egerton University many years ago.

Renee was her name.

She was from one of those tribes in northern Uganda, which means she was taller than all the loud Kenyans who fawned around her to sip from the fountain of her brilliant personality.

Only problem was she had the attitude of a gravid sewer rat.

One day at Wandegye, where we would all frequent to eat pork on Saturdays, she told me, “Ben, if you ever hope for us to have a sound conversation while standing up, would you care to wear the right shoes?”

What a girl!

I can’t think of anyone who ever went below my belt in that fashion.

You could have heard my ego deflate all the
way from Busia border to Mombasa port city as the last of those acerbic words left her condescending lips.

Suffice it to say; those words scarred me for life.
I’m a willow shadow of the man I used to be because of her.

After Renee, the airport lady with a strange tongue was the tallest woman I had seen in many years.

I mean tall as in distinctly tall.

Tall because she was naturally tall, yes, but also because she had on high heels which she teetered on, as if she was walking a tight rope.

As if, if she veered off slightly she would plunge down into mediocrity,which apparently, going by her high chin, was where the rest of us peasants belonged.

This is not about my insecurities in my younger days, or the scars that I carry under my chest.

This is about high heels and its ode.

The most lethal tool a woman can have
against a man is not even her brains (that helps) but is high heels because high heels seem to say, “This is my level today. Rise up to me, if you can.”

And that is confidence.

When a woman wears high heels, the message you receive is not a fashion statement, because heels just have to say more.

Heels say; I want to be more.

It says;you need to see me as more.

It also says I don’t care if you don’t see me as more.

There is a thin veiled haughtiness about high heels, something that says I don’t give a batshit.

That I will take you on, yes, but only on
my terms.

When a woman wakes up and climbs on high heels and takes on extra inches under her, she is simply saying she is also willing to take on anything the world throws at her.

Nothing says, “I can,” on women better than high heels.

At the airport, I watched many of those airhostesses strut about importantly.

And they are all different.

There are those foreign ones with pale faces and sharp chins,dragging suitcases like carcasses.

There are the local ones with tight smiles and tighter skirts.

The slim ones and the ones whose waistlines are slowly going south.

The friendly ones and the ones who regard friendliness with disdain.

But no matter their shape, temperament or
employer, they eventually become one because of their shoes; high heels.

Heels give their jobs a certain dignity.

Get them off their high heels and they will turn into waitresses.

Get them off their heels and the charm goes.

The pomp sublimes.

Heels prop their jobs up.

Talking of props,heels transform the blandest of women into sexy machines -and some into sex machines.

It doesn’t matter if she is as waspy as a preying mantis or as large as Madagascar’s Moto Moto, heels are the only shoes that will be kind to a woman regardless of her size,status or creed.

It’s hard not to notice a woman in heels
but it’s even harder not to appreciate a woman in heels.

The elegance of heels aren’t lauded enough.

The elevation isn’t celebrated enough.

It’s the poise.

For instance, hookers wear heels because in heels they find their edge.

Also, the sound that heels make is a tattoo that
drums in your bones.

Heels also transform the way a woman walks.

It gives her body movement girth and
rhythm. And if she has a good butt, a fairly decent butt, it pronounces it because it makes it move and shake in a way flat shoes can’t hold a candle to.

And look everywhere, look in Asia or in South America and tell me if you will find a butt that shakes better on high heels.

Perfect balance, that’s what having a 7kgs body part titter on a big surface area to volume ration (see how a butt movement can be explained by physics?).

Just to show you that I’m not talking through my insecure mouth, according to Harper’s Index, “the average increase in the
protrusion of a woman’s buttocks when she wears high heels is 25%”. See? I don’t make this stuff up.

Now, take that to the bank.

Today’s post is dedicated to all the ladies in my High School years rocking heels today.

We tip our hats to you.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There is only one place that a real man can rediscover his true self;inside a Cave

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Once in a while my friends and I meet at this derelict farmhouse that belongs to one of my friends on Saturday afternoons like today.

It’s our ‘man’s hideout out cave’. A hovel.

It’s like going back to the Caveman’s era.

There is something primodal about going back in time to when man’s masculinity evolved inside a cave,and visitors were welcome through invitation only.

It’s very threadbare – a structure that sells beer, mostly on weekends only,and it is a sort of an exclusive joint.

You just can’t walk in into someone’s farmshed and ask for a beer;you have to be brought along by a friend who is a regular patron to our joint.

There’s a seating with plastic furniture.

Large parking in the compound.

We normally just pull a few seats and a table under a tree and bring out our drinks.

No corkage fee, someone in the group knows someone in the police force,so the law doesn’t harass us for peddling liquor in private premises.

Music is usually from someone’s car, brought
close to the table.

Nothing loud or intrusive, just a whisper of music like guys our age like it.

At some point, meat will be ordered and
some chap with big hands will whip up a meal in their rickety, dark kitchen.

There is always a band of Asians who also hold court nearby, doing their road construction thing.

Over time we have become friends, so it’s not uncommon for them to bring over some heavily spiced beef for us to try out and us to offer them our whisky.

Once in a while a traffic policeman will ride into the compound on his motorbike, pockets bulging with crumbled notes and casually ask for a beer,the two,then three beers,and then leave us in peace. Just another man on the hustle.

This bar is the safest place to drink in; no one will hold a heist in there and your car will never be stolen or vandalised as long as you are in the premise.

And if you buy a cop a beer, you will be investing because you know one day you
will call him when you are in a jam.

The place is completely derelict.

Completely local and very rural.

Some people might call it seedy.

We aren’t some of those people.

For us,it’s the place we go to connect, because the big city has a way of fading family ties,especially the brotherhood ties.

Brothers forget brothers in the rat race.

Cousins turn against cousins.

Family now only meets at funerals and weddings.

But for us, this farmshed is home.

The language is strictly mother tongue, unless one of us has invited someone from
across the hills.

Then we have to speak English, which isn’t no fun because the place doesn’t call for it.

Besides there are stories and jokes you just can’t tell in English.

They lose meaning in translation.

So we sit there in the open and have some good laughs.

Laughter that is restricted by walls but is set free into the skies, a testimony that the Lord just wants us happy.

Good times,man.

When night falls, we sit still and as the night wears on the temperatures drop.

Jackets come out of cars.

More drinks come out.

Most people would be disgusted at that debauchery.

But life is hard enough not to find a place where you can all gather and derive joy from each other’s presence.

The place is so rundown that no woman would even sit there.

It’s a man’s lair, so strictly no women.

Any women who show up here, we count as men.

As one of us.

I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying.

Once in a while, though, one of us will show up with a special ‘invited lady guest’.

You should see how we scuttle about, pulling a chair,wiping it with newspapers, offering insincere apologies for our tacky locale.

The days when we have a female in our midst are not good days because we all have to wear our masks (and speak in English).

And avoid crass jokes.

It’s painful because the female will look so ill at ease, so out of place as she sits there, hugging
herself and perhaps wondering if this is the day she contracts shigellosis, while we all wonder when she will say she wants to leave.

I remember this lady who was dragged along by this guy we invited.

We remember her innocently asking for a menu.
A goddamned menu, for crying out loud!

Where did she think she was, Hilton hotels?

It’s still the running joke to date.

Nobody remembers her name; we all refer to her as ‘A La Carte Menu’.

There are tons of places like this around the country, where once in a long while, men go and their women just can’t get why they love such places.

But these are places men go to be men.

Where men go to reconnect with other men, to share ideas, to draw courage from each other, to seek advice, to reinforce friendships, to
table a conundrum, to get in line and to exhale.

Nobody goes there for the ambience.

It’s always for the company.

For the camaraderie.

There, amongst peers, you don’t have to wear a mask to face the world.

You only have to be yourself.

You are vulnerable because nobody judges you there.

A lot of sanity has been found or restored in such hovels.

There the truth flows easily and nobody ever takes offence because none is ever meant.

At the end of the cold night we all go away until the next meeting in another month or two.

This is an ode to those caves where we find sanity.

Salute!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Crazy chicks are very caring

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I’m reading a book,“Gone Girl” By Gillian Flynn that reminds me of a psycho girl I once dated.

She was beautiful;every other man would have envied me,but only I knew that she was a beast,a beautiful beast!

Of course you have dated a crazy woman, unless, of course, you’re 24 years old, in which case your time is coming.

Hang tight.

West Pokot(Google it please!) is where I’m cooling my heals on a tour of duty.

There is not much to do here after work,so I’m reading about this crazy girl,Amy Dunne,a colourful character in this book.

The craziest thing about dating a crazy chick (and the most ironic) is that crazy chicks
don’t look crazy, least of all act crazy.

Crazy chicks are caring.

Very tender.

They are oh so mild.

Oh so loving.

They will serve you food.

They will tenderly rub your back when you are feeling blue.

They will drive across town to grill your steak.

They will even remove wax from your ears.

And all the while it’s “baby” and “darling” and “honey.”

Your pals will see how she fusses over you and they will go, “damn man, does she have
pals?”

And for months, many months, she will be
agreeable and loving and you will be riding this
dangerously deceptive wave until one day she shows you her barbed tail.

Then they want to kill themselves if you dare leave them.

Or park outside your gate, on a Saturday afternoon, until the watchman comes over and asks, “Unajua ule msichana ako hapo inje ya gate?”

And when you guys go out to look there is no msichana.

Then the fights in the middle of the night, and how she would pick butter knife
from the kitchen and chase you around the your only furniture, a two-seater, wearing nothing but knickers.

Because you are slightly sick, when you remember her now, you don’t even remember the peril of it all but of her perky breasts bouncing on her chest as she chased you with that knife.

She will burn your clothes.

Smash your timepiece.

She will change the numbers of other chicks on your phone.

Or delete a digit.

She will send a chick she thinks you are
interested in an sms saying that you have syphilis.

Hehe.

And when you finally get rid of her crazy-butt, change the locks and ask the watchman not to allow her in, she will be silent for weeks, then out of the clear-blue sky, you will receive an sms from her: “Hey baby, is it cold today
or what? What are you up to?” Like she never left.

Have you ever been walking in tao lost in thought, and just as you turn a corner you run into this girl who looks exactly like an ex who was a complete cuckoo, and you are so taken aback you have to stop at a newspaper stand
to catch your breath and let your heart go back to beating normally?

If you pick up “Gone Girl” By Gillian Flynn you will meet Amy Dunne. Loving. Smart. Witty.
Funny.

Good in bed.

Supportive.

And crazy like a bat.

Amy moves town for her husband Nick Dunne.

Takes care of Nick’s mom who is dying of cancer.

Sweet woman. Just sweet.

Until Nick screws up, like we always do.

Gone Girl is also an illustration of how we,men, will never win with women.

How scarily a woman’s mind works.

Their uncanny ability to record minutiae.

How when you are flirting with some tail on the sly imagining you are so smart, how they will be onto you in a minute, and how they can keep their suspicion under their hats, watching
you for weeks, picking evidence, naming it, filing it away, all the while never changing their attitude, always smiling and being all loving until she has enough evidence to send you away to Alcatraz for life.

Then she serves her revenge on a cold platter.

Here is the difference between us and mamas.

So you are in bed, it’s like 10pm.

Your mama’s phone rings, she talks on the phone for thirty seconds and tells that chap
“Ebu we speak tomorrow, I will send you an email.”

You ask and she says it’s a client.

You cause a royal stink.

“A client? Does that client have a watch?! What business is this that can’t wait until morning? Is he bloody doing a heart transplant tonight that he has to just call you now?
That shit has to stop by the way, tell him to not call you at this hour!”

She says ok, and you are pissed off and you sleep all sulky and shit.

Hehe.

Now reverse the scenario.

Phone rings at 10pm, you are in bed.

You pick up, and speak for a minute and say,
“Ok, let’s talk tomrrow, I will email you.”

Your mama,without looking at you (because she doesn’t have to look at your face to see if you are telling the truth, she can hear the lie in your voice) will ask, “Who was that?”

You say, “It’s Miriam, from Orange telcom customer care.”

And she will say nothing.

She will continue removing nail polish from her
nail.

But be sure that the story is filed away somewhere,and she will not forget those two key words: Miriam and Orange.

Women?

They chill.

And they observe.

We are fools, we rush in.

This book is about how we, men, are constantly outfoxed by women.

How they think and scheme and manipulate
us.

How we imagine we are in control, when all the while we are only playing by their script.

The story is narrated in the voices of the man and the woman.

Written in a clever way.

Often amusing.

It will get annoying towards the end, maybe even ridiculous but it will be worth it.

It’s not a love story.

It’s a life story.

You read it and you learn.

And at the end of the book, you will feel annoyed at Nick and be a little scared of
Amy.

Women! We can’t do without them,but we can surely do a bit better without their drama.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Intrigues,hope and envy in Men’s ring of Friendship

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I hope my doctor will never read this post.

I hate all forms of physical exercises,except lying horizontally for eight hours a day,sleeping in other terms.

There are men who constantly stare at themselves in the gym mirror.

I can’t think of a greater testimony of
vanity.

This is not a story about mirrors or vanity; this is about friendship, at least some of the more defining moments of it.

OK, it’s also a bit about mirrors- at least if you hold it up.

But to tell you about friendship, and for you to appreciate certain nuances of it you have to understand how it really began.

My friend Meja is one of them- at least he used to nine years ago.

Meja is my boy.

It all began in a gym, one of those cheap threadbare sweaty estate gyms.

I was, what, 23yrs old,my last year in college, a bit scrawny and in need to flesh out some muscles.

But before you start arching your eyebrows, I will have you know that gym is the ONLY place a man is allowed to tell another man,“Chief, those triceps!”

No really, ask around, it’s permissible.

But once you step out of the gym, even
staring at another man’s well filed nails is considered queer.

I noticed Meja because of two things; one he walked round the gym shirtless, showing off his toned body as if he was a Greek god.

And two he constantly stared at himself in the mirror; stared at himself while he curled the dumbbells, stared at himself as he did military presses or squats and stared at himself as he swigged water from this fancy silver water can that he brought to the gym.

I often wondered why he hadn’t asked for his own phone number already,cause here was a man who was truly in love with his own image.

And I hated him.

I hated him because he looked better than most of us in the gym.

Hated him because he had the kind of biceps I
wanted, not the rubbery ones that wobbled on my arms.

I hated him because once in a while he showed up with this blonde bird (a vivid testimony that muscles never attract brains) who would sit at a corner doing something so cheesy like suck on a lollipop or pretend to “read” a book.

I’m certain she couldn’t even read her own name.

But every guy in the gym secretly lusted for her.

She would carry for him this very white towel and after pushing some serious weight on the bench (all for her benefit) he would swagger over to her and wipe his silly face with that stupid towel like he was Mohamed Ali or
some other braggart.

Then he would make small talk with her
before resuming the session.

And she always giggled at something he said, which was odd because he struck me as the kind of guy who had a personality of a cold sandwich.

The only reason he brought her to the gym was
to massage his bloated ego.

Oh I hated Meja.

I even hated him more because she was so hot, and obviously misguided.

She deserved someone like me, someone who
didn’t stare at his image in the mirror (because what stared back was not optically digestible) not this insufferable oaf who worshipped his body.

To find conviction in my hatred for him, I ignored him.

But Meja was so intoxicated with his own vanity that nothing else mattered to him apart from his biceps and his split chest and so he didn’t notice if you ignored him.

He hardly talked to anyone in the gym.

He came on, did his workout and later he went to the next room where and joined other kick boxers.

And together they pounded and kicked a bag of sand.

Very creative, if you ask me.

I knew we would never be friends because he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would hold a conversation for more than 30secs without lifting up his shirt to check if his six packs were still there.

So like ships in the dark, our lives oblivious passed each other in the sweaty gym.

Six months passed.

One morning as I waited for the gym to open one of his chicks showed up, another blonde but one with terrific legs this time.

She asked me if I could pass on some brown parcel to him when he comes around because she had to scoot.

I said no, I wasn’t going to stick around for
long.

I didn’t want to be a part of his charade; I didn’t want to be the guy who carried his what not.

Plus you never know, that parcel could have contained hair removal waxing kit.

She begged.

I relented, but only because she had great legs.

I did it for the legs, not for Meja.

A time comes in every man’s life that he does things for a woman’s legs.

Meja’s chick had a pair of legs that looked heavenly to my eyes.

That was my time.

And that’s how we started talking, Meja
and I.

I’m writing about him not because he is one of the closest friends I have (I have closer friends) but because of something that happened recently when I passed by his house recently over this long weekends.

It was 10am; he opened the door for me in an ugly faded towel wrapped around his waist.

He had some chick over.

Another pretty face.

She was in his t-shirt written “A Harvard dropout,” and was nibbling on a toasted slice of bread.

I was introduced.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said
sweetly.

I hadn’t heard anything about her and as a rule I never struggle to remember the names or faces of his women.

They never stay around for too long.

Since three is a crowd I made some feeble talk then excused myself,while he walked me out he mentioned that they were going to drive to Malindi.

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, today.” he said.

“But it’s headed to 11am.”

‘Yes, we shall spend the night wherever dusk finds us.”

And this brings me to the whole point of this story.

I remember being envious at his free spirit, at him being able to make decisions like that.

To live life on a whim.

He is the only truly single friend I have, the rest are dating or married.

I quite often admire this laidback lifestyle, sometimes even though I know it’s not what it
seems, that quite often it’s filled with emptiness.

I have seen him in some low points, Saturday nights spent alone in his cold house.

Sometimes when we go out I see him lingering about, not wanting to go back home too early
because nothing awaits him there, not a single sign of life; except the humming fridge.

But still once in a while,I want to be him even though he confesses he wants to be
me often.

A case of the grass being green on the other
side.

In him I have learnt one thing; that cold overnight pizza only tastes good when you have a hangover.

Among other lessons.

Then there is Gathura.

Yes, that’s his name.

I know.

We were in campus together.

In this friendship I find hope.

Lots of hope.

His life, at least so far, is a testimony that whichever card God hands you, deal it.

Three years ago, Gathura lived in a small Servants Quarter in Nairobi’s leafy suburb,
Kileleshwa.

Let me digress.

Here is the thing; Kileleshwa is the new middle-class cliché.

A burgeoning estate that should stop pretending to be leafy.

Kileleshwa is like an ageing man stubbornly clinging to his youth.

You see those old men in pubs rubbing the knees of some young girl half their age?

That’s Kileleshwa. Kile in short.

You see those ageing men who dye their hair black and talk stuff like “We really “just
happened to be born yesterday,” that’s Kile.

Kile is like a woman who lies about her age. Kile is an old estate that has refused to look in the mirror and see what it has become.

Kile, the incubator of the middle-class, is the starkest allegory of Nairobian’s brazen
quest for affluence and, in that quest, it’s lack of creativity and the herd mentality that afflict it.
Kile used to be the home of the truly affluent, now it’s the home of phonies and wanna-bees who carry their poodles at the back of their Toyota Ests and Mitsubishi Lancers.

There I said it and to borrow Eddie Griffin’s words, “Tell ‘em I said it.”

But look, I have nothing against Kile, I seriously don’t, we all have friends and relatives in Kile, we all have dropped someone off in Kile, or had a crash on someone in Kile or slept with someone in Kile or had a meal in Kile because everyone seems to live in Kile now.

But in Kile people try too hard, which you might argue isn’t a bad thing.

And please don’t ask me where my hood is, it doesn’t matter.

OK, I will stop.

Anyway, Gathura lived in this crummy Servants Quarter just after you’ve made the left turn at the Kasuku center roundabout.

He worked as a para legal in some law firm
not too far from there.

Creepy job.

I was doing better than he was as a Jua-kali(informal business sector) entrepreneur, he was lucky if they paid him those peanuts on time.

But we were great friends, we hanged out.

Once in a while he would call me on Friday at midnight and ask where I was because he
needed a ride home; he needed a ride home because he couldn’t afford the cab fare.

That’s how bad it was.

Quite often, mostly on a Satos, I would pitch up at his digs with a bottle of something, and we could crack it open and put on some Family Guy or something and kick it.

I knew his finances were in a pit, but he kept his nose up, he kept his sense of humour and he is one guy with an irrepressible sense of humor.

But he was starving.

One day I showed up to his digz at night to find him using candles.

I asked him what happened to his power and he joked, “Well I knew you were coming and I thought we would have a candlelit dinner.”

He hadn’t paid his power bill because he
couldn’t pay it.

And the thing is when your friend is going through such rough times, you sort of try and not talk about it.

We are guys; we don’t talk about things like that.

It’s like talking about heartbreak.

When you find your boy stripped off his clothes, you hand him a towel to cover his nuts, you don’t ask him what happened to his clothes.

That’s the male code.

And the thing is when you are going through stuff like this you tend to attract such rubbish women.

(I have to write about this hehe, I’m sorry)

So anyway, at this time he was dating this lady who was a real piece of work.

She had some money on her and she sort of liked him and he her, but boy was she dramatic!
One time she locked him in her house, threatening him with bodily harm because he was leaving her and her drama.

I had to drive clear across town at midnight to go save his ass from being stabbed, which basically entailed me pleading with her through the grilled door to open the damned
door.

She was drunk (that’s the very first time I learnt
about Nordic Ice, first time I saw that drink) and she was crying the whole time, she said teary eyed, “Ben, please ask him not to leave. Talk to your friend.”

And I said,“Leave you?

How?

He would be crazy to leave you, now please let go of his head and open the door sweetheart.”

Hehehe. She finally opened the door and he left her…eventually.

Anyway, when you are broke, you attract a
certain pedigree of women.

I suppose it’s even worse when you are rich.

A dog’s life, eh?

Then something nasty happened, his mom passed on.

Road accident.

See, he was close to his mother, always talked about her.

He had no relationship with his dad.

He was a stranger to him.

He was the first son, his brother was in campus.
He was screwed.

Troubles set in; debts,the pain of losing a mother, a brother he had to see through campus and yet he couldn’t even feed himself.

Life sunk into a deep dark pit.

He started losing weight;he started becoming a bit touchy, more sensitive.

It’s almost like he was looking for ways to have his friends disappoint him the way life had, looking for a conviction that indeed life was against him.

I saw him less because I’m impatient and I didn’t want to be put in a situation where we could clash but once in a while I still pitched
up with a drink, we still drunk and laughed but it was like walking on eggshells.

Then his tide changed; one day, five months after his mom passed on, his phone rang.

It was UNDP and just like that his life did a three sixty.

I always told him that his mom struck a deal with God; take me away lord, but please give my son a break, she told God.

This is a true story by the way; I haven’t even changed this guy’s name.

Overnight his life transformed before my eyes and it gives you lots of hope, its God showing you his hand.

It’s God saying, look, I’m here, I run this town.

And here is the spookiest of things; while his phone was ringing with an offer from UNDP I was losing my business.

Yes.

Both our tides were changing, albeit in different
directions.

Twilight stuff I tell you.

That was, what, two,three years ago?

He has since moved out of Kile, good old
Kile, gotten a good woman and is even growing a small paunch, (which he knows he should do something about).

He smells better, dresses better, hell he even changed his drink.

I’m certain his mother is smiling.

Here is how his life has changed.

He works in northern Kenya and when he comes down we always catch a drink.

So last week, on his invitation, we went to this
posh bar and placed our orders.

I ordered wine and he asked for a double Jack Daniels and some rocks.

When the waiter left, I leaned over and asked him with a cynical tone how much they were selling bloody Jack Daniels and without knowing the implications of his answer,without meaning to sound showy he replied nonchalantly;“I don’t know.”

You know you are struggling when you
ask the price of a drink in a bar.

Surely there must be some take home lessons in these two stories of friendships.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My beard shaving disaster at a Kinshasha’s Barber shop

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Shaving is a testimony of manhood.

Sam, my barber, knows that he can chop off my ear, but he must never chop off my beard.

It is sacred.

He fools around it.

He trims it only a little, because I like it scraggly, like I survived a long winter hibernation.

Daisy,my partner, thinks it’s bullshit.

But the hell with her, she’s just
jealous that she will never grow a beard herself.

She complained about it until she got
tired and gave up.

In life I have met many naysayers who speak ill of my beard, but we (my beard and I) refuse to
give false prophets the time of day.

In my twisted head, my power, my invisible power lies in the bushes of my
beard.

It’s my talisman.

Like Solomon.

Without my beard I’m nothing but a smooth-chinned Quasimodo with a pen.

And when was the last time you took a smooth-
chinned Quasimodo with a pen seriously?

So the beard stays.

I grew a beard late in life.

We are talking 27 years of age.

Hairlessness way after your adolescence, when all your peers already look like colobus monkeys tend to make one develop serious hang-ups.

You imagine that folk talk about your lack of hair behind your back.

It gets to a point where you start thinking you can’t satisfy a woman because your chin is hairless.

You start thinking there is something wrong with you.

That you aren’t manly.

That you aren’t grown-up enough.

You get paranoid.

The curse of the hairless.

Eventually I grew a beard.

Let me explain.

It is similar to a couple eventually getting a baby after several failed attempts.

The result?

You jealously hold onto that baby.

Obsess about it.

Keep your eyes on it.

You don’t want people touching it.

Three weeks ago I was in Kinshasha,DRC.

So my pal Benjaps took me to this barber in Kinshasha’s CBD, right near Gambela market.

The barber is Ugandan.

Perhaps that’s when I should have walked away but I have faith in humanity, so I stayed.

Please note that I – like every man, really, isn’t in the habit of changing barbers.

Anyway, when it was time to shave my beard, I specifically told him in my rusty french to trim it, not cut it.

Just trim it.

He said sure, sure, yes, yes, I get it, trim it.

So I reclined on the comfy barbers seat and closed my eyes.

When I opened them moments later half my beard was gone.

Fuckin’ half my beard!

Boy was I livid.

“What have you done?!” I cried.

“Look what you have done!!”

He shrugged defensively, “It looks cleaner this way…”

“It looks cleaner this way?? Do you want to serve food off it?”

“What?”

Long uncomfortable silence.

I moved closer to the mirror and took a closer look at the damage.

“You have ruined me, my friend.” I muttered.

“You have surely and completely ruined my life.”

“Hiyo itamea tu haraka haraka, tena asana,” he said in his congolese accented Kishwahili..

“Yes, after another 27 bloody years! That’s how long it took me to grow my first beard!” I was furious.

That was a few weeks ago and my beard hasn’t grown back since.

I feel naked.

I feel like the wind blows through face.

When I look in the mirror I don’t know the
person who looks back.

I feel like a Quasimodo with a pen.

Anyway.

This is going somewhere.

A month ago Gillette sent me a whole pack of fancy shaving things.

“Use them and tell us what you think” they urged.

I tried out the Mach 3, has a sexy rubber handle and something called the Front Pivot Technology that makes it bend and yield according to your contours.

Didn’t like it much because it didn’t have enough “traction”.

It was too bendy.

Wasn’t aggressive enough.

It didn’t sink its teeth into my hair, as it should.
It thought my hair was its friend.

But I liked the Fusion Shaver.

A powered gizmo, 5-blade monster that didn’t baby around “contours” like the Mach 3 did.

But listen, after using these products I sat back and thought; what am I going to say about Gillette blades?

What am I going to tell another man about shaving?

I mean your hair is your business; you want to plait your pubic hair in cornrows?

Hey, whatever tickles your fancy.

Then it occurred to me that this is not even about shaving.

It’s even less about blades.

Or contours.

Or hair follicles.

Or sweat glands or shaving bumps, or those
things that folk in white coats sporting funny-shaped spectacles mull over in those spotlessly sanitised Gillette labs.

Shaving is a testimony of manhood.

Women shave yes, but women shave because they are embarrassed of their hair.

We ,Men, aren’t.

Shaving for us isn’t about discarding unwanted hair; it’s about aligning hair.

But the art of shaving has died.

I remember my gurdian dad shaving back in the 80s.

You haven’t seen a bigger spectacle.

I don’t know about your dad, but this is how
men shaved when they wore their manhood on their sleeves.

They walked out of their bedrooms with a towel
tied around their waist and swaggered to the sink.

You knew whose house it was by the way they walked around the house in a towel.

It was a presence that seemed to declare, “I run the ship here. This is my pond.”

We don’t walk around our houses like that anymore.

Now we walk around our houses like soldiers coming back from war, with our dignities in our hands, hounded by ghosts.

Our fathers swaggered to the sink like heroes.

Then they stood there, with a reflective frown on their brows, an old blade in hand, slightly bent at the torso, staring at their chins.

Like they were about to engage in open-heart
surgery.

Men back then did not admire themselves in the
mirror like we do now.

We spend too much time before mirrors.

We crease our faces as we suck in our bellies,
standing to one side, bloody getting our knickers in a twist if we have added weight on our midsection.

For crying out loud, we keep weighing scales in our bathrooms.

Our fathers barely noticed their girths.

And if they did, they didn’t show that they were bothered.

Vanity had not been conceived.

This was pre-six pack abs as we Kenyans knew it.

This was pre-Esquire.

No man in the 80’s would listen to another man tell him how to tie his tie, or match his shoes with his belt.

Men chose their paths, no matter how lonely, and they stuck to them.

But back to the 80’s man in the mirror.

A small growl would escape their lips.

Then they would run water in the sink, lather up their chins, dip the blade in the water, swish it around, turn their faces delicately to one side and start shaving, creating ridges through the
white snow of lather.

They would take their time,repeating, lathering, squeegeeing through.

Over and over until their faces resembled a penguin’s butt.

Then they would wash off their chins carefully, gently, like a mother washes her new-born’s bum.

After, they would splash on some stinging aftershave, and only then would they be ready to face the world, even if the world wasn’t
ready for them.

But the smell of aftershave would linger in the house for hours.

That’s how you knew there was a male in the
house, a leader in that house; even if we discovered much later that it was our mothers who led.

Hehe.

But that musky smell of aftershave would linger in your head even up to adulthood.

My guardian dad used Gillette aftershave.

I swear he did, I’m not just saying this.

And that smell has stayed with me ever since.

That smell reminds me of how much less of a man I am now compared to him.

Why do I say less of a man?

Well because now, every week we sit in trendy unisex salons, reading girlie magazines as our beards are shaved for us.

Now, we have another man rub balm on our chins, touching and kneading our faces.

It’s a disgrace.

You should see me fuss about my beard. You haven’t seen an eccentric yet until you
have seen me stare at my beard after Sam is finished with it.

It’s enough to make you unfriend me on Facebook.

Gillette should not just make sexy blades.

Gillette should make shaving sexy again.

Shaving should be about sex. Male or female? Check in the right box!

You shave for the same reason you chose to keep hair; to remain desirable, primal male.

The decision to shave is borne from a primal instinct.

And shaving is more than a task, it’s a ritual, a right of passage.

Shaving should be something that when a man does,everybody in the house wants to gather around to watch.

Your son should sit on the floor at your feet, staring up at you work that blade.

Your woman should sit at the dining table, chin cupped in hand, swallowing hard as you skim
that sharp blade ever so close to your throat.

Or jugular.

And that skill should turn her on.

You should shave like Don Draper.

Have you watched Don Draper shave in the TV series Mad Men?

No?

Then you haven’t shaved, my friend.

You haven’t shaved until you have shaved like a man from the yester years.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

A throw back in time;I miss my old village setting without walls

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It used to be said that the Great Wall of China is the only human artefact seen from the moon.

Even if this legend has been debunked by astronauts, the wall is indeed great.

It stretches an extensive 7,200 kilometres.

The Chinese have something to be proud of, marking how developed they were even in the pre-Christian era.

In my private thoughts,walls desecrate the environment.

They destroy wonderful panoramic views.

These days, I sometimes take an academic writing break in Kiambu,my hometown to my former village,my birthplace, a cosy little town at the
heart of central Kenya.

Twenty years ago when I left my birthplace to settle in my new home,it was indeed a village.

Don’t you misunderstand me: I am not really a crazy, romantic “ruralist” living up in the clouds,nor am I hypocritical GreenPeace member, not even an animal rights activist who concerns more about orphaned cats and dogs than the man dying on the
roadside;I’m just a moderate environmental conservationist.

I occasionally visit my birthplace village,but I miss its old rural setting.

I’m currently contracted to write an Agribusiness Best Practices manual by a client.

I normally take time off to go and do the writing from a friends home back in my birthplace village,if only to get inspiration from my past during the writers ‘block’.

Now I might begin to sound like Vasco da Gama!

Or I might sound very nostalgic showing wrinkles of ageing.

But what does a village mean to me, anyway: African mud huts, homes amidst farm lands, no cars or pikipiki’s (motorcyles), and most of all, no walls and gates.

NO WALLS, IMAGINE!

Those old days, when I was younger in the green Village – green it still is, most houses were just mud put around dry sticks, and you saw those
huts, there was nothing even to hide them from miles and miles of open view from all sides.

No walls, I mean.

Yes, there would be some stray marks of boundaries of farms with some thornyless plants of the euphorbia family, including
the “Gitooka”,a special succulent plant used to mark the four corners of farm boundaries.

I must hurry to add that the Kikuyu people have a sentimental attachment to the “Gitooka”,it not only marked boundaries but also lineage.

I was born long after my paternal grandfather,whom I’m named after, had already died in the Mau Mau insurgency in Kenya during the struggle for independence.

I had no idea about who he was or even a spiritual connection with his life.

As a curious young boy,I one day asked and old man who was my grand dad’s agemate to tell me about my grand dad who I never met.

I saw him almost coming to tears as he stood up silently,held my hand and led me to a far flung farm that used to belong to grand dad,but was lost during the long armed struggle for our country’s independence.

When we got to the corner of the farm boundary,he told me to pluck a succulent leave from the “gitooka” plant and wring it with my feasts;it produced some sap that he told me to rub on my face.

I was just amused,following his ritualistic instructions.

Then he solemnly said,”your grand father planted this particular “Gitooka” with his own hands. You almost resemble him. The sap you pasted on your face now spiritually connects you to his departed soul. Now you know him!”

I was moved by that experience,its spiritual connection with the past,and a plant that could connect three different generations,some who were already dead.

These days I take some long walks along the dusty village pathways of my former village, between my tight writing schedule: just to exercise my otherwise numbed hands at the laptop, to stretch my swollen feet, to feed my eyes with some green, and to get some fresh air – I am allergic to open windows while within my room!

What wounds my eyes when I am out of the hurting screen of the laptop are WALLS.

Yes, traditional boundary markers are replaced by walls, these days.

There are walls and walls.

Some,tall live hedges, are still growing up.

Others are a mix of bricks and grills, you could still have a peek through to admire the new mansions.

Most of them have a gate, some of which have large arches over them – Greek, Romanesque,Baroque, Neo-gothic, Persian, you name it.

Still other walls are high and tight – they can almost compete with the Great Modern Wall of Israel put
up by the wounded Israelis (I am afraid to use the ‘J’ word, lest I be blamed for anti-Semitism) on the
property of their helpless neighbours.

All in the name of sovereignty and security!

They have forgotten the story of the Berlin Wall,and why it had to come down.

I keep praying every day that this wall of Israeli insecurity too, should come down and like in my birthplace, should come down and free long range views of my old village!

It makes me angry.

I only pray that it will happen in my life-time.

All that it will take to bring that heartless wall will be one new Joshua – by the way, that is Hebrew for
Jesus.

That aside, coming back to the bourgeoning walls of my former village, they say, this is maendeleo
(Swahili for progress or development)!

After all, I work for holistic development, I am not against maendeleo: education, access to health-care, water, electricity, means of communication and transport.

NOLLYWOOD’S WALLS AND NAIJA MOVIES

I do care about quality of life!

My agonising question is: do we need walls and gates to celebrate maendeleo – advancement, that is a
better translation?

Now I understand why the Nollywood (Nigerian)movies are full of high walls and tall dark gates!

In the Nigerian productions, there would be that large lipped lady with a flashy red lipstick or the XXXL sized gentleman, steering their Mercedes
Benz with one hand and pretend to be attending to an important call holding the mobile phone with
the other hand, would hoot at a tall black gate that breaks the monotony of an equally soaring high wall, and there would be that house-boy who would leave his snaky watering hose aside and run to drag that heavy gate open.

Someone once said if you cut the walls and the gates out of the Nollywood movies, their humdrum
plots wouldn’t fill the time for a feature film.

Besides, how else will the Nigerians show off their affluence and extravagance?

To me the decision is simple, if walls mean advancement, I then prefer an underdeveloped world with no walls at all.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Live your tiny dream the best way you can!

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You may think that, your dream in life is only a tiny dream.

In that seemingly tiny dream that you hold dear in your heart, that doesn’t match the big dreams that others have, feel or look like much, joyfully go ahead and call the shots!

Own it and possess it.

Remember you are the boss to that tiny dream. You,and only you,can call the shots to your dream!

It’s your day, it’s your moment and it’s your time. You are not NEXT in line for success,it’s NOW your turn for success!

One of the most crucial lessons you can learn from life, that we are emphasising today is how to have fun and enjoy realising your dream.

The most joyful and energising decision of your dream life is to commit 100 percent to your vision and choose to immerse yourself in fun while at it.

It is good to know you’re on the right path, fulfilling the right dream, and that you’re not only giving the day
your all, but cannot wait to do it all over again tomorrow!

It is possible to go to sleep each night grateful for the day with victory becoming part of your lifestyle.

That is possible and is our lesson this
week.

First of all, be satisfied with your dream.

It is not the type or size of dream that measures success, but the successful completion of the dream
assigned to you.

Never allow low self-esteem or
perceived lowliness of the assignment life gave you to overshadow the dream and weigh you down.

What you do is your divine path in this life.

We all have different instructions from nature to fulfil in this life and success comes by fully honouring these instructions.

You too can enjoy this success by focusing on your instruction and not what others are doing.

The grass may seem greener on the other side, but who knows, maybe it’s growing in sewage!

You need to concentrate on your patch and water your grass the
best way you know, making it the envy of your neighbours.

Do look for your joy on the journey to greatness, because if you are living the dream, the two are not independent, but co-joined.

Having fun while at it is the fuel that fans the passion for it, and often times, is the driving force that renews you.

Your happiness resides within the dream itself.

It is acquired while fulfilling the dream and is steered by the motions of that dream.

Nothing gives me pure joy than to see a life transformed, a family changed, a community developed, a decision made for the better or an
addiction broken by one whose life is on the edge of peril or in the jaws of obliteration.

That is priceless, worth more than any amount of money or a holiday
in an exotic island.

It is uplifting to see such transformation and this motivates me to continually strive to touch people’s lives through inspiration.

The power in a dream to spawn joy for the dream bearer is probably the most compelling force for one
to pursue that dream.

Make your dream the source of your ‘fix’, the ‘dope’ for your crave and the origin of the ‘high’ that you need to keep pushing.

When you are down and discouraged, if you want to see weakness metamorphose into strength, go back into the ring of your dreams and fight some more!

Dreamers are too busy to fuss over their ‘good’ looks or ‘sterling’ performances.

They are too committed to get carried away with showbiz.

Their mantra is that, ‘when you are good, you tell people about it,
but when you are great, people tell you about it’.

To them, time is a precious and irredeemable resource.

They don’t waste it on their struggles,disadvantages and worries.
Your dream is not a punishment.

Don’t face it with grumbling, weariness and irritation.

It is a blessing.

Your life’s work is not a ‘job’, it’s a way of living.

Face it daily with a spring in your step and a smile on your face.

You may have started by expecting your dream to be simple,obvious and predictable, only for it to become
complex and challenging.

Just because you are in unfamiliar territory does not mean you stop the
journey.

You are still the boss of that dream!

Finally, reward yourself.

Work hard, but play hard too.

After work, go out and enjoy the fruits of your labour, the benefits and perks that come with genuine hard work.

Own what you do and don’t be
apologetic about it.

People don’t become great
because they did great things, they do because they did small things in a great way, until the small things became great.

Therefore, in that seemingly tiny dream, joyfully go ahead and call the shots!

Own it and possess it.

It’s your day, it’s your moment and
it’s your time.

You are not next in line for success,

it’s your turn for success!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Women sleauths and domestic house arrest

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Our Women love to see us at home.

Even if you leave dirty dishes in the sink, rummage through the clothes cabinet and leave clothes strewn all over, leave the toilet seat up … no matter how destructive you are, women are happier if you stay indoors where they can see
you.

They want you there even when you are hogging the TV with your sports channel and making them miss their favourite La Mujer de Alehandro,that Mexican Soap Opera.

They want you there even if they aren’t talking to you,for some reason or the other.

They would rather you sit through their lengthy brooding sessions, so that they can occasionally shoot you looks that can turn the blood in your veins into powder and offer you dry
monosyllable answers: Fine. OK.

Not funny.

I know many claustrophobic guys with very small concentration spans who would rather be anywhere but at home; guys who can’t stay in the house for two days running.

Long holidays running past the fourth day scare them.

Too long in the house and they feel the walls closing in,almost like they’d cave in on poor fellows; they just want to be on the move.

But sometimes as a man you have to learn to be still and do nothing.

Stay at home, because when
you start moving you become a moving target.

If you leave for a beer with a friend, or just to visit that pal in the next apartment block, your woman
will not take it kindly: “Why can’t you just stay in the house for once?”

Have you ever sat in the house on a weekend and wondered how you will leave the house without your woman getting all-emotional about it?

Or do these crazy things only happen to me?

It’s a public holiday, or a random uneventful weekend.

You are all lazing about and haven’t shown any indication that you might leave, which means you are in those
dreadful shorts or tracksuits, reading some old magazines or watching football highlights.

Then your friend sends you that tempting SMS saying that he is having a beer and offers to buy.

Or just to catch up.

So you sit there and struggle with one important question: how do I leave without upsetting the apple cart?

I mean, you could be a mandingo about it and leave without caring about consequences, but the problem with leaving like that is that you will come back and when you come back the house will feel so cold and unwelcome you will need to wear socks to navigate it in total silence of a trembling fearful mice.

And that’s too much work trying to keep things from blowing up on the slightest agitation.

But here is this other weird thing: The moment you start thinking of leaving,she will have gotten wind of it.

These people are instinctive animals: they can smell our intentions even before we act.

A Lady friend of mine told me: “You know, men think we are stupid. When my husband wears a particular cologne, I know he won’t be back before midnight.”

I was like, “The hell? You can tell this by the scent he wears on his craggy beard?”

“Yup,” she replied, “Not only scents but also clothes. I particularly hate some of his jeans because every time he wears them he comes home in the small hours of the morning drunk, and we always fight about it.”

I shuddered at the sophisticated level of sleuthing women can do.

There are guys who are known to
leave the house in bathroom sandals, because sandals are non-threatening and they say you are only next-
door.

Then they come back six hours later, bearing an olive branch –some meat.

You have to celebrate the Kenyan guy for bringing home nyama choma as an olive branch.

But sometimes our women will see through all this and attach a GPS on us: the child.

“Junior, go with dad to the shop.”

And in one swift swoop, your hopes of nipping into the bar for a cold one on a Sunday flies out the window, unless Junior doesn’t mind a drink too when he is still underage.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Life is Short. Travel light

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I do a bit of heavy travel in my field work.

This has made me learn how to travel light.

No unnecessary baggage!

I guess the same thing happens in life.

What’s happened in your past is not
nearly as important as what is in your future.

Where you’re going is much more significant than where you’ve
been.

But if you stay focused on the
past, you’ll get stuck where you are.

This is the reason a lot of people don’t have joy or enthusiasm for life.

They’re dragging around all of this
negative baggage from the past.

Somebody offended them last week,
and they’ve got that stuffed in their
resentment bag.

Last month, they lost their temper and said some things they shouldn’t have.

They’ve got that in their guilt and
condemnation bag.

Ten years ago,they lost a loved one.

They still don’t understand it.

They’ve got that hurt and pain in their disappointment bag.

They carry around their bag of
regrets, all the things they wished
they would have done differently.

Life is too short to live that way.

Learn to travel light.

Every morning when you first get up, forgive the people that did you wrong the day before.

Forgive your partner for what they
said.

At the start of the day, let go of
the disappointments, the setbacks
from yesterday.

Start every morning fresh and new.

Nature did not create you to carry around all that baggage,otherwise,it would have placed you on standard gauge railroad for your own safety.

Let it go and move forward in the life of blessing Life has in store for you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

How “not” to eat Fish

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I like food.

I love fish.

I can describe with relish how you go about it,no chopstics,no knives,forks and spoons.

You just need the dextrity of your cute fingers.

A friend told me that he has stopped drinking river or lake water,because of the disgusting things that the fish do in there.

But I love my fish!

Truth is, you haven’t finished eating your fish until you have eaten the head.

But you can’t enjoy eating the head if you treat it like a hoof;inedible and disposable.

I treat my fish like you would treat your first date; respectfully, appreciatively and curiously –which, ideally, is how you should treat every
date.

I squeeze lemon all over it then I start with the midsection.

I divorce the meat from the flesh,
and I put it away.

I eat the tail because it’s crunchy when deep-fried.

When I’m done with one side, I slowly and delicately turn it over,careful not to break its spine in the process.

Then I do the same to the new side until all the meat is scrapped clean off the bones.

Until the fish looks like it has been sorely surviving on a diet of water
and hence has lost all its weight and looks like an anorexic fish on some fish fashion magazine.

A fish ready to step on the catwalk (pun?); gaunt and pale.

And the head is the best part.

The head is delicate.

The head is the zenith,saved for last.
You got to treat the head with respect.

I should have mentioned that before you eat your fish you have to look at its mouth.

If your fish has its mouth closed,send it back.

If they say they only have fish with its mouth closed, ask for tea and bread.

Or leave.

A fish that is brought to your plate with its mouth clammed together, like it died humming a tune, is fishy.

I can explain why but I’m already in 370 words deep in this rambling and need to get to the heart (or head) of this post already.

Infact,this story is about how not to eat a fish.

Reason?

After all that bragging about how I’m an expert on eating fish,I got chocked by a fishbone.

If I was a white man, my
face would have gone pink from just writing down those words.

It’s an oxymoron, that statement, an
abhorrence even because a fishbone sending a Luo-trained Kikuyu fish eater to a hospital is akin to a Luhya pushing away his tea saying, “ Hapana, hii chai ni moto sana.”

I’m mortified. By this sheer accumullation of bad luck to the point of a mere small fishbone trying to extinguish my dear life!

So Tuesday, 6pm, I’m working deliciously on this fried fish when I feel a sharp pain as a bone grazes my throat.

I do what I have done for tens of years; take a bigger chunk of ugali(unlivened maize meal cake) and chase the bone with it, only
this time the ugali pushes the bastard bone right into my throat.

The pain!

Ooh my! Are grown up men supposed to wail loudly when they become so desperate during their final moments?

I send in another contingent of ugali.

Nothing doing.

Swallowing becomes a problem.

So I promptly stop being a
an expert fish eater about it and be a human being about it by driving myself to my Nearest Hospital’s Emergency department.

There – after skipping the queue –
I’m seen by, yes, you guessed it, a male Luo nurse called Abondo.

Cool chap.

Very calm.

His all-white uniform makes him look like a younger version of Morgan Freeman in Bruce Almighty, which makes Abondo almighty.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as he checks my blood pressure.

“Got choked by a bone.” I say, afraid to mention the word “fish”.

“What kind?” He asks while scribbling things on a pad.

“Uhm, a shishsd bone,” I mumble.

“Come again?”

“Fish bone,” I look away.

There is a pregnant silence in the room as he continues writing something.

I’m sure he wants to laugh out loud.

I’m sure he wants to make fun of me.
I’m sure he wants to look at me and say,“Fish bone? Wouldn’t it have been easier to down it in a glass of water?”

But he is a professional first then a Luo second.

“Don’t worry, we get that a lot here,” he says instead.

“Yes, but not from Luos! You get it from Merus,Tesos, Masais, Kikuyu’s and Luhyas!”

“Ahem, not Luhyas,” He mumbles. OK, he doesn’t say that.

I’m sent inside to see a doctor – a guy with a huge scraggly beard that covers his whole face.

A beard,so long and alive, that I could hear it breath.

He’s Muslim,which means I can’t poke fun at him even though
I’m dying to.

Muslims don’t take jokes that easily,

But I can’t get over that beard,his beard, man.

It’s indomitable, it’s unapologetic, and it says
“This is me, live with it.”

It reminds me of a Bushbaby’s tail.

Dr Bushbaby sends me to the X-Ray department where a picture of my
throat is taken in all angles.

Here is a. truth: the
Xray is the only machine that equalizes everyone.

We – or our insides- all look ugly in
black and white.

All of us.

It doesn’t matter if you smell good or are just from the salon.

All our insides look the same.

The Polaroid shots of my throat look like a cave in Hells Gate.

Twenty minutes later, I shamefully carry these pictures back to the doctor who sticks them up in
that thingamajig with background light and observes them.

I meekly peer from over his
shoulder and past his forest of a beard.

We see the bastard in my throat; it’s gnarled and ugly.

“You have two options,” says Dr. Bushbaby turning to face me. “I could send you back home, but you have to come back here at 5am to be
admitted for an endoscopy at 8am.

Or, I could admit you now and you wait for your procedure in the morning.”

I stare at his beard as I, well, chew on this.

“What would you do, Doc?” I ask.
“I would spend the night here.”

“Mmm…and what would your beard do?” I want to ask him.

I opt to book myself in.

A chirpy nurse called Songole comes and draws blood from my arms.

Then she takes asks me the normal questions; Any medication you are on
currently? (Apart from weed, you mean?);

Allergies? (Yes, fools, sycophants and Tequila).

Then she takes an inventory of what I have;wallet, money, cards, jewellery, clothing (she found it odd that I didn’t have underwear on, I
found it odd that she thought I had time to wear one when I was choking), shoes, phone, ring

(“Any navel rings?” she jokes at some point)

She later brings a wheelchair and says, OK lets go and I say, no, I will walk, I don’t want to meet
someone I know because people have a way of spreading rumours in this town about seeing you on your deathbed in a “wheel chair”..

My residence for the night is St George’s Ward, bed number 22.

We are two in the room,separated by a small wardrobe and curtains.

I have a small bed, blue sheets and a chair.

There is a matchbox size screen hanging from a wall which Songole calls a Television set.

I didn’t argue.

This feels all too familiar.

Last year I was admitted in Aga Khan
for three days; oesophageal corrosion, caused by
tequila.

Nowadays I see a bottle of Tequila,and out of respect, I
leave the room.

The very cheerful Songole hands me over to a male nurse –Ndegwa – and I feel a bit heartbroken because she has been a hoot.

Ndegwa is young, maybe 26.

Since he’s balding he shaves close to the skull.

“Look, Songole treated me real good, the bar is high for you, mate,” I joke and that breaks the ice because he
chuckles and brings out a cold beer.

OK, he didn’t bring out a beer, but he’s cool; laid back just like all balding folk should be.

He hands me my hospital regalia;
that gown that is closed in the front and open in the back, the one the leaves your butt out in the
cold?

He also hands me a gown, a TV remote control, some towels and a pair of blue shorts so big two people can fit in them.

These shorts had the words “South Wing” emblazoned across
them, which I guess is to deter folk like Mtu Fulani from carrying them home ’’accidentally.’’

Yes, I see someone stealing those blue shorts to hang out in them at the beach in coasto, or at
Blankets and Wine.

Ndegwa hangs this board written “Nil By Mouth” over my bed. As our house doctor (or is it Resident
Doctor?) Dr. Karimi will tell you, it means that nobody should dare bring food to the patient; the patient should be left to starve to death.

Thankfully, I didn’t want food because nothing was passing down my throat.

We chew some fat with Ndegwa then he leaves to deliver more shorts to other unsuspecting patients.

I change in my hip new Boyz to Men shorts written South Wing (that’s a label) and slip into bed.

I want to switch on the TV and watch
something but I’m afraid it will wake up the guy in the next room.

It’s 10p.m.

It gets still.

By midnight I’m still awake.

My roomie is silent for the most part, but once in a while he will moan
softly, or cough (a grotesque cough that seems to scratch his chest with large claws).

I wonder who he is, how old he is, what’s wrong with him…
I wonder what his name is.

When I was admitted in Aga Khan last year with Tequiloisis, I made
friends with the chap in the next bed; a boisterous professor who was a complete clown, made hospitalization bearable.

Which makes you think about private rooms in hospitals where you
pay more to be alone.

I wouldn’t want to be alone
when I’m sick, I’d feel like a leper, banished from the general population, cast away to die alone.

Sharing a room is warm, you always feel like your suffering isn’t isolated.

Hell, sometimes, when you see other patients, you feel lucky that you
only have a fish bone in your throat because some people have more than bones in their throats; some have cancer in their throats.

Some don’t even have throats.

At 1am – after Twitter starts feeling like walking through a graveyard at midnight – I climb out of bed and go to the nurse’s station where I find a
nurse writing something on a pad.

Nurses are always writing something on a pad.

She is pleasant.

All the nurses who attended to me
during my stay were all pleasant -and it wasn’t because I was looking funky in my South Wing shorts.

Talking of nurses.

Television propagates this image that nurses are sexy and naughty.

And almost every second guy who called me when I was in hospital last year (with exception of my
brother-in-law) asked me; “So, is some sexy nurse with a stethoscope listening to your heart beat?”

And it pained me because I realised I was in the wrong ward, or maybe the wrong hospital.

Thing is, you will see beautiful nurses, pretty nurses, lovely nurses, gorgeous nurses, but you
will never see a sexy nurse.

Those ones were last spotted in ER many years ago.

Anyway, I tell the nurse manning the night desk that I’m bored and ask her if there is a private nurses and doctors party going on in Wing B I
can crush.

She chuckles politely because she is
busy and knows I have potential to waste her time.

So I ask for reading material and guess what she asks me. And bang, this is one of the the reasons This Hospital impressed me.

She asks me if I would like a copy of GQ!

Would I like a copy of GQ!?

I mean, which hospital keeps a
copy of GQ?!

I say, hell yeah, if you have it!

She hands me a May 2011 Issue of GQ, the one with Prince Harry on the cover; Walking with the
Wounded.

This nurse saw my hip South Wing
shorts and thought immediately, GQ!

Now that is service!

The magazine is a 280page beauty
which I engaged me until the small hours of the morning before I conk out.

I dreamt.

I dreamt of my high school because,
perhaps, my hospital room reminded me of my fourth form room in high school; the small bed,the wardrobe.

I was in a dorm called Bowers 2,great dorm.

In high school there was always a
bell that went off at around 5am I think.

It spelled morning preps.

It was a loud, ugly gong that
went on and on, relentlessly yanking us from our dreams.

It pierced the cold night dawn like a
scalpel.

And you had to be up and out of the
dorm in 15mins of a prefect (we called the cops)came in yanking your blankets off and taking you
name down for punishment later.

I hated that bell.

In my sleep, I hear that gong; spookily clear and unmistakable even after 20yrs since I last heard
it.

I wake up with a start expecting to hear metallic boxes slamming shut as boys got ready to rush to preps but what I see, instead, is a
trolley screeching on the floor.

It’s the catering staff, delivering breakfast.

Have you noticed that all hospital catering staff wears uniforms that look like Kayamba Africa’s
uniform?

No, seriously, those corny shirts with
patterns and all that seem to say you are proud to be an African.

If you have to prove your
Africanese by wearing a shirt then you aren’t African enough because being African is bigger than fabric and if it has to be in fabric then it’s
woven in your DNA strand.

I wonder who copied who, me think it’s Kayamba Africa because most
guys who sing well always have a lousy taste in shirts…I mean, look at Kidum, easily one of the best artists we have seen in Kenya in a long time;a voice of a god and yet he wears these hideously tight designer tshirts that asphyxiate his beer
belly.

“Can I have bacon, buttered toast and some Spanish omelette please? No chilli.” I joke with Kayamba who smile and say that, I I’m not meant
to be fed.

“Hey, come on, I’m sure one crisp
strand of bacon won’t kill me,” I joke but he think I’m serious and so says,

“No, really, I can’t doctor’s orders.”

Who listens to doctors anymore
when there is Google?

The ENT consulting doctor is a no show at 8am.

At 10am he isn’t showed up either.

I’m getting real hot under the collar now.

At 10:30am I ask for a nurse and this guy nurse comes and – with
a small bow – tells me that there was a miscommunication and that the doctor is on his way.

At 11.30am he hasn’t showed up, so I call back the nurse and use words like “unacceptable”, “laxity”, “highly
unprofessional”, “explanation” and “my mommy.”

He promises that I will be in theatre in an hour.

Do you swear, man? I ask him and he smiles and says he promises.

I’m hungry and pissed by this
time and I plan to tell the doctor what I think of him.

I really do.

At 12.15pm an orderly comes to
pick me up in a wheelchair, I could have walked if I didn’t have on those South Wing shorts that were tripping my feet.

So, he pushes me out and this cat almost takes off my toe in a ramp because, as we go down a ramp, he
decides to push me in reverse to avoid the wheelchair pulling him down the ramp.

And this genius strategy goes all wrong when the damn thing starts veering out of control, spinning and
tumbling down haphazardly.

I was going to die hutling down on a flowerbed, not in theatre!

Luckily some passerby helped him control it and we had a good laugh about that when I asked the orderly,
“Chief, Kwani you’re also on Nil By Mouth?”

When the doctor walks in my anger evaporates because he is too charming; he’s apologizing
profusely, he’s playfully punching me on the shoulder, he’s cracking fish jokes, he’s dramatically explaining how he’s going to go in down my throat with modern technology and get the sucker out.

He’s a sport.

Plus he’s aged and I don’t know how to give him a dressing down.

So I suck it in and wince as he punches me on the shoulder.

I feel like a tosser succumbing to his
charms like that.

I’m getting soft.

By the way, I’m on the 2,728th word so I’m going to rush through this last part because this post has ran on for too long and I’m sure the Luhya
readers have to go take tea,and Kikuyus their Githeri,wish I had stuck to Githeri last night!.

Wasonga, hang in there old boy.

We are nearly there.

Endoscopy is when they shaft your throat using this long tube that looks like something off a sci-fi movie.

But first, they knock you out cold by
hitting you over the head with a club.
Yes,technology rocks.

The doctor then asked me to
count from 10 and I remember telling him, “Doc, I’ve done this before, I’m an Elephant, it’s hard to
put me down. How about I start counting from 20 so that I don’t emba…embarras…embaaa….”

And I was out like a candle in the rain.

Bang, long story short, he pulled it out and gave me the bone in a jar as a memento.

I had the sense to take a picture of it and upload it here but I didn’t because – to quote The Shy Narcissist in her latest post – “it’s not because I have sensibilities but because you probably do too,that we can understand each other.”

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The hooker who seduced me into writing

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I’m going away on a tour of duty to a very remote part of DRC Congo.

I will miss many things in that outfif,but I guess reliable internet is certainily going to be a headache.

I’m just addicted to putting something for posterity,everyday.

But today,I want to share how I got addicted to writing,and incidentally,my biggest encouragement and commitment came from the least expected of all my acquaintances,a hooker.

I must hasten to add that we had no monkey business going on between us,me and that hooker that is.

But then here is the bit of that story for you!

Back in my College days,using black ink I wrote short stories on a hard-covered book, stories about escape from the mundane things of this life, something I was gathering
courage to do for later in life.

Of course I showed nobody these
literature, essentially because I didn’t think much of them.

They were a vaulted narrative of my
misery, of my rut but I always felt they drew me closer to a personal redemption.

Below the bedsit where I hanged my worn Jacket, lived a hooker, or rather a pretty chic I suspected was a hooker.

I say suspected because she always left at 10pm when I was coming in from work, dressed in short shiny clothes, and pitched back at 6am dressed in short shiny clothes and tired make-up.

Well,that’s a hooker,isn’t it?

We had water problems in that block and once in a while she would come up and ask me if I would kindly go down and close her tap if water came in the middle of the night.

One day she saw the notebook in my hand when I opened the door to
take another please-close-my-tap instruction and asked if I was writing a diary.

Standing to my full length, chin thrust defiantly in the air, I muttered
that diary was for girls.

She asked to see.

I remember her standing there for longer than I had thought she would, raptly reading that hard covered notebook, very slowly flipping the pages like they were brittle and they would shatter.

The word, engross, comes to mind.

She stood patiently at my doorway, a hooker reading a random story from a notepad.

Of course I was ill at ease, because I was afraid of judgment, even from a hooker.

But I waited patiently leaning on my doorwayand to kill time I stared at her cleavage that stared back indignantly.

When eventually she looked up – slowly – she was wearing a different
look; a questioning look.

“ Maybe you should just
write,” is all she said before bundling down the staircase, her burgeoning and overheavy cleavage struggling to catch up with her.

“Maybe you should just write.” Those words stayed with me for a very long time.

I’m certain men have been told more interesting words by hookers: “Woi, mimi siendi Mushadha,” “Ngai
Mwangi! Si hiyo underwear ni mzee sana?”

But all she said was, “Maybe you should just write.”

And those words, even spoken by a hooker, is sometimes all that can stir motion.

And when you start hearing them from different sources, it
gets into your head the word ‘maybe’ is introduced into the equation.

And when that gets in your head, it doesn’t leave; it squats there
reading a newspaper until you do something about it.

And I did.

I look at those days with envy,because I was deranged with proving something.

Now, I don’t.

I don’t need to.

My ego is grown up.

Let me break this down to gang, very slowly.

You sit in your office, crunching figures, fixing systems, balancing books, setting up communication strategies, troubleshooting IT,
selling products, recording in studios or writing course works…whatever your hustle is.

I don’t just write poetry to feed the arty ogre in me.

I don’t write part-time to balance out my life, to purposefy* it.

I write for a living, I write to live. Writing is my safe-boat in these seas of life I ride.

It’s all I have.

Since not many people want to pay top- dollar for some tight copy, since many people imagine words come out of the holes in your ears, they won’t pay you your worth because they won’t appreciate your art (that almost rhymed, “worth and “art”…
eh?).

So you resort to peddling your word art to the people who can pay you the most.

You write your fingers out until they bleed.

That’s what I have been doing the whole year; peddling words.

Are we together, so far?

Because I can stop here
briefly and let Hardened Mama MIA there go use the bathroom, she seems squeamish in her seat.

As I was saying, this simply means you write as much as you can, you work as twice as hard to
make half what those white-shirted chubby yuppies that work for blue chip companies make.

Those chaps that throw more office parties than they change the printer’s toner.

You write to pay bills yes, but you also write because it’s who you
are.

Folk say, you shouldn’t be defined by your job, that such bollocks, those are guys who are motivated by living through to end month for their jobs to seem relevant.

Take away my pen,and watch me drift off to an abyss of confusion
like a hollow trunk.

When you churn out over to 10,000 words a week for a year, you will burn out.

And that’s something you can put in your pipe and smoke.

I knew I was burning out, hitting a plateau.

That straight line.

I could feel it; I took longer to write
intros; I lost creative consciousness in the middle of sentences; I struggled with thought and
construction, I stared at a blank word document longer.

And that blank stare scares you.

I’m at a point where I’m having a conflict with my art, I’m insecure of it and I’m questioning it.

For months now I acted like I was okay and like the proverbial ostrich I buried my head in my Sandals.

Sorry, sand.

But when one or two of my regular readers – Fra
and Mufasa – raised a flag I had to be honest with myself.

I had spread myself out too thin and it was showing in everything I wrote.

When you write for a living, you don’t have the luxury of burning out.

You keep writing.

You change the times you write, you change the desks you write from, but you don’t stop writing because stopping is a learned habit that
eventually works against you.

Here is my confession.

There is something I do; I never say bye to people I’m drinking with. It’s
called an Irish Exit. You slip your portion of the bill under your half finished glass and you step off your stool to go to the loo.

And you don’t come back.

You can’t adequately say bye to folk
on alcohol, they will whine and ask you to sit down for just one more.

They will make fun of you, and offer to make a call home to extend your
curfew.

So you save yourself that drunken
gibberish and you slip out unnoticed, like a dark knight.

Last week the blog wasn’t under construction.

The jury was out on it.

I had the half mind to shut it down.

I really did.

To walk away without a word and concentrate on gigs that actually pay me because the blog takes the best of me and someone who takes the best are usually the ones to destroy you.

But first I bounced this idea to my
Mentor, because he walked away
from writing at some point but got seduced back by the evil temptress that is words.

“You’d be foolish to walk away!” he said.

It’s hard to walk out and bang a door when you are not sure you won’t want to knock on it again.

It’s even harder to walk away from who you are.

So what I’m going to do here is, I will put my feet off the pedal of this blog and post only twice a month.

First and last week.

And during this time off, I will head to the Congo forest, where I will
live with the pygmies and do nothing but hunt,fry and eat monkey meat, grow armpit hair and swim buck-naked in meandering forest rivers of DRC.

And I will not read any form of literature save for primitive inscriptions in caves and on the backs of their women who are slightly taller than coffee
tables.

And if I’m lucky, I might just be made
King of the Pigmies.

I’m going native and primitive.

Fans, it’s not you. It’s me.

The death of a friendship

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You were never meant to understand me,
I guess no one should ever,
‘Cause friendship is all about taking for who I am.

There’s not much going on now,
And I can sit still and look back,
To the days we had together,
Not without some good memories,
But these good memories came at a price,
That was always too high to pay.

You say you are sorry for all the time we wasted,
Always wondering who was going to be the brave one,
And say that all this farce gonna stop,
You always wanted to fix things,
That were already too broken to be fixed.

I wish things weren’t the way they were,
The way it used to be,
You know what I’m talking about,
It was just you and me,
But deep in our hearts,
we knew it was never meant to last.

I know you still don’t understand me,
And I know you never will,
I guess what I’m trying to say is,
There was no need to understand me in the first place,
It was never worth my time,
Neither yours.

Some friendships are never meant to be,
And we should never mourn them,
When they die their natural death,
‘Cause they free us to seek more meaningful ones,
With those who are predestined to add value to our life.

Our friendship was a draining one,
One that always took more from us,
Than it was ready to give back,
Though my eyes tear at this eventful end,
My tears are only for the years I wasted with you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Power of Life over Death

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Even though we never seem prepared for it,
I know that death is one of the main guarantees of life,
and one has to experience it to truly,
through death of our closest friends and family,
to understand what it is all about.

Sometimes,we face our own death in reality,by suffering a terminal illness.

It forces us to reconcile ourselves to our certain and imminent demise.

Life,incidentally,becomes sweeter as we face our own death through old age,or terminal illness;we value each day more and take out the best out of it.

I know that death can bring one down,
but I also know that eventually,
no matter after how long,
one moves on from fear of death,or its grief,
and that is when they discover just how strong they really are.

I know that death somehow inspires one to find their passion and live it, because they make out that life
is short.

You realise that if you are to leave a legacy,
you will have to start doing something to better
your life now, today.

I realise the irony of life.

Your world could be at a standstill but the sun will still rise and the stars will
shine.

Heck, others will be heard laughing their loudest.

I know that death jars one to reality because what has been happening to other people has happened to you — right here, right now.

Suddenly, all the fun, jobs, money and the status they all bring don’t matter that much.

Love, life, honesty, peace and togetherness are what matter more.

This realisation is what gives life power over death.

Death cannot destroy the life we are living at the present moment.

It can only steal away our future,not our present moment!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Cultivating gratitude in every day life

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How often do you pause to appreciate what you have in life?

When I was a young boy, I took very many things for granted.

I believe many other kids did so, as well.

After all, we were young and we didn’t know what life could be like on the other side.

One thing we took for granted was education.

In my country, it’s compulsory for all kids to go to school, so it was a given.

But how was I to know that even in my country,some kids never had a chance to go to school?

I never thought about how lucky I was to be educated.

I also took my teachers for granted.

I never thought about how lucky we were to have teachers who cared for our growth so much, and poured
their heart and soul into their lessons.

Then slowly as I grew up, I began to appreciate things around me more.

As I saw more and more of the world out there, I realized all the things I’d been given are not rights, but privileges.

I realized that being literate is a not a right, but a gift.

I realized there is a lot of war,hunger,poverty and violence in the world, and I’m lucky to live in a country where it’s relatively safe and peaceful.

I realized there are people out there who don’t have their five senses, and to have mine is a gift.

I realized the world is so beautiful, and we’re lucky to live in such an amazing world.

Sometimes it’s easy to feel bad because you’re going through a tough time in life.

However, remember that no matter how bad your situation may seem, there are tens of thousands of things to be grateful for in life.

Below is a simple list of things that I’m grateful for in my life.

Most of the items, if not all, will apply to you too.

They are things that we just consider as ordinary,so we are oblivious to them as things we should be grateful for.

I’m sure as you read this list, you’ll think of many more things to be grateful for,that are not included in my list.
So here we go on things to be grateful for in our lives:

» Sense of sight – for letting you see the colors of life.

» Sense of hearing – for letting you hear trickle of rain, the voices of your loved ones, and the harmonious chords of music.

» Sense of touch – for letting you feel the texture of your clothes, the breeze of the wind, the hands of your loved ones.

» Sense of smell – for letting you smell scented candles, perfumes, and beautiful flowers in your garden.

»Sense of taste – for letting you savor the sweetness of fruits, the saltiness of seawater, the sourness of pickles, the bitterness of bitter gourd, and the spiciness of chili.

» Your speech – for giving you the outlet to express yourself.

» Your heart – for pumping blood to all the parts of your body every second since you were born; for giving you the ability to feel all kinds of emotions.

» Your lungs – for letting you breathe so you can live.

» Your immune system – for fighting viruses that enter your body. For keeping you in the pink of your health so you can do the things you love.

» Your hands – so you can type on your computer, flip the pages of books, and hold the hands of your loved ones.

» Your legs – for letting you walk, run, swim, play the sports you love, and curl up in the comfort of your seat.

» Your mind – for the ability to think, to store memories, and to create new solutions.

» Your good health – for enabling you to do what you want to do and for what you’re about to do in the future.

» Your school – for providing a environment conducive to learning and growing.

» Your teachers – for their dedication and for passing down knowledge to you.

» Tears – for helping you express your deepest emotions.

» Disappointment – so you know the things that matter to you most by losing them.

» Fears – so you know your opportunities for growth by overcoming them.

»Pain – for you to become a stronger person by standing up to both physical and emotional pain.

» Sadness – for you to appreciate the wide spectrum range of human emotions.

» Happiness – for you to soak in the beauty of life.

» The Sun – for bringing in light and beauty to this world.

» Sunset – for a beautiful sight to mark the end day.

» Moon and Stars – for brightening up our night sky even when the bright sun has taken a rest.

» Sunrise – for a beautiful sight to start the morning and the promises it has for the day.

» Rain – for cooling you when it gets too warm and for making it comfy to sleep in on through weekends without guilt of having to look for an excuse to just rest.

» Rainbows – for a beautiful sight to look forward to after rain.

» Oxygen – for making life possible.

» The earth – for creating the environment for every form of life to begin.

» Mother nature – for covering our world in beauty.

» Animals – for adding to the diversity of our human life and empathy for living things.

» Internet – for connecting you and others despite the physical space between you.

»Transport – for making it easier to commute from one place to another,no matter the distance.

» Mobile phones – for making it easy to stay in touch with others,whenever you feel like.

» Computers – for making our lives more effective and efficient.

» Technology – for making impossible things possible.

» Movies – for providing a source of
entertainment that feed the vanity of our minds.

» Books – for adding wisdom into your life and sharing experiences that one never have in a single lifetime.

»Blogs – for connecting you with other like- minded people.

» Shoes – for protecting your feet when you are out exploring your environment.
»Time – for a system to organize yourself and keep track of activities and enrich your lifetime experience.

» Your job or business – for giving you a source of living and for being a medium where you can add value to the world.

» Music – for lifting your spirits when you’re down and for filling your life with more love.

» Your bed – for you to sleep comfortably in every night.

» Your home – for a place you can call home,a sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of our daily life.

» Your soul mate – for being the one who understands everything you’re going through.

» Your best friends – for being there for you whenever you need them.

» Your enemies – for helping you uncover and see your blind spots so you can become a better person.

» Kind strangers – for brightening up your days when you least expect it.

» Your mistakes – for helping you to improve and become better.

» Heartbreaks – for helping you mature and become a better person who can handle all kinds of people without resentment of having got nothing in return for your kindness.

» Laughter – for serenading your life with joy and hilarity.

»Love – for letting you feel what it means to truly be alive.

» Life’s challenges – for helping you grow and become who you are.

» Life – for giving you the chance to experience all that you’re experiencing, and will be
experiencing in time to come.

And last but not least… :
YOU…
For being who you are and touching the world with your presence.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

A night of beautiful dreams

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Let my life be merry again,
The way it used to be,
This is my dream;

I am a farmer, bonded to toils of the soil.
I am a worker sold to the labour of my hands.
I am a slave to servitude , servant to you all.
I am a poor man, humble, hungry,& mean—
Hungry yet today again,
despite my dream.

Beaten to the ground,I still hold onto my dream
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest man bartered through the years.

BUT–

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance to the sweet tunes, playing in my mind
Till the heat of the day is done,
Then rest at cool evening,
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me—
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick hot day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
Beneath a tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming on tenderly
Black like me.
That is my dream.

I will hold on fast to my dreams,
For if my dreams die,
My life will be a broken-winged bird,
That cannot fly.

I will hold on fast to my dreams,
For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field,
Battered to the ground,
By the hot noon sun of the day.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I feel truly blessed to live in this beautiful place

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Right now outside my window the
leaves are beginning to change colours.

This is a paradise lost in the glory of nature

It often feels like Heaven here.

The radiant reds are glowing in the sun.

The peaceful yellows are rustling in the breeze.

The brilliant burgundy’s and outrageous oranges are making entire trees as bright as flowers.

Even the fallen leaves are turning the paths into multicoloured, crunchy carpets that are a
delight to walk on.

I can hear children laughing and see
adults smiling as they stroll through these leaves and enjoy the wonderful scent of them in
the air.

Everywhere I look I can see Nature’s colours
painting the trees and mountains with beauty.

If it isn’t Heaven here then it certainly is close.

It isn’t just the mountains that make it Heavenly here either.

I can see bits of Heaven in so many of the people too.

There is a kindness in their smiles.

There is a gentleness in their voices.

There is a goodness in their actions.

There is a patience in their manner.

There is a peace in their souls.

There is a love in their hearts.

And there is a joy in their lives.

Everyday they grow a little more in oneness with Nature.

Everyday they bring a little more Heaven into this world.

I feel truly blessed to live in such
a beautiful place with such good people.

My country home, however, isn’t the only place that can be Almost Heaven.

Any place on Earth can be Almost Heaven if we take our Heaven with us.

How much Heaven is within you?

No matter how much you said, take heart in
knowing that it can always be more.

God gives us that choice every single
day.

Everyday we can choose to love more, give more, care more, and help more.

Everyday we can choose to bring the joy of
Heaven into our hearts and souls and then share it with the world.

Everyday we can live in Almost Heaven while still here on Earth.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Let your life be the catalyst in which the lives of others are changed for the better

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It is important that we brighten the path that we walk upon so that it is illuminated for those who walk behind us and beside us.

Brightening our path means that we do our absolute best to encourage those who are
discouraged, to inspire those who are stagnant and unmoved and simply do our best to be a beacon of hope and love that people are
drawn to and motivated to emulate.

We who follow the example of the Lord Jesus Christ who condemned none and forgave and loved all should extend that same love towards our fellow man.

Let us take hold of the reins and be the initiators of good works.

Let us love the unlovable, let us forgive the unforgivable and let us reconcile with those that have been distant from us.

Mending relationships not only blesses the recipient, but our life becomes elevated as well.

Being a world changer starts by impacting those closest to us first and then when they do the same for their neighbor, the ripple effects will continue on longer than we could ever think or imagine.

No matter what you may be going through and no matter how tough the trials in your path seem to be, I encourage you to be that beacon of hope, love, forgiveness and reconciliation.

Let your life be the catalyst in which
the lives of others are changed for the better forever.

Use the gifts within your heart to draw all people back to the One who has given us the
ability to be His ambassadors on this earth.

I wholeheartedly believe that a life well lived is a life lived in service to others.

Let us be our brother’s keeper and do all that
we can to leave a long and lasting legacy of good works towards our fellow man.

That is a life that we can be proud to have lived.

I hope this message inspires and challenges your heart to be that beacon of hope and love that others are drawn to and made better because of.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Of all the cute butterflies that chose to stay, I’m in love with the one that got away

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Perhaps you know someone whose heart clutches onto the bittersweet memory of the one who got away.

Someone who secretly bears the weight of this
imperceptible burden wherever he or she goes, every day of his or her life.

Someone who’d gladly travel back in time to a day when paths diverged,to mend together that which has been torn apart,setting destiny back on its rightful track — if only he or she could.

Perhaps you know this someone better than you think.

And should this someone happen to be you, may you find strength and support in the
millions of others who shoulder this burden with you, and may you be reintroduced one day to true love…in this lifetime and whatever comes after,to the one that got away.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Life beyond bitterness

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I used to love a girl who was very beautiful and outgoing.

As I came to know her more,I realised that beyond that beautiful and pleasant facade,she was a very bitter woman.

I don’t know what her past lovers had done to her,but most of our discussions,the ones she initiated were almost always about some form of bitterness or the other.

She was just a beautiful shell full of rankling bitterness.

I just couldn’t cope with her bitter perspective of life,especially her bitterness about men in general.

It made me fear for my life in her presence.

All that bitterness could trigger her to do harm to her perceived culprits,or any man for that matter.

Of all the barriers that discourage committing to a new lover, the wall of bitterness is the most deadly.

There is no greater warning sign to a potential
relationship than cynicism about the past.

Those black clouds signal the presence of a failure-demon, who lies in wait for the first time you do not meet his or her expectations.

Bitter, cynical, pessimistic people often attract
“cheerleaders” who are determined to bring light into their darkness.

These ever-hopeful “happiness makers” are somehow confident that they will be ones who can make the difference.

If only they hang in there and keep those positive behaviours coming, maybe their partners can find true love in the ruins of their multiple failures.

If you have tried to love bitter people, you are well acquainted with their legitimate reasons for their ongoing suffering.

Your chronically unhappy lovers may have become attached to the cynical character
they have become.

If so, you may have been daunted,trying desperately in vain to save them from
themselves.

More than likely, the harder you tried to love them, the more strongly they held on to their unhappiness.

You may have been determined to love them, but
eventually got tired of carrying those cheerleading pom-poms.

Sadly, when you finally did give up, your
cynical partners have added one more reason to
their expectations of relationship failures.

To recognize a resolutely bitter person early on,
listen for statements like these:
“I don’t really expect much out of relationships
anymore. They seem to start out okay, but eventually something always happens to trip them up. Haven’t you found the same disappointments?”

“Let’s face it, when the hot sex quiets down, your partner is bound to be unhappy with you.
They always start out supportive, but eventually find fault when you don’t live up to all their expectations.”

“I don’t think people are really meant to be together for a long time. The bad stuff adds up, and the good stuff can’t compete. I don’t know one great relationship that makes it through the rapids. Mine certainly haven’t, and I don’t expect them to anymore.”

If you are attracted to these tragically sorrowful
people and are just naturally compassionate, you may be tempted to try to help them, especially if they have other attractive qualities.

Be especially careful if that person tells you that you’re different from all their past lovers, even possibly the one person who could understand them.

If you believe that story,know that it will be a zero tolerance test.

Your partner has been disappointed many times in the past, and is hoping against hope that your love will overcome their fears.

If you question their repeatedly returning
to their cynical viewpoint, they may accuse you of no longer caring, just like everyone before you.

How is Bitterness Created?

No one is born bitter.

It is a learned attitude, most often from pessimistic, cynical, or hopeless caregivers.

Sadly, small children are the most affected by consistent negative messages like these:
“Don’t count on anything and you won’t be
disappointed.”

“No one deserves anything good. Maybe you’ll be lucky and maybe you won’t.”

“No one is really happy. Don’t even think about it.”

“Happiness doesn’t last. There is always going to be something bad in your life.”

“Life is hard. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. Why should you be any luckier?”

“Why do you think you deserve love? It’s not
automatic, you know, and more likely to go away than stick around.”

Hope is a natural way to envision a future that is better than the present.

Despair diminishes hope, and instead sees a life of continued suffering.

Every person needs to know that they have some control over that process.

The absence of possibility can cause despondency, defeat, and hopelessness.

If children are instead given messages that hope is always possible, they can reach beyond
disappointments and seek fulfilment even when their lives are hard.

Some people are more internally resilient than
others.

Despite having more heartaches than most,
they can still maintain hope.

But most are not so fortunate.

The continuous crushing of dreams, or a
lifetime of repeated failures, can push anyone down.

When people experience loss after loss, they may unconsciously create behaviour patterns that sabotage new options.

The natural result of too many broken
dreams or unfulfilled expectations is a lessened
willingness to try again.

They now see successful love relationships as an impossible realization.

Different Kinds of Bitterness

Bitterness can be expressed in many ways, but the following five are the most common.

Unfortunately, they are not mutually exclusive.

Ø Bitterness handed down trans-generationally

Ø Bitterness from depression or other organic
causes

Ø Bitterness from broken promises and lost dreams

Ø Bitterness that results from unrealistic
expectations

Ø Bitterness from trauma, neglect, or abuse

Trans-generational Bitterness

Pessimistic attitudes can be passed down through generations, even when the original reasons for cynicism no longer exist.

Unfair discrimination, blocked access to new ways of life, or attachment to restrictive traditions, can keep families from believing that change is a viable option.

They feel that keeping their children hardened to vulnerability and low in expectations will protect them from unpredictable pain.

They toughen their family members early, never allowing them to hope or dream beyond what is readily available.

If any of their children aspire beyond those limitations, or attach themselves to optimistic outsiders, those children may be threatened with punishment or exile.

Some cultures treasure their cynicism as part of their lore.

They feel that passion and loss are one, and that despondency is part of life.

You will find bitterness and cynicism hard to release if it has always been a part of your culture.

That will be especially true if you have chosen a partner who does not have the same background.

Depression or other Organic Causes

A genetic predisposition to depression can make the most hopeful of situations appear bleak and
untrustworthy.

Unlike grief, which has a specific loss
to endure and permits hope, clinical depression feels more like an open-ended prison sentence without chance of parole.

Sleep eludes, appetite wobbles,self-esteem is non-existent, and energy for life wanes.

Those suffering from depression may have
difficulties managing sleep and appetite, have no energy for life, and feel inadequate and undeserving.

For them, life becomes a continuous ground hog day of limited and unsatisfying experiences.

They can feel hopeful at the beginning of a
relationship because new experiences create brain chemicals that offset depression for a while.

With positive qualities to offer, they can attract rescuers who can temporarily undo their negative attitude.

Eventually the depression will re-emerge, making them likely to defeat their partner and end up alone again.

Cynicism that results from innate depression
can be treated.

Once the depression abates, they must then challenge the habits they believed were
intractable.

Genetic abnormalities that lower serotonin and
dopamine levels are sometimes the basis for
depression.

Chronic illness also can cheat people of
life’s beauty.

It may destroy hope, and cause heartbreaking results, such as lost relationships,
financial ruin, or physical incapacities.

Some people find ways to rise above these unwarranted trials, and still create new options for whatever is still possible.

Others find solace in their legitimate reasons for
hopelessness, and cannot change their expectations.

Depressed people can always be helped by a loving and concerned support network but, unless they are willing to receive that assistance, even well-intended friends and lovers will eventually give up.

Broken Promises and Lost Dreams

In every stage of life, many people weave their
experiences into their dream of an ideal romantic relationship.

Children absorb from their parents and
other adults.

Young people join social networks, text
continuously, watch TV, attend movies and concerts, and create the person they feel they might be able to love forever.

Throughout all of their lives, people seek to find that perfect person, that ever-lasting love.

Whether from unrealistic expectations, bad luck, or choosing the wrong people, all relationship seekers come up against unanticipated barriers.

With each new disappointment, they can either store up anger,hurt, and disillusionment, or they can learn from their mistakes and try again.

Over time, repeatedly choosing the negative option can result in cynicism.

Cynical people often end up pushing away the very people they want to be loved by.

With those repeated failures, they may start to believe that they will never have a long-term, loving relationship.

If they can understand that their cynicism is learned, they can faith that they can learn a new way.

Past Failures from Unrealistic Expectations

Most people do everything they can to make their relationships work, but can’t seem to find the right person, do the right thing, or avoid unforeseeable problems.

They may not be aware that they are repeating sabotaging patterns, or choosing partners
similar to those who have hurt them.

As children, they may have been taught unrealistic expectations and to overlook good potential partners.

As adults, they may not have accurately assessed their social marketability.

Alternatively, they may have unconscious barriers to learning successful relationship behaviors.

If they continue to have these unrealistic expectations, they may repeatedly fall in love with people who are disinterested and will not reciprocate their desires.

Whatever the reasons, their mounting losses begin to discourage and disillusion them.

Their expectation of failure becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy and they begin each new relationship with a pre-defeated attitude, creating the same patterns that didn’t work
before.

Most partners try to lead with their best selves and then slowly reveal the parts of them that may not be as desirable.

Counting on fake image that they have created, they hope that the relationship will survive.

Long-term relationships require new skills and cannot continue if they are not mastered. If people continue to repeat old patterns that have not worked in the past, they will be continually disappointed.

Trauma and Abuse

This is the hardest of all categories because trauma victims have much reason to be bitter, often long before they begin to search for an adult relationship.

They may have suffered at the hands of those who were supposed to protect them, and then found themselves in adult relationships with no choice but to endure unfair and punitive pain.

By the time they understand that they deserve better treatment, they are hyper-sensitive to the slightest indications that abuse may occur again.

Early trauma can teach a child that relationships are supposed to include abuse or neglect.

Their adult attitudes of pessimism, discouragement,disillusionment, and disbelief are protective barriers to keep pain away.

Unfortunately, when they connect with a new abuser, those early memories can feel
familiar. Abuse victims may find themselves
unconsciously pulled towards what they know, even if it hurts them.

Once in damaging relationships, they may not even recognize the abuse or neglect,
tolerating more than they should.

Or, on the contrary, they may see abuse or neglect even where it is not occurring, or at a much higher level of intensity than some others would feel.

Their anticipation of being hurt can emerge as a low frustration tolerance, and they may overreact with hostility, sarcasm, and distancing of their own, driving love away before it stands a chance.

Is it Possible to Leave Bitterness Behind?

Bitterness hurts, emotionally, spiritually, and
physically.

People appear to hold on to it to protect
themselves from more pain.

It does shield them from more hurt, but also from love as well.

Cynical relationship seekers, bitter from the heartbreaks of the past, may not allow for a new and dangerous future.

That engulfing sorrow holds open a painful
wound of disappointed memories, even when the lovers who caused them are long gone.

Yes, people can leave bitterness behind.

To do so,these wounded people must process the causes of their despair, hopelessness, cynicism, and pessimism.

Here is what they need to do to regain hope for a better outcome in the future:

1. Prepare a thorough and realistic assessment of what they have endured.

2. Be willing to face how past partners have hurt them and where they, themselves, may have contributed to holding on to their bitterness.

3. Examine the lessons learned, vow not to repeat them, and formulate how to act differently in the future.

4. Know what they are able to change, and where they will need allies in their healing to accept their broken places.

5. Using all of the above, re-program their emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual selves to be able to face the future with renewed confidence.

Here is an example:

Clara’s Story

Clara grew up in a broken home.

Her parents, both alcoholics, were rarely home.

She was a Cinderella child, made to do most of the household maintenance, and given no encouragement to develop her talents or to encourage her dreams.

She was expected to take care of her two younger brothers in her parent’s absence, often without adequate food or clothing available.

Her only option was to beg the neighbors to share some of their groceries.

She missed school on a regular basis
because there was no one to take care of the boys and there were no other possible arrangements.

Her grandparents told her she shouldn’t expect more because her parents were “doing the best they could.”

When she asked for help, they shrugged and
said they didn’t have any money.

She would have to make things happen for herself, just as they had to.

Her father and mother kept telling her that someday she could have all the things she wanted, but those promises were never kept as the money for them went to beer and unpaid obligations.

Her teachers encouraged her to keep trying because she was “so gifted,” though they had little extra time or supplies to give.

They reassured her that there would be
people someday to help her, but those hopes never came true.

She started working as early as she could
lie about her age, and dreamed alone about the
Prince Charming who would for certain come when it was finally her time.

At seventeen, she met Ted.

He saw the beauty in her spirit and wanted to save her from her pain and suffering.

They married in two months.

Her parents seemed glad that she would no longer be their burden.

The younger boys were taking care of
themselves, and it was one less mouth to feed.

She believed that Ted truly loved her and that her prayers were answered.

They were soul mates and destined to be together forever.

She was filled with a hope she had only been able to fantasize before.

Eighteen months after they were married, he left for Sierra Leone on a peace keeping mission.

She never saw him again.

Broken and frightened, she used Ted’s military
death benefits to go to school.

Used to heavy demands, she was able to work nights and go to school during the day.

She missed Ted desperately,and was willing to accept anyone who would offer her solace.

Within a year, she fell in love with a married professor who assured her that he had
separated permanently from his wife, and would be with her in only a few months.

When she became pregnant, he handed her an
envelope filled with money and told her to take care of it.

He was not present at the abortion, and afterwards announced that he and his wife had
reconciled.

He ended the relationship and told her to
not contact him again.

Living alone, Clarissa finished her undergraduate and graduate studies before her twenty-ninth birthday.

Her mother and father had both died, and her
brothers had disappeared from her life.

She had only few friends, and no time to find more.

Her well-paying job gave her a financially secure life, but she felt deeply that love was something she would never know again.

Her only relationships were the people she saw in church each week, and she carefully
avoided deepening any of those connections.

At thirty, she was informed that her youngest brother had been killed in the war.

In a grief that she could no longer suppress, Clarissa could no longer hold back her grief for the multitudes of losses she had endured.

She fell into a deep depression and felt that
her life no longer had purpose or reason.

Her childhood fears had become a lifetime reality and she could not see her way out of the darkness.

When she did not come to church, her pastor was worried.

He came to her home and found her alone
in the dark, sobbing uncontrollably.

Clara could not keep up her façade anymore and poured her heart out to him.

They spoke late into the night.

He reminded her of how she had sustained hope as a child with no support, and that she could call upon that strength again.

He suggested she get some help.

I had the privilege of being the person she came to see,having been her teacher during her days after Ted’s death.

This was how Clarissa re-created herself:

Accurately assessing what she had endured:
Clarissa did a thorough evaluation of where her
broken dreams began and how she held on to those negative beliefs as her disappointments mounted.

She saw how her both grandparents and parents had given up their own dreams, escaped into limited lives, and had no resources to either help her or them.

She also realized that she had not allowed
herself to grieve Ted’s death because it was
unbearable.

Unable to see herself realistically any more, she consistently minimized her accomplishments and focused on her sadness.

Be willing to face how others had hurt her, and
where she may have contributed:

Clara had taken responsibility for all of the failures in her life, whether they were her fault or someone else’s.

She had continuously tried to make excuses
when others couldn’t be there for her, and had never realised that the people she chose after Ted’s death were as unreliable and irresponsible and those she had grown up with.

Her belief that she must always be strong had attracted men who felt entitled to be catered to, but had no need to reciprocate.

What She Learned:

Clara had to realize that she must no longer only accommodate the expectations of others.

She had never known that she could write her own rules for happiness, and that anyone who loved her would want to know what they were.

She began assessing her strengths, what she had to offer, and the kind of man who would deserve her gifts.

The Personal Changes She Needed to Make:

Clara began to look at her bitterness as a natural response to her many losses, but not a response she had to maintain.

Speaking from her heart and her new confidence, she presented herself as someone
who had a right to the love she sought.

She also saw that the few intimate relationships she’d had since Ted’s death had been with men who had exploited her,leaving her more cynical.
She was now learning how to recognize the traits she was looking for, and to discern when they were not there.

She had to master a whole new set of expectations of herself and others.

Knowing what was possible for her:

Clara looked deeply at what she really wanted and what she had to offer in return.

She wrote a sincere and authentic profile of herself for her future date.

She now knew what to ask for, and that she could not expect a new relationship to heal or justify her past.

The heartaches she had legitimately endured no longer could predict her future.

Though she never got to have any children of her own, Clara did find a deep and meaningful relationship with a man who had also suffered multiple losses.

He too had struggled with limited options based upon his lack of awareness.

They dedicated their lives to helping
disadvantaged children to avoid the multiple
disappointments that bitterness thrives upon.

Instead of “If there has been only sorrow, there will only be more sorrow,” Clara wrote her new
expectations of her future in her personal journal that she has shared some excerpts with me:

“Bitterness’s ally is continuing disappointment. I now know that disappointments come from improbable expectations. I cannot avoid them all, but I’m so much more aware of how to predict them now. I’m pretty good at understand what is possible and what is not. I may be sad that I can’t always have what I want, but I don’t expect what I can’t have, and I love
what I can make happen now. I didn’t know that there was so much more I could do to make my dreams come true, or how I would have to see the world differently. I can feel truly sad for the person in me who suffered so much, but she has an advocate now. That person is me.”

Not all people have the heart, commitment,
discipline, and spirit, to turn their lives around as Clara did.

But everyone can change what they have
believed as their only truth into something they have not yet experienced.

If they learn the tools to honestly self-evaluate, face their own accountability, learn from past mistakes, and change the way they search for and enter new relationships, their options
to end their bitterness will increase.

There is an antidote for the bitterness that poisons love;

It is the re-commitment to believing that understanding and the determination to change can triumph over loss.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you

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I love you because the entire universe
conspired to help me find you

And now, the sound of your laughter is the kind of music I want to spend my whole life listening to

I raised my eyes to see who was passing
by my window, and that casual glance was the
beginning of a hurricane of love that still has not ended half a century later.

You were more than human to me.

You are a Fairy, a Sylph, I don’t know you are,
anything that no one ever saw, and everything that everybody ever wanted.

I was swallowed up in an abyss of love in an instant.

There was no pausing on the brink; no looking down, or looking back; I was gone, headlong, before I had sense to say a word to you.

I was about half in love with you by the time we
sat down on my lobby.

That’s the thing about decent girls.

Every time they do something pretty…you fall half in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are.

I felt now that I was not simply close to her,
but that I did not know where my body ended and she began.

I must have wished for you so hard and so often you had no choice but to come true in my life.

But now, you’ve slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.

I want everyone to meet you.

You’re my favourite person of all time.

I don’t care how hard being together is, nothing
is worse than being apart.

Do I love you?

My God, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.

You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I
love, I love, I love you.

I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.

I am nothing special; just a common man with
common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life.

There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten.

But in one respect I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who’s ever lived: I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul; and to me, this will always be enough.

The smell of you hair, the taste of your mouth, the feeling of you skin seem to have got inside of me,and into the air all round us.

You have become my physical necessity.

You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest and most
beautiful person I have ever known – and even
that is an understatement.

I want to fill every part of you, breathe the air
from your lungs and leave my handprints on your soul.

I want to give you more pleasure than you
can bear.

I want to do with you what rain does with the
Roses;bring you into full bloom of being a woman!

When I found you, Love, it rained where there was a drought in my soul, it shined where it should snow, the earth shook where it’s never moved, mountains rose on the flattest plains, stars fell all around us, but the world won’t notice a thing.

Because when you found me, Love, the past and present. ceased to exist and we fell into a moment that will last forever.

When I first saw her by my window,I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the
couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep.

Not even to make love.

Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of
the phrase.

But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating.

So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane.”

But in the end,it is me she chose to share all the rest of her life with,and for that,I’m forever blessed!

So, I love you because the entire universe
conspired to help me find you,through my window,during one of my lowest moments in my life!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Living in the present moment is time well-spent

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“The only pressure I’m under is the pressure
I’ve put on myself.” ~Mark Messier

Do you feel that you are living your life under pressure?

That’s awful!

You can do something about it.

Instead of living under pressure,you can choose to live in the PRESENT MOMENT.

That makes a lot of difference.

My Buddhist meditation practice helps me live the present moment.

At this present moment,I’m under no pressure,except the pressure I place upon myself!

Let me explain.

Time in the Present is Well Spent

Certainly you have experienced being in the
present—those moments when time and space
melt into this blissful moment.

Presence makes the most mundane spiritual.

Clarity prevails as deadlines inspire, rather than oppress you.

Presence with peace offers you higher
energy than usual but with nowhere to go and
nothing to do.

Presence surrounds you with resources when you need them most.

Tap into your presence under pressure!

You can do it, and these three keys will help.

1st Key: Embrace Perfection
Your life requires no improvement. In fact, the
most ecological way to embrace change is to
experience this moment as perfect just the way it is.

You just stubbed your toe ‘perfectly’.

Your boss just yelled at you ‘beautifully’.

Embrace, love, and flow with the perfection your life continually offers.

Celebrate everything that is.

You are surrounded by the perfect present.

2nd: Seek Your Own Approval

Good deeds can be their own reward.

Help the frail widow across the street and remember that you aren’t doing it for her.

You’re doing it for you.

You have your own values.

Trying to impress others or seeking their approval instead of your own can cause you to neglect yourself.

Take care of yourself and do what’s important to you.

You will naturally take care of others this way.

Be a model for a happy, well-balanced life.

Do the most wonderful, charitable things in the
world.

Do them for yourself.

Do them because they make you happy.

This can be particularly challenging if you have kids, a spouse, friends, or a mother.

Fix your tea.

Help with the kids’ homework but do it for capital “M” Me.

Hold the baby on your knee for the sheer pleasure of it.

When you do everything for you, you are really
taking care of everyone.

Some years back, I volunteered at a Catholic church organised Health Camp, a
beautiful camp for handicapped kids.

I met Trudy, who was nine years old.

He was using crutches and fell over, hitting the floor hard.

As I bent to help him up, my friend Joe grabbed my elbow stopping me.
With great effort and pride Trudy was able to right himself and stand again.

Joe later explained to me that Trudy’s disease was debilitating, and that he was cherishing his last days without a wheel chair.

It didn’t matter that he fell over because he had
been standing.

Tears came easily as I felt grateful for every step I take. I still do.

Impress yourself.

You are your own toughest audience.

You have the lead role in your life.

Play it up,if only to make yourself feel good to go!

3rd Key: Question Obligations

There is nothing that you need to do and nothing you “should” do.

However, there are plenty of things you act as if you “should” do.

Being forced, even by yourself to do anything turns what might be fun into a chore.

When I was little I loved to play the church piano.

I would spend at least an hour a day just goofing around on the piano, learning how notes fit together and creating simple tunes.

My well-meaning musician priests were inspired— so much so they brought in a piano teacher, Sister Gracia who thought I “should” work at the piano cured me of wanting to play it.

When it became something that I “should” do every evening instead of just fiddling with piano keys,I quit. It was no longer some “fun”.

You won’t be hearing me or Sister Gracia playing at Carnegie Hall.

Later I took up the drums.

When I was ready I asked my priests if I could take lessons.

We found a catechist teacher and I practiced almost constantly.

Having a wonderful time, to this day I can hand drum with the best of them.

Relax. Take a breath. Notice what you are doing.

Ask yourself if the pressure is justified.

You’ll quickly find that many of the sources of pressure in your life are not as real as they seem.

Do what you do.

Don’t do what you don’t do.

But always celebrate what you do no matter what it is.

Test your presence by doing stuff.

Zen it just for the fun of it.

Your Neighbor

Your neighbor’s lawn may be better groomed than yours.

His kids may be smarter and spouse hotter.

Who are you kidding?

Comparisons set out to prove a point; the point is that you are either better or worse than someone else.
My Foster Mother in my catholic parish used to say “Comparison’s are odious.”

I don’t know what odious means, but I do know anytime you compare yourself to someone else you are bound to suffer.

Be present to how your lawn is, how your kids are, how your spouse is, and how you are.

If a beautiful moment or beautiful life could be represented by a beautiful lawn, spirituality would be landscaping, not the mysterious wonderment that it is.

From the wonderment of this moment, step into
the mystery of the next.

Plant a few weeds, pull a few weeds—what’s the difference?

A weed is a plant where it shouldn’t be.

A Bird of Paradise in the middle of your lawn is a beautiful weed.

So is a dandelion.

Dance with Passion

“Follow your bliss.” said Joseph Campbell.

Notice what you love.

Notice what you don’t love.

Surround yourself with equal measures of both, and you will discover that love comes and goes but presence is always there within you.

Presence focused gives birth to passion.

Passion for this, that, and the other.

Passion for everything in particular.

Passion for your foot, the callus on your big toe, your ankle bone and your calves.

You will begin to notice passion everywhere; meet it, great it and embrace it as you fall in love constantly.

Presence under pressure is especially fun.

Sitting silently in a cave is one thing.

Living present in the world is quite another.

You can do it.

Use the three keys above to open yourself to the perfection of presence anywhere, anytime, everywhere all the time.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My date with a prostitute

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It is long ago since I last paid a visit to a brothel.

Oops! I’m sure my readers are not going to like the foolish things I’m going to put down on this post.

My dear readers,reserve your judgement about my morals,till the end of this post,otherwise you will be mistaken to label me a ‘pervert’.

But Daisy,my partner egged me on to visit a brothel.

I had just related to her how I lost my cherry to a mature prostitute during my high school days.

I thought she was going to be pissed by that whole account of abominable things I did during my teenage years,but instead,it got her very excited,and in her devious mind,she schemed a plot to have me enact that memorable experience.

“Sadly, you have become what
you write in your random journal nowadays,” she egged on, “and one day, when this middle-class skin has grown old, you will be left
un-reinvented and stewing in your own reservoir of inoperable words.”

I asked her, “are you here to knock my head
against a wall or is this going anywhere other
than badly?”

“Get out of that shell, Ben,I think you were more exciting when you were young.”

“By doing what?”I asked her,quite astonished.

“Leave what you know. Go to the unknown,” Daisy replies casually.

“Unknown? Like where this conversation is
headed?” I ask.

“Close. Why don’t you one day show that you
have the cajones to write about something
challenging?” Daisy implores.

“I actually like that.”I add cynically.

“What, the idea?”

“No, cajones. People don’t use that word
enough.”

Stony silence.

“OK, fine. What do you want me to write about
that you imagine will get me out of my comfort
zone?” I inquired.

“Write about Sabina Joy,that place where you lost your cherry to a prostitute.” Sometimes,I think Daisy,my girlfriend is a bit crazy.

“But that was so long ago,I can’t even remember how the places looks like from inside,I don’t have the feel of the place anymore!”,I protested.

“I will help you refresh your “memories” about ‘Sabina Joy’,just leave the whole plot to me”,Daisy added in her small voice,the voice of a conjurer,a schemer-that’s my Daisy.

Enter stage left,Gathura,my bossom friend.

He hails from Kerugoya Town and attended Kaitheri Primary School.

By the way when some Kikuyus tell you a name of a school they attended you always imagine they are pulling your leg because the names sound like a traditional herb: Riamukurwe Sec School, Ithekahuno Sec School, Gathuki Mundu Pri School (meaning: shake up a guy), Kianguenyi Second School, Kangubiri Sec School, Kiangoma Sec. School (meaning: the devil’s), Muthuani Second School…It goes on and on like a horror movie credit.

You meet someone who attended one of these
schools and you want to reach out and hug them.

Hug them and tell them, “it’s all right, you are
here now, you are here, that’s all that matters,and please forget about those awful names of your former high schools.”

I met Gathura in 2012 during some KTB(Kenya Tourist Board) loyalty trip where we scored the country from Laikipia to Tsavo.

Fun times.

On our last stop at Shompole Lodge (now defunct), a top-of-the-range resort clinging on the edge of Nguruman escarpment and charging about 50K per person per night for
a view and a bed, we shared a large condo which had two monstrous four post beds, a private pool, no windows or walls facing the escarpment and a view so stunning it looked like a prank.

Anyway, this morning I stir awake because the
room is suddenly awash with orange as the sun
is rising.

From my bed I could see the sunrise without leaving it and as I lie there half-asleep, I
see Gathura walking across the room, heading to the loo. He’s naked. Buck-naked. I’m stunned.

Not stunned at his nakedness but at the fact.

But he’s nonchalant, shuffling across yawning and scratching his back.

That’s how life is; you wake up hoping to see the glorious sunset instead you get your sun blocked by a naked man.

And you dare complain about traffic in downtown Nairobi City?

If that were Nyanza it would have been a different story, because the only folk who walk naked at dawn are night-runners.

Gathura, unbeknownst to him, has that
recessive night-running gene of Nyanza night runners.

I called him last week and told him, “Boss, how
about you take me to Sabina Joy, I want to check it out. Two hours tops. I’m buying the drinks,plus you will have yourself a beautiful company in the name of Daisy,my girlfriend.”

He was confused but agreed.

You might know Sabina Joy as Karumaindo Bar.

It’s legendary, a mythological train that tirelessly keeps chugging and coughing decades of lustful notoriety.

Karumaindo has been there since god
was a teenager.

It’s ideally a whorehouse,a brothel but if you are of the more decent disposition you will
call it a bar.

Everybody who has been in Nairobi town longer than a week has, at least, heard one urban
lore about Karumaindo.

It’s revered for its licentiousness; it’s total lack of sympathy to the naïve or the urban-virgins.

Depending on whom you ask, it’s the den of thieves and the spot in town where Jezebel hangs her bra.

Karumaindo swallows the innocent and spits them out baptised in the roguish ways of Nairobi.

Although you might be with people you are always alone at Karumaindo because the quest for the pleasures of the flesh is a journey pursued alone.

And I was dying to see it for myself,again,after a very long time.

So, 8pm last Friday.

I leave my wallet, phone and watch in the car, not because I’m a wuss but because…OK, because I’m a wuss.

Daisy,my girlfriend,does the same,and her face lights up as if she is on a trance.

“Do you know that all the prostitutes inside there were once virgins?”,I pose to her,to break her trance.

She looks at me full on my eyes,and she just smiles.

Whenever Daisy does this,she makes me her slave for another hundred years!

Wr meet up with Gathura and together we walk down Kimathi Street, cross Uhuru Highway at Hilton and past the statue of Tom Mboya that stands forlornly in the dark pointing towards statehouse and in the process turning into a pitiful emblem of the Luo’s reiterated inability to rise to the big seat.

Gathura reads us the riot act: don’t order anything that can’t be opened before you, so no whisky, or brandy; don’t leave your drink unattended;

always keep your eye on the drink; minimise
bathroom breaks; don’t use a glass; stay close;
don’t get drunk; don’t touch any chic that not your Daisy.

“What if she touches me first?” I wonder.

We stroll past National Archive, past hawkers and street bums and vagabonds and the evening
crowd rushing home with the weight of the day
slung over their shoulders.

We pass that square before Ambassador Hotel, where all the suited Luos carrying folded newspapers (The Standard mostly) hurdle in circles talking politics animatedly.

You will not find a more boisterous and
dedicated political panel of analysts South of
Limpopo.

Sabina Joy doesn’t announce herself because
Sabina Joy doesn’t need to announce herself.

That’s how cocky Sabina is – whoever she was/is.

One moment you are walking past the
smorgasbord of heaving commerce at the
Ambassador stage and the next the entrance is
upon you.

Only a small dusty Tusker beer ad shingle above directs you in.

Once you cross this threshold you have crossed
the Rubicon.

Now you are in a rabbit hole.

(A bit of pun, of course). You walk up a tunnel-like winding staircase, following the thudding sound of the muffled music above.

You walk up this tunnel of debauchery with other men, trudging up determinedly and with all that unbridled hope of those led by their crotches.

On the second floor there is a security guy with
rheumy eyes the colour of strong tea, patting us
down, groping our pockets and impatiently
waving us in.

We are patted by about four different security guys.

Then we walk down this corridor with flashing gaudy disco lights.

There are girls writhing around in what in this part of town passes for sexy. Fat girls, slim girls, light girls, dark girls, pretty girls, girls with faces only a mother can love, girls with faces that can fit at Brew Bistro, girls in heels and girls in sandals, girls with long weave, bald girls, girls with talons for toes, dusty-footed girls, red eyed girls, girls with red lips, smiling girls, scowling girls, girls with teeth from Nakuru, girls with breasts that can
asphyxiate you, girls with chests so flat you can
shoot pool on them…then iron your shirt off
them.

They all have one thing in common; they
are here for you. At a price.

Daisy’s face is now painted in dismay,scornful of these women who scored a “first” with me before she entered the scene,many years ago.

She clings closer to my arm. It is Gathura’s arm she should be holding onto,if she wants me to enact the scene as it was many years ago.

I uncling her arm and hand her over to Gathura.

These girls will not talk to an accompanied man,so she sticks with Gathura for all the time we are inside Karumaindo Bar cum Brothel.

Karumaindo comes as a sinking disappointment when we walk into the bar.

Based on the stories I’ve heard recently, I pictured a dysfunctional, treacherous and extremely seedy joint.

I pictured something smoky with patrons all wearing those Kikuyu hats and tapping their pointed-toed boots to Mugithi songs that Gathura was to translate for Daisy(she come from a different tribe from mine and Gathura’s).

I expected everybody in there to wear loose pleather leather jackets and big golden chains around their necks.

In my head, the common word spoken there was going to be “ciigana?”(How much money in Kikuyu).

Instead it isn’t; it’s seedy all right but you don’t get the feeling that danger lurks around.

And there isn’t anybody wearing pleather jackets or pointed-toed boots. I’m crushed.

The sitting area is T-shaped.

Tables are wedged close to each other with men slumped in them sipping their beers.

There are TV screens all over, showing National Geographic, of all the things for crying out loud.

The men raptly watch a scene of male Gazelles locking horns.

There are old posters on the wall, some still proclaiming Lil Kim as the hottest star.

How old is Kim now, 60?

Cooling Fans whiz overhead.

At the end of the room is a cage from where the deejay peeks like a caged psychopath.

That cage for some reason reminds me of Hannibal Lector.

Sabina Joy is packed.

And it smells.

Not a foul smell, but this smell of blue-collar struggle.

I order two beers.

Gathura’s Pilsner comes in this titanic bottle that the size of a rocket launcher.

I’m curious to see how he will lift it to
his mouth alone.

Daisy enjoy’s her can of Sweet Cherry.

Her eyes are dilated,probably with anticipation,fear or excitement.

She is to remain as invisible to the girls as possible.

The girls won’t play if she decides to mark her territory

We drink.

Girls parade by sipping from plastic bottles.

Dodgy looking men pretend to ignore them, like they just came here to watch National Geographic then they will be on their way.

Soul music blares from the speakers hanging overhead as 80’s disco lights flash about.

A guy selling boiled eggs stops by our table.

We shake our heads, he moves along.

Guy selling Kenyan porn next stops by.

Again we shake our heads, he moves on.

This girl with very dark elbows walks by eyeing us.

We shake our heads…at her elbows.

We drink and make small talk.

My beer is warm; I might as well order a boiled egg to go with it.

At 10pm, I call this girl.

You know how Tony Soprano,the mafia don used to call those strippers over?

It’s very chauvinistic.

It has to be chauvinistic, that’s the only way it can work.

But it won’t work at any other posh place.

It works here because, here is ideally a
cave and we are all cavemen and the year is, well, what year was Lil Kim a hot commodity?

This girl I summoned wedges between Gathura
and I keeping away from Daisy on the other end, and offers me a smile that is supposed to
make me imagine that she is shy.

Well, she’s as shy as a wolf.

She’s light with a decent face but a body that contests that decency; large belly a flat bum, small legs and a tyre of fat around her waist just in case El Nino or Tsunami rocks up unannounced.

You guys, I believe, fondly refer to it as a “Kikuyu momo body”.

Let’s not get emotional. “Priss”.(Please as accentuated in Kikuyu Language)

She tells me her name is Samantha.

No matter, at Karumaindo names mean squat.

I tell her I’m Musa.

I offer to buy her beer, she orders for canned
Pilsner, which I pop open for her and she raises
it up and we knock up in cheers like decent folk.

Samantha has this red tattoo of a Playboy bunny on her right breast.

Yes, I was looking.

They were perked up in my face, OK?

What did you want me to look at instead, the Gazelle’s locking horns in National Geographic?

I ask her what the tattoo is and she (I swear) holds the whole poor breast up (jeez Samantha, I forgot to mention I like my tea black-no milk!) and asks, “Hii? Hii ni Playboy, I am a Playgirl.”(This is a playboy,and I’m a playgirl).

“No, you are a bunny,” I correct her.

“Hapana, mimi ni Playgirl,”(no,I’m a playgirl) she insists and I’m not in the mood to debate.

Playgirl it is.

Samantha is sort of funny.

Gathura had warned me not to ask questions that would get us stabbed, so I struggled to keep it light and nonchalant.

I’ve always wanted to interview a hooker. Or a
Madame. But I had to be wary of Daisy’s reaction. Now, I have her freedom. This is her game.

Can you imagine the kind of male
insecurity stories these women harbour in them?

I say insecurity because I think – and I might be
right- for you to pay for sex directly (not by
buying Pinot noir at Level 8) is a sign of
insecurity.

For now Samantha will do even though my hands are tied behind my back because Daisy is listening.

But I needn’t to because she’s a talker.

She tells me that she doesn’t service light older men because she never knew her father and her
mother wasn’t sure who her father was and she
telling her he was either a Kikuyu one or an
Ethiopian.

She laughs a lot,this Samantha girl, and when she does she sort of rams her body playfully into my shoulder, like we grew up together and Heck! Daisy is not enjoying this boob bumping on my shoulders.

The guy selling boiled eggs stops by again and
looks at me in case I’ve had a change of heart.

I shake my head.

He looks over at Samantha who asks me if I want an egg.

Well, not the one he is selling, I tell her in Kiswahili and it, unsurprisingly, flies right over her weave.

At some point she removes my hat from my head and asks if I wear hats. I tell her all the damn time.

She asks why?

I tell her to look tough.

Don’t I look tough? She puts it back on my head and takes a good look at me and says no.

She asks if she can keep it.

I tell her she can if she lets me keep her Playboy bunny.

She laughs and rams her shoulder into mine.

Then without warning she gets right to it and asks, “sasa itakuwa Kanu ama?”(What next,is it just this playfulness or I’m I looking for the “real thing?”

Kanu? Like Moi Kanu? I’m confused, is this a
political parties recruitment drive? I ask her what that is and she laughs and says “Uko na utoto!”(You are being childish)

I swear to her that I don’t know what she means.

She then wags her middle finger in that Kanu fashion (tingisha kidole fame) and looks at me naughtily.

I still don’t get it.

Then she wags it again, then I get
it and laugh.

You get it, too,my dear reader, don’t you?

Wagging the middle finger? You get it now? Alama ya jogoo? Anyone?

Sigh. She means sex and her finger is supposed
to represent a phallus.

These girls are creative.

I ask her how much.

She says five hundred.

I snort and tell her she is out of her mind, I aint
paying 500bob, not with that belly on you,baby!

OK, that last bit I think to myself.

She says that’s the going rate.

I talk her down to 300bob just to test my negotiation skills, or her desperation level.

She tells me there are rooms on the same
floor that go for 200bob for 20mins.

There, she says, you are timed, which I gather means no foreplay or asking stupid questions like “how was your day today?”

I ask her to come get me in 45mins that I need to discuss business with my pals first.

She leaves obediently.

Gathura,Daisy and I sneak out 20mins later.

After all I heard these many years gone now, Sabina Joy didn’t make look at life different or give me any unique insight into humanity or the trade of flesh.

It didn’t illuminate me or the people I saw.

It didn’t bubble to the surface my sense of morality.

I didn’t find it gritty or profound or humbling in its decadence.

Actually it disappointed me.

Cheated me.

Raised my hope,that sex business has now been more refined as compared to my teenage years, then dashed it.

Maybe it’s because I’m jaded by such novelty of having my girlfriend watch me negotiating for transactional sex,devoid of any emotional feelings.

Or maybe it’s the first impression I got when we walked in; that image of grown men watching gazelle’s lock horns on National Geographic.

Has foreplay sunk to such lows? A rhettorical question that is pertinent to both within our bedrooms or in a prostitute’s den?

Food for thought,especially for you my dear Daisy-remember you asked for it!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Things that matter to me today,at present….

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What’s on your self-care list?

No matter how much we accomplish, we feel we are just not doing enough.

If this resonates with you, you are not alone.

When my agribusiness clients call me for time management coaching,they seem startled when I tell them I can’t help them do more, because I don’t think that’s the answer.

What I will do is show them how to do more of what brings them joy and less of what drains them.

It’s about being kind to ourselves daily – giving ourselves the love and respect that we so freely give to others – regardless of whether we crossed everything off our to-do list that day.

We all deserve it.

What’s the one thing that you are not doing enough of that you would like to do more often?

Whatever this activity is, schedule time for it once a week for the next 3 weeks, just as an experiment.

And honour that appointment as you would any other (client,doctor, and dentist).

“Life is what happens
when you are busy
making other plans” -John Lennon

Make time for yourself and your life because if you don’t, who will?

It’s easy to get lost in all the chores that have to be done each day.

We all have busy lives and there’s never enough time in a day.

But a day turns into a week, a month, a year and before you know it, a whole lifetime.

Let’s not let the years pass without doing what matters most to us.

At the beginning of each month, before your calendar fills up, schedule time for your self-care activity once a week.

Here are some of my favorite self-care
activities to give you some ideas and get you
thinking about what you’d like to do:

• Take a walk
• Go for a bike ride
• Put your favourite song on and dance or close your eyes and relax
• Read for pleasure (novel, magazine)
• Listen to a book or inspirational speaker on CD/ipod
• Sit with a cup of specialty hot chocolate or tea
• Look at photos you took while on vacation
• Soak your feet in dishpan with marbles and Epsom salts
• Go for a manicure
• Write in your personal journal
• Call a friend and remind him/her how much you care about your friendship
• Spend some time on a hobby i.e. baking a pizza for yourself,no matter how imperfect it looks in the end.
• Pet your dog/cat
• Massage your feet or your temples with essential oils
•Give yourself a facial (use steam from a boiling pot with a towel draped over it)
•Browse through decorating books and dream

I encourage you to create your own list and put it on your bulletin board.

I hope you will share your ideas and/or success stories with our community by commenting below.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Things that mattered to me yesterday….

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I still catch myself getting worried about things that don’t matter anymore in my life.

The funny thing is when we get clear on the things that don’t matter, we zero in on the things that do.

It becomes easy to let go of the unimportant.

It fosters gratitude for what we may have taken for granted.

Here is a mixed pot of things that don’t matter anymore in my life;

• Scrubbing my kitchen pots and pans until they’re sparkling

• Making the bed the minute I wake up

• Reading to the end of a book I’m not enjoying

• A ringing phone left unanswered,especially from a caller who doesn’t matter anymore in my life

• Getting less than a perfect score in any game of life

• Being stopped at an unchanging traffic red light until a traffic cop unjams the rights

• Paw prints on a clean floor

• Wearing the wrong clothes, shoes,socks

• Who dumped me years ago,I mean,the. painand heartbreak it caused is all gone,buried. under dustbin of time!

But here is the cream of things that don’t matter anymore;

»Defining my identity.

From the color of braces to the ringtone of my flip phone, everything i owned, wore, played, needed to define my entire life.

I needed a label, a status in the society that
is high school, but having an identity crisis at 15 is awfully dramatic.

Being the gymnast, the bass player, the guy with the Mohawk: not only are these labels irrelevant in our twenties, but more than likely we forgot all about them (although, hopefully the guy with the Mohawk finally got an adult haircut).

Come graduation day, that reputation you worked on for four years evaporates.

Starting college or your first job, no one knows and no one cares about who you were in high
school.

You have to climb that ladder from the bottom of the totem pole once again, the difference being in our twenties we don’t find the need to characterize.

Put it this way, if we still identified ourselves with who we were in high school then my
email address would still be
soccerboy_love@yahoomessenger.com (oh dear).

»Grades were everything.

Nothing like the worry of Mr. Wilson’s history final determining the fate of your college career.
Chances are you can’t even recall what grade you got on that test you were so worried about.

We thought what stood in between success and
failure was whether you got an A or a B.

Although grades and GPA did play a factor in admissions and scholarships, they don’t ultimately determine your career path.

Having unique skills, a sharp tongue, charisma, and connections will get you further in life than your GPA score ever will.

You probably won’t catch a potential employer asking about your high school test scores.

They are going to value your experience,
your referrals, and your skill set when hiring you.

»Your parents are out to ruin your life

They gave you curfews, made you change your outfit, how dare they not let you go out with a senior boy/girl.

Lots of yelling,pouting, and slammed doors from what we remember about our days under our parents guard.

The general rule was that if fun was involved, mom and dad would make sure you didn’t have it, or so we thought.

Growing older, those ground rules we couldn’t understand appear to be more reasonable than before.

Our parents turned out to be smarter than we gave them credit for.

Bless them for putting up with those teenage years where we thought we knew everything.

Hopefully we now see that they were just looking out for us and those horrible rules and punishments were wrapped with good intentions.

We realize the importance of family and
appreciate their love.

»Doing it all

It seemed as though every Friday night was “going to be the party of the year” and if you didn’t go see that movie on opening night, then you might as well not see it at all.

So impatient, so juvenile.

There is always going to be another party, and you realize now you can’t be everywhere.

We learn in our twenties that our lives are enriched by spending time by yourself every once in a while.

You learn to prioritize and schedule better.

»Being friends with people that weren’t really your friends

You wanted to be in on the private jokes, the awesome poolside parties, the reserved seats at the lunch table, but was it worth hanging with people you didn’t really like?

Thankfully in our twenties and thirties, we realize that friendships can drift apart and learn to associate ourselves with people who have our best interest at heart.

Although frenemies and bullies can appear at any age,high school years were overly populated with deceit.

In order to be cool, to stand out, or just find your place, we did some pretty dumb things.

Trying to be something you weren’t or just wanting to fit in, those four years were tough.

We realized after high school that life moves on.
You eventually start to forget the names of most of your teachers, where you sat in home room, and your best friend’s home phone number.

You forget who was cool and who wasn’t, who was pretty and who was smart, who threw the best parties, and who dated who.

Everything changes, life goes on.

Don’t we wish we had that perspective back then?

So we must ask ourselves, are the things that matter in our lives today going to matter in ten years?

Do we value what is important?

Graduate from your mistakes, treat each day as if you’re turning that tassle, and remember what really matters.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The morning of your destiny

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“Success and failure are
not overnight experiences.
It’s the small decisions
along the way that cause
people to fail or succeed.”
–Anthony Robbins

I think when you wake up in the morning your
destiny has already been decided. [Oh, sorry, this will get slightly introspective.]

You can’t even begin averting your fate.

You were born a pawn.

Your card was dealt a long time ago.

So all the misfortune and fortunes that will befall you were already premeditated.

The gavel long landed.

Or is it really so?

Or is it really so rigid?

Not quite,I think.

There is still something we can do about it.

Like the way a mason works on a shapeless piece of stone,and makes a beautiful building block.

Yes,it is still basically a stone,but a beautiful one at that!

My current professional assignment has reinforced this belief, now,
more than ever.

I will explain shortly.

‘Every moment
I shape my destiny
with a chisel,
I am a carpenter
of my own soul.’ ~Rumi

What makes the difference in the quality
of people’s lives?

What is the single factor that shapes and controls our ultimate destiny?

Most people think that biography is
destiny, that the past equals the future.

And you know what?

It can—but only if you live there,in your past,that is.

Any study of history shows that the difference in human beings comes down to one thing: an ability to harness the power of decision, often in spite of adverse conditions.

The history of our world is the result of decisions .

It’s the power of decision that caused Rosa Parks to remain in her seat and state, “No, I will not,the famous black woman activist,go to the back of the bus.”

It took a forceful decision to compel an unarmed man to stand in front of a tank at
Tiananmen Square.

“It is in your moments of decision
that your destiny
is shaped.” – Tony Robbins

It was the strength of decision that led President John F. Kennedy to declare that an American would be first to walk on the moon by the
end of the 1960s.

Decision is the ultimate power—and there are three core decisions each of us makes every moment we’re alive.

These decisions have the capacity to empower,
advance, frustrate or derail us, depending on what we choose:

Decision 1: What are you going to focus on in your life?

Do you focus on things you’re excited about or things you fear?

Whatever you focus on, you experience.

Wherever focus goes, energy flows to attain that end as your ultimate destiny.

Decision 2: What does this mean?
Is your current station in life the end or the beginning? Are you being punished or rewarded?

The minute you decide to focus on something, you give it a meaning.

How you define an event produces emotion and determines how you feel going forward.

Decision 3: What are you going to do about it?
Are you going to give up or follow through?

The meanings we assign to events influence what actions we take as a result.

It’s our decisions, not our conditions, that ultimately shape the quality of our lives.

At any moment the decision you make can
change the course of your life forever.

Whenever you wake up in the morning,knowing life has given you another gift of a new day,take up your chisel of DECISIONS and continue the noble work of shaping your destiny.

Every morning is a morning of your destiny!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Is true bachelorhood just a charade?

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So George Clooney finally decided to marry. I cannot think of a bigger cliché. And my personal dissapointment that Clooney has thrown into my resolve to remain a bachelor for the rest of my life.

Is it just a charade,this bachelorhood thing?

After carrying the biggest banner of bachelorhood, bearing the greatest metaphor of independence and success and everything in between, he finally succumbed just when we
were all thinking that there is actually a soul out there that can stay committed to the cause of bachelorhood.

The vintage Clooney finally sold out to the other species!

If Clooney finally got hitched then everybody will eventually get married.

Being an eligible bachelor is overrated.

It is not as grand as it seems.

I know one.

(Don’t we all?)

He is 46 years old.

Unlike me,he never got married in the first place to be spit out of the hell that is called marriage.

Never married, never dated for more than a year, his sexual orientation straight as an arrow.

He is successful because he works weird hours and knows which ass to kiss and which one to kick.

You might fault him for many things but not for being a hard worker.

Because he runs his own little business — in logistics — he is obsessive about it.

And he puts nothing before it: not a woman, not even himself.

Bachelor’s lair

He lives in a house with a garage and a study.

His balcony overlooks a small stream but when he describes it he says his house overlooks a “river”, especially if a woman is listening.

It is a sexy house as far as houses go; a mix between the retro, minimalist, and artsy.

Because he has to show the women that he believes in something, that he is passionate about something bigger than modern decadency, he collects numerous expensive paintings from different parts of Africa,
countries he frequently travels to for work.

There is a particular unique one that hangs on the wall that leads out to the balcony which he calls a “deal maker” because it unfailingly manages to reel in even the most
difficult of women.

It is of this little Congolese girl bent over a three-stone jiko blowing the fire.

You should hear him explain the context of that painting,tears almost welling up in his eyes.

It is the phoniest thing you will ever see, but the tragedy is that women always buy it.

He does not even like children, or three-stone jikos.

His house smells of opulence and independence.

It is his lair where he slays the naïve women and conquers the cynics.

He drives a German car, bought off a relocating expat for a pittance.

He loves clothes.

He keeps fit: plays squash weekdays and rides his bike on weekends.

He will do a marathon a year but only because I am sure it sounds good to drop it in a whisky conversation with his cigar-smoking friends.

He is not on social media — too unproductive for him, too “toxic”.

He also does not own a TV because he only retains things that — and wait for this —
“stimulate him cerebrally.”

Untamable charmer

Women love him.

They love this charade to death.

But I suspect that women do not really love him, they love the worn novelty that he embodies.

He is like a flame, and I have seen many moths get burnt at his feet because they approached
him first with intrigue then as an agenda.

And they all failed.

Most women he meets are always obsessed with trying to unlock the question of his bachelorhood.

They feel equipped to unlock this puzzle because he deceptively offers them “incentives” to make them feel as if they are the chosen ones who will finally get him off this path.

He drops clues as if it is a treasure hunt.

So they come into his life and try to be “useful” and “unique” and he feeds them this sob story about how he keeps meeting the wrong girls
who just do not “understand” him, those who want to “change him.”

House of cards

He builds this house of cards so high that he starts believing in it too.

Every woman who gets into his life intentionally internalises his need for independence while secretly believing that she
will be the one to bring down this house of cards.

He uses a carrot and stick method, feeding these poor souls a little hope, while deceptively setting them up for the ultimate fall.

It is the dance of death that he wins eventually.

It is quite artistic, this morbid game of emotions.

Before writing this I asked him if it was OK if I wrote it.

He said it did not matter either way because no matter the information a woman knows about a man, if she likes him she will easily disregard those truths.

“In fact, your article might just help me,but would you kindly leave out my name so that my snares don’t end up empty,just because someone I’m leading up the garden path chances on it” he said.

He says he will never commit and marry because he is not “built” for it.

But like Clooney, his Waterloo is coming.

Eventually he will find that one whom he does not want to let go of; the one who sees right through the hogwash of that painting by his
balcony!

This story is not about me,damnit!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Here is how to determine your core-values

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Most people you meet don’t like their jobs, are
unhappy with their family life, and want more money.

Winning the lottery would make it all okay. At least that’s what they think.

But the truth is… unless you live your life according to your core values, no amount of money will be enough to bring you joy.

What do I mean by core values?

I mean the feelings you have about good and evil that are buried deep within your heart.

What does goal setting have to do with core values?

It’s all about insuring your long-term happiness.

If you set goals that contravene your core values, you will wake up one day and say, “I did everything I said I wanted to do. But so what?”

You don’t want to end up being yet another highly successful but fundamentally miserable person — a fate so common it’s become a cliche.

Here’s how to make sure that doesn’t happen…

Begin by imagining a funeral.

It is taking place in an elegantly appointed room.

The room is full of friends and family members who have assembled to talk about the deceased.
You look around.

You begin to recognise faces. “Who is the deceased?” you wonder.

You look at the casket. Heck, it’s you!

So what are the people at your funeral saying about you?

Imagine real people: a relative, a neighbor, a
business associate, and even a stranger.

And imagine them making very specific comments.

It’s not enough to imagine your nephew saying
something like, “He was a generous man.”

You need to imagine a second, qualifying sentence, such as, “He always sent me expensive birthday presents.”

And be honest.

Don’t sugarcoat the pill.

Say it like it is.

For example, your next door neighbor might be saying, “I thought he was a very inconsiderate person. He never picked up the trash when his dog carted it to my lawn.”

Imagine everything the people at your funeral could truthfully say about you — and then think about the way their words make you feel.

If you don’t feel good, it means that — in those
relationships, at least — you are not living your life according to your core values.

Now, for every negative statement you just imagined, ask yourself, “What would I like this person to be saying about me?”

The answer to that question will reveal one of your core values.

Let’s say you imagined someone saying, “He was always struggling to make ends meet.”

That statement would make you feel bad, right?
So then you imagine what you would like that person to say about you.

You might come up with, “He struggled for a while, and then everything changed.
He became very successful and died a wealthy man.”

If that statement makes you feel good, it’s reasonable to say that acquiring wealth is a core value for you.

And you would write it down like this: “I believe that financial success is a valuable and admirable accomplishment.”

Got it?

Negative Statement: “He was always struggling to make ends meet.”

Positive Statement: “He struggled for a while, and then everything changed. He became very successful and died a wealthy man.”

Core Value: “I believe that financial success is a valuable and admirable accomplishment.”

The goal of this exercise is to come up with about a dozen statements that indicate what you think is important in all the major areas of your life.

I recommend that you shoot for about a dozen
statements.

Why?

Because you want to address what you think is important in all the major areas of your life.

Your core values should determine your goals.

And your goals have to be comprehensive.

Most goal-setting programs are not comprehensive.

They focus on just one thing.

Making more money.

Or losing weight.

Or being happy (whatever that means).

Setting such singular goals can sometimes
be effective, if you have the flexibility in your
schedule to focus on them.

But most people don’t.

And that creates a problem.

They start out enthusiastically and make progress for a while.

But before long, life’s many urgencies push their way in.

Good habits are neglected.

Bad habits return.

Before long, the goal is abandoned.

You are going to avoid that very common problem by considering not just your health or your wealth, but also your hobbies, relationships, social obligations, and so on.

Here’s what you should do now:

1. Take out a piece of paper and divide it into four boxes.

2. At the top of those boxes, write Health, Wealth, Self-Improvement, and Personal Relationships/Social Obligations.

3. Inside each box, write down statements in that category that you would like to have said about you at your funeral.

For example…

Under Health: “He was the fittest 80-year-old I ever saw.”

“He could run a mile in eight minutes.”

“I once saw him lift up a car by its bumper.”

Under Wealth:

“Of all the people who graduated from High
School in 1972, He turned out to be the wealthiest.”

“He left $4 million to charity when he died.”

Under Self-Improvement:

“He was the best chess player I ever knew.”

“He was also a published poet.”

“He knew more about home decorating than most interior designers.”

Under Personal Relationships/Social Obligations:

“He was also a very generous friend.”

Write down at least two such statements in each of the four categories.

The purpose of writing them down is twofold: to fix them in your mind, and to have something specific you can refer to later.

You will be referring to these core values many times in the coming years.

They should be a source of continuous inspiration.

Treat them seriously.

They are the crux of your plan for the life you really want to live.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

What are your core-values,and how far can they take you after losing everything else?

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Think about it.

You can lose all of your money and start over.

If you lose love in one person,you can still find awesome love in someone else.

If your house burns down, you can rebuild it.

It’s the things that cost you nothing that you can never replace.

One of the most important keys to self motivation is to clearly identify your core values in life.

You must decide what matters most.

Why the need to identify your values?

Many people think, “I know what’s important, I don’t need a list to remind me.”

What they don’t fully understand, however, is that core values often serve as critical guides for making important decisions.

When you’re in doubt, your core values will cut through the fog like a fog light beacon.

We all know there are many distractions along the road of life that will try to pull us away from our values.

Sometimes we are forced to make difficult choices.

But a good rule of thumb is that when you have to sacrifice material possessions for one of those “free things” that life has given you…you’ve made the right choice.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The breaks you need in life have already been preordained

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The breaks you need in life have already been
preordained to come across your
path.

If you will stay in faith and go out each day and be a person of excellence, you’ll walk right into these appointments of favour.

When you really understand this principle, you’ll begin to get excited about every single day!

You’ll have a spring in your step as you think about what blessing is coming next. It could be today.

It could be tomorrow.

It could be next week.

Keep expecting.

Keep believing.

Stay focused on the fact that God has already released into your future everything you need to fulfil your destiny.

Start declaring seasons of increase over your life.

Declare that favour is on you and look for those
appointments of divine favour!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When Karma finally catches up with your enemies,go on and have a good laugh!

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It is said that we should love our enemies,but nowhere it is said that we shouldn’t have a good laugh on them if they stick their face in the mud!

Schadenfreude( the closest similar term in English would be “Karma”) is a German word for pleasure derived from another person’s misfortune,especially those of our perceived enemies or detractors.

We all feel it and either repress it, push it away or make it personal,or have a good laugh behind the barn.

We all know that this tendency is not
admirable,it lacks modesty, so we hide it.

However, when we hide these things not only from others, but from ourselves, we hide a flaw that is inherent in us as humans.

Feeling joy in the misfortunes of others,and especially on those who wish misfortunes to befall us, is in fact healthy and natural as long as that misfortune is not
life threatening.

In fact, this is part of evolution.

When we smile as a response to another’s misfortune(say,when an ex-friend is unknowingly walking around all day with white smudge of wheat floor dough on his nose) our brains are sending us signals that make us feel good.

These signals also serve to remind us that life is somehow fair. That we are not the only ones bound to make silly and comical mistakes. Our adversaries too make silly mistakes!

Once the smile is out of the way and our mental state is taken care of we are able to actually feel sympathy for them,but not before having a good laugh on it.

What most of us do is deny the Schadenfreude and go straight for the(false) sympathy.

This sympathy is of course not fully
genuine, because it is coming from a repressed place.

We do not feel Schadenfreude all of the time,but when we do, we must not repress it.

We must let it live and examine it.

In the end, its purpose is to allow us to feel grateful for our lives and be happy for those people we lost in our lives,who on hindsight,were only going to be a burden in the long run.

Its outcome is that we actually feel more genuine sympathy for ourselves and others,even though they may have dealt us a bad card sometime in our past.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Sign Language goes terribly wrong for a Mafia Bookkeeper

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A MAFIA godfather discovers that his book-keeper, Guido, has cheated him out of $10 million (Sh885 million).

The book-keeper is deaf so the godfather brings along his lawyer,who knows sign language, to confront him.

The godfather tells the lawyer, “Ask him where the money is.”

Guido makes signs and the lawyer translates: “He says he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.”

The godfather pulls out a handgun, puts it to Guido’s head and says, “Ask him again or I’ll kill him.”

The lawyer signs to the book-keeper. “He’ll kill you if you don’t tell him.”

Trembling, Guido signs back, “OK! It’s in a
brown briefcase, buried in my cousin Bruno’s garden.”

“What did he say?” asks the godfather.

The lawyer: “He says you don’t have the guts to pull the trigger.”

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

In this life,you just can’t raise your anchor and sail off to new waters

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Sometimes when you’re sat in the wee small hours of the morning trying to make sense of the little things life throws your way to both complicate and titillate, you end up wondering if what you’re doing is the right thing.

How many of us complain about our work and moan about what we don’t like about it to any
and all within earshot?

I’m one of those people.

I look at the paperwork stacks and the things on the “to-do” list and find that I’m not so keen after all to go wading through it.

I’d rather moan about it to the unfortunate who happens to be there at the wrong time (For them).

But what to do?

There are people who will say “The answer is
simple: quit and find a new job”.

Life is never that simple.

When there are bills to pay, savings to add to
and things to buy, you inevitably cannot simply raise anchor and sail off to new waters.

In these austere times, fewer and fewer people are able to shift their career from one area to another, let alone be able to consider the same earning potential doing something different, having to retrain and the like.

Many of us end up trapped in a cycle of
getting up to amble like the walking dead into the office and flog our butts for yet another day of drudgery.

Not many people can say “I love my job entirely”.

There will be aspects of the job that people love and more often than not, aspects they really loathe.

I think that works for any job.

And relationships too!

Stay too long and you begin to wonder if you could ever do anything else because “You’re not qualified” or “You’ll not earn as much or have the same benefits.”

Aspects of these can be true, but then many jobs have transferable skills that we don’t even realise we have, and it takes a practised hand to say that actually, you CAN look at
doing this and start to explore the why…

In this country we have a ridiculous propensity to want to hoard our money like little dragons sat on a pile of coinage, blowing flames in the direction of those who would like to take a little or a lot of it from us (Usually in exchange for goods or services, admittedly).

Ever tried helping a miser count his gold coins?

We postulate about what will be best for “the children” instead of thinking about making life as happy as possible in the here and now.

Why the old and the aginglook at their retirement and think “Once I’m 67 I’ll be
able to do what I want,” and consider that to be a healthy way of looking at life is beyond me.

You should enjoy your life now while you’re still
young(ish) and able to do the things you won’t be as willing or able to do 30 or 40 years down the line.

Hoarding your money to pay top whack for a
mortgage under the guise that it “brings stability” to your burgeoning family and a nice nest egg for later life or for “the children” when you pop your clogs is a terribly post-mortem view of life that few other people feel holds water.

Sure, we can look at all the cuts we’ve had to take over the last couple of years and think how stoically we’ve been able to accept them and forge ahead, but are we happy as a result
of it?

Worse off are we!

But how to make those changes?

Do you drop everything and move somewhere different, starting afresh and trying something entirely new?

Is it baseline stability you want or is it a new challenge that doesn’t leave you loathing either yourself or your job?

Is it better to be happy with what you’re doing,
living in the here and now or would it be best to be tied to one role, earning a reliable amount of money with a view to making life that tiny bit easier once you’ve lived your life over again and started exploring the september of your years ?

There are no right or wrong answers, I guess.

Everyone feels differently about it but I suspect most would rather save now and spend
later, once they’re older.

A relative few like to throw caution to the wind and go balls out for something new and I envy them their ability to do that, I really
do.

It is a fine balancing act to get it right.

Mortgage or rent for the rest of your life?

Stay in current job even if you’re not enjoying it
or seek employment elsewhere?

Security versus Spontaneity – never an easy choice.

From time to time, we all wrestle with the thought that we could be doing something else, something better or something more creative, more “ME” than we are currently.

I know that I feel like that an awful lot and
always have done.

I like change so long as change is good and it is rewarding.

The trick, it seems, is in the knowing when to get off the bus at the right stop when you have a blindfold on.

You just never know for sure until you try it.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Musings of the mind

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The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work.

Now i can put my feet up and enjoy it,with Tom & Jerry cartoons screaming in my living room.

I can’t help but wonder,about this little boy in me who has refused to grow up,and he really loves Tom & jerry cartoons,
and forces me to keep my door shut
when the DVD is playing in my living room,
just in case someone pops in suddenly and wonders what the heck!,
’cause he can only see and man grinning
merrily at the farce that is ‘Tom & Jerry’,
but at this moment of my greatest pleasure,
my mind is all nothing but a boy’s mind enjoying his cartoon show!

Search my luggage every time travel,
And you will never miss this ‘Tom & Jerry’ DVD among my most treasured items.

It is there as an item in all my lost baggage claim forms,and declaration forms,though it always draws sneers from overworked clerks in the baggage desk!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Musings of the mind

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The evening’s the best part of the day. You’ve done your day’s work.

Now i can put my feet up and enjoy it,with Tom & Jerry cartoons screaming in my living room.

I can’t help but wonder,about this little boy in me who has refused to grow up,and he really loves Tom & jerry cartoons,
and forces me to keep my door shut
when the DVD is playing in my living room,
just in case someone pops in suddenly and wonders what the heck!,
’cause he can only see and man grinning
merrily at the farce that is ‘Tom & Jerry’,
but at this moment of my greatest pleasure,
my mind is all nothing but a boy’s mind enjoying his cartoon show!

Such my luggage every time travel,
And you will never miss this ‘Tom & Jerry’ DVD among my most treasured items.

It is there as an item in all my lost baggage claim forms,and declaration forms,though it always draws sneers from overworked clerks in the baggage desk!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

For all the mistakes you have made in your life,God still knows that you are the right path

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{In Loving Memory of my Friend,David}

When you think about your future, what do you see in your mind’s eye?

Maybe at one time you were excited about your life — you had big goals and big dreams, but you went through some disappointments or life
didn’t turn out the way you planned and now you’ve just settled where you are.

Understand, God’s plan for your life didn’t go away just because you had some disappointments and setbacks or because somebody treated you unfairly.

God didn’t write you off just because you made some poor decisions.

No, He knew every mistake you’d ever make; He knew every person who would wrong you,
and He still called you.

He still designed a perfect plan for your life.

No matter what’s happened in your past, God’s plan for your good remains.

He still has a bright future in store for you.

If you will get your hopes back and get your vision in line with God’s Word, then the rest of your life will be the best of your life!

Keep standing, keep believing and get a vision for your future because the Lord has amazing things in store for you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Make it happen!

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“Infuse your life with action. Don’t wait for it to
happen. Make it happen. Make your own
future. Make your own hope. Make your own
love. And whatever your beliefs honour your
creator, not by passively waiting for grace to
come down from upon high, but by doing
what you can to make grace happen…
yourself, right now, right down here on Earth”.
~ Bradley Whitford

I rescued my cat from damnation somewhere
in the streets of Narok on my way home during my birthday last year,on a day like today.

I brought it to my home in Kajiado and fed it religiously for six months.

It grew to become a very beautiful and playful
companion in the house.

I never failed for a single day to make sure that Jaffa had something to eat and some milk to go down with its food from my friendly Maasai neighbours.

He literally lived because I was there.

Without me, or so I thought, Jaffa would
not live a day.

Then one day I was called upon to go out for
an urgent call of duty that took me out of town for two days.

But it took me not two days,but three weeks to complete my assignment!

There was so much to lose if I did not get to Maasai Mara in a hurry, and in the process Jaffa was forgotten.

I even forgot to leave Jaffa some food
and water.

It was not a consolation when I remembered I had also forgotten to close the window of my kitchen.

The kitchen was at the back.

So even if the cat was able to get out of the kitchen, he may just revert back to his olden ways as a wild alley cat.

In my long absence,he was doomed again.

At the back of the house, on the way out of the kitchen, I kept my waste bin.

I emptied the bin once a week.

It was not the end of the week yet before I left for Mara.

This meant that the bin had most of the leftover food for almost a week.

Without a family, most of my meals consisted of rice, noodles and spaghetti.

The quickest food a bachelor can prepare.

That was not the kind of food Jaffa was used to eating.

Maybe he did not even recognise that rice was food after eating donated meat from my Maasai friends all the time.

So the option of turning to the waste bin for food for Jaffa was wishful thinking.

My cat was probably going to die of starvation by the time I got back.

No one had my spare key for the flat that I could call upon to help feed the cat.

I prepared for the worst.

I arrived back home on the evening of the third week.

Before I got to the house, I bought a packet of milk and a piece of liver, in the hope that Jaffa was not dead,or had completely absconded the house and needed careful reboot to life like I had done before.

When I got inside the house, it was as quiet
as a tomb.

There was absolutely no life.

I went to the kitchen.

The window was still open but Jaffa was nowhere there.

I figured out that he could have most likely absconded the house.

I decided to make some tea for myself with the milk I had carried for Jaffa.

The liver would be make stew for my dinner.

I was busy in the kitchen when something soft and furry touched my legs.

I looked down and there was
Jaffa!

He had been sleeping on my chair at the
study room.

He was as healthy,if not even looking better than before.

He was even more friendly to me than ever before!

I was confused.

The liver was on the chopping board over the kitchen the table.

He saw it but didn’t bother.

He just made contact by brushing his body against my legs as greetings and then hoisted himself on the kitchen window and disappeared behind the waste bin.

The jigsaw puzzle started falling in to place.

Jaffa lay very still in a hunting poise and hidden behind the bin.

Some birds, house sparrows to be exact, came and landed on the bin.

They looked around and went inside the bin to look for rice.

As soon as the birds went inside the bin,Jaffa jumped from his hiding place and on top of
the bin.

The birds had no escape from inside the bin.

The cat quickly grabbed one of them and started playing with it before killing it and carefully plucking the feathers before eating the bird.

Jaffa had discovered how to make use of waste to get fresh food, in the absence of his benefactor!

Make this year, the year to make it happen, yourself, right here.

Jaffa taught me this fine lesson.

I started him off in his new life.

He has already found his way to go on about his life,even without me.

I dedicate my birthday today to Jaffa,for being my worthy and innovative companion,even in my normally long absences from home.

I toast to Jaffa,for having lived with me,since my last birthday,and through a whole year,to my birthday again today!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When a man weeps!

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This story is about my upcoming birthday.

This story is about my mother who I never had a chance to mourn. She died at my birth. I killed her,Oh no,dear mum!

This fictionalised story is a closure of a pain that has resided in my heart for all these years.

Today I cry for you dear mum.

Today,I shed tears of joy for all the good things that have happened in my life,in your long absence from my life,since the day I was born.

Be proud to know that I love and miss you,though I never got to know you!

R.I.P dear mum,and happy birthday to me!

¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
A lonely weeping man-,
I never thought I’d ever write those words in
reference to him.

Not Simon.

Simon is unbowed.

Simon is a titan.

A stoic.

Simon is my dad.

He’s from the dated school of thought that subscribes to the maxim that crying is feminine.
That a man should keep his emotions under his hat and all that blah blah doodah.

And I agreed with him, for 51 years.

But now, Simon weeps soundlessly, albeit with a great measure of embarrassment,for my stepmother.

With an almost laughable sense of phony self-
preservation.

The only other time I have seen him exhibit this
kind of emotion was when his father – my
grand-dad – died in 1980.

The hearse had just driven in the compound and as usual, where I hail from, this turns out to be a spectacle; wailing, and general gnashing of teeth.

Like a wedding for the dead.

He stood at the edge of the compound, one
leg on an anthill, arms folded across his chest
and in the dying light of the evening, I saw
something glistering that I assumed were tears
stream from under his spectacles.

Although it was brief, this sight, it jarred me.

It shook the foundation onto which he had built the monument of what manhood was.

But now as my siblings and I approach him
where he is seated outside the morgue, he seems to take a deep breath and look upward, as if willing the tears back.

But they don’t.

He seems to struggle to get up on his feet, a man besieged by death, stalked by a dewy future, a future filled with loneliness.

Simon looks old, older than I have ever seen him.

He hugs my kid brother – our last-born – first,
and then hugs my other brother, and then finally my big sister melts into his embrace.

She sobs in his large chest. I stand, respectfully, at the side, hands thrust deep in my pockets because I don’t know what to do with them.

I stand waiting for my hug, like a refugee in a queue, waiting for his food portion.

When we finally hug it’s as I expected it to be; awkward.

Why shouldn’t it be anything but awkward when it’s the second time we embrace in my life?

Why shouldn’t it feel like I’m embracing a Mugumo tree? Or Sumo wrestler, for
that matter? (Heck, I don’t know where that came from. My mind wanders to the absurd in these confusing moments.)

I’m sure you are thinking; was Ben
adopted? Negative. My old man didn’t raise us to hug and kiss. I started watching fathers hug and kiss their sons in the Godfather movie,Mafia empathy if you like,but I thought it was cool and, later, The Sopranos (deep down Italians are pansies).

We were raised to be men; stoic and sturdy. Eh, and not to wear skinny jeans. But now, seeing my father’s eyes wet, seeing his composure
breached, seeing the man I have looked up to as the archetypical male completely compromised fills me with almost as much sadness as the reason we are here.

You see, up to this point, I haven’t cried.

It’s been 24 hrs and I haven’t shed a tear.

Not that I’m Samuel L. Jackson or anything, no, I just haven’t felt the tears come.

It’s been 24 hours and I haven’t succumbed to these most embarrassing moments in a man’s life.

The doors to Chiromo Funeral home in Nairobi opens into a small empty room -like a holding area.

The walls are white.

The undertaker who leads us inside is a chirpy portly chap who is literally bouncing off the walls.

Surely, it can’t be the formaldehyde poisoning that is affecting his gait,

I think, it’s either weed or this guy just likes to piss us off to death.

Together with a handful of my aunts, uncles and cousins, we are led inside the inner room.

Chiromo Funeral Home, can only hold nine bodies at any given time.

They are put in these huge elegant metallic drawer-like freezers.

If you stumbled into this place by mistake when you are drunk, you wouldn’t suspect it’s a morgue; it’s spotlessly clean.

You
could unwrap a pizza in there and eat it.

Chirp N Dale (Oh, the beautiful 90’s) walks to the end of the room and, with no ceremony at all, opens the bottom drawer of the last row.

There is a slight sigh as the drawer slides open, it’s like opening a crypt.

Cold mist rushes out briefly and when it clears I see, Jane, my stepmother.

She’s Jane, all right, but at the morgue they don’t call her Jane any more, they call her “the body” and it fills me with such anguishing sorrow, such alien desolation to hear my step-mom referred to as “the body”.

I mean just because she stopped breathing doesn’t mean she has lost her identity.

But understandably, they would easily call her
“the body” because she didn’t nurture them, or
take them to school or admonish their truancy.

They would call her “the body” because they don’t know her favorite colour, or meal or music.

And so even though she is kept in the freezer like an object, she still is my stepmother. She still is Jane.

There is a small sharp gasp in the room when all these registers – when we are fully brought to consciousness of her presence – and it takes me a moment to realize that the gasp came from me.

I’m standing at the back of this group and I see my half-brother bring a handkerchief to his face.

I hear my big half-sister break down and cry; a low, gutting animal-like cry.

A cry that sounds like her insides are wounded, and it’s a cry I won’t forget in a hurry.

I hear my dad say, “Mummy has rested now, she is peaceful.”

And I hear my heart break into a thousand pieces like cheap porcelain.

My breathing changes, it becomes short and terse.

The first to walk out of the room is our last-born Hal-fbrother.

He’s called Jamal; he’s always played rugby (Homeboys club) so he’s a tough young
man with a small waist, a chiseled chest and
ripped biceps.

But even a flanker can’t stand to see his mother on a cold slab because the flanker has always been mother’s pet.

Jamal walks out.

My big half-siz strokes my step-mother’s short hair.

She strokes her while she cries so bitterly, so
hauntingly, so horrifyingly painful that I can’t
fathom there ever will be any pain to match this
pain she feels.

At some point, one of my uncles will hold her and lead her out.

I avoid looking at my father because I don’t want to embarrass him by seeing him vulnerable, I don’t want to intrude into his grief, yes, but also because I’m afraid he
will make me vulnerable.

So I stare at step-mom, lying there, looking like she’s having a power nap.

Finally, I walk through the small throng and stand right next to her.

She hasn’t changed a tad.

It’s her.

She has my half-bother’s forehead.

She has my half-sister’s good heart.

And she has my daughter’s chin.

Even though she departs with parts of us she still leaves us with a part of her.

I touch her forehead and I immediately wish I
hadn’t.

She’s cold.

Step-Mom is cold like frozen steak.

Death is cold,cold like a witch’s tits.

It’s inhuman.

The act of touching her seals her death for me, it brings it home.

A closure of a sort.

I step back and at the end of the room I find the Undertaker guy and I ask him if I can see
my step-mom’s heart when he’s doing the
embalmment and whatnot.

He looks puzzled.

I tell him I want to see how her heart changed
after eight years of heart disease.

I’m dying (nice pun, eh?) to see how it looks like.

My dad overhears this mad conversation and says it’s “unafrican” and that I should “let go because it’s God’s will”. I cede reluctantly.

My mind is un-hinged.

I walk out and up to this disused staircase on top of the physiotherapy department and there I sit at the end of the staircase overlooking these old University housings.

And there I think of one scene from the past:

It was on a weekday night.

We had rushed her to Mater Hospital where before admission I took her to the X-ray room to have her chest X-rayed.

Is that right, Dr Karimi,my dear high school classmate?

Can I say have her chest “X- rayed”?

Oh, Dr Karimi is the official High School
doctor in case you are wondering. We sat on the same desk. I became a nobody. He became a doctor!

My step-mom had lost a great deal of weight because of her heart condition.

She had become frail and wisp.

The disease had eaten everything on her
except her spirit.

I walked with her in the X-Ray room and the radiologist asked her to hold this rectangular thing on the wall in order for her chest to be X-rayed.

Her blouse was off but I had to stand behind her because she was so weak and there was danger of her falling back.

But it wouldn’t have been possible, I mean, she was so light that if she had started falling back, I had time to nip around to the dispenser to fill my Styrofoam cup with water and get back just in time to grab her before she hit the floor.

And so as I sat on that staircase, I remembered
this scene.

I remembered how frail she looked,how the veins in her arms popped out as she
struggled to hold onto that rectangular thing,
how the muscles on her back trembled from that strain.

I remembered how deeply saddened I was
looking at her in this state, how helpless I felt.

And it ate into me like cancer.

I marvelled bitterly how this disease had stripped her off her dignity that her son had to watch her bareback as she clanged onto that slab., a most odd metaphor of her struggle with life and failing health.

I remembered how dead tired she must have
been to continue carrying around a heart that
had betrayed her.

I thought of that night, and I broke down.

I cried so hard I was surprised that I still had that amount of grief in me.

It came flooding out,choking me, squashing my heart in a tight fist.

I cried like a kid who had had his lunchbox stolen along with a favourite meal.

Jesus, all that male braggadocio flew out of
my pants and I cried the way my daughter cries
when you force her to wear a sweater she hates.

At that staircase I was nothing but a child who
had lost his step-mother and I remembered thinking; heck, I need a handkerchief.

You should have seen me up there, sitting on that last stair, crying into my t-shirt and not caring even as two buibui-clad girls across the fence stopped momentarily to stare at me and perhaps think to themselves; he looks like a fairly decent chap, why would anyone make fun of his ugly forehead and make him cry so?

When I was done, when I had wiped off my tears and my lips had stopped trembling, I walked down to where my relatives were and acted like I had only gone for a long bathroom break; “must have been that chicken pie I had in Narok,” I said.

My dad avoided my eyes.

He knew that my grief for my biological mum was eating into my heart after all these years.

I was going crazy mourning my two mums.

I must have been delirious to say that nonsense under the circumstances.

When a man weeps,his spirit and his mind become un-balanced.

***
It’s midnight as I write this.

Tomorrow morning- Friday – I will be at the airport to pick up my little Half-sister.

A couple of hours ago she Whatsapped me
from her stopover in Amsterdam and said, “I’m scared of coming back,” and I thought; hell, I’m scared of picking you up from the airport.

The amount of crying she will do when she sees
me is going to be unsettling, if her crying over the past few days is anything to go by.

I’m even more scared of crying with her, not because I’m embarrassed of it (OK, a bit) but because it makes me feel so vulnerable and I hate being vulnerable because it makes me feel weak.

***
When you lose your mother, bottom falls off.

Literally.

You feel alone even when you have a million condoling messages in your phone.

You feel lonely even when someone sends you a verse.

And you dislike God a little. How can you not?

He’s the giver and taker of life andso he has to
take the rap, so you blame him even though you know that he knows better, even though
countless of verses in the bible proclaim his
superior wisdom.

But even more poignantly,when you lose your mother, you momentarily stop being a man, a son, a husband, a professional, a boyfriend, a giver, a taker, a dreamer, an aspirer.

You are reborn in reverse and you become a child once again. A sad child.

But like everything else, all these will come to
pass at some point and the sun will come out
again.

Like my friend Gathura – who lost his mother in the most sudden and tragic of ways –told me, “It will get worse before it gets better.”

I don’t think it can get any worse than this.

Friends, I’m done pouring heart here, if I continue any longer I might break into an catholic choir song and it’s not that bad. Hmmm.
¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
Time check; 12.23 am,I’m hitting the sack, pray for me and my people.

And don’t forget to wish me a happy birthday.

It is so sad that I have to celebrate my birthday on the same day of my mother’s death anniversary.

But what else is more fair than life and death?

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Empowering words that can change your perspective in life for better

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~“I wonder.”
Give yourself time to think so the time you spend doing things will be better spent.

~“Today was good.”
If you can say it once, you can say it again. And again. And again.

~“I believe in this.”
Be it a good, a plan, company, a person, an idea—you have to put your faith in something.

~“I’m not finished.”
Only you get to decide when your life’s work is done.

~“Thank you for making this possible.”
Because nobody does anything alone. We’re driven and supported and thwarted by others at every turn.

~“That’s enough.”
Food. Drink. Episodes of Law & Order. Pairs of shoes. Overtime. Articulating your own limits is powerful tool to avoid waste.

~“I can do better.”
As soon as you say it, you’re that much closer to making it true.

~“I’m sorry.”
But you can’t just say it; you have to mean it. Really mean it.

~“I survived.”
Moments of danger are major points of an exciting life.

~“You’re amazing.”
Let yourself be in awe of another person, and you’ll feel strong and vulnerable simultaneously.

~“I am home.”
Home is every adventure’s final destination and starting point—and we all need one to call our own.

~“I did my best.”
If this is true, you did something amazing.

~“How can I help you?”
Because you want people to come to your funeral, and if they can’t make it, at least they’ll miss you.

~“I’m lucky.”
You are lucky, in a way that no one else is. Now, what are you going to do with your good fortune?

~“I want that.”
Ask for it: that’s you get what you want—from others and for yourself.

~“This is wrong.”
If you never say it, you embody the statement.

~“I quit.”
Not everything is worthwhile, and sometimes we don’t find that out until we’re in the middle of a rotten situation.

~“Isn’t this beautiful?”
The more often you notice the gorgeous world around you, the happier you’ll be.

~“Congratulations.”
Say this without jealously. Practice if you have to.

~“Damn, I look good.”
You come from a long line of people who convinced others to pair with them so that the genes you have in you survived. That’s why you are here. Remember that.

~“I can master this.”
The ability to learn is the foundation of every other talent.

~“Hold it there, I want it.”
Ask for the little things on a regular basis and you’ll find that it’s easier to make larger demands on occasion.

~“This is who I am.”
The nervous energy spent pretending to be something you’re not is better spent on practically anything else.

~“Get out!.”
It’s always harder to take back an invitation than to give one, but protecting yourself from personified trouble is always worth the effort.

~“That was my contribution.”
Own what you’ve worked to create—that’s how your presence will be felt long after you’re gone.

~“I’ll try it.”
Consider the impotence of never saying you’ll try.

~“Tell me more.”
Really getting to know someone (or some topic) will help you better positioning your own place in the world.

~“This is my favourite thing.”
Enjoy what you love and say this as often as you can.

~“I earned this.”
There’s a layer of proud ownership over everything you possess that wasn’t merely given to you.

~“I don’t care.”
Being able to discern between what’s important and what’s trivial is a skill that will save your sanity and your schedule.

~“Your secret is safe with me.”
Because it feels deep-down good to be trustworthy.

~“Eureka!”
Being the first to know something is a delicious sensation.

~“Let’s go!”
Where you’re going often matters far less than the enthusiasm you have for the trip.

~“I trust you.”
We all need allies, and admitting as much helps forge alliances.

~“I don’t know how to do this.”
It’s better to admit it and learn than to fake it and embarrass yourself.

~“I’m terrified.”
Fear is an asset. It can save you from danger and alert you to trouble. Don’t ignore the tingles that run up and down your spine.

~“This is going to work.”
When this is said truthfully, it’s an assertion of power of determination over failure.

~“I made a decision.”
Autonomy transforms any activity from a chore to an act of destiny.

~“I love you.”
We all want to say this, and we all want it said to us.

~“I understand.”
More important than being right, or being important, is being truly aware.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Can you imagine a world without men?

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Can you imagine a world without men?

There’d be no crime, and lots of fat happy women.

There would be no divorce or dumping.

There would be no romantic songs to sing;the world would sing about such important things like crop rotation and milking cows.

There would be no violent games like boxing,or silly games like football.

There would be no urinals,those smelly places by the roadside which men treat as nature’s urinals.

There would be no war,no guns or bombs.

There would be no bars(women would “cook” beer at home for their babies).

There would be no labour wards,or even gynaecologists;women would culture babies from yeast or something like that.

There would be no double beds or even bathrooms;who would need privacy when the world only have women?

There would be no clothes as everyone would be free to walk naked.

The world would be full of animals that men hunt for fun.

There would be no psychiatrists or marriage counsellors;empathy would be enough to heal all of women’s psychological problems.

There would be no beauty parlours or hair saloons;who would be there to impress?

There would be no gyms;why work out when there is no one to impress?

There would be no poetry,just verses to praise the rainy season and healthy crops.

There would be no rape!

There would be no passionate kiss.

There would be no heartbreaks.

Hey! Would you help me add in some more advantages of a world without men in the comments section here below?

I look forward to a world without men,’cause all men would be in heaven living as angels-have you ever heard of an angel called Mary or Janet?

Men were not meant to live on earth as men,but as angels in heaven,and that would really give women a break here on earth!

Please help me add some more…..

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There will always be some vicious criticism for those who choose to pursue greatness

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If you’re going to pursue greatness, if you’re going to be a great businessperson, a great teacher, a great parent, a great leader, you have
to understand that not everyone is going to cheer you on.

I’d love to tell you that your family, friends and co-workers will celebrate you, but that’s
not necessarily the case.

Some people simply can’t handle your success.

As you grow and increase, someone will get jealous.

Someone will start finding fault.

Don’t be surprised if a relative tries to belittle or discredit you.

You can’t focus on making everyone around you happy or you’ll start changing and lose sight of your goal in going for the ultimate prize of your hard work and destiny.

Remember, your destiny is too great to be distracted by people who are never going to affirm you.

Don’t take it personally.

It’s not about you.

It’s their problem.

Shake it off, run your race, and be great anyway.

Having greatness in the midst of criticism begins with constant forgiving spirit.

Don’t hold a grudge.

Bless those who curse you; pray for those who
spitefully use you.

As you keep doing what is right,your achievements will draw envy.

Be great in the midst of criticism!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Have I lived long enough?

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Have I lived long enough?

How long do I have to live to feel that I have lived long enough?

These thought provoking questions were a theme of a meditation session with my Buddhist meditation teacher.

I have made them subjective,as my own question because the subject of death even after one has lived to a hundred is a sensitive topic and I want to draw this discussion inwardly to myself so that my dear readers don’t get panicked by this discourse.

If I wanted to be thinking I have lived enough in the future, then the best way to get there would be to live with that exact same thought right now.

Immediately, I started asserting this new notion that,already, I had actually lived enough. After all, there are many humans that are not blessed with the experience of even a second day of life on earth.

How greedy was I willing to be?

How selfish and ungrateful?

The deeper this pronouncement that I had lived enough sunk into me, the greater the shroud of fear surrounding death lifted.

Whether I initially had believed this or not, I slowly grew to the place where I knew, beyond any doubt, that I had lived enough.

Yes! I had already lived enough!

And, just like that, all my fears vanished and I finally felt free, overflowing with a sense of appreciation and contentment.

Ever since, I’ve been discussing this concept of “enough” with others in the throes of grief and loss.

What I explain is that “enough” is always a value judgment, rather than something that can be quantified or measured.

It’s about perspective, a determination on
our part to choose gratitude for what we’ve been granted over regret for what we have lost or fears about what we might lose.

This can be tremendously powerful, though admittedly very hard at times.

Is it possible to view the death of a young
child and understand that he or she lived enough?

Can a parent suffering through such a loss perceive their abbreviated time with their son or daughter as enough?

When a friend or parent or anyone else we care about passes away, can we experience the time we had with them as enough?

The answer is yes.

It is possible, if and when we choose to exercise our right to invoke this perspective.

We can view whatever time we’ve been given through the continually available lens of gratitude, appreciation,celebration, and love.

We can understand each moment as a gift, as “enough.”

To be a human is little short of a miracle.

In the limitlessly vast universe of atoms and particles and stars and planets,gases and quarks and molecules, stones and trees and bugs and platypuses, of all the possible manifestations of life that are possible, we have been given the rarest of privileges of experiencing what it is like to be human.

That’s cool!

Just by being here, we’ve already beaten the odds, no matter how many more minutes of this miracle we get to experience.

We know when we lived enough by knowing this right now, during this and all future moments, even while we crave to drink in as much as life continues to offer us.

We appreciate that no more is needed.

We’re thankful and, from the wisdom of this thankfulness,we smile, at ourselves and all around us.

We’ve already lived enough—and that’s a beautiful thing.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Love comes to those at peace with who they are

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This isnt a race—it is my life.

This revelation didn’t come easy in my life.

After six months of being single after my divorce, I wanted to date again.

I was still afraid of failure and rejection, but I wanted to try.

I felt the best way to get over it was to
dedicate my time to finding someone new.

I didn’t know where to begin, but I knew I had a clearer understanding of what I wanted in a relationship.

I definitely knew what I didn’t want in a relationship.

I thought if I could just find someone with the right qualities, happiness would follow.

I made a long list of qualities I desired in a lady.
I tried out as many girls as I could.

I thought I could get what I wanted by playing
the odds, like sending out 100 resumes for a job hoping one company would call back.

I felt I had learned from my past mistakes and was impatient to find true love.

Six months later, after a string of bad dates, I was no closer to finding the love I desired
and the whiff of desperation seeped from my pores.

I started to feel like maybe there really wasn’t anyone out there for me.

So, I decided to stop chasing.

I began to take care of myself.

I decided to be the person I was looking for while at the same time, creating a way for
the right girl to find me.

I decided to remove all the clutter from my home and my mind.

I threw out boxes and bags of clothes and objects that represented the old me.

I wrote daily gratitude lists and stopped thinking about what I didn’t have.

I started going out to for weekend treats alone.

I found new restaurants to try.

I took long drives in the wild.

Once I took my focus off finding the right person, I started to find myself.

I could sit for hours on my back porch
reading a novel.

I would buy myself chocolate Ice-cream and flowers for Valentine’s Day.

Once I was providing for all of my own needs, I started to smile again.

This wasn’t a race—it was my life.

I intended to enjoy every moment of it with or without someone by my side.

Around this time, I started to think about finding some new friends.

I lost half of my friends during my divorce.

I was looking for positive people to hang out with that would be interested in the same things I liked to do.

I started joining book exchange clubs and meetup groups.

I went to exercise classes and asked co-workers out for drinks.

I started accepting invitations to parties,not with the aim of finding new love,but simply to enjoy my life.

Meanwhile, I still meditated.

I still read on the porch and I stopped looking for new love.

I just wanted to have a good time and find some friendly people my age.

I wasn’t having a lot of luck in the friend department, though.

It seemed like I was in a strange age group.

When I joined my friends circle, most of the members were either a decade older or younger than me.

I wondered why no one my age seemed to go out.

I reasoned they must be busy with parenting and working a lot like most people in their forties and fifties.

I just wasn’t finding people my age.

Then one day, sitting around the house doing absolutely nothing, I had a light bulb moment—I would start a group for people my age to meet and find friends!

At the second meeting of my group, my future partner walked in the door.

I knew she would be my soul mate the second I
saw her.

And yes, she has most of the qualities on that
original list.

If you’re looking for love and feeling like time is running out, slow down.

Breathe, go buy yourself some good presents,
and stop trying so hard.

Love comes to those at peace with who they are.

Here are some tips for cultivating love while you wait for it to find you:

1. If you build it, they will come.

If you can’t find what you’re looking for, create a way for it to find you.

2. Be the person you’re looking for.

The best way to find love is to love yourself.

Spend time exercising, meditating, and cultivating your self-esteem.

When the right person does show up, a calm confidence will be far more attractive than fear and anxiety.

3. Stop and smell the roses.

It’s not a marathon.

You’re looking for the best person to show up, not the first person to show up.

When’s the last time you found someone who seemed panicked attractive?

4. It’s okay to dine alone.

Many people are afraid to do “couple” things alone.

Try going to treat by yourself.

You can really have a good time just enjoying your own company.

Take action toward your dreams, but then step back and let those conditions manifest.

Enjoy life and give yourself what you need instead of waiting for someone to give it to you.

Meet each day with gratitude and joy in what you do have and what you wish for will find its way to you.

When you stop chasing butterflies and sit still,they will land on your shoulders.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Some Mornings…..

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Some mornings,the world seems like a paradise.

You wake up,take a deep breath by the window, and look out the welcoming golden sunrise streaking through the trees.

Some moments like this make life seem so precious.

A sublime piece of music that perfectly matches your happy mood plays softly on the radio to complement this perfect moment.

But other mornings,the world seems like a place full of horror.

You wake up to newspaper headlines that scream headlines about a grisly terror attack,or jews pounding their Arab cousins to smithereens in Gaza- another holocaust,but this time,the jews have taken the place of one,Adolph Hitler.

Another serial killer has claimed his tenth victim.

All is gloomy.

The sun has taken refuge behind the dark clouds.

These are the moments when nothing seems to make sense,nothing seems fair.

You ask yourself;does my life really matter or I am just a small insignificant cog in some vast cosmic juggernaut?

Whichever way you look at it,it is only your choice,and yours only,that decides the kind of morning that will grace your day.

Some mornings,you just have to bring along your own sunshine to grace your day!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

I think the Baggage Claim desk is the worst place to work in because no happy conversations happen there

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I think the Baggage Claim desk is the worst place to work in because no happy conversations happen there.

Everybody who shows up here is poised to curse.

I have made it a habit to fill lost baggage forms as soon as I disembark from any airport. It is a routine I intend to keep until I’m too old to travel.

Take someone who flew for, what, six, eight hours only to land, tired, lagged and hungry to find his luggage missing.

Picture the conversations someone like that will
have.

But those officials have seen it all.

They are blasé towards shouting and banging of tables and fingers jabbed at their faces.

A good day for them is when they encounter an irate client who doesn’t speak English.

You don’t imagine you would feel so distraught until you are standing at the carousel after deplaning and it has ground to a stop after everyone has picked theirs and it suddenly dawns on you that your luggage is missing.

It’s bad enough to lose your luggage, but to realize that you lost it as you stand at an airport with a name like Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International airport in Mauritius is deeply disturbing.

Baggage Claim to fill forms and whatnot.

They don’t know where my bag is.

We connected through Jo’burg, so it’s anywhere between Nairobi and Mauritius.

Which means it could have fallen off over the Serengeti and right this moment as you selfishly tweet, a Rhino might just be
peeing on my suitcase.

Or it could have fallen in Zimbabwe, and some Zimbabwean called Simango Dabengwa is trying to sell my boxers for 2.5million
Zimbabwean dollar. Totally flattering.

They will reimburse me 75USD daily for my expenditure that goes into buying the necessities I need until my luggage is retrieved from Serengeti National Park where it could have dropped from the skies, an official at the desk tells me.

Please fill this form here Mr. Oooooooogo. “It’s Mugo!” I sigh, testily.

As I’m filling the important form, I
can hear a very irate passenger at the end of the counter getting his knickers in a twist.

He has a Nigerian accent.

I turn to look and it’s Uti. Big Brother. Chewing the ass off this reed-thin airport official. She looks spectacularly unmoved by all the anger.

He turns to me and asks, “Did they also lose your luggage?” and I want to say, “No, I’m
here to pay for my DSTV,” but I nod and say, Yes, imagine that.

But looking at that thin Asian official who just wants her shift to end so that she can go home and have a hot shower and tandoori chicken, I realize that it’s the very first time I felt sorry for an Indian.

No really, I’m not being racist.

When were the last time you felt sorry for an
Indian? Exactly.

Things get better slightly because an hour later we are booked into the best resort in the island – Trou Aux Biches Resort and Spa (Not pronounced “bitches”)- for a one-week agribusiness content showcase jamboree that was represented by media from more than half a dozen African countries and music and comedy talent.

But still it’s hard to operate in the same clothes you left Nairobi in 24hrs earlier.

Clothes that lost one hour to get to Jo’burg and gained another hour in Mauritius.

Clothes that smell of JKIA, OR Tambo and the Seewoos…that-one airport.

Even when I bought new clothes – some
random t-shirt and overpriced underwear from the only shop that was still opened that night in Port Loius – I still felt like I was wearing someone else’s clothes.

I constantly think of my clothes.

I dream of them.

I picture them in that dark suitcase, wondering why they have been abandoned.

I think of my socks, curled into a ball in a corner, yearning to stretch their legs.

I had running shoes in there. Now lost. My poor shower gel.

Sigh. You don’t know how precious your shower gel is until it’s gone.

Guys, cherish your shower gels, it might
be gone tomorrow.

And then there is my bottle of Hugo Boss, Orange.

Hugo, if you are reading this, I will find you.

I will not tire until I find you.

I don’t care if ghouls here will say that sounds gay, but I will find you Hugo.

Tell you what, I remember momentarily stirred awake last night with a start; my bed smelled funny.

Smelled of India.

There was an Indian in my bed, I thought, only to realize it’s the thin colorful can of deo-spray I bought from some shop in Port Louis.

Fourty five percent of Mauritius is Asian brought in here as slaves from India by the British colonialists to work in sugarcane farms.

They are fairly dark Indians though.

One watersport chap walked up to me at the beach and put his wrist against mine and said enthusiastically, “look, we are both black,we are brothers!” and I don’t know why that made me sadder.

It’s a black hardback suitcase.

If you see it near your office,please drop me a line.

If you see it bobbing down Uhuru Highway, on a trailer to Malaba, please hail it down.

If you go to Maxland and you see a bunch of chaps stepping on it under the table as they drink, please email me pronto.

If you are in Kisumu and you’re having fish
by the lake and you see some fisherman stuffing fish into it, please let him keep it.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Men were never meant to be pretty

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This story is not about sour grapes.

At my age,which is many times over my teenage years,I have no illusions about my looks.

I’m not handsome.

No lady would be dying to share my ‘ugly’ life.

That said,let’s now wade in the gist of my story.

I like boxing.

It’s crude and primal.

It’s blood, gore and aggression.

And it’s downright dirty.

You use your knuckles to pound another man’s head until they submit to you.

Until they hit the canvas and see their lights go off.

Until the ref looks into their eyes and sees defeat and submission.

It’s a man’s sport.

And I like Floyd Mayweather, Jnr. I like him because he is a loud mouth,like Tyson, well, that is before he developed a taste for uncooked human ears.

I like Floyd because although he toots his
horn, he ends up pounding you.

He puts his mouth where his fist is, or rather he puts his fist where your mouth is:42 fights and 42 wins should mean something.

The man is an animal.

One problem though, Floyd calls himself “pretty boy”.

Men shouldn’t get to that point where they think of themselves as pretty.

Men aren’t pretty; kittens are pretty,women are pretty, flowers are pretty, so are puppies and
small babies with pacifiers sticking out their mouths.

To say you are a pretty boy is to liken yourself with something feminine, something breakable, something fragile.

You know?

Something that bruises easy.

Men should be men, if you need a nickname it should be something hard, something beastly or risqué, like RAMBO or, well, you know what I mean.

Something that doesn’t have pretty in it.

But it’s a given that some men tend to wander towards that cliff, where they embrace that side
of their femininity.

Here is a story I only tell when I’m drunk. Er, sit pretty,this is weird.

I have this friend of mine,let’s call him Edward.

He is into big money.

He rolls on the best wheels that money can buy.

His Mansion draws envy of most men.

He is single.

He is-wait for this!-beautiful!

He knows about skin moisturisers,hair shampoos,manicure,pedicure-name it.

He is obsessive about his looks and cleanliness.

His last girlfriend happens to be an ex-girlfriend.

We are still on friendly terms,having completely moved on from a relationship that never worked for me.

She left him too.

That’s no big deal.

Men are being dumped everyday by their girlfriends.

But something she said about why she left him drew my dried up curiosity into their former relationship.

This guy,she told me,made her feel dirty.

He couldn’t be persuaded to make love for whatever reason without a condom.

And he always showered meticulously after that.

He boiled and washed all his underclothes,especially after getting intimate with her.

He boiled and ironed all his handkerchiefs.

He slept in a separate bed,and only made contact whenever it was necessary to fulfil his biological needs.

He disinfected the toilet seat every time he had to use it.

Full mouth kiss to him is like licking a dump pit.

In short,he drove my ex crazy with his fussiness.

He can’t trust anyone to pair his socks.

They were the only ones living in his house.

“I just couldn’t stand the way he is so fussy about his looks and the standard of his personal hygiene that bordered on pathological obsession”. She told me.

As I complete writing this piece,I realise that my socks and shoes are littering my sitting room,my bed has been unmade since morning,there is a heap of clean laundry over my bed that should have been packed away into the wardrobe last week.

These may be the very same things that drove my ex-girlfriend away-total disorder in my life.

I’m now surprised to know that perfect order drove her away from the most “pretty” man she ever met.

Life is full of ironies,but I’m pissed of by the irony of a “perfect” man driving away his beautiful girlfriend by being so orderly!

Mind you,I’ve just told you this story in my most sober moment.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

This is a story of how I would like to be remembered

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Sitting through the funeral of one of my childhood friends yesterday was nothing short of torture; one of the toughest hours of my life.

It’s not just about losing a friend.

Of course that part is horrendous.

But when it’s a friend who is your age, with friends who are your friends, and children who are your children’s age, you cannot help but put
yourself up there on that pier.

Or worse, imagine your own loving children(not all of your children will end up loving you,but as a parent,you are obliged to love them all) up there in the front row of chapel pews.

God how I dreaded entering that funeral home and witness my dear friend lying in state.

I stopped a block away, caught my breath, looked up at the glorious blue sky and wondered if I could do it.

I willed myself to walk up those stairs, to turn the corner into the chapel, to plant myself
in the austere pews in the comfort of old friends, forced to face forward and hear words I didn’t want to hear about my departed friend.

And yet, I’m so very glad I did.

I had forgotten how these kinds of ceremonies often provide comfort.

How there were so many points of wisdom in the thoughtful eulogies that help offer enlightenment and closure.

One of the most striking moments of the ceremony was when her own father described how anxious he was when Julie’s job took her to dangerous parts of South and Central America, forcing her to travel accompanied by bodyguards.

“You realize as a parent,” he said with remarkable strength and clarity, “that we often fear the wrong things about our children.”

It was lovely hearing person after person describe Julie’s optimism and kindness of spirit, her grace under the most heinous of circumstances for 21 months, her unwavering
devotion to the relationships in her life, and her ability to effortlessly do it all.

It was unanimous: she was amazing.

And she was loved.

However those of her childhood friends in attendance–and there were easily 40 or more of us–were all feeling the same thing.

If you could have woven through the pews with a magic siphon and collected our thoughts, you would have seen us all grappling with our own mortality.

You just can’t help it in this situation–you put yourself in that coffin.

You think, what if it were me?

Or, what if it were my partner?

And then you ask yourself, how do I want to be remembered?

Later at lunch, with ten amazing friends (thank God for amazing friends who can laugh with you as easily as they cry with you and don’t make too much fun of you for ordering a
tequila shot with your wine), Sara brought up first what I know we were all thinking.

“You know, when they were describing how she always took care of her kids with a smile, entertained, volunteered, held down a high-powered job and made it all look
effortless…that wouldn’t be me.”

We all laughed.

And agreed.

Nope.

None of us would be known for our effortless ability to do it all.

“They would say, ‘she was really good at calling the nanny on a Friday night,’” one friend quipped,”so that she can go partying”.

“They would say, ‘she always had dishes in the sink but at least she was fun,’” I added.

And we all laughed, as we assembled our imperfect obituaries.

I spent the rest of the night trying to answer the question in my own head.

Wondering what people might say of me when
I’m gone.

And whether I’d be okay with it.

Have you ever thought about it?

How would you like to be remembered?

As children, we were all fascinated by our own treasure hunts.

We sought the gold at the end of the rainbow.

We dreamed of sailing all the world’s seas looking for Treasure Island.

We pretended to navigate ancient lands looking for the spot marked “X”.

Growing up in my foster family, my treasures were little feel-good events that made me smile.

I longed for play time so I could climb trees and catch spiders.

I looked for friends who could play with me all night long.

I loved visiting our local bookshops to scour the shelves for books I’d enjoy.

As I grew older, I stopped seeking treasures.

A life of routine and common dreams had descended on me.

It was no longer seeking Treasure Island or the spot marked “X” but rather the acceptable haves of my generation.

In my country it was known as the 5 Cs—cash, credit card, car, condominium, and country club membership.

When I started looking deeper, I asked, “Is that really all there is?”

Was life all about acquiring things?

It just didn’t feel meaningful.

I began to look for the real treasures in life, and started thinking about the kind of legacy I wanted to leave behind.

4 Treasures to Leave Behind

I have discovered that the real treasures in life have nothing to do with status and everything to do with leading fulfilling lives and sharing them with people.

We can’t take anything with us, but we can leave these behind for our loved ones, both to remember us and to help and inspire them.

I’d like to be remembered for;

1. The books i read

The books we read shape our lives.

They equip us with the wisdom and skills we need, and inspire dreams that set us
on journeys of meaning and fulfilment.

We have the opportunity to leave behind books that enrich the mind and soul, teach others how to lead better lives, and inspire greatness from within.

One day, when our children and their children grow up,they will browse our library and learn what shaped us into the people we were.

Mark Twain wrote, “The man who doesn’t read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

Gain that advantage for yourself, and leave it behind for generations to come.

2. The pictures and videos i took

Pictures and videos evoke memories that lead us back into the recesses of joy, laughter, and even sadness.

They remind us of years past when we were once young and vibrant.

In our modern age where physical photographs are becoming obsolete, pictures have not lost their value and importance.

When we browse our photo archives on our
iPads or notebooks, we are still filled with a sense of nostalgia.

Pictures and videos are treasures that bring history to the forefront.

Take the time to immortalise the little things that
make you happy, as well as your milestones and adventures.

They’ll fill you with joy when you revisit them, and they’ll leave your children trails of their roots.

3. The journals i maintained

As you pass the various ages of your life did you bother to record your thoughts and dreams?

Did you write down your best ideas to revisit at a later time?

Did you create a blog to write down all your thoughts?

Did you carry a notebook to jot down thoughts that meant something to you?

Who are we but passengers in a life of experiences?

But our experiences are invaluable because they are unique to each of us—and they provide wisdom for those who read our stories.

Start your own journals.

It can be a simple notebook or even a blog.

At every moment that is priceless to you,
record what you’ve experienced.

It will both help you find lessons and meaning in your life, and create a treasured archive for your loved ones after you are gone.

4. The legacy I created

Finally, what lessons did we teach through the lives we led?

What philosophies of living did we engrave in the hearts of people who know us?

What mission and values did we uphold in life?

What can our children learn from us?

Did we teach them well?

Did we teach them about life?

The legacy we create has lasting impact long after we are gone.

Amputee athlete and activist Terry Fox died at just 21, after attempting to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research.

Thirty years after his death, The Terry Fox Run is still conducted around the world annually, in remembrance of his hope and vision.

That run will endure and continue to inspire, in much the same way he did.

We may not all leave legacies of this magnitude, but we all have the ability to touch people’s lives in a way that will live on when we’re gone.

Think about the legacy you want to leave behind—how you can share a message of
goodness, hope, and inspiration.

The Treasure We Can Enjoy Right Now

If we go through life seeking only gold and silver, we miss the point.

Life is about the experiences we have—and what we learn and teach as a result.

The true measure of success is about treasures of the heart.

Start building them today and you’ll have them to share tomorrow.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My Home Village;a postcard that has not yet been printed

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I’m writing this piece from my verandah in my home village.

It’s shortly after 6pm; the cows are coming home.

My dog, called,’Simba’, lethargically herds these cows home.

It’s amazing that everybody names their dog
‘Simba ‘in our village, which says a lot about our creativity in naming dogs,or lack of it.

Almost all other dogs I know in my village are called ‘Simba’.

‘Simba’ is one of those dogs that make dogs
look bad; totally unimpressionable, a laughable caricature of the canines.

It’s a lazy mutt that is scared of its own
shadow.

Think Courage the Cowardly Dog on cartoon
network.

But my groundsman is fond of that dog, maybe
because my partner doesn’t see the point of keeping it.

Ha ha.

Come on guys, that’s amusing. Ish.

Ok, maybe only in my village.

My village is not on the map.

Any Map!

It’s small and unassuming.

We don’t grow cash crops.

We don’t have notable heroes.

We don’t have a tarmacked road- all we have is a ragged dusty winding path that climbs hills and slithers down plains like a jaded vein.

Only recently we got piped water.

Only recently we got electricity.

When it’s hot, it’s really hot.

When it’s cold, well, it’s never that cold.

Our leadership is gone south – as is in most parts of Kenya.

In my village we don’t have a leadership that shakes the political order.

My MP is a dud.

He sleeps in parliament, but then again which MP doesn’t?

If I were to be honest with you, there is really nothing special about my village.

We are a blip in the radar and life crawls by with an eerie obscurity.

But we have the water dam.

The second largest man-made dam in Kenya.

Surely that should count for something folks.

We have both Christians and Moslems.

I remember as a kid, one of my much older
uncles was dating this homely Moslem girl called Fatuma.

For some reason he used to call
her Fatima.

Love does that to you I guess; you mispronounce names.

But I’m not a Moslem.

And I know no Fatuma – or Fatima for that matter.

So it’s here in my village that I spend my weekends and holidays.

Have you ever heard of a place called “Mukuru wa Ngoma”(Devil’s Valley)?

No? Well, it’s this place in my village which has
trees that actually talk.

Ok, I’m kidding.

It’s actually a crater.

It has green water(algae,probably).

But this crater is ridden with riveting folklore passed down from generation to generation.

I don’t know, I’m not big on such things.

But since Devil’s Valley is only 10kms from my home, I decided why not visit it and do a story?

So I called one of my Science editors- who I imagined was somewhere in the coast sipping mojitos- and sold the idea to her.

She bit on this idea (something ‘Simba’ should learn to do).

Simba never bites anything,even my sworn enemies who have made a habit of trespassing through my compound on their way to the local shopping centre.

I think ‘Simba’ is afraid of dentists,and he doesn’t take chances biting anything that may loosen his teeth!

So I drove out to take pictures and do some interviews.

My nosing around got me a vital information.

There was an old woman who stayed at the lip of the crater, and this old woman had the lowdown on what happened in this crater, some herdsmen told me.

Oh, by the way, whereas the Maasai herdsmen are tall, wear shukas and carry spears, but our herdsmen from my community are tall, dark, carry unsheathed machetes and sometimes smoke pot.

How’z that for size?

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it, folks.

A woman headed to the market offers to show me the boma(home compound).

It’s a small house.

Two pots (the kitchen vessel not ‘joints’,as pot is referred to around here) sit outside.

Maize plantains feature in a modest farm outside this boma.

Chicken wander outside this hut..

It’s quiet, not a soul in sight.

The door is ajar.

The woman who walked me here points with her chin,“She stays there.” and when I turn to ask her if she could take me inside she is gone.

Gone like she was never there.

Ok, I’m prone to dramatics so bear with me.

The woman sort of turned and left, and of course I would have grabbed her and pleaded with her to walk me inside that hut, but I’m a man darn it, and I come from a place where herdsmen carry unsheathed swords!

So I approach this hut with caution…maybe caution is not the appropriate word of choice here, make that anxiety.

I approach with anxiety. “Hodi?” I call out at a
distance.

Silence.

I move closer.

It seems rude to just amble in a stranger’s home without invitation.

So I peer inside; it’s dark inside.

Very dark.

“Cucu?”(Grandma) I call out again.

There is no response and I start thinking that perhaps there is nobody in the house.

And just when I’m contemplating to leave, I hear a noise in the house.

A small muffled sound, more like a gruffy sound….like someone who has a bad wet cough trying to clear their throats.

I venture inside.

Stepping into this dark hut was like stepping into a time machine.

The floor is made of mud, and decorated by
running a blunt object on it.

It’s cool inside, as if the aircon is on.

Next to the door is one of those old traditional wooden chairs that you can fold and keep
away.

Since I can’t see anything, I decide to take a seat.

Where light falls on at the end of the room is a wall full of old, very old, framed pictures.

Black and white pictures of the departed,her departed.

One of the glass windows of the framed pictures is shattered.

Next to these pictures are two traditional hats, complete with feathers sticking from
them.

Hoisted on the roof is a big barbed branch- or
walking staff, I dunno.

There is an old wooden table against the wall.

On it sits two plastic plates; red and blue.

Morsels of dried brown ugali (Maize meal cake) leftovers feature there.

Next to these plates is a wicker lamp.

When was the last time you saw a wicker lamp folks?

I feel like fish in a bowl.

Then there is the smell.

Well, it’s not really a smell,because a smell has connotations of foulness.

This hut doesn’t smell bad.

It has a different smell, a smell of a gone era,smells from back in my childhood days.

The smell of age.

And this smell somehow sets the mood.

I could as well be in the 70’s and I’m enchanted.

I sit there trying to orient my eyesight to the darkness.

Then she speaks from somewhere in this darkness.

She says hallo in that slow drawl that is characteristic of old women.

Her voice is coming out from somewhere behind the door, it seems like a voice from a cave; hollow and ominous.

I say hi and tell her my name and explain what
brings me here.

There is silence.

My eyesight slowly adjusts to the darkness and I for the first time I make out the shape of a tattered bed; an old thin tattered mattress
on a mat- and looming figure lying on it.

See, at this point I know this was not going to make it in my story to my syndicated column in newspaper.

Editors don’t give a hoot how you get the
story, it’s all about getting to the point because there is space and word count to think about.

“Whose son are you?” the voice asks again.

In my culture you are a nobody until you say who your father or grandfather is.

No man stands alone.

You can’t crawl from the shadow of your father.
And so name dropping is very permissible here.

So I drop the name of my old man.

Silence from her.

I guess my father is also a nobody as I
am.

So I drop my grandfather’s name and finally I get a reaction.

She knows my grandfather!

And that’s enough really.

Her bed cringes as she slowly sits up.

Then I see her…sort of.

Since her bed is behind the door, light doesn’t reach her, and so only shards of light hit her and shadows fall and rise on her time- weathered face.

If my daughter was here she would have called her a witch.

But she isn’t, she is an old woman.

A very old woman.

Her face sags.

Her short white hair glows in this darkness.

Deep galleys run down her face etching into her skin with bold strokes.

I make out two wisps of beard on her chin.

I guess old age is an equalizer because she looks like a man.

She is as thin as a drinking straw.

Her shoulder bones jut out from her very old dirty t-shirt.

She looks so frail; it makes me a bit sad.

When my eyesight fully adjusts to this darkness I see her eyes.

They are as dead as a coffin.

They are watery and look like cuddled milk.

She constantly leans forward and squints to look at me.

She asks me to get her water, and with a long bony finger she points at tin across the room.

It’s one of those Kimbo cooking fat tins .

When was the last time you saw those, 1985?

I bring her water, and she drinks it.

The gulping sound of water gushing down her throat seems magnified in this hut.

With trembling hands she hands back the tin.

I ask her how old she is, and she smiles and says she is not sure. “I know it’s not less than 90yrs,” she says, “Maybe 100yrs”.

Well, I knew she was younger than my old
car, I muse.

When she is ready, she tells me the story that brought me here.

And for her age she is amazingly coherent.

Her memory of names is succinct.

Her talk is peppered with curious metaphors.

She throws in sayings and rhetoric.

And like old people, she tends to stray into stories that I’m not interested in, but I tactfully and gently bring back her back to the main story.

This is how it all ends, I think, while she bangs on about old tales.

This is all this old woman aspires to; reliving
stories.

She sits in her hut in complete solitude, filling
her day with sleep.

She and death play a waiting game;she waits for death and death awaits her.

With one foot in the grave, her existence as she knows it, is laden with not only a bleak hope but a realization that she is living on borrowed time.
I suspect that at her age, she secretly lusts for death because death to her means freedom.

Freedom from her aching bones.

Freedom from her failing eyesight.

Freedom from her busted ear drums.

But most importantly, freedom from loneliness.

I can tell nobody has ever shown keen interest on her lately, like I’m doing.

She seems to love my inquisitiveness.

She relishes the fact that I laugh at some of her comments.

She is surprised that anyone would care about what she has to say and when I tell her I will have her picture in the newspaper, she is overcome with joy.

Who said travel journalism is a lost cause?

Who said we don’t do good…even if we are getting paid for it in inches,column inches that is?

The folklore he narrates to me revolves around
alcoholism and its pitfalls, and she unspools loads of wisdom on the same.

And at some point she stops and asks me if I’m a beer drinker and I quickly say no.

But then I feel like a jerk, lying to this old lady, I feel like she can see through this little fib and I quickly stammer, “Well, a little.”

She gives me a small knowing look.

When I used to post in a magazine some time back, I used to interview old men for a column that basically highlighted what they had learned in life, I loved writing this section of the magazine because I would stumble on wisdom that you couldn’t find on Wikipedia, stuff that you can’t Google.

Stuff that only comes with age.

And so I asked this old lady what she has learnt in life and she said in essence, “Never look back on things you should have done better or shouldn’t have done. If you are to look
back, do it only for the lessons.”

Then something happens that exposes the psyche of a woman regardless of age.

I ask her if I can take her picture and she obliges.

I hold her hand- which feels bony and brittle like glass- and I help her outside where I
sit her on a folded chair.

Then I request if she can wear one of them traditional hats hanging from the wall.

She smiles skeptically and asks,“I dunno, I haven’t worn those in many years, are you sure I will look okay in one?”

At this point I tell her that I’m certain she will look great in one.

So I get one and she carefully perches it on her
head then she looks at me for approval.

And being prone to drama, I take a few appreciative steps back, shake my head and say I think she looks absolutely smashing! Boy,did she giggle like a school girl!

“Really?” she asks.

I say “Absolutely! I think you look
totally stunning, wait till I put you in the newspapers,everybody will ask ‘who is that lady?!”

More toothless giggles.

And that’s the thing, regardless of age; a woman will still want to hear she looks hot.

She will still crave that compliment.

And there was a little light that I had lit in
this old lady’s eyes by telling her she looked hot.
And it felt good.

I took my pictures.

Then I walked to the nearest shop and bought her stuff; sugar, salt, bread, oil….the
works.

In my culture it’s rude to visit an old woman
without leaving her something.

Then I squeezed some money in her dry palms, which she proceeded to spit on it as customary.

Good luck or something.

I stayed with her for over 2hrs and when I was leaving,she held my hand in both of her hands and said she would pray for me.

She asked me what I wanted prayed for and I said “Wisdom, good health and strength to deal
with things I can’t change.”

She nodded and said she would and for some reason I believed that those prayers would reach the Heaven above.

Then I bid her goodbye.

Here is the thing.

I’m not going to say that meeting the old lady changed my life, no, that would be so corny.

But meeting that old woman made me feel good.
By Jove, it made me feel so damned good.

You know how you meet people and say, “It’s a pleasure to meet you” even though you wouldn’t have cared either way if you hadn’t met them?

Well, for once, I meant it from the bottom of my
heart when I told her that it was a pleasure to meet her.

I really did.

And you would have, had you met her because
she was a scream!

And for me this meeting was the icing on my Weekend holiday.

Meeting Mama Rosa beat sipping overpriced wine with some pretentious folk any day,and again,right in my home village.

Postcards are made of this!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Francis

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This post is not about suicide.

It is about friendship.

It is about depression,that bottomless pit that sucks in the human soul to loneliness,and loss of faith and hope.

This story is about Francis,my bossom friend.

He left no note.

I have to immortalise his final moments by re- constructing his final thoughts.

He wonders why anyone would find it necessary to leave a note.

Who,even among his estranged family or close friends can really empathise with the pain in his soul?

He lights a cigarette – his twelfth in under an hour – and closes his eyes and takes a deep drag at it.

Smoke fills his soul.

A metaphor that fits snugly with the state of his life,

He doesn’t open his eyes but lets smoke crawl out of his nose and into the cold chilly night in a lazy trail.

He sits like this for a while; immobile.

Still.

The cigarette smoulders in a dull ember between his fingers.

A soft breeze blows through.

He slowly, even achingly opens his eyes and looks down at the streets below.

At 2am there are a few cars in the street, mostly drunks, heading home, or moving to another bar for a night of unending binge.

It had just rained, so the streets are wet.

He watches a couple ambling along up the streets; the man’s hand draped around the woman’s shoulders.

From where he is seated they look like miniature human beings.

Hell, from where he is seated- on top of the building- everything looks miniature.

He looks away.

Thirty eight stories up.

That’s where he sits, feet dangling languidly from the ledge of a window sill.

He reaches for the bottle of Vodka next to him and chases the smoke down his lungs with a long swig.

His throat burns but it makes him alive and he doesn’t miss the irony.

Nothing matters anymore, and that’s why he is up the bloody building, at 2am,getting pissed,his last one man party.

Tears sting his eyes and he bites his lower lip, daring them not to come because even in this
hopeless moment, he still feels a need for self
preservation.

Even in this hour of darkness he still wants
to maintain a level of dignity.

So he tries hard not to cry.

He stares ahead defiantly, at nothingness.

He stares at the numerous rooftops around without actually seeing them.

He stares out into the horizon, and fails to see the beautiful sleeping city.

His eyes sometimes linger on a speck of light in the fringes of the city and he imagines someone sitting in that house, watching a late night show,
reading for an exam, making love, tossing in bed,praying, eating a late meal…life continues in seclusion of his woes, it dawns to him.

Two hours ago he had taken a long hot shower, longer than he normally does.

One last luxury.

He had then shaved off the two week stubble, applied some aftershave and ran a comb in
his hair.

He then worn black pants and a white shirt.

No belt.

He then completed this look with his favourite tie, a black leather tie tied fastidiously in a small sexy knot.

He loved that tie, a present from his cousin Judith, the only person who seemed to give a shit.

It was a pencil tie.

You know, the fancy type you see in catwalks?

Judith had style all right.

The occasion called for something ceremonial like this; a black tie.

On his way out of the house he had decided to throw on a red blazer because it was drizzling.

Then he had looked around the house one
last time, and killed the lights.

Now he removes his wallet from his back pocket.

He has no photos of in there.

He has a son, yes, but the last time he saw him his mother was dragging him away from him,
screaming profanities at him.

That was 8yrs ago.

He must be big boy now, he thinks sardonically, but only fleetingly.

He is not the one to dwell on empty thoughts.

He continues to flip through his wallet; he has a credit card, and three debit cards.

There is a business card with a name he can’t place.

He tosses it away and watches it float down until it disappears in the greyness below.

He then tosses away his debit cards next, one by one.

He does these in a very absent-minded way, in a mechanical way.

He has some money in the wallet, not much,
enough to buy dinner at a decent restaurant.

He tosses away these as well.

His cigarette dangles from his lips,the smoke making his eyes water.

He places his wallet next to the bottle of Vodka then takes a deep breath to calm his jittery nerves.

It’s 2.44am.

His fishes for his phone in his pocket and calls the one person who would take his calls at this time of the night;Judith his cousin.

The phone rings forever and when he is about to hang up she answers.

“Hey,” she sounds woozy and perplexed.
“Hey, Judith.”

He mumbles, “Sorry to bother you at this
time of the night – ”

“What’s up, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m in bed, I couldn’t sleep.”

“What time is it?” she asks still half asleep.

“Around 2am?”

“Thanks for waking me up!” she scolds.

“Listen, I just wanted to say I won’t be able to see you tomorrow, something’s come up.” He says.

“And this couldn’t wait until morning? Anyway let me know when you are open….at a decent hour.”

He manages a little laugh.

“Judith?”

“Yeah?”

Brief pause.

“Never mind, you sleep tight, take care of yourself,okay?”

“Sure, let’s talk tomorrow, good night.”

When he hangs up, his lips start trembling.

Time check: 2.57am.

They say in the hour of darkness comes a point of clarity,a small window that nature offers a respite.

He doesn’t see it.

He doesn’t feel it.

But he feels the wind in his ears, beckoning, urging.

He also feels the thudding in his heart, a tattoo of death.

He feels the pain in his heart.

But mostly he feels fear, a powerful and demonic force that grasps his heart and squeezes.

He thought he would be drunk by now, half way through his Vodka, instead he feels the sensations that he thought he would avoid; the
biting cold in his face, the twitching of his muscles.

The ache at the pit of his belly.

He feels dread and dread feels like death if you really want to know.

As the hour nears, he increasingly feels empty.

Not as empty as the last year has been, but empty like someone dredged out of purpose from his inside.

This worthlessness is only matched by the profound sense of rhetoric that the whole scenario has transformed into.

He tries to think of the things that has defined his 57yrs of life and regretfully comes up short.

He loves his job though; he is a creative director in his own Advertising company.

This is the zenith of creativity sitting up here freezing my tits off, he thinks with a half and almost deranged smile.

He thinks of his brother who works in a casino in Dubai.

He wonders what he is doing at that precise moment.

He wonders what he will be doing when he receives the news.

He thinks of his estranged wife and how evil she
is, and he wonders what he ever saw in her.

It sadness him that he could have been so wrong about her, so blinded by her phony demeanour.

He thinks of the music he enjoyed listening to. John Mayer’s “My stupid mouth” comes on top of that list and yet he never really loved it that much.

He purposefully avoids thinking of his mother, because he loves her too much.

He thinks of Judith,his cousin, and a deep sense of loss washes over him.

At 2.57am he starts to cry.

More like a soft sob.

His shoulders shudder and convulse,his jaws clench and tears roll down his cold cheeks.

He cries in silence and he cries like a wounded animal.

He cries with his head held in his frozen hands.

He weeps,softly, with dignity.

He weeps the way you would weep when someone is not watching.

The last time he had cried was 8yrs ago, when she took his son away.

That bitch!

When the time finally comes he is numb.

His mind floods out every thought.

He remains a shell of a man.

He remains void and pitiful.

His eyes deaden, a dark cloud crosses over them, a black cataracts.

He stares out at the dead city beyond, and although awash with lights, he sees a dark hole.
Although a soft wind blows his ears, he hears a dirge.

He is a man besieged by his own choice and he dies even before death receives him.

He is no longer crying, he doesn’t need to because his die has been cast.

He takes a last swig, tosses his cigarette away,
then takes a deep breath.

He doesn’t pray.

It’s already too late for any kind of salvation.

At 3.59am his watch alarm buzzes.

He closes his eyes and pushes himself off the ledge.

He starts falling.

His life doesn’t flash before his eyes.

His final existence is boiled down to elements that are subtle but incorrigible.

He feels the wind whip at his face.

He feels gravity pull at him with deranged grit.

He hears the sounds of the pavement rushing at him.

He hears his own eulogy.

His tie, his black tie flatters upward in the wind.

His black tie, at that moment curiously represents a hangman’s noose.

As he tumbles down to meet his death, he is unaware of the amount of pain that he has already created.

He is unaware that his only sibling, his brother will crumble on the floor in his principal supervisor’s office and weep when he hears the news.

He doesn’t know that his mother will be
so stunned by the news she will plunge into a depression that she never quite recovers from.

He doesn’t know that the last person he had a drink with, his best mate Felix,will blame himself for not having seen signs.

He doesn’t know that his father will turn in his grave with disappointment.

He is unaware that his estranged wife will choke on hearing the news, and she will turn into a
vegetarian soon after witnessing the crumpled fleshy mess that forms a tomato paste kind of splotch in the pavement.

And Judith, poor Judith. Judith will play the last conversation in her head over and over
again.

She will remember the pause, she will remember
the last words, “….take care of yourself, okay?”
These immortal words will be the bricks to her castle of guilt, a tall structure that will relentlessly cast a shadow on her life.

Although they were close and she will miss him
every day, she will hate him with equal passion, hate him for being selfish.

She will grow thin.

She will get nightmares and her life will never be the same again and she will moan him like you would your own child.

His girlfriend of three months will never know who he was,and that will greatly intrigue her.

Everybody will shake their heads in bewilderment because he was not the type
to do what he did.

He had a great job,a good business too.

He didn’t do drugs. He drunk as modestly as the next guy.

He loved to dance.

He loved music.

He was a nice guy who looked stable.

Everybody will think of cracks that they might
have missed with him, nothing.

And added to the fact that he leaves no note behind, he will be a puzzle with many missing pieces.

He doesn’t know all these as he falls.

The final moment is hazy.

If it was a colour, it would be black.

It’s not a moment that can be chalked in words, or reconstructed by a living human mind and it’s swift as it is vague.

He doesn’t open his eyes even when he feels
the end reaching out for him.

Feelings and emotion flee his body leaving only that subtle hint of fear which matters little then.

A few seconds before he slams into the hood of the blue bread delivery van, the church clock
chimes 3am.

His name was Francis.

Hw was my best friend.

I miss him.

I always will.

R.I.P,my dear Francis.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Stories that live in our hearts; Do you know how a new day smells like?

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I’m typing this from my laptop and cynically casting a cursory look at the battery strength.

Going on a leisure travel alone is like sending yourself a saucy sms.

Or “liking” your own picture of Facebook.

Or looking at yourself in the mirror and muttering with a wink, “they don’t make them like this anymore.”

It’s desperate and vain.

But two weeks ago, I found myself in Maasai Mara Game reserve at 6:30Pm, alone.

This was a tour of duty.

I facilitated a workshop for Game Hotels around Maasai Mara and Serengeti Game reserves striding across Kenya/Tanzania border on Best Waste Management Practices.

Let me back up a bit.

In my line of business, I spend a lot of time in hotel rooms.

I’m lucky that I spend most of that time in high-
end hotel rooms where the management leaves a chocolate bar on your pillow together with a personalised note welcoming you to their fine establishment.

Since I’m always writing travel reviews about those establishments as a side hobby along with my Agribusiness Consultancy, I’m always treated slightly better than a paying client.

I get more smiles, even if they are more artificial.

I get free spa treatment if I ask.

I’m often called by the manager who wants to find out if “you are having a good time and
if you need anything that would make your stay more comfortable.”

I once told one in jest, “Yes, actually, can I have
one blonde Russian dancer and a petite south east Asian with a gap in her front teeth… and some red wine. Thank you. ”

There was a shocked silence on the line before I
added; “It’s a joke.”

An uncomfortable laughter followed from his end.

I never make tea in the room, or wear their bath robes.

I never use their closet because I never unpack.

My room is often shabby, which I suspect mirrors the state of my mind.

Unless otherwise, I never use the air cons, breath that cold for too long and feel your lungs calcify.

I normally like to strip down to my boxer and hang out in the room that way.

If there are peanuts in the mini bar, I will have them.

I avoid chocolates, even the complimentary ones.

I love hotels that have a huge bowl of fruits in the room; it makes me feel like I’m in Game
of Thrones.

When you stay in numerous hotel rooms they
all start looking the same.

They blend into a murmur of walls and windows.

I find hotel rooms vacant and sad.

And too prim.

That changed a fortnight ago when I had a vehicle breakdown in Lake Magadi,in the hear of Kajiado County.

Kajiado and Narok County are Maasai people heartlands.

A Lady friend of mine who works in Botswana and i have been talking on email since beginning of year.

She kept “threatening” that she would come down to do an excursion on the Maasai near Lake Magadi, just at the border of Tanzania.

Would I be able to accompany her down?

Yeah, I said knowing full well that she wouldn’t come down.

It’s about a long distance relationship that we have.

The details would take me a long while to explain,and why should I feel obliged to explain such private details about my social and love life in such a public post?

She was to come in June.

She didn’t.

Then she said she would come in July.

She didn’t.

Last email I got was three weeks ago, saying she will be coming in this August Month.

So a number calls me at 2pm and says in some
funny accent, “Hey, is this Ben?”

It’s Sunday, so I’m thinking it can’t be someone from Barclays Bank peddling personal loans.

But I love the voice that comes through.

I say yes, this is her.

“Hey, this is Daisy!”

So I’m like, who?

She knows I’m teasing her.

” I’m in Nairobi!” She says excitedly. “Where can I pick you up we go
down to the “Maasai place”? She asks.

“Now?” I say incredulously. Shee says yes.

I say, I can’t.

I mean, I can’t just up and leave man.

I mean, I have things to do tomorrow.

And the next day.

She says look, you promised.

I hate it when a woman says that.

So I balk and wink at my colleague who looks
at me and says, “ Magadi? Now? You got to be kiddin’ me!”

I tell the car-hire guy with the queer name to pick me up from home; meanwhile I throw in a few clothes in a hold all, and I’m off.

I forget my toothbrush and my boxers.

Daisy shows up with some chic that she introduces as the photographer, but whom at some point during the trip down here, I see her touch on the thigh.

I don’t know.

Maybe it’s a Botswana thing to touch your photographer on the thigh.

Maybe photographers in Botswana take
better pictures when you touch them on the thigh.

Who am I to judge, I’m just Kenyan.

I will have nothing to do with a Botswana beauty when Daisy is here…

To cut the long story short.

The Land cruiser we are using stalls, a fan belt problem.

The Maasai village we are to stay in is another couple of hours away.

The driver–a sheepish chap, with a crooked hat – announces that we have to find a place to camp somewhere before they bring us another car from Nairobi.

Some Maasais offer to house us for a fee.

Yes, nothing is for free.

For 2k we will get a small manyatta, and a meal.

I want to ask why they shouldn’t throw in a Maasai dance as well now that we are here, but the fellows didn’t seem to be the kind
who took jokes.

Our house stinks.

We are offered two thin mattresses which, going by the smell, I suspect were formerly owned by a He-goat.

At night we shall all sleep with our clothes on, sleeping next to each other in a file.

My Daisy slept next to the photographer who, she placed – strategically – at the end of our line,very far from me.

At night they will talk in hushed whispers, in the strangest tongue ever, Setswana I assume,talking about me.

She will giggle a few times.

So will our driver,in moral support.

At the end of the room, a fire made from
cow dung will smolder the whole night, emitting heat and some smoke.

I will doze off and dream of stir fry chicken.

But for now young Maasai women giggle around us.

I try not to look at their perky breasts which are all out (I swear) and are pointing at us brusquely.

Then there are the naked children who mill around us.

They touch the photographer’s equipment, not her thighs, like Daisy.

Supper is boiled maize and some milk. No meat. No vegetables.

We sit around some fire where the main mzee
of the boma and some of his sons chat us up in shaky English,mixed with Swahili,and Kikuyu,my mother-tongue.

Here is a true tri-linguist!

Behind us, darkness stretches into nothingness.

Behind us lives the untamed wild.

The night is still, so still it feels like time has stopped, like the earth has held its breath.

Chic photographer tells the Maasai elder about their culture and asks him questions.

He is a seasoned interrogator, I can tell.

I’m impressed by the kind of penetrating questions he asks the chic.

I enjoy listening to how he lures information
out of the chic.

He’s artful.

Daisy giggles with the children who are later forced to go sleep.

She then sets up her imposing camera on a tripod behind us and every so often, the stillness of the night is interrupted by the whirring sound of her lens.

Then, click: a picture of us seated under God heaven is immortalized, because that’s how small you feel in the open night of Maasailand.

You feel like you are seated under God’s feet.

You feel like you are seated at the feet of your father.

I like it here.

I like it like this.

I like the hopeless state we are in.

I like the fact that these Maasais could just – for
the fun of it – decide to rob us and send us out into the night to get mauled by lions.

I like the taste of smoke at the back of my throat.

I like the sound of mouths ripping into their maize cobs and the monotonous chewing.

We sound like feeding bovines.

I like knowing that life has been stripped down to its bare essentials; milk, maize,silence, the night and a hope for sunlight tomorrow.

At some point I will want to shower because I can never get any sleep if I don’t shower.

Some little girl will be asked to put my water in the reed bathroom which is at the edge of the boma, in deep darkness.

The Maasai elder will ask if one of the small boys can stand outside the bathroom for me to feel secure.

I will say no.

I will say I’m fine.

But I’m not, I’m terrified that I might step on a
snake, or a lion might pounce on my back.

I’m terrified like a female dog in the face of a leopard.

But no way, I’m going to let some Maasai kid be my security, no matter how many
lions he has killed.

No way will I disgrace myself like that.

I will take my chances with the lion.

Bring it on,Old man lion!

I want to write more, but I can’t.

OK, I’m lying; I don’t want to write more.

I want to stay here forever.

I want to wake up tomorrow and smell a new day.

Do you know how a new day smells like? It smells like all the Maasai goats in this compound.

It smells like the mooing of cows.

Of the hoofs rumbling out of the kraal.

Of little Maasai herds boys whistling under
their breaths as they herd the cows out.

A new day smells like the sensual perfume of the chic photographer watching me brush my teeth
with a piece of a twig chewed at the end and saying, “that’s the coolest thing I have ever seen, can I take a picture?” and me posing goofily with a twig sticking from the corner of my mouth.

Like I do this all the damn time.

Like this is how I roll.

I like it here.

I really do.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

When you get mugged your self-esteem suffers more than your physical injuries

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I get to enjoy my Work/travel mode in the course of my work as an agribusiness consultant.

There is this Thenge Njeru waterfall.

It’s in Runyejes, in Embu.

To get here you use murram roads that slither up hills.

If you step off the road, you will plunge deep into shockingly beautiful greenery and clear rivers.

The folk who live here only have to stare at the green hills to get Vitamin A.

Quite often this area gets misty and drizzly.

The roads here are mostly deserted and once in a while, a bodaboda(taxi) motorbike will zoom past but most of the time you are alone.

And so it’s on one of these roads that I was driving up,headed to meet a client and my contact who is well versed with the history of these waterfalls – and of some 3km tunnel that
the Mau Mau used to walk through while evading the British Army – that I realized my front wheel was getting flat.

I pulled over to change it.

The car – a SUV – is one of those with the spare wheels strapped behind it.

Only this one was locked by a padlock.

So I’m standing at the rear of this car, calling the car hire guy to ask where the darn
key is when I hear movement behind me.

Behind me two ninjas are stepping out of the mist.

OK,I’m being dramatic, they sort of step out of the thicket.

Ninjas in their mid-twenties. Locals.

One has a weeding hoe slung over his right shoulder. (Imagine how that statement
would sound like if I were writing about Westlands in downtown Nairobi by
night).

Now, two things; this is not my neck of woods and I’m a siting duck standing there in the middle of some small road.

I could get robbed, killed and my body rolled down the valleys where I’d end up in the rivers below for the fish to feed off me.

I have been mugged before, in 1998,in South B.
It was midnight and I was walking to Wheels
Bar in the shopping centre to meet my pals for a drink.

In 1998 Wheels was the place to be.

It was dark, smoky and smelled of a cattle dip.

And we loved it.

About 200 meters from the shopping center, a chap had stepped in front of me, another had kicked the inside of my knees from behind effectively getting me down on my knees, a rough hand had then grabbed my throat
choking me and hands had plunged through my pockets relieving me of the little I had (their were no cell phones back then, OK, there were but mere mortals like me couldn’t afford them…they belonged to ministers and
minister’s mistresses).

I was left on my knees, shocked,dazed and with a burning throat.

My throat eventually recovered, faster than my ego.

When you get mugged your self-esteem suffers more than your physical injuries.

There is something perversely dark with another man putting you in a position of helplessness.

So no, I wasn’t ready to get jumped in Runyenjes, and certainly not with a man with a hoe on his shoulder.

I quickly pocketed the phone when these two chaps walked towards me.

I had valuables on me; a decent Nikon
professional camera on the passenger seat, a MacBook in a bag on the back seat and some decent amount of money for the trip. Plus, the phone was a Blackberry Bold 9700
that a marketer friend had handed me to use and review before the launch.

It’s safe to assume it was the only Blackberry Bold in the whole of Central Kenya(just kidding to make this whole story a bit more interesting!).
If they robbed me, I was going to lose everything I had done for the past three days;
pictures, notes, including all my valuables in the laptop.

There is something Andy Garcia said in a movie I once watched: anyone who wants to assail you will always be as nervous as you are and quite often what they need is a reason from you not to go through with it and that reason is confidence.

“Men smell fear on other men,” he said in
that dark way he talks.

So I walked towards them, forcing them to slow down, and I extended my hand in handshake.

Mr. Hoe was forced to transfer the hoe to his
left hand to shake my hand (see what I did there? A trick to disarm a right-handed thug!).

As we stood there exchanging pleasantry, my phone started ringing. Now BlackBerry is a phone – as they say –designed for humans but inspired by nature (what a coincidence I was deep in nature) and so has these
ringtones inspired by nature.

I had my ringtone on Jungle Drums, which is the sound of small tribe in a forest in Mali beating drums and dancing around a fire half naked before they sacrifice a goat to the gods of thunder.

And so you can imagine how odd it was when the car hire chap started calling me back.

So there I was having a conversation with these chaps when drums start beating from my pants.

Of course I don’t want to remove the phone lest I give them ideas, and they are looking at my
pants like “aren’t you going to feed that small African tribe in your pocket? ” and I’m standing there acting like they are the only ones hearing things.

In short, I wasn’t mugged; in fact, they helped me change the tyres.

Here is the problem.

When you live in the city for too long, you become cynical.

You lose faith in humanity.

You forget the basics of human nature.

You forget that the world is full of good people.

That people will ignore drums in your pocket.

Some truth: most of us love our jobs but not all of us respect our jobs.

You’d imagine that loving your job would automatically make you respect it.

Hardly.

Take me for instance, I love writing but most time I slack and forget to dot my i’s, I write weak sentences because the deadline is here.

I disrespect the art.

You’d expect me to knot tightly my sentences that no editor would dare even touch it.

¤¤ ¤¤
Then there is this shop in Kutus Town.

You’ve never heard of Kutus? Come on! Google it!

Anyway, as I passed through this town one rainy morning I saw this hardware shop by the side of the road.

I don’t know why it reminded me of Sanford
and Son.

There was a chap in the shop.

He had a workman’s apron,like Julius Malema in a parliament session,all bright red.

I found that even cooler.

Since I was in a hurry to get to Embu, I made a mental note to make that small detour and visit the shop on my way to Nairobi the next day.

And I did.

The shop belongs to Ben Njoroge.

He calls it Bentabs Ltd.

In short, Ben fixes anything broken.

I told him I thought his shop was a scream and that him wearing his apron showed a dedication and pride in what he did.

He laughed, flattered.

Ben(no relation to this writer) works with his hands.

They are thick and greasy.

Hands that say, I take care of business. I fix things.

In his shop is a framed picture of his family; two girls, the eldest is 19.

“They admire what I do, most teenagers
would be embarrassed if their father did something like this,” he says with a smile, “ but they aren’t, they know that I love this and that I love them, so they love this.”

Words that you don’t expect in Kutus,a neck of woods in Kenya.

How can you not learn something from Ben?

¤¤ ¤¤
On my way to visit this huge Mugumo tree in Aberdare National Park, this tree that the Mau Mau used as a post office, I ran into this grumpy wrinkly jumbo.

You aren’t allowed inside the park without an armed KWS ranger because you could do something foolish – like try pet the head of a Buffalo – and end up dead.

So they send you in with some armed chaps.

I had two; one called Mary and the other called Taruz.

Mary rode shotgun.

Taruz sat at the back but I could smell him; he smelled of hide, something that walks the
forest with other animals.

And when I say he smelled of hide I mean it as a compliment because he smelled like a
warrior, not like some woos who wears Hugo Boss and is scared of lizards.

Whilst Taruz said very little, Mary couldn’t stop
chattering; talking about game and whatnot, stuff that would greatly entertain an Othello, not me.

But I acted interested, urging her on with “aaah” “really!?”

“You are lying Mary!” “No way!” “Come on!” “You are so fearless!” “Hey, can I touch your gun?”

As she regaled me with a tale about some tourists who mistook a crocodile for a log of wood and sat on it, we suddenly stumbled on this jumbo(African Elephant) hanging out by the roadside, a toothpick(chewing a big twig) sticking out the side his mouth,where his tusk had been broken,probably by poachers).

A thug jumbo.

Something about that jumbo that showed me that he had a troubled childhood, that he never really knew his father. He was clearly having a bad day.

He was having a bad day because someone had broken one of his tusks.

Maybe he owed some other jumbo money
and the guy had sent goons to collect and ended up breaking his tusk, who knows.

He stood at the side of the road, breathing hard; breathing like those guys in broken
suits who work at KICC and who are forced to use the staircase to the 12floor because the lifts are down.

Then suddenly for the first time, Taruz spoke up: “Stop!” he howled from the back and I stood on the brakes.

The car went silent as we watched the thug jumbo watch us.

We stood there regarding each other for a while, waiting to see who would blink first.

I knew things were tricky when Mary stopped talking and held her gun tightly.

“What do you think he’s thinking?” I whispered.

My question went unanswered for a while before finally Taruz hissed from the back, “ I’m not thinking!”

What Taruz really said was, “ Don’t do anything erratic and he will leave us alone.”

I chuckled and wondered what erratic thing he thought I would do at that moment;walk over and inspect his broken tusk?

Walk over and offer it some peanuts, maybe?

“Are they roasted or fried?” Jumbo would ask.

Me;“ Fried.”

Jumbo;“Salted?”

Me;“Yes.”

Jumbo;“No, thanks. Trying to lose weight here.”

Me;“New year resolution?”

Jumbo;“Yes.” Thug Jumbo would say, “Can’t you tell I’m slimmer?”

Me;“Yes, you are. You lean lean thing. ”

Oh no, I wasn’t about to get erratic, not before a pissed off Jumbo!

If you want to know how pissed off he was,
it’s like going to the ATM on your way to a hot date only to find out that find out that HR had sent the wrong salary instructions to the bank and so now you have to wait until next week Tuesday to access your salary.

That’s the kind of day Jumbo was having.

Someone had broken his tusk and when he was in the process of looking for that guy, he runs into three fools in a car, one of them an Agri-journalist, and you know how wild animals hate journalists because they are always getting
their facts wrong.

Plus they are always giving wild animals nicknames; like call elephants “jumbo”.

All this while Taruz hadn’t stirred from the backseat and that gave me some level of confidence, I was in good hands.

If Taruz was cool about the scenario then
everything must be cool.

But when the jumbo slowly started towards us and Taruz leaned over my right ear and said firmly, “ Reverse…slowly,” I knew we were in
– and wait for this old primary school expression – hot soup.

I reversed slowly, gently. “He is looking for a path to get back into the thicket,” Taruz assured me as Jumbo followed us slowly.

But when we passed two entrances that jumbo should have used and he didn’t, I knew he
was going to sit on the bonnet of the car then ask us casually, “ Looking for anything in particular in my neck of woods, fellas?”

And when the jumbo got onto the road and started walking towards us more steadily, I knew for sure, we weren’t leaving that park alive.

I’m serious.

I was terrified!

That jumbo was huge and menacing and in no mood to negotiate with anyone. Much less an Agri- journalist.

I knew from Mary that Taruz was more experienced than her because while she spent the day at the KWS office,pushing paper and occasionally taking busload of students into the park for a tour, Taruz was a security ranger, spending days in the park, hunting down
poachers, herding of trouble making buffalos etc.

He had a thick skin…the elephant, I mean.
I was now reversing at 10km/hr (faster than a Toyota Vitz on Mombasa road) and the damned Jumbo was bearing down on us.

It became obvious that the jumbo’s
temperament was unique when Mary looked behind at Taruz and asked, “ Tufanye nini sasa?”(What to do now?)

Taruz impatiently tapped me on the shoulder, “Smamisha gari!”(Stop the car!) and before
the car was fully stationary he was out, cocking his gun as the jumbo, now walking faster, now salivating at the mouth, bore down on us.

Suddenly the silence of the park was split by the shot of his gun going off.

A monkey screamed somewhere (that monkey wasn’t me, I promise) and the jumbo sort of
jumped startled and I hoped to God, Taruz had put a lead between his eyes. I expected him to stagger and flop by the roadside, tits up.

Instead he ran into the bush.

I was horrified! “That thing was the size of a house,” I scold Taruz, “How could you miss?”

“We don’t shoot to kill Jumbo’s;we are not poachers,but Rangers. We shoot to scare them back to the bushes where they are safe from human interference”.

Powerful words in defence of African Elephant.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There are tall girls,then there are those pedestalled on high heels

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She is a full head taller than me.

A full head taller than everybody in the airport.

It’s a stupefying sight, to look under a woman’s chin.

It makes you feel frail.

You feel your gonads shrink and cower.

And particularly, I was concerned that she could see the middle of my head and we all know the story of depletion beginning to happen there.

So anyway, I distractedly mumble an apology, to which she responds with a very faint smile, a smile so faint I thought it was a sneer.

In fact, I think it was a sneer.

I suspect that this is the smile she saves for shorter men or men with no hair in the middle of their heads -whichever comes first.

In this case, both.

She is with a man; some Somali/Ethiopian looking chap with an obedient beard.

A chap she also dwarfs.

He’s telling her something in a language I can’t understand and she, demurely, responds officiously and in a very calm monotonous tone.
A tall voice.

I know it was a tall voice because the sound of it seemed to hang around in the air longer than the man’s.

Later, after I had passed the metal detector and I’m getting into my jacket, and is strapping my watch I watched her cross over, pick her purse and strut away to the airline desk, followed by literally every eye on the airport floor.

Women gawped; men seemed to hold their
breaths.

She was abnormally tall, so tall it almost seemed
rude.

It wasn’t graceful, or even sexy, just sobering.

Sobering how she made each one of us on that floor seem like ants; stunted and worthless.

And funnily enough, that feeling in itself was intriguing if you want to know the truth.

I have always had a phobia for women who are taller than me.

I never want to stand near them, or hug them, or walk on the same sidewalk with them.

I have always wondered if they are the ones to change the bulb in your house.

Or you are the one to stand on your tiptoe to kiss them. Taller women filll me with angst.

They make me feel like their “female dog” (see how being politically correct can sound flat?).

OK, I’m sure all the trained psychologists in High School will offer textbook diagnosis to explain these insecurities.

Let me save you the trouble.

I give them a wide berth because I’m an egomaniac ogre.

Because I fear being challenged.

Because I’m too damned lazy to stand on my
tiptoe to fetch a kiss.

Yes, the hell with high hanging fruits (no pun), they rot quickly because nobody ever touches them anyway.

So the sun dries them out.

Take your pick…not of the hanging fruit, of course.

The last tall girl I know, the one who looked at me like an ant was from Egerton University many years ago.

Renee was her name.

She was from one of those tribes in northern Uganda, which means she was taller than all the loud Kenyans who fawned around her to sip from the fountain of her brilliant personality.

Only problem was she had the attitude of a gravid sewer rat.

One day at Wandegye, where we would all frequent to eat pork on Saturdays, she told me, “Ben, if you ever hope for us to have a sound conversation while standing up, would you care to wear the right shoes?”

What a girl!

I can’t think of anyone who ever went below my belt in that fashion.

You could have heard my ego deflate all the
way from Busia border to Mombasa port city as the last of those acerbic words left her condescending lips.

Suffice it to say; those words scarred me for life.
I’m a willow shadow of the man I used to be because of her.

After Renee, the airport lady with a strange tongue was the tallest woman I had seen in many years.

I mean tall as in distinctly tall.

Tall because she was naturally tall, yes, but also because she had on high heels which she teetered on, as if she was walking a tight rope.

As if, if she veered off slightly she would plunge down into mediocrity,which apparently, going by her high chin, was where the rest of us peasants belonged.

This is not about my insecurities in my younger days, or the scars that I carry under my chest.

This is about high heels and its ode.

The most lethal tool a woman can have
against a man is not even her brains (that helps) but is high heels because high heels seem to say, “This is my level today. Rise up to me, if you can.”

And that is confidence.

When a woman wears high heels, the message you receive is not a fashion statement, because heels just have to say more.

Heels say; I want to be more.

It says;you need to see me as more.

It also says I don’t care if you don’t see me as more.

There is a thin veiled haughtiness about high heels, something that says I don’t give a batshit.

That I will take you on, yes, but only on
my terms.

When a woman wakes up and climbs on high heels and takes on extra inches under her, she is simply saying she is also willing to take on anything the world throws at her.

Nothing says, “I can,” on women better than high heels.

At the airport, I watched many of those airhostesses strut about importantly.

And they are all different.

There are those foreign ones with pale faces and sharp chins,dragging suitcases like carcasses.

There are the local ones with tight smiles and tighter skirts.

The slim ones and the ones whose waistlines are slowly going south.

The friendly ones and the ones who regard friendliness with disdain.

But no matter their shape, temperament or
employer, they eventually become one because of their shoes; high heels.

Heels give their jobs a certain dignity.

Get them off their high heels and they will turn into waitresses.

Get them off their heels and the charm goes.

The pomp sublimes.

Heels prop their jobs up.

Talking of props,heels transform the blandest of women into sexy machines -and some into sex machines.

It doesn’t matter if she is as waspy as a preying mantis or as large as Madagascar’s Moto Moto, heels are the only shoes that will be kind to a woman regardless of her size,status or creed.

It’s hard not to notice a woman in heels
but it’s even harder not to appreciate a woman in heels.

The elegance of heels aren’t lauded enough.

The elevation isn’t celebrated enough.

It’s the poise.

For instance, hookers wear heels because in heels they find their edge.

Also, the sound that heels make is a tattoo that
drums in your bones.

Heels also transform the way a woman walks.

It gives her body movement girth and
rhythm. And if she has a good butt, a fairly decent butt, it pronounces it because it makes it move and shake in a way flat shoes can’t hold a candle to.

And look everywhere, look in Asia or in South America and tell me if you will find a butt that shakes better on high heels.

Perfect balance, that’s what having a 7kgs body part titter on a big surface area to volume ration (see how a butt movement can be explained by physics?).

Just to show you that I’m not talking through my insecure mouth, according to Harper’s Index, “the average increase in the
protrusion of a woman’s buttocks when she wears high heels is 25%”. See? I don’t make this stuff up.

Now, take that to the bank.

Today’s post is dedicated to all the ladies in my High School years rocking heels today.

We tip our hats to you.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

There is only one place that a real man can rediscover his true self;inside a Cave

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Once in a while my friends and I meet at this derelict farmhouse that belongs to one of my friends on Saturday afternoons like today.

It’s our ‘man’s hideout out cave’. A hovel.

It’s like going back to the Caveman’s era.

There is something primodal about going back in time to when man’s masculinity evolved inside a cave,and visitors were welcome through invitation only.

It’s very threadbare – a structure that sells beer, mostly on weekends only,and it is a sort of an exclusive joint.

You just can’t walk in into someone’s farmshed and ask for a beer;you have to be brought along by a friend who is a regular patron to our joint.

There’s a seating with plastic furniture.

Large parking in the compound.

We normally just pull a few seats and a table under a tree and bring out our drinks.

No corkage fee, someone in the group knows someone in the police force,so the law doesn’t harass us for peddling liquor in private premises.

Music is usually from someone’s car, brought
close to the table.

Nothing loud or intrusive, just a whisper of music like guys our age like it.

At some point, meat will be ordered and
some chap with big hands will whip up a meal in their rickety, dark kitchen.

There is always a band of Asians who also hold court nearby, doing their road construction thing.

Over time we have become friends, so it’s not uncommon for them to bring over some heavily spiced beef for us to try out and us to offer them our whisky.

Once in a while a traffic policeman will ride into the compound on his motorbike, pockets bulging with crumbled notes and casually ask for a beer,the two,then three beers,and then leave us in peace. Just another man on the hustle.

This bar is the safest place to drink in; no one will hold a heist in there and your car will never be stolen or vandalised as long as you are in the premise.

And if you buy a cop a beer, you will be investing because you know one day you
will call him when you are in a jam.

The place is completely derelict.

Completely local and very rural.

Some people might call it seedy.

We aren’t some of those people.

For us,it’s the place we go to connect, because the big city has a way of fading family ties,especially the brotherhood ties.

Brothers forget brothers in the rat race.

Cousins turn against cousins.

Family now only meets at funerals and weddings.

But for us, this farmshed is home.

The language is strictly mother tongue, unless one of us has invited someone from
across the hills.

Then we have to speak English, which isn’t no fun because the place doesn’t call for it.

Besides there are stories and jokes you just can’t tell in English.

They lose meaning in translation.

So we sit there in the open and have some good laughs.

Laughter that is restricted by walls but is set free into the skies, a testimony that the Lord just wants us happy.

Good times,man.

When night falls, we sit still and as the night wears on the temperatures drop.

Jackets come out of cars.

More drinks come out.

Most people would be disgusted at that debauchery.

But life is hard enough not to find a place where you can all gather and derive joy from each other’s presence.

The place is so rundown that no woman would even sit there.

It’s a man’s lair, so strictly no women.

Any women who show up here, we count as men.

As one of us.

I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying.

Once in a while, though, one of us will show up with a special ‘invited lady guest’.

You should see how we scuttle about, pulling a chair,wiping it with newspapers, offering insincere apologies for our tacky locale.

The days when we have a female in our midst are not good days because we all have to wear our masks (and speak in English).

And avoid crass jokes.

It’s painful because the female will look so ill at ease, so out of place as she sits there, hugging
herself and perhaps wondering if this is the day she contracts shigellosis, while we all wonder when she will say she wants to leave.

I remember this lady who was dragged along by this guy we invited.

We remember her innocently asking for a menu.
A goddamned menu, for crying out loud!

Where did she think she was, Hilton hotels?

It’s still the running joke to date.

Nobody remembers her name; we all refer to her as ‘A La Carte Menu’.

There are tons of places like this around the country, where once in a long while, men go and their women just can’t get why they love such places.

But these are places men go to be men.

Where men go to reconnect with other men, to share ideas, to draw courage from each other, to seek advice, to reinforce friendships, to
table a conundrum, to get in line and to exhale.

Nobody goes there for the ambience.

It’s always for the company.

For the camaraderie.

There, amongst peers, you don’t have to wear a mask to face the world.

You only have to be yourself.

You are vulnerable because nobody judges you there.

A lot of sanity has been found or restored in such hovels.

There the truth flows easily and nobody ever takes offence because none is ever meant.

At the end of the cold night we all go away until the next meeting in another month or two.

This is an ode to those caves where we find sanity.

Salute!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Crazy chicks are very caring

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I’m reading a book,“Gone Girl” By Gillian Flynn that reminds me of a psycho girl I once dated.

She was beautiful;every other man would have envied me,but only I knew that she was a beast,a beautiful beast!

Of course you have dated a crazy woman, unless, of course, you’re 24 years old, in which case your time is coming.

Hang tight.

West Pokot(Google it please!) is where I’m cooling my heals on a tour of duty.

There is not much to do here after work,so I’m reading about this crazy girl,Amy Dunne,a colourful character in this book.

The craziest thing about dating a crazy chick (and the most ironic) is that crazy chicks
don’t look crazy, least of all act crazy.

Crazy chicks are caring.

Very tender.

They are oh so mild.

Oh so loving.

They will serve you food.

They will tenderly rub your back when you are feeling blue.

They will drive across town to grill your steak.

They will even remove wax from your ears.

And all the while it’s “baby” and “darling” and “honey.”

Your pals will see how she fusses over you and they will go, “damn man, does she have
pals?”

And for months, many months, she will be
agreeable and loving and you will be riding this
dangerously deceptive wave until one day she shows you her barbed tail.

Then they want to kill themselves if you dare leave them.

Or park outside your gate, on a Saturday afternoon, until the watchman comes over and asks, “Unajua ule msichana ako hapo inje ya gate?”

And when you guys go out to look there is no msichana.

Then the fights in the middle of the night, and how she would pick butter knife
from the kitchen and chase you around the your only furniture, a two-seater, wearing nothing but knickers.

Because you are slightly sick, when you remember her now, you don’t even remember the peril of it all but of her perky breasts bouncing on her chest as she chased you with that knife.

She will burn your clothes.

Smash your timepiece.

She will change the numbers of other chicks on your phone.

Or delete a digit.

She will send a chick she thinks you are
interested in an sms saying that you have syphilis.

Hehe.

And when you finally get rid of her crazy-butt, change the locks and ask the watchman not to allow her in, she will be silent for weeks, then out of the clear-blue sky, you will receive an sms from her: “Hey baby, is it cold today
or what? What are you up to?” Like she never left.

Have you ever been walking in tao lost in thought, and just as you turn a corner you run into this girl who looks exactly like an ex who was a complete cuckoo, and you are so taken aback you have to stop at a newspaper stand
to catch your breath and let your heart go back to beating normally?

If you pick up “Gone Girl” By Gillian Flynn you will meet Amy Dunne. Loving. Smart. Witty.
Funny.

Good in bed.

Supportive.

And crazy like a bat.

Amy moves town for her husband Nick Dunne.

Takes care of Nick’s mom who is dying of cancer.

Sweet woman. Just sweet.

Until Nick screws up, like we always do.

Gone Girl is also an illustration of how we,men, will never win with women.

How scarily a woman’s mind works.

Their uncanny ability to record minutiae.

How when you are flirting with some tail on the sly imagining you are so smart, how they will be onto you in a minute, and how they can keep their suspicion under their hats, watching
you for weeks, picking evidence, naming it, filing it away, all the while never changing their attitude, always smiling and being all loving until she has enough evidence to send you away to Alcatraz for life.

Then she serves her revenge on a cold platter.

Here is the difference between us and mamas.

So you are in bed, it’s like 10pm.

Your mama’s phone rings, she talks on the phone for thirty seconds and tells that chap
“Ebu we speak tomorrow, I will send you an email.”

You ask and she says it’s a client.

You cause a royal stink.

“A client? Does that client have a watch?! What business is this that can’t wait until morning? Is he bloody doing a heart transplant tonight that he has to just call you now?
That shit has to stop by the way, tell him to not call you at this hour!”

She says ok, and you are pissed off and you sleep all sulky and shit.

Hehe.

Now reverse the scenario.

Phone rings at 10pm, you are in bed.

You pick up, and speak for a minute and say,
“Ok, let’s talk tomrrow, I will email you.”

Your mama,without looking at you (because she doesn’t have to look at your face to see if you are telling the truth, she can hear the lie in your voice) will ask, “Who was that?”

You say, “It’s Miriam, from Orange telcom customer care.”

And she will say nothing.

She will continue removing nail polish from her
nail.

But be sure that the story is filed away somewhere,and she will not forget those two key words: Miriam and Orange.

Women?

They chill.

And they observe.

We are fools, we rush in.

This book is about how we, men, are constantly outfoxed by women.

How they think and scheme and manipulate
us.

How we imagine we are in control, when all the while we are only playing by their script.

The story is narrated in the voices of the man and the woman.

Written in a clever way.

Often amusing.

It will get annoying towards the end, maybe even ridiculous but it will be worth it.

It’s not a love story.

It’s a life story.

You read it and you learn.

And at the end of the book, you will feel annoyed at Nick and be a little scared of
Amy.

Women! We can’t do without them,but we can surely do a bit better without their drama.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Intrigues,hope and envy in Men’s ring of Friendship

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I hope my doctor will never read this post.

I hate all forms of physical exercises,except lying horizontally for eight hours a day,sleeping in other terms.

There are men who constantly stare at themselves in the gym mirror.

I can’t think of a greater testimony of
vanity.

This is not a story about mirrors or vanity; this is about friendship, at least some of the more defining moments of it.

OK, it’s also a bit about mirrors- at least if you hold it up.

But to tell you about friendship, and for you to appreciate certain nuances of it you have to understand how it really began.

My friend Meja is one of them- at least he used to nine years ago.

Meja is my boy.

It all began in a gym, one of those cheap threadbare sweaty estate gyms.

I was, what, 23yrs old,my last year in college, a bit scrawny and in need to flesh out some muscles.

But before you start arching your eyebrows, I will have you know that gym is the ONLY place a man is allowed to tell another man,“Chief, those triceps!”

No really, ask around, it’s permissible.

But once you step out of the gym, even
staring at another man’s well filed nails is considered queer.

I noticed Meja because of two things; one he walked round the gym shirtless, showing off his toned body as if he was a Greek god.

And two he constantly stared at himself in the mirror; stared at himself while he curled the dumbbells, stared at himself as he did military presses or squats and stared at himself as he swigged water from this fancy silver water can that he brought to the gym.

I often wondered why he hadn’t asked for his own phone number already,cause here was a man who was truly in love with his own image.

And I hated him.

I hated him because he looked better than most of us in the gym.

Hated him because he had the kind of biceps I
wanted, not the rubbery ones that wobbled on my arms.

I hated him because once in a while he showed up with this blonde bird (a vivid testimony that muscles never attract brains) who would sit at a corner doing something so cheesy like suck on a lollipop or pretend to “read” a book.

I’m certain she couldn’t even read her own name.

But every guy in the gym secretly lusted for her.

She would carry for him this very white towel and after pushing some serious weight on the bench (all for her benefit) he would swagger over to her and wipe his silly face with that stupid towel like he was Mohamed Ali or
some other braggart.

Then he would make small talk with her
before resuming the session.

And she always giggled at something he said, which was odd because he struck me as the kind of guy who had a personality of a cold sandwich.

The only reason he brought her to the gym was
to massage his bloated ego.

Oh I hated Meja.

I even hated him more because she was so hot, and obviously misguided.

She deserved someone like me, someone who
didn’t stare at his image in the mirror (because what stared back was not optically digestible) not this insufferable oaf who worshipped his body.

To find conviction in my hatred for him, I ignored him.

But Meja was so intoxicated with his own vanity that nothing else mattered to him apart from his biceps and his split chest and so he didn’t notice if you ignored him.

He hardly talked to anyone in the gym.

He came on, did his workout and later he went to the next room where and joined other kick boxers.

And together they pounded and kicked a bag of sand.

Very creative, if you ask me.

I knew we would never be friends because he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would hold a conversation for more than 30secs without lifting up his shirt to check if his six packs were still there.

So like ships in the dark, our lives oblivious passed each other in the sweaty gym.

Six months passed.

One morning as I waited for the gym to open one of his chicks showed up, another blonde but one with terrific legs this time.

She asked me if I could pass on some brown parcel to him when he comes around because she had to scoot.

I said no, I wasn’t going to stick around for
long.

I didn’t want to be a part of his charade; I didn’t want to be the guy who carried his what not.

Plus you never know, that parcel could have contained hair removal waxing kit.

She begged.

I relented, but only because she had great legs.

I did it for the legs, not for Meja.

A time comes in every man’s life that he does things for a woman’s legs.

Meja’s chick had a pair of legs that looked heavenly to my eyes.

That was my time.

And that’s how we started talking, Meja
and I.

I’m writing about him not because he is one of the closest friends I have (I have closer friends) but because of something that happened recently when I passed by his house recently over this long weekends.

It was 10am; he opened the door for me in an ugly faded towel wrapped around his waist.

He had some chick over.

Another pretty face.

She was in his t-shirt written “A Harvard dropout,” and was nibbling on a toasted slice of bread.

I was introduced.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said
sweetly.

I hadn’t heard anything about her and as a rule I never struggle to remember the names or faces of his women.

They never stay around for too long.

Since three is a crowd I made some feeble talk then excused myself,while he walked me out he mentioned that they were going to drive to Malindi.

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“No, today.” he said.

“But it’s headed to 11am.”

‘Yes, we shall spend the night wherever dusk finds us.”

And this brings me to the whole point of this story.

I remember being envious at his free spirit, at him being able to make decisions like that.

To live life on a whim.

He is the only truly single friend I have, the rest are dating or married.

I quite often admire this laidback lifestyle, sometimes even though I know it’s not what it
seems, that quite often it’s filled with emptiness.

I have seen him in some low points, Saturday nights spent alone in his cold house.

Sometimes when we go out I see him lingering about, not wanting to go back home too early
because nothing awaits him there, not a single sign of life; except the humming fridge.

But still once in a while,I want to be him even though he confesses he wants to be
me often.

A case of the grass being green on the other
side.

In him I have learnt one thing; that cold overnight pizza only tastes good when you have a hangover.

Among other lessons.

Then there is Gathura.

Yes, that’s his name.

I know.

We were in campus together.

In this friendship I find hope.

Lots of hope.

His life, at least so far, is a testimony that whichever card God hands you, deal it.

Three years ago, Gathura lived in a small Servants Quarter in Nairobi’s leafy suburb,
Kileleshwa.

Let me digress.

Here is the thing; Kileleshwa is the new middle-class cliché.

A burgeoning estate that should stop pretending to be leafy.

Kileleshwa is like an ageing man stubbornly clinging to his youth.

You see those old men in pubs rubbing the knees of some young girl half their age?

That’s Kileleshwa. Kile in short.

You see those ageing men who dye their hair black and talk stuff like “We really “just
happened to be born yesterday,” that’s Kile.

Kile is like a woman who lies about her age. Kile is an old estate that has refused to look in the mirror and see what it has become.

Kile, the incubator of the middle-class, is the starkest allegory of Nairobian’s brazen
quest for affluence and, in that quest, it’s lack of creativity and the herd mentality that afflict it.
Kile used to be the home of the truly affluent, now it’s the home of phonies and wanna-bees who carry their poodles at the back of their Toyota Ests and Mitsubishi Lancers.

There I said it and to borrow Eddie Griffin’s words, “Tell ‘em I said it.”

But look, I have nothing against Kile, I seriously don’t, we all have friends and relatives in Kile, we all have dropped someone off in Kile, or had a crash on someone in Kile or slept with someone in Kile or had a meal in Kile because everyone seems to live in Kile now.

But in Kile people try too hard, which you might argue isn’t a bad thing.

And please don’t ask me where my hood is, it doesn’t matter.

OK, I will stop.

Anyway, Gathura lived in this crummy Servants Quarter just after you’ve made the left turn at the Kasuku center roundabout.

He worked as a para legal in some law firm
not too far from there.

Creepy job.

I was doing better than he was as a Jua-kali(informal business sector) entrepreneur, he was lucky if they paid him those peanuts on time.

But we were great friends, we hanged out.

Once in a while he would call me on Friday at midnight and ask where I was because he
needed a ride home; he needed a ride home because he couldn’t afford the cab fare.

That’s how bad it was.

Quite often, mostly on a Satos, I would pitch up at his digs with a bottle of something, and we could crack it open and put on some Family Guy or something and kick it.

I knew his finances were in a pit, but he kept his nose up, he kept his sense of humour and he is one guy with an irrepressible sense of humor.

But he was starving.

One day I showed up to his digz at night to find him using candles.

I asked him what happened to his power and he joked, “Well I knew you were coming and I thought we would have a candlelit dinner.”

He hadn’t paid his power bill because he
couldn’t pay it.

And the thing is when your friend is going through such rough times, you sort of try and not talk about it.

We are guys; we don’t talk about things like that.

It’s like talking about heartbreak.

When you find your boy stripped off his clothes, you hand him a towel to cover his nuts, you don’t ask him what happened to his clothes.

That’s the male code.

And the thing is when you are going through stuff like this you tend to attract such rubbish women.

(I have to write about this hehe, I’m sorry)

So anyway, at this time he was dating this lady who was a real piece of work.

She had some money on her and she sort of liked him and he her, but boy was she dramatic!
One time she locked him in her house, threatening him with bodily harm because he was leaving her and her drama.

I had to drive clear across town at midnight to go save his ass from being stabbed, which basically entailed me pleading with her through the grilled door to open the damned
door.

She was drunk (that’s the very first time I learnt
about Nordic Ice, first time I saw that drink) and she was crying the whole time, she said teary eyed, “Ben, please ask him not to leave. Talk to your friend.”

And I said,“Leave you?

How?

He would be crazy to leave you, now please let go of his head and open the door sweetheart.”

Hehehe. She finally opened the door and he left her…eventually.

Anyway, when you are broke, you attract a
certain pedigree of women.

I suppose it’s even worse when you are rich.

A dog’s life, eh?

Then something nasty happened, his mom passed on.

Road accident.

See, he was close to his mother, always talked about her.

He had no relationship with his dad.

He was a stranger to him.

He was the first son, his brother was in campus.
He was screwed.

Troubles set in; debts,the pain of losing a mother, a brother he had to see through campus and yet he couldn’t even feed himself.

Life sunk into a deep dark pit.

He started losing weight;he started becoming a bit touchy, more sensitive.

It’s almost like he was looking for ways to have his friends disappoint him the way life had, looking for a conviction that indeed life was against him.

I saw him less because I’m impatient and I didn’t want to be put in a situation where we could clash but once in a while I still pitched
up with a drink, we still drunk and laughed but it was like walking on eggshells.

Then his tide changed; one day, five months after his mom passed on, his phone rang.

It was UNDP and just like that his life did a three sixty.

I always told him that his mom struck a deal with God; take me away lord, but please give my son a break, she told God.

This is a true story by the way; I haven’t even changed this guy’s name.

Overnight his life transformed before my eyes and it gives you lots of hope, its God showing you his hand.

It’s God saying, look, I’m here, I run this town.

And here is the spookiest of things; while his phone was ringing with an offer from UNDP I was losing my business.

Yes.

Both our tides were changing, albeit in different
directions.

Twilight stuff I tell you.

That was, what, two,three years ago?

He has since moved out of Kile, good old
Kile, gotten a good woman and is even growing a small paunch, (which he knows he should do something about).

He smells better, dresses better, hell he even changed his drink.

I’m certain his mother is smiling.

Here is how his life has changed.

He works in northern Kenya and when he comes down we always catch a drink.

So last week, on his invitation, we went to this
posh bar and placed our orders.

I ordered wine and he asked for a double Jack Daniels and some rocks.

When the waiter left, I leaned over and asked him with a cynical tone how much they were selling bloody Jack Daniels and without knowing the implications of his answer,without meaning to sound showy he replied nonchalantly;“I don’t know.”

You know you are struggling when you
ask the price of a drink in a bar.

Surely there must be some take home lessons in these two stories of friendships.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

My beard shaving disaster at a Kinshasha’s Barber shop

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Shaving is a testimony of manhood.

Sam, my barber, knows that he can chop off my ear, but he must never chop off my beard.

It is sacred.

He fools around it.

He trims it only a little, because I like it scraggly, like I survived a long winter hibernation.

Daisy,my partner, thinks it’s bullshit.

But the hell with her, she’s just
jealous that she will never grow a beard herself.

She complained about it until she got
tired and gave up.

In life I have met many naysayers who speak ill of my beard, but we (my beard and I) refuse to
give false prophets the time of day.

In my twisted head, my power, my invisible power lies in the bushes of my
beard.

It’s my talisman.

Like Solomon.

Without my beard I’m nothing but a smooth-chinned Quasimodo with a pen.

And when was the last time you took a smooth-
chinned Quasimodo with a pen seriously?

So the beard stays.

I grew a beard late in life.

We are talking 27 years of age.

Hairlessness way after your adolescence, when all your peers already look like colobus monkeys tend to make one develop serious hang-ups.

You imagine that folk talk about your lack of hair behind your back.

It gets to a point where you start thinking you can’t satisfy a woman because your chin is hairless.

You start thinking there is something wrong with you.

That you aren’t manly.

That you aren’t grown-up enough.

You get paranoid.

The curse of the hairless.

Eventually I grew a beard.

Let me explain.

It is similar to a couple eventually getting a baby after several failed attempts.

The result?

You jealously hold onto that baby.

Obsess about it.

Keep your eyes on it.

You don’t want people touching it.

Three weeks ago I was in Kinshasha,DRC.

So my pal Benjaps took me to this barber in Kinshasha’s CBD, right near Gambela market.

The barber is Ugandan.

Perhaps that’s when I should have walked away but I have faith in humanity, so I stayed.

Please note that I – like every man, really, isn’t in the habit of changing barbers.

Anyway, when it was time to shave my beard, I specifically told him in my rusty french to trim it, not cut it.

Just trim it.

He said sure, sure, yes, yes, I get it, trim it.

So I reclined on the comfy barbers seat and closed my eyes.

When I opened them moments later half my beard was gone.

Fuckin’ half my beard!

Boy was I livid.

“What have you done?!” I cried.

“Look what you have done!!”

He shrugged defensively, “It looks cleaner this way…”

“It looks cleaner this way?? Do you want to serve food off it?”

“What?”

Long uncomfortable silence.

I moved closer to the mirror and took a closer look at the damage.

“You have ruined me, my friend.” I muttered.

“You have surely and completely ruined my life.”

“Hiyo itamea tu haraka haraka, tena asana,” he said in his congolese accented Kishwahili..

“Yes, after another 27 bloody years! That’s how long it took me to grow my first beard!” I was furious.

That was a few weeks ago and my beard hasn’t grown back since.

I feel naked.

I feel like the wind blows through face.

When I look in the mirror I don’t know the
person who looks back.

I feel like a Quasimodo with a pen.

Anyway.

This is going somewhere.

A month ago Gillette sent me a whole pack of fancy shaving things.

“Use them and tell us what you think” they urged.

I tried out the Mach 3, has a sexy rubber handle and something called the Front Pivot Technology that makes it bend and yield according to your contours.

Didn’t like it much because it didn’t have enough “traction”.

It was too bendy.

Wasn’t aggressive enough.

It didn’t sink its teeth into my hair, as it should.
It thought my hair was its friend.

But I liked the Fusion Shaver.

A powered gizmo, 5-blade monster that didn’t baby around “contours” like the Mach 3 did.

But listen, after using these products I sat back and thought; what am I going to say about Gillette blades?

What am I going to tell another man about shaving?

I mean your hair is your business; you want to plait your pubic hair in cornrows?

Hey, whatever tickles your fancy.

Then it occurred to me that this is not even about shaving.

It’s even less about blades.

Or contours.

Or hair follicles.

Or sweat glands or shaving bumps, or those
things that folk in white coats sporting funny-shaped spectacles mull over in those spotlessly sanitised Gillette labs.

Shaving is a testimony of manhood.

Women shave yes, but women shave because they are embarrassed of their hair.

We ,Men, aren’t.

Shaving for us isn’t about discarding unwanted hair; it’s about aligning hair.

But the art of shaving has died.

I remember my gurdian dad shaving back in the 80s.

You haven’t seen a bigger spectacle.

I don’t know about your dad, but this is how
men shaved when they wore their manhood on their sleeves.

They walked out of their bedrooms with a towel
tied around their waist and swaggered to the sink.

You knew whose house it was by the way they walked around the house in a towel.

It was a presence that seemed to declare, “I run the ship here. This is my pond.”

We don’t walk around our houses like that anymore.

Now we walk around our houses like soldiers coming back from war, with our dignities in our hands, hounded by ghosts.

Our fathers swaggered to the sink like heroes.

Then they stood there, with a reflective frown on their brows, an old blade in hand, slightly bent at the torso, staring at their chins.

Like they were about to engage in open-heart
surgery.

Men back then did not admire themselves in the
mirror like we do now.

We spend too much time before mirrors.

We crease our faces as we suck in our bellies,
standing to one side, bloody getting our knickers in a twist if we have added weight on our midsection.

For crying out loud, we keep weighing scales in our bathrooms.

Our fathers barely noticed their girths.

And if they did, they didn’t show that they were bothered.

Vanity had not been conceived.

This was pre-six pack abs as we Kenyans knew it.

This was pre-Esquire.

No man in the 80’s would listen to another man tell him how to tie his tie, or match his shoes with his belt.

Men chose their paths, no matter how lonely, and they stuck to them.

But back to the 80’s man in the mirror.

A small growl would escape their lips.

Then they would run water in the sink, lather up their chins, dip the blade in the water, swish it around, turn their faces delicately to one side and start shaving, creating ridges through the
white snow of lather.

They would take their time,repeating, lathering, squeegeeing through.

Over and over until their faces resembled a penguin’s butt.

Then they would wash off their chins carefully, gently, like a mother washes her new-born’s bum.

After, they would splash on some stinging aftershave, and only then would they be ready to face the world, even if the world wasn’t
ready for them.

But the smell of aftershave would linger in the house for hours.

That’s how you knew there was a male in the
house, a leader in that house; even if we discovered much later that it was our mothers who led.

Hehe.

But that musky smell of aftershave would linger in your head even up to adulthood.

My guardian dad used Gillette aftershave.

I swear he did, I’m not just saying this.

And that smell has stayed with me ever since.

That smell reminds me of how much less of a man I am now compared to him.

Why do I say less of a man?

Well because now, every week we sit in trendy unisex salons, reading girlie magazines as our beards are shaved for us.

Now, we have another man rub balm on our chins, touching and kneading our faces.

It’s a disgrace.

You should see me fuss about my beard. You haven’t seen an eccentric yet until you
have seen me stare at my beard after Sam is finished with it.

It’s enough to make you unfriend me on Facebook.

Gillette should not just make sexy blades.

Gillette should make shaving sexy again.

Shaving should be about sex. Male or female? Check in the right box!

You shave for the same reason you chose to keep hair; to remain desirable, primal male.

The decision to shave is borne from a primal instinct.

And shaving is more than a task, it’s a ritual, a right of passage.

Shaving should be something that when a man does,everybody in the house wants to gather around to watch.

Your son should sit on the floor at your feet, staring up at you work that blade.

Your woman should sit at the dining table, chin cupped in hand, swallowing hard as you skim
that sharp blade ever so close to your throat.

Or jugular.

And that skill should turn her on.

You should shave like Don Draper.

Have you watched Don Draper shave in the TV series Mad Men?

No?

Then you haven’t shaved, my friend.

You haven’t shaved until you have shaved like a man from the yester years.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

A throw back in time;I miss my old village setting without walls

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It used to be said that the Great Wall of China is the only human artefact seen from the moon.

Even if this legend has been debunked by astronauts, the wall is indeed great.

It stretches an extensive 7,200 kilometres.

The Chinese have something to be proud of, marking how developed they were even in the pre-Christian era.

In my private thoughts,walls desecrate the environment.

They destroy wonderful panoramic views.

These days, I sometimes take an academic writing break in Kiambu,my hometown to my former village,my birthplace, a cosy little town at the
heart of central Kenya.

Twenty years ago when I left my birthplace to settle in my new home,it was indeed a village.

Don’t you misunderstand me: I am not really a crazy, romantic “ruralist” living up in the clouds,nor am I hypocritical GreenPeace member, not even an animal rights activist who concerns more about orphaned cats and dogs than the man dying on the
roadside;I’m just a moderate environmental conservationist.

I occasionally visit my birthplace village,but I miss its old rural setting.

I’m currently contracted to write an Agribusiness Best Practices manual by a client.

I normally take time off to go and do the writing from a friends home back in my birthplace village,if only to get inspiration from my past during the writers ‘block’.

Now I might begin to sound like Vasco da Gama!

Or I might sound very nostalgic showing wrinkles of ageing.

But what does a village mean to me, anyway: African mud huts, homes amidst farm lands, no cars or pikipiki’s (motorcyles), and most of all, no walls and gates.

NO WALLS, IMAGINE!

Those old days, when I was younger in the green Village – green it still is, most houses were just mud put around dry sticks, and you saw those
huts, there was nothing even to hide them from miles and miles of open view from all sides.

No walls, I mean.

Yes, there would be some stray marks of boundaries of farms with some thornyless plants of the euphorbia family, including
the “Gitooka”,a special succulent plant used to mark the four corners of farm boundaries.

I must hurry to add that the Kikuyu people have a sentimental attachment to the “Gitooka”,it not only marked boundaries but also lineage.

I was born long after my paternal grandfather,whom I’m named after, had already died in the Mau Mau insurgency in Kenya during the struggle for independence.

I had no idea about who he was or even a spiritual connection with his life.

As a curious young boy,I one day asked and old man who was my grand dad’s agemate to tell me about my grand dad who I never met.

I saw him almost coming to tears as he stood up silently,held my hand and led me to a far flung farm that used to belong to grand dad,but was lost during the long armed struggle for our country’s independence.

When we got to the corner of the farm boundary,he told me to pluck a succulent leave from the “gitooka” plant and wring it with my feasts;it produced some sap that he told me to rub on my face.

I was just amused,following his ritualistic instructions.

Then he solemnly said,”your grand father planted this particular “Gitooka” with his own hands. You almost resemble him. The sap you pasted on your face now spiritually connects you to his departed soul. Now you know him!”

I was moved by that experience,its spiritual connection with the past,and a plant that could connect three different generations,some who were already dead.

These days I take some long walks along the dusty village pathways of my former village, between my tight writing schedule: just to exercise my otherwise numbed hands at the laptop, to stretch my swollen feet, to feed my eyes with some green, and to get some fresh air – I am allergic to open windows while within my room!

What wounds my eyes when I am out of the hurting screen of the laptop are WALLS.

Yes, traditional boundary markers are replaced by walls, these days.

There are walls and walls.

Some,tall live hedges, are still growing up.

Others are a mix of bricks and grills, you could still have a peek through to admire the new mansions.

Most of them have a gate, some of which have large arches over them – Greek, Romanesque,Baroque, Neo-gothic, Persian, you name it.

Still other walls are high and tight – they can almost compete with the Great Modern Wall of Israel put
up by the wounded Israelis (I am afraid to use the ‘J’ word, lest I be blamed for anti-Semitism) on the
property of their helpless neighbours.

All in the name of sovereignty and security!

They have forgotten the story of the Berlin Wall,and why it had to come down.

I keep praying every day that this wall of Israeli insecurity too, should come down and like in my birthplace, should come down and free long range views of my old village!

It makes me angry.

I only pray that it will happen in my life-time.

All that it will take to bring that heartless wall will be one new Joshua – by the way, that is Hebrew for
Jesus.

That aside, coming back to the bourgeoning walls of my former village, they say, this is maendeleo
(Swahili for progress or development)!

After all, I work for holistic development, I am not against maendeleo: education, access to health-care, water, electricity, means of communication and transport.

NOLLYWOOD’S WALLS AND NAIJA MOVIES

I do care about quality of life!

My agonising question is: do we need walls and gates to celebrate maendeleo – advancement, that is a
better translation?

Now I understand why the Nollywood (Nigerian)movies are full of high walls and tall dark gates!

In the Nigerian productions, there would be that large lipped lady with a flashy red lipstick or the XXXL sized gentleman, steering their Mercedes
Benz with one hand and pretend to be attending to an important call holding the mobile phone with
the other hand, would hoot at a tall black gate that breaks the monotony of an equally soaring high wall, and there would be that house-boy who would leave his snaky watering hose aside and run to drag that heavy gate open.

Someone once said if you cut the walls and the gates out of the Nollywood movies, their humdrum
plots wouldn’t fill the time for a feature film.

Besides, how else will the Nigerians show off their affluence and extravagance?

To me the decision is simple, if walls mean advancement, I then prefer an underdeveloped world with no walls at all.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Live your tiny dream the best way you can!

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You may think that, your dream in life is only a tiny dream.

In that seemingly tiny dream that you hold dear in your heart, that doesn’t match the big dreams that others have, feel or look like much, joyfully go ahead and call the shots!

Own it and possess it.

Remember you are the boss to that tiny dream. You,and only you,can call the shots to your dream!

It’s your day, it’s your moment and it’s your time. You are not NEXT in line for success,it’s NOW your turn for success!

One of the most crucial lessons you can learn from life, that we are emphasising today is how to have fun and enjoy realising your dream.

The most joyful and energising decision of your dream life is to commit 100 percent to your vision and choose to immerse yourself in fun while at it.

It is good to know you’re on the right path, fulfilling the right dream, and that you’re not only giving the day
your all, but cannot wait to do it all over again tomorrow!

It is possible to go to sleep each night grateful for the day with victory becoming part of your lifestyle.

That is possible and is our lesson this
week.

First of all, be satisfied with your dream.

It is not the type or size of dream that measures success, but the successful completion of the dream
assigned to you.

Never allow low self-esteem or
perceived lowliness of the assignment life gave you to overshadow the dream and weigh you down.

What you do is your divine path in this life.

We all have different instructions from nature to fulfil in this life and success comes by fully honouring these instructions.

You too can enjoy this success by focusing on your instruction and not what others are doing.

The grass may seem greener on the other side, but who knows, maybe it’s growing in sewage!

You need to concentrate on your patch and water your grass the
best way you know, making it the envy of your neighbours.

Do look for your joy on the journey to greatness, because if you are living the dream, the two are not independent, but co-joined.

Having fun while at it is the fuel that fans the passion for it, and often times, is the driving force that renews you.

Your happiness resides within the dream itself.

It is acquired while fulfilling the dream and is steered by the motions of that dream.

Nothing gives me pure joy than to see a life transformed, a family changed, a community developed, a decision made for the better or an
addiction broken by one whose life is on the edge of peril or in the jaws of obliteration.

That is priceless, worth more than any amount of money or a holiday
in an exotic island.

It is uplifting to see such transformation and this motivates me to continually strive to touch people’s lives through inspiration.

The power in a dream to spawn joy for the dream bearer is probably the most compelling force for one
to pursue that dream.

Make your dream the source of your ‘fix’, the ‘dope’ for your crave and the origin of the ‘high’ that you need to keep pushing.

When you are down and discouraged, if you want to see weakness metamorphose into strength, go back into the ring of your dreams and fight some more!

Dreamers are too busy to fuss over their ‘good’ looks or ‘sterling’ performances.

They are too committed to get carried away with showbiz.

Their mantra is that, ‘when you are good, you tell people about it,
but when you are great, people tell you about it’.

To them, time is a precious and irredeemable resource.

They don’t waste it on their struggles,disadvantages and worries.
Your dream is not a punishment.

Don’t face it with grumbling, weariness and irritation.

It is a blessing.

Your life’s work is not a ‘job’, it’s a way of living.

Face it daily with a spring in your step and a smile on your face.

You may have started by expecting your dream to be simple,obvious and predictable, only for it to become
complex and challenging.

Just because you are in unfamiliar territory does not mean you stop the
journey.

You are still the boss of that dream!

Finally, reward yourself.

Work hard, but play hard too.

After work, go out and enjoy the fruits of your labour, the benefits and perks that come with genuine hard work.

Own what you do and don’t be
apologetic about it.

People don’t become great
because they did great things, they do because they did small things in a great way, until the small things became great.

Therefore, in that seemingly tiny dream, joyfully go ahead and call the shots!

Own it and possess it.

It’s your day, it’s your moment and
it’s your time.

You are not next in line for success,

it’s your turn for success!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Women sleauths and domestic house arrest

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Our Women love to see us at home.

Even if you leave dirty dishes in the sink, rummage through the clothes cabinet and leave clothes strewn all over, leave the toilet seat up … no matter how destructive you are, women are happier if you stay indoors where they can see
you.

They want you there even when you are hogging the TV with your sports channel and making them miss their favourite La Mujer de Alehandro,that Mexican Soap Opera.

They want you there even if they aren’t talking to you,for some reason or the other.

They would rather you sit through their lengthy brooding sessions, so that they can occasionally shoot you looks that can turn the blood in your veins into powder and offer you dry
monosyllable answers: Fine. OK.

Not funny.

I know many claustrophobic guys with very small concentration spans who would rather be anywhere but at home; guys who can’t stay in the house for two days running.

Long holidays running past the fourth day scare them.

Too long in the house and they feel the walls closing in,almost like they’d cave in on poor fellows; they just want to be on the move.

But sometimes as a man you have to learn to be still and do nothing.

Stay at home, because when
you start moving you become a moving target.

If you leave for a beer with a friend, or just to visit that pal in the next apartment block, your woman
will not take it kindly: “Why can’t you just stay in the house for once?”

Have you ever sat in the house on a weekend and wondered how you will leave the house without your woman getting all-emotional about it?

Or do these crazy things only happen to me?

It’s a public holiday, or a random uneventful weekend.

You are all lazing about and haven’t shown any indication that you might leave, which means you are in those
dreadful shorts or tracksuits, reading some old magazines or watching football highlights.

Then your friend sends you that tempting SMS saying that he is having a beer and offers to buy.

Or just to catch up.

So you sit there and struggle with one important question: how do I leave without upsetting the apple cart?

I mean, you could be a mandingo about it and leave without caring about consequences, but the problem with leaving like that is that you will come back and when you come back the house will feel so cold and unwelcome you will need to wear socks to navigate it in total silence of a trembling fearful mice.

And that’s too much work trying to keep things from blowing up on the slightest agitation.

But here is this other weird thing: The moment you start thinking of leaving,she will have gotten wind of it.

These people are instinctive animals: they can smell our intentions even before we act.

A Lady friend of mine told me: “You know, men think we are stupid. When my husband wears a particular cologne, I know he won’t be back before midnight.”

I was like, “The hell? You can tell this by the scent he wears on his craggy beard?”

“Yup,” she replied, “Not only scents but also clothes. I particularly hate some of his jeans because every time he wears them he comes home in the small hours of the morning drunk, and we always fight about it.”

I shuddered at the sophisticated level of sleuthing women can do.

There are guys who are known to
leave the house in bathroom sandals, because sandals are non-threatening and they say you are only next-
door.

Then they come back six hours later, bearing an olive branch –some meat.

You have to celebrate the Kenyan guy for bringing home nyama choma as an olive branch.

But sometimes our women will see through all this and attach a GPS on us: the child.

“Junior, go with dad to the shop.”

And in one swift swoop, your hopes of nipping into the bar for a cold one on a Sunday flies out the window, unless Junior doesn’t mind a drink too when he is still underage.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Life is Short. Travel light

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I do a bit of heavy travel in my field work.

This has made me learn how to travel light.

No unnecessary baggage!

I guess the same thing happens in life.

What’s happened in your past is not
nearly as important as what is in your future.

Where you’re going is much more significant than where you’ve
been.

But if you stay focused on the
past, you’ll get stuck where you are.

This is the reason a lot of people don’t have joy or enthusiasm for life.

They’re dragging around all of this
negative baggage from the past.

Somebody offended them last week,
and they’ve got that stuffed in their
resentment bag.

Last month, they lost their temper and said some things they shouldn’t have.

They’ve got that in their guilt and
condemnation bag.

Ten years ago,they lost a loved one.

They still don’t understand it.

They’ve got that hurt and pain in their disappointment bag.

They carry around their bag of
regrets, all the things they wished
they would have done differently.

Life is too short to live that way.

Learn to travel light.

Every morning when you first get up, forgive the people that did you wrong the day before.

Forgive your partner for what they
said.

At the start of the day, let go of
the disappointments, the setbacks
from yesterday.

Start every morning fresh and new.

Nature did not create you to carry around all that baggage,otherwise,it would have placed you on standard gauge railroad for your own safety.

Let it go and move forward in the life of blessing Life has in store for you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

How “not” to eat Fish

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I like food.

I love fish.

I can describe with relish how you go about it,no chopstics,no knives,forks and spoons.

You just need the dextrity of your cute fingers.

A friend told me that he has stopped drinking river or lake water,because of the disgusting things that the fish do in there.

But I love my fish!

Truth is, you haven’t finished eating your fish until you have eaten the head.

But you can’t enjoy eating the head if you treat it like a hoof;inedible and disposable.

I treat my fish like you would treat your first date; respectfully, appreciatively and curiously –which, ideally, is how you should treat every
date.

I squeeze lemon all over it then I start with the midsection.

I divorce the meat from the flesh,
and I put it away.

I eat the tail because it’s crunchy when deep-fried.

When I’m done with one side, I slowly and delicately turn it over,careful not to break its spine in the process.

Then I do the same to the new side until all the meat is scrapped clean off the bones.

Until the fish looks like it has been sorely surviving on a diet of water
and hence has lost all its weight and looks like an anorexic fish on some fish fashion magazine.

A fish ready to step on the catwalk (pun?); gaunt and pale.

And the head is the best part.

The head is delicate.

The head is the zenith,saved for last.
You got to treat the head with respect.

I should have mentioned that before you eat your fish you have to look at its mouth.

If your fish has its mouth closed,send it back.

If they say they only have fish with its mouth closed, ask for tea and bread.

Or leave.

A fish that is brought to your plate with its mouth clammed together, like it died humming a tune, is fishy.

I can explain why but I’m already in 370 words deep in this rambling and need to get to the heart (or head) of this post already.

Infact,this story is about how not to eat a fish.

Reason?

After all that bragging about how I’m an expert on eating fish,I got chocked by a fishbone.

If I was a white man, my
face would have gone pink from just writing down those words.

It’s an oxymoron, that statement, an
abhorrence even because a fishbone sending a Luo-trained Kikuyu fish eater to a hospital is akin to a Luhya pushing away his tea saying, “ Hapana, hii chai ni moto sana.”

I’m mortified. By this sheer accumullation of bad luck to the point of a mere small fishbone trying to extinguish my dear life!

So Tuesday, 6pm, I’m working deliciously on this fried fish when I feel a sharp pain as a bone grazes my throat.

I do what I have done for tens of years; take a bigger chunk of ugali(unlivened maize meal cake) and chase the bone with it, only
this time the ugali pushes the bastard bone right into my throat.

The pain!

Ooh my! Are grown up men supposed to wail loudly when they become so desperate during their final moments?

I send in another contingent of ugali.

Nothing doing.

Swallowing becomes a problem.

So I promptly stop being a
an expert fish eater about it and be a human being about it by driving myself to my Nearest Hospital’s Emergency department.

There – after skipping the queue –
I’m seen by, yes, you guessed it, a male Luo nurse called Abondo.

Cool chap.

Very calm.

His all-white uniform makes him look like a younger version of Morgan Freeman in Bruce Almighty, which makes Abondo almighty.

“What’s wrong?” He asks as he checks my blood pressure.

“Got choked by a bone.” I say, afraid to mention the word “fish”.

“What kind?” He asks while scribbling things on a pad.

“Uhm, a shishsd bone,” I mumble.

“Come again?”

“Fish bone,” I look away.

There is a pregnant silence in the room as he continues writing something.

I’m sure he wants to laugh out loud.

I’m sure he wants to make fun of me.
I’m sure he wants to look at me and say,“Fish bone? Wouldn’t it have been easier to down it in a glass of water?”

But he is a professional first then a Luo second.

“Don’t worry, we get that a lot here,” he says instead.

“Yes, but not from Luos! You get it from Merus,Tesos, Masais, Kikuyu’s and Luhyas!”

“Ahem, not Luhyas,” He mumbles. OK, he doesn’t say that.

I’m sent inside to see a doctor – a guy with a huge scraggly beard that covers his whole face.

A beard,so long and alive, that I could hear it breath.

He’s Muslim,which means I can’t poke fun at him even though
I’m dying to.

Muslims don’t take jokes that easily,

But I can’t get over that beard,his beard, man.

It’s indomitable, it’s unapologetic, and it says
“This is me, live with it.”

It reminds me of a Bushbaby’s tail.

Dr Bushbaby sends me to the X-Ray department where a picture of my
throat is taken in all angles.

Here is a. truth: the
Xray is the only machine that equalizes everyone.

We – or our insides- all look ugly in
black and white.

All of us.

It doesn’t matter if you smell good or are just from the salon.

All our insides look the same.

The Polaroid shots of my throat look like a cave in Hells Gate.

Twenty minutes later, I shamefully carry these pictures back to the doctor who sticks them up in
that thingamajig with background light and observes them.

I meekly peer from over his
shoulder and past his forest of a beard.

We see the bastard in my throat; it’s gnarled and ugly.

“You have two options,” says Dr. Bushbaby turning to face me. “I could send you back home, but you have to come back here at 5am to be
admitted for an endoscopy at 8am.

Or, I could admit you now and you wait for your procedure in the morning.”

I stare at his beard as I, well, chew on this.

“What would you do, Doc?” I ask.
“I would spend the night here.”

“Mmm…and what would your beard do?” I want to ask him.

I opt to book myself in.

A chirpy nurse called Songole comes and draws blood from my arms.

Then she takes asks me the normal questions; Any medication you are on
currently? (Apart from weed, you mean?);

Allergies? (Yes, fools, sycophants and Tequila).

Then she takes an inventory of what I have;wallet, money, cards, jewellery, clothing (she found it odd that I didn’t have underwear on, I
found it odd that she thought I had time to wear one when I was choking), shoes, phone, ring

(“Any navel rings?” she jokes at some point)

She later brings a wheelchair and says, OK lets go and I say, no, I will walk, I don’t want to meet
someone I know because people have a way of spreading rumours in this town about seeing you on your deathbed in a “wheel chair”..

My residence for the night is St George’s Ward, bed number 22.

We are two in the room,separated by a small wardrobe and curtains.

I have a small bed, blue sheets and a chair.

There is a matchbox size screen hanging from a wall which Songole calls a Television set.

I didn’t argue.

This feels all too familiar.

Last year I was admitted in Aga Khan
for three days; oesophageal corrosion, caused by
tequila.

Nowadays I see a bottle of Tequila,and out of respect, I
leave the room.

The very cheerful Songole hands me over to a male nurse –Ndegwa – and I feel a bit heartbroken because she has been a hoot.

Ndegwa is young, maybe 26.

Since he’s balding he shaves close to the skull.

“Look, Songole treated me real good, the bar is high for you, mate,” I joke and that breaks the ice because he
chuckles and brings out a cold beer.

OK, he didn’t bring out a beer, but he’s cool; laid back just like all balding folk should be.

He hands me my hospital regalia;
that gown that is closed in the front and open in the back, the one the leaves your butt out in the
cold?

He also hands me a gown, a TV remote control, some towels and a pair of blue shorts so big two people can fit in them.

These shorts had the words “South Wing” emblazoned across
them, which I guess is to deter folk like Mtu Fulani from carrying them home ’’accidentally.’’

Yes, I see someone stealing those blue shorts to hang out in them at the beach in coasto, or at
Blankets and Wine.

Ndegwa hangs this board written “Nil By Mouth” over my bed. As our house doctor (or is it Resident
Doctor?) Dr. Karimi will tell you, it means that nobody should dare bring food to the patient; the patient should be left to starve to death.

Thankfully, I didn’t want food because nothing was passing down my throat.

We chew some fat with Ndegwa then he leaves to deliver more shorts to other unsuspecting patients.

I change in my hip new Boyz to Men shorts written South Wing (that’s a label) and slip into bed.

I want to switch on the TV and watch
something but I’m afraid it will wake up the guy in the next room.

It’s 10p.m.

It gets still.

By midnight I’m still awake.

My roomie is silent for the most part, but once in a while he will moan
softly, or cough (a grotesque cough that seems to scratch his chest with large claws).

I wonder who he is, how old he is, what’s wrong with him…
I wonder what his name is.

When I was admitted in Aga Khan last year with Tequiloisis, I made
friends with the chap in the next bed; a boisterous professor who was a complete clown, made hospitalization bearable.

Which makes you think about private rooms in hospitals where you
pay more to be alone.

I wouldn’t want to be alone
when I’m sick, I’d feel like a leper, banished from the general population, cast away to die alone.

Sharing a room is warm, you always feel like your suffering isn’t isolated.

Hell, sometimes, when you see other patients, you feel lucky that you
only have a fish bone in your throat because some people have more than bones in their throats; some have cancer in their throats.

Some don’t even have throats.

At 1am – after Twitter starts feeling like walking through a graveyard at midnight – I climb out of bed and go to the nurse’s station where I find a
nurse writing something on a pad.

Nurses are always writing something on a pad.

She is pleasant.

All the nurses who attended to me
during my stay were all pleasant -and it wasn’t because I was looking funky in my South Wing shorts.

Talking of nurses.

Television propagates this image that nurses are sexy and naughty.

And almost every second guy who called me when I was in hospital last year (with exception of my
brother-in-law) asked me; “So, is some sexy nurse with a stethoscope listening to your heart beat?”

And it pained me because I realised I was in the wrong ward, or maybe the wrong hospital.

Thing is, you will see beautiful nurses, pretty nurses, lovely nurses, gorgeous nurses, but you
will never see a sexy nurse.

Those ones were last spotted in ER many years ago.

Anyway, I tell the nurse manning the night desk that I’m bored and ask her if there is a private nurses and doctors party going on in Wing B I
can crush.

She chuckles politely because she is
busy and knows I have potential to waste her time.

So I ask for reading material and guess what she asks me. And bang, this is one of the the reasons This Hospital impressed me.

She asks me if I would like a copy of GQ!

Would I like a copy of GQ!?

I mean, which hospital keeps a
copy of GQ?!

I say, hell yeah, if you have it!

She hands me a May 2011 Issue of GQ, the one with Prince Harry on the cover; Walking with the
Wounded.

This nurse saw my hip South Wing
shorts and thought immediately, GQ!

Now that is service!

The magazine is a 280page beauty
which I engaged me until the small hours of the morning before I conk out.

I dreamt.

I dreamt of my high school because,
perhaps, my hospital room reminded me of my fourth form room in high school; the small bed,the wardrobe.

I was in a dorm called Bowers 2,great dorm.

In high school there was always a
bell that went off at around 5am I think.

It spelled morning preps.

It was a loud, ugly gong that
went on and on, relentlessly yanking us from our dreams.

It pierced the cold night dawn like a
scalpel.

And you had to be up and out of the
dorm in 15mins of a prefect (we called the cops)came in yanking your blankets off and taking you
name down for punishment later.

I hated that bell.

In my sleep, I hear that gong; spookily clear and unmistakable even after 20yrs since I last heard
it.

I wake up with a start expecting to hear metallic boxes slamming shut as boys got ready to rush to preps but what I see, instead, is a
trolley screeching on the floor.

It’s the catering staff, delivering breakfast.

Have you noticed that all hospital catering staff wears uniforms that look like Kayamba Africa’s
uniform?

No, seriously, those corny shirts with
patterns and all that seem to say you are proud to be an African.

If you have to prove your
Africanese by wearing a shirt then you aren’t African enough because being African is bigger than fabric and if it has to be in fabric then it’s
woven in your DNA strand.

I wonder who copied who, me think it’s Kayamba Africa because most
guys who sing well always have a lousy taste in shirts…I mean, look at Kidum, easily one of the best artists we have seen in Kenya in a long time;a voice of a god and yet he wears these hideously tight designer tshirts that asphyxiate his beer
belly.

“Can I have bacon, buttered toast and some Spanish omelette please? No chilli.” I joke with Kayamba who smile and say that, I I’m not meant
to be fed.

“Hey, come on, I’m sure one crisp
strand of bacon won’t kill me,” I joke but he think I’m serious and so says,

“No, really, I can’t doctor’s orders.”

Who listens to doctors anymore
when there is Google?

The ENT consulting doctor is a no show at 8am.

At 10am he isn’t showed up either.

I’m getting real hot under the collar now.

At 10:30am I ask for a nurse and this guy nurse comes and – with
a small bow – tells me that there was a miscommunication and that the doctor is on his way.

At 11.30am he hasn’t showed up, so I call back the nurse and use words like “unacceptable”, “laxity”, “highly
unprofessional”, “explanation” and “my mommy.”

He promises that I will be in theatre in an hour.

Do you swear, man? I ask him and he smiles and says he promises.

I’m hungry and pissed by this
time and I plan to tell the doctor what I think of him.

I really do.

At 12.15pm an orderly comes to
pick me up in a wheelchair, I could have walked if I didn’t have on those South Wing shorts that were tripping my feet.

So, he pushes me out and this cat almost takes off my toe in a ramp because, as we go down a ramp, he
decides to push me in reverse to avoid the wheelchair pulling him down the ramp.

And this genius strategy goes all wrong when the damn thing starts veering out of control, spinning and
tumbling down haphazardly.

I was going to die hutling down on a flowerbed, not in theatre!

Luckily some passerby helped him control it and we had a good laugh about that when I asked the orderly,
“Chief, Kwani you’re also on Nil By Mouth?”

When the doctor walks in my anger evaporates because he is too charming; he’s apologizing
profusely, he’s playfully punching me on the shoulder, he’s cracking fish jokes, he’s dramatically explaining how he’s going to go in down my throat with modern technology and get the sucker out.

He’s a sport.

Plus he’s aged and I don’t know how to give him a dressing down.

So I suck it in and wince as he punches me on the shoulder.

I feel like a tosser succumbing to his
charms like that.

I’m getting soft.

By the way, I’m on the 2,728th word so I’m going to rush through this last part because this post has ran on for too long and I’m sure the Luhya
readers have to go take tea,and Kikuyus their Githeri,wish I had stuck to Githeri last night!.

Wasonga, hang in there old boy.

We are nearly there.

Endoscopy is when they shaft your throat using this long tube that looks like something off a sci-fi movie.

But first, they knock you out cold by
hitting you over the head with a club.
Yes,technology rocks.

The doctor then asked me to
count from 10 and I remember telling him, “Doc, I’ve done this before, I’m an Elephant, it’s hard to
put me down. How about I start counting from 20 so that I don’t emba…embarras…embaaa….”

And I was out like a candle in the rain.

Bang, long story short, he pulled it out and gave me the bone in a jar as a memento.

I had the sense to take a picture of it and upload it here but I didn’t because – to quote The Shy Narcissist in her latest post – “it’s not because I have sensibilities but because you probably do too,that we can understand each other.”

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

The hooker who seduced me into writing

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I’m going away on a tour of duty to a very remote part of DRC Congo.

I will miss many things in that outfif,but I guess reliable internet is certainily going to be a headache.

I’m just addicted to putting something for posterity,everyday.

But today,I want to share how I got addicted to writing,and incidentally,my biggest encouragement and commitment came from the least expected of all my acquaintances,a hooker.

I must hasten to add that we had no monkey business going on between us,me and that hooker that is.

But then here is the bit of that story for you!

Back in my College days,using black ink I wrote short stories on a hard-covered book, stories about escape from the mundane things of this life, something I was gathering
courage to do for later in life.

Of course I showed nobody these
literature, essentially because I didn’t think much of them.

They were a vaulted narrative of my
misery, of my rut but I always felt they drew me closer to a personal redemption.

Below the bedsit where I hanged my worn Jacket, lived a hooker, or rather a pretty chic I suspected was a hooker.

I say suspected because she always left at 10pm when I was coming in from work, dressed in short shiny clothes, and pitched back at 6am dressed in short shiny clothes and tired make-up.

Well,that’s a hooker,isn’t it?

We had water problems in that block and once in a while she would come up and ask me if I would kindly go down and close her tap if water came in the middle of the night.

One day she saw the notebook in my hand when I opened the door to
take another please-close-my-tap instruction and asked if I was writing a diary.

Standing to my full length, chin thrust defiantly in the air, I muttered
that diary was for girls.

She asked to see.

I remember her standing there for longer than I had thought she would, raptly reading that hard covered notebook, very slowly flipping the pages like they were brittle and they would shatter.

The word, engross, comes to mind.

She stood patiently at my doorway, a hooker reading a random story from a notepad.

Of course I was ill at ease, because I was afraid of judgment, even from a hooker.

But I waited patiently leaning on my doorwayand to kill time I stared at her cleavage that stared back indignantly.

When eventually she looked up – slowly – she was wearing a different
look; a questioning look.

“ Maybe you should just
write,” is all she said before bundling down the staircase, her burgeoning and overheavy cleavage struggling to catch up with her.

“Maybe you should just write.” Those words stayed with me for a very long time.

I’m certain men have been told more interesting words by hookers: “Woi, mimi siendi Mushadha,” “Ngai
Mwangi! Si hiyo underwear ni mzee sana?”

But all she said was, “Maybe you should just write.”

And those words, even spoken by a hooker, is sometimes all that can stir motion.

And when you start hearing them from different sources, it
gets into your head the word ‘maybe’ is introduced into the equation.

And when that gets in your head, it doesn’t leave; it squats there
reading a newspaper until you do something about it.

And I did.

I look at those days with envy,because I was deranged with proving something.

Now, I don’t.

I don’t need to.

My ego is grown up.

Let me break this down to gang, very slowly.

You sit in your office, crunching figures, fixing systems, balancing books, setting up communication strategies, troubleshooting IT,
selling products, recording in studios or writing course works…whatever your hustle is.

I don’t just write poetry to feed the arty ogre in me.

I don’t write part-time to balance out my life, to purposefy* it.

I write for a living, I write to live. Writing is my safe-boat in these seas of life I ride.

It’s all I have.

Since not many people want to pay top- dollar for some tight copy, since many people imagine words come out of the holes in your ears, they won’t pay you your worth because they won’t appreciate your art (that almost rhymed, “worth and “art”…
eh?).

So you resort to peddling your word art to the people who can pay you the most.

You write your fingers out until they bleed.

That’s what I have been doing the whole year; peddling words.

Are we together, so far?

Because I can stop here
briefly and let Hardened Mama MIA there go use the bathroom, she seems squeamish in her seat.

As I was saying, this simply means you write as much as you can, you work as twice as hard to
make half what those white-shirted chubby yuppies that work for blue chip companies make.

Those chaps that throw more office parties than they change the printer’s toner.

You write to pay bills yes, but you also write because it’s who you
are.

Folk say, you shouldn’t be defined by your job, that such bollocks, those are guys who are motivated by living through to end month for their jobs to seem relevant.

Take away my pen,and watch me drift off to an abyss of confusion
like a hollow trunk.

When you churn out over to 10,000 words a week for a year, you will burn out.

And that’s something you can put in your pipe and smoke.

I knew I was burning out, hitting a plateau.

That straight line.

I could feel it; I took longer to write
intros; I lost creative consciousness in the middle of sentences; I struggled with thought and
construction, I stared at a blank word document longer.

And that blank stare scares you.

I’m at a point where I’m having a conflict with my art, I’m insecure of it and I’m questioning it.

For months now I acted like I was okay and like the proverbial ostrich I buried my head in my Sandals.

Sorry, sand.

But when one or two of my regular readers – Fra
and Mufasa – raised a flag I had to be honest with myself.

I had spread myself out too thin and it was showing in everything I wrote.

When you write for a living, you don’t have the luxury of burning out.

You keep writing.

You change the times you write, you change the desks you write from, but you don’t stop writing because stopping is a learned habit that
eventually works against you.

Here is my confession.

There is something I do; I never say bye to people I’m drinking with. It’s
called an Irish Exit. You slip your portion of the bill under your half finished glass and you step off your stool to go to the loo.

And you don’t come back.

You can’t adequately say bye to folk
on alcohol, they will whine and ask you to sit down for just one more.

They will make fun of you, and offer to make a call home to extend your
curfew.

So you save yourself that drunken
gibberish and you slip out unnoticed, like a dark knight.

Last week the blog wasn’t under construction.

The jury was out on it.

I had the half mind to shut it down.

I really did.

To walk away without a word and concentrate on gigs that actually pay me because the blog takes the best of me and someone who takes the best are usually the ones to destroy you.

But first I bounced this idea to my
Mentor, because he walked away
from writing at some point but got seduced back by the evil temptress that is words.

“You’d be foolish to walk away!” he said.

It’s hard to walk out and bang a door when you are not sure you won’t want to knock on it again.

It’s even harder to walk away from who you are.

So what I’m going to do here is, I will put my feet off the pedal of this blog and post only twice a month.

First and last week.

And during this time off, I will head to the Congo forest, where I will
live with the pygmies and do nothing but hunt,fry and eat monkey meat, grow armpit hair and swim buck-naked in meandering forest rivers of DRC.

And I will not read any form of literature save for primitive inscriptions in caves and on the backs of their women who are slightly taller than coffee
tables.

And if I’m lucky, I might just be made
King of the Pigmies.

I’m going native and primitive.

Fans, it’s not you. It’s me.

The death of a friendship

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You were never meant to understand me,
I guess no one should ever,
‘Cause friendship is all about taking for who I am.

There’s not much going on now,
And I can sit still and look back,
To the days we had together,
Not without some good memories,
But these good memories came at a price,
That was always too high to pay.

You say you are sorry for all the time we wasted,
Always wondering who was going to be the brave one,
And say that all this farce gonna stop,
You always wanted to fix things,
That were already too broken to be fixed.

I wish things weren’t the way they were,
The way it used to be,
You know what I’m talking about,
It was just you and me,
But deep in our hearts,
we knew it was never meant to last.

I know you still don’t understand me,
And I know you never will,
I guess what I’m trying to say is,
There was no need to understand me in the first place,
It was never worth my time,
Neither yours.

Some friendships are never meant to be,
And we should never mourn them,
When they die their natural death,
‘Cause they free us to seek more meaningful ones,
With those who are predestined to add value to our life.

Our friendship was a draining one,
One that always took more from us,
Than it was ready to give back,
Though my eyes tear at this eventful end,
My tears are only for the years I wasted with you!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Power of Life over Death

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Even though we never seem prepared for it,
I know that death is one of the main guarantees of life,
and one has to experience it to truly,
through death of our closest friends and family,
to understand what it is all about.

Sometimes,we face our own death in reality,by suffering a terminal illness.

It forces us to reconcile ourselves to our certain and imminent demise.

Life,incidentally,becomes sweeter as we face our own death through old age,or terminal illness;we value each day more and take out the best out of it.

I know that death can bring one down,
but I also know that eventually,
no matter after how long,
one moves on from fear of death,or its grief,
and that is when they discover just how strong they really are.

I know that death somehow inspires one to find their passion and live it, because they make out that life
is short.

You realise that if you are to leave a legacy,
you will have to start doing something to better
your life now, today.

I realise the irony of life.

Your world could be at a standstill but the sun will still rise and the stars will
shine.

Heck, others will be heard laughing their loudest.

I know that death jars one to reality because what has been happening to other people has happened to you — right here, right now.

Suddenly, all the fun, jobs, money and the status they all bring don’t matter that much.

Love, life, honesty, peace and togetherness are what matter more.

This realisation is what gives life power over death.

Death cannot destroy the life we are living at the present moment.

It can only steal away our future,not our present moment!

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®

Cultivating gratitude in every day life

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How often do you pause to appreciate what you have in life?

When I was a young boy, I took very many things for granted.

I believe many other kids did so, as well.

After all, we were young and we didn’t know what life could be like on the other side.

One thing we took for granted was education.

In my country, it’s compulsory for all kids to go to school, so it was a given.

But how was I to know that even in my country,some kids never had a chance to go to school?

I never thought about how lucky I was to be educated.

I also took my teachers for granted.

I never thought about how lucky we were to have teachers who cared for our growth so much, and poured
their heart and soul into their lessons.

Then slowly as I grew up, I began to appreciate things around me more.

As I saw more and more of the world out there, I realized all the things I’d been given are not rights, but privileges.

I realized that being literate is a not a right, but a gift.

I realized there is a lot of war,hunger,poverty and violence in the world, and I’m lucky to live in a country where it’s relatively safe and peaceful.

I realized there are people out there who don’t have their five senses, and to have mine is a gift.

I realized the world is so beautiful, and we’re lucky to live in such an amazing world.

Sometimes it’s easy to feel bad because you’re going through a tough time in life.

However, remember that no matter how bad your situation may seem, there are tens of thousands of things to be grateful for in life.

Below is a simple list of things that I’m grateful for in my life.

Most of the items, if not all, will apply to you too.

They are things that we just consider as ordinary,so we are oblivious to them as things we should be grateful for.

I’m sure as you read this list, you’ll think of many more things to be grateful for,that are not included in my list.
So here we go on things to be grateful for in our lives:

» Sense of sight – for letting you see the colors of life.

» Sense of hearing – for letting you hear trickle of rain, the voices of your loved ones, and the harmonious chords of music.

» Sense of touch – for letting you feel the texture of your clothes, the breeze of the wind, the hands of your loved ones.

» Sense of smell – for letting you smell scented candles, perfumes, and beautiful flowers in your garden.

»Sense of taste – for letting you savor the sweetness of fruits, the saltiness of seawater, the sourness of pickles, the bitterness of bitter gourd, and the spiciness of chili.

» Your speech – for giving you the outlet to express yourself.

» Your heart – for pumping blood to all the parts of your body every second since you were born; for giving you the ability to feel all kinds of emotions.

» Your lungs – for letting you breathe so you can live.

» Your immune system – for fighting viruses that enter your body. For keeping you in the pink of your health so you can do the things you love.

» Your hands – so you can type on your computer, flip the pages of books, and hold the hands of your loved ones.

» Your legs – for letting you walk, run, swim, play the sports you love, and curl up in the comfort of your seat.

» Your mind – for the ability to think, to store memories, and to create new solutions.

» Your good health – for enabling you to do what you want to do and for what you’re about to do in the future.

» Your school – for providing a environment conducive to learning and growing.

» Your teachers – for their dedication and for passing down knowledge to you.

» Tears – for helping you express your deepest emotions.

» Disappointment – so you know the things that matter to you most by losing them.

» Fears – so you know your opportunities for growth by overcoming them.

»Pain – for you to become a stronger person by standing up to both physical and emotional pain.

» Sadness – for you to appreciate the wide spectrum range of human emotions.

» Happiness – for you to soak in the beauty of life.

» The Sun – for bringing in light and beauty to this world.

» Sunset – for a beautiful sight to mark the end day.

» Moon and Stars – for brightening up our night sky even when the bright sun has taken a rest.

» Sunrise – for a beautiful sight to start the morning and the promises it has for the day.

» Rain – for cooling you when it gets too warm and for making it comfy to sleep in on through weekends without guilt of having to look for an excuse to just rest.

» Rainbows – for a beautiful sight to look forward to after rain.

» Oxygen – for making life possible.

» The earth – for creating the environment for every form of life to begin.

» Mother nature – for covering our world in beauty.

» Animals – for adding to the diversity of our human life and empathy for living things.

» Internet – for connecting you and others despite the physical space between you.

»Transport – for making it easier to commute from one place to another,no matter the distance.

» Mobile phones – for making it easy to stay in touch with others,whenever you feel like.

» Computers – for making our lives more effective and efficient.

» Technology – for making impossible things possible.

» Movies – for providing a source of
entertainment that feed the vanity of our minds.

» Books – for adding wisdom into your life and sharing experiences that one never have in a single lifetime.

»Blogs – for connecting you with other like- minded people.

» Shoes – for protecting your feet when you are out exploring your environment.
»Time – for a system to organize yourself and keep track of activities and enrich your lifetime experience.

» Your job or business – for giving you a source of living and for being a medium where you can add value to the world.

» Music – for lifting your spirits when you’re down and for filling your life with more love.

» Your bed – for you to sleep comfortably in every night.

» Your home – for a place you can call home,a sanctuary away from the hustle and bustle of our daily life.

» Your soul mate – for being the one who understands everything you’re going through.

» Your best friends – for being there for you whenever you need them.

» Your enemies – for helping you uncover and see your blind spots so you can become a better person.

» Kind strangers – for brightening up your days when you least expect it.

» Your mistakes – for helping you to improve and become better.

» Heartbreaks – for helping you mature and become a better person who can handle all kinds of people without resentment of having got nothing in return for your kindness.

» Laughter – for serenading your life with joy and hilarity.

»Love – for letting you feel what it means to truly be alive.

» Life’s challenges – for helping you grow and become who you are.

» Life – for giving you the chance to experience all that you’re experiencing, and will be
experiencing in time to come.

And last but not least… :
YOU…
For being who you are and touching the world with your presence.

Just some random thoughts that came to my mind….©Profarms’ Random Thoughts®