I guess I was only asked when it turned out that I actually went to high school with the said dead beat dad. You’ll be surprised how 6 degrees of separation can make the world smaller than it really seems.

I think we were talking about how kids change people’s lives – and one conversation too many ended up with the story of my former schoolmate. The said girl abandoned at the traffic lights is his ex-missus, so you can just picture where this conversation went short of wishing that she had actually been with us at the time.

I’ll plead the 5th amendment right here on going into the specific story of this couple for the simple reason that there’s a very high possibility that they will be directed to read this post.

I don’t consider myself a marriage counsellor, but for what it’s worth, I thought that this once, I’d provide a public service based on my experience and that of my peers. If it helps even one girl to make better choices in men – or convinces even one other guy to take care of responsibilities, then the post is most definitely worth my time.

It’s certainly easier than sitting down to talk sense to – you know who.

Girls, here’s 5 Stone Cold sure fire ways to identify a dead beat dad from a mile off.

1. Follow your instincts

God gave you instinct to protect you from the evil in this world. Use the damn instincts and save yourself from the world.

The best advice you can ever get is not to get yourself into certain situations especially when all your faculties are telling you that it’s plain madness. Your body is wired to be selective and to use any stimuli it can to detect what is inherently dangerous for you.

You have signs all over that only you choose to ignore – habits, what he says, what he does, the choices he makes, the risks he takes – even his scent gives you an indication about how dangerous the proposition is.

Let’s get one thing out of the way – you’re not going to totally avoid danger. There’s no such thing as zero risk. Everything you do is risky.

Even for a guy, looking at a girl’s ass is risky because it presents options not previously available. For a girl, the risks are different. I’m just saying listen to your instincts and minimize that risk.

2. Follow your instincts again (ground hog day, huh?)

Of course we live in a world where warm blooded males and females have raging sexual hormones so it’s inevitable that you’re going to get laid.

Having made that choice, you still need to exercise a level of ruthlessness that will put Jack Bauer to shame.

Simply put – unless you’re totally convinced that the man you’re shagging is material for being a decent father – never let him anywhere near an ejaculation. It’s his right to blow his load, but it doesn’t have to be inside you.

There’s a very big difference between boys that you want to get jiggy with and satisfy your sexual desires, and daddy material. For the former, you can pick up any rough neck from wherever.

But unless you’re sure the dude is made of daddy stuff – bullet proof yourself from conception even if you have to use a cocktail of birth control methods at the same time.

My point here is that the choice of who you have unprotected sex with is not for legislation. Just make sure if anything goes wrong, he’s someone who you can take home to your parents with a modicum of self respect and explain yourself.

3. Love is over-rated

When it comes to bringing up kids, there’s absolutely no place for romance. Your relationship with your man has little or nothing to do with the day to day responsibilities of raising and caring for a child.

It’s a full time job 24-7. Contrary to folklore – love will not conquer.

Bringing up children will test you in all the ways you can think of. It will make you scream, it will make you cry, it will make you curse. They focus on the fact that it’ll make you happy and provide you with something to live for yada yada yada.

Let’s get one thing straight – even your mother can’t prepare you for the drama your children will unleash on you. You’re mother has already had her share with you and your siblings and if anything, she’ll be laughing because of all them times you gave her grief.

There’s a lot you can already tell about how your man will cope with the responsibilities of bringing up a child. Does he have selfish habits? Does he still think you can both go gallivanting around town and hanging with the boys and stuff? Does he look at you with that ”how do I change this diaper” face? Does he roll over and fall asleep oblivious of the sleepless nights the kids are unleashing on you? Does he find it strange that being a father involves things like – giving the baby a bath and reading to them?

Love has a place in relationships, but this isn’t one of them.

4. It’s all around you – don’t ignore it

The bachelor pad tells you a million things a guy will never tell you. Everything from how clean the toilet is to what he has in the fridge is a message.

There’s something wrong with someone who’s driving a luxury car with all the trimmings, yet he doesn’t have enough toilet roll in the house or the stuff in his fridge expired 4 months ago but he hasn’t noticed. The car seats are more comfortable than his sofa, and the walls are overdue a lick of paint.

You can tell a lot from how often dude changes his sheets, to the extent and immaculate way (or not) he has wired his surround system in his bachelor pad.

Kids cost money – don’t let anyone lie to you and you can tell a lot about how a guy can cope with the financial responsibility by observing how he spends his money.

The point here is that the signs that a child will throw a monkey wrench into dude’s whole programme are there to be seen.

5. If he says he doesn’t want a child – listen to the bastard

I couldn’t be any blunter if I tried. He’s not ready so just move right along and find yourself another guy.

The years and time invested so far with him can never justify the heartache you’ll put an unwanted child in.

Cut your losses and run taking comfort from the fact that it’s better to have loved and lost than to have spent your whole life masturbating. It could be worse – believe me.

And guys, don’t worry – I have my own personal tips about how to totally avoid the dodgy broody girls you have to stay miles away from.

Unfortunately, they don’t come with signs written ’Certified Psycho’. Fatal attraction is nothing compared to what these girls will do to make your life hell.
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“Darius, she’s in secondary school now”, was the subdued answer and it was quickly followed by a resigned “Dude – it’s official, we’re old”.

But even after we both cracked out laughing, the thought lingered and you begin to take stock. I guess that the main change in my life over the last several years is that some things have become more important than others and you tend to prioritize better and focus on what’s important. What hasn’t changed though is the ability for nostalgia to hit you hard enough to make you home sick especially with the sub zero temperatures and snow storms that box you in the house and makes you ask that dreaded “what am I really doing here” question.

It made me think of the good old days growing up and enjoying some of the simplest and most cherishable moments life will ever present.

Don’t know about some readers up in here, but there were times when 5 bob could take you a long long way back in the day. My dad used to give us 5 bob a day and that would cover bus fare to and from school, a soda and a snack of some sort (usually quarter bread bandika) for lunch, and you’d still have left over change to buy roast maize with pili pili or patcos to carry you through the evening.

Long before the advent of satellite TV with over 20 exclusive movie channels, local entertainment back then was fronted by public service open air movie services like Tazama Mobile Cinema pitched up in an open field once a month to bring to you the blockbuster of the day. They had this strange habit though, of commentating the movie as it went on in a manner that was as equally funny as it was annoying.

Speaking of entertainment, there were classic shows that would definitely be in my DVD collection right now – From Vioja Mahakamani and the comical antics of the residents of Matopeni, to Vitimbi and the real celebrities like Othorong’ong’o and Masanduku (forget all these latter day celebs who think they’re celebs because…well, anything makes you a celeb these days). There were shows like Tushauriane that were banned outright because they showed a couple embracing and the chap started unblousing the girl. Or even the days when we didn’t have mobile phones and you had to walk a kilometre to the nearest phone box where there was a massive queue of all manner of people – and you’d be mad when your ‘girlfriend to be’ plays hard to get and pulls that stunt of asking you to call later because she’s watching No One But You or The Rich Also Cry. The ungrateful heifer – after all those hours you’ve waited in line to make that call….LOL!

And how was it that folks could actually watch such shows. The acting was so bad and the love scenes so predictable and drossy. Maybe I just hate them coz’ they cost me many a date.

Thinking about dates, I miss those day time dates where you save up the whole term and during the holidays you can take the young lady to a respectable restaurant in town followed by a movie. The only down side is that she has to leave by 4.30 pm so that she can get back home in time before her dad and mum arrive from work. It was such little time you didn’t even get the space to express yourself and give yourself a chance to get into her panties. The strategy was always to buy time and charm her enough to warrant the next date – and perhaps you might get the chance to start early enough in the day.

The most affordable place seemed to be Wimpy on Kenyatta Avenue where you had to contend with their Indian manager always shouting orders at waiters like ”upstairs-downstairs”. But the funny part was the red and blue Bata rubber shoes that they used to wear as part of their uniform. On occasion, some of them would be allowed to wear North stars – but you catch my drift…LOL

But on the entertainment – I miss shows like This is it whatever happened to Sam Madoka the presenter of the coolest music video show at the time); or Family Affairs that had Mambo and Riziki and their troubled family. On radio, there always seemed to be the same 3 or 4 folks sending salaams on shows like Yours for the Asking. I think there was Robbie Reuben Robbie and Agnetta Machinga who would never miss a shout out on radio. And of course Sundowner with legendary DJ’s like Ike Mulembo.
And what
Happened to Kenya’s best known (now he is a celebrity for sure) radio news reader Agao Patrobas. I used to think he was called A gang of robbers. But Patrobas used to front every news bulletin on radio until he became a household name. Legend has it that the reason why he was too good on radio and wasn’t seen on TV was that he was too ugly – but I honestly don’t think so. But a gang of robbers had the mojo for radio.

There were times that it was so boring during the day in the estates, my best friend and I would wear our Sunday best suits and head for town and just walk around. We would carry them brief case type portfolios and fill them with newspapers and Malkiat Singh text books just to give them substance. If we met someone we knew, they’d be impressed about how sharp and on the ball we were even though we were barely out of school. We’d try to say something intelligent to give our cover story some credence.

Speaking of Malkiat Singh, that dude had to be my best author during that time. He was either a mega multi-talented factual author of text books on every subject including Christianity, or he was the biggest conman in town. Either way, he trousered millions of shillings from unsuspecting Kenyan students.

But despite being in town, we would always end up at Jivanjee gardens at lunch time. It was the place to be. If you were lucky, you’d have a few bob to buy some chips and sausage at the only Kenchic in town at the time. Watching those naked chickens rotate on that machine was bad enough knowing you were never going to afford them – but what made Jivanjee gardens interesting is that most if not all of the folks hanging out there were broke like nobody’s business and they all came to pass time and listening to them loud lunch time preachers. But if you looked into the eyes of most of the people, they couldn’t disguise that hunger that oozed out and screamed ”I could murder a bandika and cold Fanta right now”.

We eventually figured out a way to survive being broke during meal times. We would go to Burma market by City Stadium and in the market, there is a long row of restaurants that do nyama choma. The idea was to pop into every restaurant and ask for a sample which would come on a very small plate. After you had the sample, just respectfully decline the offer of a meal and move on to the next restaurant. By the time you hit 8 or so restaurants, you’d have had a whole meal and all you have to do is ask for a glass of water to drink. It wasn’t glamorous but it worked for sure.

Down town Nairobi was a very interesting place though. I always thought the funniest part was whenever there was a fracas of some sort, people would just explode and run away in one direction. But if you even asked someone why they were running, they’d scratch their heads and say “I don’t know – people were running”. I never did figure this one out.

And who can forget the lunch time kiosks along the route to the railway station. I had a friend who used to work with mum and set out to start his own food kiosk called Aluta Continua. The thing was this though, Johnny used to give my best friend and I free meals and once in a while, he’d ask us to run him some errands – collect stock, heavy lifting, that sort of stuff. Sometimes when we got pressurised by girls who were only interested in being taken out for dates in expensive restaurants, we’d get them all dressed up and eventually weave our way to Johnny’s kiosk. There was a bonus for us of course and it’s not just the free meal. If we brought a pretty face it enhanced the equity of the kiosk and was the envy of many others around it – so Johnny would throw in a Fanta madiaba for good measure. Some chicks couldn’t cope and considered it humiliating – LOL, but some took to it like water off a ducks back. You can’t beat fried matumbo and chapos even if you were dressed for a lunch date at Trattoria.
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Imagine then when the reason for you not getting a job is self inflicted. And it has nothing to do with your performance on the day of the interview. Well, it was only a matter of time before employers resorted to using Facebook for intelligence gathering about current or prospective employees. It’s like everything else in life, we don’t think it’ll ever happen to us and demons from our past come back to haunt us like a nonsense.

I bumped into a casual friend who was still job hunting and he was lamenting how times are tough out there. We occasionally have a drink at the local watering hole and have a good chin wag. His latest disappointment was that a prospective employer admitted to him that he had to make a tough decision on who to appoint and the young man lost out because this employer decided to look at the Facebook profiles of the last 3 candidates in question. Let’s just say, his own Facebook profile left a lot to be desired and he admitted that if he was the employer, he wouldn’t employ himself based on the shenanigans on his profile.

I sometimes wonder why people assume that their online persona’s are a plug and play component of their life that they can switch on and off when it’s convenient. It’s even more damaging for those who don’t realise the intricate electronic footprint that they leave behind with every single action they take on an electronic network – whether it be the office network or the internet. The register of mortified parents is littered with those who are shocked beyond repair when they find out that their kids as young as 12 are taking nude photos of themselves on cell phones and posting them on YouTube – simply because they think it’s cool and everyone is doing it.

Years ago in a job that I did in a previous life, I was nicknamed the ’Network Hitler’. This was because of my no nonsense ruthlessness when dealing with misguided colleagues who thought the company network was their pissing pot. Instead of carrying on with their job like the rest of us, they spent most of their working hours visiting some unsavoury websites that would make anyone’s mother blush and die in embarrassment.

I ordinarily wouldn’t mind, but when the alert console on my screen keeps popping up dialog boxes every 10 seconds telling me that someone is continuously trying to visit porn sites that the network has quarantined, then it becomes an itch that I have to scratch. My M.O was simply to freeze the account remotely and force the employee to explain to their supervisor why the guys in IT have blocked his network account and why he can’t work. Let’s just say I rarely bought drinks and dinner on nights out with colleagues…and only I knew why.

But my advice to all the transgressors was that the minute they logged onto my network – I owned their arse and could tell every single thing that they did and every single location on the internet that they visited and what they did there. I was sometimes shocked by the brazen and reckless attitude of most internet users, including company directors who were oblivious to the ability of a network to retain certain information. We of course acted absolutely professionally and without question – but if you gave me an itch, I would scratch it.

There was even an occasion while resolving a virus attack, I came across a series of emails that had two colleagues explicitly discussing their affair notwithstanding the fact that the woman’s husband worked for the same company and I knew all three of them. It was my job to fix the virus and not to be a marriage counsellor and the professional thing to do was forget every single thing I had just seen in the emails.

I’m still amazed today when I see how clueless some folks are when it comes to being careful with their internet footprint. The internet is a very small place and believe it or not, it’s possible to do something or say something that will come back to haunt you. Facebook seems to be the new frontier. Only recently in the UK, some woman lost her job because she constantly bitched about how her boss was a nasty piece of work and how she hated to go to work. Her only problem was that she forgot that her boss was one of her Facebook friends and could read every single thing she wrote on her wall.

The boss didn’t disappoint for he handed the woman her notice of a summary dismissal right on her Facebook wall telling her not to bother coming into work on Monday and that her P45 was in the mail.
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This one caught my attention though as it’s not only true to life, it’s also hilarious. And my buddy who sent it didn’t threaten me with something dodgy if I didn’t send it on. Any parent will relate to this. Enjoy:

Birth order of children

1st baby: You begin wearing maternity clothes as soon as your doctor confirms your pregnancy.
2nd baby: You wear your regular clothes for as long as possible.
3rd baby: Your maternity clothes ARE your regular clothes.

_____________________________________________________
Preparing for the Birth:

1st baby: You practice your breathing religiously.
2nd baby: You don’t bother because you remember that last time breathing didn’t do a thing.
3rd baby : You ask for an epidural in your eighth month.

________________________________________________
The Layette :

1st baby: You pre-wash newborn’s clothes, colour coordinate them, and fold them neatly in the baby’s little bureau.
2nd baby: You check to make sure that the clothes are clean and discard only the ones with the darkest stains.
3rd baby: Boys can wear pink, can’t they?
______________________________________________________

Worries:

1st baby: At the first sign of distress–a whimper, a frown–you pick up the baby.
2nd baby: You pick the baby up when her wails threaten to wake your firstborn.
3rd baby: You teach your three-year-old how to rewind the mechanical swing.

______________________________________________________
Dummy:

1st baby: If the dummy falls on the floor, you put it away until you can go home and wash and boil it.
2nd baby: When the dummy falls on the floor, you squirt it off with some juice from the baby’s bottle..
3rd baby: You wipe it off on your shirt and pop it back in.

______________________________________________________
Nappies:

1st baby: You change your baby’s nappy every hour, whether they need it or not.
2nd baby: You change their nappy every two to three hours, if needed.
3rd baby: You try to change their nappy before others start to complain about the smell or you see it sagging to their knees.
____________________

Activities:

1st baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics, Baby Swing, and Baby Story Hour.
2nd baby: You take your infant to Baby Gymnastics.
3rd baby: You take your infant to the supermarket and the dry cleaner.

______________________________________________________
Going Out:

1st baby: The first time you leave your baby with a sitter, you call home five times.
2nd baby: Just before you walk out the door, you remember to leave a number where you can be reached…
3rd baby: You leave instructions for the sitter to call only if she sees blood.

______________________________________________________
At Home:

1st baby : You spend a good bit of every day just gazing at the baby.
2nd baby: You spend a bit of everyday watching to be sure your older child isn’t squeezing, poking, or hitting the baby.
3rd baby: You spend a little bit of every day hiding from the children.
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They’re the only two professions that have withstood the test of time. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the tax authorities can easily be your new found best friend if you register your sole trading vocations as funeral services and sheltered adult entertainment services. It’s the combination that’s a killer – the revenue folks don’t flag up each of them in isolation.

I even remember a story a few years ago in the famous Kondele area of Kisumu City. There was a chap who religiously attended church every Sunday and vociferously prayed to God to bless his business and ensure that there’s always a ready stream of customers. You see, this chap was the most successful coffin maker in the area, and most definitely a believer in the school of thought that unconventional and diversified marketing, if carried out with discipline and without fear, can yield incredible results.

It’s not surprising then, that the oldest profession in the world has caught onto the most popular phenomenon of latter day citizen media – this here blogosphere of ours. I think it’s safe to say that residents of the local stiff house will never take advantage of the wi-fi provision in their guest house facility, though I’d hazard a guess that you’ll find a mortician or two blogging away to pass time while literally doing the graveyard shift. No, no – I’m talking here about prostitution getting the most high profile attention any blog in the world will want.

Until this week, the biggest and most sought after secret of the blogosphere was the identity of Belle du jour, a high class £300 an hour London call girl who anonymously blogged about her exploits in the sex industry. Her blog – The Diary of a London Call Girl – was a witty, matter of fact kind of blog about her experiences with her punters that whilst not necessarily explicit, left very little to the imagination.

From the time her blog (which unsurprisingly has been moved offline was chosen by the Guardian Newspaper as the best blog of 2003, the literary world and the tabloid and mainstream press set out on a mission to identify and flush out the person behind the blog. There were even claims that the blog was a work of fiction by some professional writer, or that it was written by a man.

Belle du jour, eventually unmasked herself to the Sunday Times in fear that an ex-boyfriend was about to cash in on one of the best kept literary secrets of all time. Now known as Dr Brooke Magnanti, a research scientist in cancer and epidemiology at a Top Bristol hospital for children, she admits that she worked as a prostitute for 14 months to pay her way through graduate medical school.

Her exploits as Belle du jour also earned her a neat cushy income with 2 biographical type books based on her blog and work as a prostitute, and a novel classified as fiction, as well as a TV series based on the life and times of Belle – who was played by a famous actress Billy Piper. Until this week, only Billy Piper had met Dr. Magnanti when familiarizing herself with the role before doing the TV show. Even her publishers Orion had no clue who she was.

Flat-backing your way through school is not a new phenomenon (well, maybe writing about it and publishing a couple of books is a bit different), but the truth is that if you look at most if not all the universities around the world, you’ll find a story to tell. It’s like one of them taboo things that folks don’t speak about – but it’s the white elephant in the room. The methods of payment may vary for most students trying to pay their way through school, and these range from favours, to rent payments, to good old fashioned hard currency. In recent times, many have resorted to publicly auctioning their virginity to pay their way through school.

You could always make a moral argument about whether flat-backing is a sign of an industrious and entrepreneurial spirit, or whether it’s just pure ole exploitation of girls who are desperate to change the course of their lives by daring to aim for the best careers. A good friend of mine I went to college with saw it totally different – “Pragmatic mi old chap, pragmatic” she used to say.

While I understood her reasons for doing it, my only gripe with her was that as a Business student, she was short-changing herself. It’s the classic business conundrum of how to build equity by not committing yourself too much. My argument with her was that if she turned tricks herself, her body could only let her work a finite amount of hours. However, if she got a customer willing to pay £100 an hour to tap arse, and gave someone else £70 to do it, she could better spend her time pimping and building equity. If she had 4 girls working in one hour, she’ll break even and some, and she didn’t even need to stare at the ceiling and think of the Queen.

LOL! Stop looking at me like that. The girl simply asked me for my advice. I was just thinking of the quickest way she could pay her way through school and finish paying off her student loans.

But seriously – like with anything in life, there’s a nasty side to the game. For those like Dr. Magnanti, it probably is a happy ever after story and she’s got her PhD and working in a cushy job (with a few bob also from her books and TV show).

For millions of other girls and women, prostitution is a means of survival and will never be a glamorous affair or the stuff of Hollywood. It was only in September that I wrote about the exploitation of children in Mombasa in We’re not going to hell, we already live in it.
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I must admit, I have a fascination for statistical information often bandied around in the news media as they tell us something about how we live our lives. But it’s not often you come across a statistical claim that men on average, only purchase their own underwear for 17 years of their lives. This got me thinking. When was the last time I actually went out to buy new underwear? You know what, I honestly can’t remember.

Don’t get me wrong, my side of the dresser always has an abundance of neatly folded clean and fresh stock – but just like hangers that seem to be in every closet, I’ve never really taken time to think about where the new underwear came from or where the old ones were dispatched to. I guess ‘er indoors is due a monumental thank you for taking care of the finer detail in life.

Apparently, one of the biggest stores in the UK has done some research from the information they collect from their sales, and concluded that there’s credence in the notion that men in stable relationships probably have no clue how much underwear costs.

According to Debenhams, most men buy new underwear only if they are starting or about to start a relationship. The unfortunate chap whose job it was to extrapolate this info suggests:

“You can tell when a man is looking for a partner by the number of new underwear they buy. If he buys more than 31 pairs every year, he’s either still trying desperately to impress the woman in his life – or else she’s not The One”.

“This is the one issue that feminism has never addressed. It’s not who wears the pants in each household – it’s who has to buy them that counts”.

They further suggest that men’s underwear buying activity reaches a peak at the age of 23, but declines gradually until the age of 33 when it falls to zero – because many men are in a stable relationship. It picks up again between the ages of 38 and 40, when some men are going through relationship break ups and are seeking new partners again.

But it goes into a sharp decline again and slumps to zero at the age of 44 when they are generally in another stable relationship. After the age of 44 men remain strangers to the underwear department for the rest of their lives, handing all responsibility for their underwear to women.

You know, after reading this stuff, I made a point of asking ‘er indoors how much underwear costs these days and she laughed me out of the room. She was curious to know what brought this on since I’ve never bothered asking her something like this. I admit that I still don’t know how much bread, let alone underwear costs, but I guess each time I pick up a new pair from the drawer, I best be thankful for the small comforts in life. I did entertain the thought of getting in touch with all my ex’s just to thank them for this studious duty of seamlessly ensuring my dignity – but I guess this blog post will have to do.

After all, we have to relentlessly adhere to the old maxim of how important it is to wear clean underwear at every available opportunity. I doubt this has anything to do with personal hygiene….nothing like that. It’s primarily because we all owe our loved ones some dignity in case something tragic was to happen to us – say if we absent mindedly walked under a bus and ended up on a slab in an unsavoury backroom in the local mortuary.

Can you imagine your folks claiming your personal effects only to be handed dodgy underwear with skid marks? The poor folks have to grieve and need to be cut some slack.
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Odent, a veteran who has overseen more than 15,000 deliveries in over 50 years says:

”I am more and more convinced that the participation of the father is one of the main reasons for long and difficult labours. A labouring woman needs to be protected against any stimulation of the thinking part of her brain – the neocortex – for labour to proceed with any
degree of ease. She needs to be in a private world where she doesn’t have to think or talk.

Yet, motivated by a desire to ‘share the experience’, the man asks questions and offers words of reassurance and advice, denying his partner the quiet mind that she needs. The father’s release of the stress hormone adrenaline as he watches his partner labour causes her anxiety, and prevents her from
Relaxing. No matter how much he tries to smile and appear relaxed, he cannot help but feel anxious. And the release of adrenaline is contagious.”

You see, my first encounter with the trauma of childbirth happened nowhere near a delivery room. Matter of fact, it happened at a social gathering while I attended some sort of party, I forget what the party was for, but I remember that I arrived late and was talked into having some dinner first before joining with the rough and tumble of the bash if you will.

The food was being served upstairs in the restaurant area and I ended up on the same table as a good friend of mine Bella, who had given birth less than 3 weeks earlier and was cuddling her little bundle of joy. While waiting for my food, I did what everyone who came through did – congratulated Bella, cuddled the baby myself and sang goo gaa songs as if the baby gave a fuck who I was. I of course questioned Bella about the father of the child coz’ this child was too cute to belong to her husband. I know him well, and G is one ugly son of a bitch.

Speaking of which, I really get cheezed off about how pretentious people can be. How many times have you heard people go all soft kneed and gooey and lying to a mother that her new born is a cute little thing, yet it’s all plain to see how ugly the sprog is. What happened to the good ole days when people were brave enough to call things for what they are? What happened to saying congratulations, but with a cautionary “lakini dude this baby is goddamn ugly, why lie”. But I digress.

As I tucked into my dish, more and more usual suspects came through to see the new baby. Unfortunately for me, many of them were young mothers who were keen to discuss more than just the baby. How was it? (as in the delivery) Was it as bad as the first? How badly did you tear?

I was very comfortable with how obscene these girls could get as we had been clubbing buddies for a long long time and very few things surprised any of us, or at least that’s what I thought. And believe me, this group of girls could be both vulgar and breath-taking in the same respect. I remember one of them once telling a dude who fancied her in the club not to bother if he was only going to survive one shot at an orgasm. If he wasn’t going to make her cum at least thrice, he should just cut his losses and run. And it was said with a nonchalant coldness it would unsettle any warm blooded male with a dick hard enough to cut diamonds.

Naturally, I made what I thought was a stealth move to relocate to another part of the room as clearly, the graphic conversation and description of childbirth was not conducive conversation for the meal. I was quickly ordered to sit the fuck down and listen to their tales, and I suspect the girls were enjoying watching me squirm as much as they were enjoying their conversation. I didn’t even realise at what point this banter turned into an indictment of the male species as I was blamed for all the happy go lucky men who just enjoy the orgasmic pleasure of sex and want little to do with the consequences. The least I could do was to sit and listen to the consequences of our orgasmic pleasure.

Of course I severely protested and insisted that they should blame their husbands and boyfriends seated downstairs, beer in hand and screaming at the football on the big screens. But that wasn’t going to cut any mustard. Calling my girlfriend at the time to bail me out was as useless as expecting the men downstairs to even attempt to venture into this conversation. I had to listen to every graphic detail from how Bella coped with the excruciating pain to the extent of her vaginal tears and how she was sown up by the midwife – and all this while having my rice and chicken. To tell you the truth, eating rice and chicken has never been the same for me any more.

Thinking of this debate about fathers in delivery rooms does make you wonder though. Will it all fall apart if we’re not there? I know for a fact, that many of my peers who are still back home won’t go anywhere near a delivery room. The best they’ll do is probably wait for the phone call to confirm whether it’s a girl or a boy, pop in to see mother and baby and then head off to the pub to celebrate with their mates.

I know it used to be like that in the 60s and 70’s, but the bra burning brigades of the 70s saw to it that some “bonding” was forthcoming and before long, men attending deliveries of their kids became more common than microwaves in the average household – at least in the western world. A good proportion even film the whole delivery and keep the video tape in the household collection alongside 101 Dalmatians, Chuck Norris’s Delta Force and that Lord of the Rings Trilogy.

Let’s face it. Despite the perceived bonding and closeness and the out of this world human experience that a couple can get from the man being present during the delivery, childbirth is a painful, stressful, unpleasant and traumatic experience. No amount of rose tinted “having my hubby around to support and share the experience” will change that fact.

Experiencing the birth of a child will definitely change a man. The question is whether it will change them enough to appreciate what their partner has just gone through enough to strengthen their relationship; or whether it traumatizes them to the point where they have a problem even looking at the business end of their partner’s femininity with the same enthusiasm that they used to do.

There are documented stories of men who have attended childbirth, and have been so traumatized that they have subsequently walked away never to be seen again by their partner.
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The truth is, we don’t need to look forward to spending our eternity in hell, we already live in it.

About 3 years ago, a UNICEF funded report that still haunts me today landed on my desk with a post it note suggesting what I can do to highlight what was in the report within my sphere of work. The general subject of the report was not alien by any means, I guess it was the scale of it and the impact that continues to disturb me. The report was about the scale of child abuse and child prostitution in Kenya in general, and around the coastal region in particular.

Fast forward to last night and I’m watching my favourite Channel 4 news and out of the blue, they feature a comprehensive investigative report about the prevalence of child prostitution and child abuse in Mombasa. What was different is that the children involved and highlighted in the report were given names and faces, and they actually came alive to tell their story. Not that they weren’t alive, but hearing the story from them is gut wrenching.

Here is the blog and video of the untold suffering of Kenyan children story by Jonathan Rugman, the Foreign Affairs correspondent of Channel 4.

Leyla, a 14 year old girl being interviewed in the video made tears roll from my eyes. She is clearly a bright, intelligent and articulate girl, and accepts that poverty has dealt her a raw deal and she’s ended up selling her body to survive. There’s one point she says that she reflects and asks God how the hell she ended up where she is and tearfully laments “I’m just a child”.

There’s also the story of a 6 year old girl now in an orphanage and able to better relate to her carers following her ordeal of abuse since the age of 3. It wasn’t only the physical marks of her abuse like the whipping on her back or the vaginal and anal trauma she’s sustained at her tender age of 6 – I submit to you that this girl doesn’t have to wait to live in hell. It’s her life now.

The sentiments of one mother whose 13 year old girl attends church on Sunday morning and from the afternoon is prostituting herself on the beaches of Mombasa to ensure that her family don’t starve to death captures an even more devastating side to this nightmare.

Until the issue of poverty is addressed, it’s hard to see how the “foreign” money from the mzungu – most of who travel for child sex is going to be turned away by those desperate to put food on the table.

It’s estimated that over 20,000 children, most under the age of 15 are involved in child prostitution, but I think it’s fair to say that this is only the tip of a very ugly iceberg. An iceberg that our society, particularly in Kenya, doesn’t want to deal with. For all the publicity the news report yesterday will bring, I’m more concerned with those who suffer in silence and for whatever reason, are not able to speak out.

I have previously worked on issues of social injustice in various forms, and the one that makes it hardest for me to comprehend, is the untold story of our children who are abused daily and don’t have a voice.

I once told a group of colleagues I worked with on a project “show me 5 girls living in a context of social depravation, and I’ll show you a story of physical, emotional and sexual abuse that is likely to be taken by the victim to her grave”.
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So when a pit stop at a Tesco petrol station this week turned into a shopping expedition in the supermarket next door, my body defaulted to the “I don’t really wanna be hear” mode. There’s just something about shopping that repels my DNA, and while I accept that it’s a necessity in life, there’s a very big difference between picking a few bits and bobs and going out for “shopping”. I never really get to know how much drama is involved until that humongous trolley is pulled from the trolley parking zone and before I can even utter the words “do we really need this giant thing for a few bits”, there’s that almost dismissive “we’re here anyway, I think we should just do all the shopping now” response, served straight with her ‘“what you gon do’ face.

Well, one option is to go back to the car, roll the chair down and just sink off into the music, but once you’ve reached the stage of being at the supermarket door and seeing that ‘what you gon do’ face, you’ll swiftly rule out this option with a quick reminder not to get out of the car next time. Call it the pragmatism of maintaining world peace and harmony. But even then, world peace has its own casualties, and for me, its that nightmare of being in a mega store that I really don’t want to be in.

I don’t know what it is, I’ve just never liked long shopping trips. Even in my bachelor days, I wrote up a list and either made a painful trip with a very short and specific mission of getting only what was on the list, or I sweet talked a shopaholic friend to do the honours for me. I don’t remember taking many supermarket trips during college as I was broke most of the time anyway. In fact, I spent more time in the store cafeteria having a meal because of their unbelievable bargains than I did while shopping.

Online shopping was God sent. Whoever thought that folks can just sit at home, browse what they need on the web, click a few buttons and lo and behold, a chap would appear at your door with your groceries is a saint. I became a sucker for typing what I needed in the search box, ticking the check box and adding it to my shopping basket.

I guess my laziness in anything shopping doesn’t prepare me well for the sights and sounds of the modern supermarket. At least with a shopping list, you can make a quick bee line for what you need and you’re out of the place in a short time. Most supermarkets even allow you to check out your own groceries with this hand held thingybob so that you don’t waste time smiling with folks in the queue for the till and for nosy people to peer into your trolley to examine your habits.

So this time, I resolved that I should indulge in the spirit – you never know, I might like it and its better than precipitating an atmosphere that could easily land me on the sofa. I’d already lost the battle of staying in the car.

‘Er indoors however, enjoys going through the whole supermarket, aisle by aisle. I’m made to understand that this is a normal state of affairs. I never even knew that a supermarket could have a whole aisle of bread and bready like products. I think actually what surprised me more is that we spent more than 15 minutes in this bread aisle looking for cheap, good quality bread. You see, where I come from, bread is either cheap or it’s good quality but it’s not both. So this is a totally new concept for me. It also occurred to me that I didn’t know the price of a loaf of bread…Is this normal? Actually, forget I asked….

Let’s just say that the trip to grab a few bits and bobs ended us with a huge trolley that I could easily sit comfortably in being full with stuff that I didn’t even realise we needed in the house. Just set aside the fact that we were meant to do this shopping anyway, it’s just that we moved from “let’s just pick a few bits and bobs” to a full blown shopping trip under duress.

There was a bonus though – I got to understand those figures in my bank statement better. Like I said before, the price that I thought bread was apparently was the price in 1996. Go figure.

Next time, I’m carrying my 12 point guide to shopping for men who have to do it under duress. Guys, this was sent to me a few years back by a friend and it works if you’re dragged kicking and screaming for them shopping trips. I should have had it with me. Health warning though: You might end up in the doghouse, or worse still, the only hanky panky you’ll be getting for a while is from late night adult TV subscription.

My fellow brethren, if you’re dragged into a shopping trip under duress, this is what you should do to get out of it next time:

1. Take boxes of condoms and randomly put them into people’s trolleys when they aren’t looking.
2. Walk up to an employee, tap them on the shoulder and say in an official sounding voice “code 3 in house ware” and then watch what happens.
3. Move the ‘CAUTION: Wet floor’ sign to a carpeted area.
4. Make a trail of tomato juice on the floor leading to the feminine products aisle.
5. Set off all the alarms in house ware to go off in 5 minute intervals.
6. Set up a tent in the outdoors clothes department and tell the customers that you’ll only invite them in if they bring sausages and a gas stove.
7. When the manager asks if they can help you, just burst out crying and scream “why can’t you people just leave me alone?”
8. While picking and choosing kitchen knives in the housewares area, approach a member of staff with the knives in hand and ask them where the anti depressants are.
9. Hide in the clothing rack and when people are browsing, yell “pick me, pick me”
10. Run around the supermarket suspiciously humming loudly to the theme tune of Mission Impossible
11. When an announcement comes over the loud speakers, coil down in a foetal position and scream “No, no, no – it’s those voices again”
12. Walk into a changing room and lock yourself in, and after a while, shout loudly “there’s no toilet paper in here”

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Granted, a holiday trip home, especially with ‘er indoors and the kids is a project in itself. However, the benefits say for folks at home who genuinely want to see you (as opposed to those who get pissed off that you’ve spent thousands of pounds on air fare for you and your kin – money which would have been better spent via a western union transfer to them), far outweigh the financial and emotional investment and stress involved. Well, with the exception of that dreaded trip to the outlaws.

“Come we stay” has been the de facto option for most immigrant couples from home who meet abroad, and I suspect that at the back of every man’s mind (at least those who are not just interested in the convenience of in-house booty as opposed to a serious relationship), there’s that daunting feeling that the time will come when you’ll have to make an honest woman of the lady you’ve been waking up next to for most part.

It’s the sort of trip that despite constant assurances from your other half aka mshikaji, its extremely naive and negligent for a man to embark on such a trip to the wild west solely on the assurances of a loving partner. I mean, how would she know it’ll be OK unless she’s been married before and has forensic evidence of how your outlaws (I mean in-laws) to be will react? Call it a duty to the survival of fellow man folk, but seeking and giving advice from those who have experienced that dreaded trip to the girl’s family to, shall we say, atone for and explain why their precious daughter has been living in sin with you for however long.

I’m not talking about weddings here. Weddings are side shows and opportunities for drama and fairy tale showbiz that a significant amount of folks don’t have the opportunity to indulge in. Where I come from, a marriage is a done deal once the traditional formalities are given a nod by the powers to be. This would involve that dreaded visit that I talk about, complete with the delivery of “cows” to the homestead of the outlaws. This concept of a wedding in church is a more recent western oriented phenomenon that those who can afford to, go ahead with to compliment the process of a traditional marriage – and as my aunt Rhodah would say – “forget the wedding – once they let you leave that boma with their daughter, it’s a done deal. Otherwise, that girl won’t be allowed to leave”. Aunt Rhodah should know, she’s been around the block a few times and left her father’s gate several times – and she ain’t a spring chicken.

So when a friend asks “what can I expect when visiting the outlaws” – the best advice to give is:

1. Get a good negotiator – you’re too emotionally involved. Get a chief of staff you trust, a consigliere who can competently represent your wishes and that of your mshikaji. Also make sure you have a good delegation of friends – peers you grew up with and your tight with, an aunt you trust, and perhaps one of your dad’s peers – call him an elderly statesman who is in the delegation for good measure. You’re going to need them.
2. There’s always a fixer in the girl’s family – identify that person quick and get on their side. It’s usually (but not always) a grandmother, or an elderly female mother figure like an aunt. This is the person who has the ability to smooth things as and when (yes as and when and not if and when) things go pear shaped.
3. Forget all the assurances your partner has given you or all the “it’ll be OK sweetie – my folks are really nice nonsense”. Consider everyone an outlaw. Only those at the table will negotiate the bride price and she’s not going to be there, and in most cases, will never be told how ugly it got.

I’ve been involved in enough of these expeditions to pick the signs of how things can transpire, and the one thing you always say to yourself is this is the time to be a boy scout – always be prepared…LOL! My expedition was comparatively and thankfully a straight forward one, but by being part of many other expeditions of friends and those close to me who asked for my support – I have seen enough that will traumatize any fully grown warm blooded male.

In one particular case, the whole marriage was nearly called off because of the brinkmanship of some of the folks on the outlaws team, and the insistence of the elders on our delegation that their boy was not going to be taken for a mug…LOL! It’s only in such cases that you ever get to see the value of the “fixer” from the girl’s side.

You see, in my culture, its customary that the suitor takes no part in any aspect of the negotiation. Their job is to sit down and look pretty and occasionally remind folks by standing up to answer the question of “who the gentleman is that is seeking to take away their daughter”.

It’s also customary that after the niceties and warm welcome, there is a sidebar session where the girl’s mother is given her own time with our delegation outside the main negotiating table. This task is usually assigned to the chief negotiator aka consigliere and perhaps a female in your contingent like an elderly aunt or something who step outside with the mother of the bride. During this sidebar, the mother of the bride has to be “sorted” out in her own terms.

And boy don’t some mothers know how to milk this one. I’ve heard lines like “You know that girl kept me in labour for 18 hours and she was a very difficult birth” or “she was a very stubborn child when she grew up” or “she broke all my favourite plates”…LOL! The point is – until the mother of the bride goes back to the negotiating committee and declares that “wameniona vizuri kando” (they’ve sorted me out properly), can the proper negotiation of the bride price go ahead. It doesn’t matter how much the mother of the bride relieved you off, or what arrangement you came to – whether in full or in instalments, that part was a side show that plays no part in the bride price negotiation.

It is at this point where it’s possible to see grown men cry….LOL! particularly in cases where more than just the immediate family of the girl is involved – uncles and cousins are notorious for this. But let’s face it, the negotiation and payment of bride price has become a cottage industry of sorts – and for the most part, it’s immaterial what a girl thinks or hopes will happen. They have no influence in what her “peeps” are capable of. And some of these guys play hard ball. All the girl can hope while hanging out with her own peers and kina auntie is that her husband to be will get past the outlaws. The longer it takes, the more nervous she gets, especially when she gets insider whispers during those very frequent and essential sidebars for “consultation”.

The ante is seriously upped when the bride price is dramatically increased for things like perceived virginity (dare you try and call their bluff and suggest their daughter was not a virgin when she met you – this is not the time and place to stand your ground…and considering you’re the first suitor she’s brought in front of this committee, they have a case for the presumption that she was a virgin before she met you – and you don’t want to take this case on LOL), the girl having a university degree and a job of her own (read: our western union remittance will reduce), the fact that you both live abroad and you’re balling it like a nonsense, or that you have a good job and can afford it. It brings a whole new meaning to “we raised our daughter well and we are pleased that you appreciate our effort – and the bride price is a token of your appreciation to the work done here all round”.

So as you can imagine in lore’s case, things weren’t going well on the negotiating table. It was another pal Kim who noticed Lore was in distress – mainly from the throbbing vertical vein that had formed on the left side of his forehead and his eyes developing an unnervy shade of red. Kim swiftly whisked Lore out of the house on the pretence of having a cigarette break – but clearly, the man was being distressed by the very thought of the brinkmanship that was threatening his impending marriage. A few of us joined the so called fag break at the fence and were even approached by one of L’s girlfriend’s peers to find out if we were OK and if we needed anything.

Clearly Lore’s girlfriend and her peeps had seen L being led out in distress and wanted to find out what was cutting – but the only thing you could say is “wazee bado hawajamaliza” (the elders are still talking). Though it was hard to see at that time, we suspected that the folks negotiating on behalf of the bride had their own agenda…LOL! They were there to get paid and they knew that Lore had a good job abroad.

There was a timely break in the protracted negotiations when you had to admire the skills of the elderly statesmen and women we had with us. They had insisted on coming for the ride, though most of us were convinced they were there for the feast. But their value begun to show by the way they maintain conversation and a light hearted spirit to pass the time by with laughter and old timers stories. For most people in the house who weren’t part of the negotiation, it seemed that everything was going on well – if they only knew…LOL!

What we didn’t know at the time, is a group of the mercenary negotiators who were hell bent on getting paid, had accosted the bride to be during this negotiation and meal break– apparently to get her to confess how much money Lore had with him. In fact they literally threatened the girl to tell them how much they had brought with them from “ngambo”. It’s an understatement to say that they scared the living shit out of the poor girl who was in tears for most of the time after that. I guess you could be if you’re being told that your “man” is too stingy to pay the bride price and that his people are threatening to walk away – which I guess was an option, but never one that had reared its head on the table.

Lore’s girlfriend’s distress didn’t go unnoticed and a savvy aunt approached us at one of our famous fag breaks at the fence with that re-assuring “are you guys OK out here” greeting and smile – and a coded “you guys are not leaving this girl here” message, with cryptic instructions of how we could find the back door. Of course we were too stupid then to figure this out and more focussed on the fact that there were totally unreasonable demands being made on the high table and walking away now seemed an option to consider…LOL!

After indicating to our consigliere that auntie so and so had given us a coded message by saying we were not leaving that girl there – the consigliere, who now looked like a man who needed a break… – had a word with the oldest member of our delegation, a neighbour of Lore’s dad who had travelled with us. He disappeared for about half an hour and on his return, the consigliere asked for another break.

Honestly by that time, few actually had any hope we were going to pull this off – yet we had to maintain our smiles and pretend that all was well. The truth is that if we had guns – her 2 cousins and uncle (the mercenaries) could have easily been dead – though you have to question whether that would have done any good for Lore’s marriage…LOL!

The key was the grandmother. She had been out in the background and no one took notice of her – and it was the old man from our delegation who went to have a cup of tea with her. From what we gathered, she was well aware of the mercenary tactics of some of the members of the outlaws team though the hope was that the rest will tame them. But I guess pay day is pay day. The deal that was brokered was for what Lore was willing to offer to be an upfront payment of some sort – and that a small token of appreciation will be on-going – kind of like to keep a bond for the family.

On our part, we gave way to not demanding and being given assurances about what future instalments and demands will be, and on the granny’s part, she guaranteed that the girl will leave that homestead with us and an assurance that tomorrow was another day – this will pass.

Even as people celebrated the new traditional union, there were some very bitter people in that room. Some of our friends went as far as loading everything that the girl owned, including presents from her folk into one of the SUV’s we had, and by the time all the good-bye’s and crying was taking place, all the drivers were revving the cars outside the gate. All that was left was for that girl to be smuggled into one of the cars….LOL! She was ours and we weren’t taking chances that them mercenaries were going to change their minds.

Funny thing is that over a year later at Lore’s wedding, the two looked so happy in church and lapping up the event. If only folks there knew that that wedding might have never happened…LOL! I guess it must be harder for the couple especially since they normally have to take a back seat as others see to their business. I don’t blame Lore for never telling his wife what was said in that room. There is some truth that sometimes you have to protect the ones you love and some things she just did not need to hear.

And to think of how she was a bitch to everyone during the wedding preparations – “Guys, no one is going to fuck this up for me – this is the most important day of my life”. Lordy Lord, if she knew the hoops Lore and his boys had to jump to give her the freedom to say that…LOL!
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But they too come with their own mortal dangers. Of late, there’s a growing trend in the UK (or maybe not just out here) of flat screen TV’s mounted on walls or on shelving jumping out at little 2 or 3 year old toddlers and killing them instantly. A parent’s worst nightmare is their child falling from the top of the stairs or God forbid, running innocently onto the road when playing. But I doubt there’s folks out there who occasionally remind themselves “I must do something about that telly on the wall – it’s going to fly out of the wall one day and injure someone – let me make a note of that”.

Considering 4 toddlers have died this year by TV’s jumping out of the wall and crushing them, it’s only a matter of time before ‘elf and safety Mafioso insist that TV manufacturers carry warnings on them – “WARNING! This device is capable of killing unsuspecting toddlers – Suitable for children over 6 years of age”.

On other matters, economic hardships bring out the darker no-nonsense side of tax payers who hawkishly watch how their government is using their hard earned “tak money”, as folks from the deep south of the US of A would say.

The British government have decided to outsource their prison services by building a £1 million prison in Nigeria for the exclusive use of Nigerian criminals who are currently esteemed guests being held at Her Majesty’s pleasure for various transgressions of the law of the land.

It’s the sort of gesture that would make financial sense from the point of view of civil servants rattling their brains to figure out how to cut government spending during hard times, and actually, it does make business sense. But hardcore nationalists see it as a waste of their tax dough which might be better spent in the British Isles. Apparently, there’s some objections already being cited that outsourcing the prisoners back to Nigerland is in breach of their human rights…LOL! This human rights thing is sometimes milked like a nonsense.

They’re probably just miffed that they won’t be getting satellite TV back in Nigeria, access to education and health services, and for the married ones, conjugal visits enshrined in the law of the land. You wonder what’s wrong with just putting them on Con Air straight to Lagos airport for a good ol’ fashioned reception by the local constabulary in Lagos.

In other disturbing developments, this thing called science is beginning to send shivers down my spine. Some freaks of scientists at Newcastle university are on a mission to develop artificial sperm from stem cells. Are we getting to the stage as men where our pro-creative functions will cease to be the ace up our sleeve? Granted, for centuries, there’s been moans and groans from hardcore feminishta types who will go as far as saying women can do without men.

What the hell are these punks in Newcastle trying to do to mankind….LOL! I’m not cool with any excuse that will give women an option of procuring sperm from other sources for the purpose of pro-creation….I guess I’m still the good ol’ fashioned male type who believes that ‘er indoors will continue to be the quintessential warm blooded female who will always pick the real deal for a good going over, rather than this self destructive “I don’t need a man” type nonsense…LOL!

Some scientific experiments need to be shut down, period!

…And on things that just don’t make sense…

1. You go upstairs to tuck your daughter into bed, maybe read her a bedtime story – basically make sure she sleeps well.
2. You leave your long term partner aka mshikaji downstairs with your best friend (by the way, your best friend’s boyfriend has blacked out on the sofa)
3. When you come downstairs, you hear that eerily familiar soundtrack of sexual groans in the kitchen
4. You catch your man with his trousers around his ankles and your best friend has her legs wrapped tightly around him
5. Your man tells you he was just showing her his “scar” on his thigh (Clearly I’m getting too old when this is what it’s called these days…LOL!)
6. You freak out in blind anger, grab a kitchen knife and stab the bastard in his back

And then, you kiss and make up right on the steps of the court that has just bailed you for GBH and you then marry the dude…

Sounds like a script from Jerry Springer…right? Maybe this couple need to be on Jerry Springer.

Notwithstanding the fact that she actually found him with his tojjer inside her friend…LOL! How do you actually opt to live with a woman who has stabbed you. This dude is crazy – actually, both of them are crazy.Related Articles:

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This one is the stuff of legend…and what Hollywood is made of – not the typical and predictable attacks on the luxury home of say the disgraced and former RBS CEO Fred the shred. Sir Fred not only shafted his RBS employees, but laughed all the way to the bank with a platinum pension as a reward for breathtaking incompetence, so it wouldn’t be unusual to register a vigilante attack on his property by say a disgruntled former employee of RBS or something….

But a group of senior citizens in their 70’s in Germany decided that natural justice was the only course of action for a financial investor who lost £2 million of their lifelong savings by gambling it on the markets. Not only did they kidnap and torture the poor bastard, they chased him down the street and bundled him back into a car when he tried to escape. You’ve got to love that.

Read the story here

During his alleged confinement in an unheated cellar, Mr. Amburn, 56, claims he was burned with cigarettes, beaten, had two of his ribs broken was hit with a chair leg and chained up “like an animal.”

Mr. Amburn also told the police: “Then they bound me with masking tape until I looked like a mummy. It took them a while because they run out of breath”.

Where can I register a contribution to the legal fees of these model no nonsense senior citizens who are now facing over 15 years in jail??? These guys deserve public recognition for having the balls to say – fuck it! They’re not getting away with it.

On other matters, I always figured there will come a time when the environmental fascists and bureaucrats lose the plot. Or maybe it’s just fear of local councils in the UK being branded ungreen that makes them venture into zones that make you wonder who sits down and thinks these things, or more importantly, who gets paid public money to sit down and think these things

Apparently now, a local council in West Yorkshire are forcing grieving relatives to only use environmentally friendly anti-pollution eco-shrouds to cover their loved ones for cremation. Gone are the sentimental gestures of sending a loved one off in their favorite outfit, or football jersey or with some cuddly toys….No no! It ain’t good for the environment! Sheesh! And this is policy?

Speaking of matters of the next world (since we’re already in that zone)…why is it that folks are over nice when they’re asked to comment on the death of someone they knew. Recently in the news, you can’t avoid coming across public statements from lawyers or neighbours of bereaved folks with comments like:

“She was always bubbly and lit the room whenever she walked in, she would do anything for anyone And had a very big heart” or “he was such a caring and loving person and always showed great empathy in whatever he did, or he always said hello and smiled”…yada yada yada!

I’m not one to put a stone cold dump on things, but the law of averages would suggest that the notion that every deceased person was “good guys” is false. Maybe folks are just freaked out about talking ill of the dead lest their own notice period is brought forward. What happened to good ol’ fashioned honesty where folks just stood up at a funeral and said something like “This fucker was a nasty piece of work! I’m just here to make sure he’s dead”….though I would suspect that it wouldn’t go down well – but my point here is the pretence of niceness…LOL!

Moving on, I’ve always wondered if news producers and news programmes realize how stupid they look with the way they try and make things real by sending correspondents “to the thick of the action” so to speak. Take note next time you watch the news to see what I mean. It could be the 10 o’clock news and they’d have a correspondent standing out at night in the freezing cold outside a building that’s got its lights switched off, and everyone has gone home, and the correspondent who is clearly freezing and it shows, says something like:

“I’m standing here outside the ABC or XYZ building where earlier on today 3 men were arrested…” so on and so forth. For one, its freezing cold. Secondly, everyone has gone home. What the fuck are they doing standing outside the building. Also, the folks arrested are probably in a police cell somewhere and not in that building. Why can’t they just report from the warmth of the studio and if they need to, show recorded pictures?

Or for those who start a news report by saying “Our correspondent is at the scene” yet they’re reporting from 3 miles down the road from the scene of the hot news coz they can’t get anywhere near it….What is the point?

Now phone manufacturers are losing the plot. Not only do they have a range of mobile phones for 6 to 9 year olds, they’re now marketing a cell phone for 4 year old kids. This little gadget of creativity has apparently got two buttons – one with a man and one with a woman. This is so the kid can press the button of the man to call daddy and the woman to call mummy…

I’m actually more concerned about the circumstances that would lead to a 4 year old having to use such a phone considering that they’re probably with the mum or the dad or both at any given waking hour, unless they’re in nursery school. It’s not that they’re going to go shopping at Sainsbury’s by themselves and call back home to ask if you wanted the 4 pack of lager or the 6 pack instead which is on sale!
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There’s been a number of hoaxes and false starts over the years, but scientists are apparently confident (like a scientist will ever admit that their experiment or project is a waste of space and doomed for failure) that within 5 years, the male contraceptive jab that they have been testing will be ready to give women a break from the responsibility of taking care of birth control.

In the latest study of more than 1,000 men, just over one in 100 conceived a child, similar figures to the 1 or 2 per cent of women who become pregnant while taking oral contraception.

However, like with most studies in the past, the biggest stumbling block isn’t the medical aspects that will actually stop the sperm in its tracks….Apparently, the biggest stumbling block is whether women will sufficiently trust their men to be exclusively responsible for the use of hormonal contraception.

I guess we as men don’t exactly give ourselves the best fighting chance when it comes to some issues. I remember one regular punter down my local pub lamenting that she can never trust men – and her reason was simple, the last time she trusted a man, she ended up with a daughter. I mean, who can argue with her position in such a case….

The testosterone injection, which could be on the market in five years, was tested on a group of healthy fertile men aged 20 to 45, each of whom had fathered at least one child in the previous two years. Female partners were aged between 18 and 38 and had no reproductive problems.

Lead researcher Dr Yi-Qun Gu said: ”For couples who cannot, or prefer not to use only female-oriented contraception, options have been limited to vasectomy, condom and withdrawal. Our study shows a male hormonal contraceptive regimen may be a potential, novel and workable alternative.”

You know what, I really admire men who claim to be strong enough to use coitus interruptus as a birth control method. That’s right! I’m a weak man…LOL! There’s some things that I find difficult and one of them is withdrawing from an impending ejaculation. That’s just crazy. A herd of wild buffalo pulling me away at such a critical stage of coitus would have a job on their hands.

In the latest trial on a jab, the men were given monthly 500 milligram injections of testosterone undecanoate in tea seed oil over a period of two and a half years.

The men’s fertility returned to normal in all but two participants after the treatment was stopped.

Scary though to know that you might not get your mojo back – but seriously, I’ll sign up to use it if it’s on the market, if only to give ‘er indoors a breather.

Results from the Chinese trial, the largest effectiveness study of a testosterone-based male contraceptive ever undertaken, will appear in the June issue of the Journal of Clinical Endocrinology and Metabolism. The study, which was backed by the World Health Organisation, used buttock injections, alternating sides with each jab.

There were no serious side effects caused by the testosterone injections, although severe acne affected some volunteers.

However, almost one third of 1,045 men enrolled in the trial did not complete it and no reason was provided for this.

Heelllloooo!!! Did someone check the local morgue???
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Apparently, it’s now understood that adulterers are more likely to be driving flashy and expensive cars, and just like the pretty boys, they break hearts as those who hustle with good old fashioned bangers like Fords and Nissans feel just as short changed as ugly folks when it comes to pulling skirt.

In a recent survey in the UK by a dating website that exclusively specializes in infidelity (business is abused as an excuse for anything these days…LOL!)…

• 20% of adulterers drove flashy expensive cars
• BMW owners topped the list of cheaters
• Adulterers were least interested in their partners cars

The sorts of high powered executive cars driven by the top adulterers included Bentley’s, Aston Martin’s, Porsche’s and the biggest chunk were those driving Beamers.

Makes you wonder though – if I were a girl, would I bang a guy with an ugly old ordinary car ama a guy with a car that makes you mesmerised enough to remove your panties without realising what you’re doing…LOL!

Let’s face it, an ordinary dude standing next to an 11 year old battered but clean Nissan Maxima wouldn’t stand a chance next to an ordinary guy with a fully loaded 2009 Jaguar XF or an S Class Shinde that looks like a space ship.

And I doubt that knowledge of possible infidelity will ever deter some girls from making informed choices.

Maybe I should support and make a donation to the “Girls ignore me coz’ I’m ugly society”. We can’t have all the pretty boys (and girls…) as well as pretty vehicles stealing all the thunder….LOL!
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If you ever doubted the criminal justice system can be cynical, then meet 48 year old Carolyn Cartwright – who believes it’s her God given right to enjoy the fruits of the loin any which way she chooses to express herself. But clearly her neighbours don’t think so and are equally determined that her extremely loud sex sessions won’t ruin their lives.

They’ve already slapped an anti-social behaviour order on her for the screaming and headboard banging, and as she’s realized, break the law 3 times, and you get straight remand without bail to await your jury trial.

Jailed after being arrested 3 times in 10 days for - well, having sex - Caroline Cartwright

Caroline’s neighbours were savouring peace and quiet last night after she was locked up accused of breaking
her anti-social behaviour order.

A bail application was refused.

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So much to talk about and so much to do at the same time, there’s not enough hours in the day…but a few things caught my attention this weekend.

Apparently, the washing machine has done more for women’s liberation in the 20th century than the birth control pill or the right to work outside the home. The Vatican’s semi-official newspaper, the l’Osservatore Romano, reckons in an article published in honour of International Women’s day this past Sunday, that the washing machine tops the list. The title of the article cracked me up – ”The Washing Machine and the Liberation of Women – Put in the Detergent, Close the Lid and Relax.”

On another subject, I’m one who celebrates when you come across a good old fashioned case of a success story amidst a maze of doom and gloom that we’ve seen in the past few years from Kenya. This is to do with the recently concluded KCSE results, where a one Velma Nanyama Mukhongo emerged as the top female student of the 2008 cohort.

I don’t know about you, but there’s something not right with this picture. Did they have to go fuck it up with that chicken? What is it with the chicken? This girl has achieved a feat that ranks her up there amongst the brightest in the nation, but that chicken just flushes out all the colour out of her achievement. I thought Boma could at least teach her some PR savyness (Wabbuzz would have never let that photo be published next to the name Kenya High School).

And the weekend wouldn’t have been complete without the front runner of the goal of the season from none other than the master of the clinical finish Mr. Eduardo da Silva. (Did I mention that I was an Arsenal fan?)….Anyway, it’s like this dude was never away and in a season that has given many an Arsenal fan high blood pressure, Eduardo’s goal provided a much needed shot in the arm and reminded you why you love football.

Tell me Eduardo’s (the 2nd one) sublime goal isn’t pure class pulled right out of the top draw.

For good measure (and of course to piss off the Stone cold reading ManUre and Chelski fans), the video clip includes Carlos Vela’s world class first goal and Calamity Eboue’s final goal.

Speaking of Youtube, I guess no more music videos for those viewing Youtube from the UK. Google and the Performance Rights Society have decided to end talks on a licencing deal to allow for the free broadcast of music videos. If you asked me, that’s a really stupid move that will only hurt the artists who are struggling to sell CDs in the first place and desperately need the exposure from Youtube. Google know this and think the PRS (which represents artists and their interest) are just a greedy lot that want too much money in royalties. The PRS think that Google can afford it and should stop being tight bastards (considering they earned over $5 billion in the last quarter in advertising revenue on Youtube alone). Meanwhile, UK residents don’t get to watch music videos.Related Articles:

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Take Kibera for example. Rightfully or wrongly, this stretch of Nairobi real estate that spans over 2.5 sq km (give or take a football pitch either side) – has garnered a world-wide reputation for being the largest slum in Africa with at least 1 million residents.
A first assumption you’d make is that the government in Kenya or some form of reliable public body or statistics agency actually did a head count and figured out that the number of folks who live in Kibera topped 1 million.

The veracity of such an assumption is not lost to those wondering whether you can fit that number of folks in an area (which can be measured accurately and not estimated) the size of Kibera. In mid 2008, Stefano Marras, a mapping specialist, took the plunge and decided to scientifically quantify a reliable estimate of Kiberas population. Marras wrote in summary to his mapping exercise

“…looking upon the data reported, and considering that type, dimension and distribution of the buildings observed in Kianda is typically the same in the whole slum of Kibera, it is possible to make a guess about the numerical dimension of its population. Considering that its area of Kibera is set between 2.3 and 2.5 sq km, the total population living in the slum can be most likely estimated between 220,000 and 250,000 people”.

So why the over-inflated estimates of those confined to the hardship of slum dwelling in Africa’s most renowned informal settlement. Conventional wisdom would suggest there are many parties that benefit. Politicians for one, have become seasoned tacticians unmoved about using the plight of poverty stricken slum dwellers to further their own political ambitions. Kenyan politicians don’t hold this monopoly – look around at the influence of politics in the slums of Asia or even right across the world in South America – say in Venezuela where Hugo Chavez enjoys absolute support for his socialist agenda from majority of their slum dwelling population.

Other players who benefit from the inflated population estimates are NGOs, the manifestation of the cynicism and fallacy that is the aid and development industry. The survival of this industry (clearly a topic for another post on its own merit) is dependent on the perpetuation of poverty at its highest extremes. The sustainability of this poverty helps fund mortgages and lifestyles for development experts on all manner of disciplines who believe it’s their destiny to change the world.

It can also be argued that the residents of Kibera themselves may benefit from the inflated figures as they solicit sympathy and funding from aid sources to celebrities of the ilk of Chris Rock and Simon Cowell. It’s a twisted interpretation of the tenets of Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory. Short of getting a job – the aid and development industry will fund this madness.

The media are also complicit in this spin of convenience. Some Kenyan journalists (if I can be allowed to qualify this generalization) in particular are known for their misguided enthusiasm and sensationalism in their reporting of events – so the accolade of having ‘Africa’s biggest slum’ falls right down their street.

Truth is – Kibera is probably just Nairobi’s biggest slum. And if you think about it, a similar exercise would probably factor down the population estimates of other Nairobi slums.

One interesting question is about how money flows within the slum. Marras estimates that over 96% of folks in Kianda area alone pay rent to someone – and this easily aggregates to a monthly income of around £45,000. Even in Europe, that is a windfall – and the capital gains tax alone on this income can fund some basic public services in the area. Who gets this money?

Renato Sesana, an Italian journalist and missionary observes:
“Marras did this work with funds from a scholarship, using an amount that in the average project financed by any European country would fall under “contingencies” or “stationery”. Yet he has accomplished a task of great value and that is scientifically outstanding, such that from now onwards, no government or NGO project conducted in Kibera can afford to disregard his data”.

The thing is this though – the more the unchallenged and convenient assumptions go on about Kibera, the faster the slum realities become a self fulfilling prophecy.Related Articles:

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They start with pretences of applications that will be useful for straight forward things like finding out where your child is if they’re late from school, or informing a friend of your where-abouts if you’re somewhere strange…yada yada yada.

But Google wasn’t going to stop at zooming in on a village in rural Kenya with Google maps….Step in Google latitude. The absolute full proof way for the wife to find out whether a dodgy husband is with the “enemy”.

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Once in a while you get a classic example of the madness of political correctness unleashed on unsuspecting souls. Take Caroline Petrie for example, a devout Christian and community nurse going on about her business, with an added optional extra of an offer to pray for the patient Kind of like – would you like a biscuit with that tea, or can I take your coat for you, or do you want me to open the door for you type of optional extra….or maybe not…

Read Caroline’s story here. She is at risk of losing her job and even getting struck off the nursing register for offering to pray for a 79 year old patient. Maybe one of the mafioso saw a funny side to this if it turned out that Caroline was offering elder patients their last prayer before death came calling, whilst all the while fronting as a community nurse.

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This story of a London cab driver convicted for sexually assaulting 14 female passengers actually makes you think this stuff doesn’t just happen to other women , like the lotto, it could be you.

And the culprit is supposedly licenced and has had a criminal background check done on him before a cabbing licence was issued.. What’s scary is that it doesn’t take much for a rape to turn into a murder.

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