One of the most offensive comments I’ve ever heard was “he said if we paid £40 extra each, we’ll get into the VIP section”. This was one of my friends in a taxi feeling excited about getting off the phone with an “insider” from the club we were going to. Up to that point, I really hadn’t taken notice of where we were going clubbing, I was more interested with what we were going to eat first because I was hungry.

“£40?!”, I exclaimed in shock, “to get into a pub in South East London? You can get a blowjob for £40”.

“That’s for a VIP pass” the argument followed, “And it’s not a pub, it’s a club”.

I’ll come back to this VIP thing in a bit. It had been a great Saturday that started with us drinking at midday. It’s been a while, but I applied for my overnight visa from er indoors and it was duly granted to allow me to attend a Christmas drink up after a game with my Arsenal supporting friends. Even she knew there was absolutely no chance expecting me back home on Saturday night and promptly granted the visa.

So we sang and made merry, and even thought of opening a book to bet on how many of us would actually make it to the stadium. It didn’t matter that the pub was literally a few minutes’ walk from the Emirates, 5 pm got to us quicker than we could order enough pints. It’s one of those things that always gets you – being in your seat before kick-off is just an elusive bastard.

We quickly got into the cheering rhythm as the first half flew past – with one of my friends who was there for the first time (he supports Liverpool unfortunately) spending most of the time being mesmerized by the magnificence of the Emirates stadium. Seriously, this guy was taking photos of the pitch and the players instead of enjoying the football match. We excused the poor bastard – it was his first time in a proper stadium, one of the best in the world.

The result was disappointing, but I’ll take a point after a European weekday game with our boys coming back with a late equalizer. Everyone was still in a party mood as we headed back to the pub. Those who did not have overnight visas ended up having the traditional ‘one for the road’, and making mental notes for the next time – “make sure your missus sanctions an overnight stay”.

Fast forward a few hours later, and we had been roped into visiting an African club in South East London. When I heard the driver in the taxi being told the address, I said there’s no African club anywhere near that road and it’s a bloody long road with hundreds of nightspots. An African club is not one of them.

So imagine my surprise when they said we need to pay extra for a VIP pass. You see, I have a problem in principle. This whole “VIP status” in clubs or entertainment venues is just taken too far. It makes no business sense whatsoever. Why create second class citizens and try to segregate people in a place that is a shit venue in the first place.

If you’re going to make me a VIP – it better be VIP. Don’t try and entice me with a section of the pub with a few fluffy seats and a huge ugly fuck off bouncer built like a brick shithouse stopping people from entering the fluffy seated area.

I’m still listening to the same dodgy music, still smelling the same sweaty bodies like every other fucker in the pub, fighting like everyone else to get a pint at the bar, using the same dodgy and smelly toilets with the same lollipop selling, chewing gum peddling toilet attendant that’s’ smiling at everyone. If you’re going to make me VIP, make sure you have heated toilet seats, a surround sound system playing jazz fm, a toilet that can wash my ass with soapy water, and blow dry all the cracks and curves that nature endowed on me.

Don’t bloody call a pub a club, and don’t bloody insist that you have a VIP area and tell me that £40 is a discounted price to enter your dodgy VIP area.

True to form, it was exactly the pub I had in mind. And even then, someone was still being nervous about whether we would be let in wearing sneakers.

“It’s a pub for fuck’s sake”, I screamed. I kid you not though, the first bouncer stopped us and told us the dress was smart casual, no sneakers. And our friend instantly took to his phone to try and call his “insider” to bail us out”.

Before he could get his ‘insider’, one of the other bouncers came jumping with joy towards us and crushed me with a huge bear hug which of course shocked everyone at first. Big Ken though, is one of those huge ugly built like a brick shit house bouncers, and it’s understandable why the others were apprehensive. But Big Ken used to work for me in a previous life, hence the joy and excitement from seeing me after nearly 10 years.

“This dude hear tells me I can’t enter your pub” I hurriedly pointed to the offending “you can’t get into my club with those sneakers” bouncer, a huge “fuck you” grin on my face.

“What do you mean”, Big Ken laughingly responded, and turning to the other bouncer, he calmly said “I still call this guy boss. If T (the owner of the pub) found out you were freezing him, he’d have words”.

“what’s this VIP shit I hear you guys charge for the price of giving head” I asked Big Ken as he led us all inside. “And in a pub though these guys think it’s a club”. Big Ken just let out a hearty laugh saying it’s for the amusement of customers.

So inside we were – and even without paying VIP prices (for the sake of self-respect I insisted on paying the normal cover charge at the door) – of a pub I might add – and I must say, I felt like I’d lost a few years.

I didn’t recognize any of the songs being played except for one Rihanna hit, but that’s because it’s on radio nearly every day. In fact, last time I went to a club proper was nearly 4 years ago when I lost a bet to my younger brother’s 23 year old girlfriend and the punishment was clubbing with her all night in Nairobi.

I thought clubbing would be what it used to be like in my day, but the young girl really punished my body (wipe that smirk off your dirty face – not that kind of punishment) by keeping me on a dance floor all night.

Saturday was getting to be like one of those “what the fuck am I really doing here” kind of nights. But my friend reminded me that overnight visas are rare to come by so I better enjoy myself. And this I promptly started to do as I moved my bits and pieces on the dance floor before one of the DJ’s took pity on me and started playing some good old fashioned old school music. To me it wasn’t old school, I’d say late 80s and early 90s, but to the crowd around, they danced to it like it was the golden oldies.

One of the young girls next to me looked like she was still in nursery school and still getting used to solid food when House Call by Maxi Priest and Shabba was topping the charts in the early 90s, yet she was grooving to it like she had been in the music video.

There as another one across the floor who unleashed a scream of joy when the song came on and started the crouching dancing move as if to prove to everyone how fit she was. To be honest, the only thing you could think of with her face right by the crotch of the guy dancing with er was Biggy in Nasty girl rapping “Whip it out, rubber no doubt” – with the expectation that any second, the dude was going to whip his dick out and slap the girl’s face with it.

Believe it or not, when I was in the clubbing business, I came across crazy things, and it wouldn’t have surprised me one bit. I remember a few years back when talking to one of my customers outside in the club box office area, another customer walked out, calmly said hello with a smile and looked around as if checking if anyone else was about – nonchalantly lifted her dress, pulled out her stockings and panties, folded them neatly, put them in her hand bag and went back straight into the club.

And by the way, ladies, if you’re going to wear a mini-skirt, please do us a favour and wear one that doesn’t ride, especially if you’re going to get tipsy and drop your guard. A good miniskirt can look great and elegant (on the right body I might add), but when it starts riding every few minutes and it becomes difficult to tell whether you’re wearing a skirt or a belt, then you’ve got a problem.

We ended up talking with this particular girl and her group of friends and making small talk with industrial strength speakers determined to fuck up your conversations wasn’t easy at all. At one point when we were sat in the fluffy VIP seats (yes there was a VIP area, she started telling me her life story – hard to keep job, dodgy boyfriend who doesn’t’ value her, ambitions in life, and why the group decided they needed to party hard.

I was also amused when she complained about the challenges of wearing a miniskirt. Especially when she’s had wine, panty removers, beer and all sorts poured onto her thighs by inconsiderate bastards.

“My thighs are so sticky…” she moaned, almost daring and willing me to feel and see how disgusting it really was.

I thought if only there was really a VIP bathroom for the ladies, she could have actually taken a shower.

Some things never change though – like the dodgy mini-cab driver who hang out all night outside the club and want to charge you an arm and a leg to take you home, especially when you’re all going to different addresses. And the one thing that always cracks me up is when they insist you pay them first before they take you – something I always refuse on the grounds that they haven’t taken me anywhere – how do I know they’re not a murderer like the ones you watch on CSI New York.

As far as I know, the only professionals who get away with collecting fees before the job are prostitutes. Why taxi drivers insist on going this direction I don’t know. Besides, if I actually manage to elude a taxi driver in my state after clubbing, they’ve got bigger problems than me not paying them for the fare.

When chatting to a good friend on new year’s day, I asked how her daughter was, and at first, it seemed that the question had dampened her spirits.

“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.

In the 1988 documentary film Michael Jackson- The Legend Continues, the narrator, actor James Earl Jones, aptly describes the fascination and mystique about Michael Jackson’s collective body of performances as a “Presentation of Showtime”. The only argument that can be levelled against this description of Michael Jackson is that his whole life was a presentation of Showtime, and not just the magic he unleashed on stage or through his signature vocals that brought to life his music that continues to transcend generations of millions of fans around the world.

It’s hard to truly appreciate both the magnetism and the reality of such a statement until you personally experience the magic of an individual who has most definitely earned the right to be considered the greatest entertainer on earth. Not many people had the privilege of witnessing in person, the phenomenon that is “Whacko Jacko”, and for those who did, they will continue to bear witness to a magnificent talent and a consummate professional who despite being deeply troubled, arguably gave up any semblance of a normal life to provide the world with the gift of music that is destined to be immortal in its truest sense.

What can you say about such a person? The first thing that comes to mind for me is the sadness this brings and the profound irony that in death, Michael Jackson is literally uniting the world as hundreds of millions of fans and non-fans alike from all corners of the world, mourn the passing of the greatest superstar we will ever know, yet Michael died a very sad, lonely and broken man.

A lot has been written out there about every aspect of the saga of Michael’s life and death, and as a shameless fan of the man and his music, I would be lying if I said I haven’t been affected by his demise. Perhaps there’s nothing as therapeutic as expressing in my own words, my experiences and how the man, his life and his music influenced me. Call it my own little Stone Cold tribute to the enigma that is Whacko Jacko!

Michael Jackson

I went back to 1988 because that was the year my dad surprised us and came back from a business trip abroad with the first VCR the family owned. Before then, I had to be content with wishing that a day would come when I could credibly hold conversations with other kids in the school playground and talk from an informed position of having a VCR at home. You see, I think my folks were cruel in that by striving for the best for their children, they took us to school right across the rail tracks, to a school where class and social identity was more important in reality, than the performance in the classroom…or at least that’s what it seemed to be.

It was hard to cope in such an environment where kids were talking about stuff I couldn’t even pronounce and constantly bragging about the videos they saw over the weekend, so you can picture the excitement in Stone Snr’s household when the VCR landed, particularly since no one expected it. More importantly, dad had taken his time to pick a sample of some low budget tired movies that escape my mind, as well as a variety of music video collections from well known artists of the day such as Elton John, Phil Collins, Madonna, Julio Iglesias, and to illustrate his tired taste, he didn’t forget his favourites like Jim Reeves and Dolly Parton among others.

While scrambling through our first collection of video tapes with that cheeky contempt that a teenager would have for his parent’s tired and old fashioned taste in anything – there it was – sitting pretty at the bottom of the pile. A double video pack of Michael Jackson – The Legend Continues, and the collection of Videos from his sister – Janet Jackson’s hit album, Control.

Naturally, I homed in on the Janet album…Who wouldn’t. She was hot and I challenge any male teenager or grown man for that matter to deny they wouldn’t get a boner just from watching the videos in that collection, especially the Pleasure Principle, but I digress…. The Legend Continues video did it for me. Dad knew we loved Michael Jackson, and give him credit for not disappointing.

If there was ever any crime for over-playing a single video, I think I can comfortably lay claim to hold some sort of record of over playing the Jacko documentary. I could probably narrate it word for word.

The only comparison I had with the collection of material on that video at that time was the Thriller movie – though some would insist on calling it a music video. I think I had only seen the entire Thriller video a couple of times at a friend’s place or something, but I was more than content that we had samples of both the making of Thriller and clips from the video itself. That did the trick for me, though I decided I was going to collect anything Michael Jackson that I could get my hands on.

Even from watching the documentary, it was very safe to rationalize that my obsession with the man was not a sad monopoly. I can remember thinking I would never get to the stage of some of the footage on that video of fans crying their guts out because Michael had touched them, or because they simply saw him and he waved, or in some cases, grown people clearly fainting and passing out simply by seeing him. Pictures I’m told, are worth a thousand words and there was no denying the sheer impact this enigma of a human being was having on fans around the world. No normal person had the power to influence and move people the way Jacko did, but you can probably understand why this is so, considering for example that in the immediate period after his death:

• AT&T suggest that only in the USA , 65,000 sms messages were being sent per second.
• 22% of Twitter messages were about Michael Jackson.
• Google had to block any searches of Michael Jackson to stop their servers from thinking they were under an attack.
• The speed of the internet literally slowed down as millions of users around the world desperately tried to look for information

July 31st 1992 was the day that made me realize Jacko was larger than life, and whatever I’d seen of him on video was no illusion. Through a radio competition a week earlier (being anal about the man does have its advantages you know), I was lucky to receive complementary tickets Pepsi were throwing around to promote Jacko’s Dangerous World Tour. The only major concert I’d been to in my life was in 1987 when Jermaine Jackson and the legendary Franco and his TPOK Jazz band performed at the grand opening concert of Kasarani Sports Complex in Nairobi leading up to the All Africa Games that year. I wouldn’t have otherwise bothered if it wasn’t the fact that Jacko was on stage, and a cynical part of me wanted to go and find out for myself what all this fuss was about.

My only interaction with Wembley was what I knew from watching the FA Cup football matches being screened on the Road to Wembley shows on TV back home. The folks at the radio station had said that I had won a gem of tickets and I will thoroughly enjoy myself – but again, my arrogant self thought that they probably said this to every Tom, Dick and Harry who won concert tickets for any gig.

I don’t know what I expected when I got off the train at Wembley Park, but by the time I got to Wembley Way, it was already clear that the party for the London leg of the Dangerous World Tour had started. Folks didn’t seem to mind being fleeced by hawkers lined up through the Way to the arena with anything Michael Jackson from T-shirts to clearly fake memorabilia…LOL! Everyone was just excited and swinging into the party mode. After I got comfortable with a few folks I met on the way, we all vowed to hang out together as we were in the same ticket section.

Dangerous World Tour

By the time Carmina Burana, the classical hit by Carl Orff was pumping as an intro through the massive speakers around the arena, there was absolutely no doubt that this was no average show. This wasn’t a tired “concert” that we’ve come to get used to say from wanna be African artists who jump on stage miming backing tracks in a tired and dingy joint in East London. There was method in the madness we were about to witness.

Before hand, we had been looking at some pamphlets being distributed about the Dangerous World Tour, and I guess publishing the tour facts and statistics was a deliberate strategy to “shock and awe” our asses into the mood. It was hard to understand how Jacko’s stage would require 2 747 jumbo jets to fly it around the world, until you got to see that stage and the sets on it. This was no ordinary concert and the choice of Carmina Burana as a shall we say – blood pressure raising and adrenaline pumping intro did the trick.

No one expected what was to follow in a stunt that we later came to know is called “The Toaster”. Short of looking for the panther that was roaring on stage with a powerful microphone (LOL), everyone was duped to assume that Black or White was to be the first song, as it’s the only song folks knew that Jacko used a panther in the video. The shock and awe was completed with Jacko being dramatically catapulted onto the stage from a trap door amidst a blast of pyrotechnics.

“What the Fuck!” was the only thing I vaguely remember thinking, and right through the first performance (I think it was Jam), I was still in shock and awe. I doubt if I recovered from it as I was dancing my ass off and screaming out “Anasema anataka sambusa” with some 60 something year old white hared guy to my right by the time Jacko was performing Wanna be starting something.

Two things stuck out for me as the concert went into full flow. First, it was the sound quality of the gig. It was almost like the sound was beating to your heart and you could feel the base pumping as you go. It was loud, but it was not intrusive or annoying. The sound was well balanced and regardless of how powerful the sound system was, it was clear that it was a well coordinated part of the showpiece. I guess the best way to describe this is by saying that you were feeling the music. The second thing that was crystal clear and in Technicolor is that the young man on stage was the greatest dancer and entertainer you were ever likely to see on this planet. WOW! When they say Jacko’s dancing seems to defy the laws of physics, that was not an illusion or overstatement. Jacko could dance and this was nothing like you saw on the Smooth Criminal or Remember the Time music videos. Seeing it live was out of this planet.

I had my answer all around me to the question “How is it possible that people could lose the plot because of this human being”. It’s a reflex and involuntary action. You don’t know you’re doing it coz the atmosphere and electricity around you sucks you in. You find yourself hugging the next person and locking into a dance move and you find yourself screaming the lyrics of the song. You see people around you screaming and crying like babies who’ve just had their favourite toy snatched from them, while other overwhelmed folks who have fainted are passed over your head like a sack of potatoes to the nearest first aid point on the sidelines.

There were other magical moments that linger in the mind especially the quality and meticulous detail that went into creating sets for individual songs and the seamless change in between. The fact that it was happening live in front of the crowd made it more of the spectacle it deserved to be.

I think it was after he performed human nature with the crowd waving (a significant amount of them holding lighters flickering above their heads) when the lights on stage blacked out for a few seconds – and when they came back on – two chaps with huge brooms swept across the stage from one side to the other and then the lights blacked out again for a few seconds. When they came back on, Jacko and his 4 dancers were all dressed in their Smooth Criminal regalia – him the light suit with a blue arm band and the rest in similar Mafioso style suits. Despite the unbelievable dancing being unleashed on stage – all you could do is open your mouth wide in wonderment with that “how the fuck did they do that so quickly” look on your face. It was unbelievable. As they seem to say in recent years (shows my age…LOL!), it was off the hinges.

I remember thinking Gitonga is totally useless…LOL! Side bar here if I may…Gitosh was a legendary cheer leader in high school and his signature tune that he cheered the rugby crowds with was none other than Smooth Criminal. Gitosh though , with the help of the crowd, sang the entire tune in Kikuyu…You had to love the act, there was no other option. Gitosh even pulled the famous slap on the thigh, a lift of the thigh with a swift jig of the hips in imitation of one of Jacko’s signature moves as the crowd roared “You’ve been hit by, Umegongwa – na Muici Munyoroku!” (You’ve been hit by, you’ve been struck by, a smooth criminal)

But standing and watching the man himself perform the song, Gitosh had no toe to stand on. Jacko was the genius and trying to compare what was happening on stage with Gitosh’s comedy was absolutely no justice to Jacko.

After performing Smooth Criminal, Jacko threw his Stetson into the crowd like a Frisbee after toying with the crowd about which direction he’ll throw it. The person who caught it was mobbed though I think they were prepared to die for it…LOL! and you literally lost count of the number of panties and other items of clothing being thrown on stage. What was funny is either when he moved to one side of the stage or during a change of set or intermission, someone collected the panties and stuff off stage like they were being paid to do it and it was normal…this was something they were used to and their only concern was probably that Jacko might trip on them when dancing so they had to be removed.

The concert did not even attempt to disappoint at the end as during his performance of the last track Man in the mirror, the stage behind him and to his side was being set up for what seemed to be a rocket launch. It was like a scene out of NASA and what was surreal is that he was performing man in the mirror oblivious of what was happening around him with the folks giving an impression that something galactic was about to happen. People were walking around on stage with headsets and clipboards, giving others different directions etc., before finally Jacko was asked to put on what seemed to be a space suit. In the midst of the chaos on stage, what seemed to be a rocket belt was then put on him and a launch sequence was started – counting down to zero. This concert had dramatically changed to a live movie without anyone even noticing.

As the launch sequence hit zero, the rocket belt lit up and the man in the space suit took off and literally flew outside the stadium as pyrotechnics mesmerized the crowd before a commanding voice over the sound system declared “ladies and Gentlemen – Mr. Michael Jackson has left the stadium”.

The only disappointment was that we were later to discover that the person who flew out in a space suit was stunt man Kinnie Gibson and not Jacko, but then again, in between wondering at what point did Jacko switch with the stunt man, how do you not get mesmerized and totally blown in shock and awe of a once in a lifetime show like that. That was no concert…that was a damn movie…LOL! I concluded on that day that there will never be a show that magically captivates and drives people crazy like that one did. It was one of them moments in life that you think back and say – WOW, I was there!

So what is it about this enigma of a human being who through life and in death continues to captivate people all around the world?

I think it was Quincy Jones who when asked to comment about Jacko’s death said something like (and I paraphrase) “Michael doesn’t come along once in a while or once in a generation. He isn’t one in a million. He is just one. There will never be another Michael Jackson”.

You can’t argue with that, and perhaps one of the consequences of Jacko being just “the one” is that his whole life was a media spectacle. Since the age of 5, he has known nothing else but to live his life in the spotlight. And it’s also no surprise that with his talent and ability to mesmerize he is a global phenomenon in life and death.

Jacko wasn’t just an influence in the lives of those who had the ability to watch his videos or follow his soap opera of a life in the western media. If you travelled to any village in any corner of this planet – whether it was the indigenous communities of the Amazon, or the remote villages say in Jirapa in northern Ghana, or the far reaches of Chittagong in Bangladesh, or the bundux of Gulu district in Uganda – the only globally recognized brand that could rival the global reach of Michael Jackson is Coca-Cola.

Having a soap opera of a life inevitably has its consequences and like many other public figures of fascination like Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Princess Grace of Monaco and Diana Princess of Wales, Jacko did not disappoint in his exit off stage by going out in a blaze of controversy – almost as if it was part of the plot of his soap opera.

His mystery of his life and how he lived it was therefore a constant fascination to the global media who were always looking for a story to sell, and as drama goes, the more controversial, the better the copy will sell. There was never any doubt that Jacko knew how to work the system to his advantage – it was his job as a show man, and he revelled in it. Jacko was savvy enough to manipulate the media to suit the project of marketing himself, but he was also a true living testament that if you live by the sword, it is very possible that you will die by it.

His latter years in life were shrouded by different scandals, and I think that when reflecting on his whole life and what purpose Jacko served on this planet, it is very unfair to equate his life to the scandals of child abuse allegations that dogged him in recent years. My take on this is that Jacko stood in front of a jury of his peers and answered to these allegations, and his peers acquitted him of all charges – and as much as the continuation of the scandal provides a constant talking point, the man was acquitted and he remains innocent.

The two aspects to his life couldn’t be more contrasting. On the one hand, the only place Jacko was ever comfortable was on stage. He owned the stage and once he was in performance mode, there was never any doubt that you were looking at a genius and a dedicated professional who will stop at nothing to entertain the world because that was the only thing he knew.

The cost of being the enigma he was on stage was that he never grew up, and refused to give himself a chance to grow up – but then again, who are we to judge and lay blame. This was someone who had their childhood totally yanked from them and while other kids played in the park, he was sweating his guts out in rehearsals and on stage, and as a grown man, he never seemed to want to give up on rebuilding that childhood that was stolen from him.

It was that innocence and naivety that eventually signalled the beginning of the end for him with one of the fatal blows being the day that he met a one Martin Bashir. A long time friend of Jacko, the illusionist Uri Geller confesses that his biggest regret was introducing Bashir to Jacko – after Bashir begged and pleaded for that introduction to a sad point of even presenting a crumpled note, apparently hand written by Diana Princess of Wales vouching for Bashir as “good guys”.

It’s my belief that the domino effect of that subsequent Martin Bashir documentary – Living with Michael Jackson – is what landed Jacko on the slab in the autopsy room of the Los Angeles coroner’s office.

Jacko had always had a troubled existence behind closed doors – whether it was his dependency on pain killers – or his awkward and non-conventional life choices – but the last 6 years had been an unbearable burden on the man that was to eventually break him down.

“This is it” the series of London concerts at the O2 arena seemed an apt way for the King of Pop to rise from the stooper that dogged his recent life. I must admit, when I heard he was to do 50 shows, the first thought was that it was a ludicrous idea. 15 20 years ago, he used to do 50 or so shows but over a period of 2 years…and frankly speaking, it’s not that he was a spring chicken any more. The dude was 50.

There was also the risk that with his crocked body, maintaining the level and quality of performances that he had previously done was an extremely tall order at 50, and coupled with his recent personal drama and lifestyle, this was going to be a step too far even for the King.

They say God works in mysterious ways and maybe with his sense of humour, God found a way of not only relieving Jacko off his very sad, lonely and broken existence – but he also found a way to preserve his legacy and music in a way that guarantees Jacko will never be forgotten.

God was kind to Whacko Jacko. The man needed to rest and God obliged. Jacko had already given us all his life, and maybe it was time for him to have it back in peace.

Seeing that folks are all getting lovey dovey and using every excuse under the sun to try and get some for Valentines day, I thought it might be good to get into the groove with a love song selection – or as they call it in the maze plantation, shika shika time selection.

In no particular order…I hope you enjoy what I’d play for you and your partner if I was your DJ for tonight….

1. My my my by Mr. Johnny Gill

Without a doubt, one of the best talents of the legends of love music…and a nice strong voice to boot. We need another legend to take over from Luther Vandross so hope he permanently comes out of retirement. This song reminds me of many moons ago when my girlfriend at the time loved Johnny Gill so much she said it was so bad that she could cut his head off and put it in the freezer just so she could see him every day. Needless to say, we did part ways…LOL!

2. Have you ever by Brandy

What a voice? This young lady will top my list of all time favourite vocalists any time.

3. Rock me tonight (for old times sake) by Mr. Freddie Jackson

Now how can this song not do it for you. I tell you, panties have fallen around the world coz’ of this tune. Good ol’ Freddie.

4. He is by Heather Headley

Ladies, if you’ve got a good man who loves you, this song is one to dedicate to him. Make sure you’re singing the lyrics out loud to him if you want to stroke his ego…just for Valentines day only, otherwise he’ll get used to it.

5. For you by Kenny Lattimore

Definitely a contender for the Capital FM (Nairobi) “Lie like a man” gag….any guy who sings the lyrics of this song to a woman on Valentines day (as opposed to any other regular day) is probably lying like a nonsense…but hey, if it gets you into her panties (shrug) do what you have to do to make her happy on Valentines day.

6. I love me some him by Toni Braxton

Good ol’ Toni. Always dependable when it comes to unleashing some serious love songs. She’s got a dirty mind too if she wants to…but a good old fashioned slow jam to get you into the mood anyway.

7. Last night by Az Yet

Plucked right out of the Nutty Professor Soundtrack – without a doubt a song that doesn’t need explanation or one that masks intent with mob mooshy lyrics. It simply talks about being inside of you…go figure….And by the way, its intresting to note that President Obama’s “Chief of Stuff” (or his bodyman) has the same name Reggie Love, as Eddie Murphy’s alter ego in the Nutty Professor movie…but I digress. Last night it was.

8. Stroke you up by Changing faces

A favourite from back in the days of my mis-spent youth. Lots of memories from the days when R Kelly and Keith Sweat were in their element as producers…The sort of song that used to give guys boners hadharani.

9. Someone to love by Jon B featuring Babyface

Without a doubt one of my fav songs…and another one that reminds me of the more romantic days of my mis-spent youth and self perceived prowess with them of the fairer sex. A good tune to romance to.

10. Red light special by TLC

This song is just outright dirty…LOL! Decent enough if you’re not really paying attention – but with lyrics like “I’ll let you touch if you wanna go down, and I’ll let you go further if you take the south route”…yeah, further to the red light special – go figure.

Now if you don’t get laid with all these props on Valentines day…..Hhhhmmmm!

So I was scanning through the channels on TV late last night waiting for the news. I wouldn’t have naturally done this save for the commercials on the Sky Sports News Channel which I was avoiding like a nonsense.

Lo and behold, there was another reality TV disaster, this time in the form of the colourful heir head Paris Hilton, apparently hosting her own show to pick her next British Best friend. In my spirit of being an equal opportunity hater, I should state here that I had consigned similar reality shows like Tyra’s America’s next top model in the queue of the contenders for filing in the section between shit and syphilis. Paris here however, is challenging me to consider taking Tyra seriously and give her model show the benefit of the doubt.

I don’t have anything against Tyra or the many hosts of the woeful reality TV shows, its just that the whole frigging concept of subjecting desperate teenagers and young girls who want their 15 minutes of fame to some tired, questionable and subjective hoop jumping is a retarded concept. For one, these are more often than not vulnerable youngsters with the spot light thrust on them and probably end up more traumatized at the end of the show for having exposed themselves so badly without even realising it. Secondly, I’m yet to actually see the fruition of the vanity of the experience of the show. Pray tell someone, do these folks actually get anywhere in life afterwards – in their chosen career path anyway?

I guess I was just intrigued of how ITV programming bosses are desperate for ideas or ratings they’d unleash Ms. Hilton to the British public. What happened in America??? Or rather, couldn’t ITV figure out American networks were never going to let this ‘Paris British Best Friend’ nonsense actually see the light of day?

And who are these girls who actually even involve their families in desperately pretending to be who they’re obviously not in order to win a prize to become Paris’ new best friend in Britain….LOL! She must have pissed off Nicole Richie badly to need a screening show to pick another party mate. And these British girls are actually crying out loud because they’re being booted off the show following a desperate rant and attempt by Paris to pull off the suspense of Donald Trump or Alan Sugar’s Apprentice firings.

You know, there’s a famous saying which suggests that its better to keep quiet and be thought a fool, than to speak and remove all doubt. Last night was a classic example of the application of this rule of common sense. But I guess sometimes its unreasonable to expect common sense to be a common characteristic.

It seems ages since I was last accused of being as old as a railway line (chuma ya reli) for unleashing an old school play list that brought my age to question. I thought this week, I’d relax with a few easy listening rock classics (yeah! I’m that way inclined sometimes)…so come rock with me.

1. Your beautiful by James Blunt

This is actually my wife’s favourite song. Maybe its her way of getting me to sing the lyrics to her time and time again…and believe me, the effort is worth the while each time round (if you catch my drift). I like the simplicity of the song though…nice and easy and very passionate.

2. Torn by Natalie Imbruglia

Just like with Mary, there’s something about this song that does it for me. In fact, I’ll go as far as saying its one of my all time favourite songs. Don’t know what it is, but perhaps its just Natalie, and especially those lips. I always believed she was a hit even as far back in her days on Neighbours (do folks still watch that show?), but I think its those lips. They’re just designed for action or as Apingo Nyawawa (long story) would say, they’re very nyonyarable…(and wipe that smirk off your face…LOL).

3. Always by Bon Jovi

Very few people will contest that Jon Bon Jovi deserves his legendary status in this wonderful world of rock music. This song is just one reason why. It’s the sort of song you’d love blasting out of the juke box (not too loud, but loud enough for you not to hear the next conversation), while you sit down on a stool by the bar counter contemplating how your day has been…And did I mention that cold pint of beer to go with it?

4. Give into me by Michael Jackson (shorter video clip)

Very rare occasions will beat the “I was there – once in a lifetime” moments that we experience, say for instance, President Obama’s inauguration as the first black resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, or the funeral of Diana Princess of Wales. Me thinks that a good contender for a “I was there moment” is any Michael Jackson live concert. Granted, off the stage, he’s let’s just say, probably on his own galaxy…but on stage, the man deserves due respect for what he did on stage.

Give into me was one of them examples that I was lucky enough to see live as part of his UK Dangerous tour in 1992. I used to wonder how folks were stupid enough to lose the plot coz’ of a performing artist, but my answers came in the form of the 60 something year old grandfather boogying his ass off next to me at Wembley Arena…I didn’t even notice myself screaming….

This is the sort of song you blast full volume when you’re home alone on Saturday, walking around naked and doing some cleaning up while miming to the song…and when the neighbour peeks to confirm to himself if he’s seeing what he just thought he saw….you turn around facing him with the mop – imitating Slash playing that guitar while wearing that “WTF! smirk on your face)…LOL!

5. Ironic by Alanis Morissette

I remember this song intimately because of some dramas of my mis-spent youth. If there’s a dangerous thing to do, its walking into an Australian pub in London to watch Australia play New Zealand in rugby on big screen whilst wearing an All Blacks rugby Jersey. My mitigation was that my Kiwi mates Jimbo and Gary (who dared me to pull this off with them) were also as stupid as I was with their All Blacks Jerseys. Needless to say, the mighty All Blacks won the match and Jimbo, Gary and myself got away with having to perform like Alanis Morissette on tables (blame the alcohol) cheered on by a pub full of Aussies (talk about ironic). Good times those were – if only football fans were as civil as rugby fans.

6. Breakfast at Tiffanys by Deep Blue Something

This is one of them songs that just grows on you and before you know it, you find yourself singing the chorus at the top of your voice. Another pub classic that gets the lads and lasses thinking they’re rock stars after only a few pints. But its the kind of song that makes you not regret going to the pub on a Friday night.

7. More than words by Extreme

This song has kinda got that effect that Bob Marley’s Redemption song gives you. Nice, easy and simple, that’s what I’ve always loved about it. Just two geezers sitting down with a guitar and singing some deep stuff. Listen to this and tell me you don’t find this classic loveable. It’s the sort of song that gets other folks in a traffic jam turning around to look at you when you’re blasting it out loud and singing along to it in the car, and you can see that twinkle in their eyes saying “Damn you…that song is cool…”.

8. (What if God was) one of us by Joan Osborne

This song took its time but it grew on me after a while. I sometimes surprise myself when I find myself just singing out to the lyrics while working or doing whatever. It even made some business associates think I was losing the plot when I was clearly enjoying the night out at Stake Out, a club in Kampala, Uganda. See, they had thought I was upset coz’ I didn’t like the roast pork that is legendary in Kampala (give me proper goat nyam chom any time), so its no surprise when they kept giving me daggers while I enjoyed my rock music….what did they expect taking me out to a rock night on a Thursday evening?

9. (Don’t look back in anger) So Sally can wait by Oasis

The only downside to Noel and Liam Gallagher is that they’re Manchester City fans. If only they were gooners. Never the less, this track is one that you can’t miss in any pub juke box and one of them that you find yourself singing aloud like the guy propped up on the bar stool next to you without even realising it.

10. Don’t let go by En Vogue

Again, this is a song that grows on you after a while. From the destinys children of the 90′s – a nice good solid track that feels good being blasted when home alone or in the car. I like the guitar in it and its prominence in the song, and I think it was the only decent track of the album it was on…but all in all, a nice classic track thats a competitor for one of my other favourite En Vogue songs, Runaway love.

Now doesn’t that just make you feel better?