Why men LOVE their cars and LIKE their women

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Most men see cars as a sense of freedom and
adventure and develop personal relationship
with them.

Why men love cars so much?

Why do they often take better care of their cars than their women?

Let us plunge in and tackle the love of men for cars.

Love at first sight!

What do cars give men?

A sense of freedom and adventure is a highly recognised answer among both men and women.

The power and freedom men and women feel when a machine follows their commands is a main driving factor for love of cars.

Moreover, it is not easy for most men today to buy the dream car,and they work hard to make it happen.

Thus, it becomes something they’ve been waiting and working for, which is why they feel passionate about it and when they achieve it they love it… and take care of it.

This can give some hints to many women out
there wondering about the best approach to hold the man’s attention and affection.

It always makes you feel comfortable, when it’s
the right car…but isn’t it the same with the right
woman?

Men develop personal relationship with their cars faster than women because they perceive their car as an extension while women don’t.

Women do experience that for example with their homes – they see the house as an extension of their being.

For most women a car is a separate entity.

For women it is a convenience, what the car can do for them, for men is more like a sentient being they need to get to know and respond to – men love cars, that’s it.

Don’t get mad ladies.

It is somewhat sad that men feel that way about their cars, but there is an explanation to
that.

According to a BMW study, men feel like they have nothing to prove to and feel completely relaxed while driving their car.

If you think about it, it is not the same with their woman.

Most men feel constantly pressured to prove and justify themselves in front of a woman.

And this feeling intensifies even more when they get married.

Although many would argue that, it is the truth and it applies to women too.

Therefore, developing this personal relationship with their cars, men easily differentiate it from the personal relationship with a woman as easier to maintain and still satisfactory.

Moreover, by owning the car of their dreams – often a high performance, luxury vehicle – most men equate it with them and take pride in their car.

A man’s opinion: “I like to listen to my car. You can hear when the turbo clicks in – that vacuum-cleaner effect. You can just feel the giddy up effect, and the sensation of power is brilliant – you can feel it through the steering wheel and the back of the seat.”

A man can rarely find the right words to explain how he feels about a woman, yet he can be very
expressive about his car because it is a different type of love.

Both type of relationships, with a woman and
with a car, are discovered slowly and deepened with the time.

In both relationships, development raises more questions, but with the car, questions often
don’t demand an answer instantly.

The response a man gets from his car is mechanical in its nature and yet it speaks on an emotional level.

There is clicking,gear shifting and tire screeching, sounds men often describe with purring that makes them happy.

In a relationship with the woman they love, the discovery process is more interactive which involves more effort as women are not easy to please at all.

Women acknowledge that and yet it can’t be changed because women are highly emotional and intellectual beings who like to show it.

No matter how easy going a woman’s personality is, the relationship demands a
lot of work to maintain and unfortunately a big
percentage of men are not ready to put in the effort.

So, the car becomes their perfect match on many levels.

Every day…we are driving and loving it!

Driving your car in general is intimate and individual experience.

They can only feel them, share, and enjoy the fact that they are not pressured to do that
and not getting a response from their car only
strengthen the personal relationship.

Moreover, the way a car looks and feels partly determines how we feel and drive.

Sounds familiar maybe ladies?

So, having the control and familiarity when driving your car is a pleasurable experience that makes the seemingly unemotional men to be strongly attached to their car.

This explains why when moving men are ten times more likely to ship a car, rather than sell it.

To most men the car becomes their moving house,their second home that can be shown yet remain private.

Many would say that this love for cars in men
comes down to control, yet it is an emotional
relationship.

From the men themselves

“Since not having a car I’ve had to rely on public transport to take me where I want to go, having to sit near people I don’t know on a seat where I have no idea who sat there before me.”

In a bus I even have to look at the back of people’s heads for the whole trip while in a car I can look anywhere I want at my own pace with no obstruction in my line of vision.”

“I haven’t seen any friends since the loss of my car, most of them live in the same district as me. I like knowing that at any moment I can just jump in my car and go wherever I want. I could go to Timbuktu or to the extreme north of Mahe just for a drive if I wanted to. While if I want to do that in a bus I will first have to wait for hours to finally get one; it will take hours to reach there as it is stopping at every turn to either take on or disembark a passenger.”

“Sometimes I just cruise around in Victoria with my arms resting on the window sill. Some girls are really attracted to men in fancy cars so it’s my way of getting girls.”

“I drive around in my cars playing music as loud as I can. I feel good listening to music in my car. While if at home my wife will never stop shouting at me to turn down the volume.”

“Some men have this perception that one is rich
when one owns a car. This is totally stupid. How can one goes round in a car when his stomach is empty?”

Women also like cars but …

Not that women don’t love cars.

They do, but in a different way.

You won’t read about a rich female who squanders huge amounts of her money
acquiring a stable of cars (unless she is in love with her chauffeur) but footballers who spend fortunes on car after car when they hardly have the time to drive one are commonplace.

If I ask a woman what her first car was, she can always tell me.

Chances are she gave it a name, drove it for years and cried when she had to sell it.

It is equally likely that she didn’t keep it very clean and never polished it, and that it is always full of odds and ends, pillows, spare shoes, kids’ stuff, rubbish of all kinds.

When a woman drives her husband’s cars,
she is usually on notice that a scratch, spilt food and drink on carpet or upholstery, ash in the ashtray means she will never be allowed to drive it again.

His car is part of her husband’s self-image; her car is her dear friend and helper, her supermarket trolley, her baby-carriage.

He would rather take the bus than be seen at the wheel of her grubby hatch-back; she pilots his gleaming Hyundai through double-parked
streets with her heart in her mouth.

Much as he might love his car, no man weeps when he sells it on for a better one.

With his new car his youth is renewed; its increased performance endows him with vigour.

Women can be neglectful of their cars, and forget to put water in radiators, refill the washer tanks, replenish the oil or put air in tyres but they don’t deliberately mistreat them.

You won’t hear women boasting about how they wrote off a car or blew up its engine.

The woman who drives a hundred miles with the handbrake on or the choke out, or leaves the lights on and flattens the battery, can feel nothing but guilt and embarrassment.

Men who write off or blow up cars do so deliberately and glory in the deed, stupid and destructive though it clearly is.

A man who can never remember to use a lavatory brush or swill the shaving lather out of the hand- basin will devote litres of water to washing his car.

He will hose out the wheel-arches and remove every last insect corpse from the windscreen and the trim, and then leather off every inch of the paintwork so that not so much as a water-spot dims its radiance.

A man who cannot tell you what colour his wife’s eyes are will be able to tell you all the specifications of his motor.

He will know how it measures up against all
the cars in its price range, year or model, and be able to prove that he is not the kind of wuss who buys the wrong car.

In fact, this love affair starts long before puberty,when a baby boy meets his first wheeled toy and knows that it represents something that makes him go faster.

The little girl may know it too, but she is
less likely to care.

A man who can never remember to use a lavatory brush or swill the shaving lather out of the hand- basin will devote litres of water and washing liquids to washing his car

It might sound a bit weird, but there are plenty of guys out there that secretly love their cars more than their women!

Having a strong emotional attachment to material objects is nothing new, and, for some adult males, cars are often their “ comfort
blankets” in adulthood.

Of course, as a man, if you are in a relationship
with a woman, or are perhaps married to one, they should not have to compete for your love with an inanimate object!

Are you worried that you might love your car more than the lady in your life?

Check out these tell-tale signs!

»You talk more to your car than to your lady

Talking to one’s self isn’t anything to be alarmed about, as we all do it from time to time.
Talking aloud helps us to find the answers to any complex questions when we are alone.

But if you find that you have more conversations with your pride and joy than you do with the woman in your life, you are either bored of your other half or you just prefer to seek solace from your automotive “partner.”

»You get jealous when people look at your car

Now when I buy cars I don’t tend to have much of an emotional attachment other than giving my cars nicknames.

I also don’t care if people look at my car as they walk or drive past it.

You might have a problem if you get jealous
whenever random strangers give your automobile admiring glances.

Unless you drive an invisible car,I can guarantee you that people will look at your
car.

And if you happen to drive something exotic such as an Italian supercar, you will have even more people ogling your car than you would if you rolled around in a Ford Fiesta!

»You talk about your car as if it were a person

If you walked into a Carbase showroom, or the
showroom of any car dealership for that matter,
you would hear people talking about cars using
words such as “it” or “the”.

For example, any normal person might say
something like “my car is running rough at the
moment, I think it needs a service.”

But you probably have issues if you start talking to people about your car as if it were a person:

“Laura isn’t feeling well at the moment, she said she has stomach pains.”

»You believe your car IS a person

To be honest, I’ve not come across anyone that
believes their car is a person.

Cars are inanimate objects; they are mechanical devices that feature a lot of steel, plastic, rubber and carpet, amongst other things.

What they don’t have is vital organs such as a heart,liver, kidneys or lungs.

Nor do they assume the shape of a woman.

If you are reading this and are convinced that your car is a woman, I highly recommend you seek professional help because you will lose someone that does love you and is a woman!

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

A place I call home

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Where is that place we call home?
Is it here, is it over there,beyond the hills?
Is it in that soft warm bosom of my sweet girl?
So where is that place we call home, you ask?

It’s where you feel safe,
And it’s where you know everyone around you loves you for you,
Your cat,your neighbours,your friends,
A place that you always love to be.

Do you have a place you can call home like I do?

It’s been a long hard ride getting there,
And I won’t lose hope,
This is still the place,
That we all call home.

To chase that dream across the seven seas,
For something that i believe in,
And that’s a place I call my home.

I have travelled all over the world,
Been to the world’s most famous places,
Have seen the Victoria Fall’s falling waters,
Have left tracks on the well known deserts of Africa,
But there is one favourite place among all,
A place where love has always been there for me,
That’s a place we all call home.

No matter how far I can go ,I wont forget it.

Even though sometimes i have little at home ,
I will not depart from home , it’s my favourite place.

No matter how much luxury I have found out there ,
It can never be compared to this beautiful place,
That I call my home.

Home holds many memories for me,
I can look back and see those best days I had at
home,
So full of love , so full of laughter,
And I can look back again and see those days
Where i had little to eat and less to wear,
but I still laughed joyfully.

No place can be compared with home.

I can find comfort all over the world,
I can run as far as my feet can take me,
I can have all the beauties in the world,
But they can never be compared to this beautiful place that I call home.

This is the most wonderful place for me among all places,
The place which I will never forget, a place where everything is there just for me,and me alone,
The place that gives me comfort and relaxation,
That’s a place we all call home, home sweet home.

I’m really grateful for this place I call home,
For gratitude is riches,
And discontent is a spiritual poverty!

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

Chart your own way to personal freedom

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When you were born you arrived without an
instructional manual!

You were expected to figure things out as you evolved.

And everyone else was in the same boat,born without an operating manual.

We learnt initially by imitation.

Repeating words that our parents taught us.

By the time we were 4-5 years old we were starting to figure things out and our individual personality began to develop.

Then we went to school and were moulded into a functioning individual. Rather like a bakery.

The dough is placed into hundreds of bread moulds and when cooked all the loaves look the same.

So it is with us by the end of our basic schooling.

We have learnt to fit into society and have been taught the basic reading and writing skills that enable us to join the workforce.

And here the pressure to conform really begins.
If we displease our boss our job is on the line.

Likewise in our social environment we don’t really want to displease our church, family or members of our social groups.

Everything is a compromise because we have no real individual freedom.

That is we are not free to do things the way we really want to.

And as we grow into adulthood and start a family the same pressures to conform are still with us.

Society expects us to behave in an acceptable way… that is… acceptable to the society we live in.

As we progress through life we slowly come to the realisation that we are not a free spirit and never have been.

It gets to the point where many individuals suddenly rebel and go off at a tangent.

Which is why so many marriages fail these days.

In the “good old days” unhappy marriage partners stuck together “for the sake of the family”.

There used to be tremendous social pressures on married couples to “hang in there”.

These days there is no such pressure.

People who have been confined and restricted all their life suddenly break out.

There are plenty of alternatives available to unhappy individuals and a massive amount of information available thanks to the internet and a more open news media approach.

You have the right to be free and happy.

That’s the point… you have the right to be free and happy.

If you are not then you are denying yourself this basic freedom.

The old attitude might have been acceptable 40 years ago but it now no longer applies.

Many of you reading this will recognise the truth of the above analysis and will be asking what you can do about it.

To pull yourself away from the personal traps that keep you away from true personal freedom, you need to sit down and rethink your beliefs and attitudes.

Many of us have developed beliefs that are simply no longer valid and we pursue them merely from force of habit.

We need to break these habits and re-program our personal belief system so that we feel we are the master of our own destinies!

At any one point in time each and every sane individual is either doing that which makes them the happiest or doing that which makes them the least unhappy.

Most individuals operate in the latter category.

Think about the things you have done so far today.

Did they make you seriously happy or did you do them so that you wouldn’t be unhappy?

I’ll bet that less than 5% of them actually
made you happy!

In fact, think back over the past week and
isolate one single event that made you blissfully happy and personally satisfied.

It has taken me many years to sort out my belief system to the point where I now feel almost totally free.

And I made a ton of mistakes along the way because I didn’t have an instruction manual to help me.

An instruction manual for personal freedom
But you are in a totally different position because you are currently reading this vital instruction manual!!

The vast majority of individuals get stuck in this rut all their lives but occasionally a traumatic event breaks them out of it.

For example a person might become seriously ill and their doctor advises that they only have 6 months to live.

Now some people will roll over and pretend to be dead the moment they hear this while others will suddenly realise that they haven’t lived life at all and go hell-bent on catching up.

These are the ones who get so involved in doing all those things they always wanted to do that their illness suddenly disappears.

There are many recorded instances of these miraculous cures, particularly in regard to cancer.

Just stop for a moment and visualise what you would do in this situation.

You might be stuck with a time-wasting family situation of visiting Auntie Nellie and Uncle Dan every Sunday fortnight for dinner because that’s what you have always done and it is expected of you.

If you got sudden bad news like this would you continue to visit them or would you head off to do some jet-skiing or para-sailing?

Chances are you would mentally cut all the things out of your life that didn’t matter and do only those things that did.

And this is where you can sit down and make a list of all the important things you do each month.

Take some time about it and make a complete list.

Now imagine which items you would cross out if
you knew you had limited time left.

You would probably find that 80% of the so-called important items had been deleted.

This is the exercise I did many years ago when I realised I was wasting my life on garbage non-productive events.

I crossed out all the things that didn’t really matter, particularly those items that I felt obliged to participate in because of social or family pressure.

I got somewhat unpopular initially but others soon realised I had taken a new lease on life and left me alone.

My thinking was that this life of mine was not a practice run and I’d better start living it otherwise I would go to my deathbed with a ton of regrets.

Just visualise lying in a hospital bed with all your family around you in the certain knowledge that you are dying and suddenly
realising that there were many things in life that you hadn’t done.

You had “missed out” because of your inertia and were extremely sad about it.

Do you want to spend the last few moments suffering from massive regrets? No… I don’t
think so!

It is over to you to correct this situation NOW.

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

Mindlessness breeds perfection,and perfect happiness too!

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“When you become lost in what you are doing . . .
When the mind goes away . . .
When your mind disappears and gets lost doing something that you love doing . . .
Then,and only then,does your masterpiece appear.”~Zen Habits

Creativity is a profound rebellion.

If you examine an event or a time in your life when you created something valuable, a masterpiece of your creation, you will find that time disappeared.

During those minutes or hours in which you
worked, nothing else in the world existed.

You were the only person in the world.

And your task was the most important thing in the world.

There was no time. There was no distraction. There was no mind.

And most glorious of all, there was no YOU.

Your hands worked of their own accord.

Dancing to a rhythm all their own.

Neuron impulses travelled directly from brain to fingertips, bypassing YOU altogether.

There was no thought of what it might look like.

There was no hope of anyone liking it.

There was no fear of it being ridiculed.

The entire affair was thoughtless, mindless, and ego-less.

This is how masterpieces are created.

In the end, it is YOU that stands between you and your masterpiece.

During my years in university, there was a cook that I remember to this day.

He worked in the university grill.

He was well known amongst the students and
staff. For his happiness.

Whether it was 6AM or 6PM, whether it was
weekday or weekend, sunshine or hail, he greeted everyone with a boisterous “Good morning. How are you this morning?”

There might have been forty people in the breakfast line and he would greet every single one the same way.

Many, including myself, would often wonder
how it was that a man could be so joyful.

Regardless of the time or the day.

While this was the quality he was most known for, I found another which was even more impressive.

I once sneaked into the kitchen to watch him
cook. I just couldn’t help it.

I wanted to see this man in his natural
state.

What was he like behind the scenes?

As he would make a grilled omelette sandwich, he would place the bread slice onto the grill as if it were made of glass.

He placed two pieces of the omelette onto the bread and he took his spatula and he pressed
down evenly and gently.

His left hand poured a small bit of oil onto the pan, while his right handled the spatula.

He placed the sandwich onto a plate.

Precisely in the centre.

He took a knife and pressed his left palm upon the top of the blade and pressed down, and then after it was cut he flicked his left hand into the air as if it were a show.

But there was no one there to watch.

No one that he knew of, that is.

Suddenly one of the servers dropped a plate which fell and shattered about thirty feet from him.

He didn’t so much as flinch.

His focus remained on the sandwich.

On his ultimate creation.

All the while, his lips remained pursed in concentration.

His sleeves hung loose at the wrist.

The entire affair was done with such rhythm, such grace.

It was like a ballet dance,all in synch.

I remain convinced to this day that he did not even hear that plate fall.

I have spent years giving myself to my
endeavours.

It was difficult in the beginning.

Distractions were the order of the day.

And the mind would was difficult to settle.

But it is much easier now.

In fact, I have used this approach not only with work but with my daily existence.

And things happen of their own accord.

Whether it is playing the piano or writing a
discourse, the fingers seem to find their own way.

The instincts and the motions come to me rather
than from me.

And I sit watching the beautiful dance of life unfold.

This, my friends, is what I have discovered is the
secret of making a masterpiece of your craft.

Society, from childhood forward, is taught to do
things according to a certain technique.

In a certain way. According to a certain methodology.

Superiors judge the individual for how well
they follow the methodology.

How good the result is.

And whether every direction is adhered to.

The type of individuals that are created in this manner are not leaders but followers.

What is being taught is not creativity,
but mimicry.

Is it a wonder that the creative, the elite, in any
discipline are so few?

It is not that only a subset of human beings harbour creativity.

It is that only a subset choose to nurture it.

The world is addicted to the “how to.”

And there is no shortage of individuals to indulge them.

Creativity is a profound rebellion.

That which comes from a sacred place within you is far superior than that which comes from the world around you.

The secret of work lies not in the comparing of the result against a prevailing standard.

The secret of work lies not in following a recipe.
The secret of work lies not in the praise that it garners.

The secret of work lies in the state of the human being performing it.

The secret of work lies not in mindfulness. But mindlessness.

Mindlessness?

Yes, mindLESSness.

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

You owe it to yourself to be the best person possible

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It’s almost Christmas time my dear friends and readers, and I have the usual problem of deciding what to give you as this year’s Christmas gift.

I know you might enjoy many things — books, games, clothes.

But I’m very selfish.

I want to give you something that will stay with you for more than a few months or years.

I want to give you a gift that might remind
you of me every Christmas.

If I could give you just one thing, I’d want it to be a simple truth that took me many years to learn.

If you learn it now, it may enrich your life in hundreds of ways.

And it may prevent you from facing many
problems that have hurt people who have never
learned it.

The truth is simply this: No one owes you anything.

Significance

How could such a simple statement be important?

It may not seem so, but understanding it can bless your entire life.

No one owes you anything.

It means that no one else is living for you, my friend.

Because no one else is you.

Each person is living for himself; his own happiness is all he can ever personally feel.

When you realize that no one owes you happiness or anything else, you’ll be freed from expecting what isn’t likely to be.

It means no one has to love you.

If someone loves you, it’s because there’s something special about you that gives him happiness.

Find out what that something special is and try to make it stronger in you, so that you’ll be loved even more.

When people do things for you, it’s because they want to — because you, in some way, give them something meaningful that makes them want to please you, not because anyone owes you anything.

No one has to like you.

If your friends want to be with you, it’s not out of duty.

Find out what makes others happy so they’ll want to be near you.

No one has to respect you.

Some people may even be unkind to you.

But once you realize that people don’t have to be good to you, and may not be good to you, you’ll learn to avoid those who would harm
you.

For you don’t owe them anything either.

Living your Life

No one owes you anything.

You owe it to yourself to be the best person
possible.

Because if you are, others will want to be
with you, want to provide you with the things you want in exchange for what you’re giving to them.

Some people will choose not to be with you for
reasons that have nothing to do with you.

When that happens, look elsewhere for the relationships you want.

Don’t make someone else’s problem your
problem.

Once you learn that you must earn the love and
respect of others, you’ll never expect the
impossible and you won’t be disappointed.

Others don’t have to share their property with you, nor their feelings or thoughts.

If they do, it’s because you’ve earned these things.

And you have every reason to be proud of the love you receive, your friends’ respect, the property you’ve earned.

But don’t ever take them for granted.

If you do, you could lose them.

They’re not yours by right; you must always earn them.

My Experience

A great burden was lifted from my shoulders the day I realised that no one owes me anything.

For so long as I’d thought there were things I was entitled to, I’d been wearing myself out —physically and emotionally — trying to collect them.

No one owes me moral conduct, respect, friendship, love, courtesy, or intelligence.

And once I recognised that, all my relationships became far more satisfying.

I’ve focused on being with people who want to do the things I want them to do.

That understanding has served me well with friends, business associates, lovers, sales prospects, and strangers.

It constantly reminds me that I can get
what I want only if I can enter the other person’s world.

I must try to understand how he thinks,what he believes to be important, what he wants.

Only then can I appeal to someone in ways that will bring me what I want.

And only then can I tell whether I really want to be involved with someone.

And I can save the important relationships for those with whom I have the most in
common.

It’s not easy to sum up in a few words what has
taken me years to learn.

But maybe if you re-read this gift each Christmas, the meaning will become a little clearer every year.

I hope so, for I want more than anything else for you to understand this simple truth that can set you free:

No one owes you anything!

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

Memories of my “silent” father. My own challenges as a father

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The soundtrack of my relationship with my father has always been silence.

It filled every crack and cranny, sipped in and cemented our interaction like melted cheese.

He was always there without being there.

I saw him.

Felt him.

Heard him.
Smelled him (his aftershave) but you still felt the silence.

He had this chair.

You know most of them had their own chair.

The Chair.

Their own chair.

It was more than a chair, it was his throne.

The patriarch’s chair.

And you didn’t put your bum in that chair.

Not unless you were paying rent that month.

Neither did you move it.

My dad’s was this sofa-like chair, with a beat-down sunken cushion that perpetually retained the shape of his bum.

Revered. It sat in a corner of the living room,
next to his bookshelf.

A teetotaller, he would spend lots of time slumped in that chair, most weekends, after-work, forehead buried in some African literature, reading about Savimbi or Samora, music streaming from this old gramophone that you also didn’t touch.

Neither did you paw his music records: T.P OK Jazz, Jim Reeves, Dolly Parton. Odd music.

End of day, he’d come home, his tea ready by a
stool, and he’d set up that baby,his gramophone.

It had an arm, which had this pin at the tip.

After setting his record in, carefully, with the focus of a surgeon, he would place this pin at the very edge of the record (it was called san) and the living room would suddenly fill up with this scratchy sound,as the pin rotated across the grooves, searching for the opening note.

Back then – in the 70’s – we didn’t own a TV, so it was either you sat in the house to listen to Franco or you went out to play.

You get a cookie for guessing what we chose.

If you ask me what sound reminds me most of
my relationship with my old man, it isn’t the
sound of him revving his Peugeot one last time
as he parked it in the evening, or him coughing
and blowing his nose in the bathroom as he
showered, it’s the sound of that pin running the
grooves of the san, searching for a sound.

But mostly it’s the silence that bubbled up.

It wasn’t an offensive silence.

It wasn’t a disinterested silence.

It was just silence.

Fatherhood back then wasn’t about friendship.

You didn’t tell your father how you felt.

You didn’t sit at his feet and tell him about your pubertal girlfriend problems.

You navigated your struggles alone.

So we hardly conversed.

We spoke, yes, but we hardly conversed.

And when we conversed he was asking about school.

He always asked about school.

About grades.

Seldom would he look at a math problem, which I sucked at,royally.

I remember my “sponsor” taking me to be snipped at the river in my teenage as I “transitioned” into manhood (Oh mom, she would have bee nsuch an angel to see her son initiated into adulthood,but she left me when I was only a day old).

But even after, when I was recovering, he didn’t ask how it went or how it was going.

It would have been nice to tell me that the morning hardons would be a killer.

But he didn’t know how to talk to me.

He didn’t know how to put feelings into words,
which was ironic because he has spent all his life buried in books. Buried in words. Words he has never learnt how to use.

Growing up there seemed to be some sort of a
protocol: most communications passed through
my step mom.

You want new school uniform?

You tell mom, mom tells him (when he is in a good mood, obviously).

You hate the school you are in?

Tell mom, mom tells him.

The pocket money you are getting is a joke?

Tell mom, mom laughs it off.

But now mom is gone dodo and he is left
with a kid he doesn’t know how to speak to.

He tries.

He really tries but he’s out of his depth.

Old dogs don’t learn new tricks. He’s lost. So am I.

Phone conversations last under a minute.

Conversations filled mostly with niceties and the weather and cows.

Him: Remember that white and brown calf, well now it’s all grown and recently had a calf? Well we are getting so much milk now.

Me: Which brown and white cow? I
thought it was a bull?

Him: Loud sigh. That’s why you need to come to the village more often. Etc, Etc.

In mom’s absence the silence of childhood is
back again.

Like an amoeba it’s filling again all the
spaces, all the crevices mom left in her demise.

Why am I airing this family laundry here?

Because it’s not a big deal, and because nothing is ever that serious for one and two because I have realised that now that I have a son, my relationship with my father is going to impact on the relationship I have with my boy.

Guys have always asked me, how different is it raising a boy now as compared to raising a girl? The truth?

Boys eat more!

But here is the distinction.

Although Kim,my boy, brings out the steel in me, Tamms,my girl, makes me very
vulnerable to the point I almost feel unworthy to be keeping a beard.

As in when she is moody in the morning, and she doesn’t talk to me in the car as I drop her to school it bloody affects my moods.

I seem obsessed with her happiness.

There is a time she kind of dropped Kim, and Kim being a mama’s boy, screamed like his eyes had been gorged out (roll eyes) and I shouted at her, “WILL YOU PLEASE FOCUS WHEN YOU ARE CARRYING YOUR DAMNED BROTHER?” It just
came out of my hot mouth.

And she shrunk and tears came to her eyes because I never ever shout at her and before she could break into a cry (she hardly ever
cries) I told her, “Go to your room and read a
book!”

And then my missus gave me that look of
“Come on, it was an accident,” and I went back to watching TV acting like I didn’t care but then it made me feel so bloody lousy, and guilty and I thought if she ever gets pregnant at 18 it will be because I shouted at her.

So later, like an hour, I went to her room with intentions of making up by trying to be funny and Heck!

But before I said anything she said, “I’m sorry I dropped Kim” and my insides melted.

So you see what Tamms just makes me soft and
vulnerable and mushy because she is so fragile
and delicate and I treat her like fine china.

She is my girl.

With Kim it’s different. I realised I’m treating him like a man even though he doesn’t even have teeth yet.

I think it’s because I don’t want to raise
a weak man.

Weakness comes from lack of confidence.

Lack of confidence comes from wrong socialisation.

I have standards I wish of him that will determine how well I have done with him.

First, it would be nice if Kim didn’t turn out to “like” boys.

I’m just saying. I know in another 15years time, mind-sets would have changed completely and my feelings on gayism would be out-dated and degenerated.

But as a father I would prefer if he “liked” girls.

Even though the thought of Tamms bringing home a boy fills my heart with sulphuric acid, the thought of some hot thing with a good bum
on it coming to ask for him would fill me with
pride.

I’d nod inward and say, “Here we have
good taste.” I know, it’s not fair at all.

I don’t care if he pierces his nipples at teenage.

Or gets a Dinka tribal tattoo on his bum.

He can do whatever he wants with his body as long as he is respectful and humble.

I would love if he was backed up against the wall that the one person he would think of calling to get him out of that jam would be me.

I want him to tell his mates, that my old man, is that guy who puts things in perspective.

To respect me. When I die I want him to feel completely lost for a long time, to feel this large quarry open up in his life and know that no one will ever fill it. Not even his mother.

But I’m in danger of raising a weak man because my house is an all-woman digs.

They run that joint. My women. The Missus. Tamms. And the house help.

I just pay rent and stay in my corner.

But I see the way they handle that boy.

The way they fuss over him.

The way they femalise him. (Just made up
that word).

The way they call him weak names
like “baba”. Blimey! Baba sounds like a
manicurist!

Then of all the toys he has, he has grown very fond of this pink toy that looks girlie.

It disturbed me a bit. OK, a lot.

So I went and bought him this cool toy called Monkey Rattle (you are welcome Baby Shop), which he held once and threw away.

He cries too much.

Maybe it’s a stage but it has to stop.

So for instance now he is trying to walk and
when he falls, not ati a bad fall that can
potentially break his neck, and starts crying you should see ALL the females in the house falling all over themselves to reach out ti him.

It’s disgusting.

And kids are crafty, they will fall down and then look around to see if you have seen and when you react with shock they will start bawling like they just sprained an ankle.

The other day when he fell crying and every skirt was rushing to get him up I hollered loudly, like Shaka Zulu, spear blocking the path of the marauding women, “No!”I bellowed, “Let him be! Let him be a man and get up!” They all froze.

So he cried lying on his belly on the carpet,
waiting for help, which was not coming.

You should have seen Tamms she was near tears.

Hehe. The Missus was looking like she was about to slap me. The maid stared helplessly from the doorway.

So Kim cried. And cried. I told him, “get up baba, come up!”

Finally, mumbling baby obscenities I can’t understand, he got up and sat on his diapered
ass sniffing back the last tears.

I looked at the female audience with self righteousness and went back to watching TV sure that King Zulu’s wisdom had been adequately impacted on the females for
generations to come.

I’ve watched my Landlady’s son – Paul – grow up from a boy into a teenage in the past six years I have lived there.

I’ve seen his limbs elongate, seen him grow lanky, his voice break, his dressing change.

Sometimes I run into him as he waits for his school bus outside the gate as I go
for my run. (He attends Saints cathedral masses.)

We share quick hallos, him in his deep pubescent voice. I have also seen how his dad relates to him.

I noticed that when he comes back from work, he hands him the keys and he reverses this car into this garage like space.

And I admire that because it shows trust, that his dad treats him almost like a man.

And I’m always tempted to ask him what he
likes about his father when I run into him those very early mornings but he’s a teenager and you never quite know what mood they are in.

Most of our fathers raised us remotely.

That was their way.

The times then dictated that.

I think now things are different.

We need to talk to these boys.

Make them our pals without them thinking
they can smoke before us.

They should be able to tell us what they can’t tell their mothers.

They should be able to see us as allies.

And as the men they aspire to be.

Sons should be able to say, “If only I was half the man my father is…”

You have to pass through a dungeon to get there,I guess.

Because I talk to many big-shots who are over 50, I find myself asking them about fatherhood and I realise that nobody really has a template to raise boys.

Men just do the best they deem right because at the end of it all, it will be so hard to see how your son turned out – badly or well – and pretend that it isn’t a reflection of who you are.

Here is what I love about Kim.

When his diaper is being changed, (I can count you the number of times I have changed his diaper, less than five. I hear chaps out there have really taken this diaper-changing thing seriously.) he normally has this thing where he immediately reaches out and grabs his jewels.

Like he’s shooting a musical video in the Bronx.

Like he is so blessed he just can’t believe it.

I find it extremely hilarious.

But it fills me with pride because that’s something that we guys do when we just chilling at home, you reach out absentmindedly and slip your hands in your peejays.

Nothing says “guy” more than that.

This is to all men out there raising boys.

Salute!

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

How to disarm your “hot buttons”~SEQUEL

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{PART TWO of ;Do you always fly off the handle when someone pushes your “hot buttons”? http://wp.me/p1JlOj-Eq}

It’s critical to identify just what pushes your buttons (or “yanks to your chain”) to begin with.

Otherwise, there’s no way you can pinpoint–let alone, work through–those past experiences that now prompt you to over react to
provocations that actually may be more “felt” than real.

In fact, it’s important to recognise that what
incites you isn’t necessarily anything that would
provoke someone else.

Finally, it may be only because the current-day
stimulus unconsciously reminds you of something that upset you weeks, months, years, or even decades ago, that you’re compelled to “lose your cool” in the present.

But once you can make the required connections between the there-and-then
and the here-and-now, you can begin to de-activate those buttons that, till this point, have irrationally taken over your behaviour.

Once you’re able to bring a new and more positive self-understanding to whatever distressing messages about yourself you
received–or thought you received–when you were younger (probably much younger), your essential self-image can undergo all kinds of transformative changes.

So what exactly is it that triggers your buttons?

And just how do you determine what causes you to become provoked?–what you can’t help but react to as an affront, annoyance,indignity, or insult?

Begin by asking yourself: Does this hot button relate to getting criticised? disagreed with? nagged? slighted? scolded? disregarded? ignored? . . .

Is it tied to being rebuffed? spurned? made fun of? humiliated? . . .

Is it about feeling trifled with?

Made to feel weak? inadequate? stupid? Might it be connected to feeling un-appreciated? unimportant? devalued? Or maybe taken advantage of? powerless?disrespected? . . .

Is it attached to feeling falsely or unfairly accused? distrusted? disapproved of?rejected?

Or is being mistakenly perceived as dishonest? guilty? shameful? Or could it be some verbal, or non-verbal, cue suggesting that you’re
unloved (or–far worse– unlovable)?

Consider making as comprehensive a list as possible of all the different things you can think of that have goaded you into seeing red in the past, that triggered you to instantly defend yourself, or attack the person who (presumably) intended to hurt you–or (as it
were) slam the door and “act out” your distress by angrily dis-engaging from your seeming provocateur entirely.

Remember, it’s safe to assume that anything
powerful enough to have pushed your buttons
previously is quite likely to push them again.

By now, it’s been said countless times that nothing predicts the future better than the past.

And the psychological dynamic of button-pushing hardly represents an exception to this familiar adage.

So catalog everything you can think of that incited you in times past.

And definitely consider as possibilities the extensive checklist of indignities inventoried above.

Unquestionably, you’ll find a pattern–whether it’s a sensitivity to being criticised,to feeling demeaned or disrespected, to experiencing
the other person as devaluing your viewpoint, or even to feeling utterly abandoned or rejected.

If you’re like most of us, you’ll probably discover that you’ve got considerably more than a single button susceptible to external provocation.

And if you’re particularly insecure, you may find that you have more vulnerability buttons–or “soft spots”–than, frankly, can easily be enumerated.

People characterised by others as “thin-skinned” may well have the most buttons of all.

Once another person hits a nerve deep inside you, there’s very little (at least in the moment) that, realistically, you can do.

But if, beforehand, you can
(1) de-sensitize yourself emotionally from those past experiences that were originally experienced as deeply threatening, and

(2) reassess positively the self-referencing negative meaning these past upsets held for you–that is, re-interpret these disturbing
events in a way that is both more accurate and self-validating–then you’re well on your way to
responding calmly (vs. reacting defensively or
angrily) to current-day situations that in the past may have sorely taxed your emotional resources.

To the extent that (however unconsciously) you’re still programmed to give others the authority to make you feel bad or doubt yourself, you’ll instantaneously feel compelled to diminish their power over you by reacting negatively to them.

But if you’ve been able to “update” your self-image by cognitively re-evaluating your past–thereby coming into your own, irrefutable authority as an adult–you’ll no longer feel the urgency to react this way.

For your emotional equilibrium, shored up by your ability to self-validate and self-soothe, will remain intact.

Even in the face of serious outward challenges, if you’ve developed an essentially favourable sense of self you won’t feel threatened by another’s insensitivity, put-downs, or lack of compassion or understanding.

For (to put it succinctly) you’re no longer dependent on external validation to feel okay
about yourself.

Your feelings of inner security are now firmly anchored from within.

And as a result, if someone says or does something to you that seems unfair or unkind, you’re now fully capable of addressing it–or them–in a manner most likely to be effective.

At this point, the other person’s once incendiary behaviour won’t throw you so off-balance that you can no longer keep your cool.
Once your fundamentally positive sense of self has crystallised, it’s virtually unassailable.

And so, in trying situations you’re in an
ideal position to explain yourself both tactically and tactfully–and without having to be concerned that your expression (facial or verbal) is likely to make matters worse.

Additionally, responding assertively is in direct opposition to reacting aggressively–which may have been what happened routinely in the past
when your buttons got pushed.

It’s somewhat analogous to being bullied, which is an extreme example of external provocation.

Once you’re able to stand tall in the face of another’s ridicule or derision, you’re practically immune to their provocation and slights.
Nothing your bull-headed opponent might say
can make you feel oppressed or intimidated.

No one can tease you (or, for that matter, torment you), for you’ve now “consolidated” a favourable sense of self-one that’s impervious to anyone who might, sadistically, wish to taunt you.

As idealistic (or far-fetched) as some of what I’m describing might seem, none of it is really outside the bounds of human possibility.

Admittedly, however, developing such psychological immunity hardly comes easy.

It takes considerable self-discipline to
systematically re-visit especially distressing moments in your past that (in certain ways at least) have negatively sensitised you to others.

And, understandably, not that many people are even willing to unearth memories linked to such unpleasant experiences as feeling repudiated, rejected, shamed, or abandoned.

Yet once the adult part of you is able to recognise that you’re essentially a good, decent person, you can mentally return to such past circumstances to purge them of their toxic
residue.

And you hardly need to be some kind of
exceptional human being to summon the
wherewithal to undertake such deeper-level
exploration.

However, if on your own you’re simply unable to accomplish such self-change, I’d strongly advise you to get some professional assistance (it will be well worth it!).

But if you are able to see yourself, for example, as basically competent (though certainly not perfect), acceptable (though, of course, not to
everybody), and trustworthy (despite certain peoples’ entrenched cynicism preventing them from placing much faith in you), then you already have everything you need to return to your past and repair those negatively distorted beliefs you may long have harbored about yourself.

And these beliefs are precisely the ones that re-surface time and again (ad infinitum–or ad nauseum) when you still have buttons altogether susceptible to others’ prodding.

Parts 3 and 4 will describe a very different approach to disarming your buttons: namely, employing certain strategies from a method known as Stress [or, in this case, Anger] Inoculation Training.

Utilizing such techniques will help you to better
prepare–or rehearse–for a variety of challenging interpersonal situations.
_________

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

Do you always fly off the handle when someone pushes your “hot buttons”?

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Getting your buttons pushed almost invariably sends you on an unwelcome trip back to your past, to a time when you possessed precious few resources to protect yourself from what, in the moment, felt dangerous.

This involuntary present-to-past phenomenon is something I regularly find myself explaining to my friends who aspire to practice Buddhist meditation as a way of rising above defensiveness and mental agitation , who generally have very little awareness that the buttons they’ve been furtively struggling to control belong not to their present self but to their inner child of the past.

As I like to put it, the adult part of us is reasonable, logical, objective, and controlled.

Not easily does it become agitated or carried away.

Moreover, as mature individuals we’re
able to evaluate a situation realistically–and then respond appropriately (rather than rashly) to it.

Ideally, possessing a hard-earned confidence and sense of adult authority, we can maintain our mental and emotional poise regardless of various kinds of external pressure we’re subject to.

However, when we’ve gotten our buttons pushed– and so are developmentally regressed back into our child self–our grown-up self is, as it were, “missing in action.”

For now our judgment, and the wisdom gained from many years of observation and experience, is pretty much rendered null and void.

In that moment, enslaved by our inner child’s emotions, we can’t possibly reflect on the most effective response to the offending person or event.

For now it’s the child part of us that’s in charge, who’s taken custody of (or pre-empted) our more mature, rational self.

And–as a child confronted by someone or
something perceived as potentially harmful–we’re desperate to nullify that threat as quickly as we can, and with little consideration for the consequences of such impetuous behaviour.

When your buttons get pushed, you react.

Automatically.

After all, that’s what getting your buttons pushed means. Stimulus- response, stimulus-response. . . . Or rather, stimulus-
reaction.

For “response” implies choice; and when
your buttons are being hammered, your counter- behavior is instantaneous–without forethought, deliberation, or (for that matter) discretion.

In such instances, you’re impelled–by a force that’s far stronger, far more primal, than your rational adult mind–to strenuously defend yourself.

Or to attack whoever has (perhaps unwittingly) provoked you.

Or, in a sudden state of urgency, to hastily retreat from the situation altogether.

Your immediate (and typically fervent) behaviour usually reflects some archaic “operating system,” an emotional survival program existing considerably below your conscious mind.

Just as any animal–by nature, exquisitely sensitive to sudden sound or movement–instinctively tenses all its muscles to
prepare for fight, flight, or freeze, so do we humans instantly “adapt” to anything we perceive as threatening.

Except, unlike others animals, when we’ve become hypersensitive to any perceived disagreement, denial, slight, or insult, whatever
provoked us rarely constitutes a serious threat to our survival.

So, frankly, our adaptation isn’t particularly
adaptive.

Governed by overwhelming, un-analyzed emotions, our irresistible impulse is to regain some sense of safety, to reduce our precarious sense of vulnerability.

With our adult brain hijacked, we’re left
in a position where we’re compelled to do something (however imprudent or counter-productive) that will help neutralise the distressful feelings of insecurity that now beset us.

In such a pressured state, there’s no time to contemplate the actual threat of the situation, or our present-day ability to assert some authentic power over it.

For in being re-identified with our child self, there’s little sense that we possess such power.

The only alternative, therefore, is–non-rationally–to act out the emotion that now holds us in its grip.

And just as this sort of un-mediated
reaction probably wasn’t very helpful in the past, when we get our buttons pushed in the here-and- now, our instant reaction rarely enables us to successfully resolve our current impasse.

So, in situations of perceived threat, how do we
contrive to get our adult self back on the scene?

Or better, are there practical ways we can keep our “inner adult” from leaving in the first place–ways to keep that more mature self fully operational, even in situations that previously may have caused it to vanish entirely?

Parts 2, 3, and 4 of this post will attempt to provide practical answers to these questions, so that you can successfully preserve your mental and emotional equilibrium whenever external forces threaten to overwhelm it.

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

When a relationship ends without closure

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Moving on after a relationship break-up is hard enough,and much more harder for those who seek definitive closure.

I would love to identify someone who, when a relationship crumbles either gradually or all at once, is able to wipe his/her hands clean and go on about life without any closure.

I dream about the tears, time, and energy it
would save if one didn’t feel the need for closure and if one didn’t agonise about trying to have these heartfelt and “necessary” conversations with the people with whom one had falling outs.

For years, I was shackled to the belief that there must be a formal end to a relationship or role, and until that happens, it’s impossible to move on.

In life, not all relationships continue to flourish.

It’s brave to recognise that and to move on from toxic relationships, or those that don’t contribute to your growth or well-being.

But how does one go about that transition
when formal closure is not always an option?

It’s not weird at all to feel the need for closure.

In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that it’s a necessary part of the relationship cycle.

The more I explore the notion of closure, however, the more I convinced I become that the issue isn’t about closure per se, but rather re-defining what closure is.

When we think of closure, a certain image or idea might come to mind.

Maybe it’s opposing parties sitting down and
talking, crying, laughing, in order to get to a place where everyone involved can accept the end or shift of a relationship.

Maybe it ends with a hug, or maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe it still hurts, but at least accept that it’s the end.

It’s hard to create new beginnings when you are preoccupied with old endings.

Closure is something to meditate on, because
sometimes closure is not found in plain sight.

The more I think about closure, the more
convinced I am that there’s no set formula for it.

It can come in millions of forms.

If you start investigating closure with new eyes, I bet you can achieve some aspects of it that you weren’t even aware of.

Closure isn’t always a grand gesture or
conversation.

Maybe closure is the first time you’re able to set a new boundary, saying “no” when you’re a certified people pleaser.

Maybe it’s being able to finally go through the
belongings of a loved one whose life was taken with little or no notice.

If you’re confused or having trouble subscribing to this idea, let me share my own closure experience with you.

Estrangement always seem so fuzzy.

Was it the end of our relationship, or was it a
hiatus?

I never knew whether I should commit to reviving the relationship or begin the process
of moving on.

Sometimes I wanted it to be final so I could recover from the mental abuse and create a new life where self-loathing was replaced with self-love.

But how could I?

We didn’t have a formal conversation about it.

I didn’t feel okay.

But what was acceptable closure?

For years, I asked myself, “What am I needing
in order to be able to move on?”

Then I got quiet,meditated and listened to the soft voice from my wounded soul.

I realised that I thought I needed to hear someone say sorry, or if she couldn’t do that, for us to be able to sit down and have a rational conversation.

I thought that was the only way I could pick up my broken pieces and live a fulfilling life.

Through years of Buddhist meditation, education, invisible tears in my heart, relying
on my support systems, and intense introspection,I discovered that I was never going to get that.

My estranged mate is mentally incapable of believing she could be even slightly flawed.

She is incapable of giving me what I thought I needed.

Just when I was running out of ways to self-
destruct and I felt myself hitting a new bottom,
I decided that just because my mate couldn’t
help me achieve the type of closure I desired,
that didn’t mean that I couldn’t get there on my
own.

I began the life-long process of retraining my brain, engaging in self-love and self-care, and going within to give myself what I needed when others couldn’t.

I might not have gotten everything I wanted exactly in the way that I had envisioned, but I was able to get myself to a place where I understood and accepted my relationship (or lack thereof) with my
mate.

I was ready to move on and learn to begin a new chapter of my life.

Some days it comes easier than others.

There are times when I want to dwell on how much it sucks that I have to work so hard to feel okay sometimes.

On the tough days, I am learning to go inward. I practice positive self-talk, celebrate how far I’ve come, and remind myself that closure is not just one thing,but a holistic approach to healing from hurt by others.

I remind myself that I have the power to
create all the closure I need if I keep practising and having faith.

If you are a creature of closure, there’s no need to shame yourself or to try to change who you are.

Maybe it’s about learning to become a detective for closure in your everyday life in order to find it in your own way.

The path to closure is rarely an easy or clear-cut one, but I invite you to see closure through a new lens.

As you embark on this journey, remember to be
gentle with yourself.

It’s okay to acknowledge where there is room for improvement, but please do not overlook successes, no matter the size.

Meditate on the idea that you possess the ability to find closure on your own in ways you never
thought possible.

Consider the belief that you could be free.

Bask in the notion that you’re in control.

If you do achieve closure, remember that you’re the one who is responsible for such a feat in your life.

You benefit more by drawing your own closure that waiting for it from someone else who may not be willing to grant your wish!

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

True Love is a quiet storm

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True love comes quietly, without
banners or flashing lights.

If you hear bells,
or the sound of approaching marching drums,
get your ears checked.

True love doesn’t run you over,
or smack you on the top of your head.

It is a love that does not die
A love that whispers
A small still voice
Easily ignored.

Forgotten in the rush of infatuation
Remembered,
In the stillness of infatuation’s inevitable
disappointment.

It is a love that aches
A dull pain
As everlasting as the stars
In happiness, easily forgotten
In sorrow, magnified
This love is a gurgling stream
A midsummer night’s breeze
A twinkling star.

Beautiful,
Yet never arresting attention.

Was it the allure of magic?
Or were my senses simply heightened by sheer
boredom,
By the tedious monotony of life?

Around her, I became alive.

Free to be truly myself.

A clumsy, shy guy.

A hopeless poet.

A man with dreams.

She let me confront my fears.

Helped me deal with the demons in my system.

She let me see into the future.

For in three weeks I experienced all that I had lost belief in.

I built my own castle and watched it float on a sea of bliss.

I saw tiny creatures peeking at me from behind
toadstools.

My world lit up. more vivid.

It was an out of body experience.

A trip to the circus.
An eclipse.

A shooting star.

A sunset.

A moment of sure magic.

But a moment after all.

Not designed to last.

For a moment I felt how wonderful it is to be truly myself.

To be around someone who finds the real you
interesting.

To laugh freely.

To talk about your emotions in honesty.

To talk about your aspirations.

To have someone read my poems.

To argue over nonsense.

To critique every purple outfit in sight.

And that to me is the meaning of love.

A love that cannot be scaled on a range of one to ten.

Not disguised in the realm of friendship.

But my moment passed,

And I return to the world,

Where I an the man of a thousand marks.

Where I continuously put no acts to fit in.

Conjuring up roles for each situation.

For each friendship. each relationship.

Yes, true love is like a seed,
you don’t notice when it gets inside of you.

It takes firm root and you,
feel your heart tug a bit,
but you ignore it.

It sprouts a small tree within you and you get scared.

Who after- all wants a tree growing inside them?

That tree grows and grows,

it grows both quicker and slower than you’d
thought possible,
it’s mystifying actually.

Then you reach a point where you realize that, that tree is what’s bringing fresh air to your heart and making it smile all day long.

And after a lot of time arguing with
yourself,
you finally admit that you like this tree and
what it brings,
even if that makes you fell weird.

And you realize that you’re willing to keep nurturing the growth of this tree,
and of course, keep the person
who’s planted this tree within you,
beside you the whole time doing so.

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

I am an eternal optimist and here is why optimism will work for you too!

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If you ask me, everything is pretty good and
great these days.

Your life and my life are both going to continue to increase in awesomeness over time.

We are likely to have exceptional fortune and health throughout our days, we’ll help to change some lives for the better, our kids are going to turn out loving and great,and we will die with a broad smile across our rugged and weather-worn faces somewhere around the age of a hundred and twenty two.

Oh sure, there will be the odd problem and
catastrophe along the way, but they will just serve as re-charging jolts to keep us from getting complacent.

More problems to solve, more learning to do, and deeper happiness to attain.

On top of that, the human race is bound for an ever- better fate, ironing out most of its current problems and most of the problems that follow in the future,ending up at a tantalizing Star Trek Utopia.

Those are pretty controversial statements to
make these days, yet strangely enough the
general theme tends to become true, for the few
people who are crazy enough to believe it.

And most of us don’t believe it. In fact, many of us end up going completely the opposite way.

One of the problems with being a clever and analytical person like yourself, is that you’ve become very good at seeing what might go wrong.

You can see the risks inherent in any enterprise, and if you’ve got enough analytical mind in you, you might even be fond of expounding about those risks to anyone around who
will listen.

There are even people make whole careers of this.

Fear-mongering in general tends to make you sound smart, and fearful people get a quirky sort of reassurance by snuggling up to a fearful leader, and confidently predicting the worst possible outcome.

Dmitri Orlov gets lots of attention by continuously foretelling the complete collapse of the United States.

A favourite technique of Collapse theorists is to sit at the news screen, interpreting each development of still further evidence of their theory. “Oh.. now the politicians are arguing.

Sure sign of collapse.

National debt is growing.. collapse.

Oil consumption rising faster than supply.. just as I predicted, it was foretold, it was foretold.

Are You a Personal Collapse Theorist?

The same methods can be applied by a Personal
Collapse Theorist.

“Oh man, this job is stressing me out. My department is going down the gutter, and
we’ll be the first ones on the chopping block when the next round of layoffs comes.

And it will be coming SOON! … And the thing is, in THIS ECONOMY, I need to hold onto my job because there are no other ones out there.

Not in my field, anyway.

All this is really taking a toll on my health.

I’ve got bad knees and back, and they really flare up when I am stressed.

So they are getting worse every day, which
makes me even more stressed, which makes me
even worse at my job, which makes me even more likely to get laid off, which…”

Whew, it hurt my fingers even to type that paragraph above, even though it was all completely made up.

But it hurts because it’s true – some people actually say things like that on a regular basis.

And every time I hear it, I feel like grasping the person’s head between my hands and shaking it while I say, “Wake up, Dude! You’re doing more than just discussing your situation right now.. You’re creating your own reality!”

Let’s contrast the life of the Personal Collapse person to the fate of a really lucky person.

You probably know at least one person that is just so lucky that they annoy you.

The person has a better job than you, always seems to get promotions, has cooler friends, and maybe even a more attractive spouse and a greener lawn.

Some even accuse plain old Mr. Money of being annoying for the same reason, “Oh, enough from you. You retired early and then things seem to keep going well for you. You’re making it all up, or if you’re not, it’s just luck and it can’t be applied to me”.

Fair enough.

We’re all “scientists” here in this game, so we can acknowledge that luck, or the partially random distribution of life situations, does indeed play a part in how a person’s life turns out.

There’s the genetic lottery, where each person gets different abilities directly from their parents, then there is upbringing, family, location, and pure random events supplied by the outside world.

It’s bound to create a very diverse set of
results, right?

But if you’ve ever been to a bar and watched a less-attractive friend have far greater success in attracting mates, or worked in an office where you notice that many of the people in highly paid senior positions are less competent and intelligent than yourself, you know there is something fishy about the theory that luck and birthright alone deliver our fate.

The Secret Weapon of Optimism

And that’s where we get to secret weapon of Optimism that I’ve brought to you today.

I’m hefting a stainless steel case onto the table and undoing the latches for you for you now.

It’s lined with black velvet and as I open it up, both of our faces light up with golden light.

Inside is a very smooth, very polished tool that looks like it was crafted by an advanced alien race.

It is made of gold and silver materials, with a sculpted handle and cobalt blue trigger.

It’s your new Optimism Gun!

But what good is fictional asset like an Optimism Gun when we’re trying to accomplish things here in the real world?

The answer is a Hell of a lot of good,because in this world full of humans, almost all of our “reality” is created in our own heads.

Is money real? No, it’s just a shared understanding among all of us that we agree to store value in non-tangible forms.

What about Gold, that’s more real than money, right?

Nope – offer a pile of gold coins and a nice chunk of meat to a dog, and see which one
he chooses.

Fame, fortune, the respect of others, or a job as
President?

Just chemical patterns stored in the minds of a bunch of other humans.

Even physical problems, like immediately cutting human carbon emissions by 75% to reduce climate change or eliminating poverty in all poor countries, are things that could be solved within months, just by altering patterns in a bunch of human minds.

And as it turns out, the human mind is exactly the target of the Optimism Gun.

But does it really work?

I found my own Gun about 21 years ago and I have certainly found it effective whenever I had the courage to apply it.

It has helped me get an offer for every consultancy job I have ever applied to, earn and save more money than the pessimists assumed possible, have a very nice life, and be generally happy every day, as I’m sure you’ve heard
more than enough.

I also secretly use the Optimism Gun in this blog (in fact, I’m writing this post with the “bluetooth” keyboard that was supplied with the device).

And I’d argue that it is working here too, evidenced by the ridiculous spread of optimism to date (now they’re even thinking of making a big TV show out of it,even though as of now,it’s just a dream!).

Because which is more likely: a software engineer who didn’t even take an English class in university just happens to be the most amazing writer in the world with the most useful financial ideas as well?

Or that the blog just makes people feel good about their lives because it is much more optimistic than other writing on the topic, and this motivates them to try some new things?

Here’s Why Optimism Works

There are several psychological principles at work that make all this work on a practical level:

•Humans are automatically drawn to Leaders:
Most people just want to hang back with the crowd and shy away from pressure of standing out.

As soon as somebody stands on the box and picks up the notes, people start listening.

If you dare to express optimism about anything, you’re stepping onto a little soapbox, and it gets attention.

•People want it to be true: If you’ve become a small- time leader and you deliver the Good Word, people will naturally want to keep listening, because you help them feel good about things too.

•Optimism tricks you into trying more things: If
you believe success is almost guaranteed, you’re
going to try some pretty fun ventures.

In reality, sure,you fail at some things, but what do they always tell us is the best teacher? That’s right, it’s failure.

So you end up racking up much more hard-earned experience and knowledge than the non-optimist.

Then what do you do with all that extra knowledge?

You succeed.

Meanwhile, everyone else is still hesitating to try the first thing.

•You are forced not to focus on things you can’t
control: One of the most useful lessons of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People is that you never worry about stuff you cannot control.
You just work on the things you can.

As an example, I never watch the political debates or follow the polls for next month’s presidential election.

That doesn’t help me at all!

Instead, I just read the descriptions of the policies each candidate plans to put into place, evaluate those against my best guess at their long-term effects on the success of the world in general (not just based on my own situation), then decide on my vote long before the election day.

Then I can be optimistic because I’ve had my full say by voting, and I have hundreds of hours freed up to accomplish other things while the pessimists are still watching TV and worrying about the election!

•Acknowledge and Bow Down to the Placebo
Effect: When it comes to health and well-being, the mind controls the body way more than rational people like to admit.

This isn’t just new-age medicine– the very thought of taking medicine that makes people better, has a statistically significant effect on
the outcome of medical tests.

It is so real, that scientists have to adjust for it by giving people fake pills, which make them better, in order to see if the real pills do even more than the fake ones.

I enjoy hacking this fact this to control my own
health.

I have a permanent belief that I am unusually
healthy, and that this condition will persist forever!

Even when I get sick, I look at it as a very temporary anomaly, always assuming I’ll be back to full health by the next day.

It usually proves to be true.

Not only am I overdosing on the placebo effect, but these assumptions lead me to do the deliberate things one would do if one were preparing for a healthy 122- year lifespan as well.

And on top of all this, the optimism is limiting the release of the human stress hormone Cortisol, which tends to destroy health.

The less you worry about health, the healthier you become.

•Optimism is rare, and deadly when combined with competence: If you’re a smart guy or gal at your workplace, the other smart people are expecting you to be pessimistic, just like them.

You can sit at the lunch table, discussing the chronic failures of management or the critically
flawed design of the product you’re all working on.

But once you’ve proven your pessimism/realism chops and are respected by the gang, then you gradually start playing some tricks.

You can slip in ideas like “Well, this project might actually turn out OK… all we have to do is rewrite the action plan.
I’m pretty sure I can do that.”

Your co-workers will be fooled into thinking that they really can do those things, which they wouldn’t have otherwise tried.

As noted in point #3, these things occasionally work, and as you hone your skills at tricking people into succeeding,you find yourself increasingly being sought after for CEO positions.

So there you have it, from the perspective of both the eternal optimist and eternal believer in the power of optimism.

This stuff really works on other people and on ourselves, and it’s the source of most of the “luck” we experience in our lifetimes.

So the only remaining barrier is: are you daring
enough to begin this journey by turning the
Optimism Gun on Yourself?

Shoot a dose of optimism into your life,and then let me know what happens!

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

How successful people handle toxic people

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“Save your skin from the corrosive acids from the mouths of toxic people. Someone who just helped you to speak evil about another person can later help another person to speak evil about you.”
~Israelmore Ayivor

Toxic people defy logic.

Some are blissfully unaware of the negative impact that they have on those around them, and others seem to derive satisfaction from creating chaos and pushing other people’s buttons.

Either way, they create unnecessary complexity, strife, and worst of all stress for you.

Studies have long shown that stress can have a
lasting, negative impact on the brain.

Stress is a formidable threat to your success—when stress gets out of control, your brain and your performance suffer.

Whether it’s negativity, cruelty, the victim syndrome, or just plain craziness, toxic people drive your brain into a stressed-out state that should be avoided at all costs.

The ability to manage your emotions and
remain calm under pressure has a direct link to your performance.

Top performers in any field,including relationships, are skilled at managing
their emotions in times of stress in order to remain calm and in control.

One of their greatest gifts is the ability to neutralise toxic people.

Top performers have well-honed coping strategies that they employ to keep toxic people at bay.

While I’ve run across numerous effective strategies that successful people employ when dealing with toxic people, what follows are twelve of the best.

To deal with toxic people effectively, you need an approach that enables you, across the board, to control what you can and eliminate what you can’t.

The important thing to remember is that you are in control of far more than you realize.

•They Set Limits (Especially with Complainers)

Complainers and negative people are bad news
because they wallow in their problems and fail to focus on solutions.

They want people to join their Self-pity party so that they can feel better about themselves.

People often feel pressure to listen to complainers because they don’t want to be seen as callous or rude, but there’s a fine line between lending a sympathetic ear and getting sucked into their negative emotional spiral.

You can avoid this only by setting limits and
distancing yourself when necessary.

Think of it this way: if the complainer were smoking, would you sit there all afternoon inhaling the second-hand smoke?

You’d distance yourself, and you should do
the same with complainers.

A great way to set limits is to ask complainers how they intend to fix the problem.

They will either quiet down or redirect the conversation in a productive direction.

•They Don’t Die in the Fight that is not meant to be theirs

Successful people know how important it is to live to fight another day, especially when your foe is a toxic individual.

In conflict, unchecked emotion makes you dig your heels in and fight the kind of battle that can leave you severely damaged.

When you read and respond to your emotions, you’re able to choose your battles wisely and only stand your ground when the time is right.

•They Rise Above

Toxic people drive you crazy because their
behavior is so irrational.

Make no mistake about it;their behavior truly goes against reason.

Which begs the question, why do you allow yourself to respond to them emotionally and get sucked into the mix?

The more irrational and off-base someone is, the easier it should be for you to remove yourself from their traps.

Quit trying to beat them at their own
game.

Distance yourself from them emotionally
and approach your interactions like they’re a
science project (or you’re their shrink, if you prefer the analogy).

You don’t need to respond to their emotional chaos—only the facts.

•They Stay Aware of Their Emotions

Maintaining an emotional distance requires
awareness.

You can’t stop someone from pushing your buttons if you don’t recognise when it’s
happening.

Sometimes you’ll find yourself in situations where you’ll need to regroup and choose
the best way forward.

This is fine and you shouldn’t be afraid to buy yourself some time to do so.

Think of it this way—if a mentally unstable person approaches you on the street and tells you he’s Nelson Mandela, you’re unlikely to set him straight.

When you find yourself with a friend or acquaintance who is engaged in similarly derailed thinking, sometimes it’s best to just smile and nod.

If you’re going to have to straighten them out, it’s better to give yourself some time to plan the best way to go about it.

•They Establish Boundaries

This is the area where most people tend to sell
themselves short.

They feel like because they work or live with someone, they have no way to control the chaos.
This couldn’t be further from the truth.

Once you’ve found your way to Rise Above a
person, you’ll begin to find their behaviour more predictable and easier to understand.

This will equip you to think rationally about when and where you have to put up with them and when you don’t.

For example, even if you work with someone
closely on a project team, that doesn’t mean that
you need to have the same level of one-on-one
interaction with them that you have with other
team members.

You can establish a boundary, but you’ll have to do so consciously and pro-actively.

If you let things happen naturally, you are bound to find yourself constantly embroiled in difficult conversations.

If you set boundaries and decide when and where you’ll engage a difficult person, you can control much of the chaos.

The only trick is to stick to your guns and keep boundaries in place when the person tries to encroach upon them, which they will.

•They Won’t Let Anyone Limit Their Joy

When your sense of pleasure and satisfaction are derived from the opinions of other people, you are no longer the master of your own happiness.

When emotionally intelligent people feel good about something that they’ve done, they won’t let anyone’s opinions or snide remarks take that away from them.

While it’s impossible to turn off your reactions to what others think of you, you don’t have to
compare yourself to others, and you can always
take people’s opinions with a grain of salt.

That way, no matter what toxic people are thinking or doing, your self-worth comes from within.

Regardless of what people think of you at any
particular moment, one thing is certain—you’re
never as good or bad as they say you are.

•They Don’t Focus on Problems—Only Solutions

Where you focus your attention determines your
emotional state.

When you fixate on the problems you’re facing, you create and prolong negative emotions and stress.

When you focus on actions to better yourself and your circumstances, you create a sense of personal efficacy that produces positive
emotions and reduces stress.

When it comes to toxic people, fixating on how
crazy and difficult they are gives them power over you.

Quit thinking about how troubling your difficult person is, and focus instead on how you’re
going to go about handling them.

This makes you more effective by putting you in control, and it will reduce the amount of stress you experience when interacting with them.

•They Don’t Forget

Emotionally intelligent people are quick to forgive, but that doesn’t mean that they forget.

Forgiveness requires letting go of what’s happened so that you can move on.

It doesn’t mean you’ll give a wrongdoer another chance.

Successful people are unwilling to be bogged down unnecessarily by others’ mistakes, so they let them go quickly and are assertive in protecting themselves from future harm.

•They Squash Negative Self-Talk

Sometimes you absorb the negativity of other
people.

There’s nothing wrong with feeling bad about how someone is treating you, but your self-
talk (the thoughts you have about your feelings) can either intensify the negativity or help you move past it.

Negative self-talk is unrealistic, unnecessary, and self-defeating.

It sends you into a downward emotional spiral that is difficult to pull out of.

You should avoid negative self-talk at all costs.

•They Limit Their stimulant and mood elevator Intake

For example,drinking caffeine triggers the release of adrenaline.

Adrenaline is the source of the “fight-or-flight”
response, a survival mechanism that forces you to stand up and fight or run for the hills when faced with a threat.

The fight-or-flight mechanism sidesteps rational thinking in favour of a faster response.

This is great when a lion is chasing you,but not so great when you’re surprised in the
hallway by an angry co-worker.

•They Get Some Sleep

I’ve beaten this one to death over the years and
can’t say enough about the importance of sleep to increasing your emotional intelligence and
managing your stress levels.

When you sleep, your brain literally recharges, shuffling through the day’s memories and storing or discarding them (which causes dreams), so that you wake up alert and
clear-headed.

Your self-control, attention, and memory are all reduced when you don’t get enough—or the right kind—of sleep.

Sleep deprivation raises stress hormone levels on its own, even without a stressor present.

A good night’s sleep makes you more positive,
creative, and proactive in your approach to toxic people, giving you the perspective you need to deal effectively with them.

•They Use Their Support System

It’s tempting, yet entirely ineffective, to attempt
tackling everything by yourself.

To deal with toxic people, you need to recognize the weaknesses in your approach to them.

This means tapping into your support system to gain perspective on a challenging person.

Everyone has someone at work and/or outside work who is on their team, rooting for them, and ready to help them get the best from
a difficult situation.

Identify these individuals in your life and make an effort to seek their insight and assistance when you need it.

Something as simple as explaining the situation can lead to a new perspective.

Most of the time, other people can see a solution that you can’t because they are not as emotionally invested in the situation.

¤Bringing It All Together

Before you get this system to work brilliantly,
you’re going to have to pass some tests.

Most of the time, you will find yourself tested by touchy interactions with problem people.

Thankfully, the plasticity of the brain allows it to mold and change as you practice new behaviors, even when you fail.

Implementing these healthy, stress-relieving
techniques for dealing with difficult people will
train your brain to handle stress more effectively and decrease the likelihood of ill effects.

I always love to hear new strategies for dealing with toxic people, so please feel free to share yours in the comments section below!

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®

Why men LOVE their cars and LIKE their women

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Most men see cars as a sense of freedom and
adventure and develop personal relationship
with them.

Why men love cars so much?

Why do they often take better care of their cars than their women?

Let us plunge in and tackle the love of men for cars.

Love at first sight!

What do cars give men?

A sense of freedom and adventure is a highly recognised answer among both men and women.

The power and freedom men and women feel when a machine follows their commands is a main driving factor for love of cars.

Moreover, it is not easy for most men today to buy the dream car,and they work hard to make it happen.

Thus, it becomes something they’ve been waiting and working for, which is why they feel passionate about it and when they achieve it they love it… and take care of it.

This can give some hints to many women out
there wondering about the best approach to hold the man’s attention and affection.

It always makes you feel comfortable, when it’s
the right car…but isn’t it the same with the right
woman?

Men develop personal relationship with their cars faster than women because they perceive their car as an extension while women don’t.

Women do experience that for example with their homes – they see the house as an extension of their being.

For most women a car is a separate entity.

For women it is a convenience, what the car can do for them, for men is more like a sentient being they need to get to know and respond to – men love cars, that’s it.

Don’t get mad ladies.

It is somewhat sad that men feel that way about their cars, but there is an explanation to
that.

According to a BMW study, men feel like they have nothing to prove to and feel completely relaxed while driving their car.

If you think about it, it is not the same with their woman.

Most men feel constantly pressured to prove and justify themselves in front of a woman.

And this feeling intensifies even more when they get married.

Although many would argue that, it is the truth and it applies to women too.

Therefore, developing this personal relationship with their cars, men easily differentiate it from the personal relationship with a woman as easier to maintain and still satisfactory.

Moreover, by owning the car of their dreams – often a high performance, luxury vehicle – most men equate it with them and take pride in their car.

A man’s opinion: “I like to listen to my car. You can hear when the turbo clicks in – that vacuum-cleaner effect. You can just feel the giddy up effect, and the sensation of power is brilliant – you can feel it through the steering wheel and the back of the seat.”

A man can rarely find the right words to explain how he feels about a woman, yet he can be very
expressive about his car because it is a different type of love.

Both type of relationships, with a woman and
with a car, are discovered slowly and deepened with the time.

In both relationships, development raises more questions, but with the car, questions often
don’t demand an answer instantly.

The response a man gets from his car is mechanical in its nature and yet it speaks on an emotional level.

There is clicking,gear shifting and tire screeching, sounds men often describe with purring that makes them happy.

In a relationship with the woman they love, the discovery process is more interactive which involves more effort as women are not easy to please at all.

Women acknowledge that and yet it can’t be changed because women are highly emotional and intellectual beings who like to show it.

No matter how easy going a woman’s personality is, the relationship demands a
lot of work to maintain and unfortunately a big
percentage of men are not ready to put in the effort.

So, the car becomes their perfect match on many levels.

Every day…we are driving and loving it!

Driving your car in general is intimate and individual experience.

They can only feel them, share, and enjoy the fact that they are not pressured to do that
and not getting a response from their car only
strengthen the personal relationship.

Moreover, the way a car looks and feels partly determines how we feel and drive.

Sounds familiar maybe ladies?

So, having the control and familiarity when driving your car is a pleasurable experience that makes the seemingly unemotional men to be strongly attached to their car.

This explains why when moving men are ten times more likely to ship a car, rather than sell it.

To most men the car becomes their moving house,their second home that can be shown yet remain private.

Many would say that this love for cars in men
comes down to control, yet it is an emotional
relationship.

From the men themselves

“Since not having a car I’ve had to rely on public transport to take me where I want to go, having to sit near people I don’t know on a seat where I have no idea who sat there before me.”

In a bus I even have to look at the back of people’s heads for the whole trip while in a car I can look anywhere I want at my own pace with no obstruction in my line of vision.”

“I haven’t seen any friends since the loss of my car, most of them live in the same district as me. I like knowing that at any moment I can just jump in my car and go wherever I want. I could go to Timbuktu or to the extreme north of Mahe just for a drive if I wanted to. While if I want to do that in a bus I will first have to wait for hours to finally get one; it will take hours to reach there as it is stopping at every turn to either take on or disembark a passenger.”

“Sometimes I just cruise around in Victoria with my arms resting on the window sill. Some girls are really attracted to men in fancy cars so it’s my way of getting girls.”

“I drive around in my cars playing music as loud as I can. I feel good listening to music in my car. While if at home my wife will never stop shouting at me to turn down the volume.”

“Some men have this perception that one is rich
when one owns a car. This is totally stupid. How can one goes round in a car when his stomach is empty?”

Women also like cars but …

Not that women don’t love cars.

They do, but in a different way.

You won’t read about a rich female who squanders huge amounts of her money
acquiring a stable of cars (unless she is in love with her chauffeur) but footballers who spend fortunes on car after car when they hardly have the time to drive one are commonplace.

If I ask a woman what her first car was, she can always tell me.

Chances are she gave it a name, drove it for years and cried when she had to sell it.

It is equally likely that she didn’t keep it very clean and never polished it, and that it is always full of odds and ends, pillows, spare shoes, kids’ stuff, rubbish of all kinds.

When a woman drives her husband’s cars,
she is usually on notice that a scratch, spilt food and drink on carpet or upholstery, ash in the ashtray means she will never be allowed to drive it again.

His car is part of her husband’s self-image; her car is her dear friend and helper, her supermarket trolley, her baby-carriage.

He would rather take the bus than be seen at the wheel of her grubby hatch-back; she pilots his gleaming Hyundai through double-parked
streets with her heart in her mouth.

Much as he might love his car, no man weeps when he sells it on for a better one.

With his new car his youth is renewed; its increased performance endows him with vigour.

Women can be neglectful of their cars, and forget to put water in radiators, refill the washer tanks, replenish the oil or put air in tyres but they don’t deliberately mistreat them.

You won’t hear women boasting about how they wrote off a car or blew up its engine.

The woman who drives a hundred miles with the handbrake on or the choke out, or leaves the lights on and flattens the battery, can feel nothing but guilt and embarrassment.

Men who write off or blow up cars do so deliberately and glory in the deed, stupid and destructive though it clearly is.

A man who can never remember to use a lavatory brush or swill the shaving lather out of the hand- basin will devote litres of water to washing his car.

He will hose out the wheel-arches and remove every last insect corpse from the windscreen and the trim, and then leather off every inch of the paintwork so that not so much as a water-spot dims its radiance.

A man who cannot tell you what colour his wife’s eyes are will be able to tell you all the specifications of his motor.

He will know how it measures up against all
the cars in its price range, year or model, and be able to prove that he is not the kind of wuss who buys the wrong car.

In fact, this love affair starts long before puberty,when a baby boy meets his first wheeled toy and knows that it represents something that makes him go faster.

The little girl may know it too, but she is
less likely to care.

A man who can never remember to use a lavatory brush or swill the shaving lather out of the hand- basin will devote litres of water and washing liquids to washing his car

It might sound a bit weird, but there are plenty of guys out there that secretly love their cars more than their women!

Having a strong emotional attachment to material objects is nothing new, and, for some adult males, cars are often their “ comfort
blankets” in adulthood.

Of course, as a man, if you are in a relationship
with a woman, or are perhaps married to one, they should not have to compete for your love with an inanimate object!

Are you worried that you might love your car more than the lady in your life?

Check out these tell-tale signs!

»You talk more to your car than to your lady

Talking to one’s self isn’t anything to be alarmed about, as we all do it from time to time.
Talking aloud helps us to find the answers to any complex questions when we are alone.

But if you find that you have more conversations with your pride and joy than you do with the woman in your life, you are either bored of your other half or you just prefer to seek solace from your automotive “partner.”

»You get jealous when people look at your car

Now when I buy cars I don’t tend to have much of an emotional attachment other than giving my cars nicknames.

I also don’t care if people look at my car as they walk or drive past it.

You might have a problem if you get jealous
whenever random strangers give your automobile admiring glances.

Unless you drive an invisible car,I can guarantee you that people will look at your
car.

And if you happen to drive something exotic such as an Italian supercar, you will have even more people ogling your car than you would if you rolled around in a Ford Fiesta!

»You talk about your car as if it were a person

If you walked into a Carbase showroom, or the
showroom of any car dealership for that matter,
you would hear people talking about cars using
words such as “it” or “the”.

For example, any normal person might say
something like “my car is running rough at the
moment, I think it needs a service.”

But you probably have issues if you start talking to people about your car as if it were a person:

“Laura isn’t feeling well at the moment, she said she has stomach pains.”

»You believe your car IS a person

To be honest, I’ve not come across anyone that
believes their car is a person.

Cars are inanimate objects; they are mechanical devices that feature a lot of steel, plastic, rubber and carpet, amongst other things.

What they don’t have is vital organs such as a heart,liver, kidneys or lungs.

Nor do they assume the shape of a woman.

If you are reading this and are convinced that your car is a woman, I highly recommend you seek professional help because you will lose someone that does love you and is a woman!

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

A place I call home

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Where is that place we call home?
Is it here, is it over there,beyond the hills?
Is it in that soft warm bosom of my sweet girl?
So where is that place we call home, you ask?

It’s where you feel safe,
And it’s where you know everyone around you loves you for you,
Your cat,your neighbours,your friends,
A place that you always love to be.

Do you have a place you can call home like I do?

It’s been a long hard ride getting there,
And I won’t lose hope,
This is still the place,
That we all call home.

To chase that dream across the seven seas,
For something that i believe in,
And that’s a place I call my home.

I have travelled all over the world,
Been to the world’s most famous places,
Have seen the Victoria Fall’s falling waters,
Have left tracks on the well known deserts of Africa,
But there is one favourite place among all,
A place where love has always been there for me,
That’s a place we all call home.

No matter how far I can go ,I wont forget it.

Even though sometimes i have little at home ,
I will not depart from home , it’s my favourite place.

No matter how much luxury I have found out there ,
It can never be compared to this beautiful place,
That I call my home.

Home holds many memories for me,
I can look back and see those best days I had at
home,
So full of love , so full of laughter,
And I can look back again and see those days
Where i had little to eat and less to wear,
but I still laughed joyfully.

No place can be compared with home.

I can find comfort all over the world,
I can run as far as my feet can take me,
I can have all the beauties in the world,
But they can never be compared to this beautiful place that I call home.

This is the most wonderful place for me among all places,
The place which I will never forget, a place where everything is there just for me,and me alone,
The place that gives me comfort and relaxation,
That’s a place we all call home, home sweet home.

I’m really grateful for this place I call home,
For gratitude is riches,
And discontent is a spiritual poverty!

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

Chart your own way to personal freedom

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When you were born you arrived without an
instructional manual!

You were expected to figure things out as you evolved.

And everyone else was in the same boat,born without an operating manual.

We learnt initially by imitation.

Repeating words that our parents taught us.

By the time we were 4-5 years old we were starting to figure things out and our individual personality began to develop.

Then we went to school and were moulded into a functioning individual. Rather like a bakery.

The dough is placed into hundreds of bread moulds and when cooked all the loaves look the same.

So it is with us by the end of our basic schooling.

We have learnt to fit into society and have been taught the basic reading and writing skills that enable us to join the workforce.

And here the pressure to conform really begins.
If we displease our boss our job is on the line.

Likewise in our social environment we don’t really want to displease our church, family or members of our social groups.

Everything is a compromise because we have no real individual freedom.

That is we are not free to do things the way we really want to.

And as we grow into adulthood and start a family the same pressures to conform are still with us.

Society expects us to behave in an acceptable way… that is… acceptable to the society we live in.

As we progress through life we slowly come to the realisation that we are not a free spirit and never have been.

It gets to the point where many individuals suddenly rebel and go off at a tangent.

Which is why so many marriages fail these days.

In the “good old days” unhappy marriage partners stuck together “for the sake of the family”.

There used to be tremendous social pressures on married couples to “hang in there”.

These days there is no such pressure.

People who have been confined and restricted all their life suddenly break out.

There are plenty of alternatives available to unhappy individuals and a massive amount of information available thanks to the internet and a more open news media approach.

You have the right to be free and happy.

That’s the point… you have the right to be free and happy.

If you are not then you are denying yourself this basic freedom.

The old attitude might have been acceptable 40 years ago but it now no longer applies.

Many of you reading this will recognise the truth of the above analysis and will be asking what you can do about it.

To pull yourself away from the personal traps that keep you away from true personal freedom, you need to sit down and rethink your beliefs and attitudes.

Many of us have developed beliefs that are simply no longer valid and we pursue them merely from force of habit.

We need to break these habits and re-program our personal belief system so that we feel we are the master of our own destinies!

At any one point in time each and every sane individual is either doing that which makes them the happiest or doing that which makes them the least unhappy.

Most individuals operate in the latter category.

Think about the things you have done so far today.

Did they make you seriously happy or did you do them so that you wouldn’t be unhappy?

I’ll bet that less than 5% of them actually
made you happy!

In fact, think back over the past week and
isolate one single event that made you blissfully happy and personally satisfied.

It has taken me many years to sort out my belief system to the point where I now feel almost totally free.

And I made a ton of mistakes along the way because I didn’t have an instruction manual to help me.

An instruction manual for personal freedom
But you are in a totally different position because you are currently reading this vital instruction manual!!

The vast majority of individuals get stuck in this rut all their lives but occasionally a traumatic event breaks them out of it.

For example a person might become seriously ill and their doctor advises that they only have 6 months to live.

Now some people will roll over and pretend to be dead the moment they hear this while others will suddenly realise that they haven’t lived life at all and go hell-bent on catching up.

These are the ones who get so involved in doing all those things they always wanted to do that their illness suddenly disappears.

There are many recorded instances of these miraculous cures, particularly in regard to cancer.

Just stop for a moment and visualise what you would do in this situation.

You might be stuck with a time-wasting family situation of visiting Auntie Nellie and Uncle Dan every Sunday fortnight for dinner because that’s what you have always done and it is expected of you.

If you got sudden bad news like this would you continue to visit them or would you head off to do some jet-skiing or para-sailing?

Chances are you would mentally cut all the things out of your life that didn’t matter and do only those things that did.

And this is where you can sit down and make a list of all the important things you do each month.

Take some time about it and make a complete list.

Now imagine which items you would cross out if
you knew you had limited time left.

You would probably find that 80% of the so-called important items had been deleted.

This is the exercise I did many years ago when I realised I was wasting my life on garbage non-productive events.

I crossed out all the things that didn’t really matter, particularly those items that I felt obliged to participate in because of social or family pressure.

I got somewhat unpopular initially but others soon realised I had taken a new lease on life and left me alone.

My thinking was that this life of mine was not a practice run and I’d better start living it otherwise I would go to my deathbed with a ton of regrets.

Just visualise lying in a hospital bed with all your family around you in the certain knowledge that you are dying and suddenly
realising that there were many things in life that you hadn’t done.

You had “missed out” because of your inertia and were extremely sad about it.

Do you want to spend the last few moments suffering from massive regrets? No… I don’t
think so!

It is over to you to correct this situation NOW.

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

Mindlessness breeds perfection,and perfect happiness too!

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“When you become lost in what you are doing . . .
When the mind goes away . . .
When your mind disappears and gets lost doing something that you love doing . . .
Then,and only then,does your masterpiece appear.”~Zen Habits

Creativity is a profound rebellion.

If you examine an event or a time in your life when you created something valuable, a masterpiece of your creation, you will find that time disappeared.

During those minutes or hours in which you
worked, nothing else in the world existed.

You were the only person in the world.

And your task was the most important thing in the world.

There was no time. There was no distraction. There was no mind.

And most glorious of all, there was no YOU.

Your hands worked of their own accord.

Dancing to a rhythm all their own.

Neuron impulses travelled directly from brain to fingertips, bypassing YOU altogether.

There was no thought of what it might look like.

There was no hope of anyone liking it.

There was no fear of it being ridiculed.

The entire affair was thoughtless, mindless, and ego-less.

This is how masterpieces are created.

In the end, it is YOU that stands between you and your masterpiece.

During my years in university, there was a cook that I remember to this day.

He worked in the university grill.

He was well known amongst the students and
staff. For his happiness.

Whether it was 6AM or 6PM, whether it was
weekday or weekend, sunshine or hail, he greeted everyone with a boisterous “Good morning. How are you this morning?”

There might have been forty people in the breakfast line and he would greet every single one the same way.

Many, including myself, would often wonder
how it was that a man could be so joyful.

Regardless of the time or the day.

While this was the quality he was most known for, I found another which was even more impressive.

I once sneaked into the kitchen to watch him
cook. I just couldn’t help it.

I wanted to see this man in his natural
state.

What was he like behind the scenes?

As he would make a grilled omelette sandwich, he would place the bread slice onto the grill as if it were made of glass.

He placed two pieces of the omelette onto the bread and he took his spatula and he pressed
down evenly and gently.

His left hand poured a small bit of oil onto the pan, while his right handled the spatula.

He placed the sandwich onto a plate.

Precisely in the centre.

He took a knife and pressed his left palm upon the top of the blade and pressed down, and then after it was cut he flicked his left hand into the air as if it were a show.

But there was no one there to watch.

No one that he knew of, that is.

Suddenly one of the servers dropped a plate which fell and shattered about thirty feet from him.

He didn’t so much as flinch.

His focus remained on the sandwich.

On his ultimate creation.

All the while, his lips remained pursed in concentration.

His sleeves hung loose at the wrist.

The entire affair was done with such rhythm, such grace.

It was like a ballet dance,all in synch.

I remain convinced to this day that he did not even hear that plate fall.

I have spent years giving myself to my
endeavours.

It was difficult in the beginning.

Distractions were the order of the day.

And the mind would was difficult to settle.

But it is much easier now.

In fact, I have used this approach not only with work but with my daily existence.

And things happen of their own accord.

Whether it is playing the piano or writing a
discourse, the fingers seem to find their own way.

The instincts and the motions come to me rather
than from me.

And I sit watching the beautiful dance of life unfold.

This, my friends, is what I have discovered is the
secret of making a masterpiece of your craft.

Society, from childhood forward, is taught to do
things according to a certain technique.

In a certain way. According to a certain methodology.

Superiors judge the individual for how well
they follow the methodology.

How good the result is.

And whether every direction is adhered to.

The type of individuals that are created in this manner are not leaders but followers.

What is being taught is not creativity,
but mimicry.

Is it a wonder that the creative, the elite, in any
discipline are so few?

It is not that only a subset of human beings harbour creativity.

It is that only a subset choose to nurture it.

The world is addicted to the “how to.”

And there is no shortage of individuals to indulge them.

Creativity is a profound rebellion.

That which comes from a sacred place within you is far superior than that which comes from the world around you.

The secret of work lies not in the comparing of the result against a prevailing standard.

The secret of work lies not in following a recipe.
The secret of work lies not in the praise that it garners.

The secret of work lies in the state of the human being performing it.

The secret of work lies not in mindfulness. But mindlessness.

Mindlessness?

Yes, mindLESSness.

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

You owe it to yourself to be the best person possible

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It’s almost Christmas time my dear friends and readers, and I have the usual problem of deciding what to give you as this year’s Christmas gift.

I know you might enjoy many things — books, games, clothes.

But I’m very selfish.

I want to give you something that will stay with you for more than a few months or years.

I want to give you a gift that might remind
you of me every Christmas.

If I could give you just one thing, I’d want it to be a simple truth that took me many years to learn.

If you learn it now, it may enrich your life in hundreds of ways.

And it may prevent you from facing many
problems that have hurt people who have never
learned it.

The truth is simply this: No one owes you anything.

Significance

How could such a simple statement be important?

It may not seem so, but understanding it can bless your entire life.

No one owes you anything.

It means that no one else is living for you, my friend.

Because no one else is you.

Each person is living for himself; his own happiness is all he can ever personally feel.

When you realize that no one owes you happiness or anything else, you’ll be freed from expecting what isn’t likely to be.

It means no one has to love you.

If someone loves you, it’s because there’s something special about you that gives him happiness.

Find out what that something special is and try to make it stronger in you, so that you’ll be loved even more.

When people do things for you, it’s because they want to — because you, in some way, give them something meaningful that makes them want to please you, not because anyone owes you anything.

No one has to like you.

If your friends want to be with you, it’s not out of duty.

Find out what makes others happy so they’ll want to be near you.

No one has to respect you.

Some people may even be unkind to you.

But once you realize that people don’t have to be good to you, and may not be good to you, you’ll learn to avoid those who would harm
you.

For you don’t owe them anything either.

Living your Life

No one owes you anything.

You owe it to yourself to be the best person
possible.

Because if you are, others will want to be
with you, want to provide you with the things you want in exchange for what you’re giving to them.

Some people will choose not to be with you for
reasons that have nothing to do with you.

When that happens, look elsewhere for the relationships you want.

Don’t make someone else’s problem your
problem.

Once you learn that you must earn the love and
respect of others, you’ll never expect the
impossible and you won’t be disappointed.

Others don’t have to share their property with you, nor their feelings or thoughts.

If they do, it’s because you’ve earned these things.

And you have every reason to be proud of the love you receive, your friends’ respect, the property you’ve earned.

But don’t ever take them for granted.

If you do, you could lose them.

They’re not yours by right; you must always earn them.

My Experience

A great burden was lifted from my shoulders the day I realised that no one owes me anything.

For so long as I’d thought there were things I was entitled to, I’d been wearing myself out —physically and emotionally — trying to collect them.

No one owes me moral conduct, respect, friendship, love, courtesy, or intelligence.

And once I recognised that, all my relationships became far more satisfying.

I’ve focused on being with people who want to do the things I want them to do.

That understanding has served me well with friends, business associates, lovers, sales prospects, and strangers.

It constantly reminds me that I can get
what I want only if I can enter the other person’s world.

I must try to understand how he thinks,what he believes to be important, what he wants.

Only then can I appeal to someone in ways that will bring me what I want.

And only then can I tell whether I really want to be involved with someone.

And I can save the important relationships for those with whom I have the most in
common.

It’s not easy to sum up in a few words what has
taken me years to learn.

But maybe if you re-read this gift each Christmas, the meaning will become a little clearer every year.

I hope so, for I want more than anything else for you to understand this simple truth that can set you free:

No one owes you anything!

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

Memories of my “silent” father. My own challenges as a father

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The soundtrack of my relationship with my father has always been silence.

It filled every crack and cranny, sipped in and cemented our interaction like melted cheese.

He was always there without being there.

I saw him.

Felt him.

Heard him.
Smelled him (his aftershave) but you still felt the silence.

He had this chair.

You know most of them had their own chair.

The Chair.

Their own chair.

It was more than a chair, it was his throne.

The patriarch’s chair.

And you didn’t put your bum in that chair.

Not unless you were paying rent that month.

Neither did you move it.

My dad’s was this sofa-like chair, with a beat-down sunken cushion that perpetually retained the shape of his bum.

Revered. It sat in a corner of the living room,
next to his bookshelf.

A teetotaller, he would spend lots of time slumped in that chair, most weekends, after-work, forehead buried in some African literature, reading about Savimbi or Samora, music streaming from this old gramophone that you also didn’t touch.

Neither did you paw his music records: T.P OK Jazz, Jim Reeves, Dolly Parton. Odd music.

End of day, he’d come home, his tea ready by a
stool, and he’d set up that baby,his gramophone.

It had an arm, which had this pin at the tip.

After setting his record in, carefully, with the focus of a surgeon, he would place this pin at the very edge of the record (it was called san) and the living room would suddenly fill up with this scratchy sound,as the pin rotated across the grooves, searching for the opening note.

Back then – in the 70’s – we didn’t own a TV, so it was either you sat in the house to listen to Franco or you went out to play.

You get a cookie for guessing what we chose.

If you ask me what sound reminds me most of
my relationship with my old man, it isn’t the
sound of him revving his Peugeot one last time
as he parked it in the evening, or him coughing
and blowing his nose in the bathroom as he
showered, it’s the sound of that pin running the
grooves of the san, searching for a sound.

But mostly it’s the silence that bubbled up.

It wasn’t an offensive silence.

It wasn’t a disinterested silence.

It was just silence.

Fatherhood back then wasn’t about friendship.

You didn’t tell your father how you felt.

You didn’t sit at his feet and tell him about your pubertal girlfriend problems.

You navigated your struggles alone.

So we hardly conversed.

We spoke, yes, but we hardly conversed.

And when we conversed he was asking about school.

He always asked about school.

About grades.

Seldom would he look at a math problem, which I sucked at,royally.

I remember my “sponsor” taking me to be snipped at the river in my teenage as I “transitioned” into manhood (Oh mom, she would have bee nsuch an angel to see her son initiated into adulthood,but she left me when I was only a day old).

But even after, when I was recovering, he didn’t ask how it went or how it was going.

It would have been nice to tell me that the morning hardons would be a killer.

But he didn’t know how to talk to me.

He didn’t know how to put feelings into words,
which was ironic because he has spent all his life buried in books. Buried in words. Words he has never learnt how to use.

Growing up there seemed to be some sort of a
protocol: most communications passed through
my step mom.

You want new school uniform?

You tell mom, mom tells him (when he is in a good mood, obviously).

You hate the school you are in?

Tell mom, mom tells him.

The pocket money you are getting is a joke?

Tell mom, mom laughs it off.

But now mom is gone dodo and he is left
with a kid he doesn’t know how to speak to.

He tries.

He really tries but he’s out of his depth.

Old dogs don’t learn new tricks. He’s lost. So am I.

Phone conversations last under a minute.

Conversations filled mostly with niceties and the weather and cows.

Him: Remember that white and brown calf, well now it’s all grown and recently had a calf? Well we are getting so much milk now.

Me: Which brown and white cow? I
thought it was a bull?

Him: Loud sigh. That’s why you need to come to the village more often. Etc, Etc.

In mom’s absence the silence of childhood is
back again.

Like an amoeba it’s filling again all the
spaces, all the crevices mom left in her demise.

Why am I airing this family laundry here?

Because it’s not a big deal, and because nothing is ever that serious for one and two because I have realised that now that I have a son, my relationship with my father is going to impact on the relationship I have with my boy.

Guys have always asked me, how different is it raising a boy now as compared to raising a girl? The truth?

Boys eat more!

But here is the distinction.

Although Kim,my boy, brings out the steel in me, Tamms,my girl, makes me very
vulnerable to the point I almost feel unworthy to be keeping a beard.

As in when she is moody in the morning, and she doesn’t talk to me in the car as I drop her to school it bloody affects my moods.

I seem obsessed with her happiness.

There is a time she kind of dropped Kim, and Kim being a mama’s boy, screamed like his eyes had been gorged out (roll eyes) and I shouted at her, “WILL YOU PLEASE FOCUS WHEN YOU ARE CARRYING YOUR DAMNED BROTHER?” It just
came out of my hot mouth.

And she shrunk and tears came to her eyes because I never ever shout at her and before she could break into a cry (she hardly ever
cries) I told her, “Go to your room and read a
book!”

And then my missus gave me that look of
“Come on, it was an accident,” and I went back to watching TV acting like I didn’t care but then it made me feel so bloody lousy, and guilty and I thought if she ever gets pregnant at 18 it will be because I shouted at her.

So later, like an hour, I went to her room with intentions of making up by trying to be funny and Heck!

But before I said anything she said, “I’m sorry I dropped Kim” and my insides melted.

So you see what Tamms just makes me soft and
vulnerable and mushy because she is so fragile
and delicate and I treat her like fine china.

She is my girl.

With Kim it’s different. I realised I’m treating him like a man even though he doesn’t even have teeth yet.

I think it’s because I don’t want to raise
a weak man.

Weakness comes from lack of confidence.

Lack of confidence comes from wrong socialisation.

I have standards I wish of him that will determine how well I have done with him.

First, it would be nice if Kim didn’t turn out to “like” boys.

I’m just saying. I know in another 15years time, mind-sets would have changed completely and my feelings on gayism would be out-dated and degenerated.

But as a father I would prefer if he “liked” girls.

Even though the thought of Tamms bringing home a boy fills my heart with sulphuric acid, the thought of some hot thing with a good bum
on it coming to ask for him would fill me with
pride.

I’d nod inward and say, “Here we have
good taste.” I know, it’s not fair at all.

I don’t care if he pierces his nipples at teenage.

Or gets a Dinka tribal tattoo on his bum.

He can do whatever he wants with his body as long as he is respectful and humble.

I would love if he was backed up against the wall that the one person he would think of calling to get him out of that jam would be me.

I want him to tell his mates, that my old man, is that guy who puts things in perspective.

To respect me. When I die I want him to feel completely lost for a long time, to feel this large quarry open up in his life and know that no one will ever fill it. Not even his mother.

But I’m in danger of raising a weak man because my house is an all-woman digs.

They run that joint. My women. The Missus. Tamms. And the house help.

I just pay rent and stay in my corner.

But I see the way they handle that boy.

The way they fuss over him.

The way they femalise him. (Just made up
that word).

The way they call him weak names
like “baba”. Blimey! Baba sounds like a
manicurist!

Then of all the toys he has, he has grown very fond of this pink toy that looks girlie.

It disturbed me a bit. OK, a lot.

So I went and bought him this cool toy called Monkey Rattle (you are welcome Baby Shop), which he held once and threw away.

He cries too much.

Maybe it’s a stage but it has to stop.

So for instance now he is trying to walk and
when he falls, not ati a bad fall that can
potentially break his neck, and starts crying you should see ALL the females in the house falling all over themselves to reach out ti him.

It’s disgusting.

And kids are crafty, they will fall down and then look around to see if you have seen and when you react with shock they will start bawling like they just sprained an ankle.

The other day when he fell crying and every skirt was rushing to get him up I hollered loudly, like Shaka Zulu, spear blocking the path of the marauding women, “No!”I bellowed, “Let him be! Let him be a man and get up!” They all froze.

So he cried lying on his belly on the carpet,
waiting for help, which was not coming.

You should have seen Tamms she was near tears.

Hehe. The Missus was looking like she was about to slap me. The maid stared helplessly from the doorway.

So Kim cried. And cried. I told him, “get up baba, come up!”

Finally, mumbling baby obscenities I can’t understand, he got up and sat on his diapered
ass sniffing back the last tears.

I looked at the female audience with self righteousness and went back to watching TV sure that King Zulu’s wisdom had been adequately impacted on the females for
generations to come.

I’ve watched my Landlady’s son – Paul – grow up from a boy into a teenage in the past six years I have lived there.

I’ve seen his limbs elongate, seen him grow lanky, his voice break, his dressing change.

Sometimes I run into him as he waits for his school bus outside the gate as I go
for my run. (He attends Saints cathedral masses.)

We share quick hallos, him in his deep pubescent voice. I have also seen how his dad relates to him.

I noticed that when he comes back from work, he hands him the keys and he reverses this car into this garage like space.

And I admire that because it shows trust, that his dad treats him almost like a man.

And I’m always tempted to ask him what he
likes about his father when I run into him those very early mornings but he’s a teenager and you never quite know what mood they are in.

Most of our fathers raised us remotely.

That was their way.

The times then dictated that.

I think now things are different.

We need to talk to these boys.

Make them our pals without them thinking
they can smoke before us.

They should be able to tell us what they can’t tell their mothers.

They should be able to see us as allies.

And as the men they aspire to be.

Sons should be able to say, “If only I was half the man my father is…”

You have to pass through a dungeon to get there,I guess.

Because I talk to many big-shots who are over 50, I find myself asking them about fatherhood and I realise that nobody really has a template to raise boys.

Men just do the best they deem right because at the end of it all, it will be so hard to see how your son turned out – badly or well – and pretend that it isn’t a reflection of who you are.

Here is what I love about Kim.

When his diaper is being changed, (I can count you the number of times I have changed his diaper, less than five. I hear chaps out there have really taken this diaper-changing thing seriously.) he normally has this thing where he immediately reaches out and grabs his jewels.

Like he’s shooting a musical video in the Bronx.

Like he is so blessed he just can’t believe it.

I find it extremely hilarious.

But it fills me with pride because that’s something that we guys do when we just chilling at home, you reach out absentmindedly and slip your hands in your peejays.

Nothing says “guy” more than that.

This is to all men out there raising boys.

Salute!

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

How to disarm your “hot buttons”~SEQUEL

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{PART TWO of ;Do you always fly off the handle when someone pushes your “hot buttons”? http://wp.me/p1JlOj-Eq}

It’s critical to identify just what pushes your buttons (or “yanks to your chain”) to begin with.

Otherwise, there’s no way you can pinpoint–let alone, work through–those past experiences that now prompt you to over react to
provocations that actually may be more “felt” than real.

In fact, it’s important to recognise that what
incites you isn’t necessarily anything that would
provoke someone else.

Finally, it may be only because the current-day
stimulus unconsciously reminds you of something that upset you weeks, months, years, or even decades ago, that you’re compelled to “lose your cool” in the present.

But once you can make the required connections between the there-and-then
and the here-and-now, you can begin to de-activate those buttons that, till this point, have irrationally taken over your behaviour.

Once you’re able to bring a new and more positive self-understanding to whatever distressing messages about yourself you
received–or thought you received–when you were younger (probably much younger), your essential self-image can undergo all kinds of transformative changes.

So what exactly is it that triggers your buttons?

And just how do you determine what causes you to become provoked?–what you can’t help but react to as an affront, annoyance,indignity, or insult?

Begin by asking yourself: Does this hot button relate to getting criticised? disagreed with? nagged? slighted? scolded? disregarded? ignored? . . .

Is it tied to being rebuffed? spurned? made fun of? humiliated? . . .

Is it about feeling trifled with?

Made to feel weak? inadequate? stupid? Might it be connected to feeling un-appreciated? unimportant? devalued? Or maybe taken advantage of? powerless?disrespected? . . .

Is it attached to feeling falsely or unfairly accused? distrusted? disapproved of?rejected?

Or is being mistakenly perceived as dishonest? guilty? shameful? Or could it be some verbal, or non-verbal, cue suggesting that you’re
unloved (or–far worse– unlovable)?

Consider making as comprehensive a list as possible of all the different things you can think of that have goaded you into seeing red in the past, that triggered you to instantly defend yourself, or attack the person who (presumably) intended to hurt you–or (as it
were) slam the door and “act out” your distress by angrily dis-engaging from your seeming provocateur entirely.

Remember, it’s safe to assume that anything
powerful enough to have pushed your buttons
previously is quite likely to push them again.

By now, it’s been said countless times that nothing predicts the future better than the past.

And the psychological dynamic of button-pushing hardly represents an exception to this familiar adage.

So catalog everything you can think of that incited you in times past.

And definitely consider as possibilities the extensive checklist of indignities inventoried above.

Unquestionably, you’ll find a pattern–whether it’s a sensitivity to being criticised,to feeling demeaned or disrespected, to experiencing
the other person as devaluing your viewpoint, or even to feeling utterly abandoned or rejected.

If you’re like most of us, you’ll probably discover that you’ve got considerably more than a single button susceptible to external provocation.

And if you’re particularly insecure, you may find that you have more vulnerability buttons–or “soft spots”–than, frankly, can easily be enumerated.

People characterised by others as “thin-skinned” may well have the most buttons of all.

Once another person hits a nerve deep inside you, there’s very little (at least in the moment) that, realistically, you can do.

But if, beforehand, you can
(1) de-sensitize yourself emotionally from those past experiences that were originally experienced as deeply threatening, and

(2) reassess positively the self-referencing negative meaning these past upsets held for you–that is, re-interpret these disturbing
events in a way that is both more accurate and self-validating–then you’re well on your way to
responding calmly (vs. reacting defensively or
angrily) to current-day situations that in the past may have sorely taxed your emotional resources.

To the extent that (however unconsciously) you’re still programmed to give others the authority to make you feel bad or doubt yourself, you’ll instantaneously feel compelled to diminish their power over you by reacting negatively to them.

But if you’ve been able to “update” your self-image by cognitively re-evaluating your past–thereby coming into your own, irrefutable authority as an adult–you’ll no longer feel the urgency to react this way.

For your emotional equilibrium, shored up by your ability to self-validate and self-soothe, will remain intact.

Even in the face of serious outward challenges, if you’ve developed an essentially favourable sense of self you won’t feel threatened by another’s insensitivity, put-downs, or lack of compassion or understanding.

For (to put it succinctly) you’re no longer dependent on external validation to feel okay
about yourself.

Your feelings of inner security are now firmly anchored from within.

And as a result, if someone says or does something to you that seems unfair or unkind, you’re now fully capable of addressing it–or them–in a manner most likely to be effective.

At this point, the other person’s once incendiary behaviour won’t throw you so off-balance that you can no longer keep your cool.
Once your fundamentally positive sense of self has crystallised, it’s virtually unassailable.

And so, in trying situations you’re in an
ideal position to explain yourself both tactically and tactfully–and without having to be concerned that your expression (facial or verbal) is likely to make matters worse.

Additionally, responding assertively is in direct opposition to reacting aggressively–which may have been what happened routinely in the past
when your buttons got pushed.

It’s somewhat analogous to being bullied, which is an extreme example of external provocation.

Once you’re able to stand tall in the face of another’s ridicule or derision, you’re practically immune to their provocation and slights.
Nothing your bull-headed opponent might say
can make you feel oppressed or intimidated.

No one can tease you (or, for that matter, torment you), for you’ve now “consolidated” a favourable sense of self-one that’s impervious to anyone who might, sadistically, wish to taunt you.

As idealistic (or far-fetched) as some of what I’m describing might seem, none of it is really outside the bounds of human possibility.

Admittedly, however, developing such psychological immunity hardly comes easy.

It takes considerable self-discipline to
systematically re-visit especially distressing moments in your past that (in certain ways at least) have negatively sensitised you to others.

And, understandably, not that many people are even willing to unearth memories linked to such unpleasant experiences as feeling repudiated, rejected, shamed, or abandoned.

Yet once the adult part of you is able to recognise that you’re essentially a good, decent person, you can mentally return to such past circumstances to purge them of their toxic
residue.

And you hardly need to be some kind of
exceptional human being to summon the
wherewithal to undertake such deeper-level
exploration.

However, if on your own you’re simply unable to accomplish such self-change, I’d strongly advise you to get some professional assistance (it will be well worth it!).

But if you are able to see yourself, for example, as basically competent (though certainly not perfect), acceptable (though, of course, not to
everybody), and trustworthy (despite certain peoples’ entrenched cynicism preventing them from placing much faith in you), then you already have everything you need to return to your past and repair those negatively distorted beliefs you may long have harbored about yourself.

And these beliefs are precisely the ones that re-surface time and again (ad infinitum–or ad nauseum) when you still have buttons altogether susceptible to others’ prodding.

Parts 3 and 4 will describe a very different approach to disarming your buttons: namely, employing certain strategies from a method known as Stress [or, in this case, Anger] Inoculation Training.

Utilizing such techniques will help you to better
prepare–or rehearse–for a variety of challenging interpersonal situations.
_________

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

Do you always fly off the handle when someone pushes your “hot buttons”?

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Getting your buttons pushed almost invariably sends you on an unwelcome trip back to your past, to a time when you possessed precious few resources to protect yourself from what, in the moment, felt dangerous.

This involuntary present-to-past phenomenon is something I regularly find myself explaining to my friends who aspire to practice Buddhist meditation as a way of rising above defensiveness and mental agitation , who generally have very little awareness that the buttons they’ve been furtively struggling to control belong not to their present self but to their inner child of the past.

As I like to put it, the adult part of us is reasonable, logical, objective, and controlled.

Not easily does it become agitated or carried away.

Moreover, as mature individuals we’re
able to evaluate a situation realistically–and then respond appropriately (rather than rashly) to it.

Ideally, possessing a hard-earned confidence and sense of adult authority, we can maintain our mental and emotional poise regardless of various kinds of external pressure we’re subject to.

However, when we’ve gotten our buttons pushed– and so are developmentally regressed back into our child self–our grown-up self is, as it were, “missing in action.”

For now our judgment, and the wisdom gained from many years of observation and experience, is pretty much rendered null and void.

In that moment, enslaved by our inner child’s emotions, we can’t possibly reflect on the most effective response to the offending person or event.

For now it’s the child part of us that’s in charge, who’s taken custody of (or pre-empted) our more mature, rational self.

And–as a child confronted by someone or
something perceived as potentially harmful–we’re desperate to nullify that threat as quickly as we can, and with little consideration for the consequences of such impetuous behaviour.

When your buttons get pushed, you react.

Automatically.

After all, that’s what getting your buttons pushed means. Stimulus- response, stimulus-response. . . . Or rather, stimulus-
reaction.

For “response” implies choice; and when
your buttons are being hammered, your counter- behavior is instantaneous–without forethought, deliberation, or (for that matter) discretion.

In such instances, you’re impelled–by a force that’s far stronger, far more primal, than your rational adult mind–to strenuously defend yourself.

Or to attack whoever has (perhaps unwittingly) provoked you.

Or, in a sudden state of urgency, to hastily retreat from the situation altogether.

Your immediate (and typically fervent) behaviour usually reflects some archaic “operating system,” an emotional survival program existing considerably below your conscious mind.

Just as any animal–by nature, exquisitely sensitive to sudden sound or movement–instinctively tenses all its muscles to
prepare for fight, flight, or freeze, so do we humans instantly “adapt” to anything we perceive as threatening.

Except, unlike others animals, when we’ve become hypersensitive to any perceived disagreement, denial, slight, or insult, whatever
provoked us rarely constitutes a serious threat to our survival.

So, frankly, our adaptation isn’t particularly
adaptive.

Governed by overwhelming, un-analyzed emotions, our irresistible impulse is to regain some sense of safety, to reduce our precarious sense of vulnerability.

With our adult brain hijacked, we’re left
in a position where we’re compelled to do something (however imprudent or counter-productive) that will help neutralise the distressful feelings of insecurity that now beset us.

In such a pressured state, there’s no time to contemplate the actual threat of the situation, or our present-day ability to assert some authentic power over it.

For in being re-identified with our child self, there’s little sense that we possess such power.

The only alternative, therefore, is–non-rationally–to act out the emotion that now holds us in its grip.

And just as this sort of un-mediated
reaction probably wasn’t very helpful in the past, when we get our buttons pushed in the here-and- now, our instant reaction rarely enables us to successfully resolve our current impasse.

So, in situations of perceived threat, how do we
contrive to get our adult self back on the scene?

Or better, are there practical ways we can keep our “inner adult” from leaving in the first place–ways to keep that more mature self fully operational, even in situations that previously may have caused it to vanish entirely?

Parts 2, 3, and 4 of this post will attempt to provide practical answers to these questions, so that you can successfully preserve your mental and emotional equilibrium whenever external forces threaten to overwhelm it.

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

When a relationship ends without closure

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Moving on after a relationship break-up is hard enough,and much more harder for those who seek definitive closure.

I would love to identify someone who, when a relationship crumbles either gradually or all at once, is able to wipe his/her hands clean and go on about life without any closure.

I dream about the tears, time, and energy it
would save if one didn’t feel the need for closure and if one didn’t agonise about trying to have these heartfelt and “necessary” conversations with the people with whom one had falling outs.

For years, I was shackled to the belief that there must be a formal end to a relationship or role, and until that happens, it’s impossible to move on.

In life, not all relationships continue to flourish.

It’s brave to recognise that and to move on from toxic relationships, or those that don’t contribute to your growth or well-being.

But how does one go about that transition
when formal closure is not always an option?

It’s not weird at all to feel the need for closure.

In fact, I wholeheartedly believe that it’s a necessary part of the relationship cycle.

The more I explore the notion of closure, however, the more I convinced I become that the issue isn’t about closure per se, but rather re-defining what closure is.

When we think of closure, a certain image or idea might come to mind.

Maybe it’s opposing parties sitting down and
talking, crying, laughing, in order to get to a place where everyone involved can accept the end or shift of a relationship.

Maybe it ends with a hug, or maybe it doesn’t.

Maybe it still hurts, but at least accept that it’s the end.

It’s hard to create new beginnings when you are preoccupied with old endings.

Closure is something to meditate on, because
sometimes closure is not found in plain sight.

The more I think about closure, the more
convinced I am that there’s no set formula for it.

It can come in millions of forms.

If you start investigating closure with new eyes, I bet you can achieve some aspects of it that you weren’t even aware of.

Closure isn’t always a grand gesture or
conversation.

Maybe closure is the first time you’re able to set a new boundary, saying “no” when you’re a certified people pleaser.

Maybe it’s being able to finally go through the
belongings of a loved one whose life was taken with little or no notice.

If you’re confused or having trouble subscribing to this idea, let me share my own closure experience with you.

Estrangement always seem so fuzzy.

Was it the end of our relationship, or was it a
hiatus?

I never knew whether I should commit to reviving the relationship or begin the process
of moving on.

Sometimes I wanted it to be final so I could recover from the mental abuse and create a new life where self-loathing was replaced with self-love.

But how could I?

We didn’t have a formal conversation about it.

I didn’t feel okay.

But what was acceptable closure?

For years, I asked myself, “What am I needing
in order to be able to move on?”

Then I got quiet,meditated and listened to the soft voice from my wounded soul.

I realised that I thought I needed to hear someone say sorry, or if she couldn’t do that, for us to be able to sit down and have a rational conversation.

I thought that was the only way I could pick up my broken pieces and live a fulfilling life.

Through years of Buddhist meditation, education, invisible tears in my heart, relying
on my support systems, and intense introspection,I discovered that I was never going to get that.

My estranged mate is mentally incapable of believing she could be even slightly flawed.

She is incapable of giving me what I thought I needed.

Just when I was running out of ways to self-
destruct and I felt myself hitting a new bottom,
I decided that just because my mate couldn’t
help me achieve the type of closure I desired,
that didn’t mean that I couldn’t get there on my
own.

I began the life-long process of retraining my brain, engaging in self-love and self-care, and going within to give myself what I needed when others couldn’t.

I might not have gotten everything I wanted exactly in the way that I had envisioned, but I was able to get myself to a place where I understood and accepted my relationship (or lack thereof) with my
mate.

I was ready to move on and learn to begin a new chapter of my life.

Some days it comes easier than others.

There are times when I want to dwell on how much it sucks that I have to work so hard to feel okay sometimes.

On the tough days, I am learning to go inward. I practice positive self-talk, celebrate how far I’ve come, and remind myself that closure is not just one thing,but a holistic approach to healing from hurt by others.

I remind myself that I have the power to
create all the closure I need if I keep practising and having faith.

If you are a creature of closure, there’s no need to shame yourself or to try to change who you are.

Maybe it’s about learning to become a detective for closure in your everyday life in order to find it in your own way.

The path to closure is rarely an easy or clear-cut one, but I invite you to see closure through a new lens.

As you embark on this journey, remember to be
gentle with yourself.

It’s okay to acknowledge where there is room for improvement, but please do not overlook successes, no matter the size.

Meditate on the idea that you possess the ability to find closure on your own in ways you never
thought possible.

Consider the belief that you could be free.

Bask in the notion that you’re in control.

If you do achieve closure, remember that you’re the one who is responsible for such a feat in your life.

You benefit more by drawing your own closure that waiting for it from someone else who may not be willing to grant your wish!

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

True Love is a quiet storm

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True love comes quietly, without
banners or flashing lights.

If you hear bells,
or the sound of approaching marching drums,
get your ears checked.

True love doesn’t run you over,
or smack you on the top of your head.

It is a love that does not die
A love that whispers
A small still voice
Easily ignored.

Forgotten in the rush of infatuation
Remembered,
In the stillness of infatuation’s inevitable
disappointment.

It is a love that aches
A dull pain
As everlasting as the stars
In happiness, easily forgotten
In sorrow, magnified
This love is a gurgling stream
A midsummer night’s breeze
A twinkling star.

Beautiful,
Yet never arresting attention.

Was it the allure of magic?
Or were my senses simply heightened by sheer
boredom,
By the tedious monotony of life?

Around her, I became alive.

Free to be truly myself.

A clumsy, shy guy.

A hopeless poet.

A man with dreams.

She let me confront my fears.

Helped me deal with the demons in my system.

She let me see into the future.

For in three weeks I experienced all that I had lost belief in.

I built my own castle and watched it float on a sea of bliss.

I saw tiny creatures peeking at me from behind
toadstools.

My world lit up. more vivid.

It was an out of body experience.

A trip to the circus.
An eclipse.

A shooting star.

A sunset.

A moment of sure magic.

But a moment after all.

Not designed to last.

For a moment I felt how wonderful it is to be truly myself.

To be around someone who finds the real you
interesting.

To laugh freely.

To talk about your emotions in honesty.

To talk about your aspirations.

To have someone read my poems.

To argue over nonsense.

To critique every purple outfit in sight.

And that to me is the meaning of love.

A love that cannot be scaled on a range of one to ten.

Not disguised in the realm of friendship.

But my moment passed,

And I return to the world,

Where I an the man of a thousand marks.

Where I continuously put no acts to fit in.

Conjuring up roles for each situation.

For each friendship. each relationship.

Yes, true love is like a seed,
you don’t notice when it gets inside of you.

It takes firm root and you,
feel your heart tug a bit,
but you ignore it.

It sprouts a small tree within you and you get scared.

Who after- all wants a tree growing inside them?

That tree grows and grows,

it grows both quicker and slower than you’d
thought possible,
it’s mystifying actually.

Then you reach a point where you realize that, that tree is what’s bringing fresh air to your heart and making it smile all day long.

And after a lot of time arguing with
yourself,
you finally admit that you like this tree and
what it brings,
even if that makes you fell weird.

And you realize that you’re willing to keep nurturing the growth of this tree,
and of course, keep the person
who’s planted this tree within you,
beside you the whole time doing so.

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

I am an eternal optimist and here is why optimism will work for you too!

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If you ask me, everything is pretty good and
great these days.

Your life and my life are both going to continue to increase in awesomeness over time.

We are likely to have exceptional fortune and health throughout our days, we’ll help to change some lives for the better, our kids are going to turn out loving and great,and we will die with a broad smile across our rugged and weather-worn faces somewhere around the age of a hundred and twenty two.

Oh sure, there will be the odd problem and
catastrophe along the way, but they will just serve as re-charging jolts to keep us from getting complacent.

More problems to solve, more learning to do, and deeper happiness to attain.

On top of that, the human race is bound for an ever- better fate, ironing out most of its current problems and most of the problems that follow in the future,ending up at a tantalizing Star Trek Utopia.

Those are pretty controversial statements to
make these days, yet strangely enough the
general theme tends to become true, for the few
people who are crazy enough to believe it.

And most of us don’t believe it. In fact, many of us end up going completely the opposite way.

One of the problems with being a clever and analytical person like yourself, is that you’ve become very good at seeing what might go wrong.

You can see the risks inherent in any enterprise, and if you’ve got enough analytical mind in you, you might even be fond of expounding about those risks to anyone around who
will listen.

There are even people make whole careers of this.

Fear-mongering in general tends to make you sound smart, and fearful people get a quirky sort of reassurance by snuggling up to a fearful leader, and confidently predicting the worst possible outcome.

Dmitri Orlov gets lots of attention by continuously foretelling the complete collapse of the United States.

A favourite technique of Collapse theorists is to sit at the news screen, interpreting each development of still further evidence of their theory. “Oh.. now the politicians are arguing.

Sure sign of collapse.

National debt is growing.. collapse.

Oil consumption rising faster than supply.. just as I predicted, it was foretold, it was foretold.

Are You a Personal Collapse Theorist?

The same methods can be applied by a Personal
Collapse Theorist.

“Oh man, this job is stressing me out. My department is going down the gutter, and
we’ll be the first ones on the chopping block when the next round of layoffs comes.

And it will be coming SOON! … And the thing is, in THIS ECONOMY, I need to hold onto my job because there are no other ones out there.

Not in my field, anyway.

All this is really taking a toll on my health.

I’ve got bad knees and back, and they really flare up when I am stressed.

So they are getting worse every day, which
makes me even more stressed, which makes me
even worse at my job, which makes me even more likely to get laid off, which…”

Whew, it hurt my fingers even to type that paragraph above, even though it was all completely made up.

But it hurts because it’s true – some people actually say things like that on a regular basis.

And every time I hear it, I feel like grasping the person’s head between my hands and shaking it while I say, “Wake up, Dude! You’re doing more than just discussing your situation right now.. You’re creating your own reality!”

Let’s contrast the life of the Personal Collapse person to the fate of a really lucky person.

You probably know at least one person that is just so lucky that they annoy you.

The person has a better job than you, always seems to get promotions, has cooler friends, and maybe even a more attractive spouse and a greener lawn.

Some even accuse plain old Mr. Money of being annoying for the same reason, “Oh, enough from you. You retired early and then things seem to keep going well for you. You’re making it all up, or if you’re not, it’s just luck and it can’t be applied to me”.

Fair enough.

We’re all “scientists” here in this game, so we can acknowledge that luck, or the partially random distribution of life situations, does indeed play a part in how a person’s life turns out.

There’s the genetic lottery, where each person gets different abilities directly from their parents, then there is upbringing, family, location, and pure random events supplied by the outside world.

It’s bound to create a very diverse set of
results, right?

But if you’ve ever been to a bar and watched a less-attractive friend have far greater success in attracting mates, or worked in an office where you notice that many of the people in highly paid senior positions are less competent and intelligent than yourself, you know there is something fishy about the theory that luck and birthright alone deliver our fate.

The Secret Weapon of Optimism

And that’s where we get to secret weapon of Optimism that I’ve brought to you today.

I’m hefting a stainless steel case onto the table and undoing the latches for you for you now.

It’s lined with black velvet and as I open it up, both of our faces light up with golden light.

Inside is a very smooth, very polished tool that looks like it was crafted by an advanced alien race.

It is made of gold and silver materials, with a sculpted handle and cobalt blue trigger.

It’s your new Optimism Gun!

But what good is fictional asset like an Optimism Gun when we’re trying to accomplish things here in the real world?

The answer is a Hell of a lot of good,because in this world full of humans, almost all of our “reality” is created in our own heads.

Is money real? No, it’s just a shared understanding among all of us that we agree to store value in non-tangible forms.

What about Gold, that’s more real than money, right?

Nope – offer a pile of gold coins and a nice chunk of meat to a dog, and see which one
he chooses.

Fame, fortune, the respect of others, or a job as
President?

Just chemical patterns stored in the minds of a bunch of other humans.

Even physical problems, like immediately cutting human carbon emissions by 75% to reduce climate change or eliminating poverty in all poor countries, are things that could be solved within months, just by altering patterns in a bunch of human minds.

And as it turns out, the human mind is exactly the target of the Optimism Gun.

But does it really work?

I found my own Gun about 21 years ago and I have certainly found it effective whenever I had the courage to apply it.

It has helped me get an offer for every consultancy job I have ever applied to, earn and save more money than the pessimists assumed possible, have a very nice life, and be generally happy every day, as I’m sure you’ve heard
more than enough.

I also secretly use the Optimism Gun in this blog (in fact, I’m writing this post with the “bluetooth” keyboard that was supplied with the device).

And I’d argue that it is working here too, evidenced by the ridiculous spread of optimism to date (now they’re even thinking of making a big TV show out of it,even though as of now,it’s just a dream!).

Because which is more likely: a software engineer who didn’t even take an English class in university just happens to be the most amazing writer in the world with the most useful financial ideas as well?

Or that the blog just makes people feel good about their lives because it is much more optimistic than other writing on the topic, and this motivates them to try some new things?

Here’s Why Optimism Works

There are several psychological principles at work that make all this work on a practical level:

•Humans are automatically drawn to Leaders:
Most people just want to hang back with the crowd and shy away from pressure of standing out.

As soon as somebody stands on the box and picks up the notes, people start listening.

If you dare to express optimism about anything, you’re stepping onto a little soapbox, and it gets attention.

•People want it to be true: If you’ve become a small- time leader and you deliver the Good Word, people will naturally want to keep listening, because you help them feel good about things too.

•Optimism tricks you into trying more things: If
you believe success is almost guaranteed, you’re
going to try some pretty fun ventures.

In reality, sure,you fail at some things, but what do they always tell us is the best teacher? That’s right, it’s failure.

So you end up racking up much more hard-earned experience and knowledge than the non-optimist.

Then what do you do with all that extra knowledge?

You succeed.

Meanwhile, everyone else is still hesitating to try the first thing.

•You are forced not to focus on things you can’t
control: One of the most useful lessons of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People is that you never worry about stuff you cannot control.
You just work on the things you can.

As an example, I never watch the political debates or follow the polls for next month’s presidential election.

That doesn’t help me at all!

Instead, I just read the descriptions of the policies each candidate plans to put into place, evaluate those against my best guess at their long-term effects on the success of the world in general (not just based on my own situation), then decide on my vote long before the election day.

Then I can be optimistic because I’ve had my full say by voting, and I have hundreds of hours freed up to accomplish other things while the pessimists are still watching TV and worrying about the election!

•Acknowledge and Bow Down to the Placebo
Effect: When it comes to health and well-being, the mind controls the body way more than rational people like to admit.

This isn’t just new-age medicine– the very thought of taking medicine that makes people better, has a statistically significant effect on
the outcome of medical tests.

It is so real, that scientists have to adjust for it by giving people fake pills, which make them better, in order to see if the real pills do even more than the fake ones.

I enjoy hacking this fact this to control my own
health.

I have a permanent belief that I am unusually
healthy, and that this condition will persist forever!

Even when I get sick, I look at it as a very temporary anomaly, always assuming I’ll be back to full health by the next day.

It usually proves to be true.

Not only am I overdosing on the placebo effect, but these assumptions lead me to do the deliberate things one would do if one were preparing for a healthy 122- year lifespan as well.

And on top of all this, the optimism is limiting the release of the human stress hormone Cortisol, which tends to destroy health.

The less you worry about health, the healthier you become.

•Optimism is rare, and deadly when combined with competence: If you’re a smart guy or gal at your workplace, the other smart people are expecting you to be pessimistic, just like them.

You can sit at the lunch table, discussing the chronic failures of management or the critically
flawed design of the product you’re all working on.

But once you’ve proven your pessimism/realism chops and are respected by the gang, then you gradually start playing some tricks.

You can slip in ideas like “Well, this project might actually turn out OK… all we have to do is rewrite the action plan.
I’m pretty sure I can do that.”

Your co-workers will be fooled into thinking that they really can do those things, which they wouldn’t have otherwise tried.

As noted in point #3, these things occasionally work, and as you hone your skills at tricking people into succeeding,you find yourself increasingly being sought after for CEO positions.

So there you have it, from the perspective of both the eternal optimist and eternal believer in the power of optimism.

This stuff really works on other people and on ourselves, and it’s the source of most of the “luck” we experience in our lifetimes.

So the only remaining barrier is: are you daring
enough to begin this journey by turning the
Optimism Gun on Yourself?

Shoot a dose of optimism into your life,and then let me know what happens!

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

How successful people handle toxic people

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“Save your skin from the corrosive acids from the mouths of toxic people. Someone who just helped you to speak evil about another person can later help another person to speak evil about you.”
~Israelmore Ayivor

Toxic people defy logic.

Some are blissfully unaware of the negative impact that they have on those around them, and others seem to derive satisfaction from creating chaos and pushing other people’s buttons.

Either way, they create unnecessary complexity, strife, and worst of all stress for you.

Studies have long shown that stress can have a
lasting, negative impact on the brain.

Stress is a formidable threat to your success—when stress gets out of control, your brain and your performance suffer.

Whether it’s negativity, cruelty, the victim syndrome, or just plain craziness, toxic people drive your brain into a stressed-out state that should be avoided at all costs.

The ability to manage your emotions and
remain calm under pressure has a direct link to your performance.

Top performers in any field,including relationships, are skilled at managing
their emotions in times of stress in order to remain calm and in control.

One of their greatest gifts is the ability to neutralise toxic people.

Top performers have well-honed coping strategies that they employ to keep toxic people at bay.

While I’ve run across numerous effective strategies that successful people employ when dealing with toxic people, what follows are twelve of the best.

To deal with toxic people effectively, you need an approach that enables you, across the board, to control what you can and eliminate what you can’t.

The important thing to remember is that you are in control of far more than you realize.

•They Set Limits (Especially with Complainers)

Complainers and negative people are bad news
because they wallow in their problems and fail to focus on solutions.

They want people to join their Self-pity party so that they can feel better about themselves.

People often feel pressure to listen to complainers because they don’t want to be seen as callous or rude, but there’s a fine line between lending a sympathetic ear and getting sucked into their negative emotional spiral.

You can avoid this only by setting limits and
distancing yourself when necessary.

Think of it this way: if the complainer were smoking, would you sit there all afternoon inhaling the second-hand smoke?

You’d distance yourself, and you should do
the same with complainers.

A great way to set limits is to ask complainers how they intend to fix the problem.

They will either quiet down or redirect the conversation in a productive direction.

•They Don’t Die in the Fight that is not meant to be theirs

Successful people know how important it is to live to fight another day, especially when your foe is a toxic individual.

In conflict, unchecked emotion makes you dig your heels in and fight the kind of battle that can leave you severely damaged.

When you read and respond to your emotions, you’re able to choose your battles wisely and only stand your ground when the time is right.

•They Rise Above

Toxic people drive you crazy because their
behavior is so irrational.

Make no mistake about it;their behavior truly goes against reason.

Which begs the question, why do you allow yourself to respond to them emotionally and get sucked into the mix?

The more irrational and off-base someone is, the easier it should be for you to remove yourself from their traps.

Quit trying to beat them at their own
game.

Distance yourself from them emotionally
and approach your interactions like they’re a
science project (or you’re their shrink, if you prefer the analogy).

You don’t need to respond to their emotional chaos—only the facts.

•They Stay Aware of Their Emotions

Maintaining an emotional distance requires
awareness.

You can’t stop someone from pushing your buttons if you don’t recognise when it’s
happening.

Sometimes you’ll find yourself in situations where you’ll need to regroup and choose
the best way forward.

This is fine and you shouldn’t be afraid to buy yourself some time to do so.

Think of it this way—if a mentally unstable person approaches you on the street and tells you he’s Nelson Mandela, you’re unlikely to set him straight.

When you find yourself with a friend or acquaintance who is engaged in similarly derailed thinking, sometimes it’s best to just smile and nod.

If you’re going to have to straighten them out, it’s better to give yourself some time to plan the best way to go about it.

•They Establish Boundaries

This is the area where most people tend to sell
themselves short.

They feel like because they work or live with someone, they have no way to control the chaos.
This couldn’t be further from the truth.

Once you’ve found your way to Rise Above a
person, you’ll begin to find their behaviour more predictable and easier to understand.

This will equip you to think rationally about when and where you have to put up with them and when you don’t.

For example, even if you work with someone
closely on a project team, that doesn’t mean that
you need to have the same level of one-on-one
interaction with them that you have with other
team members.

You can establish a boundary, but you’ll have to do so consciously and pro-actively.

If you let things happen naturally, you are bound to find yourself constantly embroiled in difficult conversations.

If you set boundaries and decide when and where you’ll engage a difficult person, you can control much of the chaos.

The only trick is to stick to your guns and keep boundaries in place when the person tries to encroach upon them, which they will.

•They Won’t Let Anyone Limit Their Joy

When your sense of pleasure and satisfaction are derived from the opinions of other people, you are no longer the master of your own happiness.

When emotionally intelligent people feel good about something that they’ve done, they won’t let anyone’s opinions or snide remarks take that away from them.

While it’s impossible to turn off your reactions to what others think of you, you don’t have to
compare yourself to others, and you can always
take people’s opinions with a grain of salt.

That way, no matter what toxic people are thinking or doing, your self-worth comes from within.

Regardless of what people think of you at any
particular moment, one thing is certain—you’re
never as good or bad as they say you are.

•They Don’t Focus on Problems—Only Solutions

Where you focus your attention determines your
emotional state.

When you fixate on the problems you’re facing, you create and prolong negative emotions and stress.

When you focus on actions to better yourself and your circumstances, you create a sense of personal efficacy that produces positive
emotions and reduces stress.

When it comes to toxic people, fixating on how
crazy and difficult they are gives them power over you.

Quit thinking about how troubling your difficult person is, and focus instead on how you’re
going to go about handling them.

This makes you more effective by putting you in control, and it will reduce the amount of stress you experience when interacting with them.

•They Don’t Forget

Emotionally intelligent people are quick to forgive, but that doesn’t mean that they forget.

Forgiveness requires letting go of what’s happened so that you can move on.

It doesn’t mean you’ll give a wrongdoer another chance.

Successful people are unwilling to be bogged down unnecessarily by others’ mistakes, so they let them go quickly and are assertive in protecting themselves from future harm.

•They Squash Negative Self-Talk

Sometimes you absorb the negativity of other
people.

There’s nothing wrong with feeling bad about how someone is treating you, but your self-
talk (the thoughts you have about your feelings) can either intensify the negativity or help you move past it.

Negative self-talk is unrealistic, unnecessary, and self-defeating.

It sends you into a downward emotional spiral that is difficult to pull out of.

You should avoid negative self-talk at all costs.

•They Limit Their stimulant and mood elevator Intake

For example,drinking caffeine triggers the release of adrenaline.

Adrenaline is the source of the “fight-or-flight”
response, a survival mechanism that forces you to stand up and fight or run for the hills when faced with a threat.

The fight-or-flight mechanism sidesteps rational thinking in favour of a faster response.

This is great when a lion is chasing you,but not so great when you’re surprised in the
hallway by an angry co-worker.

•They Get Some Sleep

I’ve beaten this one to death over the years and
can’t say enough about the importance of sleep to increasing your emotional intelligence and
managing your stress levels.

When you sleep, your brain literally recharges, shuffling through the day’s memories and storing or discarding them (which causes dreams), so that you wake up alert and
clear-headed.

Your self-control, attention, and memory are all reduced when you don’t get enough—or the right kind—of sleep.

Sleep deprivation raises stress hormone levels on its own, even without a stressor present.

A good night’s sleep makes you more positive,
creative, and proactive in your approach to toxic people, giving you the perspective you need to deal effectively with them.

•They Use Their Support System

It’s tempting, yet entirely ineffective, to attempt
tackling everything by yourself.

To deal with toxic people, you need to recognize the weaknesses in your approach to them.

This means tapping into your support system to gain perspective on a challenging person.

Everyone has someone at work and/or outside work who is on their team, rooting for them, and ready to help them get the best from
a difficult situation.

Identify these individuals in your life and make an effort to seek their insight and assistance when you need it.

Something as simple as explaining the situation can lead to a new perspective.

Most of the time, other people can see a solution that you can’t because they are not as emotionally invested in the situation.

¤Bringing It All Together

Before you get this system to work brilliantly,
you’re going to have to pass some tests.

Most of the time, you will find yourself tested by touchy interactions with problem people.

Thankfully, the plasticity of the brain allows it to mold and change as you practice new behaviors, even when you fail.

Implementing these healthy, stress-relieving
techniques for dealing with difficult people will
train your brain to handle stress more effectively and decrease the likelihood of ill effects.

I always love to hear new strategies for dealing with toxic people, so please feel free to share yours in the comments section below!

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 inse